"Don't ever change," Dean said.

Most of Castiel's attention was on watching for hints that Zachariah had managed to track them, but he smiled anyway. It seemed to be the correct response.

"How did Zachariah find you?" he asked.

"Long story," Dean said, digging in his pocket. "Let's just stay away from Jehovah's Witnesses from now on, OK?" He extracted his cell phone and pressed buttons.

Castiel wasn't sure what a small, if devoted, religious sect had to do with anything, but he trusted Dean would explain if necessary. "What are you doing?"

"Something I should have done in the first place," Dean said, his attention clearly on the call he was making. Castiel waited, his senses still stretched wide; there was no sign of pursuit.

"Sam," Dean said, as soon as the connection was established. "We need to talk."

Dean was very unhappy that Castiel refused to take him to his car right away, though he was mollified when Castiel explained that Zachariah wouldn't lie in wait for long. Instead, Castiel found a nearby motel and took Dean to it. When Dean muttered that his only working card was the one he'd used to pay for the room Zachariah had invaded, Castiel leaned over the counter and tapped the clerk on the forehead. He couldn't heal, anymore, but changing what a human remembered was still trivial.

They went to the room. Dean surveyed it, sighed, and dropped onto the bed. "How long do we have to wait for Zach to screw off?"

"A few hours," Castiel replied. "He may be gone already, but if I'm close enough to see him I'm close enough he can see me." He was fairly confident in his own ability to hide, but it was safer to simply wait a while. There was no reason to risk Dean's freedom.

Dean nodded. "TV it is then," he said, and waved at the television set. "Hand me the remote."

Castiel frowned. "When did Zachariah send you?"

Dean blinked at him and said, "What do you mean?"

Human words didn't really express the sensation, but Castiel chose the closest. "You…smell like time, Dean," he said. "The future." It had been, in fact, what had warned him that Dean wasn't alone as Castiel approached. He had not even manifested fully, becoming only real enough to retrieve Dean; only surprise had kept Zachariah from stopping their escape.

Dean scowled and stood, walking over to the television to pick up a small device that sat next to it. He studied it as he spoke, not meeting Castiel's eyes. "Five years. It was five years from now." He stabbed a button and the television came to life.

Castiel thought that over. He would be the first to admit that he wasn't adept at reading human emotions, but it seemed clear Dean was despondent over what he'd seen. "We had not defeated Lucifer," he said. "I hadn't found God."

"No," Dean agreed tightly. He was staring at the television as if fascinated by the image on it. "No, it was just…it was bad, Cas. Whatever else happens, we have to make sure it doesn't end up like that."

"Like what?"

Dean threw him a glance that seemed both angry and frightened. "Like I saw," he said, retreating to the bed to sit down again. "We can't let it end up like I saw."

"Dean—"

"Talking to Sam will change it, Cas, now let it go," Dean snapped. Castiel hesitated. "It's not going to happen, so it doesn't matter," Dean insisted, and Castiel decided not to push. He nodded. Dean studied him for a few moments. "Good," he said, and turned back to the television.

Castiel sat too (Dean would eventually complain if he remained standing) and wondered what Dean could have seen that had made him so unhappy. He would wait a few days, to give Dean time to get used to whatever he'd seen, before asking again.

He didn't pay much attention to how long it took to search the next few places, though Dean had shown him how to set the alarm on his cellular phone so that he would remember to "check in" once a day—he wasn't sure what Dean thought he would do if Castiel failed to call, but it was a small enough concession that he didn't mind. But his leads brought no results again. Castiel knew perfectly well that speaking to Dean and Sam wouldn't help with his search for God; he went anyway.

They were eating when he arrived, white cardboard containers spread out over the low table in their latest motel room. Dean had told him that this style of food was called "Chinese", though its resemblance to food actually cooked in China was limited at best.

"Cas," Dean said as Castiel manifested. He sounded pleased, but wary. "What's up, do you need something?"

Castiel said, "No, but I have nowhere to look for the moment." He paused, unsure if he needed to explain further, and decided with relief that he didn't when both brothers' faces showed understanding.

"OK, well, sit down," Dean said, and waved his fork at the collection of food. "Try something. The lo mein is good."

"The lo mein is mine, give away your own food," Sam said, but he shifted a bit to make room for Castiel to sit on the couch. "Tell you what, I'll get you a beer," he told Castiel with a smile.

It had not taken Castiel long to realize that Dean, and now Sam, offered him these things not because he needed to eat, but to foster camaraderie, so he nodded as Sam started to get to his feet. He and Sam both paused, however, when Dean said, "No!"

Sam turned his head to regard his brother in surprise. "We have plenty," he said.

"Yeah, I know," Dean replied. "That's part of the problem—you think it's a good idea to get the angel trashed?"

Castiel was fairly sure that trashed was yet another synonym for intoxicated, so he said, "The amount of alcohol in one bottle won't be enough to make me drunk, Dean."

"You don't know that," Dean argued. Sam sighed and straightened, heading for the tiny kitchen.

"Of course I know it," Castiel said. "There was more beer in the glass at the den of iniquity you took me to than in one of those bottles." Out of his line of sight, Castiel felt Sam freeze. There was a pause, in which Dean continued to look stubborn, before Sam said, "Dean. Tell me 'den of iniquity' doesn't mean what I think it means."

Suddenly Dean was staring at the wall, with an expression of deep unhappiness that Castiel didn't see a need for. "That depends, what do you think it means?" Dean said evasively.

"Uh-huh," Sam said, sounding disapproving. "You took him to a brothel?"

"Yes," Dean bit out. "Didn't work out, though, so you can stop worrying. He can still wear white at his wedding." He stood, and shoved the container he was holding into Castiel's hands. "Try that," he ordered, and turned to the door, reaching for his jacket as he went.

"Dean," Sam said.

"I'll be back in a while, Sam," Dean said, and then he was out the door and closing it behind him. Castiel looked at Sam, who unfortunately didn't seem to understand Dean's outburst any better than Castiel himself did. Their eyes met, and Sam shrugged.

"Here," he said, holding out the beer bottle. "You might as well."

Castiel set down Dean's abandoned food, took the bottle, and pried the cap off with his fingers, thinking deeply.

Castiel was well aware that his grasp of human social conventions was not the best. He was a soldier, not a diplomat, and humans were so hard to read. Still, Dean's reaction every time Castiel tried to introduce the subject of whatever was bothering him seemed excessive—he'd snap, or leave, or occasionally flat-out ignore Castiel's inquiries.

When asked, Sam said that Dean wouldn't discuss it with him either. "I get the feeling...I'm pretty sure I said yes," Sam said, and grimaced. "I don't know why I would, but if we stayed apart in that future, I guess I can see it happening. And if that's what happened, Dean's never going to talk to me about it."

"He doesn't seem to be willing to talk to me, either," Castiel said. They sat in glum silence for a moment.

"Living with Dean would be so much easier if I could read his mind," Sam said.

He'd been informed that it was "creepy" to watch over Sam and Dean as they slept, so if he spent the evening with them Castiel would leave when they began to prepare for bed. It gave him time to continue his search with little fear of interruption and, as he found he was forced to remind himself, spending time with the Winchesters was not actually productive.

Therefore, when an appropriate night arrived, neither of the brothers questioned where Castiel might be going. He didn't go far, settling on the roof of their motel room. It was still simple to twist himself slightly sideways so that human eyes couldn't perceive him, though Castiel was gloomily aware that it took more out of him than it should have; before being cut off from Heaven, he wouldn't have even noticed the expenditure of energy. But he didn't want to risk being seen.

He listened as Dean and Sam went through their usual rituals and settled into their beds. Sam fell asleep quickly, Dean a trifle slower. Castiel waited until they were both dreaming before he reentered the room.

He made sure Sam's dreams were pleasant and his sleep deep before turning his attention to Dean.

Dean's dream was dark and full of screams. Castiel slid into it carefully, realizing as he did that this was the worse nightmare, the one where Dean was holding the knife. (None of what Castiel saw was new to him, though Dean would have been appalled to realize it.) So when Castiel began to nudge the dream away, Dean's psyche cooperated eagerly. Hell broke into fragments, and when the pieces came back together Castiel was standing in one corner of a room he didn't recognize.

It was not a motel, or if it was it hadn't been maintained in a long time; the wooden walls were gray with age and the space smelled of damp and smoke. It didn't even seem to have electric lights; there were oil-burning lamps sitting on tables, and a scattering of candles. He couldn't sense anything but what mortal senses could gather; it was Dean's dream, so he was limited to Dean's perceptions.

Dean stood in the center of the room, his back to Castiel. "This is all my fault, Cas," he said quietly, and Castiel wondered what he'd done to give himself away so soon—but Dean wasn't looking at him, nor obviously avoiding looking at him; he was staring at an archway on the far side of the room. "You don't get to take all the credit," someone said, and Castiel frowned in confusion at the voice. It sounded entirely wrong, like his vessel's voice but flat and strange, and then the speaker walked into his line of sight.

For a second he thought perhaps it was James Novak after all; the man was clearly mortal. But he was not wearing the suit James had worn the only time Dean had ever met him, and was too thin even for James's narrow frame, unshaven and his skin with a grey tinge to it that spoke of some kind of deep illness. James had been healthy when Castiel was taken back to Heaven, and that was how Dean would remember him.

Besides, even in a dream Castiel would know his vessel, and this was not his vessel. And that meant it was...

"Is this what you saw in the future?" Castiel asked. Dean jerked in surprise and turned. The dream-Castiel slowed into immobility as soon as Dean's attention turned elsewhere.

"Cas, what—never mind. We have to get out of here." He strode over to Castiel, all urgent tension. "We have to go back so we can stop this from happening. You can take us back, right?"

"I don't need to take you anywhere," Castiel said, mildly puzzled.

"Yes you do!" Dean exclaimed. "Back to 2009—we have to go back, Cas!"

"This is 2009," Castiel said carefully. "You're dreaming of the future."

"Dreaming?" Dean peered around the cabin. His gaze landed on the dream-Castiel, who grinned and saluted him with the glass of amber liquid it was holding. Castiel did not, technically, have the ability to feel sick, but he suspected he now understood why humans tried so assiduously to avoid the sensation. Dean turned back to him, uncertainty clear in his face. "This is a dream?"

Castiel opened his mouth to reply but the dream-Castiel beat him to it. "Yep," it said, and drank some of its liquor. "So you go on and wake up and leave me here. I'll be fine. It's not like I fell for you or anything." It gestured in Castiel's direction. "You've got the shiny me now. You don't need the broken version, right? Told you I was useless, Dean."

"No," Dean said, his voice full of conviction. He looked back and forth between Castiel and the simulacrum as if he wasn't sure which one he was trying to persuade. "No, I'd be even worse without you, Cas." Castiel frowned; Dean should have been able to remember this was a dream, now that Castiel had told him, but he was speaking to the dream-Castiel as if it were real.

Castiel took the half-step necessary to grasp Dean's arm and said firmly, "We're leaving now, Dean. You need to wake up." As he spoke he twisted the fabric of the dream, cushioning the shock so that Dean woke easily.

Dean blinked at him from the pillow for several seconds and sighed. "I'll meet you outside in five," he whispered. "Now get out so I can get dressed."

When Dean emerged from the motel room, bundled against the chilly air, Castiel was not surprised to see that he looked furious. He advanced on Castiel aggressively, managing to give the impression of shouting without raising his voice much. "What the hell was that?" he demanded. "I tell you I don't want to talk about it so you dreamwalk me? That's not OK, Cas!"

"I'm sorry," Castiel said sincerely. "It seemed to be necessary."

"Necessary is not the same as OK," Dean snapped.

"I'm not—"

"Damn right you're not. If you're gonna pull crap like that you can stay the hell away till you have a lead on that Crowley guy." Dean glowered at him.

"Sam has been worried about you," Castiel said. "He told me you won't talk to him either."

"And did it occur to you two that there's a reason for that?" Dean said, his voice climbing. "I went, it sucked, I came back, you don't need to know—"

"We do," Castiel said, perhaps more sharply than he'd meant to. "We need to know so that we can make sure things don't happen the same way."

Dean looked as if the thought hadn't even occurred to him, and Castiel tried not to be annoyed by it. "It's not your burden alone, Dean," he insisted.

Dean turned his back and took a few steps away; Castiel expected him to say nothing at all, or perhaps We're done, but instead Dean tilted his head back to look at the clear autumn sky and said, "Sam said yes."

Castiel took only a moment to be astonished before he said, "He thought that was what happened."

Dean nodded and turned. "Sam said yes to the Devil, and the world went straight to Hell. Croatoan. You know about it?"

"Yes," Castiel said.

Dean shrugged. "Took over. Looked like some Army units were still up and running, but I don't know who they were taking orders from. So there were a bunch of us holed up, some little camp in the woods. You and me and Chuck, of all damn people. Not Bobby, though. Bobby was dead, I found his wheelchair. Sam said yes, but I didn't, see. So the angels left." Castiel's surprise must have shown on his face, because Dean laughed with no real humor. "Yeah. And when they went, so did your mojo." He moved close to Castiel again, throwing out words like darts. "You were human. All the way human, just as breakable as the rest of us. You told me you broke your foot, and I kinda wonder if that's what got you started, if I gave you painkillers or booze or both. You were a junkie, Cas, and a drunk, and a total slut just to round it out. When I walked in you were getting set to have an orgy. And I thought, heck, he doesn't need to know this. We can change it, so why worry him? But you decided you needed to know." He shrugged again, and seemed to lose some of the energy that had carried him through his recitation. "Now you know. Happy?"

"Yes," Castiel said. Dean gave him an incredulous look and he repeated, "Now…it's not your burden alone." Dean looked away, out over the parking lot, and hunched into his jacket. Castiel couldn't think of how to explain it. Finally he said, "Dean, are we friends?"

Dean's reply was emphatic and gratifyingly quick. "What? Yeah, Cas, of course we are." He sighed. "That makes it worse, you know that? You wouldn't be in this mess if it wasn't for me."

"That doesn't make it your fault," Castiel said. "I knew what the choice meant when I made it."

"You didn't know it meant dying human in the middle of the frickin' zombie apocalypse," Dean said.

"Neither did you, when you asked me," Castiel replied. It didn't surprise him that the future-Castiel had died. Zachariah would have picked a future calculated to distress Dean as much as possible. "You said yourself we could change that future. I will help you change it. But it'll be easier to help if I have all the information." He hesitated for a moment, only half-sure that he was interpreting the situation correctly, before he reached out to lay a hand on Dean's shoulder. "If I'm your friend, let me help you," Castiel said.

Dean met his eyes again at last. For a long moment Castiel was convinced he had miscalculated, but then Dean smiled. It was small, but Castiel thought it was sincere. "OK," Dean said. "But Cas, no more dream-creeper, OK? I mean if you need to get me a message that way, fine, but you can't …I dunno. Just promise you won't do it again."

"I won't," Castiel said. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it would bother you so much."

Dean smiled again, and this time it looked much easier. "Space doesn't get much more personal than inside my head, Cas. You coulda been interrupting something fun."

"I wouldn't have," Castiel said.

Dean chuckled and said, "Yeah, buddy, I know. Look, I should sleep some more and I know you need to get back to looking. Plus I'm cold as hell out here. We're gonna hit Burkittsville tomorrow, I'll call you and let you know where we're staying in case you have time."

Castiel nodded. He felt curiously reluctant to leave, but Dean was already fitting his key into the door. Castiel gathered himself, pausing for a moment when Dean turned to smile again. "Thanks for the help, Cas," he said.

"You're welcome, Dean," Castiel said, and took flight.

I do hope this counts as a happy ending. And I'm very, very sorry it was a few days late-I ended up with really epic writer's block in the wake of NaNoWriMo...