Sam wakes him up. Dean can tell he's been asleep for hours because the sun has set and the room is cast into darkness.

"I made dinner," Sam says softly. "And Bobby says if you don't eat, he's gonna tie you down and shove it down your throat with a funnel."

"Not hungry," Dean mumbles into the pillow.

"I don't care. You haven't eaten in like two days. Even if you're not hungry, you gotta eat. And no, I'm not bringing it up here. You can walk your ass down the stairs and sit at the table like a big boy."

Dean glares at Sam, but it's only half-hearted. He's too tired to really give Sam his best bitch face. He gets out of bed slowly and follows Sam down the stairs. The kitchen smells of soup and bread and he has memories of being four and sick and his mom serving him tomato and rice soup in bed.

He's not sick, though.

He sits at the far end of the table, so that he's facing the living room. It's where he's always sat at this table, even when he was little and Dad would dump him and Sam with Bobby for weeks at a time.

But it's not right, because now he's forced to face the empty corner where Cas used to stand, back pressed firmly against the wall, arms over his chest, eyes constantly scanning, observing everything.

Dean looks around Bobby's modest home, cluttered with empty liquor bottles and books stacked in large, messy piles on the floor. The paint is peeling and there are leaks in the roof, creaks in the floor boards, but there had been an instance where Cas needed sanctuary and he had chosen this place.

Out of everywhere in the world, all the Heavens he could've gone, Cas felt safest at the home of Bobby Singer, an old, widowed drunk.

The irony is enough to make him laugh.

Sam and Bobby exchange worried glances. Sam's eyebrows knit together, his lips draw close. Bobby, on the other hand, crinkles his forehead and nose, his baseball cap sliding down right above his eyes.

Dean laughs harder. He can't control it. He's tired and hungry and hung over, but he doesn't want to sleep, and the thought of food makes his stomach churn and god does he want a drink. His body is light, but his head is heavy, pounding, pounding, in tune with the deafening heartbeat in his ears.

He's crying again.

He's never cried this much in his entire life.

He's crying and he's laughing. Sam and Bobby continue to stare at him, but they don't do anything because what can they do? Castiel is dead. Somewhere there's a warehouse with dark stains seared into the floor and there's a bloodied coat under his pillow and burned pants in the trash and he's not standing in the corner where he always stood and he'll never again get to go back to the single place where he felt safe in all of the entire goddamned universe.

"Dean," Sam says when Dean stops for breath, "if you don't want the soup, there's some pie in the fridge. I picked it up just this afternoon."

Dean laughs again and shakes his head. "I don't want any," he pushes the bowl of soup away and untouched. The taste of salt is still fresh on his lips. He laps it up and then laughs some more, harder, until his side hurts.

"You're not going to bed until you eat something, and shower. You're stinking up my whole house," Bobby says.

Dean stops laughing and looks Bobby straight in the eye. He huffs, a shadow of a laugh; the humor is gone now. All that's left are the tears. "You were right earlier," he says. "You're not my dad." He stands up, the chair screeching across the linoleum floor and begins to head for the door.

"Dean, wait," Sam says, grabbing him by the shoulder. Dean rips of out Sam's grip and picks up his car keys off the key ring. "Where the hell are you going?"

"He ain't going nowhere," Bobby snaps. "Boy, sit your ass back down and eat."

"I'm not hungry," Dean says and he opens the door.

"Well, wherever you're going, I'm coming with," Sam says.

Dean stops and glances back over his shoulder. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. "I don't think so, Sammy. C'mon, don't look at me like that. I'm only going for a drive. Give me two hours. I'll be back."

Sam stands stiffly on the porch, his face contorted into the best bitch face Dean has ever seen. He rolls his eyes towards Bobby, who huffs. "Two hours, Dean. If you're not back in two hours, I'm coming after you."

"That won't be necessary, you'll see," Dean smiles and climbs into the driver's seat. He turns the ignition on and the stereo comes to life with the engine. Instead of playing Dean's usual cassette tapes, it's playing the radio, some indie rock station that Sam had been listening to when he went out earlier.

It's too cold for angels to fly

Dean punches the radio to turn it off. He hopes Sam and Bobby hadn't seen that, and he doesn't stay around long enough to find out. He puts the car in drive and floors it out of the Singer Salvage yard.

The drive only takes him half an hour, but setting up the devils trap and hex box take another twenty minutes. Dean's hands are shaking violently. The lines are not as neat as they could be. Some are thicker than others, and he stains his hands more than he should have, but he gets it done. The pentagram is wide enough to give Dean the berth he'll need. Dean buries the box in the middle of the trap and pats the dirt down neatly. He stands up and feels the presence behind him.

"To what do I owe this displeasure, Squirrel?"

Dean turns around to face Crowley.

"Oh, my," Crowley's lips pucker, his eyebrows furrow. "Don't you look just awful, darling."

"I want Cas back."

Crowley smiles, revealing a row of perfectly white, straight teeth. He laughs. It's soft and gentle, teasing. The glaze of his accent makes it charming even, and that infuriates Dean.

Dean frowns and digs his fingernails into the flesh of his thigh. He has to resist every urge to deck Crowley. To beat his face in, till his skin is painted red and those damned perfect teeth fall out in a pile atop the dirt. He has to resist, though. Crowley's a demon. He's only a man. Crowley can't leave the devils trap, but he could still hurt Dean inside it if he wanted.

"Thank you, darling," Crowley says. "That laugh was worth the trip up top. Was that all? Because, fun as this had been, I do have a boiling pit of despair and agony to run."

"You bring Cas back, and give me one year, and then this fine piece of ass is Hell's once more. That's the deal."

Crowley tilts his head. It's so Cas-like, Dean feels a wave of fury overcome him like a tsunami. It takes every iota of self control not to deck Crowley. Dean's more patient than he had previously thought.

"No deal, Mandel. Sorry, I'll take case number two. Now, what else can I do for you?"
"Stop fucking around, Crowley. My soul for Cas's life. That's the deal. Now, pucker up and make with the demon mojo."

He steps closer to Crowley. Crowley sizes him up with his eyes.

"My, my, aren't we eager? I already have a girlfriend, though, Squirrel, so I'm going to have to pass on that kiss."

Dean does deck Crowley this time, sending the King of Hell straight on his ass. He bends down over Crowley, fire burning in his eyes. Crowley meets his gaze, unintimidated.

"Oh," Crowley says, licking his lips, erasing a blossom of blood, "you really don't get it, do you?"

"I get that you're fucking with me, because you're an evil son-of-a-bitch. But this ain't about me, Crowley. In fact, this has absolutely nothing to do with me. You're gonna work your demon mojo magic and in one year, you, and every other rotten demon filth in Hell gets to lay their hands on this sweet piece of ass. All you have to do is ring Cas's feathery ass down from Heaven."

"Therein lies the problem, darling," Crowley spits. "Castiel isn't in Heaven—oh, wipe that look of your face, I wish he was in Hell. Never tasted angel before, always been curious to try. You see, Castiel's nowhere. Not Heaven, not Hell, or Earth or anywhere that's anywhere. He's just gone."

"You're lying." The back of his throat tastes like acid.

"Am I?"

"Yes."

You have to be.

"You know I'm not. Angels are the red-headed step children of the Universe. They don't have souls. Humans—they either go to Heaven or Hell, depending on how good they were. Ghosts, too, once their spirits have been lain to rest. Monsters go to Purgatory, demons back to Hell—they were human once, after all; but angels don't go anywhere. Once an angel dies, he's gone forever. Simply ceases to be, like he was never even there in the first place."

"You're lying," Dean's about to start crying again. How can Cas just be gone? How can he be soulless? He remembers Sam without his soul—cold, cruel, distant. Cas had never been any of those things. Cas had felt. Cas had loved. Cas had made his own decisions and he had fought for what he believed in. He had to have a soul.

A new hatred for God boils in the pit of his stomach. The angels were His children, Cas was His son. If Crowley was telling the truth…How could God bring Cas back to life after the smiting and Lucifer, only to turn His back on him in the ultimate end?

No.

Crowley was lying. He was a demon and he was lying because that's what demons did.

"I know you've only got a fifth grade education, darling, but even you're not that damp. Tell me, what'd Castiel do to get on God's naughty list? Poor bastard's died twice already—very painfully, I've noticed—and the Big Man brought him back. Why not this time? Daddy dearest finally get tired of the little brat? Or was it all just His will?"

"Shut up."

"Every demon north of the border knew what dear little Castiel was up to. It gave us all a nice laugh to have by our water fountains. Tiny, Fallen Castiel going up against the big brother—someone call Adam Sandler, it's a blockbuster in the making."

"Shut. Up."

"Maybe God got tired of tiny, Fallen Castiel fucking everything up and He's glad to be done with the bastard. The Prodigal son can only come back home so many times and Castiel was about to run away again."

"Shut up!"

Dean pulls his pistol from his back pocket and lodges a bullet into Crowley's shoulder. Crowley flinches at the impact, cries in pain.

"But Squirrel, we didn't even come up with a safe word!"

"Next time it'll be the Colt," he snarls. The only reason he hadn't brought the Colt with him was because he was sure he wouldn't need it. He was sure any demon would've jumped on the chance to molest his soul. The thought that Crowley wouldn't had strayed through his mind, but his pride was worthless now, and he would've groveled if he had to.

The thought that Crowley wouldn't help him because he just couldn't had never entered his mind.

Crowley gets to his feet, dusts off his jacket. "I'm still punishing the demons, you know," he says and Dean immediately knows what he's talking about and he goes for his gun again, because he doesn't want to think about it, but for some reason he can't make himself shoot. "It was made absolutely clear to all demons that they were to stay out of Heaven's affairs. Their actions aligned them with Raphael and well, even I'm not that heartless to condone what they did."
Dean remembers Cas crying and it still feels wrong and rotten. Cas coming to him, not for safety or company, but comfort. He doesn't want to remember. Doesn't want to be reminded of all the ways he failed Cas, of all the ways he allowed Raphael to break Cas.

He digs his heel through the spray pain, erasing a bit just large enough to break the seal. "Go," he barks.

"For what it's worth," Crowley says, "I'm terribly disappointed he's dead. I was rooting for him to win the war. He was much more preferred to rule Heaven than Raphael. More of a pushover, you know?"
"Go!" Dean yells.

Crowley's gone in an instant.

Dean stands alone for twenty seconds before his knees give and he falls to the ground. He can't bring himself to stand, or even sit, so he lays down on his side and stares up at the sky.

It's too cloudy to see the stars.

Precisely one hour later, he hears the roar of Bobby's truck pull up next to the Impala, the slam of a car door, Sammy's distinct, loud footsteps.

"Dean!" Sam is kneeling down by him, hands firmly pressed on his shoulders. Bobby is standing beside him. "What did you do?"
"Nothing," he says softly.

"Who did you talk to? Crowley? Bobby, set the trap again, we're calling him back up here—"

"Sam," Dean says loudly, "Sammy. I didn't do anything. He wouldn't deal."
Sam's panting. He slaps Dean straight across the face. "Damn it, Dean! Don't you ever frigging scare me like that again! What the hell do you think you're doing, trying to make deals? We had a deal! We promised each other no more demon deals."

"He wouldn't deal."
Sam sighs and gets off of Dean. He rubs his face hard with his hands. Dean glances up at him and realizes he's crying. His heart drops into his stomach. Everyone's been crying a lot, himself included.

"Do you think he's in Heaven?"

"What?"

"Crowley said Cas isn't in Heaven. He says he's gone. What do you think? God would let Cas into Heaven, right? Crowley was just lying?"
Sam hesitates for a moment, before nodding. "Of course he's in Heaven. He's an angel. And Crowley—you know demons lie. Crowley and Cas were always at each other's throats to begin with." He stands shakily to his feet and bends down, taking Dean's hand. "C'mon, Dean. You need to eat and you need a good night's sleep. A real night's sleep. No drugs, no alcohol. We brought you your soup. Got it all packed in a thermos for you, so it's still hot." He pulls Dean to his feet. "Please just eat a little bit. For me?"

Dean looks at his younger brother, sees the worry in his eyes, the stress lines deepening his skin. Bobby looks like he's aged ten years in the two hours Dean's been gone. He can't stand to think of the pain he's put them through, but he couldn't just not do anything. He had to try. He was so tired of losing his family. Mom, Dad, Pamela, Ellen, Jo, Ash.

Castiel.

They all had been ripped away from violently, each taking a piece of himself with them. Each death, Dean became less and less of a person. He tried to fill the gaps with alcohol and sex, but they were only temporary and the hangovers he felt the mornings following a particularly bad night were the closest thing to a physical manifestation of how his heart felt all the time.

He wishes he had never been born. Or, at the very least, that he had died all those years ago after the semi accident. He wishes he had gone with Tessa the first chance he got. He wishes that Dad hadn't made that deal with Azazel, his soul for Dean's. Everyone Dean Winchester ever knew was doomed to die a horrific, painful death.

"Dean?"

He looks up at Sam. He wonders how much time has passed since Sam last spoke. It feels like years.

"You got any of that pie in there?"

888888

Dean hates wendigos. They're fast, elusive, mean and god, do they smell. He's already taken a scalding shower, but he can still smell the stench on himself and it makes his stomach turn in revulsion.

Sam is unaffected by the smell and blood that coats him, but then Sam's been unaffected by pretty much everything since Hell.

Side effect of being soulless, Dean thinks.

He keeps his eyes on his brother as much as he can-on what he thinks is his brother, at least. He's still not completely sure what exactly this thing is parading around in his brother's body, but he's already prepared himself for the worst possible scenario.

It's like when Lucifer wore him. Dean can look at him at know at the surface that it's not Sam, but there's something underneath, way deep, that makes Dean hesitate. Even when it was Lucifer he was talking too, and Lucifer he was looking at, Dean could still feel Sam in there.

It's not as strong now as it was then, but it's there. Dean's prepared to kill this thing should it turn out not to be his brother.

But he can't shush the voices that tell him it is Sam and this is just how he's going to be now.

There's a loud crash to his right. The lights flicker for a single moment and then come back on with a whine.

Dean jumps up off the motel bed, pistol already drawn and pointed at the noise. Sam follows suit, but Dean catches sight of a familiar tan and he relaxes, holstering his gun back into his belt loop.

His blood runs ice cold.

"Cas?"
Cas is lying face down on the carpet and doesn't appear to be able to move. Dean rushes towards him and grabs him by his arm. He tries to lift him up, but the angel is dead weight, barely conscious, so Dean calls for Sam to help him. Sam grabs Cas's other arm and together the two of them get him onto the closest bed, flat on his back.

Dean's breath catches in his throat.

The right side of Cas's face is coated in slick blood. Bruises are painted underneath both eyes, his nose is twisted—clearly broken—and his lip is split clear down the middle.

Dean gets onto his knees and runs a hand through Cas's bloody hair, fingers stopping when they come in contact with something that screams wrong. Dean doesn't want to look at it yet.

"Cas?" He whispers softly.

Cas's eyes flicker open. They're dazed and frightened, but locked onto Dean with such admiration Dean finds himself wordless.

"Dean?" It's barely audible.

"Cas, what the hell happened?"

Cas's eyes leave Dean and track around the room, scanning every corner, every crack in the ceiling and walls. "Where am I?"

Dean's fingers curl into Cas's hair. "Washington," he says. "Just outside Seattle. What happened, Cas?"

"I don't know how I got here."

Okay, that's bad—head injury; but Dean knows he can't let that worry sink through to Cas. Cas needs him to be calm.

"That's okay," Dean says. "You got here, that's what's important. You're safe. Sammy and I will protect you."

"Safe," the world rolls off his tongue, slowly and unfamiliar. His eyes waft over Dean once more. "You smell horrendous."

Dean chuckles, but there's no humor in it. "Is that you talking or just the concussion?"

Cas's eyes squint hard. "Where am I?"

Dean's heart falls straight into his stomach. "Sam, get your ass over here. I need to check out his head." Dean turns on the nearby lamp as Sam kneels down next to him. He can see a spot where Cas's hair is tangled and matted to his head. He reaches over and peels it away, but the blood acts like a glue to his skin.

A low moan emits from the back of Cas's throat.

"Shit, shit, I'm sorry, Cas, I'm sorry," he mumbles, but his mind is screaming at him. Gotta do it, gotta do it.

When the hair is peeled away, Dean's facing the wound and it takes all his self control not to turn around and vomit.

"That's brain," Sam quips in nonchalantly. He whistles, like he's fucking amused and Dean's head spins.

That is not my brother that is not my brother.

"Hello, Sam."

"Looks like it really hurts too."

Dean gathers the courage to look back at the wound. He can see the gray matter, a golf ball sized hole burned into Cas's skull. There are bone fragments lodged into the folds and blood seeps out like molasses.

"Jesus, Cas, how did this happen? Did Raphael do this?" It's a stupid question, because who else could have possibly done this?
Cas looks up towards the ceiling. "I-I don't know."

Dean's panicking, but he can't let Cas know that. He needs to keep calm for Cas. "Okay. That's okay. You know, it's not actually that bad. Probably looks worse than it feels, right?"

"You must've seriously pissed someone off. How are you still alive?" Sam says. "Angel or not, it takes serious power to spilt the skull like that."

"You can heal that, right?" Dean says quickly. He doesn't need Sam upsetting Cas. He needs Cas calm.

Cas reaches up with his hand to touch at the wound, but Dean catches him by his wrist before he can. He swallows. Dean watches as the lump descends down his throat.

"Yes," he says eventually. "Yes, I can….I can heal it. Just need time."

"Is there anything you need? Or want? Some water, at least?"

Cas's eyes are towards him, but they're not looking at him. The intense, soul piercing gaze Dean has come to expect (something he learned to become fond of) is gone. Rather, Cas is looking past him, but yet nothing in particular.

"Well," Sam says, "now we know that angels can get concussions. That'll be useful."
"Shut up!" Towards Cas, his tone softens. "Cas? Water?"
Cas's eyes snap towards him, gaze direct, like a lasso. "No," he says, slowly, "no. That. That will. That will not be. Not be necessary."

His back arches, his fingers curl into the bed sheets. Sweat shines on his forehead. "I just. Just need. Rest."

"And then you'll be able to heal that?" Dean's not a doctor, but he can smell infection pilfering the grotesque wound. It's been several minutes and it has not changed. Dean's watched Cas shrug off bullet and stab wounds, stumble off burns, come back from being exploded and walk off falling out a ten story window. Every incident involving injury, all it seemed to take was Cas giving an iota of attention to the wound and it healed.

"Yes." Talking is obviously expending too much energy.

"Just keep quiet, Cas. Focus on resting and healing."

Cas nods and closes his eyes. Dean runs his hands through his own hair.

Sam stands up. "I'm going to shower. Stay out of my bed, Dean. Just because I don't sleep doesn't mean I don't like laying down. You can share with Mr. Comatose."

Dean snorts and shakes his head. It's the most Sam-like thing he's heard from this thing's mouth since they were re-united. He climbs into the opposite side of the bed. Cas really doesn't take up that much room. He stays flat on his back, keeps his arms by his side. Dean turns so that he's on his side and can keep his eyes on Cas; on his chest, rising and falling.

"Just focus on healing Cas," Dean mumbles. "You'll be okay. I promise."

It comes out through a bated breath, stumbling past Cas's lips. "Safe," he murmurs.

Dean doesn't remember falling asleep, but when he opens his eyes, sunlight is bleeding through the thin curtains. The bed is lighter than he remembers, and recollection slowly sinks back into him.

Cas is gone.

There is still a patch of dried blood on his pillow.

888888

Sam drives the Impala back to Bobby's. Deans sits quietly in the passenger's seat, the thermos of soup held tightly in both hands. Every now and then, he takes a sip. The warm liquid slowly crawls down his throat before dropping into his stomach. His stomach twists at the intake, but Dean doesn't voice his complaints. He's doing this for Sammy. He doesn't want to upset Sammy.

"You kissed him," Sam says after a long stretch of silence.

Dean sighs and places the thermos in the cup holder. He glances out the window, at the stars that aren't there.

"Yeah."

It was cold and it was lifeless, but most importantly, it was too late. Dean waited and waited and denied and denied everything underneath his skin that screamed whenever he saw Cas; he shut out the voices in his head that spoke whenever Cas was near, ignored the standing of his hairs whenever Cas spoke and refused to acknowledge the calming aura Cas's presence had.

But he'd never been able to ignore the fury that raced through his veins when he saw Cas injured, or the desire to kill whenever Cas mentioned Raphael's name. The need to protect this holy, powerful being that Dean could never even fully comprehend in its entirety never went away.

"He loved you, too, you know."

"I know."

He did. He watched idly as Cas fell from grace and abandoned his faith in the Father that was never there. Watched as everything Cas knew, had known, fell apart around him, with no one to help him pick up the pieces. Watched as Cas turned from his Father and his brothers towards him for guidance, with adoration, devotion, worship and unfathomable love. A love that made him uncomfortable because he didn't deserve it. He was an angry, hedonistic, orphaned, godless alcoholic. He didn't deserve the love of a woman and he certainly didn't deserve the bottomless love an angel had to offer.

It never would've worked, anyway. Cas may not have gotten along with his family, but he still cared about them far more than he should have. Loving Dean Winchester would mean abandoning his family for good and Cas could never do that.

And Dean would never ask that Cas do that. He understood better than anyone the meaning of family.

The angels didn't deserve Cas's fierce loyalty and unwavering devotion.

Raphael. I'm coming for you, Raphael. Don't get too comfortable on that throne of yours, you gigantic dick. All you angels think you're so smart, but you're actually some of the biggest dumbasses I've ever met. Pissing me off is the biggest mistake you could've ever made.

Dean half expects Raphael to appear beside him; and Dean would be okay with that. He wants the chance to kill that son of a bitch, to skewer his heart just like how he skewered Cas's. He'll make sure it's a slow and agonizing death. He'll use everything he learned in Hell until Raphael begs Dean to kill him.

And maybe Dean will do it.

But probably not.

You didn't stop when Cas asked you to stop. You just kept going. I know what you did to him, you son of a bitch.

His anger dissipates suddenly. Dean glances at Sam.

He was your little brother. How could you do that to him?

"Dean."

Dean's head snaps.

"Eat your soup before it gets cold."

Dean reaches for the thermos, but his hand stops just above it. His fingers curl inwards. Bobby's house is ten minutes away and Dean doesn't know what he'll do once he gets there.

"That was really stupid, what you were going to do."

"Had to try," the words slip past his lips quietly, robotically. He's not sure he's the one who said them.

"He was my friend too, Dean."

But you're not grieving, Dean thinks. You haven't even cried.

Somehow, Dean still takes death harder than Sam does. Maybe it's because he has seen more.

Or maybe it's because he's the one with the curse. Sam's already died once and Dean still remembers the terror, the despair and the immense loneliness that washed over him. He swore that nobody could make him feel like that, except Sam.

That was just under two years before he met Cas.

Four years before he would learn how wrong he was.

"You need to burn the coat."
"I'm not—"

"You have to burn everything, Dean. It's respectful."
You should show me some respect.

Dean's mouth dries slowly, like a dying flower in the desert sun. "No," he says. "It'd be sacrilege. That coat was the only thing he ever seemed to like."

"It's not right, Dean. I know….it's fucked up, yeah, I know. But we need to keep alert in case the other angels start stirring shit up again. We need to be on our best game and we can't do that if—"

"Stop talking, Sam."

"I'm just saying, we have to be prepared for the worst."

But the worst has already happened.

He doesn't remember walking back into Bobby's house, or pilfering the liquor cabinet, but when he comes to, he's lying on the living room floor with a pounding headache. His vision is fuzzy and his mouth is dry. He's aware of the two sets of feet beside him, voices caught in the thick air. He can't make out what they're saying, but he can tell by the tones that they're angry. Probably at him, he thinks. It wouldn't be the first time.

Someone touches him. He recoils.

"Dean," a voice chokes out. Sam. "Dean, we're not doing this. You can't do this. I can't do this!"

"Calm down, Sam." Bobby.

"Calm down? Bobby, he's gonna kill himself!"

"No, he ain't. We just gotta keep our eyes on him. You keep him distracted while I hide the stash someplace he won't find."

"You better hide it good, old man," Dean slurs. "Cause I will find it, you know."

Bobby huffs and walks away. "Just go ahead and try, boy. I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I'm a hell of a lot sharper than you."

He isn't able to find where Bobby stashed the alcohol, but he did find Bobby's secret stash of cigarettes and that's enough for Dean at the moment.

The hangover still throbs in his temples and the nicotine sucks all the moisture out of his mouth, leaving behind an ashy taste. He draws a deep drag and blows the smoke out through his nose. He's already on his third cigarette and it's only been an hour.

He hasn't smoked since he was eighteen. He used to go through a pack a day back then, scouring whatever he could from Dad and Bobby and the drug stores. He kept his packs hidden underneath his pillow and would light up in the motel bathrooms, careful to keep the fan blowing and the smoke near the vent. He got really good at finishing off a cigarette within just a few minutes. He had to keep it short, otherwise Dad would've found out and had his ass.

Looking back on it now, he laughs at how his Dad did finally find out. It was a vampire hunt in Mississippi and after they decapitated the freak, Dad had wanted to burn it, for good measure. But it had been raining the entire week they'd been hunting the thing and all the grass and wood was soaking wet, they couldn't get it to burn. Dad had stolen his pillow case out of the Impala and was going to stuff the head inside it, but when he pulled it out of the car, Dean's cigarettes fell out onto his feet. He didn't say anything at the time—Sam had been right there, watching—but the moment Dad got him alone, he turned red faced and hit Dean clear across the face just once.

He made Dean sit down outside and smoke an entire cartoon of Marbolos and Dean got so sick, he couldn't stand without getting dizzy for three days. Afterwards, he couldn't even smell cigarette smoke without immediately becoming nauseous for years.

The cigarette burns out and Dean flicks the butt away, somewhere in the salvage yard. He rests his elbows on his knees and stares forwards.

His gives Bobby credit for his hiding spot—underneath a fake bottom in his oversized desk. Dean almost passed by them completely, but then he noticed the unusual lack of dust inside the drawers and had to investigate.

He is amazed at how easy it was to start smoking again. It was like he never even stopped.

A week later, he finds Bobby's stash of Jack Daniels hidden underneath the hood of a totaled '79 Ford Mustang. He carries the stash up to the bedroom he's been squatting in for the last several days and sits on the bed, the bottle laying out in front of him. He stares at it wordlessly for two hours before he breaks.

Sometime later, Sam finds him passed out on the floor, wearing the bloodied coat as a blanket.

"I found us a case," Sam says, leaning over his computer. It's a Tuesday morning. Bobby's house smells like eggs and sausage. Dean's stomach is empty, but churns with acidity anyways. Before him sits an untouched cup of coffee that's already gone cold. "This small town in Idaho, just past Boise. Lots of lightening storms and cattle deaths. Pretty tell signs of a demon. If we leave now, we can be there by—"

"Let Rufus do it," Dean says.

Sam blinks. "Rufus doesn't deal with demons as often as we do. Besides, it'll be good to get out and back into—"

"The life?"

Sam smacks his lips. "Yeah."

Dean smiles sardonically. There must be a God, he decides, because only God could have such a sense of humor. Sam had left the life for good the second he turned eighteen and was prepared to turn back on Dad and Dean and the life forever and he stayed out for four years until Dean dragged him back in kicking and screaming for that woman in white case.

Dean was prepared to let him go after that. To let walk him back into that apartment in Stanford and never come out.

Dean dragged him kicking and screaming, but Jessica's death shoved him back in.

How did it come that Castiel's death would kick Dean out?

"We have work to do," Sam says. "You know. Saving people, hunting things. The family business, right?"

Dean takes a sip of his coffee and hides his grimace. It's bitter. "Yeah."

Sam doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to.

They still don't leave for the hunt until the next day, though.