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2. Like an Angel Scorned

"Blessed is the servant who loves his brother as much when he is sick and useless as when he is well and an be of service to him." – St. Francis of Assisi

The motel room was quiet at this hour; the TV screen danced with the black-and-white magic of The Count of Monte Cristo, but with the sound turned down, Edmund could do no more than pose emphatically with his dearest Mercedes by his side. The credits finally started to roll, but Dean wasn't watching them; instead, his gaze was fixed on Sam, curled up in the other bed, breathing softly in the steady rhythm of deep sleep. On the bedside table, next to the cheap motel bible, sat a prescription bottle, which announced to the world in outdated lettering that the Ambien inside was intended for one Mike Johnson, who, as far as the staff of the Sedgwick County Hospital were concerned, was the individual who was sleeping so soundly as a result.

Irony was coming back to bite him in the ass, he realized; ever since Sam had told him about the nightmare, despite his outward nonchalance, he had been on high alert. Every wince, every furrowed brow each toss and turn and twinge seemed a suddenly dangerous thing; and yet, for all the private fuss he made, in noticing each tiny movement, he was doing no more than catching at smoke, and he knew it. Despite Sam's skepticism, Dean was fully prepared to believe all of this was just stress, and that the proper way to deal with it was, as with any minor illness, to simply let it take its course.

Just then, the TV flickered, and, being the only source of light, plunged the room into utter darkness. Dean sat up, watching the screen fade to black, then jump to life again, only to sputter off a second later. Finally, after several seconds of a continuous blank screen, there came the quiet tap, tap tapping of a knock on the door. Feeling around, he found the drawer of the bedside table, pulled it out, and grabbed from it a loaded nine millimeter. Hesitantly, he slid off the bed, tiptoeing to avid waking Sam, and crossed to the door; standing off tone side, he grasped the doorknob, settled his nerves, and threw it open.

Standing before him was what appeared to be a handsome man in his early to mid thirties, a knowing and slightly pretentious face framed by a haircut that could have found a nice home in a cubicle somewhere. The 'man' was certainly dressed for an office job: white collared shirt, tasteless tie, complete with a formless trench coat. In the space of a carefully calculated contemptuous pause, he looked first from Dean's tense expression, to the gun pointed rather threateningly at his chest, and at last, peeking around Dean into the room beyond, at Sam's inert form.

"Nice to see you too, Dean," greeted Castiel. "How's Sam?"

The angel made a move to step around him, but Dean quickly stepped forward, shutting the door behind him with a subdued snap.

"Asleep," he answered curtly. "And he's going to stay that way."

"Fair enough," conceded Castiel, retreating. "We'll discuss your brother later. For now, I need to talk to you about the warehouse job – the one you failed."

"How—" began Dean, but he thought better of it. "Never mind. What about it?"

Backing up further, Castiel leaned himself against a nearby lamppost. "Do you know what it is you're hunting?"

Dean shrugged. "Based on the guy at the warehouse, I'd say we're looking at a run-of-the-mill poltergeist with a few new tricks."

For the first time in their relationship, Castiel let out a quiet chuckle. "Wrong," he said bluntly. "Considering what they are, you'll want to avoid looking at them at all."

"And what are they, exactly?"

"Grigori," replied Castiel.

There was a pause.

"By the way you said that," said Dean, "I'm guessing that's supposed to mean something to me."

With a sigh, Castiel clarified. "Angels. Fallen angels."

Dean's face fell. "I have to deal with more of you guys? I'm sorry, but you're just about all I can take, Cas."

"Amusing," said Castiel, though he clearly didn't think so. "Grigori are much like angels. They've simply lost the Lord's favor in one way or another – doubt, free will… they have many of the same powers, though they are less potent."

"The guy at the warehouse," realized Dean aloud. "His eyes weren't gone – he just went blind."

Castiel nodded. "Their true form has less effect than mine. Still, they are considerably dangerous, especially the three you are hunting. One of them, Shemyazaz, was the one who attacked you at the warehouse. He is their leader; my brothers and I have been seeking him for some time. The others are Arakiel and Ramiel; according to the writings on the apocalypse, they are to lead all men's souls to judgment, but, seeing as they have defected Paradise, the legions are unsure of what the outcome will be. It is the Lord's wish that you find them and… take care of them."

"I didn't know angels used euphemisms," said Dean. "Besides, why don't you and your brothers just go out and 'take care of them' yourselves?"

For a moment, Castiel looked sour. Then he said, "you're right."

Dean gawked. "Come again?"

"I must have been wrong about you, Dean. The grigori are quite dangerous – they might be too much for you to handle."

Abruptly, Dean bristled. "Now, wait up a minute there, golden boy. I can handle a lot more than you figure."

Castiel smiled. "That's what I thought you'd say. The Lord will be pleased by your service."

There was something in the angel's voice that Dean didn't quite like, but it still took him a minute to comprehend the consequences of his comment. "That's not fair!" he protested. "Aren't angels supposed to be above stupid Jedi mind mojo?"

Castiel shrugged. "The Lord works in—"

Dean cut him off with a wave. "Any other holy housework you want to trick me into doing?"

"Actually, now that that's settled, we need to have a talk about your brother."

Dean forced himself to smile. "What, Sammy? He's doing fine. Peachy, even."

The angel's smile disappeared. "Don't lie to me, Dean. He's been having nightmares again. In fact, he's having one right now, as we speak. And it's about to come true."

The words made Dean's stomach turn to ice. Turning, he grabbed the doorknob, only to pull his hand back sharply as the flesh was invisibly seared by divine heat.

"Let me in," he ordered, trying to shake the pain from his hand as if it were water.

"No," the angel replied, all compassion gone from his eyes. "You need to listen very carefully to what I'm about to tell you, Dean. Things are going to get bad for Sam – worse than before. And if they get bad enough, I'll have no choice but to follow orders."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" interjected Dean. "Sam hasn't used his powers in weeks. I know; I haven't let him out of my sight."

"Like you did just now?" pointed out Castiel. "Besides, we know that already."

"What? What's that supposed to mean?"

"These visions of his," Castiel said. "We have reason to believe they have something to do with the fugitive grigori – Ramiel in particular. If you can find them, this can all end. But until then, my brothers and I will be watching."

"Whatever. I'll find them, I swear. Just let me in!"

"Just keep a close eye on your brother for now," concluded Castiel.

A sudden wind kicked up, whistling across an otherwise uninhabited parking lot, and, in a blink, the angel was gone, leaving Dean alone to ponder his words. With a sudden start, he remembered Castiel's earlier warning, and he lunged for the door, bursting into their motel room…

…and all was well. The lump that was Sam was still tucked in bed, hogging all the blankets in true Sammy fashion. Dean let out his held breath.

"You can be a real pain in the ass, Cas," he muttered, electing to shut the door quietly instead of submitting to the urge to slam it. Both options turned out to be incorrect, however, as the doorway had, in line after the TV, been providing the only light. He turned, grumbling, searching for the lamp. His outstretched arms managed to hit something which he realized too late was not an inanimate object, and suddenly, something jumped him from behind, wrapping a thick arm around his throat, with a hand over his mouth so what little air remained in his lungs couldn't turn into a scream.