[Great thanks to Catrin Lewis and Lisa J. Emerson for their Latin assistance! By the way, Catrin's book, "The Single Eye," is available now via Amazon and Kindle. It's about a pair of young architects with a sinister would-be client, and asks the question, "For what would you sell your soul?"]

.

After a full fifteen seconds of silence, Dean re-focused on Castiel. "Do any of you guys ever tell the truth about anything?"

"Well, everything I've told you so far has been the truth."

"Do you – Is there – Can you find someone who's been possessed by a demon? Lure him into a devil's trap for an exorcism?"

"It's possible, under certain conditions. Who has been possessed?"

"My brother. Sam Winchester."

Castiel leaned back a little in his chair, thinking.

"He's my only family. Everyone else is gone, except for an uncle we never really got to know. I've been looking for him nonstop, gave up my life in Austin to do it, and I'm – Can you find him? Can you get him free?"

Castiel tapped his fingers on the table. "How long has he been possessed?"

"Six months, four days." Dean told him what had happened. "When I got over to Sam's place, a guy named Bobby Singer was there."

Castiel gave a small nod. "A hunter of some infamy. I know three demons who were exorcised by him, all still trapped in Hell."

"Good," Dean said savagely. "He'd been tracking that demon too, the one who possessed Sam. He gave me a fast explanation and we got back to my place, but Sam was gone."

He stared at the tabletop. "I can't get over how he sounded. The last time I saw my brother."

Castiel looked away from Dean, looked back.

"I told Bobby, tell me how to find him. Tell me how to fix him. And he said, I can give you a start. But a lot of it will have to be your own work and your own instincts. And you're gonna have to give up your life, live on the road. You got enough money for that? I said not for long, and he said, Well, you're gonna have to figure out ways to keep yourself fed and buy supplies but without putting down roots. You understand what I'm sayin'? And even then, understand, you might never find him alive. And I said, I've got to do this. This isn't a choice. Just tell me how." Dean nodded. "He understood. I could tell, personal experience.

"I worked installing home security systems. I called in sick the next two days and Bobby gave me a crash course in demon tracking and hunting. Gave me a reading list, too." Dean indicated with a wave of his hand. "I've got a library under the bed. After two days, Bobby had to move, some newbie hunters were getting themselves killed a couple hundred miles away. I told him I was ready to handle things on my own, but I could tell, when he said goodbye, he thought I was gonna die soon and bloody." A quick grin. "I call him once a month or so. I always start out, 'Hey Bobby, not dead yet.'"

He took a quick breath. "After Bobby left I went in to work. I'd been there seven years, I had a lot of access. First time I ever stole, I took stuff from my employer. Everything from lock picks to electronics. Robbery was gonna be how I supported myself, but I felt so lousy afterward, I decided I couldn't steal from good people. So – that's been my life the last six months. Tracking demons and stealing from scumbags. Good – "

A deep broken sigh erupted from him suddenly, as though it had leaped on him. He went silent for a moment, then finished, "Good times."

Castiel studied him, looked away, looked back.

Then he said, "At six months, there's a chance. It depends on how the demon has used your brother's body, but there's a chance. But time is of the essence. I will tell you that even now it may be too late. We might exorcise the demon and discover that your brother's soul is about to leave its battered body. You may get only a last word or two with him; you may not even get that."

Dean swallowed, nodded. "Understood. But the demon is frying in Hell. And there's a chance we get Sam back."

"Emotionally and maybe physically traumatized, but yes. Do you know the demon's name?"

"Andrealphus. Last I knew he was in the Los Angeles area, that's why I came here, but you may have noticed, it's a big area."

"Nonetheless, I can find the demon, pin him in a devil's trap, and bring you to him." A slight smile. "I'll probably absent myself for the actual ritual, if you don't mind. Do you know how to do the ritual?"

"First thing I studied. I've done it a couple of times."

"Good. There are a few Loyalists that I need to have destroyed. They all work and live with intense security, they can spot a demon coming long before it gets into the room with them. But a human – particularly a human with experience in stealthy entry – they'll never see that coming. I can supply you with weaponry that will allow you to kill them – "

"You – what?"

"There are such weapons. I need these Loyalists destroyed, not just exorcised. As discussed, you will kill the first one to return my favor. Then you will kill the others, and receive your brother in payment."

"No way, man. You'll let me do your dirty work and then vanish, and I'll be back at square one. Or I'll get killed, and I know you're not going to free Sam just to honor my memory. No. First we save Sam. Then I take care of your hit list."

The demon's eyebrows drew together a little. "While it's true – "

A cell phone went off with a harsh rasping buzz. Castiel slipped his hand into his suit jacket and pulled out the phone. "Speak."

A few moments of silence, then, "Excellent. And Mr. Vincent is back at the office, conducting business? – Of course. The Loyalist cause couldn't have a better leader." Dean looked rather sharply at Castiel as the demon continued, "Of course I'm not underestimating your contributions to the cause, Lester. You've been both brave and loyal, worthy of great rewards. But I think we can all agree – " there was a silky threat in Castiel's pleasant murmur – "that Mr. Vincent is the best possible leader we could have, can't we? – Of course. There is a Council meeting at the office in an hour and a half, so I'll meet you at the restaurant at, say, seven o'clock? Very well." He disconnected abruptly and shook his head, looking impatient.

"Uh – not that it really matters to me," Dean said, "but I thought you said you were a Terrestrial."

Castiel looked at Dean as though just remembering he was there. "Yes. I should have told you. I've been undercover with the Loyalists for some time."

"Undercover with demons? I'd rather be undercover with a drug cartel!"

"The difference is minimal," Castiel said blandly. He stood and put the phone back in his jacket pocket. "I have to leave. I propose a compromise. If you kill the first demon, returning my favor, I'll trap Andrealphus for you, and you will give me your word that you'll kill the other demons. Agreed?"

"If I get killed, you see to it that Sam gets freed anyway, and gets any medical help he might need. Agreed?"

Castiel gave a small nod. "If we exorcise your brother, but his life can't be saved, you will finish the hit list anyway. Agreed?"

"You don't have to worry about that. If Sam's dead, I haven't got a lot to live for anyway." Dean stood and extended his hand. "Deal."

Castiel looked at Dean's hand, a little surprised, then extended his own. As they shook hands, their eyes met.

"I'll be in touch soon with the details and the weapons."

"Right. Give me your name and phone, so I can get in touch if I need to."

The demon raised an eyebrow. "I'll be in touch with you." Then, relenting a bit, "My name is Castiel."

"Sounds like an angel name."

"Yes. It amused the demon who named me."

He walked to the door like a human and let himself out.

Dean wiped his face, shook his head, and stared into the distance.

Not just a mob bigwig. An effing mob bigwig demon.

And Dean still couldn't stop thinking that he was hot.

Crap.

.

"Mr. Sanchez was displeased that you didn't turn the thief over to him," Mr. Vincent said to his consigliere.

An hour and a half after Castiel had met with Dean, he and Mr. Vincent were sitting in the capo's office at Sucro Corp., a huge corner room with wide windows looking over the city thirteen stories below.

Castiel looked a little concerned. "Is he still displeased?"

"Well, no. Mr. Sanchez sees things very differently now. He's a whole new man, one might say." They both chuckled. "I just wondered why you didn't do as he asked."

"An over-abundance of caution. In case the thief or his car had been seen anywhere in our vicinity, I didn't want his body to turn up. Human police are always too eager to ask questions and obtain search warrants, and while they're not a major threat, I prefer not to risk any accidental discoveries. I told Hannah to tell Sanchez as much, but she got the impression that he dismissed her because she's female."

"Odd," Mr. Vincent said. "Because he was saying just yesterday how he admired Hannah's brains and perception."

The consigliere gave a small narrow smile. "As you say, a whole new man. In any case, Mr. Vincent, you didn't need to wait for a council meeting to ask me about my decisions. I am always eager to take questions and direction from you."

"I know that, De Santis. And I appreciate it."

The intercom on Vincent's desk buzzed. "Mr. Williams and Edward Vincent are here," a secretary's voice announced.

"Tell them to come on back. – Almost a quorum." Vincent stood and indicated that Castiel should move from the chair at his desk to a square of sofa and chairs around a walnut coffee table. He greeted one of the new arrivals with a broad grin and handshake. "Son!"

"Daddy!" Edward said, with an equally broad grin.

Since the original hosts had, in fact, been father and son, the two demons frequently enjoyed the joke. Castiel, meantime, went over to the other new arrival, a lean black man with great facial bone structure. "Revard! I haven't seen you since – it was – "

"Since I lost my last meatsuit," Revard said ruefully. "This one's darn good-looking, don't you think?"

"I do. And I understand you're in charge of weaponry, since the unfortunate death of Benthes."

"I'm going to make our enemies suffer for that," Revard said quietly.

Mr. Vincent said to both of them, "Try to remember to use Earthen names. It avoids accidental slips in public."

Revard grinned, shaking Castiel's hand as if he were just being introduced. "I'm Mr. Williams."

"Mr. De Santis."

After being called, Mr. Vincent's secretary brought in black coffee for the Vincents, plain water for Castiel and Revard. Mr. Vincent held the door for her, made sure that she was back at her desk, and closed the office door. He looked at Revard. "I understand that the possession of Mr. Sanchez was textbook."

Revard nodded. "Sanchez was expected to be alone for several hours, so Eleazar had a chance to get used to his new surroundings. Sanchez had – " he shrugged – "no spiritual strength to resist. Eleazar has already called Sanchez's contacts suggesting several known Terrestrials as ravenous new customers."

Edward said, "I understand that addictive substances are excellent weapons against humans, but will they work on demons? We don't get addicted."

"We don't get addicted," Revard said dryly. "Terrestrials overindulge themselves in Earthen pleasures to a point that overwhelms even demonic resistance."

"I hope so," Edward said in a suddenly vicious tone. "I look forward to the day when our forces can storm bases full of those self-indulgent weaklings and wipe them out."

Revard's handsome face was suddenly marred by a bloodthirsty grin, his eyes going completely black for a moment.

"I want your report on the state of our forces," Mr. Vincent said to Edward, "but first, Mr. De Santis, is there something that concerns you? You seem worried."

Castiel looked up from the tabletop. "I'm not worried, merely concentrating. I'm trying to remember how wide Mr. Sanchez's territory is, when we can possibly make attacks beyond the present-day borders."

Mr. Vincent chuckled. "Always thinking a step ahead. Get together with Mr. Sanchez about that and send me a report. Now, Edward – "

The intercom buzzed, and the secretary's voice, sounding a little stressed, said, "The lady who often – Mal – Mala – "

"Mala-ZEER." An impatient female voice in the background. "It's not that hard to say."

"Let her come back. Then no interruptions until I say otherwise." Mr. Vincent's tone was crisp, his jaw set. He sprang to his feet and strode to the door.

Revard grinned and raised his eyebrows at Castiel, a someone's-in-trouble look. Castiel remained impassive.

A woman with an abundance of both blonde hair and bone jewelry flung open the door, missing Mr. Vincent by an inch. The hemline of her full red skirt was almost to her ankles, but the dress couldn't be considered modest, not with that neckline. She carried a large cloth bag woven with unusual designs.

"Mr. Vin – " she began.

Vincent slammed the door. "Once and for all, Hell-bait: You use Earthen names only in this building. Is that clear?"

"I don't have one. I don't have to worry about what humans think. My rituals are performed in isolation."

"Oh, yes," Edward said sarcastically. "You're practically a nun."

Malazir walked over to him. "Occasionally I enjoy myself with a human. Then I dispose of him and continue my work. Not like you, with your red-headed – "

"You're changing the subject, Malazir." Mr. Vincent stayed near the door, and his voice dared Malazir to keep her back turned to him. "I have told you numerous times, adopt a human name and use it. Your research into raising our Lord is important, and you perform it well. I don't want anything to happen to you. But something will, if you insist on following your own counsel instead of mine."

"It's not my counsel. It is our Lord Lucifer's. He has told us that we are to hate and rule over those mongrel animals with souls. And you want me to name myself after them? So they'll feel comfortable around me? Is that what Lord Lucifer would want?"

Vincent's eyes went black. "It's what I want. There's a difference between doctrinal purity and contempt for the chain of command."

Castiel's deep voice was soft. "May I make a suggestion?"

"Please," both of them said at once, looking at him.

Castiel looked at Mr. Vincent. "If it didn't do too much violence to her principles, perhaps Malazir could adopt an Earthen title rather than an Earthen name? If she were to introduce herself as Lady Malazir, that could be – a first name, a last name, the name of an estate. It would sound less infernal than exotic, and – " now his gaze shifted to the blonde and he smiled – "she is exotic looking."

She let her voice go sensual. "Thank you, Castiel. Lady Malazir – I like that."

"It won't make you Lord Lucifer's bride, you know," Edward said.

"Shut up, Edward." Vincent, his eyes normal, rejoined them at the table." An excellent idea, Castiel. Malazir, you will henceforth announce yourself as Lady Malazir when you arrive here for a Council meeting. Perhaps your enjoyment of the title will even lead to your arriving on time."

He sat, and Malazir remained standing, looking down at him like one who always holds an ace in her hand. "The next time I commune with Lord Lucifer, I'll convey your approval to him."

There was a brief uncomfortable silence. Malazir sat and looked at the center of the coffee table with feigned surprise. "You weren't planning to begin without an invocation to the Morning Star, were you?"

Another uncomfortable moment. "We were waiting for you to incant it," Mr. Vincent said to her.

"How nice," said Malazir, in a tone that clearly meant yeah-sure-you-were. She pulled a black pillar candle from her bag, set it in the middle of the table, and touched the wick to light it. She held her hands straight out, fists clenched, and the others around the table did so as well, each touching the back of his or her fists to the backs of the next demons'. "Lord Lucifer, Morning Star, Ruler of the Infernal Realm. . . "

Castiel opened his eyes and, with a tiny movement of his head, looked around. He could sense where security devices were placed, even when hidden from sight. His eyes closed and he bowed his head again.

After the meeting broke up, he walked down the hall, turned the corner, and looked back. Vincent and Edward were still talking. Castiel sensed the kinds of security devices hidden in the hallway leading to the office, then slipped away.

.

"It was originally Mr. Vincent's idea to possess the bodies of organized crime members," Castiel said. He and Dean were again sitting at Dean's dining room table. Dean had a glass of whiskey in front of him, Castiel a glass of water.

"It was a brilliant idea. If a mob member seems suddenly self-seeking or ruthless, he probably always had those tendencies. The ability to influence humans, through money or favor or catering to vices, is considerable. If a mobster escapes from prison, no infernal magic is suspected, simply corruption. If a mobster dies a sudden and bloody death, no one is surprised.

"The two – well, arguably the two most powerful demons in Los Angeles possessed Carl Vincent and his son Edward. Others were taken over, family members and co-workers. At Vincent's legitimate business, Sucro, a very small minority of upper management are demons; but in our private lives, it's much more convenient to be surrounded by our own kind. All members of my staff are demons."

"I figured that out," Dean said, "and I can't tell you how much better I felt. I thought some skinny little gal had put a bag over my head and I couldn't even fight her off. It was a relief when I realized she was a demon."

"Yes," Castiel said with a tiny smile. "You may remain confident in your ability to fight off a small human woman."

"Thanks," Dean said dryly. "So when did you go undercover with the Loyalists?"

Castiel drew a breath. "When the Los Angeles group started splitting, my inclinations were with the Terrestrials, but I've never been one to make a show or take a stand publicly. I remained where I was, answering to the same authorities. When I began rising in the organization, it occurred to me that I could be of greater use to the Terrestrials as I attained more power among the Loyalists."

"It just 'occurred' to you to risk your life for a cause you believed in? Isn't that, you know, sort of human?"

Something came over Castiel, his eyes closed and he pulled back in his chair a little, as if fighting off some pain.

"You OK?"

The demon's eyes popped open, and Dean was a little surprised – partly that they weren't completely black, and partly at how blue the irises were. He hadn't noticed that before. "Fighting for a cause is not necessarily human," Castiel said, and stood quickly.

He went to a box that he'd set down by the door when he'd come in, picked it up, and put it on the table. He lifted the lid and pulled out Dean's cross-body bag, giving it to him.

"My stuff! Great. Thought I wouldn't see it again. So you do need – What the – Are those teeth?"

He was staring at the second item Castiel produced from the box – a long slightly curved bone flattened on one end to make a handle, sharpened on the other end, and partly lined with undeniable teeth.

"It's the jawbone of a donkey," Castiel said, "hardened and sharpened in Hell. Either edge will cut, and you can use it with a scythe-like motion when confronted with several attackers. But – " he bounced a finger off of the sharpened tip – "it can be used to stab in close quarters, too. A versatile weapon."

Dean picked it up by the handle, looking interested, and turned it in his hand. "And this will kill a demon?"

"Yes."

"Man. I didn't think anything would."

Castiel produced the next weapon from the box, a foot-long dagger whose hilt, guard, and blade were all of the same softly lustrous silver-colored material. He laid it on the table in front of Dean. "This is an angel blade. Its use is clearly only for one attacker at a time, but its power is limitless. It will kill angels, humans, animals, or demons, if thrust in deeply and in the right spot. Be careful," as Dean picked it up, "it's much sharper than it looks."

"Why the name? Because it sends people to the angels?"

"It originated in Heaven. It is the only weapon used by angels."

"OK. So much for the fluffy white wings."

Castiel went back into the box and laid a handgun on the table. "I wasn't sure what kind of pistol you have, so I brought one of the correct kind to fire this ammunition."

He put a small container on the table and removed the lid. The bullets inside were of the same lustrous silver Dean had just seen, though the shell casings were normal.

"These bullets are made from angel blades. It's an extraordinarily difficult process, and the bullets are rare. Don't waste them."

Dean nodded, hefted the gun. "Yeah, I'll have to keep this one for these bullets. Besides, I like the ammunition in my own gun."

"It's special, also?"

"Miniature devil's trap etched into the base of each bullet. You shoot one of those into a demon, it won't kill him, but it'll stop him cold."

"That's quite ingenious."

"Yeah. Imagine my delight when it worked the first time."

"If you practice with the gun I provided – "

"I will. And I won't use the angel bullets for practice."

Castiel put the box down on the floor and sat back down opposite Dean. "Our goal is to set the leadership of the Loyalists against each other, breaking the cause by breaking its leaders. Your first target will be Mr. Vincent."

Dean caught his breath for a moment, then nodded. "The head of the whole Loyalist gang. OK. Nothing like starting out with a nice soft pitch."

"If it helps, I took these weapons from Mr. Vincent's personal armory. They are made by a master demonic armorer called Vulcan. So they will be very effective."

Dean nodded.

"There are two demons who will, I believe, immediately begin vying for Mr. Vincent's place – the demon who possessed the son, Edward Vincent, and a powerful sorceress demon who calls herself Lady Malazir. One of them will kill the other, and the friends of the dead demon will call for vengeance. If this does not happen, you will need to kill one of them and make it look like the rival did it. Mr. Vincent has – what would you say – a bodyguard and soldier whose name is Hex. He should also be destroyed, just because he's dangerous."

"Hex?"

"His actual name is much longer, but he prefers to go by Hex."

"Great. If this dangerous Hex is Vincent's bodyguard, I'm going to have to go through him first."

"Hex isn't always with Mr. Vincent; his schedule is difficult to predict. Except for one night a month. At the dark of the moon, Hex isolates himself to make a sacrifice to Lord Lucifer."

"What does – I don't want to know."

"No. You don't. But the point is that this month, the dark of the moon is night after tomorrow. He will be performing his rite, and Mr. Vincent will be working late at the Sucro offices."

Dean nodded, looking at the table of weapons with unseeing eyes.

"You feel overwhelmed. I would suggest that you focus solely on the first target, and we'll see what develops after that."

Dean looked at him frankly. "I'm figuring the odds are pretty much against there being anything 'after that' for me. Which is why you've got to hold up your end of the deal."

"Hannah, my most trusted aide, is searching for Andrealphus as we speak. I've told her to lure him to one of our safehouses – I've already set up a devil's trap there."

"And she doesn't wonder why she's luring a fellow demon into a devil's trap."

Castiel shrugged. "I told her that he has shown Terrestrial sympathies and needs to be sent back to Hell for correction. That's all that needs to be said."

"That's it, huh? Wow."

"You know that you must strike the death blow while the demon is in a body, don't you? Otherwise – "

"Otherwise they turn into a tornado of black smoke pouring out of the mouth, and there's nothing you can do to smoke. Yeah. Been there, failed to do that."

"And you will need to take precautions against being possessed yourself."

Dean pulled down the neck of his T-shirt to reveal a tattoo high on his chest. "Like that."

"Exactly."

Dean let the cloth go. "Bobby put that on me when he realized he couldn't talk me out of hunting Andrealphus. Amateur at-home tattooing – I don't recommend it, pain-wise. But he did a good job."

He sat back and sighed. He looked at the weapons again and took a deep drink of whiskey.

"What are the odds that I'm going to kill a living person in those bodies?"

"In the bodies we're discussing? Nil. Mr. Vincent and Edward have possessed their hosts for more than a year. Edward is in charge of the Loyalist forces, and has taken part in battles, and Mr. Vincent himself has been wounded in a lung. Malazir and Hex have possessed their bodies for a very long time. You need have no concern there."

A silent nod in response.

"How long will it take you to accustom yourself to the new weaponry?"

Dean shrugged. "A day."

"Then I'll give you the details of the attack now."

Dean went over to the 10-year-old girl's desk, fished paper and a pen out of a drawer. He came back, finished the whiskey in one long gulp, set down the glass sharply and grabbed the pen. "Shoot."

.

He realized it while he was standing in the shadows near the back entrance of Sucro: Castiel was lying about the whole thing.

The thing he was supposed to say to nullify the security cameras? It wouldn't work. He would be stopped by security as he left the site of a cold-blooded murder, with no way to escape, and his only explanation might be good for an insanity plea – might be. Castiel would move up to Vincent's position in the demon Mafia, and Andrealphus would be possessing Sam for all time.

The only argument to this extremely likely scenario: He believed Castiel.

He believed a demon. God knew why. So to speak.

He shook his head, squared his shoulders, and still standing in shadow, said, "Oculi mortui caeci sunt."

It meant "Dead eyes are blind," and would blind the non-living eyes of security cameras. Most of them in the building were hidden, Castiel had told him, but this one was obvious, encased in bullet-proof glass.

A tiny green light beneath the camera flicked off, and a tiny red light flicked on.

Castiel had given him the keypad code for the back door, but he didn't want to punch it in directly: It would be too obvious later that this was an inside job. So he let his hand-held electronic darling do the work, after he'd given her a couple of hints to speed things up.

The keypad buzzed and the door clicked. Dean seized the door latch with hospital-gloved hands and pulled the door open, still standing behind it. "Oculi mortui caeci sunt."

At this point he was going on faith. Castiel had told him that this would blind even hidden security cameras, and since he couldn't see any, he had to assume it was working.

There was a hallway to the elevators that wasn't patrolled by security guards. This was the hallway down which prisoners were dragged sometimes.

He damn near forgot to say the magic words before he stepped onto the elevator, but remembered at the last moment. He blinded the security cameras in the hallway leading to Vincent's office and started down the hall.

This was the point at which he was most likely to run across security guards. It's why he wasn't wearing a ski mask or some such: He wanted to give a frank 'n' friendly smile to anyone he ran across and a line of bull until he could immobilize them. The security guards were human, so he wore a Taser that looked like a flashlight hidden under his jacket in a loop on his belt, and Taser cartridges, blindfolds, and zip ties in his cross-body bag.

And with all that preparation – no security guards.

He breathed a sigh of relief and headed down the hall. He could see straight through Vincent's office, the large glass doors and the huge glass windows, to the lit windows of other skyscrapers in the darkness.

The door was unlocked – a sign of Vincent's self-confidence. The only other security measures, Castiel had told Dean, were motion sensors in the office itself. But since Vincent was pacing around in there, looking out his windows while apparently dictating something into a handheld device, the motion sensors would be activated anyway.

He pushed open the door, whispered "Oculi mortui caeci sunt," and said aloud, "Are you Mr. Vincent?"

Vincent spun, glaring. Then his face relaxed. He didn't outright say, "Oh, just a human," but he may as well have, and Dean suddenly realized that Castiel's plan was a good one. "What are you doing here, young man?"

"Is this where I go to apply for a job?" Dean was fumbling at an inside pocket of his jacket. "I've got my resume – "

He pulled the angel-bullet gun out of his waistband and shot.

His tension betrayed him, and he missed. The bullet tore through Vincent's shoulder and splintered the bullet-proof glass behind him on its way to who knew where.

Vincent waved a hand and Dean flew into the wall, the gun jarred from his hand, his ribcage smashing into the edge of a credenza. He lay gasping with pain as Vincent looked at his bleeding shoulder and the broken glass in enraged disbelief.

Balled up on the floor, Dean pulled up one leg of his jeans. Vincent strode toward him. "What is that? Where did you – "

Dean pulled the gun with devil's-trap bullets out of the ankle holster and fired. He didn't have time to aim well, but all it needed to do was hit Vincent, and it did, in the thigh.

Vincent went down on one knee, gave a snarling laugh, and waved his hand. Dean scrambled for the angel-bullet gun as Vincent realized he had no power. He leaped up on the bleeding leg, moved toward Dean, and stopped, unable to move farther.

Dean grabbed the angel-bullet gun in both hands, spun on his knees, and aimed. Vincent collapsed, lying on his back on the floor.

Dean stood and moved over to him. Vincent looked very human, lying helpless with his eyes closed, and Dean knew he should shoot but –

Vincent's eyes opened, black rim to rim, and his mouth gaped.

Dean fired. Vincent's forehead broke, indented inward, and blood sprayed out from under his head. His head lolled to one side, the eyes human now but sightless, and a thin trickle of black smoke rolled out of the corner of his mouth before dissipating.

Dean let out a gasp, staggered backward into the credenza, leaned on it.

He wanted to get the hell out. He re-holstered the ankle gun, put the other gun in his waistband, mumbled the camera-blinding spell again, and headed for the door.

Damn, he almost forgot. He hesitated for a moment, didn't want to stay there, but Castiel's plan had worked so far. So he found the blonde-wood hinged panels on the wall and opened them.

There was a whiteboard underneath, and a small tray that held markers. Dean grabbed a red one, uncapped it, and wrote in huge letters: "TRAITOR TO THE MORNING STAR."

He dropped the marker back on the tray. He said the camera-blinding spell all the way into the elevator, just to have something else to think of.

In the elevator, cold blurriness filled his head. He bent over, resting his hands above his knees, trying to get some blood back up to his brain.

The elevator door opened, and now the security guards –

But no. None there.

He made it out the back door and walked, unseeing and unhearing, eight blocks to the Beverly Center, a massive shopping mall with a massive parking garage. He'd never been so glad to climb into the Impala, like sliding across home plate.

He gave himself a moment to catch his breath, try to push the image of that imploded head out of his mind, get the shakiness out of his hands. Then he started the car.

As he was driving down Santa Monica Boulevard toward the 101 freeway, he heard multiple sirens in the distance.