Dean walked through the front door of the bunker carrying a sleeping Sam, Crowley in tow. Kevin was frantically trying to shut off the alarms that were buzzing throughout the bat cave. The Prophet's eyes were wide as Dean gently laid his brother on a couch. Then Kevin caught sight of The King of Hell and froze. Kevin was a nice kid, but when his eyes locked with the demon's, his gaze filled with a look of hate that Dean had never seen him wear before. Kevin charged, and Dean was forced to restrain him. Crowley's eyes went wide and he hastily took a few steps back.
"Let me go, Dean!" shouted Kevin.
"No, Kevin, you gotta calm down buddy."
"Son of a bitch killed my Mom, I'll kill him! I'll kill him myself!"
Kevin's eyes filled with tears and he fought like a wild animal to get free. Dean held him fast and soon Kevin stopped struggling. He went limp and cried like a scared little kid who had lost everything. Dean didn't know what to do; he was no good at expressing his emotions, so he just hugged him awkwardly and let him cry it out. When he was sure Kevin would stay put, he walked to the control panels and shut the alarms off.
"Dean, what the hell is going on out there? Why is he here? Did you close the Gates?"
Dean grabbed two beers from the mini fridge, then sank into a chair and gestured for Kevin to do the same. While they drank, Dean told him everything; Castiel showing up and asking Dean to help him close the Gates of Heaven, Naomi telling them it was a trick and Metatron was working a spell to make the angels fall, and that if Sam completed the trials, he would die. Kevin inhaled sharply and looked at Sam.
"Is Sam gonna be okay?"
"I almost didn't get there in time." said Dean quietly. He closed his eyes trying hard not to think of the look on Sam's face when he had told him he would die if he finished the trial. Sam had just stared at him, and uttered a single, heartbreaking word:
'So?'
Dean pushed it all to the back of his mind, ran a hand over his face, and continued.
"He didn't finish the trial, but he's really sick, man. We ran outside together and then the angels just started falling. Cas didn't believe Naomi and took off to talk to Metatron. The dick must have tricked him or something. We don't know where he is now."
Dean refused to believe that Castiel had willingly let the other angels be booted out of the sky-mall. Cas may have screwed up royally a time or two, but he was good deep down where it counted. Dean just hoped he would come back to them. He couldn't even imagine being angry at the angel for this. They had been through so much together. Dean just hoped his Guardian was okay. They would deal with the rest as it came.
"So the angels are all human now?" asked Kevin, interrupting his wayward thoughts.
"I guess," replied Dean, "I'm not really sure what's going to happen to them. We don't know if they are going to have any powers at all. Maybe they'll fall like Anna did and be born as human children. Or they could fall like Lucifer and still have some power left. We're going to have to do research."
Kevin looked at Sam. "First thing, we have to do is get Sam back on his feet. This could just fade away like an illness, but I doubt it. I need to read the tablet and see if there is a way to pull the plug once the trials have been started."
Dean felt his heart swell with affection for Kevin. The world was crashing down on them, and his first thought was taking care of Sam. Maybe the kid was turning into a Winchester.
"Alright. Thanks, Kevin."
"Don't mention it." The Prophet's eyes fell back to Crowley, who was standing with his back to the wall, looking anywhere but Kevin. He looked utterly broken. "What are we going to do with him?" asked Kevin, his voice laced with contempt.
"Sam was almost done with the demon cure when I stopped him. I figure we pick up where he left off. Finish the cure, make him human."
"Why not just kill him?" asked Kevin.
Dean thought about it for a moment. He wasn't really sure why not, except his gut told him it was wrong. He had been hunting long enough to trust an instinct like this, so he simply said, "Because it would make us no better than him."
Kevin snorted, but seemed to accept it and departed to his room to decipher the tablet.
Dean approached Crowley. "You should just kill me," said the demon dully, "I don't deserve mercy, the things I've done..." Crowley took a shuddering breath. "Dean," he said softly, "I'm sorry. For everything."
Dean had absolutely no idea how to deal with that. He crouched down and looked him in the eyes.
"Look, it's obvious that you aren't the same Crowley that's been a pain in my ass for the last few years. I'm not saying you aren't responsible for what you've done. I'm not saying I trust you. But you have a chance to atone for the things you've done. Maybe if you do enough good, it'll balance out some of the bad."
Crowley looked as if Dean's words were a life preserver thrown to a drowning man. He nodded and allowed himself to be led to the dungeon.
When Crowley was situated, he carried Sam to his bed and covered him up like a child. When he was little, Sam used to pretend to be asleep on the couch so that Dean would carry him to bed and tuck him in. Dean had known Sam was awake, but he hadn't minded. He just wanted his Sammy to be a kid for a little while longer. Dean remembered the only time he had tried it himself. He had pretended to be asleep on the couch, hoping his Father would carry him to bed. When Dad had stumbled in the door reeking of gunpowder and tequila, he had kicked the couch and screamed for Dean to go the hell to bed before he fell face first onto the stained cushions and passed out drunk. Dean had never tried that again. He had never forgotten the crushing disappointment of it. He never wanted Sammy to feel that way, so every time Sam pretended, Dean scooped his little brother in his arms, carried him to the bed they shared, and gently tucked him in.
But this time, Sam wasn't pretending. He was fast asleep, and when Dean reached up and brushed his too long hair out of his eyes, his forehead was burning hot. Dean hurried to the kitchen and made and ice pack. When he made it back to the bedroom, Sam's eyes were open. He was struggling to get something out of his pants pocket. When his hand breached the blankets, he had something Dean couldn't see clenched tightly in his fist.
"Heya, Sammy."
Dean leaned over to put the ice on Sam's forehead.
Sam's free hand reached up and twisted in Dean's shirt. Sam pulled him closer so he wouldn't have to talk too loudly.
"Hey Dean, remember that time I got sick and Dad wouldn't take me to the hospital?"
Dean couldn't believe that Sam even remembered, he had only been 4 at the time, but he nodded.
Sam continued, "I couldn't make it to the bathroom in time and I threw up everywhere. And I was afraid that Dad would be mad at me, but you told me it was gonna be okay. You cleaned me up and changed the bed and then you slept with me all night and gave me medicine. Made me better. You remember that Deano?"
"Yeah, I remember Sammy," said Dean, his voice soothing, "I'm gonna take care of you now like I did then. Not gonna let anything happen to you."
Sam sighed contentedly at that, and started to drift back to sleep.
"Dean?" He muttered.
"Yeah, Sammy?"
"You got rid of it, but I want you to have it back," whispered Sam. And then he let out a soft snore and was sleeping peacefully again.
Dean wondered what he had meant when he saw a black string peaking from between Sam's fingers. He opened Sam's hand and saw his amulet resting in his palm.
Dean Winchester was not an emotional man. He was a hardened warrior that could stare down the barrel of a gun with a sarcastic smile on his face. Not much got to him, but as he stared at the amulet in his little brother's hand, his vision blurred with tears. He had kept it. Sam had kept it.
Dean had to get up and move to the hallway. He put his back to the wall, slowly slid to the floor with his head in his hands and quietly cried, overwhelmed. When Dean had thrown the amulet away it was because he had utterly and completely lost his hope. He didn't think the Apocalypse could be stopped. He had lost faith in God, in Sam, in Cas, and most of all in himself. The amulet had represented himself, and he had thrown it in the trash like it was nothing. He had regretted it later, but it had been too late to take it back. But his Sammy had waited until he had walked away and dug it out of the trash, because he still believed. He still had faith in Dean. He had held onto it for all these years, and now he wanted him to have it back.
Dean wiped his face and rose gracefully to his feet. He padded softly into the bedroom and approached the bed. When he reached Sam, he adjusted the ice on his forehead, and then reached for the amulet and put it around his neck. As the familiar weight settled on his chest next to his heart, he felt complete again. He looked down and saw Sam's eyes on him. He grinned up at him. Dean smiled back and said, "Thanks, Sammy."
Sam was still grinning as he drifted back to sleep.
Castiel drove the stolen car down the highway. He was only fifty miles from the bunker. He was happy, but he had never experienced this level of discomfort before, and he didn't know what to do to remedy it. His belly seemed to be growling at him, his throat was scratchy, and his eyes burned. He felt slow. He could hardly focus. It was so difficult to keep his eyes open, and he didn't know why. His limbs started to feel heavy.
A horn blared loudly, startling Cas. He was about to hit a truck. Cas jerked the wheel to the right and crashed in a ditch. His head smacked the steering wheel and a gash opened on his forehead. He was bleeding, but he seemed relatively unharmed otherwise. The truck rolled past him and kept driving down the road. He calmed himself and tried to start the car again, but it just made an odd noise. Castiel decided that he would just have to walk. He knew the way, and fifty miles didn't seem that far. How long could it take? Cas straightened his coat, squared his shoulders determinedly ignoring the blood on his face, and started the long walk home.
A few weeks back, Dean had discovered a small chapel tucked away in the back of the bunker. Apparently the Men of Letters had also been men of religion. Dean walked down the small isle, letting his fingers trail absently over the hard wood of the pews as he made his way to the confession booth. He thought about Sam doing the same thing at the church, about what Sam had confessed to. He felt a surge of guilt that he had ever made his Sam feel as if he wasn't important to him. Sammy was the most important thing to him; he came first, always.
He opened the door and situated himself into the narrow booth before sinking to his knees with his hands pressed together in front of his face. He didn't really know who would be listening, but he bowed his head anyway and just started. He asked for forgiveness for many things.
For the drinking, the stealing, and lying.
For ditching so many women.
For taking Sam from Jess, resulting in her death.
For his father's death.
For the first time Sam had died. For failing to protect him.
For selling his soul and the things he did in Hell.
For the words he regretted saying most in his life: "If you walk out that door, don't you ever come back!"
For Castiel being forced to rebel for them.
For Adam, his poor brother Adam still in Hell, dragged into a fight he didn't belong in.
For Lisa and Ben.
For not being there when Cas needed him.
For every person he couldn't save.
But Dean's greatest sin was making Sam feel the way he had in that church. How he was willing to throw his life away because he didn't want to let Dean down. Letting Sam down, that was his biggest regret.
When he left the tiny chapel, Dean felt like he left a dark part of himself behind. He felt lighter than he had in years; since before he had gone to Hell.
Dean entered the dungeon where Crowley was sitting compliantly. Dean walked over to the supplies he had set out earlier and drew a syringe of his own blood.
He turned around to see the King of Hell looking at him. He looked scared, but determined.
"Do it, Dean."
Dean inserted the needle into Crowley's neck and pressed the plunger. Crowley winced and groaned in pain. His neck was a swollen mess from all the other shots he had endured.
Dean sat across from the demon, and they waited together for the clock to signify the time for the next dose.
The answer to Castiel's earlier question about how long it would take to walk fifty miles was a very, very long time. His feet hurt, his back ached, his head throbbed, and his legs were on fire. He had long since overheated and slung his battered trench coat over his shoulder. It hadn't helped much, so he had rolled the sleeves of his white dress shirt up as well. His throat felt like sandpaper and his gut felt like it was turning inside out. Hunger, that's what he was feeling. It was nice to be able to identify the gnawing in his stomach. Unfortunately there was nothing he could do about it right now.
Cas had walked all night. He had watched the sun rise and travel like a wheel in the sky. He had passed into Lebanon around noon, and now estimated that he was only a few miles away. The gash on his head throbbed in time with his pulse and stung as sweat dripped down into the abrasion. His mind kept going places he wasn't ready for them to go. An image of Metatron, standing over him, cutting out his grace popped into his head. Cas began to hyperventilate as he remembered the agony of it. All he had been thinking was for Dean to please save him. Dean, that's right he had to be like Dean. Shut it down, Cas. He wrestled those memories back into the metaphorical steel box where he wouldn't have to face them. His breathing slowed and he forced himself to keep walking. He felt as though he would drop unconscious in exhaustion, but he made himself go faster.
He needed to see Dean, he thought desperately. He was almost there. He just had to go faster.
Dean injected the final dose of his blood into Crowley's body. "It's time," he said.
Crowley looked up at him, his neck swollen, dark circles under his eyes and said, "I'm ready. Do it."
Dean cut his hand with his pocket knife and approached the King of Hell. He hesitated, but Crowley looked up at him with pleading eyes. "Finish it, Dean. Please."
Dean sealed his bleeding hand over Crowley's mouth and recited, "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus. Hanc animam redintegra, lustras, lustras!"
There was a blinding flash of white light that momentarily blinded Dean. When the room darkened again, Crowley was slumped unconscious in the chair. Dean felt for the pulse point on his wrist. His heart was beating steadily. He had survived. Dean unlocked him from the demon handcuffs and carried him to one of the extra beds in the back of the bunker and cuffed one wrist to the headboard with normal, police grade cuffs. He felt guilty for doing it, but he didn't trust Crowley, human or not. He would have to earn his trust.
Dean sighed as he headed down the hall. He stopped to check on Sammy on his way to the kitchen. His breathing was even and his fever was down a little. He left the room and went straight to the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a tumbler of whiskey and drained it almost instantly. He immediately sloshed more into the glass and plopped down onto the leather sofa.
Maybe things wouldn't be so bad. Maybe Crowley would be great now that he was human. Maybe Sam would recover and everything would be fine for once. Except it wouldn't be fine unless Cas was around. Dean's heart was heavy in Castiel's absence. Cas was his best friend. They had been through so much together, and Cas had changed so much. Dean remembered the first time they had met. How powerful he had been, immune to every weapon Dean had ever used against the supernatural. He remembered the first time Cas had spoken, his voice so much deeper than it should be.
"I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."
Dean had never understood the full extent of what that meant until the night before they tried to kill Lucifer with the Colt. Cas had told him the whole riveting tale: how he and his garrison had lain siege to Hell. How he had slain hundreds of demons to get to him, and then he had pulled him topside. It was impossible not to be friends with someone who had done all of that to save you.
Cas had gone from that powerful celestial being to an almost human who called an archangel an ass-butt because he didn't know how to swear properly. Dean smiled at the memory. He really was a bad influence.
Castiel had wormed his way into Dean's heart and had never left, even when Dean was pissed at him. Cas was special to him in a way he didn't understand or want to examine too closely. It made him warm and happy inside. It was confusing and terrifying. All Dean knew was that he needed Cas, and that if he didn't turn up, Dean couldn't be okay.
He let out a sigh and drained his glass. He got up to pour another when there was a loud banging on the bunker door. Dean tensed immediately, thinking of demons and fallen angels and a million other things that could want to hurt them. The banging continued, louder now. Dean set the glass down and snatched up a shotgun. He moved quietly to the door and wrenched it open, pointing the gun into Castiel's face.
Dean's mind went into free fall, spinning out of control with relief. It was dizzying.
"Hello, Dean," said Cas, his voice low and weary. Dean immediately lowered the gun and stepped closer, his heart pounding. Cas reached out with his right hand and closed it over the brand he had left on Dean's skin. Cas had never had a great grasp on personal space, but right now Dean couldn't care less even though they were almost chest to chest. Warmth bloomed from the point of contact and seeped into them both, reassuring them that this was real, that they were alive. They just stared at each other, sharp green eyes locked on piercing blue. Cas looked awful. His forehead was caked in dried blood, his lips were cracked and bleeding, and his clothes were dirty.
Cas stepped closer so they were touching, the pleasant warmth he didn't understand blossoming in his chest again, his eyes intense. "Dean, I came home," he whispered.
Then without any preamble whatsoever he collapsed, unconscious.
"Cas?" he yelled alarmed. Dean caught him in his strong arms and lowered them both to the ground, holding the former angel close. He checked his pulse. It was strong and steady. Dean carried Cas to the couch and laid him down gently. He looked over Castiel's strong body, and he seemed uninjured other than his head. Dean thought about what Cas had said: 'Dean, I came home.' He sat next to his Guardian and kept watch. Castiel was home with Dean where he belonged.
