"I've got a surprise for you," Lisa smiled as she walked toward Dean, who was sitting on a chair, eyes trained on the wall, lost in thought. His gaze flickered up to meet hers, and she could see the exhaustion he tried so hard to hide.

She took a few steps bravely toward him and gently took his hand. He stood up slowly, attempting another smile. "You'll like this one," she said, tugging his hand playfully and walking toward the garage. His gait was slow and steady, but willing.

She opened the door and let him pass through. "I thought you could use a project," she said. "To get your mind off things." She waited for a reaction—anything. She couldn't stand to see him in any more pain.

He strolled around the old car and looked back at her, giving her some small semblance of excitement. She could almost see the twinkle in his lifeless eyes again. "Lisa," he said slowly, "I, uh, don't know what to say." He looked at the car again, then back at her. It would take a lot of work to get the old thing up and running but he wasn't complaining. It was exactly what he needed. Rubbing his neck, he sighed and relaxed into a grin. "Thanks."

• • •

"Azrael," Castiel spoke clearly, low voice ringing throughout the heavens. In less than a second, the called angel appeared before him.

"Castiel," Azrael responded, giving a slight bow. "Still wearing the same meat, I see."

Castiel did not break his gaze with the angel, but merely nodded. "The vessel remains adequate," he answered simply. The wind blew stronger and lifted the bottom of Castiel's trenchcoat. "Sarah Mills. Greensfork, Indiana. She speaks of us."

Azrael nodded curtly, a bit of resentment present in his eyes. He was obviously not fond of the errands he had been forced to run as of late. "Of course," he responded. He turned to go, but hesitated, one foot remaining in its place.

"And what of the Winchesters?" Azrael asked quietly, voice nearly a whisper.

Castiel paused, blue eyes distant. He hadn't forgotten them—he couldn't. They were a part of his life now. No—they were a part of his past. He couldn't bother them any longer. There was no need, as of yet. The angels could find an alternative plan of salvaging the remainder of the Earth. The Winchesters were not needed.

"They are to be left alone," Castiel said firmly, returning his gaze to Azrael's back. With a flap of wings, Azrael was gone, and the archangel was alone yet again.

• • •

Dean set the wrench aside and scooted himself out from under the old car. He picked up a rag and wiped his dirty hands on it, then threw it aside as he reached for his beer. The car managed to keep his mind off things, but only temporarily. As soon as he resurfaced from working on it, his thoughts of his past life resurfaced. His thoughts of angels and demons and…Sam.

He closed his eyes and willed the thoughts away. This is what Sam wanted, he told himself. But he didn't know if he could believe it. Even more, he couldn't believe that he didn't go looking for his little brother. It went against everything he believed in.

He had to admit he was torn. After all, his whole life had been dedicated to protecting Sam, keeping Sam's best interests at heart. But now what was Sam's best interest? He told himself it was this—living his "apple pie" life like Sam wanted. But his gut told him differently.

Then again, even if he did go looking for Sam, where would he start? No one knew anything. There were no ancient books or old friends to consult. No help from any angels. The only angel he'd ever managed to befriend had left him when the fight ended.

Closing his eyes, Dean remembered one of the first nights he'd stayed with Lisa. He got up in the middle of the night and drove away without so much as a word. He drove to an empty parking lot and stood outside in the frigid air and flickering streetlights, belting out his angel's name for hours until his voice went hoarse. No response. Castiel had abandoned him, just like everyone else.

Ding-dong.

The ring of the doorbell jolted Dean out of his reverie. He set his beer aside and picked up his shotgun, which was loaded with salt. As he entered the house and crossed to the door, Lisa pulled the shotgun from under his arm, giving him a disapproving look.

"We don't want any more mix-ups," she said gently.

Dean hesitated and nodded, letting her take it and place it near, but out of sight. The last mailman that had rung the doorbell had had the unfortunate luck to meet Dean, who was still very weary of any unexpected visitors.

With one hand on the container of holy water in his jacket, Dean opened the door, gazing at the visitor's feet first. He'd drawn a devil's trap underneath the doormat. The visitor wasn't a demon, at least.

"Dean Winchester," a man's deep voice said. The gruffness of the voice reminded him of Castiel. Looking up to meet the stranger's face, Dean took a step back at the uncanny resemblance. The man was taller than Castiel, and perhaps a bit less boyish, but still had a mess of dark hair and shockingly blue eyes.

"Who wants to know?" Dean asked, eyes suspicious.

"My name is Ramiel," the stranger said, taking a step toward Dean. Dean stepped back in response, reaching for his shotgun, which was leaning against the doorway. He knew it wouldn't do any good against an angel, which is what Ramiel appeared to be, but Dean preferred to be armed with something.

"Look Ramiel," Dean said, a darker edge to his voice. "If you know me from…before…I'm not that person anymore." He peered around Ramiel to see if any nosy neighbors, or friends of Ramiel, were spying on their conversation. Seeing nothing, he returned his gaze to Ramiel. "So I suggest you leave."

Ramiel stared at Dean, his icy blue eyes almost unbearable to look at for too long. The corners of his mouth turned up into a…smirk? Dean furrowed his eyebrows, keeping his eyes on Ramiel as his hand curled around the shotgun. He hadn't seen an angel smirk so naturally since, well, Gabriel. Or Zachariah. That was, if Ramiel was even an angel. Dean couldn't afford to assume these facts.

"You didn't let me finish," Ramiel said, looking at Dean condescendingly. "My name is Ramiel, and I was ordered to kill you."