Author's Note: Lydia and Castiel team up, go!

"There are no happy endings.

Endings are the saddest part,

So just give me a happy middle

And a very happy start."

― Shel Silverstein, "Every Thing on It"

Lydia faces the man in the rumpled trench coat and tries to steady her breathing. She may be a prisoner, trapped by the self-proclaimed King of Hell. She may be hopelessly far from the pack and their protection, trapped with a stranger. But there is one thing Lydia Martin knows for sure—she's strong and stubborn and she will figure this out.

First things first, the only door out of the room where she is currently being held captive is locked. Crowley probably has the key. There are no windows large enough for her to break and escape through. Darkness is the only thing that filters into the room, meaning she has no idea how far away she is from Beacon Hills.

Crowley had wanted her and the guy to figure something out. What exactly did he mean by that? She was taken because she is a banshee, but other than that, what did he want from her?

"I'm Castiel." The man mutters, wincing as he presses a finger to his temple.

"Lydia." She replies softly. "You know anything about why we're here?"

Castiel pushes himself up from the floor and sways a bit before steadying himself. He frowns before adding, "The wards here," He gestures to what looks like scribbles on the wall. "They're suppressing my powers."

"Powers?" She echoes.

He blinks a few times at her, as if waiting for her to comprehend something; she does not.

"I am an angel of the Lord." He replies solemnly.

Silence reigns for a few minutes.

"An angel?" She repeats.

"Yes."

"Like a halo and wings type angel?"

"Halos are a human invention—" He tacks on and she shakes her head, trying to wrap her mind around this.

"Angels are real?" She doesn't really buy it. If there were angels, then why hadn't they helped protect her and the pack? Besides, the man before her was clearly injured. Angels couldn't get hurt, right?

"Yes." He grimaces.

"Do you know why we're here?" She asks, putting the angel issue on the backburner. She can't handle another revelation right now. She just needs to get out of here and back to Beacon Hills. Once she's safe, she can try to comprehend angels.

"Crowley wishes to unlock the vault to an ancient weapon."

"A weapon?" She echoes, running a hand through her hair. "Seriously? What kind of weapon—?"

Castiel's brow furrows and his voice deepens, "A supernatural one. One with the power to eliminate all threats in his way."

"But why am I here—?"

"He needs a banshee." Castiel explains softly. Then, seeing her distressed gaze, he adds, "To get the vault open, he requires keys. A banshee, an angel and the third key is yet unknown to him."

Lydia shakes her head, shaking her hair a bit out of the elaborate braid she had put it into. She needs to wrap her hand around this and start working on a solution. Staying here, being at the mercy of Crowley—it'll get her killed.

Meeting vivid cerulean blue eyes, she orders, "We're getting out of here now."

"But how—?"

"I don't know," She confesses softly. "But we can't just stay here. Do you have any control of your powers?"

"As I said the wards—"

Instantly, a thought dawns in her mind. She reaches for a table off the tables and the pitcher of water Crowley had left them. She moistens the towel and tosses the water on the wall. Gritting her teeth, she begins to scrub the red paint off.

"My name is Lydia, by the way." She realizes she hasn't said really anything to him yet.

"Lydia." Castiel comes to stand next to her, taking the other side of the towel. "Let me help."

With that, they begin to scrub the vigils away.

"Here." Alison hands him a cup of steaming tea and Stiles stares down into it. The heat burns his cheeks, but he doesn't even flinch. He's numb, after all. Losing Lydia . . .

"Stiles." Scott shoots him a sympathetic glance before coming into the dining room.

"Anything?" Stiles presses, hoping for some sort of news, any glimmer of hope that will give him the strength to get through the night—a never ending night that only her bright smile will break.

"Your dad has put out an APB on her." Scott informs him, placing a hand on his shoulder and offering his support.

"But no leads?" Stiles continues, his hands are white-knuckling the teacup in his possession.

"Isaac is out there too," Scott adds with a tired grin on his lips. "We will find something."

"We will find her." Alison corrects softly.

"I know." Stiles' voice breaks, as the grief bubbles up within him. She could be dead right now, her beautiful eyes staring upward forever at nothing. Her crimson cheeks could be ashen and her body might be nothing but a corpse now. There's a strong possibly that Lydia Martin might very well be—

There's a knock on the door.

Alison shares a wary look with Scott.

He nods and a dagger slips out of her sleeve. She moves to the front door and shares one more glance with her former boyfriend before opening it.

"Easy!"

Sam and Dean—the two hunters from the bar stand in the doorway—their hands raised in submission.

"Who are you?" Alison hisses as Scott comes up behind her, ready to step into the fight if she needs it.

"Wait," Stiles rises from the table. "I know them. They're from the bar."

"The hunters?" Scott questions and Stiles nods his head. Then, staring at the two men in the doorway, he growls, "Why should we let you in? You kill people like me—"

"We kill monsters." Dean interjects sharply.

"Scott," Alison cautions, lowering her blade. "They might know what happened to Lydia."

"They do know," Stiles replies. "They were coming to get her themselves."

"Not true!" Dean interjects as Scott snarls, fangs descending and Alison's blade is once more pointed at them and ready to kill.

"We can talk this out." Sam counsels, voice weak as he grips the doorway. Beads of sweat rolls down his forehead and suddenly, he looks as if he's about to collapse. His knees do buckle and Dean catches him.

"Sammy!" Without an invitation, Dean pushes their way inside and places Sam at the dining room table. "You okay?"

"M'fine." Sam slurs, eyes fluttering back open.

"I never should've let you come." Dean shakes his head, voice defeated. "Charlie could've—"

"If Crowley gets what he wants," Sam starts, voice growing stronger. "We're all screwed."

"What do you know?" Alison demands, coming to stand next to Stiles.

"You're okay?" Dean addresses Sam, placing two fingers on Sam's pale neck to check his pulse. .

"I'm fine." Sam shakes off his fussing. "We're running out of time."

"Is Lydia going to be okay?" Stiles practically shouts, the worry surging through him, consuming every piece of him. He doesn't know who these hunters are or if he even really trusts them, but Lydia's life is on the line and they're desperate.

"Sit down." Dean commands. "It's a long story."

It feels like a small eternity, but eventually, they have scrubbed all the wards off in this room. Lydia practically beams as she meets Castiel's gaze.

"So," She starts, wanting to jump for joy. "Better?"

"Indeed." Castiel replies quickly, flexing his hands and wearing a small smile of his own.

"We can get out of here now, right?" Lydia presses, hoping to God that the answer is yes. She's slowly going stir-crazy in this room. She's not sure how much time has passed since she's arrived here, but she isn't willing to stick around and ask Crowley that when he comes back.

"We can." He holds his hand out in front of him and grits his teeth as he makes the pitcher they used levitate. It then falls to the ground with a thud. "Or at least," He concedes softly, "We can try."

"You're not up to your full-strength." She concludes and he shakes his head.

"No." He sighs.

"We'll have to risk it." She tells him sharply. "Better to try to escape than to wait here and hope we get another chance."

Castiel regards her for a few moments before nodding to himself. He holds out his hand and she immediately takes it.

"Close your eyes." He whispers and she complies.

And then she's flying away.

"Sir?"

Crowley glances up from his latest field reports and meets the wary gaze of the demon standing in his doorway.

"What?" He growls and the demon before him flinches, his gaze dropping to the floor.

"Sir," The demon shifts uncomfortably before him, obviously afraid to impart whatever knowledge he has. "Sir, I—"

"Spit it out!" Crowley snaps.

"The banshee and the angel," He meets Crowley's gaze fearfully. "They've escaped."

Crowley kills him of course. There is no such protocol in Hell about not killing the bearer of bad news and as the King of Hell he has appearances to keep up, but in truth, he had hoped the duo would escape. He's not the only player in this game and he knows that he will get what's rightfully his. Let Castiel and the banshee think they've won. Let them run off to their respective friends rejoice.

In the end, Crowley will get exactly what he wants.

"Just a matter of time." He muses, glancing at the bloody body on the floor.

He just needs a bit of patience, that's all.

Author's Note: Next chapter, the backstory on the weapon. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!