The city crawled by as the man drove Castiel in the direction of a motel he'd been to before, that he'd stayed at one time when he was flush. He said nothing—just watched the man out of the corner of his eye, taking stock of him. He made note of the way the man scanned their surroundings without pause, the way his lips moved now and then in a slow and rhythmic way that Castiel intuited had little to do with any language he knew. He watched the quiet tension in his shoulders; it ran all the way down to his hands as they gripped the steering wheel. Everything about him hinted at danger. Castiel wondered who he was. Enforcer? Driver? Drugs, though, probably. There was something about him that made the hair on Castiel's arms stand on end.

Finally the covert staring caught the man's attention. He glanced over, canting a half-smile at Castiel as he pulled into the lot. Castiel looked away immediately, but of course it was too late.

"You familiar with this place?" he asked.

Castiel tried to find the trick in the question.

"Yes." That elicited an unreadable expression on the man's face, so he tried, "Yes, sir."

It was only half as snide as he'd been aiming for, and actually ended up sounding pretty respectful and no small amount afraid. He couldn't decide whether or not he was okay with that.

The man's brows furrowed. "That's not..." But he trailed off as he pulled the car into a parking spot. He stopped the car and stepped out. Castiel struggled for a minute with the door, but the man came around and opened it for him before he could get it. Castiel froze, startled, but shoved his hands into the pockets of his thoroughly inadequate jacket, got out, and walked past.

He followed the man into the room in silence, waiting for some kind of cue. The man turned on the lights and locked the door behind Castiel, then went to the table and sat at it.

Castiel stilled at the door.

The man nudged the other chair out from the table with his foot. "Have a seat."

Castiel didn't move.

The man frowned. "Castiel, come on. You're already here. You want the six hundred? Come and sit."

"I want you to tell me what you want," Castiel said, more steadily than he'd anticipated. The door wasn't fully flush with the ground and cold air chilled the soles of his feet, partially exposed by his disintegrating shoes.

"I want you to sit," the man said, with a firm tone that could either have been him talking to Castiel like an errant child or forcing himself to calm down; neither sounded like a good option. "And talk to me. I want you to hear me out. And I want you to breathe before you pass out."

Castiel obeyed the command without thought, realizing as soon as he did that he hadn't been breathing. On shaking legs he walked over to the small table and sat down, keeping his eyes on the man the whole time. He crossed his arms over his chest. Once he'd sat down, he stared at the table.

He was going to die, he realized with a detached sort of calm. He had, as an estimate, two hours. Maybe three. More if he wasn't lucky, less if he was.

Yes, pickpocketing had been a very good career decision for him. He was going to be murdered the first time he tried it.

"I'm not going to hurt you," the man said. Castiel startled at his voice. His expression was somber, his hands spread in a way that Castiel was sure he thought would appear harmless. It only served to emphasize how big they were, the ropy muscles of the forearms they led to. "Hey. I won't. It's okay."

Castiel didn't say anything. He wasn't totally sure what he could say that would make it less likely that this man would murder him, so he was going to err on the side of silence.

Castiel was concentrating on keeping his breathing steady. The man was staring at him, like maybe the power of his surprisingly puppy-eyed gaze would force words out of Castiel.

It didn't, though.

He looked like he was about to say something when a knock came at the door.

The man stilled.

"Don't move."

The tense command resonated weirdly in the small room, and Castiel didn't think of disobeying.

The pounding on the door grew more insistent as the man got up and crept towards it. Castiel heard a familiar voice: "Cas?"

Brady. Castiel felt his mouth slip open in surprise, but that cautious, wary expression on his kidnapper's face didn't falter.

Brady's voice came again. "Cas!"

The man walked back to Castiel, and his voice was low and insistent as he said, "Stay here. Get under the table. I don't care what you see or hear, you don't move, do you understand?"

"That's my friend." Castiel had to try, even though he already knew he wasn't going to win this fight. He could hear the preemptive defeat in his own voice. "Look, he was supposed to be my lookout. He's just worried about me. I'll tell him I came willingly. I'll tell him to go."

He expected one of a few possible expressions to cross the man's face: anger, irritation, maybe amusement. Not grief. Castiel blinked hard and tried to keep his breaths long and slow when the man said, "That's not your friend, Cas."

It was stated as fact. That is not your friend. Castiel felt his hands begin to shake. Whatever this was, he was unprepared.

"What?" he said, his voice shaking, too. "No, no, no, sir, no, I know he's not a good...influence, but he's my friend. He'll leave you alone. Just let me explain to him. Please, sir."

The man's stepped into his space and Castiel retreated quickly, allowing himself to be guided beneath the table.

"Cas, stop." He ducked his head when the man gestured for him to do so, and pulled himself more fully beneath the furniture. "Please. I promise I'll keep you safe. Just do as I say."

The command was as impossible to fight as the locked doors, so Castiel curled up under the table, and glanced up.

Oh.

There was a chance that the occult symbol painted on the underside of the table wasn't drawn in blood. But Castiel knew what blood smelled like, and this smelled like blood. Human blood.

He gave a hiccuppy gasp and he stared up at the man, only to find the man staring at him, too. His throat was not amenable to the begging he wanted to do, but evidently his eyes were doing the job because the man said, "It's mine. Okay? The blood is mine. I can't ask you not to be scared and I can't ask you to trust me but I have to ask you to obey me right now. Please, Cas. I'll explain everything, I swear, just do as I say for the next fifteen minutes and I swear to you—you'll be fine."

Fifteen minutes was a long time. A lot could happen in fifteen minutes that could leave him very much not fine afterward. Still, he didn't like his odds of getting away from this giant who painted motel furniture with his own blood. So he settled back down, hugging his knees to his chest and nodding. The man smiled at him, an expression Castiel could tell was supposed to be reassuring. He unfolded himself to go to the door.

Brady was banging on it, now, shouting Castiel's name more and more frantically. He could picture his friend's panicked face, the way he bit his lip when he was anxious. Brady wasn't a twitchy kind of person, and he didn't know that Castiel hadn't come with this man of his own free will. It made him wonder if there was something Brady knew that he didn't.

Then he saw something shiny and sharp slide out from the man's sleeve. He stifled a cry, managing to turn it into a whimper as it escaped his lips.

The man heard him. Castiel knew he did. But he didn't stop his progress toward the door, unlocking it with his free hand while keeping the blade behind him. He opened the door.

"Yes?"

"Cas!" Brady tried to shoulder his way past the man, who blocked him easily with an outstretched arm.

"Brady, go, I'll be okay," Castiel cried, shaking with fear and adrenaline. "Please, Brady, go."

"I think you heard him." The man rocked his weight from one foot to the other. Castiel saw the dim yellow light from the lamp reflecting off of that vicious blade. "Go."

Brady's eyes were wide with what looked like terror as he stared at Castiel past the barricade of the man's immovable arm.

"Cas, please—come with me. C'mon, Cas, let's get out of here."

The man shifted his grip on the blade. "I'm pretty sure I said go."

Brady shoved the man, hard, and it shocked Castiel to see that it worked, if only a little. The man staggered back a step, enough for Brady to slip through and get closer to Castiel, who was shaking his head frantically. Brady ignored him and knelt just beyond the lip of the table. "Come with me, Cas, come on, please. It'll be okay, just come with me."

Castiel couldn't make his tongue work fast enough to warn Brady as the man swept upon him. His towering form folded down until he pressed against Brady's back, the blade resting along Brady's spine.

"Don't make me do this in front of him." The man's voice was a low growl, as if Castiel couldn't hear from two feet away.

Brady froze, though for a moment it seemed like he was going to take a swing. His fist was clenched and everything, though he very deliberately unclenched it before he spoke. "I'm sorry, sir, please don't hurt me, just let me take my friend and—"

Castiel saw Brady jolt as the blade dug into his skin a little more. "Cut the crap. You lost. Take it like a man—or whatever—and report back. But leave him alone."

Brady began to cry, then, loud keening noises that Castiel had never heard before, and he'd heard Brady cry many times.

It sounded forced. It sounded fake.

He frowned. He started to creep out from under the table, but a single sharp glance from the man who was holding a dagger to his friend's brain stem was enough to stop him.

"Please, sir," Brady wept, "please, I've got money, you can have it, just please don't hurt Cas, please don't—"

"Christo," said the man.

Brady flinched at the man's words—and for just a second Castiel would have sworn his eyes blacked out—pupil, iris, whites and all.

He stared.

Brady stared back, and then all the fear drained from his face—and he began to laugh.

"What are you going to do? Kill me? In front of Cas?"

"Brady, please, just go." Castiel turned his face to the man. "Please, please let him go, I'll do whatever you want, I don't even want the money, just don't hurt him."

Castiel dug the wallet out of his jacket pocket and threw it out from beneath the table. The man and Brady both ignored it, so he tried again: "I don't know what got into him but just kick him out, he'll leave you alone, he won't go to the police."

Nothing changed in the flinty coldness of the man's face. He didn't even look up from Brady to acknowledge Castiel's words.

"I don't want to do this in front of Cas." He was loud enough now to make it clear that he had given up on caring whether Castiel could hear him. "But I will protect him."

"Stuck on him already, Sam?" Brady's words were sharp and his smirk was—off, somehow, cruel in a way Castiel had never seen before. He looked to the man when Brady spoke, and saw that his eyes narrowed at the name, but he didn't dispute it.

How did Brady know him?

"He does beg pretty, doesn't he? Just wait til you really get going, start hurting him. I've heard it, heard him pray for the hunger, the cold, to stop. Does that do it for you? The prayer?"

"Brady," Castiel murmured, confused, but the man—Sam?—said, "Shut up," and even though he was pretty sure the man was talking to Brady, he shut up anyway.

Brady tilted his head slowly around so that the dagger now brushed the space behind his ear. He grinned up at Sam.

"Am I wrong? What else could this be about? Because last I heard, you'd taken off from Upstairs without a word. You shouldn't have a horse in this race."

Sam's shoulders drew tight and his upper lip twitched into a snarl. "That's enough."

Brady turned his eyes to Castiel. "You should've run with me when I knocked him the first time. He's a rogue, Cas. He will take you apart until you've forgotten the words to beg for death."

Castiel slid his hand out from under the table to touch Sam's leg, pleas on his lips, when Brady grabbed his hand and yanked.

For another underfed teen, Brady had a hell of a grip, Castiel thought, as though from a distance.

Three things happened in rapid succession.

Brady's eyes turned black again, Sam's eyes began to glow, and he slapped his palm against Brady's forehead, slamming him down against the ground so hard they both slid several feet.

Then the room was filled with light so bright that Castiel cried out in pain before he threw a hand up over his eyes. His cry was drowned out by the sound of Brady's scream of agony.

Then everything went dark and quiet.

Castiel peered out from below a cautious shading hand and saw Brady's body, smoke trickling in tendrils from his ruined eye sockets, still and pale.

That's not your friend.

All he could see, though, was the body of the boy who had kept him warm, showed him where the better shelters were. Who showed him where it was relatively safe to hide from a storm when the shelters were full, held him through the first nights of sobbing terror when he realized that he was really, truly without a home.

All he could see was the body of the only person who'd cared for him in the last four years.

"Brady," he gasped, scrambling out from under the table on his hands and knees, crawling over to the body of his friend. "Brady, Brady, please, no, no—"

"Cas," Sam began, from somewhere behind Castiel, which, most times, would be enough to panic him, but right now Brady was—Brady was—he wasn't moving. He needed help. Oh God, he needed a hospital.

"Come on, Brady, please, breathe." Castiel sobbed, prodding at his only friend's unmoving rib cage. "Brady, please, please, don't do this."

"Cas." Sam's voice was gentle, but firm.

Castiel ignored him nonetheless.

"Castiel, come on, we have to—"

"You killed him," Castiel screamed, turning to him finally. Sam looked miserable, but not shocked, not horrified, not sorry. "You killed Brady, you asshole, you killed him, you killed him, he was my only friend and you killed him—"

"That wasn't your friend." Castiel continued to cry, so Sam frowned and continued. "He probably hadn't been for a long time. I'm sorry, Cas, I wish he hadn't found us, but this is too important for—"

"What's so important?" Castiel swiped at his eyes furiously. "I would have gotten rid of him, I would have come back, you didn't have to—you didn't—" He collapsed back into sobs, head resting on Brady's leg.

Then Sam touched him, a hideously gentle hand on Castiel's shoulder blade, and Castiel snapped.

He staggered back a few steps and pulled a knife out of his boot—the knife Brady gave him the first night they met. He'd never used it.

The knife was sharp and glinted dangerously in the light of the room—not as bright as Sam's dagger, or whatever it was, but it had an edge to it. It promised a chance. So when Sam approached him, Castiel tightened his grip on it.

"Back. Off."

"We have to go, Cas," Sam said, as if Castiel wasn't pointing a knife at him, as if Brady wasn't lying dead just behind him. "Now."

"I'm not going anywhere else with you."

Sam's eyes darkened and Castiel felt a shiver of dread run down his spine, but didn't lower the knife. Sam's gaze flicked to it once, but the expression that passed across his face was more sadness than fear.

"Don't fight me, Cas, please." It almost sounded like a request.

"Leave me alone!" he snapped, but Sam gripped him by the wrists and he pulled back, his joints protesting. "Let me go!"

"Stop fighting me." Sam's voice betrayed no strain at all.

Castiel thought rather hysterically that fighting was a generous characterization of his flailing. The grip around his wrists was like iron cuffs.

"Cas. Stop."

Reckless with grief and fear, Castiel threw his head forward into Sam's nose. It hurt like hell and he was pretty sure he heard a crack that wasn't from the man's face, but it startled him enough to release Castiel's right hand.

Which he then used to slam the knife into Sam's heart.

He felt the resistance of muscle and sinew against the blade as it sank in, but it did sink in. His hands trembled and his ears rang as blood raced through his veins at a breakneck pace. He'd never done this before. He'd never wanted to. Four years ago he'd been such a good kid.

They both froze.

Then, with this awful blood-curdling look of apology, Sam slid the knife out of his chest and said, "I'm so sorry, Castiel."

He pressed two fingers gently against Castiel's forehead.

Castiel managed one more sob before he went under.

The bright blue sky told Castiel that it was early afternoon (his birthday, he thought, in a distant sort of way) when he opened his eyes. Sam was hovering over him, his brows drawn together in what looked like concern. His expression shifted to an unhappy smile when he saw that Castiel was awake.

Castiel was wondering at the fact that he was still alive when Sam said, "Happy birthday, Castiel."

It was still strange, hearing his name from this man's lips—and Castiel, not just Cas, as everyone he'd met since running away had known him. It hurt, to be called that name by this stranger. He couldn't help the tears when they started, and once they'd started, he couldn't stop them for several long minutes.

When he snapped out of it, he saw Sam sitting to the side of the motel room—a different motel room than the one Brady had died in, he thought—with his gaze averted. Like he was embarrassed.

He realized very quickly, as he pulled himself off of the bed—

The most comfortable bed he'd felt in years.

—that the prickling dread in his spine meant that whatever courage his shock and grief had lent him last night was gone, so it was in a very small voice that he asked, "Your name is Sam?"

Sam lifted his head, startled.

"Yeah," he said, cautiously. There was a strange earnestness in his voice. "Yeah, that's right. I'm Sam."

Castiel nodded wearily. He sat up, rubbing his still-damp cheeks with the heel of his hand. He couldn't think very clearly. The after-effects of his morning crying jag were making his head feel like it was stuffed with cotton.

"What are you going to do to me?" he asked. "Are you going to kill me?" He faltered. "Like you killed Brady?"

Sam ran his hands over his face and sighed.

"No. No, I'm not here to kill you."

"Just Brady," Castiel clarified.

"One, I didn't come here to kill anybody. And two, that was not Brady."

Castiel flinched away at his tone.

Another sigh.

"Castiel, come on. You can't tell me that you didn't notice anything off about what happened last night. Anything strange."

"I noticed you murdering my friend in cold blood." Despite the rage he felt he really was entitled to, Castiel couldn't muster up much heat in his voice.

Sam frowned. "Is that really the weirdest thing about last night? Is that the weirdest thing you remember?"

Castiel hesitated. No. It wasn't. But he had really been hoping that the stabbing thing had been a stress-induced nightmare.

But Sam was waiting. "I stabbed you," he said.

Sam looked almost relieved, which was not a reaction Castiel would ever have expected those words to elicit.

"And you didn't die. Or bleed. Or anything."

Sam looked expectant. "And?"

Castiel thought back to the night before, to the helpless rabbit fear of the convenience store, and the heart-stopping terror of the motel room. He blinked back tears.

"And you were the one who locked the doors in the store, somehow. And you knocked that cashier out just by touching him. And you kept all those people away from the store." You trapped me and you kidnapped me, he didn't say.

Sam waited.

"What are you?" Castiel asked, feeling that it was expected of him.

"I'm an angel of the Lord," Sam replied, as though it made sense. "And your friend, Brady? He'd been possessed by a demon. He was dead when he got to the room, Castiel. He'd probably been dead a lot longer than that."

"You realize how crazy that sounds," Castiel said. "I mean, that's—I know a lot about crazy, and that sounds pretty crazy."

"Crazier than you and me, having this conversation, the morning after you stabbed me?" Sam kept his voice gentle, but it didn't help: Castiel's heart still began to race. "And when...when I killed the thing in Brady's body, what weapon did I use?"

"That dagger." Castiel knew he was wrong, but really wanted to deny the sick twist of fear that came with the realization that he didn't know how Sam had killed Brady.

Sam was having none of it. "Castiel."

"I don't know." Castiel let out a shaky breath. "I didn't see."

There was silence for a moment. Sam produced a plastic shopping bag from behind himself. "I got you some soup. Chicken noodle. And a few bottles of water. I figured you'd be hungry."

"I'm not," Castiel lied.

Sam ignored him anyway. "I need to work. You can eat whenever. Or not. Your call."

With that he stood up and stretched.

Castiel shivered a little at the reminder of how outmatched he was.

Sam went to the bed and pulled some large books out of a duffel, along with a newspaper and an ancient laptop. He turned the computer on, opened two of the books and the newspaper, and proceeded to act like Castiel wasn't there.

Castiel stared at him for a few minutes, waiting for something to happen. He did his best to ignore the gnawing pain in his stomach for a few more. Eventually the futility and foolishness of refusing food when offered became too much for him. He took the soup out of the bag.

He kept his movements small as he looked around the room for the microwave. He was sure that Sam could tell him where it was, but the angel was working, and he didn't want to interrupt. More than that, he didn't want to interact with him more than necessary. In the end it took him longer than it needed to to find everything—microwave, spoon, bowl to heat the soup in—but he did it without ever talking to Sam, which he counted as a victory.

The soup was filling, tasted good, warmed him. He hadn't had chicken noodle in a long time, and it brought back memories of being somewhere safe, somewhere he felt at home. It made tears well in the corners of his eyes. He blinked them away furiously; the last thing he needed was to cry again in front of Sam.

This wasn't home. This was a run-down motel in the middle of—well, he hoped it was still in the middle of Pontiac. He'd been out and he couldn't tell how long, but at least four or five hours—probably more. Certainly long enough for Sam to move him somewhere else. The thought soured the spoonful of soup that was in his mouth.

This wasn't home. He wasn't safe. He'd been kidnapped by some crazy person twice his size and easily that much stronger than him. A bowl of chicken noodle soup and a few bottles of water didn't change that. If Sam thought he was that easily bought, he was mistaken.

In the end he ate the soup quickly and perfunctorily, doing his best not to enjoy it. Enjoying it seemed, somehow, like one concession too many.

Once the soup was gone and he'd drunk most of a bottle of water, there was nothing left to distract him. Sam was still on the bed, eyes rapt on the laptop screen, fingers moving quickly over the keys.

Castiel shifted slightly. Sam raised his head, but he didn't glance over and didn't say anything.

Castiel took that as permission to get up. He walked over to the bed and reached into the duffel, pulling out the thinnest book he could find there.

Of Revelations, the cover read. On it was an intricately-rendered painting depicting what Castiel knew to be the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. He swallowed hard, and sat back down at the foot of the bed Sam was resting on.

"It's not great." Sam's voice, quiet though it was, sounded sharp after the silence. Castiel startled so hard he banged his head against the bed frame. Without looking away from his laptop, Sam leaned forward, brushed his fingers against the back of Castiel's head.

The pain faded immediately.

"The author was on a hell of a lot of drugs. She was also a prophet—the genuine article. So if you're able to parse through the crazy, she's got a couple of gems."

"This is a book of prophecy?" Castiel winced at his slip. He stared at the gory cover of the book.

"Like I said. In part." Sam closed the laptop and lifted the book out of Castiel's hands, flipping through its worn pages. "Got some good stuff about the Whore of Babylon in here. Stuff about the Horsemen is less reliable, much more...hallucinogenic."

"Is it gonna hurt, when you kill me, or do you think you can do it quick?" Castiel blurted out, then flushed dark red. Sam put the book down and sighed. He rubbed a hand over his face.

"Look, kid, I told you I wasn't going to kill you, and I'm not. I get that you don't trust me. I really do. But I haven't tried to hurt you."

"Maybe you're toying with me." Castiel was horrified to hear the words come out of his mouth but not saying anything somehow seemed worse. Not that he necessarily wanted Sam to admit that he was planning to make lampshades from Castiel's skin, but this calm before the storm was making his stomach sour. "I don't know what serial killers are into."

"What is it going to take to prove to you that I am what I say I am?" Sam demanded. Castiel shrank back at the frustration in his voice. "You can't explain what you saw. You can't explain it because there is no other explanation."

"You're an angel." Castiel couldn't keep the skepticism out of his voice, hard as he tried.

Sam's lips thinned in a frown. He swung himself off of the bed.

Castiel jerked in panic and skidded to the wall, although he couldn't say why he thought pinning himself without escape was a good idea. He just viscerally hated the idea of Sam being able to come up behind him.

Sam, for his part, paused and took a step back when he saw Castiel's terror. He settled on crouching in front of him a few feet away, legs bent and hands spread in front of his knees.

"Castiel," he said softly. Castiel stared up at him. "I know your life's been hard. And you haven't had much use for faith. I know. But right now, a little faith might come in handy."

With those words all of the lights in the motel room flickered. Castiel looked around frantically to try to figure out what was going on, until his eyes landed on the wall behind Sam.

Behind Sam and to his sides and above him. The entire room seemed engulfed in shadow, but a very specific shadow.

The shadow of massive wings.

Castiel gasped and brought his hands up to his mouth.

They were...stunning. Gorgeous. Awesome, in the truest sense of the word. And as Sam's shoulders rolled back and the wings flexed, moved, drew up, fanned out, Castiel's strict Catholic upbringing came back to him in a rush. He folded his hands and scrambled down to his knees.

"Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy Name. Thy-"

"Hey, that's enough." Sam pulled his hands down and apart, as though it severed any connection the prayer had begun. "That's not necessary."

With the prayer taken away from him, his mind juddering to a halt like a needle over a record, Castiel was speechless. Sam's hands were so warm around his wrists, like furnaces. There was a part of him that was utterly terrified to have something so powerful—something celestial—touching him. Like it would burn the taint of his sin from him, and what would that leave behind?

But Sam's eyes were gentle, and worried, and behind that was something that looked almost like fear. He said, "You're okay, Castiel. Hey. You're okay."

And Castiel thought, how can he touch me?

Sam huffed a laugh, small and humorless. He leaned back, releasing his restraining grip. "Don't be afraid. I'm not here to hurt you."

"I tried to steal from you," Castiel said, and of course those would be the words to finally make it past his tight throat. "I tried—I tried to steal from you."

"You were hungry." Sam said it like it made perfect sense. And it had, in Castiel's head, at the time.

It had, before he'd realized that the being that owned that beautiful, vicious siren of a car was an angel.

Sam wasn't done. "You were hungry, and I'd stuck my wallet halfway out of my pocket."

Castiel opened his mouth to say that it was ludicrous to blame Sam for his wallet falling out, for Castiel taking that as an invitation, for simply being there for Castiel to steal from, but he closed it.

Sam didn't say that the wallet was stuck. He said that he had stuck it halfway out.

It had been an invitation.

"You wanted me to take it?" he asked softly.

Sam tensed slightly, like he was afraid that Castiel would bolt and he'd have to run after him, but he said, "Yes. I needed a way to get in touch with you."

"And just saying hey, Castiel wasn't good enough?" Anger rose, hot and thick, in Castiel's chest, drowning some of the awe, some of the fear. "You had to set me up to steal from you? Did you want an excuse to kidnap me? Is that what it was? I had to give you a reason?"

Sam frowned. "First of all, you could have not stolen it."

"I don't know if I believe you," Castiel said. "Could I have just walked out? Would you have just let me go? Because I tried to give you your wallet back, I tried to say I was sorry, and you trapped me in that store until I agreed to go with you. It didn't seem like I had much of a choice."

Sam's lips were pressed together. The tension in his body changed. He no longer looked like he was about to spring forward to stop Castiel from leaving, but like he was restraining himself from saying something.

Which was good, because Castiel wasn't done. "Why? Why did you have to trick me? Why did you have to take me and kill Brady?"

"If I had asked you to come with me to my motel room, you would have done what you did anyway: tell me you weren't a prostitute and leave."

Sam sounded flat, factual, but Castiel had had to learn to read between the tones of peoples' voices to survive, whether that meant placating his father, caring for his brothers, or keeping on the good side of the other men at the shelter and on the street. Sam's voice carried hurt in its undertones, hurt and something softer, something that Castiel didn't even let himself think might be regret. Though that was what it sounded like.

"And if I'd come up to you and said your name, you would have run, because there's no way I should know your name. If I'd just come out and told you I was an angel, you'd have run, and I wouldn't have been able to prove it in public anyway. You respond to authority, Castiel. I didn't want to scare you, and I'm sorry I did. But it worked, and now you're here, where I can protect you."

Sam heaved a sigh and stood, running his hands over his face and turning away from Castiel.

"From what?" Castiel asked.

"Everything," Sam answered. "Everything and everyone."

He sat heavily on the bed. He looked so bone-weary that Castiel felt a pang of sympathy, little as he wanted to feel it.

But he did, so he offered another olive branch and said, "So Brady was a demon."

Sam looked over at him and nodded. "Yeah. Probably had been for a while."

"So I have demons after me. What are we going to do? You're an angel—are you going to, what, take me to Heaven to protect me?"

Sam's face fell. He shook his head. "I, ah. No. Not Heaven. We won't be going to Heaven."

The hush that fell over the room felt thick, and Castiel swallowed hard against it. He stood, and saw how Sam watched him cross the room to the bed. He didn't sit—he didn't want to be that close—but he stood by the foot of the bed.

Sam shifted just enough to be able to meet Castiel's gaze, and was otherwise totally still.

"It's complicated, and I'll explain everything. Do you want to hear it now, though, or do you want to yell at me some more?"

Castiel was good at reading body language. He trusted his instincts—after four years on the street, it had become a survival skill. He wasn't sure if angels moved like humans moved, but there was something in the slump of Sam's shoulders, the open exhaustion in his expression, the droop of his head, that made Castiel sit down on the floor again next to him. The angel—

(The angel? Did he truly believe this?)

—raised his eyebrows.

"Why not Heaven?" Castiel asked.

Sam took his time answering, studying Castiel for a long moment. Castiel was still for it, looking back at the angel with what he hoped looked like courage.

Finally, Sam said, "I. Um. I'm—I'm not Heaven's favorite right now. I'm not welcome there right now. I've made some enemies."

Castiel pressed his back against the bed, ready to slide away as he asked, "Are you—you're not a fallen angel, are you?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm not fallen, no. I'm just—not invited to the family reunions." He swallowed, ran his hands through his hair, and smiled ruefully. "I know you have questions. I'm gonna answer them. But I'd prefer not to talk about this, just now."

There was a genuine sadness in Sam's voice that was reflected in his face. He looked down and away, his hands white-knuckled from being wrung. He looked smaller, suddenly, less intimidating. More human.

So Castiel talked to him like a human.

"I've gotten kicked out of a lot of places," he said quietly. He felt Sam's eyes on him. "I ran away from home when I was sixteen—maybe you know that."

"I don't know everything about you, Castiel," Sam said. "But I did know that."

Castiel was quiet for a moment.

He couldn't help but wonder what not everything included. Did Sam know why he'd left? Did he know, had he seen the nights that Castiel's father had come home, only to immediately find something wrong with whatever it was Castiel was doing? Had he heard about or witnessed the years of watching his brothers—his brothers who so much more favored their father in appearance—be praised and cherished, while Castiel was incapable of doing anything right?

Had he seen Gabriel help him zip the one bag he'd taken when he'd run, watched Samandriel hug him and tell him that he understood?

Sam had seen a lot of humiliating things about Castiel in the last twenty-four hours, but it made Castiel nauseated to think that he knew that, too.

Castiel coughed. "Um. After that I lived pretty much on my own, and since I was sixteen, it's been on the street. And, you know, places don't look very kindly on you when you haven't bathed in a week and a half, especially once your voice is finished changing.

"I actually had some money on me one morning, and I tried to go into this diner. It was January, and I was really cold, and really hungry. And I did have money. So I got a booth and I sat down, and I was going to order pancakes."

He paused, remembering how it felt to know that he was about to actually eat a good, hot meal, to be warm for an hour or so, to buy some coffee. Remembering the pride that he'd felt, knowing that he was going to be able to pay for the whole thing.

But.

"But then this guy—the manager, I think—told me I couldn't eat there. Told me I had to leave. And I know I could have argued, I could have said I had the money and I had the same rights as anybody else, but I—I was so humiliated. I just left. And I didn't try that again, not at any of the diners nearby. I, um. I never did get the pancakes. But the worst part was being told I didn't belong there, didn't—like I was different from everyone else. Like I didn't belong withreal people."

He looked up, suddenly embarrassed, but Sam was watching him intently. He wasn't smiling anymore.

Castiel took a tremulous breath. "I know it's not the same. I don't know why I said any of that."

"I ran away, too," Sam said quietly.

Castiel did look up, then.

"I left Heaven four years ago. I had a feeling that there was something happening there, that there was something wrong, but no one would listen to me. There are plans in motion in Heaven right now that I can't agree with, and we're not built to disagree with plans, Cas. That's important to understand. But I left, and now I can't go back. The punishments for rebellion are...severe."

He took a deep breath. "They treat me like there's something wrong with me, too. Like I don't belong, either."

"I'm sorry," Castiel said.

Sam smiled gently. "Thank you for telling me your story."

The rest of the day was spent quietly. Sam didn't tell him anything else about why he'd been taken; Castiel didn't ask any more questions. Not yet. He was warm, he was fed, and he was moderately sure that Sam wasn't going to try to murder him in the immediate future, so he figured he'd take advantage of what he was being offered while he had it.

Sam went out to get dinner. He didn't ask Castiel if he'd like to accompany him. Castiel didn't know how he felt about that. On the one hand, no, he didn't really want to go out. On the other, the absence of the question made him wonder if it was safe for him to leave the room, or if Sam would allow him to leave it if he wanted to.

Despite the chicken soup and the warmth, he was still a captive.

He picked through Sam's duffel while he was gone, his fingers brushing over books that probably belonged in a museum. Many of them were in other languages—Latin, Greek, several that he didn't recognize at all—but a few were in Old and Middle English. One or two were in modern English. He pulled one of the latter out of the duffel.

It was a partial translation and academic study of the Codex Gigas, the Devil's Bible. The book seemed in particular to be a study of the rituals and spells described in the book, including exorcisms. He opened it, flipping through the pages.

Sharp, sprawling handwriting was crammed in the margins of the text, making notes sometimes in English, sometimes in Latin, sometimes in a third language whose alphabet Castiel had never seen before. By and large it seemed like Sam was dismissive of the exorcisms in the Codex, or at least their interpretation in this book. He contested several translations from the Latin and made a few notes referencing the Rituale Romanum, which Castiel knew to be the official ritual work of the Catholic Church. It included an exorcism, among other rites. Sam apparently preferred it, although whether that was because it worked better or for aesthetic reasons wasn't clear.

Curious, he put aside the English text and opened one in what appeared to perhaps be Sanskrit. Sure enough, inside the text were notes in what was somehow a similar handwriting, although in a different alphabet.

When he opened one of the Greek books, the notes were in Greek. Same for Latin, same for what was maybe Russian. The only thing all of the notes had in common was the occasional marking in that mysterious third language that he didn't recognize.

Sam was evidently fluent in at least seven languages. Castiel guessed that if he kept going through the duffel, he'd find notes in more. Somehow that impressed upon him, almost more than the wings, the reality that Sam was something else—something apart. He knew there were humans who read that many languages, but he felt sure that if he handed Sam a book to read, it wouldn't matter what language it was in. Any language that had ever been spoken would probably unfold itself in front of him.

He put the books away before Sam returned.

Dinner was pancakes. Their significance was not lost on Castiel.

He ate greedily, finishing his food so quickly that Sam looked impressed and offered him the second styrofoam package full of food. When Castiel refused it, saying that he didn't need any more, Sam gently informed him that angels didn't actually need to eat, but humans did.

Castiel ate the rest of the pancakes.

If Sam noticed anything out of place in the duffel, he didn't say anything. Castiel was somewhat relieved. He didn't think Sam would get very angry to know he'd been reading, but what he'd really been doing was snooping. He was afraid that somehow Sam would know that and be angry about it. Castiel would have been, if it had been his things.

But all that happened after dinner was Sam clearing the bed of the books he'd spread on top of the covers and the laptop that he'd been using. He put the laptop on the table and stood by the window, stretching his back, rolling his shoulders.

All Castiel could think of were those massive wings. He wondered if they needed to be stretched, like physical things—if they existed solidly on some plane for Sam.

He must have been staring as he pondered, because when he came back to reality Sam had turned and was grinning at him. He felt his face flush and looked down.

"You can watch TV, or hit the hay, or whatever," Sam said. "I'm going to stay up and do some more reading. I know you're probably still exhausted."

He was. Castiel was absolutely exhausted, though he hadn't done anything all day. He shrugged, and Sam laughed softly.

"You are. It's totally normal. Yesterday was really stressful and your body is catching up after that fight-or-flight. I put you to sleep yesterday, and it wasn't natural sleep. You should turn in early."

Yes. That was right. Something about serotonin, something about cortisol, and his eyes were barely staying open. His brain was not doing much better, so he sat on the bed and kicked his shoes off.

"What about you?" he asked sleepily. "Where are you gonna sleep?"

Sam laughed again. "I'm not, Castiel. I don't have to. Don't worry—the bed's all yours."

Castiel took it at face value and curled up in the bed. He was asleep within minutes.

When he woke up at two in the morning, he realized that he was in a different bed.

"Sam?" he murmured.

"Go back to sleep," the angel said tersely.

"Are we in another room?" he asked.

Sam hesitated, but nodded. "Yes. We had to—we had to go. Just go back to sleep."

As Castiel shifted beneath the covers, through the sleepy fog in his head, he thought vaguely that Sam was not just a runaway.

Sam was still on the run, and now he was on the run with him.