The "Angel Guy" ushered Sam and Dean into his little cabin, backing carefully out of their way as they walked in.

The cabin was quite small. It consisted of a single room, some twenty by twenty feet, with a tiny bathroom in one corner, a stone fireplace against the far wall, and wooden rafters overhead.

The man put the grocery bag on a linoleum counter that ran along the left-hand wall, setting his bloody towel in an old enamel sink. He looked into the grocery bag and gave a little huff that was almost a laugh. Reaching in, he pulled out the two take-out burgers, still in their wrappings, a box of burritos, and a jar of honey. He laid these out in a little row and looked at them for a moment.

"Interesting," he said very softly, almost talking to himself.

Dean said, "We thought you might like those — did we guess right? And also we got you this." He pulled the bottle of whiskey out of its bag and held it out, saying, "Maybe we could share a drink?"

The man turned and glanced at the bottle. He looked at Dean, and looked at Sam, his gaze lingering on each of their faces in turn. He said, "All right. But just this once. You have to understand, we really shouldn't be talking at all."

He turned back to the counter to pick up a chipped mug. Glancing at Dean and Sam apologetically, he said "We'll have to share. I just have one mug." He began to wash out the mug in the sink, and Sam and Dean took a moment to look around the cabin.

There seemed to be very little in the cabin; it was almost just a plain wooden box. The only real furniture was a tiny wooden table that was set in the exact center of the room, a few yards away from the hearth, with a wooden crate pulled up to it that apparently served as a chair. The table was covered with maps, a stack of local newspapers (the old-fashioned print kind) and a scattering of little hand-written notes. Dean tried to steal an unobtrusive look at the notes and found that they were all written in some scrolly-looking elegant handwriting that he couldn't read, something that looked like a cross between Arabic and hieroglyphics.

Against the left wall of the cabin was the old sink and the worn linoleum countertop, where the man was now drying the mug. There was a mini-fridge tucked under the counter. There was no stove; there wasn't even a microwave. Instead, the countertop held just an ancient electric hot-plate, along with a grand total of two pans: a small, scarred frying pan, and a tippy-looking pot with an odd handle that seemed to have been made out of a coathanger. Laid out tidily on a dishtowel were a wooden stirring spoon, a spatula, a single plate, a single bowl, and a few pieces of mismatched silverware lined up in an orderly row.

A wooden shelf ran along the right-hand wall, bearing a small assortment of clothing in neat little stacks, along with a tiny mirror, a razor and some toiletries, a few paperback books, and a white cardboard shoebox. There was a round furry lump nestled into the clothes that turned out to be a cat that was looking at them warily. A peg by the shelf held the familiar leather jacket, and a few more crates were lined up underneath, holding bundles of firewood and kindling, sorted out by size. There was a fire in the fireplace, though it seemed to be doing remarkably little to keep off the evening chill. The only other light came from a ridiculously faint light bulb dangling from a rafter overhead.

There was only one other thing in the cabin: a pile of rough wool blankets in front of the hearth, arranged in a tidy rectangle, perhaps four feet long by three feet wide. Dean mistook it at first for a pet bed, and was thinking That's kind of big for just a cat, before he realized that there was no other bed in the cabin. He caught Sam's eye silently and nodded at the little heap of blankets; Sam looked at it blankly for a moment and then his brow furrowed in dismay.

"So, buddy," said Dean. "You're not really a big fan of furniture, huh?"

The man said, drying the mug on a corner of the dishtowel, "I don't need much. The owners are planning to sell this cabin, and they removed most of the furniture two months ago. They were going to close it up completely for the winter, but I convinced them to rent it to me at a very low price, really just the cost of the electricity and the water. It's a good arrangement — I don't need to spend as much time earning money, so I have more time for... " He stopped short, and ended lamely, "...other things."

"Other things like hunting angels?" said Dean.

The man straightened out the dishtowel and set the mug on the counter. He turned his head to look over his shoulder at Dean, and said "I have to make something clear. I can't talk to you very much." He paused, and added, "I should have told you both to leave."

"Oh. Okay," said Dean, feeling a bit shot down.

The man gave him a faint smile. "It's... not by choice. It's simply not safe."

He turned back to the whiskey bottle and broke the seal on the cap, twisting it hard with his right hand. Though this was only a very minor motion, he winced as he did it, gritting his teeth and stiffening for a moment, barely breathing. He took a slow, shallow breath and continued unscrewing the cap. Sam shot Dean a glance and mouthed the words "Cracked rib," gesturing to his own ribcage to make his point clear. Dean nodded, wincing at the memory of how hard he'd slammed the Impala door onto the stranger's side.

"Hey," said Sam, in his best Gentle Sam voice, "Are you okay there?"

"I'm fine," the man said tersely.

"There's some painkillers and bandages and stuff in the bag. We could fix you up a bit. Tape up your ribs maybe?"

"I'm fine," the man repeated. He turned to look at Sam for a moment, and added, more gently, "Thank you for the supplies. That was... kind. Very kind. I will use them later." He turned his attention back to the whiskey bottle.

Sam pressed, "If you won't let us help, can I at least ask your name? We still don't even know who you are."

The man looked at Sam again.

He did not answer; he just turned back to the bottle and started pouring a good-sized slug of whiskey into the mug.

Sam blinked. His shoulders dropped a little.

"C'mon, buddy," said Dean. "You know our names, and we don't know yours. You got us kind of at a disadvantage here."

The man re-capped the bottle slowly, giving Dean an unnaturally long and steady look out of the corner of his eye. "I don't want to tell you my name," he said at last. "And I don't want to lie to you either." He turned and held the mug out toward Dean. "So call me whatever you want."

"We can't just keep calling you 'buddy'," Dean objected.

The man shrugged, still holding out the mug.

"Well...okay, I guess," said Dean reluctantly, taking the mug and leaning on the little table. "Buddy it is."

A smile tugged at the corner of the man's mouth. "That means a friend, doesn't it?"

Dean nodded, slugging back a swallow and handing the mug to Sam. "Yep. Unless you've got a better suggestion."

"It'll do."

"So, um, 'Buddy.' Are you actually a hunter or what?" asked Dean.

"Buddy", or whoever he was, shook his head. "No. I tried that a few times. I wasn't very good at it." Sam took a swallow and held the mug out to him, and Buddy took the mug, saying, "To be honest I was quite bad at it. One of many things I'm bad at," He glanced down at the whiskey. "It's funny... You can go through a whole life, quite a long life, thinking you're doing well, that you're competent, that you're... good. " He took a swallow of the whiskey, and said, his voice perfectly calm, "And then you discover you actually completely suck at absolutely everything." He handed the mug to Dean, and added, "It's an adjustment. Anyway. I'm no hunter. And I don't have any useful skills anymore. I just do what I can."

The "anymore" caught Dean's attention, but he let it pass. He just said, "Plenty of skill with a blade, seemed to me."

Buddy gave a short laugh. "I've had some experience with that, over the years, yes. A blade alone doesn't get you very far, though."

"Look, seems to me you're obviously sort of a hunter even if you don't call yourself one. You're after the bad guys, right? Monsters, demons, angels?" said Dean.

Buddy grimaced. "I still hate to hear angels on that list. But, yes."

Sam put in, "Yeah, it was kind of a wakeup call for all of us to find out what dicks they are."

The mug had come round to Buddy again. He gazed down into the whiskey silently.

Dean said, "If I can cut to the chase, what the hell is going on in this valley? Three hikers dead now and it looks like their brains are getting fried. Fried up completely into little black lumps. And they're all beaten and it looks like they've been whipped. Then, each time, three days later there's an earthquake."

Sam added, "Also the hex bags seem really weird."

At the mention of the hex bags, Buddy looked up, frowning. "Your car was attacked by animals, you said?"

Sam nodded. "A whole set of them. Like an animal army. Elk, bear and little animals too, out at Death Canyon. They were all just going after the bag. Not going after us exactly — going after the bag. I've never seen a hex bag do that."

"Wild-call," murmured Buddy, looking down into the whiskey again.

"What?" said Dean.

"Wild-call," he repeated, more clearly. "A construction that calls the anger of wild animals to itself. There's a category of magical items that do that sort of thing — calling upon the destructive power of some aspect of nature. Basically, they focus the power of nature onto a specific point. The fire-call does the same thing, but with fire."

It didn't occur to either Sam or Dean to ask how he knew this.

"What about the one you found in our room?" asked Sam.

Buddy was silent a moment. He raised the mug to his mouth and took a sip of the whiskey. "That one was a wind-call."

"Which means what exactly?" asked Dean.

"Likely your motel would have been destroyed by a tornado, or some kind of windstorm. Something along those lines."

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. Buddy passed the mug on to Dean, and leaned back against the countertop with a faint grimace, his left arm cradling the right.

"What did you do with it?" asked Sam.

"I crushed it with rocks and buried the pieces," said Buddy, as if this were the obvious thing to do. He saw their puzzled looks and explained further, "The best thing to do with those sorts of items is usually to fragment them into some opposing natural force. Douse a fire-call in water, crush a wind-call in rocks and earth, that sort of thing. To be honest, though, I haven't seen any of these things in a very long time, and I wasn't entirely sure what to do. But it seems to have worked."

"It sounds like it would take a lot of power to make one of those," said Dean.

Buddy looked at him and gave one slow, silent nod.

The slow nod, and that steady gaze, threatened to pull Dean into the same strange vortex of deja-vu that he'd experienced earlier in the parking lot. Dean closed his eyes for a second, trying to stay focused. He took a breath, opened his eyes and said, "The word on the street is there's something big going down here. There's..." He glanced at Sam. "There's a major player here, we think. Somebody pretty strong."

Buddy nodded again. He said, "The reason I invited you in was to tell you that you both need to leave. Immediately. You have to leave this town. "

Dean and Sam exchanged a "not likely" look. Buddy looked back and forth between them.

He said slowly, "I see I have to tell you a bit more, if just to convince you to leave." He paused, gathering his thoughts. Sam had passed him the mug again and he gripped it in both hands, looking over at the fire. He thought a moment longer, raised his eyes to Dean's and said, "I came here two months ago. I overheard some things about this area, some things that made me concerned, and I made my way here to see if I could figure out what was going on. I believe there are two angels here, along with at least two demons. They are working together, which is ... disturbing. They are based primarily in Death Canyon, where you were attacked. But I have to stay out of their way — I can't risk the angels finding out I'm here — and I haven't been able to get close enough to figure out very much."

He looked back and forth between Sam and Dean, and went on, "But I do know this much: there is something very strange here. A very strong entity. Something very powerful. I don't know yet what it is. It's something, or somebody, that even the angels are frightened of."

"Castiel?" said Dean.

Buddy flinched and nearly dropped the mug. He stared at Dean, his eyes wide.

"You've heard the name, then?" guessed Dean. "If that's your big surprise, we already know about him. And we know he's somewhere right around here. This super baddie you're talking about, it's Castiel, right?"

Buddy stared at him for a long moment, and then turned his back and busied himself refilling the mug. He took a swig of whiskey while his back was turned, then slowly turned to face Dean.

"What do you know of Castiel?" he said, looking closely at Dean's face.

"Well... not much. We haven't had the pleasure of meeting him in person," said Dean.

Buddy's mouth twitched.

Sam expanded, "Near as we can tell he's an angel who's been setting himself up as kind of the new Lucifer. He seems to have been a pretty serious warrior back in the old days — one of the really scary angels who went around smiting people right and left. Then he rebelled a few years ago, fell from Heaven, then tried to take over Heaven, killed a ton of people, wiped out half the angels too, and now apparently he's the one who slammed the pearly gates and exiled all the angels."

Buddy had gone completely still, holding the mug, staring at the floor.

Dean concluded, "So basically, a murderous tyrant with delusions of grandeur and an absolutely unholy body count."

Buddy closed his eyes.

"It does sound rather bad when you sum it up like that," he said softly, his eyes still closed.

"We've been told we should kill the bastard if we ever get a chance," said Dean.

Buddy opened his eyes and looked narrowly at Dean. "Who told you you should kill Castiel?"

"Well..." Dean said, glancing at Sam. Sam nodded — they seemed to be agreed that they were going to trust this guy with everything — and Dean said, "Actually it was a demon we kind of know. By the name of Crowley. Not exactly our most trusted source, but sometimes he does have good info."

Buddy took a long swallow of the whiskey.

"I'm pretty sure that was his idea of a joke," he said, still holding the mug. "Castiel is no threat to you."

"That's not what we've been hearing," said Dean.

"Trust me on this. Castiel is not your enemy."

"I don't know," said Dean, "He's supposed to be pretty terrifying — and we know he's here. If you've found somebody powerful around here it really seems like it might be Castiel, since—"

"Castiel's nothing," interrupted Buddy, his low voice darkening even further, almost to a growl. "He's broken. He's useless. He's just a fool, and an idiot, and that's all he's ever been." Dean and Sam were both jolted by his harsh tone, and they stared at him. Buddy sighed, and went on, "You're thinking he's a villain. An enemy. He's not, he's just, a, a ... How do I put this. A failure. I think the word you'd use is, loser? He's not worth your time."

Dean gave a little laugh. "So, I get the feeling you don't think much of him."

"Put it this way. If anybody's going to kill Castiel it'll be me," said Buddy, unmistakable bitterness in his voice. He took another swig of the whiskey, and then looked down at the mug in some surprise, as if he'd forgotten he was holding it. He sighed and handed it to Dean.

He said, "Forget about Castiel. The thing I've been sensing in this valley is something else entirely. It is not an angel. It is something beyond angels. I hesitate to even say this, but I think it is something older than angels."

"Are we talking... leviathan?" suggested Sam.

Buddy shook his head emphatically. "It is not a leviathan. I would know if it were. Also, leviathans take pleasure in killing; this is something that kills just as a matter of course, without any malice really, without even thinking about it. Something naturally destructive. Like an earthquake — like a tornado." He drew a slow, careful breath, adjusted his arm around his side again, and continued. "As I said, I haven't been able to get close enough to see it exactly. The best I've been able to do is try to keep people out of that canyon on the nights when I know they're doing something. But a few have gotten through. The last hiker, that girl..." His mouth twisted, and he sighed. "I tried to stop her from taking that trail. I knew they were looking for someone to take, that day. I tried to stop her. But she wouldn't listen to me."

He looked down at the ground. "I think she just thought I was strange," he said.

"Can't imagine why," said Dean, casting a look around the cabin. He'd meant it as a joke, trying to lighten the mood, but Buddy narrowed his eyes at him.

"The point is," said Buddy, a bit coldly, "that there's an extremely dangerous entity here that is very strong and completely unpredictable, and it is being served by two angels and two demons who are aware of your presence and who are trying to kill you. All of which means, you should leave. Both of you."

"Are you gonna leave?" said Dean pointedly.

Buddy's eyes flickered away. "Well ... no," he confessed.

"You're gonna keep trying to help those hikers, aren't you?" Dean studied Buddy's face a bit, noticed the way Buddy was evading his gaze, and added, "You're going to keep trying to do something to help, even if it kills you. Right?"

Buddy brushed a hand over his eyes, and felt absently at the bruised scrape across his cheek.

"Yes, but, it doesn't matter if I—" He stopped. "That doesn't matter. You—"

"Wait. It doesn't matter if you what? Doesn't matter if you get hurt? Doesn't matter if you die?" said Dean. He felt a slow anger start to burn in his gut at the thought of Buddy out there in the woods, working alone, risking his life alone. With only his little angel-blade and no backup at all. "So you get to risk yourself and we don't?"

"I don't matter," said Buddy, irritated. "You do. Both of you do. I'm not important. You are. Therefore you should both leave, and I should stay."

"Bullcrap," said Dean. "You matter too. You matter just as much." He felt certain about this. "Maybe more."

"No, I don't. You don't understand."

"Then explain it."

"I can't tell you any more," snapped Buddy, frustrated.

"Why not?"

Buddy took a step closer, staring Dean right in the eyes, and said, pronouncing each word slowly, "I told you. It's. Not. Safe." Sam watched this exchange unfold, fascinated, from a few feet away.

Dean, pinned by that stare, with Buddy's eyes blazing right at him, felt a ghostly shiver run over his skin. He said, "So what if it's not safe? When have we ever done anything the safe way?"

"When have you ever done anything the intelligent way?" replied Buddy acidly, taking another half step closer. He was barely a foot away now, crowding Dean closely, still staring right at him, his head cocked a bit to the side, a puzzled frown coming over his bruised face as he said, "Why won't you listen to me?"

"Why should I listen to you when you won't tell me anything?" Dean shot back. He felt weirdly elated, for the whole exchange, tense as it was, felt almost like a game. As if he were dancing with an old partner, or wrestling with a childhood friend that he hadn't seen in years.

Buddy abruptly broke eye contact and turned away. He turned to the table, saying, "Dean. Have you not understood how these people died? How they suffered?" He leaned over and reached out with his right hand to grab some papers to show Dean. He staggered a bit as he did this, flinched, gave a sharp gasp, and then curled his right arm around his side and leaned heavily onto the table with his left hand. He held his breath for moment, standing very still, his head down, his left hand braced on the table.

"Vegas money says you've got at least one cracked rib there," said Dean, "and that's my fault and I'm truly sorry, but just try and tell me why you should stay here and fight when you're injured and on your own, when we're perfectly healthy and there's two of us."

Sam moved closer and put a hand on Buddy's shoulder. Buddy was still hunched over, breathing shallowly. Sam said, "I know my brother can be pretty annoying, but he's right about at least one thing: you are hurt. Won't you let us take a look? Or at least let us take you to the hospital. You shouldn't even be walking around like that."

"And you sure shouldn't be all on your own here in this empty cabin in the middle of nowhere," said Dean.

"I'm fine," said Buddy, still breathing a bit shallowly, his head down. "It is only a minor injury. I appreciate your concern, but I can take care of myself." He gestured around the cabin briefly, not raising his head. "I have everything I need here. I've been doing very well on my own."

"Oh yeah, looks like you got everything here set up beautifully," said Dean, glancing around the barren cabin. "Livin' the high life here. Bet the ladies dig it. I can't imagine why that girl thought you were a little strange."

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam over Buddy's head, thinking Buddy wouldn't see, but a moment later he realized he'd misjudged. For Buddy had turned his head just enough to catch Dean's expression out of the corner of his eyes. "You're mocking me," Buddy said, straightening up slowly, studying Dean's face. He sounded as if something that had long puzzled him was suddenly making sense. "You're mocking me. You do that rather often, don't you. I can see it now."

Dean said, flustered, "No, that's not what I — I'm not — I wouldn't... I was just..."

Sam broke in, "My brother's really kind of an idiot. You've got to ignore him about stuff like that, it's just he's such a moron—"

Buddy interrupted, saying directly to Dean, "I know I must seem a bit strange. Well, more than a bit. I already know that. I've known it for years. But, you must understand — this is not my home country. It truly isn't. This is not even my mother tongue. I have been living here, really living here, for only a year, and I have had to do this alone." He took a breath. "I know I get things wrong. I know that people laugh behind my back - well, sometimes to my face — but I have had to figure everything out by myself." He fell silent a moment and looked back and forth between Sam and Dean. They were both too startled to say anything. Buddy took one step closer to Dean. It was an uneven, slightly wobbly step, and Dean realized that Buddy was slightly drunk, just from those few swallows of whiskey. Just a little drunk; not falling-down drunk; but just drunk enough, it seemed, to talk.

Buddy went on, the words spilling out of him, the barriers down. "When I arrived in this land, I had nothing. I knew nothing. I didn't know how to earn money, or how money even worked, or how to find shelter, where to sleep, how to get food. Nothing. I still didn't even understand half of what people said. There are so many idioms, Dean, so many references to things I've never seen... it's so very... it's so confusing; you have no idea, you truly can have no idea. And you — my — I had to — you — you —" He was almost stuttering now, and had to abandon that sentence entirely and start a new one, which was: "My friends didn't help me." He stopped for a moment, still gazing at Dean. "I was frightened," he said.

He paused. The only sound was the crackling of the fire.

Then Buddy said "But I survived," and he smiled, a real smile, his eyes crinkling, and it seemed like the sun coming out. He said, "Would you look at how much I've learned? Will you look?" He gestured around the cabin again. "See, now I have a place to sleep that is all my own. All my own. Nobody can kick me out." A sharp glance at Dean here. "I have learned to do three different kinds of jobs now and I've earned some money. Look, I have these blankets to sleep in now. I bought them myself, with money that I earned." He was walking around the cabin now, pointing out his absurdly tiny set of possessions one at a time, with obvious pride. "I bought this plate and this bowl at a little store in the town. I found that pot. It was broken, but I figured out how to fix the handle. I learned how to chop wood and how to build a fire. See," — he had arrived at the shelf with the mirror and the little stack of clothing — "I keep myself clean, I have three changes of clothes now and I keep them clean too. Everything's clean and I keep myself fed. This little cat," He had stopped at the cat. The cat gave him a slow blink, squinting its eyes in friendly welcome, and Buddy rested his hand briefly on its head. "I took her in. She was lost too. I took her in, I take care of her and I feed her. I can feed us both." He turned to look at Dean. "I did all this on my own. And I never lied or cheated or stole. I never took anything from anybody. I did it myself."

He stopped, still looking at Dean, his eyes wide and hopeful, proud and pleading.

A long silence stretched out.

Dean wanted to sink through the ground.

Dean wanted to hide his face with his hands. He wanted to say to Buddy, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't understand, I didn't get it, I didn't know. But his throat had closed up and he couldn't say anything at all.

Buddy looked around the room again. His shoulders dropped, and he said, with a little laugh, "I suppose it must not look like much to either of you." There was no resentment or anger in his voice; just acceptance.

Dean opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He looked down at the floor.

"You should be proud," said Sam. Buddy gave him a doubtful glance, but Sam repeated, "You should be really proud. I mean it. That sounds... honestly that sounds horrible. Dean and I, we know some tricks for getting by, but, our dad taught us a lot. And we've always had each other for backup, always. It can't be easy trying to make your way on your own. Especially if you're not even from here."

Dean had still not said a word, and was scowling furiously at the floor. Something in particular was nagging at him now, something that Buddy said earlier. He realized what it was and said, "Why didn't your friends help you?"

Buddy's eyes flickered away. "They... couldn't."

"They knew you were in trouble and they didn't help?" said Sam.

"It's not... they didn't... I don't think they..." Buddy trailed off, standing stock-still, his head down, his arms wrapped around himself. Then he said, very slowly, very softly, as if trying to grasp a bewildering fact, "They have chosen to forget about me."

"Shitty friends if you ask me," said Sam.

"No, they're not... shitty," objected Buddy, stumbling over the word as if he'd never said it before. He lifted his head to look at Sam. "They're not. It's... complicated. What it comes down to I think, is..." He drew a breath. "I think I am a bad friend," he said, shifting his gaze to Dean. "I think it must be one of the things I'm just very bad at. I was a bad friend. I let them down. I made mistakes. Awful mistakes. So..." He looked at them both, his gaze lingering on Dean's. "I think they must have realized they were better off without me."

"We all make mistakes. Friends should forgive each other," said Dean firmly. He had been feeling nearly nauseous at Buddy's story, thinking over and over, His friends screwed up. They messed up. They lost something valuable.

"But what if they really are better off without me?" asked Buddy.

The fire gave a sharp crack, a pocket of resin flaming up. Buddy flinched and looked around, as if waking up. He ran one hand through his hair and said, "Forgive me. I... I am wasting your time with... inconsequential matters." He wrapped his right arm around his side again, and said, frowning, "I really intended just to talk about the case. I seem to be talking much more than usual. My apologies. "

"Yeah, well, whiskey will do that to you," said Dean. "Especially if you're not used to it."

Buddy gave him a grave look. "Oh," he said. "Oh, I see. I'm drunk. Is... is whiskey stronger than beer?"

Sam and Dean both had to choke back a laugh. "Yes, Buddy," said Dean, trying to keep a straight face. "Whiskey is stronger than beer."

Buddy frowned. "I wish I had known that," he muttered. "I've talked far too much." He moved over to the table, making an obvious effort to return his attention to the case. He selected one of the newspapers from the table and handed it to Dean. It was the article with the picture of the young brunette who'd died a few days earlier, the one whose body they'd examined in the morgue. Buddy said, "This girl took two full days to die, Dean."

"That's not gonna scare us away, Bud," said Dean. "We've been through worse."

Buddy got a stubborn look in his eyes as if he were gearing up for a lecture. He turned to face Dean, unconsciously putting the fire at his back so that he could see Dean's face more clearly. He reached out and put his left hand on Dean's right shoulder and said, "Dean, you are seriously underestimating the danger here. These earthquakes—"

That was all Dean heard. The moment Buddy had set his hand on Dean's shoulder, Dean felt an electric shock go from his shoulder straight to his heart. That shiver stole over his skin again, that odd half-trance, as he looked into those serious blue eyes, that piercing gaze. Buddy's ruffled hair was outlined against the crackling fire, and Buddy was saying... something... something about leaving, about escaping, about getting away; Buddy was clasping his shoulder; the fire behind him seemed to roar. It seemed much huger suddenly, a fire the size of the whole world, all around them. Something bloomed in Dean's mind; a door opened, and then Dean was somewhere else entirely, somewhere laced with fire and agony and terror.

Trapped, desperate, helpless. Praying for salvation. Please, help me...

He felt panic for a moment, but then felt that hand tighten on his shoulder, blessedly cool, reassuring, holding him firmly, and Dean knew he was saved.

Everything flew into fragments. He heard that distant voice, Buddy's voice, that unmistakable hoarse low growl of a voice, but it seemed to be coming from millions of miles away. It was saying:

I'm the one who gripped you tight

A shower of silver sparks.

Blue eyes, very close, staring straight into his soul.

You should show me some respect.

Black wings, raising unevenly. Ragged, massive. Terrifying. Amazing. A roar of thunder.

"Dean? Dean!"

Dean jerked back to reality. He seemed to have zoned out somehow; he found himself seated on one of the crates, his head down between his knees, his vision swimming. He had a splitting headache. Sam was crouched beside him, one hand tight on Dean's left arm and the other hand supporting his head. Buddy had disappeared from Dean's field of view and seemed to be standing just behind his right side now, bracing him from behind. Sam was saying "Dean? What is it? Can you hear me? What's wrong? Dean?"

Dean began to gather his thoughts, and he sat up a bit straighter. He craned his head around to look at Buddy. Buddy immediately let go of Dean and backed away slightly. He looked completely sober now, and very worried, and he had one hand slightly raised in an odd gesture, two fingers held up together. Dean looked at his hand, puzzled. The gesture seemed ever-so-faintly familiar. Buddy saw his glance, and looked down at his own hand in surprise as if he hadn't realized what he was doing. He dropped his hand to his side and backed away further, nearly to the opposite wall of the cabin, till he was standing in shadow.

"I'm sorry," Buddy said. "We've talked too long. I kept you here too long. I'm sorry. I misjudged. You need to leave now."

"Dean, what the hell was that? You okay?" said Sam.

"Yeah. Just tired." Dean said. He stood up, shaking off Sam's hands, and said to Buddy, "Sorry, I've just been really tired. Not sleeping well, like Sam said. It's just, some blood sugar thing or something. Just got dizzy."

"You must leave now," said Buddy again. "I'm very sorry." He walked to the door, skirting around Dean as if trying to keep as far away from him as he could get, and held the door open. "Make him get to bed," he said to Sam, as Sam guided Dean out the door. "Give him sleep medication, and headache medication too, and make sure he takes both." Sam nodded.

Dean felt awfully embarrassed, and was relieved to find that he was rapidly feeling much more normal as Sam steered him out to the Impala. Sam fished the keys out of Dean's pocket and chivvied Dean around to the passenger side of the car.

"I can drive just fine, Sam—"

"Shut up and get in the car, Dean."

Sam stuffed him in the passenger seat and shut his door. Dean rolled down the window and craned around to look at Buddy, who was hanging back at the door of his cabin. "Hey, I'm sorry," said Dean. "I've just been really tired, that's all it is. Haven't gotten much sleep recently."

"You will leave this town now?" Buddy said. "Return to your home?"

"Not likely," said Dean. "We don't scare easy."

Buddy sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that."

Sam started the engine. Buddy walked a few steps closer to Dean's side of the car, still staying a few yards away as if afraid to come closer. Dean looked at him; the shadows from the moonlight made Buddy's face hard to read, and Dean could only make out the dark bruises on his face, and the outline of his ruffled dark hair.

Buddy said, "If you will not leave, especially in the state you seem to be in, you must be extremely careful. Will you promise me you will be careful?"

"I promise," said Dean.

"More careful than you usually are," insisted Buddy.

Dean scowled at him, and Buddy raised an eyebrow back.

"You know what would be much more careful," said Dean brightly, "is if we had some more backup. Somebody else. Like, a third person. How about you work this case with us?"

Buddy hesitated and shook his head. "I can't," he said reluctantly.

"I just have this feeling like we might work well together."

Buddy shook his head again. "It's just not safe."

"Broken record, C— ... Buddy," said Dean, almost accidentally saying an entirely different name, and not noticing at all what he'd nearly said. "You're not really making any sense. We'll check up on you later, okay?"

Buddy had gone very still. He didn't argue further, but just stepped back into the shadows, as Sam backed out of the driveway.

As Sam drove down the road, Dean twisted around to look through the rear window, and he saw that Buddy had walked out into the road to watch them drive away. Buddy was just a dark shape in the silver moonlight, looking very small in the empty road, the black forest looming all around him, and Dean felt a pain in the pit of his stomach. Sam seemed to be driving quite slowly, extremely slowly, and he kept glancing in the rearview mirror too, both of them looking at the little figure standing alone in the darkness watching them drive away.

A/N - If you have been enjoying this story or have any comments, please leave a review!