Dean lay on the floor of the farmhouse, staring into space. He had been able to accept the fact that Castiel was not an actual angel; that he was a creature from a different realm that once walked among men. Heck, it had made it a little easier knowing the holy tax accountant was at least a little more on the same level with Dean. However, it now seemed his friend was a monster. Dean hunted monsters. He hated monsters—but Dean didn't have the strength for anger now. First, there was the revelation about Sam's betrayal, now this. Dean reached up from where he sat on the floor and snagged the house-phone off its hook and dialed the only other person he could count on: Bobby. The grouch didn't answer. After several phone calls to Bobby's contacts, Dean discovered Bobby was in a coma. Dean felt compelled to rush to the hospital and be there for Bobby, but he knew he had to find Sam. His brother hadn't been seen at the hospital. There was only one thing that could keep Sammy away: he was in trouble. All the feelings of hurt and betrayal washed away and were replaced with concern.

Dean sat up and grimaced, holding his side. His insides still hurt, but it seemed everything was still where it was supposed to be. "Frank's" car was still parked outside. Poor bastard probably had no idea what he had welcomed into himself when that "angel" entered him.

As Dean drove down the lonely dirt road his worry increased. It seemed Sam had gone off the grid entirely—every phone, every contact turned into a dead end.

Finally, a building jutted out against the backdrop of the desolate scenery. It was a filling station. This scenario reminded him all too vividly of the last time he'd…popped up. The first thing he looked for after he broke in was a newspaper. He dreaded finding the date and discovering how long he'd been gone this time. Seven weeks to the day since he'd drained dry in that skivvy motel bathroom. He shuddered at the remembrance. Then the front page headline drew his attention:

Another Earthquake Shakes New York

Dean read the article that followed. A lot had happened while he'd been away. Fires raged across the west coast, tornadoes and storms of epic proportions ravaged the Midwest countryside, tsunamis crushed and flooded the southern borders, and of course earthquakes out east. It seemed the natural disasters weren't limited to the States, either. It was a worldwide phenomenon. There were also reports all over of strange animal attacks. The gates Cas opened, Dean thought grimly. Wonder what fuglies are roaming the earth now.

Jutting out across the landscape were shadowy silhouettes of the skeletal remains of black, charred buildings. Two figures, one shorter, one tall with longish hair blowing frantically in the acrid wind, surveyed the destruction from a hill overlooking the scene.

"It could not be helped, Sam. Those monsters were part of the new army Lucifer is forming. Nothing else could have destroyed them. They were created out of fire, and only in fire could they be unmade." Jesse said.

Sam nodded and swallowed heavily. His eyes watered, partially from the smoke filled air, but also with regret. Thousands of people had died due to their actions. However, the creatures wreathed in fire would have caused further destruction if they had not acted.

Jesse looked up at Sam. The boy's eyes had changed dramatically over the weeks. Their depths seemed to burn. That was nothing compared to what happened when the boy used his powers—then his eyes blazed brightest red. Jesse's power had grown to astronomical heights, and Sam found himself trembling in his presence sometimes.

"Sacrifices must be made in this war. This is not the first, nor the last of the destruction you will see."

Sam nodded, but his gut twisted as he looked out over the expanse of city turned to charcoal.

Dean made his way to Bobby's. He didn't know where else to start. Ever since his Dad had died, Bobby's had become home base—a place to go when all else failed. But when Dean arrived at the junkyard abode he realized it was the man, not the place that made it what it was. As Dean sat in the abandoned living room the empty and hollow spaces filled with memories, images of people and times that seemed worlds away. His only hope was that Sam, too, would eventually make his way back to Bobby's drawn by the same instinct.

It was past midnight when Dean awoke to a sound. He sat up and listened, trying to identify the disturbance.

The front door squeaked open and footsteps in the kitchen made the floorboards whine under the pressure. Dean snatched his gun from the side table by the couch and absently swiped his hand over the knife in his belt. Crouching, he approached the far wall, and peeped into the kitchen. Discernable in the darkness was a tall shadow moving past the table. Dean padded softly forward on the balls of his feet, gun raised. In a flurry, an arm knocked the pistol from his grasp, and a knee to his gut hindered his grope for the knife at his side. Dean fell to his knees, gasping as his attacker raised both arms together and pounded his fists into the back of Dean's neck like a sledgehammer. Dean's face hit the tiled floor and black dots danced in his line of sight. He barely registered a voice command,

"Stop!" Then a face appeared before him, a mop of scraggily hair framing its familiar features.

"Sammy…?"

"Yeah, Dean. Here." Sam offered an assisting arm and pulled Dean to his feet. Dean's vision swam for a moment, so he didn't see the moisture in Sam's eyes as he regarded his very much alive, if somewhat dazed, brother.

Another dark figure appeared in Dean's sight, and he blinked, swaying slightly on his feet. Sam guided Dean to the table and sat him in a chair. The lights flicked on, and Dean saw his brother clearly for the first time. Their eyes met and simultaneously they smiled.

"Hey, Sam."

"Hey, Dean."