Please review! I really like reviews! Also, grammar help is needed. Thank you.

Summary: In a post-modernist summary for an old-fashioned fic, the author would like to question Lucifer if it's a good idea to fall for an angel who's as stubborn as he is, and a human-lover, to boot. You could try to cajole Castiel into a relationship, Lucifer, but he will push back, and the end result will always be bittersweet.

.

.
o*°o·o°*o·O·o*°o·o°*o
.

Friendly Reencounters

Part I

.
o*°o·o°*o·O·o*°o·o°*o
.

.

'You know how I said I missed the good old days when all we had were ghost hunts and simple monster stuff?'

The air was dank; January was not exactly the best time to do ghost hunts because the ground was usually frozen solid, even if there was no snow. But they had been stressed out, especially since Castiel had not seem very forthcoming with details on the angelic matter the angel had pressured the Winchesters to hand over to him, so they needed a vacation—as much as something so pleasant could be had in these troubled days. An abandoned hovel in Illinois, nick-named 'The Shrieking Shack' by local enterprising Harry Potter fans, had been seen by Sam and Dean as the next best place to try to relax without feeling as if they were slacking off in Apocalyptic matters. 'The world is coming to and end', had said Sam, 'might as well do something useful'. Dean had to admit Sam's idea had not actually been all that bad.

When he heard Dean, Sam stopped shovelling and just leant on it, his breath coming out in puffs of mist. He turned to look at him.

'Yeah?'

Dean stood stiffly with his sawed-off, just looking around in a nervous fashion; his knuckles were an angry red from the cold. To not burn his hands from the cold,he was holding the gun with a yellow duster that had been a bright, almost neon colour, before acquiring all the grime and dust from travelling around endless roads in the Impala's glove compartment. Sam and Dean were already bruised from their earlier tiff with the ghost they were hunting. They had first encountered the ghost of a little boy in the haunted house, and Dean's side of the head was throbbing, painfully, from the tantrum the ghost had pulled off. Dean also had scratches under his clothes, from being thrown around. Also, he was sure he had more than a few bruises on his back. Sam probably had more of the same.

No ribs cracked this time.

'The good old days kind of suck'.

'Cute', threw back Sam.

Sam stretched his limbs, feeling his hands a bit numb from the cold in the air despite the swamp-green gloves. Thankfully, the shirts, jacket, and flannel kept his core feeling pretty snug so that it was not much of a chore to stand in the cold night and get the job done.

'Hey!', Dean squalled when he turned his head around, briefly, to check on Sam. 'Keep shovelling!'

Sam rolled his eyes. Nevertheless, he did pick up the shovel again.

'God, Dean, you have any idea how tiring this is?'

Sam had progressed in all that time, and now he was standing on a hole knee-deep in the earth, a sizeable pile of soil by its sides. The soil was dark, fertile once in spring-through-autumn, and still smelt fresh, like from rain and thunderstoms, from the geosmin gas liberated as Sam had persisted in his labour until earlier.

'Yeah', he clutched his sawed-off even tighter, 'I kind of shovelled for the first hour'.

'And I have been shovelling since three hours ago!'

'Shut it, Sam. You're the one who wanted to get close and personal with the soil'.

His little brother pulled a face at him, maybe thinking about irresponsible older brothers, and shovelled once.

Because Sam had been the only Winchester with enough forethought to pack gloves to grab the metal handle of the shovel for extended periods of time, and Sam's gloves did not fit Dean. Sam had offered, in fact, to be in official shovelling duty.

'When is Cas when you need him? I could use some patching up right now'.

The shovelling echoed in the patch of woods again.

'Dunno, Dean. He's your angel'.

Now it was Dean's turn to roll his eyes.

Yeah, right.

'Come on. The guy said he didn't 'perch'. That seems—'

A creak.

A dishevelled little boy appeared, with striped clothes, shoes with holes in them and a confused look on his face. His eyes were round and big, his skin was pale with no freckles on it, his hair blended into the shadows of the night. He was standing on the dead grass, leaning against the leafless trees, and was looking around with his head, almost like he was expecting more people to come. His eery halo stood out gainst the dark winter night, especially with how devoid of colour he seemed, how the few sounds but for what the boy and the Winchesters made seemed to quieten around him.

'Don't you want to play with me, Misters?'

'Nobody wants to play with Chucky', Dean quipped.

A shot rang through the clearing. The little boy dissipated thanks to the salt bullet. Dean mentally took a tally of his remaining ammo; he did not want to land himself in hot water later on.

'You don't seem very nice'.

The boy had appeared behind Sam, this time clutching some kind of doll. He looked distressed, even his edges looked like a living static telly image in the forest. His gaunt face with an unhappy frown brought out his sickly pallor. He looked on the verge of tears. A very dark mood set over both Winchesters and the ghost present in the forest clearing.

'Crap!'

The dread set in Dean's gut. Sam's shovelling turned a little bit more frantic.

'You're just like Peyton'. His chubby face seemed to melt off, his voice distorted. 'He wasn't ve…r—ry… ni… i… i… ice… too…'

The shovel flung from Sam's hands and hit Dean in the middle of his back.

'Dammit!', said Sam.

This knocked out the air from Dean, falling to his knees. The trees started to shake, and the boy—Keith Langsley, found dead in 1932—started giving off unearthly shrieks. He appeared in front of Sam and Dean, in the middle of a whirlwind of branches and mud. The ghost started scratching his skin off. It was very disturbing to see the black bile flowing down his cheeks that passed for blood in the deformed visages of souls that ghosts were. The black bile pooled on his shirt collar, the stain growing bigger with each passing second; his—perhaps once brown—eyes wide open while he screamed their faces off.

Sam grabbed his sawed-off, safely strapped on his back, while Dean tried to get up, even if all it did was to make the ghost disappear to Sam's side after Sam had shot it as well. There, Keith scratched more of his face off, and the flying mud started to pelt them.

'That hurts like a bitch!'

'Dean, the shovel!'

Dean crawled around, bruises and scratches forming from the heavy much, to throw the shovel in Sam's direction. Sam twisted and grabbed it, before doubling over from pain. A screeching sound started to play, it had a certain tune…

Then the words started rattling their heads.

One round for your ugly mug

The ghostly boy was just standing there a bit further from them both, as his head wobbled from side to side. A fake big grin on it that threatened to split his face, a crinkle in his eyes that looked more like the strain to keep tears from falling, the chatter of his teeth for every word he pronounced was unnatural.

'Crap', muttered Dean.

Another round bent over

'That's sick', whispered Sam, breathless. Dean only heard it because he was actually not that far from him, and their surroundings still were eerily quiet.

They had done a bit more planning forwards this time, since they had found out pretty fast what was going on in this hunt, allowing Sam and Dean to pack well this time around. They had found the hunt after reading a news article about how two people who wanted to go into the local haunted house had shown up dead, pelted with mud. Dean clutched the bag they had brought while Sam dug and they were both pelted.

'Why do the creepy children sing?', whined Dean as he probed the bag trying to find its zipper's far end as underhandedly as possible. The ghost wasn't really paying attention to them while it exerted his power, the child had started to skip around them.

'Tis the way the money goes

'It's never good when they sing'.

Pop, boy's no eyes now!

Dean opened the bag with such violence he almost damaged the zipper. He instantly stuck his hand up to the elbow to rummage inside of it.

'Come on, come on, come on'.

Dean clutched the stick he had found with all his might, albeit he was having trouble with his lighter.

'Sam', Keith said. 'Sam, do you want to play with me?'

Sam shot him.

'Whatever you're doing, hurry up!', he called out to Dean. 'Hey'. He picked at the earth. 'I think I hit something'.

The ghost appeared in front of Dean.

'Don't you want to be just like me? Then we can play'.

The child tilted his head in a way that reminded Dean, in a very uncomfortable way, of Castiel. If Castiel had hollow eyes and a manic grin.

It's like if Cas had gone batshit insane.

'Holy crap!'

There were just holes in his eyes.

'Peyton said everybody likes it'.

Frost started to cover the ground in front of Dean, icicles piling on top of each other, grovelling ominously atop the grass and bare patches of earth, very much like The Day After Tomorrow.

If I had wanted to be in a damned disaster movie, I'd be baiting Lucifer!

'I know you will'.

The boy extended his arms, Dean kept wriggling away from the ghost. The boy was so close to—

'Aha!', Dean roared, triumphant. The boy shrieked. 'Take that!'

For a brief instant, the flare lit up the whole clearing and the mud and sticks fell down. Dean had to blink twice to get his sight re-accustomed to the night; the sudden light had blinded Dean a little.

'Dean, kerosene!'

'Now?'

'Yes!' Sam was busy emptying the contents of the small bag of salt he had carried with himself. Dean ached all over, but made himself look for the bottle of kerosene they had packed up. 'Hurry up!'

One round for your ugly mug

Dean threw the plastic bottle at Sam, then shot the ghost in what appeared to be one smooth motion. Another unearthly shriek rang through their bones, and gashes formed in the hibernating trees surrounding them.

'Damn, I'm going to finish deaf if we keep this up'.

Another round bent over

Sam dropped his lighter on the dug-up grave, the kerosene flared up while the salt crystals crackled a little under it, not actually melting—just hot. The trees shook. The ground started to be covered in frost. Then… the cold, dead silent of the winter's night. Dean rolled over the earthen ground, chest heaving, and closed his eyes. Sam propped himself with the shovel, using it very much like a hiking stick, to get out of the shallow grave.

A softer music, almost like coming from a music box, played. Dean peeped around through his half-lidded eyes; he was surprised. Keith was standing some feet away from them, to the side. His clothes were no longer dirty and longer dishevelled, he had a nice pair of shoes on, and seemed well-fed instead of his gaunt first appearance. Keith Langsley, boy in a non-descript shallow grave from a family plot, seemed to want to grab someone's hand as he sung. He was smiling, happy…

One pound for two-penny rice

Another pound for treacle

And disappeared.

'At least that's over', said Sam.

Sam rolled one of his arms around with the opposing hand over the shoulder, feeling his shoulder out; the joint cracked like a knuckle, making Sam wince slightly before doing it again. Then, he shook his arms and let them hang to his sides, relaxed.

'That was disturbing'.

'Yeah. Did you see—?', Sam started as he pointed towards the hovel.

'Yeah, his hands. Brrrrr. Let's go back'.

Dean stopped, suddenly remembering something Very Important.

'But', the older Winchester warned, 'we're gonna have to take a walk'.

'In this cold? What, are you nuts?'

'No wet mud on baby'.

Sam just let out a long-suffering sigh and acquiesced, knowing Dean would not budge in that. The winter night was pleasant, and the woods, although dead, were soothing in contrast to when the ghostly child had made the trees shook. Sam and Dean wandered in companionable silence, even if that silence was spent with their clothes drying the muck off in the cold; something that was quite uncomfortable despite there being no wind, nor breeze—for which Dean was very grateful. They drove back to the motel at full speed in the Hoosier night, along the lonely town road. Then they got out. Sam had the key.

'Sam'.

Dean was getting out the bags from the boot. He closed it.

'What?', asked Sam, who had already opened the door to their room, and was going back.

'Did you get the rock salt?', Dean queried as he handed Sam one of the bags.

'I did it while you stuffed your face this afternoon. We can get right on to making the salt rounds tomorrow morning before check-out'.

'Yippie-kee-yay'.

Maybe it was something of a commentary on the Winchester's line of work, but the brothers fell fast asleep on the sheets with tacky ships on them without even once having an inkling of a nightmare about creepy children singing creepy songs. One could say that the morning creeped into the room, but that would have been a lie; the alarm clock blared them awake while the sky was still dark. Dean, of course, jumped out of his sleep, while Sam just opened his eyes slowly, confirmed his suspicions of there being no threats, and just stayed there looking at the walls.

The motel, like the sheets, was nautically themed. Even the ceiling was painted in blue-and-white strips; a decorative clock hung from the wall opposite to the beds in the shape of a boat rudder, trying to take attention away from the peeling wallpaper. The wallpaper had designs of ropes and knots; its once white background looked slightly yellowy from age, and had some spots that might as well have been mould or just from the years of inadequate cleaning.

Sam and Dean's early morning went by uneventfully, for the Winchesters went into the local diner for a take-out breakfast as they so often did on hunts. The poor cashier was flustered by the two handsome men that regaled her with attention to get take-out against diner's policies—'just this one time it's fine, right, sweetheart?', had coaxed Dean with a wink, helped by Sam's winning smile. They ate later in their room. The sunny fried eggs tasted especially delicious when they dipped the fresh toasted bread—the town had a bakery!—in the yolk. Sam and Dean uncapped their coffees; Dean mixed two sugars and one cream just to try something different, and Sam poured in three sugars in his cup, as he always did when he had the chance. The food's warmth made the room feel slightly colder in contrast.

After they had eaten away the eggs, as well as the side salad fruit—Sam—and the bacon and sausages—Dean—they cleared away the table. Sam went to the side of his bed and got out the bag of rock table salt, while Dean went for the shells they had bought a while ago at a gun show in Mississippi a while ago. Just looking at the shells made Dean slightly nervous; not out of some fear for guns since he quite liked them, but because he remembered very clearly that just buying them in an area full of concealed-carry permit holders as a sort−of−ex-con had really tested his resolve. It had been a bit of an ordeal.

It was a tedious task, to make salt bullets. Due to long habit, drilled into the brothers by their father, John Winchester, they had perfected the proccess into something Henry Ford would be impressed by, for their machine-like efficiency. A hunter assembly line. Sam and Dean sat at the small table, facing each other, while they frowned in silent concentrationon their task, save for some small quips here and there to lighten up the job. With special dulled knifes from being so long used for this one purpose, they opened the crimps of the shells. In a tupperware container they emptied all of the lead, which chinked when the small lead balls were poured one on top of each other. The bullet shells stood up in perfect rows, Sam and Dean's work perfectly mirroring each other. Dean had not managed to buy the usual clear-casing they employed—a bit more expensive, but for a practical reason; to be able to determine at a glance what type of ammo they were loading in their guns. To make up for this, Sam had bought and labelled a small aluminium box, where the finished rounds would be stored. Both Sam and Dean poured the rock salt carefully into each round, compacting it as much as they could inside the shell, before setting it aside and starting on the new shell. When they were finished with this, they grabbed the shells and re-sealed the crimps with the flat of the knife's blade, helping themselves as needed by the weight from the knife's handle, thumping the crimp shut.

They were about two hours in; Sam at some point had turned on the ceiling lam since the sky had clouded over. All of a sudden, Dean's phone buzzed, whick shook Dean violently from his blank-out zen.

'Put the speakerphone on, boy'.

Bobby!

'Something the matter?!'

Dean could only imagine the worse. It seemed every time that Bobby called, he was the bearer of ever-worser news about how badly Dean was failing the world.

'Oh, stop dilly-dallying', the grizzled old man gruffed.

Dean, of course, did that. Sam scooted his chair closer to be able to talk with Bobby as well without howling from his side of the table.

'You know this morning who dropped by?'

The deceptively casual tone made Sam raise his eyebrows, before Sam asked:

'Are we supposed to guess?'

'No', Dean could almost picture how Bobby raised his eyebrows at the same time he thought that they were idjits, 'because you'll never guess, anyway'.

'Is that a challenge?', quipped Dean.

'Them's the facts, boys. Your angel called. Apparently, he likes books on blood curses'.

'Cas? Seriously?'

Dean was openly frowning at the flip phone on the table.

'He also brought a lady friend'.

That made Sam and Dean share a look. The notion seemed… Preposterous, somehow. Especially after Castiel and Dean's disastrous night out at the 'den of iniquity', as Castiel had called it.

'Come on, now you're just joking'.

Because nope. Just no.

'I don't do no jokes, Dean. Redhead, pretty, about five-four, five-six tall? Sound familiar?'

'Son of a bitch!', Dean thumped the table as he said this.

'What's the matter now?'

'That's Anna', clarified Sam.

'I know that now', Bobby said in his 'stop stating the obvious' voice. 'After she did her fancy mojo and healed me'.

'What!', shouted both Winchesters into the phone.

The line was silent for a bit.

'Could you stop being children? Yes, I can walk now. Did you know anything about this?'

'Bobby that's—that's really great', Sam enthused. 'And, well, only kind of'.

Dean took over from there.

'Anna contacted me in a dream, but Cas and Sam said it could be a trap. Cas called me two days ago, at the witching hour, just to say "everything's fine", you know?', Sam had to admit that was a pretty good impression of the angel's monotone, 'then just hung up on me. We assumed it turned out it really was a trap by the dicks upstairs or something. But, are you sure it was Anna?'

'She introduced herself'.

Dean could only think of their, frankly, disturbing conversation the night before. Sam and Dean had to trust Castiel with so much, especially in these odd times, that any mention that Castiel might be the same as the other dicks upstairs made Dean extremely uncomfortable at least.

'Did they seem okay with each other?'

'I guess'. Dean swore he could hear Bobby's shrug. 'Why you ask?'

'Nothing. Just… something Anna said'.

He looked at Sam, did a funny thing with his mouth that was something of a devil-may-care gesture, but Sam just looked at him intently.

'What did she say?', asked Sam.

Don't put that face, Dean thought when saw Sam's look of concern. Don't put that face, don't turn your head like that—goddammit. Little brothers.

'Anna said she had been upstairs. In a dungeon—the medieval kind, not the fun kind. And…'. Dean pursed his lips. 'That Cas was the one who had handed her over to them'.

Sam almost jumped in his seat as he looked at Dean. His stare said something like 'Cas? Really, are you sure?'. So Dean stared him down with his 'I'm pretty damn sure' look. Since he was the one who dreamed it all.

'That's very interesting', Bobby drawled.

'Interesting how?'

This time, Sam's earnest tone of voice was directed at full-effect towards Bobby singer, who sighed and obliged.

'It don't mean anything in the grand scheme of things, but the lady angel told me she was hanging out with Castiel because Castiel showed her his wings'.

'I'm sorry', Dean shook his head, 'is there some innuendo I'm not getting?'

Sam just frowned.

'That's what I'd like to know, too. There's something else. I'm getting weird news from hunters from around Utah, so there's something big coming. Really big. Get on the road after you're done wherever you're'.

Bobby hung up.

'Well, that was interesting', mumbled Sam. 'Also, a bit of good news. We kind of needed that. Good for Bobby'.

'Yeah', agreed Dean quietly.

Dean picked up his phone, and then made it dial furiously Castiel, as many times it took until the bloody angel answered. He may have damaged one button or too in his hurry.

'C'me on, you bastard'.

This time, Castiel picked up fast.

'Okay, Cas, we really need to talk about—'

'Where are you?'

What the hell.

'What? No, you're a dick, you know that? How could you—'

'Where are you?'

The tone was sterner, gruffer, and the kind of tone that, last year, indicated that Castiel had had it with Dean not following Heaven's orders. Castiel could be awkward in some regards, and Dean thought the had something of a friendly rapport with the rebel angel, but the angel was honestly still a bit terrifying. Dean sighed and just told him the address.

'Anna will be helping you out as well'.

Castiel hung up. Dean scowled at the phone.

'Hi, Dean', a soft voice said from the other side of the room, making both brothers stand up and get their hands to the nearest gun. They had almost toppled their chairs in the process.

'Jesus! Can any of you stop doing that?'

'You're going to give us a heart attack one of these days', whispered Sam.

Sam rubbed the back of his neck when he glanced at her. Dean did not know it was because she was an angel now, something mightier and greater that tried to pierce through the layers and layers of wards Castiel had put on them. Demons were deadly afraid of angels… And Sam still had too much demon blood in him.

'Sam. It's… good to see you'.

When Sam and Dean turned to see her, Dean was struck speechless. Anna's pale skin seemed to glow in the morning light, her dark auburn hair looked, as her lips did, almost like blood. It fell in soft curls around her face and, on the top part, she had done a comb-over to the side. She had wide, kakhi-coloured shorts on, and thigh-high diamond-patterned socks with black combat boots.

'The clothes…', blurted out Dean. Anna just smiled. 'It's a good look on you'.

'Yes, I like them too'.

A shiver went down Dean's spine. Anna had given him a secret little smile just like that one 'last night on Earth', and she looked amazing. But there was something else about her now, so Dean felt a prickle on the back of his neck now, not unlike what he constantly felt around Castiel.

'Castiel let me listen on the conversation because I wanted to see you'.

She walked up to them, and touched softly their foreheads with two fingers. They felt better, renewed; no wounds, no bruises. Their tiredness had even been wiped from their bodies completely. It felt different from when Castiel did it… They both infused their beings with something, something warm and generous; however, while Castiel's felt like midday on a warm spring day, cool yet warm, Anna's was a bit dry—not in an uncomfortable way—and brought to mind infinite sand dunes at the shores of the sea.

'That's much better', Anna nodded at them. 'How's the war going?'

'War?', voiced up Sam.

Sam and Dean glanced at each other, then looked back to Anna carefully.

'You mean the whole Stop-the-Apocalypse business?'

Anna again nodded, and gave them a little space, which subconsciously relaxed them. Of course, while it was not something Sam and Dean thought about in that precise instant, Anna did know more about how humans felt and interactions in general than Castiel did. Sam and Dean, instead, frowned at Anael.

'It is a war, Dean. Or that's how Heaven and Hell are playing it'.

Dean gestured at his chair, Anna waved her hand. Sam and Dean, gentlemanly as always, felt a bit uncomfortable at that. Sam glanced at his chair, but Anna just walked over to the nightstand. The Winchesters just shrugged, and sat down. Dean turned his chair around to better look at Anna, while Sam started to put the salt rounds they had made this morning on their new box with due care.

'"Know your enemy", I see'.

'And your friends'. She grabbed the telly's remote and put on some news. 'Cas sees it that way. I see it that way'.

On the news they were talking about a catastrophic drought in Pakistan, that had been leaving many people starving due to the lack of rainfall in the Indus basin. There were grainy shots of fallow fields and barren countryside. The sound was low-quality, but that was more the telly itself than the sound, hopefully.

This is so out of our paygrade.

'And it affects the whole world like one'.

'Even that?' Dean pointed to the telly.

'If I had to guess, it's probably Famine. Or one of his lackeys. Think big'.

'The Horsemen have lackeys?', asked the two brothers as one.

Anna looked between them, before nodding.

'Of course. Some, like Death, come with the job—the reapers', she had clarified when she saw the looks on the faces of the brothers. 'Pestilence… Now, I don't know him personally, but I do know of him, and he's very manipulative. As I understand it', Anna clasped her hands, 'he sometimes has human followers'.

'Why would anyone want to follow a Horseman?'

Sam was so shocked, his tone of voice raised as he spoke.

'Fear. It's a powerful thing'. Dean and Sam looked at each other again. 'Especially in ages past, when people didn't even know where diseases came from… There weren't even cures as you think of them now, you just went to your priest or witch doctor and hoped you wouldn't die. And here comes this awful thing and tells you no illness will strike down you or yours if you serve him, you take it. As simple as that'.

'So, um', Sam spoke up after a little while. 'You and Cas. Working. Everything alright?'

They noticed how Anna thinned her lips. She nodded, nevertheless.

'Yes'.

'So… did he do the light show?', probed Dean.

'What light show?'

'Yeah, Dean, whatever you're going on about?'

'Bobby said Cas showed you his wings, so I wondered if he did it for you'.

A look of realisation slowly dawned on Anna's face.

'Oh. So he did it for you!'

'He has done it for people before?'

'Seriously, guys, what light show?'

'Right. Okay, so Cas', Anna looked straight at Sam, 'isn't the most patient angel in the world'.

'Yeah, no kidding'.

'Okay', nodded Sam for Anna to keep going.

'This isn't the first time he's had to meet humans—sometimes I've been there, sometimes he was on his own elsewhere. So when he must impart… revelation, he doesn't have the—the, you know, kind of friendly, uh, demeanor to build trust with the human. So he just terrifies them with lightning and thunder, and the shadow of his wings, and then he goes all like…"I'm a messenger of the Lord", and people aren't going to argue with him at that point, honestly'.

'Wait'. Sam turned to Dean. 'You saw his wings?'

Sam's face was all hope and disbelief.

'Kind of'.

'Honestly, if there are folk stories about the fearsome heralds of the gods, then that's probably because of something Cas did'.

Dean pictured for a moment Castiel, dressed just as he was now, walking up to a caveman and then just making lightning rain from the sky. Dean snickered.

Actually, that seems pretty likely.

'Wait', said Sam, 'wouldn't people before have believed that sort of thing more easily?'

Anna sighed.

'People aren't stupid, Sam. They're always demanding proof. And then there are the fringier ones that take everything at heart—pretty much like today. Just add more superstition'.

'Okay, so he did show you his wings?'

'Well', Anna drawled, 'they're a pretty nice set', she teased.

'Good-looking?'

'Dean, if you could see Cas, you'd say he's actually very pre—he does make one handsome angel'.

Dean smiled, Sam snorted, but Dean's heart felt a little pang as well.

'I wouldn't have thought he had it in him, the prude'.

'Cas isn't a prude. We have seen every act in any form since the beginning of the human species. Humans are pretty creative around sex'.

'Well, that isn't the impression he gave me when we hit up that brothel'.

Dean froze when he realised what he just said. Sam and Anna just looked at him in stunned disbelief.

'Did you take Cas—Dean, how could you? The guy's an angel!'

'He did call it a "den of iniquity", I suppose', Dean said as he sheepishly scratched his cheek.

'I would have so paid to be a fly on that wall', said Anna.

'What? Really?'

'Yes, Dean. He must've been so confused'.

Dean remembered that time very well. It had been hilarious.

'Definitely. I mean, even with a beautiful girl, he just wouldn't, you know'.

'He just doesn't get it'. Anna shook his head. 'He's only ever been with angels. I mean', she raised a hand and waved it, 'Cas gets it on a biological level, and why people like it, but he doesn't follow the thought process, if that makes sense'.

'Wait, angels have relationships?', cut in Sam.

'Yes, we do'.

'Last time we talked you sort of implied there wasn't anything like love in Heaven'.

'I was… still human. I had all the memories, but I didn't have the mind to understand them. But… it wasn't inaccurate'.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

Anna plopped down on the closest bed.

'Angels, we…' She looked upwards, trying to figure out how to say it best. 'We're kind of a partial hivemind. We're individuals but all of our communication is about sharing. Just sharing. Thoughts, feelings, memories. And…'

'You like bees?'

'It's not… inaccurate'. Anna sighed. 'Look, it's very 1984, alright?'

'That sounds like crap', Sam said. He actually looked slightly dejected.

'Oh. Oh, no, Sam; humans reach Paradise, we don't live among the souls—it's different'.

Dean was impressed that Anna minded Sam's feelings that much.

'Okay', nodded Sam. 'So "Big Brother is watching you"?'

'Yes. There's no loyalty or trust between each other, only to… God'. Anna looked very unhappy. 'We're not supposed to let our feelings run amok… Or our thoughts. Even if you're in a relationship and you come across any feelings that could be… seditious, I suppose, you report it'.

'What happens to the reported angel?'

'Something not very nice, Dean. They get… re-educated'.

'Re-educated?'

'Total brainwashing, Clockwork Orange. Heaven's pretty efficient at that'.

'Holy crap, Anna, dystopian much?'

That's when Dean got it, why Castiel had been so stand-offish and why Dean had to beg him to rebel, and what Anna probably had gone through.

All the torture, twice the self-righteousness, huh?

Eager to change the sad conversation topic, Sam brought up something really important.

'Um, Anna', interrupted Sam. 'Will you be around now? Where's Cas at?'

'Castiel's busy'. She sighed, then looked at them. 'Do you mind if I stick around for a bit?'

'Nope. Nope.'

'Nope at all'.

Anna laughed at their embarrassment. It was the first time Dean had listened to her laughter, the first time she was not brimming with sadness or the seriousness of an impeding disaster, and it was precious.

.

.

.

TO BE CONTINUED…

.

.

.

.

Anon reviews

.

Inedible: Anna won't be smitten by Michael this time around. Obviously I can't speak about her continued survival in this fanfiction, for that would be a spoiler, but I didn't write an 18k word, 32 page chapter about her just to kill her off that easily xD Of course Cas is upset! It's taking its toll on him, all of this shit! As for Castiel's wings, I tried to put myself in an angel's shoes. They think in really alien ways, or at least I'm trying that with this fanfic, and God is kind of a big deal for them—whether they love Him, hate Him, or believe Him dead—so Anna thinking that Castiel's wings were God's last work on Earth was the only obvious answer after mulling it over as to what would an angel's reaction be to Castiel's wings. Especially because fanon usually depicts him as a foot soldier who got bumped up (that's not exactly the interpretation I'm going with for this fanfic, but he definitely starts lower in the power ladder).

.

.

Notes

1. Geosmine is the smell of fresh earth, and basically microbe farts.

2. Because I'm anal like that, the lyrics Keth Langsley's ghost sings fit the tune. I think I spent more time on that that writing the actual conversations in this chapter.

3. I actually looked up how to make salt rounds. I'm not too sure about the terminology since English isn't my first language, but reviewers' help would be really appreciated.

4. I find really funny and tragic the interpretation that Castiel's affinity with bees may stem from being reminded how being with all the other angels felt like.

.

Authoress' Place

A bit of fluff, because we're really going to need that, like really. Don't worry, this isn't a filler chapter, I did use the opportunity to set up some more stuff for coming things. I keep saying this, but do have some faith on me. Although I don't regret the seemingly pointless descriptions of domesticity. I also wanted to offer a window into what Sam and Dean are doing off-camera, too, and, turns out they have lives!

In the beginning, Cas was supposed to be in this chapter, but due to stuff that happens in the coming chapters it made more sense for him not to appear at all. Plus I wanted you to see more of my vision for Anna. I hope she's IC enough for you. It's just that I think of her, pre-brainwashing, as this incredibly compassionate being. Look at how she didn't want Dean to destroy himself by torturing Alistair, or how she answered directly Castiel's prayer when he needed her. So she has a very big heart, whatever her faults.

And, no, next chapter won't be 'Friendly Reencounters Part II'. The second part will be coming a bit down the line, and you'll see why that is *wink*

(Because no one answered to my query, I'm going to assume the rating is fine until the already-planned-for bump).