A/N: I am very excited for this chapter, so less talky, more ready. Please R&R and Enjoy.


"My name is Crowley. You are going to tell me who you are and why you have this phone or I am going to…coax it out of you. And I won't ask nicely again."

Castiel is struck suddenly by recognition. He'd heard the same name numerous times, back on the streets, and even from Bobby. He'd never actually seen Crowley, or had any direct contact with him, but Bobby had mentioned in passing the man who helped "expedite" the guardianship process. Castiel hadn't really wanted to know more, and the name was never brought up again. After moving in with Bobby, Castiel had tried to distance that part of his life as much as possible, yet his past has come back to haunt him nonetheless.

"Give me the phone," Castiel says now, but his hands are still shaking.

Dean passes it over, and though he tries to hide it, Castiel can see the mild panic there.

Castiel tries to look confident as he takes and deep breath and hopes Crowley remembers him. "Hello."

"Yes, yes. We've gone through all the pleasantries already. Now tell me, who are you?"

"My name—" Castiel swallows with difficulty. "—is Castiel."

There's a pause. The line buzzes quietly, then, "Well, that does change a few things." The disdain in his voice is almost palpable. "Where's the old man, boy?"

If Castiel knew, he wouldn't have answered the phone. "You don't know?"

"No, I don't know," Crowley snaps, "He doesn't live in my back pocket." A sneer eases into his voice. "You steal his phone, little vagabond? Hard to beat the street out of an urchin, I'm sure. I did warn Bobby about you. Guess I get to say I told you so now."

Before Castiel can utter another word (and he did have a few choice ones picked out), Dean snatches the phone out of his hands.

"Watch your mouth, douchebag," he yells into the phone, "I don't care who you are or what you do, you don't talk to Cas like that."

It's fiercely protective, heart-warming and brashly idiotic all at once. But if that's not a firm representation of Dean—Castiel doesn't know the boy at all. And there's that nickname again. The one that shoots his pulse into over drive whenever it passes through Dean's lips.

And Castiel would love to get caught up in all that, but right now he needs the answers Crowley must have. That's his only connection to wherever Bobby might be. The stark emptiness of the house hangs over him, stressing the importance of every second wasted away.

Crowley is not as touched by Dean's defense as Castiel was. "You better watch your tongue—I've a bad habit of cutting them out."

It almost surprises Castiel that the threat doesn't faze Dean at all "Does it sound like I'm scared, asshole?"

"You will be. I'm not what you call…a nice man. I don't care if you're just an insolent child—I'll string you up by the—"

"Stop." Castiel doesn't bother snatching the phone back from Dean's hands, he just leans in over his shoulders, to reach the phone's speakers.

Crowley laughs. "Well, looks like you've a pair of cajones on you after all, kid. But I'd recommend controlling your dog before he ends up getting you into trouble."

Castiel vaguely knows what Dean is going to say before he opens his mouth and squeezes a cautioning hand onto his shoulder. "Not now," he whispers, and Dean bristles but purses his lips in silence. Castiel restrains his own urge to strike back at the belligerent man on the phone, and instead focuses himself on the real problem at hand. "I need to know where Bobby is."

"And I bloody well told you I don't know!" Crowley hisses.

"But you know where he was," Castiel stresses. "You know where he was going—what he's been doing. You have to tell me." He has to find Bobby.

Crowley takes a minute to answer, and the line jumps with static. "What business Bobby conducts is none of your concern," he says stiffly.

Castiel wants to snatch the phone from Dean's hands and fling the infernal device into the wall, as if watching it splinter into fragile plastic pieces would affect the man on the other side of the line. "You don't understand. He's missing. I must locate him, he's—"

"Do you think I'm stupid? Bobby's involved himself in much more than just my particular business. I warned him against it, so don't put this on my head. He's just too obsessed with finding this "truth" of his. I told him—" Crowley cuts off abruptly mid-rant, clearing his throat, and when he starts again, the furious flurry of words has calmed into a steady, pointed rhythm. "I have nothing to give you. You're on your own. I recommend laying low for the time being."

And, just like that, the phone clicks and the static vanishes. The line is dead.

"Did he just…hang up on you?" Dean lowers the phone, then places it in Castiel's limp, empty hand.

Castiel's fingers curl around it tightly. "Yes." his reply is full of pent-up rage, and in the next second he gives in, hurling the phone at the wall.

It has the audacity not to break.

"Shit," Dean whispers, and Castiel, silently, agrees.

He's trying to reign in the distinctly violent outlets for the fury inside him, but it's not working. The burning rage is seeping out of his pours, into his eyes—his fists—his shoulders. And it's all Castiel can do to still and not take it all out on the furniture, the house or Dean.

"Who was that guy?" Dean asks, the plethora of other unanswered questions piling up behind the four words.

Castiel doesn't want to explain. There's too much tied into the story: his past, his mission and the tiny amount of Bobby's secrets that Castiel knows. Besides, Castiel doesn't have the patience, nor the real desire to explain the convoluted mess right now.
But Dean just keeps pressing. "Cas?" He's reaching out a hand, to snake around Castiel's wrist. "Have you thought that maybe Bobby's—do you actually know what he's been doing?"

"No!" Castiel yells, turning on Dean so they're face to face in the shadows. Dean's hand is thrown off into the darkness. "Does it look like I have any idea what's going on?" He's harsh, snapping the words like a whip.

Dean flinches. He pulls away. His outstretched hand wavers, then closes into a fist. "I'm here to help you. Don't treat me like the enemy," he warns in a low voice.

"I didn't—I don't—" Castiel wants to scream. For all the misunderstanding, the things he can't explain, for the sheer frustration of everything—but he doesn't. He swallows it all down and says instead through tight lips. "I didn't want you to come."

This should be it for Dean. The push to send him back to his safe life with his father and his brother away from all of the complications of Castiel. But, though the silence stretches long and strongly, Dean doesn't waver.

"I don't care what you want," Dean declares, and he's filling up space now, expanding his presence like Castiel has never seen before. "I don't care what you think is best—for me or for you." There's light in the room now. Glowing softly and tentatively, but surer and surer—from Dean, from Castiel himself. He can feel it reverberating inside him.

It's like, Castiel thinks in quiet wonder, they're resonating together.

"You're obviously an idiot when it comes to asking for help, so I'm just going to take the authority here and do what I know is right."

The conviction isn't just resolute—it's indomitable. Castiel is blown away by the strength of it.

"We're going to work together. We're going to fix this," Dean says, and Castiel believes. "I'm not going to leave you."

He doesn't understand how Dean is not blown away from the radiance in the room and the shaking in his soul—being so close to it all. To the majesty of together. It's all the terrifying majesty of the destruction Castiel has wrought before, but tended and soothed by the trust, by the care, by the steady loyalty of Dean Winchester.

This is it. Castiel can feel it. The key to it all shimmering between them, in this light that only he can see, and if he can get close enough, dive far enough into it, he'll know it all.

"Dean—" Castiel is the one reaching out now. Hope soaring and flying, never to fall.

The front door slams open.

The recoil is like the snap of a rubber band pulled too tight, and the light burgeoning into existence flares then vanishes, as if it had never existed in the first place.

"Sorry to interrupt the moment, but I've got a proposition to make, and we're a little low on time."

Castiel watches the intruder saunter into the room with a knowing leer on her lips and a somber-looking Sam Winchester clenched to her side with a hand on his shoulder and a knife at his neck.

Castiel purses his lips. "Meg."

"Castiel." She smiles. "Long time no see."

It's in the next moment that Dean launches himself at her, and Castiel lunges forward to draw him back. If Castiel knows anything about Meg, it's that she's cold, ruthless and will not hesitate to carry out a threat.

The smirk on her face brings back too many memories. She's four years older than Castiel, and looks it. Her hair is rattier than the last time he saw her and a different color (platinum blonde)—but she was always good at changing appearances, shifting like a chameleon with the right makeup and dye. And always with that sharp, little shiv, flipping between her fingers.

Castiel doesn't want to see her use it. But it turns out, his intervention isn't necessary, because Dean is faltering. He twists and staggers like someone has tilted the floor on him or switched off gravity. Castiel can't see his face, but he does jump forward fast enough to clasp Dean's back to his chest before he falls.

The shut-off, sober expression on Sam's face breaks to terror.

"Well," Meg whistles, "that was unexpected."

"Dean?" Castiel momentarily forgets where he is and who's threatening who in lieu of Dean. The other boy's breathing is uneven. He's panting, and his eyes—they're like static. Faraway and gone. Like when they first met. Seeing something else—that Castiel can't.

Meg sighs loudly. "What's wrong with that one? Un poco loca en la cabeza?"

"It's loco," Sam whispers lostly as he searches his brother's face.

"Whoa, would you look at that," Meg says, "We've got another smartass on our hands, Clarence."

Castiel is restraining himself from snapping at her, when awareness seeps back into Dean's eyes. He relaxes forward, sighing in relief.

Dean looks confused now, though no less angry, and Castiel wants to know so badly what he's seen, but he's smarter than that. Meg is going to catch anything they say to each other, and she's much quicker than most of the old gang gave her credit for.

"Are you alright?" he asks instead.

Dean looks up, and there are those multitudes of questions in his eyes again. Castiel can only shake his head.

"…Dean?" the timid inquiry comes from Sam.

Dean stills, then seems to realize all in one instant that Sam is being held at the point of a knife. "Get the hell off him!" He yells, and starts again on Meg.

Since he's already holding onto him, Castiel has no problem restraining him. "Wait," he whispers in Dean's ear, and miracle upon miracle, Dean does.

Meg seems to take intense pleasure in the display. "Well I'll be damned, you went and got yourself another sweetheart, Clarence. I'm jealous."

Castiel has many things to say to Meg (they'd left a few too many things unfinished when Bobby took guardianship over Castiel), but none of them more relevant than, "What are you doing here?"

The shiv pressed against Sam's neck tenses and Meg's eyes flash. "Not happy to see me?"

He doesn't even know how to answer that.

Luckily (or maybe not), Dean takes the choice out of his hands. "Of course not," he spits, "Now get your hands off my brother before I rip your lungs out."

The threat, however convincing, has no effect on Meg. She stretches her Cheshire grin wider and juts out a hip. "Possessive, aren't we?"

Dean is seething. Meg's knife is steady. Sam swallows against the steel at his throat. Castiel can only watch as things spiral out of his thin control.

"Meg. Stop," he says, firmly—with no room for argument. Castiel can't allow this to go any further.

It's not much to wager, seeing how it all ended, but it's enough. Meg straightens, and the flirtation edges out of her, replaced instead with resolve. "Call off seizure boy, and we'll talk."

Dean scowls at her. She raises an eyebrow. Castiel doesn't even have to ask him to calm down. He takes one look at Sam and restrains himself instantly.

"Thanks, really appreciate that," Meg says. "Now, just so we're clear, I'm not here to stir up trouble. I'm actually doing you guys a favor, so, it wouldn't kill you to say thank you. Less antagonism… kay?"

As per usually, nothing out of her mouth makes sense. "Obviously," Castiel replies anyway. "Let him go now."

"Fine." Meg drops her hold on Sam and he staggers forward. Dean breaks Castiel's hold instantly to crowd him, checking and whispering assurances. Sam is white-lipped and visibly shaken, but faring a thousand times better than most who find themselves on the wrong end of Meg's blade.

When Dean is properly assured Sam isn't dying, he drapes a protective arm over his little brother's shoulders and turns back to Meg, glaring.

She rolls her eyes. "Oh don't act like this is my fault. I found him wandering around in the dark. You're lucky someone else didn't find him."

This doesn't really improve Dean's temper. He's now splitting his glare between Meg and Sam. Sam is looking very intently at the ceiling.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Dean hisses at him. "I told you to go back to bed."

Sam mashes his lips together.

"What kind of idiot are you?" Dean demands. "That was so stupid, Sammy."

"Don't treat me like a kid, Dean!"

"You're eight. You're as close to a kid as it gets. Don't pretend I'm being unreasonable."

"If you weren't sneaking off at night—"

Meg whistles again, bringing the conversation (argument) to a screaming stop. "A lot better than daytime TV, huh?" she comments to Castiel, then, to the group at large, "But I think you're going to want to shut up and listen to what I have to say."

They shut up.

"Good. Thanks." She clears her throat theatrically and spins her knife around absently. "Through a series of unfortunate events, I've ended up on the wrong side of a few…nasty people. Say…Crowley times ten. Been on the run for a while, you know how it is, Castiel," she says off-handedly. "But I've kept my network running—keeping up with the word on the street and all."

"Is there a point to this?" Dean interrupts.

Meg squints at him. "Oh I'm sorry, do you have some life-or-death relevant information that needs sharing? No? Okay, thanks, let me finish. As I was saying, I've been running recon, and happened to be in this neck of the woods, when I caught wind of some of those nasty people in the area. I thought it'd be the right thing to and come and warn you, Clarence. See? No ulterior motives."

Prior experience would say otherwise. "That's all? Not because of Bobby?"

"What? The old man? What's up with him?"

Of course not. Nothing could be that easy. "Never mind," Castiel mutters.

"If you need some help on the pronunciation," Meg says, "it goes like this. Thaaa—nnnk—yooouuu."

Castiel stares at her mutely. She stares cheekily back. He's going to have to ask her to leave. She'll get aggressive, so they'll fight (again), and Dean will get defensive (more so than he already is), but there are other people Castiel can go to. People that don't already have grudges against him.

He's going to start the fight, can already feel the metallic taste of anger on his tongue, when the sound of glass breaking shrieks from upstairs.

Everyone freezes, except for Meg.

"Oh," she clucks her tongue once, "did I mention? They're on their way here, and I'm almost positive it's not a house-warming call."

"No you did not mention that," Dean bites out.

There's more glass shattering from upstairs, then the crash and thud of booted feet on the floor. There are people in Castiel's house. In Castiel and Bobby's house. He wants to storm up the stairs, damn the consequences, and defend his home, but the scramble of movement gets louder and it becomes clearer there are more than just a few intruders. And Dean is still clutching onto Sam protectively. Castiel can't get them involved.

He's going to have to abandon this place. The realization settles onto him heavily and resolutely. Time to say goodbye to another home. Castiel hopes desperately this will be the last time.

"So. My proposition," Meg continues. "I happen to have a means of transportation and a hideout not too far from here. I'd suggest you come with me."

Castiel shakes his head, but the noise from upstairs is getting closer. "On what conditions? What do you want?"

"I'm wounded. Where's your faith?"

Meg's first and foremost concern has always been herself. Castiel will not fool himself into thinking otherwise. "What. Do. You. Want?"

"I'm helping out an old friend! How's that for a reason?" Meg explodes. "If you don't want your two stray puppies getting hurt, I'd advise you come with me. They're in this now, no matter what you do."

Castiel wonders if the concern in her voice is genuine. She's always been such a great actress. But lack of options is going to force his hand. "For tonight," He says resolutely. "That's it, then, we part ways."

But Dean isn't sold. "Are you serious? We're going to take her word for it? She probably led them up to the front door!"

Something heavy is thrown to the floor upstairs, and Castiel winces. They don't have time to bicker this out. Castiel would have been gone the second he heard the first crash if he was alone, but it's always been easier to hide one inconspicuous body. Three is out of the question. Not unless they go with Meg.

Dean looks like he's digging himself in for a fight though, and Castiel doesn't know how to convince him out of it. Desperate times call for desperate measures. He read that somewhere, and it seems appropriate now.

By some fortune, Castiel is not forced to confront the storm that is Dean Winchester. The stomp of a set of boots beats against the stairs, echoing, and Castiel can see, shadows edging closer. The invaders are down the steps and staring directly into the kitchen before Castiel can say a word.

"Hey! What the hell—don't you move!" One of the three that have descended barks. He's waving around a gun carelessly in their direction and his two buddies mimic him.

This is enough to push to bypass Dean's opposition—at least for the moment. "Car, yeah, Meg, sounds good."

Meg smiles wide. "If that's settled, I'd say our best course of action is to run. Agreed?"

In unison the boys reply, "Agreed," and all four sprint to the front door.

The men on the stairs scramble after them, but don't manage to catch up before they're through the doorway. Castiel hears, from the back of the group, the thump of three bullets in the drywall above the doorway and shivers.

"Where's your ride?" Dean asks, between pants. He's got Sam's arm and is tugging him forcefully faster. Castiel can only barely see their shadows, but Meg's blond hair sticks out like a beacon in the darkness, lengths ahead of them.

She skirts the driveway, and they pass through the yard on the left side of Castiel's house. "Down the street. Just keep up. We'll get there."

They sprint, leaping over garden decorations and fences. Dean falls behind, helping Sam over each obstacle, and Castiel slows for him. He can hear the men chasing them, and the panic drives his feet. He hasn't run like this is months. He hasn't had to run away from much since Bobby took him in.

It's almost…liberating.

"Here it is!" Meg announces. She's heading straight for a tiny, matchbox-looking car parked precariously half on the curb.

Meg slams into the driver's side, as Castiel throws open the door for Sam and Dean. He then throws himself into the back seat, and the engine screams to life. There's more gunshots as Meg screeches off onto the street.

"Who the hell taught you to drive?" Dean yells.

"Not really any of your business right now—stop being a pussy," Meg retorts absently as she spins the wheel. The car protests loudly as it accelerates, but they're moving farther and farther away from the shadows chasing them.

The gunshots fade, then stop entirely.

"See?" Meg announces after a few minutes of insane, extreme driving. "You're welcome." No one makes any attempt to respond to that. Meg pulls into an intersection, and the street lamps flash through the car like spotlights.

Castiel can see Sam crammed on the other side of the backseat, Dean squished between both of them. In the moment of quiet as they all struggle to catch their breaths, he quickly takes inventory of their situation.

He forgot Bobby's phone in their rush to leave, along with every other thing he owns in a house about to be ransacked by goons of an unknown nature. Goons that now know his and Meg's faces but more importantly Dean's and Sam's. Crowley has no idea where Bobby is. Castiel has no leads. There's no option to go back to the house to look through Bobby's study. He now has Meg to deal with (whatever her intentions) and the Winchesters to keep safe.

It weighs on him, crushing and overpowering. The distinct helplessness—uselessness—assaults him.

Castiel is just starting to panic when a hand brushes over his, weaving their fingers together. He looks up, and Dean is staring intently at him. Like he can see Castiel over-thinking himself into an anxiety attack.

"We're fine," Dean says assuredly, "We're okay."

Castiel smiles weakly, willing himself to believe it. From over Dean's shoulder, Sam shoots him a shaky grin, and Dean does the same. Castiel takes a deep breath. They're still alive, not even one injury. He can work with this. They can work together. This new idea of help and support is still foreign, but calms him nonetheless.

It takes a few seconds, but his breathing slows and his heart returns to its normal pace.

"Thank you," Castiel murmurs.

Dean laughs softly and squeezes their hands tighter. "Any time."

In the front seat, Meg fakes a gag. "Gross. Keep the PDA to a minimum, we're almost there lover boys."

Castiel settles into his seat, and the brothers do the same. Dean's smile is a little bit more smug now, and their hands remain clasped tight together for the rest of the ride.