"This is a bad idea," Dean murmurs, ducking his head at a passing couple as they shoulder their way past. "They'll know what we're up to as soon as we go in."
"I have faith in you, Dean," Castiel says, his hand reaching out just briefly to skim against the younger man's jacket sleeve. "Just provide a distraction, and I will sneak in a different way."
"I haven't been here for years." Dean's voice is quiet, his movements tense and quick. He's nervous, and he's sure he's not going a very good job at hiding it. He's about to see his family home, their grounds, for the first time in six years. "What if a bunch of shit's changed?"
"According to the building plans we have of the Winchester estate, there haven't been many renovations done since at least a decade ago," Castiel reports, as though reading from a maintenance sheet. "And even then it was just the addition of another wing. Nothing will have changed, Dean."
Except me, Dean thinks to himself, sighing and squaring his shoulders as they round the final corner towards the grand, arching gates leading to the Winchester grounds. The gates are solid steel and twice the height of a regular man, with big, sharp spikes along the top of a graceful upwards arch that peaks in the middle.
The gate is flanked by a man at either side. Dean doesn't know if either of them will recognize him. He kind of hopes they don't.
He kind of hopes they do.
Castiel stops him with a hand around his wrist, pulling him back around the corner until Dean practically collides with Castiel's chest.
"Please tell me you're having second thoughts," Dean says, grinning when Castiel does nothing to move away or put some space between them.
Castiel shakes his head. "Good luck," he says – and then, for a reason Dean doesn't quite understand, he wraps a hand around the back of Dean's neck and kisses him – quick and hard, teeth against his lips. When he lets go Castiel blinks, looking just as shocked that he did that as Dean does. "I'll meet you in the main house. Don't do anything too stupid."
Dean swallows. "Same for you," he says, voice rougher than he'd intended it to be, and Castiel smiles, before he turns and strides away quickly back down the street. Dean knows he will go to one of the servant entrances, one of the back roads for deliveries and more covert operations. Dean really, really hopes he doesn't go and get himself killed.
He sighs, tapping his fingers against the gun still tucked, skin-warm, in the back of his jeans, and rolls his shoulders. "Get a fucking grip, Winchester," he says, squaring his jaw and sucking in another deep breath.
Whenever he used to get nervous, or scared, he used to channel his father. John Winchester, for all his flaws, is a sturdy and determined man.
Dean tries for that, and hopes he doesn't come across as a scared little mouse crawling up to the lion's den.
He approaches the man on the right, and lifts his hands when he sees the man shift his weight and narrow his eyes. Dean vaguely recognizes him as one of Sam's men – not the one that had been on Azazel's escort, but one of Sam's all the same. He doesn't understand why.
"Who are you?" the man challenges, his dark eyes raking over Dean's dirty self.
Dean swallows. Well. Here goes nothing.
"My name is Dean Winchester," he says, after a moment. "Do you know who I am?"
The man blinks, eyes widening, mouth falling open. "Holy crap!" he mutters, his voice breaking on the curse word. Dean grins, nodding to himself.
"I'll take that as a 'Yes'," he says, putting his hands back in his pockets, forcing his stance to relax. "Let me in."
"Of course!" the man says, immediately turning around and punching in the key code to open the smaller, man-sized cut out of one of the gates. Dean gives him a half-hearted salute as he passes by. "Welcome home, Sir."
Dean forces himself not to stop, a heavy frown on his face as he digs his fingers deep into his pockets and pulls the halves of his jacket around his body. "This is fucking weird," he thinks, wondering if perhaps he's still wandering into some kind of ridiculous, elaborate trap. It certainly stinks like a trap, except who in the Hell would think Dean might be desperate enough to walk in the front door? Why would the guards just let him in?
The whole think stinks something rotten, and Dean keeps his eyes and ears open as he walks up the long, winding paced road up towards the main house. The house is set just over the crest of a hill, another stone wall wrapped around it that serves more of an aesthetic purpose than for any real protection or security. Dean knows enough about the house to know the wall was his mother's design, and that just on the other side in one of the far corners is a beautiful little garden with a small pond and huge, overhanging trees to give the entire place good shade no matter what time of day. Whenever Dean thinks of it, he smells heather, but he can't remember much else about it.
The wall is broken on two sides, for the road leading in and the back entrance road for deliveries and servicemen. The road is shaded with tall oaks on either side, casting him in shadow, but he knows the set of six guards flanking the entrance have definitely seen him – he's walking right in the middle of the road, not trying to hide. He's not sure what he's trying to do; he'd been a little hazy on the plans. If there is one thing Dean Winchester is good at, it's winging it and hoping for the best.
Two of the men break formation to approach him, and Dean holds up his hands again. "We've been expecting you, Winchester," one of them says as the other one grabs Dean's arm and pulls him to walk between the two of them. "Boss said you'd be coming."
"Oh yeah, who's 'we'?" Dean asks, putting up a little struggle for performance's sake but ultimately going along with the men. Whatever weird-ass Twilight Zone universe he seems to have fallen into, apparently this one does not involve the intent to kill him. So, small blessings.
The men don't answer his question, two more falling into step behind him as they cross over the threshold into the main grounds. Dean casts one last look over his shoulder, wondering if maybe Castiel had double-bluffed him – as now that there are a significantly decreased (and manageable) number at the front entrance – and intends to follow along behind. Then, the man holding him jostles him roughly and Dean curses, straightening himself out to avoid stumbling.
The paved road gives way to gravel, and at last Dean allows himself to look up at where they're going. The house is much the same as he remembers it – two grand floors with high windows and dark red brick framing the house. The second story is lit along a small wraparound balcony, shining up and illuminating the upper floor so that, if there is anyone inside, they remain unseen to Dean's eyes.
There are two thick pillars on either side of the door, another pair of men standing between each of them. Dean throws them a grin as he passes by, but none of the men seem to acknowledge him or his escort in any way.
Being inside the Winchester house is like coming home, only to immediately realize that it isn't home anymore. The place looks the same; dark red tile on the floor, mixed with swirls of white and gold marbling. There is a wooden staircase leading up to a door on the right, and two doors on either side of the wide, square entrance hall. Dean is let go by the guards once he's inside, allowed to take it all in for a moment.
The air feels stale when it drags it into his lungs, breathing out just as heavily. He knows even if he'd walked in with a long line of captured Angels and informants and the most expensive suit money could buy on his body, he'd still feel out of place here. Now, dirty and come-stained and probably smelling far too much like other men and blood, he knows he doesn't belong.
It's oddly consoling, somehow. He never would have tried had it not been for Sam. It's kind of nice to know that there was no way in all of Hell it was ever going to happen; even if he'd come back, even if his father had forgiven him, Dean can no longer call this a home; his home. It's just a big, stale house.
"This way," the man says, jerking his head towards the staircase. Dean follows, letting his hand drag along the bannister as one guard goes in front of him, the other walking behind. He knows exactly where John Winchester's office is; they will go through this door, and then turn right, passing two rooms on the left that lead to another office and a coat closet. Then, they will turn left down the first corridor, and walk down a long-ass hallway that Dean had never been able to convince himself, as a child, could actually fit inside the building. It might be even longer with the wing added to it, and Dean shakes his head and rolls his eyes and makes an overcompensation joke in his head.
The man in front of him leads and Dean follows, his hands back in his pockets, and takes a moment to wonder where in the fuck Castiel might be right now. Has he already been captured? Will Dean walk into his father's office and see the Angel, beaten up and bloody and kneeling with a gun pointed to the back of his head?
Dean hasn't pulled a heist since he was a teenager, and he certainly has never done it so underprepared and outgunned. The long corridor leading down to his father's office feels ever longer than he ever remembers it being.
The door is open, revealing a slice of the opulent office beyond. Dean can almost smell the old ledgers, the thick leather chairs and freshly polished wood. He had been there when his father first built the office, bringing him between dust sheets and walls of plaster and ladders and bustling contractors, telling him where everything was going to go inside and getting dust in his beard.
A gun jabs into the small of his back, startling him out of the memory. "In you go, Winchester," the man says, and Dean shoots him a glare over his shoulder, before licking his lips and rolling his shoulders.
He doesn't reply, merely pushes his hand against the smooth, dark wood. The door opens without a sound, revealing a corner view of the big office. A giant window shows the city in dazzling lights, dark red curtains framing it and hanging down to the floor. That big, shining desk sits in front of it, a large black chair facing away from him and towards the window.
Dean looks around, up the walls that are lined with old books his father probably never even touched, just enjoyed the look of anyway. He brushes his fingers against one of the shelves and smirks when it comes back with a thick layer of dust.
The door shuts behind him, and the chair spins around at the same time. Without hesitation Dean reaches back and pulls his gun from his jeans, aiming it squarely at the occupant's head. The silver muzzle flashes in the low-hanging brass lighting fixture above his head.
He blinks, straightening when he realizes that the man in the chair is not John Winchester.
"…Sammy?"
Castiel gives a low grunt of effort, twisting his hands sideways in a sharp motion to break the neck of the man clawing desperately at his hands. The man's body immediately goes limp, and Castiel lays him gently on the ground, searching his pockets for weapons and keycards – the Winchesters, he knows, are a big fan of keycards. He finds a pistol that he tucks into an inner pocket in his coat, and a long knife that he pushes into his waistband at his side.
At the back entrance there is a single red light blinking at him next to a nine-digit keypad. He recognizes it as the same ones at the North Trust bank, and silently sends another thankful prayer upwards as he swipes the card and steps inside.
The walls are blank and a dark grey, the floor covered in black linoleum. It looks surprisingly cheap, Castiel thinks, as he strides inside and down the corridor. He cannot see any cameras, and there are no doors either side of the hallway. There is a single one at the end and, gun loaded and at the ready, he cautiously pushes at it until it opens outwards.
The next room he comes to is much more opulent. There are soft-looking chairs and a long, dark dining room table that looks as though it could seat about fifty people. On the wall is a single large painting of a soaring Eagle with the star in a sun brand that Castiel had seen on Dean's chest; that was the sign of the Eagles. His mouth twists, looking at it with an almost derisive eye, before he turns his attention back to the room.
There are two doors; one leads, he knows, into the belly of the building, or at least in that direction. The other juts out into a different side. He checks that door first; it looks less used, there is less wear around the handle and when he pushes it open it squeaks slightly.
There is another corridor, with a door on either side. Just as Castiel notices, he hears voices behind the door he had not chosen to go across. With a low curse, he hurries inside and closes the door behind him as quickly as he dares, plunging the corridor into darkness.
He dares not turn on a light, though feeling along the wall he can find the switch. "Damn it," he mutters, feeling along the waist-height ride of paneling along the wall until he comes to the first door, on the left. He can hear the voices getting closer, boisterous laughter and words loud but indecipherable from where he is.
He opens the door on the left and shoulders his way in before he can think twice about it, sure that he might be mildly safer behind two doors than one, and flicks on the light.
It's a bedroom. There is a thick layer of dust along every surface. Everything appears to have been untouched for months, at least. There is a wide, plainly-made bed with a dark green, thin blanket spread over a beige duvet. The walls are painted a muted, warm cream color. The whole room feels very welcoming, comforting almost, as Castiel steps inside.
There is a picture on the bedside table. He doesn't recognize the woman, but the man he certainly knows; John Winchester, Dean's father. The woman, he assumes, is his mother. They are smiling and young in the photograph and Castiel can see where Dean got his smile, even though most of the ones Castiel has been witness to are cheap and fake in comparison.
He turns around, and he can see a set of three photographs; Dean with Sam on a birthday, maybe ten years ago at least, Sam with cake on his face and laughing while Dean is pulling a funny face at him. The second shows Dean with a young blonde woman Castiel doesn't recognize in a rustic-looking bar, beer in one hand, his other wrapped around her waist.
The third makes Castiel frown. It's Dean and John. They're shaking hands. Dean's whole demeanor is very, very different than in any of the other photos; his chin is raised, shoulders square. He's standing like a soldier greeting his commanding officer, not as a son with his father.
An unpleasant feeling curls up in the base of Castiel's stomach, and he turns away. He must be in Dean's room. After Dean had left the organization, it must have remained untouched. His mouth twists when he thinks about it.
He waits for several minutes before venturing out of the room again, careful to listen for any sign that there might be company waiting for him in the dining room. He finds none, and proceeds cautiously towards the other door leading out of the dining room.
When he pushes through another door, he realizes he must have made it into the main room of the house. There are at least four doors sprouting from the room, and a second floor at that. With a low curse, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, walking swiftly back the way he had come and into the dining room, his back to the door leading to the abandoned bedrooms, eyes turning between each one.
"Gabriel," he says once the line picks up. "I need a guided tour."
"Castiel." Gabriel's voice is rough and bleary, and Castiel frowns. He probably had woken Gabriel up. "Right now? Where are you?"
Castiel cocks his head, holding the phone away from his ear for a moment. He could have sword he'd heard a creak somewhere. Frowning, he puts the phone back to his ear.
"The Winchester estate."
"What?" Gabriel yells, making Castiel wince on the other end of the phone. "You're in the – how? You need to update me right now, Cas."
"There's too much to tell," Castiel replies, straightening up and lifting his gun. Yes, he's definitely sure he heard a noise. "Gimme a minute." Quickly, he lowers the phone and pulls the handle leading back towards Dean's bedroom, closing it behind him. "Samandriel is dead."
Gabriel is silent for a moment. Castiel can hear him taking a deep breath, and letting it out again. "Who killed him?" he asks.
Castiel hesitates for a split second. "I did," he finally says, earning a low curse from his superior. "I caught him in a compromising situation, and he pulled a gun on me. I acted. But now -." Castiel stops, turning to press his ear back against the door. Where the fuck is that sound coming from? The corridor is completely dark and he can't see a damn thing. "Samandriel was doubling as a Matthew Pike for the Eagles, Gabriel – he was the spy. And I thought that, with him gone, a covert operation might yield more information to us."
"You dumbass," Gabriel growls, and Castiel can hear him shuffling around – probably getting out of bed and over to his computer to access the Angel database. "Fuck, you fucking idiot, fine. Sit tight; I'll get you out of there."
Castiel sighs. "I don't want to get out," he says. "I want to get in. Find their files. I want you to lead me there."
"Damn it, Cas, no. I'm not losing two fledglings in the same day; Michael would kill me!"
"Gabriel, I am already inside. I know my way out. Samandriel had been working for John Winchester for at least five years – think of how many others there might be! I need profiles, I need names; I need fucking home addresses. Gabriel, please, this could be our only chance."
Suddenly, a light blinks on, and Castiel curses, shielding his eyes as he blinks into the sight of four men in the corridor, two-by-two, all with guns pointed at him. "Fuck," he murmurs, his fingers flexing around his own gun.
"I'd drop it, if I were you," one of them says, his smile far too wide to remind Castiel of anything other than the Cheshire cat; sharp and not quite normal. Castiel grimaces, and lets the gun fall to the floor with a hollow clatter. "The phone, too."
Castiel sighs, pulling it away from his ear and snapping it closed, ending the call. He throws it with a little more force against the ground, grinding his heel into the phone before the men can reach it.
The leader raises an eyebrow, smirking. "No need for that; you've been quite talkative so far. Shall we?"
He jerks his head, and the man by his side approaches. Castiel reaches behind him, fingers wrapping tight around the blade tucked into his waistband, and swipes before the man can get too close. He manages to catch the man's raised hand, earning a rough curse from the man, and he fumbles with the door handle behind him and quickly runs back through it, reaching for his other gun.
He turns, just in time for another guard's fist to connect with his nose, sending him to one knee on the floor. Before he can recover, the four from the other side of the door step through, and the leader takes the butt of his own pistol, the one he's stolen from Samandriel, and brings it down hard against his temple.
Castiel crumples to the floor with a groan, and the man hums, nudging him with his foot distastefully. "Go see the medic," he commands the injured man, leaving the three guards to flank him. "Get him to his feet."
Two come forward, hauling Castiel to stand on shaky legs.
"An Angel, all alone, flies into my web in the middle of the night?" The man grins, lifting Castiel's chin so that he can see the man's strange, yellow-golden eyes. "Must be my lucky day."
"Sammy, is that you?" he asks, his voice leaving him almost completely on that one name alone. Sam, to his credit, seems just as shocked to see Dean as Dean is to see him.
"Dean?" Sam asks, pushing himself up to his feet. Dean lowers his gun as Sam crosses the room in several big, hurried strides, wrapping him up tight in a crushing hug. "Oh my God, Dean."
Dean frowns, confusion warring within him. But he can't fight the familiar, long-missed feeling of his little brother hugging him so damn tightly. He slings his free arm around Sam's back tightly, letting his face press against Sam's neck.
When they pull away, Sam looks so damn happy to see him it hurts. He looks good, hair well combed and shiny, new-looking suit and bright eyes. He looks a damn sight more tired than when Dean last saw him; the circles under his eyes are darker, the bags heavier, but when he smiles it's like he completely lights up from the inside.
"What…" Dean swallows, clears his throat to try and get his voice back, and that's when Sam seems to notice the gun still held tightly in Dean's hand. He takes a step back and Dean keeps his eyes fixed on his brother's face. "What are you doin' in Dad's chair, Sammy?"
Sam frowns, biting his lip. "Dean…Dad had a heart attack. He died a couple days ago."
"…What?" Dean asks, unable to believe it.
"That's why I thought you were here! I thought you'd heard, that you were coming home -." Sam frowns again, shaking his head at Dean's shocked look. "You really didn't know?"
No. No, Dean hadn't. Had Castiel? Had the Angel known just what exactly Dean was walking into here?
He shakes his head, and it feels like he can't breathe. All this time. His father died hating him, and Dean had always run from him. His fingers tighten around his gun and he swallows hard.
But, of course, it all makes sense. That's why Sam's man was on Azazel; they're all Sam's men now.
"I'm in charge now, Dean," Sam says, too gently. He reaches out, brushing a hand against Dean's shoulder. "You can come home."
Dean swallows again, lifting his eyes to Sam's. "Yellow-Eyes has a timer on me," he says, biting his lower lip when Sam's face immediately darkens. Neither of the brothers had been particularly fond of John Winchester's second-in-command. "I got less than a day 'fore he runs me out himself."
Sam shakes his head. "No. Azazel works for me, now. He doesn't do shit without my say-so."
"I promise, Sammy, he's comin' after me." Dean runs a hand through his hair, a huff of pained laughter escaping him. "Figures I come to plant a bullet in the sonuvabitch and he beats me to it. Fuck." The anger is coming, now. The asshole couldn't even stay alive long enough for Dean to get his last words in. It's so ultimately John Winchester that Dean wants to laugh. Maybe shoot something. "I shot his secretary."
Sam blinks. "Pike?" he asks, his upper lip curling back in distaste for the man. "Why?"
"Because Dad was right about me, Sam!" Dean says, his voice raising in volume as he throws his hands out to either side of him. He doesn't miss the way Sam's eyes wander down him; he can see the dirt on Dean's knees, the sweat stains under his arm, and probably the streak up his torso where his shirt had stuck to the come on his chest. "And now he's dead and – and what? You're in charge and now everything's going to be okay?" He shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Fuck," he growls, letting out a rough, pained sound. "Fuck, you have no idea how -."
"I don't trust Azazel," Sam murmurs after a moment, his voice hard, jaw set when Dean looks at him again. God, he looks so much like their father that Dean kind of wants to punch him. "And I would have done more, but fuck, Dean – the card went dead, I didn't hear anything from you! I didn't even know you were alive until one of my guys said they saw you! You disappeared. Where the fuck have you been?"
Dean huffs, wiping his hand over his mouth, and steps away from the corner so that he doesn't quite feel as much like a trapped animal. Sam's eyes follow him, until Dean's facing the door he came through and the lights from outside throw Sam's face into sharp, stern angles.
"I tried, Sammy," Dean says, finally, after what feels like forever staring at his little brother and wondering when Sam started looking so much like John Winchester. "I tried gettin' back in. I tried to find a way Dad would come around, see me as useful again. Pike was playin' doubles, Sammy. I dunno who for, but I guess it doesn't matter now."
"He was an Angel?"
Dean nods.
"How did -? How did you even know what -?" Sam takes a step forward, reaching for him, before visibly stopping himself. "You jump ship too?"
"Don't do that," Dean growls, grimacing. "Don't say it like that."
"Dean…" Sam holds a hand out, palm up like he expects Dean to just take it. "You're my big brother. I love you. I just want you to come home. That's all I've ever wanted." Dean stares at Sam's hand, and it takes the younger man longer than Dean thinks it should have for him to drop his hand again. "What were you even gonna do, hmm? You got enough bullets for the whole compound? You workin' alone?"
"No, he's not, Sammy-boy."
Dean freezes, unable to stop his lips curling into a hateful snarl as the door behind him slides open, revealing Azazel. The man strides through, his grin far too wide and baring teeth, and behind him come three black-clad men dragging Castiel through. There's blood across the man's nose and running down from his temple, but his eyes are bright and narrowed on Sam and Dean as he's hauled into the room and sent to his knees with a vicious kick. Dean winces in sympathy; the floor is hard and unforgiving and that will definitely hurt like a bitch.
"Found this one skulking around the back wall," Azazel says, kicking at Castiel's knee and earning a mouthful of bloody saliva spat onto his shoe for his trouble. "He was carrying this."
He untucks Castiel's – Samandriel's – gun from his coat and hands it over to Sam. The Winchester sigil is just visible on the bottom of the gun, as well as the acronym N.T.B. on the grip. Every Eagle of sufficient rank carries a weapon with their motto inscribed on it somewhere. Dean's own has the words Non Timebo Mala etched neatly along the slide.
"It was Pike's."
Sam frowns, his eyes darting to Dean before falling back to the gun, which he takes from Azazel's grip and turns it over in his hands. "You said you killed Pike?" he asks Dean quietly, and Dean nods, his mouth twisting, his gun raised and pointed square at Azazel's chest.
There's a gun held to the back of Castiel's head; the man is breathing hard and shakily, but not out of panic. Or at least, no fear shows on his face; his mouth is a thin line and his eyes are calm, his jaw clenched. The other men have their weapons drawn but held down at their sides.
Realistically, Dean could kill Azazel and maybe one other before the man behind Castiel blew his brains out. Or he could kill the one aimed for Castiel and get himself shot in the process.
It doesn't look good.
Sam's eyes turn to Castiel, and he taps the muzzle of Pike's gun against his thigh. "You were there when this happened?" he asks, and Castiel licks his lips, lifting his eyes, and nods. "So, my brother kills a guy in front of you and you decide to take his gun and come raid a mafia den?"
Castiel's lip curls up on one side, his eyes flashing with amusement. "You must be Sam Winchester," he says, taking a moment to spit out another mouthful of bloody saliva onto the floor. It stains his mouth, and when he licks his lips they become shiny and red. "It's an honor."
"Smartass," Azazel growls, and the man behind Castiel pushes his gun harder against the base of the Angel's skull, forcing his head back down.
Dean's hand tightens around his weapon and he takes a step forward. The man on Castiel's right raises his gun at Dean's chest, threatening. "Don't you fucking touch him," he hisses, hardly able to put volume into his voice. He cannot stand, in that moment, how much he hates Azazel; it feels like a physical block in his throat, his heart hammering fast and loud in his ears.
Azazel's eyes narrow, as though just noticing Dean for the first time. "I can't help but notice you're still here," he says with a huff. "And bringingguests uninvited into the house."
Sam frowns. "So you did threaten him?" he asks, his whole demeanor abruptly changing from confused, passive, to defensive as he lets Samandriel's gun fall into place in his hand, aiming it for Azazel's chest too. Dean immediately switches his target to the man pointing a gun at Castiel, smugly pleased when the whole trio shifts in uneasiness. "You knew I gave an order that Dean was to be welcomed back here, and you threatened him, and told him to leave instead?"
Azazel huffs, showing his hands. "Look, Sammy-boy, I -."
"I am in charge now, and it's Sam," Sam growls, taking a step forward, his finger sliding into place along the trigger. "And I don't wanna fuckin' hear it. No one threatens him, do you understand?"
"Look, this whole 'love and forgiveness' thing you've got for your whore of a brother is very touching, but -."
"No!" Sam yells, shifting his aim from Azazel's chest up to his forehead. "No, you don't say another fucking word."
"Sammy," Dean warns, taking a step towards his little brother. Like this, they form one side, Azazel and his crew and Castiel on the other. Dean looks carefully, takes in the expressions on the other men's faces. They look panicked, afraid; they know they are probably two wrong words away from a bloody and violent death.
"Azazel has a timer on you," Sam says, slowly, like he's trying the words out. "That's what you said, right?"
Dean swallows, and nods. "Yeah."
"Then that's all I need to know."
Sam fires, and then several things happen at once. The man closest to Azazel shoves him to one side, so that Sam's bullet shoots through the air and clips the older man across the forehead, instead of the dead-center forehead shot it was supposed to be. Dean fires at the man holding a gun to Castiel's head, and then the other, both of them dropping to the floor with slick, heavy thuds.
Sam fires again, the man who had saved Azazel getting caught in the fire and dropping to the ground. Both brothers turn, aiming for Azazel, only to find the man slipping out through the door which Dean had entered from, disappearing from sight.
"Fuck!" Dean growls, lowering his gun, before he turns around and hauls Castiel to his feet with one hand under his arm, making sure he's steady before letting go. "You got another weapon?" he asks, and Castiel nods, wincing and wiping at his bloody forehead, pulling the second gun he'd stolen from the guard out to show Dean. "Good. We gotta go after him; he's gonna raise the alarm and hunt you down."
"No – Dean, this is ridiculous!" Sam argues, pulling at Dean's shoulder as the pair start to make their way after Azazel. Dean turns around quickly, grimacing in pain at the sudden motion. Unnoticed, he tucks his free hand into his pocket and pushes it tight against his side. "You don't have torun anymore. I can send out an order and make sure your – your friend, I guess, gets out. It'll be okay, Dean, don't -."
"There are more coming," Castiel reports from his place by the door, the door cracked open with his shoulder, gun at the ready. Around them, a siren's wail starts up; the alarm has been tripped.
"Fuck," Dean growls, rubbing his nose with the outside of his wrist. "Fuck, no, Sammy – I gotta make sure he gets out okay. I'll…"
He stops, swallowing, and looks his little brother in the eye. Sam looks so distressed, tears building up and shining in the harsh light. Dean hasn't seen Sam cry for at least six years; he thinks Sam might have cried the day their father kicked him out, but he can't be sure because he hadn't been allowed to see Sam.
"I'll come back, Sammy," he promises, quietly. Sam nods, swallowing, reaching out to wrap his fingers around the side of Dean's neck, bringing him in for another quick hug. Dean winces again, pulling his hand out of his pocket just long enough to pat Sam on the back. His fingers are moist, and he swallows and hurriedly pushes his hand back in. "I'll see you soon."
"Dean, for the love of God, please be safe," Sam says as Dean turns to follow Castiel out of the door.
"You too, little brother." Dean forces a grin to his face, saluting with his gun, before he slips out of the door, leaving Sam alone in their father's office while the sirens wail on around them.
They're louder in the corridor, and when Dean passes he can see the bodies of three men already on the ground. "When the fuck did -?"
"This gun has a silencer," Castiel says, almost impressed with it. "I may have to keep it."
Dean huffs a weak laugh, cut off when Castiel abruptly pushes at his chest with his arm, slamming them back against the wall. Dean moans in pain, cursing as he pulls his hand from his pocket and carefully pulls at the half of his jacket covering the slowly-growing patch of blood along his side.
Castiel sees it, and straightens with a frown. "When the fuck did this happen?" he demands, pulling Dean's bloody hand away and lifting his shirt to peel at the wound.
Dean shakes his head. "I don't know. Maybe somethin' grazed me, the guy I shot second, I don't know."
Castiel huffs, letting the shirt fall again. "There's too much blood, and I'm not a medic. You need a doctor," he says as though the sudden realization is of great inconvenience to him. "I need a phone. Do you have a phone?" Dean shakes his head.
There are at least three men around the corner, waiting for them. Castiel can see their shadows moving against the opposite wall. From the other side, he has no idea how many he should expect. He had been led away from the way he'd come in, and so he is heading towards the…what? The main room? He curses his throbbing head, annoyed that he could have gotten so lost so easily. Gabriel trained him better than this, damn it.
Gabriel. Castiel closes his eyes, and thinks of his mentor. Surely in all of his teachings, this kind of situation might warrant some of his advice. Beside him, Dean is starting to breathe more heavily, and the scent of blood is getting worse.
The last time Castiel had faced such ridiculous odds, he'd been with Gabriel. Gabriel had been shot too, he thinks with a wry laugh. He must have some sort of curse on him.
He's jarred out of his thoughts by Dean pushing himself away from the wall, towards the opposite, and lifting his gun to rest against his chest. "How many bullets you got?" he asks, and Castiel quickly checks.
"Ten," he replies.
Dean nods. "So fourteen between the two of us," he says, grinning. There's blood around his teeth. "I like those odds."
"Dean, you're wounded." Castiel frowns, looking out to the moving shadows cast on the opposite wall. There might be more now, and he thinks he can hear footsteps coming from the other way. "There must be a better way."
Dean shakes his head, pushing him up and away from the wall. At least he can still stand, Castiel thinks, eyeing the streaks of blood Dean leaves behind with his fingers. "There's at least three there. I can take those out myself. Once they're gone, you fucking run for it, you got me?"
"Dean, no," Castiel growls, reaching for him, letting out another frustrated sound when Dean merely shrugs him off. "I dragged you into this, and you need medical attention. Stay here, get somewhere safe, and I can bring backup."
"You gonna raid the entire estate for one guy, Cas? Gimme a break." At Castiel's protest, Dean turns around, pressing the muzzle of his gun against Castiel's chest. "Back off, Cas. I'm not some innocent fucking civilian you need to protect." He pulls the gun away, forcing a grin onto his face. "Now let's do this."
Dean manages to take one down, crouching down and taking cover behind one of the thick, luxurious chairs in the main room. Then, the bullets start coming. The guards are carrying pistols, and Dean is smart about it; he counts, waits for the brief standstill of them reloading before stretching out and shooting two more bullets, before he ducks back into cover.
A bullet catches his shoulder and he cries out, pushing his bloody hand against his wounded shoulder, but saves his last bullet for now. Castiel waits until the shooting falls silent again before he steps out, and from his vantage point the man is in clear sight and goes down quickly.
"Come on," Castiel says, hauling Dean up to his feet. Dean growls in pain, his skin pale and clammy, sweat breaking out across his forehead. "Come on, Dean, stay with me."
"Cas, just fuckin' leave," Dean hisses, walking hunched over now, his hand pressed tight to his shoulder. It's bleeding a lot more than his stomach wound, and when Castiel turns Dean around he can see the bloody exit wound on the other side. Fuck. "Get outta here, man."
"No," Castiel replies curtly, bending down to search for a phone on one of the fallen guards while Dean leans against the bannister and eyes the bottom floor. From up above he has a better vantage point, but he only has one bullet left, and Castiel only has nine.
"Gabriel," Castiel says, his voice quiet and rushed. "Yes, I'm fine. I need a car, around the corner from the front Winchester gate. As soon as you can. I need a doctor. Yes. Thank you, Gabriel." He drops the phone, then, and grabs Dean and pulls him upright again. "Come on. I'm not leaving you. Let's go."
"Bossy," Dean complains, gingerly making his way down the stairs as Castiel takes over point. "I should'a known from the way you fuck, I guess."
"I know what I like," Castiel replies without missing a beat, and Dean finds it in himself to quietly laugh.
They waste two more bullets on the men that had been left behind at the wall when Dean came in. The sirens are still going strong and back in the building Dean can hear men shouting. They stick close to the shadows of the oak trees and make their stumbling way down the winding road, where the gravel gives way back into pavement, and the air is cold and crisp.
Dean gets weaker by the step, his blood loss making his face pale and his steps weak and dragging. The toes of his boots drag roughly against the ground, his breathing is so heavy—Castiel knows they aren't sneaking up on anyone. He keeps closing his eyes for longer and longer times, almost blind as Castiel leads him back towards the main gate.
When they get there, Castiel lets out a low growling "Fuck". There are a lot of men gathered there now, where there had only been two. He can't quite make out the amount, the silhouettes keep moving and the air is too dark beyond to give any contrast, but he knows they're there. "We have company."
Dean groans quietly, shoulder braced against one of the trees, and slowly slides down until he's crouching, whole body weight resting against the tree. "How many?" he asks, coughing into his bloody hand. Castiel shakes his head. "C'mon, man, guess."
Castiel huffs. "Ten, maybe fifteen," he replies, shifting his weight so that the shadows further conceal him, looking around the corner.
"Well," Dean says after a moment, voice unsteady. "You got your guy coming, right? Maybe he'll have a gun."
"He won't walk to the gate, Dean, it'll be like shooting fish in a barrel!" Castiel argues, narrowing his eyes and trying to make out the number. He thinks he can count a row of five heads – so maybe double that.
They definitely don't have enough bullets.
"Come here." Dean yanks on his sleeve, forcing Castiel to one bruised knee with a soft hiss. "Gimme your gun." Castiel obeys, handing Dean the pistol, and he watches as Dean blinks and tries to focus though the sights, aiming through the shrubbery they're hiding behind.
"Are you sure you can shoot?" Castiel murmurs.
Dean swallows, licking his lips, blood smeared around them with his tongue. "Gonna give it a shot," he says. "What's the worst that could happen?"
He takes a moment, blinking slowly, before squeezing the trigger oh-so-gently. Castiel doesn't see where it hits, but one of the men gives a startled cry of pain and the rest immediately raise their weapons.
"Not a kill shot," Castiel says, chiding gently.
Dean shrugs one shoulder. "Still a shot," he whispers, before aiming and firing again. This time there is another thud, soundless. The men are starting to fire wildly in every direction and, with a curse, Castiel quickly pulls Dean back behind the tree, wincing at the sound of bullets hitting rough bark and splitting cracking pieces off the tree.
Dean turns back around, and fires three more times. Two more drop, Castiel thinks, and a third clangs harshly against the metal gate. They open fire on the pair a second time, this time Castiel thinks that the shots are definitely aiming their way – they know where Dean and Castiel are now, and these guards are not merely carrying pistols, but heavier guns. Castiel tries to count, but there are so many that he loses track.
Dean manages to get the last three bullets in before the slide slips back and he's squeezing the trigger of an empty gun. With a snarl he throws it away into the grass. "Well, looks like we just got my one left," he says, pulling his own out. "How many now?"
Castiel sighs, shaking his head. "I don't fucking know," he says. "I think we're down to four."
Dean laughs, resting his head back against the rough tree bark with a tired sigh. "Well, it's been a while, but I don't think I can take down four with one bullet."
"Better make this one count, then," Castiel says, bracing himself carefully over Dean's body so that he can peer around the tree. The men have gathered close together and there are definitely four left, Castiel can see. He narrows his eyes, sighing, and tries to think. "Give me that gun," he whispers, reaching down until he feels the skin-warmed metal in his hands. There is a single street light just beyond the gate and it is providing most, if not all, of the illumination for the men trying to shoot them.
Gabriel had always said he was a good shot.
He takes a deep breath, and stands up straight, aiming the gun upwards. He isn't quite used to Dean's gun, the sight a little shorter than his own, the grip smoother and warmer from Dean's hands than he would notice after holding his own gun, but it's still a weapon, still a familiar weight in his hands.
He takes another deep breath, and fires, and the world is plunged into darkness.
The men shout all at once, confused and afraid. One of them has a flashlight and uses it to frantically scan the darkness, but he's looking in the wrong direction, intent on finding a second shooter. "They must have split up!" Castiel hears. "Quick, spread out. Search for them!"
"Time to go," he mutters, bending down and hauling Dean to his feet again. The man has all but passed out now, blood spilling from his mouth dripping down his chin, the front of his shirt practically soaked through now will blood. Castiel swallows, and doesn't allow himself to think of what might happen if they'd waited too long, or pushed Dean too hard. He can't allow himself to think like that.
Dean is like Gabriel; they're both tough, stubborn men who Death would probably spit back out of Hell if they ever wandered in there. Dean's dead weight across his shoulders means he can't move quickly, but he doesn't need speed; he just needs to get the fuck out of the way and let them overtake his position.
He presses both of them tight against the wall, and waits until the roving flashlights are out of his sight and the men are not quite so loud. The human-sized door in the gate opens with a screech and Castiel curses again, hurrying through the shadows to the end of the road and around the corner.
Gabriel is there – God bless Gabriel, Castiel will never say another bad word about him again. He shoves open his door with a loud curse, damning Castiel's name to the seventh circle of Hell, and Castiel wants to hug him so tightly that he can't breathe anymore, let alone speak. He's so relieved he thinks he might collapse where he stands.
"Who's your friend?" Gabriel asks when he's done threatening Castiel to fire him and have his wings covered up out of sheer stupidity, and Castiel grunts, opening the back door and dumping Dean into the backseat as carefully as he can. "Holy shit, is that – is that your hooker?"
Castiel sighs, resting his hand on the car door. Dean is still breathing, at least – shallowly, but there. His eyes are roving wildly beneath his closed lids, and he's no longer bleeding quite so badly. But, of course, that isn't necessarily a good thing.
"His name is Dean Winchester," Castiel says, pushing Dean's legs in and shutting the door before turning to meet Gabriel's wide eyes, "and he needs a hospital."
