Author's Note: This chapter was certainly an exercise in understatement. And using the backspace key. Hopefully I didn't understate too much. If I did, my sincerest apologies. I have three versions of this chapter but I quickly came to the conclusion that neither of them would say all those things I had written. Think them, yes. Say them, no. So understatement. I hope I got it right this time. This would be so much easier if I had Jensen Ackles and Misha Collins to do my bidding. Well, a lot of things would be easier if I had them to do my bidding. Mmmmm.

Okay, this note is totally ruining the mood.

Read on.

Chapter 10

Dean woke slowly, enjoying the waves of peace that washed over him. He didn't ache. His head wasn't swimming. It was so peaceful he found it almost disturbing.

He bolted upright.

The room was midnight dark but for the reflection of headlights chasing around the walls and up the ceiling. A familiar trench coated figure sat hunched at the foot of the bed. Cas turned to look at Dean as he sat up.

"How long was I out?" Dean asked, stretching until his back popped and cracked.

Cas inclined his head to study the shadows on the ceiling. "Approximately ten hours. I thought it best to let you sleep."

Dean nodded, rolling his wrist experimentally. Not a twinge. Couldn't even tell he'd nearly been a marionette a few hours earlier. He patted a hand across his chest. It was bare, the remains of his shirt long gone, and the skin was smooth and unblistered. He couldn't see his tattoo but he was betting it had been fixed too. He dropped his feet over the side of the bed, mimicking Cas's pose.

"Your work?" Dean asked, quirking an eyebrow at Cas in the dark.

The angel nodded.

"Thanks, man." He shrugged his shoulders, checking for anything out of order. His muscles moved smoothly beneath the skin. There wasn't a hint of the bone deep weariness he'd been carrying around for months. He was like a well oiled machine.

He looked over at the angel who seemed to be finding the worn carpet fascinating. "What did I miss? You get the rings back from the halo squad?"

Another grave nod.

Dean licked his lips. He could suddenly understand Castiel's interest in the carpet. "So, you gonna tell me what's going on? Up there, I mean."

"No."

"Worried I'll try to screw you over?" Dean asked and Cas glanced at him, a moment of incomprehension creasing his forehead. "Raphael offered to bring Sam back. Before. When I was dreaming. In exchange for the rings, he said he'd bring him back."

"But you turned him down." Cas's tone was sure. Not an ounce of questioning in it. He knew what that answer had cost Dean.

"You're awfully sure of me," Dean said, fidgeting slightly under Cas's laser like focus.

Silence stretched between them, growing thick with words unsaid.

Dean gave a quiet, "huh" and ran a hand over his jaw. He looked down, then up, searching for something just beyond his reach. Under his breath, he muttered, "Sam was always the one who did all this talking about our feelings crap." Then he hoisted himself off the bed, expecting pain where there was none, and started pacing. "You're not gonna make this easy, are you?"

The angel's eyes reflected the light like tiny mirrors, blank but not cold.

Dean stopped his pacing to scrub a hand over the back of his neck. He had no idea where to begin. And suddenly he was glad that the room was bathed in darkness. Only the wan light of the moon and distant headlights illuminated it, hiding his anxiety at least from himself. And Cas silently watched him wear a trail right through the carpet. In a way, it was comforting. The more things changed, the more they seemed to stay the same. So Dean folded his arms, returning Cas's stare with one of his own, and did what he did best. He went on the offensive.

"I oughta kick your ass for what you pulled in the cemetery yesterday. It was yesterday, right?" He paused long enough for Cas to nod. Dean noted and promptly ignored the glimmer of humor that crinkled at the corner of the angel's eyes. "I know I screwed up, losing the rings and all, but I still wanna help. You don't have to fight this thing alone."

"And your promise?"

That was the one question he'd been hoping to avoid. At least for a while. "Maybe I can do both. The family thing. Hunting. I'm done losing people, Cas. And it felt good these last few days. It felt… like I was actually alive. Helping people. It felt good."

"You were nearly possessed by a high level demon," Cas said in a voice so dry that Dean thought the angel had finally learned sarcasm.

"Well, no, that sucked ass. But that's not the point," Dean blustered, throwing up his hands and starting to pace again. "Are you doing this on purpose to screw with me? I'm trying to offer to help, dammit."

Cas studied him from his spot at the foot of the bed. He'd barely moved a muscle throughout the entire tirade, his head tilted at that clinical angle, like he didn't know quite what he was looking at or why. A wrinkle formed between his eyebrows. "Why?" he asked with gentle curiosity.

"Because we're friends," Dean said as if it were obvious.

Their eyes met in the dark. Dean refused to roll the chick flick brotherly love montage of his good times with Cas in the silence that followed. He refused. But that didn't mean he didn't get a few snippets here and there. He chuckled to himself, trying to cover it by clearing his throat. "We're friends," he repeated, carefully schooling his features. "I don't abandon friends, Cas."

Something pained came into his face then and Castiel knew he was thinking of Sam, of his presumed betrayal, the greatest one of all. It was clearly written in the shadows behind his eyes. Dean would never stop trying to save his brother, not even if it killed him. Nothing would stop him from succeeding. And for a moment, Castiel envied their bond. He had no such connection to boast. Not one among his many brothers and sisters would go to such lengths for him.

Dean looked down, clearing his throat again. The angel was surprised to find the same steely resolve there as Dean said, "I don't know what I can do but that doesn't mean I'm not gonna try. You shouldn't have to fight this thing alone." He ran a hand through his hair, clearly embarrassed by the sentiments he voiced. "I mean it, Cas. Anyway, I owe you at least that much for pulling me out of Hell." He put on a cocky half grin to cover his seriousness but it was too late.

"You owe me nothing." Castiel spoke the words so quietly, Dean almost missed them.

Dean's mouth turned down in a frown, unsure how to take that and Castiel wasn't exactly helping with the translation. He had switched from studying the floor to inspecting his folded hands in minute detail.

Dean was about to start in on his argument once more when, with a sigh, the angel spoke again.

"But it's good of you to offer," he said, voice strained and eyes firmly affixed on his tightly clasped hands. "I… appreciate your desire to assist me." He rose slowly as if pulled up against his will. When his eyes drifted to Dean's, they were frighteningly blue. Electric. "Thank you." He paused. "Live a good life."

Dean froze. The smile he'd been growing withered and died.

"Goodbye, Dean."

Cas's hand descended, becoming Dean's whole world.

When Dean opened his eyes, the sky glowed pink with sunrise. He sat up on his lumpy motel bed, fisting sleep from his eyes. His head thumped like a kettle drum but he'd barely had anything to drink at that bar. Maybe two whiskeys while he ate his burger. So it couldn't be a hangover. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and spotted the boots on his feet. He'd fallen asleep in his clothes again. Except for his shirt. After a quick search, he gave it up for lost. The demon killing knife lay on the nightstand beside his cell phone, sparkling clean and conspicuous. Why had he left it there? He stashed it under his pillow and snatched up his phone, hitting the speed dial. He stifled a yawn with his free hand while he listened to the ringing in his ears. Only half of it came from the phone. He gave his head a shake, hoping to clear some of the cobwebs he'd woken with. Easier said than done.

There was a click on the phone.

"Hello?"

Lisa's voice brought a smile to his face. "It's me," he said, quickly. "I'm on my way home. Be back this afternoon."

The relief in her voice was palpable. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah." A memory crawled away from him as fast as he chased after it. A dream maybe. Whatever it was, he couldn't help feeling it was important. It should be important. "Yeah, everything's good. Just needed some fresh air."

"How's Bobby?"

"Bobby?" Was that what he'd told her? He couldn't remember anymore. It seemed like ages ago that he'd put Indiana in his rearview mirror. "Yeah. He's good." The words stumbled over themselves on their way out. "Just wanted to let you know I'd be back soon," Dean said. He ended the call quickly, preoccupied with the shadows flitting around the corners of his mind.

He sat on the bed, pounding head in his hands. He felt better than he had in weeks, not counting the headache. That much was true. But how much had he drunk to get this way? Why couldn't he remember?

He strolled out the door to his room, leaned on the railing, and looked out over the motel parking lot. He had a decent view of nothing from his second floor vantage point. The pavement was wet from a recent rain. His truck glistened like dingy snow in the early morning light. And the cool air caressed him as he closed his eyes and tried to remember.