A/N: Thank you so so so much to ImpalaLove, Wolflihood, and Nemu-Chan for reviewing! You guys are awesome and I'm glad you seem to like the pacing so far. I hope you all enjoy this chapter.

Song: The Chain by Fleetwood Mac

CHAPTER 10

The Chain

When Claire wakes up, Dean is already showered and dressed.

"Hey," he says lamely as she stretches her arms over her head and yawns. Her hangover is mitigated by the adrenaline suddenly surging through her veins. It takes her a moment to remember that she is naked, but she attempts to act unfazed, even as his eyes drag over her exposed chest.

"Hi," she replies, voice hoarse. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"You looked like you needed the sleep," he answers sheepishly, with a feeble smile. It is odd to see this hesitant version of him, as opposed to his typical cocky incarnation. He chews the inside of his cheek, considering his next move, and eventually he starts, "So, about last night…"

"Look," she interrupts, having prepared this speech already. "I know you don't want to have a whole talk about it, so I'll save you the trouble. We're both consenting adults. Obviously I can't lie, I find you attractive, and when two people who feel this way about one another drink copious amounts of tequila this shit is practically bound to happen. Plus, I think it's safe to say we've been under a lot of stress and there has been a lot of pent-up… energy. I really don't think anything has to change."

Dean's expression is unreadable. Without a word, he strides over to the bed, braces himself against the mattress, and crushes his lips to hers. It is not a gentle kiss, but it is certainly a compelling one. Claire goes rigid in astonishment, and her stomach fills with a disgraceful fluttering sensation. When he breaks the contact, he murmurs, "How did that feel to you?"

She bites her lip in clear uncertainty, as if to erase the faint taste of mint and the memory of him there. "Umm… Good?"

It felt like something she didn't have a name for.

He stands fully and pulls away, staring down at her as she scrambles to cloth herself with the rumpled sheets. "I think we're probably too far gone to have the whole 'things don't have to change' talk," he states flatly.

Claire swallows hard, not knowing what to say now that her meticulously rehearsed riposte has been dismissed. She's overcome by fear and shyness; there are images flashing behind her eyes. She remembers telling him the Story, how he cradled her in his arms on the bathroom floor, how he peered at her with such genuine sympathy and understanding, and she remembers his body on top of hers, moving, writhing, his hands touching her everywhere… These two discrete events merge into one within her mind, and even now she recognizes just how dangerous this is.

"I'm just… I'm just gonna go take a shower," she finally manages, taking the top sheet along with her to the bathroom.

She throws herself under an ice-cold stream of water, utterly distressed. His words – too far gone – resound in her brain. What does this mean?

One night of hot sex does not a relationship make. One night of bearing her soul to him does not a relationship make. But together… Do they have a thing? Do they mean something to one another? No – how can they? He must have just had a really good time.

Claire does not emerge from the shower looking any less shell-shocked. She had expected him to jump at the chance to pretend it never happened, and now everything she thought she understood is topsy-turvy. All of it – all the demons and Jersey Devils and reapers and ghosts – was easier for her to wrap her head around than this. He had been running away from her from the very beginning, and now he wants her along with him? How had they reached this point so suddenly?

They are silent for a long while as they pack their bags.

At some point Dean says, "If you – if you think it was a mistake, we can try to go back to the way it was… I didn't think –"

"I don't think it was a mistake," she cuts him off without looking at him. "It's just… an adjustment." She zips her backpack and flits her eyes up to meet his. "But obviously there's a lot in play here…"

He turns his head away from her, towards the window. The sounds outside are the same, but everything else seems different.

"You said it," he snorts.

"I think we should be… careful."

"Yeah," he replies, as though this is the understatement of the century.

"I didn't mean for this to happen – I don't think either of us did."

"No…"

"But it did, and I think we can handle it like adults."

"I think we already did," he jokes, shooting her a lewd wink.

She rolls her eyes. "You know what I mean."

More seriously, he replies, "Yeah. I guess we'll just… see what happens."

Never in a million years did Dean expect this to happen. In fact, he had staunchly intended for it not to. But historically liquor had a way of screwing up his plans. There was that time at the junior prom… Anyway, whenever his head got turned off and other parts of his anatomy were turned on, things usually went south pretty quickly.

But it's not the thinking-with-his-dick that is the problem really. It's that he isn't just thinking with his dick. He's thinking with something else, something in his chest, between his lungs. And this both horrifies and compels him at the same time.

What would Sam say? he thinks briefly. That little pansy would probably be thrilled. He stumbled into something he'd been trying to avoid all along, something that Sam had wanted for him.

No, not really, another part of him insists. This certainly isn't the white picket fence his brother had envisioned. It's just him on his path to find Sam, with a passenger. A little extra cargo. A little extra cargo that he slept with and shares a 'deep connection' with (Lydia's words, not his). Nothing to get too cagey about. It's not like they're discussing their emotions (he shudders at the mere notion). He just kinda likes her and she's a good lay.

His grating (by Claire's account) ringtone stirs him from these thoughtful musings.

"Hello?"

Claire mouths Who is it? and he covers the mouthpiece of the phone and replies, "Bobby."

"Any headway?"

"Naw. This stuff ain't exactly posted on the front page of the Times," says Bobby. "Any chance you can try Cas?"

Dean grits his teeth and clenches his knuckles tighter around the phone. "I can try," he grinds out, "but the son of a bitch has been MIA for over a week. I needed him before, and he was nowhere to be found."

"Well, give it a shot and I'll keep tryin' – I'll let you know if I find anythin'."

After tossing the phone aside, he rubs his eyes in apparent fatigue.

"What'd he say?" Claire asks tentatively.

"He wants me to call Cas," is his plain response.

"To pray to him?"

He doesn't speak, only nods.

"You don't think he'll answer?"

"Why would he?" he spits. Though his tone is saturated in anger, there is a hint of disillusionment mixed in.

All of a sudden, Claire doubles over on the edge of the bed. Dean is, at this point, able to instantly recognize this singular sort of pain. He rushes to find a pad of paper and pen.

"Write it down for me," she breathes through her locked jaw. "They say there is a way out, a way out for people like me. I've just gotta find it. I don't know where it leads – up, down, or through – but I figure if there's a 2/3 shot it'll be better, I ought to try to find it. Maybe Dean'll find me first, but who knows how long it could take. Wouldn't it be nice if I could show him he doesn't have to save me every single time. Maybe then we wouldn't always have to be so messed up."

Dean's hands shake and his face goes white as he reads what she's dictated to him. "Do you think he knows you were listening?" he asks, softly.

"How could he?"

"I dunno," he murmurs, more to himself than to her. He looks up from the page. "Did it hurt less to do it like that?"

"A little. I got the words out quicker, so the pain stopped faster," she allows, still hung-up on how stricken his expression is. "Are you worried he's gonna…"

"Gonna find a way to zap himself into Heaven or Hell? Yeah. A little," he parrots.

A 2/3 shot it'll be better. Sam can accept being dead, so long has he's sorted into the right level, she realizes abruptly. It's Dean who can't accept Sam being dead.

"We'd better try calling Castiel," she says gravely.

He drops on the bed and holds his head over his knees. "Castiel," he says, "who art screwing around in Heaven, please get your feathery ass down here and help a bro out."

He cracks one eye open to see nothing but Claire's unamused face.

"Figures," he grumbles, straightening his spine.

"Let me try?"

He raises his eyebrows, but replies, "Go for it."

Closing her eyes, she says, "Castiel, I need your help. If you can hear me –"

"Yes?" comes a distinctive growl of a voice.

"What the hell, Cas?!" Dean demands furiously. "What, you're being selective about the calls you're taking nowadays? Heaven keeping you too busy?"

"Heaven is keeping me busy," he affirms. "And yes, I do have to be selective about who I answer. I am leading a revolution, Dean." His usual slump seems more pronounced and there are dark circles beneath his eyes, physical verifications of his excuse.

"So you answer her but not me?"

"She is a prophet. You must understand, this makes her one of Heaven's most important emissaries on Earth. If she prays to me, it is my duty to answer her."

"Whatever," he snaps with a glare. "Claire, can you give me and Cas a minute alone?"

She looks bewildered, but nevertheless replies, "Sure. I'll just… go for a walk or something."

When she's out of the room, Castiel asks, "What is it you need to speak about in private?"

Instead of answering, Dean throttles him straight in the nose. "That's for not answering me, you dick!"

Castiel, being an angel, is only emotionally injured by the blow. "You didn't want Claire to see you assault me?" he notices.

"Call me old-fashioned."

"I am sorry I have caused you distress, but I knew you didn't truly need my help."

"Well, I need your help now."

Castiel scans the room, his eyes eventually settling on the door that Claire has just passed through. "Something seems… different," he observes.

"Yeah, we're in Vegas."

"Not that." His eyes dart to Dean's bed, and narrow when he observes the mess of sheets. "You're not –"

"So what if I am?" he cuts him off defensively, anticipating his question.

Castiel's customary frown deepens. "I believe it might be inadvisable to become romantically entangled with your own prophet, Dean. One or both of you may come to find it… overwhelming."

"There are no 'romantic entanglements' going on here."

"I'm an angel, Dean. My senses of perception –"

"I said, there are no 'romantic entanglements.'"

"If that is what you say," he relents with a sigh. "Now, what is it you need my help with?"

"Rogue reapers – is there such a thing?"

"I've heard rumors about them, yes…"

"I need to find one."

Without preamble, Castiel vanishes for half-a-second.

"There's one here, in Las Vegas," he says when he returns. "His name is Remy."

"Remy?" he repeats in disbelief.

"Yes. You can find him playing the slots in a place called Caesar's Palace. It never ceases to amaze me how you humans butcher the legacies of your predecessors – Julius Caesar was by no means a proponent of gambling…"

"Alright, Cas. Thanks." He puts his hand on the other man's shoulder, and Castiel offers him a weak smile.

"Until we meet again, Dean," he says, disappearing beneath his grasp.

Dean is left with nothing but a handful of air.

. . .

Even after discussing their arrangement, there was a newfound aura of discomfort enveloping Dean and Claire. Castiel's words stick in Dean's skull – overwhelming. He doesn't know what he meant by it, but it sounded like a warning.

Dean's track record with women isn't exactly stellar. And if Lydia was correct, his and Claire's 'connection' is 'one-sided.' This means that if one of them is going to be 'overwhelmed,' it'll likely be Claire. But as long as they keep things casual, he doubts he's going to break her heart or something stupid like that, if that's what Cas was referring to. The trick is to keep it casual. He's been doing this his entire life – there's no reason it should start being difficult now.

But the thing is, it is.

He never would have told anyone – not even Sam – half the shit she knows. And that's what makes it… difficult.

He already has an Achilles' heel – if he has two, it just means he's weak. It's not like he doesn't know that everyone around him dies. It's not like he doesn't know that being around him puts her at risk of dying. It's not like he doesn't know that he can't have things like this, things that make him happy, things that make him feel anything other than sorrow.

But what can he do? He's stuck with her. He needs one weakness to save the other. It just boils down to which loss would cut him deeper, and that is and always will be Sam.

"Dean?" she murmurs on their way to Caesar's Palace.

"Hm?"

He casts her a sidelong glance and sees that she's peering at him in that way he hates, with wide, imploring eyes.

"What happens after we get Sam back?"

Oh shit, he thinks. He swears he feels his spirit try to escape his body in panic, like a spooked animal.

Gulping down the frog in his throat, he noncommittally replies, "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

By some grace of God, they arrive at the hotel/casino before she can press the issue.

Dean steps out of the car and the valet scowls at it disdainfully, his eyes then travelling pointedly over the row of Ferraris and Lamborghinis parked in front.

Dean tosses him the keys and says, "Don't you dare scratch 'er," grinning cheekily.

They walk into to the 'Palace' and are confronted by a starkly different Vegas than they have thus far experienced. The lobby brings together a variety of people, ranging from millionaire socialites to fanny pack-totting tourists. Thankfully, this means Claire and Dean don't look too out-of-place. There's marble everywhere, along with flowers and jewelry and all the glitz and glamour you would expect from one of Las Vegas' most famous landmarks.

The lights in the casino are disorienting, and the carpeting and ceiling are optical illusions. It's like stepping into some extraterrestrial mall. There are no windows, no clocks, nothing to anchor you to the outside world – just hordes of people and an array of strange-looking tables.

"Do you know what we're looking for?" asks Claire.

"Some guy named Remy."

"Yeah, but how are we supposed to know who he is?"

This is a valid concern.

"Cas said he was playing slots."

And so they make their way over to a line of blinking machines. The lights and the chiming sounds coming out of them make them seem like a baby's toys, and the blank, fixated stares of those sitting in front of them make Dean think, briefly, that maybe there really isn't any hope for humanity after all. They have no idea how many of his friends have died for them – how hard he has fought to ensure that they keep their lives and their free will – and this is what they do with that privilege.

Dean spots a man who looks like he could be a Remy. He's leaning back in his chair and smoking a cigarette, apparently unfazed by the rather large sum of money that he has won against all odds. He has greasy blond hair that he has attempted to slick back, and is wearing some sort of metrosexual, Euro-chic attire.

"Remy?"

The man snaps his head in their direction. He grins, revealing a row of crooked, smoke-stained teeth. "Dean Winchester and Claire Shurley. To what do I owe zee pleasure?" he asks.

"You know who we are?"

He gives them a sly look. "Everyone knows who you are."

"I hear you're a reaper for hire," Dean says, choosing to ignore this ominous statement.

"I don't know where you could have possibly heard that," he replies, feigning coyness as he inspects his blunt fingernails.

"Let's just say I've got connections in high places."

He quirks a bushy eyebrow. "Your friend, zee angel, you mean? Castiel, iz it?"

"Let's just cut to the chase. I know what you do, and I'm willing to pay."

He puts a hand over his heart in mock offense. "You think I can be bought?"

"I know you can be."

Remy extinguishes his cigarette in the ashtray beside the slot machine. "Okay, I'll play along. What are you willing to pay?"

"However much you want."

The other man laughs. "It iz not a question of how much, so much as it iz of what."

"Fine," he says in trepidation, "as long as it's got nothing to do with souls."

"I do not care about zee souls," he dismisses languidly. "There iz a talisman I would like."

"Okay. Help me get to Purgatory and back and you've got yourself a deal."

Remy slides another Marlboro out of the carton and lights it up, puffing tendrils of smoke dangerously close to their faces. "Very well. Two tickets there and three tickets back, I presume?"

"One," Dean corrects unflinchingly. "One ticket there, two back."

"What?!" Claire demands, incredulous.

Remy sends Claire a catlike smirk. "Would you like me to give you a moment to discuss zee terms?"

"Yeah," Dean grunts. Without further ado, he leads Claire aside by the elbow.

"You are not going without me," she hisses, trying-but-failing to rein in her outrage for fear of causing a scene.

"I have to," he insists. "I can't risk you going in there with me."

"We already went over this! I can take care of myself!"

"The angels can't protect you in Purgatory. You're staying here – end of story."

"You have no right –"

"I have every right. This is my problem, not yours."

"After everything, I think we're in this together."

Dean runs a hand through his hair, obviously frustrated. He can see tears welling in her eyes, but he is unmoved. He has to be.

"No," is all he says.

A/N: Please let me know what you think :)