Epilogue

You're living on the edge

Don't know left from right

They're breathing down your neck

You're running out of lives

And here comes, The razor's edge

Here comes, The razor's edge

The razor's edge!

"The Razor's Edge" by AC/DC

Grief makes Dean's eyes seem even greener. Cas knows it is grief; he knows he put it there, but he doesn't want to talk about it right now.

Cas wants Dean to take the painkiller he is offering him, knowing it will make his lover tired and loopy; and maybe, just maybe, he would lie trusting in Cas's arms without judging, just a little while longer. Just long enough for Cas to think of some way to explain, to justify, killing Rivera. Tonight he failed at so many things, Cas thinks; he is the reason Michael and Lucifer are free, the reason Sam is now in mortal peril again, and he killed a man in cold blood. He silently begs Dean – with blue eyes swimming in sorrow – to take the drugs and give him respite from the need to rehash his transgressions.

Dean reaches out with his good hand, takes the pill and closes his fist around it, keeping eye contact with those pain-filled cerulean eyes. Eyes he could get lost in, that he wants to get lost in and shut out all the horror screaming in his head, but he knows he can't. "I'll take it in a little bit." Dean sits up straighter on the sleeping bag and squares his shoulders with a wince against the pain of a wounded shoulder and ribs that – fortunately – may only be cracked and not broken. His sliced abdomen needed only a few stitches, the rest shallow enough to heal under the antibiotic ointment and fresh gauze. He lets Cas help him pull a fresh t-shirt on, covering most of his injuries, everything except the wrist which he has in a brace Bobby found in the pickup.

"Hey, Sammy, can you stop pacing a minute and come join us?" Dean has been watching his brother bounce off walls since they got back to the hideaway. Sam is dealing with an overload of demon blood, practically crackling with the energy and power of it coursing through his system. At the same time, Sam is wringing his hands with worry. He kicked this addiction once and is worried that being force-fed the blood will make him crave it all over again.

With all the sigils in place corrected and approved by Castiel's critical eye, and the car and truck hidden in the overgrown yards of neighboring houses, Dean figures they are as safe as they can be with two pissed off archangels and the forces of heaven and hell looking for them – not to mention the police. He's tired and afraid to sleep, knowing that they are not safe in their own dreams. He knows how tired he is and imagines the others feel the same. Tiredness built of defeat, not just expended energy or the late hour. And he's tired of being afraid, of needing to be, of having life dump on him and his family again.

Bobby has been sitting at the camp table using Dean's laptop to watch for signs of what they all know is coming now, to try and get a handle on how things are going to hit.

Sam sits in the other camp chair, but his legs are bouncing and he is holding on to the seat like he's fighting gravity to stay sitting. He has washed up since they escaped, and his eyes are no longer demon black. Sam is far from okay, though, his worst nightmare has been freed from the cage. As he watches his brother struggle to stand, Sam shoots out of the chair to help him, then walks his brother to the chair opposite Bobby's and resumes his pacing.

Snorting, Dean decides to let it go. Let go of his twinge of anger at needing to be helped like an old man or an invalid, let go of the fear that has gripped him deep inside, let go of his anger at himself for not figuring out that something was wrong the minute Amelia showed up, even though she shouldn't have known where they were.

"Stop blaming yourself, Dean." Sam cuts into Dean's thoughts like he can actually see what's going on in his brother's head. "We were all there. We all overlooked the same things. This…" he says gesturing to mean the entire situation they found themselves in, "…this isn't your fault. I'm not even sure we could have stopped it any more. It just all seems to want to turn out this way." Sam sighs deeply, like he can expel the thought along with the words.

Bobby snorts. "Wastin' yer breath, Sam. Yer brother's gonna blame himself. Like he's the only one here who's a hunter. And, yeah, like he carries the weight for everything that goes wrong." Bobby shifts to face Dean. "It's not your fault."

"Yeah, well…" Dean trails off. He appreciates what they're saying, but they can't tell him on one hand that he's their leader and then on the other that the mistakes are not his fault. His one good hand reaches up to scratch at his head. "Whatever," he ends that train of thought. "We still need to hear what happened to each one of us since we got separated. Then we need to figure out where we go from here."

. . .

"oh, Hell no."

Of all of the disagreements to arise in the hour, this one seems to be the tipping point. With Castiel sitting in Sam's abandoned camp chair, nearly bent double to rest his elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose, he didn't seem to be on the defensive. Nevertheless, Dean looms over him, and his voice has risen once again. They skirted issues, as Dean steered them towards trying to pin down the next move. . . and now they were derailing completely because of one quiet interjection. "Absolutely frikkin' not, Cas, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Dean. I 'hear you.'" Castiel's voice is low, weary, but the gaze he turns up to Dean shows no hint of relenting. "You're yelling at me. It would be difficult not to hear you. Regardless, this is something I have to do. And something I am going to do."

"What, just going to ignore me some more, then? This is bullshit, Cas! You all need me, 'I'm the glue,'" Dean says mockingly. "I 'should lead this,' but you won't frikkin' listen to me or let me help. A frikkin' figurehead." Dean is practically shouting, and he's trying to gesture with his hands emphatically which Sam thinks is pretty pathetic considering he has a broken wrist on one arm and was stabbed in the opposite shoulder. Sam is still trying to follow the rant, still flying high on demon blood, thinking maybe he should lock Dean somewhere safe, wrap him in cotton batting, so he doesn't get hurt anymore. It seems like Dean is always getting hurt, or dead, or threatening to let Michael possess him …

"Dean, I need to see Amelia again. There are things that should be explained, and things. . ."

Of course, it wasn't like Cas's idea was all that great either.

"She sold us out!" Ducking his head down, Dean parses it down into the phrases he knows from experience will get through to Castiel. "She sold me out, Cas, tried to hand me over to the cops, and to the demons."

Jaw bunching, Castiel raises his head and meets Dean's eyes unflinchingly this time, and Dean tries not to let it bother him that Castiel can stay stubborn despite the fact that that would have been enough to trigger every one of Cas's instincts towards Dean if it were anyone but the wife of the body he'd inherited.

"I don't believe she knew about the demon involvement. That does not excuse it. . ." Cas interjects, before Dean can explode at him again, already grimacing in preparation for another burst of ear-splitting noise. ". . . But I still need to speak to her."

"No, you don't!"

Cas's chin juts out, blue eyes slitted and fixed on Dean. "I am not planning to allow you, Dean Winchester, to dictate to me; we are lovers, I am not now, nor have I ever been, your 'pet.' I am not a baby and you are not my keeper, nor my protector. I owe this to Jimmy. And I owe it to Claire."

"Jimmy is dead, Cas!"

"I know that, Dean! I felt him die!" Castiel doesn't consciously remember rising to his feet, but he registers that he's put himself on eye-level with Dean, hands bunched into fists at his side, voice raised to match Dean's, and he forces himself to breathe out slowly as soon as he registers his anger, turning his head away as Dean blinks at his outburst. His eyes fix on Sam, leaned against the wall, watching them blatantly.

In the ensuing silence, Dean follows Cas's line of sight and frowns at his brother, sniping. "What, you wanna make some popcorn? Stand there and watch the show?"

"We got any popcorn?" Sam retorts quickly, and Dean scowls at him and then at Bobby, when the elder hunter snorts.

"Shut up, Sam." Dean grits out through his teeth and takes hold of his angel's sleeve, tugging it to get Cas to follow him outside the room into the hallway—even in the middle of an argument, Cas offers no resistance. It's dark here, lit only slightly by the room behind them, and not actually private, but if Dean keeps his voice down he can speak to Cas alone. He angles them both away from Sam's prying eyes and lowers his voice, trying for reasonable again.

"Cas, I don't want you to go see her. She turned us over to the police. She lured us apart and got you snatched. This idea sucks." Dean lets his worry fill his eyes, practically pleads with him. "I'm in no shape to mount another rescue mission. Man, please."

In the darkened hall, Castiel presses his fingertips against his eyelids and tries to will away his headache, to silence the ringing in his head, as he weighs his words, standing stiff and awkward before Dean. After a moment, Dean's braced hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and Cas sighs quietly, letting himself be comforted by the touch enough to speak. "He loved her, Dean. I know that makes you feel nervous and guilty, because it makes me guilty. But I do not love her. I took her husband from her, and cost her her daughter. Whatever she became from that, I had a hand in. I do not intend a long conversation, but I do need to speak to her . . . I cannot leave things where they were. Can you just trust me? Trust us, long enough to accept that my need to speak to her is not . . ." Dropping his hand from his eyes, Cas gestures, trying to find words. Eventually, he gives up, opening his eyes again and trying to convey half-formed thoughts with them. "I can stay in sight, we can all go together as we leave, but I need to try to make her understand."

Dean breaks their stare first, shaking his head slightly and turning away, and he offers the compromise with an air of finality. "Burner phone, once we're already out of here. I'm not setting us up for an ambush. You can talk to her, but you make it quick and we ditch the phone before they get a trace on it again. Deal?"

"Do I have a choice but to agree, Dean?" Cas's gait is stiff as he steps around Dean once more into the room where the rest of their family waits. This time, Bobby looks up, and shoots a measuring look at the two of them, before hauling himself to his feet and pointing at his abandoned chair for Dean.

"Alright. We done with that little episode now? 'Cause you two are just gonna keep at it like this until you deal with what's actually going on and we don't have time to play Jerry Springer 'bout the ex-wife and the boyfriend in the middle of the Apocalypse." Castiel shuffles slightly on his feet, and Bobby points at the other chair commandingly until Cas lowers himself into it, watching Bobby warily. He doesn't want to have this conversation.

Which is exactly why Bobby thinks they need to.

"Feathers here killed Rivera." Both Dean and Castiel flinch, and Sam shifts in his place, folding his arms and watching the situation, reacting to the suddenly ratcheting tension. "Which is something that's crossed the minds of all four of us more'n once in the past half a year, fair to say? Dean, if it'd been a fair fight in San Antonio and you'd walked away from it and he hadn't, not a one of us woulda lost sleep over it. But he got the drop on you, and all three of us had to watch what went down."

It was the first time Bobby had admitted to seeing the video, and Dean looks so damned young for a split second, the wounded kid who'd silently stared at him while he had coaxed him into talking again, learning how to fix cars with his daddy in the salvage yard. Then the mask is back up, hard and unyielding, as if he had anything to prove to the people in the room with him, as if they'd think worse of him for getting the snot knocked out of him when he should have been in the hospital long before the first punch was thrown. "Hell, in Utah if it hadn't been for the Mormon brothers talking reason he'd have been a smear of blood in a diner and it woulda pissed you off then too. "

"You wouldn't have actually killed him, Bobby." Dean's voice holds absolute conviction, and damn it but Bobby wished that he deserved that trust in him. "Not coldly. In a fight, or self defense, yeah, but. . ."

"I'm with Cas on this one, Dean." Bobby tips his head towards the fallen angel, and Cas shoots him a quick look of mingled surprise and gratitude. "Yeah, I know, I'm the one that told you they wouldn't have done it." Bobby tells the fallen angel. "And they wouldn't have. They didn't. These boys are as good of hunters as they come, but we don't go hunting people. But I ain't exactly shedding tears that he's gone. Man was working with demons, and whether he knew it was Apocalypse stuff or just thought he could get the drop on you by playing along with Meg, doesn't exactly matter. He put himself there, and he's gone now." Bobby stops talking directly to Cas and addresses the boys too. "We got enough on our plates right now without playing the blame game."

"He's right." Sam's immediate agreement startles Dean, and he swings his gaze to his brother, eyebrows climbing his forehead. "Yeah, I know what you're going to say, Dean. I'm not supposed to want to kill people. I don't know what I'd have done if it'd been me. We should save people, and I don't like it when we have to kill something rational and mostly human, even . . . but I dunno, Dean. I wasn't exactly checking the pulse on all of those demons I dropped, either. I don't know if their hosts lived or died, and even if they pulled through me. . . they're all dead now, with Michael and Lucifer rising there. This isn't exactly our finest hour, Dean. I think part of it is. . ." Raking his hand through his hair, Sam shoots a look at his brother that's apologetic even before he opens his mouth. "I think you don't like that it was for you, Dean."

"It wasn't for me! Even if Rivera had frikkin' killed me I wouldn't have wanted that." Dean objects, loud and angry. He feels as if they are talking about Cas serving up Rivera's body like some sort of gift he should be thankful for.

Cas is shaking his head already, palming his jaw and speaking over Dean to Sam. ". . .No. I knew Dean would not want it. As Bobby said, when I first wanted to kill Rivera. . . you are heroes. It is not what you would have wanted. I'm an angel." Castiel grimaces. ". . .Was an angel. Whatever I am now, I am still not a hero. Dean is right to be wary. I could have stopped. I sought vengeance despite the harm I caused myself doing it."

"Sounds familiar." Bobby interjects in an undertone, and Dean glares at him, until Cas catches his eye, turning in his chair and raising his chin, shoulders squared.

"Rivera never raised a hand against me, and had no role in what happened in that room that I can determine. His part in this entire situation was that he was a convenient, easily manipulated pawn for Meg that could get her closer to us because of his obsession ever since . . ." And again, Castiel can replay the memory perfectly. He clenches his fists, as if he could crush Rivera's windpipe again, words cutting short as his teeth snap together. He forces himself to focus, only speaking again when his words can maintain the even, level tone. "I killed Ruben Rivera for what he did to you. Regardless of your wishes on the matter. I have felt remorse for a great many things since I became capable of the emotion. While I regret the how I did it, I am not sorry that he is dead or that I killed him. He deserved to die. It was justice."

And now Dean's entire family is all there, putting him into that corner, watching him squirm. Pushing himself to his feet, Dean stalks over to the cooler, pulling his pill from his pocket and tossing it into his mouth, and he can almost feel Cas's sudden sharp interest in the narcotic. He hadn't even thought about it, when Cas gave him the drugs, or what it'd take for him to do it. For a moment the pill sits bitter on his tongue before he decides on the water bottle over the beer bottle after all, washing it down and with it some of his choicer responses. "Look, I get it. Rivera was a miserable son of a bitch, and the world's better off without him. Trust me, I get it. I lived it, alright? What I don't need, though, is to have to worry about whether or not every time someone kicks my ass their name's getting added to some sort of frikkin' hit list. We gotta draw a line somewhere."

"I crossed a line." Dean can't decide if Castiel is asking a question or agreeing with him. Turning, he looks at the fallen angel to find Cas staring back at him. "I share a different morality. The same morality that allowed Gabriel to believe that his tricks on those he considered arrogant was justice. That permitted Balthazar to accept what that child did with the Staff of Moses. Or that convinced Anna that killing your parents to end the Apocalypse was right. Dean's primary concern is that I am willing to do things he would consider immoral in order to save him, or avenge him." Tearing his gaze away from Dean, Castiel meets Sam's eyes, his head canting to the side in the old, familiar angle. "I think that you can attest to that fact, Sam." Castiel has no line he will leave uncrossed, when he's convinced himself it is right, when he feels it will keep Dean safe. Short of Dean, Sam is his closest friend. . . and he broke his wall without hesitation, to sideline Dean.

Sam looks away first. Cas ducks his head, and sighs. "Are we going to be able to move past this, Dean?"

"You gonna stop trying to go Darth Vader every chance you get?" Dean fires back, and raises an eyebrow after a moment, walking back to Cas's chair and looking down at the top of his head questioningly. He'd caught that quick flash of expression, before Cas ducked his head and drew his shoulders in, and it wasn't contrition. ". . . What the hell did you just find funny there, Cas?"

Licking his lips, Cas looks up at Dean without rising from his chair, and shrugs sheepishly. ". . . I made that reference. It was wildly inappropriate, but seemed. . . right. At the time." Dean's watching him as if he's not quite sure whether to be proud, or to smack Cas upside the head, so Castiel shrugs (an acquired gesture). "I empathized with him when we watched the movie. I thought it was the point, to associate yourself with the characters."

"You 'empathized' with the villain, Cas?" Dean's decided on exasperation, and indignation on his behalf, but Sam's latching onto the tangent. "Did you do that for all of us? Who'd you decide I was?"

"You're Luke." Cas says, frowning at the younger Winchester. He thought that would be obvious.

"It's the hair. And the puppy-dog look." Dean snipes, and the tension in the room dissipates as he lets himself sit down, carefully lowering his injured body back onto his sleeping bag.

"That makes you Leah." Sam shoots back, triumphant, but Cas is already shaking his head. "No. Dean possesses the vehicle and a sense of humor frequently lacked by the other characters."

Dean punches the air in triumph (then winces and presses his braced hand to his ribs) and comes to the conclusion before Cas can give it. "I'm frikkin' Han Solo, baby. I'm gonna disagree with the Luke thing, then. That totally makes you Chewie, Sammy."

Nobody contests that Bobby is Obi-Wan Kenobi (though Bobby huffs at it, turning back to his computer), and the argument continues until Dean tugs Castiel's hand, pulling him down from his camp chair and onto the sleeping bag next to him, the drugs making him tired and loopy, making it harder to fight sleep. Pointing his injured hand at Sam, he looks at him pleadingly, as if suddenly remembering that the demon blood is still pumping through his brother, and what happened the last time that was the case. "Be here when I wake up, okay?"

"I'm not going anywhere, Dean." Sam promises earnestly, and Bobby pointedly takes another pull from his spiked coffee. He was pulling the first guard duty shift, watching the amped up youngest Winchester and making sure nothing crept up on them while they slept.

Dean may or may not call Castiel "princess" as he nods off. The angel decides not to argue that matter, for now, as he gently pulls Dean into an embrace and coaxes him to rest his head on Cas's shoulder.

"Sleep, Dean." The Apocalypse would still be there, tomorrow.