Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or the characters. I'm a Pepsi kind of girl, but I drink Diet Coke.


Chapter Eleven: With Angel's Wings

By: Zavijah

The storm passed before the first slivers of light crept over the horizon. The pre-dawn chill possessively clung to the earth, marking a few patches of grass with a thin frost that wouldn't last past sunrise. The creeping cold usually worked its way into Dean's toes and fingers, threatening to chill him to the very bone if he didn't get up and moving. However, this morning it wasn't the cold that woke him, it was the warmth.

Dean stirred with a faint groan. His skin was slick with sweat as if he'd been napping under the afternoon sun. It didn't take him long to realize why the small tent was several degrees too warm. The enlightenment dawned on him in the form of a warm, steady breaths wafting against the nape of his neck. That gave him chills. Dean twisted his head around enough to peer through peripherals at Castiel's sleeping face practically nuzzled into his hair. There also was an arm slung low over his waist - low being the keyword. Dean was afraid to actually look, but once he became aware of the contact, he could feel the fingers curled inward just above the hem of his pants. At least two fingers were touching against skin where his shirt had ridden up over the course of the night.

Castiel had cuddled up to him during the night.

It was understandable, the man had professed to once having a wife and nights spend outside did get cold. There were times when Dean had shared space with Sam to keep warm - that's what a bunkie was for. Yet him and his brother always slept back to back and Sam sure as hell didn't cozy up to him. Dean didn't make a habit out of sharing his space with people. Even if he had frequently rolled between sheets with countless women over the years, the hunter never stuck around long enough afterwards to cuddle.

He was not a cuddler.

Dean, not knowing whether or not a rude wakening would spur Castiel to react violently, pushed an elbow back to kindly ease Castiel away. The bartender made a quiet noise of protested and squirmed closer. Dean could distinctly feel the tip of nose lightly trail up the back of his neck and into his hair. Then those fingers - those damn fingers - curled a bit more, scraping lightly across Dean's lower abdomen - which was just not good; not good at all. His breathe caught in his throat and as panic flared up Dean hastily grabbed the trespassing hand and shoved it, and Castiel, away. He was out of the tent in record time, leaving behind a waking Castiel to sluggishly blink at the vacated space.

His racing heart would not heed his demands to settle into nonchalance. Dean fixed his shirt, stuffing it in his pants before adjusting his belt and buckle. Noises from the tent let him know Castiel was still in the process of waking. The urge rose to snarl something unpleasant at the man - but what was the point when the guy was likely to say something weird in response and make Dean feel even more uncomfortable. Dean decided he would instead go for a walk, relieve his bladder, and simply patrol the outskirts of their make-shift camp in a show of searching for signs. He refused to return until he had settled his rattled mind back into place.

When Dean did wander back the sun had lifted from the horizon. A lethargic Castiel stood near the pile of ashes that had once been their meager fire until the rain had snuffed it. The bartender had stripped of the shirt and vest that had remained damp throughout the night. Dean chewed over the idea of offering one of his drier shirts tucked into his war bags, but the likely hood of him getting it back before they parted ways was slim at best. He had few enough articles of clothing that he didn't need to be giving hand-outs.

Dean's gaze absently skimmed along the back of Castiel's pale shoulders, catching on an odd scar. No, it couldn't be a scar, it was too defined in shape. What Dean had originally thought was a line of burn scars was a mirrored pattern that used the vertebrae of the protruding bone in the neck as a focal point. It spanned outward, curling toward the top of Castiel's shoulder blades, but it was all together too small for Dean to distinguish from a distance.

His gaze fell to the ground before curiosity got the better of him, "Is that a brand?"

Castiel spun to face him while reaching over his shoulder to touch at the slightly raised skin. The look on his face was apprehensive - or confusion, like he had forgotten the mark was even there. Dean wasn't all that surprised when Castiel slid back into the shirt without answering.

"Hey," Yet it still irked Dean to be ignored, especially when he asked more out of polite curiosity than any attempt to pry. "Would be easier if you just answered me."

A bit hypocritical for the bartender to get frustrated over Dean not answering questions when he did the same damn thing. Dean stalked over, ignoring the warning look narrowed on him. He reached out and pulled the collar of Castiel's shirt down much to the other man's displeasure. Castiel's jaw tightened but he didn't fight the rough treatment, just glared at a point on the horizon.

Closer now, Dean could better make out the artistic curves of what he would call wings seared into Castiel's flesh. Dean fingers wandered near the dark red scars. His mind flashed, remembering the way Castiel's fingertips had grazed across his lower abdomen that morning. It had burned, seared into his skin much like a brand and in such a way that Dean could still feel a phantom touch drawing across his skin. Dean's jaw clenched, agitated, and he dropped his hand away before he touched Castiel.

Castiel stepped away at the same time, snapping the collar of his shirt back up to block sight of the intricate scar. It was definitely a brand. Dean had heard of branding men for their crimes. Yet those types of brands were usually more visible. Dean stared transfixed at the cloth hindering his view. What spanned from the nape of Castiel's neck didn't look like a mark of shame. It was intriguing, enough that even though Dean could no longer see the scar, he stared at the back of Castiel's shoulders while attempting to make sense of it all.

His mind flickered with images. Again the small church with the narrow steeple. The bell was swinging and a prolonged dong reverberated through his memory. It was ringing in his ears. Lips were moving, Castiel's lips, and there was that name again. Lucifer. Then there were wings opening, blocking the light shining in through the stained glass windows and throwing a shadow onto the floor that grew and grew. Lucifer. The ringing rattled his very thoughts.

"I saw a fire."

Dean jerked out of his thoughts to stare blankly at Castiel, "What?"

"A fire," Castiel repeated while finishing up his shirt buttons. "Last night."

Anger burned away Dean's previous line of thought, "And you didn't think this was important to tell me last frigg'n night?"

If he didn't think he needed Castiel to point the way, Dean would have socked him right there and left him in the dust. He had shared his damn tent with that bastard. Wait - wait, had Castiel seen the fire before Dean had made his offer? He didn't want to know, because... because Dean had more important things to focus on - like finding Sam.

"I didn't want you to –"

"Yeah, I'm sure you just didn't want to lose out on your snuggle time."

Dean's words had the effect he was going for, because as soon as they passed his lips, Castiel looked as if he had been kicked in the gut. His lips had parted without words and under the dark hair and scruff the bartender paled. He was quick to re-construct his mask of indifference and advert his blue eyes.

Castiel was quiet the rest of the morning.

Dean put the matter out of mind and concentrated on packing up his gear and tying it to his saddle. A couple of times he caught himself stealing glances toward the bartender, but anything even remotely resembling an apology died in his throat. He swallowed it down, but the tension sat like a stone in his belly. It didn't abate despite how much he ignored it. Dean didn't know if it was good, or bad, that Castiel didn't even attempt to speak to him. The man just waited for Dean to finish packing before mounting and silently taking the lead.

After unsuccessfully trying to scan the land for clues, Dean once again found himself staring at the slope of Castiel's shoulders. Behind lips that were purposely being kept to a firm close, Dean gnashed his teeth. There was that feeling again, the one where he felt like he was losing his sanity. It was as if the sense of control he had developed over the years had become water and was now slipping between his fingers. His thoughts were everywhere and nowhere all at once and he was struggling to grasp at a single one. It was Sammy, he told himself. He always got a bit touched in the head when matters concerned his brother.

It didn't quite explain why his gaze continued to track back to the bartender, "Are they wings?"

Castiel's shoulders tensed, and for a moment his entire posture remained stiff until the stride of the horse forced him to relax, "I would rather not talk about it."

"Oh come on," Dean teased with the quirk of a smile edging upward. "What harm is it going to do to answer the question."

Silence greeted his persistence.

Dean snorted, "Really, can't you just say 'yes they are wings, Dean'"

"Yes they are wings, Dean."

"Hardy-har-har," Even though Dean attempted to glare at the stoic rider, the amusement crinkled at the corner of his eyes. It faded when it became clear that Castiel wasn't going to turn around to humor him with a look. The other man was more focus on the task of watching the land while Dean was dutifully following along. He didn't even have to guide his mare - she was use to traveling with another horse and naturally plodded along behind Castiel's horse.

Dean almost spurred his mount to side along his silent companion, but the urge died in his chest - sank down to join with the cold stone-like spot already settled there. The silence made it all that more uncomfortable. Dean decided, after a long moment of debate where he idly picked at the frayed leather of his reins, that Castiel confused him. Or, Dean confused himself in how he reacted to the man. Whatever it was, Dean wasn't fond of how it left him feeling like everything had been flipped upside down.

What he liked less was being left to his own idle thoughts.

"Mind picking up the pace?"

Only then did Castiel partially turn, tossing a blue-eyed look in Dean's direction. He studied Dean a quiet moment before shifting his attention back forward, speaking plainly, "You shouldn't be riding in your condition."

This time Dean did urge his mount forward so he was pacing alongside the stoic bartender. It was better than talking to the back of the man's head, "Is that your professional opinion, Doc?"

A disapproving look slid toward Dean at the nickname. Castiel must have sensed the incoming joke, because instead of responding with the 'I'm not a doctor' bit that Dean was counting on, he sighed, "I do not need to be a medical expert to know it would be best if you, as they say, take it easy."

"You sure you're–"

"I'm not a Quaker."

There was a moment of pause before Dean found himself lightly chuckling. Either Castiel was more perceptive than he let on, Dean was too predictable, or they were actually getting to know one another.

Again Castiel glanced at him, "Why does it bother you?"

"I didn't say it did."

"You speak of them in a condescending manner. It shows that you do not agree with their beliefs, that... you feel they are a joke." Castiel's head canted at this, an almost questioning lift on the last word as if uncertain of the phrasing. "They are merely pacifists who hold to the idea of living every day as a good person. There is nothing wrong with a man, or woman, being –"

"It's crap, it's all crap." He was getting a headache listening the brainwashed garbage spewing from Castiel's mouth. "There isn't good in this world. There's bad and then there is worse and everyone just mucks through the same shit in whatever way they can to get by. If it makes people feel better to imagine they're better than everyone else, whatever. I'm not buying into it."

Castiel was staring at him as they traveled, bobbing to the individual rhythm of their horses. Dean briefly met those troubled blue eyes, noticing the faint way Castiel shook his head in wonder, "How can you say there is no good in the world."

"The same way I would say there is no God."

Now Castiel just looked hurt, but whatever lame argument Castiel would no doubt try to present, Dean didn't have time for it. His gaze caught on movement beyond Castiel. He pulled short on his reins, bringing his mare to an abrupt halt. Castiel followed the motion a second later. Both riders spun their horses around to gaze at the far end of the dry wash. Now that their conversation had fallen silent, along with the cacophony of hooves, a voice could be heard yelling in attempt to get their attention.

"Hey!"

The tall man was waving his arms, and it didn't take Dean a second more to recognize him. "That's Sam."

A knot loosened in Dean's chest at the sight. He put heels to his mare's flanks and raced toward his brother. The loose pebbles that once made up the bottom of a creek scattered in his wake. He slowed when he was near enough to see Sam wasn't hurt. It was then he noticed the frantic flailing his brother was performing and tuned into what was being said.

"–in the damn salt ring!"

"Well gee Sammy, it's nice to see you too."

"Dean!" Angry motions were made with hands. "Get in the damn salt ring!"

The older hunter scowled, his expression pinching inward. "The hell Sammy, I'm not riding all the way back to town just to sit in a salt ring with wing-man."

For a moment the conversation ceased. Sam's head cocked to the side and his brows knitted in obvious confusion - then he was shaking his head to dismiss Dean's words. He reached down to retrieve the bag of salt, but froze with his fingers curled around the canvas sack and his eyes widened on the unknown. "Dean watch–"

Suddenly Baby was rearing with a high pitched scream. Her front legs slashed through the air and an unprepared Dean (who would like to think he was good at keeping his saddle) was thrown to the dirt. His shoulder screamed with the impact. Dean ignored it - he didn't have time for pain. Not when a ghostly visage of a young woman was reaching for him with fingers curved like talons. She might have reached him if not for his horse's front legs coming back down from the rear. By lucky chance Baby's feet cut right through the reaching ghost, the spirit screamed before temporarily dissipating.

Thank God for iron horse shoes.

Dean scrambled toward Sam, letting his brother grab his upper arm and haul him upright. When he looked down he noticed the salt ring. "Please tell me you know what's going on."

"It's not a banshee."

A scoff, "I could have told you that."

"Dean - please - can the attitude. I've been up all night trying to keep a salt ring in the rain and do you have any idea how long it took me to start that fire?"

"Shit–" He hadn't been the one to spot the said fire. "–Cas."

On the rise across the dry wash, Castiel was lightly trotting his horse to where Dean's mount had wandered after being spooked. He gathered up Baby's trailing reins, wrapping them once around his palm before drawing her back in the direction of the Winchester brothers. Dean made to leave the salt ring but Sam caught his arm, "Dean!"

The older hunter shot his brother a sharp look that should have communicated well enough that he did not like the idea of Castiel and their horses standing out there like a baited trap. He'd never liked those scenarios and avoided them as much as possible.

"She – Bela, left something behind to keep me trapped here with that ghost."

"Great," Not only was the jewelry snitch familiar with the spirit world, she had a sick sense of humor where she preferred leaving a man trapped by a ghost rather than just shoot him dead. Although, on some level, Dean could be thankful that this woman was on the side of strange, otherwise Sam would have been very much dead. Dean may not be able to stop a speeding bullet (especially when he wasn't even present) but a ghost was something right up his alley. "You must have made one helluva an impression on her to deserve this."

"You're telling me - she made me trade my gun for the bag of salt."

Dean, finding the trade-off rather amusing, felt his lips twitch into a smirk. An expression he quickly expelled when Sam started to glare. Right, not funny. Nope. Dean lightly bit on his lower lip. Ah, hell – "You throw in your horse just to seal the deal?"

Sam glowered with thinly veiled annoyance, then his cheeks were coloring in an embarrassment that refused to be suppressed, "No, she took it."

"Man, I can't believe you let some chick steal your horse."

"I didn't let her."

Dean chuckled. Despite the fact they were in the middle of nowhere, standing in a salt ring, and more or less trapped there by a vengeful spirit, it felt normal. It was a welcomed moment of reprieve after the awkwardness he felt around Castiel. Dean savored the moment of what he classified as normalcy before he raised an arm to hail Castiel – but it was too late. The ghost had returned.

Unlike Dean, Castiel managed to keep his saddle as his own horse spooked. He even kept a grip on Baby's reins as the two horses whirled. As impressed as Dean was, even if it stabbed a bit at his own pride, Dean had to do something before the guy got ghost-ganked - although the horses were doing well to shy away from the lurching spirit. Dean shoved his hands into the bag of salt Sam held, "Find the damn thing that's anchoring the bitch here."

He sprinted toward Castiel.

One well aimed throw of loose salt got rid of the ghost, although as Dean reached for the bridle of Castiel's horse, he nearly got kicked in the head by the man's startled reaction. Dean might have snapped - wanted to - but knew the ghost would soon return so he needed to use his time at least a little more wisely. "Cas, you've gotta take the horses and get out of here. Stay in sight, but don't–"

The rest of his words transformed into a pained scream that cut short by teeth gritting so tightly Dean thought he felt a tooth crack. He twisted his head around to see the ghost behind him, her hands deeply plunged in his lower chest. She stared at him with eyes as white as milk. Her grin, while missing teeth, was no less delighted as she squeezed the air from his lungs. Dean's vision wavered and it took a great effort to torque and throw the other handful of salt at the spirit. The pressure in his chest disappeared and Dean sucked in a gasping breathe. He might have made friends with the dirt for a second time in the span of five minutes if not for dismounted Castiel catching him by the arm.

Dean glared at the man even as gripped back. "Didn't I tell you to get lost."

Castiel spared him a crooked, apprehensive smile. Dean grumbled under his breath as he hauled the smaller man toward the salt ring, shoving him in past the white line. "If you value your life, stay put."

Dean exchanged Castiel's arm for the bag of salt and went to help his brother with the search. The next few moments were a blur as both hunters moved on adrenaline fueled instinct. Sam got pelted in the face a couple of times when Dean threw salt. It might have been funny if not for the occasional grunt of pain as the ghost whittled away their strength one frigid, ethereal touch at a time. All was going as smoothly as getting their asses kicked by a ghost as they fumbled around for a mystery trinket could go.

The world fell from under Dean's feet. Vertigo stuck him a moment before his side impacted with a boulder. He lost grip on the bag of salt. Couldn't see where it went, but the slight taste of salt on his lips said he spilled it all over the damn place. The metallic tang of blood replaced the salt and a burning began in Dean's chest as he began to realize he hadn't been able to breathe for the last few seconds.

The sky was a crisp blue above him; the rocks and dirt grasped between his fingers rough. These were sensations he desperately held onto while he struggled to inhale. The pain was fading and that alone alarmed Dean. Pain was life, as long as he could still feel pain, he knew he wasn't dying.

God damnit, this wasn't a way he wanted to go, it was just a stupid ghost.

Then there was a warm palm pressed against his cheek, and the blue of the sky was replaced with the darker storm-like shade of Castiel's eyes. Dean cursed - mentally, as he was unable to breathe properly, let alone speak. This bartender didn't listen worth a damn; out here being all concerned. All the same, Dean found the simple touch - the gentle contact and warmth against his jaw line - comforting. Those eyes, too, those sapphire orbs that stared through the cracks in Dean's defenses and silently read over the pain and vulnerability hidden behind the mask; a look that said everything would be alright, that there was still good in this world.

Dean felt a tug at his waist and he quickly slapped a hand over his holster, but Castiel had already taken the gun and with a final look at Dean — He's not afraid. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he's not afraid — Castiel moved came to Dean in short, sharp inhales. It hurt - pain is good - he must have broken a rib.

A shot rang out.

A second.

Lead bullets manually tipped with iron - it would do the job to make the ghost temporarily dissipate but christ those bullets were limited in number. Dean rolled onto his side with a wince, then pushed himself onto his knees. ("Got a match?"). He planted one foot on the ground as he wrapped an arm around his ribs. ("Toss me the gun!") Reaching a hand under the thickness of his duster, Dean ran his fingers along the side of his ribs until a blossom of pain bloomed when one moved under the firm palpation. ("Burn it.")

Dean lurched to his feet and stumbled toward the voices. His eyes widened as the ghost loomed before him. He passed through her - his heart stopping in his chest - as she passed through him. Warmth brushed at his cheeks and when Dean pivoted around there were burning ashes falling in his wake. Dean completed his little spin to blink at his brother and tag-a-long. Sam was holding the gun (Clever Sam, disarming a stranger in such a subtle manner. Sammy was always the thinker.) while Castiel was dropping the burning remains of who-knows-what. "Well," both sets of eyes swung to him and Dean felt it necessary to put forth a cocky smile. "That was easy."

He felt like he was going to hurl.

Sam was rolling his eyes, and Castiel was giving him that concerned stare, both looks of which Dean ignored as he went to fetch his horse. He didn't need either of those two noticing the pain flickering across his face. Dean held his hand out to his horse and tried to beckon her closer, "Baby, I'm so glad you're okay." She was a special horse - but only because she had survived the longest out of any of the horses he had owned over the years. It was sad, but most often their horses accidentally filled the role of meat shield when it came to monster hunting.

"So,"

That was Sam, walking toward him with Castiel lagging behind a few paces.

"We've got a serious problem on our hands."

Dean smirked as he gathered his horse's reins, "Other than my brother got beat by a woman?"

"I mean this Bela has all my stuff, plus God knows what else, and she has no qualms with using her knowledge of the supernatural against people to get what she wants." Sam gathered the reins of the second horse.

While his brother was occupied, Dean struggled to step up into his saddle. He bit on his lip to stifle the groan of pain. Yeah, he hid his injury because now wasn't the time to worry about it, because whether Sam liked it or not, they still had to ride back into town. "I guess you have a point - know which way she went?"

"Yeah, but from what little I've seen of her - she's smart Dean. I wouldn't put it past her to have switched back and gone elsewhere to throw off any pursuers."

"Maybe that guy Belshazzar–"

"Balthazar," That wasn't Sam's voice correcting him.

Both Dean and Sam paused from where they were seated in the saddle. In unison they turned to peer down at the eerily calm bartender. Dean realized one thing almost at once: three riders, only two horses. "Hey uh, Sam, Cas needs to ride with you."

Unsurprisingly, Sam instantly protested. "Why do I have to do it?"

"Because I've already spent enough quality time with him, it's your turn."

"I thought him being a bartender made you two as good as drinking buddies."

"Well I ain't drinking right now, am I."

"If it's that much trouble," Castiel's low, scratching voice broke in between their squabble. "I can walk."

"Oh shut it you damn martyr, you're not walking." Dean growled, angry because the damn Quaker made him feel guilty about the whole situation. To Sam he muttered, "Come on Sam, you can ride with me."

"Dean, I'm not seven anymore. Forget it."

The older hunter bristled. Exhausted, hungry, and feeling dizzy from the pain, Dean wanted his brother to be a little less insolent. Sadly, it was something of a family trait - as was stubbornness. Dean didn't want to submit until he had put up as much as a fight as possible. In the interest of saving time, Dean decided to settle this fairly. He stuck out his palm, his other hand fisted onto it in an invite to a round of Roshambo.

Rock-paper-scissors.

Sam mirrored him, and after three pats of fists to palms, they chose their best weapon. Dean went with scissors and was already letting out a frustrated growl when he saw Sam had chosen rock. "Best two out of three?"

"Don't be such a sore loser," Sam teased as he urged his horse to take the lead toward town.

"You should be more thankful I bothered to come to save your ass!"

No amount of yelling would change the outcome, but it felt nice to vent some of the frustration. At least Sam was ahead of him and wouldn't see the mild flush to Dean's features as he moved Baby over to Castiel and offered the man an arm up. A mistake, as the strain on his ribs made him hunch forward afterwards as he fought to keep his breathing even. His previous flush drained from his features, but as with all things, Dean ignored it. He pushed a hand against the horn of saddle to force himself upright. He glanced back at Castiel, "You good?"

The bartender gave a shallow nod, then before Dean could read the motion, Castiel had reached forward to press a hand against the side of Dean's ribs. Almost a motion to hold on, but the knowing look on Castiel's face said otherwise. Broken ribs. Dean grabbed the offending hand with his own and pulled it aside to relieve the sickening pressure. "Unless you got a flask of whiskey with you, I'm not interested in hearing the prognosis, Doc."

Castiel frowned, but thankfully said nothing and as they rode back toward town Dean noted that Castiel was careful to only grab at his waist for grip when necessary instead of a shoulder or elsewhere that might jar Dean's ribs. Dean had never been much of a physically affectionate person, but he had to admit that the distraction of the small touches of Castiel's hands on his side, or the brush of a leg against his own, kept him from focusing entirely on the pain burning a hole in his side.

Mostly.

Dean lasted as long as he could, he really did, but by the time they had neared town he was only in the saddle by the good graces of Castiel's arms. The bartender had the reins and Dean kept a white-knuckled grip on the saddle horn with a determination to not lean too far one way or the other that might make him lose his seat. He blearily stared at the approaching horizon, not sure if the pain had made him delusional, because he was certain he saw a plume of thick smoke rising above the peaked roofs of town.


A/N: I seem to always find it difficult to switch back to Dean's perspective after a Castiel chapter. They filter the world around them very differently (in my writing world). Where Castiel would feel and acknowledge the sense of relief at finally having someone look at him when they talk.. Dean only does the 'at least it was better than talking to the back of the guy's head' spiel. It's still expressing the same reaction. Dean also seems to refuse to dwell on things that make him feel uncomfortable. He seems to shut it down and move onto things he better understands. It may be a bad habit, but I like writing the chapter with the essence of the character in the style.

Don't ask how Dean feels, because he's a man and a man doesn't talk about his feelings.

I've committed a crime. Halfway through this chapter I had to stop and write a completely different chapter to a different story just because the idea wouldn't get out of my head.