April 5, 2009.

Peoria, Illinois.

Midmorning light filtered softly through the stained glass windows of the Cathedral. It reflected off the highly polished pews and illuminated the dust that drifted in the air, stirred up by the frenzied exodus of the parishioners of the the mass Dean had attended. They were long gone now, headed home for Sunday dinners and baseball games, but Dean was still there, sequestered in the last pew in the far left corner.

He watched as altar boys rushed to restock the tables behind him with fresh palm leaves for the next mass. Families filtered in slowly from the vestibule, picking up palms as they made their way to the pews their grandfathers probably claimed when the cathedral was built over a hundred years ago.

Dean watched as a little girl in a frilly dress pulled at her collar, scratching absently at the back of her neck. Her big brown eyes caught his gaze and she smiled, gap toothed, as children often do: automatically, guileless and trusting even of strangers.

Dean smiled back at her, self-consciously pulling his sleeves down further over his wrists. Much to his relief, the little girl ran up the aisle to sit with her mother.

He couldn't stay. He needed to leave before too many more people filtered in and he drew attention to himself. He contemplated standing up and slipping away through the nave, but he doubted his body could make it. He doubted even more that he could take sit through another Palm Sunday Mass.

The mass had reopened his wounds and this time, the bleeding had been worse. The Eucharist, usually a balm to the pain, barely took the edge off.

Dean glanced down at the floor where drops of blood had fallen from his wrists. They had coalesced into a small, bright red pool on the parquet floor. He bent down and swiftly wiped it away with his sleeve.

Dean wished he could move and not just because of the bleeding. Though church had always made him feel uncomfortable, it felt almost foreign to him now. Alien. The organ music made him long for the sound of a cantor chanting in Hebrew. The statues stirred up anger at Roman battle standards —graven images—placed outside The Temple. Though it was covered by a purple cloth, he couldn't even look at the crucifix hanging behind the altar. It brought up images of half rotted corpses tied up along roadsides.

He shook his head, trying to dispel the sound of his own screams.

Dean was starting to remember more and more. The words of food blessings or the process of making wood stain out of honey and olive oil that had only haunted him in his sleep and during ecstatic visions had become as much a part of him as the lyrics to Hey Jude or the proper way to pack a rock salt shotgun shell.

He remembered that Palm Sunday — the feast commemorated during the mass—never happened. There was no donkey. No palm branches. No crowds. He—Jesus had walked into Jerusalem as nothing more than a pilgrim, as he had done for countless Passovers before.

Dean had scoffed at the pomp and circumstance of it all during the last the mass, gaining more than one angry look from the parishioners who had sat around him.

The organ began to play a low, mournful hymn.

"So much for leaving before the next mass," Dean muttered to himself, head bowed, as he slid a palm frond reflexively through his fingers, feeling the slightly sharp edge of the leaf over on his calloused skin.

He heard heavy footfalls come to a stop next to him at the end of his pew. A tattered trench coat fell into his peripheral vision.

His heart sank for just a moment, though he didn't know why.

"Hello, Dean." Castiel's voice seemed to echo through the church despite the growing din of the churchgoers around him as they all chatted with one another before the start of the mass.

"Hey Cas," Dean said softly. He didn't look up at him.

"If I'm not mistaken," Castiel began, "it's customary to leave your head uncovered while in church." His voice was leading.

Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah. It is. But I've been praying…I guess." He looked at Castiel. "And for some reason, I feel better keeping it covered."

Some of Dean's memories had become instincts. A beard he hadn't shaved. A beanie he kept on his head, not only to hide the bruises on his forehead, but because he felt compelled to keep his head covered.

Castiel nodded. He slid into the pew, sitting next to him. "How much of the wall has come down?" he asked.

Dean scoffed. "Too damn much of it." Instead of speaking English, he replied in Aramaic. The language flowed from his lips as naturally as English, like he had been speaking it his entire life.

Castiel stiffened in the seat next to him. "I haven't heard that language spoken in centuries," he said mournfully. "It's strange to hear it again."

Dean grew quiet. Slowly, he lifted his head up, gazing at the crucifix hanging behind the altar. "This is my blood, spilt for the sins of many," he whispered, still speaking Aramaic. He looked at the crucifix only briefly before turning his eyes to Castiel. "You were there that night. At the Last Supper." This time Dean spoke in English, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper. "Do you remember it?"

Castiel nodded. "I do."

"Then you remember what I—" Dean quickly spit the word out. "—He was really talking about."

"Yes." Castiel paused. "It's not about what Jesus was dying for, but why he was dying." He shot Dean a guilt ridden look. "And—by extension— who it was that killed him."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "He knew you winged jackasses were going to twist everything after you ganked him. He wanted to make sure there was something of his you couldn't change." He chuckled bitterly. "That's what the Eucharist is: a big middle finger to the angels and I—" Dean cut himself off, clenching his fists. "I woulda done the exact. Same. Thing."

"Dean—"

"—How much of me is actually me, Cas?" Dean hissed. "I mean, I've got his wounds and his memories. Christ, Cas, at this point, hismother feels more real to me than my own mom." Tears flooded Dean's eyes. He quickly wiped them away, running a hand over his mouth. "I have his fucking soul, Cas. His Soul. The most basic part of me doesn't even belong to me."

An old man sitting a few pews in front of them turned in his seat, shooting Dean dirty look before turning back around.

Dean took a deep, awkward breath.

"I told you, Dean. It does belong to you", Castiel insisted, whispering. "Your name is imprinted upon it as much as his was. You are your own man and you always have been."

"Am I?" Dean cocked an eyebrow. "You know, when he died he felt abandoned by God. All of his faith was gone. For all I know, the reason why I don't have faith has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I've spent my whole life watching good people get ripped apart by evil while you guys sat on your asses and everything to do with him losing his."

Just then, the sound of the main church door closing echoed through the Cathedral. One of the sisters from the convent walked in, making her way over to the side aisle. Dean quickly he turned away from her, staring at the floor.

When she walked passed the pew, Dean lifted his head back up. He stayed quiet until he saw her take a seat near the altar. "I gotta get outta here, Cas," he said desperately. "I can't stay here. Not now."

"Where do you want to go, Dean?" Castiel asked concerned.

"Bobby's," Dean said bluntly. "That's the only place I wanna be right now." Dean wrapped his arms around his torso, ghosting his fingers over the bones on the left side of his ribcage.

Two days ago, a sharp twinge of pain between his fifth and sixth ribs woke him up from a dead sleep. There had been an undercurrent of fear in the back of his mind ever since.

Dean looked at Castiel. "Once I grab my stuff, you mind helping me with that?"

Castiel shook his head. "Not at all." He climbed out of the pew, standing in the aisle.

"Good." Dean smiled sadly he stood up from the pew, half stumbling out of it.

Castiel quickly grabbed him, gripping on to both of his shoulders to steady him.

As soon as Castiel hands touched him, a smell flooded Dean's nostrils. The stench of blood and sweat surrounding him. It was followed swiftly by the sound of shouts and jeers and cries. A voice—raspy and deep—whispered to him, begging him to let him stay. Standing before him was Castiel, but it wasn't Castiel. He had dark eyes and tanned skin wearing a rough wool tunic, but he bore same the expression on his face. One of guilt and anger, sadness and pity. He pressed his hand gently on Dean's left shoulder and a bright light emanated from it, soaking into the raw skin.

Just as quickly as the memory came on, it left, and Dean found himself back in the church with Castiel—Cas—holding his shoulders.

Immediately, Dean's gaze went to his left shoulder, the shoulder with the handprint scar. He pulled Castiel's hand off of it and stepped away from him.

"Dean," Castiel sighed. "Listen—"

"—No. I get it." Dean stopped. He turned around, facing Castiel. "I'm your charge. I always have been." Sadness filled his voice. "You're just doing your job."

Dean walked up the aisle without saying another word.

April 5, 2009.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

"Lemme get this straight." Bobby leaned forward, shooting Dean a confused look. "You left your brother and your car to hitch hike across the lower forty-eight with nothing but a damn duffle bag?"

"When you put it like that you make it sound stupid," Dean said, taking a reluctant a sip from his coffee.

Castiel leaned against the kitchen door post, watching the conversation. Mostly, Castiel was watching Dean. Though he looked the same, some of his mannerisms had changed. Some of the changes were subtle. The beat Dean drummed on the table belonged to Avinu Malkeinu, an old Hebrew prayer Castiel had heard spoken many times before. Some were more obvious. The quiet pause Dean took before taking his first sip of coffee, used to silently say a blessing over it.

These were mannerisms Castiel had once known well, but they had been wiped from his memory. Taken. Though Castiel wanted to find comfort in seeing these gestures again, watching Dean perform them brought him nothing but sadness. They were a shadow, a vestige of someone long gone. A reminder of Castiel's own failings.

Briefly Castiel turned his gaze to Bobby. As far as he could tell, the older man hadn't noticed the changes in Dean, or if he had noticed them, Bobby didn't feel compelled to mention them.

"That's because it is," Bobby retorted, taking a sip from his coffee. "You're not exactly batting a thousand here, Dean."

"I haven't been batting a thousand for months now," Dean said. "And I've spent that whole time hunting."

"That's different. You had your brother there to keep an eye on you." Bobby pointedly fixed his gaze on Dean. "Speaking of which, why did you leave Sam?"

Dean paused. He shrugged. "I just needed time by myself." He picked at the wood grain, tracing the pattern with the rough edge of his index finger. It was a nervous tick Castiel had seen many times before.

"You needed almost three months away from your brother?" Bobby shot Dean an incredulous look.

"This isn't the first time I've gone months without seeing him, Bobby," Dean said defensively. "Shit, I went four years barely even speaking to him. When Sam was at Stanford, I saw him once before Dad disappeared."

"Exactly. When John disappeared, Sam was the first person you went to," Bobby pointed out. "You sold your soul for him, Dean. You're gonna sit here and tell me you could just up and leave him?" He glanced down to the blood stained bandages around Dean's wrists. "Especially now?"

Dean looked away from Bobby. "I had to leave Sam." He drummed his fingers against the wood of the table, faster than before. "The day after my birthday we went to this megachurch outside of Kansas City. The pastor was possessed by this big league demon. Alastair. He's the one that had me in The Pit. He tried to kill me, but Sam got to him first using his psychic crap."

Dean didn't say anything more.

"And?" Bobby asked, leading.

"Sam had blood smeared all over his mouth." Dean's voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "And it smelled like sulfur."

Bobby froze. "What?"

Dean took a deep breath. "Sam drinks demon blood. It makes his powers stronger. Ruby's his dealer and she's got him cracked out real bad."

"Why didn't you call me?" Bobby asked, his tone half concern, half anger. "We coulda locked his ass in the panic room and dried him out. In fact, we still can—"

"—Doing that would do jack shit." Dean scoffed. "I have 'phenomenal cosmic powers' and I couldn't even heal him."

"Come again?" Bobby blinked.

"I tried to heal Sam. That was the very first thing I did after I found out. It didn't work." Dean stared down at his hands. "I did the whole laying on of hands thing and nothing happened. In fact, the only thing that did happen was I started to bleed." Guilt filled his voice. "I've healed blindness, childhood Leukemia, fuck, I've even brought people back from the dead." Dean took a deep breath. "I just can't heal Sam."

Bobby looked over to Castiel. "That true?"

"Unfortunately," Castiel said. "Dean has a certain restrictions. Healing Sam is one of them."

"And even if he could be—" Dean bit his lip. "—even if he could be healed, the whole time I was gone, he never tracked me down. He's a good hunter and between the bleeding wounds, miracles and spending a month in a convent, I wouldn't have been that tricky to find. Sam didn't look very hard. If he even looked at all."

"Did you try calling him?" Bobby asked.

Dean nodded. "Once at the convent. He didn't pick up and he didn't call back either so…" He looked at Bobby. "I don't wanna spend the next four days looking for him. All things considered."

Bobby nodded. He was quiet for a moment before he took he took a deep breath. "You hungry?" He gestured to the stove. "I've got Canadian bacon frying up. I could throw another one on for you—"

Dean raised his voice, disgusted. "No." The word barely left his mouth when he cleared his throat. "No." This time it was placid. Apathetic. "I'm not hungry."

Bobby stared at Dean, studying him. "You gonna need anything else?" He asked. "A prayer shawl maybe?"

"No." Dean pulled his beanie off, shoving it into his back pocket. "I'm fine."

Castiel knew Dean wasn't fine. The kitchen reeked with the stench of bacon grease. From the moment they stepped into the room, he could sense that it was giving Dean a headache and twisting his stomach.

"I just— Right now, I just wanna sleep."

"Well," Bobby sighed. "You're welcome to the upstairs bedroom."

"Thanks." Dean stood up from the table, trudging out of the kitchen and over to the stairs.

As soon as Dean's feet hit the second floor landing, Castiel turned and started to make his way through the kitchen to the front door.

"You're not stickin' around?" Bobby called out to him.

"No," Castiel said bluntly. "I need to return to Heaven."

"You sure about that?" Bobby squinted at him. "Because from where I'm standing it seems to me like you're gonna be needed here."

Castiel froze. "I have orders to follow and they don't come from you." He stared at Bobby. "If I'm needed here, Dean will let me know."

With that, Castiel left.

He didn't want to stay. He couldn't stay. He couldn't watch The Righteous Man die again when there was nothing he could do to stop it. Not again.

Though in many ways Jesus and Dean were very different men, in just as many they were not.

Jesus would have relented and told of Sam's addiction when pressed just as Dean had done. Though he would have spoken about it with less self-hatred than Dean did, the guilt Jesus would have carried over it would have been the same. The only real difference was that Jesus would spoke of it far sooner and with less pressing than Dean had done.

Dean was more stubborn, more willful, far less willing to accept his fate. Though that gave Castiel some hope, it couldn't drive the ghost from him.

April 6, 2009

Sioux Falls, South Dakota

Dean was dreaming. He was remembering. This time, it was the sound of shattering pottery, cracking wood and spilling coins, shouting and chaos. A whip hewn from ropes he held so tightly it nearly burned the flesh of his hand.

A voice, male and very familiar, hissed at him, "…What did you do that for?! Do you have any idea how stupid that was?" The man standing in front of him was James. Little Brother.

"I know. I know." Deansnapped, his voice raspy and hoarse. "I'm just," he paused. "I'm tired. I'm tired of this. I was supposed to fight Rome but now…" Fear washed over him. "I have to fight you."

"I won't say yes." James said bluntly, verging on anger. "You know that."

"I know you won't. I won't either," Deanswallowed hard. His voice shook. "But they might not give us the choice."

Dean's work with a start. He placed his hands over his eyes, rubbing them tensely. Though he remembered the conversation, he couldn't remember what it was about. All he knew was that it was something important. Something dire.

He sat up, trying to focus, to pull memory out, but he couldn't. It was locked.

"Son of a bitch," Dean hissed, running a hand through his hair.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean caught sight of something sitting on the nightstand, he turned his head to find a neatly folded blue and white stripped prayer shawl sitting on top of it. It's fringes dangled over the side of the nightstand. Bobby— Dean assumed—had left it there while he was sleeping.

"Damn it, Bobby." He rolled his eyes, shoving the blankets off and throwing his legs over the side of the bed. He stared awkwardly at the shawl before running his hand over the stripes, making his way down to one of the long corner fringes, running its threads slowly through his fingers.

He remembered Jesus'— his— own prayer shawl. Hand dyed and spun from wool, it always had the faint smell of olive wood. He had worn it during every Morning Prayer and synagogue service from the time he was thirteen years old. Sarah— his little sister—had made it for his bar mitzvah.

The memory flooded Dean with guilt. A kind of guilt that Dean was all too familiar with. It was the same guilt he felt every time he drove through Fort Douglas, Wisconsin, where that shtriga had attacked Sam when they were children, the same guilt that had that driven him to make a crossroads deal. A job he had failed to do. A sibling he had failed to protect.

It was the exact same guilt he felt during the dream.

Dean dropped the fringe and stood up from the bed. He changed his bandages and clothes before leaving the room, making his way down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Bobby was sitting at the kitchen table, threading a fishing pole. A second pole leaned against the table.

"Morning sleeping beauty," Bobby said.

"What's with the fishing poles?" Dean asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "You getting ready to whack Fredo or something?"

"Get your Hail Mary's ready, boy," Bobby said, not looking up from the pole. "We're going fishing."

Dean furrowed his brow. Even though he loved fishing, he didn't want to go anywhere. "Do we have to?" He took an apprehensive sip from his coffee.

Bobby shot him a look. "Yes princess, you do. Fresh air will do you some good."

Dean sighed. "Bobby, seriously I'm not—"

"—I got lawn chairs and a six pack sitting in the trunk of the Chevelle." Bobby stood from the table, taking both fishing poles into his hands. "I'm not taking 'no' for an answer, Dean." With that he walked out in the foyer. "You got ten minutes!" he called out, shutting the front door behind him.

Dean rolled his eyes. He took a big sip of his coffee before dumping the rest out into the sink and grabbing his jacket, walking out to Bobby's car. "I got one stipulation," Dean said, closing the car door of the front passenger seat. He eyed the radio. "I call dibs on the tunes."

Bobby smirked. "What's that thing you always say about shotguns and music?"

"Come on Bobby," Dean sighed. "I've spent the last month listening to nothing but church organ music."

Bobby chuckled. "Fine son, have at it." He started the car. "Just don't have the damn thing blaring. I wanna keep my ear drums."

Dean nodded. He turned the dial to a local classic rock station. Donovan's Hurdy Gurdy Man —psychedelic folk rock with screeching guitars— filled the cabin. It was moody and ominous, prophetic even.

Dean tried his best to tune it out.

After a fifteen minute drive down Route 42, they arrived at a small lake with a single boat launch, quiet and secluded.

Climbing out of the Chevelle, Dean was enveloped by the smell of cold lake water and trees. Leaning against the side of the car, he took in a deep contented breath, letting the cool, fresh air fill his lungs.

Bobby shot Dean a look as he opened the trunk. "Told ya."

Dean nodded. "You did."

They made their way down to the dock, setting up their chairs and baiting their lures. Once they were cast, Bobby reached down and handed Dean a beer.

Even though the beer tasted like ash, Dean took a large pull from it.

While Bobby made an effort to keep an eye on his line, Dean just held it between his knees, choosing instead to stare out at the lake.

The lake was quiet, still. The soft, rhythmic splash of the water against the dock brought Dean a level of calm he hadn't had in months. Lakes had always had that effect on Dean. They brought him comfort and solitude in a way that nothing else could.

But the more Dean stared at the water, the more he remembered.

Jesus had loved the water as well. The Sea of Galilee was one of the few places he was ever truly at peace. It was the only place that could cool the heat in his veins and calm the buzzing in his ears. So much so that the only time he truly ever got any rest was inside a fishing boat.

A lump grew in Dean's throat.

"So… I'm not just The Second Coming." Dean's words hung in the air. He took another deep pull from his beer, turning his gaze over to Bobby. "Turns out I was a carpenter in a previous life."

Bobby was silent. Then he nodded. He took sip of his beer before he looked over to Dean. "Who told you?" he asked simply.

Bobby had accepted it with little trouble, like it was a foregone conclusion. The only relief that brought Dean was knowing that he didn't have to spend time convincing and explaining it to Bobby.

Part of Dean wondered how Sam would react if he told him. Another part of Dean knew this was something he could never tell Sam.

"Cas," Dean said bluntly, drumming his thumb against the bottle. "He told me while I was staying at the convent."

Bobby paused. "So," he locked his gaze on Dean's forehead, squinting. "This means the stigmata aren't just something Heaven put on you because they come with the territory. They're a part of you."

"Basically, yeah." Dean took another sip of his beer. "But that's not the only thing." Dean tapped his index finger against his temple. "I have this wall...thing up here. It's holding all of those memories back but—" He took a deep breath. "—It's breaking. It's been breaking since the night I started getting the wounds."

Silence fell between them.

Finally, Bobby asked, "How fast is it breaking?" That question was loaded with reluctance and fear.

"Well, I can say 'That'll be five denarii' in Aramaic now, so…" Dean licked his lips. "So, one way or another, come Friday afternoon I'm pretty sure I'm not gonna be here."

"Damn it, Dean," Bobby hissed. He ran his free hand through his hair before nervously readjusting his baseball cap.

Dean quickly looked away from him. "Come on. There ain't anything I could about this, Bobby." He pursed his lips. "We both know this wasn't gonna end pretty for me."

"I know. I just..." Bobby paused. He took a deep, shaken breath. "I just got you back, son."

Dean didn't respond.

He chugged the rest of his beer and opened a second bottle.

April 9, 2009.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

The day had started off well for Dean. He woke up early and had spent the morning in Bobby's salvage yard taking apart cars. The hubcaps and tires on a 1993 Toyota Celica, the transmission on a 2007 Honda Accord, the brake pads on a 2004 Chevrolet Silverado.

Dean hoped it was a good sign. That maybe, against all odds, he was getting better. Another part of him thought it was something more ominous, a last gasp of energy and drive before the inevitable. Dean ignored it while he spent the afternoon tuning up Bobby's Chevelle. He ignored it still shortly after sunset while he and Bobby sat down for a dinner of burgers and beers.

Dean was halfway through eating when it happened. An ache slammed into his chest, heavy and tight. Sadness stole his appetite and robbed him of what energy he had left.

Then it was gone. There was no silence. No flapping wings. No visions. No twinges of pain, no bleeding. Nothing. There was only the sadness that lingered around him like the last rays of sunlight streaming onto the kitchen table.

That, more than anything, scared Dean. Thought during Lent his wounds opened slowly and were foreshadowed by sadness, when he received a new wound the pain had always come on with great speed and suddenness, enveloping him in an ecstatic cacophony of vision and suffering where the most visceral and agonizing parts were over before they even began.

He wanted the pain to come that way; he needed the pain to come that way, but it wasn't going to.

Dean wouldn't receive The Spear until late the following afternoon and there was a good chance he wouldn't even be there to witness it.

"Did I overcook it?" Bobby asked, putting his plate in the sink.

"No." Dean shook his head, pushing his plate away. "I'm just not hungry I guess." He said leading, downing the rest of his beer.

Bobby stared at him. "Well," he sighed. "I got a bottle of Johnny Blue Label Rufus gave me a few months back sitting in the basement somewhere. How about I dig her out and we crack her open?"

Dean nodded.

With that Bobby left the kitchen, disappearing into the basement.

Dean stood up and walked over to the row of phones in Bobby's kitchen, picking up the house phone. He stared down at the receiver, taking a deep breath before he dialed Sam's cell phone number.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times, four times. There was no 'hello' or even the sudden cut off of a ring; a sign that call was rejected. It just kept ringing.

Finally, it went to Sam's voicemail. "It's Sam. I'm not here right now. Leave a message."

Dean paused, taking a deep breath. "Sammy. It's-It's me. I'm staying at Bobby's…I don't know where you are, but I really need you here, man." Tears flooded Dean's eyes. He quickly wiped them down his face with his hand. "If for some reason you can't get here by tomorrow…I just want you to know that no matter what's going on with you…you're still my little brother." Dean stared at the receiver before ending the call, hanging the phone back up with a clang. He leaned tensely against the kitchen counter.

Bobby walked back into the kitchen, a bottle of whiskey and two low ball glasses in his hands.

"You didn't get to Sam, did you?" Bobby asked, his face falling.

"No." Dean shook his head. "He's not—He's not answering his phone."

"Well," Bobby sighed, holding the bottle up. "Found it. How we watch some Clint Eastwood movies?"

Dean nodded, clearing his throat. "Sounds like a plan." Dean followed Bobby into the living room, setting the bottle and the glasses on the coffee table. While Bobby got the Pale Rider queued up in the VCR, Dean sat down on the couch and started pouring the whiskey, putting two shots into one of the glasses.

As he went to pour the second glass, a smell washed over him. The smell of roasted lamb and fresh baked bread. With a blink, Bobby's coffee table become a long, low table lit by the dim light of oil lamps and covered with a Seder plate. The glass and whiskey bottle turned into a wooden goblet and a clay jug of wine.

With a second blink, all of it was gone.

"You okay there, Dean?" Bobby asked, cautiously picking his glass up from the table.

"Yeah." Dean nodded, licking his lips. "Peachy." He picked up his own glass, knocking both of the shots back.

Bobby watched him as he sat down in his recliner chair before he pressed play on the VCR.

As the credits started to roll, Dean poured himself another two shots.

Dean and Bobby sat in silence, making only brief comments about various scenes. An hour into the film however, the small talk stopped and the room filled with the sound of Bobby snoring.

Dean looked over to find Bobby sleeping in the chair, his empty glass lying tipped over in his lap. "Figures," Dean scoffed. He got up and walked over to the chair, grabbing the glass and putting it on the coffee table. He stood absentmindedly staring at the television for a while before wandering into the kitchen. Dean grabbed his jacket from back of one of the chairs and made his way to the front door. On the way, he grabbed the half-full whiskey bottle from the coffee table and walked out onto Bobby's front porch, closing the door behind him.

Dean stood there for a moment, breathing in the cool, moist air before he took a deep pull from the bottle. He walked slowly down the stairs, every movement sending sharp pain through his ankles. Once at the bottom, Dean stopped and glanced around Bobby's yard.

He wanted nothing more than to wander around the salvage yard, but his ankles were already throbbing.

Dean's eyes settled on a tree sitting in the front yard just beside the house. Without a second thought, he walked over to it. Placing the bottle against the base of the tree, he pressed his hand nervously against the bark, raising his eyes to the night sky, clear and brilliantly lit by the full moon.

"Listen, Hashem," Dean whispered, looking up at the night sky. "I gotta be honest with you, I'm not exactly looking forward to tomorrow." He took a deep breath, his eyes glossing over. "I mean, I get it. It's gotta happen, but I—" He blinked away tears, "I can't— I can't."

Then came The Silence. It filled Dean's ears with nothing but the sound of rustling of wings. But this time, what followed was not the cracking of whips or malicious laughter, only the muffled, distant sound of snoring and whispering. The air became drier and frigid. Bobby's front yard became a grove of twisted olive trees.

Fear and sorrow washed over Dean. Instantly, his forehead and neck became coated in sweat.

"Please, Abba," Dean sobbed, collapsing to his knees, his body shaking. "You're offering me a cup, but I don't want to drink what's in it."

The sound of wings filled the air, followed by footstep shifting against dirt and sand.

"Dean." Castiel's voice echoed through the air.

Dean didn't answer to it, almost as though he couldn't recognize the language or the name.

The voice called out again, this time in Aramaic.

"Jesus," it said, desperate and full of worry.

The smell of olive wood faded and the air once again turned cold and filled with the smell of maple trees and engine oil. Dean blinked. He looked up to find Castiel standing few feet in front of him, his expression for once completely clear to Dean. He was afraid.

"C—Cas." Dean croaked.

Castiel took a deep breath. "Hello, Dean." His voice was mournful.

Dean stared at him. "You—" He took in a sharp breath as he rose slowly to his feet. "—You like you've seen a ghost."

"That's because I have." Castiel didn't pull his gaze away from him.

A lump grew in Dean's throat. He ran a hand across the base of his neck. Instead of sweat coating the palm of his hand and fingers, there was blood. Bright red blood that smelled of roses. Dean shuddered, wiping his hand on his jacket. "Maybe I should go back inside." His eyes glanced nervously at the angel.

Without saying a word, Castiel walked over to him, throwing his arm around his shoulder. He walked him back over to Bobby's front porch.

Shouts filled Dean's ears. Castiel became a man named Simon of Cyrene. Dean stared at him through a swollen eye and a mess of blood and thorns.

Dean blinked and he was Cas again. All blue eyes and trench coats.

"You know," Dean winced as they walked up the stairs. "It's strange. Part of me is almost relieved that Sammy hasn't shown up. I don't know, like he's safer not being here. I know he's not, because I know he's with Ruby but I—" Dean paused. "I—I didn't want James there either. In fact, I spent half my time in that damn garden telling him go find Ima— Mom," he corrected, "But he wouldn't leave me." Dean shook his head. "'Course not; he never did listen to me, why would he start then, right?"

"I remember. I watched the two of you arguing."

Dean pursed his lips. "What was I afraid of, Cas?" His voice shook.

Castiel stopped in his tracks. "You feared that the angels were going to come after him."

Dean swallowed hard. "And did they?"

Castiel looked at him sincerely. "No."

Without another word, Castiel walked Dean back into the house.

Dean was in a cell.

A man stood in front of him wearing the uniform of a Roman officer. He was Pontius Pilate. Except he wasn't Pontius Pilate. A shadow of wings—large and majestic— was sprawled across the brick walls of the cell, lit against the flames of wall torches and angel grace swirled within him.

Archangel grace.

It was radiant and burned with a heat that almost matched the heat that coursed through his own veins. Almost.

Dean had only seen the grace once, some twenty years ago, but he knew exactly what angel it belonged to.

Michael.

"Let me explain something to you." Michael's voice echoed through the cell. He gestured to himself as he swaggered around the room. "This man is the only thing that stands between you and the cross and I'm the only thing standing between you and him. In fact, had I not been here, he would have had you and your followers crucified the moment you began flipping tables over in the money changers hall."

Dean didn't respond. He remained utterly quiet.

Michael glared at him. "I came here to talk, Nazarene," he snapped, locking his gaze on him. "Speak," he demanded.

"There is only one thing you wish me to say, Michael." Dean looked at Michael pointedly. "And you know I won't say it."

Michael laughed. "You realize how futile this is, don't you? Your death won't be the end of this. You and your precious little brother will be reborn and the seals will break again. It might take centuries—millennia even— for everything to fall back into place, but this will play out as it is meant to, one way or another."

"You don't know that," Dean raised his voice, spitting anger. "The only one who does is Hashem."

"Exactly." Michael stepped closer to Dean until he was hovering over him. "And My Father has had this planned from the very beginning."

Dean didn't flinch. "And you're just going to go along with Abba's plan?" Tears began to well up in Dean's eyes, but he blinked them away.

Michael's hand clenched around the hilt of the gladius at his belt. "Yes. I am." He narrowed his eyes. "Because unlike you, I'm a good son." Michael turned, making his way of the out of the cell. "You'll be taken out with the two zealots this man has already condemned. Your sign will read, 'Jesus The Nazarene, King of The Jews.'" He closed the gate behind him, looking darkly back at Dean through the iron bars. "I'll make sure that you're scourged first."

Dean opened his eyes to find himself sitting on Bobby's toilet, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and the side of his body and face pressed against the bathroom wall. Peeling himself off the wall, he could see blotches of bright red sweat had stained the green wallpaper. Slowly, he stood up and glanced around the bathroom. On the floor was a makeshift bed made out of a musty old sleeping bag and bath towels. Sitting next to it was a first aid kit and rolls and rolls of gauze.

Everything was ready, he just had to wait. Aside from the bloody sweat that stopped some hours ago, nothing had happened.

Dean took a deep breath and trudged over to the sink where he washed his face and neck, wiping away the rest of the sweat with a ratty bleach stained washcloth. He stared at his face— pale and gaunt—and the purple bruises that dotted his forehead. Unbroken, they didn't even so much as ache.

Briefly, Dean lifted his gaze to the light fixture hanging above the mirror.

The light became the rising sun—a swirl of early morning clouds lit in shades of oranges and pinks— and the cool air of the bathroom turned hot and arid.

"Bobby!" Dean yelled. He quickly backed away from the sink, squatting against the bathroom wall.

Just as he heard feet running up the stairs, The Silence came.

Dean stood in a courtyard, naked aside from his loincloth. His tunic and prayer shawl lay in a crumpled pile at his feet. Flanking him were three Roman soldiers. They were completely human. No grace swirled inside of them. The same was true of the officer standing in front of him.

"Jesus of Nazareth, you have claimed to be the Messiah. The so-called King of The Jews," The officer declared in Aramaic, reading from a wax tablet in his hand. "In doing so, you have committed treason and sedition against Rome and Her Empire. For that, you are condemned to death." The officer looked up from his tablet. "Do you have anything to say?"

Dean didn't say anything. He locked his eyes hard on the officer, gesturing down to the prayer shawl, "Don't leave that lying on the ground."

The officer glared. He stepped forward, slamming his fist into Dean's eye.

Dean recoiled in pain.

"You people," the officer spat, annoyed. "You never learn, do you?"

He motioned to the soldiers and they brought Dean over to a pillar, chaining him to it.

Soon after, the scuffling of sandaled feet moved closer to him in tandem with the rattling of metal and leather.

Hearing it, Dean closed his eyes. "You must protect them. You must endure this. You must be strong," Dean whispered to himself, repeating it quickly like a mantra.

"One!" the officer shouted, this time in Latin.

A whip cut through the air. The small of Dean's back radiated pain. Stinging, hot pain. He could feel the first rivulets of blood begin to slide down his back. His torso slammed into the pillar, the shackles rubbing against the skin of his wrists hard enough to bruise.

Dean wanted to scream. He needed to scream. But he didn't.

"Two!" More pain, this time across Dean's shoulder blades.

"Three!" Between the hips. His vision began to blur.

"Four!" Over the spine. His breath spilled out, but he bit back the cry on the tip of his lips.

"Five!" He didn't feel the fifth strike. Before it could hit him, everything went black.

Then there was a sharp strike to Dean's face. When he opened his eyes, he found himself propped up against the wall of the court yard, a scarlet army cape draped over his shoulders.

The soldiers were crowded around him, passing a jug of wine between them.

"Bless Fortuna! The prince woke up." One of the soldiers smirked sarcastically. "Now we can finish his coronation." He picked up a wreath of thorns sitting on the floor and squatted down next to Dean, jamming it on top of his head before punching him in the face. "Hail, The King of The Jews!" He laughed.

Each of the soldiers took turns doing the same. One pulled at his beard, another whacked the side of his head with a stick, driving the thorns in deeper. When they finished, they dumped what was left of the wine over his head, the alcohol sending searing hot pain across his head and back.

He let out a deep guttural scream.

Dean found himself lying on the sleep bag, his body curled into itself and his hands pressed against his temples, clawing at the crown around his head. His eyes were slammed shut, stinging with tears and blood and his throat stung. Raspy and raw.

"It's okay Dean," Bobby's voice called out to him, panicked and dripping with fear, but never the less trying it's best attempt at comfort. "You're gonna be alright."

A cool wash cloth brushed gently over Dean's eyes, taking the salt water and blood with it.

Slowly Dean opened his eyes to find Bobby kneeling on the floor next to him, a bucket of water resting between them.

"Bobby." Dean's voice shook. "It— it fucking hurts Bobby," he sobbed, slowly pulling his shaking hands away from the side of his head as he sat himself up, glancing woozily around the bathroom.

Already the floor was a mess of blood caked tiles and grout and the room stunk of roses.

"I know, son," Bobby replied, grabbing Dean's wobbling shoulders to steady him. He quickly grabbed one of gauze bandages and unraveled it, wrapping it around Dean's head as delicately as he could manage. When Bobby finished, he picked up a bottle of consecrated wine, putting it against to Dean's lips.

Dean grimaced, swallowing down the taste of wine and blood as he lay back against his pillow, hissing sharply as he pulled and pressed against the wounds on his back.

As soon as Dean was lying back down, Bobby stood up. Without a word, he walked over to the bathroom sink, washing his hands before he plopped himself on the toilet with a sharp groan. He pulled a flask out of the pocket of his jeans, knocking back more than a couple sips from it.

Bobby held it out to Dean but he just shook his head.

Dean took a deep breath. "The soldiers didn't stop," he sobbed, narrowing his eyes. "They just kept punching me and kicking me and ripping my beard out. I wanted to kill them, Bobby. Each and every single one of them. But I—I couldn't. I had to go through with this. I—" Dean's chest heaved. "—I had a job. I had to protect them," Dean paused. "I had to protect him."

"Who?" Bobby asked, wiping his brow and fixing his hat.

"James." A lump grew in Dean's throat. "My brother."

Bobby froze. "You had a brother?"

"I had four of them." Dean swallowed. "But James. He—We—" Dean shook his head, running his hands through his hair. "I don't know. It had somethin' to do with the seals but I can't fucking remember."

"Its okay, Dean," Bobby said softly, rubbing his thumb across the flask. "Just rest, okay son?"

Dean scoffed, biting his lip.

Even though Dean could piece together through the memories he did have that Jesus had convinced himself that he had to die, that it was his destiny even, there was a mantra that played constantly in the back of his mind. It had lingered quietly during the Last Supper and in Gethsemane. Among the torments of the Roman soldiers it had screamed.

He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve the suffering and pain. He didn't deserve death. He wished more than anything that God would take the pain away from him. He wanted to hear His voice. Just once. But God was silent. Cold and distant.

Dean smiled sadly. "I guess somethings don't change."

Dean was kneeling on a hilltop. His left shoulder stinging with heat and grace.

In the distance, he thought he heard his brother and Castiel yelling at each other. He hoped more than anything that he was wrong.

Before he could give it further thought, a pair of soldiers grabbed him and dragged him across the rocks and sand over to a vertical pole where the crossbeam was lying at the base of it. They laid him down on it, splaying his arms across the beam.

As the soldiers were tying rope around his forearms, he caught sight of a pair figures running up the top of a hill. Figures he knew well. Figures he had prayed would not be there.

One was Miriamne, his wife. The other was Mary, his mother. Ima.

When they reached the top they both froze.

Miriamne lowered herself down into the dirt, her hands protectively cradling her belly.

Ima didn't look away. She stared at Dean, her eyes wide in horror.

"Brother. Don't let her watch. Don't let her watch. Please," he mumbled himself.

Just before one of the soldiers placed the nail against the inside of his right wrist, James appeared on the hill top. He quickly grabbed his mother, pressing her face against his chest, turning her away.

The hammer struck against the nail, driving through skin and tendon, crushing bone. He let out a blood curdling scream.

Instantly the sound of his mother's sobs filled Dean's ears. They were loud and painful, almost as though the nails were being driven into herself.

In some ways, her cries hurt him more than the nails did.

The hammer sounded again. Pain radiated through his left wrist.

The crossbeam was lifted on top of the pole. It was followed by more nails. This time through his ankles, pinning them to both side s of the pole.

There were more screams and more cries.

When the soldiers had finished,an officer, one with Grace swirling inside of him, dismounted from his horse and walked over to Mary, Miriamne and James. He spoke to them briefly before going back to his horse.

As soon as the officer had gotten back on his horse, Mary came running over to the cross. James and Miriamne following behind her.

"My son!" she wept. She ghosted her shaking fingers against one of the nails in his ankles before she collapsed to the ground sobbing.

James ran up to her and grabbed her by the shoulders, lifting her up. "We need to go, Ima," he pleaded. "Michael's men are coming." He didn't look up at the cross.

"No!" she sobbed. "He's my son. I won't leave him!"

"I-Ima," Dean croaked. He looked briefly over to James, before turning his gaze back to her. "He is also your son. As is Judah, Simon and Joses. They need you."

"You're my eldest." Mary shook her head. "You were the first one I carried. The first one I held. The first one I nursed. I can't leave you."

"Yes." He glanced over to James. "Now he is your eldest."

Mary turned away from him, her hands pressed over her eyes.

"Brother. Take care of her. Please." He looked over to Miriamne. "All three of them."

James nodded. "I will."

Bobby had just finished rewrapping Dean's wrists for the third time when Dean heard a sound, muffled and faint, echoing through the walls of the house. A sound Dean hadn't heard in months, but recognized instantly. The roar of the Impala's engine.

Relief and terror warred within Dean at the sound.

The engine shut off and Bobby rose to his feet, leaving the room.

A moment later, the sound of the front door slamming shut followed the all too familiar sound of Sam's feet running up the stairs, Bobby's heavier steps following behind them.

They got halfway to the bathroom before they stopped. Dean heard the sound of a heavy thump against the wall.

"Where the fuck have you been, boy?" Bobby hissed, his voice echoing down the hallway.

"I was working a job in Akron." Sam's voice was tired and short. "I came here as soon as I got Dean's voicemail."

"Well, while you were busy doing whatever it was that was more important than answering your damn phone during Holy Week; your brother's been laying a pool of his own blood and I've been up to my eyeballs in it," Bobby snapped. "So next time you wanna come storming into my house like that, don't."

"I know. I'm sorry, Bobby." Sam took a deep breath. "You look exhausted. Why don't you go take a nap? I'll keep an eye on Dean."

Quiet grumbling filled the hallway. It was followed by the sound of Bobby's footsteps making their way back down the stairs.

Then Sam's feet began to move towards the bathroom. Just before they reached the bathroom, they stopped. Dean heard Sam gag outside the bathroom door.

After a moment, the door creaked open, revealing Sam. His face was pale with nausea and his eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. His clothes were wrinkled and his hair was unkempt and sticking up in the back.

Though Dean knew that Sam's state was likely a product of eighteen hours of almost nonstop driving, save for a power nap or two, he knew just as well that it was a product of something else.

The stench of sulfur surrounded Sam. Strong, but quickly dissipating, like an early morning drunken stupor.

Dean locked his gaze on Sam. "So," Dean croaked. "What were you hunting in Akron?"

"Vampires. It was a small family nest." Sam's words were blunt, but obviously rehearsed.

Dean knew that, in reality, Sam had been exorcising demons with Ruby. They were probably getting very close to finding Lilith.

Nevertheless, the lie hurt.

Dean wanted to punch Sam in the face and scream at him. He wanted to tell Sam to walk right back out the bathroom door and get the hell out of his sight, but he didn't have the strength to do it. He couldn't even raise his voice beyond a loud whisper. He didn't have the time to do it. In a few hours he would be dead and, one way or another, he wasn't coming back.

Instead, Dean nodded, accepting the lie.

With that, Sam stepped into the bathroom. He glanced nervously at the strips of used, drying gauze hanging down from the shower curtain rod. "Did the wounds open up last night?" He asked, his tone concerned, but awkward.

"No. I was sweating blood last night." Dean winced, shifting on the sleeping bag. "They didn't open up until this morning."

Sam's expression froze in horror. After a moment's hesitation, he walked over to Dean. Squatting down in front of him, he pulled the blanket down from Dean's torso, glancing at his left side. "You don't have The Spear?" He swallowed hard, dropping the blanket.

"No," Dean replied, trying as best he could with his stiff, broken fingers to pull the blanket back over himself. He paused. "Not yet anyway."

Sam nodded. Without saying a word, he looked around the bathroom. Finally he caught sight of a glass that was resting on top of the sink; he filled it with water before walking back over to Dean. Squatting down, Sam placed the glass to Dean's lips.

Dean took a single sip before pulling his mouth away.

Sam scrunched his brow at him before turning his gaze to the water, now red and fermented. Taking in a deep a breath, Sam unceremoniously dumped the wine into the basin of the tub before sitting on the floor next to Dean.

Silence fell between them.

"Do you—"Sam cleared his throat. "—Do you want something to eat? Broth? Saltines?"

Dean shook his head. "Bobby gave me the Eucharist earlier," he said quietly. "I'm good."

"You can't just have communion wafers and wine Dean," Sam said annoyed. "You need actual food."

"I don't need anything, Sam," Dean raised his voice slightly."And I don't want anything, either. Okay?"

Sam glared at him. "Well, if you're not going to eat can I at least change your bandages?"

Dean hesitated but then nodded.

Sam stood up and walked over to the bath tub, pulling some of the gauze strips down from the curtain rod before he kneeled in front of Dean, taking Dean's right arm into his hands.

As soon as Sam touched the blood-stained gauze, his hand recoiled and pain flashed across his face. He paused briefly before he touched it again.

Seeing it, a lump grew in Dean's throat. "There something you want to tell me, little brother?" He squinted at Sam.

"It's nothing. I'm fine." Sam finished changing the bandage, his fingers trembling. He stood up and darted over to the sink, furiously scrubbing his hands.

"It don't look like nothing." Dean's voice was blunt as he watched Sam. "You're shaking."

"I'm shaking because I'm scared, Dean," Sam snapped as he dried his hands off. "You're going to die in a few hours."

Even though Dean was laying on the floor and Sam did his best to hide them with the towel, Dean could see that Sam's hands had red burn welts on them.

Seeing them, Dean narrowed eyes. "When was the last time you had a hit, Sam?" Dean spoke gently, but there was still the hint of iron will beneath his breathless whisper.

Sam didn't say anything. He turned slowly, his eyes locking hard on Dean.

"I need some fresh air." With that, Sam left the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

As soon as the door closed, tears flooded Dean's eyes. When the sound of Sam's footsteps had disappeared down the hall, Dean let out a broken sob, sucking in raspy breath after raspy breath as his chest heaved.

Suddenly, Dean's lungs filled with burning pressure and his ankles and wrists began to throb, the flesh twisting against the nails. Dean choked back the sobs with a sharp cry as he wiped the tears away with his stiff fingers. He looked down at his wrists and the blood saturated gauze that wrapped them and slowly lowered them into his lap. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

His breathing began to slow.

"Come on Dean! Breathe goddamn it!" Sam's voice echoed through Dean's ears, panicked and desperate. It was accompanied by the stench of blood and sulfur. Pungent and odorous.

Dean cracked open his eyes to find Sam squatting on the sleeping bag. He was holding Dean's torso upright, his hands digging into Dean's shoulders.

Through hooded eyes caked in tears, he averted his gaze from Sam, shaking his head. "I—I can't Sammy," Dean sobbed, taking in a few shallow, ragged breaths.

Dean wanted it to be over. He wanted the pain to stop. He almost longed for the bark of hellhounds. A demise that was violent and painful, but quick. Almost.

"Yes you can," Sam demanded, gritting his teeth. "You did it when you first got the nails, remember? You can do it again." Sam cupped his face with one of his hands. "You have to stay with me, Dean."

Dean's heart began to pound. Fast and violent. Strained. It grew faster, more pained with each passing second.

Then there was silence. The sound of Sam's voice ceased. The smell of sulfur gave way to the stench of blood, dirt and sweat. Wood splintered and chaffed his back and rope burned his arms.

Sorrow washed over him. Deep sorrow. Tears flooded his eyes as he sucked in a deep ragged breath, his eyes fixating on the ceiling.

"Abba," Dean sobbed in Aramaic. "Why have you abandoned me?"

His eyes slipped shut. The race of his heart slowed, then the pain ceased.

There was a flash of white light. Sudden and brilliant.

Then Dean remembered. He remembered everything. Honey cakes. A carpenter's stall. The smell of Lebanon cedar shavings. A brother's hair he tussled, another brother's jaw he punched. Desert heat. Cool lake waters. The near constant taste of wine on his lips. A canopy he finally stood under. The frightening but precious feel of his hand pressed against a swollen belly as his child's foot kicked it.

He remembered James waking one night on the road to Jerusalem and telling him that God had spoken to him in his sleep. He remembered going off to pray to Castiel and confronting him.

"….Why is Hashem speaking to my brother?" he asked, his tone concerned as much as it was demanding. "He doesn't even speak to me."

"The Lord isn't speaking to James." Castiel's words were blunt, but reluctant.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Then who is?"

Castiel looked at him, fear flooding his face. "Lucifer." The word hung in air. "James is his vessel."

A lump grew in Dean's throat. "Just as I am Michael's?"

Castiel nodded. "Yes."

Jesus was a Michael Sword. A true vessel of Michael. James was the vessel of Lucifer. Jesus was not only to fight Satan and destroy the world, but fight and kill his own brother and he was to do so not as himself, but as little more than a receptacle for an archangel.

Dean was to do the same. He and Sam were the same. They were pawns, chess pieces in a cosmic fight between brothers. Important but, ultimately, replaceable.

They always had been.

The memories ceased and Dean's eyes snapped open, locking on Sam with fear and panic.

"Sammy…." He mumbled.

"Dean?" Sam replied desperately.

Before Dean could say anything more, The Silence returned, followed by the agonizing pain of steel cutting between his ribs, sliding past bone and into muscle, radiating through his chest.

Dean let out a a hitched gasp as his heart stopped. Abrupt. Violent.

A warm gush of blood ran down his side.

"Dean!"

Sam's eyes swirled and burned bright yellow.

Dean's vision faded and his eyes closed.

All he knew was darkness.