Dean was at a full sprint and nearly collided head-on with Sam, who was running out of the library with an open book clutched in his hands. Sam looked at him, white-faced, saying "It's Cas, it's going to go after him again, Dean, tonight, Dean, it's gonna get him this time, Dean, it's ten o'clock, we only have two hours, Dean—"

"Stop," Dean said, putting both hands up. "Calm down. Calm down. Tell me."

Sam took a deep breath. He spun the book around and shoved it at Dean, pointing out a chapter on Minoan gods.

Sam said rapidly, "It's killed demi-gods, Dean. The minotaur used to kill demi-gods all the friggin time. And, Dean, when it goes after a demi-god, the first night, it strips their powers and makes them mortal." He stopped. "Then it stops and it kind of forgets about them for a day. But if it's sent after them again the second night..."

He stopped again. Dean stared at him.

Dean finished it for him. "...the second night it gets them?"

"The second night it gets them. One-two punch. Make them mortal, then take them out. Always two nights in a row. Always at midnight. And Dean," Sam spun around and went running back into the library, Dean right on his heels, and Sam rummaged through a few other books on the table. "See what it says here, nothing survives a minotaur attack, Dean. Once it picks a target, at midnight... Nobody's ever fought it off. And it tries every night for ninety nights in a row. Spring to summer."

Then Sam had to start pacing. And Dean had to sit down.

Sam was pacing back and forth by the table, both hands on his head; Dean was staring into space. Sam said, "Okay, so, we know now it's treating him like a demi-god. Okay. Okay. We can think of something. Okay. We gotta warn him immediately. Where is he?"

"Minnesota," said Dean faintly. "Or maybe on a bus."

Sam whipped around and looked at him.

"Please tell me you know how to reach him," said Sam.

"He doesn't have a cell," said Dean. "I think he thought he was calling me too often... or something... I don't know... And he won't hear prayers now..."

"Try anyway. Try a prayer."

"He won't hear me now," said Dean, staring at the table. "He's human now."

"TRY A PRAYER RIGHT DAMN NOW. We have to try everything."

So Dean sent out a quick, hopeless prayer, telling Cas he'd messed up, telling him about the minotaur, begging him to call. Telling him to beg, borrow or steal a cell phone and call immediately.

They waited a while, desperately searching through the Minoa books in the meantime. But Cas didn't call.

And all that they found in the books was more accounts of the minotaur destroying demi-gods, and even full gods, and ancient heroes. Everybody it had ever gone after, basically.

"He didn't hear me, Sam," said Dean at last. "I know he didn't."

"Okay," said Sam, "Don't panic, don't panic..." He seemed to be talking to himself. "Don't panic. We have till midnight. Okay. We gotta think. We gotta think. We just gotta calm down. We have to focus now on what to do. We have an hour and a half. We can figure something out. We'll... we'll..."

"If only we still had the mask..." said Dean despairingly. "It had those linear things on it... there might have been a clue."

Sam's eyes widened. He flew across the room and went rummaging through a pile of his notes. A moment later he said, "Got it!", turned triumphantly and held up the auction-house photo of the mask.

With the glyphs clearly visible.

Then Sam's face fell. "But we can't read it. We need someone who could translate it."

Then his eyes brightened again, and he pointed down to the floor. Dean knew immediately what he meant. "Crowley," Dean said, and Sam said, "God, I hate to admit it, but it is handy sometimes to have a demon translator around." They ran downstairs.

Crowley was surprisingly willing to talk. "Bit boring here," he remarked, glancing around at his barren cell, "Are you here to provide me with some entertainment, I hope? A song and a dance? A desperate plea for help?"

Dean scowled and shoved the photo at him. "Can you read these glyphs?"

"Yup, I can read that," he said cheerily, glancing at the photo. "Before my time, really, but we had a couple of those old Minoan demons in my old department. Interesting fellows, really. Creative." He picked up the photo and turned it around, squinting. "Here we go... this one means... let me think... basically... hm, it's a bit blurry..."

"HURRY UP," Dean broke out.

Crowley glanced up at him, raised one eyebrow, leaned back in his chair and yawned. "Hm. Lost my train of thought there... this might take me a few days, actually."

"WE DON'T HAVE A FEW DAYS," said Dean. "What. Do. You. Want."

"Oh," said Crowley, glancing up contemplatively at the ceiling, "In that case. You know what would probably sharpen me up a bit. Help me work a little faster... You know what would really wake me up... A fine bottle of scotch, for one. And a vial of blood from each of you. I'm talking a nice big fifty-milliliter syringe, apiece, boys."

"Deal," said Dean immediately.

Crowley looked crestfallen. "Aw," he said. "If I'd known you were gonna fold that fast, Dean, I'd have asked for the Brazilian samba band and the girls in the sparkly bikinis. And," he thought a moment, "A comfier chair. And a bar. Maybe a television?"

Dean slammed down both hands on the table, leaning over Crowley, and bellowed, "WHAT'S IT SAY?"

"All right, all right," Crowley grumbled. "I'll save the sparkly bikini request for your next panic attack. It says, let's see, this part on the left side of the mask is: The minotaur hunts in the labyrinths of those that own the mask, or those that breath the smoke." He stopped, glanced up and said, "You boys must have had a fascinating day!" Dean clenched his fists, and raised them unconsciously; Crowley just smiled and went on, saying, "The other side of the mask, here, says: The minotaur begins its hunt on the new moon nearest the equinox, and ends on the new moon nearest the longest day." He looked up and added, "Longest day referring to the summer solstice, in case that was too cryptic for your tiny little minds."

"Lunar cycle," breathed Sam. "It's not on the equinox at all. It's on the new moon. That's why we were a week off."

"My curiosity is at nearly boiling level," remarked Crowley idly, "But here's the last line, this one up on the forehead. How annoying... it's written in a spiral...wait a sec...oh hey, these ones aren't Linear A, by the way. These are Enochian glyphs. Very interesting." He had to start turning the page around and around as he read the last set of glyphs, which were etched into the spiral maze-emblem on the mask's forehead. He said: "The minotaur hunts the labyrinth of memory. Only the best-loved prey are worthy. "

He leaned back in his wooden chair. "That's it boys. Now. The blood and scotch, please."

Dean wasn't even listening to him. "The labyrinth of memory," repeated Dean. He glanced at Sam and nodded toward the hallway.

They hurried back outside. Dean grabbed Sam by the elbow and hauled him quickly down the hall, till they were out of earshot of Crowley's cell.

"I have an idea," whispered Dean, his face intense. "What if we erase our memories of Cas? Just like, well." He stopped, looking down at the floor. "Like when Cas erased Lisa's memories of me." He looked back up. "What if we could do something like that? Then, when the minotaur tries to look in our labyrinth-of-memory or whatever, it won't find him. There won't be any memories of him. It won't find anything."

Sam's eyes widened. "Jeez. Dean. That's not a bad idea." Sam thought a moment. "Who knows if it'll work. But it's sure worth a shot. But, how? Cas can't do it, obviously. And we don't know any other angels who'd do anything for us."

Dean looked at Sam tentatively. "Don't kill me for suggesting this, but... Gadreel?"

Sam winced. "Oh, holy hell, no, he'd just let Cas die! He drove Cas away in the first place. You know he wants Cas dead."

"Yeah. Right. Never mind," said Dean hastily. "Sorry, I'm just desperate." Dean checked his watch. They had only three-quarters of an hour left. "God-friggin-dammit. We are cutting this very close. Okay, Sam, follow my lead."

Dean turned and walked back down the hall... and back into Crowley's cell.

Crowley was leaning back in his chair with his arms folded. He'd obviously been waiting for them to return. He looked at the expression on Dean's face, and before Dean had even said a word, a slow, broad smile spread over Crowley's face.

"Samba band," Crowley said.

"Samba band," agreed Dean, gritting his teeth.

"Sparkly bikinis. Girls. Three, minimum. Down here. With me. Hired for a full night. You two are not invited. Also, I want the big feather headdresses. And the, uh, the feathery back things that they wear. That's my minimum, just to even start negotiating. No matter what the request even is. I will make further demands once I hear what you want. Do we have a deal."

Dean gritted his teeth. "Deal."

"All right, boys!" said Crowley, his expression changing in a flash to a friendly, bright-eyed smile. "What can I help you with?"

Dean said, gritting his teeth, "Can you erase somebody from our memories?"

"Ooo," said Crowley. "Minotaur trouble, lads? I never would have guessed. Who is it? A girlfriend? A beloved old ex that you never quite got over? That awkward crush you have on the checkout girl at Walmart?"

Dean slammed his fists on the table. "CAN YOU DO IT OR NOT?"

"No."

Dean closed his eyes.

"But — I'll even give you this tidbit for free! You already know someone who can." Crowley smiled. "One of my very least favorite people, in fact! Your awkward little sidekick. Annoying little Castiel. He's an angel, you might recall. Angels can wipe memories. They're rather good at it, actually."

Sam and Dean looked at each other. There was no way they could let Crowley know that Castiel was actually the target.

Dean said grudgingly, "We can't reach him. And we need to do it immediately."

"Hm. You do have a problem, then. As I said, I can't erase your memories,"

Dean checked the time on his phone. Forty minutes left. Forty minutes. Holy shit.

"But I can tell you how to do it yourselves," said Crowley, smiling.

Dean lifted his head.

Crowley went on, "There's a spell, actually. A surprisingly simple one. You do it yourself, on yourself. It's sort of a home-made version of what the angels do when they wipe people's memories. Based on the same code, you could say. Ask Castiel later, I'm sure he'll know all about how it works. It sort of locks the memories away behind a wall, and—"

"Can anything get through the wall?" interrupted Sam. "I mean, if this minotaur thing comes rummaging into our heads looking for our memories, would it find the memories behind the wall?"

"Sam, you surprise me," said Crowley amiably, his eyebrows raised. "It's almost like you're capable of logical thought."

"CAN ANYTHING GET THROUGH THE WALL?!" Dean shouted, slamming his hands on the table again. Crowley blinked, looking at him.

"No," Crowley said easily. "Nobody. Only the one who cast the spell — that is to say, you — can break down the wall. Guaranteed."

Crowley laced his hands together neatly on top of the table. "Now, boys, let's discuss the quality of the merchandise, before we set a price, shall we? I am offering you a top-quality spell. This isn't one of your shabby memory-wipes that you get from the third-rate dealers — those ones never last more than a few weeks, really. Mine is first rate. Dates back to early Egypt. It's very thorough."

He leaned forward with a confidential air. "The spell I'm offering has real attention to detail. Not only does it make you forget, it makes you forget that you forgot - that is, you won't even remember doing any of this tonight. And also it makes you not notice that you forgot — meaning, it makes you tend to overlook clues that otherwise would make you realize that something's, well, gone wrong. Though... in the interests of full disclosure, I should mention, it will make you a little... selectively stupid, let's call it. So I hope you won't be needing much brainpower..." He laughed and leaned back, chortling, "Oh wait, silly me. Neither of you have any brainpower anyway! So that won't be an issue!" He laughed merrily for a moment, and then added, "Oh. One last detail. If you're truly trying to erase a particular person, you must not see that person in real life after the spell is completed. That can make the wall weaker. Memories can start leaking out."

"Tell us how to do it," hissed Dean through clenched teeth. "And tell us within the next five minutes or the deal's off."

"Right! But first. Let's talk price." Crowley glared at Dean. When he spoke again his voice was cool as ice. "A full syringe of blood from both of you, every week, for as long as I want. A full bar, always stocked, with all I can drink. I really would like some forms of entertainment in here. And a more comfortable chair. Leather would be acceptable. Oh and..."

The list went on.

Dean agreed to everything. It was a little odd, really, that Crowley hadn't just asked to be set free; but he did seem awfully excited about the blood.

Well, and the girls with the feather headdresses.

Dean was nearly out of his mind with panic at the exceedingly slow way Crowley was writing the contract. It was twenty minutes till midnight, just twenty minutes till the minotaur came back to hunt through their memories again. Twenty minutes. And time was flying by with terrifying speed. But Crowley had insisted on writing an elaborate contract out in full.

"You won't remember any of this later," Crowley was saying, "So we really must get it all in writing. Don't worry, later you'll just think you were drunk... but you'll honor the contract! Because I'll have the evidence right here. Let's see now, I won't specify which spell it is — that'd confuse you later — so I'll just write, how about, 'spell delivered as per request', that's nice and vague, right? And I'll come up with some cockamamie story when you ask me about it, never fear. There now, I think that does it. Want to read over the fifty-three clauses? No? All right — you sign here, Dean — Lovely! And now you, Sam, right here, on the dotted line, ah, look at you, you've learned to sign your name recently, congratulations, it's amazing what they're able to teach the mentally handicapped these days. Now boys! Let's seal it with a kiss! One at a time and then both together I think, mmm, Sam, get your phone out, we really must record the happy occasion. Remember, on the lips or it doesn't count! And neither of you boys mind a bit of tongue, do you?"

A few minutes later Sam and Dean were at last running back upstairs (both wiping their mouths ferociously, and spitting on the floor). Sam was clutching the instructions for the spell in one hand. "We have fifteen minutes, Dean," said Sam tensely, as they scrambled through the kitchen for candles and matches, and set up the candles by a little stone archway against the back wall of the library. Fortunately Crowley had told the truth about it being a simple spell — they just needed two candles and a drop of blood from each of them. They just barely had time, though; Dean was certain that Crowley had deliberately cut it as close as possible, right down to the minute.

"Shit, Sam, wait! There's some details we gotta cover," said Dean, as Sam was about to light the first candle. Sam looked at him, and Dean said, "We gotta keep Cas away! If we see him before the summer solstice — you heard what Crowley said. That minotaur is going to keep after us till the solstice. If we see him before then, our mind-walls, or whatever they are, might come down. And then we'll remember him. And then the minotaur will get him."

Sam blew out his match, and stared at the unlit candle, and checked his watch. "Thirteen minutes," he said.

Dean thought. "I'll leave him a note. Tell him not to come in. Tell him to not contact us till summer."

"Where are you gonna put the note though?"

"Goddammit," said Dean. Think, Dean, think. Think fast. "Okay. How about this. He's gonna come on foot, from the bus stop, on that little path from the road. I'll stick a note there, tell him to skedaddle and stay out of touch until after the solstice. Later he can help us figure out how to break down the damn wall. He'll know what to do."

Sam said, "But, Dean. What if we don't recognize him?"

"What?"

"What if he comes around in the summer and he's all, oh I'm your best friend, I'm really an angel, you had your memories wiped, let me show you how to break down this wall in your head — and we don't believe him? What if we shoot him or something? We've had a hell of a bad time with angels recently. We might not believe him."

Dean stared at Sam.

"I'll give him something to show to us," said Dean. "Something we'll recognize. Something that'll make us know we know him. You get it all set up."

"We have twelve minutes. Be fast."

Dean dashed out of the library and looked around. What could he give to Cas? Something that Dean would recognize later. Something significant. Something that Cas would be able to carry easily for a few months.

Something special. That Dean would only give to a very close friend.

He looked around desperately. Dammit! Dean didn't own anything special! All he saw was... leftover pizza... cans of beer... guns... ammo... his jacket...

Of course.

His leather jacket. Dad's leather jacket. Perfect. Cas could carry it — Cas could use it! Cas would actually need a jacket now, after all. And as soon as Cas showed it to him, showed him those unique pockets Dean had sewn on the inside for ammo, Dean would know for sure it was his own jacket, and he'd know Cas was for real.

He grabbed the jacket. Sam was yelling "Dean! ELEVEN GODDAM MINUTES!"

Dean tore a piece of paper off Sam's notebook. He only just had time to write a few words, thinking, This so friggin' ludicrous. This is not gonna work.

He ran outside. He could hear Sam yelling "TEN!" Dean ran partway down the little footpath by the road, flung the jacket and the way-too-short note right in the middle of the path Cas would most likely take, and stuck a rock on it. He glanced up at the sky. "Don't rain," he said."No wind. Please." At the last second he dug out his wallet and pulled out all the cash he had, and threw it on the jacket too.

This is a friggin' disaster. This is hopeless. But he was out of time; Sam was yelling "NINE!" He sprinted back inside. Sam was bouncing nervously by the candles. His candle was already lit and he was already holding a knife over his palm, ready to sprinkle his blood on the open flame.

"Eight minutes. Ready?"

"This sucks so bad," said Dean.

"Yup," said Sam. He punched Dean in the shoulder. "It'll be all right, Dean. He'll be okay. He'll come find us later and he'll know what to do. He'll help us undo it."

"Yeah," said Dean, very uncertainly.

Seven minutes. Out of time.

They had to do it one at a time. Sam cut his hand, and dripped his blood into the candle, and began the incantation. Dean watched him from the side.

Sam went paler and paler as he spoke. It took two minutes just to get through it; Dean heard the name "Castiel" recur in the three places where you were supposed to name the thing you wanted to forget. Sam reached the end, and ground to a halt, and sank down to his knees, very still, white-faced. He had closed his eyes.

Sam's candle guttered and went out.

Dean had a very bad feeling about this. He glanced at his watch.

Five minutes.

Dean lit his candle, and cut his palm, and began the incantation.

Crowley had failed to mention that the spell involved reliving every memory that was getting erased. Starting with the most recent, and going back in time. It all took place in just a moment; but somehow the moment seemed to last years.

It began with Dean's most recent memory of Cas. Which was Cas healing Sam. Dean was seeing it from the side, watching himself, as if seeing the three of them in a tableau. Cas was saying calmly, "We'll need to take it in stages." Cas, once again, coming to the rescue; it was just so easy to take it for granted, because he just did it so routinely. And he made it look so simple. No big deal... just heal Sammy, magically heal him right up, good as new. Cas, trying to make it all right again.

Erased.

Crowley had also forgotten to mention that the erasing process would hurt. It hurt as if Dean's heart were being ripped out. And what it looked like was... well, he saw Castiel torn to shreds right before his eyes. Torn to shreds, which frayed into smoke... and then he was gone.

Back further:

Cas with them in that bar, in his fake-FBI suit, buying them a round of beers. Buzzed like hell off of just one beer. Dean relived it all, again watching himself from the outside. And this time, Dean wasn't distracted by his own tortured thoughts (which had been along the lines of, oh god this Gadreel nightmare, I'm so screwed, gotta keep Cas away, gotta save Sammy, please...). No, this time Dean was actually watching Castiel. So, this time, Dean actually noticed Cas's expression when Cas said "It is so good being together again!" This time Dean noticed how Cas had said, tentatively, worried, looking back and forth between Sam and Dean, "I hope it's okay? Me joining you?"

This time, Dean really saw Cas's face, at the moment when Dean had sent him away again.

Watching it again, now, it burned like acid.

Erased. His heart torn out, again; Castiel torn to shreds, and to smoke, and then just gone.

Back further.

That stupid, awful day in the convenience store. Cas working so hard, trying so desperately hard to make a go of it as a human. Once again, this time Dean wasn't distracted by his own thoughts (which had been, at the time, something like: where's my badass guardian, where's my tough angel, where'd he go?! How can I call on him for help now? How can he help me now? I need him! This is beneath him! He's way more than this! I have to get him back in gear! I have to! Maybe if I needle him a lot...) No, this time he was paying attention to Castiel. This time he saw the hurt in Cas's eyes as each lame dig landed. This time it suddenly didn't seem so hilarious any more that Cas had actually been proud of his stupid little job, because this time Dean suddenly put together that Cas had actually been sleeping in the back of the store. How the hell had Dean missed this the first time? This time Dean realized when Castiel had said "I had nothing," he hadn't been exaggerating, it hadn't been metaphorical, he'd meant it completely literally: he'd really had no clothes, no food, no shelter. Nowhere to go.

And nobody to turn to for help.

This time... oh god, so many things he noticed this time.

Erased. His heart ripped out.

Castiel torn to shreds again, right before Dean's eyes. To smoke. Gone.

Back...

Kicking Cas out of the bunker. My god, those puppy eyes... Dean was starting to feel nauseous.

Back...

Back they went, back, back, back. Through Cas's mistakes, yes, and awful mistakes they'd been; but also all the times he'd come through for Dean. All the times he'd fought by Dean's side in Purgatory, all the crazy adventures of the Apocalypse, all the impossible, last-minute rescues Cas had pulled off. Dean relived every single time Cas had saved his and Sam's lives, and there were ... so damn many times. It seemed to be taking a century to unspool them all. Holy friggin hell; Castiel had saved their asses hundreds of times. Smiting demons at the last second with that blazing light, yanking them out from explosions, stopping time to save them. Over, and over, and over. He'd been exploded, twice, trying to save them. He'd lost his mind — and his memory — he'd gone with them back in time, forward in time, to Heaven, to Hell, to Purgatory... all over Creation. Saving them, saving them, saving them.

All erased. Everything was stripped away. Every funny tilted-head glance, every joke Cas had missed, every puzzled squint, every blue-eyed stare; all gone. Every wild battle, every blaze of demon-killing light; every mysterious wing-flutter arrival, every quiet departure; gone. Every mistake... every apology. Every offer of forgiveness.

Every healing touch.

Every look of trust, of sympathy... of affection.

Every look of sorrow.

All gone.

Almost everything was gone now.

Now Dean standing in the barn with Bobby. He'd thought he was ready... but he was terrified. Listening to that thunderous clatter of wind on the roof; watching the doors blow open, that huge wooden bar splintering like a toothpick; watching a man in a trenchcoat walk slowly toward him. The thunder, the wind, the roof shingles rattling. Explosions of silver sparks, raining down...

The first thing Dean did, when he met Castiel, was stab him in the heart.

Cas hadn't minded. He'd just smiled at Dean, and pulled out the knife.

Who are you?

Castiel.

What are you?

I'm an angel of the Lord.

Black wings, raising unevenly. First one, then the other... The crash of thunder, the blazing light, the great huge wings raising, raising. Massive. Terrifying. Breathtaking. It was — then, now, and always — the most incredible thing that Dean had ever seen.

Then that spectacular vision, of Castiel with his impossible wings spread, the thunder crashing, was torn away; it was gone; and now Dean had never seen the wings of an angel of the Lord.

There was one last memory left. The very earliest of all; one so deeply buried he'd never known it was there.

Dean was back in Hell. He was flaying the skin from a woman's back, flames all around, Alistair goading him on. Feeling his soul warp and rot within him. Dean knew, he knew, that he was turning into a demon. The thing he had always despised the most. He was losing everything that he was. He was losing his soul, his mind, his very core. Decades of torture behind him, his mind long gone insane, he couldn't stop it... in fact, he craved it.

All he had ever been was bleeding away.

He bore down on the screaming woman with the flaying whip. It was Dean's special whip. It was tipped with blades. It had lovely braided knots.

A hand touched his shoulder. Dean turned around.

Blue eyes, very close. Staring into his soul.

"I've come to save you," was all that Castiel had said. Dean hadn't believed him. Actually, Dean had immediately gone after him with the special whip. But Castiel had just let the whip strike him, he'd somehow just ignored that awful whip, and he had gripped Dean by the shoulders. In that breathless moment, looking into those solemn blue eyes, Dean knew he was truly saved.

Those eyes...

Those solemn blue eyes, staring right at him, looking right into his soul.

The first thing he'd ever seen, of the angel Castiel. And, now, the last.

Then everything was gone.

Some time later, Dean found himself standing in a maze of twisty little passages, all alike. There was a vast smoky thing standing over him, looking at him. It had glowing red eyes, and vast spreading horns.

It turned and began to stalk down the passages, which were lined with images of people Dean had once known.

The smoky beast sniffed at a few of the photos. But none of them were very brightly lit and none of them seemed to be what it was looking for.

The smoky beast seemed dissatisfied. It turned to glare at Dean, and lowered its great horns at him. But then the wisps of smoke began to trail away from its body, more and more, its body disintegrating, till the whole room was filled with smoke.

When the air finally cleared, there was nothing there.

Dean blinked. He was kneeling on the floor, a candle guttering out before him. Tears were sliding down his cheeks, but he was unsure why. Sam was kneeling next to him with his head bowed down in his hands. Dean felt dizzy and drunk, and confused, and terrifically sad. I've lost something! he thought, a desperate panic washing through him. I've lost something! Something's gone! Something really important. Something really really important!

Sam turned to him, ashen, tears running down his face too. "What's... what's going on? Why do I feel so... what just happened?"

Eventually they wandered out of the library, both dizzy with exhaustion and feeling very disoriented. Five minutes later, they'd both forgotten they'd ever been in the library that day. They'd forgotten the whole day. They idly sat on the couch for a while, side-by-side, till Sam said, "I'm tired," and Dean said, "Me too," and they both shuffled off to bed. The two of them slept the entire next day, and woke the day after that with a terrific hangover.

They eventually wandered down to Crowley's cell, just to see if Crowley might know what had happened, and Crowley triumphantly presented him with a ridiculously long contract. Dean's and Sam's signatures were both at the bottom, and Crowley howled with laughter at the expressions on their faces when they got a look at the photos on Sam's phone. Crowley finally stopped laughing and said, "I do believe you both got a little drunk, lads! You were begging me for a spell to put glittery fairy wings on both of you so you could fly around in the treetops all night. And you know how fairy dust is... makes you a bit forgetful, the day after. Free word of advice, boys: Stay away from the Hungarian pear brandy from now on. Oh, and... I believe you owe me a samba band? And some girls in feathers?"

They never saw the man who had come walking down the little path by the road while they were still sleeping. They didn't see how he'd stopped short, looking in surprise at the jacket, damp now in the slight rainfall, and at the scattering of damp dollar bills.

They never saw how he picked up the disintegrating little note on top and read it:

CAS you gotta leave again - DO NOT contact us - do not knock on door - LEAVE IMMEDIATELY - DO NOT CONTACT US AT ALL till July, don't call don't talk to us, we are doing spell to forget you, curse, take jacket, sorry Dean

They never saw the confused expression that came over his face, or how that expression changed as he reread the note a dozen more times.

They never knew how long he stood there, on that path, his head down; nor how many long hours he waited across the road hidden in the trees, clutching the jacket to his chest, watching the front door. No one came out of the bunker that day, and he eventually left, making his way back to the bus stop on foot. He came back the next morning, and waited, hidden in the trees again, till Sam and Dean finally came out in the Impala, yawning, joking, driving away.

He watched them drive away.

And they never knew how many times he came back to Kansas over the months later. Always watching from a distance. From outside the bunker in the trees, or across the street from the little grocery store where they made their food runs. He stayed very far back, across the street in the hardware store, sometimes spending all day there, well hidden, waiting for that one brief look. Making sure they were safe.

Noticing that they looked happy.

They never saw him in mid-summer, hidden in the edge of the woods, watching Sam and Dean as they horsed around with some fourth-of-July fireworks. Sam and Dean had built a little fire to grill some hot dogs, and they set off some sparklers for fun.

They did not hear him whisper, "You're better off."

They never knew when he finally left.

Over the months that followed, Dean found himself sometimes drifting into one of the other bedrooms. There was one bedroom that, for some reason, he had made up for a guest, some time ago. He couldn't quite recall why, but it was all ready for a guest, the bed made neatly. It had two pillows, and a little stack of clothes and two towels, and two pictures on the walls, and even a coffee mug.

Sam had been having a lot of trouble sleeping (well, Dean had too), and Sam made the mistake one night of wandering into that room to borrow a pillow. Dean spotted him carrying it out, and he yelled "Don't you FUCKING TOUCH THOSE PILLOWS!" with such uncontrolled firey rage that he spent the entire next hour apologizing. He started shaking afterwards, trembling as if he were very cold, so badly that Sam nearly took him to the hospital. Sam made him stay in bed for the next day.

Sam didn't dare touch anything in the room after that. Though sometimes he still crept in, when Dean wasn't watching, to look at the pictures on the walls. The Earth, as seen from space.

The bird.

Dean took to sitting there sometimes. Whenever he couldn't sleep; whenever he'd had strange dreams. (Which was increasingly often.) He would sit on the empty little bed, patting the towels absentmindedly. Sometimes he would look at the two pillows, and sometimes at the picture of the bird. Not thinking about much really. When he finally got so tired that he had to go back to his own room, he always made sure to straighten the cover where he'd been sitting, and check that the pillows were in their places, and refold the towels neatly.

It felt good to know that they had a nice little guest room made up, and he just wanted to be sure it was all ready.

Just in case somebody ever came.