See part one for header notes.

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The first thing Sam was aware of, as he awoke with a groan, was the pain in his head, which throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He sat up cautiously in the back seat of the Impala, feeling like his skull could cave in at any moment and taking in first the large bloodstain on his shirt and, as he touched his face cautiously, down his chin, and then Dean's rigidly set shoulders as his brother drove. The third thing he noticed was the hunched, shaking form of Castiel sat in the passenger seat.

He tried to meet Dean's gaze in the mirror, wondering if what he could hazily remember had really happened, but Dean's eyes, when his brother eventually deigned to meet his own, were carefully blank. But Castiel was still here, in the car with them and because of that, Sam was certain that, whatever had happened after he fell unconscious, it hadn't been good.

The angel's whole posture was a study in abject misery as he curled into the seat sideways, feet almost tucked under him, coat pulled tightly round him as if it were a shield. Dean wasn't even objecting to the angel putting shoes on the upholstery. He was gazing, unseeing, at the passing scenery with tears falling silently and steadily down his cheeks. Sam wanted to reach out to him, wanted to offer some form of comfort, but something held him back.

What seemed like hours later, hours of Dean watching Sam watch Castiel, Dean steered the car to a rest area. Well off the beaten track, the rest stop had a block of rickety looking toilet stalls, a vandalized soda machine – which Dean vandalized further by prizing it open to retrieve three bottles of whichever drink didn't look toxic; and that was telling. Three drinks. For two humans and an angel who didn't require sustenance of the mortal kind – and a handful of slowly decaying picnic tables.

Holding himself stiffly, Castiel moved over to one of the tables and dropped exhaustedly onto the bench seat, posture no less hunched than it had been in the car.

Castiel briefly caught Sam's puzzled look and hunched further into himself.

Dean still didn't speak, simply handed Sam one bottle – Dr. Pepper, he noted with an un-enamored grimace – before twisting the cap off what had to have been the only bottle of water in the machine and actively putting it into Castiel's hand, then staring at him until the angel took a cautious sip, grimacing at what Sam just knew would be a flat, almost bitter chemical taste, but continuing to take another sip, apparently resigned to the fact that he was probably going to end up getting this sort of thing regularly.

Dean sighed, the first sound any of them had made in what seemed like forever. "The water isn't some sort of punishment," he said softly, and Castiel flinched, but Dean pressed on, "It's just something that happens and I know it tastes like crap, but really, it's not a punishment. You don't have to drink it if you don't want to."

Castiel looked up then, eyes searching Dean's face for any trace of a lie. Apparently finding none, he nodded infinitesimally and then offered the rest of the water to Sam, gesturing at his face. Sam gave him a tentative smile before mooching back to the Impala to use one of the side mirrors to clean off his face, making sure that his companions were never out of his line of sight.

Figuring that he should leave Dean to deal with the angel – former angel? – at least in the short term, Sam cleaned the blood off his face and neck; and didn't that just figure? The power worked the same on angels and demons, but for some reason stopping a demon caused only minor bleeding while stopping Uriel had nearly had him bleeding out through his nose, even taking into account the blood caused by the blow to the face. With a sigh, he moved round to the trunk, digging through his duffel for a clean – or at least clean-ish – shirt. Or t-shirt. Anything? That was the last time he left Dean to do the laundry.

He glanced up in time to see Dean sit down next to Castiel and sling an arm around the angel's waist, carefully avoiding his upper back and pulling him to lean against Dean's shoulder. He murmured something quietly as he sipped from his own bottle of Dr Pepper, before resting his cheek on the crown of Castiel's head.

Sam's eyes narrowed and he cocked his head slightly, trying to work something out. An idea was dawning on him, one he didn't much like, and he was hoping he had only imagined what he thought he had seen as he fell unconscious. He ducked his head back down into the trunk as Dean looked up, and when he eventually emerged wearing one of Dean's rock-band emblazoned t-shirts, Dean was holding Castiel's head down on his shoulder, fingers carding gently through the angel's hair – and still avoiding touching the angel's back.

He resolved to ask Dean about it later.

#####

Dean was quietly freaking out. Or not so quietly, maybe. It was just that when he was freaking out he turned into the mother hen from he- An overbearing, heavily armed mother hen. And Sam looked torn between being relieved that he had another focus for his attentions this time and worrying about the angel Dean was still trying to calm down.

Yeah. Like Dean could see that happening anytime soon. Even though the man he had been possessing had been popped free as Uriel had torn Castiel's wings off, the angel still bore an uncanny resemblance to the human, right down to the clothing. And although Dean suspected that he was the only one who was able to see it, Castiel's back was currently permanently stained with something that looked like blood where Dean had been forced to finish what Uriel had started, to prevent Castiel from being trapped somewhere between human and angel, to prevent him from gradually going insane with a foot in each world and being unable to be part of either.

He was glad Sam had been unconscious for the final excising of Castiel's wings, where Dean had made use of Raguel's – his own – abilities with fire and cauterized the wounds as well as he could. And hadn't Castiel's pitiful whimper been far more heart-rending than any screaming he could have done. To Dean's immense relief he had passed out shortly after, leaving Dean to struggle to drag both inert bodies back to the safety of the Impala.

They planned to meet up with Victor and Diana in Vegas, and he was hoping against hope that Kenshin; assassin, kendo master and healer; had decided to wait there also. Diana and Maggie, he knew, had crowded into the car with Victor and the boys when he had bellowed to them to get out of there "Right now!" and he had no clue where the three youkai had gone, but he wasn't going to worry about that now.

With a slightly frustrated huff, he hauled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed, mentally urging Kenshin to answer his phone.

The young youkai did so, practically before the phone had a chance to ring even once and, before Dean had time to speak, Kenshin spoke. "You do not need to order this one to do things like answer a ringing telephone, that you do not," he said softly, but Dean could hear the core of steel in the mild tones, was reminded sharply that his delicately built friend was first and foremost an assassin in one of the bloodiest conflicts of the nineteenth century, as well as being a dragon who was not amused by people tampering with him or his perceptions.

He really didn't want Kenshin plotting any kind of revenge which may involve the Ghost Facers.

"Sorry," he stammered, "Sorry, I didn't know. It's kinda new to me," he added a little defensively, when Kenshin made an amused noise.

"That it is," the red-head agreed affably. "You should speak to your new traveling companion about ways you may keep it under control." Kenshin was silent for a moment. "Shishou, he offers his condolences to Castiel, and offers his assistance, should it be needed. Saitoh is speaking to his contacts to see if there is anything further to be done. He... He is not hopeful, but he is trying." He paused briefly. "You must speak with Agent Hendrickson about his colleagues from New York," he added before abruptly hanging up on Dean.

Dean stared at his phone, not quite believing that Kenshin had just done that. Shaking his head, he dialed Hendrickson's number. "Hey, Victor, you got time to speak?" he asked hoarsely.

Hendrickson laughed. "Always, man. How you doin'?"

"Been better," he said without preamble. "You still got the kids with you?"

That made Hendrickson snort in amusement. "Only until Diana kills them. I'm thinking it won't be long. Why? You need to talk to them before I have to help hide the bodies?"

Dean snorted. "That was more my roundabout way of asking if the MPU had dragged you back in for psychiatric assessment and kidnapping," he admitted dryly. "You didn't have any problems?"

Hendrickson went very quiet. "No," he murmured quietly. "No problems. You. You know that one of them was Deputy Director Fitzgerald's kid?" he asked. "He said he'd try to get my discharge papers backdated a few months, get me invalided out before I detonated my career. Even said he'd fix me up with the guy he saw after he got shot up a couple of years ago, get me the psychiatric all clear."

Dean frowned. "And what's in it for him?" he asked. No way was the kid of a deputy director going to do something like that for nothing.

The other man went silent again, this time for so long that he thought that the signal had cut out. "Victor?" he asked.

"Deputy Director Fitzgerald is possessed," Hendrickson informed him. "He's been abusing the guy for years; said that if he went against him, he'd kill his mother and his sisters."

"Crap," Dean forced out after thinking better of one of his favorite curses.

Hendrickson made an affirmative noise. "It gets worse. This demon has wanted him kept on Jack Malone's team, even if as Victor Fitzgerald he had to appear to be against it. This was the first time the name of one of the demon's targets has come up."

Dean cut right to the chase. "Us or you?" he demanded.

"You," Hendrickson informed him, "Specifically you, not Sam. The rest of us were incidental. I mean, what demon wouldn't love to get four at one blow? But this one is after you personally. Said something to Martin about you being out and the rumors being true. He didn't know more than that.

"I left him with instructions to get himself a tattoo like yours, and told him how to ward a residence. He's got my contact number, but I'm thinking you need to talk to him."

Dean grunted an affirmative. "Yeah," he agreed. "Need to find out if this guy visits New York often, and if so how often he actually goes to Fitzgerald's apartment. Might be he needs to find somewhere else to live where he has thresholds the demon's never crossed. Send me the number. I'll give him a call when we get to Vegas."