Dean surfaced slowly from the depths of slumber, a creeping awareness of his surroundings informing him that he was safely tucked in bed. What he didn't know was how he'd gotten there. The last thing he remembered was laying bloodied and broken on the barn floor, relief that it was over – both Gorgon sisters dead, Sam's eyesight miraculously restored – vying with excruciating pain. His whole left side felt as if it was on fire, the pressure of his shattered ribcage making it harder and harder to breathe. His heart stuttering wildly, his head throbbing as if it might pop like overinflated balloon, his vision tunnelled down to the deep lines of worry carved on his brother's face. As if from a great distance, he heard Sam calling his name in an increasingly high-pitched tone.
And, then, blessed darkness.
Dean's eyes cracked open. If this was a dream, it was a good one. The bed was his own. The soft surface under him cradled his still aching body perfectly, and the blanket-covered shape curled against his side was too familiar to be mistaken for anyone but his sleeping angel.
Whoa! Wait a minute... angels don't sleep, Dean thought, and frowned.
But Castiel's slow and rhythmic breathing was clear indication that this particular angel was definitely sound asleep.
Maybe he isn't an angel anymore?
Suddenly, the gentle puffs of air ghosting their way across Dean's neck, and the slender fingers twitching now and then as they rested upon their mark didn't seem nearly as reassuring as they had when he'd first awoken. But before concern had the chance to blossom into full-fledged panic, his bedroom door swung open and Sam stepped into the room carrying a heavily laden tray.
"Hey," he said, as he cleared a space for his burden on the nightstand. "Good. You're finally awake. How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a Mack truck," Dean replied, his voice rough from disuse. "How long have I been out?"
"The better part of three days."
"Three days... And Cas?"
Sam scowled. "He's been fading in and out."
"Is he... Is he human?"
"No. He's just a damned, stubborn fool."
"Huh?"
"He's been healing you, Dean. Draining himself dry in the process."
"And you let him?" Dean growled. "You should have stopped him, Sam."
"Don't you think I tried? But every time I turned my back, he found his way to you. I settled him downstairs on the sofa after I brought you up here, and he crawled up the stairs while I was in the bathroom. Literally. Crawled. Up. The. Stairs. I found him passed out on your bed looking white as a sheet. I carried him downstairs, and he crawled back up again. I put him in my room, but all that saved him was the climb. As a last resort, I locked him in the panic room, but he tore half his fingernails off trying to pry open the door. So we came to an understanding. He can stay here with you as long as I pre-approve any healing sessions and limit the amount of energy he expends."
"Oh," Dean said weakly. "Okay, then. Thank you, Sam."
"Don't be too hard on him when he wakes up, Dean. He saved your life. You were dying, man. Your injuries were..." Sam shook his head and bit his lip, obviously still shaken by the memory. "One minute you were talking to me, and the next... you just kinda gasped and keeled over. I ran for the house to call an ambulance, but I knew it wasn't going to make it here in time. Those were death rattles in your chest." He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath before continuing, "I was halfway across the yard when the barn just... exploded... with light."
"Cas," Dean breathed.
"Yeah. Cas. He regained consciousness and heard you. Somehow he managed to drag himself across the floor and then... he just gave it all he had. Boom! The light show to end all light shows. By the time I got back to the barn he had collapsed on top of you, out cold again. You were still in rough shape – heck, you still are – but we're not going to lose you, Dean. Not this time. And we're not going to lose Cas either. Not on my watch."
"You're a good brother, Sam." Dean nodded his head towards Castiel. "And a good friend. I don't know what we'd do without you."
"You'd probably kill yourselves trying to save each other."
"Probably." Dean chuckled, and then suddenly yawned.
"Can I get some soup in you before you go back to sleep?" Sam said. "I brought my lunch upstairs to eat while I kept an eye on the pair of you, but I can fix myself something later."
"Soup sounds good," Dean agreed, quietly suffering through Sam's helping him sit and fluffing pillows behind him. It tasted good too. But before he'd eaten more than a few spoonfuls, his head was nodding and Sam had to rescue the bowl from tipping over on the still sleeping Castiel.
"Thanks, Sammy," Dean mumbled as he wearily sank back down in the bed. He had just enough energy left to drape an arm across Castiel, pulling him in more snugly to his body, before his eyes drifted shut and he began to softly snore.
Sam was seated in a chair at the foot of the bed when Dean next opened his eyes. A table lamp was on, considerately angled away from the bed's occupants, and Sam was bathed in the warm pool of its light. The rest of the room was layered with dark shadows, the darker square of the curtain-covered window indicating the hour was late. Sam was lost to the book he held open on his lap; the quiet rustle of its turning pages and Castiel's deep, even breaths the only sounds to disturb the peaceful silence.
"Hey," Dean said softly, as he rolled away from Castiel, moving slowly both to avoid disturbing the angel's much needed rest, and because his muscles protested any sudden movement.
"Hey," Sam replied, glancing up from his book with a dreamy-eyed look on his face. A finger marked his place as he focused more fully on his brother.
"Good book?"
"Yeah. Phantoms on the Bookshelves."
"Sounds... useful."
"Not really. It's about books, not ghosts: treasuring books; organizing them; celebrating their physicality in a digital age. I picked it up awhile back, but never got around to reading it because, well, you know."
Dean nodded, unable to speak past the sudden lump in his throat. He'd almost forgotten how much his nerdy little brother liked to read; how he soaked up knowledge like a sponge, his giant brain quick to process subtle visual clues. Being blind – losing that part of himself – really must have sucked donkey balls.
Some of what he was thinking must have shown on his face, because Sam snapped the book shut and set it aside.
"Anyway," he said brightly, clearly eager to change the subject in typical Winchester fashion. "How're you doing? Need anything."
"I have to take a leak."
"Okay. I'll walk you to the bathroom."
Dean's nose crinkled in distaste as he folded his blankets back.
"God! What's that awful smell?"
"That would be you." Sam grinned. "I let Cas save you the indignity of wearing adult diapers, but I drew the line at him wasting his mojo to make you smell like a rose."
Dean scratched at the dried blood crusted in his hair, wincing as the gesture further exposed his stinky armpits. "I need to shower," he said.
"You need a bath," Sam corrected. "Your legs are too shaky – I doubt you can make it to the bathroom on your own, never mind standing there long enough to get clean."
"A bath, then," Dean agreed. "I just want to get rid of the sweat and grime." His glance fell to the still sleeping angel. "Has he woken yet?"
"Briefly," Sam replied. "About four hours ago. I told him you'd been conscious for several minutes – of course, I guess he'd already figured that out from the way you'd octopus-wrapped yourself around him. He just nodded and went back to sleep."
"He's looking better." Dean observed, smiling fondly. "He's got some colour in his cheeks." Gently, he peeled back the blankets and peered at the gauze swaddling the greater portion of Castiel's chest and side. "Most of the minor cuts and bruises are gone." And so were most of the angel's clothes. In fact, he was stripped down to his boxers. They both were, Dean realized abruptly, an eyebrow lifting as he turned a questioning gaze back to his brother.
Sam grinned. "Hey, he's your boyfriend. I made sure you were both comfortable, but I've already seen more of your bare asses than I ever wanted to see."
Dean had the grace to blush. "Whatever, man," he blustered. "Just help me to the can, will ya."
"Sure, but let me get the bath running and set out a towel and some clean clothes first. I'll be right back."
Dean tucked the blankets back around Castiel and leaned over to brush a kiss on his brow while he waited for Sam to return. As the minutes passed, he considered making his own way to the bathroom, but the effort it required to haul himself upright – simply so he could sit on the edge of the bed – quickly convinced him that he wouldn't get far on his own. And so he contented himself with watching over Castiel as he slept, counting the angel's measured breaths and thanking his lucky stars that they were here, together, survivors of yet another epic battle.
"Dean?" Sam whispered, startling him from the doze he was falling into. "Are you sure you're feeling up to this? I can just bring you a bedpan and washbasin."
"Nah," Dean said. "Let's go."
He was more than grateful for the support Sam offered as they made their slow way across the hall. Sam busied himself with checking the water's temperature while Dean took care of business, and then he helped his brother settle in the tub.
The wave of warmth that enveloped Dean was heavenly. It felt so good that he didn't utter a word of protest, even though the bathwater was teeming with lavender-scented bubbles. He just sighed contentedly, and slid a little further down until his shoulders rested against cool enamel.
He was sure that he'd only closed his eyes for a few seconds, but when he opened them again Sam was gone and Castiel stood in his place.
"What are you doing here?" Dean inquired, just as Castiel rumbled, "Why are you covered in bubbles?"
"I woke up and you were gone," Castiel began, only to be interrupted with, "This is Sam's idea of a joke."
"Lavender does have special properties," Castiel mused. "It has been used for generations to soothe the mind and spirit. It is also an antiseptic and has been known to ease pain and help promote healing."
"Should you be out of bed, Cas?" Dean sighed.
"Sam is changing the sheets. He asked me if I was well enough to make sure you didn't drown while he was doing so. Do the bubbles tickle, Dean?"
"Why don't you come over here and find out?" Dean waggled an eyebrow suggestively.
"I hardly think either of us is in any condition to copulate – even if Sam was not due back at any moment."
"Get your mind out of the gutter, angel – and don't say 'copulate'. I just thought you might like to join me. I'm not sure if my stink rubbed off on you – or maybe your mojo is just on the fritz. Either way, you need a bath."
"At the same time as you occupy the tub?"
"It's a big tub."
"Hmmm."
"I could use help washing my hair."
"If you wish to cuddle, why do you not just say so?"
"Shut up and get over here," Dean growled.
Castiel smirked as he stripped off his boxers and clumsily removed his bandages, but made no further comment. Dean scooted forward to make room for the angel to settle behind him, his knees poking above the bubbles and a small tidal wave sloshing over the edge of the tub. When they finally managed to arrange legs and arms and other body bits to their mutual satisfaction, Dean gingerly leaned back against Castiel's chest.
"Is this okay?" he asked. "I'm not hurting you, am I?"
"I'm fine, Dean." Castiel wrapped his arms around the hunter and drew him closer still. "As you can see, my wound is almost healed."
Indeed, the edges of the gash were nicely fused together, aided by a series of neat stitches that Dean easily recognized as his brother's work. The skin was still raised and puckered: an ugly, jagged, red line that ran the entire length of the angel's torso – and dangerously close to his heart – but no light seeped from the serrated cut, and there was no trace of infection. In time, Dean knew, the scar would fade. But, for now, it served as an all too vivid reminder of what might have been.
"I almost lost you," Dean said quietly, turning his head until his lips could nuzzle the angel's cheek.
"And I, you," Castiel soberly replied. A gentle hand cradled Dean's head, guiding it to turn just that little bit more. And, then, they were kissing: all the dangers they had faced, all the past worries and frustrations, and all their present relief and joy finally finding expression without further need of words.
The angle was awkward, but somehow they made it work. Castiel's warm mouth glided across the hunter's, their lips meeting in a gentle exploration that swiftly turned to a fierce hunger. Castiel effortlessly lifted Dean until he was seated in his lap, the change of position allowing him to turn more comfortably into the kiss. And, suddenly, the room was filled with the sound of their soft moans and the whisper-slide of soapy hands on naked flesh.
"About what you said earlier?" Dean panted.
"What did I say?" Castiel's eyes were glazed, his cheeks flushed, his mind clearly not focused on what Dean was trying to convey.
"About neither of us being in any condition to copulate."
"Mmm?"
"I think... I think you might have overlooked another option. An almost-as-much-fun option."
"Oh?" Castiel tilted his head as Dean shifted until he knelt between the angel's legs, one hand gliding up to warmly clasp the nape of his neck, the other trailing down his chest; the touch feather-light as it skirted his injury, strengthening as it reached his stomach and slid lower still.
"Oh!" Castiel repeated, in an entirely different tone. His hand blindly sought Dean out in return, eager fingers wrapping around the hunter's straining erection as they mashed their lips together in a just-this-side-of-painful kiss.
"Thank God for bubbles," Sam grumbled, slamming the bathroom door behind him as he performed a hasty about-face.
Dean was almost asleep on his feet by the time the angel closed the shower curtain around them, helped him stand, and let hot water pound over their bodies, the welcome warmth chasing away the chill of the cooling bathwater. He made quick work of washing Dean's blood-matted hair as the human leaned against the tiled wall, obviously exhausted, but too stubborn to admit it.
He would have broken his word to Sam and used his mojo to dry and clothe Dean, might even have transported him back to bed, despite the lethargy that weighted down his own limbs, but a quiet knock at the door preceded Sam sticking his head back into the steam-filled room and volunteering his assistance – as if he knew both brother and angel had almost reached the limits of their endurance.
While Castiel knotted a towel around his waist and used a second towel to pat Dean dry, Sam ran back to his bedroom to fetch a bathrobe, deeming that a better choice than trying to force Dean's heavy limbs into the T-shirt and flannel pyjama bottoms he had originally set out for his use. The squeak and rattle that announced his hurried return turned out to be Bobby's old wheelchair.
"Thought this might come in handy," he murmured, gesturing towards the chair and leaving it parked in the narrow doorway. Picking the robe up from the chair's seat, he moved to take his brother's left arm, as Castiel supported him on the right.
After they slid the robe over Dean's shoulders and helped him slip his arms through the sleeves, Dean flapped his hands at his brother, motioning him away. Sam stepped back, but Castiel swatted Dean's fumbling fingers aside, reaching out to close the robe and tie the belt himself. Dean glared, but offered no further resistance – not even when the angel plopped a towel over his head and began to rub it vigorously to dry his hair.
Sam wisely concealed his laughter over how whipped his brother was by faking a cough.
Together, then, he and Castiel guided Dean over to the waiting chair.
"No," Dean admonished, when the angel made to follow them out the door. "You wait here. Get yourself dressed. Sam will be right back for you with the chair."
This time Sam let a grin break through. Apparently, being totally whipped went both ways.
Dean slept well that night: his body sated and sweetly pliant; Castiel a warm and comforting presence at his side though, it seemed, the angel had healed enough that he had no further need for sleep. Still, he remained in the human's bed, their limbs entwined as Dean dreamed on beside him, a satisfied smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Castiel felt an answering smile curve his lips as his mind consciously replayed what Dean was so obviously reliving in his dream.
The slip and slide of soapy fingers on heated skin...
Frantic kisses spurring them on, their pleasure building, building...
The way each caught the other's gasp of pleasure, returning it with a contented sigh as release inevitably found them, crashed through them, spiralled out of control...
The sudden tenting of his borrowed pyjama bottoms brought Castiel's wandering thoughts sharply back to the present. Behave yourself, he told his recalcitrant flesh. Dean is in no shape to be indulging your foolishness. It is enough to simply be here – like this – with him. It is good to be home.
It was, indeed, good to be home. Good to quietly lie in a comfortable bed and listen to his bedmate's slow, contented breaths. Castiel pressed a chaste kiss to Dean's forehead, his smile growing as Dean wriggled closer in response, the slightly too large bathrobe he still wore parting as he moved, revealing a broad expanse of freckled skin to Castiel's keen eye, despite the darkness of the room.
The temptation was too great to bear. He had fought off the urge to touch Dean too many times over the years. Now that it was allowed, it was an addiction – an addiction he had no desire to ever cure.
Castiel trailed gentle fingers up his sleeping lover's arm, down his shoulder, across his chest, not stopping until his hand rested on the human's heart. He could name each bone, each muscle – had pieced them back together and carefully placed them one by one as he rebuilt Dean's body after retrieving it from Hell – but the quiet satisfaction he had felt then, as he reshaped the broken form, was nothing compared to the wonder he felt now as his angelic gaze traversed living tissue and peered at the treasure that lay hidden beneath. The soul within its wall of flesh was man's true glory, and never had he seen a soul more glorious than that of the Righteous Man. His man.
Mine, he thought, fiercely. No one – nothing – can take him from me.
Never mind that was almost exactly what the Gorgon sisters had accomplished. If he had not regained consciousness at that particular instant...
"Dean? Dean!" a familiar voice called, the panic and desperation behind the cry cutting through the numbing haze that had enveloped Castiel, drawing him back to awareness.
Sam? Yes, the voice was definitely Sam's. And the pounding feet that tore past him must also belong to the younger Winchester brother – who was, for some unknown reason, here... but fleeing the building. Which made no sense. If Dean was hurt, Sam would not leave his side. Unless something extraordinary had happened? Was Sam going for help?
Castiel eyes fluttered open and his head belatedly turned to follow the noise of Sam's retreat. The screaming agony that even this slight movement immediately provoked caused him to moan piteously. His hand shot to his side, pushing back against the pain, trying to staunch the flood of light that bled from the wound.
"Dean?" he whimpered.
There was no reply.
Castiel tried to focus on his surroundings, but his eyes weren't functioning properly – not on the human plane of existence, at least. Apparently, his injuries were too severe for his vessel to contain his angelic essence. Which meant he was moments away from forcibly transforming into his true form – with no guarantee that he would survive the transformation. It was highly likely that all that would remain would be the burned out husk of Jimmy Novak and the charred outline of his wings.
He had to remove himself from this building while he still could – before he went supernova. Every second counted.
But he couldn't leave until he knew for certain Dean had survived.
Grace slipped through his fingers and spilled like tears from his glowing eyes as he laboriously lifted his head and began to scan the room. Since he was denied use of the visible portion of the electromagnetic spectrum, he used the infrared frequency instead: intently seeking out even the slightest vibration of molecules to give him the information he so desperately needed to know.
At first, his surroundings remained stubbornly dark and empty. But then, over the mad hammering of his own heart, he heard it: a low moan, a sibilant rush of air. His head turned to the sound – and there was Dean. His crumpled form was but a blurred shadow to Castiel's skewed sense of vision: a rapidly cooling lump of clay with only a flickering spark confirming that his soul had not yet left his body.
Castiel had crossed space from one end of the universe to the other in less time than it took a hummingbird to flap its wings a single beat. He had watched continents shift and stars fade, never heeding the passing of time. Yet as he lay there now, listening to the final breaths rattling in Dean's lungs, the chasm between them – a meagre distance of but a few yards – seemed insurmountable.
But giving up was not an option.
"Dean," he murmured. "Dean..."
Inch by pain-filled inch, he began to crawl toward the fallen hunter: starting off on his hands and knees, but quickly abandoning that means of locomotion to lay on his uninjured side and worm his way across the floor instead.
The journey of mere minutes felt like an eternity.
He was panting and gasping by the time he reached Dean's side, sweat pouring from every pore and light strobing from him like a pulsar.
He was dying – they were both dying.
But maybe, just maybe, one of them could live.
Intellectually, he knew the hope that he could somehow harness his failing Grace and channel it into Dean was a one in a million chance. One in two million. More likely than not, he'd condemn them both to a catastrophic explosion.
His heart, however, insisted this was a chance he had to take. Nothing would give his death greater meaning than keeping Dean alive.
"Help me, Father," he cried as he placed trembling hands on either side of Dean's blood-splattered, pallid face. "Help me save him." And then he sealed his lips against his lover's... and breathed.
He was prepared for the rush of emptiness that swept in to replace his Grace.
He was prepared for the sense of peace that filled him as Dean's lips parted, swallowing great gulps of Grace and air as torn flesh and broken bones began to knit themselves together.
What he did not expect was for Dean's arms to suddenly rise up and shove him away, brutally severing their connection just as the angel began a slow motion descent into oblivion.
No, no, no, the furious protest crashed through his mind.
He fell, not knowing whether or not he had succeeded: Dean's chest beneath his cheek, the bitter-copper taste of fear upon his tongue as darkness settled around them both.
He would never forget that moment. Never. Castiel suppressed a violent shudder.
Never mind. He is alive, now. Safe.
The heartbeat beneath his fingertips was slow and steady. Strong, like the indomitable spirit of the man himself. Castiel slid his hand back up Dean's chest, across his shoulder, down his arm, not stopping until he'd laced their fingers together.
Dean gave his hand a little welcoming squeeze and nestled closer, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like 'I love you' into his pillow as he settled more deeply into sleep.
Castiel closed his eyes, and waited patiently for Dean to wake again.
Bobby cast a final glance at the Milwaukee skyline as it was framed in his rearview mirror, and pressed his foot more firmly on the gas pedal.
All in all, it had been a successful trip: the next generation of hunters left bruised and bleeding, but wiser for the hard lessons they had learned. They had urged him to stay longer. There was a shapeshifter in Chicago, a ghoul in Appleton, a witch in West Bend...
The list went on and on. It always did. It was a basic tenet that one hunt always led to another. That's just the way it was when hunting was in your blood, and there was no shortage of nasties out there going bump in the night. More likely than not, he'd return someday and continue training these young hunters, or move on to help others like them in another town. But that wasn't happening today. Right now, it was high time that he headed back to Sioux Falls. Past high time. In fact, he probably should have bailed on this mission the moment he set eyes on that TV screen and pieced the puzzle pieces together. He never should have let Sam sweet-talk him out of hightailing it home.
Gorgons, for God's sake. Dean and Cas at death's door. A substantial portion of the US laid to waste.
Leave it to the fucking Winchesters to get caught up in a shit storm – half the time one or the other of them was the root cause of it!
The only good news to come from all of this was that Sam could see again. He was more than capable of holding down the fort and nursing his idiot brother and brother-in-law back to health.
So Bobby stayed put and did what he had come to do. Which was not to say he enjoyed doing it. He was distracted. That distraction had almost cost a young hunter his life. The boy was still in intensive care.
Bobby alternated brooding over that fact with surfing for news reports from static-plagued radio stations. The I-94 was clear. So was the I-90 at first. Not that he expected smooth sailing all the way.
Sure enough, just south of Rochester, Minnesota, indications of trouble appeared in the form of a steady stream of vehicles fleeing east. An hour or so later, he noticed a heavier than usual police presence, and hastily erected warning signs began to appear at the side of the road. His old truck's cruising speed dropped from sixty-five mph to fifty... fifty to forty... forty to thirty to twenty-five.
Lanes began to be closed. Traffic was re-routed here, delayed there.
When twilight fell, Bobby decided to call it quits and book a motel room for the night. Maybe by morning, things would be better.
They weren't.
Not by a long shot.
He considered himself lucky when he finally found a diner that was open. He filled his growling stomach with runny eggs and burnt bacon and negotiated for a thermos of coffee to go. The truck's tank was harder to fill. Gas stations were either totally sold out, or line-ups at the pumps were blocks long with no guarantee of fuel at the end of the wait. Bobby felt a little bad surreptitiously syphoning gas from honest folks' vehicles, but he rationalized that he had no other choice. He had to get himself back on the road, pronto.
It was after 10:00 a.m. by the time he actually hit the highway.
The coffee was bitter and tepid.
The miles slid slowly by.
After the seventh detour, Bobby stopped counting and resigned himself to this portion of the trip being an adventure in itself – hell, even the detours had detours. The reason for this became obvious the farther west he travelled: power lines down, bridges out, huge stretches of asphalt ripped and rippled; buildings destroyed, acrid smoke still pouring from a few stubborn pyres; houses without roofs, without windows, no small few levelled to the ground. It was a war zone and natural disaster all rolled into one. Armageddon on a sunny Tuesday afternoon when people should have been going about their business: kids in school or playing in the park; men and women working, shopping, walking dogs, jogging, sipping coffee – all those hundred and one things people did on a normal day in a normal world.
Instead, everywhere he looked he saw people milling around: sifting through the ruins, trying to find the missing pieces of their lives; battling fires; clearing debris; helping the injured. Many were blank faced, shell-shocked, numb; many more were weeping and clinging to one another, clearly as devastated as their world had suddenly become.
The closer he drew to the epicentre, the worse things got.
He had to ditch his truck and walk the last few miles to his salvage yard: an aggravating end to an already frustrating journey. His shirt was soon plastered to his back with sweat and his legs ached from crawling over fallen trees and stumbling on uneven terrain.
He was insanely happy to see his house was still there. Despite his last conversation with Sam four days ago, just before phone service in South Dakota went belly up, he had been convinced he'd be coming home to a pile of rubble. But there it stood, apparently intact, save for a few missing shingles. The rumble of an old generator promised hot food and a bath wouldn't be out of the question – as long as the fuel supply held out, and he was fairly certain that would not be a problem any time in the near future. That was one of the benefits of facing the end of the world on a regular basis: his survivalist skills never had the chance to get rusty.
He was still congratulating himself on his state of preparedness when he rounded a final stretch of stacked car bodies and his house came more fully into view.
Bobby came to an abrupt halt, his jaw dropping as he stared at the people assembled in his yard. There were easily forty or fifty of them: all ages and sizes, all mutely standing with their eyes trained on his house. Not a weapon was in evidence, but a strange thrum of power filled the air and lifted a rash of goosebumps on the back of his neck.
Not just people, then. Angels.
He must have made some noise – a shocked intake of breath, a crunch of gravel beneath his boots – because the next thing he knew, heads were turning in unison and he had become the focus of their cold scrutiny.
As welcoming committees went, he would have preferred zombies to angels. He was quite capable of handling a fair-sized zombie invasion. He didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell going up against a single angel, never mind a yard full of them. It was no use even trying. Running away was just as hopeless an option as going in guns blazing.
Silently, he waited for his fate to be decided. He wouldn't give the bastards the satisfaction of hearing him beg for his life.
But, in eerie silence, the sea of angels parted, creating an open pathway to his door.
Head held high, not knowing if or when a blow might fall, Bobby passed through the deadly gauntlet and climbed the porch stairs. Each step felt like a mile. Each gaze played like a laser on his skin. He didn't breathe easy until he heard the door click shut behind him, shielding him from the angels' sight. He wasn't ashamed to admit his hand was shaking as he forced it to let go of the doorknob; his heart thumped painfully in his chest. It's okay, he told himself. They can't follow me in here. Those fancy wards Cas set block out every angel but him.
A low murmur of voices drew him to the kitchen. Sam was stirring something on the stove, something that smelled so good it made Bobby's mouth water. Dean and Cas were seated side by side at the table, knees knocking together and their heads bent over the book they shared.
"You're sure the recipe calls for a tablespoon, not a teaspoon?" Sam queried.
"Yes," Dean replied.
"T-b-s-p," Castiel confirmed, carefully spelling out the letters. "Not t-s-p."
Christ almighty! Bobby seethed. Nero fiddled while Rome burned.
"One of you idjits care to explain why there's an army of winged dicks standing on my lawn?" he barked, rudely disrupting the peaceful domestic tableau. "And why the hell aren't you doing anything about it?"