Chapter 34 – The Most Cursed of Hands

"Aren't you going to offer me a drink? Or at least take my coat?" Bartimaeus asked, crossing his legs and looking at Crowley and Veronica expectantly.

"I saw you die," Veronica said immediately, body still tight and coiled, ready for a fight. There truly was a fierceness in her, and Crowley thought fleetingly that he would've relished seeing her fight her way out of his mansion.

"You thought you saw him die," Crowley told her, lowering his voice and meeting her eyes. "Illusion magic is a pretty parlor trick in troubled times," he switched his gaze back to Bartimaeus, "wouldn't you say?"

"I did what I had to do," he replied with a nonchalant shrug of one shoulder.

"Thanks for the assist, by the way. Loved how you valiantly came to my rescue once the Winchester and his pet angels took me," Crowley spat. What a bloody coward, gallivanting off once more into the great unknown while Crowley was left to have his smoke ripped right out of him.

"Really? We're going to play that game? Anyone who gets in the way of the Winchesters gets dead very quickly. Or…" Bartimaeus trailed his eyes down the length of Crowley's body. "Or, they get human. Apparently."

Crowley stiffened. "What that lumbering pile of flannel and malcontent did to me–"

"I don't care about the how, Crowley. All that matters is the result. I went hunting for you, planning to cart you back with me in the faint hopes that you would help stop the usurpation taking place in your kingdom. But this? You, like this? Very big problem."

"Usurpation?" Crowley echoed. "What in blazes are you talking about? I've been gone, what, two days?"

"Well, Dean certainly isn't concerned with what's in your filing cabinets, but the power the position affords him seems to be to his liking. You've got a Winchester poised and ready to seat his perfect ass on the throne."

Unfortunately, "seeing red" was no longer a literal concept for Crowley, but the rage he felt at the information was worthy of a demon. "Dean…Winchester…is taking MY KINGDOM!?"

"It's not yours anymore," Bartimaeus replied, crossing his arms, seeming unaffected by Crowley's outraged scream. "Not to demoralize you, but you're useless, now."

"He's not useless," Veronica protested. "Humanity doesn't mean he's helpless. Have you met the Winchesters?"

"Fortunately, no. And trust me, no racism intended, but the Black Throne needs a demon sitting on it, not a mortal man," the demon told her. "So, this of course begs the question…" He took a step closer to Crowley. "How would you like to go about reclaiming your demonhood?"

Crowley swallowed with effort. Yes, of course Bartimaeus would assume that Crowley planned to re-demonize himself as soon as inhumanly possible. Why in his right mind would he remain a sniveling mess of hunger pangs and insecurities when he could return to his old self with just a hint of Hell torture?

Why indeed. Oh yes, perhaps it was that deep-seated, crippling fear of returning to Hell, and to the racks. That was a likely candidate.

"I could take you down myself, it wouldn't take long for me to turn you again, given how pre-disposed you already are to damnation. We could have you back up and running before Dean destroys everything you, and more importantly I, have worked for."

He felt the hair on his arms rise, felt his meat suit's heart – his heart – speed up in his chest, skipping beats here and there, double beating, just all around not working fucking properly. Short of breath and dizzy, he turned away.

"Not possible," he said, making sure Bartimaeus couldn't see his face. Bartimaeus, like any good Crossroads demon, was a master at deceit. Conning con artists, well, that wasn't always the easiest task, and Crowley's perfect poker face seemed to have vanished with his newfound species.

The floor creaked as Bartimaeus took a step forward. Juliet panted in front of Crowley, watching him inquisitively. Hell knew it was nice to see her again, even if he needed a damn witch ring in order to do so.

"…would you care to elaborate?" Bartimaeus pressed, no doubt through gritted teeth.

Veronica, thankfully, said nothing. Surely she knew he was bluffing…but she wasn't the kind to call him on it. Even if anyone else in their right mind would be champing at the bit to send him straight back to Hell.

"Part of the cure Winchester jumbo-size worked on me. No takesies-backsies. When I die, my soul, in history's greatest twist of irony, is headed upwards."

"Not if I kill you and take your soul to Hell personally," Bartimaeus argued, voice lending itself to a growl that made Crowley wonder whether the statement was an offer, or a threat. Probably a bit of both, knowing his former second-in-command.

"Even then. It's incorruptible, untouchable. All thanks to the intrepid Men of Letters. Specky bastards knew their magic a bit too well." Crowley stretched out his hands. "There's no going back." He turned, hoping his expression was schooled enough not to arouse the demon's suspicion. "But I'm still Crowley. I'm ancient, I'm angry, and I know how to win."

"You're human. You've got an expiration date, and–" Bartimaeus sniffed the air. "What I'm gonna say is a bad liver. Even with the wealth of supernatural knowledge I'm sure you've got in that head of yours, you standing up against a Knight of Hell?" Bartimaeus shook his head slowly. "Oh, I think we both know how that story ends…your Highness."

"Don't test me, Bartimaeus."

"Empty threats. So boring." The demon rolled his eyes.

"Empty?" Crowley repeated quietly, stroking the top of Juliet's head. The hellhound barked, and Bartimaeus jumped.

He could've sworn he saw Veronica smirk out of the corner of his eye. Maybe he was starting to rub off on her.

"Fair point." Bartimaeus lifted his hands. "Look, if you're permanently human, our business is over. I don't have a grudge to settle, so I won't kill you, and you can thank your lucky stars that the rest of Hell thinks you're dead, or you would have demons trampling each other to get to you, all desperate to take their pound of flesh out of the former King's supple behind. So, a suggestion? Lay low. Very low."

"…They all think I'm dead? So easily?"

"You've still got a faithful minion or two running around, but Dean's convinced Sam finally slit your throat, and no one's really questioning him. I doubt anyone will come looking for you, unless they get a whiff that you're alive. You, on the other hand…you're the prophet I've heard so much about."

Bartimaeus turned his attention to Veronica, adjusting his thick-framed glasses that he certainly didn't need.

"Great. My name is going around demon water coolers. It's a dream come true," Veronica muttered, crossing her arms, not taking her eyes off of Bartimaeus. She was tense, ready to run for their sole angel blade at a moment's notice. Her gaze was hard, unflinching.

She really was a soldier, wasn't she? Cross and prayer book or not, she was a force to be reckoned with, as far as humans went.

"Dean wants his brother. And not in the platonic or homoerotic way, purely in the wants-to-rip-his-throat-out kind of way. I'm sure it won't be long before he sends someone to track you down, given you've been blessed with the gift of Winchester Vision."

Crowley had been thinking that as well, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he wasn't ashamed to admit that he'd been far too caught up in his own personal existential crisis to worry much about Veronica. Veronica, who seemed content to return to her life as usual, as if the long-ago issued order from a God that no longer cared had never zapped her into a starring role in what remained of the Divine Plan.

"So, demons will be coming for me," Veronica said, completely monotone. "Again."

"These ones won't be nearly as friendly," Bartimaeus assured her wryly. "I'll tell you what. As one last favor to Crowley…I'll try to make you vanish as best as I can. Mimic prophet omens somewhere else. Hopefully the new administration will assume you were killed sometime after escaping. But if I were you, I'd disappear. Find a hole in the wall somewhere far, far, far away, and don't look back. Not if you want to live."

"I can't just walk out on my entire life," Veronica said, hazel eyes brightening with worry. "I have a family, friends. People I love."

Bartimaeus merely lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Bully for you. They'll all die, too." He waved his hand, turning his back on the two of them. "Up to you. Don't say I didn't warn you. Crowley, it's been…what are the kids saying these days…? Ah, yes: it's been real. Have fun with, you know. Mortality. Ta-ta."

"Bartimaeus, wait–" the other demon vanished before Crowley could even try to stop him. "Bollocks!" Crowley whirled around, letting out a pent up breath between his teeth. "Dean Winchester. On my throne! Is there no justice in the universe?"

"Only of the poetic variety, for the most part," Veronica replied, distracted. "Oh God, Crowley, I can't just...I won't just run and hide."

"That's all very valiant and lovely, etcetera, ad nauseum, but Barty wasn't having a laugh with his little speech. Stay here, even with his misdirect, and everyone you hold dear's liable to get skewered before the month's out. Presumably, you don't want that, unless you're far more interesting than I originally thought," Crowley told her. "You need to get out of here."

Veronica ran a hand through her hair, lips pursed. "Define here," she said. "I mean, I-I- I could move out of DC, if it made things safer for my parents and Matt–"

"I'm not talking about out of the city," Crowley cut in. "I'm talking about the country."

Veronica practically seemed to recoil at the idea. "I'd be branded a deserter. Not a chance."

"Is your reputation worth your life? Your family's lives?" Crowley challenged, turning to face her. Why was she being so deliberately thick about this? The math was simple: her chances of survival were significantly higher if she fled and didn't look back.

Probably for the same reason the Winchesters keep risking the fate of the universe in order to save one another from every well-deserved death they're subjected to, Crowley answered himself, suppressing an eye roll. Humans! No bloody self-preservation instinct in some of them.

"You want to be a hero? Then run. You'll save the life of everyone you care about," Crowley continued. He watched Veronica out of the corner of his eye. She seemed visibly shaken. "You didn't react like this when I took you. Barely seemed to bat an eye. What's different this time? You're on your own terms, free."

"Running from demons for the rest of my life hardly seems like freedom. And with you, it was different. One, I didn't have a choice, and two...well. I had ulterior motives."

"Ulterior motives?" Crowley asked, cocking his head, smirking faintly. "Did you have a mastermind plot to jump my bones that I wasn't aware of?"

"No, I had a mastermind plot to sabotage you from the inside," she replied, her voice harder than he'd ever heard it before.

Crowley hummed. "Suppose that explains why you were so easily convinced to jump ship and play consort to the King of Hell. How did that sabotaging go for you, by the way?"

"One, I wasn't your consort, and two: you were so good at sabotaging yourself, I didn't even have to lift a finger."

"That's cold, Veronica." He couldn't deny the veracity of the statement, no matter how much he wanted to. He had certainly paved the path to his own downfall. And now, here he was, a new path open to him...become a demon again, return to Hell, take back what was his...

Once more, he was sabotaging himself.

Typically, he would pride himself on his cowardice, as it ensured his continued survival. But, as was appropriate, it seemed his tragic flaw was precisely what would damn him to a mediocre, mortal existence for the remaining thirty to forty years of his meat suit's life.

No. This isn't the time to roll over. I'll destroy that overblown lumberjack, demon or not.

Unjustified optimism was more Veronica's bag than his, but he certainly wasn't getting a pep talk from the prophet at present. She leaned on the island in the kitchen, forehead resting on clasped hands. Praying. Sweet Hell, she really thought someone was listening, didn't she? It would've been endearing, if he hadn't found it so pathetic. Not to mention pointless. God's extended vacation didn't seem like it had any kind of end anywhere in sight.

Not that he could blame the Almighty Dead-Beat Dad. He wouldn't want to go rooting around in this trash-fire of a planet, either, if he had a choice in the matter.

"Instead of praying help from above, how about we get help from someone that may actually give it?" Crowley called to her. She didn't respond, didn't move. Showed no signs of having heard him at all. He sighed. "Veronica. I can get you out of the country. Somewhere nice...Stockholm, Amsterdam."

She still offered no response.

"I'll grant that it's not supremely likely that Dean will grow wise to your continued survival. Kayce, however, one of my intelligence demons– well, the clue's in the name. Omens or not, when no new prophet makes an appearance, he'll start to wonder what precisely happened to you. Demons will come for you, and they will burn this city down to find you. Your family, if they survive, will be used as leverage against you. Tortured, left in a lock-up somewhere and forgotten."

If Dean was half as smart as he was. And the new Knight definitely matched him in terms of cruelty, probably exceeded Crowley at his worst, actually.

"I can get you out of here. I have one last favor to call in, exactly one. Consider it a thank you for the...the hospitality," he said, not sure how to capture what precisely the prophet had done for him. She'd...cared about him. That was the only way to label it, though it was his instinct not to trust something so mushy as a proper motive, but he couldn't see anything else in Veronica's eyes when she looked at him. "At least disappear for the summer. You're on grief leave, yes? Go and grieve somewhere far off and away. Tell your family you're going on a mission trip, or whatever it is you holier-than-thou types do for jollies."

Veronica remained silent for a few more moments, but with a deep breath, she gave in and acknowledged him, "And it's just that easy, huh?"

"No, it's not easy, but like it or not, you're a prophet. There's no escaping that. Escaping death for as long as you can is the best you can hope for. One thing I can guarantee you, darling, is that if you choose to stay here and try to cling to the life you had before, your trip to St. Peter is going to come sooner rather than later."

A few minutes passed. Crowley was beginning to think the prophet had gone catatonic on him. But finally, mercifully, Veronica ended the tense moment. Her eyes opened, and she lifted her head. Her hands were still clasped. A new resolve seemed to gleam in her eyes. "Okay. The summer. I'll give you that."

Why he was so adamant about her saving herself, he wasn't sure. Gratitude, he supposed. Or that inexplicable fondness he'd picked up for the mad ginger.

She didn't need to die. At least one prophet deserved a happy ending. Or at least one that didn't end with being the kindling at a Winchester family bonfire.

Crowley nodded. Juliet was pushing at his hand with her nose, wanting for attention. He stroked down her spine and gathered his thoughts. "If all goes well, I'll have you on a plane out of here tomorrow night."

"Just me?" she asked, turning to face him. "What about you?"

Ah. Yes. What about him?

"I'll figure out something," he said. "That's my forte. There are still hidey-holes that may not have been compromised during my absence this past year."

Veronica narrowed her eyes at him. "Why not just come with me?"

Crowley shook his head, astounded. "From roommates to an international holiday. Ever heard of taking things slow, love?"

"If I'm going to be on the run from Hell, it would be better to have you with me than not. Unless I missed something, you don't have anything holding you here. At least come with me until you get bored of me," she said.

He could tell that she was trying to be nonchalant, but he was positive that the idea of throwing her life away and heading off alone to live a life of paranoid solitude terrified her.

What do you really have left, besides her?

Growing dependent on anyone, however, was something he wanted to avoid. A few months staying with the girl couldn't hurt, but he would need to strike out on his own in the near future.

Don't count on anyone but yourself. He'd been taught that lesson more than once.

"I suppose I could use a vacation," he said at length, and he detected a hint of relief in the sag of the prophet's shoulders. "Okay then. Twenty four hours. I need to set about actually finding my last remaining...contact...that I may be able to trust. You..." He took out the crumpled piece of paper in his pocket, the extensive warding sketch he'd given to the tattoo artist earlier that day. "Get this on you. Very important. If I'm not back by tomorrow night, you're on your own, and I'm most likely dead."

He made for the door, but Veronica hurried in front of him, halting his progress. "No way in hell you're leaving me with a statement like that. At least give me a clue as to where you'll be."

"See, there's the rub. I don't have a clue. But I do have to find a very dangerous man who may or may not want to kill me, given my current state. So, how about you loan me that angel-poker, you keep my pup, and we both hope that we're not in ten thousand sticky red pieces by tomorrow evening. Sound good?"

"I'm guessing that's a rhetorical question." She retreated to her bedroom and returned with her pilfered angel blade. She handed it to him. "Whatever you're doing, just...be careful. I'm praying for you."

"Please don't," Crowley replied, snorting. "I'd like to leave my fate to something slightly less apathetic, if at all possible."

Veronica worried her bottom lip between her teeth. "I have a bad feeling about all of this, Crowley."

Crowley tried to smile reassuringly. "I'm a former-demon. Bad feelings are my stock and trade. Just trust me." He ducked out the door, closing it behind him before Veronica could worry herself into a conniption.

"Trust me," he repeated under his breath. "What could possibly go wrong?"

"You weren't kidding when you said it wasn't a good idea," the hallucination of Dean observed.

"Unless you have a better plan, this is the best I can do," Cas retorted.

Cas, who was once more housed inside of Sam's body, after briefly waking up Sam's conscience just long enough to extract another all-important 'yes' from the Winchester. Sam had blearily agreed to whatever measures were necessary to get the stone off of him, and then Cas had possessed him for the second time that day, and tucked him far away, where his desires wouldn't put the stone into action again.

"I did not say I had a better idea," Gadreel said, brow scrunching. "I'm merely concerned. Reasonably so, I think."

Damn it. He needed to stop responding to the hallucination out loud.

"It's not like I can't hear what's going on in your head. Kind of where I'm living," Dean said, rapping his knuckles on his own temple.

"Sorry," Cas apologized. "Stand back. Be ready to heal Sam, should I become incapacitated."

"Understood."

They stood in the Men of Letter's garage. This was the safest place within the bunker, in terms of potential objects to be damaged. The Impala was still parked on the edge of the woods by Magnus's compound, and therefore safe from any chaos caused by the removal of the Cintamani Stone.

"Why are you not worried about all the other cars?" Dean asked. "Dude, this one over here, it's a '57 Chevy Nomad–"

Cas forcibly tuned Dean out. He needed to focus on the task at hand.

He wasn't able to touch the stone with the intention to take it off, but that didn't stop him from channeling his Grace into it.

Sucking in a deep breath, Cas focused a stream of his Grace into the Cintamani Stone. The key here was to force enough Grace into the stone to break its hold on Sam, without melting Sam from the inside-out in the process.

True, Sam was Lucifer's vessel, and of course was far more resilient than the average human, but a stream of heavily concentrated Grace could still wreak havoc on the hunter's anatomy, if Cas wasn't careful.

A high-pitched whine filled the air as Cas pumped more and more Grace into the stone. Celestial light poured from Sam, his eyes radiating with the tell-tale blue-white of Heaven.

"Is it working?" Gadreel inquired.

It didn't seem as though his Grace was penetrating into the stone itself. He could feel a definite push back, a kind of resistance from the ancient object. He fought back as best he could. Surely the gathered strength of an angel of the Lord could–

Cas was blasted across the room with concussive force, smashing headlong through the windshield of the classic car Dean had been fawning over just minutes before.

Dean made a pained sound from nearby.

"That didn't appear to be successful," Gadreel pointed out.

"I noticed," Cas grunted, struggling up. Gadreel's hand extended through the shattered remains of the Nomad's windshield. Cas grabbed on, and Gadreel helped him out of the car. He slid Sam's (now slightly scratched) body down the hood, landing unsteadily on his feet.

"We need more," Cas said hoarsely, brushing shards of glass off of Sam's flannel. "It was starting to give, but my Grace alone wasn't enough."

"What about the both of us?" Gadreel suggested. "Surely, together–"

"No external force is going to be able to act upon the stone, so far as I can tell," Cas said.

Gadreel gave a thoughtful pause. "What if it wasn't external?"

Cas narrowed his eyes at the other angel. "Are you suggesting we possess Sam simultaneously?"

"I don't find it unreasonable to assume that Sam's body can handle two angels inhabiting it. Both I and the demon Crowley possessed him at once, and the King of Hell is no small presence."

"We'll have to go into Sam's mind and get his permission," Cas said slowly. "He may say no, given your past with him. Be prepared for that."

Gadreel looked away. "That is true. I do not know how Sam sees me, in his eyes. Whether he still looks at me as the angel that stole his body and murdered his friend."

"Yeah, I don't think Sam's forgiving him for that one anytime soon. And he shouldn't," Dean said from beside Cas, his arms crossed.

Sam is certainly within his rights to feel that way about Gadreel, but to be fair, he has saved both of our lives over the past month. I hope Gadreel has managed to earn at least a bit of Sam's trust, after all he's risked for us.

"Hey, nice job. You didn't say any of that out loud," Dean complimented him. "Still…I wouldn't hold your breath, man."

"Castiel?" Gadreel called his name. Cas snapped his attention back to the other angel. "You seem distracted."

"You could say that," Cas answered grimly. He extended Sam's hand towards Gadreel. "I won't fool Sam. Not with this. He would hate me for it."

"No kidding," Dean said darkly.

"I understand," Gadreel nodded. He stepped forward and grabbed Sam's hand. With a deep breath, Cas allowed Gadreel entrance into Sam's mind.

The world faded to black around them, and then slowly, things slid back into focus. They were in the backseat of the Impala. Cas was in his typical vessel. Sam sat shotgun, with Dean behind the wheel. Classic rock blasted softly over the speakers. Cas was proud of himself when he could identify it as Led Zeppelin.

God, he'd missed this.

Dean had a half-eaten burger in his right hand, and he was gesturing around with it. "Look, Sammy, all I'm saying is that strippers don't just wake up one day and decide to start eating their customers. Smells like a rugaru, looks like a rugaru– it's probably a rugaru!"

Sam shook his head, forehead wrinkling. "I don't think it's that cut and dried. Listen, none of them have shown any signs of–"

So, this was Sam's happy place. He and Dean against the world. Brothers. Like it used to be.

"Did you put him in here? Created this fantasy?" Gadreel asked.

"Yes and no. When I asked permission to possess him again, and he agreed, I put his mind to rest. Coma seems too harsh a word, but that's essentially what it is." Cas looked out the window, eyes tracing over the sunny rural scenery. "But Sam's conscience drifted here all on its own."

"I think the cheerleaders and ghouls scenario I designed for him was more stimulating," the other angel said, eyebrows knitting together.

"It's not about stimulation," Cas replied. "It's about being with his brother."

Gadreel seemed perplexed. "…I see."

Cas leaned forward, setting his hand on Sam's shoulder. He pushed a spark of Grace through him to jar the hunter out of his dream, even though it pained Cas to do so.

Sam was happy here. Safe, and with Dean. A reality he might never see again, outside of the recesses of his own mind.

Dean vanished. The Impala puttered to a stop in the middle of the road.

Sam jumped, turning around in the passenger seat. "Cas…? Gadreel…?"

"I'm sorry, Sam, but I needed to talk to you."

"Again?" Sam's confusion passed quickly as his memories seemed to return to him in rapid succession. "I already gave you permission to, you know, do what you have to."

"There's something else. I – we – needed to consult you before we did anything."

Sam's eyes bounced between Cas and Gadreel. "I already don't like this."

"I don't have enough power to counteract the Cintamani Stone. We need more. If you agree to let Gadreel in as well–"

"No," Sam interrupted immediately. "No way."

"Sam–" Gadreel leaned forward, but Sam cut him off with a simple raise of his hand.

"I've looked past a lot," Sam said, tone ripe with quiet anger. "So damn much. I've given you a second chance that you sure as hell didn't deserve when I first handed it out. And you know what? You've been looking out for me, and Cas. Even Dean. I'm grateful for that, I am. But nothing you do will ever change the fact that Kevin is dead, and you were the one who killed him."

Gadreel lowered his head, and Cas could practically feel the shame radiating off of the Garden's former guardian.

"You were in my head for all those months. You knew how much Kevin meant to me. He was family. There are some things you can't make up for. Ever."

Cas couldn't argue with Sam's logic, especially given that Gadreel had used Sam's own two hands to kill Kevin. Blood didn't wash clean easily. Sometimes, it didn't wash off at all. Castiel knew that all too well.

"You're the one who wants the stone off of me. Find another way, Cas," Sam said with finality.

"Sam, the only other option I can think of is not a pleasant one," Cas informed Sam, while Gadreel remained silent and troubled, gaze fixed out the window.

"How bad could it be?" Sam challenged. "It's got to be better than double possession. I mean, come on."

"We kill you," Cas answered bluntly. "We kill you, remove the stone, and Gadreel resurrects you. Hopefully before your Reaper arrives for your soul."

Sam swallowed with effort, eyes going back to the road. "You might not want to do that," Sam said in a monotone.

"Exactly. So, I think you should reconsider–"

"It's a bad idea because the last time I almost died, Death himself was the one who came for me. Not whoever my original Reaper was."

Cas hadn't known that. Though given the overall impact of both of the Winchesters on the universe, it shouldn't have been any great shock that Death himself wanted to be the one to escort Sam off into the dark personally.

"Then please, let us do this. It's the safer route. I'll still be possessing you. If anything were to happen, I'd be able to put a stop to it," Cas assured him, remaining purposefully vague, so as not to imply that he truly thought Gadreel had negative intentions.

He didn't believe that Gadreel wanted to do anything but help, but he didn't know if Sam believed that.

"You would be able to eject me at any time," Gadreel spoke up with a hint of hesitation. "There are no tricks this time, Sam."

"This could be a trick," Sam responded harshly. "I can't trust anything in my own head, Lucifer taught me that much."

Neither Cas nor Gadreel offered up any response. Because really, what could they say? Especially if Sam didn't even believe they were real…at least, not fully.

Sam seemed agitated. Off-kilter…not entirely himself.

"The stone has to come off," Castiel said slowly, carefully. "We have no idea what it's doing to you."

He shifted, trying to catch a better glimpse of Sam's face. Castiel wasn't superb at reading expressions, but he knew Sam well, and he'd like to think he would be able to tell if anything was truly amiss.

"Given the choice between possession and being killed, surely–"

He caught sight of Sam's eyes.

Rather than Sam's usual hazel, they were a bright aquamarine.

Sam's head turned sharply. "Guess you'll have to kill me, then," he hissed, in a voice that sounded nothing like his own.

"No," was all Cas managed to say before he and Gadreel were both forcibly ejected from Sam.