Hi, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. I got some amazing reveiws this week, so thank you so much!! I really need to try and reply to them this weekend, so I'll try and do it tommorrow. Anyhoo, huge thanks as always to everyone who has reveiwed, bug hugs to you all. ;) And on a random note, I'm so excited for glee this week. I apologize to anyone who hates it, but I am unashamed to call myself a gleek. Its my second favourite show under supernatural! New episodes of Glee and Superntural all in one week; I'm just a bit excited! Thats enough rambling from me! ;)

After a while, Castiel had found that holding Miriana while she slept was far more comfortable than he could have imagined. At first it had been uncomfortably, intimately close, her slender body pressed so tightly against his, but after a while he found he was completely content to just lie there with her. He glanced across at the chair where his jacket and coat lay in a pile. Since he had come to earth he had never removed or adjusted one article of clothing, and he felt surprisingly vulnerable without the rest of his outfit, although he had to admit, he felt more comfortable without so many layers of clothes on. It was a night of firsts for him; he had never even lain on a bed before, let alone with a woman.

Next to him, Miriana stirred a little in her sleep and clutched her fingers tighter around the material of his white shirt, pressing herself even closer to him. He gently took the hand that lay on his chest and slipped his fingers through hers, locking them tightly together. He listened to her steady breathing, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her chest against his. She looked so beautiful when she slept, he thought; completely peaceful and untroubled. The soft smell of her fresh, citrus perfume hung in the air, over the sheets and pillows, heady and intoxicating.

She had raised the issue of superiors previously in the night, and he could sense she was worried. She had never even mentioned his superiors before, that he could remember, at least. He wondered what had put the thought in her head; perhaps Embriel? He knew there was a very realistic possibility that Zachariah already knew what he was doing; he had dropped so many hints into their conversations. Before, the possibilities had terrified him, and they still did, but he found everything he felt for Miriana far outweighed any fear he had. He didn't know what was happening to him; two thousand years of loyal service and unwavering faith and devotion had been overturned by her mere presence, and she didn't even know she was doing it. Every time he saw her his insides felt as if he had just lost his footing on a cliff, like he was falling too fast to stop himself. In all of his long, lonely years, he'd never felt a rush of unknown emotions like he had with Miriana, never felt anything so strong in his life.

He glanced at the clock next to the bed; it read three thirty in the morning. The time passed so quickly when he was with her. As he glanced at the clock, he noticed a picture in a gilded silver frame stood on the bedside cabinet. Being careful not to disturb her, he gently picked up the frame and held it in front of him, scrutinizing it in the dim light emanating from her lamp. The picture showed Miriana, younger than she was now, little more than a teenager, with her slender arms wrapped around the waist of a tall, dark haired man, wide smiles plastered across both their faces. He thought Miriana always looked beautiful, but he had never imagined she could look so radiant, so happy. He felt a sudden irrational stab of jealousy towards the man in the photograph, whom he took to be Cristian; he hadn't ever seen her look that happy when she was with him. He wished he could make her smile so widely. He knew that she had been deeply in love with Cristian, the mere memory of her emotions for him shone through her memories like a beacon. He had seen inside her head, it was one of his many talents as an angel. He had seen the overwhelming, crushing sense of guilt that she carried around in her chest like a lead weight over his death, weighing her down. Her soul was so much like Deans', although of course hers wasn't tainted by the trials and suffering of hell, but they both were heavy with responsibilities, guilt, worry for those around them, and underlying it all, fear. Despite all of that, he had still felt love and hope in there somewhere; Dean too. He couldn't imagine what it would feel like to be constantly afraid of what was happening around them. He was well aware that there were few things on the earth that could harm him or cause him pain, but Miriana was so much more fragile; compared to him, she was as delicate as glass.

He was jerked from his reverie by the sound of her mumbling his name. He froze, thinking that she had awoken, but when he looked at her, her eyes were still tightly closed and her breathing was still steady. She turned her face into his chest a little more, murmuring his name again. He felt that unusual sensation of the little used muscles around his mouth pulling upwards into a smile. She was dreaming about him.

He didn't need to sleep; he didn't require his energy to be replenished, but he felt quite content to close his eyes and just be with her. He lazily traced a pattern across the bare arm that was flung across his chest with his fingertips, moving over the pentagram tattoo on her shoulder and following the fluidly curling black lines over her skin. With a casual flick of his fingers, he turned the bedside lamp off, preferring to be wrapped in the darkness with her.

***

When Miriana woke up in the morning, she rolled over onto her side, wincing when something hard dug into her ribs. She couldn't work out what she was lying on, but it was pressing very uncomfortably against her chest.

"Miriana- you're cutting off the blood supply to my arm," a quiet, gruff voice said behind her.

She sat up so quickly her head spun and her eyes stung with the sudden bright light that stabbed into her skull. She looked around to see Castiel lying on his back next to her, watching her closely. She had completely forgotten he was there.

"Good morning," he said, sitting up, the blankets rucking up around his waist.

"Err...good morning," she said hesitantly. She took in the dishevelled state of his clothes and the lack of his suit jacket and trench coat, "Did you stay here all night?"

He frowned, "Of course. Did you not want me to?"

"No!" she said hastily, "No I'm glad you stayed."

He let out a small relieved sigh, "Good."

She was incredibly touched that he had stayed all night, and she leaned forwards and gently brushed her lips against his, running her fingertips over the small amount of bare skin that showed above the top of his white shirt, feeling the goose-bumps rise up across his skin. His hands moved from the mattress and to the small of her back, pushing gently so she was pressed against him. She pulled away to drag a breath into her lungs and he recaptured her lips, leaning back a little against the wooden headboard of her bed. He pulled away with a frustrated groan.

"What?" she asked.

He glanced up towards the ceiling, his head tilted to the side as if he was listening to something, "They require my presence."

"Your superiors?" she questioned, although she already knew the answer. He nodded, gently extricating himself from her and standing, heading over to the chair in the corner where his tie, suit jacket and trench coat lay. He picked up the tie and looked at it as though it held some fascinating information, a frown across his forehead. He draped it around his collar and laid one side of tie over the other, as if expecting it to just knot itself. She watched him struggle for a few more seconds with an amused expression on her face before she took pity on him and went to help him.

"Come here," she said softly. She buttoned his shirt up to the collar and quickly knotted his tie, aware that he was scrutinizing her carefully. His eyes up close were so intense they seemed to burn her skin.

"What?" she asked again, meeting his gaze.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured. She felt herself blush furiously, her cheeks burning so powerfully she half expected her skin to burst into flames. She grabbed his jacket from the chair just to have an excuse to look anywhere but his face.

"I'm not," she said, her voice quavering, "Especially not in the mornings."

"You are," he said, holding her transfixed with his eyes, "My Father created a work of art when he made you."

She wanted to make a comment about being an atheist, and that the only person she had to thank for any looks she had was her mother, but she was so overwhelmed by what he said there was no room for any comprehensive thought.

"I don't know about that," she said, helping him shrug the jacket onto his frame.

He kissed the back of her hand, caressing his lips across her knuckles, "I do. And I'm far older and wiser."

She laughed gently, "You're so sweet."

He frowned, "Sweet?"

"Yeah, it means kind...you know?"

"Not really," he said, shaking his head. A frown flitted across his features again, "They're being persistent. I have to go."

He kissed her forehead and stepped back from her, vanishing on the spot. Sighing, she grabbed his trench coat that he had left behind and waited, holding it out to thin air. A few seconds later he reappeared in the same spot he had vanished, looking sheepish.

"I forgot my-"

"I know," Miriana said, passing him the coat, smiling. She saw the corners of his lips quirk up ever so very slightly, the closest thing she had seen to a smile on his face. He vanished again, and she sighed heavily and headed towards her en-suite bathroom, switching on the shower. She stripped off her sweatpants and tattered t-shirt and folded them carefully, placing them on the end of her bed. Just as she was about to step into the shower, there was a loud persistent knocking at the door. She tugged a fluffy white towel from the rack and wrapped it around herself, throwing the door back to find Nate on the other side of the door, his mobile in his hand.

"What?"

"It's Ethan," Nate replied, gesturing to his mobile, "He's got the locations of the demons.

She felt her heart jump a little in her chest along with a rush of adrenalin at the possibility of a fight.

"Where?" she asked.

"An old house out of town. They're all there."

"Give me twenty minutes."

***

Nate and Miriana met at the end of the long, rugged road that led to the old abandoned house that Ethan had found when he was scrying for the demons. Tank, Rhea, Jack and Frankie were all leaned against the side of an ancient looking, faded red Chevy truck that looked as if it could survive a nuclear blast and had been in more than a few scrapes, if the dents in the fender was anything to go by. Parked next to them was a sleek, perfectly polished Harley Davidson motorbike, beside which stood Ethan in a biking leather jacket and leather gloves, a black helmet clutched under his arm. Miriana pulled up alongside, feeling that her top of the range, glossy modern car with all the technological trimmings looked slightly out of place amongst the old, classic vehicles. She climbed out of the car and joined the other hunters.

"Right, here's the deal," Tank began in a clipped, business-like voice before Rhea cut across him.

"Cut the army major crap, Tank," she said, laughing, "Can't you just tell us like a normal human being?"

Tank shot the petite blond woman a furious look before continuing, "As I was saying, there are at least six demons in that house down the road, maybe more. I reckon we go in with the shotguns, take them down with the holy water and the rock salt rounds, Frankie you keep a hold on the Paolo Santo, and Rhea, you chant the exorcisms. If we can get them trapped in a room and pour salt under the door that might make it easier."

"Where's the knife?" Miriana asked.

Tank sighed, "We're pretty sure they have it. We reckon they're like Reuben's top guys, you know. They're probably gonna be keeping it safe for him."

"Then we need to keep one of them in their host if we can," Frankie intoned in a deep voice, "Get the truth out of them if we can't find it."

"Good idea," Ethan piped up.

"Right, we need weapons. Miriana," Tank said, turning to her, "Is it okay if Ethan uses some of your stuff? We didn't really bring enough."

"Of course," Miriana said, flashing Ethan a quick smile. His answering smile was dazzling.

Miriana headed over to the boot of her car and flung it open, Ethan sidling next to her.

"I take it you ride motorbikes," she said, trying to strike up a conversation.

"Yeah, I love them," he said enthusiastically, "Have you ever ridden?"

"I used to," she said, tugging a shotgun free and handing it to Ethan, "When Cristian was alive. He loved them too."

She guessed Ethan picked up on the slight quaver in her voice, because he gently placed his hand over hers, "I'm sorry about Cristian. Nate told me all about him. I met him a few times. Great guy; fantastic hunter."

"Thank you," she said earnestly, aware that his long fingers were still wrapped loosely around her hand. He glanced down quickly as if he realized what he was doing and quickly moved his hand away, clearing his throat.

"So...uh....motorbikes," he continued, "You used to ride them, huh?"

She was glad he had sidestepped that awkward moment; she was never the best in tense social situations.

"Yeah, I used to ride quite a lot. I've probably forgotten now."

"Well then I guess I could re-teach you," he said hesitantly. Miriana noticed there was a dark blush spread across his clear, golden skin, "If you'd like."

She didn't answer. She would love to spend time with Ethan; he seemed like such a gentleman and fun, too, and she would love to learn to ride again. But she couldn't help but think about how Castiel would react. She almost felt like she was cheating on him. She knew it was ridiculous, there wasn't really anything close to a relationship between them, but she still couldn't help but feel like she was being traitorous, worried that she would hurt him.

"Only if you want, I mean you don't have to, it was just a suggestion," he babbled, his flushed cheeks darkening, "I didn't mean to-"

She cut across him, "I'd love to."

He broke into a smile so wide and infectious she couldn't help but grin herself.

"Can we stop the flirting please," Tank demanded, pushing rock salt rounds into a shotgun, "We have demons to gank."

Ethan flushed furiously again and punched Tank in his massive, meaty shoulder. Miriana suspected it would have about as much effect as punching a block of concrete and hoping it would crack, "Shut up, dude."

Miriana caught sight of Frankie smirking, opening his mouth no doubt to make a snide comment, before Rhea elbowed him in the ribs with a warning expression on her face. When she caught Miriana looking, she gave her a sheepish smile and shrugged.

Miriana threw a shotgun to Nate who caught it, checking it for rounds. She felt in her pockets, finding her handgun loaded with consecrated iron bullets, just in case, and felt for the cool metal of her silver flask full of holy water.

"Are we heading off or what?" Tank asked, flexing his muscular arms, "I need to kick something's ass."

Rhea rolled her eyes, "You're a typical, testosterone fuelled idiot."

"Whatever, small fry," he quipped, "We're going."

They set off down the potholed road, Tank and Rhea continuing to bicker away in front of them, Frankie following silently behind them, looking amused. Miriana found the banter between the group of hunters incredibly entertaining; it reminded her of Sam and Dean before they had gone through hell, metaphorically and literally, in Dean's case.

Ethan matched her pace, "Sorry about them," he muttered.

"Don't be," she said, "Are they always like this?"

He sighed heavily, "Always."

"I'm used to it. Sam and Dean used to drive me mad."

"I forgot you know the Winchesters," he said, conversationally, although she thought she could detect more than a little curiosity in his tone. The famous Winchesters; it seemed everyone in the hunting world knew about them, unless they'd had their heads buried in the ground.

"Yeah," Miriana said, not in the mood to discuss the Winchesters, "For a long time."

He seemed to sense she didn't want to gossip about them, because all he said in response to this was "Huh."

They reached the gate that lead into the wild, tangled garden of the dilapidated house, Miriana casting her eyes apprehensively over the crumbling facade and dark, glassless windows. A spooky and malevolent enough abode for demons to hide in, Miriana thought. Frankie pushed open the gate, which swung back on its rusted hinges, screeching in protest. He and Tank went first, raising their shotguns to their shoulders, carefully picking their way down the jagged pavestones that led to the collapsed porch. There was no noise but the sound of their boots whispering through the dry, knee high grass and the early afternoon breeze hissing through the leaves on the trees. She half expected something to come rushing at them, but the front of the house and the surrounding garden remained completely still. Miriana and Ethan reached the porch first and they pressed themselves against the bleached wood of the house on either side of the door, listening carefully. She could hear the faint murmur of voices inside. Ethan met her eyes, and she nodded curtly. He took a step back and kicked the door, which burst inwards, showering a hail of splinters and peeling paint flakes into the dark, musty hall inside.

There was a rush of action as soon as she stepped through the door, a flurry of noise and activity. The three demons that had been gathered in the hall whirled at the sound of the noise, covering their eyes when the harsh light from outdoors spilled into the shadowy hall. Miriana raised her shotgun and squeezed the trigger, flooring the first demon that ran towards her. Whilst he struggled to get up from the mouldy carpet, Frankie tossed her a savage looking stake of Paolo Santo, which she caught as she planted a knee against the demons chest, plunging the consecrated wood deep into his shoulder, wincing as the flesh sputtered and hissed like a candle that had been blown out. He hissed and spat, clawing at Miriana's face, but he couldn't get anywhere near, pinned as he was to the floor, unable to fight against the strength of the wood. As she got to her feet, she felt a pair of cold hands grab hold of her from behind, savagely yanking her backwards up the hard wooden stairs, the back of her legs banging painfully against the sharp edge of every step. She tried to grab one of the posts on the wooden barrier and drag herself away, but every time she managed to get a grip on the banister, was pulled back even more savagely. Determined not to be dragged off so unceremoniously upstairs, Miriana reached into her pocket and tugged loose the cool flask of holy water, unscrewing the top. She pitched the contents behind her shoulder, hearing the satisfactory sound of the purified water splashing into the demons face, followed by the roar of agony and the hissing sound of unholy flesh being seared away. The constricting arms around her slackened and she pushed through his hold, suddenly aware that she was right at the top of the stairs, teetering dangerously on the top stair. She felt herself slip, but before she could feel any part of her body collide with the stairs an arm caught her, stopping her fall.

"You okay?" asked Ethan's voice in her ear, his arm breath tickling against the shell of her ear.

"Yeah," she said breathlessly, pulling back so she could see his vivid green eyes, "Thanks."

He hesitantly released her, turning and rushing back down the steps, Miriana following him. She caught sight of Rhea pressed up against the wall, the spidery hand of one of the demons that hadn't been trapped or floored yet tight around her throat while she tried to choke out the exorcism incantation. Four demons lay on the floor, pinned down with stakes of Paolo Santo, hissing and spitting. Miriana raised her handgun, having dropped her shotgun when she had been grabbed by the demon, and aimed at the back of the demon that was slowly choking the life out of Rhea, and pumped the trigger once. The iron bullet whipped through the air and drilled through the leather jacket that the demon wore, slicing through the skin underneath. With a scream of agony, the demon released its hold on a panicked looking Rhea, thudding heavily into the floorboards. Rhea instantly whipped a stake from her pocket and jammed it straight through the demons chest, sinking it in so deep it almost disappeared. She got to her feet, massaging her throat and flicking back her glossy blonde hair, and in a hoarse voice, began to recite the Latin words that would banish the demons back to hell. Miriana closed her eyes when the five demons trapped in the room opened their mouths, a foetid cloud of black smoke pouring from their mouths, snaking towards the ceiling and out of the room through any available cracks, dissipating until the room was silent once again. There was no sign of Nate or Jack. Over in the far corner of the cavernous room, Tank was kneeling next to an apparently unconscious Frankie, whose eyes were flickering slightly under his eyelids. Rhea let out a small gasp and dashed towards him, dropping to her knees next to him on the dusty floor, cradling his head.

"He'll be fine," Tank rumbled in his deep voice, "Just a little concussion is all."

Rhea continued to tend to Frankie, and Miriana couldn't help but see the tenderness and concern in her eyes. It was obvious how much she loved him. She wondered if she looked that way when Cas was around.

"Where's Nate and Jack?" she asked suddenly, feeling a sudden burst of fear.

"Here," said a voice from behind them. Miriana whirled to see Nate supporting a battered looking Jack; his nose was bleeding profusely, there was a deep gash across his pale forehead and eyes were glazed and vacant. Ethan broke away from her side and dashed to his brother, catching him by his slight shoulders and supporting him, taking his weight from Nate, who looked relatively unscathed.

"Are you alright?" she asked, touching the slight shadow of a bruise on his cheek. He nodded, and Miriana could see a spark of excitement in his dark eyes. She couldn't understand what he was possibly excited about.

"We've got one of the demons trapped in a ring of salt upstairs," he said, his voice breathless with excitement, "And guess what I nabbed from him."

He felt inside his jacket and slowly, no doubt for dramatic effect, pulled a blade from his pocket. When he lifted it in front of Miriana's eyes, she took in the short length of the smooth silver blade, the jagged, savage edge, so familiar. She glanced at the curling patterns on the blade, etched in smoky grey metal, identical to the blade she had seen grasped in the Winchesters' hands so many times.

"Oh my God," she breathed, carefully and almost reverently taking the knife from Nate, as if she was an archaeologist that had just stumbled across her first fragile, historical find.

"That's exactly what I thought," Nate said, almost triumphantly.