Cass felt lighter as she sped up the stairs. Nothing had changed, not really, but she felt better for having aired her irrational thoughts aloud. To her surprise, talking about it had actually seemed to help. Maybe Sam's obnoxious desire to talk about everything wasn't unfounded, after all.

The kiss on the cheek had been an impulse. She wasn't a kiss-y type of person, generally. She didn't even kiss her family on the cheek. Hugs, head scratches, massages, pats on the back—she expressed familial or platonic affection in a lot of ways, but she didn't kiss people anywhere unless she had a romantic interest.

But she couldn't help herself, this time. After laying all her insecurities bare and having Sam accept all her irrational babbling with empathy and understanding, Cass had opened her mouth to thank him, and then remembered the 'no more thank yous or apologies' agreement they'd made. So, instead, she'd pressed a quick peck to his cheek, and then run off to steal the shower before Sam could see the color that rose to her cheeks at her own boldness.

It wouldn't happen again, though. It couldn't happen again. The brief look of wide-eyed surprise on Sam's face at the gesture had been amusing, for sure, but it wouldn't be wise to indulge her silly crush on him any further. Just the brief brush of her lips across his cheek—clean-shaven but already a little rough, warm, offering her the briefest chance to smell his intoxicating scent, sweat and soap and clean air—was dangerous. It was already a memory that would linger in her mind, the start of a number of daydreams that might spiral out of control, if she allowed them to. But she wouldn't allow them. Because if she did, she might be tempted to kiss Sam again.

Trying to decipher the angel tablet was a pain in the ass. Figuratively, anway. Literally speaking, trying to decipher the angel tablet was a pain in Cass's head, and in her eyes. Trying to make heads or tails of the rubbings she'd made of the inscriptions on the tablet was like trying to read a foreign language she didn't speak while hanging upside down in a car that was driving down a gravel road riddled with potholes. It made her eyes hurt, and her head hurt, and more than a few minutes of it left Cass feeling vaguely motion sick.

She tried. She did her best to look at the letters, willing them to resolve themselves into something that made a lick of sense. She took breaks, looking away and outside the window, trying to come back to the rubbings with a fresh set of eyes, but she could only manage so much in one day.

At last she set the papers aside with a heavy sigh, rubbed her eyes, and pronounced, "I'm going to make dinner."

From across the room, Dean looked up at her skeptically. "Vegetarian dinner?"

Cass shrugged. "Green curry with whatever vegetables I find in the fridge, so yes. I think there's some chicken in there if you wanted to add that, but you'll probably want to cook it yourself. I mean, I don't mind trying, but I haven't cooked meat in like a decade, so—"

"I will cook the chicken," Dean said decisively. He closed his book and stood, looking relieved to have an excuse to get away from research for a while.

Sam looked up from his own book, brows drawing together as he watched the two of them walk toward the kitchen. He offered, a little self-consciously, "Uh… Anything I can do to help?"

Dean snorted. "Yeah—stay out of the kitchen." To Cass, he said frankly, "Sam can't cook."

"What?" Sam crowed in disbelief from the couch, snapping his book shut and standing to follow them into the kitchen. Bobby, wisely, stayed out of it, pretending the conversation wasn't occurring. Or maybe he really was engrossed in whatever Japanese lore volume he was currently perusing. "Dean, I lived on my own for years. I know how to cook."

Dean shook his head, clearly not buying his brother's claims. Sam was growing more offended, and Cass smiled at the bickering.

"You really don't have to help, Sam. It's not a big deal." But, since Sam was looking simultaneously stubborn and guilty, and Dean was looking smug, she said, "But you could chop some vegetables, if it'll make you feel better."

Cass dug some vegetables out of the fridge and left them with Sam to wash and chop while Cass started the rice on the stove. It took her a few minutes to wash the rice, add water, and start it on its way to a simmer. With that finished, Cass turned to help Sam with the vegetables—and then froze, watching in mute horror. It took a moment for her to find her voice.

"Uh, Sam?" Sam paused, looking up at her curiously. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"

Dean did not even try to hide his snicker. He looked at the mess on Sam's cutting board, then to Cass's face, then turned back to cutting up the raw chicken, his shoulders shaking with quiet chuckles. Sam, between Cass's evident dismay and his brother's smug laughter, was looking much less confident.

"Uh… chopping vegetables?" It was a question, not a statement. He looked down at the carrots in front of him uncertainly, then back to Cass. "What?"

Cass shook her head. "It's just… abundantly clear that the majority of your work with knives is stabbing the pointy end into bad guys." She held her hand out for the knife Sam was wielding. "Hand it over."

Dean snickered again. Sam's did not hand over the knife, and his deep frown was now verging on a pout. "I can chop vegetables!"

"Sam," Cass said, voice gentle but uncompromising, "you've only cut up half a carrot so far, and you didn't even peel it first."

Dean snorted. Sam flushed. He looked down at the carrot again, sighed, and then handed the knife to Cass.

"Sorry," he said quietly. When Cass had a firm hold on the knife, Sam backed out of the way and leaned against the counter to watch, his arms folded across his chest self-consciously. "I, uh… never really got the hang of cooking. If it's more involved than boiling water…"

"So I see," Cass said dryly, smiling. Sam's cheeks were still very pink, even as he glared at Dean, who was still smirking but who had regained enough control of himself to resume cutting up the chicken. Cass smothered a laugh and cleared her throat as she withdrew a vegetable peeler from a drawer, drawing Sam's attention. "Here. Lesson one. This is how you peel a carrot…"

Cass demonstrated the technique, and then allowed Sam to peel the rest of the carrots under her supervision while she worked on cleaning green beans and chopping mushrooms. She talked as she worked, explaining why it was best to peel carrots and what you could do with the peels if you wanted to save them. She explained why she cut off the woody bottoms of the mushrooms and pulled off the stems of the green beans, and then demonstrated the correct way to chop an onion, keeping her fingers clear of the knife blade. Sam watched and followed her example and asked questions when appropriate.

It's not that Sam was stupid. If he'd really been interested, he could have been an excellent cook. But Cass could tell he simply didn't care about food at the same level that Dean or Cass did, not enough to really learn how to cook for himself. He wasn't curious about what made a recipe work, or what made certain flavors balance. Still, he listened with enough interest as Cass talked about what was and wasn't edible, and how long different vegetables took to cook, and about the balance of flavors. And in the end, the curry turned out fine.

That was how the four of them passed the next few days. Sam, Dean, and Bobby would do research on Lilith, tracking spells, and the Apocalypse. Cass, meanwhile, would do her best to try to decipher the angel tablet. Progress was incredibly slow and frustrating, and Cass took frequent breaks to make fresh pots of coffee or to cook actual homemade food. Dean, almost as eager to take breaks as Cass was, happily joined her in the kitchen to cook meat to add to whatever vegetarian meals Cass cooked up.

After about five days, Cass deciphered the first words from the rubbings of the angel tablet. Unfortunately, they were utterly unhelpful. After hours of poring over the paper, the first three words had finally resolved into something that made sense: In the beginning. The words struck her with all the sudden violence of an icepick between her eyes, and the triumph of making sense of even a small bit of the tablet was immediately diminished by the debilitating migraine that followed.

Cass made her excuses and stumbled up the stairs to turn in early at just past 7 in the evening. She forced herself to change into sleep clothes and brush her teeth, keeping the lights off and leaving her eyes closed as much as possible. As she exited the bathroom, Sam was reaching the top of the stairs. In his hands he held a glass of water and a few pills that Cass recognized as ibuprofen.

"Sam Winchester, you are a saint." Cass strode forward to take the glass and pills gratefully. Sam stared down at her as she did so, looking more than a little wrong-footed.

"Is that— is that my shirt?"

Cass looked down, taking in the soft, cozy flannel she'd long since appropriated. "I don't know." Cass swallowed the pills and took a sip of water, then peered up at Sam with a teasing smile. "I've been using it as a nightgown for a while, now. When do the rules of adverse possession kick in?"

"What?" Sam blinked down at her. It clearly took him a second to remember the term 'adverse possession'. "I-I don't think the legal principle applies to clothing."

The stuttering was cute. Cass wondered if she could inspire more of it with continued teasing. "You gonna take me to court over it, Stanford? I think you'll have a hard time of it. I can't remember—are you wanted by the police right now, or is that just your brother?"

"A-actually, neither." More stuttering. Cass's smile widened. "I'm pretty sure we've both been declared dead."

"You won't have much of a case, then, will you?" Cass pat Sam on the arm and proceeded past him to her bedroom. As fun as the teasing was, it wasn't enough to soften the sharp pain of the migraine. She wanted to sleep it off. "Good night, Sam."

Sam forced out an awkward "Good night", and despite the pain, Cass fell asleep with a small smile on her face.

But of course, the peace couldn't last.

The next afternoon, Dean bounded downstairs to the library with bright eyes, carrying Sam's laptop in his hands. "Pack up, Sammy, I found us a hunt."

"A hunt?" Sam looked up from his book to frown at his brother. "Dean, we're supposed to be working on a way to find Lilith."

"Bobby and Cass are workin' on it," Dean said dismissively. "Come on, Sam, I can only stare at these books for so long. I haven't been on a hunt since I got back!" He forced the laptop in front of Sam's book. "And look, check this out."

"'New strip club staffed by former nuns'?" Sam read aloud, eyebrows climbing high on his forehead. He wrinkled his nose at Dean. "Dude, gross. How is that even a case?"

"All the trainee nuns at this convent under the age of, like, 25 dropped out to be strippers," Dean said insistently, tapping the laptop with more force than was probably good for it. "You don't think that's weird?"

That actually piqued Cass's interest. "Let me see that?" She swiveled around from the other end of the couch, and Sam obligingly turned the screen in her direction so she could read the article over his shoulder. Cass skimmed it with interest for a minute and then decided aloud, "You should go."

"Seriously?" Sam looked betrayed. Dean looked like Christmas had come early.

"I think this might be a seal," Cass explained to Sam, leaning back and removing herself from his personal space, which she'd invaded when she leaned forward to read the article. "Perversions of the natural order, remember? You've got all these women of God dedicating their lives to sin. One or two is a rebellion. A dozen is suspicious."

"See, exactly!" Dean said triumphantly. "Listen to the prophet, Sammy."

"You are way too excited about this," Sam said flatly. He glanced at Cass, his expression half embarrassed, half apologetic.

"You are not excited enough about this," Dean shot back. "I think it evens out." He turned and headed towards the stairs, presumably to go pack his bags. As he ascended, he pumped his fist in the air. "Strip club!"

Once his brother had disappeared up the stairs, Sam sighed tiredly and looked to Cass with trepidation. "You really think this is a seal?"

"Yeah, I do." Cass shrugged. "And even if it isn't, Dean's getting stir-crazy. I don't think it's any use for all four of us to be poring over these books. You two might as well be out hunting. Hell, if it is a seal, you guys might be able to dig up a lead on Lilith."

"Good point." Sam looked back at the laptop, made a face at the article, and closed it with a sigh. "Uh, I guess I'll go… pack." And then he marched up the stairs after his brother, looking more like he was getting ready to face a firing squad than preparing to drive across state lines to investigate a strip club with his brother.

Sam's distaste for the case amused her almost as much as Dean's shameless enthusiasm did. She would admit, if only to herself, that part of her was pleased that Sam would evidently prefer to read books at the opposite end of the couch from Cass than go out and ogle scantily-clad women in sleazy clubs. It only endeared him to her that much more, and for that reason Cass was glad for the case. It would get Sam and Dean on the road again, away from Bobby's house, and give her some much-needed breathing room to focus on interpreting the angel tablet and to try to smother her slowly but steadily growing attraction to Sam.

This was for the best. She knew it. But she also knew she would miss them the moment their ridiculous car disappeared down the road.

"Looks like tonight's your last chance for a homemade meal before you're back to greasy diner food and gas station jerky," Cass said later that afternoon, once the boys had packed their bags and the decision had been made that they would wait until the next morning to hit the road. "You guys want anything special?"

"Pie?" Dean said immediately, not even having to think about it. He raised his eyebrows hopefully at her.

"I mean, I meant for dinner, but I can do that." Cass considered for a moment, thinking about what ingredients they had in the house, and an idea occurred to her. "Do you like pot pie, too? Is pie for dinner and dessert too much, or—"

"There is no such thing as too much pie," Dean interrupted firmly. Cass looked to Sam, in case he wanted to veto that idea. Sam shook his head, clearly already resigned to Dean's unending love for pie.

"Pie and pie it is, then."

Cass set butter on the counter to soften and began poking around for everything else she'd need. She set aside some vegetables for the filling, as well as some leftover chicken that Dean had cooked a few days earlier. She was all set when it came to ingredients, but when it came to bakeware, she came up short. She searched the kitchen three times over, but only found one pie dish.

Cass was sure Bobby owned more than one. He must, because Cass remembered the episode where his late wife returned from the dead and baked enough pies to feed a small army. But she wasn't about to say that to him. Unfortunately, though, Cass couldn't find any more pie dishes, and none of the other bakeware was really suited to what she was trying to do. So, Cass sought Bobby out in the library where he was poring over a thick book of lore and kept her voice deliberately light and casual as she caught his attention.

"Hey, Bobby? Do you happen to have any more pie pans around somewhere?" Bobby looked up at Cass with an unreadable expression on his face. It was neither welcoming nor unwelcoming, and the neutrality of it made Cass more nervous than anything else. Her words sped up, approaching a ramble. "I need two. Or three, ideally. I found one, and I think I can make do a deep baking dish if I have to, but—"

Bobby seemed to make a decision. He stood abruptly and Cass fell silent. "Follow me."

Bobby led her, once more, into the basement of his house. Cass followed him down the stairs nervously, fingers plucking at the edge of her sleeve. Would Bobby be angry that she was digging up old memories? Did Bobby even know that Cass knew that a question like this might be digging up old memories?

The older hunter picked through the accumulated boxes and junk in the basement to a back corner. There were a few large boxes tucked into this corner, packed away more tidily than the other stuff in storage down here.

Bobby paused in front of the boxes for a moment, simply looking at them. Cass didn't look at the expression on his face. She knew these boxes must contain some of his wife's things, or else things that reminded him of his wife, and she didn't want to intrude on whatever thoughts or feelings the sight of the boxes might inspire for him.

Bobby produced a small pocket knife and neatly sliced the tape on one of the boxes. He folded open the cardboard flaps, and Cass saw that the box was entirely filled with kitchen supplies. There were quite a few pie dishes, including a few festively decorated ones, as well as some other bakeware. There were a number of what looked to be KitchenAid mixer attachments, cookie cutters, a rolling pin, and a few aprons.

"That enough for you?"

"More than enough." Cass hesitated, then gently reached into the box to retrieve two pie pans. She also grabbed the rolling pin, another item she'd forgotten she'd need. She paused briefly, but ultimately decided not to take an apron. It was one thing to use Bobby's dead wife's old cookware; it was entirely another to wear her old clothing.

Cass straightened up, dishes and rolling pin in her arms. "Thank you, Bobby."

The words were perhaps a little too emphatic, too sincere. Bobby eyed Cass for a long moment, frowning. By the look, Cass was sure that he knew that she knew about Karen. Should she have mentioned her, after all? Was it better to say nothing, or should she have acknowledged what these boxes meant to Bobby?

Bobby interrupted her overthinking by grabbing an apron from the box and handing it to her without hesitation or fanfare. "Here." He turned his back on her, headed back up the stairs. "Don't want you tracking flour all over the place. It's messy enough as it is."

Cass smiled, and followed Bobby upstairs.

"Anyone want another slice before I pack this away?" Cass's voice was teasing, and she looked directly at Dean as she asked the question.

The table was laden with empty plates. Cass had cooked three pies, in total. Two were pot pies, one vegetarian and one classic chicken pot pie. The third was a cherry pie, which cooled on the kitchen counter as the four of them ate dinner, filling the kitchen with the sweet smell of cooked cherries and flaky, buttery crust. Dean had shot it longing looks even as he enthusiastically ate two generous helpings of chicken pot pie.

Sam had rolled his eyes at his brother's behavior. Not that he hadn't been a little distracted, himself.

He'd walked into the kitchen when Cass had announced that food was ready, and then stopped short. She had her dark blonde hair swept up into a messy bun, but a few stray curls fell around her face and a single tiny ringlet was at her neck. Her face was flushed pink from the heat of the oven, and the apron she wore, covered in blue and purple flowers, tied at the waist, accentuating her figure unlike any other clothing he'd ever seen her in. Sam was glad that Cass was distracted with pulling pies out of the oven, or he would have been embarrassed by how long he stared.

Now, though, the leftovers of the pot pie had been put away, and the four of them had just finished generous slices of cherry pie. Even Sam, who wasn't much for sweets, had to admit that it had been delicious.

"Yes, please." Cass had been picking up Dean's plate before he even spoke. She raised an eyebrow at Sam and Bobby, who both shook their heads, declining a second helping of cherry pie.

Cass took Dean's plate and her own back to the kitchen counter to cut two more helpings of pie, one far larger than the other. Over her shoulder she asked, "Ice cream?"

"Yes, please," Dean repeated. Then, while Cass's back was still turned, he leaned over to say to Sam in a low, serious voice, "Sammy, if you don't marry that woman, I will."

Sam kicked Dean under the table. Cass, returning to the table with a sliver of pie for herself and a slab or pie for Dean, raised an eyebrow at the commotion, and Dean schooled his face into an innocent expression while Sam fought the flush he could feel rising in his cheeks.

It would be good to get away for a while.

Getting ready to turn in that night, Cass sat at the open window of her room and offered up a brief prayer to Castiel, as she'd gotten into the habit of doing. Ever since their brief expedition to Hell and the preceding radio silence from Castiel that had marked his time as a prisoner of pro-Apocalypse angels, Cass had finished these prayers with requests that Castiel give her some sort of sign that he'd heard her, and was alright. Castiel's typical response was something between a breeze and a whisper, a quiet rumble of his true angelic voice just loud enough for Cass to hear, but soft enough that it didn't shake Bobby's house.

Cass relayed a quiet summary of her minimal progress on the tablet and Sam and Dean's imminent departure to deal with what they thought was a seal. Then, finished with her update, she said, "Please give me a sign—"

Cass's eyes opened, her brow furrowing. Rather than the hum of Castiel's true voice, she'd heard the quiet fwoop of angel wings. Looking out the window, Cass could see Castiel standing on Bobby's front lawn. He looked up at her expectantly, and Cass, thrown by the change in routine, gestured for him to wait a moment for her to come down.

Why had he come? Was there something they needed to know about this seal? Some other trouble? Cass's heart rate was beginning to speed up as she flew down the stairs.

Sam, Dean, and Bobby were still awake in the library, dressed in their day clothes. Bobby raised an eyebrow at Cass's speed, and at her sleeping attire—another of Sam's ridiculously oversized flannels.

"You goin' somewhere?" He asked as Cass slipped a pair of flip flops onto her feet.

"Cas is outside."

"Castiel?" Sam repeated, and Cass nodded, heading for the door.

"You gotta stop calling him Cas," Dean complained, even as he, Sam, and Bobby rose to follow her out the door. "You're Cass, he's Cas—it's confusing."

"Well, I don't talk in the third person, so if I'm talking about Cas, I mean him," she said. "But you can always call me Holmes if it makes you less confused, Winchester."

She jogged down the front steps and over to Castiel quickly, looking him up and down for any sign of injury. "Hey. Is everything okay?"

"There's no need to be alarmed," Castiel assured her, and Cass relaxed with a sigh. "I came to offer my protection." He turned to address Sam and Dean. "Your help in attempting to stop seals from breaking is welcome, considering our limited numbers. I can hide you from the sight of any angels who might try to stop you."

"The rib thing?" Cass guessed.

"Yes."

"Rib thing?" Dean repeated warily. "What do you mean, rib thing?"

"You know all the sigils in the house that protect you from angels? And how you can't exactly bring them with you when you're on the road?" Cass asked. "Think of it kind of like your anti-possession tattoo."

"But that's a tattoo," Dean said, still suspicious. He eyed Castiel distrustfully. "What are you trying to do to our ribs?"

"I will carve the Enochian warding into your bones."

"No way," Dean said immediately.

"I really recommend that you let him do it, Dean," Cass said, trying to reason with him. "I don't know what might happen if you don't, but it might involve more confrontations with angels like Uriel." Trying to make it sound less intimidating, she added, "And it's not actually like getting a tattoo. It only takes a second."

"Speaking of confrontations," Castiel said, pulling aside his trench coat to withdraw several shining silver blades. "Take these."

"Are those… angel blades?" Sam asked, eying the weapons with interest.

"Yes," Castiel confirmed. "They're effective against both angels and demons. If you are attempting to stop seals from breaking, you'll need them."

"That, l'll take." Dean stepped forward to accept one of the blades. As he took it, Castiel stepped briefly into his personal space and pressed a hand against Dean's ribs. He'd clearly engraved the sigils, because Dean reared back with a cry. "Ow! What the hell, Cas?! No means no!"

Castiel was unaffected by Dean's outrage. He said simply, unapologetically, "I don't take orders from you."

Sam and Bobby both looked to Cass, as if seeking confirmation that they really had to let their ribs become canvases for Castiel's art project. Cass nodded encouragingly at them, and they acquiesced. Sam took an angel blade from Castiel and received the engravings on his ribs with a loud hiss. Bobby accepted his blade and his warding with some dark swearing and an annoyed look. But when Castiel extended a fourth blade towards Cass, she blanched.

"Is that for me?" Cass shook her head, leaning away from the blade. "I don't—I'm not a fighter."

"I'm aware," said Castiel, in a bland tone that was almost offensive. "But you still need a means of defense." When Cass still did not reach out to take the blade, he added bluntly, "If you'd had one when Uriel found you, we would not be in this situation."

Cass flinched, the words like a slap to the face. She remembered Uriel's attack and Sam's still, rapidly cooling body, the emptiness in his eyes. She felt sick at the memory, and the fact that Castiel was right; if she'd had an angel blade, she might have been able to stop Uriel, or at least ward him off.

"That's not fair—" Sam began, stepping forward to glare at Castiel for that comment. Cass shook her head.

"No, he's right." Reluctantly, Cass reached forward to take the angel blade from Castiel's outstretched hand. She was so distracted by her own memories and her distaste for weapons that she forgot to brace herself for the warding. "Motherfucker! Ow!"

Dean snickered a little at Cass's reaction, and she glared half-heartedly at him, rubbing her ribs. Castiel regarded Cass solemnly and said, "You will have to be cautious. That warding will hide you from ordinary angels, but it can't hide a Prophet from Archangels if you put yourself in danger."

Cass straightened at that, alarmed. "Are they looking for me?"

"You're not a priority," Castiel said, which wasn't really a 'no'. Then he added, "For now."

"Reassuring," Cass said dryly, remembering too late that Castiel was not yet fluent in sarcasm. Nervously she asked, "You're keeping that tablet safe, right?"

He nodded gravely.

"Good." Cass relaxed a little, then paused, furrowing her brow. "Wait. If I'm warded against angels, will you still be able to hear me if I pray to you?" She couldn't remember how that worked on the show.

"No," said Castiel. "But I have a cell phone."

"The angel has a cell phone." Dean shook his head, glancing at Sam and Bobby. "Our lives, man."

Sam fumbled his phone out of his pocket. "Uh, let me get your number." Sam and Dean exchanged numbers with Castiel. As they did this, Sam paused to frown thoughtfully at Cass. "You don't have a phone yet, do you?"

"No, I don't." Which was weird for her, considering how much she had come to rely on her smart phone by the year 2020.

"I'll set you up with one of our burners before we go," he said decisively. "You could always use the landline, but better to have a cell just in case." He finished typing his and Dean's number into Castiel's flip phone and handed it back to the angel. "There. You've got our numbers, and we've got yours."

Castiel accepted the phone with a nod of thanks. "Good luck with the seals." He stepped back, and Cass could sense that he was about to fly off again.

"Wait, Cas!" He waited, turning questioning blue eyes toward her. "Uh, how are things? How are your numbers?"

"Our numbers are growing, thanks to you," Castiel said with a nod of acknowledgment. He did not look precisely happy, though, and he continued, "Heaven is… divided. Michael and Raphael's deception regarding their intent to start the Apocalypse has undermined their support. The tablet has amplified that impact. Michael is losing more supporters every day."

"Why do I feel like there's a 'but' coming?" asked Dean.

"Because there is," Castiel said bluntly. "For every three angels who defect from Michael's forces, we only gain one soldier. Many angels are leaving Heaven altogether, fleeing the conflict entirely. And more still are choosing to side with Lucifer."

"That's…" Cass couldn't find words. "Not good."

"An understatement," said Castiel gravely.

"How outnumbered are you now, exactly?" Cass remembered when Castiel's allies had numbered in the single digits. He had more now, but would it be enough?

"Michael's troops are now only about two thousand." Castiel now sounded like a military officer, giving a concise report of the battle field. "Our intelligence suggests those supporting Lucifer now number close to one thousand. Our own numbers are around five hundred, and another five hundred have fled or perished."

Cass's fingers tightened on her angel blade. Had it once belonged to a now-perished angel? She didn't want to know. "I'm sorry."

Castiel regarded her with something like impatience. "Don't waste time on regret," he ordered. "Read the tablet." His eyes cut to Sam and Dean. "Stop the seals from breaking." He looked to Bobby. "Find Lilith." Unyielding blue eyes landed back on Cass. "End this before it starts."

A quiet displacement of air, and Castiel was gone. Sam, Dean, and Bobby blinked at the space where the angel had been a second before.

"Bye, then," Dean said sarcastically.

"His, uh…" Cass shrugged. "His people skills are still rusty."

Dean shot her a doubtful look. "Right."

The next morning, Dean was almost aggressively cheerful as he and Sam loaded their bags into the Impala. He was clearly eager to be back on the road again, back to hunting. Cass and Bobby watched from the porch, and Cass couldn't help but feel a little sad and lonely already at their departure.

Sam, bags loaded, walked back to the porch and approached Cass. He produced a cheap, nondescript flip phone from his pocket and presented it to her.

"Here. I've already saved our numbers in there, and Castiel's."

"Thanks." Cass slid the phone into the back pocket of her jeans and bit her lip. "I know I don't have to tell you to be careful, but… well. Be careful."

"We will be," Sam assured her. Lightly, he asked, "Think you can survive a while with no one but Bobby for company?"

Cass laughed and glanced aside, but Bobby had stepped off the porch to talk to Dean. "I think I'll be fine." She turned a teasing smile on Sam. "Now, if I was stuck in a car for hours with nothing but your brother and his endless rock music, then I'd be in trouble." That got a chuckle from Sam, and Cass tried to ignore just how warm that sound made her feel. "I don't know how you stand it."

Sam shrugged. "Years of practice, I guess." His tone was resigned, but his smile was fond.

Behind them, Dean closed the trunk of the Impala. "Alright, Sammy! Time to hit the road."

Sam made a face at the nickname. "Guess this is goodbye."

"For now." Cass hesitated a moment, then gave in and hugged him. It took Sam a moment to react, but then he raised his arms to return the embrace. Cass let herself inhale deeply, trying to memorize the smell of him.

Dean cleared his throat pointedly. Cass pulled away and found him smirking at her and Sam, arms folded, eyebrows raised.

Cass rolled her eyes. "Shut up, asshole, you get one too."

Cass stepped off the porch, and Dean obligingly returned the quick hug she gave him. When she drew back, Dean turned back towards the Impala and called over his shoulder, "See ya round, Sherlock."

"Sher—" Cass groaned. "You are not calling me Sherlock."

Dean grinned at her and opened the driver's side door. "Sure I am."

"I wouldn't fight it, Cass," Sam said wisely as he passed. "The more you hate the nickname, the more he'll use it."

"Sammy's right, Sherlock."

"Just go." Cass folded her arms and glared. "Go away. Good riddance."

Sam and Dean called out their goodbyes to Bobby, closed their doors, and then they were gone, driving down the country lane. Cass and Bobby watched the Impala go, only going back inside the house once the car was no longer in sight.

Author's note: I meant to post this chapter on Friday, but I've been sick with a non-pandemic illness for the last week. Fair warning, updates will probably be moving to once every two weeks instead of once a week going forward, because I'm starting the final semester of my Master's program and simply won't have as much time to devote to this story.

Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, it really makes me happy to see that people are enjoying this story. To Meesh, who asked if I have a face claim for Cass, the answer is no. I prefer to leave the details up to people's imagination. So far I think the only physical descriptions I've given for Cass are pale eyes, curly dark blonde hair, and an athletic body, and that's basically the maximum amount of detail I'm inclined to provide unless it somehow becomes plot-relevant.