He wakes up sore. He can't remember the last time that happened; he hasn't been doing much sleeping lately. Hasn't needed to.
The room is empty except for him. A massive crack through half the ceiling leaves the integrity of the devil's trap irreparably damaged. Dean immediately glances down at his host's—Will? that the name?—wrist, and is met with blank skin. What kind of a loser doesn't wear a watch?
Okay, it was dawn when he got here. He tears up the stairs and skids to a stop in the front doorway. The door has been ripped from its hinges. It lies ten yards out, resting in the grass in front of the house.
The sun is high in the sky. It's been a few hours.
Dean stands still for a long moment, just staring up at that flaming ball in the sky till Will's eyes start to burn. But the pain isn't enough, it isn't satisfying, it isn't sufficiently distracting, and he screams, plunging his fist into the wall next to him. And he's not ready for the ripple effect that follows, because the pure, raw anger channeled in that punch seems to turn itself naturally to power, spreading like a wave of energy through the house. He's into the wall up to his wrist and he screams as he pulls his hand back out, this time in pain. But there's no time even to grasp at the wounded area because the doorframe around him is collapsing and he leaps forward to avoid being crushed. He lands gracelessly in the soft grass, probably bruising something, and sits there for a moment, staring at the utterly destroyed entrance to the house.
Adrenaline is pumping through him. His hand is full of wood and losing a lot of blood but he can't feel a thing. Corporal pain is dulled to him anyway, but after that punch, that release of power… it was like relieving a tension he'd only been dimly aware he'd been carrying around for weeks.
He stands up slowly, knees shaking slightly. That power is still coursing through him. He can feel it.
His eyes land on the Impala.
He's at the vehicle's side in an instant, and throws the back door open. The back seat is empty.
He left the jugs of liquid for the locating spell back here. Didn't want to have to go through the pain of rifling through the trunk again. It didn't seem like it could possibly be any harm at the time.
The pure lightning running through his veins turns to fire, and he takes the few long strides required to bring him to Cain's front door lying in the grass, picks it up with both hands, and with an almighty scream, hurls it through the air like a Frisbee at the farmhouse.
It tears right through the wood, completely destroying the wall. Dean can only watch as the front portion of the already unstable building, with a crescendo of groaning and splintering, collapses in on itself in a flurry of wood and dust. He hops backwards, putting himself further from the reach of the wreckage, his rage quickly dissipating as he watches the destruction unfold. Dark spots still pepper his vision from staring at the sun, but the sight is still something to behold.
The house finally quiets down after at least a full minute of leftover pieces of wood coming down like light rainfall in the wake of that door. And Dean just stands there, still amazed as he takes in the now utterly uninhabitable farmhouse.
He slides into the driver's seat with renewed vigor, and he'd say he's high on adrenaline if there weren't another high he's now familiar with that leaves all others behind. He'll never be truly high on anything but blood again, but this—this ain't so bad.
He's gotta find a new host now that he's half-blinded this one, not to mention his still-bleeding hand, but he was getting tired of Will anyway. And as for Cain? Screw Cain. He's weak.
Dean can figure out his abilities on his own.
Just like everything else he's ever done.
It would be best for Castiel to have a perfectly blank, silent room, a total lack of nearby stimuli, to facilitate his celestial search for information. A long time ago, he could have blocked out everything without a thought, regardless of his location or surroundings. But he is not the angel he once was. He has been weakened, even been something very close to human a time or two, and… well, sensory deprivation would help.
But he has no way of achieving it, not really. He could, in theory, choose a room in the bunker to clear out. Whenever he comes out of this utter exhaustion brought on by the use of his grace to heal Sam's mortal injuries. But even if he managed to create such an environment… there is still Sam.
Castiel is immensely concerned about Sam. It has been four days since he woke up. He has not left the couch. Castiel plans on renting him a pair of crutches—or maybe there's even a pair somewhere in the bunker, he's not sure—but Sam hasn't even asked about gaining a means to move. He seems to have no energy at all. He spends much of his days asleep, which would be good if he were getting any real rest. Instead he tosses and turns and mutters incoherently. When awake, he persists in maintaining that he plans to call up some hunters, but Castiel has not heard any such conversation. Which is fine, because when Sam makes these claims Castiel meets them with gentle agreement but no direct encouragement.
Something needs to be done. Of course it does. But Sam needs rest. Time to recover.
And, unfortunately, supervision.
Castiel can't withdraw to a soundproof room for hours at a time, because he's afraid of what he might find when he emerges. And it doesn't get any more specific than that. He's not sure exactly what he's afraid of. He just knows he can't leave Sam alone for too long.
On the fourth day around lunchtime he goes to bring him a cup of Ramen. The food in the kitchen is getting scarce, and they may have to dip into the bunker's emergency rations. Castiel still hasn't gotten rid of that car; again, it would take far too long to drive it somewhere without security cameras and then walk the whole way back, particularly with his own weakness in the wake of healing Sam. He's not sure how they're going to manage without the Impala. Eventually he intends to ask Sam if he has any connections that could get them a new vehicle.
He aches every day for the millennia he spent taking his wings for granted.
Sam accepts the insta-noodles with a quiet "Thanks" and quick, forced smile. As has become his habit, Castiel takes a seat in the couch across from him to watch him eat, make sure he finishes the simple meal.
"You know, you don't have to watch me," Sam says, not for the first time.
"Eat all the noodles and prove it," Castiel challenges. And maybe it wasn't the thing to say, but Sam compliantly continues eating, slowly but steadily.
When he's nearly to the bottom of the cup, his phone, sitting in the middle of the coffee table between them, rings. Both of them quickly crane their heads to see the screen.
Said screen reads "666 calling." Sam picks up the device and his expression doesn't twitch before he answers the call and places the phone back on the table. "You're on speaker, Crowley."
"I'm standing outside your bloody demon-proofed safehouse," barks the voice on the other line. "Get out here now."
They both immediately look to Sam's legs, encased in casts that aren't going away anytime soon. And immediately after that, they meet each other's eyes, both sets wide.
"I'll let you in," Castiel says tiredly into the phone, still maintaining eye contact with Sam.
Sam blinks, but he nods. But before Castiel can make a move towards the door, he says, "Get the Colt."
They've allowed the King of Hell entrance into this building before, but their destination was always a prison cell coated with warding sigils. And Crowley would probably make a sarcastic remark to this effect, except when Castiel finds him, he looks absolutely past banter.
Neither of them says a word, and Castiel leads him inside to where Sam is sitting upright in the couch, the Colt in his hand, pointed at Crowley. "One wrong move, I blow you away," he says, voice flat and lifeless.
Crowley rolls his eyes. "Whatever. I only bring news, and no news is good news. It's the locating spell."
The locating spell they haven't been able to use in four days. Castiel and Sam glance at each other briefly.
"Leaves from suicide palms. One of the ingredients." Crowley is shaking with anger. "Suicide palms are a very rare type of tree, found only in a remote part of Madagascar. Various parts of them have been ingredients in a handful of location spells I've come across in my many years—always for very dangerous creatures. And all of them are gone. The entire area where they can be found has been burned to the ground. I could still see some embers glowing and smoke was still in the sky."
Sam's gone pale.
"So what you're saying is," Castiel says slowly, "we have lost all access to the locating spell."
Crowley's eyes widen. "No. I'm saying we can't make any more. I gave you two gallons of that stuff. Enough for many more spells."
Sam's hand goes to his forehead. "Everything we had was in the Impala."
Crowley's gone still, and he looks back and forth between them. His face reddens, veins bulging in his forehead. "You bloody idiots," he snarls, spitting out the words like poison, and then he is gone.
Sam immediately drops the Colt to his lap, and covers his face with both hands. "What the hell are we doing, Cas?"
Castiel stares at him with eyes wide, unsure of how to respond.
"We're spinning our wheels. We've hit so many walls and things just keep getting worse and worse."
"He has the Mark of Cain," Castiel says slowly, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. "It is ancient and very, very evil. This was never going to be easy."
"I don't ask that it's easy, just that it's possible! Cas, what can we do?" He's staring at Castiel, eyes enormous and searching for just a scrap of hope to hold onto.
It's not that Castiel isn't in complete agreement that this is insane. But he can't let that show. One of them has to pretend to have hope. If Sam can't be that one, it has to be Castiel. "We can make calls," he says solemnly. "You keep saying you're going to contact some hunters, so do it. Spread the word of the demon who is immune to devil's traps. Somebody will find him for you. Sooner or later. But this can't happen if you don't get the word out."
He never would have believed it but he can already see the difference in Sam's eyes. There's a spark in them that wasn't there before.
"In the meantime, I'll be searching for information on the Mark and Cain. Anything the angels may know." He fixes his gaze on Sam. "What can we do? We can try. We owe it to him, everything he's ever done for us, to try."
It is with this thought that he leaves Sam on the couch to call to mind everything his brother has ever sacrificed for him without even letting on that it was hurting him, and how much he needs them now.
Castiel knows the math adds up, but they have so little to add to the equation that he's not sure he himself is so convinced.
Doesn't matter. It's very little, but it's something. And something is all they need.