Song Remains the Same

by R. W. Winters

For Alex Winchester, normal has never been in the equation. Mute since the nursery fire, she grew up on the road chasing ghosts with her brothers and father. When her voice is inexplicably restored and the angel Castiel appears claiming to be her guardian, both of their lives change forever in ways that Heaven and Earth never expected. Castiel/OFC. Sisfic - S4-9 - Alternate Ending.

46. The Silent Year

Song Remains the Same

Chapter 46 / The Silent Year

"Every hand let me go that I tried to hold.
Every warm-hearted love left me freezing cold."
- Owl City

---

November, 1995

At thirteen years old, Alex was supposed to be braver than she actually felt that day as she in the Great Smoky Mountain range. Thirteen was supposed to have been the year she felt like a teenager, an almost-grownup, but as she huddled there, crouched on the ground against a massive oak trunk, she felt like a scared little kid.

Her heart raced, her breathing was unsteady and sickening, she was the definition of paranoid in that moment. She was on high alert because she knew that he was out there somewhere and was going to get the jump on her any minute. He was going to be one step ahead of her like always, and no matter how ready she felt, he'd get her. Hyper vigilant, she was exhausted from how far she'd run into the woods—a couple miles at least, then she'd cut a quarter of a mile over and then doubled back back in the direction she'd come from, hoping she'd be able to throw him off that way, maybe getting the jump on him this time. She hated this.

Every little sound made her jump—every little breeze that rustled the trees terrified her, every snap of a twig or rustle in the underbrush made her heart flip flop around like a dying fish. She'd found a big fist-sized rock and had stuck it in one of her socks as makeshift weapon and that was now in her jacket pocket—she also had a tree branch she'd snapped in half in her hand. Two measly weapons, but weapons all the same. Maybe he was watching her from somewhere, maybe she was going to get attacked any second—there was a steep ridge to her left and a sloping embankment behind her, she'd picked the most defensible position, but it never seemed to matter. He always got her, he always said she needed to stop taking the defensive, but she didn't know how to take the offensive all by herself like this. That's why she hated these training runs, because she couldn't fall back on her brothers for help. It was all her.

"How many times have I told you?" His voice suddenly said behind her, right behind her. Shit shit shit!

If she could have screamed in startled fear, she would have. Instead she just scrambled forward, trying to get away. She knew he was fast. But he grabbed her easily and she gasped, panicking as she floundered for her weapons—she'd dropped the branch and the rock sock was uselessly in the pocket of her jacket—dammit! She was tackled forward, face first down into the dry leaf covered ground. It knocked the wind out of her, it hurt. She could hear how agitated and disappointed he was, his voice was rising fast. She'd made him good and mad, as usual. "You have got to watch your back, Alex, come on!"

She struggled to breathe under his heavy weight. "Your brothers aren't always gonna be there to do it for you," he barked, and she struggled uselessly, trying to break his hold. "And I could hear you breathing a goddamn mile away, you have got to control yourself better or you're as good as dead!" John Winchester held his daughter there on the ground firmly as she cursed herself for, yet again, doing a piss-poor job. She was thrashing uselessly, teeth gritted, kicking herself for getting ambushed as usual—how the hell did her Dad always stay so quiet?! She heard him take a steadying breath. He stopped shouting now.

"Mistake number one, not taking the offensive," he said, carrying on with the lesson in that familiar gruff, demanding tone of his. "Okay, now this guy has you, now what Alex, how do you get away from him?" Her hands were pressed flat against the ground, some roots poked into her skin painfully. He was too heavy to just lift off. Alex resorted to dirty fighting, as usual, and her hand darted up behind herself, grabbing a handful of her dad's hair. She yanked hard, knowing Dad wouldn't baby her or react unless it really did hurt like hell. So she made sure it did.

When he yelped, she used the temporary distraction and reprieve to wiggle out from under him and frantically army-drag herself a few feet forward, trying to scramble up to her feet, but he was already recovering, lunging over her again. She flipped over awkwardly, pinned underneath him again. He grabbed at her wrists, slamming them down to the ground on either side of her head and she gave up, pissed but pretty sure he'd won again. When he saw that she wasn't trying, his face screwed up in anger. He smelled like alcohol.

"Fight, dammit!" He shouted at her. "The monsters and demons out there aren't gonna be as nice as me, come on! This is life or death now act like it!" He smashed her wrists into the ground again for effect, trying to make her mad or maybe just because he was enraged. She didn't know, but it definitely made her mad.

She imagined that her brothers needed her help, that if she didn't break free right now, they'd die. And wishing she could cry out in helpless rage like she wanted to, Alex head-butted her dad, bashed her forehead into her dad's nose and chin. Pain exploded there in the front of her skull but Dad was reeling from the surprising move and he loosened his grip on her wrists. She yanked her hands to herself and hit him in the face with her fist, then shoved at him and fought like a caged animal, pulling one of his ears hard. He protested with a shout of "aaah!" and she punched him again with her free hand, then again. He fell sideways and she smashed her now-free knee into his stomach, wavered up to her feet, then fell promptly when he grabbed her ankles and yanked.

On all fours now, she kicked him hard in the face and scrambled a few steps off, hands searching her pockets in a frenzy—where the hell was her rock sock?! Did it fall out?! She heard him behind her and before she could react, Dad grabbed her by the back of the jacket and yanked her sideways and pushed her up against a tree roughly, holding her there forcefully so that she faced him. She wasn't even five foot four yet, he was over six feet tall, and she thought as she often did, how easy it would be for him to kill her. He was breathing hard, his nose was bleeding and his cheek was bruised. All her doing. And the irony was he almost looked pleased with her. "Not bad, but now what?" He asked. "Where's your weapon, huh? Shouldn't have dropped it. Mistake number two."

He saw how she was thinking about giving up and he shook her, getting mad again. "No, don't you do that, Alex, don't give up, stop that shit right now, you hear me?" He waited and she just stared at him breathlessly. She was tired, she was hurt, she didn't want to fight him, she hated these training runs and just wanted to be left alone. But he was getting more and more pissed at her lack of reaction. "Stop letting your fear cripple you," he told her angrily. "The only person you can rely on in life in the end is yourself, now do it!" He was in rare form, and his anger was beginning to seep into her, stir a wrath she hated to feel because it was so dark, so all-consuming. She didn't like that side of herself. But he wouldn't stop shouting at her. "Stop being a coward, stop being so dependent on me and your goddamn brothers to save you and fucking save yourself!"

She snapped, she went animalistic, breaking his grip and beginning to hit him as hard as she could, swinging blindly and landing a few punches in his torso and chest… then missing one and wildly overcorrecting, she lost her balance. Dad grabbed her by the collar of her jacket like a wet kitten and knocked her down to the ground, done.

He was passionless now. "You're dead," he said, blasé. "He killed you. Easily."

Alex pushed herself up slightly and spit—some leaves and dirt had gotten into her mouth. She looked up at her father who was shaking his head, looking at her with hooded eyes kind of sidelong. "You have no control at all—you're too damn emotional, just like your mother," he said, but he wasn't yelling anymore. This was worse. He sounded apathetic, like she had disappointed him on every level. His jaw tightened and he put his face in his hand for a second to rub it. "I have tried and tried with you, Alex. This is ridiculous. You're a goddamn pushover, you know that? You wouldn't last a day out there alone. Not a single day." And he sounded forlorn, like it was his fault.

She believed him but she also didn't believe him. Alex wanted to look up at him and tell him how much she fucking hated him right then, how full of shit he was, how his lessons were all crazy and meaningless and cruel and how dads weren't supposed to be how he was. And why don't you love me? I love you even when you do this crap to me. I wish I didn't, I wish I hated you for real. She was caught in a place between complete rage and total despair, but he barely glanced at her. He was over it, disappointed and not interested in her being angry at him anymore. "Training run's over," he said and started walking off.

No. Training wasn't over. He had unleashed a fury in her that couldn't just be brushed aside. And seeing red, not thinking at all, just wanting to hurt him like he hurt her, she stood up and charged him, kicking him in the back of the knees as he walked off, catching him totally off guard. Watch your own damn back, you asshole. He fell forward as his legs went out from under him, he went facedown but was already flipping himself over onto his back. Just like she'd expected, and she jumped down on top of him and started pummeling him in the face with her fists so hard that her knuckles bled. He flailed a couple seconds in surprise from how intense her sudden attack had been and then regained control, catching her wrists, flipping her over and suddenly backhanding her across the face in anger. The second he did that, his anger fell away, he let go of her. He looked stunned at himself and swallowed then stood up, shaken and stony. "I said training run's over," he repeated, but he looked sick. Tears filled her eyes, her cheek stung from the impact of his hand. He looked at her with an indescribable expression and turned away, leaving her to get up off the ground all by herself.

And those were what Dad called training runs. They all hated them—Dean, Sam, and Alex—but she hated them the most.

---

Present Day
Battle Creek, Michigan

Alex thought of that memory among others and realized as much as she hated Dad's tactics and choices, his parenting style... he had been right. The only person you can rely on in life in the end is yourself. And right now, she was learning that the hardest damn way there was.

It had been four days since she and Dean had clashed so horrifically. Four days since Cas had left without an explanation. Four days since Sam and Adam had died.

Alex took out a small switchblade she'd shoved into her boot. Snick. The blade flipped out, glinting in the dark light of the drafty old warehouse she was in right now. It was around sunset and it would get dark soon.

On the floor she had seven candles arranged on the points of a chalk-drawn septagram, next to it was a bowl. In it, stuff she'd lifted from a local new age place: wormwood, cat's blood, a crow's feather among other things that had taken her several days to round up. Summoning a demon shouldn't have been such a pain in the ass, but it was.

She took her switchblade and braced herself then began the always-fun task of cutting herself open. She hissed through gritted teeth as the point drew blood across the palm of her hand. Satisfied with the flow, she turned her hand and let the blood drip down into the bowl for a few seconds. The final ingredient. She wrapped a rag around her hand to stop the bleeding when she was done. This was the moment of truth. She grabbed a match from where she'd stuck a few in her pocket and struck it with a snap on her thumbnail—a trick Dean had taught her. Dean. Her face darkened. "Et ad congregandum..." she chanted. She realized she hadn't spoken out loud all day long up until then. "Eos coram me." She dropped the match into the bowl and it went up in a fast roaring blaze, completing the ritual.

Appearing in front of her about ten feet away, Crowley looked mildly surprised at the summons, but not for long. "Funny. I don't remember having a visit with you in my pocket calendar," he said, full of his trademark jaunty attitude.

Alex glared. "Cut the shit, Crowley."

He chuckled. "Ever the polite one. You seem to be feeling a bit cross," he observed mildly, taking a step toward her—but only before slyly glancing up and the around to see if she'd placed a devil's trap somewhere.

"Mm." Her eyes narrowed, furthering the deadly note of her glare. "Try again." There was a cold and wrathful kind of humorous quality to her expression and mannerisms.

"Angry?" he asked. Gloatingly almost.

"Well," she started evenly, slowly, with faux-thoughtfulness. "I wanna cut your fucking head off, so you tell me!" She ended the sentence at a near shout, baleful as she glowered at him.

He merely raised his eyebrows. "Angry then," he supposed, smiling maddeningly. "Something I said?" He chuckled, then stopped when she whipped out her angel's blade. He seemed genuinely surprised, intrigued. "And where did you get that?"

Alex's eyebrows shot up. "You don't know?" She asked, then made a faux-amazed face. "Wonders never cease, huh?" She looked at the blade and gave it a nonchalant twirl, looking at it in faint interest. "Found it at the Antiques Roadshow." Her eyes flicked back to his.

Crowley strolled forward just a few more steps, smiling cheekily. Right where she wanted him. "Fine, play hard to get," he said, making the mistake of believing himself safe. "Now what—"

She struck another match against the hilt of her blade and dropped it to the ground. The all-but invisible gasoline she'd painted thickly onto the floor caught fire, blazing brilliantly into a large devil's trap which Crowley now stood dead center of. The demon's face registered genuine confused shock as he realized he'd been tricked.

For once, she had the one-up on Crowley and they both knew it. He looked at her in slack-jawed surprise and she gave him a cool, superior little smile, enjoying every second of his stunned silence. Even when the fire burned off, which it had now—the burn marks would leave the trap singed faintly onto the concrete floor. Crowley was trapped until she said so and Alex relished that fact completely. His momentary shock ebbed and he recovered forcibly, but still couldn't manage to be quite as lackadaisical as he had been before.

"Well, this is is a new one on me," he murmured, attempting to be his usual jackass self, but he was clearly pissed off about the twist. "I'll give you ten points for creativity. I think I get it now," he said, glancing peevishly at the angel's blade. "You summoned me here to kill me, hm? Get some payback?"

Alex's grip tightened on the blade, she imagined cutting Crowley's head off and then playing soccer with it. "Don't tempt me," she retorted, "Cuz as much as I want to stab you in between your crusty little eyes right now for all that bullshit you spewed at me, the ideas you put into my head... what those ideas made me do… I'm not gonna kill you. Yet." Alex waggled the blade at him meaningfully. "Just watch yourself, Crowley. I'm in a bad mood right now and honestly… I can't promise a damn thing at the moment."

Was that annoyance or a hint of nervousness that ran across the demon's features? She couldn't tell. "Right. So, why the reach around, eh? What is it you want from me if not sweet, sweet vengeance?"

"What I want from you…?" Alex began to walk the outer edge of the devil's trap nice and slow. "I want you to get comfortable. Cuz I'm keeping you in time out until you do something for me."

She stopped halfway around, putting all her weight onto one foot and crossing her arms—a casual and in control stance. She leveled him with a calculating smile.

Crowley looked insulted. "Really? You, trying to blackmail me?" He shook his head slowly, there was a dangerous little eyebrow raise and smile. "Oh Alex... this will not end well for you darling. You'd do best to let me walk before I get good and cheesed off."

She ignored him completely. "Bring Sam and Adam back or you're dead. Those are my terms."

Crowley merely looked inconvenienced. He rolled his eyes and sighed. "So predictable, Alex." He smiled pleasantly and put his hands into his pockets, back to his reigning superiority. "Answer's no."

Alex was milliseconds away from showing him how serious she was about her threats when right beside her, right behind her ear, there was a low, rumbling growl, a snort. She froze as her hair rustled in the force of warm, humid air. Her veins ran cold as she realized she hadn't been as prepared as she thought. A hellhound. And just like that, the tables had turned. Shit. Alex clenched her teeth and bore her mouth down into a hard line, refusing to even look at Crowley for a long second. She was so mad she could spit. Dammit, dammit!

When she finally did look at the demon again, he shrugged, sighed gustily. "You tried, didn't you," he said, as if he thought she should be proud of the fact. He actually seemed genuinely communicative as he began to talk again. "Listen, use your brain for two tics and think. I never wanted Lucifer to get his meatsuit, remember? I was anti-devil the entire godforsaken time. So why would I have told you that tripe if I knew it was all a ploy? The answer is I wouldn't have." For a moment, it could have almost been an apology or an admonition. Then he had to go and be a smug, cocky bastard again. "My feelings are hurt," he mocked. "And here I thought you and I were so much closer than all this."

Alex could hear the hellhound breathing, feel its exhales hitting up against the back of her head and she thought about trying to kill it. She was fast and the blade she was still holding in her hand killed just about anything… but going up against a hellhound? That was kind of suicide. And she just wasn't in the mood to kill herself that day. So she kept staring sullenly at Crowley.

"I'll blame your lapse in judgement on the latest Winchester family drama," Crowley continued. "By the by, I simply must know. How'dya like life on your own in the big, bad world without big brother bear to wipe your hiney and tuck you in at night?" He chuckled darkly at the scalding stare she was giving him. "If looks could kill…" he said, then cocked his head to the side and back slightly, narrowed his eyes, smiling arrogantly. "Now be a good little girl and let me out or I have Fido rip you to shreds." He lowered his chin a fraction, his eyes glittered. "Those are my terms."

Alex imagined killing Crowley and feeding him to his own hellhound, she glared daggers at him… but realized if she wanted to stay alive, she needed to do what the demon said. Silent and resentful, Alex drew her stick of chalk off her pocket and crouched down, drawing a thick line through the outer circle of the devil's trap with harsh, angry force. Crowley sidestepped his way out, pleased.

Alex stood back up to her full height. "Now call your bitch off," she demanded lowly.

"Say please," Crowley challenged.

Alex made a face. "Fuck you."

Crowley cracked a grin, laughing lowly, white, even teeth showing. "Oh you." He trailed off into a chuckle, then sighed, greatly self satisfied. He whistled shrilly and Alex could hear claws clicking across the ground away from her and toward Crowley—who pulled a hand out of his pocket and began to pat the air beside himself. It would have looked ridiculous and funny any other day.

"Well," Crowley put his hand back into his coat pocket and sauntered forward, returning his attention to Alex. "Now that we have all that behind us, I'd be happy to discuss a soul deal with you, if you're really desperate to bring a brother back."

Alex's heart clenched and she really did think about it for all of two seconds. Crowley waited with that frustratingly superior, teasing smile on his face. She raised her chin. "Sorry. I don't do those."

"Mm. Heavens. I wonder why," Crowley commented breezily, even though they both knew he knew all about her Dad making a soul deal, her oldest brother too. "Well then, I guess we're done here." Crowley turned to leave.

"Wait."

Crowley turned back around halfway, looking at Alex expectantly, curiously. She could barely believe she had to resort to asking Crowley this question. Desperate times, desperate measures. She swallowed, tried to remain stone-faced. "Is… do you know... is Cas still alive?"

A strange little expression flitted across his face. "Pardon?" he asked, as if he hadn't heard right.

Annoyed—he was trying to make her ask it again and she couldn't, no, she wouldn't. Alex doubled her efforts to look foul-tempered, hoping he couldn't see how much of a wreck she was inside. "Just answer the damn question," she told him acidly.

Crowley turned all the way around to face her and seemed oddly superior again, eyes flicking over her face in that cool, knowing way he had. "What, he's not at your beck and call like he used to be?" He clicked his tongue, began to mutter. "Not even out of the honeymoon and there's trouble in paradise, my goodness what drama." At the impatient, irritated look on her face Crowley smiled. "Darling, I happen to know he is alive and well but… is he coming back?" He seemed to be enjoying her distress. "Remains to be seen." At the increasingly crushed, confused look on her face, he rolled his eyes. "Honestly, poppet. Did you stop to think maybe he left 'cause he was tired of all that whining and crying and carrying on?" Crowley looked at her with raised eyebrows. "You do do a lot of that, don't you." At her silence, Crowley fixed her with a rare, serious look, almost sympathetic or something. "He's a lost cause, darling. I think it's safe to say he's not interested anymore." As quickly as he'd become genuine, his air of pomp returned. "Now if you'll pardon me, I have souls to torture and maim." He winked. "Toodle-oo."

And without further ado he was gone, leaving Alex to stare blankly at the spot he'd just been in.

In her mind Alex had planned that to go a lot better and more in her favor than it had. She sank down onto her heels and let out a shaking breath, scrubbing her forehead with the palm of her hand, letting herself feel all the fear she hadn't let herself feel when Crowley had been there. She squeezed her eyes shut and ground her teeth together. What the hell are you even doing? This is pointless. Maybe she should have made a deal. It was a fair trade, wasn't it? Her soul for Sam's, at least? If she hadn't basically forced Sam to say yes to save her from Lucifer… he might still be here. She felt so miserable and so to blame. All she'd wanted to do was make right what she'd screwed up.

Now what? That was the question harrowing her mind. She had called and called to Cas for three days solid and heard nothing. Today she'd stopped. Every time she called and he didn't come, she grew more worried of two things: one, that he was dead. Two, that he heard and wasn't replying on purpose. He had seemed strange the last time she'd seen him. Distant, removed somehow. Maybe becoming an angel again had changed something for him. Maybe what Crowley said was right. But she didn't understand. She didn't understand. It made no sense—she had believed the things he had told her, she had believed he wouldn't leave her ever again, so why had he? She didn't know if she should be heartbroken or worried or afraid or angry and she looked upward now silently. She wanted to call him again, but when she spoke his name aloud, pleaded with him and got no answer, the pain was unbearable. The rejection and abandonment was too much.

But she decided that she would ask one last time, that she could stand to call out to him just once more. Her eyes flickered back and forth over the ceiling above her. She heard water dripping and echoing noisily somewhere behind her. Drip, drip.

"Cas? Where did you go?" She paused, her heart hammering painfully in her chest. Her voice was just a whisper. "If… if you're out there… if you can hear me… please. I just need to know why you left." Silence. "Cas. Where are you? Why won't you answer me?" Drip, drip. No reply. Nothing.

At that exact moment, Heaven was being ripped apart by the newly declared war. All across the realm, the skies were dark and shadowed. Millions of souls were displaced from their heavens as angels fighting angels tore the fabric of paradise asunder, as brothers and sisters killed each other in the name of freedom and choice and peace. How ironic it was that peace and freedom should be gained through such violence. Castiel, locked in combat and struggling to survive twisted his opponents wrist back and then drove the blade into his brother's chest, hearing the scream, seeing the blue blaze of Grace burning hot and then dying out. He stood over his brother Thadriel, sadness filling him at the sight of the wings scorched across the ground. He hadn't wanted this—to have to turn against his own, to have to kill his brothers and sisters. Why wouldn't they listen? Raphael had poisoned their minds. Behind him, a newcomer with foul intentions. Castiel whirled and blocked another attack. His sister Gomer. And as Castiel fought, he couldn't hear one soft plea spoken to him among the millions of deafening, dismayed shouts echoing across all of Heaven.

Back on earth, a girl in a worn out cargo jacket and dirt-stained jeans stood up, heartbreak written across her face. With no reply and no understanding of why, Alex felt herself shutting down on a certain level. Methodically, she gathered her things and left the warehouse, heading out into the darkening world.

She went to Lisa's with no memory of walking across town, only the realization that she'd arrived and that the sun had fully set. She stood on the sidewalk in front of the house, staring for a long time at the bright dining room window. She had trailed Dean here to Lisa's earlier today in a stolen car, making sure he was okay after he left the motel she'd ditched him from.

She'd had every intention of knocking on Lisa's door and telling Dean how fucking sorry she was for losing her mind and pulling a gun on him and lashing out at him. She'd had every intention of begging her older brother to please take her back and give her one more chance; she planned on telling him she knew she did need him, and that she knew he needed her too, that they needed each other right now because they'd lost everyone else. But then she saw him with them through window. And she hadn't been able to follow through.

Dean was sitting there at the table, smiling at Lisa's son Ben as they passed a bowl of dinner rolls around the table. Alex drew closer, disguised by darkness—even if any of them had looked out the window, they wouldn't have seen her. Lisa, dark-haired and beautiful, Ben bright-eyed and probably ten years old, Dean, tense and weary but trying not to give himself away in either respect. They looked like they could belong together, the three of them.

Alex saw how Dean rested his hand on the table, how Lisa put her hand over his sort of falteringly and gave him a small, understanding, hopeful smile. Dean's expression wavered, he managed a slightly pained smile back at her. Why did that hurt to watch?

As his sister, Alex recognized how much her brother was struggling internally but also how he was actually warming to the idea of being part of Lisa and Ben's life. And with a great welling sadness, Alex realized maybe this was what he needed. A normal life, a real family. Not the fucked up one he had been subjected to with her, Sam, and Dad. Not the endless co-dependency and impossible responsibility John Winchester had saddled him with. Maybe this was her brother's one chance at happiness.

Alex couldn't find it within her heart to take him away from this chance. So she didn't.

Like Dad had said: the only person you can rely on in life in the end is yourself. Maybe she should have known it would always come to this—just her against the world. Maybe she was finally ready. It didn't matter if she was ready or not. It was what she had to do. What she was going to do.

And so Alex Winchester shoved her hands into her jean pockets and turned and walked off into the night.

As the weeks turned into months, she never went far. She always stayed within a few hour radius of where Dean was, and she checked on him often. He wouldn't know this for a long time.

---

One of the first things Dean did when he got to Lisa's was to scrub the angel wing char marks off of the Impala, maybe trying to erase the memories of what had happened in Stull Cemetery. The whole time he scoured the surface of the hood and side of the door, he thought about who those wings belonged to and why they were there. Wondered where the hell Cas had gone, why he wouldn't answer. Bitter and feeling rejected and ignored as well as deeply ashamed of what had happened with Alex… maybe thinking he didn't deserve an answer... he stopped calling.

Lisa and Ben welcomed Dean graciously and mercifully into their lives, giving him something to focus on and contribute to. Dean gave it his best shot, the whole 'normal life' thing. He got a job—a respectable, boring job doing welding and construction. He went to work at eight in the morning, got home around five in the afternoon. Dinner was at six every night. He helped Ben with homework and building model cars, they played catch sometimes and Ben asked for advice 'man to man' about girls. Dean fixed things around the house for Lisa and helped out as much as he could. Learned what day was laundry day, what day was garbage pickup. In short, Dean fell into routine and used it as a distraction from his deepest feelings of despair, worry, inadequacy, and self-loathing. The daily whiskey helped with forgetting those things, too.

When driving the Impala the ten miles to his job every day got to be too much emotionally, Dean bought an old Ford F250 off some guy for a thousand bucks and parked Baby in Lisa's garage and covered her up with a tarp. He couldn't stand to drive the familiar car alone. Every time he'd looked over and saw the empty seat beside him and behind him, it was a reminder of the reality he was trying to forget.

For awhile, he was constantly looking over his shoulder and listening out for his phone, fully convinced that his sister would reappear. But she never did, and, of course, he blamed himself for it completely. He was worried about her—he remembered the look in her eyes when she'd pulled the gun on him and he didn't understand how she could have done that. Sure, the Winchesters were all used to having guns in their faces most of the time but she would never have done that to him before, not in her right mind. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized her doing that meant she was really, really struggling, barely holding it together. And so now she was out there somewhere maybe half out of her mind with grief and confusion—things he felt, too—and he was afraid for her to be alone.

He thought of how ironic it was that he could love his sister as much as he did and then push her away so far when they'd needed each other the most. Or, well, when he'd needed her the most. I don't need you. That's what she'd said to him, and it might as well have been a declaration of I don't love you. The more days that passed, the more he believed just that. And wondered how anyone could love him, especially Lisa.

Lisa didn't know Dean, not like his family had, and he wasn't comfortable with the idea of her knowing him that well either. There were dark and violence things in his past, things that would make her afraid of and repulsed by him. Sometimes he thought Lisa knew more about him, intuitively, than she let on. But she gave him grace and never pried, always remained respectful. Told him that he was the guy who had basically just saved the world and he was supposed to be a wreck after everything that happened. He appreciated her for how she accepted him as broken as he was, how she didn't push him to be something else. But he tried. He really tried. To be someone better than who he already was. Because he thought she deserved that, someone better than him.

But he wished he had someone to share his pain with. Lisa hadn't been through the kinds of things he had. She wouldn't know how to handle or even understand if he opened up to her fully. So he never did.

Sometimes, usually in the middle of the night when he was plagued by wakefulness and harrowed by thoughts of what had happened and what he'd lost, Dean thought about going and trying to find Alex, then trying together to bring Sam back somehow. But he had promised Sam that he would try and live a normal life. That, and Dean was scared. Of finding Alex and being rejected, of trying to bring back Sam and not being able to find a way. It was miserable. He missed them so much. Who the fuck was he without them? The gap that their absences left was palatable, tangible, never-ending. He wasn't sure if he could ever get used to this 'normal life,' this life without his family. But he guessed he had to. He at least needed to give it a fair shot. It was what Sam had asked for. He kept his head down and took it one day at a time.

There were baseball games and family movie nights and drinks with the guys from work. Dean pretended that this guy who went to neighborhood barbecues and stressed over bills was really him. He tried to appreciate knowing where he was going to be sleeping every night. He tried to like having structure and predictability in his life. But in the back of his mind, he wondered why it all felt so damn wrong—then felt guilty about having those thoughts.

There were good days, unremarkable days, there were bad days. Lisa and Ben helped him through all of those days just by being there. He really grew attached to them, and the closer they got, the more he thought about leaving because he really felt like a curse at the end of the day. And Lisa and Ben? They deserved better than to be cursed. But he stayed. Because when it came down to it, Dean was terrified of being alone.

---

Six Months Later

Crowley sat with his feet propped up, ankles crossed onto his large oak desk. His office was dank, dark, creepy… just like he liked it. The gray stone walls, reminiscent of a dungeon, were decorated with displays of old rusty torture tools. Behind him were a series of metal filing cabinets, and above them there hung a ridiculously massive painting of himself shaking hands and grinning with Hitler. On his desk, the things you'd expect to find on any work desk: a cup of pens, a stack of paperwork two feet high, a little bobble-head of Crowley's likeness, and a miniature Judas Chair model—brilliant torture device they thought up in Medieval times, if Crowley did say so himself. A shining golden name plate sat on the desk facing outward, declaring Crowley: King of Hell, Playboy of the Year 1941.

Humming a little ditty to himself, Crowley paged through his very thick binder of soul deals, reached for his glass of whiskey, then started slightly when he heard the sound of wind against fabric and looked up, saw that he was no longer alone in his office. Standing in front of him and looking irritated, tense, and sour stood the angel in the trench coat. Finally.

Not letting his surprise show through, Crowley raised his eyebrows and smiled, pleased. "Ah, Cas, my favorite halo. Was wondering when you'd come." He uncrossed his ankles, sat up properly.

"What do you mean, when I'd come?" Castiel questioned gruffly. "There's a war in Heaven, a war you had me start. I've been busy."

"Now, now, let's not play the victim, darling," Crowley said, standing up and taking his short, low glass of whiskey up with him. He sniffed appreciatively at the rim, swirling the dark liquid languidly while studying Castiel closely. The angel looked browbeaten, exhausted, and foul-tempered.

"What do you want, Crowley?" he asked with dark impatience. "I don't have all day."

Crowley's eyes narrowed, a sudden thought occurred to him. He looked at the angel closely, gauging for his reaction. "Do you not know how long it's been, Cas, since we spoke last?" Cas's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Six months." The King watched as sheer confusion and then realization and then something like dread flashed across the angel's face—all within the space of a couple seconds. And then Cas tried to hide it, tried to go back to being stone-faced. Crowley just rolled his eyes and sighed. "Yes, go ahead and pretend you knew that. I like the constipated look you get when you try and act like you know what you're doing." Cas said nothing and clenched his jaw a bit. Crowley looked him up and down, reading the signs of fatigue and despondency that Cas was trying so hard to conceal. "War must be taking quite the toll then, hm?" the demon asked conversationally.

Cas was perturbed and troubled in equal parts. "Time works differently in Heaven, it's not constant or stable like it is on earth," he said. "To me only a few weeks have passed."

"Sad story," Crowley retorted sarcastically. "Where did I put my tiny violin?" At the confused expression on the angel's face, the demon rolled his eyes. "Never mind."

Unfriendly and ill-tempered, Cas glanced away. "Why did you call me here?" He abruptly seemed to think of something. His eyes snapped back to Crowley and his voice changed from dark and aggravated to something more urgent. "Is it Alex? Is something wrong?"

Crowley suppressed a smile. Oh, Cas had it bad... which for Crowley meant good. It was just too easy to have this carrot named Alex to dangle in front of Cas. The demon canted his head to the side, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I called—and s'not the first time either, mind you—because I did indeed locate Miss Winchester's name in the book of Hell. She's slotted for a room downstairs with extended stay, but here I am, ready to hand the right to her sweet little lost soul over to you."

Genuine shock and displaced confusion showed on the angel's face, it was as if he couldn't believe she would be in the book of hell at all. "How is it that her name would be in there?" he asked in mild horror, voice a little softer than it had been before.

Crowley shrugged. "Don't ask me, ask Fate. Literally, go ask her—I heard Atropos has a hate-on for you after that whole apocalypse jive." Crowley wiggled his eyebrows at the stunned angel and set his drink down, pulling a thick book off the shelf to the right of his desk. "I just have the book mate, I don't decide who goes in it or why." Crowley began to leaf through the massive tome. "Doesn't matter now though, does it?" He asked, finding the page he sought and smiling crookedly up at Cas. "You're going to throw out the rulebook and get her a penthouse suite upstairs. Crisis averted."

He set the heavy book down on his desk and then took a large metal circle that held about fifty keys on it from where it hung on the wall. The right to Alex's soul had to be transferred from the book to another object, anything physical would do. He selected the first key he touched and pulled it off the loop then went back to the book and muttered the incantation. The words Alexandra Elizabeth Winchester, 1983 - 2013 disappeared off the page and the key burned bright then faded back to its normal state. It was complete. Crowley picked the key up and waggled it at Cas meaningfully.

Cas watched him for a moment, silent and hard to read, disturbed. He stared at the book where her name had just disappeared from. "How is she?" he asked hesitantly. "How is Alex?"

Crowley pursed his lips slightly in hooded annoyance. "Mm. Well, she keeps killing the demons I send to watch her. I'm getting bloody sick of it, too. Eleven demons in six months!" There was the faintest little look that came over Cas's face that pissed Crowley off. "Oh don't look so pleased about it. You need to hurry it along before I'm out of cronies."

"I need to 'hurry it up?'" Castiel asked, filled with sudden righteously indignant fury. "As I recall, this entire war is contingent on you finding Purgatory."

Crowley paused humbly, thoughtfully. "Well yes I suppose there's that."

"How close are you?" Cas asked intensely. "I can't sustain the same pace for long—Raphael is too powerful, too many of us are dying."

"Keep your pants on, would you?" Crowley leveled the angel with a slightly challenging stare. "I'm going as fast as I can. Would be a helluva lot faster if you'd let me pull Dean and Alex off the bench to get me my monsters that will get us to Purgatory..."

"They're not going to be a part of this business," Castiel said firmly, then added as a self-loathing afterthought: "It's bad enough that I am."

Crowley let out an annoyed heave of air. "Then you, my friend, will just have to wait. You can't just streamline these things." He held the key up again and showed it to Cas who looked at it and tried not to reveal how much he wanted it to Crowley, who could see it easily without even trying. "And by the by," Crowley said lowly, "next time I call you, try not to drag your feet, savvy? We're business partners as I recall and I dislike it when I can't get a hold of you."

Cas's eyes flicked up to Crowley's, locking. His face was full of balefulness. "How unfortunate that you feel that way," he almost snapped. "Now give me what's mine."

"Was that sarcasm?" Crowley asked, pleasantly surprised and amused, grinning widely, making his eyes crinkle up. He walked around the desk, coming to stand in front of the perturbed angel. "My, my. They grow up so fast." Cas was wrathful and impatient and Crowley was annoyed that no one appreciated his freewheeling sense of humor and comedic timing. He rolled his eyes, supposing he did have to make good on his agreement to Cas and that his fun was over. He sighed dramatically. "Your right to Alex's soul… I surrender it to you for safekeeping, as fulfillment of our agreement." He dropped the key into Cas's outstretched waiting hand. "What do you plan to do with it, if you don't mind my asking?"

Cas closed his fist around the key and now his arm was at his side again, his eyes were narrowed and his face rigid. "It's none of your concern." And just like he'd appeared—without warning—he disappeared.

Crowley sighed gustily and put his hands into his pockets. "Kids these days. So rude." There was a light knocking on his office door and Crowley raised a hand, opening the door without touching it.

Lola peeked her head in. "Hiya Bossman," she said, chewing and popping a mouthful of gum as usual. "Your eleven o'clock flogging and maiming's here." She jerked her thumb in the vague direction of where the torture rooms were. Lola was a demon who was young in appearance with short, over-styled, and unnaturally reddish hair, a petite heart-shaped face, and large expressive brown eyes. She always dressed and in a way that made her look like a gothy Spice Girl reject—right down to the godawful body glitter and neon blue eyeshadow.

Crowley smiled at his underling secretary. "Wouldn't miss it for the world." He strolled out of his office, feeling good about his lot in life. Cas, under his control and on his way to getting Crowley some major soul power—clueless, not even knowing that Dean and Alex weren't together anymore, that she was out there on her own. He couldn't have planned it more perfectly, the way that she was out of the picture, not distracting Cas but still motivating him. And, well, there was the whole killing-every-watcher-Crowley-sent thing, but other than that, Alex hadn't rocked the boat since that little try at killing him six months ago. Dean, not making a peep since he'd shacked up with some woman and kid. And Sam… oh, Sam. Hunting and hunting well, getting in some trouble here and there but making a killing. Quite literally.

Yes, things were shaping up quite nicely for the King of Hell.

---

Later

Time—Castiel had almost no sense of time as the war which broke out across Heaven overtook the celestial planes like a flood. Seeing Crowley and learning that it had been six full months since the battle began had jarred Castiel badly. In Heaven it had only felt like a few weeks had passed. Upset, worried, and now the holder of the right to Alex's soul, Castiel felt even more lost than he had before. Why had her name been in that book? Why did her death still occur in 2013? Questions he had no answer for but needed.

Cas was scouring the heavens for any sign of Joshua in between trying to convince his brethren that Raphael's regime would end in disaster, in between battles that saw many good angels die. Many had been lost on both sides. Castiel's followers were growing slowly. He spoke to them about free will and choice, yet he was tied down. His choice would have been to go to the one he loved, but he could not.

Six months he had been gone from her, and it didn't feel like that long to him. The second Crowley said it had been that long, guilt and panic had gripped Cas at the thought of Alex waiting that long for him—he knew she would have gotten the message Balthazar delivered, but six months was a long time—would she grow tired or waiting, would she worry? He knew she would still be with Dean and that thought was his only comfort.

Immediately upon leaving Hell and seeing Crowley, Castiel had summoned Rachel and told her to go to earth and find Alex, ensure that she was as Crowley had said. To give her a message and tell her that he would come to her as soon as he could, that time had passed without him even realizing, that he hadn't won the war yet. Rachel hadn't returned yet and Castiel was anxious for an answer.

He still heard Alex sometimes, a simple question of his name, and each time it broke his heart anew and now, knowing how long it had been for her, it hurt even more. He was desperate to go to her in a dream or to visit just briefly, to rest his eyes upon her face, to hold her in the empty space of his arms and talk to her, hear her voice and just be with her, to quench an undying thirst only she could sate. But he was the biggest target in Heaven, the most wanted angel, and the eyes of the enemy were always on him. Going to Alex would be selfish on his part, it would only endanger her. He had to defeat Raphael first. There was just no other way.

Terrified of how precious Alex was to him and how easy it would be for the enemy to use those feelings against him, Castiel had instructed his devotees, the ones on his side, never to mention Alex. He thought perhaps if he could convince Raphael that she didn't matter to him that he could keep her safer from harm. He only spoke of Alex to Rachel, his Lieutenant, the one who believed in him the most.

He had sent Rachel to Alex what must have been a few earth-days ago and Castiel drew in a deeply pensive breath. He stood in a heaven he had never been to, one that had been damaged in the war: it was a big grassy field with a single tree from which a swing hung. This place had once been serene and beautiful, but the grass was blown sideways, dead angel wing marks were burned onto the ground, the sky was ripped up like paper. Sometimes Cas doubted what he was doing and wondered if the fight he had started was worth the outcome he desired.

Then he thought of what he was fighting for. Who he was fighting for. She stayed with him there in his deepest thoughts and most meaningful memories and for now, that was all he had to hold on to. In his pocket, he curled his hand around the small silver object she'd given to him. A great amount of sadness and longing alike overcame him. He shut his eyes for a moment.

He imagined her wondering where he was, he imagined her alone and searching the sky and breathing out his name in the form of a question. He could barely fathom this tension, this divide, this loneliness that being without her produced—he wanted the war to be over, he wanted to be past this now.

Missing her was like every goodbye they had ever said… but said all at once.

"Castiel."

His eyes snapped open at the sound of a familiar voice beside him a few feet off. He turned and saw Rachel. Immediately anxiety came over Castiel. "You've returned," he said, going to her immediately and searching her face for any indication of the news she brought—he found himself incapable of waiting, he needed to know now. "What did you find? How is she?"

Rachel smiled, putting a steadying hand onto Castiel's arm. "She's well," Rachel said soothingly. "She and her brother are fine. I gave her your message and she was glad to receive it." Utter relief flooded Cas, he felt tension viscerally leave his body, he breathed out as if he had been holding his breath.

Squeezing his arm reassuringly, Rachel held his gaze and, unbeknownst to Cas, continued to lie straight to his face. "She told me she would wait as long as she had to, Castiel."

"What did—" Castiel started. But suddenly three angels appeared in front of them, blades at their sides. And Rachel was glad, because she didn't want to lie anymore; hadn't thought that he would want to know any more than he had asked already. Castiel and his Lieutenant turned their attention to the battle at hand, and Rachel hoped he wouldn't ask again. He would, of course, and Rachel would remain vague, telling him what he wanted to hear… feeling guilty for lying but justified in the end.

Rachel had gone to earth, found the girl Castiel was so attached to, intending to deliver the message… but then Rachel had seen the girl and hadn't liked what she had seen. Perhaps it was sinful of her to lie and deceive, but Rachel was driven by a strong need to protect her brother in arms from both distraction and mistake. And Alex Winchester was both.

Free will was what they were fighting for, so Rachel had decided to exercise it. She hadn't gone there intending to disregard Castiel's request, but then she'd seen this human girl in the flesh and she'd been mystified and confused. Castiel said this human was many things—good, kind, beautiful, lovely—but what Rachel had seen was killing and filth and lowness. Things that would tarnish Castiel. So Rachel had remained invisible and decided not to deliver her brother's message.

Alex Winchester was not fine. She was not with her brother. But Castiel didn't need to know either of those things. He needed to focus on winning the war.

---

Even Later

Crowley yanked Garlington to his feet. "Didya really think," he growled, "for even a second, you could pull one over on me?!" He sent the scrawny demon flying into the stone wall.

Garlington panted and collapsed down on all fours. He was covered in blood. "We just knew the girl was important to you, not why or—ahhh!—anything! I was just doing what Meg said, please, please, I'm no one, just a peon, please!"

Crowley grabbed him up by the collar and held him against the wall with cool anger. "So you and your little gang of misfits thought you'd swoop in, kidnap the girl I've a vested interest in, then use her as leverage over me?" Crowley almost smiled. "Serves you right what happened, doesn't it." He let go of the demon roughly.

Slack and trembling against the wall, Garlington had the look of a demon who had looked the devil himself in the eye. "She—it wasn't even possible what she did!" he protested, voice tight with panic. "There were five of us, she killed the others and almost me too!"

"Boo-fucking-hoo." Crowley made a face, rolled his eyes. "Amateurs."

"No, you don't understand!" Garlington protested in rising terror, "It was like she was on something or like—"

Crowley backhanded the squeaky-voiced demon across the face. "Do shut up," he commanded tremulously, "you sound so stupid when you exist." He calmed himself, narrowed his eyes, then raised his chin slightly. "Now. Tell your little boss Meg I'm coming for her. Sooner or later, that dirty little double-crossing whore is mine." Crowley reconsidered, smiled now. "Actually, sorry. Looks like you won't be able to tell her after all."

Garlington's face registered questioning confusion even as without any further adieu, Crowley stabbed one of his favorite acquisitions—a demon blade from Japan—into Garlington's chest cavity. The demon screamed and Crowley wiggled his eyebrows, satisfied, but still pissed off as Garlington fell over dead. "Cheers." Crowley looked at his hands. Covered in blood, as usual. "Riveting stuff," he commented flatly, filled with both boredom and annoyance. He turned to his companion. Lola had her arms folded and was leaned into the door frame. One dark eyebrow arched up, there was a little smirk on her cute face.

"Love watching you work," she said, pushing away from the doorway and sauntering over, looking at the dead demon's body on the floor. She put her hands on her hips. "So, this chick has killed how many of our kind now?" She shot Crowley a look. "She's starting to make us look bad. Maybe you should pick less moronic grunts for the job, ones that won't keep getting caught."

The comment seemed to set the King of Hell off. "Maybe you should keep your bloody trap shut!"

Lola being Lola just made a face at the outburst and blew a bubble in her gum, appeared unimpressed. Are you done yet? her expression seemed to ask. The little pink bubble popped.

Crowley sighed, regulated. "Sorry darling. Misdirected anger, you know how I am." He walked over and gave her chin an affectionate little tap. "You're looking very mid-to-late nineties Gwen Stefani today, by the way. Really need to let me take you shopping—it's like your closet just regurgitated itself onto you." Lola seemed pleased at his words.

Crowley walked off a few paces, wiping his bloody hands on a rag he picked up from off the table. "Any-hoo. The help I've got watching her? They're not morons. She's just good at what she does. So good in fact that I'm having issues getting replacements lined up. Apparently the grunts are getting a little gun-shy over the littlest Winchester." Crowley soured slightly. "She's about to piss me off, truth be told."

Lola fixed her boss with a quizzical look. "Why are you wasting the manpower on her, anyway?" She came a little closer and lowered her voice conspiratorially. "The angel would never know if you didn't make good on your end of the bargain..."

Crowley shot her a chastening look. "Deal's a deal. I'm a man—ah, demon—of my word." He thought about it. "Most of the time." He chuckled darkly. "Seems like she doesn't need the help though, doesn't it? She's got it well and bloody handled, she's friggin' clearing my stock room of goons." Crowley pointed at the dead demon who'd been going on and on about Alex. "What this one said?" He paused meaningfully. "Let's not have that get out, understood? I know you and your water cooler talk. Last thing I need's the employees being even more spooked about Alex E. Winchester, A.K.A. pain in my ass."

Lola agreed not to say anything. But it was too late. The demons had already begun, months ago, to fear the human girl who carried the angel's blade and killed their kind brutally. It wasn't her size, stature, or even her ability that forbade. It was the dark storm that raged inside of her and boiled out. It was the things she'd done to the black-eyed monsters she'd caught watching her. It was the rumor that she drank their blood and made them watch while she did it.

---

Two Months Later

Another night where he laid wide awake, not able to stop thinking. Dean tried not to sigh loudly in frustration because why couldn't he sleep, dammit—Lisa was asleep peacefully next to him and he didn't want to wake her. Christmas had come and gone last month with no word from Alex. A short little call from Bobby… and that was it. Lisa was really into the whole Christmas cheer shit and honestly, it had made Dean feel a little better when they finally took down all the damn decorations and reminders of the holiday he wasn't sharing with his family.

Eight months since everything had happened. Eight. Fucking. Months. Dean's thoughts were simplistic and disjointed in his tired state, he was only half lucid. It would be time to wake up and go to work soon and he'd slept about two hours the past five nights in a row. Awesome.

The clock ticked in the loud silence, and beside him, Lisa gave a soft sigh in her sleep. Dean looked at her and smiled a little, if sadly. Most of his smiles were that way, touched by the sorrow that lingered deep inside.

There was a sudden loud pounding on the front door of the house and Dean started, jumped, reacting instinctively and reaching for his gun (underneath the pillow—Lisa hated it, but he insisted). He was wide awake, heart pounding a hundred miles an hour.

Beside him, Lisa was stirring, confused and still half-asleep. "Dean—what time is it?" she mumbled, voice rough. He was already getting up, his gun in-hand.

"Three in the morning," he whispered back tensely, and she heard his voice, realizing something was wrong. Waking up more, she saw the gun and got freaked out then sat up straight, petrified. He was at the window, pushing the blinds down slightly and trying to see the front door, but he couldn't quite see it from that angle.

"Stay here," Dean whispered, holding a hand up, gesturing for her to not move. "Stay right here. I'll find out." She nodded, clutching blankets to herself.

Dean stole down the hall quietly past Ben's bedroom—peeked his head in and saw that he was still fast asleep. The kid could sleep through a damn tornado. Dean moved through the house on high alert, watching every shadow, his heart pounding with an adrenaline he hadn't felt in awhile now. His hunting instincts came back like he hadn't ever stopped using them. He got to the front door—it was solid wood, no way to see who was on the other side. He put his back to the wall just beside the doorknob and held his gun tight and ready near his face, focusing on steadying his breathing. Step one, find out where this person was standing.

"Who's there?" he demanded loud enough that whoever was on the other side of the door could hear him.

"The President of the United States," came a voice that belonged to a female and was distinctly teasing. The hell? Dean made a face at the door—he didn't recognize the voice. "Relax. I'm not armed. Just open the door."

Dean hesitated, not sure if that were a good idea or not. But throwing caution to the wind, he unlocked the door and cracked it open slightly, gun already trained on the place he knew she was standing. Opposite of him stood a caucasian woman around his age with long blonde hair and strong, pretty features. She wore a dark rust red leather jacket and had her arms crossed. She immediately struck him as intelligent and sharp.

"Morning," she commented, scanning him up and down and lingering in amusement below the belt before looking him the eye. That's when he remembered that all he was wearing was candy-cane patterned boxers (a gift from Lisa) and a t-shirt with socks pulled up almost to his knees. Also, he was pretty sure his hair was sticking straight up.

Disgruntled immediately, Dean resisted the urge to be modest. He looked her up and down, too, then saw that there was a pistol tucked into the front waistband of her jeans. Balking slightly and narrowing his eyes, he frowned. "You said you weren't armed."

She held his gaze steadily, a soft little smile on her face. "I did say that, didn't I."

Dean looked at her with narrowed eyes. "Enough bullshit, who are you?" he asked gruffly, still keeping the gun on her from behind the door where she couldn't see.

She folded her arms and shifted her weight, that smile still lingering. "What, Dean, you don't remember me? My feelings are hurt."

Remember her? He'd never seen this chick a day in his life. She saw how he was drawing a blank and lowered her chin, gave him an expectant look. "Think, Winchester. Fifteen years ago? Arizona?" Dean blinked, clueless, trying to remember what the hell she would be talking about. She sighed and looked up and off, like giving him clues was pulling teeth to her. "You thought you were the shit, I had braces…" she trailed off, giving him a chance to remember.

He wracked his brain. "I'm sorry, who—" he squinted, trying to place her. He'd remember her face, it was really striking. And then he almost did a double-take. Wait. Braces? No way, this couldn't be who he thought it was. "...James?" he asked incredulously. His gun lowered a little.

Her expression changed just slightly when he called her James—she looked slightly annoyed, and that's when he knew it was her. "Ah." She commented flatly. "You do remember me. So you also remember—it's Jamie." She looked at him pointedly. Yeah, she had told him a million times, but he'd never called her anything but James. Well wait, that wasn't true. She'd also told him not to call her Braceface. He hadn't listened to that one either. Her eyes locked on his and she studied him carefully, then gestured with a nod toward his hand that was behind the door holding the gun. "Do you mind not aiming that thing at me?"

How did she…? It didn't matter. "Yeah, uh. Sorry." He lowered the gun, looking at her in veiled amazement. This could not be the same Jamie Ward he'd met back in the day. He had been, what, sixteen at the time? They'd been in Arizona hunting Skinwalkers with Dad. Jamie and her uncle and brother had been on the same job and they'd ended up joining forces. At the time Jamie had been an ungracefully tall, scrawny, knock-kneed fifteen-year-old with braces that took over her whole face and a lisp from how big they were in her mouth. She'd had horrible acne and was a subpar hunter, a pious snobby rich kid, a fraidy-cat and a party pooper and Dean had pretty rudely and smugly let her know he thought as much of her. He remembered telling her she looked like a giraffe and a slinky on separate occasions, he remembered how she kept "accidentally" letting tree branches smack him when they walked through the woods when she'd had the lead for all of two minutes.

What he couldn't get over was how different she looked today—she'd filled out, grown into herself, she had straight even teeth and had actually developed some level of style, she didn't look gangly or nerdy like she used to. He was taken aback and didn't mind letting her know. "Damn, uh... you look… different."

She smiled genuinely, but then it became teasing. "So do you…" her eyes dropped to below his waistline to the stupid boxers languidly and she pulled a highly amused, questioning expression when she looked him in the eye again. So it was back to teasing each other mercilessly like they had years ago.

Great. Dean was not amused at all. "They were a present," he muttered. This was all beside the point. He was tired and this little class reunion was nice but he needed to know why she was there. "Okay great well—nice to see you I guess, now wanna tell what the hell you're doing at my house at three in the morning, James?" He saw how that name got under her skin. Score one for me. He felt himself regaining a little dignity and he even cracked a slightly cheeky smile. "If you need my help on a job or something, sorry. I'm retired."

Whatever bantery mood she'd been in before fell away and she became pretty serious. "Yeah I know but—" She lowered her voice. "It's Alex." Two words that floored Dean immediately.

"W-what?" he asked, almost speechless. He opened the door some more, looking at Jamie intensely, his voice rising in anxiety. "Have you seen her? Do you know where she is?"

The look on Jamie's face was worrying him. "Yeah, we've been hunting together on and off together for a few months and…" she hesitated, her eyes faltering under the demanding intensity of Dean's silence. "I dunno what's happened to her but it's something bad."

Dean's heart was beating fast. He felt almost ill. "What do you mean?"

"She's missing," Jamie said. "As of a few hours ago. Straight up—" she threw her hands wide in a shrug, "—vanished right out of our motel room."

Dean nodded, thinking fast. "Lemme get dressed," he said. "Gimme five minutes."

Jamie's eyebrows rose faintly. "Just like that?" she asked, a little surprised that he was just ready to go with her at the drop of a dime without any more information or convincing. Maybe she thought she was going to have to try harder.

"Yes, just like that, now sit tight." Dean shut the door and hurried back to the bedroom, shaking almost, a man on a mission as he thought of his sister, in trouble somewhere and needing him. Missing? Vanished? Oh Jesus, Alex. What are you into? Dean's chest hurt, he was so worried he thought he might have a stroke. He knew he should have gone out and find her months ago, he knew it.

When he got to the bedroom and turned on the light without warning, Lisa protested with a groan and put a hand over her eyes, squinting against the brightness. "Who is it?" She asked, voice filled with nervous fear. "Is everything okay?" He was yanking a dresser drawer open. Jeans, he needed some damn jeans. "Dean?"

He found a pair and started yanking them on. "Old hunting acquaintance," he muttered, completely focused on the task of dressing himself.

Lisa swung her legs over the bed, watching as he pulled the first shirt he saw on. "W-what are you doing?" He heard the quiet fear filling her voice.

"I gotta go," he said, checking his gun and tucking it into the waistband of his jeans then crossing the room at a brisk stride. "Something's happened to Alex and I gotta go." He pulled the duffel bag full of old hunting stuff out and crouched over it, pawing through it all quickly to double check himself. Lisa was standing now.

"Just like that? You're just taking off in the middle of the night?" She asked in disbelief and Dean stood.

"Yes," he answered immediately, almost aggressively. "This is my sister and she's in trouble."

Lisa looked at him with a hugely uncertain, worried frown. "...You sure about this?" She asked, and he heard what she was asking. Did he even know if it were true?

Dean shrugged, tossing the duffel onto the bed as he went back to the closet and yanked one of his jackets off the hangar. "No, but… I'll be fine."

Lisa had walked to the window and was looking down into the yard where Jamie was waiting halfway down the sidewalk and tapping a boot, illuminated dimly by the street lamp. Dean shoved his feet into his hunting boots and didn't even bother to lace them. "That's your old hunting buddy?" Lisa asked. "She's pretty."

Dean shouldered the duffel bag, not missing Lisa's tone. A little exasperated—this was no time for that crap—he went to her. "Relax, Lees. Just get some rest. I'll be back when I can." He kissed her forehead quickly, squeezed one of her shoulders, and headed for the door.

"Dean—" Lisa protested.

He looked back at her. "Tell Ben not to worry. I'll call when I know something."

She sighed unhappily but let him go.

Dean almost jogged out of the house and out to where Jamie waited.

"Hot damn, that was fast," she commented, eyes flickering up to the top of his head. "Hair still needs work though."

"Yeah sure whatever, let's go," Dean said, nodding toward the dark greenish blue Tahoe SUV parked at the curb. He distractedly trying to pat his hair down into his every day hairstyle. "That you?"

"Yup," Jamie confirmed, already on her way over to it. Dean shoved his bag into the backseat and swung into the passenger side even as she hopped into the driver's seat and started the engine. It rumbled to life loudly.

"How far's the motel she disappeared from?" Dean asked, shutting his door.

Jamie shrugged, looking over her shoulder as she shifted into reverse and backed up. "Little less than an hour."

Dean looked at her in bewilderment. His sister had been that close to him when it happened? "Only an hour?" he asked, his voice conveying his extreme surprise.

Jamie glanced at him sidelong. She looked like she were trying to decide if she should tell him something. "Alex has this... thing."

Dean frowned. "What thing?"

"This thing where she won't go real far from here." She glanced at him again meaningfully, understanding the significance. "Where you are."

Disbelief and wonder came over him. Dean's heart felt like it burst and he tried to school his expression to neutrality, but he couldn't hide the emotion that flickered over his face. James saw it, too. Dean cleared his throat. He needed to find out as much about his sister as he could—where she'd been, what she'd been doing. Hearing that she'd been hunting sort of broke his heart. Mostly because maybe he'd hoped she could find normal life, too, like he had, somehow. But maybe not. He cleared his throat gruffly. "So how long you guys hunted together?"

"Mm," Jamie thought for a second, fiddling with something on her dashboard, "Four months or so I guess."

"What'd she do before that?"

Jamie shrugged and shook her head, glancing into the outside rear view mirror. "All I know is when I found her she was waiting tables at some mediocre restaurant and said she wasn't hunting anymore but… well, she got roped back into it thanks to me." Jamie's tone was hard to read, it was purposefully light and humorous, but Dean thought he heard something else there. He couldn't figure out what though.

"So it's you, Gary, and Glen?" He asked. "And Alex just… hitched a ride on the hunting express?"

Jamie's expression became a little withdrawn at the mention of her uncle and brother. "It's me and Glen. Uh." She seemed to reconsider. "Sometimes it's me and Glen. He's pretty hit and miss, always off doing his own thing but, well..." she appeared to have a lot of emotion surrounding what she said next, even if she did disguise it pretty well. "Gary died a few years after we met you guys."

No doubt thanks to the hunting life. Dean quieted a little. "Sorry to hear that."

She sent him a brief appreciative look. "And I'm sorry about Sam. Alex doesn't talk much but... she did tell me that."

Dean felt his brow furrowing. Alex doesn't talk much. "What kind of job were you guys on when this happened?" He asked, hoping to maybe start putting the puzzle together before they even got there.

"Your run-of-the-mill pissed off ghost thing. Nothing fancy. Finished it up yesterday."

"And then Alex disappeared from the motel room?"

Jamie looked as uncertain and mystified as Dean felt. "Yeah. Place looks like a tornado hit it," she was scowling ahead at the road, holding the wheel steady with one hand. "I wasn't there when it happened. Glen was."

Dean looked at her sharply. "Your brother and my sister… were alone in a motel room together?" He clarified, not sure if he liked the sound of this.

Jamie gave him a funny look at the tone in his voice. "What, you want me to call the police?" She took in his disapproving scowl and seemed to find it funny. "They're adults and they can do what they want." She smiled like she knew she was about to get on his nerves. "Including each other, if they want."

Annoyed but trying not to show it—that's what she was after, dammit—Dean crossed his arms and sank down slightly into his seat. "Now you're just being a troll," he muttered. He was trying to remember what Glen was like. All he remembered was a snotty, sneaky blond tweenager who had stolen his wallet, taken all the money out, then replaced the empty wallet back into his pocket somehow—he knew that was Glen who did that—he'd known it then, he knew it now. But he'd never been able to prove it.

Jamie reached over and turned the music up—it had been on volume zero. A horrible noise like machine guns and something that was supposed to sound like a guitar faded up in volume and Dean literally flinched away at the racket. "What the hell is that?" he asked, feeling offended and sort of disturbed. On the speakers, a guy was screaming what he assumed were words, but it sounded like a fucking nightmare.

"Music," Jamie replied, already copping an amused attitude at his revulsion.

Dean shook his head emphatically. "No—this is not music," he said, frowning and listening for a few more seconds. "How the hell can you listen to this shit?"

She chuckled, thoroughly enjoying his disgusted, confused expression as the thrash metal blared. With a very impish glance at him that would have been cute if she wasn't insufferable just like she'd been fifteen years ago... she turned it up even louder.

---

Thank you God—they finally reached the motel and Jamie turned down the torture—the quote unquote music. They pulled into a place called the Cherry Tree Inn, a pretty predictable slum motel. Jamie parked her SUV in between two cars—a beige late 90's Chevrolet Blazer that was jacked up with tires too big for itself and a beautiful black two door 60's Ford Mustang. Dean immediately knew which one belonged to his sister. The Mustang looked sort of like a smaller version of the Impala and his chest hurt again, viscerally.

Jamie was already getting out and Dean followed her, grabbing his bag of stuff, steeling himself for what he was about to find. He looked at Alex's car as Jamie unlocked the door. She pushed it open and Dean went with her inside.

"Glen?" She asked, sounding confused. She switched the lights on. The room was clearly empty. "Fuck," she muttered.

"What, he's gone now too?" Dean asked.

Jamie threw her hands up, it looked like she wasn't sure if she should be worried or pissed. The room was a disaster. The wallpaper was torn off the walls, the lamps were sideways, the TV was busted, the windows too. It really did look like a tornado had blown through. Honestly, it reminded Dean of when Cas had first tried to contact him before his vessel. No. No, this couldn't have been Cas.

Dean walked the room slowly, taking it in, searching for any signs that would point to who or what could have done this. He recognized his sister's duffel bag in the corner and saw one of her jackets hung over the back of a chair. His heart felt painful in his chest. Focus, Dean. "You guys made any enemies lately?" He asked, then realized that was a stupid question and reworded himself. "I mean the kind who could do something like this."

Jamie had her phone out and was tapping the screen in concentration. "Take your pick," she admitted. "There was this family of Kitsunes last month actually I… well, let's just say if Uncle Bob found what Alex left… he'd be wanting some payback." She gave him a significant look then put the phone to her ear.

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, kneeling down at the foot of one of the beds, looking for any traces of sulfur or foreign substances. He saw nothing.

"Dammit, Glen, answer—" she muttered, then turned her attention back to Dean. "Your little sister's a bit twisted, let's just leave it at that." She got no answer on her phone and snapped it shut in agitation.

"Maybe he just went out to get something," Dean offered. He was distracted. Alex was twisted? That didn't fit.

"Yeah, maybe," Jamie responded gruffly. "And there were also these demons that jumped Alex a couple months ago, she… well, it was pretty crazy what she did to them. One of them got away… he might not like her so much right now either." Jamie shook her head, eyes scanning the room. She looked really worried and stressed, but she stayed focused. "Honestly, Dean… it's kind of like she's the one who's out for revenge. I just don't know against who."

Dean looked at Jamie, not sure if he believed her. He knew his sister was capable as hell, but… something just didn't seem right about what he was hearing.

The door to the room suddenly opened and in strolled a very tall blond guy. He carried a six-pack of beers and had a distinctly laid-back air of confidence. "Yo," he greeted, and it was like with that single word, he had offended Jamie in every way possible.

"'Yo'?" She repeated. "'Yo'?" She crossed her arms angrily. "Where the hell did you go? I told you to sta—"

"Relax, relax," Glen cut her off, waving her away indifferently. "I needed a six pack, don't worry about it. I was gone five minutes." He pulled the fallen-over motel table back up and set the beers down on it as he spoke, then turned and acknowledged Dean, approaching him and holding out his hand. "Dean. It's been awhile."

They shook hands—and it was a good, firm handshake. "Glen." You still owe me thirty bucks, man. The guy was tall, probably Sam's height—he wore jeans, a graphic t-shirt and a flannel over it, a hooded jacket over that. He had tousled blond hair and a light, short beard plus strong features like his sister. He was built as hell with broad shoulders. He'd changed too, just like Jamie had. They were practically unrecognizable.

Glen let go of Dean's hand. "I'd ask how you're doing but… you know," he said, then motioned to the drinks he'd just brought in. "Beer?"

Dean shook his head. "Yeah, no, I'm good. So, you were with Alex when… this happened?" He gestured at the wrecked room.

"Yup." Glen cracked open a beer. "We were asleep, I hear this, I dunno, wind and a high pitched kind of screeching noise." He took a drink. "I woke up and she was gone right out of the bed."

Dean raised his chin just a fraction of an inch, looking at Glen carefully. "Which bed?"

Glen wiped the side of his mouth on the back of his hand then indicated the bed on the right. "That one."

Eyeing Glen with a suspicious glance, Dean went to the bed his sister had disappeared from and began to poke around in search for anything out of the ordinary.

"I wouldn't bother, I already checked it all," Glen told him, sitting down on the other bed and leaning over his knees with beer still in hand.

Dean squinted, seeing something small and black behind the bedside table. He pulled the table out more, grabbing the small, light object. A tiny black feather. He turned and looked at Glen balefully, holding up the small feather. "Then what the hell is this?"

Jamie looked at the feather and then her brother in rising aggravation. "You said you checked that side," she accused.

Glen obviously felt attacked and raised his hands defensively. "I did!"

Apparently this was an issue for them. "Oh like last month when you said you checked a perimeter and you were texting some bimbo instead?"

"I did check it!" Glen retorted.

"You can't just look at something for one second and call that checking!" Jamie said angrily. "You blew my cover and almost got me killed!"

"One time thing, won't happen again," Glen muttered, almost rolling his eyes. He seemed more inconvenienced than anything else.

"It just did." Jamie looked like she was beyond fed up.

"Can you two stow the family feud for two seconds?" Dean demanded, standing up, feather in hand. Jamie looked at Glen, pointing a warning finger at her sullen brother as if to say we'll talk about this later. She then proceeded to ignore him and went to Dean, who was staring at the feather. "What is that thing?"

He stared at it, looked at the room and didn't have a doubt in his mind anymore. "Angels," he said grimly, then reconsidered. "Or… angel. And I think I know which one."

Jamie and Glen exchanged a look as Dean looked up at the ceiling. "Cas! Castiel! I need you to wing it down here pronto." Nothing happened. "That means now!" He bellowed. Again, nothing.

"What's... a Castiel?" Jamie asked, and Dean looked at her dubiously. Alex had been with these two for months and they didn't know who Cas was? No… something obviously was wrong. Getting more and more worried, Dean returned his attention to the ceiling, probably looking insane. But he didn't care.

"Cas! I don't know what you're playing at, but if you hurt her or if one of your buddies took her—dammit, just get down here now!" Again, nothing, and Dean turned around, looking behind himself then around, flabbergasted. "Where the hell is he?" He asked, mostly to himself, then tried again, stubborn until the end. "Alex is gone, Cas, do you hear me?!"

"What do you mean, gone?"

Dean whirled, Glen stood up in surprise, Jamie's mouth went open slightly as she visibly kept herself from gasping. Castiel stood there, frowning deeply, looking at Dean, who was surprised to see him there for two seconds, then recovering. "Nice to see you too," he wisecracked, then indicated the room. "You know anything about this?"

Cas looked different than Dean remembered. Like he felt heavier, like his shoulders were carrying more than they used to. He seemed impatient and stressed. "About what, what are you talking about? Who are these people? And what do you mean Alex is gone?"

Dean was mad. Cas was supposed to be her guardian angel and he didn't know? What the actual hell was going on? "She disappeared in the middle of the night, sight unseen, I found this." He held out the little feather angrily. "Now which one of your buddies does this belong to?"

Cas looked at the feather and his expression changed—went from fuck off to oh god in less than a second. And Dean suddenly realized this might be worse than he thought.

"Give it to me," Castiel demanded, and snatched it without anything further, leaving Dean to blink and watch as Cas went to the table where Glen had set the beers. With a sweep of his arm, Cas sent the beers crashing down, he had drawn a stick of chalk out of his pocket and was drawing furiously.

"He—y…" Glen protested halfheartedly at the mostly broken beer bottles.

Jamie watched dubiously, no idea what was happening as Cas continued to draw as if his life depended on it. Dean approached slowly, full with dread, not sure what Cas was doing. The angel seemed to finish drawing and set the feather down into the middle of the the symbol he'd drawn, held his hand out over it, shut his eyes and with deep concentration uttered some sort of Enochian incantation. "Zod ma rah kah mah vah rah." The feather burst into flame and disappeared. Cas opened his eyes, a shocked look on his face.

"What is it Cas, who took her, why?" Dean demanded, needing answers, needing them now.

Cas stared ahead of himself blankly, fear gathering on his features, panic. "Nandriel. No, no…"

And Cas disappeared without explanation.