Song Remains the Same

Chapter 92 / Do I Know You?

"We're in a foreign eyes. Yet we have known each other all along."
- Jonsi

Three Minutes Ago

Emmanuel sat on the picnic table with his feet on the bench. He wasn't entirely sure why he was inclined to sit that way, but he always had been. Daphne told him to stop it every time she saw him sit that way—it wasn't proper, she said.

He held the penny on the chain in the palm of his hand and he was examining it for the thousandth time, searching the small copper circle for answers. He did this every day, quite honestly. Two fingertips brushed over the cool metal surface almost mournfully. What are you? What do you mean? The inanimate object glinted back up at him as he contemplated it, and he was yet again given no answers, no memories, no clue of who he had been before that lake. A certain sense of restlessness had remained deep inside of him for a long time, maybe what seemed like forever, but today he felt wrong and anxious on a new level. Nothing seemed right at all and he kept looking over his shoulder expecting to find someone there—yet every time he looked, there was nothing and no one there at all.

He only wanted to know who he was. But that desire was coming to nothing. Was he relegated to accepting this life as his own? Accepting Daphne as his wife like she insisted she was? It had been nearly half a year he'd spent without memories or knowledge of who he was… perhaps this life really was his now. Even if he didn't truly want it. Perhaps his desires meant nothing and his reluctance to accept it all was inward selfishness and weakness of character.

A car passed by behind him and Emmanuel idly thought he should return home now—he had stalled long enough. It was Daphne's day off of work—she would want to spend time together. He had declined her earlier offers to drive him across town to where someone had needed healing. Emmanuel preferred walking, and deep down where he wouldn't admit it, he also preferred not being with Daphne. He tried to create as much time gone from home or busy as possible. He felt ashamed of himself for still feeling the way he did about her: disinterested, uncomfortable, hesitant. But he couldn't seem to help it, and he avoided her as much as possible. He was always looking for an excuse to busy himself with other things—healing the sick, gardening, building birdhouses, repairing things for the neighbors or around the house, spending time by himself in nature. It was a simple fact: no matter how hard he tried to be grateful to Daphne, he couldn't make himself love her (which was what he knew she wanted). She had tried a few more times to convince him to engage in sexual relations with her, but each time he had reacted even more negatively than before. It didn't feel right. He didn't think it ever would. He wanted her to stop pressuring him in that area.

With a deep inhale, Emmanuel decided he could not justify staying gone any longer and he got off the table and made his way back home. It was less than a block—he cut through a side street and a back yard and then wandered up the sidewalk toward Daphne's house. His pace slowed and stuttered briefly when he saw a classic old black car—a Chevrolet Impala—parked in front of the house. For reasons unknown, that car made his stomach jolt. He wondered if perhaps, before the memory loss, he had driven one of those…?

He continued up the sidewalk slowly, a feeling of utter apprehensiveness growing in the pit of his stomach as he neared the inexplicably familiar car. There was a feeling in him, an instinct that said something was amiss. And then he heard a crash, some gruffly spoken words, a woman crying out as if she were being harmed, a masculine shout of pain—and he hurried to get closer. Just as he rounded the tall shrub that blocked his view of the front porch, a body crashed and rolled down the front steps, landing right at Emmanuel's feet. Shocked and momentarily breathless, Emmanuel stared down at the man who laid at his feet and choked out a final last breath—his face was obscene and perverse and not human at all—it was like something out of hell. But then the face faded away and in its place was a normal looking man's face. He was dead and staring unseeingly.

Emmanuel slowly looked up. At the top of the steps a thirty-something man stood with a bloody knife held at his side. This man looked brutal and strong and incredibly capable, but this man's fierce expression faded as he stared at Emmanuel with growing confusion and surprise. Normally, had he seen a stranger with a weapon, Emmanuel would have immediately assumed that the armed person was an enemy. For reasons he could not name, he didn't feel this man was an enemy.

"What was that?" Emmanuel asked, looking down again at the dead body that had borne the face of a monster. Had he been seeing things? The man at the top of the stairs seemed to be utterly speechless and Emmanuel began to fear for Daphne's safety. "Who are you?" he asked, his frown deepening and his anxiety tripling—his heart was beginning to pound quicker. What was this? What had happened here?

The man in question said nothing except a very uncertain, "Uh…"

Unable to stay frozen any longer, Emmanuel climbed the steps quickly and the man backed up a little—it almost looked like this man with the knife who had just brutally murdered that creature was afraid of him—the meek healer who had never harmed anyone in his life.

Emmanuel reached the top of the steps.

And that was when he saw her.

Behind the man with the knife, a young woman was sprawled on the ground against the side railing of the porch. She was holding her head with an expression of pain and grunting out a sound of exertion as she held herself up on an elbow. She saw him at the exact same moment that he saw her. And life seemed to change forever.

Emmanuel was stunned into a stillness he didn't understand when their gazes locked. She reacted in tandem with him—her expression of pain immediately fell and was replaced by some kind of shell-shocked disbelief. Emmanuel was momentarily captivated past knowing how to move or speak—all he could do was drink in the sight of her. She was incredibly beautiful, almost painfully so—he didn't think there could be anyone more beautiful in the entire world and looking upon her made him feel staggered and thunderstruck. Who was she? Her features were intriguing, youthful and innocent but wizened and jaded all at once, she had the sweetest smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the planes of her cheeks—her long, wavy hair was the exact color that always turned his head on the streets: rich, dark brown like fertile ground tilled in the springtime. But most of all, her eyes. Her eyes. He had never seen eyes like hers. Vivid hazel depths that made him think of a quiet, verdant forest dappled by sunlight stared back at him—and Emmanuel couldn't look away from her, he couldn't escape the sudden spell he was under. All he knew was that he was absolutely confounded by this stranger; he was of the immediate conviction that she was someone incredibly important. And heavens, she was so very beautiful…

Her head tilted to the side just slightly as she stared at him in aghast confusion. When she tilted her head, his eyes caught the sight of bright red blood smeared on the railing behind her and he realized she hadn't just fallen in the chaos—she'd been attacked and had sustained a head injury. Deep concern like he had never experienced before seized him and made his expression twist as his heart did, too. "You're hurt…" he said, and without thinking, he moved forward and reached down to touch her and heal her.

The second he moved toward her, the expression on her face changed—she suddenly seemed angry and wild and scared like a caged animal. Even as she yanked herself back from his approach and out from the possibility of him touching her, one of her hands raced into the back waistband of her jeans and out darted a colorful plastic water gun—he barely registered what it was before several spurting shots of lukewarm water hit him square in the face. Sputtering and staggering back a few steps at the ridiculous and unforeseen action, Emmanuel looked at her in confusion as droplets ran down his face—he tasted soap and his eyes stung a little from the strong mixture of cleaner and water. "Wh—?" he managed, completely blindsided. Did she think he was going to hurt her? And how would soapy water be an effective defense, anyway?

The young woman appeared shocked that whatever she'd been trying to accomplish had failed. At the awkward ensuing silence, the man with her attempted to explain, speaking up for the first time. "S-sorry, man," he said falteringly in an unsure voice, motioning for Emmanuel to stay back and give the girl space. He wet his lips nervously. "She's… uh, she's… a, a germaphobe." He grinned nervously, like he was offering an olive branch and dreading the possibility of it being rejected.

Emmanuel wiped the grimy, sour taste of soap away from his mouth with the edge of his sleeve. He felt inexplicably slighted that she had attacked him, like he'd been slapped in the face. He didn't understand the logic behind the action, either. "I fail to see how this would… remove germs at all," he said in confusion, looking at the young woman in question. She looked more confused than before and close to tears even, but the man with her, maybe her boyfriend, was helping her stand up. They seemed to be very familiar with the other and very close. A slight instance of distaste ran through Emmanuel, a dark feeling. He was surprised by it and a little afraid, too. As the stranger righted and helped the beautiful woman stand, Emmanuel remembered the dead man at the bottom of his stairs and looked that way as his stomach tightened. "What was that thing?" he questioned again, growing anxious all over again. "Why was it here at my hou—" he found himself unable to finish his sentence when his gaze happened upon the window into the living room—through a gap in the curtains, he could see Daphne struggling against ropes and a gag. Oh no.

With thoughts of rescuing his caretaker on the brain, Emmanuel dashed into the house and left a very shocked Dean and Alex shaken on the porch. They stared after the man who looked like Cas, and neither could find words for a very long few seconds. "…Who is that, Dean?" Alex finally asked in a trembling whisper. She stared at the man who looked, sounded, and felt like Castiel to her, she could see him through the living room window as he knelt in front of Daphne and began to unknot the ropes around her legs with concentrated effort. Her throat closed up because it couldn't be him. It just couldn't! Her voice was growing high and tight. "Who the hell is that?"

Dean was still helping her stay standing. He sounded similarly shell-shocked. "I… I dunno," he replied in an almost-whisper. Then, never one to lose his sense of humor even in the more dire of circumstances, he cracked a half joke. "Well, not a Leviathan, I mean, you crossed that one off the list…"

Her breathing was growing faster and faster—she barely heard what Dean said. "I thought he was freaking Zip…!" Alex protested in an upset, shaking voice—was that really the craziest conclusion to jump too!? Her mind was scrambling to find an explanation for what she had just seen. "What is he, a shifter? A ghoul? A d-demon?"

Dean was shaking his head slowly, staring at Cas's lookalike along with her and getting more and more distressed by deep thought. "Maybe but… maybe not, I mean the healing stuff, remember? If that's true, you know a monster or a demon who can do that? A-and this wouldn't be the first time Cas was supposed to be dead and wasn't… right?" They looked at each other with stumped expressions and then Dean seemed to remember something. "Hey—you okay? Hit your head pretty hard…"

He tried to examine her, but Alex yanked her head away from his attempt and batted at his hand in short-tempered annoyance. "Cut it out," she muttered. It hurt, her vision was a little messed up, her ears were ringing, but she would live.

Dean suppressed an eye roll when she refused his help. He let out a frustrated breath and stared hard in through the window at Cas's doppelganger. When he spoke, it was in his I have a plan tone. It was furtive, quiet, hurried. "Look, we go in there and try and get him to go with us to fix Sam. We don't trigger him—in case it's really Cas. He might still be full of nuke so… we gotta be careful here not to jog his memory." He looked back at his sister and concern made his intense expression soften. "Can you do this?"

Alex glared at him through her tumultuous sadness and confusion and distress. "Yes I can do this," she snapped. She didn't need to be treated like a glass vase, and she didn't want him to expect her to break into pieces over this… although truthfully she felt cracked already.

He ignored the harsh tone. "Stay here. Gotta hide that body real quick." Dean jogged down the steps, glanced around for witnesses, then dragged the dead human who had been possessed by a demon into the yard and stashed the corpse under a shrub where no one would notice, at least not for awhile. Alex stayed where she was and stared in through the window to the house with a frozen expression on her face. Who was that? The way he moved, the way he carried himself—every feature of his handsome, careworn face was familiar and brought her back to a time she had begun to forget. Was that Castiel? She had felt this pull, deeper than heart, when his eyes had locked on hers. She still felt it, watching him now. She didn't know which would be worse: for him to be alive and here for whatever reason, or for him to be dead and this lookalike to be just another cruel trick played by fate.

If you've been alive all this time, why didn't you find me? I don't understand…

"Come on," Dean's voice said near her, and she was jolted out of her brief reverie. He was heading into the house through the ajar door. Alex drifted in after him, feeling like she was in a nightmare or a dream, and she wasn't sure which.

The home was decorated simply and had various middle-eastern touches around—a Hindu statue, a Buddha, some Japanese scroll thing on a far wall… but Alex barely took any of it in. She was watching the man who looked like Castiel as he untied the woman Alex assumed was Daphne. The Cas lookalike wore gray pants, brown shoes, and a steely blue henley shirt underneath a navy blue zip up sweater. His hair was a little tamer than she remembered Cas's being. But other than that, he was a dead ringer for the angel in the trench coat. He had just finished untying and ungagging Daphne and he was helping her stand. "Did that creature hurt you?" he asked, and there was concern in his voice. Alex immediately felt insulted and angered, especially when Daphne threw aside the ropes he'd loosened and stood, clasping his hands in hers and breathing hard then looking at him like she was worried and adoring of him.

"I'm okay," she said, and her voice was soft, high, feminine. She clung to him, and he didn't resist her touch. They looked like a couple. "But, Emmanuel... that man with the black eyes… he was looking for you. He wanted to take you from me." The worry she felt was pretty obvious from her voice and expression. And then she reached up and touched the side of his face gently and sweetly. Immediately, Alex felt a dark and twisted feeling, the most angry and hatred-filled instance of jealousy surge through her. She wanted to body slam Daphne to the ground and crack her jaw in half. Beside Alex, Dean gaped and then his eyes slid sidelong to his sister warily, like he was fearing what her reaction might be.

Castiel, Emmanuel, whoever the hell he was didn't show his reaction to Daphne's touch—he just held Daphne's gaze somberly. "Well, I'm here now," he told her, then exhaled softly and remembered there were others present. He took Daphne by the wrist and pulled her over with himself to where Dean and Alex stood. "I'm Emmanuel," he introduced, then held out his hand to Dean for a shake.

Dean hesitated, caught off guard by the entire thing and uncomfortable at what was unfolding. Nevertheless, he stuck his hand out and went along with it. "…Dean," he said awkwardly. "I'm... Dean." Emmanuel nodded and his gaze slid to Alex, a silent request for her name to be given. Dean faltered. "And this is my sister uh—um—" he cleared his throat and then gave her middle name instead of her first—she guessed as part of his don't-set-off-the-angel-bomb plan. "Elizabeth." Alex felt like something in her died. How was this even happening? Emmanuel seemed mildly surprised to hear that they were siblings, then a little relieved, almost—he offered his hand to her, too, and Alex shrank back a millimeter or two and looked him mistrustfully. Dean spoke up for her when she said nothing. "She, uh, doesn't like to shake hands."

Emmanuel frowned slightly. "Apologies," he said, his eyes searching Alex's deeply and unrelentingly. "Germaphobe. I… forgot." That husky, deep voice made her weak and confused. Their eyes held for what almost became an awkward amount of time—but to be looked at by that devastatingly, soul-crushing blue gaze again… Alex could have crumbled into pieces and she couldn't find herself able to look away. The only thing she could wonder was why don't you know who I am? If this truly were Castiel, he would know her. Wouldn't he? Emmanuel finally tore his gaze away from her and looked at Dean instead—Daphne had noticed the long gaze between Emmanuel and Alex and was vaguely darker for it. "Dean, Elizabeth," Emmanuel said grimly, "thank you for protecting my wife." When he said that, Daphne's darkness melted away and she smiled girlishly, gazing at Emmanuel with soft, big eyes.

My wife.

He said those words, and they hit Alex and she remembered what she had forgotten. That Emmanuel was apparently married. That Daphne was the wife. And her brain suddenly put the two and two together that Cas was Emmanuel. But… but…

"…Your wife," Dean repeated darkly and slowly—he seemed to have forgotten too. He sounded vaguely pissed off and challenging, like it had better be a joke.

"Yes," Emmanuel replied vaguely, seeming disinterested in the subject.

Alex's eyes made a beeline for his left hand—sure enough, he was wearing a silver wedding band. And Daphne was wearing one too. Alex's throat seized up and she looked at Castiel in utter disbelief. How could he? If this was really him—how could he? How the fuck could he marry someone else and leave Alex to die of agony and grief all by herself all those months?! How COULD he?! Her heart raced and blood pounded deafeningly in her ears as her breathing began to pick up from distress. And then she realized anew what she hadn't before—that they were together, like in all ways possible—that marriage meant more than just two people joining lives—and she wanted to die as she pictured Castiel making love to this woman and smiling tenderly at her and holding her in his arms and whispering that he loved her. Alex's heart felt like it had been crushed into nothing and all she could do was feel betrayed in every single way possible. Unbidden, she pictured Castiel fucking Daphne senseless on that chair over there, the nearby couch, then against that wall behind them… and she wanted to fall to her knees and sob. That or murder someone. But even as she thought that, she was bashing herself internally for her hypocrisy. She'd screwed someone else too… but it had been once, it had been a mistake, and love had been zero part of it. She never would marry anyone else, ever. This was devastating.

"Are… you all right?" Emmanuel asked, peering at Alex intently with a frown, startling her out of her dismayed reverie. When she said nothing and just looked around vaguely, dodging everyone's gazes in an attempt to not start crying, Emmanuel looked at Dean with growing uncertainty. "Is she all right? She… looks like she might be about to be ill."

"Um, she's just had a stomachache all day," Dean lied quickly, but his quick glance at her said he was worried too.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Emmanuel said, and his intense, inescapable gaze was on her again. She felt it and she met it, however difficult. The concern that rested there across his familiar features was genuine and made her feel like this had to be Castiel. He wanted to heal her. Just like he always had. What had happened to him? Why was he here? Did he have some kind of angel amnesia? Had he done a spell on himself to forget everything? Alex's mind spun with crackpot theories.

Emmanuel was still peering at her in concern, the kind of concern that seemed close to driving him to action. "No doubt your head injury has worsened your nausea," he said, worried, appealing eyes boring into hers. "Would you like me to—"

"No," Alex snapped, refusing his offer to heal her before it was even given. She couldn't let him touch her, she refused. The loud way she'd voiced herself had made him blink and appear taken aback. She softened her voice and shook her head, trying not to give everything away with her erratic behavior. "No." As a mumbled afterthought, she added, "Thank you."

Emmanuel was still mystified, but he nodded his acceptance of her refusal. He didn't understand why, obviously. But thankfully, other things were on his mind. His eyes drifted toward the door to his home. "That creature," Emmanuel was staring with a deepening frown. "I… I saw his face. His real face."

"Well yeah. He was a demon," Dean supplied, because he knew angels saw demons true faces.

Emmanuel looked stunned. "A demon walked the earth?" he breathed.

Dean's confusion deepened. "Demons," he corrected. "Whackloads of 'em." He stared at Emmanuel in deepening puzzlement. "You don't know about…?"

Apparently not. Castiel or Emmanuel was mulling it over in vast shock as if his entire world had just been shattered. And then his eyes were on hers again. Alex could see what he was wondering: who are you? She was wondering the same… who this man who looked like her dead husband was. And if he might be her dead husband. But how the hell could he be…?

Beside Emmanuel, Daphne still looked up at him with a serene, dreamy smile. She was oblivious to the long look happening between her 'husband' and Alex—she couldn't seem to see anything besides Emmanuel. Daphne was just an inch or two shorter than Alex but she was built more curvaceous and solid. She had shoulder length brown hair, greenish eyes, and seemed more than a little off in her own world—sure, Alex hadn't ever laid eyes on her before today, but some people, you just loathed right away. Daphne was one of them.

"You saw the demon's true face," Daphne murmured tenderly at Emmanuel, drawing his gaze away from Alex's. She gave Dean and Alex with a demure smile. "Emmanuel has very special gifts." She said it like a mother might boast about her son.

Alex bristled inside. How dare that bitch stand there like that and have her hand resting on Castiel's chest, have that idiotic smile on her face, have that wedding ring on her finger? 'Very special gifts?' What the hell was that supposed to mean? "Like what, princess?" Alex asked abrasively. What she really meant was I hate your fucking guts.

Daphne was immediately surprised and offended at Alex's harsh tone. "Wh—" she blinked a few times and then forced a smile and kept talking in that sweet, polite tone, in effect giving Alex a chance to do the same. "Healing the sick, among other things." Alex stared at that woman hard. She had never, ever wanted to punch someone in the face as much as she did at that very moment.

Dean cleared his throat loudly, and Alex got the message: don't make this into something. He tried to be polite even though he was obviously a little upset too. "Yeah. I-I've heard that about… uh, Emmanuel," he said, eyeing Daphne sharply then studying the other man in the room closely. "That you can heal people up."

Emmanuel looked mildly uncertain and hesitant to claim that yes, he could do that. "I seem to be able to help to a certain degree." He looked at Alex again plaintively. "As I said. I would be happy to help with the head injury. Although I'm sorry to say I don't think I can break an opiates addiction."

Alex's stomach dropped when he said that and her eyes widened—how did he know that?! And Christ, why did he have to air her dirty laundry like that with Dean there?! Dean, who didn't get it. Not at first. He made a face. "Who said anything about anyone having an opiates addiction?" he asked, nearly amused.

Emmanuel visibly realized his mistake when Dean said that and when he saw the look on Alex's face. It was such a Castiel-like mistake to make. "Oh," he said awkwardly, fumbling. "Um…"

Dean followed Emmanuel's gaze to his sister and it was clear on his face the moment he made the connection. His face fell in incredulous disbelief. Alex barely glanced at him, and it gave away her guilt. "That's not why we're here," she said, contrite and guarded.

Shocked into silence, Dean continued to stare at her even as Emmanuel continued to look at Alex with growing concern and intense curiosity. His head tilted slightly to the side and his eyes flickered back and forth between hers a few times. "I'm sorry but… do I know you?" he asked softly. Her breath caught at his question and the way he asked it. "You seem very familiar… have we met before?"

A thousand intimate, meaningful, priceless memories of their time together flashed across her mind. Alex swallowed a lump in her throat. Don't set him off. If he doesn't remember, we have to keep it that way. She shook her head and denied that they knew each other, and it was like pulling teeth. "Um… no," she said as heat and discomfort crept up her neck at his close gaze. "I d-don't think so." She looked away, fearing he'd see the truth in her eyes.

Emmanuel wasn't convinced and his confusion deepened. "I swear I've seen you before," he said quietly, obviously bothered by it and trying to wrack his mind for when, where, and how.

Alex tried to play it off and make it seem like he was imagining things. "I get that a lot. 'One of those faces'…"

He contemplated what she'd said then shook his head slowly, eyes locked on hers. "I have never seen a face anything like yours before," he said in a tone that was quietly admiring and deeply intense. Alex felt almost naked at that point. It sent shivers through her, it made Daphne's smile fade, it had Dean silent and apprehensive. Alex swallowed then grimaced as a wave of physical pain panged out from the cut she'd sustained on the back of her head. Emmanuel saw it and his expression changed in favor of worry. "I really should heal you," he said, coming a step closer to her. "You've gotten quite a concussion—it could be dangerous to your health."

"No no no no no," Alex said, backing away from him and holding her hands both up in a gesture of don't come any closer. Her pulse had doubled and her breaths were short, shallow. She struggled not to look as alarmed as she was. "J-just don't touch me, all right?"

He stepped back. "My apologies," he said, disillusioned by her continued skittishness. At his side, Daphne was more and more decidedly unhappy about what was unfolding in her home. Emmanuel looked at Dean with a grim expression. "I'm sorry—Dean, right? Who is it you seek healing for if not for Elizabeth?"

Dean's face worked briefly to hide the extent of his sickened worry. "My brother." He wet his lips, eyes darting around apprehensively. "He's uh… he can't sleep. Has some kinda hallucinating thing going on. Al—" he caught himself and tried to correct himself. "Al-lizibeth and I drove like a thousand miles and seventeen hours, so… uh, kinda hoping you can hop in the car with us and go." He paused and quickly began to try and convince Emmanuel before he could begin to hesitate. "We'll figure out a way to pay you or… or make it worth your while. Promise."

Emmanuel shook his head once. "Payment isn't necessary, I assure you. Helping people is enough."

Alex felt her heart clench. Helping people is enough. Is that you, Castiel?

At his side, clinging to one of his arms, Daphne protested in an overly sweet tone. "Emmanuel, you've been gone so much lately, though…" she began to look worried again, but so worried in fact that it seemed staged. "And what if more of those demons come?"

"They're after him, not you," Alex reminded, not bothering to hide her unfriendly tone.

Daphne turned her gaze to Alex and as if she could sense why Alex was acting that way (jealousy), she took on a certain catty level of coolness. "I'm his wife," she said with a hint of pride to her tone, and the statement was designed to antagonize and put Alex into her place. "They know they could use me to get to him."

Alex, the ticking time-bomb, gritted her jaw as she stabbed Daphne in her mind. Dean, vastly disapproving of Daphne as well, tried to get some idea of what was going on by posing a falsely politely-curious question. "How long you two been married, anyway?"

Daphne looked like she could start glowing and she looked up at Emmanuel with bright eyes. It was enough to make Alex want to vomit. "That's a question that's hard to answer…" Daphne said, her tone dripping with a reminiscent and loving quality that felt insulting and creepy.

"Oh? Why's that?" Dean challenged, trying to keep his tone civil.

Daphne smiled at Dean knowingly, and Alex thought she would love to wipe that damn expression off the other woman's face completely. "It's… a bit of an odd story, the way we met and fell in love…" Daphne squeezed Emmanuel's arm and looked up at him again solicitously, "but we think it's perfect, don't we, Emmanuel?"

His gaze was hesitant on hers, he looked uncomfortable with the question and her physical nearness. But he nodded once. "Yes, Daphne," he replied meekly, and his gaze was submissively downcast. And when Alex saw that—him responding as if he were a trained dog, him obviously bending to this woman's manipulative ways… she couldn't stop herself from what she did next. Her temper made her snap. She saw red, she hated this woman, and a rush of angry adrenaline sent her into vengeful action. She went from standing still and glaring death daggers to suddenly leaping across the distance separating herself from Daphne—with a shriek of brutal rage, she football tackled the other woman to the floor, cracking her fist into Daphne's nose on the way down with enough force to cause herself incredible pain, too. But that didn't matter—she was ready to beat that woman's face in until her fists were broken. However, the second they hit the floor and Alex drew back to start swinging, Dean was already yanking her off with shouts to stop it and take it easy—he pulled her back as she screamed protests.

Emmanuel had flown to Daphne's side and was holding her as she gasped in shock and pain alike, staring in disbelief at her attacker—she held a trembling hand to her broken nose as blood ran down from both nostrils. Emmanuel looked up at Alex in sheer, hurt disbelief as she struggled against Dean's hold. "Why did you strike my wife?" he asked, but he didn't sound angry—he just sounded mystified.

"She's not your wife!" Alex shrieked, red in the face as she struggled hard enough to break free of her brother's hold on her—when she did, she stood there heaving with messed hair, flushed cheeks, and a grieved expression twisting her face. "What is wrong with you!?" she demanded in an hysterical, shrill voice. And then she turned and fled the house.

Behind, she left a stunned Emmanuel, an injured Daphne, and an awkward Dean.

Emmanuel was looking at Dean for some kind of explanation and Dean said the first thing that came to mind. "Yeah, uh, remember those opiates? Sorry. She's—she's a little off her rocker. Always spouting the crazy stuff. Just got outta the wacko ward, if you catch my drift." He chuckled nervously, sick to his stomach at what was happening and how jacked up this entire thing was. This was just what Alex needed… what if she lost her mind again over all this fuckery?

Emmanuel—Castiel—whoever—was gazing out the open door where Alex had disappeared through. "I sense deep pain in her," was all he said, and he sounded like he was sad.

In his arms, beginning to sob at sort of embarrassingly childish levels, his 'wife' despaired for him to pay her attention. "Emmanuel, it hurts!" she whined through her tears, covering her bleeding nose with both hands. "Take it away, please!"

He had forgotten her in favor of Alex for a few seconds and he quickly complied, touching her forehead with two fingers—just like Cas always had. Dean watched with baited breath, because this would prove it to him—this would say whether or not this guy really was Cas or not. "I'm sorry, Daphne," Emmanuel apologized as his fingers came away from her. Daphne's hands fell away from her nose—what had been bloody and crooked was repaired and normal. Dean watched as if in a dream. Oh my god it really is him. Daphne went from pathetic to darkly angry in two seconds flat, shockingly so. Dean watched as she stood up in a huff then yanked Cas after her by the wrist to the kitchen and out of earshot. Well, what she thought was out of earshot. Dean snuck closer, trying to hear the conversation between them… but he glanced out of the front door. He really needed to go make sure Alex was okay.

He heard Daphne's voice, which had been so sweet and dainty before, suddenly becoming incredibly harsh and lecturing. "I don't want you to go with them."

Emmanuel's reply was simple and apologetic, if hesitant. "I have to."

Dean could quite literally hear the incredulous look on Daphne's face when Emmanuel didn't go along with what she said. "…What?"

"I—I can't explain it," he said, and he sounded small, meek, uncertain. "But… I have to."

There was a short, tense pause. And then a forceful, low, "No." Daphne sounded incredibly intimidating and warning, almost like a mom scolding her child. "I forbid it, Emmanuel." She said his name so harshly.

Dean was taken aback on Emmanuel's behalf at this woman's audacity and obvious disrespect to try and control him like that. Outside, Dean could hear something like a door slamming—he recognized it as the Impala and he looked toward the house's front door again. He was between two options—go in there and tell Daphne to back off, shut up, and get over it… or go check on his sister. "Daphne…" Emmanuel began quietly—and he sounded surprisingly disapproving, like he was about to stand up for himself. Dean began to edge out of the house at a tiptoe. His worry over Alex was triumphing currently, plus he just had this feeling that Emmanuel was gonna come with them whether his 'wife' wanted it or not.

Dean went out into the warm day outside and found Alex bent over the open trunk, tossing things out of her duffel bag like a mad woman—even Cas's coat which she still kept went flying as she dug around with shaking hands and short breath. As Dean reached her, she continued to throw things out of the bag and ignore him. "I had cigarettes in here, I had cigarettes in here!" she insisted in an alarmed, riled up voice.

"Yeah, until I threw them out," Dean said cautiously.

Alex stood bolt upright and looked at him with a furious glare. "What the fuck Dean?!" she shrieked, and from how fast she was breathing, Dean realized she needed to calm down before this went nuclear.

He grabbed her by either arm, trying to get her to see reason. "Al—pull it together, stop!" he hissed, trying to be furtive. Not like they needed to draw attention right now.

Her face was crumpling, confused, hurt. Her body abruptly slumped as if in defeat—the intense anger gave way to deep grief so quickly. "He married someone else," she managed as tears began to come, "he married someone else!" She could barely breathe and Dean started to get real worried.

"Breathe, whoa, breathe," he urged, steadying her by putting a hand to the side of her neck and turning her head so she looked at him. "Jesus, gonna give yourself a heart attack."

For whatever reason, that triggered her all over again. "I could stab myself through the heart and still live, leave me alone!" she shouted, then shoved him away.

Dean was beside himself. "What's that supposed to mean?!" he demanded, fed up with her behavior. "And what the hell was that about opiates, huh?"

Alex gave him a look that dared him to go there. "Look, you drink, I pop pills, Sam eats salads and runs four miles ten times a week," she said, then her volume began to increase to hysterical levels again. "We all have to deal with it somehow, and I don't wanna talk about it!"

She suddenly whirled and plopped down to the ground, leaning her back against the Impala's rear bumper. She began to cry hard, shivering and shaking with a hand on her head. Christ, Alex. He hurt on her behalf. He hated to see her cry. Dean noticed then where blood was matting the back of her head. It didn't look that bad, but Cas had said it was a concussion—god. It was like the universe was never happy with the amount of problems on his shoulders. Dean watched her a second more and couldn't just let her cry alone. So he crouched down beside her. "Hey. Breathe," he coached gently and firmly as she hiccuped and made a sound that suggested she hated herself for reacting like this. "In and out, in and out." She nodded, shuddered, and wiped at her face in a valiant attempt to get herself composed. Dean told her what she already knew: "Al, you gotta hold it together," he said, pleading with her to be strong and hold it in just a little longer. "Sammy needs this. Once we get there, once Cas does his angel mojo and fixes what he did, we can tell him the truth about who he is, you can kick his ass for marrying that dumb bimbo in there, then I'm right behind you for a turn, too." That last comment seemed to catch her attention the most. She looked at him with a tear-stained face and a questioning expression, an almost hopeful light in those red eyes of hers. Dean gave her a sad little smile and patted her knee. "Nobody makes my little sister sad except me, okay?"

Alex sniffed and wiped at a cheek again. "You're a dumbass."

Dean shifted from his crouch and sat beside her, put an arm around her and squeezed reassuringly, looking at her the whole time. "Yeah and this dumbass is always gonna be here for you too, Al."

"I know," she said softly, and ducked her head into the front curve of his shoulder, shuddering again as she steadied her breathing. "I know."

"…Excuse me," came a new voice, startling the siblings. Emmanuel stood there beside the car and he watched them uncertainly. "Am I interrupting something?" He hesitated when Alex turned and hid her face from him, using her long hair as a shield. Dean hesitated, then pushed himself up from the street with his palms, dusting them off as he stood. Emmanuel looked at him briefly then Alex. "Is she all right?"

Dean took the man by the elbow and steered him away by a few steps toward the front of the car. This was going to be one awkward road trip, that was for sure. "Word to the wise," he said quietly so that only they could hear. Emmanuel listened intently to Dean's ever word. "She's going through a really hard time right now. I wouldn't talk to her much if I were you."

Emmanuel nodded slowly, his eyebrows working in toward each other. "I'll do my best not to make matters worse," he said.

Dean could have laughed bitterly from the irony of it. If only he knew. But all Dean could do was clap the guy on the back and draw his mouth into a wan, joyless smile. "Well, all right then. Let's head out, huh?"

Up on the porch, a very unhappy Daphne Allen watched the strangers in the black Impala leave and take her husband with them. Her arms were crossed, a scowl was on her face, and she stood there for all of three seconds before deciding she didn't like this at all so she wasn't going to stand for it, either.