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.

122. Hellraisers

Song Remains the Same

Chapter 122 / Hellraisers

"Heaven bent to take my hand; lead me through the fire."
- Sarah McLachlan

---

Dean sat in the houseboat… alone. The silence was difficult for him these days, as was being without company. He used to be able to feel okay in silence. But he had never done well with being alone. Right now was the most alone he'd ever felt, too.

After Kevin and 'Kyle' left, Dean had focused on the mission and made quick work of scoping out the entire place in detail on the hunt for anything weird or out of place—because Zip being around felt incredibly suspicious. Dean wasn't sure what he was looking for in particular, but he didn't find anything that said My Evil Plan - A Step-by-Step List by Zip. Instead he found the usual stuff to be expected around Kevin: lots of crazy notes, junk food wrappers, and definite evidence that the young prophet was losing his mind. The place was messy and not kept up very well which was normal… but, that's also where Zip's presence was noticeable in an actually positive way. The trash bags piled up outside, the cleaning supplies out on a counter, the food in the refrigerator, the lack of roaches or ants, the bedding that smelled remarkably fresh and clean… probably not Kevin's doing (that kid barely even remembered to eat anymore). Zip had apparently taken it onto himself to play caretaker or something. Dean had to wonder if it had something to do with the tablet… if maybe Zip was planning to try and use that to his advantage somehow… or if it were just more freak-Leviathan-loves-vulnerable-human stuff. Speaking of the tablet… Dean couldn't find it anywhere. He guessed Kevin had some kind of super-secret hiding place for it. And after awhile, Dean flat-out gave up trying to find out where it was.

Emotionally exhausted and finally forced to think about why, Dean sat down and proceeded to worry his ass off. About Sam in Hell. About Alex who-knows-where and Cas who-knows where. About Jamie suffering eternal damnation. He felt slightly guilty for worrying the most about Jamie, but that's where his thoughts stayed. That was where his mind always went back to, no matter what: Jamie Ward, the witch he had hated on principle in the beginning and now loved with everything his screwed up little heart had left.

Would Sam find her? Would he be able to 'deliver her unto Heaven'? Selfishly, Dean didn't want her anywhere but here with him, but he didn't spend too long on that thought train. Jamie would be happy and whole in Heaven. Here on earth with Dean? It was doomed to fail and all he'd ever end up doing was disappointing or hurting her. But god, it had been good while it had lasted. He missed her in a way he'd never known he could miss anyone. Not doing anything to get to her and save her was killing him inside.

…He imagined Jamie jumping all the time whether he wanted to or not. What thoughts were her last? Did she change her mind the second she let go when it was too late to take it back? Did she close her eyes or leave them open? Was she crying and scared? Or stone-faced like a soldier going to execution? Thinking about her suicide made him feel things no one should ever feel. Things he didn't know how to articulate at all. He wished to god he could have said or done something that would have kept her feet on the ground. He was so angry with her even as at the same time he wanted nothing more than to just hold her and comfort her because he understood. Sometimes, he thought about ending it all, too.

He would never forget seeing her body at the morgue. Or how heavy that five-foot-six body of hers felt when he carried her out of there. It was enough to flood his eyes with tears even now as he remembered that moment. The flesh and bone that had been her was no longer her at all. Just a dead body. An echo. The feelings and pain and horror all drowned him and suffocated him. Please Sam. Just get her outta there. He bowed his face into both his hands and tried to get a grip as emotion became stronger and stronger, making him feel wretched.

Why didn't I tell Sam to shut up? That I was gonna go to Hell with him whether he wanted that or not?

Dean dragged a hand down his tense face, shutting his eyes tight. Inside, he felt stretched tight like a rubber band. Ready to snap if any more pressure was applied. Everything that had happened was testing his dwindling strength. His family wasn't his family anymore—Sam was different, Alex had slowly grown away from them when Cas had appeared. Dean wished he could go back in time to when it had been him and his brother and sister looking for their dad. No, it wasn't perfect back then, but they'd been together. Unaware of how dark the days ahead would get...

Just then, the door creaked open. Dean stood up fast, scrunching his face up into a hard expression. Kevin and Zip were back—Kevin appearing as sickly and exhausted as ever. Putting a tight smile onto his face, Dean shoved all of his thoughts away. "Well, how was your stroll down lover's lane, boys?" he asked sarcastically, using a clipped tone to disguise his own duress.

Kevin looked more embarrassed and uncomfortable than ever. "Shut up, Dean," he muttered, then glanced at his Leviathan buddy, who was mildly surly, hands punched into his zippered hoodie. Dean's inner suspicions doubled. They looked sort of like they were hiding something. What was the bad news? And then Kevin looked at Dean cautiously. "I uh, made a preemptive move."

Dean frowned hard. What was that supposed to mean? "Tried to talk him out of it," Zip said, and it was obvious he was in a foul mood. "Just saying."

Oh crap. "Kevin…" Dean said warningly as he started to feel an impending sense of doom, "what did you do?"

Defensive, paranoid, shaky, Kevin could have been easily mistaken for a drug addict going through withdrawals in that moment. "I can't sit here with the tablet like a… a sitting duck with Crowley breathing down my ass!" he said, voice high and tight and stuffy. "So… getting rid of the tablet just takes off some of the pressure."

Dean's eyes popped a little wider. "Wait. Getting rid of it?" he asked, getting louder and gruffer as he began to panic.

"Temporarily," Kevin assured tiredly—he barely responded to Dean's tone. "I hid it."

Becoming more and more incredulous every second, Dean felt his eyebrows climbing up his forehead. "What? Where?" That thing could not fall into the wrong hands, Dean knew that much.

"If I tell you where, it's not hidden, is it?" Kevin asked sullenly, then glanced at Zip. "He doesn't know where, either."

The Leviathan, still in his pale blonde appearance instead of his, well, pale brunette appearance, shot Kevin a dark glance. "General vicinity," he mumbled. Zip looked abashed—Dean guessed Kevin had probably given him the 'I'm not interested' speech and because of that Zip was subsequently embarrassed. However, Dean had more important things on the brain than what these two talked about.

Using physical intimidation, Dean began to crowd toward the prophet. "Kevin, tell me where the damn tablet is," he threatened as Kevin shrank, "or I swear to you—"

Zip got in the way fast and furious, meeting Dean's brute tactics with some of his own. Surprised at the suddenly solid chest-to-chest contact and the deadly look in the Leviathan's eyes, Dean blinked a couple times. This guy didn't quit. "You were saying?" Zip asked lowly, challengingly. He looked like he would love a fight. And honestly, Dean wouldn't mind one either.

Holding his ground, Dean's gaze flickered back to Kevin. His itch to fight was only quelled by his knowledge that he had to make it in one piece to meet Sam and Meg in about twelve hours time. "Wanna call off your guard dog, Kevin?" he asked snidely.

Miserable and petulant, Kevin exploded. "I just wanna be normal again!" he shouted, then whirled and marched into his room and slammed the door, hard, leaving the hunter and the Leviathan at a stand off.

Gritting his teeth, Dean shoved Zip away and then he began to pace as the Leviathan looked on with a hostile gaze. It was time to get to the bottom of this. Figure out what 'Kyle' was doing here and why Kevin hadn't told them about this little living arrangement. "What kinda game is this, huh?" Dean demanded in a low, hard voice. "What side are you on? What's your angle with Kevin and the tablet and all this… this Martha Stewart crap?" He picked up and dropped a can of air freshener for effect. "Why shouldn't I chop your head off right here and now?"

In abruptly defiant laziness, Zip just smirked, which only served to further infuriate Dean. "I'd like to see you try, jackass," he said calmly, tempting Dean and knowing it, too. He folded his arms and shrugged, his gaze never dodging away from Dean's. "I don't have many friends. So the ones I do have, I kinda like to try and keep. That's it."

"Oh that is rich," Dean spat, then gave a caustic laugh. "I see what this is. You're a freak, you know that?" Latching onto the closest needy kid and trying to use 'friendship' as a means to an end. Dean began to bear down on Zip. "And we still got a score to settle," he said in a low, dangerous voice. He had been there, after all, the day that this punk had gotten Alex fatally wounded. "None of what you did to my sister is okay. Did you think I, what, forgot? Wrote it off?" No. Never. Dean had been waiting for the right time. And right now? Oh, it felt right. It felt damn right.

Zip's haughty expression changed when Alex came into the conversation. He quickly fell into looking guilty. Sad. Frustrated. "I loved her," he said defensively. "I cared about her. I still do." Exasperated, he indicated his own head with rigid, flustered hands. "That angel's feelings were practically tattooed onto me and I still can't get rid of them!"

Dean scoffed—he didn't buy it. "So that's a good excuse for tricking her, lying to her, manipulating her, hurting her?" he demanded.

Although Zip looked regretful and guilty, he also looked bitter. "He did all that stuff to her first and look how she feels about him," Zip muttered jealously, eyes dark at the nameless mention of Castiel. "Fucking disgrace."

Bristling, not sure if the Leviathan was calling his sister or his friend a disgrace, it didn't matter. Dean fought back a surge of anger. "Hey, you watch how you talk about my family, asshole."

That cold smile was back. "Ah yes, family so all is forgiven," Zip commented acidly. "Even the unthinkable shit."

Dean's eyebrows rose fast and high. Unbelievable. "Are you kidding me right now? You wanna get high and mighty?" He sauntered a little closer, fingers itching to grip his hunting knife tight. "Buddy, I should stab you in the throat on principle."

Zip didn't get intimidated at all. "You make a lot of threats, Dean…" he observed, then he acted confused. "So do you ever follow through on them, or are you really just a lot of hot air in a pair of cheap jeans?"

I wanna kill him. Stab him. Rip him apart with my fuckin' bare hands. But fighting a Leviathan would probably not end well for him and Dean wasn't that stupid even in his most irritated of moments. Tempting fate would have to wait for another day.

At that moment, a soft sound like the fluttering of wings in the wind sounded. Dean and Zip turned to see the source of the sound. A woman in a suit jacket and pencil skirt smiled pleasantly. Her brown hair was clipped back elegantly and she had her hands clasped in a businesslike way in front of her mostly gray ensemble. "Well, it's not everyday a hunter, an angel, and a Leviathan are all in the same room together," she stated lightly, voice distinctly friendly and kind.

An angel? Dean was immediately on guard. "And just who the hell are you, lady?"

She smiled graciously at his rude demand. "We haven't been formally introduced, Dean," she said, inclining her head with an attitude of benevolence. "My name… is Naomi." Holy shit. Dean went from confused and suspicious to enraged and murderous in two milliseconds flat.

"Naomi Naomi?" he asked, because if she was that Naomi, what the hell was she doing here and acting like everything was rainbows and cupcakes? "And you just waltz in here wanting to shake hands after what you did to Cas? To my sister?!" Dean had never wished he had his angel blade more than he did in that moment.

Clinically regretful, Naomi inclined her head just slightly. "A temporary arrangement, I assure you," she commented offhandedly. "I was doing what needed to be done."

He could have died or killed—he wasn't sure which. "What needed to be done?!" he asked, never more offended than he was right then. "You wiped my sister's memories and took away her voice…? Used her as leverage over Cas? Did God knows what else to her! And you had Cas about to kill me!"

Naomi looked mildly inconvenienced but smiled through it, which only made her appear more and more fake. "Such pomp, you humans," she commented with sigh. "You remind me of your sister, Dean." She hesitated, and then clarified. "It's not a compliment. I find you both too loud for your own good." Naomi spread her hands in a saintly gesture, moving on as Dean practically sputtered. "What I did was all necessary to protect humanity. When I learned of the angel tablet, I did tell Castiel to get it at any cost. Unfortunately, he wasn't keen to listen to me or do his angelic duties. So, I had to use your sibling in order to convince him. It was an unfortunate necessity… quite a nasty bit of business if I say so myself. And not my fault, clearly. Castiel is the one who wouldn't comply with my commands. I had to get creative. You have my sincerest apologies." She talked about it with such detachment. "But my job—to protect Heaven—takes precedence above everything else," she continued. "I'm a warrior, just as you are. What would you expect? I don't compromise when it comes to things of importance."

So, she was totally delusional. Good to know. Tempering himself, Dean watched her sharply. "Okay—so why are you here, huh?" Telling her she was a braindead bitch for coming here and saying this stuff to him was gonna be pointless. He needed to find out her game. "Why are you suddenly showing up explaining your all-important mission to me?" She must need something. But what?

Naomi smiled warmly. "Just a moment, Dean. I'm being rude." She turned her focus to Zip, who stood near to Dean with a terse, shrewd expression. "You're Least," she observed. "I've heard of you."

Stiffening at the use of his original name, Zip regarded her with hostility. "People don't call me that anymore."

"I'm not people," she said breezily—and it was hard to see, but it was still there. A distinct note of superiority and unfriendliness. "And I'll call you as I see fit."

Eyebrows up high, Zip grew fractionally amused. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I could kill you given the right circumstances, isn't that right?" he asked softly.

And while Naomi made no reply to him, Dean and Zip both saw it: yes. Yes he could and she knew it. Prim, she dodged the question completely. But she was a little less at ease than before. "The reason I've sought an audience with you Dean is of utmost importance." Fractionally more confident and wondering if maybe having a Leviathan in your corner could be an advantage, Dean narrowed his eyes at Naomi. She definitely needed something. "Castiel is in the wind with a hydrogen bomb in his pocket, and I—I'm scared, for all of us."

Worry ate at Dean anew. "The hell are you talking about?" he asked slowly, wondering where his sister fit into all this.

"He's got the angel tablet and has a history of…" Naomi was extremely delicate, "instability. As we all know."

Dean filled in the blanks. "And what, you want me to turn him in to you?" he asked incredulously. Was she serious? After everything that had happened? This chick was certifiable. Dean felt a little bolstered. Cas had given this crazy bitch the slip and probably had Alex with him—it was making sense now. That had to be why Cas wasn't answering Dean's calls. Feeling more and more confident, Dean felt himself cracking a grin. "Well." He had to hand it to Naomi. She was a piece of work. "You should go into the comedy business 'cause that's hilarious, lady."

Her nostrils flared slightly. "Dean, if you'll just listen to me—"

"Save it," he interrupted gruffly, regaining his confidence and therefore his brass. "See, I don't trust angels, which means I don't trust you. I'm not interested in what you have to say. Not now, not ever. You messed with my family and you're damn lucky I don't have my little angel knife with me right now." He jerked his thumb over at Zip. "Now screw off before my Leviathan pal here makes you regret this little visit."

Her eyes darted to Zip for a fraction of a nervous second. And then she left Dean with one last appeal before she departed. "I know you don't want to believe it, Dean, but we're on the same side—shutting the Gates of Hell, bringing Castiel in from the cold, protecting what needs protecting." She obviously knew it was a long shot. But she still tried. "Take a moment. Think about what I've said." And with those words, she disappeared.

Dean and Zip were left in silence as before and Dean let out a stiff breath. "Gotta angel-proof this place," he muttered to himself, glancing around.

"So now I'm your pal?" Zip asked petulantly, staring at him with a semi-contemptuous expression.

With a disgusted face, Dean made a 'shove off' waving motion with his hand. "Enough Maury crap," he bit out before nodding toward Kevin's closed door. "You wanna see if you can talk your boyfriend out of his room?"

Disgruntled, Zip slunk toward a wall and crossed his arms, appearing to be every bit the teenager his borrowed-appearance gave him. "He's not my boyfriend," he muttered, obviously ashamed of himself on some small level for his feelings. After a short silence, he stuck up for himself, however meekly. "It's not a crime to care about someone because of who I am. Or who they are." His dark eyes, uncertain and not confident, were full of pain. "I don't have to be like the rest of my kind. I'm who I choose to be. I want to be good." His eyes were filled with emotion—maybe even tears. "People can change," he said, obviously hanging his every hope on that statement. "I believe that."

Dean could have said nothing. But instead, he said something that would stab Zip right in his non-existent, Leviathan-black heart. "Yeah, well… you're not a person, so good luck with that." The look on the boy's face at the comment almost made Dean feel guilty. Almost.

---

The Next Day

The brothers were together again and in silence, Dean driving with a hard, unreadable expression on his face as Sam, in the passenger seat, glanced his brother's way every now and again with a guilty, distressed expression. Sam was paler than before and weaker-looking. He had completed the second trial. But it hadn't gone quite according to plan. That's why the brothers weren't saying much.

After angel-proofing the houseboat and checking all the demon wards too, Dean had left Kevin and Zip to themselves with the mentality of 'I'll deal with it later.' His priority had been meeting Meg and Sam back at the rendezvous point at the right time. He'd been a few hours early and practically paced a trench into the ground as he waited. When Sam and Meg finallu reappeared, Dean had almost fallen over from relief that his brother was alive and well. He'd anxiously waited to hear that Jamie had been delivered unto Heaven as promised. So, when Sam told him that he hadn't been able to find her—that he and Meg got lost and almost killed and had to escape together—that they had stumbled across Rufus Turner of all people at the last minute—that he had ended up being the soul delivered unto Heaven—Dean was beyond crushed. Sam had never looked more sorry or more regretful and he seemed to be waiting for Dean to explode or break down. But neither happened. Blank and shocked, Dean had said they needed to head back and deal with the Zip/Kevin situation. They left a skeptical Meg behind.

Dean remained in a daze as they drove several hours to the Fizzle's Folly. Sam said nothing—just let Dean process in utter, grieved silence. And when they got to Garth's houseboat, there was more bad news. The door down into the ship's bowels was hanging open. They hurried into the vessel, finding an ominous mystery inside: The smell of sulfur was everywhere, and broken demon wards marred the walls. Dean tore through the house boat shouting for Kevin and Zip too. He found no one—but he did see dark splatters. Not human blood... black ooze. He also found turned-over furniture, broken items, and general evidence that there had been one hell of a showdown here.

There was only one conclusion to arrive to. "No no no," Dean breathed as he stumbled back into the main room. "They got Kevin." He looked around frantically, starting to really lose his shit. "They got everything!" He grabbed the closest object—an empty vase, and threw it hard, then kicked the desk he was next to then shoved it at all wall, blind with rage. He began to destroy anything and everything he came into contact with—he punched a picture Garth had on the wall, he swiped everything off the little mantle display and kicked the bookshelf then shook it and banged it against the wall furiously, making all the heavy volumes thud out.

"Dean, calm down, Dean! Stop!" Sam was there, roughly trying to pull his brother away from the bookshelf and out of his mania.

"No!" Dean shouted, yanking himself hard out of Sam's grip… but he did stop. He whirled and looked at his brother and his eyes held so much pain and despair that Sam went utterly silent. "Why do I try?!" Dean demanded, voice shaking as his emotions grew more and more raw. "Why—the hell—do I even try anymore?! There's no point! Everyone dies! Everyone gets hurt! Everyone leaves!" Sam clearly saw Dean in that moment for what he was: not angry and furious. Broken and agonized—without anywhere left to turn. "I can't take it, Sam!" he insisted as tears ran out of his eyes. "I can't take it!" And to demonstrate the fact, Dean socked a lamp that was nearby and it crashed to the floor loudly.

Sickly and tired and riddled by his own guilt, Sam nodded his understanding as he pressed an ill expression away. "I know." He looked at his brother with raw, pleading earnestness—he was honestly surprised Dean hadn't started to tell him how terrible a person he was for not getting Jamie out. "I tried, Dean," Sam said in an unsteady voice. "I did. But I couldn't find her in time. I'm so sorry, you gotta believe me."

Dean barely seemed to hear Sam. His bleary, blood-shot eyes were making him look haggard and half crazy. "I got half a mind to go down there myself," he muttered tightly. "Just… screw everything else, man! I can't let it be like this!" Appearing to be at the end of his rope, Dean gestured roughly with his hands. "Sorry, but… I can't even think straight anymore," he said, clearly realizing that he was acting unhinged.

Watching him closely with enormous amounts of concern and empathy, Sam was sad right along with his brother. "You… really loved her, didn't you?" he asked softly. "Like… all in. No holds barred."

Dean's expression was like no other. "I mean, I thought that woulda been clear by now." In other words… yes. His face twitched into a more pained expression and he tried to hide it. But a tear ran out of his eye and he shook his head long and hard, his mouth struggling and his breath uneven. And then he confessed just how much Jamie Ward had meant to him. "She was my Jess," he managed just above a whisper. "My Cas." Then he gave a soft, ashamed laugh at the way he'd phrased it. "That sounds hella stupid huh."

Gentle, Sam shook his head. "No. It doesn't." The love of his life, Dean was saying. And Sam understood. He understood in an instant.

Getting more and more agitated and riled up, Dean was shaking his head and pushing his mouth into a line. "This isn't right, Sam. We gotta go back." His voice raised. "I gotta go back!" His phone suddenly rang, jarring both of the boys. Annoyed at the interruption, Dean yanked his phone out and answered the number he didn't know. "What?" he barked into the phone, more of an angry explanation than a greeting.

There was a slight pause. "…Dean?"

Dean stood bolt upright, his eyes shooting open wide. His breath stopped, his heart was jammed into the top of his throat. He couldn't believe his ears. "…B-Bobby?!"

---

Biggerson's
Santa Fe, New Mexico

The last time Castiel had been at Biggerson's, it had been to take Alex on a date. Perhaps their first and only proper date. It was a good memory—one of the best. He wanted more memories like that. He missed her and worried, even though he knew she was safe with her brothers in the bunker. With that as his only comfort, he remained resigned to his lot in life: protecting the angel tablet until Kevin could translate it. He agreed with Alex: they couldn't just destroy the tablet nor could they just let Naomi have it. This was the only reasonable response. But it separated Castiel from the person he least wanted to be separated from.

Just a little longer.

The words he repeated to himself and dredged strength from.

Castiel had chosen this restaurant chain location perhaps out of sentimentally first and foremost… because he had sat at a table like this one with Alex a couple years ago. He could imagine she was coming to sit with him soon. But sentimentality aside, Biggerson's presented a unique opportunity: the restaurant chain had hundreds of locations across the United States. Every building was almost identical to the next: from decor to sign placement to the parking lot to the table and room layouts. It was the perfect setting for a quite devilish mathematical scheme and spell Castiel had devised. Some might call it a quantum superposition. He used time, location changes, and math to create a clever little ruse where Naomi's angels could not find him as long as he put all of his brainpower into maintaining the precise calculations which allowed him to beam from Biggerson's to Biggerson's at a seemingly random interval. But none of it was random. Castiel was exhausted from what he guessed was now several weeks of this time and location bending. He fretted constantly about when Alex would call with news of Kevin being ready to translate this angel tablet. From there, they could hopefully find an end to this madness with Naomi. For now, he remained stuck in this self-imposed loop—where he played with time, sometimes remaining slightly in the past, sometimes slightly in the future. The tablet was with him, where it would be safest. His ears remained open to Alex only, but he heard nothing. Which, later, he would realize was very telling.

As he maintained the superposition, he grew weary. His hair and skin became dirty because he didn't have any energy left to divert. His vessel became physically tired. But he kept on, steadfast, knowing that this was the best way to keep attention onto himself and off of the Winchesters. Because he used all of his energy reserves to keep his self-created spell going and because he kept his 'angel radio' open only to Alex, he didn't hear Sam and Dean's calls. He had no idea that Alex was missing. So ignorance remained bliss, and Castiel carried on without knowing that what he counted as most precious was burning in Hell. Later he would curse himself. But for now, he glanced at the clock on the wall of this Biggerson's, keeping careful tally of the time spent here in New Mexico.

"Have somewhere to be?" a kind voice asked.

Castiel glanced up–it was his server—and he returned the smile briefly as was custom. The server's name tag read Kara and she had a gentle, kind spirit. Castiel had spoken with her several times during his continuous time jumping—it blurred together, but he remembered this woman. "Not somewhere," he replied. "Someone." He paused and realized his distracted reply didn't make much sense. "I mean—I have someone to be with," he clarified semi-bashfully.

Kara misunderstood. "Oh… should I bring out another menu? Are they joining you today for lunch?" By all appearances, she was ready to go run and get another menu.

"Oh—no." Cas thought that did sound very nice, the thought of Alex joining him, but… that would not be happening. "She's far away from here," he explained vaguely, feeling the distance down to his bones. "It's just me today." He looked at the empty chair across from him at the tiny table he had selected.

"Aw, that's too bad," Kara commented cordially, then indicated the pot of coffee she held. "More coffee?"

Cas nodded, refocusing. "Yes, please." He watched how Kara picked up the mug and poured steaming brown liquid in. Coffee. The thing that the Winchesters consumed gallons of regularly. "I guess I've been acquiring the taste," he said almost fondly, realizing how much he had consumed of the beverage. He was becoming more and more like his adopted family—saving people, hunting things, drinking coffee.

"Yeah, the coffee's not too bad here," Kara returned kindly as she set his mug back down in front of him.

Fond as he recalled his observances of humanity over the centuries, Castiel picked up the mug and smiled across it wistfully. "You know, I remember when you first discovered it. Before you started brewing it, you'd just chew the berries." He glanced at Kara meaningfully. "Folk tale is true, by the way, you learned it from the goats."

Kara tried to hide a perplexed, slightly taken-aback smile. "Uh… been on the road a long time, huh?"

His eyes were far away, seeing little else except the face that represented life and love to him. "Feels like I've been on the run forever," he admitted softly. Things had taken a turn for the worse when the apocalypse had been set to happen. Everything had fallen apart and he and Alex had been trying to get to each other ever since. It felt like this—the angel tablet and the demon tablet and everything they represented—could be the final problem. The last wall that stood between himself and Alex. He waited for the day when he didn't have to leave her ever again. He pined for that day. "I'm very ready to go home," he murmured, a thought spoken aloud.

"Yeah?" Kara asked. "What's at home?"

She spoke as if it were a physical location. To him, home was a person. So, home was wherever she was. "My wife," he said quietly, feeling warmth wash over when he called her that. He was forever amazed at what had happened on April 29th, 2010—four years ago, almost. There had been times when Castiel had feared they would not 'make it' but… he didn't fear that anymore. Even after everything, she hadn't given up on him or left. Moony and dreamy, he smiled off at nothing. "The most beautiful woman in existence," he murmured mostly to himself as he thought of freckles and bright eyes and that demure but naughty smile she so often sent his way. Her hand holding his, her heart beating along with his, her love never letting him down. She made him feel understood and safe in a way he didn't know how to describe. She meant everything to him and more. "My best friend," he continued even softer, his chest thick with love and longing. "My other half." He remembered Kara's presence and grew less daydreamy. "To borrow the colloquialism."

"That's so sweet," Kara said, seeming to genuinely be touched at his words and the way he said them. Her eyes dropped to look at his left hand and she frowned ever so slightly while still smiling. "You… don't wear a wedding ring?" she asked curiously.

Cas looked at his hand, a little confused at the question. He had never thought about how strange that might appear until she asked just now. "I… carry it in my pocket," he explained, a little taken aback. Why didn't he wear it? "It was a secret, at first, our marriage," he said slowly, trying to work through why now he didn't wear it. Alex wore her penny, after all…

Kara gave him a playful smile. "A secret? Intriguing."

"Well… everyone knows now," Castiel said, off in his own thoughts. He paused then looked at her with a very deep, concerned frown. "Do you think I should wear it?" She was the human in this situation, she would know better than he.

Kara looked a little unsure of how to respond. "Well, if you're married… it makes sense to me," she offered carefully. "But that's up to you, of course. And your wife, too." She caught a glance from the manager at the counter nearby and cleared her throat and smiled apologetically. "Uh, I'm sorry, mister, but you're gonna have to order more than coffee if you wanna keep the table."

"Of—of course, um…" Castiel glanced at the table-top menu and almost ordered the first item he saw. But then another idea struck him and he looked up at Kara. "Do you have macaroni and cheese?" he asked, knowing that item well. "It's her favorite." One of the things she ordered most often at restaurants and bought at gas stations. The first time he had seen her eat when he'd been assigned as her guardian? Macaroni and cheese.

Kara smiled at his order. "Of course. The Mac Attack platter. Coming right up."

Castiel watched her leave and wondered why they called it that. The food here had very strange, far-fetched names…

Just then, he paused, straining and hearing the high-pitched ringing of angels searching him out. This deception could only last so long. "They're getting closer," he murmured to himself, seeing how his coffee cup shook on the table he sat at. They were probably aware now of what he was doing and doubling their efforts to spread out and find him along the timeline he was hiding himself in. With two variables—location and time—making him all the harder to find, Castiel knew he would be able to keep running and dodging, at least for a little while longer. But he was tired. He didn't even really have much care about Heaven anymore. His heart wasn't in this. He had done so much damage there in the celestial planes… he just wanted to be done and walk away, be with the one he loved. He had a lot of repair to do there with Alex. She was what mattered most and what he wanted to invest into. Not this tablet or the politics of Heaven. He just wanted it to be over. A quasi-prayer said out of personal desperation, Castiel murmured it even though he knew no one would hear: "Oh, Kevin, hurry." Translate the demon tablet so that we can translate this one too and be done with this mess. And then Castiel left that Biggerson's and went to another because the angels were getting too close for comfort.

If Castiel knew the truth—that Alex was not with her brothers and not safe as he believed—he would have not hesitated for even a millisecond to go to her. But he didn't know even as he cycled through Biggerson's restaurants and led Naomi's angels on a never-ending chase, his Alex was in the deepest pits of Hell…

---

"I just don't like it, Alex," John said, his voice just a harsh, worried whisper.

She turned around and gave her father a very impatient look. "Dad, I got it the first million times you said that," Alex returned in a hiss. "And I know it's not the most comforting team up there ever was, but we gotta take this chance—we probably won't get another one." Waiting around to be rescued just wasn't working out. It had been months now. Months. Which converted to earth time just meant maybe a week or so, she thought, but still. How long does it take a group of idiots to figure out where I am and what happened? Why isn't Cas doing anything? Or was Crowley right? Could Cas not get to them down here? It didn't matter.

Alex was taking matters into her own hands, and Lola, their little prison-cell buddy across the way, presented the perfect opportunity. This red-haired little firecracker who used to be one of Crowley's top demons obviously no longer claimed that title. She wanted to escape and knew who Alex and John were ('the famous Winchesters'). She wanted to team up, break out of the jail block, and then flee into the wastelands—she said it was a three-man job and she 'admired their work' in the past. But there was a slight problem. Alex was pretty sure Lola was the demon she had blown the whistle on a couple years ago while leveraging a piece of information she had about a treachery-plotting 'red-haired demon' high in Crowley's ranks to the King of Hell to her own ends. That's why this situation was so precarious. Alex explained it lowly to Dad, again, who was sometimes more mentally competent than others down here in Hell. "If she's the demon who I think she is, she just can't find out who I am," she insisted in the quietest, hardest whisper there was. "Geez, she might know already. I'm the one who got her ass thrown in this place. I don't know why Crowley didn't just kill her, but… I don't get that dude point blank." None of it mattered. "The point is, we're using this." It was a chance to escape this endless torture.

Dad was shaking his head no, eyes cut sidelong toward the small prison cell window cut into the door. "I don't—"

"Listen," Alex said, grabbing him hard by the arms. She was constantly at the end of her rope here—exhausted, hurting, tortured, beat within an inch of her life. So she was less given to patience. "Trust me on this. Lemme run this thing." Dad looked at her wretchedly. He was more and more defeated every passing day, a ghost of the man he used to be. Alex knew he didn't think that there was a real way out. But she hadn't given up. "I'm smart," she insisted. And she had faced a lot of impossible situations before. "This isn't my first rodeo. You taught me good. And I've picked up a lot of tricks along the way. Go with me on this."

John was clearly very unsure and Alex couldn't exactly fault him… she knew it sounded crazy and dangerous. And it was. For a few weeks now, Lola had been talking to them across the hall when demon guards weren't around. Telling them snatched bits of her plans and how breaking out might take a bit of work and time but was doable. John had scoffed off the idea of working with a demon. Alex had been willing to listen to Lola which John hadn't liked. That was when Alex told her dad about working with Crowley in exchange for Sam's life. The G-rated version where she didn't divulge how far she had to go with torturing sometimes. She had shut that part of her life out and refused to believe it was even her that had done those things. A way into the wastelands was what Alex wanted now, especially after finding out from other Hell-dwellers that an entrance to the cage was hidden somewhere in the wastelands. Dad had reacted with great horror when he learned about Adam and what had happened with Michael, Lucifer, the averted apocalypse. He didn't say much about Adam, even when Alex asked questions. He seemed defeated anew at his legacy of pain and death. Most of the time, Dad remained closed off and guilty. He still rioted every time a demon came to take Alex to the rack. Still fought to try and be the one they took instead. That meant a lot to her.

"I just don't want you hurt," John finally said, troubled and worried. About her.

Softening, Alex smiled a little. That was sweet, but… "We're in Hell," she reminded. "That's kinda guaranteed."

Dad deflated, knowing she was right. He offered another miserable excuse—something meant to try and talk Alex out of her hare-brained plan. "Even if we can get to the cage, there's no way we can get Adam out," he said like he knew that as fact. "Or get us out, for that matter."

Clenching her jaw and choosing to give his pessimism no place in her mindset, Alex glanced around the dark four corners of their jail cell. "We'll see about that." She had to try at the least. Speaking of people who shouldn't be in Hell… she'd asked around about Jamie whenever she was given the chance, but no one seemed to know about her. Hell was, after all, a huge place. Millions of souls were caged up and locked away in never-ending darkness.

Dad had been defeated by this place a long time ago, Alex was realizing more and more. And how could she blame him? The only thing keeping her going was the thought of seeing her people again. But Hell was a terrible place and it was getting harder and harder to remember them. Even the color of Cas's eyes was impossible to recall here… a place of only red and black and smoldering ember orange. Blue was a fading memory. Her mind barely knew how to think of such a color anymore.

---

Back on earth an unlikely, reunited trio was entering the bunker in the midst of a very intense conversation. A tall, lanky man with floppy hair followed a stockier man with shorter hair. Between them was a solidly-build fifty-something man in a faded ballcap and a puffy hunter's vest.

"Anything Bobby, if you can remember anything at all it could help," Sam insisted earnestly, tagging along after their bonafide, alive-again, not-a-demon uncle. Bobby Singer had been put under every test in the book and unless salt, holt water, silver etcetera were lying… he was him. But they just couldn't figure out how. Dean led the way down the stairs into the heart of the bunker, flipping on the lights with his face frozen in a rigid frown.

"I'm tellin' you!" Bobby insisted emphatically as he followed Dean and tried to look back towards Sam at the same time. "I was in Hell then I just wasn't. Dug myself outta some dirt in the middle of nowhere, spent two, I dunno three days tryin'a make heads or tails of where I was." He scoffed cantankerously and muttered. "Appalachian Wilderness is for schmucks, I want my money back." He got to the foot of the stairs then stopped there, gaping at the bunker control room in sheer awe as he really looked at it for the first time. "…Well I'll be damned," he breathed after a stunned couple of seconds. And who wouldn't be impressed? The place was like a space ship or the bat cave. Sam and Dean, who were sort of used to it after a month plus of being here, took a moment to look around, too. "You weren't kiddin'!" Bobby adjusted his cap brim and whistled lowly as he peered into the library which was adjacent. "Men'a Letters, huh?" He was clearly very impressed and mystified that he'd never heard of the organization before now. "Makes my lil' ole library, may it rest in peace, look pretty puny huh."

Dean couldn't really get off one train track of thought. The same line of thought he'd been on the entire twelve-hour way here. He finally just said it: "I just—this doesn't feel right, guys." He looked at Bobby with an indescribably confused expression. "Why would you suddenly be topside for no apparent reason? I mean, you see how shady that is, right?"

Bobby shook his head. "You got me. I don't like it either." He hesitated and made a bit of a face. "I mean, I like it, but—you know." He glanced at both brothers in turn. "What strings're attached and who's holdin' em? Can't be friendly, whoever or whatever it is…" When Dean said nothing—just kept staring off hard into the distance—Bobby hesitated. "Dean? Somethin' wrong, son?"

Everything was wrong. But one thing was really bugging Dean right now. The absence of one brown-haired, spitfire sister. "I'm… worried about Alex," he admitted, casting a guilty gaze around the bunker. She should be here. He had the distinct feeling that she should be here. "And Cas." The longer those two remained missing, the antsier Dean got. He really felt like this lengthening, unexplained absence was something he should be doing something about. But what?

"Well, you should be worried after everything you told me," Bobby said, then glanced at Sam, who was quiet and pale nearby. The effect of the trials was becoming more and more pronounced in under-eye shadows, in tired eyes, and in noisy, wet breathing. Almost like he had a chest cold. The boys had unloaded quite a lot of stuff onto Bobby about everything that had happened since he passed away: crazy Castiel, Meg's recurring role in their lives, Kevin, killing Dick, Purgatory, Jamie and her failed pregnancy and subsequent suicide, Sam and the trials, the angel tablet and demon tablet. As such, Bobby gave his boys a somber little smile that said he understood. "Just when you think things can't get crazier, right?" he asked gently.

Dean nodded, his stress manifesting on his face. "Kevin's missing, Alex, Cas are… I don't even know; James's in Hell, Sam and the trials…" He was so upset he could have cried. This is too much for me. And then Bobby grasped Dean comfortingly by the shoulder, drawing Dean's gaze and attention out of the depths of despair. A tired, familiar, grizzled face looked back at the hunter. And Dean remembered that despite everything… despite all the terrible in the universe right now… this was a small miracle.

"One thing at a time, kid," Bobby counseled in patient, fatherly affection. He patted Dean on the side of the face and gave him that weary, kind, whiskered smile—the same smile that until now had been gone forever. Dean felt himself becoming stronger in that moment as his uncle, who really played a role much closer to father, patted a couple more times gently. "We'll figure it out like we always do." And the way he said it, Dean could believe that. Bobby let go then looked around and dropped the chick-flick moment. "Now where's the whiskey? I've earned a round or five."

---

One Week Later

It was odd for Bobby Singer to suddenly be alive again after what had felt like a hundred years in Hell. He wasn't the same man as before, that was for damn sure, but what hadn't killed him had made him stronger… and a whole helluva lot more grateful, too. Before, his aging body had pissed him off and been complaint fodder. These days, he chuckled at those aches and pains. They were nothing compared to what he'd been through in Hades.

Shortly after arriving at the bunker, Dean had gotten a call from someone named Charlie—who turned out not to be a guy as Bobby had assumed, but a very red-headed woman who dressed in headache-inducing colors and liked to make references to things he'd never heard of before. She needed help with a case in the area and asked Sam and Dean's help. While Sam was too sick to really be of any use to anyone, Dean somewhat-grudgingly agreed to help out. Charlie spent half a day there in the bunker with them before she and Dean headed out to do some ground-level work. Sam wasn't happy to be left behind and called 'practically useless.' In typical Winchester stubbornness, he snuck out when Bobby fell asleep watching trashy reality television. Bobby missed exactly what happened, but it ended up being a djinn that had been causing ruckus nearby. And the boys took care of it like they always did then Charlie left. Bobby decided he liked that Charlie kid and she even gave him a hug then said he was just like she'd imagined from the books. When he asked what books, the boys clammed up and got real unsure about explaining what she'd meant. They still hadn't told him what that meant.

That had been a few days ago. That brought them up to now. After Charlie left, Dean and Sam set to work calling around and checking with various hunters for any sign or word from their sister. They even cautiously tried a couple of tracking spells from one of Jamie's spellbooks that Dean had kept—but only scorched their faces in the attempt. Bobby, who had heard the full story of how Alex lost her memory, feared that she was running around out there not knowing who she was this entire time. Which could be possibly the most dangerous scenario… or maybe even the safest. But whatever was happening with her, the rift between the brothers was palatable. Sure, they loved and cared about each other. But everything going on with them was driving them apart instead of pulling them together. Dean was bitter with Sam's little detour into irresponsibility with Amelia; Sam was emotionally lashed and didn't need any more reminding of his errors. And damn if there wasn't a huge burden on his shoulders now.

Bobby had his disappointments with both of the boys, but he was siding with Sam on this one. Closing Hell was a big deal and needed to be done. They might not ever get a chance like this again. Dean's growing doubts and misgivings about the trials weren't helping Sam, who needed support right now, especially with his sister absent. They kept civil, but Bobby counted the days until they blew up at each other.

Sure enough, early on a Tuesday morning, Bobby heard shouting and went to investigate. As he got closer to where the boys were going at it, he started to catch words better and better. "Well I don't even know if you should be doing this at all!" He heard Dean's unmistakably deep, gruff voice practically shout.

"You're just saying that because of Jamie!" Sam accused incredulously.

They stood in the middle of the hallway where the bedrooms were off of. Dean's anger tripled when Sam said Jamie's name. "Don't you fucking bring her into this, Sam!" There was a sound like shoving and then a pause in which the brothers panted heavily. Bobby remained hidden right behind the corner, unsure if he should intervene or just let them have it out. Sounded like it could get physical if they didn't get a grip. Dean grew several shades more desperate and Bobby could practically hear him throwing his hands out at Sam. "I mean look at yourself! You can't shoot, you sleep constantly, you're sicker and sicker every day…! This trial crap is killing you!"

"I'm fine, Dean!" Sam retorted in a snap, his tenor voice charged with anger and impatience. "I'm not made out of glass! So I'm a little worse for the wear, who cares?!" There was a heavy, short silence. Sam sounded more pleading when he spoke again, but still unmovable. Not about to change his mind. "I know how you felt about her, man, but I'm not seeing the alternatives here. I am closing Hell. I am doing these trials—and you need to stop trying to talk me out of them."

Dean's reply was immediate and hard. "I won't let you do these trials point blank, Sam, not if Jamie is in there when all this goes down!"

"Dean…" Sam warned.

Dean matched that warning tone exactly. "Sam…"

Bobby stepped out from where he'd been skulking and he folded his arms. "Boys," he said calmly. Realizing they weren't alone, the brothers were chastened. They quickly backed away from the chest-to-chest little stance they'd been in. "I need to send someone into a time out?" Bobby asked sarcastically.

The brothers exchanged a hard glance and then Sam apparently decided he'd had enough—he turned and left, stalking down the hallway in a huff, leaving Dean and Bobby to themselves. A little contrite, probably just because he was embarrassed, Dean's gaze stayed downcast as Bobby approached. "I know this ain't easy for you, Dean," Bobby said heavily as he got close. "Watchin' your little brother go through this while your sister's out in the wind. Knowin' your girl's in Hell where damn near no one ought to be. But think about all the people you'll be keepin' out of Hell when Sam does this. Think about all those souls you're gonna detour permanently." It was too bad about Jamie, it really was. A crying, damn shame. But one person couldn't be the reason Hell stayed open when they now had the chance to slam the gates forever.

Dean was a smart man—he already knew that, they both understood that he knew, too. But that didn't lessen his struggle. "I know Bobby, I know," he said, voice made slightly haggard by despair. "But I can't—" he tried to find a way to explain it. "The thought of her there kills me, okay? And I have to fight myself twenty-four-seven not to just… go down there myself and get her." His eyes were far off and terse. Kind of hopeless and blank. "Or die trying."

Bobby didn't want Dean to do something crazy like that, but he knew Dean to be a pretty headstrong guy who would risk life and limb for the people he loved. So he didn't try to talk Dean out of it, per say. "I know you do. So if you're gonna try'n get her, then, hell. Do it. Today. Yesterday." Dean looked at Bobby in the eye, clearly startled at his uncle's callout. "But decide. And quit takin' all this out on your brother." Bobby contemplated Dean a minute longer. With someone actually telling him to do it—go to Hell and try to get his girl—Dean didn't seem to know how to react. And Bobby thought he knew why. "I know you really care about that girl. But are you really gonna do this to Sam? Leave him all alone to save everyone when you gave him all hell for doing the same thing to Alex?" The guilt that washed Dean's face pale at those words. Bobby knew what he was doing: making Dean face this dilemma of who did he care about more, Sam or Jamie? His brother or his lover? A question that left Dean looking pained and uncomfortable. Bobby sighed weightily. This wasn't easy. "Dean, we both know there's a damn good chance you'd never walk out if you go down there. And you and I both know Sam needs you right now."

Dean shook his head 'no' faintly and gave a feeble, "Sam's a grown ass man, Bobby."

Well sure he was. But… "Doesn't change the fact that he needs his brother." A gentle reminder of something that would be true forever. Bobby grasped Dean's shoulder, demanding the hunter's gaze. "Now listen," he said levelly and firmly. It was tough love time. And Dean needed a lot of it right now. "I love ya, Dean. A whole mess. But this is just how it is. I'm not gonna sugarcoat it. You gotta decide what to do here. Can't keep wafflin' back and forth and rockin' the whole boat while you go back and forth. If you're against this closin' Hell thing, decide. And if you're gonna stand with Sam… decide." He paused for emphasis. "Decide. Then quit bellyachin' and follow through and let that be the end of it."

Dean looked twelve years old again. Like he might cry. "I can't pick between them, Bobby," he choked out in a terrible, soft whisper. "I can't." Bobby's heart broke for the kid and he didn't say it. But they both knew. Dean had to.

Just then, Sam reappeared—and from the look on his face, something was wrong. "Guys. I just… I just got a message from Kevin," he announced in a winded, gutted voice.

Dean was puzzled. "Well that's good news, right?" he asked cautiously.

Drawn and grim, Sam shook his head, eyes falling away tellingly. "No."

---

Five Days Later
Route 34, Colorado

Kevin had created a video that sent out to the Winchesters if he failed to reset a certain password. The only scenario he said that this would happen in was if he were dead. So by process of elimination, Kevin was dead. It was the final, crushing blow to Dean, who of course felt he had failed to protect who and what he should have protected. While he went stone-cold silent and for a moment gave up on everything, Sam discovered that Kevin had also forwarded over all of his notes on the demon tablet. With careful consideration and sensitivity, Sam went to his hopeless brother and appealed to him—saying that because Kevin had died to get these notes to them, his death had to count for something. That they couldn't give up now, and this was something worth fighting for. He needed Dean now. Those words were the ones that really seemed to break through to the oldest Winchester. Dean squared his shoulders and said okay. And with that, they got to work.

Bobby made copies of all Kevin's notes and headed south to Louisiana where he knew someone who might have some insights—someone who apparently never used technology of any sort and only did face-to-face dealings. The boys stayed at the bunker and continued to read the notes and use the internet to try and decipher anything they could use. On day two of note reading, Sam noticed that there was a recurring symbol in the notes. He said it appeared to be Metatron's signature—Metatron as in the scribe and messenger of God. Sam had seen the symbol in a course he took at Stanford on Native American art. It was a petroglyph, and upon further research, Sam discovered that it was from a tribe in Colorado called the Two Rivers—a tribe that further reading revealed was protected by 'the messenger of God.' Sounded like a solid lead. As such, the brothers left almost immediately to track down the Two Rivers tribe and try to find this supposed messenger of God.

When the Winchesters checked into the small, deserted hotel off of Route 34 that was close to the Two Rivers reservation, Sam's condition began to rapidly, inexplicably deteriorate. He developed a fever, started to hear noises, and began seeing vivid, disconnected flashbacks of his childhood. He began to remember things he had forgotten completely, he began to get so sick that he couldn't walk straight. After he became increasingly feverish, Dean basically put him into their motel room and said to get some rest—and that he was going to do some checking around while Sam recovered.

Sam passed out and fell asleep, then woke up in delirium an indiscriminate amount of time later and wandered out of his room, seeing a bunch of books being delivered to a room down the hallway. He felt it inside of himself—Metatron was close. And with that thought in mind, he stumbled back to his room, of the mind to call Dean—but then he collapsed on the bed and decided Dean could wait. Sam instead did something he wouldn't have done if he was in his right mind: called Molly. Totally loopy, seeing double, so hot he felt like he was floating, he laid on his bed and sweated on his phone and groaned dramatically when he got her voicemail message. Dammit. Where are you? And then he realized he was hearing her recorded voice and he forgot to complain. "Hi, you've reached Molly's phone. Um so leave a message and I'll call you back when I can. Thank you bye!"

She sounded so cute and Sam smiled up at the ceiling woozily, picturing her face, then realized the beep had sounded some time ago. This was where he was supposed to talk. "Hi, um, Molly." He paused, trying to piece words together. His mouth didn't even feel like it was part of his body anymore and his head spun around in huge, looping circles. He said the first thing that popped into his head: "Your name is pretty. I feel like… uhhh, hot in my head and super bad so… I dunno, yeah, I was thinking about you like I always do and wanted to caaaall…" he winced and made a face, hit himself in the forehead. "Uh—probably shouldn't have said that, ha. I'm dumb." It was so hot. He couldn't think straight. The pattern of furs and paintings lining the wall opposite his bed were making him so dizzy. Black and white stripes made him recall a day when he'd been happy for once in his life. "Hey, when we went to the zoo, remember the zebras?" he asked, smiling all goofy as he remembered that date with her and how good it had felt to just be… normal. Buying lunch and checking out all the animals and being playful like a regular couple on a regular weekend date. "Man, like zebras are cool right?" He frowned in deep thought, suddenly very, very curious about one important thing. "I wonder if you can ride them like horses…" He thought he'd seen that in a movie once.

But who cares about zebras? I wish Molly could know the truth.

He stopped talking for a long moment and suddenly wanted to confess everything. How much he liked her. How much he wanted to really pursue her and be with her, or try to. How much he wanted to skip this awkward dance of texting and calling and hanging out sometimes. How if it were up to him, they'd still be going steady. He tried to get the courage up even as his fever rendered him queasy. "Molly… I, I think you're…" Sam trailed off as he realized his ears were ringing and his vision was going black. It dawned on him, what was going to happen to him: "about to pass out," he mumbled, lurching to his feet to try and stay conscious. Huh. Why is the floor coming up towards my face so fast? And that was the last he remembered of that.

When he became aware of himself again, every inch felt frozen and stinging, so cold. Like he was drowning in a frost that permeated everything. For a brief second, he panicked. This was how it had felt to be possessed by Lucifer. Every worst fear he had managed to hide away barreled over him and he panicked, jumped, and then realized he was underwater. He shoved himself upward, breaking the icy surface with the deepest, loudest gasp he had drawn into his lungs in his life. All around him, ice cubes floated and sloshed.

"Take it easy, take it easy!" someone said. Shaky and petrified and so cold, Sam looked through half-cocked vision toward the voice. Dean was trying to steady him. And Sam realized he was sitting in the claw-foot tub of their motel room bathroom.

"Get off, get off!" Sam protested, then hauled himself out of the frozen waters. He stumbled to his feet, shivering and dripping wet.

"Found you on the floor passed out, temperature at a hundred and seven," Dean explained gruffly even as he put a towel around Sam's shoulders. He looked vaguely ill with extreme worry. "You okay?"

"No, I—" Sam stopped, remembering those books he'd seen being delivered to the room down the hall. He had felt a presence. Felt it now, too. Stronger than before. And he knew who it was. "He's here, Dean," Sam said in mounting alarm. Metatron. Sam wasn't sure how he knew… but he knew. He could hear him somehow.

"What are you talkin' about?" Dean asked, probably thinking Sam was talking out of his fever.

"I mean he's here!" As Dean tried to get a straight answer from his brother, as Sam rambled on and on about Metatron and the books he'd seen delivered and how he knew what he was talking about, Sam looked around for his phone, which had slid underneath the bed. He found a bunch of worried texts and missed calls from Molly. Stuff like are you okay? Where are you? Sam I'm worried, please tell me you're okay. So he hadn't made that up about calling her. Not sure how to respond, Sam sent a quick text that said he was okay, then decided to let the rest wait for later. He tossed his phone at the bed and stood up, still shivering violently. He lurched toward the door out of the room, dripping. In his mind, nothing was currently more important than finding Metatron and getting these trials done. His mind's eye spun with childhood memories, with hopes and dreams, with the need to prove himself and be the hero for once.

"Sam, what are you—"

"Just shut up, Dean!" Sam said, clutching the wall for support and then opening the door clumsily and working his way out of the room.

"I should be taking you to the emergency room," Dean muttered, shaking his head and following with disapproval.

"They can't do anything for me," Sam said, limping along the hallway wall at a slow, drunken pace. He felt pleasantly delirious as images of his childhood and teenage years surged through his mind in renewed detail. "You know, I've been remembering things, little things, so clearly—"

"What, donkey rides?" Dean asked sarcastically. Earlier, Sam had been quite the storyteller.

Sam barely heard him—he was remembering something new. "You used to read to me and Alex, um, when we were little, I—I mean, really really little, from that—from that old, uh…" what was it called? "Classics Illustrated comic book!" Sam grinned, and the effect was a little garish because of his pale skin and red-ringed eyes. "You remember that?" Sam could recall it perfectly: he and Alex had cuddled up against Dean on either side as their big brother had spent hours reading about grown up heroes and the adventures they went on.

Dean looked a little doubtful of Sam's sanity. "…No. I don't remember that."

"Knights of the Round Table," Sam said dreamily, because he remembered it perfectly now without explanation. "Had all of King Arthur's knights, and they were all on the quest for the Holy Grail. And I remember looking at this picture of Sir Galahad, and, and, and he was kneeling, and—" Sam stopped walking and began to mime for effect, "and light streaming over his face, and—I remember... thinking, uh, I could never go on a quest like that." His smile and fondness was disappearing as he felt it in his bones. What had been a good memory was suddenly so sour. "Because I'm not clean." Mystified, troubled, Sam wondered why a child would feel like that. "I mean, I w—I was just a little kid." He paused and then a sick possibility struck him deeply. "You think... maybe I knew?" he asked in a whisper. "I mean, deep down, that—I had…" his face contorted with loathing, "demon blood in me? And about the evil of it, and that I'm not—wasn't pure?" Sam had never felt good but he'd always wanted to be. It was like there was a disease inside of him that would never die and let him be who he needed to be.

Dean's reply was typical and refrained from really answering at all. "Sam… that wasn't your fault."

Sam laughed that off. He felt on the edge of losing his sanity. "It doesn't matter anymore," he said, shaking his finger at Dean. "Because these trials... they're purifying me." That explained this terrible emotional anguish and physical weakness. The darkness inside had to be burned away before he could do something so profoundly righteous. Delirious and mentally foggy but feeling newly confident of why he was suffering, Sam smiled weakly even as his eyes pricked with tears.

"…Purifying you," Dean commented, his eyes sweeping over Sam doubtfully. "Right."

"I'm serious, Dean," Sam insisted tremulously. He indicated himself with a good amount of loathing. He thought of everything dirty and wrong and twisted he had ever done. It had scarred him. "Everything inside of me. It's… it's dark. Bad. I'm a bad person."

Dean looked tired beyond belief. "No you're not, Sam," he said wearily, knowing nothing of Sam's inner battles.

Images from a nightmare he had never shared with anyone flashed through Sam's mind at sickening speed—Lucifer, in his body, doing unimaginable things to his twin sister. Sam's stomach turned as he remembered that vision in perfect, petrifying detail whether he wanted to or not. And hallucinations that ashamed and terrified him swept across his mind without permission. Somehow, he felt like he was to blame for all of that—and knew that if either of his siblings ever found out about the things he'd seen and felt, the things he'd seen himself do… they would never speak to him ever again. They would shut him out completely.

Sam's voice caught on a thick throat. "You wouldn't say that if you knew." His eyes were bleary with hot tears. And he turned around and led the way down the hall at a stagger, hating himself and hoping he was right. That these trials were purifying him and burning away the parts of himself that made him more of a monster than anything else.

---

Later
Biggerson's
Santa Fe, New Mexico

Castiel cycled through the locations endlessly, again and again, hundreds of them. His face was like a mask.

Bangor, Maine. Lincoln, Nebraska. Reno, Nevada. Atlanta, Georgia. Chicago, Illinois. Santa Fe, New Mexico.

And then… he stopped. The tabletop he stared down at bore a harsh smear of bright red. Human blood. Immediately horrified—something was wrong—Cas looked up, his veins sinking in dread. Where there should have been happy, bustling tablefuls of customers, there were dead bodies and carnage. Blood spilled out onto the slate tile flooring and not a single person appeared to have been spared. Servers, staff, and patrons alike were brutally murdered and littering the restaurant like trash. No! Why?

And then… "You have to stop," came a soft, tearful voice. Breathless and dismayed, Castiel looked at the source of the sound and saw Kara nearby. The kind server who had always engaged him in conversation. "You have to stop," she whimpered softly. "They said you have to stop."

"No," Castiel exclaimed softly, already picking his way through the dead toward her. Kara's eyes were burned out—an angel had clearly done it.

"You have to stop," she croaked again, seemingly on repeat. Who had to stop? Filled with compassion and fury all at once, Castiel sank down in front of where the delirious she was slumped. He reached out to heal her. And then, before he could touch her… behind him—a presence. And at his neck, an angel blade. Immediately realizing what this was—a trap—Castiel stood slowly, his blood beating hot and furious. These people, dead because of Naomi. He already knew she was behind this even before he turned to see the one holding him captive was Ion, one of her right-hands.

"Why have you done this?" Castiel growled even as Ion reached into his trench coat and confiscated his blade, rendering him weaponless. Ion and another angel who Castiel did not know yanked him over to a chair.

"Sit down," Ion said quietly, and Castiel did as told slowly, eyeing the angel blade in his brother's hand closely as Ion tucked the stolen blade away.

The sound of angel's wings fluttered through the air and Naomi appeared. She looked very, very angry. "Ah, Castiel," she greeted tightly, then indicated the massacre all around. "Do you see what you made me do?" He darkened more and more. He had made her do nothing.

Kara whimpered nearby. "You have to stop," she whispered through frightened tears. "You have to st—" And Naomi snapped her fingers harshly, breaking the woman's neck without remorse.

"Can't hear myself think," Naomi seethed, pacing in front of Castiel and looking at him as if he were the one who had forced her hand.

Staring at her with utmost contempt, Castiel tried to calculate if he would be able to steal back his blade and attack her before Ion or the other angel managed to stop or kill him. "We were supposed to be their shepherds, not their murderers!"

"Not always, angel," Naomi said in cool hostility. "There was that day, back in Egypt, not so long ago, where we slew every first-born infant whose door wasn't splashed with lamb's blood." A haughty, icy little smile crossed her face. "And that was just PR."

Disgusting, how she spoke of it so heartlessly. "Well I wasn't there," Castiel said defiantly. He had never and would never advocate for genocide or murder of humans. He had always been against it. Always.

"Oh, you were there," Naomi said triumphantly, making his stomach jolt. "You just don't remember it."

A ripple of fear came over Castiel. This went deeper than he thought, maybe. "How—how many times have you torn into my head and washed it clean?" he demanded, afraid of the answer.

"Frankly? Too damn many." She snapped her fingers with a snarling expression and a chair slid over to her. She sat in it across from him. "You're the famous spanner in the works," she accused, eyes calculating him coldly. "Honestly, I think you came off the line with a crack in your chassis. You have never done what you were told. Not completely." Castiel remained outwardly defiant as she looked at him with contempt and disgust. "You don't even die right, do you? And now your obsession with this human girl. What is wrong with you?"

Unwaveringly, Castiel looked into her eyes. "Nothing is wrong with me."

Naomi's eyebrows shot up high and she laughed weakly, shaking her head like he was unbelievable. "You are a lunatic. I thought I could restore you but I don't think that anymore. You are truly a lost cause. A shame to the name of angel you carry. You are disobedient and selfish. Deluded. Defective."

Her insults did little to Cas's spirit. He didn't really care what she said. He had his own convictions now—his own ideals that had developed as he had taken steps into free will. "My eyes have been opened, Naomi," he replied gruffly. "I refuse to blindly follow the will of Heaven ever again. None of us should. We were given minds for a reason. To use them." He glanced at the angels on either side of him and hoped they would see that Naomi was dangerous and that her willingness to slaughter humans was wrong.

"Enough of this blasphemy," Naomi snapped, leaning forward and glaring at the angel with eyes like daggers. "Where is the angel tablet, Castiel?"

He would never tell her. And if she knew that it was right in front of her, she would have felt like such a fool. As such, the smallest little smile crossed Castiel's face as he looked down at his lap and contemplated his words for a moment. "As my wife might say…" his eyes raised into hers and he felt a certain sense of satisfaction take over as he spat out words he normally didn't use. "You can fuck off." Castiel enjoyed the immediate look of shocked anger Naomi displayed when he used that phrase.

She stood up and straightened her jacket with a yank. "You'll regret this, Castiel," she promised stiffly, then looked at the first of the two angels who flanked him in his chair. "Go. Search all these Biggerson's. He must have hidden it along the way." She looked at the other angel. "And you. Find his human. Bring her here." The angels disappeared with their orders. And Naomi arched an eyebrow at Castiel. He had stiffened when she told one of her henchmen to go get Alex. He knew she was safe and hidden in the bunker, but still. "I know how to make you suffer, Castiel," Naomi said softly. Castiel bristled, not even wanting anyone to think about touching his Alex. Naomi leaned closer maliciously. "And I promise. It will be so much worse this time." He met her stare with sheer animosity and Naomi eyed Castiel with a slow, smug smile. "In the meantime… why don't we see how well you bleed." She hauled back and punched him in the face, cracking bones and shattering his vision, causing blood to river out of his nose.

Several hours later, the first angel returned. Castiel was slumped in the chair—bloody and bruised and half-conscious from Naomi's beatings.

"Well?" Naomi asked her angel.

He shook his head somberly. "I can't find the girl. I looked everywhere."

Castiel raised his blood-splattered chin in a feeble defiance as reassurance coursed through him. "I made arrangements," he said, feeling renewed strength inside. "You won't be able to hold her over my head again, Naomi. She's somewhere safe."

Naomi was intensely grated that her plan wasn't coming to fruition. "Why must you be so difficult?" she demanded.

Castiel shook his head. "I just want to be left in peace," he said truthfully, tasting the blood in his mouth more clearly when he spoke. "I want nothing to do with Heaven anymore."

Naomi studied him piously. "You really think you're one of them, don't you?" She sauntered a little closer. "You will never be a human, Castiel," she promised. "Not fully. Even if I ripped your Grace out of you right now, you would be as flawed a human as you are an angel. Never truly belonging. I suppose that's a theme for you, isn't it?"

At that moment, Ion reappeared. He was the one who had been directed to find the tablet. "I've been all over each restaurant," he reported grimly. "It's not there."

Frustrated at the dead ends, Naomi began to lose her edge. "Why?" she asked Castiel. "Why are you doing this? I tire of your foolishness, Castiel. Let us put the tablet back where it should be! In Heaven!"

Castiel shook his head. Every action hurt. "No. I need to protect it."

"From the angels?" Naomi asked, as if that were the most ludicrous thing she could conceive of.

Trying not to breathe too deeply because his ribs had been broken during her punishment, Castiel shook his head shallowly. He felt so exhausted and damaged. "From everyone."

Naomi narrowed her eyes at him dangerously. "I'm just going to have to pull you apart, aren't I?"

He met her gaze steadily, just glad that no one he loved had been dragged into this scenario. He would take the pain gladly. "Do what you will to me," he said in a near growl.

And then, out of nowhere, a gunshot rang out and one of Naomi's angels fell over dead even as Ion was shot in the arm and fell back. Hand on his hurt ribs, Cas panted and looked sidelong at the shooter. A man in a sharp, elegant suit. He smirked leisurely. "Naomi, darling. Miss me?" Crowley asked, enjoying her shock.

Twirling his weapon and waggling his eyebrows at her suggestively, the King of Hell was not disappointed: his opponent immediately fled, just as he had obviously intended. Still, he cracked a joke. "Goodness me, not even a hello. My feelings are hurt," he said softly, chuckling to himself. He sauntered around to stand in front of Castiel. "Hi Cas," he greeted ominously. "Like my new toy?" He glanced over at the dead angel nearby. "Melted down angel blade. Does the trick in a pinch, I'd say." Castiel glanced at Ion, who was standing slowly and holding his injured arm but doing nothing else. Why had Crowley missed? And why was Ion not running away? And then, Castiel understood. Crowley chuckled again. "That's right, buddy. I got me an angel on the payroll." He abruptly raised his gun, aimed, and ruthlessly shot Castiel in the stomach.

"Ah!" Pain exploded as the angel-blade bullet ripped skin and did immediate damage. Groaning in agony, Cas slumped in his chair, almost at the point of unconsciousness.

Crowley looked at Ion, who was apparently a traitor to Heaven. "You. Grab him and follow me." And with that, Crowley strutted off toward the back of the restaurant. Ion hauled an agonized, disoriented Castiel to his feet and dragged him along. They went into the manager's office where Crowley took a seat at the leather chair of the boss's desk as Ion shoved Castiel down into the chair across. "I know you're wondering what little ole me is doing showing up unannounced," Crowley began loftily. "Just wanted to take a moment away from the main action to chat with my old business partner." He twirled his firearm with a pompous little smile as Castiel clutched a hand to his bleeding stomach and struggled to stay cognizant. "I assume you won't die just yet. Takes a painful long time to bleed out from the gut." He winked salaciously, enjoying Castiel's pain.

"You can do whatever you want, Crowley," Castiel said stiffly. In a way, this pain and suffering felt fitting after everything he had let happen. "I will never tell you where I buried the tablet."

Interested, Crowley leaned across the desk. "Oh, I can do whatever I want?" he asked, eyes sparkling wickedly. "And what if I were to threaten to torture your little wife in front of you, hmm?" He leaned back again, basking in what he clearly felt to be triumph. "I bet you get very talkative indeed."

Castiel managed the smallest and most cynical smiles. "She's with her brothers," he said sharply in slight triumph of his own. "You can't touch her. This is between you and me."

Crowley grinned slowly, as if he found something quite thrilling. And then he laughed low and slow. "Wrong," he purred, then tutted and sighed. "Oh, Cas. Afraid you're just a bit behind on the story. Alex Winchester is… how do I put this? A permanent house guest in a little place I like to call Hell."

His senses all reacted at the same time. What?! Castiel tried not to show his immediate dismay. Crowley was surely just attempting to manipulate and trick him. She couldn't be there. She was at the bunker. Sam and Dean were there with her. She had promised not to leave the bunker until Cas returned. Crowley was just trying to get a rise. There was no reason for her to be there. "You're lying," Castiel spat, but he trembled.

Crowley remained the picture of casual confidence. "You wish, flyboy," he said, then wiggled his eyebrows. "Let me paint you a picture. Desperate and alone, the youngest Winchester calls out to the dark, mysterious, and arguably sexy King of Hell in the absence of her husband and big brother Dean. You see, a year or so ago, brother Sam was just a little… indisposed and Uncle Bobby, well, he was quite dead. And so with no other choice and no other means of saving the day… well. Mrs. Castiel sold her soul." Castiel's heart, which had begun to beat harder and faster, was practically jackhammering now. No. No. It couldn't be true. Crowley's slow, greedy grin was devouring his whole face. "Sealed with a kiss," he taunted in a voice that dripped with suggestion. "And what a kiss it was…" as Castiel grew more and more furious, Crowley got more and more into mocking the angel. "That little minx, ooh, she's a tasty one isn't she?" he asked, then bit his bottom lip briefly. "Think she liked locking lips with a demon, if I'm being honest…" Castiel suddenly attempted to leap out of his chair—only to be slammed back into it by Ion. Crowley laughed openly. "Have I touched a nerve?" he asked, then lowered his voice to the darkest and deepest octave there was. "That's not all I've touched."

Ion had to hold Castiel back with all of his strength—and even so injured and weakened, Castiel made it difficult for Ion to do so effectively. "You're lying!" he shouted, red in the face.

Crowley stood and instead of playful and mocking, he became dark and nasty. "Why do you think, sweetie, you haven't heard a peep out of her, hmm?" he asked sharply, rounding the desk and bearing down on a struggling Castiel. "Maybe because I made sure she couldn't, ever think of that?" Cas went still. It made terrible sense. And nearly sick to the point of vomiting Cas looked up in sheer terror at Crowley. Father in Heaven, how long has he had her? How did this happen? Why didn't she tell me?! Oh, Alex… no…

"Call it payback for that little reach-around back in the day, Cas buddy," Crowley said soft and low. "The one where you screwed me over and went back on our deal. No one double-crosses the King without paying dearly." He gloated, coming closer and closer. "Alex Winchester is burning in Hell as we speak, suffering for all eternity alone, crying out for an angel who will never be able to reach her ever again. Such tragedy."

Rage gave Castiel another burst of adrenaline-fueled strength and he bucked against Ion's hold to no avail—all along the walls of the office, books vibrated on the shelves and some fell off as Castiel's rage manifested and grew. Crowley chuckled, not intimidated in the least. "Goodness you're adorable when you're angry," he commented mildly, then made a brushing-off motion with his hand. "Now, enough about what's-her-name. I think I know exactly where you've hidden that tablet." His eyes dropped to the bullet would he'd inflicted. "Somewhere… in plain sight. Now. Gimme."

Without warning, Crowley leaned down and thrust his hand into Castiel's bullet wound. Screams of pain escaped the angel's mouth as the demon dug around and found what had been hidden there. The King of Hell pulled the stone out roughly, tearing more skin as he did so. "Ha ha!" Crowley whooped, eyeing the bloody tablet with glee as Cas, overcome with physical shock and pain, slumped in his chair with glazed eyes. Victorious, Crowley was all grins. "Nice doing business with you," he said to Cas, deeply pleased. "Shall I tell the wife you said hello?" He smirked and delivered some final news with a very falsely regretful drama. "I'm afraid to tell you… think it's time you got killed off for good and stopped messing up my jive. So, what message would you like me to convey to your dearly beloved, hm?" Breathless, feeling close to death, Cas looked up at Crowley in sheer dismay. No. This couldn't be the end. He refused for it to end like this. And just then, the demon's cell phone began to ring and he held up a finger. "Ah. Hold that thought." He pressed his phone to his ear. "This is the king!" he answered breezily, then listened. His happy expression fell slightly then he glanced at Ion and then hung up. "This will have to wait." He took the bloody tablet and then looked at Cas darkly. "Don't go anywhere, aye?" And the king disappeared, leaving the two angels in silence.

Panting against wave after wave of pain and weakness, Cas looked at his brother angel without understanding. "Why, Ion?" he asked weakly.

A dark glance came his way. "Just be quiet," Ion said.

Castiel knew it was a long shot, but he still tried. "Ion, brother—please—"

"Don't, Castiel," Ion said coldly, walking off a few steps to look out of the nearby window. "I've chosen a side and it's not yours."

So distressed he could barely function, Castiel resorted to begging. "My wife is—you heard him—she needs me, please, just let me go and I'll—"

Ion turned and gave Castiel a dark, angry look. "You'll what?" He scoffed and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Castiel. I know what you can do and have done to our kind." He sounded angry about it, too. "How you choose humans over us every time. Forgive me, but I have no interest anymore in anything but my own fate." He turned and looked out the window again, trusting that Castiel, injured and weak and defenseless, would stay where he was. Ion grew depressed and morose. "Nothing that happens here matters," he announced dourly.

While Ion waxed philosophical, Castiel, a desperate man, did what he had to do to escape the second he realized he had to do this by himself. Without a second thought, he plunged his own hand into his wound and did not let out the screams he wanted to as he dug out the bullet that had inflicted the damage. With trembling, bloody fingers, he drew out the piece of metal and stood silently, channeling all of his celestial intent into strength. He slid up behind Ion, shaking like a leaf. "It all matters," he growled.

Startled, Ion whirled. Ready for that, Castiel struck Ion across the face with all the strength he had left and when Ion fell onto his back, Castiel lurched over him and slammed the bullet into Ion's eye, killing him in a blaze of light. Out of breath, Castiel snatched his blade back, then limped away and disappeared into thin air. Ungracefully, he raggedly flew from there to Lebanon, Kansas, half-crazed and in bad physical condition from the torture. He crash landed hard in the middle of a road somewhere adjacent to the bunker—and then squinted as incredibly harsh headlights suddenly bore down on him from nowhere.

---

The Impala streaked along the back road fast under the cover of night. Dean talked into his phone while his other hand clenched the wheel hard. "Yeah, Bobby, we're almost back. Uh huh. Kevin's alive, yeah, you heard me right. Yeah, sure did, got the third trial. You ready for this? We gotta cure a demon, whatever the hell that means." He let out a little laugh and nodded. "Yeah I know. Hey, we'll catch up later, okay? Battery's almost dead. Yup. You too." He ended the call and tossed his phone haphazardly, glancing over at Sam in slight agitation. "Dude, what does that even mean, cure a demon? Psh."

Sam sat up straighter, eyes growing wider as he looked at the road ahead. "Whoa whoa whoa, hey!" he yelled.

Dean slammed on the brakes as a man-sized object fell out of the sky and impacted the road just ahead. The squealing brakes screamed as the car jerked to a shuddering halt. Dean threw the car into park and was already jumping out, just like Sam… because they recognized the object that had just crashed-landed in front of them.

"Cas?!" Dean jogged a little faster than Sam did, getting there first. "Oh my god, what happened to you?"

The angel was by all appearances mortally wounded, covered in blood. Cas was already struggling to his feet, drunk or injured or maybe both. He completely ignored Dean and brushed past him and Sam almost angrily.

"Cas, talk to me!" Dean demanded, more and more alarmed.

"Be quiet, Dean!" The angel snapped. He staggered toward the wood-line at the edge of the road, going as fast as his injuries would let him.

Confounded at the rudeness and blood, Dean stared, his expression falling. "What the—what's going on Cas?" he asked, getting really scared really fast at the odd behavior.

"Where are you going?" Sam added, worry coloring his voice as he tagged along after Cas closely.

Castiel did not stop walking for a minute. "Your sister—she—ah!" He paused slightly, breathing hard and having to lean all his weight onto his knee briefly. "This is where it happened, I think." He stood straight and began to lurch forward again, soldiering through his pain.

"Where what happened?" Dean asked imperatively, on Cas's heels and getting more and more freaked out.

Cas whirled furiously and said the last thing either brother had expected to hear. "She sold her soul!" the angel shouted.

Gone still, both brothers stared in immediate horror. Dean was the one who found his voice first with an incredulous, denial riddled, "What?"

"She's in Hell, Dean!" Castiel seethed. "Hell. And this is where she was taken. I can feel it." He let out a strange, pained sound. "I'm such a fool—" he stared at the clearing ahead and grew still and almost afraid, which was even more unsettling than his anger. "Don't follow me," he warned lowly, "I... don't think you'll like what you see." He disappeared completely, leaving two very shocked brothers.

"Cas? Cas!" Dean shouted.

"S-sold her soul?" Sam asked, and he was colorless and barely breathing. "Is… is that why Bobby…?"

Oh god. Dean's face fell. It all suddenly made perfect, terrible sense and Dean looked like he was going to vomit. His entire world was shattered in the worst of ways as he realized, for nearly a month now, Alex hadn't been missing because she ran away, but because she had been taken. And burning in Hell while they had done nothing. "Oh Alex no," he whispered, then abruptly began crashing through the trees and toward the open field.

Right behind him, Sam followed at a run, trying to grab and hold his brother back. "Dean, don't!" he shouted.

"Don't tell me what to do!" Dean yelled, ripping out of his brother's hands senselessly. He didn't know what he thought he would find. But if he had known, he wouldn't have gone there. When he saw one of Alex's converse shoes with holes torn by teeth in it, when he saw a half-rotted, shredded jacket smeared into the muddy ground further off, when he caught a glimpse of shapes that looked much too much like human bones, he fell back and down with a sound of utter despair as it became cold, hard, terrible reality. He almost lost his mind in pure grief and terror. And then someone caught him. Sam crouched and grabbed him hard, turning Dean fast, almost cradling him—forcing him not to look. Sam kept his eyes on his brother's shoulder purposefully, but he was shaking so hard he could barely breathe. He had seen everything Dean saw.

"Oh my god, oh my god," Dean choked, staring at his sister's destroyed shoe in utter horror. "How did I not know?" he clenched onto Sam with fingers like vices.

"I was there," Sam whispered, and he was starting to cry. "I was there and so was she?" Guilt and terror alike made his voice crack then break completely. He had been in Hell and hadn't known, even for a second, that his sister was there. "How did this happen?"

Dean sobbed out a terrible sound and clutched Sam harder. For a long, terrible moment the brothers waited like that. And then the ground shook. Both brothers went still and silent, hopeful and scared. The ground rumbled again, harder this time, and slowly, cautiously, they got to their feet, holding onto each other for balance.

And then, about ten feet off, the ground exploded in a furious plume of dirt and embers that floated down and turned to charred ash. A hand shot out of the little crater that had just been created and barely recognizable, Cas dragged himself out of the ground with one arm and hand, his back mostly to them. He was literally smoking, ashy and black, blood still shining on him from before. Parts of his trench coat had burned away. But the boys weren't as interested in Castiel as what he had with him. As he collapsed down onto his back, they saw a smaller figure that was also charred and sooty. She had her back curled into his chest where she'd been held tightly, and where his hands had been, her clothing was singed away. She rolled off of him with a loud gasp and cough, catching herself on all fours. She seemed disoriented and dazed, and they couldn't see her face—was it really her? The brothers, frozen in place for the briefest and most scared second, stared. "Al?" Dean asked, a soft, heartbroken question.

She looked up. And it was her. And more than that, she knew them again—it was clear as day. "Oh my god," she whispered and it was apparent that that was the moment she realized she was no longer in Hell. And even as her brothers were rushing over to her, she pushed herself up with surprising speed and practically crashed into them, sobbing out their names in relief and holding them so tight it hurt. He didn't know what was going on—he had a million questions—but for the moment, Dean held her as hard as he could and didn't even care about how smoky her hair was in his nose or how dirty his fingers would be from clenching into her ashy jacket or hair. Sam, owner of the longest arms in the Winchester family, was hugging them both and crying uncharacteristically hard into the top of his sister's head. For a very long moment, they all held on tight, afraid to let go.

Finally, Dean loosened his arms after gaining some composure. Sam remained latched onto Alex as Dean tried to get a look at her. She looked like herself, if a much grayer version than usual. "Are you okay?" he asked, beside himself and still in complete shock. She'd been down there so long. So long.

"I'm okay," she confirmed, nodding and pressing a smile onto her harried face.

But Dean thought of the rack and the torture he knew she must have been through and he broke again. "Jesus Christ, no you're not," he said, his voice choking as he touched her face and then held on, wishing so bad he had known. He knew Sam was the same.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered, probably thinking the same things Dean was. "I was there and I didn't get you, I didn't know."

Alex looked up at her twin, whose face was tear-stained and so guilty. "What do you mean?" she asked softly, worried about him. He shook his head wordlessly and hugged her to his chest close, shuddering a little from deep emotion.

Dean finally glanced over at Cas, who was remarkably quiet. He was sitting like a rag-doll on the ground, on the side of one of his legs, and he looked absolutely drained and destroyed… like he might pass out at any moment—but a soft, content smile rested on his face as he watched Alex with Sam.

"Cas?" Dean chanced, owing more to this angel than he could ever repay. "Y-you okay?"

Cas's gaze wandered to Dean very slowly and his body gave a woozy little rocking motion. "I'm…" he said, then his face screwed up oddly. He apparently had nothing left. He pitched as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed down onto his back, totally unconscious.

Alex immediately tore out of her twin's arms and ran to Cas, dropping to her knees beside him. "Cas? Cas!" She checked his pulse and let out a shaky sigh. "Alive," she breathed out, but she didn't seem any less worried and she started checking him for injuries.

Dean and Sam were close behind her. And that's when they realized… Alex wasn't the only one who had been dragged out of Hell. A dark, charred lump laid on the ground beside Castiel. A tall, solid man, it appeared. He currently laid motionless and unconscious on his face.

Dean hesitated, then turned the man over by his shoulder, for a second believing that a demon or a stranger had somehow latched onto Cas and Alex. And then he stood back in utter shock, his breath gone as if he had been punched in the gut. "What the hell?" he breathed. How was this possible?

Beside him, Sam let out a soft little exhale of shocked air. "…Dad?"