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Chapter One:

Blood on the Walls

Then:

Dean had been keeping the archangel, Michael, under lock and key in his head—a situation that was neither comfortable nor sustainable. In episode 14, the team went up against a Gorgon who managed to knock Dean unconscious by repeatedly slamming his head against a wall. Michael took the opportunity to escape, possess Rowena, and kill every Alternate Dimension hunter in the bunker. Jack then tapped into the power of his soul to save Rowena, destroy Michael, and absorb the archangel's grace.

The next episode is set a few days later. The boys have been hunting non-stop since the Michael incident, solving three cases in rapid succession before episode 15 takes place. This is my version of what happens during that first case.

Now:

The bunker was unusually quiet. Bloodstains still painted the walls and floor, but the bodies were gone—burned at dawn.

They'd lost six hunters in five minutes, and it was Dean's fault. He knew it was. It didn't matter what Sam or Cas had to say about it. Keeping Michael under control had been his responsibility, yet he'd failed, knowing there would be consequences. Now he had to add that weight to the rest of the crap he carried around—a laundry list of guilt, regret, loss, and about a thousand other things.

Dean slammed a fist into his pillow, trying to beat it into shape, but it was no use. The pillow wasn't the problem. He should be asleep. He hadn't been able to rest since trapping Michael, only grabbing a few hours of shut-eye a week when he'd been lucky. He was running on fumes and caffeine, and a few hours ago, if given the chance, he would have slept until the cows came home. But now, no matter how hard he squeezed his eyes shut, it wouldn't come.

"Fuck it," he said as he rolled onto his back with a deep sigh.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself up, fighting back a groan as his body reminded him that although his mind might be wide awake, the rest of him was not. He stretched out the kinks in his spine and shoulders as he went to get changed, and only when he was fully dressed, did he remember that he didn't need to do that anymore. With only Sam, Cas, and Jack in the bunker, Dean could walk out of his room wearing nothing but his shorts if he felt like it. The thought wasn't as freeing as he'd thought it would be. It made his stomach twist as he squeezed his eyes shut. He took a deep, steadying breath, shook off the gut-wrenching sorrow, and marched out of his room.

The hallway was deserted. Not a single sound broke the silence—no footsteps or laughter, not even the low buzz of conversation. Dean struggled to think of the last time this place had been so empty and quiet, but it only seemed to make the silence more deafening. It hung heavily in the air, so oppressive that it felt like it could crush a guy under all that weight.

Dean almost backtracked into his room. He could watch a movie or listen to music or try to get some sleep again, anything to get away from the nothingness that had settled over the bunker. But he carried on forward. He was already dressed; he might as well get a beer.

He found himself stomping down the halls, his footfalls far heavier than usual in a desperate attempt to fill the silence, but he could still feel it there, beneath the noise, ready to settle in once more. It was like kicking up dust to get rid of it: an impermanent solution.

The kitchen was empty—no Maggie making coffee, no Tim, Tom, or whatever his name was preparing his latest broth, and none of the others milling about. Dean couldn't remember half their names. He hadn't cared enough to ask, let alone commit them to memory. They'd been strangers in his home. A week ago—hell, a day ago—he would have been happy to see them all leave. But not like this. They hadn't deserved this.

He slammed the fridge closed, sending it rocking against the wall and uncapped his beer, taking a long swallow to distract himself from the fact that it was his fault. Six hunters were dead because of him. Jack might have lost the rest of his soul because of him. Rowena was fucking traumatised because of him. And Sam had lost people he was close to because of him. He'd let everyone down, just like he'd known he would. He shouldn't have been surprised by the way things had turned out.

The beer obviously wasn't doing the trick. He needed something stronger to help his denial along. By most people's standards, it was too early for hard liquor, but most people didn't have to deal with half the crap that Dean did, so screw them. He downed the rest of his bottle on his way to the library where the Men of Letters had kept the good stuff—bourbon that was older than he was; rich brown whiskeys that could get you drunk with just a sip; and more flavours of gin than he cared to count.

However, his quest for inebriation was put on hold when he spotted Sam packing a bag.

Sam looked as bad as he had during the Hell Trials—his skin pale and clammy, his hair unbrushed and unwashed, his eyes puffy and bloodshot. Dean might have been taking the Apocalypse World hunters' deaths hard, but it was nothing compared to how bad Sam was dealing with the whole thing, and it showed. Sam's hands shook with a kind of frantic energy as he zipped his bag shut like he'd forgotten to go easy on the Adderall. He didn't look up as Dean walked up to him, his red-rimmed gaze too intent on the task at hand.

Dean eased closer and leaned his hip against the desk, resting his beer bottle on the table's surface, trying hard not to look too concerned. "How's it going, Sammy?"

"Great," said Sam. He sounded almost breathless as he forced a smile. He wouldn't look Dean in the eye as he ran a hand through his hair and busied himself with his tablet. "I found us a case."

Dean watched his brother's eyes, the rapid blinking barely enough to hide their wet sheen. "You sure that's a good idea? I mean, no offence, but you don't look so good."

"I want to work." With his jaw set like that Dean knew better than to argue with him, so he nodded and stepped back.

"I'll go grab my stuff."

Thoughts of a hard drink forgotten, Dean headed back to his room. If there was one thing that helped him forget his problems even better than booze, it was a hunt. He couldn't afford any distractions during one of those. The whole 'one wrong move and you end up dead or worse' thing was a hell of a motivator to stay focused. And if it helped Sam too, at least for a little while, then that was a bonus.

Dean slowed as he passed the kitchen, noticing that it wasn't as empty as it had been five minutes ago. Cas sat on one of the stools at the small table, his back as straight as a plank, chin held high, and gaze lost in the distance as he stared straight ahead. He didn't blink—didn't even breathe. It was never easy to forget that Cas wasn't human. There was always something a little off about him: he stood too still; he stared a lot; he didn't get cultural references or the concept of personal space. But there were other times, like now, when it was blatantly obvious, when he exuded something so raw, powerful, and unnerving that it either drew you in or sent you running. Even after so many years, Dean couldn't decide which instinct was wisest.

"Hey, buddy," he said, detouring into the kitchen to drop off his empty bottle. "How are you doing?"

Cas finally blinked as he turned to look at Dean, and he started breathing again. Not for the first time, Dean wondered if the angel only thought to do these very human things when he wasn't alone. "I'm well, Dean. How are you?"

"I'm great." He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the formality with which Cas so often spoke. That there was another reason why Cas always struck people as odd, but as much as Dean had tried to teach him, there were some things the angel still couldn't get a handle on—old dogs, new tricks, and all that. Dean shook off the thought. "Listen, Sam and I are heading out on a case if you want to come."

Cas's gaze went to the corridor, which led to the bedrooms, and his shoulders dropped an inch. "It's very kind of you to offer, but I should stay here and look after Jack."

Dean ignored the way his heart sank. Cas was a useful guy to have around on a hunt. Even when his angel mojo was on the fritz, he could hold his own better than a lot of hunters Dean knew. Sam and Dean were both low on sleep and grieving; they could use the extra hand. But Cas was right—Jack needed him more.

Dean nodded and slid onto the stool opposite Cas. Their shins bumped beneath the narrow table. "How is the kid?"

"I don't know." Cas sighed, and his words came out slowly, like a confession. "I'm worried about him, Dean. He didn't have much of his soul left after Lily Sunder's spell, and the amount of power it must have taken for him to vanquish Michael is unimaginable."

Cas folded his hands in front of him, and Dean fought back the urge to reach over and give them a squeeze. It would have been the friendly thing to do—handing out a bit of physical and moral support. But he and Cas didn't do that, so starting now would just make it seem like this situation was one of the most helpless they'd ever found themselves in. So Dean kept his hands to himself, although his leg did brush against Cas's again as he shifted in his seat.

Dean cleared his throat as he forced his gaze away from those folded hands. "Do you know how much of his soul he's got left?"

"I can't say for sure." Cas shook his head, his shoulders and eyes drooping with a weariness that Dean hadn't seen on him in a long time.

"Can't you do that thing, you know, where you stick your hand in and touch it?"

Cas's shoulders dropped further. "The procedure might do more harm than good—the strain could prove to be too much for his soul to bear. And even if I did attempt it, I don't believe it would be conclusive. Michael's archangel grace would undoubtedly affect the results in some way."

"In that case, quit worrying about it," Dean said decisively. "Micheal's gone; Jack is still standing, and there's nothing you can do to check on his soul. So take the win, and if anything happens, we'll deal with it."

Cas's eyes rose to meet Dean's. "Is that what you're going to do? Stop worrying about it?"

Dean got up from the stool, slipping on a smile that felt only mildly strained. "I'm going to go hunt a monster and forget about it."

"Of course." The words held a note of scepticism which Dean chose to ignore as he left Cas sitting in the kitchen. He hurried down the hall to his room to pack his bag before Sam got the smart idea of leaving without him.

His duffel was still full of all his gear—it wasn't like he'd had many opportunities to unpack between getting knocked out by a Gorgon, letting Michael out, and sorting out six hunters' funerals. He quickly shook off that thought as he dumped some clean clothes into the bag, zipped it up, and slung it over his shoulder. On the way back down the hall, he almost stopped outside Jack's room. He got so far as to brush his fingers against the doorknob before he shook his head and carried on his way. The kid was probably tired anyway; Dean shouldn't bother him.

Cas had relocated his still brooding self into the library, standing quietly in a corner as Sam put his laptop into his satchel.

Sam barely glanced up as Dean entered the room, flicking his eyes up for half a second before hanging his head again. "You ready?"

"Let's roll," said Dean. Sam started toward the garage, but Dean held back a moment, stopping in front of Cas. "You sure you don't want to come?"

Cas nodded with his usual gravity and seriousness. "I'm sure. Be safe, Dean."

Dean was unwittingly reminded of the wives and husbands of military folks and firefighters from shows like Army Wives and Station 19, where the men and women would stand strong as their loved ones ventured off into the arms of danger, wishing them well and fighting off their worry and dread. That was what Cas looked and sounded like, and it made Dean feel… warm, he guessed. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, but he wasn't altogether comfortable with it either.

"I'll do my best." He slapped Cas on the shoulder and heaved his bag further up his back. "Good luck, buddy."

He hurried after Sam and didn't look back as the garage door swung shut behind him.

A/N: This is my first Spn story (of many, I hope), and I want to do the boys justice, so if ever I make them sound out of character, please let me know so that I can fix it. Any and all constructive criticism is more than welcome, even actively encouraged, whether it's spelling, punctuation, flow, characterisation, or anything else I might be messing up. I like getting better at things and appreciate people who can help me with that, so don't be shy.

I hope that I've written a good story for you guys and that you enjoy it!