A/N: A thousand apologies for the super long delay! But I think this chapter makes up for it :) Thanks for the reviews, follows, and favorites! And special thanks to Acute-angle-101 for getting after me about my long absence! And EmmaMarie, welcome to the family :) Enjoy, everyone!

Chapter Thirteen

Weeks on end of bars, booze, and girls wasn't enough to dim the burning of the Mark. It made him restless.

He hadn't killed anything since the bar in Lawrence. He'd attempted to kill Hannah. And Crowley. But of course that didn't work out. They'd only heightened his desire to kill something.

So. He thought he'd go on a hunt.

He'd picked up the location of a nest of vamps. Problem was, he wasn't the first one.

Dean heard screaming coming from inside the cabin in the middle of the redwood forest. An RV was parked outside, and a jeep. Dean clutched the blade as he snuck around to the back of the cabin, trying to peer inside a window.

"Please," he heard a female sob, "He was one old man. He was dying from cancer. We helped him!"

Another scream, and then a male laugh. "A blood sucker's a blood sucker, no matter what they eat."

Dean finally leaned into the window's frame to see what was going on. Three female vampires were hanging upright in chains from the ceiling. A man casually handled a blade dripping with blood.

"Just kill us already!" one of the vampires hissed.

"Gladly," the man, whose back was turned on Dean, answered. "But that'll come later. I'm having too much fun."

One of the vampire girls, the youngest, whimpered.

Dean's blood boiled. The Mark burned hot. His senses were on high alert. He teleported inside the cabin. "Excuse me," he announced, "but I believe that's no way to treat a lady."

The man turned. His pale gray eyes widened. "…Dean?"

Dean internally groaned. "Harvey." Harvey was always one of the cruelest hunters. He thought he'd been killed a few years back.

Harvey grinned. "Good seeing ya, man. Join me?" As he spoke, he drew the blade tantalizingly slow under the chin of one of the vamps.

"Trying to get information out of them?" Dean asked, even though he knew the answer.

"Nah. Just having some fun before chopping their heads off. And these girls are feisty. Makes it even more fun." He grinned.

"You know what I find fun?" Dean asked. Harvey watched him expectantly as Dean stepped closer. In one swift movement, he punched Harvey so hard, he flew into a wall. After a moment of dazed confusion, Harvey scrambled to his feet, seething.

"Dean, you son of a-"

Dean punched him again, before he could react. Then he punched him again. And again. Blood dripping from his nose, Harvey grasped Dean's sleeve. "Dean… we've worked together. We're buds. What would your brother say?"

Dean smirked. "My brother doesn't know I'm here. But, before I kill you, Harvey… I wanted to show you a little something. Show that all your hunting has come to nothing." He punched Harvey's face again, then tugged at the collar of his coat, bringing him close to his face.

"You were bested by a demon." Dean blinked, and watched with satisfaction the horror that registered in Harvey's face.

"But… the anti-possession…"

"Oh, I'm not possessed," Dean said, getting even closer to Harvey's face, making him recoil. "This is who I am."

And he jammed his blade into Harvey's chest.

"Ever hear the myth that, when you hear a bell tinkle, an angel gets its wings?"

"That's from It's A Wonderful Life," Castiel said, making the connection from the storage of pop culture references crammed into his head. Suddenly, Meg's past nickname for him made sense.

Metatron grinned. "Told ya that'd come in handy."

Castiel didn't say anything. He watched Metatron carefully. "Your point…?"

"Well, in answer to your question—yes. The angels can get their wings back."

"How?"

"Why do you think I brought up the myth? It's not entirely untrue."

Castiel waited patiently as Metatron continued smiling. He was obviously enjoying Castiel's ignorance.

He went on: "It's in the Garden."

"What garden?"

"God's garden. The Garden of Heaven. The answer to your question."

"Restoring our wings?"

"Yes." Metatron leaned back in his chair, smugly watching Castiel. "There's a fountain there."

"With a bell?

"No, you idiot. But have you ever heard the tinkle of water against glass?"

Castiel was lost. "What… what are you saying?"

Metatron sighed heavily, and looked meaningfully at Hannah, who stood in the corner of the room, her arms folded across her chest. "And you really want him to lead you?" He shook his head.

"At least he didn't cast us out of Heaven," Hannah shot back.

"Uh… yeah, he did. I just guided him through the process."

An awkward silence ensued, which Castiel broke. "Tell me how this fountain works."

"It's like that bible story, with the guy who had leperacy. What was he told to do to be cured?"

"Wash in the river seven times," Hannah filled in.

"Exactly. Well, this fountain—it's like God's magical vat. It was where wounded angels would bathe after a brutal war."

"I thought that was a myth," Hannah said.

"Course not. We just wanted you to think it was."

"Why?" Castiel asked.

Metatron shrugged. "God's orders."

Castiel and Hannah exchanged looks. Castiel looked back at Metatron. "So you're proposing…"

"That we all take a community bath together? Yes."

Castiel nodded. "Show us."

"Sure. Mind if we fly?"

Before Castiel or Hannah could respond, Metatron grasped Castiel's shoulder, and they were instantly in the Garden.

Castiel had heard that the Garden's appearance changed depending on who saw it. Castiel saw the garden as a large piece of landscape lazily blooming under a setting sun. Trees of every kind cast shade over him and Metatron. The ripple of a brook sounded nearby, and birds twittered and bees hummed from flower to flower. Nothing was dead and dying; everything blossomed with life.

Castiel turned to Metatron. "You left Hannah."

"That was intentional," he said, clapping Castiel on the shoulder. "You and I need some alone time."

Castiel narrowed his eyes in suspicion as Metatron led him deeper into the garden. Fireflies began to glow as the sun's light dimmed, casting the sky in a pallet of oranges, reds, blues, and purples.

"Welcome to the Garden," a voice announced behind them. Castiel and Metatron turned to see Joshua, the keeper of the Garden. "What brings you here?"

"We need to find the fountain," Metatron explained. "You know… the one that heals angels?"

"Ah. The Fountain of Healing." Joshua shook his head. "You won't find that here, I'm afraid."

Castiel shot a look at Metatron, who narrowed his eyes. "You're lying. It's always been here. I wrote about it."

Joshua considered Metatron for a moment. "The former scribe of God," he stated. "You should know, then, that the fountain is just a fountain without God or the archangels."

Castiel frowned, and Metatron sighed, rolling his eyes. "Um, hello? Scribe of God? Don't you think I was blessed with some of the archangel's privileges too?"

"A few, yes," Joshua said. "But the fountain, I'm afraid, is not included."

"We'll just see about that," Metatron sang. "Show us where it is."

Joshua's mouth slowly tilted upward in an amused smile. "Of course," he finally said. "This way."

He led them through the garden. Castiel breathed in the scent of roses, mulch, and rich soil. Metatron reached up as they passed under an oak tree, and tore a fistful of leaves off. The tree shuddered as they moved on. Castiel felt wounded, as if Metatron had plucked those leaves off of him rather than the tree. Then again… Metatron had plucked away much more than leaves from him. And the other angels.

Metatron suddenly grabbed Castiel's arm. "You hear that?" he whispered with a wide grin. Castiel paused, and listened.

He could hear a small tinkling noise, varying in pitch. The Fountain.

Before long, they had reached it. It was an enormous fountain, made of glass and tinted pink. The water trickled from tier to tier, making the tinkling sound. Castiel remained hushed. He could sense the sacredness of this place, and was no longer in doubt that armies of wounded angels had bathed here, healing their mortal wounds, the kind they couldn't heal themselves, and returning them to full power. He was almost afraid to touch the water.

"Well, Castiel," Metatron said, nodding at the fountain. "Get in. Let's get your wings back." Castiel hesitated, then took off his coat. He took off his shoes, his socks.

"Okay, that's enough. You don't need to strip down to the nude," Metatron said in exasperation.

Carefully, Castiel stepped into the fountain. He felt unworthy, like it would burn him rather than heal him. The cool water came halfway up his calf, and lapped gently around his skin. But he didn't feel any different.

"Hold on," Metatron said. He swirled his hand in the water, then grinned expectantly at Castiel. "Anything?" Castiel shook his head.

Metatron sighed, and turned to Joshua. "Can I borrow your blade?"

Joshua looked to Castiel for permission. He hesitated, then finally nodded. Metatron sliced his palm, grimacing, and dropped a few drops of his blood into the water. They swirled away, first red, then pink, then hardly there at all.

A few seconds ticked by. No wings.

Metatron frowned, and spun on Joshua. "How do you activate it?" he demanded. Joshua's subtle smile was back.

"I told you—the scribe of God is not privileged in handling matters of war." He snatched his blade away from Metatron. "Now get back to your books, and do your job."

"We're going to be blood brothers," Crowley teased, fingering the thin blade.

Sam squirmed in his seat. "No."

Crowley shrugged. "The process is the same. Except," he smirked. "I'm not giving you any of my precious blood." He stretched out his hand, wiggling his fingers. "Your arm, Sam."

Sam hesitated, then gave it to Crowley, who bent over it, the blade poised. "You sure about this?"

Oddly kind of Crowley to check up on him. Sam gave one short nod.

"Oh, and it only goes one way. If you die, nothing happens to me."

Of course. Sam took a deep breath. "Okay. Just… don't die."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "Please."

He made the cut on Sam's forearm, and collected the blood in a bowl, chanting something under his breath. Then, he shed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Sam watched as he made a cut in his own forearm with the same knife, and, still chanting, swirled his fingers in Sam's blood before smearing it over the cut.

Finally, Crowley stopped the string of Latin, and wiped his forehead, smearing some blood on it. "It's complete. Anything happens to me… well." He smirked. "The Moose is toast."

Sam swallowed. Maybe letting Crowley have his soul would have been better. Then again, even with the knowledge of where Dean was, they'd still have to draw him out. They would be killing two birds with one stone by drawing him in with bait.

Sam had neglected to tell Castiel about this new change of plans. He knew Cas wouldn't like it. Anyways, the angel had other problems to deal with. Sam wondered how Heaven was coming.

"Okay," Sam said, grabbing some gauze and wrapping his arm up. "When do we start?"

Crowley tilted his head, eyes narrowing with amusement. "Now."

Chains appeared around Sam's wrist, legs, and chest.

Startled, Sam gave a small struggle before staring Crowley down in exasperation.

Crowley smirked. "No better time than the present, eh, Moose?"

"I didn't even draw the devil's trap."

Crowley snapped his fingers. "As if I can't draw one of those nasty things." Sam watched as a glimmering trap appeared in front of him, then faded. "Invisible ink," Crowley said smugly. "But Sam…" He stepped around the trap carefully, until he was standing right in front of him. "I've already told you it won't work."

"It won't hurt to try."

"He's too powerful. The punk angel couldn't be contained by holy fire when he had the angel tablet."

Sam didn't say anything. Crowley sighed.

"I just hope this plan of yours works. He's changed, you know."

Sam watched Crowley carefully. "I know. Crowley… do you think the girl will work?"

Crowley didn't reply immediately. Instead, he whipped a white handkerchief out of his breast pocket and began to wipe Sam's blood off his hands. "He's pretty far gone now, Moose. He'll most likely kill her before exchanging pleasantries."

It was a blunt answer. But Crowley was a blunt guy, when he wasn't trying to get something he wanted. Sam thought about Candi, the ordinary girl who saw something out of the ordinary and forgot about it. She has friends. Her aunt. A job. She didn't deserve to be dragged into this.

And she could die as a result.

"If this doesn't work… we'll need to find a cure."

Crowley was now working on cleaning the blade. "I wish you all the best on that," he said with sarcasm. "Especially since I can almost guarantee you're little blood infusion trick won't work on him. Ninty-eight point nine percent sure."

Sam agreed with Crowley. Dean was no ordinary demon. Something else had to be done. The Mark had to go before they could even think about making Dean human again. He considered the wisdom of telling Crowley what he had in mind. "There's only one person who could know how…"

"Oh?" Crowley set the knife down and faced Sam. "And who might that be?"

Sam took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Lucifer."

Crowley sounded like he was choking on popcorn. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Maybe," Sam confessed. "But think about it. Lucifer gave Cain the mark."

"So you want to go poking at the box that holds not only the world's biggest baddie, but Michael too? You wouldn't even get near that thing to save your half-brother!" Crowley shook his head. "Shallow, stupid, impulsive, idiotic—"

"I know, it sounds crazy," Sam cut in. "It was just an idea. An extreme last resort."

"No," Crowley shook his head, pointing the blade in between Sam's eyes. "That will never be an option. The last resort will be to kill Dean, if you can. Are we clear?"

Sam flinched at the harshness of Crowley's words.

Crowley leaned closer to Sam's face, still pointing the knife. "I said: are we clear?"

"Yeah. Yeah, we're clear. Now get that thing out of my face."

Crowley obliged, and put it away. "And don't you dare entertain the idea again."

Sam didn't answer.

Crowley heaved a loud sigh. "Well, then. Shall we begin?" He snapped his fingers, and two demons walked in the door. Crowley whacked Sam as hard as he could, nearly knocking him out. The skin on his cheekbone split. He stared at his handiwork with satisfaction for a moment, then turned to the demons. "Get the word out—I have Sam Winchester. And he will die by midnight if Dean doesn't come to negotiate. Signed, with love, Crowley."