A/N: POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING: all activity is off-screen. See the end notes if you're concerned.

Apologies for being late with this chapter. I have been (and still am) ill and haven't been online. I also haven't written anything new, so it's unlikely that the next chapter will be ready by Friday.

Claire wanted to curl up in a ball and wait for any lurking Croats to find her. But Chuck was wounded; he needed her. Castiel, back at Camp Chitaqua, needed her. Dean needed the information from the books they had collected, and Claire was now their only researcher. She tried not to think that the fate of the world might rest on her either tracking down a rogue archangel who might or might not still be on Earth, or managing to produce a gun, from scratch, that was capable of killing a different archangel. Because that was just too much pressure.

It turned out, as she relieved Chuck of his shirt, that he had been clipped by the same bullet that had ended up in Mike's skull. The wound was clean – a through and through that would heal up in time. She bandaged it tightly and hefted the last few boxes into the truck.

Once she was done, with Chuck lifting the last of the boxes up to her, their attention turned to their fallen friends. Claire knew that Dean would want to burn Bobby himself, to have that sense of closure that she never had with either of her own parents, but there was no way she would be able to lift Bobby by herself, let alone Mike, who she could not leave if they were taking Bobby: that implied that he wasn't as important as Bobby had been and that just wasn't fair. But could she bring herself to leave them here to the mercy of the elements?

She jumped back down, eyes riveted on Mike. As she approached him, Chuck nodded his head and crouched at Mike's head, sliding his hands under his armpits.

"Come on, Claire. Before I decide I'm in too much pain."

If Chuck was willing to try when he had a hole in his arm, Claire couldn't really not help him. Steeling herself, she grabbed Mike's thighs and, on the count of three, lifted. Her muscles protested, but she ignored them: they had to do this.

.oOo.

Loading four bodies took its toll on both of them: Claire's legs and arms were screaming at her by the time they got Bobby to the truck, and Chuck was pale and covered in a sheen of sweat. The bandage around his arm was soaked through with blood, and Claire had to take the time to re-dress it before they set off. Chuck pushed her to the driver's door.

"I can't drive!"

"You're going to have to," Chuck ground out, clutching his right arm protectively to his side. "I can't. It's easy, really; I'll talk you through it."

She could do this. She could totally do this. This one last thing. She climbed up into the wrong seat and shifted an inch or so forwards so she could reach the pedals. She gripped the steering wheel tightly as she waited for Chuck to get in beside her. She didn't even realise how rapidly she was breathing until Chuck pointed it out.

"Nice and slowly," he said, his voice somehow calm. "Deep breaths. That's it. Okay, reach out and turn the key."

.oOo.

Turned out driving was easy, on an empty highway. All she had to do was remember which pedal made the truck go, and which made it stop, and not to apply too much pressure to either but go gradually. Chuck used the CB radio in the truck to contact the other team and tell them to head straight back, not to bother with Vermillion. They were both glad they were out of range of the camp, because there was no way either of them wanted to have that conversation with Dean over a radio.

Chuck directed Claire back, navigating her efficiently even though he was struggling to keep his eyes open. Night had fallen by the time they rolled in to the camp, Claire inching the truck forward uncertainly, wary of the sudden obstacles in her path. There was commotion at the unexpected arrival, bringing people running. Dean and Castiel were shoulder to shoulder, their expressions tight, pinched as they locked eyes with Claire. In that moment, back with her family, safe in the compound, everything from the last few hours caught up with her: choking sobs forced their way up her throat and her eyes burned with unshed tears. The truck door opened and strong hands lifted her from the cab.

"Claire?" Castiel's voice was filled with concern as he folded her into a tight embrace. "What happened? Are you injured?"

She shook her head, not able to make her throat form any words. She clung to him, trying desperately to get herself back under control. She had lived through so much already, lost both her parents and survived; she would survive this too: she was stronger than that. And she needed to tell Cas and Dean what had happened. She needed to apologise for being too slow, for leaving Bobby when she knew something was wrong, for failing them all by letting him get killed. Castiel held her tightly, his hands stroking soothing circles on her back as she took deep breaths, assuring herself that she was safe here, in his arms, that he would always look after her.

From the back of the truck, she heard orders snapped, swiftly sending people off to construct a funeral pyre. Too many of them were too well-versed in doing it; it was like second nature by now. Then, an outraged shout from Dean:

"What the fuck? Why the hell is she here?"

Suddenly, Dean was behind her. Chuck had already been whisked away by Jane, leaving Claire the only survivor present.

"Do you know who she is?"

She whirled on him, righteous anger suddenly subsuming the mind-numbing terror. "No, I don't, and I don't think you do either. That's the body of some poor woman who got jumped by a demon."

Dean actually took a half-step backwards, the fury on his face fading a little as he realised she was right.

"We couldn't leave them," Claire continued, fighting for just enough calm to get her point across. "They're vessels. It wasn't their fault."

"She's right, Dean," Cas said calmly. "No vessel can be held accountable for the actions of the possessing entity. You of all people should know that."

Dean's fist impacted on the truck door. "Dammit!"

.oOo.

Dean carried Bobby's body to the pyre himself. His face was stormy as they set the thing ablaze and watched the flames dance and begin to consume the four bodies. Claire had no doubt at this point that he was blaming himself for not going with them, but that would have been a truly terrible plan. She stood with him and Cas, but she wasn't surprised when Castiel squeezed her shoulder before grabbing Dean's elbow and steering him away from the crowd. Jane immediately stepped in to take Castiel's position, twining her fingers through Claire's reassuringly.

"Do you want to come back with me tonight?" Jane whispered as the crowd started to disperse about quarter of an hour later.

Claire shook her head. "I just want to go home," she said, knowing how childish she sounded as she said it, but she couldn't bring herself to care any more.

She turned and trudged back to the empty cabin. Any other time, she would have been glad of the empty bed, because it would mean that Dean and Castiel had finally seen sense, but tonight it was something much darker. Claire didn't know what Castiel did or said to Dean when he was in one of these moods, but she was fairly sure tonight was going to be unpleasant for both of them.

Wishing for Castiel's warm, comforting presence for herself, she shed her bloodied clothing, pulled on her pyjamas, slid into the cold, too-big bed and closed her eyes, hoping for sleep to claim her sometime before morning.

.oOo.

She jerked awake when Castiel stumbled in.

"Cas?"

"Go back to sleep, Claire," he said. His voice was gentle, but there was a peculiar note in it; something tired, pained. At first, she sleepily put it down to him having been comforting Dean, but Cas was moving strangely as he started to shed his clothing.

"Cas, are you okay?"

"I… I am fine."

That had her sitting up, staring at him in the dark. "Bull. Tell me."

"Claire…"

She reached out and snapped the light on, making them both blink. Castiel was hunched over and refusing to meet her eyes. His lip was split and still bleeding slightly, red marks disappeared under the collar of his shirt that Claire realised would be hickeys come morning and there was a dark mark on his left wrist that was on its way to being an impressive bruise. She stared for a moment before getting up and approaching him carefully. He pressed his back to the wall, flinching as he did so.

"Cas," Claire said, keeping her voice deliberately gentle as she reached out slowly, "did Dean do this to you?"

"No, I…" He seemed to realise she wouldn't believe anything he came out with and he flushed with shame.

"Can I see?" She gestured to his injured wrist and he nodded slowly, allowing her to take his hand. She pushed the sleeve back to show the extent of the bruising. She realised with something akin to horror that, on the back of his arm, she could see four perfect fingertip bruises and a thick line on the other side that would have been caused by Dean's thumb. The flesh was darkening rapidly, but nothing felt broken. Still, it would need a cold compress, which would mean a trek to either the lavatory block or the showers.

"Okay, we can deal with this," she said. "I'll go out for some cold water once I've seen everything. Will you show me your back, Castiel? It's obvious you're hurting there too."

He sighed and started to unbutton his shirt with shaky fingers. It wasn't even done up right to begin with, she realised, which meant it had been removed and put back on hastily, without care. This was another thing that, at any other time, she would have been ecstatic about.

As he slipped the shirt off and turned, though, she swore vehemently. Life at camp, especially spending so much time with Bobby, had taught her some vocabulary her parents would have been appalled at. Already-darkened bruises drew stripes across his back in a suspicious, log-cabin-spaced pattern. There were also some crescent-shaped wounds on his right shoulder that were oozing blood slowly. She realised with a start they were inflicted by fingernails. Dean's nails. She was certain they weren't deep, but they would need disinfecting and dressing. There was a medical kit in the bag she had taken away with her that would suffice, as long as this was it.

"Cas, can you sit on the bed? I'd like to get a better look at your shoulder."

Cas shuffled across the room to comply, but as soon as he sat, he gave a gasp of pain and tears sprung to his eyes.

"Okay, Cas," she said, her eyes wide as the implications struck her. "Why don't you lie on your side instead? You'll be more comfortable like that."

Once he did, she pulled the covers over him gently. "I need to get Jane," she said firmly. He shook his head vehemently, and she stroked his cheek soothingly (with an accompanying flashback of him doing that to her father with her other hand). "I know, but you need her help, and she won't tell anyone. She's a doctor. Just stay here. I'm only going across the yard."

She didn't want to leave him, she really didn't. He was trembling, obvious even under the covers. She pulled her boots on in silence, but as she reached the door, she heard him whisper:

"I forgot I wouldn't heal."

She whirled back around, her brow furrowing. "You… you mean, you let him do this to you?"

This time he definitely didn't meet her eyes.

"I'm going to want an answer sometime," she told him, coming back to kiss his forehead. "You need to talk to me. But not now. Now, we work on getting you better."

She closed the door quietly, hurried over to the clinic, where Jane lived, and roused her. She tried to keep calm as she explained exactly what she thought had happened, envying Jane the moment where she slipped into her detached, doctor mode. Claire wanted one of those – she had barely held it together for Castiel, and she was worried that he would become upset if he saw how angry she was on his behalf.

Claire carried some supplies back to the cabin for Jane, then excused herself to give them some privacy – to give Castiel some privacy. She found herself barging into Dean's cabin. The place reeked of alcohol and something she didn't recognise but realised was probably sex. Dean himself stumbled to his feet as she invaded his space, knocking a bottle of whiskey over as he did so.

"Claire, I…"

She punched him, throwing all her strength behind it, and he staggered backwards, tripping over a discarded boot and falling on his ass.

"Don't you fucking dare make excuses," she hissed at him, feeling the adrenaline flood her veins. "There is absolutely no excuse for what you've done. I don't care that he consented. I don't care that it isn't the first time he's let you use him like that. He isn't the same as he was, and you are never to lay a finger on him again, or I will take great pleasure in executing you myself. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"

Staring up at her with huge, drink-blown eyes, Dean nodded miserably.

"You don't deserve him, you know."

His eyes slid from hers and he scrambled backwards to lean against his bed. "I know. And he doesn't deserve a piece of crap like me."

Claire refused to feel sorry for him in that moment. She had long-suspected that Dean's inferiority complex was a major factor in keeping him and Cas apart, but right now she couldn't help but agree. Castiel was far from perfect, but he was a very good entity; much better than most people.

"I mean it, Dean; I won't hesitate."

"I believe you."

Trigger warning: Consensual but very rough sex with neither party in their right mind, resulting in injury.