"He's from Star Trek," Dean said as he turned, orienting himself. He seemed to be getting used to the sudden shifts in location, or maybe his turning was just a practical disguise for a primal unease.

Castiel reached out and took the backpack from Dean's hands, watching him as he studied the new state of the Talbots' living room. "Star Trek?" Cas said automatically. It was a bad habit, questioning references he didn't understand. It made Dean sigh and give him a patronizing look. There would always be a distance between them. Castiel frowned in annoyance and averted his attention to the bag instead.

"Someday," Dean was saying, "you and me, we're gonna sit down and watch a whole lot of TV."

Castiel pulled out the bags containing tent fabric and handfuls of dirt. They were as he had asked. He glanced up at Dean, meaning to thank him for completing his task, but found the man grinning fondly back at him. Castiel reran the last thing Dean had said through his mind again, seeking the source of that smile. He spoke of a future neither of them was foolish enough to believe would ever be—a future of rest and folly. But he spoke of it with certainty, which was a kind of hope. Castiel couldn't bring himself to care a whole lot about watching Star Trek, but that hope was a lifeblood to them both. He would shelter it with fist and wing if he needed to. And so, he grinned back.

"I'd like that," he said quietly, and Dean's grin blossomed into a smile. It was an exquisite expression that made his soul flash with beauty and warmth. For a few scant seconds, Dean was open, radiant, and Castiel looked into him the way angels do. He wished, not for the first time, that Dean could see more than this surface gazing back at him.

After a moment, Dean broke eye contact. "You'll like Spock," he said absently, and then focused on the room. "What is all this?"

Castiel dropped the backpack to the floor and turned to follow Dean's gaze. He had moved all the furniture in the room to the edges. With paint from the garage, he'd drawn two circumscribed squares on the hardwood floor and written Hic est in one and Hic venit in the other. Dean stepped closer to the circles and peered at the writing. He laughed softly.

"What?" Castiel eyed him.

"That's cute," Dean said, glancing over.

Cas shrugged. "It seemed expedient. It's not really the words that matter—"

"It's the intention," Dean finished for him, nodding as though he'd heard it all before.

Castiel nudged him out of the way and started to arrange the spell components, taking care with each one as though it were charged with power already. The spell would be no small thing, even for someone with as much experience as the angel had. He poured dirt from his palm into a small pile within the square and covered it with its piece of fabric.

This spell was on the scale of miracles. Connected to Heaven, hearing the songs of his brothers and sisters, he could perform miracles. Their power and faith could provide what his grace could not, filling him with the energy he lacked. But now . . . he wasn't Gabriel, didn't have an archangel's strength to warp the world all on his own. Now . . . the magic would use him like it used a human, and the meager capacity of his grace was all he had.

"Cas?"

Dean's hand touched his shoulder, and Castiel realized that he'd come to a stop. He poured another small pile of dirt into the sigil and set the roll of tent material in his hand down over top. The heat and pressure from Dean's hand made him feel self-conscious, strangely aware of how his body was shaped, where it was bent, and how it was separated from everything—except for Dean. It kept his focus present, so he continued without shrugging him off.

"You okay?" Dean asked eventually.

Okay? The angel's chest tightened with apprehension, and his fingers brushed around a small pile of dirt pointlessly. "I'm fine," he muttered, not looking up.

Dean's hand vanished, and Cas felt his heart clench ever so slightly. Somehow, it had always bothered him when Dean walked away.

"Whatever." Dean's voice was dead, flat with disappointment and annoyance.

Castiel huffed out a laugh without meaning to and felt Dean tense behind him, defensive. They could fight easily about Dean's understanding and caveats concerning truthfulness. But all that Cas could feel roaring in his emotions were trepidation and loss. No ire.

"Nothing," he said in answer to the silent challenge, rising to his feet and coming to look Dean in the eye. "I'm not going to fight with you right now."

Dean's eyes flashed, and he took a breath to argue that, but Castiel simply laid a hand on his sternum, pressing so Dean could feel his strength, and gazed deep. "Not now."

Dean glanced down at Cas's hand and with effort, relented.

"I've chosen a place to draw the demon," Castiel told him, not breaking contact. "A mall parking lot on the north side of town. I need you to go and make sure the spell works."

He could feel Dean's chest heave under his hand, his body vibrate with anxious energy. Dean leaned in closer, searching Cas's gaze with sharp green eyes. Dean knew he was missing something, Cas could tell by the slight pull of a frown in his features.

When he started to speak, Cas cut him off. "Dean. Please."

The frown only deepened, but Dean pulled back with a disgruntled nod. He shifted unhappily, crossing his arms over his chest, and stared at a wall.

With divine patience, Castiel suppressed a sigh. Once, it would be a blessing to have his intentions understood, his cautious efforts appreciated. Maybe while they were watching Star Trek, he would try explaining these things. "I'll drop you on the roof of the building. You should have a good vantage point from there."

Dean nodded and refused to look at him. Cas clenched his jaw in annoyance and tapped Dean's temple to send him on his way.

It wasn't that he needed Dean watching so much as he needed him as far away from here as he could get him. If he had explained the extent of the danger, Dean would try to stop him or insist on staying. Castiel would take his love's ire over either option.

With a slow, calming breath, Cas turned to face the circles he had drawn and knelt slowly before them, the thaumaturgical devices at his left hand, the circle yet to be filled on his right.

He took out his cell phone and dialed Dean's number. Dean answered on the first ring, and Cas told him that he would leave the line open so Dean could tell when the spell was complete, or if he had failed. Dean informed him that he wouldn't fail, but there was nothing yet that Castiel hadn't failed in, so he was not inclined to agree. It wasn't worth arguing. In theory, the spell should be easy. Establish the link between symbol and signified, teleport the symbol, and allow the effect to ripple out to the signified. Any moderately practiced witch could perform such manipulations, but it was the scale that gave even an angel pause. He did not part seas or exalt mountains or perform acts written in the annals of history—raising Dean Winchester from the dead had been his first such act.

Loving him might be his last.

Castiel rolled his sleeves up a little tighter, not stopping even when it occurred to him how human a gesture it was. He settled his hands on his thighs, and began to breathe deeply and evenly. He felt the floorboards beneath his knees, the concrete below that, the cold, living earth even deeper. His fingers felt the heat of his own flesh, now truly his own. Beneath that, muscle. And beneath that, bone. But he was more than these things, more than their frailty could contain. Not beneath, but inside, he reached for his grace, in the place that existed beyond the material of creation, connecting with the cold fire of its brilliance and the powerful push and ebb, like the pulse of a human heart.

He concentrated on his grace and allowed its power to fill the spaces of his vessel. It rushed just under his fingertips crashing against the barrier of his skin like ocean waves. Establish the link, he thought to himself, and opened human eyes. Fabric of the tent for the tents themselves. Earth to earth.

"Noan noar noan ovof . . ." Words spilled from Castiel's lips in the language of angels in the voice of an angel. He felt them grip the air and begin to tear. They struck the implements within the circle, invading their being, and the circle itself flashed into life.

The words did not stop. Magic ripped through space, connecting the small patches to the tent structures themselves, seeking out the ground from which tiny portions were dug. It wove like snakes, tumbling, hissing, pulling power along with them. Castiel's grace burned, flaring at the sudden draw. The words did not stop—they came in torrents, feeding the spell. Castiel's own true voice speaking and shaping his will. He did not have to look any longer and closed his eyes to concentrate.

The world cannot stand the being of an angel. At the potency of his voice, the windows shook, shook, and shattered, spraying glass as they fell. The ground rumbled, a slow turning that grew to a terrible roar. Nearly all of the mobile processing centers were enveloped in the thaumaturgical scheme, and Castiel pushed harder to close the web. His body rocked, and power screamed down and out his arms. They had lifted themselves as if to hold the raging force in the sphere of his hands. He could not remember to breathe. Bright-warm–glory-lightness filled his being, and he could feel it clawing at his insides, his true self striving to be free.

The words could not stop. They shaped themselves and ripped like hot coals down Castiel's throat to be spoken, faster, louder, they would be free. But he needed them to move. To move. To move. The magic reached for his grace, needing more power. It would devour it, devour him. It needed more, more energy to make this manifest, more power. Move!

The house quaked, and everything flew and fell. Rogue energy lashed for freedom, whipping wind and destruction. Castiel resisted the pull, twisted as the magic yawned for more of his power and soul. And he willed the implements move. He could feel them, shifting as the building around him groaned. He could sense them lifting and shimmering, the magic bending to his strength and his word. It was almost, almost . . .

A lancing pain choked him to a moment's silence as the magic pierced into his grace and fed.

Everything churned, convulsed. It was going to eat him alive. He struggled in panic as the world faded. He was going to die.

XXX

Dean stood at the top of the Macy's in the Hanover Mall leaning against the wall that was just high enough to keep him from plummeting to his death. Cas was right. It was a good vantage point. He let his gaze trace over the parking lot. It was mostly empty, thankfully. The lights were off, just like everywhere else in town, so really all he could see were the curved reflections of moonlight on metal car roofs.

He jumped when his phone buzzed.

"Cas?" he answered, keeping his voice low. Why was he whispering?

He listened as his angel gave him some more bullshit explanation about wanting to be sure the spell worked okay. "It'll be fine, man. I don't know what you're so worried about." Dean affected a smile and even a wink into his tone, but he couldn't tell if Cas was listening. All he heard was the knock of the phone being put on the floor and then distant words.

It sounded like Cas's voice at first, muffled, but definitely his. Then it changed. The reception on the phone crackled a little and whined loudly into Dean's ear. He flinched, pulling it away. Then brought it cautiously back. "Cas?" Buzzing words like spoken honeybees answered him, and he straightened. It took him a second, and it was coming through all wrong on the phone, but that was Castiel's voice, his real one.

Dean felt his heart rate jump, blood suddenly pounding in his ears. It explained why Cas had wanted to get rid of him so bad. But—

His breath left him in a painful rush when it hit him that he was hearing Cas's voice. And it didn't hurt or make his ears bleed. Something about being over the phone . . . and suddenly Dean couldn't listen hard enough. He pressed the phone into his ear trying to make out the harmonies of it, trying to hear his Cas inside of that mass of sound.

The world changed. Dean's senses got that prickling feeling, and he spun around. A cold, bitter wind blew hard across the parking lot, biting his face and hands. Dean turned, peering out over the wall, as fog boiled from the air. It rolled in from nowhere, just exploding in oozing puffs until the whole place gleamed in murky moonlight. Dean's eyes darted back and forth as his body wound with tension. The air blew in shifting patterns, hot from the north, cold from the west, wet from the east. He shivered from the unnatural quality of it. Static charged the air, and the hairs on his arms stood on end.

"Oh, this had better be you," Dean muttered to himself.

Something large and metal groaned. And Dean jumped back when a streetlamp snapped at the base and fell. Everything became very, very, dark, and Dean glanced up to see the moon being swallowed by clouds. His shiver worsened, and he gripped the phone harder as he clenched his fists, having forgotten it was there.

"Shit."

A loud shriek pierced his ear from the phone. Dean jumped before he realized what it was, then shouted into the cell. "Cas?" He pulled the phone away; the signal had dropped to nearly nothing. "Cas!" He shouted again and then heard the other end hang up just before all Hell broke loose.

On further consideration, the top of a building was a shitty place to be in a storm.

It formed out of nowhere, the clouds and fog suddenly whipping into breathtaking violence. A fury of wind came from every direction, knocking Dean to his knees. He scrambled for the access door, still clutching his phone, and pressed his back against it as clouds and fog and rain beat themselves into a funnel. He shook in helpless terror as the gales burned his eyes and forced them shut. Rain became stinging sleet. Lightning flashed, and his skin damn near froze off from a blast out of the arctic. But nothing, nothing compared to the thunder. And it didn't come from no lightning. Dean's stomach dropped, and the concussion wrung the air from his lungs as tons of earth and people and little wavy circus flags at the pinnacle of the big top appeared out of nowhere. It was like being inside a ringing bell. Dean's whole body was stunned with it, pain everywhere.

And then it stopped.

Dean blinked wind-whipped tears out of his eyes, trying to see. As he started to push himself up using the door behind him for support, the strong winds died away. The fog evaporated. And the moon reappeared to light his way. Shaking, he stepped cautiously toward the edge of the building and looked over. They were all there.

He'd done it. The sonuvabitch. He'd—

Dean looked sharply at the phone in his hand as he remembered the aborted sound of a scream. Panic clutched the base of his spine and spun upward until he was beating down the access door and running. Cas.

XXX

Dean coulda been there fifteen damned minutes faster if he hadn't had to find a car with a GPS. But fuck, he didn't know this town! And Cas had been blipping him all over the place like he was a frickin transporter, so he had no clue where he'd been or where he'd ended up. South was about all he knew. He needed to go south. But thank God he'd thought to rifle through the Talbots' things, including their mail, cause at least he could plug 287 White Pine Court into the GPS. He drove like his wheels were on fire, clutching the steering wheel in the mother of all death grips and taking corners on a drift.

The lights were out at the house, and Dean's heart rate took a jump at that bad omen.

He left the headlights aimed at the front door, even though it meant parking on the lawn, and flew out of the car with the engine still running.

"Cas!" He burst through the front door, or tried to. Dean gave the door an offended look and shoved hard against it, pushing something heavy out of the way. Not much light got in around the shadow he was casting, but Jesus fuck the place was wrecked. "Castiel!" Dean bellowed and plunged into the mostly darkened living room. Broken glass crunched, and he tripped over shattered boards. Pieces of ceiling hung down around large holes that had blasted clean through to the upper floor.

Panting, Dean let his eyes adjust, trying to make out shapes. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, please . . . He saw two dark pools, darker than anything around them, bits of shredded white. Whatever they were, they looking unnatural. He drew closer, kicking aside whatever was in his way. The sofa was broken in half, its frame cracked over—

Dean gasped like he'd been stabbed, a biting pain right to his heart, and he'd swear to God he felt it skip a beat.

He was on his knees, fighting with something large and black as fucking night and—

Dean stared at the wing in his hand, breathless. He couldn't— he'd wondered but didn't know if it was wrong to ask. And now he— He moved his hand, letting the cool and silky feathers slide around his fingers, leaving a strange burning in their wake. Cas really did have wings, feathery birdlike awesome ones. Dean swallowed hard, forgetting for a moment that he had any reason to exist beyond brushing his hand over Cas's wing.

The cold, stinging burning silk sensation went straight to his core. It warmed his groin. His attention jolted back. Sick fuck. There were times for that kind of shit.

Still awed, Dean gently bent the wing out of his way so he could kneel. Adrenaline pumped so fast through his veins it had him shaking, but he controlled it enough to shoulder the twisted metal of the sofa bed up until he could get a good grip and then push it all the way to standing. He heaved, and the whole thing toppled, screeching and breaking more things as it went.

"Cas?" Dean was back on his knees, lifting one of Castiel's feathered limbs so he could slide under and roll him onto his back, or at least his side. The torn remnants of the angel's shirt clung at his elbows, looking faintly ridiculous. That was all Dean could make out without more light. "Castiel." Dean took him in his arms and arranged them best he could, pulling Cas across his lap so his wings had space around them, lifeless as they were. He shook him hard. "Castiel!" It was just a spell. Just a stupid spell. "Don't you dare"—he gripped Cas's face in one hand—"don't you fucking dare!"

Castiel jerked, and Dean was sure his heart was gonna fall out of his chest right then. He felt Cas heave and suck in a huge breath, and suddenly the lights flared back to life. Cas's wings, big and black like oil slicks flapped nervously as he blinked back into consciousness.

"Dean," he said groggily.

Dean laughed a little. "Morning sunshine." And didn't mind that his voice cracked.

Cas swung a frown at him and shifted to sit up on his own. One wing battered the back of Dean's head, and Dean reached out to touch for the sheer pleasure of it as much as to keep from being conked a second time. They both stared with a different kind of wonder, and Castiel made a weak, crumbling sound when Dean brushed his hand through the feathers. That was a sound Dean was pretty sure he knew, and the Devil in him glanced over to see. Yeah. By the parted lips and hooded eyes, that'd felt good. But when Cas blinked, his expression cleared. He looked at his wing, still tangled in Dean's hand, and blushed. Actually blushed! A second later, the wings were gone.

"Hey!" Dean scowled playfully. "I was lookin' at that."

Cas gave him an apologetic and embarrassed little look and then worked his way up to standing. He wavered some, and as Dean got up, he slid an arm around Cas's waist just in case, hoping he wouldn't take it the wrong way.

"What happened?" Dean asked, after a few moments of Castiel silently surveying the carnage.

He didn't reply, instead pulling away to collect a few scraps from his shirt that littered the floor. Cas pulled the remnants from his arms as well and balled everything he found together. He held it there for a second, and then flapped the garment out, full and whole, like he was shaking out wrinkles.

"The spell got out of control," he said finally.

Dean snorted and watched him put his shirt back on like it was the most important thing in the world. "No shit. I can see that."

Cas did up the buttons calmly, watching his own fingers work. "It needed more power and started . . . channeling my grace to get it." He glanced up and met Dean's eyes.

Channeling his grace? Dean found himself coming closer. That didn't sound right, didn't sound safe. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Castiel!"

The angel's shoulders sagged a little. "My grace will recover."

That was not Dean's definition of okay. He pressed his eyes shut and pulled Cas into a hug that was more protective than fierce. His heart beat so hard in his chest he was pretty sure Cas could feel it. But that was okay, he wanted him to. Stupid ass. He must've known it could happen, the type of danger he was putting himself in. After a moment, Castiel sank against him, relaxing into Dean's hold, and Dean couldn't quite work up the anger anymore.

"Your spell worked, by the way," he said in a conversational tone. "Got all of 'em. Though I nearly got blown off the roof, so you might wanna watch that next time."

"Sorry," Cas muttered.

"Yeah well," Dean said as he let him go. "Keep in mind not all of us have wings, huh?"

The angel averted his eyes and pressed his lips into a thin line, which really was kind of puzzling. So, he had wings. That was bad? It was actually kinda hot. Dean gave him a long, sly look, and went on. "And don't think we're not talking about that later."

"Dean."

He ignored him and started picking his way over toward the stairs so he could change and grab the stuff they were taking back with them. "Might as well armor up, man. Figure we grab what we need, dump the rest of this stuff back at the car, and wait." He turned to find Castiel lifting up the edge of a busted table to retrieve Gabriel's jacket. "You good here?"

Castiel looked up. "Yes." The corners of his mouth turned up, but the expression didn't reach his eyes. Not while he held his brother's clothes in his hand, anyway.

Dean nodded because it was all he could do. He started jogging up the stairs, then stopped suddenly and looked back. "Hey, Cas."

The angel glanced his way.

"Black wings are fuckin' awesome, man." He smiled like he meant it, cause he did.

Castiel returned a confused, nearly embarrassed look that didn't make any sense and shrugged faintly. Dean left thinking that, yeah, he couldn't wait to have that conversation.

XXX

Dean slammed the Impala's trunk shut and hefted a backpack onto one shoulder. The bottles inside clinked against one another.

"You sure about this?" he asked.

Castiel gazed at him, the only movement in his body the slight frown that slowly slipped across his face. He'd switched into Gabriel's white tee; it made him somehow look less prepared. "No."

Dean smirked and tested the weight of the sword blazing blue in his pattern-painted hand. "Yeah . . ." He said nothing more, because they'd been over it, and only looked up from studying the tip of the sword because he caught the movement of Cas's hand.

Space folded under the pressure of angel wings, compressing Dean's chest for a second. It made him inhale automatically when they landed . . . appeared . . . whatever, and he blinked around. They were on the roof of the mall again. Dean's boots scuffed along the asphalt roofing as he moved toward the edge, an archangel's sword hanging heavy from his hand. He let the bag down gently. Everything was just as he'd left it—massive tents slouching uneasily on their transplanted ground. They were filled with the dead. Every one.

"Do you really think he's gonna come?" he asked quietly.

Castiel leaned his arms against the wall beside him with his fingers intertwined. "He will."

"You sound sure."

There was a moment's silence, and then he heard Cas turn and looked over. "I have faith," he said in that low steady way of his—the way that made Dean want to have faith too. And maybe something in his expression said as much, because Cas put a hand on his shoulder before Dean could smirk dismissively. Dean nodded absently and turned around to lean his back against the wall. Gabriel's jacket was thick enough to keep out the cold, and the reminder was enough to get him thinking about them, wherever they were. They'd be fine, he kept telling himself, and Sam was coming back. Just had to get through this thing was all, and then he and Cas could make sure of it. Castiel said he'd find a way, and that Dean did believe.

It was cold. And it was boring. And after not too long of staring around at rooftop, Dean started to yawn. He fought it at first and played with the sword to keep himself occupied. But it was heavy holding that damned thing, and he figured he'd better set it down before his arm got too weary to lift it.

He shook himself awake at the sudden sound of Castiel's voice. "You're tired. You should get some sleep."

"'M fine," Dean muttered back, propping himself up straighter against the wall.

"There's nothing for you do to while we wait," Cas said and turned to look at him. "Get some sleep." He was using his commanding voice, which was far sexier than he'd ever realize.

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "You gonna make me?" he shot back, hiding a smile.

"If that's how you want it."

They held gazes for a second, both trying not to grin. Castiel edged closer, and Dean lost the contest, chuckling to himself. He shook his head and lowered to the ground with a groan. They weren't standing near a corner or anything, so he scooted over, dragging the sword with him like a Teddy Bear, and leaned against Cas's legs.

"Wake me when we get there," he mumbled around another yawn.

The last thing he felt before drifting off was Castiel's hand settling on the top of his head. The first thing he heard was Cas barking out his name.

Dean's eyes flashed open, and he instinctively gripped the sword hilt in his hand, even before he remembered where he was. Then the blood started rushing through him, beating drums of war in his ears, and he was on his feet, trying to follow Castiel's gaze. The thunderous sound of a train was coming in their direction from the west. Dean grabbed the backpack and started to jog across the roof for a better look.

"Wait!" Cas called from behind him. "Dean!"

He sounded annoyed, but if Dean was gonna fight this thing, he wanted to see it coming, know what he was facing. He covered the length of the store beneath him in quick, sure strides, trailing the blue fire of the sword behind him and loping with a gait that wouldn't rattle the glass bottles. He could make out dust churning through the air, but nothing solid, nothing yet. Not until he could see over the lip of the—

"Dean!"

Cas grabbed him. Suddenly just there and solid, right where Dean was heading. They collided, and Cas spun them to disperse the momentum. He slapped a hand over Dean's eyes and bound him with an arm across his chest.

"Fuck, Cas!" He jerked and tried to shoulder him off. "What the hell!" He clawed at the hand over his eyes.

"You were going to look at him."

"Ya think? I have to, genius. I can't fight him with my eyes closed! Isn't that what the war paint and jacket are for?" Christ.

Castiel pressed Dean firmly to stop his struggling and brought his mouth to Dean's ear. "If you look at him now, the ward will start to burn. It will be wasted time."

Dean huffed as much of a breath as he was able with Cas's arm squeezing the life out of him. He flexed his jaw petulantly. "So you want me to stand here with my thumb up my ass."

He felt the scrape of Cas's cheek as the angel adjusted, presumably to stare at him. After a second he said, "I want you to wait."

The world lost its floor.

If Dean thought angel airlines was disorienting before, it was only 'cause he'd never done it blindfolded. As far as he could actually tell, nothing had changed, but he leaned drunkenly against Cas anyway and made an unhappy sound.

"Where . . .?"

"Duck."

Dean was born a hunter. When someone says duck, you damned well duck. He dropped to his knees, Cas still holding him close and blinded, and tried to sense, fuck, anything. But there was just roaring, grinding thunder, like a frickin' earthquake, so close it didn't even have a direction. And then Cas spun him around and let him go and pushed him up against something in one swift motion that left the whole world an oil paint smear. Dean gasped at the suddenness of it, but Hallelujah at least he could see!

He balled a first and punched Cas in the shoulder, hard enough to be noticed but not that hard, 'cause he wasn't stupid. It earned him a mildly offended look, which was fine, cause he was mildly offended himself. Satisfied, Dean glanced around enough to finally see where they were: the parking lot, which was liberally scattered with abandoned vehicles. He and Cas were ducking behind someone's Beemer. Castiel peered through the windows, his eyes narrowed and blazing with purpose. Around them, everything started to shake.

Dean clutched Gabriel's sword a little tighter.

"What do you see?" he shouted at Cas over the sound, antsy to get up and get moving.

The angel lowered back down and turned a grim expression Dean's way. "He's brought an army."

He— "Excuse me? He—" Cas's rules could get fucked. Dean popped up and had a look for himself.

Ho-ly shit. There were some things you could never un-see, and Dean had seen a lot of 'em, but when Cas had said "demon," this wasn't what Dean had pictured. Demons were . . . demons, spirits in meatsuits, just like angels.

"What the . . . Hell." He snapped a glare at Cas and jabbed a finger toward the windows. "What the Hell is that?"

"Asag."

"Cas, that is no demon!"

"He's an archdemon, and he—"

"Demons look like people!"

The angel averted his eyes. "This one made some modifications."

Dean sputtered and snuck another look. The . . . thing sliding across the lot was Stephen King meets Alien meets Kumonga. Three long spider legs smashed into the blacktop as it came, carrying a misshapen fleshy mass that could once have been a human body, which fumed a trail of black smoke. Two arms could almost have been from a man if that man was the Hulk and fifty feet tall. The third . . . waved through the air over the headless torso, jointed in too many places, flashing spikes that might be fingernails. He couldn't see a mouth, even though he knew it had one. Dean's stomach roiled, and he grimaced at the taste of bile.

"The yellow spots are eyes," Cas said.

The yellow spots stuck out like boils from skin that shined like an obsidian carapace.

Dean couldn't breathe. Just looking at this thing, and he couldn't breathe. Dean curled the fingers of his left hand into the crevice of the window, and that's when he noticed the burning. His fingertips tingled at the very ends, and he thought that was it for Asag's aura—score one for Cas's fingerpainting.

He was wrong.

It swallowed him like falling into acid, hurt so much that the shock kept him from screaming. All he could manage was gasping and crumpling helplessly on the ground. Hate. Hatepainhungryfirehungry. His throat burned with stuck agony. He felt knives, Alistair's knives slicing through his skin, lifting it off one layer at a time because that's where the good nerves were. Sharp. Pain, blossoming razors. The fire burns hottest if you dig down.

"Dean!"

He shoved at the hands that grabbed for his wounds and choked out a whimper.

"Dean, look at me!"

He knew that voice, good, safe. It would make things better, beautiful, take away the pain. Like leaping, he opened his eyes to see Castiel hovering protectively, blue eyes wide with worry. They looked cool and shone with something powerful and lovely. The scar on Dean's shoulder pulsed at the proximity and memory.

This wasn't Hell. Dean touched his stomach and felt the leather of the archangel's armor, whole and unblemished.

"We are inside his aura now," Cas said, like it wasn't obvious.

Dean blinked, took an unsteady breath, and pushed himself up on shaky arms. "Yeah," he said, nodding. "Caught that."

Castiel made room, watching Dean with a caution like he'd taken lessons from Sam. "You can do this?"

Dean grabbed the sword and got himself into a ready, crouching position. The memories quickly receded like one of his bad dreams. "Do I have a choice?" He looked down at his hand. The ward was gone up to his knuckles. Fantastic. He motioned with the sword. "Those things . . ."

"Minions."

"Minions? Demons get minions now? What do we get?"

Cas gave him a very serious look before standing up to his full height, putting himself within Asag's notice. "You."

Yeah, they were doomed.

Asag bellowed like a halting steam train, and Castiel turned a calm, confident look his way. "Now would be a good time to run," he said to Dean, not shifting his gaze.

Dean hopped to his feet and ran, sword and secret weapon in his hands.

The demon's minions were boulders, like snowmen made of stone. And there were far too many of them. Dean dodged between cars as they rolled and shuffled forward throwing up dust and dirt. Halfway between one car and another, Dean saw one form itself out of the asphalt, ripping limbs up from the ground with a terrible thunder. They clattered, smashed, hurled pieces of themselves, swarmed over the cars and crushed them under their weight.

But they also cleaved nicely in two. Dean hit one by accident. It was suddenly too close for comfort, and he just swung the sword out without thinking. The blade sunk in pretty far on its own, farther than any normal blade, and then Dean just leaned into it, slicing the edge clean through to the other side. Bits of stone tumbled at his feet before he was even done.

He had to keep running. Poorly aimed rocks rained down wherever he went, and the golems kept coming. They moved fast for clods of earth. From the hood of a sedan, Dean took one's head off in a single swing, only to discover that the high ground, in this case, was not an advantage. A rock the size of a baseball slammed him in the ribs, and he fell, sliding from the hood and tumbling to the ground.

Shit. But he couldn't breathe. With the wind knocked out of him, his body wouldn't do anything but struggle for more. A shape and shadow passed near, followed by the thunder of stone smashing into stone. Dean felt himself gripped and hauled as Cas moved them behind the relative safety of a car.

"You must get closer."

Dean sucked for air and glared at him, finding breath on the second try. "Got too many of 'em," he coughed out. The window above them shattered, and the car rang from the impact of stones. Castiel looked up calmly. He didn't flinch as another volley sprayed rock chips and dirt over them. "Get closer." His voice was steel. Dean felt the air shift as Cas rose with clenched fists. Briefly, he smelled cut grass and rain. The angel cut a sharp look in Dean's direction, and he scrambled to get his feet beneath him.

Crouching, Dean opened the backpack and drew out one of the bottles they'd specially prepared: a Molotov cocktail of gasoline and angel-bane holy oil. They didn't know what it would do. But if the flames could destroy an archangel, maybe they'd take down an archdemon, too. It was a working theory.

Dean gave Cas a small nod.

The wards were burning up to his forearms.

Castiel unfolded his fingers, the only outward sign that he was dipping into the greater power of his grace. His eyes narrowed in disgust, hands twitched, and the car they had been hiding behind shot from its place, plowing through minions like a bowling ball. Dean wasted a second staring, then started to run. He went wide, hoping to skirt the demon and its minions. At the edge of his vision, he saw Cas wading in. Cars suddenly flew forward, scattering the rock beasts on impact. Cas knocked them to pieces with his bare fists. He gripped them with his mind and tossed them into one another, into Asag, who staggered and roared, billowing exhaust.

The air was nothing but ripping metal and breaking stone.

Dean ducked, dodged, and cut his way closer. He swung the sword like a bat, knocking missiles from his way. He was pretty fast, but Asag had eyes everywhere. He jumped the rubble of a fallen foe, and it was nothing but open ground between him and Asag's hulking form.

Cas was plowing forward, driving for Asag himself.

Dean saw the creature shift its balance and fling an open hand his direction. He felt power like the pull of a current flow and break around him, unable to grip. Gabriel's armor. Asag's eyes blinked and narrowed, arms bundled, and the one overhead lashed out with taloned fingers. The ground all around Dean started to shake and crack. Blacktop peeled itself up from the dirt below. Heart pounding, Dean hugged the bottle close to his chest and charged one of the half-formed rock minions. He shoved the archangel's sword into it like planting a flag and pulled it out like King frickin' Arthur.

Time was ticking.

Dean could feel it burning on his skin. He hurried to close the space between himself and the demon. Cas flung one of the minions high in the air, and Asag caught it and threw it back. It struck the ground where Castiel used to be, and Dean nearly shouted with pride when he saw the trench coat flutter at one of the demon's legs, bright fabric just visible through the smokescreen.

But that meant Cas was closer than he was, and he was dropping his end of the plan—if you could call this suicide a plan.

Asag's yellow eyes blinked all over its body, but by the way it angled itself, its attention was all on Cas. Made sense. An angel was a bigger threat than some human. Dean watched the demon rear back and realized it was going to take a swing. And Castiel was just standing there, ready, like he wanted it to. Horror burst in Dean's stomach when he realized that he did. Cas was buying time.

Even expecting it, Dean couldn't be sure he didn't scream Castiel's name. Asag's talon of a leg shot out, knocking the angel to the ground, and then impaled his shoulder, sinking all the way through. One of the demon's arms balled into a giant fist and beat down on him, cracking the black top. Dean never stopped running. This wasn't the plan, but the plan could go screw itself. He swung Gabriel's fiery sword at the nearest leg, ran underneath, ducking Asag's maw, and cut through the one on the other side. He wheeled, shaking with rage and exertion, coughing from the demon's cloud and trying not to look at the black spear pinning his lover to the ground. Blood like tar oozed out the demon's wounds, burning whatever it touched. It's many eyes flashed and rolled, and one arm snatched at a severed limb.

To Dean's horror, the limb and bloody stump melded back together when they touched. Asag staggered backward on two limbs until it could find its balance.

"Dean." Cas's voice was rough with pain. He sucked a labored breath and stifled a cry as blood ran down and into his wound. He was looking at the bottle Dean still held in his hand.

Right.

"Hey, ugly!" Dean strode forward, making himself a shield. Around him broken piles of rubble started to roll toward one another and gather shape. "Recognize this?" He swung the flaming sword. "Hurts like a sonuvabitch, don't it?" Asag shimmered with what Dean guessed was rage. "Well you ain't seen nothing yet." He smiled wickedly and held the bottle out. The wick miraculously burst into flames, and he hurled it at Asag's thickest part.

Fire splashed over the demon's body, and it let out a roar that sent Dean to his knees. His insides shook, nearly liquified with its rage, and he struggled to get the second bottle out. He caught a glimpse of Castiel jerking, his hands slipping and smoking in the blood on the spear. Cas wrapped his coat around his hands and pushed the talon out. He hurled it with considerable strength. Their eyes connected for a moment, and then Dean took off, loping around Asag as he struggled. Its arms flailed, beating at its own boiling skin. The reek of tar and flesh filled the air, exhaust pluming out—nearly obscuring Asag himself.

Its back eyes could still see. And as Dean came around, the demon clawed the ground to turn and follow. It lurched, striking out with a fist, and Dean instinctively raised the sword to block the blow. Fingers severed themselves on the blade, and black blood sprayed down like acid on Dean's face. He cried out and tried to wipe it clean.

"Cas!"

"Throw the bottle!"

Dean blinked against the blinding blood and just threw, not really able to aim. He heard the glass break, but stumbled away. The jacket sloughed off most of the poison, but it burned his face and eyes.

"Cas!" Dean's voice was high and desperate, barely audible to even himself above Asag's agony. He turned and held the sword toward the source of the sound and shuffled backward.

"Dean," Cas's voice sounded behind him just before the angel wrapped him in an embrace.

"I can't see!" Dean panted.

He felt Castiel's fingers slide over his eyes, followed by a cool wash of relief. His chest still heaved, but he held himself still, trusting Cas knew what he was doing.

"Try now."

Dean pried Cas's fingers away and blinked at the inferno shambling back and forth way too close for comfort.

"Jesus!" He shoved them both back and then caged Cas behind him with his arms. That fire killed angels.

Asag lurched, burning and clawing its own body, screaming like Dean hadn't heard since Hell. It lost its balance and fell backward, bucking in agony.

"Dean, the wards," Cas said, tense.

He felt burning creeping up his neck. "Biceps," he replied.

The demon flopped and jostled. Maybe it was the screaming—how it didn't need to take a breath. Souls in Hell could scream like that, once they forgot to think like a human anymore. Or maybe it was the fact that they were just standing there, watching a living inferno. Dread flooded Dean's body.

"He's not dying," Dean shouted over his shoulder. "Shouldn't he be dying?"

Cas rested a hand on him. "I don't know." His voice somehow carried through the noise.

Dean clenched his jaw, an emotion he couldn't identify rising and roiling in his chest. "Enough of this." He started forward, pulling out of Cas's grip.

"Dean?"

He spun and pointed the sword at Castiel's chest. "You've got my back, right?"

"Always," the angel replied automatically. "Dean, what are you doing?" The terrible fire reflected in his eyes.

He didn't know. It was stupid, maybe. But he had a sword made to kill demons, and a demon that needed killing. And maybe the two of those things needed to meet. He flipped the sword to an underhand grip, his expression briefly cracking into one full fear.

"Dean . . ." Cas said again, alarmed, and moving to follow, but the flare and heat of the blaze kept him back.

Angels couldn't pass through the holy fire without dying. But Dean, as he was often reminded, wasn't an angel. He turned his back on the horrified look of understanding on Castiel's face and charged.

The sword worked like an ice pick, and he hauled himself up the creature's body. Flames seared his shoes and clothes with a heat he'd been trying to forget. He had survived being boiled, branded with hot red irons, swallowing coals. All of it had been real. Sweat and tears poured out of him from the fire and pain, but he could feel something else, something cold and tingling wrapping around his legs and thighs, something that filled him with courage and kept him from falling over and dying.

He balanced, crushing eyes beneath his boots and straddled Asag's body at the base. Legs kicked the air around him. Flames shot him. With a desperate shout, he swung the blade down like an axe and fell to his knees. His skin and clothes burned at the contact, and he hollered at the top of his scorched lungs.

The sword and flame sank into and through the demon's maw, cracking and burning through its flesh. Asag jittered, flexing and jerking its bulk. The third arm swung toward him but could not break the barrier of Gabriel's armor, skittering off with a jolt and spark. Dean held. Then he leaned back pulled the blade through, throwing back his weight and howling with the effort it took to cut through the jaw.

He split it, like a log. Heaving and hissing and crying from the fire burning his skin, the smoke and exhaust roasting his insides, and acidic blood splattering everywhere. But he opened that fucker up like a fish.

Everything hurt, even breathing. Dean couldn't feel the ground and didn't notice as he stumbled from the pools of blood that the sword fell from his hand.

Dean's knees shook. He barely felt his body contact with the pavement. The nerves might be gone. Burning. God, the burning. Every heartbeat was like stripping off his skin with a dull knife. Please. Let it be over. Please just make it stop. Make the pain stop. He'd say yes. Whatever they wanted. He sobbed without stretching the muscles of his face. You learned to do that on the rack. Kill me. The world rolled, and he blinked up into worried cerulean eyes. Cas.

The angel spoke. "You are an idiot."