Castiel looked at the unconscious woman on the bed curiously. He also felt something else, something unusual. He did not have a word to what he felt; he was still unused to his vessel's capacity for feeling emotions.

Unlike some other angels, he had never any need or the inclination to walk the earth. For over 2,000 years he had observed humanity from above, admiring their beauty and wondering at their existence.

They were flawed, and by any logic, they were weak. They should never have lasted a day, but they did. Everything life threw at them, they took, adapted and thrived.

In his admiration of humans, Castiel was in the minority, he knew. But they were his Father's creation and His best. They did not have the luxury of a moral map ingrained in them from the start like his kind; but most managed to create or find one anyway. Even the most evil of men had a line they did not cross, which Castiel found miraculous as well.

He looked at the woman again. She seemed to be the epitome of the beauty his Father had endowed; a wondrous work of art. He leaned over her, noting the perfection of her features. A few tendrils were on her face; Castiel brushed them away.

How remarkable … a random act of cells at the right time and the right moment, and the result is something so intricate and simple at the same time. Order emerging out of chaos.

"Cas, you sly dog," Dean's deep voice broke into his reverie. Castiel straightened up, flustered.

Dean winked, throwing Sam's key on the table. Sam raised his eyebrows.

"I … er …," Castiel stuttered.

"Don't get your panties in a bunch," Dean said. Castiel gave him a blank stare.

"I see you've met our resident thief," Dean continued, gesturing to the unconscious Nathalie.

"I … caught her going through your room," Castiel explained haltingly. He was still feeling flustered.

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "And you knocked her out?"

Castiel shrugged, helplessly. No word seemed adequate.

Sam went to Nathalie, looking at the books around her.

"What was she looking for?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. "Dunno. Everything's still here." He stooped to pick up the book by her hand.

"She seemed interested in this one though, the one about ghosts."

Nathalie gave a snort and turned over, snoring softly. The three men looked at her.

Dean was taken aback.

"Enjoying it, isn't she?" he finally said.

"Sometimes, if the person has not had enough rest, this is the only time they can," explained Castiel.

He had noticed the dark shadows around her eyes; his vessel tended to develop them if he did not close his eyes after a long while. The shadows did not detract from her beauty as far as he was concerned; they just made her look more fragile.

There was something bothering her and Castiel yearned to comfort her. He frowned. Again, there was that strange need to … reach out.

Dean clapped his hands together. "Let's find out what she's doing here, shall we?" He grabbed a chair. Sam sat on the other bed.

Castiel looked nervous; Dean wouldn't have believed it if he had not seen it for himself.

"Go ahead, Cas. Wake her up," he said.

Castiel sighed and touched his fingers to her forehead. Nathalie snorted and rolled off the bed. Blinking, she looked around the room in confusion. Then she saw the feet, three pairs of men's feet. She looked up and saw three men looking at her.

Crap.

"Anything you wanna tell us?" the one she had molested earlier said, his smile easy, his eyes crinkling. His relaxed posture was a lie though, his hand loosely held a gun.

Nathalie crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows.

"You first," she said mutinously. She was cornered, which meant she got stubborn.

Dean laughed, "Wanna try again, sweetheart?" he bit out. He was pissed off. Belatedly, Nathalie thought she might be pushing it. Ah well, too late.

The other man, the tall lanky one, intervened.

"My name's Sam Winchester and this is my brother Dean. And that is Castiel," he said.

"Nice to meet you. I'd get up and shake your hand, but I'm worried you'll kill me," she said sarcastically. Her eyes went to the man in the trench coat – Castiel. He moved his gaze to her when he felt her glance; she quickly averted her eyes.

"This gets better and better," Dean muttered.

Sam gave her a comforting smile. "I'm sure you've figured out that we're not FBI agents."

"No shit, Sherlock."

Sam took a deep breath. He was still trying.

"Give it up, puppy dog. Those looks don't work on me," Nathalie said nastily.

"Cas, do your Vulcan hand-hold thing or I swear to God I'm going to kill her," Dean growled. Castiel moved hesitatingly to her; that was enough to scare her.

"All right, all right, uncle," she said, alarmed. She didn't want that beautiful man coming close. She was already extremely conscious of his presence as it was.

The men waited expectantly. Nathalie sighed.

"OK, what do you want to know?"

"You can start off by saying who you are, why you groped me and stole the key?" Dean asked sardonically.

Nathalie made a face. "My name's Nathalie Merrill. I'm a journalist," she said, ignoring Dean's swearing. "I knew you weren't feds. So I stole your key – and I did not grope you by the way," she said hotly.

"I wanted to see what you guys were after. You obviously didn't buy what the police said," she finished.

"Why?"

"Sara is – was – my best friend. I know something else killed her," she said, a brief flash of pain crossing her face. Dean and Sam looked at her with sympathy. She stole a glance at the third man, Castiel. He did not react, his expression was wooden.

"When I saw you guys, I knew you had another theory. That's it," she finished. Sam and Dean nodded; Castiel stood still by the TV, silent.

She looked at them. They didn't say anything.

"Now my turn," she said.

Sam and Dean looked at each other. Minutes ticked by.

"Look, the strong, silent thing might do it for some women, I'm not one of them," she said. She waited for them to respond, when they didn't she added, "Don't bother. I can guess."

Dean smirked. "Why don't you enlighten us then, sweet cheeks?"

Yep, definitely a dick, she thought. Nathalie took a deep breath. "You guys are some sort of paranormal investigators, but more murder-y."

Dean raised his eyebrows. Murder-y? he mouthed to Sam. Sam shrugged.

"From the weaponry, I'd say you hunt these things. And from your bodies and scars, they're not that easy to kill," she said. "How am I doing so far?"

Sam was nonplussed. "You seem to be taking this well," he said haltingly.

Nathalie shrugged. "Don't get me wrong, I don't totally believe you. But I don't believe Tom killed Sara, and for her, I can suspend my disbelief long enough."

They stared at each other for a while, at an impasse. Sam and Dean weren't sure where to go from here: should they include her, or not?

Nathalie's next words settled the question for them.

"By the way, I know what links the victims," she said.

"All of them were survivors," Nathalie said. She went to the laptop, typed in her password to access a journalism database.

She brought up archived news stories of deaths that occurred years ago. She turned the laptop to face them.

"Your first victim, the one who drowned? His mother took the kids to the lake and drowned them one by one. His father came home; saw what happened and shot her before killing himself. The kid survived because he was older, plus dad had interrupted her. Very Shutter Island," she commented.

"If the father had bothered to stick around, he would have seen one of the kids was just unconscious."

She punched in a few buttons.

"Same goes with the other victims. In each case, one of the parents killed the family before offing himself, or herself," she added.

"One kid always managed to survive."

Sam read the news reports. He looked up at her in surprise. "How –"

Nathalie smiled. "I'm a journalist. We don't need to hack into records, most of the time. Our database has all the information we need if we know where to go."

Sam looked disappointed.

"If it makes you feel better, it's not that easy to find out," she added. "Most of the kids changed their last names. Most were adopted by strangers, if not distant relatives. Some told people about their history, some didn't."

Dean nodded, impressed. "Nice work."

"Based from what I read in that book of yours, the ghosts of their family are going for a serious family reunion. What I don't know is why," she said.

"It is a seal," Castiel spoke.

Nathalie was startled. It had been a while since he had spoken, that she had almost forgotten he was there. Almost, but not quite.

Dean looked at Castiel.

"You're kidding me," he said. "Well, that explains the demon."

Castiel looked back and said deliberately, "No, I am not … kidding you."

"Seven lambs are to be sacrificed. And these people are the ultimate lambs, innocent children surviving the worst atrocity anyone can go through," he added.

"Wait, seven? We only have six victims," Dean said.

Castiel nodded.

"The seventh still lives. It is why I am here," he said.

"Well, do you know where he is?"

Castiel shook his head. "We do not know."

Nathalie arched her eyebrow. Who's 'we'? And what demon?

Dean punched the wall. Sam looked worried.

"But how are we supposed to prevent it if we don't know where the next victim is?" Sam asked.

Castiel shrugged. Or rather, moved his shoulders to denote a shrug, Nathalie noted to herself, as if he was not used to the action.

"The seventh is in this town. I can feel it. But I do not know where exactly," Castiel continued.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Awesome. An angel with a broken GPS."

Mike, the bartender, looked at his watch. Almost 10pm. Time to start checking on the inventory. It was a weeknight, so the bar was not as full as usual. Mostly regulars who had come down for a few drinks with friends. Even they were starting to make a move.

Although he wasn't legally required to close the bar down until 1am, he started cataloguing his inventory early on slow nights. Made it easier and faster to lock up and go home. Sometimes he closed it earlier.

I'm getting old, he grimaced, hauling the trash out to the back. The idea of bed at 12am was laughable a few years ago. Not anymore.

The silence was deafening when he stepped out into the alley. It felt oppressive and for no reason, he was afraid.

The streetlight outside the alleyway flickered. Mike thought he saw a long shadow moving across it. But that's ridiculous, he chided himself. What would make something like that?

Nevertheless, he was impatient to get rid of the trash. He upended the container hurriedly, not caring that some of the contents spilled onto the ground.

All he knew was that he had to get out of here. The lights over the door flickered.

"Angel?" Nathalie asked. With unerring journalistic sense, she had honed in on the one word that Dean had hoped she would not notice.

Sam and Dean looked at her. It was weird. They really didn't look much like each other, but their gestures are so similar.

Castiel looked at her somberly, his blue eyes boring into her.

She laughed nervously. These guys had to be nuts, right?

Strangely enough, she could accept ghosts. Demons … ok, maybe. But angels?

Anyway, this man looked so … so … un-angelic. For one thing, he was so scruffy. True, he had an aura of strength and power about him, with an underlying hint of menace. Not exactly how she imagined the word "angelic" to be.

Castiel looked down at his clothes. "I am not scruffy," he told her, indignantly.

Nathalie stifled a gasp. How did he -? He could read her mind, she realized.

She blushed. He probably knew she had wondered what he'd look like naked, what it would feel like to kiss him. Castiel's gaze did not waver, looking at her curiously.

Dean grinned. He patted Castiel's shoulders.

"Simmer down, Cas. Not everyone goes for the holy tax accountant look."

Sam smiled uncertainly at Nathalie. "Erm, yeah, Nathalie. Castiel is an angel of the Lord. He's here to help us …."

She stared at them in shock, unwilling to believe. She laughed weakly.

"Right. OK," she said, grabbing her purse. She stood up, backing away slowly.

"If you don't mind, I'm gonna go now. I've got enough crazy to deal with for the moment. I don't need more, so thanks, it was nice meeting you guys – I guess – and see ya around," she added, practically running out of the room.

Sam got up, but stopped when the other two didn't move.

"We're not stopping her?" he asked.

Dean shook his head.

"Good riddance. The more she stays out of it, the better," he said.

Sam considered the statement. "I guess you're right," he agreed.

He threw Dean a sideways glance. "Too bad though, I liked her. She's got spunk."

Dean snorted.

"That's gonna get her killed one of these days."

Nathalie walked into Mike's bar. She felt in desperate need for a drink. And a friendly face.

The last six hours had been nuts. For a while, she was willing to believe there were monsters, ghosts and demons. But angels … she refused to believe.

It was probably because she had never pictured herself as one of those religious nuts who went on TV and swore up and down that an angel had saved him from his own stupidity. She'd always thought when she heard such stories that angels had better things to do than waste time saving some idiot who decided going bungee jumping while drunk was a good idea.

And all those survivor stories … one family got roasted by a fire while another in the same building managed to escape. The reason? Not angels, just that one family had the sense to drop everything and run out when the smoke alarm went off while the other dilly-dallied collecting their personal belongings.

No, there were no such things as ghosts, monsters or demons, and most definitely no angels.

Then how did Sara die? her inner voice prompted, inconveniently. She knew in her gut it was not the coward Tom.

Taking a seat, she smiled at Mike, who was standing behind the bar. He looked a bit dazed.

"Hey, Mike. You're a sight for sore eyes," she greeted.

Mike looked at her and smiled. "You too, Nat."

His gaze was suggestive; his eyes resting on her chest a bit too long for comfort.

Nathalie smiled uneasily. It was Mike, but not Mike at the same time.

For one thing, Mike was never that openly salacious. She knew he liked her; they had had one date but no chemistry. He was a nice guy, but he didn't excite her. Even when he checked her out, he never did it so boldly or as obviously.

Now he was looking at her like she was the last popsicle on earth on a blistering summer day.

"You OK, Mike?" she asked, concerned. His behavior was rattling her last nerve.

"Never better," Mike replied.

Nathalie looked around the bar. There was only one other customer. Old Derek sitting at the end of the bar, or rather sleeping, his head in his arms.

She inclined her head to Derek.

"Reckon you should cut him off," she said.

Mike grinned. "I did."

She smiled uncertainly; she didn't like the way he had said that … as if it was a permanent thing.

She looked towards Derek again. Her eyes had adjusted to the gloom and now she could see a dark liquid seeping from under the old man.

Her eyes wide, she looked at Mike.

He was still grinning, his light blue eyes all black.