Author's Notes: Okay, so I'm not happy with this – it's way too much exposition. But for the life of me I can't figure out how to break it up. This is pretty much the beginning of the plot on a plate, and I can't separate it and still explain why what happens in the next chapter happens. Gha. Okay, anyway. Enough whining.

All thanks for the incredible beta job go to Mikiya. Also a boat-load of thanks for the continuous hand-holding she;s having to do for me on this one. Also: she's a genius. Just so you know.

As always: All comments, good, bad or indifferent are entirely welcome.

Chapter 1: Resonance

Living in a fantasy but it's way too far
But this kind of loneliness is way too hard
I've been wandering, feeling all alone
I lost my direction and I lost my home...
I'm so sick and tired
Now I'm on the slide
Feeling so despised
When you laugh, laugh
I almost died
~The Rolling Stones – Laugh, I Nearly Died

Four months later

Dean occasionally wondered if he was sane anymore. Not whether he was normal or not – hell, he knew he wasn't normal, never had been and never would be – but in a clinical, psychiatric sense. He had real questions about his own sanity.

He was seeing Sam.

Not every day, not all the time. Just, sometimes, he would feel eyes and glance up, and he could swear that he glimpsed a shadow or a shape that a fraction of a second before would have been his brother.

Not that it was possible. If Sam was still alive, then he was trapped in a cage that no one could ever get out of – and even if he was dead, he still wouldn't be touring around up here. No way. They had both known that Sam's trip downstairs was a permanent situation. Even dead, no one would be lining up to pull him from perdition. Sam had been a tool, one that had turned on its user and cut him – but just a tool. Now that his usefulness was over, he would be left to rot. He wasn't getting a 'get out of jail free card' anytime soon, alive or dead.

But Dean was still seeing him.

So, that meant he was going nuts. Like, really nuts. Like seeing his lost brother and not minding it much, nuts.

Oddly, the idea of going insane didn't bother him as much as it probably should have. It would almost be …nice. He could talk about everything, be completely himself, and no one would be shocked.

He felt a smile pull at his mouth at the idea of wandering through the grocery while telling Ben the best ways to gut an illichi or decapitate a vampire, loudly and in great detail. The reaction of the other shoppers alone would almost be worth the trip to the loony-bin that would follow.

Ben saw the expression and grinned back at him from his perch on the top of the monkey-bars, not far away. He had a plastic pistol and was busily blowing away invisible zombies. He was ten, and bouncing between kid-dom and the scary ride of adolescence. Today, when Dean had picked him up from school, he'd asked to go to the park, so kid-dom had won at least one more time.

Dean was glad. He remembered this stage from another little boy he'd spent his afternoons watching – and it was nice, seeing Ben play in a way he and Sam had never really gotten to experience. Ben played so openly – without the wariness that he and Sam had always had. Especially Sam. It had been hard for him to let down his guard and just play. Part of Sam had always been searching for the danger he knew was there… because it was always there.

Ben played differently. Loose and unconcerned. When Ben played, he played. And Dean kind of treasured every second of it.

Legs dangling through the bars, Ben raised the toy gun; and Dean watched as he ejected the non-existent clip, slapped another in place, chambered a round, and fired – complete with extreme sound effects.

"Don't lock your elbow," Dean called to him.

Ben glanced over again. "What?"

"Don't lock your elbow when you point the gun. It'll drag your aim off."

Ben frowned. "It's not a real gun. I can't really shoot."

"I know," Dean said patiently, stretching his legs out and lacing his hands behind his head. "But your building real bad habits that will take hard work to break when you start using real guns. Don't lock your elbow like that."

Ben sneered a bit, but the next time he fired his stance was better and his arm was relaxed.

A woman sitting on the next bench over was staring at Dean with wide, appalled eyes. Dean sighed, fighting back the twin urges to both tell her to mind her own business, and to lie to her – maybe tell her they were into competition shooting as a family hobby. Anything to just seem normal.

He decided that she wasn't worth the energy it would take to turn on the charm. He didn't care. He just really didn't care. He wasn't normal, and he didn't fit with these people, and it wasn't like he'd been wrong…

And he missed his brother with a sudden, sharp pang, knowing that Sam would have been the only person in the whole fucking world who would have understood both why he corrected Ben, and why he felt the need to lie to the woman just to win her approval. The only other person who had grown-up the same not-normal way.

He leaned forward, rubbing his hands over his face roughly. He just got so tired, dealing with the normal people all day. He could see now why Sam had made a choice to leave hunting behind when he started school: in order to be a part of this world you had to let go of the other. The two couldn't rest easy together.

And Dean just didn't think he could do that. He was too much a hunter to ever be able to let it go completely.

He was what his father had made him.

The thought was automatic… and he wasn't ready for the pain that twisted through his heart.

He managed not to gasp as the grief clamped down on him with jaws as large and strong as any hellhound. Invisible fangs buried themselves in his heart, in his lungs, ripping open old wounds and making new ones. He was a bundle of raw, bleeding wounds now. He was fine on the outside, but inside… inside the hounds tore at him constantly. It happened every time he stumbled over some memory of his family – of his brother specifically – so he tried not to think about them too much. He tried to pack it all away – to go to work at the garage, and watch over Ben, and eat dinner at the table every night. He tried to be normal, he did... but normal was so far from how he felt, and from who he was. It was like being locked in a cage. A pretty, safe little cage – that had bars that zapped him when he happened to brush against them.

Yet, he knew this life was probably as close to good as he was ever going to get. Ben and Lisa were the life his father could never give him, the stability that his brother could never provide. This was the life he wanted, that he'd dreamed about – and if he gave it up he would probably never find it again.

He felt the bite of that, too.

Dean pulled a small flask out of his pocket and took a deep pull. The burn of the whiskey helped to offset the burn in his sinuses as thoughts of Sam and their dad and everything he had lost tumbled through his head. It helped him to get a grip on them, and push them so far away that he didn't have to remember that they had ever existed.

And yeah, he knew he was drinking too much, but he looked at it as medicinal: it helped him sleep, helped him wake up, helped him to forget… and it helped him control the urge to beat the crap out of annoying little normal people. It wasn't like he was drinking for fun. At least, not anymore.

The woman on the bench jumped up at the sight of the flask, and, gathering her brood, hurried off.

Good riddance. He didn't like having her buggy, judgy eyes turned his direction, anyway. He took another pull before putting the flask away.

He knew the level of anger coursing through him was way out of proportion with the offense. Hell, a year ago he would have been laughing at her snooty ways while Sam –

Dean stopped, just stopped. He closed his eyes and breathed and brought himself back from the ledge he could suddenly feel under his feet. He couldn't break down in pain, and he damn well couldn't release the anger – not with Ben only a few feet away and relying on him.

By the time Dean had himself back under control, Ben's monkey-bars had been overrun with flesh-eating, mutant zombies. Ben jumped down, calling to equally imaginary compatriots, and they retreated under the slide.

For a second Dean was alone. The early autumn wind danced through trees that held just the barest hint of color. It carried the slightest tang of freshly mown grass, crisp and clean. The sun was hot and the air was sweet.

It was a good day.

And it was all Dean could do to not break down – and wail and scream and hit someone, beat them to a pulp, just so they would feel an ounce of the pain he now lived with every day.

Which was another sign that he must be going insane.

"You are not going insane, Dean."

Dean jerked to his feet, whirling, reaching for a gun he no longer carried at all times. He still had the knife, though, stored in his belt sheath. His fingers twitched as he fought the urge to pull it, even after he recognized the speaker.

Castiel stood behind the bench. He looked pretty much the same: same lame coat, same rumpled suit. But his eyes were harder now. "You are not going insane," he repeated, his voice dryly factual. "You are grieving. It takes time."

"Cas," Dean greeted him, trying to decide if his heart was pounding more from anger or fear. None of it showed in his voice, though. It was steady, and slightly sarcastic, as he spoke. "Well, isn't this a surprise. I have to say, I never expected to see you again, really. And definitely not this soon."

"You wouldn't have," the angel admitted flatly. "But there is a problem."

Dean felt the sound as a laugh, but it came out more like a growl. "Of course there is." Dean knew which it was now. It was anger. Pure anger. Not particularly against Cas himself, but against his kind – against those manipulating, calculating, stupid, sons of bitches – and the fates that had led them to play his family false for so damned long.

Cas sighed at Dean's tone. "I know what you are feeling. I know your anger, your pain. And you are not wrong to harbor it. But you must know I would not intrude on your grief if it wasn't absolutely necessary."

"'Absolutely necessary'?" Dean repeated, bitterly. "Look, my definition of necessary is probably a little different than yours at this point. Everything that ranked under my necessary is gone now. I'm not interested in your problems, Cas. No offense," he added, letting his tone be as offensive as it wanted.

The angel didn't even twitch. "What if I told you it concerned the world coming to an end?"

Dean turned to scan the playground, checking on Ben. "Didn't take you long to screw up the promotion, did it?" He didn't bother to tone down the contempt in his voice.

"This isn't a joke, Dean," the angel's face was tight, his shoulders hunched slightly. "There is a plot afoot to reopen the cage."

Dean turned back, searching Castiel's eyes. His jaw worked. "That's not possible." He knew it wasn't possible. He knew it. "It can't happen. They don't have the rings; they can't get in."

"They don't need the rings, Dean." For the first time, real pain touched Castiel's eyes. "There is another way to open the cage. You know this."

For half a second Dean was confused – then it hit him. "No. No way! No fucking way! Lilith is dead. They can't kill her again!"

Castiel's head shifted, almost sympathetically. "It needn't be Lilith. It was less her specific being than her standing. An ancient preternatural being. One with enough power that – released by her death – it could pry the lid off of the box. Another sacrifice could be made."

Dean felt a sudden pervasive chill, like the sun had disappeared behind a cloud, turning the bright day shadowed and cold. "What about the seals?"

But Castiel was already shaking his head. "There has not been time to reset the seals. They remain broken. The path to the cage is open."

"Lilith was the oldest of her kind, right?" Dean asked, hearing the desperate quality to his voice and hating it, but he couldn't stop it. Real fear was taking hold of him with rough hands. "There are no more demons at her pay-grade. Even if the sacrifice could be made, there's no one to offer up."

Castiel's expression took on a hard cast. "You are correct. There is not another demon who would have the power to open the cage," he paused, and swallowed, and Dean could see shame glazing his eyes. "But there are still archangels who can make such a sacrifice. They have the required power to open the door."

Dean's pulse tripled. He felt something thick and heavy climbing his spine, settling against the back of his neck. He recognized the hopeless sensation of dread falling back into place. "Angels?" he half demanded.

Castiel dropped his eyes. "Raphael. He leads the faction of angels that followed Michael most fiercely. Most of my brethren have accepted Michael's loss, but those who longed most for the end of days, and for our Father's return – they have banded together behind Raphael. He calls them to prepare to reopen the cage in which Michael languishes. He says that our Father never intended the greatest of us to be entombed in such a way. That it is further proof of God's death. Raphael says that He would never do such a thing to his most beloved." The last words were colored by a not so subtle disgust.

"'Most beloved'," Dean sneered. "Wasn't that what they called Lucifer, once upon a time?" Then he shook his head. "Whatever. Raphael was always crazier than a shit-house rat. What's he going to do?"

Cas looked almost sad. "He preaches that our interference in stopping Michael's Apocalypse was wrong, that it went against the ineffable plan. He believes that Michael can take our Father's place in leading us after defeating Lucifer. He has offered his own life to open the gate for Michael."

Dean huffed, running a hand through his hair. "Does this have a chance of working?"

"I came down here, didn't I?"

It was answer enough. The angel had already said he wouldn't have bothered Dean if there had been any other option. "Okay," Dean said. "Ralph's attempt on the cage is doable. Check. But if he opens the door for Michael, what's to stop Lucifer from coming on through, too?"

"Nothing," Cas admitted. "If the door is opened, I have no doubt that both Michael and Lucifer will escape. And once free…"

"Once free, they'll pick right back up where they left off and we all die. Fuck!" Dean snarled, but he kept his voice low enough that Ben never even glanced over from his place near the slide. He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache beginning to brew inside his skull. "This is just never going to end, is it?"

"I know this is yet another burden," Castiel said, and his voice carried a note of real contrition. "And you do not deserve it, especially after all you have already done. But Raphael stands to undo all that you and your brother sacrificed to achieve. He must be stopped."

"How?" Dean demanded, knowing he sounded desperate, but not able to help it. "Exactly how can we stop a deranged archangel on a suicide run, Cas?"

"He can be… impeded," the angel responded hesitantly, but there was a sense of determination under the words. "The sacrifice can not be self-mutilation. Another angel must bear the sword that takes his life. If we can contain either of them, then Raphael will not be able to complete the ritual. Our best option will be to take the lesser angel, leaving Raphael without anyone to make the sacrifice."

"So, can you? Take the lesser angel?"

Cas looked a little shamefaced. "No. At least it's not likely. Any angel can hold the knife. Raphael has numbers – not as many as he would like, but adequate to keep us busy and buy himself enough time to complete the ritual and open the gate. We will fight, but he will most likely make the sacrifice. And that's why I came to you." Cas shifted, body language edgy. "I need the rings."

"No." Dean's refusal was instant, unthinking – and came out in a voice that held more anger then he would have expected. The rings were another thing that Dean didn't let himself think about. His brother was in a place that made Hell itself look like Disneyland; and he was trapped there with the lord of all evil – a creature so twisted and malignant that Hell had been created for him.

And Dean had the keys that could let him out.

After…just, after – Dean had spotted the still joined rings, laying so innocently and sedately on the rough grass, slowly cooling. Working on instinct, his face still swollen from Lucifer's beating, Dean had crawled, literally crawled, to them and gathered the rings up. They were the last connection he had to Sam. The last thing Sam had touched before he'd jumped, taking Michael with him.

Those rings had been on his mind constantly ever since. They were the key to let Sam out – to saving him…

And Dean couldn't use them.

He had the way to save his brother… he could lay hands on them any time he wanted and let Sam out – but not without bringing ruin to the world and destroying everything his brother had sacrificed himself for.

Everyday, every damned day, Dean carried the weight of those bands, burning in his mind, as hot as they'd been after the cage slammed shut. Every day he thought about what Sam and Adam were going through, and he thought about those rings – and every damned day he made the choice to honor Sam and not use them.

And no one else was going to do it either. Not ever.

"No, Cas," he snarled. "No way. Nobody gets those. Not you, not them, not God himself, if the bastard ever decides to show up. No."

"We need them, Dean," Cas argued. "I understand your reluctance; I do. But if – when – Raphael opens the cage, we must have the rings to slam it shut."

Dean turned that over. "You…you can't stop Raphael from opening the cage, so you want to bring the spare key, and lock it behind him?"

Castiel nodded. "The rings will ensure that Raphael's sacrifice is baseless. Should he manage to open the cage, we will simply shut it once again. If the ones who follow him witness him squandering his life is such a way, it may deter them from trying again. It might buy us enough time to re-set the seals. We could eliminate this way of accessing Michael, and render such actions useless in the future."

He collapsed back on to the bench. "Have you tried just talking to Raphael? You'd be surprised at how often that can nip this sort of crap in the bud."

Dean was unsurprised by the confused shock on Cas' face. "Raphael will not listen. I have aligned myself with the undeserving, and moved to derail Michael's plans. I am anathema to Raphael and those who follow him."

Dean snorted, but there was no real humor in it. "So you argued with Big Brother, and he shut you down because you made your own decisions about what was right and what was important. Why does that sound familiar?" He pulled the flask back out, taking a deep drink. His head was beginning to pound. He felt… tired, and old, all of the sudden.

Cas actually reared back, his eyes wide. "If you are comparing me with Lucifer…" he started, honestly offended.

This time Dean did laugh, a bitter, twisted sound. "I was comparing you to me and Sam, but whatever…" He took another drink. Watched Ben play. The zombies had been defeated, and Ben was celebrating with his imaginary brothers-in-arms.

Dean could have told him not to bother celebrating. The zombies always came back.

Dean felt an almost overwhelming wave of grief and despair… and a grim sort of bitter humor. After all the debating on whether to stay or whether to leave, all the angsting over his normal life – the choice was being made for him.

"How long do we have?" he asked the angel, still watching Ben.

"You will give me the rings?" Castiel responded, his tone surprised.

"No," Dean clarified. "But I'll come. I'll bring them. I won't let everything Sam did be torn down because Raphael is having a hissy-fit. I can't. But I won't let anyone have those rings, either." His tone held an implicit warning.

The angel nodded slowly, almost sadly. "All right. We do not have much time. Raphael will move quickly, to keep us from being able to act against him. He waits only to gather his followers. Sooner is better then later."

Dean nodded. "Is a week too long?" It would take him that long to collect the rings. Dean had made damned sure that they were safe; taking steps to protect them against all thieves, be they human, angel or demon. He'd locked the rings inside salt-filled curse-boxes, inscribed with devil's traps; which were inside pure iron, angel-warded lock-boxes – all of which were in four separate security boxes at four different, highly protected banks, in four separate states. And he'd further warded them to hide them from human scrying; used Enochian to block angel radar; and packed Ruby's conjure bags in with them to keep them from demonic eyes.

Even if someone managed to find them and take one ring, he would be instantly notified and could move the other three.

"If you must have the time, then, yes," Cas replied less then happily.

"I must," Dean said flatly. "Meet me at Bobby's in a week. I'll be there, and I'll have the rings. Then we stop your idiot brothers from ending the world. Again."

Cas nodded. "One week then. Go with God, Dean."

"Bite me, Castiel," Dean replied, leaning back and spreading his arms over the back of the bench, his eyes on Ben.

There was a flicker, like huge wings fluttering at the edge of his vision, and Cas was gone.

The motion attracted Ben's attention. The boy looked around, frowning. Then he shrugged, and trotted over. He flopped bonelessly next to Dean on the bench, tucking himself under one arm. Dean's throat tightened, remembering another little boy who had done the same thing, back when he was small and Dean had been so much bigger.

"Were you talking to someone?" Ben asked, thankfully dragging Dean out of the memory before he could get pulled too far in.

Dean sighed, nodding. "An old friend. He needs my help."

Ben watched him for a long moment, and damn, Dean had forgotten how perceptive kids could be. The boy frowned again. "Needs your help with something bad? Something like the monsters that took me that time?"

Dean's jaw clenched. "Something like that."

Ben nodded, not happy, but accepting. He sat quietly, kicking his feet as they both stared blankly at the carefully manicured park. After awhile Dean hugged him briefly, wrapping one long arm around the boy's slim shoulders. Ben glanced up, his wide eyes sad, but trusting. And achingly familiar. Dean's heart clenched.

"Games all done?" he asked, before he slipped into yet another chick-flick moment.

"Yeah," Ben responded, an almost disappointed note in his tone. He picked at his sneaker, glancing at Dean sideways, his gaze far too knowing. "I think it's probably time to go home, now."

Dean swallowed past the hard, sharp knot in his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, it probably is."

He hugged Ben one more time, and then they got up and started walking toward the car.

It was probably time to go home now.