The jangle of heavy metal music erupting from his jacket pocket startled him. He didn't need to see the call display to know it was Sammy. Dean flipped open the phone and braced himself for the inevitable smack-down.
"Where the hell are you, Dean?" his brother demanded over the phone.
"I don't know, exactly," he answered truthfully.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"We're in a cottage somewhere. It's a long story."
"Well you need to get your ass back here. Now! We've already lost half a dozen people, and the guns are barely slowing these things down."
Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "What do you want me to do, Sammy? I can't get to you right now, and even if I could, I wouldn't be able to fight them off by myself."
"What about Castiel?"
"Cas is out of commission. He took one hell of a beating, and frankly, I'm not even sure if he's gonna make it." Dean rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. He hated that there was nothing he could do for either Castiel or his brother, and from the constant sound of gunfire in the background, it sounded like Sam needed all the help he could get. "Look. Just do the best you can to lock the place down. Seal everything off and keep everyone together. All you have to do is hold them off 'til sunrise."
A high-pitched scream filtered through the cell phone's ear-piece before the connection was severed, and Dean winced. He could only assume the death count had just risen to seven, and he hoped Sam had enough gun power to buy them the time they needed.
Snapping his phone shut and stowing it in his pocket again, Dean returned to his angel babysitting duties. Castiel hadn't budged an inch, and from a distance it was hard to tell if he was even breathing. But upon closer inspection, Dean could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest and that was enough set his mind at ease. For now, at least. The truth was, he wouldn't breathe easy himself until Cas was back to his usual dead-pan, trench coat-wearing self.
Throughout the night, Dean fussed over the fire, stoking it and adding logs when needed. And every once in a while he would check on Cas, making sure he didn't get too hot or too cold, and fretting over the clamminess of his skin. He was well aware of the fact that he'd never acted like this with anyone else. Even with his own brother, near-mortal wounds were shrugged off with a well-meaning 'suck it up, Princess' and a token pat on the shoulder. Maybe it was because Cas was so new to the whole 'being human' thing or because there was no one else in Heaven or on Earth – literally – in whom the angel could trust; but Dean couldn't bear to see him like this, and he found his concern confusing as hell.
By the time the first weak rays of sunlight kissed the horizon, Dean's eyes were red and sore from the wood smoke and the lack of sleep. He hadn't heard back from Sam, and he'd been trying to convince himself that it was only because his brother was too busy to give him a call. But the mud army should have fallen with the rising of the sun, and every second that passed without hearing from Sam was making his stomach twist. Finally, Dean couldn't take the suspense any longer and he took out his cell phone.
Sam answered on the sixth ring – like he was intentionally trying to torture Dean by keeping him in suspense – and the sound of his voice on the other end was music to his ears. They'd lost another four people at the bar before stumbling onto the discovery that water made the creatures lose their shape for a while, giving them a fighting chance. They'd pretty much depleted the bar's supply of beer and soda on tap, but they'd managed to avoid an all-out slaughter, so the bar's owner wasn't complaining. Much. Now Sam and the rest of the survivors were sweeping out the muddy remains of the demon army and tending to the wounded. Dean promised he'd be there as soon as he could, and hung up.
Long before he opened his eyes, Castiel could sense Dean's presence nearby. He could also sense the man's nervous tension, and the fact that the fireplace was no longer the only source of light in the room. He was still far from healed, but he was fairly certain he was well enough to travel now, and that would have to be good enough. People were depending on them.
The bright sunlight sent shards of pain through his retinas when he finally resigned himself to open his eyes. Dean was in his face almost instantly, looking anxious and irritable, but Castiel knew him well enough now to understand that what he was actually feeling was concern. Concern for Sam and for a town full of terrified people fighting a battle they were unlikely to win. Maybe some of that concern was even being sent in his direction. He could only pray that he ranked high enough in Dean's favour for such to be the case. Castiel had received an unusual and unexpected revelation the previous evening, and a great deal was riding on an assumption that Castiel could not prove. With his powers completely drained from a night's worth of healing, he no longer had the strength to even so much as glimpse into Dean's mind for reassurance.
"Welcome back. It's about time," Dean grumbled, but his eyes flashed painfully when they locked momentarily with Castiel's. It was likely to be the only demonstration of Dean's concern that Castiel was going to receive, so he decided to make do with it. "You feeling any better? 'Cause I gotta say, you still look like shit."
Castiel grunted with the effort of shifting on the couch. He didn't even have the energy to lift himself into a sitting position on his own, though, so he settled for simply adjusting his pillow. "I was able to stem the internal bleeding and heal my life-threatening injuries," he replied. "I will be alright to travel, now."
Dean looked down at him sceptically, and Castiel hastily drew the blanket up to his chin to hide the disturbingly dark bruising that spread over much of his torso. With his Grace weakened to the brink of non-existence, Castiel was feeling every one of those bruises, but they were nothing compared with the jagged, knifing pain in his chest that he felt with every breath or the tight, hot thrum of pain in his recently broken leg. His head pounded in time with his heartbeat, and the pressure behind his eyes made him long for unconsciousness. Despite everything, he knew Dean was relying on him to help them save Red River, and he'd do everything in his power not to let him down. Wincing and hissing, Castiel inched around on the couch until he was sitting upright, the blanket still clutched tightly against his throat. The effort left him shaky and covered with a clammy sweat.
"Don't get me wrong, Cas, but you look worse than you did last night. Maybe you should sit this one out. I'll leave you with some hex bags and come back for you after Sammy and I take care of the mulch men."
"No!" Castiel protested heatedly. From the shocked look on his face, Dean was as surprised by Castiel's outburst as he was himself. "You will not be able to defeat the army without the presence of an angel," he added weakly.
"Have you seen yourself lately?" Dean shot back a little harshly. "You can't even sit up straight. How do you think you'll be able to fend off an entire army of demon mud-men?"
Castiel hung his head. Dean was right, of course; in his current condition, he was more of a hindrance than a help. Emotions were tearing at him from all directions, each one new and strange and sharp-edged, vying for his attention. Before, emotions had always been an abstract concept: he understood them in theory, and even experienced them in a dulled, distant sort of way. But this… His feeling of guilt was the strongest – a constant drumbeat, sometimes soft, other times deafening – and piled on top of it was a cacophony of fear, hope, desperation, sadness, love and grief. They clogged his throat and stung at his eyes with their intensity.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hey there," said Dean gently, sliding low into Castiel's line of vision, tilting his chin up with a knuckle. "Don't get all weepy on me, Cas. If it means that much to you, you can come along for the ride."
The flood of relief was staggering. It drowned out everything else, leaving a tremulous smile in its wake, even as he blinked away his unshed tears. He had no idea how humans were able to function so well while constantly being harangued by their emotions. But if Castiel was right, and the revelation he had received had been authentic, then he needed to trust that he was on the correct path. He needed to 'go with the flow' as Dean would say, and allow himself to experience everything to the fullest. The fate of the world depended on Castiel's ability to pass this test. And on Dean.
At Castiel's insistence, Dean left money and a note of thanks on the dining table for the people who owned the cabin where they'd crashed for the night. Castiel had also added his own note (written in a script that was so ornate as to be nearly illegible), thanking the man of the house for unwittingly sparing an outfit for him to wear. Dean wasn't so sure he'd be giving thanks if he was in Cas' place. He'd purposely rifled through the bedroom closet and chosen the oldest, most threadbare pair of jeans and a red and black chequered lumber jacket with two missing buttons and a gaping tear in the right breast pocket. The guy looked like a hobo who'd just been pushed off a moving train.
Dean didn't know what was up with Castiel, but whatever was going on with him, it was totally unnerving. If he never saw tears in Cas' eyes again, it would be too soon. And the mood swings! One minute he'd be all terse and stand-offish, and the next he'd be all clingy and pulling out the big ole puppy-dog eyes. Dean figured it had to do with him being bullied out of the playground by his angel buddies, but that didn't help him understand how to deal with him.
One thing was certain – Castiel was in a helluva lot of pain, and it was clearly something he wasn't used to, no matter how brave he pretended to be. Dean had been on the receiving end of more than a few beatings in his life, but he'd developed a tolerance to pain over time. Cas was like a toddler who'd just discovered what happens when you touch a hot stove. It was pain and surprise and betrayal all rolled into one, and it hurt Dean almost as much to witness it.
Dean force-fed the broken angel a fistful of mega-strength painkillers from the first aid kit and managed to bundle him into the Impala with minimal jostling and cries of pain. The drive back to the highway was another story entirely, however. Every bump on the dirt road made Castiel whimper pathetically, and Dean winced in sympathy after every single one. Thankfully, the pain pills kicked in not long after their wheels hit smooth pavement, and Cas drifted off to sleep with his face smooshed against the window.
It turned out that Castiel had driven much farther than Dean had anticipated. It was easy enough to turn around and head back to Red River, but it would be a good forty-five minute drive. The sun was already high in the sky, burning off the thin clouds that had blanketed the bleak countryside for the last three days. It was going to be warm. Maybe even hot. At this rate, the chance of there being a downpour to wash away the mud army was looking pretty slim. Once again, fate was spitting in their coffee cups when they weren't looking.