Disclaimer, timeframe, summary: see first chapter.

In the Wake of Angels: Part V

Castiel was mildly surprised by how easily she was lifted off her feet and pressed against the wall; it was a consequence of a female vessel that she had not anticipated. It was not an unfamiliar sensation; demons, opponents in battle, had cornered her in this position before. But this time it was not a demon, just Jimmy-- although, granted, Jimmy was fueled at the moment by rage, which despite clouding human judgment did seem to enhance physical strength.

"You bastard!" Jimmy was screaming, retracting and thrusting his arms repeatedly so that Castiel was knocked against the wall. Inside of her, locked in her own body, Jeanette Murphy was crying with fear. "You told me they'd be safe and now they're dead! Because I tried to help you, they're dead!"Although her head was now pinned back by Jimmy's arm, Castiel could see Dean and Sam, blurred in the bottom of her visual field, eyes wide, debating what to do. Castiel knew they expected her to use her powers on Jimmy, which would have of course been an easy task, even with a physically outmatched vessel. But something in her wanted to let Jimmy get it out of himself, thought that he deserved to get rid of his anger. (Did she in turn deserve to receive it?)

But when she felt the oxygen supply in Jeanette's body began to seriously dwindle, she raised her hand. In the past few months, as her connection to Heaven had dimmed, it had become harder for her to heal damage done to her vessels, and she supposed she should keep a better eye on this one than she had the last. "Enough," she said softly, almost to herself, and Jimmy was thrown backwards. Castiel landed on her feet and straightened, her vision clearing and heartbeat returning to normal.

Jimmy, not dissuaded by Castiel's counterblow, was coming at her again, looking wild. Castiel held him back easily, and he struggled to reach her through the telekinetic field protecting her.

"What do you think of this?" He called, not screaming now, but still frantic. "Huh? What do you have to say for their deaths, angel?"

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Sorry? Oh, God." He turned to Sam. "They're dead," he said, almost pleadingly. "Claire. My Amelia. Oh…" Jimmy broke off choking, but then a strange light filled his eyes. Castiel did not understand; it looked almost like… hope? "This is another hallucination," he said quietly. "Oh, God." Oddly, he grinned. "This is more demon blood shit. They're okay. Oh my God, they're okay." His shoulders slumped weakly, and Castiel in turn lowered her arm. She saw Dean and Sam exchange a wincing glance before Sam went slowly to Jimmy's side and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Sammy," Dean called. "Maybe we should--"

"No," Sam replied firmly. "That's not gonna help anything. Jimmy," he said, his voice becoming gentle. "I am so sorry. This isn't a hallucination. Listen. You're clear of the demon blood. This is real. I'm sorry."

"Why are you saying that?" Jimmy whimpered, eyes to the floor. "Leave me alone." Sam took him by both shoulders now.

"I'm saying it 'cause it's true, Jimmy. I swear we'll help you get the demons that did this. I swear they'll suffer for this. But it's true. Jimmy?"

But it was clear to Castiel that Jimmy had the suffering of only one being on his mind. He raised his head, eyes dripping tears, and a look came over his face that startled Castiel more than his previous attack ever could have. For a brief moment, she thought of Uriel, of his assessment of humans as no more than talking animals. In Jimmy's expression, she saw the truth of this, saw the wild, animal passions, and understood what emotions could do. Then Jimmy screamed.

"CASTIEL!" He lunged.

But Sam caught him up easily, holding Jimmy in his long arms as though he were no more than a child. Jimmy collapsed against him, still weakly pounding his fists, but doing no damage. Sam pulled him to the edge of a bed and pushed him down to sit; then, surprising Castiel, he stayed put as Jimmy cried, stiffly rubbing the man's back. Castiel watched for a moment, nearly transfixed. Then Jimmy began to wail-- loudly, mindlessly-- and Castiel understood that she was the last person he would want witnessing his pain. She fled.

***

Dean didn't come out of the motel room for nearly an hour. When he finally did, he looked tired, deflated. He slumped down on the bench next to Castiel and put his head in his hands.

Castiel paused before speaking. "How's Jimmy?" she asked finally.

Dean glared up, his lips pursed tightly. "Jimmy? Jimmy's peachy. 'less you count cryin' so hard he made himself sick again."

"I didn't…"

"You didn't what?"

"I didn't handle that as well as I could have."

In one smooth wave, all the anger washed out of Dean's face. "It wasn't your fault, Cas," he said quietly. "There wasn't any way you could have put it that woulda made it okay."

"I swore to protect his family. That no harm would come to them."

"Yeah. Well. A promise like that is pretty impossible to keep these days." Dean sighed. "What happened to them?"

"Demons attacked them."

"When? And why?"

Castiel thought back to the scene in the home, mother and daughter identically slaughtered, their corpses already beginning to decompose. She felt a shudder rising inside her and suppressed it with slight difficulty. She'd gone to Anna, who had filled her in on as much as they knew, which wasn't much: eight days ago, demons had attacked the Novaks seemingly without provocation. It was Anna's theory that two demon packs had gotten their signals crossed and that one had been anticipating Castiel's removal by the other a few days before it had happened, that they had gone to the Novak house expecting a human Jimmy to be there and, in their rage at being wrong, had attacked his family instead. Castiel had her doubts, though. Random acts of demon violence were spreading, and the Novaks were already known to their world. In her opinion, it had been demons being demons and killing for pleasure.

In an instant, she weighed this information and decided what to share with Dean. "Last week," she told him. "We don't know why."

Whereas Dean might have before questioned this, now he did not. Perhaps he had grown to trust Castiel more when she said she didn't have certain information, or perhaps he just didn't feel like pushing it.

"Oh, man," Dean said quietly. "Poor Jimmy." He leaned back against the bench, craning his neck to look at the stars. "He fell asleep. Or passed out or something. Sammy's sittin' with him."

"I should go before he wakes up."

"You can't avoid him forever… whether or not he likes it, you're both a part of this rag-tag organization."

Castiel dropped her eyes from Dean. "He doesn't like it."

"Can't blame him," Dean said fairly.

"No." She paused. "Dean… I'd never given much thought before to the humans whose bodies I occupied. Now I find it concerns me more than is strictly appropriate. You… asked me why I selected this body, and I told you that it was the most compatible choice." Dean waited, looking on calmly, blankly. "I didn't elaborate. I chose Jeanette from the qualified humans… because she has no family. Her parents died two years ago and she has no siblings or grandparents. She's alone."

A flicker passed over Dean's face, far too briefly for Castiel to identify the emotion. "PC possession. Huh."

"It's not a possession."

"Hey, you know, I hate to say anything longer than four letters about that Ruby bitch, but she didn't have a half-bad idea with her coma girl. Why couldn't you dredge up one of them?"

"Because it's not a possession, Dean. I need to be… invited."

"And what, you don't think it's better to trash pick without asking than take a live one?"

Castiel felt her body stiffen, an unexpected physical reaction to her growing annoyance. "I have no obligation to discuss this process with you," she said coolly.

"No obligation?" Dean was growing angry again. "I've got news for you, Cas, you're about as fallen as you can get and still have your shine intact, so this whole too-holy-to-share-with-the-class thing is gettin' a bit outdated."

Castiel blinked, frozen suddenly, knowing Dean was right. She paused to think of the proper way to respond. How to explain to a human the framework of an angelic vessel? How to make him understand why permission must always be given? Even she didn't fully comprehend the vastness of the practice. "There was a time," she said finally, choosing simplicity, "when it was an honor." She fell silent then, eyes to the ground.

Dean said nothing, but after a moment Castiel felt his arm around her shoulders. Strange. Stranger still, she let him keep it there.

***

It was three days before the demons came to 'question' Jimmy. Dean and Castiel were out following a lead on Lucifer and had left the Impala, and Sam had pulled Jimmy from the motel for the first time, to get him some clothes at the local answer to an all-purpose store. They arrived just as Sam was stepping out of the car into the abandoned parking lot-- never a good sign, really-- and frantically he threw the keys into Jimmy and slammed the door shut, as though locking himself inside could be enough to keep the man safe.

It was two men, neither of whom Sam recognized or cared to get to know any better. They smiled as he glared at them, then leering through the windows of the car.

"Little Winchester goes trash picking, and finds himself an empty angel," the taller of the two, a grey-haired man, remarked. "He doesn't look worth your time to refurbish," he went on, wrinkling his nose. "Why don't you let us take him off your hands for you? Looks busted."

"Maybe that's because you bastards killed his wife and daughter," Sam replied, his voice low, really not in the mood for conversation. Both parties knew that this would just end in violence, so why delay?

"Oh, that wasn't us. Wish it had been, but we didn't have the pleasure. Now, about that matter of handing him over…."

"He doesn't know anything," Sam growled. "I swear."

"Forgive us if we don't take your word for it," the demon smirked, and the shorter man, a blonde, shrugged casually as if to remind Sam that he didn't really have a say in the matter. Sam glanced over at the car, wondering why Jimmy hadn't slid into the driver's seat and taken off like any sensible person would have done. Hell, even a crazy person might have attempted to run the demons down. But Jimmy just sat, looking blankly out at them as though they were nothing more than particularly persistent kiosk salesmen, or members of a religious outreach program.

"Leave now, or I'll kill you both," Sam threatened, trying to sound as confident about it as he would have been a few months back. But the demons weren't buying it, weren't even pretending.

"Word on the street is you've kicked your little habit," the shorter one piped up. His voice was surprisingly deep. "So I'm not so sure how well you're placing your confidence. Although," he added, "we could always make it a fair fight."

And then he did what Sam had been dreading a demon would do in every battle since his second detox: he pulled a little knife from his jacket pocket and slit a neat, thin line across his own palm.

The demons were knocked back so quickly that by the time blood was oozing from the wound, they were already on the ground. Sam stood over them, hands extended, his heart racing, and pushed all his mental might at them until he thought his head would explode. And then something did explode: smoke, oily like a car fire's, shot from the grey-haired demon's mouth. Damn it-- technically that was a good thing, but Sam had been aiming to kill. Weakling, a dim, near-extinguished part of his mind mocked. Of course, there was an easy way; just one taste, one quick lick of the demon blood and he would be able to kill anyone he pleased….

No!, he screamed at himself, but he wanted it, wanted the blood like a man lost in a desert wanted water, wanted it like a freezing man wanted arms around him-- like a lonely man wanted arms around him-- and it would have been so warm, so soothing, would have made him feel so safe and powerful and in control and….

And then suddenly the blonde demon was dead. The burst of anger-- not at the demons, but at himself-- had been enough to do the job.

Sam collapsed onto all fours, supporting himself on knees and forearms, waiting with vague curiosity to find out whether or not he'd puke from the strain. His stomach was jumping rhythmically, as though the pavement underneath him in fact were a well-disguised boat sailing choppy waters, and his mouth was wet, with a bitter taste at the back of it. He heaved twice but nothing came up; finally the feeling receded enough for him to push himself to his feet, leaning wearily on the Impala.

Inside, Jimmy was still staring, his face expressionless. Sam noticed, with an anger beginning in his stomach far more intense than the nausea, that he hadn't ever locked the doors.

Maybe the grey-haired demon had been right: maybe Jimmy wasn't anything more than a sofa by the side of the road. Sam tried his best to be sympathetic, but exasperation had taken over beyond his control. When he'd lost his Jessica-- and Dad, and Dean-- Sam had used his grief as fuel for his fire. Sure, he'd been a wreck, but at least he'd been off his ass doing something. Killing shit.

Still queasy, head aching from the strain of the fight, Sam stared into the car at Jimmy with absolutely no idea what to make of him or what to do with him: whether or not he was worth the muscle to lift into the truckbed, or worth the gas to drive him home.

***

The next weeks passed slowly. Dean and Castiel went out early every morning and returned-- on most days-- only to switch out their weapons and let Dean catch a few hours of sleep. On days that they didn't, Dean called to update Sam over the phone. Sam was uneasy and yeah, somewhat resentful of the rhythm they'd fallen into; he was unused to staying back, watching Dean go off to fight with someone who wasn't him.

Somehow Sam had earned the honor of spending most of his time back in the motel, teaching Jimmy basic self-defense and exorcism skills. But training the man, who before his time with Castiel had never so much as belonged to a gym, proved to be nowhere near as frustrating as simply putting up with him. After initially hearing the news of his family's death, Jimmy had stopped crying, stopped emoting whatsoever, and stayed quiet most of the time. 'Cabin fever' was beginning to take on a whole new meaning for Sam as he spent day after day inside with the former vessel. He tried not to think of this as punishment for what he'd done, this sudden lack of involvement, of trust, but honestly he didn't know what to make of his new baby-sitting duties. As much as he cared about what happened to Jimmy, and knew that Jimmy trusted him much more than he trusted Dean, Sam just wanted to smite one demon asshole. Just one. Seriously. No one even returned for Jimmy to give him the opportunity in that way; apparently the demons considered him useless as well.

But gradually Sam began to soften up towards the man, especially when it became clear that Jimmy was taking his hunter's training seriously, if nothing else. He never complained when Sam pushed him, even though he routinely went beyond what must have been his physical comfort zone. In the evenings, while Sam watched TV, he had his nose in a book, studying Latin pronunciation. And, Sam had to admit, Jimmy simply couldn't be held to Winchester standards of sucking it up and soldiering on. He'd probably had a quiet, normal upbringing during which no one had ever taught him to channel his grief into killing monsters. Most men in his situation probably wouldn't even get out of bed at all, so Sam had to give him some credit. And besides, something else was pressing on Sam's mind…

Because someone who seemed entirely okay with the new arrangement was Dean. He and Castiel roamed about together, sometimes driving, sometimes flying, or whatever the angels actually called it. They tracked leads on Lucifer, always coming back with nothing, and meanwhile teamed up with other hunters and angels to destroy hives of demons that sprung up with greater frequency now. And they brought word, via Anna, of more angels being forced from their vessels via demon blood poisoning. She herself had been attacked, although as she actually controlled her own body, she hadn't been forced out, instead experiencing the symptoms of the blood herself. Of course other angels had not been so lucky, and when Sam wondered to himself what was keeping Castiel's new vessel from being attacked like his last, he felt the answer like a stone in his gut: absolutely nothing.

But through all this, Dean seemed more eager than he ever had before. More motivated. Occasionally even more optimistic. Sam had a theory. He really, really didn't like it, to the point where he wouldn't even let it to the front of his mind. But it lurked, somewhere in the shadows at the back of his skull, strange and sad and dangerous. One day there had been a lull in work for long enough that Dean had time for a full night's sleep and then some, and he had gone swimming. In the motel pool. Of the thousands of motels with pools that they had stayed at over the years, Sam could not remember either of them ever taking advantage of the facility. But here one morning Dean had appeared out of the bathroom, clad in swimtrunks that Sam didn't even remember him owning, announced his intentions and strolled out the door into the decidedly-cold-for-swimming spring day.

Other things too: he was eating less. Humming more. Once while flipping through channels he had stopped on a movie that wasn't a chick flick-- thank God it wasn't that bad-- but certainly wasn't an action movie either.

Weird stuff. Stupid stuff. Stuff that seemed a little young, a little out of place for a grown man, especially a hunter.

Coupled with his newly intensified companionship with the newly female Castiel, Sam had a bad feeling about what all this high school behavior might mean. But could Dean really have… a crush? On an angel?