Three years ago...

Stull Cemetery. The chosen battlefield of Armageddon, and, be it coincidence or irony, in the same town where Dean and Sam had been born- and had their lives turned upside down. But Castiel wasn't thinking of the particulars surrounding the reasons for that location. He was engaged in another battle, and it was just as personal.

Dean had said very little those first few hours of driving. Even the radio was silenced. He kept his gaze fixed on the road, speeding past other vehicles when he needed to, slowing down whenever he spotted a cop car hiding in the brush. The tape Cas wanted Dean to hear sat in his pocket. As he gazed at Dean's hardened face, he knew there was never a better time to share the song. There was also never a worse one for it. Given where they were going, and what they would find once they arrived, it left little room for sentiment. Castiel was starting to believe it'd go unheard after all. Still, he was sure he could assure Dean with his presence, if nothing else. He hadn't rejected the idea of his accompanying him.

It started to rain when Dean crossed over into Illinois. The light drizzle seemed to grow heavier and heavier the further west they went until the deluge eventually forced them off the road. Dean steered the car into the surrounding woods with sharp, jerky movements, put it into gear with an angry cry of, 'Dammit!'

Castiel watched him pound the steering wheel with both hands before he slumped in his seat. "Dean," he ventured.

He held up a finger. "Don't," he warned, running his hand down the length of his face. "Just don't."

"Don't what?"

"Tell me whatever the hell you were gonna say. I don't want to hear it."

Castiel bowed his head, and turned his gaze to the falling rain.

After a few moments of silence Dean punched the back of the seat so hard it startled Cas. He quickly looked over, stricken silent as he watched him continuously punch it while muttering curses. The brash anger that colored his words eventually gave way for anguish; after a final time he laid his head on the steering wheel, his arms concealing his face from view.

"Dammit," he rasped. "It never should have happened like this. I shouldn't have let him do it. It should have been me. Why wasn't it me..."

Castiel's breathing escalated slightly as he watched Dean fight against his volatile emotions. He couldn't let him sink any deeper into despair. He wouldn't.

Without a word he pulled the tape from his pocket, freed it from the case and inserted it into the radio. At seeing this Dean gave an irritated sound.

"Not now, Cas," he growled.

Cas hit the play button, raised the volume. "Listen," he requested.

As the opening riff started Dean sent him a disbelieving look. "Seriously?" His tone was cutting. "What the hell makes you think I wanna listen to that shit right now?"

"Dean," Cas said, louder and sharper in tone. Even as angry as he was, he still reacted with some surprise at Cas's command. The angel met his gaze. "Listen."

Dean scowled, turned away.

The soft melody filled the car. Dean impatiently drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Cas knew from experience he was only listening because he had been asked, not because he wanted to. But Cas said nothing to the contrary; he sat back in his seat, hands on his lap, lips moving soundlessly to the lyrics. When he started speaking louder Dean finally turned to look at him. Cas just nodded toward the radio as he continued to speak along with the words, hoped its message would be received.

Dean watched him, a little wide-eyed, for the duration of the song. He kept on watching him after it ended. Cas, feeling some pride at having been able to recite the words without a mistake, waited patiently.

Surprise, and some disbelief, crossed Dean's face. "Did you just..." he trailed off to laugh a little. "Serenade me with an Elton John song?"

Castiel nodded. "Yes. The song is by Elton John."

Dean mouthed 'oh', gave another small laugh. "Yeah...I thought that was what you did," he murmured before turning away.

Cas waited for him to speak again. It was clear Dean was having difficulty understanding what happened. He rubbed the back of his neck, shook his head.

For a moment Cas felt he had been wrong. "The words didn't resonate with you as they did me."

The disappointment in Cas's tone drew Dean's eyes to his. "What? No. I mean yeah," he corrected swiftly.

Cas furrowed his brow. Dean's reaction confused him. "And the song?"

He averted his gaze. "What about it?"

"Did you like it?" he asked, unable to keep the hope from his voice.

Another pause. "It's sappy," he stated. "I think I must have heard it in every chick flick I got dragged to. You hear one song like it you've heard them all," he added with a casual shrug.

Castiel had not considered that. Unhappy that his attempt to reassure Dean fell through, he reached for the radio. "I see. I'll just-"

Dean's hand was on his wrist the instant he went to eject the tape. Their eyes met. Dean appeared to have some trouble finding his voice. At last he nodded and said, "Leave it."

"Leave it?"

"Yeah, it's all right," he went on in steadier tones. He had fallen back on an old tactic- nonchalant disregard- and even smiled. "Play it again if you want. I never said it was a bad song."

Cas studied Dean for a few moments. While he wasn't certain the request was born from regret or not, he rewound the tape and played it once more. Dean leaned back, his fingers slipping away from Cas's wrist slowly.

They sat in silence during the first few bars. When Cas heard Dean's voice in tune to the song, he started to recite the words too. Their eyes met once more; suddenly it didn't matter that the end of days was on the horizon, or that they were headed to their possible deaths. It was both strange and the most comfortable thing in the world to be sitting there, in the car in the middle of a rainstorm, listening to the radio and singing with him.

Castiel couldn't be sure when he identified the change in Dean's mood. Perhaps it was the way his face had softened, or the simultaneous wonder and realization he read in his gaze. It didn't matter. Cas laid his hand atop Dean's where it sat between them, linked their fingers together. Dean's voice trailed off then. His throat flashed as he swallowed. Cas nodded.

Dean stared at their clasped hands, shook his head. Emotion shone in his eyes. "Dumb son of a bitch," he murmured, and Cas knew he was truly moved.

In all the movies he had watched, Castiel often questioned why humans seemed to express the greatest intimate connections in times of distress. But as he drew Dean to him, and their lips met in a soft, almost hesitant kiss that brought forth memories of the first time, he knew the answer. It was when you understood that the person who had always sat across from you, stood at your side, laughed with you, fought for you and bled for you, was far more important than you realized.

Castiel didn't question how they managed to climb into the backseat, or how they succeeded in undressing. There was nothing so important, so real, to him as the feelings and sensations that waited. It wasn't like their other times. Those had been rough, passionate embraces, even when Castiel had been at full power. Dean had wanted it like that; hard and fast while never letting go had been his way of life.

Now all the roughness was smoothed away. Caresses were slower, kisses longer, deeper. When Castiel's laid his hand on Dean's left shoulder in a perfect mimicry of the mark he had made on his soul, and Dean gripped him tightly, the angel knew that this moment was as much a celebration of their union as it was a silent acknowledgment of the truth. They had met in the dark recesses of Hell; they had met again in a place as physically far from Heaven as it was figuratively close to it.

Afterward, Castiel lay atop Dean, his ear pressed to his chest so he could hear the beating of his heart. Dean had fallen asleep, his jacket bunched under his head as a pillow, his arms loosely wrapped around Cas. The windows were fogged, the air stuffy, but Castiel didn't care. He had given Dean the peace of mind he so desperately needed, and he had received the response he so hoped for. It would give both the strength needed to face tomorrow. Contented yet weary, he exhaled and closed his eyes. He listened to the patter of rain, the soft sound of Dean's breathing, as he drifted to sleep.

It wasn't long before Castiel heard sleepy murmuring. He lifted his head, expecting to find Dean awake. But his eyes were closed, brow furrowed. For a moment he appeared frightened. Cas sorrowed for him. Even in sleep all the demons in Dean's mind never gave him respite.

Dean's hand on Cas's back curled into a fist. Just as he turned his head away, Cas glimpsed a tear roll down his cheek. Cas reached out to wipe it away, pressed his hand to Dean's face. His touch settled him; the crease between his brows faded, and he blew out a long breath. When he whispered Cas's name he smiled softly, ran his fingers along his lips. Felt Dean press a kiss to his fingertip. A powerful feeling grew within Cas's chest then, made it suddenly very difficult to breathe.

For the first time since he rebelled against his family, he was able to at last describe the feeling that led him down this road. Because Castiel, angel of the Lord, loved Dean Winchester. He had loved him all this time. And he knew he always would.

The storm had passed by morning. Neither spoke as they shrugged back into their clothing, or when Dean surprised Cas with a swift but meaningful kiss just as he went to get into the car. Dean said nothing as Cas rummaged through the tapes for the one he liked hearing at the start of every road trip. The comfortable silence carried them to the gas station and convenience store two hours later. Cas went into the store to buy coffee while Dean fueled the car. When he returned- a little upset that all the pies were sold out- he sat in the car to prepare his coffee as Dean went to the restroom.

He was just getting into the driver's seat when Cas turned to him and questioned the difference between creamer and half and half. For some moments Dean watched him, a little smile on his face. It was curious.

"You know what, Cas?" he said, turning the ignition. "I have no freakin' clue." He pulled out of the gas station, the wheel sliding idly beneath his hands. "I'll tell you this though: we're gonna make it. All of us. I don't know how yet, but we will. Trust me."

Castiel responded with a smile. As Dean sped up the angel leaned back in the seat, his thoughts going to what lay ahead. He had seen the strength of Dean's convictions before; he had no reason to doubt them now.

Castiel turned away from the stars, and the memory. What had once been a source of anguish, anger and betrayal to him had been transformed to determination. Tonight, it would all come full circle. He was going to make sure of it.

As he brushed past the table he noticed the box beneath it had been shifted, but it was the white envelope peeking through the flaps that drew his notice. Curious, Cas knelt to pull it free. He had just grazed the envelope's surface when there was a knock on the door. He stood upright, momentarily confused. Had it been an hour already?

Calling a response to the demon in the hall, Cas went to the bathroom to change. The envelope, and its contents, retreated to the back of his mind. It could wait, for there were more pressing matters at hand.

Dean Winchester was thinking just how pressing the matter of escape was, but without knowing the hex bag's location, he was a sitting duck. Things didn't look too good for Sam, either. He had been out cold the whole time, his body gradually slipping lower and lower in the seat. The demon guard sat in Crowley's chair, his feet on the desk and skin magazine in hand. Dean remembered Crowley's disdain at finding a soiled glass; he could bet money the boss wouldn't like to see scuff marks on his desk.

Suddenly Sam slid to the floor, his head striking the edge of the arm rest, hard. The instant Dean saw blood trailing from a wound he shouted at the demon.

"Hey! He's bleeding!"

The demon glanced at Sam, disinterestedly. "And?"

"Check on him, or so help me I will rip your throat out," he vowed.

He received an amused chuckle. "Of course you will," he commented.

"Go help him, you dick," Dean insisted, his hands tightening into fists.

"In a minute," the demon responded lazily. He turned the magazine upright, smiled as the centerfold unraveled.

Dean gritted his teeth, shot a quick glance back at Sam. He looked like he was barely breathing. Though infuriated, he swiftly put his thoughts together, managed a little smile and looked back at the demon.

"Hey, douchebag- I didn't hear your boss say anything about us getting hurt."

At this the demon paused. Then he slapped the magazine down and rose with a heavy sigh. The look in his eyes was anything but pleasant as he headed toward Sam. Dean just flashed a smug smile. It never hurt to remind these guys that they were far more important alive than dead.

It also never hurt to be reminded that Sam could never be counted out; the instant the demon knelt to roll him over Sam's hand shot out, fingers grabbing at the demon's wrist.

"What the-?" he cried just as Sam sank his teeth into the demon's hand. Dean stared, wide-eyed, when Sam tore a chunk of flesh free. Blood trailed down the corners of his mouth, stained his chin. When his head shot up, his eyes flashed with power, and he sent the demon crashing into Crowley's desk. He stood up, a little shaky, but his expression was one of determination as he thrust his hand out. Black smoke spilled out from the demon's mouth to pool around him like water. Although Dean had watched Sam exorcize a demon like this plenty of times, it never ceased to send a little shiver of apprehension through him.

The smoke was reduced to ashes circling the guard. As soon as the demon was gone the body slumped over. Sam drew in a deep, steadying breath, turned to face Dean. "Can you get up?"

"No," Dean reported with a frown. "Think he's got me stuck here with witchcraft."

Sam was nodding. "Sounds like him. I'll find the hex bag."

"Do it fast," Dean insisted as Sam already started tearing into Crowley's desk. He watched him carelessly knock things over, then turn to root through the shelves. "Hey," he called, and his brother glanced at him. "What happened? How did they get you?"

"Caught me as I was coming back from the storeroom," he explained. He overturned a collection of books, felt along the shelf, the wall, before moving on to the table. "Just glad they didn't think to search me."

"Why?"

Sam smiled as he produced a pair of angel blades. "All the angels working for Crowley have to surrender them," he said, setting them on the desk. "I had a feeling we'd be needing them later."

Dean grinned. He felt near to bursting with pride. "Nice job, Sammy. Wait," he added. "Didn't you hit your head when you fell?"

Sam reached inside his mouth to pull out a spent capsule of fake blood. "Gabe's taught me a few tricks," he explained to Dean's gaping stare. "If I just fell you wouldn't have needed to get the guard to check me."

"That little son of a-" Dean cut himself off and gave a rueful shake of the head. "So you were awake the whole time?"

"Mostly," Sam responded, giving a helpless but apologetic smile. "Sorry, Dean. I had to fool you, too."

"Yeah I know," he grumbled. "Doesn't mean I like it."

"If there had been more time I would have- got it," he announced, pulling the hex bag from the niche in the wall. He had it open and dismantled in seconds.

As soon as Dean felt the restricting feeling fade he shot to his feet. He spared the pieces a brief, sour glance before heading for the exit. He caught the angel blade Sam tossed his way. "We gotta get back to Cas and tell him what's up," he said, tucking the blade inside his jacket. "We still need to figure out how we're gonna get me- the other Dean- outta Michael."

They started down the stairs. "It'll have to be during the play," Sam told him.

"What? Why?"

"Gabe told me Michael's going to participate as himself. That's why he spent all morning rehearsing it."

Dean could care less if Gabriel spent all century rehearsing that stupid play. "But why does Michael want to do it?"

"Who knows. Whoa, get back," Sam said, holding out his arm. Dean peered past him in time to see a pair of demons walking toward the stairwell. He had the angel blade in hand without a second thought. Sam saw it, nodded.

The brothers waited until the demons had passed before they struck. Dean stabbed one through the neck, Sam got the other in the back. Both gave gasping sounds before dropping to the floor. After they stashed them inside the stairwell, and Sam locked it with the special key, they hurried on.

The club had gotten much more crowded during their stint in Crowley's office. Between the loud music, the enthusiastic shouting by the hell hound pit and the people watching the cage fights, it was any wonder Dean could hear himself think. The noise was muted only slightly as they descended the stairwells to the main floor.

Sam peered out first. "Okay, it's clear," he announced, and gestured for Dean to follow. They hurried down the stretch of corridor running the perimeter. Here it was mostly populated by small tables and a few patrons who lingered to watch the multiple televisions hanging on the wall. Once they reached the other side- it was considerably less crowded here- they ducked into the last stairwell on the floor.

At seeing Sam start to go up the one he knew led to Cas's dressing room, Dean held out a restraining hand. "Wait up, Sam," he said.

Sam turned to look at him. "What? Dean, we need to talk to him now."

"You do realize what the hell he's doing don't you?" he asked somewhat crossly. "You think I wanna walk in on that?"

Sam considered his argument, nodded. "Right. Got any ideas about Michael?"

"Only one I got is the holy oil. But..." he trailed off with a helpless gesture toward the stairs.

"It's in Cas's room," Sam supplied. He folded his arms, looked at the floor as he thought. "Hmm. I know he takes breaks between clients but I don't know the times."

"How about when his shift is over? Do you know that?"

"After the play usually, if he doesn't have anyone booked afterward."

"Well, let's hope no one wants any overtime with him," Dean remarked, glancing back at the stairs. "And there's Crowley, too. Place is already crawling with his goons; just gonna get worse when he finds out we're gone."

Sam was silent for a few moments, then gave a little smile. "That depends."

"On what? Whoa, don't even think about trying to ice him," Dean warned with a frown. "Four gallons didn't work against Lucifer, and you'd have to drink this play dry to even stand up to Crowley."

At seeing the flash of guilt pass across Sam's face Dean regretted his choice of words. But Sam shook it off and said, "I wasn't going to suggest demon blood, Dean. I have a better idea."

"Yeah? What's that?"

Sam emerged from the doorway and pointed at the upper tier. "Crowley always watches the play from the VIP box. I can get up there and make a devil's trap."

Dean was nodding. "I like it," he approved with a smile and clap on Sam's shoulder. "You take care of him, I'll get the holy oil and Cas. If we're lucky, Gabriel will be back."

Hope entered Sam's gaze as he nodded. "When you get Cas meet me backstage."

"You got it. Sammy," he called just as Sam went to walk away. His throat tightened, and he pushed back the inexplicable sense of dread. "Be careful."

Sam smiled, softly. "You, too." After another moment he darted out of sight.

Once he had gone Dean glanced up the stairs, sighed and ascended, all the while hoping there was some kind of a system in place to let would-be visitors know Cas was otherwise indisposed. This place was already going to leave a big enough mark on his memory as it was.