Sam ran a hand through his wet hair and frowned. It had taken only moments for his worries to kick into high gear this morning. Dean was pickling himself in booze. Castiel was being even weirder than usual. Sometimes he wondered if he was the only one who wasn't losing his mind. And today he wondered if he should be worried about that, too, given all the crap he'd been through. When Bobby came into the kitchen, bleary eyed with sleep, Sam handed him a coffee.

"We need to talk."

Bobby pursed his lips. "Ya mind if I eat first?"

"You cook. I'll talk."

Bobby slurped his coffee. "Where's Mr. Sunshine this morning?"

"Dean's out." His brother had come in late and left early, not for the first time.

"Okay." Bobby put a greasy skillet on the burner and cranked the heat to high. "What's got your panties in a bunch?"

Sam took a breath and rushed to get the words out before he lost his nerve. "Dean's drinking his breakfast, lunch, and dinner. That time in Brandon he was too wasted to do the job. And there've been more'n a few incidents since."

"Balls" Bobby said, his eyes on the empty pan as the oil heated. "Hunters drink, Sam. That's why we call it 'hunter's helper.' You know that."

"Not like this. Not like Dean. It's going to get one of us killed. Maybe both of us."

"Hell. If I knew how to stop people drinkin'…" Bobby let the sentence hang, thinking of his childhood and his life since. He opened the fridge and pulled out a carton, swore, and wiggled the offending item at Sam. "Which one of you idjits put this back in the fridge with one Goddamn egg in it?"

"Dean." Sam swallowed cold coffee and turned his eyes away, trying not to think of his own plate in the sink, still greasy from breakfast. "Probably."

Bobby broke the egg into the pan where it began to pop and sizzle, looking small and sad. "It's not like we can check him into rehab," he said. "He'd be a sitting duck for every demon within a hundred miles."

As he spoke there was a rustle and Castiel appeared by the sink, holding a carton of eggs. Bobby, unfazed by the arrival, took possession of the carton.

"Are you talking about Dean?" Castiel asked.

Sam nodded, turning to include the angel in the conversation. "We could lock him in the panic room downstairs until he dries out. Couple of weeks maybe?"

Bobby grimaced. "And won't that be just peachy to live with." He cracked eggs into the pan and watched them merge and cook as the greasy smell filled the kitchen. He'd seen a long-time drinker dry out once, in Tucson. It was damn near an exorcism.

Sam remembered his own stint in the panic room while he dealt with his demon blood addiction. He knew what he was asking.

Castiel spoke, his voice raw. "I have a proposal."

Bobby leaned into the fridge and emerged with a rasher of bacon. "Well then pull up a pew, boy, 'cause we'd love to hear it."

In the shower that morning Dean let the hot water soak him through as he traced the imprint of Cas' hand on his shoulder. He wondered if the angel had watched him before pulling him out of Hell, and if he'd actually seen what kind of a man they'd sent him to retrieve. He put his head under the spray, the water almost too hot to stand. If he'd been Cas he'd have left him there to rot.

But not Cas. No, Cas had pulled him out and rebuilt him from whatever scrap had been left. Restored him, like he'd just rolled off the assembly line. Dean wondered if that process was as emotional for Cas as fixing the Impala was for him. He shut off the shower and grabbed a towel. Being raised from Hell had given him new upholstery, but his engine needed a serious overhaul, and he finally knew how to start.

He'd awoken from his nightmare sweaty and shaken, heart racing, and then sat up for a few hours before dawn, reading his father's journal. His last-ditch hook-up plan had achieved the complete opposite of what he'd intended. Not only had it not scratched this whole gay-for-Cas itch, but now he'd crossed a line. There was a very awkward conversation with an angel in his future. And what if Cas told Sam or Bobby about the kissing before then? That was a problem he didn't even want to think about.

He'd turned a page in his dad's journal, reading about a case that had taken place locally. A guy whose kid had been possessed was having PTSD issues six months after the fact. The kid's psychiatrists, not having the full picture, had wanted to medicate. John Winchester's plan had worked better. As Dean read the particulars of what they'd done, an idea formed. It was risky, but when had he ever played it safe? He ran a hand over his father's army ribbons, pinned to the inside of the journal. John Winchester had always been more practical than sentimental. He would understand.

The address he found led him across town to an alley between a laundromat and a Thai restaurant. In the early morning hours it was deserted. He'd told Sam he was going for a drive to clear his head, and if his idea worked that would be true. He pounded a fist on a blue metal door and an electronic speaker in the wall crackled to life.

"Who is it?"

"Name's Winchester," he shouted into the speaker. "You did some work for my father, John, back in the day." He waited, hand on his knife. He could never be sure if the names he got out of his dad's journal were going to be pleasant, pissed, or possessed. Or, as was the case here, when they were gonna be a friggin' witch.

The door buzzed and Dean stepped inside. At first glance, it was a typical fortuneteller's setup, complete with Ouija board, crystal ball, and lighting low enough to hide the theatrical contraptions. But Dean noted the iron bars on the windows, the salt along the ledges, and the devils trap on the ceiling by the door.

"Winchester?" A tall woman greeted him.

He nodded curtly and smiled, trying not to show his bias against witches, but out of habit he spotted two exits, one of which would involve going through a wall.

She motioned for him to sit and he twisted the chair around backwards in case he had to move fast.

"I'm hoping you can help me with a situation," he began. "It's a little complicated."

"Relax." The woman smiled, showing teeth that were slightly too white. "You're not the only one who has memories he'd rather not carry."

"You know why I'm here?" He raised his chin. The idea that anyone could read him this easily was unnerving. He wondered what else the witch could see. Did she know about Hell? About Cas?

She waved a long fingered hand. "I just get a sketch." She rose, and went to a cabinet against the wall. "Did you bring the item? The Merit of the Father?" She returned with a metal bowl and a handful of tiny bottles.

"Yeah." Dean reached into his pocket and extracted his father's Purple Heart ribbon, gripping it in his fist. He muttered an apology to his dad before setting the pin on the table between them. "You sure this is gonna work?"

"If you let it." She arranged the items in front of her and then reached out and took the pin.

"It won't damage it, right?"

"Not physically." She examined its purple front and white edges. "This was awarded for being wounded in battle, yes?"

Dean nodded. He rarely thought about his father's stint in the Marines or his service in Vietnam. As far as he was concerned, his dad had spent his whole life fighting a war, just not the kind anyone gave medals for.

"Good. That'll help." She put the pin into the bowl and applied drops from the jars. The bowl began to smoke and the room filled with the smell of sulfur.

Dean lunged forward. "You said this wouldn't hurt it."

"Obliviscere." She gripped his head, her other hand hovering over the bowl, and he gasped as if taking breath for the first time. The relief was immediate and he blinked away tears. His memories, which had been turned up to 11, reduced to 3 or 4. The woman released him and he almost tumbled from his chair. He smiled, giddy. It wasn't full-on amnesia, but he could live with this. More importantly, he could work. Maybe he could even hang out with Cas again.

The woman went to the cupboard and returned with a small wooden box. She poured the contents of the bowl into the box, then closed and locked it. She looked at Dean's beaming smile, her eyes hard as stone. "Keep it in the box."

"No problem." He reached out a hand but she pulled back.

"In. The. Box."

"Yes Ma'am." He nodded, unable to wipe the grin from his face. "Payment as agreed?"

"As agreed." She closed in on him with a long and pointed pair of scissors and Dean gripped her wrist.

"You're uh, not gonna do any freaky mystical shit with it, are ya?"

She rolled her eyes. "With Dean Winchester's hair? Please! It'll all be freaky mystical shit."

As Dean exited through the metal door Chalmers' black eyes watched from a car across the street. The hunter had a spring in his step, a new haircut, and a box clutched under his arm like a football. Chalmers licked his lips and pulled out his cell phone. In the trunk the remains of the man who had once resembled Castiel went into rigor.

When Dean returned, Sam, Bobby, and Cas were on the couch, as serious as Olympic judges. Dean ran a hand over his head, short hairs bristling against his fingertips.

"Take a picture, guys, it'll last longer."

Sam gestured at a chair across from them. "Have a seat, Dean."

Dean sat and took in the three sets of eyes boring into him.

"What's up?" He touched his hair again. "Too Beiber? He wondered if Cas had told Sam and Bobby about the motel. He looked fearfully at Sam, expecting any minute he'd blurt something like, 'We heard you tried to make Cas your girlfriend,' or 'So, you're gay now?' Dean's eyes did a quick scan of the room for any brochures Sam might have collected, like Accepting Your Bisexual Brother.

Sam had a grim set to his jaw. Bobby looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. Cas was watching him intently. He looked at the angel's mouth, remembering that kiss, then realized he'd been looking too long when he began to swell against his jeans. He shifted his eyes to the coffee table, where a bowl of gummy worms sat on a book about Ancient Sumaria. Okay, he thought, so maybe this Cas problem wasn't sorted. Keep your eyes on the candy, Winchester.

Sam glanced at Bobby then back to his brother. "We need to talk about your drinking."

Dean forgot all about the gummy worms. "Knock it off, guys. You're freakin' me out."

Cas spoke, "Dean, your behavior of late," but Sam nudged him.

"We agreed to use 'I' statements."

"You're right. I'm sorry." He turned to Dean, and licked his lips before speaking again. "I find your behavior puzzling at the best of times, but when you drink…"

"I'm an asshole." Dean completed the statement for him. "I get it." He bit the inside of his cheeks, trying not to smile or breathe a huge sigh of relief. They were hosting an intervention for him. This was awesome. God, if they only knew the half of it.

The angel rubbed his neck and whispered to Sam. "This is not the reaction I had anticipated."

Sam cleared his throat. "What we want you to know, Dean, is that we love you and we're concerned about you.I feel," he touched his chest, "that when you're drinking your reflexes are slower and I worry that one of us will get hurt. Or worse."

"Oh Hell," Bobby interjected, "it's 'hunter's helper' you idjit. It can't do the job for ya!"

Dean slapped his knees. "I appreciate the Hallmark moment guys. I really do. Your concern is," he put a hand to his heart, mocking Sam, "it's touching. Seriously." He stood, and the others did the same.

"Dean," Sam started, but his brother cut him off.

"You're right, Sammy. You're all right. I had some stuff I was dealing with, and let's just say I overindulged. That's all behind me now." He raised a hand. "Scouts honor."

Castiel squinted at him. "I do not believe you are a member of that organization."

"You should see my merit badges." Dean winked at him and the corners of Cas' mouth curled up. Dean's heart pounded and he turned to look at Sam, Bobby, or even those damn gummy worms. Anywhere but at that amazed smile.

Sam nodded, short and sharp. "Glad we talked." He turned to Bobby. "Well, that's a load off my mind. Let's hear about those jobs you lined up."

"Abso-freakin-lutely," Dean agreed, glad to be moving on. "Focus on the work. What's the gig?"

Bobby sighed. "We got reports of ghosts on flights between Sioux City and Chicago. Need someone to check that out."

Dean's smile lost some of its shine. He hated flying. It was right up there on the list with witches.

Bobby glanced at Sam. "And there's a wendigo in Manistee National Forest." He opened a map and pointed to a green splotch near lake Michigan. "Place is riddled with abandoned salt mines. It won't be easy, but I rigged up a flamethrower might do the trick. If'n it don't burn the balls off ya first."

Dean could barely believe his luck. An abandoned salt mine was the perfect place to hide the box. No ghost or demon in its right mind would go near it. And it didn't involve airplanes or witches. He shot an arm into the air. "I call Michigan!"

"Fine," Sam said, as if he didn't care. "You and Cas go to Michigan and Bobby and I'll fly to Chicago. But we're taking the Impala."

Dean's face fell.

"Don't give me that look," Sam said. "It's a fourteen hour drive to Michigan. Go with Cas, angel express."

"Fine." Dean pouted. "But don't leave my baby in some shitty airport parking lot."

"I won't." Sam caught the keys one-handed.

"I'll go pack." Dean pointed a finger at Bobby. "Then I wanna check out that flamethrower."

"Well," Sam said once his brother was out of earshot, "that was easy."

Bobby looked concerned. "It ain't over yet."