In the alley between the Laundromat and the Thai restaurant Chalmers pounded a fist on the blue metal door and waited. Just as he was about to bang again the speaker crackled.

"Who is it?" The question was barely audible through the static.

"Dean Winchester," Chalmers lied. He glanced to his right, at Perkins, who fancied himself in charge when they were in the field. Perkins looked like a rat. Someday Chalmers would break that enormous nose of his.

The lock buzzed and he jerked the door open. Perkins pushed in first, eager to be important. Chalmers hung back. In his experience the first guy through the door discovered all the booby traps.

While Bobby kept Dean busy outside, Castiel and Sam rifled through his bags, confiscating alcohol. As Sam saw it, sending Dean to Michigan had a number of advantages. It would keep him off the job and relatively protected by isolation, and it freed him and Bobby to work. As bad as he felt foisting the task onto Castiel, he was glad he wasn't going to have to watch Dean suffer. He'd done enough of that in his lifetime.

"How long do you expect this mission will take?" Castiel asked, pulling Dean's clothes from a backpack. Sam saw the angel hesitantly raise one of Dean's sweaters to his face and inhale. He wondered if addiction had a smell.

"Couple of weeks, maybe." He pulled a fifth of whisky from his brother's duffle. "Just keep him there 'til you think he's better."

"You may rely on me."

Sam scowled. "Dean's not gonna be pleasant once he starts detoxing. I don't envy you."

"I experienced envy recently," Castiel said, removing the cap from a bottle of cologne and sniffing it with suspicion. "It was…disagreeable." He pulled half a dozen pocket-sized bottles of rum from the backpack and put them, together with the cologne, into Sam's growing pile of contraband.

Sam transferred the booze into a bag, tied it off and began to fill another. "Better hurry. I don't know how long Bobby can keep him occupied, even with a flamethrower." He pulled a lumpy object from Dean's duffle and began to unwrap it. It was a bag within a bag within a bag. And inside was a locked box.

Sam smirked. Nice try, Dean. He'd been picking locks since before he could ride a bike. He applied his pick for a few moments then lifted the lid and stared, perplexed. Inside was one of his father's service pins. "That shouldn't be in—"

He touched it.

It was as if his mind had tapped into a torrent of demonic porn featuring Dean in the starring role. And amongst the horror show, images of Castiel, like kinky Polaroids.

Sam collapsed, dropping the pin and scrambling backward. "What the Hell was that?"

Castiel picked up the pin and held it, allowing the images to wash through his mind.

"I believe they're Dean's memories of Hell, perfectly preserved. Like tiny movies." Castiel was impressed. "This is a very good spell."

Sam wiped sweat from his face and sat gasping for air. "Why is it in his duffle?"

Castiel's face clouded. "Clearly he intends to bring it with us to Michigan." He returned the pin to the box, locked it, and began to wrap it up again. "We should put this back where we found it."

Sam pulled air into his aching lungs and waited for his head to stop throbbing. He didn't want to think about his brother doing those things. Dean probably didn't either. It explained a lot, actually.

"Do you think Dean's drinking might be due to a, um, sexual problem?" Sam stood, wiping his palms on his shirt.

Castiel gave him a look of disbelief he'd learned from Sam himself.

"Can you help him?"

"I hope so." Castiel returned Dean's clothes to the duffle, on top of the wrapped box.

Sam gathered the alcohol and paused in the doorway, thinking of the images of Castiel he'd seen. "Listen, if this is none of my business, just say so."

"Certainly."

"Your interest in Dean, is it personal?"

Castiel looked at the duffle, his face thoughtful. "Love is always personal."

Chalmers waved his hand over the bowl of blood and made a call he dreaded. It had been the same for sixty years. Every boss was a total dick.

"It's Chalmers. At the fortuneteller's place."

The blood bubbled. "Where's Perkins?"

Chalmers looked at the mess of limbs inside the devil's trap. "Retired."

"What case is this again?"

Chalmers hung his head. He had enough on his plate tracking the hunter. Was it too much to ask that they give him proper administrative support?

"Winchester. Dean Winchester."

The blood bubbled and burst. "Riiight. That Winchester. What's the story?"

Chalmers flipped disinterestedly through a notebook before tossing it to the floor. "He was definitely here this morning. Think he bought a spell."

"You think?"

"Yeah. He left with something in a box." Chalmers picked up another notebook, but it was filled with incomprehensible squiggles. "Fortune teller's a witch."

His boss sighed. "Did you question her?"

"Yeah." Chalmers looked at the woman's body, parts of it still strapped to the chair. "She wasn't helpful." Management. Always wanting results, never appreciating effort.

"At least tell me you know what spell Winchester bought."

Chalmers opened a cupboard filled with potions, herbs and decorative knick-knacks. Humans were always looking for a quick fix. More hair, bigger dicks, fancier cars, prettier women. It was sadly predictable.

"Hard to say." He picked up a dagger and used it to clean his nails.

The blood simmered angrily. "Well find out fast or I'll be wearing your skin to the next office party."

One thing Chalmers has learned in his sixty years was that when trouble turned its black eyes on him it was best to redirect that aggression. He looked thoughtfully at the dagger and thought about the box he'd seen under Dean Winchester's arm.

"It might be some kind of a weapon."

Dean's bags, now devoid of alcohol, lay on the floor in Bobby's living room, next to the homemade flamethrower. Sam looked at Castiel, sitting stiffly on the sofa, examining a bowl of gummi worms. When the angel had said he loved Dean had he meant love-love, or saintly 'I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing' kind of love? And if he meant love-love, did Dean know? And if he did, how did he feel about it? And–oh God—did any of this explain Castiel's questions about sex the other day? Sam needed some answers before he sent his brother into the woods with the guy.

Dean strode in from the hall, rubbing his hands together. "Alright, Cas. Look alive. We're 'bout to fricassee a wendigo. Eye of the Tiger, man."

"Quick word?" Sam grabbed his brother's arm and pulled him toward the kitchen.

With a wary eye on the kitchen doorway, Bobby joined Castiel on the sofa and leaned in close. "I've been doing some research," he said, his voice low, "I'm thinkin' cold turkey might not be the right sandwich for this picnic."

Castiel held a gummi worm up to the light. "The picnic menu is sound." He gripped both ends of the gummi worm and stretched it, delighted at its elasticity. "Were you aware that worms are hermaphrodites?"

Bobby fixed him in a glare. "Do I look like I care?"

"Not gummy worms, obviously." Castiel's face became serious. "I've restored Dean's body on a number of occasions, including the time I raised him from Hell." He slapped a hand on Bobby's shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "You can rely on me to see to Dean's welfare, both physical and mental."

"If you say so. I just hope you're prepared for when things go all Lost Weekend." Bobby's face glowed with pride. "Our boy's a wily son of a bitch."

In the kitchen, Sam swung his arms, trying to figure out what to say. He wasn't out of Castiel's auditory range, but with luck he could learn what he needed before the angel understood what he was asking.

"What now?" Dean asked, hands on his hips. "About to go kill a wendigo. Like to get it done sometime this year."

Sam took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. "You know you can talk to me, right?"

Dean was impatient. "What about?"

"About anything. Work problems, personal problems." He lowered his voice. "Sexual problems."

Dean recoiled as if he'd been smacked. "Sexual problems?"

"For example, if I were attracted to a colleague." Sam glanced meaningfully toward the living room. "I'd like to think that we could talk about it."

Dean followed his gaze and his face clouded. "We ain't talkin' about Bobby here, are we?"

Sam gave his brother the 'Are you insane?' stare. "Hell no. I was talking about…" Castiel. He mouthed the name, making no sound.

"Cas?" Dean practically shouted.

"Yes Dean?" the angel's voice called out.

"Nothing!" The brothers answered in unison.

Dean gripped Sam by the arm and his voice was a growl. "Are you having a thing with…" he mouthed the name and his eyes darted to the doorway.

Sam's eyes widened. "Me?"

"You and he haven't…" Dean made an obscene gesture.

"No. Noooo." Sam raised his palms. "Not that there's anything wrong with that. I mean, if it's right for you."

"For me?"

Dean laughed but Sam could see his ears turn red. He thought about his bother's comments about gay demons and wondered.

"Yeah. He uh, he loves you. He said so."

"Of course he does." Dean scoffed. "The guy loves hamburgers, and bees, and all God's little children."

"Yeah, well I think maybe he love-loves you. Just thought you should know." He clapped his hands together. "And now you do."

"Thanks for the heads up, Sweet Valley High. That all?"

Sam could see the door shut behind his brother's eyes. If Dean couldn't even acknowledge Cas's man-crush he definitely wasn't ready to hug it out about his time in Hell.

"Yeah. I just want you to be happy. With whomever." He thought about the box and its horrific contents. "And if you need to see a professional, then we'd find the money for that."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "A professional? Like a hooker?"

"I was thinking more a psychiatrist." Sam flinched. If Dean was going to take a swing at him, this would be the time.

Instead, his brother laughed and slapped a hand on his back. "Okay, Sammy. If I need my head shrunk I'll let you know to start saving your pennies." He turned and stepped into the living room. "Cas! Drop the gummi worms and beam us to Michigan!"

Chalmers was sitting half out of the driver's seat of the Cadillac, lifting a hand weight, when his phone rang. He had no interest in developing his muscles, but the jock he was wearing had been having meltdowns since he'd killed that guy from the motel, and working out was the only thing that calmed him down. Maybe it was 'roid rage, but this guy just kept fighting him. It was getting annoying. When he traded up to his next meatsuit he was going to give this gym rat something to remember him by.

He leaned across the passenger seat and grabbed his cell with his free hand. Only a few demons even had this number, and he'd been waiting for his lie about Dean Winchester's secret weapon to work its way up the chain. Hell, as far as he knew it could even be true. The Winchesters always seemed to be leveling up with some new magical thingy.

"Yeah?"

It was the boss. He could tell from the sound of papers shuffling, even before the shouting voice came. "Chalmers? You there Chalmers?"

He pulled the cell away from his ear. The guy still couldn't figure out how to use a cell phone. Neanderthal.

"I'm here." He continued the reps on his left arm. "What's up?"

"Orders. Follow Winchester and acquire the weapon."

"I've trailed him back to Singer Salvage." Chalmers set the weight down and looked across the scrubby lot to where the Impala was parked. Winchester had gone inside hours ago and hadn't come out since.

"Well he's not there now. Informant spotted him in Michigan, so get moving."

"Will do."

Chalmers cut the call and flung the cell as far as it would go. Then he settled behind the steering wheel and smiled. He'd once tortured a man for thirty hours in Michigan. Good times. He pulled out his straight razor and slit his arms from elbow to wrist.

"Wish I could have gotten more creative, Baby," Chalmers said, "but I got somewhere I gotta be." Then he leaned back, opened his mouth and a tower of black smoke erupted forth and flew east, toward Michigan.