In a small hunting cabin on the bank of a broad river in Michigan Dean unpacked the groceries they'd bought at the Gas-n-Sip and thought about his conversation with Sam. Had Cas really said he loved him? And if he did, why'd he say so to Sam? He watched Cas examining the bookshelf, stuffed with library castoffs. Sure, they had their difficulties, but had it gotten so bad that Cas preferred talking to Sam? Dean frowned at a can of chili. God, was he jealous of his brother? He glanced at Cas again. He needed to bite the bullet.

"Think you freaked poor Sam out the other day."

"Did I?" Cas turned from the bookshelf to look at him and Dean glanced away, putting a can of soup into the cupboard with more concentration than he needed.

"Yeah." He set a container of instant coffee on the counter. "Said you asked about sex." He didn't even bother to keep the smile from his face. "And masturbation. Said you told him he was unlucky with the ladies."

"I was making an observation." Cas was cradling a colorful encyclopedia about birds, flipping through it.

"Yeah. Well I think you hit a nerve." Dean balled up the empty plastic bag, looked for somewhere to put it, and finally tossed it in a cupbord under the sink. "I know things have been strained between us, and I'm sorry. That's my bad. But if you've got questions Cas, I'm here. Talk to me."

Cas turned to the window and the sunbeams bouncing off the lake lit up his face. "Thank-you, Dean. But Sam seemed like the best source of advice at the time, given his success with celibacy."

Dean smirked. "That's the goal then, is it? Total abstinence? Sounds rough."

Cas tilted his head, glancing at Dean out of the corner of his eye. "That's the best way to deal with not being able to get what you want, isn't it? Going without?"

Dean put a jug of milk into the musty fridge and flicked at the light bulb until it came on. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe Cas did love-love him. Maybe there was even some kind of mutual thing going on here. But what did that matter? It wasn't like the two of them could settle down together. Hunters didn't get a white picket fence. He looked at Cas. Sam being right didn't change everything that was wrong. And the things he thought about doing with Cas were definitely wrong. Cas deserved someone nice. Someone who hadn't spent half their life torturing people in Hell.

"Don't give up, Cas. Put yourself out there. You'll meet the right girl."

"What if I'm not interested in that girl?"

Dean shrugged a little too casually. Picturing Cas with a guy was less comfortable but he'd be damned if he was gonna go all Ducky and cockblock his best friend over some impossible crush. "Guy then. Same game, different equipment. My advice still applies. You gotta be in it to win it."

"I'll keep that in mind." Cas carried the bird encyclopedia to a chair by the window and began to study it in earnest.

"Listen, since we're talking, mind if we keep that whole situation at the motel strictly between you and me?"

"The situation with the man who—"

"Yeah. That situation."

"And the kiss?" Cas supplied, his eyes still on the book.

"Yeah. And that. Could we keep that private for now?"

"If you'd like."

"Thanks." Dean cleared his throat. "Cause I am not ready to have that kinda conversation with Sam. Or Bobby. Jeez. Especially not with Bobby. You get that, right?"

"I shall enjoy sharing a secret with you, Dean."

Cas looked up from the book and Dean realized he'd been waiting for this. He'd been standing there looking forward to being pinned down by that stare. Dean sighed. Not acting on an unrequited crush was one thing, but it went against everything he'd known to hit the breaks when the interest was mutual. And he might have days of sexual tension still to slog through until they ganked the wendigo. This was gonna suck.

"Yeah? Good." Dean cleared his throat. He needed a drink. "I'm gonna see if they got any board games in this place. Cards, maybe. You can play cards, right? That's not, like, a deadly sin or something?"

Cas smirked. "I doubt any games you know will put me in a condition of mortal sin."

"Is that a challenge? Don't tease me, Cas. Cause I will see you and raise you some." He paused in the doorway on his way to the bedroom. "I might even go all in."

The cabin's bedroom was small and cosy, with a window looking out on the woods and a saggy double bed. It was pushing it, Dean knew, to joke with Cas like that. The angel was a friend and a colleague and tomorrow they were gonna hunt a dangerous supernatural cannibal. Tonight they were gonna…well, what the hell were they gonna do tonight? Dean's brain made some Technicolor suggestions. Christ. Where was that drink?

Dean grabbed a pack of cards from a shelf, gave the dusty boardgames a critical once-over and then turned to his backpack. As his fingers failed to find a bottle, his movements became more frantic. He'd packed the rum. He was sure of it. He grabbed his duffle and began to search.

"Where's my friggin' booze?" He said it more to himself than to Cas, but the angel stepped into the doorway and looked down at the ransacked bags. He was almost apologetic.

"We thought it would be best if you did not drink alcohol for the foreseeable future."

"We? What we?" Dean had a sinking feeling he already knew the answer. Like a fool, he kept looking through the bags.

"The people who care about you. Sam, and Bobby, and I."

"So you took my friggin' booze?" He flung the bag to the floor, panic in his eyes. Could they not understand that he needed it to function? Even with the volume turned down on his memories, the thought of getting through the day, let alone the mission without assistance was absurd. He could understand Cas not getting it, but what was Sam thinking? Hell, what was Bobby thinking?

"Yes. We took your booze."

Dean felt the pieces of the day's earlier events fall into place. The heart-to-heart at Bobby's had been a decoy. This trip was the real intervention. He tried to smile and failed.

"Look, Cas, I don't mean to go all Jack Sparrow here, but if I don't get some alcohol soon, it's not gonna be pretty."

Cas nodded. "I am prepared for ugliness."

Dean grabbed his backpack and slung it over a shoulder. "So help me, I will march out of here and get it myself! I can be in Scottville in less than a day."

"I would prevent you from leaving." The angel looked at him with infuriating sympathy. "I'm much stronger than you."

"So that's how it's gonna be? Fine." Dean dropped the backpack and took a fighting stance. "Let's go!" He kept his anger at the forefront of his mind. He didn't want fighting to turn into something else. He forced himself to think of Cas as the guy who'd connived with Sam and Bobby to isolate him from the necessities of hunter life, and not as a nearly invincible super being he'd like to get naked with.

"I have no wish to hurt you, Dean." Cas sat on the bed and looked up expectantly, waiting to see if the hunter would strike him.

Dean dropped his fists. "I don't have time to sit here detoxing like some child actress, Cas. I've got work to do."

"Actually, this is all you have to do."

Dean stood motionless as the meaning of Cas' words sunk in. Then he collapsed onto the bed next to Cas and hung his head.

"There's no wendigo out here, is there?"

"No, there isn't."

"You lied to me? You all lied?" His fear and anger vied for control now. Anger was stronger. "Sam, and Bobby? And you? Why? Why would you do that, Cas?"

The angel smiled, wide and unguarded. "To get you alone, of course."

Chalmers pulled the jeep to a halt at the end of the pitted service road and stepped out, the boots his new body was wearing crunching on the gravel. He'd taken the Park Ranger while he chopped firewood. It hadn't gone as smoothly and he'd had to break the guy's neck. Chalmers stretched the meatsuit. It was a good body, even if it was dead. Big. Strong. Used to working outdoors. It would be great to kill with. And with the original occupant gone he wouldn't have to fight for dominance just to scratch his ass or gouge someone's eyes out. It would be a nice change.

He unfolded a map across the hood of the jeep. The forest was enormous, and finding Winchester wouldn't be easy, but Chalmers didn't mind. He liked the woods. It was vast, and wet, and everything was decaying, or trying to consume everything else. Nature was one of the most vicious things he'd ever seen, and he never got tired of it. He looked at the old watch on his new arm. It was getting late.

He grabbed his backpack and set out on foot. With luck, in a day or so, Winchester would be dead and decaying too.

Dean groaned. This was not what he'd had in mind when he'd fantasized about being alone with Cas. A fantasy was making out in the back of the Impala in the rain. There wasn't anything fantastic about how he felt right now. A skull-splitting headache had set in six hours after they'd arrived. Now he had the sweats and his stomach was flip-flopping. Soon he'd get the shakes. By this time tomorrow he'd be balls-to-the-wall sick and losing his mind for a drink.

"You should eat." Castiel set a plate in front of him. "I prepared you a sandwich and removed all evidence of the Maillard reaction, as your mother used to do."

"Wow, Cas. PB and J with the crusts cut off." Under other circumstances, Dean might have been touched, but eating was the last thing on his mind. "This is great. Thanks." He ran a hand over his neck and it came away wet. "Look, if we're gonna be here until I'm stone cold sober, I'm gonna need some stuff."

Castiel's voice had a wary edge. "What kind of stuff?"

"Healthy stuff." Dean's mind raced, going over the ingredients he'd need and how to camouflage them. "Fruit juice. And since there's no friggin' wendigo to kill, it'd be nice to make myself useful. I can bake a mean pizza." Dean had never baked a pizza. "So uh, peppers and mushrooms. Pepperoni. Uh. Flour, sugar and yeast for the dough. And a big round pan to bake it on." He strode to the woodstove. "And some oatmeal for breakfast. Dean held up a pot. "But we got the wrong kind of pot for making oatmeal. What I need is a stainless steel pressure cooker."

Sam dropped a bucket of fried chicken on Bobby's coffee table and collapsed onto the green couch.

"'Bout time." Bobby entered from the kitchen with beer, passed one to Sam, then pried the lid off the bucket and helped himself. "Where'd you go for the chicken? Alabama?"

Sam pushed his hair back off his face. "I drove around some, thinking." And if he was being honest, he enjoyed driving the Impala. Should it have told him something that Dean's longest relationship had been with a car?

Bobby chewed chicken and swallowed. "'Bout Dean?"

Sam nodded. As disturbing as Dean's memories of Hell had been they weren't what he found himself dwelling on. Given enough time anyone might do things they regret in Hell, but the sexual images of Castiel seemed more relevant. "I think there might be something going on with him," he paused, unsure of how Bobby might take the news, "and Castiel."

Bobby's mouth twisted. "What kind o' somethin'?"

Sam looked at his beer. He wondered if he needed to re-evaluate all his brother's male friendships. Had Dean been hiding his feelings their whole lives? And what kind of brother did that make him for not noticing? Sam thought of all the times he'd prayed to Castiel to no effect only to see him appear the moment his name passed Dean's lips. He should have suspected something. Of course even if he had suspected something, it wouldn't have been anything like this.

"Well," he said, leaning back, "they've been through a lot together, and they have a, uh, profound bond." God, that sounded even gayer to him now than when he'd first heard it. "I know Castiel has feelings for him. And I think Dean cares about him, too."

Bobby swallowed beer. "Your brother's got a big heart."

Sam took a breath, heat crawling up his face. "I think things have gone further than just feelings." If the images he'd seen were any evidence then things had gone further than he'd ever thought possible. No wonder Castiel had been asking about sex. Hadn't Dean explained anything to him before he, before they…. He frowned. Dean had been screwing up their hunts with his drinking. Had the booze affected his ethical decisions too? Sam pushed the idea away. Dean loved Castiel. He wouldn't make him do anything he didn't want to. But mightn't he have been a little too drunk, and gotten caught up in the moment, and made some assumptions about what Castiel understood? That sounded like Dean.

Bobby took a drag on his beer. "Are ya sure?"

Sam's cheeks dimpled. "As sure as you have the world's finest collection of shitty ball caps."

Bobby looked offended and adjusted his hat. "Well the head under this cap ain't so dumb as you boys think. Might be somethin' goin' on? Please! Those two are one candlelit dinner away from promise rings 'n matchin' tattoos. Why do ya think I let him take Dean to Michigan?"

Sam, who actually did share a matching tattoo with Dean, albeit one designed to prevent possession, pursed his lips. "So you knew the whole time?"

"I'd have to be Helen Keller not to." Bobby swigged his beer. "Idjit."

Castiel entered the cabin with two armloads of firewood. Dean emerged from the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel. This next phase of the plan needed to be careful and focused. Like surgery. He was oddly grateful they'd sent him here with Cas. It would have been impossible to get this next item past Sam or Bobby. But with Cas he put the odds at 50-50. Maybe 60-40. It all depended on how much the angel knew about moonshining.

"Thanks for those supplies," he said, trying not to look at the bags and pans on the counter or to think about the words yeast and sugar. He wiped sweat from his forehead.

"Not a problem." The angel set the firewood by the stove. "How are you feeling?"

Dean swallowed the bitter nausea and forced a smile. "Awesome. Just awesome." This was it. Be smooth. Poker face. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "Got a small plumbing problem. Think I can fix it, though. Any chance you can get a coil of copper tubing?" Inside his head Dean heard Steve Earle begin to sing Copperhead Road and he hoped Castiel didn't have his mind-reading ears on.

Castiel sat in a worn armchair in the bedroom, listening to Dean Winchester's sleep-heavy breathing. They had played poker until Dean had lost enough games that he decided to call it a night, and crawl into bed. But he hadn't gone to sleep. He'd had difficulty getting comfortable, and then had been thirsty, and then claimed he "couldn't sleep with Cas watching him," which was ridiculous, because he'd done exactly that numerous times before. Now, as he watched Dean's chest rise and fall, he reflected that this was an opportunity for redemption.

His analysis of the images he'd seen while holding the Purple Heart pin was almost complete. He flipped through them in his mind like a child with a Viewfinder. The memories were distressing, especially when he felt the emotions Dean had attached to them. Anger, guilt, fear, and humiliation. If he had pulled Dean from Hell sooner he could have spared him this. He had been too slow. The Righteous Man had suffered unnecessarily, and was anguishing still as his psychological injuries festered.

Castiel reviewed the images of himself that had been locked into the military award, puzzling over them. Some were violent. This scenario involving aggressive penetration, for example, would be sure to result in a certain level of discomfort. Still, it relieved him to think that Dean might harbor an attraction to his vessel specifically, rather than to the stranger from the motel. He was confident now that Jimmy was not attracted to Dean, but perhaps Dean had been attracted to Jimmy. That might explain the presence of such images in the hunter's mind. He would have to explore this possibility in greater depth.

The nature of the images was also in question. They weren't memories. He had never been in such situations with Dean, nor had Jimmy. They must be dreams, or fantasies. Why would Dean lock away fantasies? They were forceful and explicit, but he didn't sense hatred attached to them. Some were exhilarating. One, of the two of them in the Impala, was unexpectedly tender. Why would Dean lock away tenderness? Perhaps the memory spell had been indiscriminate, akin to slamming a door, regardless of what got trapped inside.

Of course if Dean wasn't attracted to Jimmy, then there was another possible explanation for the images in Dean's mind. Castiel leaned back in his chair, thinking of Dean's fantasy of kissing in the car while it rained, and allowed his heart to fill with hope.