Castiel got up and sat beside Dean on the couch. He noticed Dean was no longer looking at the TV set, which was showing a woman talking blandly about traffic on a nearby road.
"Dean, why are you staring at me?"
"Dude, nobody takes four hours to clean up."
"I was thinking." Castiel paused. "About what you told me."
"Stop."
"Dean, I want-"
"Cas, stop." Dean put a hand out, as if he meant to physically restrain Castiel from telling him. "I only asked because I want you to think about what you want in your future. You don't have to tell anyone, and that's fine by me."
"Dean, I want to tell you something."
"Alright, Cas, but just don't do it cause you think I need to hear it. Don't have pity on me, I don't deserve it."
"Dean, this is what I want to tell you. You deserve to be happy. Even after all I've given, even after all I've been through, I've still put you through more hardships than anyone should have to bear. I'm sorry, Dean." Castiel cast his eyes downward. "For everything."
Dean stepped forward to rest his hand on Castiel's shoulder but brought himself to Castiel and hugged him. Castiel was surprised for a second, but returned the favor.
"You didn't have to tell me this, Cas. But thanks. I think some part of me needed to hear it."
"Do you guys need a moment together or should I send out wedding invitations?"
Dean abruptly turned towards the staircase to see Sam leaning on the banister with a toothbrush in his hand, foaming at the mouth.
"Shut up, Sam."
Sam turned and went back upstairs, laughing gleefully.
Castiel asked Dean to tell Sam about the disgustingly greasy bag from the previous month. That was when all hell broke loose.
"Sam, come here. You have any idea what the deal is with this?" Dean handed him the bag.
"What are you-AAAGH!" Sam reached out for it but dropped it instantly, upon touching the bottom of the brown paper sack. Castiel burst in the study from his seat in the kitchen.
"What happened?"
Sam looked at his palm, which was raw and red, like it had been burned. Sam looked up at his brother, his face contorted in pain.
Dean stared at him, dumbfounded. He pulled out a gun and pointed it at Sam, tears forming in his eyes behind an expression of sheer hate and fury.
"Get out of my brother."
"Dean, this is me, it's Sam, what are you doing?"
"I won't ask twice. Either tell me how you're here, or get the hell out of my brother." Dean cocked the gun."
"Cas, help me, Dean- he doesn't know what he's talking about, Cas, you have to help me, please-" Castiel looked at Sam with wide eyes, back at Dean, then at Sam again, increasingly worried.
"Dean, I'm not sure about this. Can I try something?"
"Do it fast. I'm not letting this thing out of my sight. It's been almost thirty years since Mom died, and none of it's gonna happen again. I won't let it."
Sam was speechless. He had no idea what was wrong, and he was absolutely terrified and confused until Castiel brought in a mirror.
Oh God, oh God, I have yellow eyes, why do I have yellow eyes?
Crowley.
No.
Dean's gonna kill me and-
Oh, God.
I'm screwed.
Dean pulled out a flask with a pentagram on it and spilled holy water on Sam, to no effect. He got the same result with salt.
He put Sam on lockdown in the panic room until he could think of a solution. What scared him was the fact that Sam was able to enter the panic room and even step over the devil's trap lines on the floor.
"Dean, I have a theory as to what is wrong with Sam. He's been tortured with something from heaven, most likely one of the weapons lost some time ago. Because of the torture, his demonic side has grown stronger and more resistant." Castiel picked up the greasy paper sack and looked at Dean. "This bag was probably dipped in holy oil."
Everything was clicking into place.
"But why would anyone give me the bag thinking I would give it to Sam?"
"They were probably counting on it. Then again, it may not have been for Sam. Castiel shifted his eyes from Dean."
"Spit it out, Cas."
"Well, Dean, the other night, before Sam arrived, when we, um," Castiel stepped forward and nodded in the hope Dean understood. He did.
"And?" Dean crossed his arms defensively.
"I felt like I was pulling back my grace."
"How?"
"Well, angels who don't have their grace for one reason or another can pull their grace back to them in moments of pure clarity. But I'd have to be an upper-level angel for that. I don't have that type of knowledge."
Dean raised his eyebrows. This conversation was getting awkward. A little too awkward than he was prepared for.
"It's almost lunchtime, Cas. You gonna fix something or should I?"
"You can fix it, Dean. I think I'm going to go upstairs and sleep. I'm very tired.
Dean decided on burgers. He made four on the grill, glad to be left alone with his thoughts.
Sam, what the hell is going on with you?
We need to stop this. All of this. How?
Cas, you need to get your power back, or grace, whatever it's called.
Then maybe you can help Sam.
Wait.
Wait a second.
Anna.
How did she get her grace back?
Well, she smashed the container it was in.
I doubt we can do that, though.
But...
Moments of clarity. Peacefulness.
When all is right with the world.
Oh, God damn it.
God damn it.