Dean's still in the kitchen, getting started on dinner, when Charlie's voice echoes through the bunker.

"Dean! Sam!"

He dumps the knife in the sink and runs into the war room, hands dripping with tomato juice.

"You find something?"

She's standing, staring at the screen with a grin, and Dean hurries around the table to look.

"I haven't found any new manuscripts yet," she says, "but this is the publishers payroll information. Last time I checked, dead people don't need advances."

She points at a highlight line on the screen.

ACCOUNT NAME PAYMENT TYPE AMOUNT DATE

2856-XXX-358 EDLUND, CARVER ADVANCE;SPN – BK124 3000.00 03.24.13

"I could be wrong," she says, "but I'm pretty sure that means book one-twenty-four. So far, they've released one hundred and twenty three. Which means someone is getting paid ahead of time for a new one."

Sam's jaw drops, and he looks at Dean.

"Chuck's alive?"

Dean shakes his head in disbelief.

"Well it's either that or someone with Heaven on speed dial is writing them for him."

Charlie cracks her knuckles and opens a new window.

"Just give me an hour or two to commit a couple more federal crimes," she says, "and I'll have an address."

"Charlie, I take it back. You are definitely the master—"

Dean's cell starts ringing, and he wipes the tomato juice on his jeans before digging it out of his pocket.

"—commander."

The number isn't familiar. He presses answer.

"Hello?"

There's a pause and the sound of paper shuffling.

"Dean?"

Dean pulls the phone away from his ear to put it on speaker, and holds it out flat.

"Who's asking?"

"It's, uh... it's me."

Sam is staring at the phone with a frown; he knows the voice, but can't quite place it.

"Me who?" Dean asks, and there's another pause while the person on the other end of the line takes in a breath.

"Chuck?" the voice says, as if he isn't even sure himself.

Dean can just about picture the grimace on his face. He looks up at Sam and Charlie.

"You're alive?" Sam blurts out, leaning toward the phone.

"Hi, Sam. And, uh... technically, yeah."

"Technically?" Dean repeats, "What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

There's more shuffling paper and the sound of a creaking chair before Chuck replies, and he sounds tired. Harried.

"It's... it's kind of a long story. I uh... look, you were going to find me anyway, I just... I thought you might be a little less inclined to break my nose if I saved you the trouble of looking."

"Don't be so sure."

Chuck sighs, resigned, before he speaks again.

"You're looking for Cas, right?"

Dean feels his neck prickle, and his tongue darts out over his suddenly bone-dry lower lip.

"Yeah," Dean says, "where is he? Is he okay?

"He's fine," Chuck says, "...ish. I can't tell you where he's hiding right now, but I saw-"

"You can, you sonofa—"

"He's on the run from the angels, Dean. I can't see his position right now. But he's okay. And like I was saying, I—"

"Can he hear me?"

"What?"

"When I pray to him," Dean says through gritted teeth, "Can he hear me?"

"Yeah. He can. I think... I think it helps."

A weight in Dean's chest lifts a little at that; not much, but it's a start.

"Okay. Good. Okay," he nods, swallows against the hopeful feeling that he doesn't quite trust yet, "is he... when will he be able to stop? What can we do?"

"I don't know, but like I was trying to tell you. I saw something... he can't stop running yet, but you're going to see him, for a little while, anyway. I mean, it isn't for long, maybe five minutes. Ten tops. But if you-"

"Just spit it out, Chuck."

"There's a Biggerson's not far from you."

"There's a Biggerson's not far from everyone."

"I know, right? That place is like a plague. But uh... the one in Red Cloud, Nebraska. Just past the state line."

"Yeah, I know it."

"He'll be there."

Dean's stomach flips, and he stubbornly refuses to let himself enjoy it. Not yet. His mouth is a hard line.

"When?" he asks.

"When you are."

Closing his eyes, Dean squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He exhales.

"So, what, I need to go there and pray to him, or-?"

"No!" Chuck yells, like he's worried Dean's about to royally screw something up, "No. Don't do that. What I saw... He's... surprised to see you."

A terrified little part of Dean wants to ask good surprised or bad surprised, but he quashes it along with the hope. He's going regardless.

"Just go there, sit down, order two cups of coffee," Chuck says, "and he'll be there."

"Two cups of coffee?"

"He's been drinking it. Black, two sugars. Not sweetener."

Sam and Charlie look at each other with raised brows at that, and Dean narrows his eyes at the phone.

"Okay? Thanks for the tip, I guess."

"You're welcome."

"Oh, and Chuck?"

"Yeah?"

"Once all this is settled-"

"You're going to kill me for publishing those books," he sighs, "I know."

"Just so we're clear."

"Crystal."

Dean ends the call and dumps his cell on the table, leaning with both hands on the back of a chair. He heaves out a breath before turning to look at Sam and Charlie. They both stare at him, silent.

"Well," he says, after a moment, "looks like I'm going to Biggerson's."