Another installment for you. I so appreciate everyone who is reviewing: it means a lot that you take a few moments to send me your thoughts… it takes me a good 15-20 hours and sometimes more to write each chapter, and your feedback makes the effort so worthwhile. Thanks to Psychee, psychedelicfur, Clare and the nameless anonymous reviewer who commented on chapter 9: I can't PM any of you because you don't seem to be registered here. ;-)

So, anyhoo, I seem to remember that a whole bunch of you PM-d me asking for Deanwhump... :-O

Warnings Foul language, blasphemy up the wazoo and back again, S5 spoilers, minor references to events in Never Come Back

Pale Rider

At some point Castiel surges up on a choked-off scream and fishes his arms through the air. He sucks in huge gulps of oxygen, sobs it back out again, and his eyes are wild and horrified, but they stare at nothing. And Dean is ready, is sitting by the bed waiting for precisely this, because he remembers this kind of blind hysteria, remembers the few times Castiel hid him from his memories in dreamless sleep, and it's high time he repaid that favor. He leans across, touches his fingertip lightly to the other man's brow, eases him back down onto the pillow. And now he can leave.

The house is still except for the sound of the clock in the hallway as he makes his way outside. He stands in the lot and regards his baby for a couple of minutes, three hundred twenty seven cubic inches, four barrel, two hundred seventy five crazy horses under her hood, stamping their hooves and champing at the bit, his own personal Sherman tank. And he ranges up alongside her, trails a gentle finger along her cold metal skin, and fancies that she shivers at his touch.

"Sorry darlin'," he murmurs down at her. "Not this trip."

He looks up, thinks about what Sam said about flying, thinks about how he's of the air now, wonders idiotically if he really does need to flap, or maybe run, like he's flying a kite. He tries to remember what Castiel did when he whisked him to Shoshoni, but all he remembers is a fraction of a second of soft velvet blackness, of being held close, and safe. Encased in wings, he supposes.

He doesn't really know how he does it, but in that instant he falls into the sky. He feels his stomach drop down to his boots, finds he's hollering out his exhilaration as plush, fat clouds like the ones he's seen in Bobby's books of nautical paintings race up to swallow him whole, and he's surrounded by gossamer mist and fog as they explode moistly on his face. He's weightless, and he wafts and drifts about, swoops, falls, floats, soars under the stars as they wink a greeting, hangs suspended in the atmosphere, feels its pressure as it cushions him. He savors the icy cold, how the wind howls in his ears, forces its way into him, into his nose and mouth, and it's like drowning on air. He looks down and sees the wisp of clouds, the swirling blue of the great lakes, and it suddenly occurs to him just why he always hated flying, and he knows now that it wasn't the flying he hated at all, it was the confinement, the steel capsule, the unnaturalness of manufactured flight when it was his nature to do this. And he dives and wheels, lets the wind lift him, harvests its energy, glides along on its crest so all he's doing is steering.

It's like he isn't real anymore, like he's a ghost, and this is how it was meant to be for him. It's peaceful, and he can see for miles. And he wonders why he never asked Cas how it felt, and deep down under his joy he feels a stab of sorrow for the fact his brother will never see the earthrise again.

Sam comes round gradually, hears birdsong, squints blearily at his wristwatch, groans, does the math. "Twelve hours," he says to the room. "Well. Guess I needed it." He feels curiously unhurried as he sits up, sees the notepaper taped to the door, and he pads over, unsticks it, reads his brother's terse scrawl.

I'll be back.

He shrugs, hefts his duffel, makes his way to the bathroom, beats his morning wood into submission in the shower while he rolls his eyes at the sheer nerve of the biological imperative at a time like this, it's the end of the world, must jack off, and then wonders with damned careful scientific detachment if his brother is junkless now.

The house is dead silent when he creaks down the stairs twenty minutes later, and he sticks his nose around the door to the den, sees Castiel sprawled out on the bed, dead to the world, and Bobby's socked foot hanging over the edge of the couch arm.

Breakfast, and he vacuums down a stack and a side of bacon, coffee, thank God, rustles up a couple of extra plateloads and a tray and totes it all back up the hallway, deposits it on the desk. "Rise and shine," he barks without ceremony, as he sweeps the curtains open.

Castiel jolts awake, pushes up on his elbows. He grimaces as he moves, but his eyes are brighter and he has some color in his cheeks.

"You look better, dude," Sam offers.

"I feel it. And you look better too, Sam." Castiel is almost cheery, eyes the plates avidly. "Is that food? Food that isn't ground beef?"

Sam dutifully parks one of the loaded platters on the bed next to him, rolls his eyes as the man starts wolfing the contents down.

Castiel looks up, cheeks stuffed. "Dean told me you were as bad a cook as was possible without being hazardous," he remarks. "But this is extremely good." He nods at Sam's cup. "That coffee? I think I should try some."

Sam hands it over. "Have at it."

Bobby is staring up at him owlishly.

"Grub's up," Sam says helpfully, jerks a thumb over at the tray.

"When did you cut your hair?"

Sam frowns. "What are you talking about? I didn't cut my hair."

Castiel snorts behind him. "Dean healed it."

Sam swings around, gapes, pats at his head. "Dean… healed it?"

The other man nods. "I healed Sam's hair. Those were his exact words." He stares at Sam critically. "I mean it, you look better," he declares. "It was – not good. Before." He brightens. "It was a hair-don't."

"Mirror," Sam yelps, and he skids out into the hallway, hears Bobby call after him.

"Could be worse, kid, he could've buzzed you. God knows I would've."

It isn't as bad as he feared, a good two inches shorter, and what the hell, he's been meaning to do it anyway. He wonders idly if Dean did it with his magic finger or whether he conjured up scissors and a comb and took advantage of Sam's enchanted sleep to style it just so, trim the bangs in there.

"Where is he anyway?" he asks, as he walks back into the den, scrubbing at his eyes. "Jesus, I feel like he drugged me or something. I slept like the dead."

Castiel nods seriously. "I also slept heavily," he deadpans. "I suspect Dean made use of his magic finger."

Sam shudders. "That's just – that'll never come out right, Cas," he says. "Don't forget, I've seen the way you look at him."

Castiel quirks his mouth up. "I wear my heart on my sleeve," he concedes simply.

Bobby is standing by the window, chomping on a strip of bacon. "And screw you very much for jamming that song in my head," he growls balefully. "You sound like a fuckin' Valentine. Get over him, for Christ's sake." He glances back at Sam, frowns. "I thought he was upstairs with you?"

Sam shakes his head. "No. There's a note. I'll be back."

"Well, his car's outside," the old man notes.

There's a long, pregnant pause, and Castiel's eyes grow huge and alarmed, and his voice is strained when he breaks the silence. "He doesn't need to use his car any more. Bobby…"

Sam looks from the bed to the old man, back again to where Castiel is glowering at Bobby, and he can see eyeball messages are zinging back and forth between the two of them like ping pong balls. He slaps his hand on the desk, yelps, "What the hell is going on?"

Cas rubs his hand on his brow, his previous cheer suddenly blanketed with gloom. "Pestilence."

Sam nods. "Yeah, that's the plan. Dean said he was about to launch Croatoan in a big way, so I'm guessing that…" He trails off under Castiel's stare. "He's gone after him. By himself."

Bobby spits out a muffled curse, rounds on the man in the bed. "Can he do that?"

Cas shrugs. "He's the archangel Michael," he retorts witheringly. "He's running this show. He can do whatever he wants."

"And you didn't try and talk him out of it?"

"He didn't tell me he was planning to go anywhere," Castiel snaps. "And even if he did, there isn't anything I could have done about it." He holds up his hand, wiggles the digits. "Magic finger, remember?"

Sam roots out his cell, flips it open, presses it to his ear, and a few feet away his brother's ringtone grinds out, and his heart sinks as his eyes scope the room.

Castiel reaches over to the table, holds up what he seeks. "My other one didn't make it back," he announces. "Dean gave me this so he could reach me if he needed to." He taps a finger on his chest. "Sigils."

And now Sam finds himself pacing, rubbing at his jaw. "He never told me what Brady said… where Pestilence is. Bobby? Anything? Cas?"

"He told me strange things were afoot at the Circle K, and that's the last thing I remember," Castiel says, and he bites on his lip. "You want to go after him."

"You're damn right," Bobby says harshly, as he heaves open his desk drawer, starts rummaging. "Let's mount up."

Sam throws up his hands. "And go where? We don't know where he is."

"We've got a lead," Bobby snaps. He finds what he's looking for, waves it at Sam. "Brady's wallet, remember?" He fishes out a business card. "Vice-President of distribution, Nivaeus Pharmaceuticals." He scowls. "It's worth a shot. It sounds like the perfect place for Pesky to mix up a few vats of his Satan bug for mass consumption. We need to hit the road, Detroit's a long drive."

Sam rasps it out dry and cracked. "Detroit? It's in Detroit?"

Bobby is already halfway to the door. "Yep, so come on, we'll need to—"

"Perhaps it isn't a good idea," Cas cuts in, and Sam shoots his eyes over at the other man because his voice is Castiel's voice, it's calm, it's confident, it's self-assured, it's authoritative. "Going in mob-handed could lead Pestilence to take action, release the virus. You could be infected. And Lucifer could be there." Castiel cocks his head, eyes Sam critically. "He'll be even more intent on acquiring his true vessel now."

Sam swallows thickly, makes his voice as firm as he can. "I'm immune to the virus, Cas," he says. "You must know that. And I don't think they can just release it anyway, it isn't airborne… at least it wasn't in Concrete." He glances across to Bobby, back again, and now Castiel is giving him a flat, skeptical look that tells Sam loud and clear what really has him rattled. He reaches up to his temples, rubs them hard. "Look, Cas. I get it. I know Dean thinks I'll say yes if Lucifer gets to me, I know you probably do too. I know why, and I know they're damn good reasons… I know I let Ruby play me like a fiddle. But it isn't going to happen. Can you just… have some faith in me? Believe in me? Please?"

Castiel is tired-looking, pale, bruised, but his eyes are still appraising Sam, and his look is knowing, and there's a second when Sam thinks he's the strongest thing in the room still. "If my brother has gone to speak with Pestilence alone, then he has his reasons," he says.

Sam nods slowly. "He's my brother too, Cas," he says quietly. "And that's my reason."

The other man starts to speak, hesitates, and his features soften. He nods slowly. "In that case…" He pushes upright, with a pained wince. "Clothes," he announces. "I need some."

There's something to be said for the whole hand, he muses, and he thinks he could damn well get used to this as he exorcises his nth black-eyed bastard without his pulse rate rising at all. He peers behind the slumped body into the dimly lit office and it's just more lab equipment, machinery, vials, and he thinks maybe it was a tad dense of him to assume it was going to be behind a door marked Croatoan, in boxes clearly marked Croatoan. And he resolves to grab one of the goons and spend a few minutes sweating it out of him or else he'll be here all fuckin' night, because he can't figure out if it's Horseman mojo or not, but knowing it all doesn't seem to be working any more. He sighs, thinks he maybe should have asked Gabriel what the prank's use-by date was, briefly wonders where the little prick beamed to, and refuses to feel even a shred of guilt for clicking him out of this dimension.

He sneaks along the hallway, wrinkles his nose up because he can smell something vaguely familiar that isn't the stench of the pit, and he can't put a finger on what it is. He pushes open another door, flips the light switches, and finds himself goggling idiotically into one of the outside hangars, and palate after palate piled with boxes clearly marked Croatoan.

"Jackpot," he breathes, and he takes a few steps further in, raises his magic hand, and it overpowers him, pungent, like wacky baccy, joss sticks, incense, and he spins around but it's too late, as the holy fire flares around him and the flames curl up gracefully, lazily. Fuckin' amateur, he thinks.

"I smelled you coming, Clarice," says the tall, skinny bald guy on the safe side of the fire. The tall, skinny bald guy on the safe side of the fire holding a vicious looking crossbow, and he's loading up a bolt daubed red at the tip. And it turns out Pestilence has a sense of humor, because the unmistakable rumbling bass baritone of the man in black suddenly resounds through the room.

"Ring of fire," Dean spits out. "Fuck."

"Language, Michael."

The man smiles amiably, and Dean thinks the teeth might be false, there are just too-perfect-many of them for authenticity.

"Can we talk?" the man says, and his voice is like cat claws snagging the upholstery. "Only I hear things. I heard you let your guard down, that you've been a bad son… pulling your pet grunt out of the hot box." He tsks, shakes his head in disapproval. "Overly emotional. It's making you weak. Your halo is slipping and your fall is assured, just as his was when he began to care too much. You care too much for your brothers, Michael. All of them… even the one you will kill." He motions over Dean's shoulder then. "And now you come to take what's mine…" he says, almost dreamily. "The fruits of my labor, and you think you can just destroy the life I created—"

"Death," Dean says coldly. "The death you created." He meets the man's empty eyes without blinking. "Don't tell me you're having a dad of the year moment over a fuckin' disease."

Pestilence stares balefully at him. "Not just a disease, Michael," he hisses. "War. Plague, cholera, typhoid, malaria… germs are my warfare. Man defeats smallpox, polio emerges… polio is all but beaten, then comes HIV… and now my new personal favorite, swine flu. And my vaccine."

Dean can't help feeling a grudging admiration for the guy's nerve. "You're marketing this as a vaccine?" He shakes his head. "Well, I have to hand it to you. That takes balls that clang."

The Horseman's sheer glee bursts out of him. "My ingenuity amazes even me," he crows in agreement. "Viruses are a predator, the perfect predator, evolving and mutating and reproducing without needing sustenance… they are the unseen foe, the crushing defeat, the loss, the hardship of war… and then comes the relief, the joy, as the cure, the vaccine, is finally discovered and you exterminate the enemy. Only in this case, not so much." He bares his teeth in a deadly smile. "Man thinks he has mastered nature and all her weapons, but he has not mastered disease and its terrible, beautiful, pristine destruction—"

Dean cuts him off with a snort. "You done monologuing? Only I have two words for you." He smirks. "Hand sanitizer."

The man stares at him, a flat, relentless stare, before he smiles again, and his voice is jovial. "Michael, I'm going to share something with you that's going to make our time together extra-special."

"You don't say," he snaps back.

"I do say," the man replies, smiling even wider. "Your brother summoned me on a beautiful crisp day out in the countryside, with not a soul in sight but for this handy meatsuit, who was out in the sticks with a packed lunch, a pair of binoculars, and his National Audubon Society backpack. Any idea as to what he was doing?"

Dean stares back. "I couldn't begin to guess."

The man flashes his many false teeth in a grin that splits his face in half. "He was birdwatching. He's an ornithologist. With an impressively large collection of our feathered friends sitting in glass cases back at the homestead, because when he isn't watching birds, he's using this…" He pauses to admire the crossbow, before turning his attention back. "…To shoot them out of the sky so he can stuff and mount their dead bodies." He pauses, studies Dean, rakes his body with his eyes, and his eyes drift higher. "Your wings," he breathes out in awe. "They are a thing of beauty."

Dean cocks his head, quizzical despite himself.

"Oh yes, I see them," the man confirms enthusiastically. "They're glorious…" He furrows his brow. "High aspect ratio wings, if I'm not mistaken. Like a seabird." He nods thoughtfully. "I think you fall under albatross, Michael. The albatross around my master's neck, in fact." He sighs. "Such beautiful feathers…" His voice is oily, flesh-creeping, seductive, as he gazes off to Dean's right.

And Dean watches the man's arm rise slowly, thinks ruefully that it's inevitable, braces himself for the impact because it's point-blank range, and he hears the bolt phhhtt out at him. It slams into his shoulder and he staggers with the force, reaches up instinctively to grab a hold of the inch or so that protrudes. "It doesn't even hurt," he sneers, as his legs buckle and he crashes down onto his knees, and they don't hurt either.

"Oops," the Horseman says, and he raises his hand to his face, presses his fingers over his smirk. "With my crossbow, I shot the albatross." And he steps forward, slashes a hand through the air, and the flames part for him.

It's weird, Dean thinks as he lies there, because the man's face is looming up and then away, and then he has several faces and they're zapping about all over the place with all sorts of weird laser light effects, and he snorts out a laugh because it's so seventies Queen video it's funny. And then, in the next second, he's curling in on himself as fire streaks from his shoulder up to his brain and behind his eyes, a nuclear white-out strobing across his line of sight, and wailing siren pain, party popper pain that bangs like a gunshot and trails streamers and confetti in every corner of his mind, and he sucks in a shuddering breath as he shivers and shakes with it, poison sizzling through his veins.

"I mixed this cocktail especially for you, Michael," the Horseman whispers in his ear. "It's the Coca-Cola formula, chickadee, a closely held trade secret… it's Colonel Sanders' secret mix of eleven herbs and spices, with a little squirt of demon blood in there to bind it all together…"

He can feel a hand on his shoulder, feel a stretching sensation, something being pulled out of him and the hand caressing, stroking, exploring, tickling, squeezing, testing, and he chokes out some noise of protest that isn't proper words.

"Such beautiful feathers," the voice hisses. "So soft… and how they glow… oh, such beautiful feathers."

The man's hand twists Dean's head around and he's staring up into savage gimlet eyes.

"Did you know these flight feathers here along your wings are called remiges, Michael? These longest, narrowest ones, just here… Oh, what am I thinking? You can't see…"

And then there's a sharp sting that it shocks a yelp out of him, and there it is, held lovingly in Pestilence's hand, a shimmering bronze plume, a good two feet in length, and it does glow, but it's hazy because his eyes are blurred with rage.

"This is a primary flight feather, Michael," the man says admiringly. "They're your principle source of thrust as you fly. They're flexible at the tip here, see?" He proves it, prods the tip upwards. "When you spread those upwards it reduces drag."

"Fuck you," he manages to grind out through the sting that still shreds his nerve endings. "Fuck. You."

Pestilence shakes his head, makes a clucking sound. "Feisty," he remarks, and he sits back on his butt, folds his arms. "I worry about that, Michael, I worry that you might panic, hurt yourself. You could fly into the window, fly into the ceiling fan. What if you land on the hot stove top? Get trapped behind the refrigerator? Land in the toilet bowl and drown?" He lowers his brows, earnest and sympathetic. "The world is a lethal place for caged birds. You could break your wings, even."

And he flashes a hand out, clicks his fingers, and he's holding a pair of gardening shears. "I think we should clip your wings. Strictly for safety, of course." And then his face gets thoughtful. "Or maybe we should pinion them." He smiles whitely. "Do you know what pinioning is, Michael? It means surgically removing the pinion joint here on the wing, to prevent flight. Think of it like…" His face lights up. "Removing your hand at the wrist!"

Dean freezes, feels cold terror now, as the man scissors thin air dramatically and the steel snip-snaps greedily up there just past his line of sight. The man moves behind him, snip-snap, and he hears him mutter an oath, oops, got a couple of blood feathers there, and now he can smell copper, and he cries out in confusion and distress as sharp, brutal pain starts to ripple across his shoulders.

He hears laughter pealing out above him. "After all these years, now I know why the caged bird sings," Pestilence taunts.

Then it hits, and he's been shot, stabbed, bitten, cauterized, electrocuted, hung, flogged and worse in this dimension, and there aren't words for what was done to him in the Pit, but this agony is unbearable because it tears and rends and distorts him like Alastair did, defiles his grace, and he's struck dumb, speechless with the horror of it. And in the midst of it there's a memory just there: of a mute four-year-old with a stomach upset weeping silent tears, of Bobby frantically drawing varying degrees of sad, mad, crying faces on paper and getting him to point because he couldn't speak, hurts, hurts more, hurts even badder, hurts a whole lot, hurts worst. And he can hear himself stutter it out inside his head, hurts worse-hurts worse-hurts worse…

Bobby watches the building through his binoculars, purses his lips, and Sam can't help twisting around to glance back at Castiel, sitting in the back, legs bent and feet on the seat so he can hug his knees, nose pressed up against the glass as he gazes out into the rain. He's dressed in Dean's jeans and battered Converse sneakers, and swamped by Sam's hoodie, because without Jimmy Novak's trench and suit jacket it turns out Cas is pretty skinny.

"I'm getting a funny feeling," he breathes out, and his brow furrows.

Bobby glances back and his voice is gruff. "If you're gonna puke, open the door. Dean won't want it on the leather."

And Cas is still staring, still frowning.

"You mean you're getting a funny feeling about Dean?" Sam asks urgently. "That he's in there? Can you tell where he might—"

"I think he's getting a funny feeling about me."

Sam recoils as the demon smiles in at him through the open window. "How the hell did you know where to find us?" he spits.

Crowley tsks and shakes his head. "Well, you're hardly inconspicuous, are you? You need a Camry or something. Those champagne colored ones all the crumblies drive, so you'll blend in better. How the old bill hasn't caught up with you boys before now is beyond me. Can I come in?" He looks up, grimaces. "It's chucking it down out here."

Sam blinks, and now the voice is coming from behind and he twists again, and Crowley is settling himself comfortably in the back, flicking raindrops off his coat sleeve, nodding towards Castiel. "The boyfriend made it, I see."

Castiel tilts his head as it sinks in, and his expression races from puzzled through distaste via guilt and embarrassment to mildly horrified, all in the space of half a second. "I can assure you, I—"

Crowley waves a dismissive hand. "No need, my friend, I bat for the other side myself." He turns his eyes front and smirks at Sam. "Cas here might still have some juice, you know," he says amiably. "He still smells like a rose." He winks at Bobby. "You called, Robert?"

Sam goggles for a second, "He did?" before he glares at the old man. "You did?"

Bobby has the good grace to look shifty. "Dean said he's on the level," he mutters. "And he's one of them, which means he's immune to anything Pestilence might be brewing. I asked him to scout ahead."

Sam grits his teeth. "But how do we know—"

"You don't," Crowley cuts in acidly. "And if you want to sit here arguing the toss all night that's fine by me, but you should know that your brother's in there with Pestilence, who, by all accounts, is totally hatstand. I mean…" He shudders. "He even gives me the abdabs and I was watching from a distance."

Castiel clears his throat, glances at Sam. "Is Lucifer in there with them?" he asks tensely.

"Not that I'm aware of," Crowley replies smoothly. "My guess is no, because Lucifer wants Michael all to himself and there's no way he'd stand for Pestilence fluffing him ahead of the money shot. And it's in danger of turning into an all-nighter if we don't do something about it. So what's the plan?"

He looks expectantly at Sam, swivels his eyes to Bobby. "In your own time, gents," he snaps out sardonically, and then, after another moment of silence, "Answers on a postcard, please."

Sam swallows thickly. "I'm getting my brother," he replies hoarsely. "That's the plan." He flicks his gaze to Castiel. "Is Pestilence stronger than Michael? Can he hurt him?"

Castiel doesn't reply, and his silence speaks volumes.

"Dean said the Horsemen are on the same pay grade," Bobby mutters. "I'm assuming that means they can handle whatever Michael might throw at them."

Crowley snorts. "Which wasn't much, from what I could see on the monitor. I'm not too optimistic, quite frankly. He looked cattled. So?" He waits another few seconds, rolls his eyes irritably. "Bell-ends," he snaps. "All of you. Come on, we'll just have to blag it. I'll disable the alarm sys—"

"Can you disable the sprinklers too?" Castiel cuts in. "We intend torching the virus if we can find where it's stored."

Crowley shakes his head in exasperation, before he exhales sharply and switches his face to thoughtful. "Actually, that's not a bad idea," he muses, and then his tone is decisive. "We should nuke the joint. Place is demon central, it's like Wolfram and Hart in there." He pauses at Sam's look. "What? I liked that show."

Sam huffs out a frustrated sound. "How can we destroy an entire building? We only have a few sticks of dynamite."

The demon smiles brightly. "Furnace room," he replies. "It'll be in the basement. All we have to do is bugger up the pressure valves on the water heaters, tuck your dynamite somewhere handy, and boom." He flares his fingers in the air for emphasis, waggles his eyebrows. "Lot of chemicals in there. Should be nicely flammable once we light it all up."

Sam chews his lip, stares at Bobby for a minute, and the old man nods just barely. "It could work," he says. "You get your brother, and then get the hell out. Call me when you're clear." He glances back at Castiel. "He stays with the car. I'll get the boilers."

Crowley claps his hands together, rubs them enthusiastically. "We're all set then, lads. Meet me in the lobby."

He vanishes, and Castiel looks from the empty space beside him to Sam. "Now I know how you feel," he says dryly, before he squints out the car window towards the building. "There he is." He shrugs at Sam's expression. "I seem to still have freakishly acute senses."

Sam leans across Bobby, reaches for the binoculars, and the old man snatches them away, glues them to his eyes. He flinches. "Jesus. Ouch."

"What?" Sam demands. "What do you see?"

"I'll put it this way," the old man growls. "The coast is clear."

Sam creaks the car door open, and stops as he feels a hand on his arm. Bobby, and the old man's eyes are worried.

"Sam," he says softly. "Just." His mouth is a grim line. "If anything happens, if we get split up… just say no, boy. Okay?"

He nods. "And you run like hell, Bobby."

He hauls his pack up from the footwell, steps out into the rain and starts walking, and he hears a voice call out behind him. Castiel ranges up behind him, ahead of Bobby, out of breath, a hand pressed to his chest. He groans, and Sam has to support him for a minute, until he's able to stand up and his breathing is easier.

"I just wanted to…" He stops, and his eyes are huge in the darkness. "Sam, knowing the path doesn't mean you have to walk it," he says quietly. "If anything happens, you have to be strong. Lucifer will be – persuasive. He will tempt you. But I do have faith in you. I want you to know that."

And Sam is taken aback, and he flounders for a moment, looks down at his boots. "Dean doesn't seem to think I'm strong enough," he blurts out. "I know he has good reasons, but…" He trails off for a moment and Castiel stares back at him, silent. "You should get back in the car," Sam says. "That's what we agreed. You aren't up to this."

The other man nods, and Sam half turns to keep walking.

"Wait, Sam."

He glances back, and Castiel is still rooted to the spot, scratching his head.

"It's not Dean who has no faith in you," he says after a second's pause. "It's Michael… the part of Dean that's Michael is repelled by you, just like it's repelled by me, for my fall." And then he makes a frustrated noise. "No, that's not – I mean, Michael is repelled by the part of you that is Lucifer… no, not that either… I mean the part of you that has the potential to be Lucifer." He grimaces. "I'm not making a very good job of this."

And Sam ponders it for a second, thinks it makes sense given his brother's sheer bipolarness over Ruby, and the stench of his demon taint now he can smell it. "No," he breathes out. "You are making a good job of it. It explains a lot."

"But?"

"I don't think it's just Michael, Cas," he says. "Before Van Nuys, Dean said – he said they'd find a way to turn me. He said he knew they would. And it was like he really did know." He looks down at his boots again, and when he looks up Castiel doesn't meet his gaze. And he suddenly remembers the look the other man gave him before, the look that said he damn well knew why Dean took off to hunt Pestilence alone. "Do you know something, Cas?" he ventures.

Castiel stares back steadily. "You'll have to ask Dean," he says noncommittally. "I'm sorry, Sam. He told me in confidence."

Sam nods slowly, eyeballs Castiel for another minute. "Do you think he'll do it?" he asks. "Michael… do you think he'll fight? Toast us all?"

Castiel shifts uncomfortably, bites his lip.

"Cas, come on," Sam says. "Give me something. Anything."

"Spring Valley," the other man zips out abruptly. "Do you remember Spring Valley?"

"You mean that Samhain mess?"

Castiel nods. "Dean chose to save the town, Sam. It was a test. So I was told at the time."

And now Sam has a hundred questions bustling through his brain, and he wonders if Castiel can tell, because suddenly the other man is staring at the ground. "Look. I get that could mean something, but has he said anything to you at all, anything definitive?" Sam waits a beat. "Anything definitive that he might not have said to me?"

Castiel looks up at him again, and his face stays neutral but Sam can see it start to go up in his eyes, brick by brick, the wall of devotion and loyalty that means he will only ever really be Dean's, even if he reaches out to the boy with demon blood from time to time. He knows he should have expected it.

"I don't know what he'll do," Castiel says. "And you have no conception of what you're asking him to risk by not fighting. You don't know what Hell on earth means, Sam. Neither does Bobby. You should keep that in mind. And be careful in there."

And he spins and walks back to the car, hunched up against the rain.

TBC

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