The latest installment for you… ahead of tonight's episode so I expect no one will read it! Again, thanks so much to everyone who is reviewing as this posts: I really appreciate that you take the time. You guys are the reason WIPs get finished instead of abandoned! ;-)

This includes a reference to Larry Miller's skit on the various levels of drunk: I highly recommend you YouTube it because it is freaking hilarious. And you'll need cheering up after this.

Warnings Foul language, blasphemy up the wazoo and back again, S5 spoilers

Bad Company

Brawl therapy is good for the soul,Dean thinks, as he strides towards the Impala with Castiel slung limply over his shoulder.

He holds his hand out in front of him, smiles in satisfaction at his unblemished knuckles, and then snorts derisively as a low groan meanders up from hip level behind him.

"God. God have mercy. Oh my God…"

It's followed by a snuffling, choking sound as he pitches Castiel over onto his feet and lowers him down onto his butt, before leaning him up against the wheel of the car.

"Oh my God?" Dean queries acidly. "I gotta tell you, Cas, that's ironic." He scowls down as Castiel peers up at him, and even though only one streetlamp casts out a halfhearted glow from ten feet away, Dean can see the other man's one open eye is huge in a milky-pale face bruised and smudged with blood. He looks oddly small and defenseless and there's a second when Dean marvels at the memory of certainty, determination, strength, iron-hard fists on flesh compared to this, after the fall.

"You're better," Castiel interrupts his train of thought, and he smiles woozily.

Dean stares down at him. "I'm better," he agrees. "But you're worse."

"Was it Gabriel?"

"No. Death, actually."

Castiel's face turns quizzical, and he rubs at his belly. "That makes no sense," he mumbles distractedly. And then he makes a sad, incomprehensible sound of suffering, and leans over to puke in the dirt.

Dean grimaces in distaste. "Sense or not, I got the ring. Which is all that matters." He heaves the car door open and roots out a bottle of water from the footwell, drops it between Castiel's outflung legs. "I don't have time for this, Castiel," he says curtly. "Here. Sips, or it'll come back up."

Castiel flails for the bottle. "I feel extremely unwell," he announces placidly.

"That's because you're shit-faced."

"And I hurt." He sucks a mouthful of water down, swills it around and spits.

Dean stares down, feels something lurch in his gut, and maybe it's irritation or maybe it's the fact that he's looking at the only good thing to have come out of this whole fucked-up mess, and now it's frail and falling apart before his eyes, and it's his fault. And now he can feel a tightness around his heart too, a tightness that goes with caring way more than he should, maybe even wanting, needing way more than he should too. It's feelings he doesn't have time for, that he hasn't even really come to terms with, a chink in his armor he can do without. He bricks it up. "You need to be more careful," he snaps. "You know I can't fix you without slipping even more than I did when I pulled you out of the Pit. And I can't slip any further. I have to deal with my brother."

Castiel bristles. "I didn't ask or expect to be pulled from the Pit, and I'm not asking or expecting you to fix me," he grudges out. "But given the copious amounts of alcohol you consumed after Hell, perhaps you could advise me on how to cope with the effects."

He stares back at Dean, intense, and Dean thinks about it for a good thirty seconds before he flops down in the dirt next to the other man. He can't help the note of amusement that creeps into his voice. "Man, you're plumbing the depths with the sarcasm these days, Cas."

"Well, they say it is the lowest form of wit," Castiel retorts. "And I learned it from the best," he adds pissily.

"They say it's the highest form of intelligence too," Dean jibes back. "And yeah, you learned it from the best." He elbows the other man then. "Try deep breaths," he suggests, and he demonstrates. "In, out. Yeah, like that." And then, more sympathetically now the verbal sparring is out of the way, "How's the chest?"

Castiel floats a hand up to his forehead, leans into it heavily. "He didn't hit me there. It's this head. Something is wrong with it, Dean. This brain is too big for this skull. And this stomach feels as if… as if…" He can't find the words, holds up his hand and claws his fingers together. "Like this. My last hangover wasn't this bad."

Dean shakes his head, exasperated. "You were you then," he offers. "Now you're…" He trails off, flaps a hand vaguely.

"Not me," Castiel supplies forlornly. He pauses a beat. "What exactly am I, Dean?" he asks. "I'm not me. I'm not him either. Jimmy Novak, I mean." He glances at Dean, with his slitty, puffy eye, and his brow creases. "Maybe you aren't the only hybrid," he continues moodily. "Or maybe I'm trapped in an existential crisis. My life has no meaning, purpose or value, after all."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Hybrid? And here I was thinking it was synergy." He jollies his voice up to humorous. "You're being philosophical, Cas. That's got to be at least the fourth stage of drunk. Have you argued for or against artificial turf yet? Or been to the local tattoo parlor?" He gets a sudden mental picture of ink flowers twining around a heart, Crowley forever, and he shudders. "Never go to a tattoo parlor while drunk and with Crowley."

Castiel gazes at him, blank.

"Existential crisis my ass, is what I'm saying," Dean clarifies witheringly. "You're hammered. How much have you had?"

Castiel's face takes on a pained expression. "I lost count after seven beers, five whiskey chasers, and a four horsemen go to hell." He gulps weakly. "That's a drink, by the way."

Dean shakes his head. "I know it's a drink, you fuckin' idiot," he says tightly. "Jesus. You can't do that. You're gonna wake up yellow tomorrow. Do you think I need this to worry about too?" He scrubs a hand over his head, palms his eyes for a moment and blows out a long, calming breath before he glares back. "What were you thinking? Were you actually thinking?"

Castiel is silent for a minute, seems mildly confused. "I was thinking, Dean," he says then, and pensively. "I was thinking that you were dying." He sags, starts listing over to lean heavily on Dean.

"I don't have time for this," Dean spits out again, and viciously too. "You need to get your head back in the game, because you're no use to me like this. And now Sam is gone, I can't do this without you." And even as he says it, he's reaching over, draping his arm around Castiel and pulling him in close, because every drunk guy needs a comforting arm when he hits tired and emotional. Castiel is smaller and way slighter than Sam, but in some gut-clenching way it comforts Dean, because it makes him think of his ginormatron brother, who's partway smashed out of his gourd after his fourth Bud, and who might destroy the world if he isn't Sam any more.

"I was thinking that you were dying," Castiel echoes himself, from where his head is wedged under Dean's chin. "And that all was lost. And that Sam was lost. And that I'd see out my days as a Stepford bitch in Hell. But mostly I was thinking that you were dying." He groans out pathetically and his head lolls back on Dean's shoulder. "I feel so sick," he slurs. "I need pills that will take it all away, like the last time."

Dean fists a good handful of Castiel's hair and raises his face up, because he damn well doesn't like the suicide-note sound of that shit. "I'm not dying, Castiel," he says quietly. "And you aren't having pills to take all that away. You can damn well suffer it this time, and learn from it. And if I ever hear you say anything like that again, if I even catch you taking fuckin' vitamins, so help me Cas, I will knock you into next week." He rests the other man's head gently on his shoulder again, his fingers still tangled in his hair, and he rubs the line of his jaw on Castiel's brow . "Did you have all that liquor on an empty stomach?"

Castiel groans again. "Crowley shared a packet of Funyuns with me. And after the first two bars, he took me to a restaurant and fed me something called a vindaloo. He said it was a tradition in what he described as his neck of the woods, and he claimed it would put hair on my chest. I haven't checked yet." His voice takes on a note of tired awe. "It was like eating fire, Dean."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Moronic fuckin' moron," he bites out. He reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Speaking of Crowley, I need to track him down, see if he's having any luck finding out where Sam might be."

Castiel sniffs disconsolately. "Do you think Sam said yes?"

The question churns up the unsettled, anxious, aching feeling Dean has been trying to quash since he woke up in the motel room with the memory of the Horseman's words resounding in his head. "Honestly, Cas, I don't know," he replies. "I don't even really want to consider it." And he stares ahead, into the darkness, and he doesn't let himself consider it. "Will you be okay here if I go look for Crowley?"

Castiel stays where he is, slumped, and heavy, and profoundly tragic. "Probably. Though at this point I'd prefer it if you would smite me."

Dean huffs impatiently, and then he can't help himself. "You're so naïve," he marvels. "I don't get that. Come on, Castiel… you were one of us. You've fought with us. You've fought with me, for me. You've been dealing down death and destruction for millennia. You've helped raze cities, end whole civilizations, hand down God's wrath to sinners. You're fuckin' badass, you went up against Zachariah, against Raphael, againstLucifer, for crying out loud. How can that all suddenly be gone? I just, I don't—"

Castiel pulls away and upright then, snorts derisively. "Did you even see me then, Michael? Did you see any of us? When you were our fearless leader, and you—"

"Don't," Dean interrupts. His voice breaks on the word, and he shoves into Castiel hard, because it shocks him, the sudden reality of what this is, or what it sounds like: the beginning of the future, the virus out there, too late for Sam Winchester, Castiel stoned and insolent, slumped in filthy jeans and boots, our fearless leader. It's like someone walked over his grave. "Don't ever call me that, Castiel," he grates out harshly. "Ever."

There's an awkward moment of silence, and Castiel clears his throat. "I can take care of myself if you need to go and search for Crowley."

And Dean just shakes his head, frustrated. "Now you do sound like Jimmy Novak," he bitches. "Slippery little bastard that he was. And there's no fuckin' way you're driving my car in that state."

Castiel sighs, pulls up his knees, turns in towards him again.

"You're snuggling," Dean says balefully.

"I'm leaning," Castiel corrects him tartly. "So I don't fall over. And he's gone. Jimmy. His soul left. I can't be him."

"So be Castiel," Dean shoots back. "I like him better anyway."

Castiel heaves out an infinitely patient sigh and uses his I'll-speak-slowly-and-maybe-you'll-get-it voice. "There isn't really a me, either. There isn't really a Castiel, not without my grace. We are defined by our grace. I'm empty without it." His tone is tired, and flat, and despondent. "You know this, Michael… I heard you tell Bobby how it filled that space in you. Without my grace, my life has no purpose, or meaning, or value. Like I said."

Dean rubs at his jaw, growls out his exasperation. "Come on, Cas. Is this the liquor talking?" He feels irritably paternal, feels like he sometimes does with Sam, and the thought of his brother stings him again, and he shivers, blocks it out. "Look. You're right. I know that feeling. But you just have to fill that space with other things."

"You filled it with family," Castiel observes listlessly. "With Sam. I don't have that."

Dean thinks on it a few seconds, keeps trying. "Maybe you could," he hazards. "Maybe you could be like Jimmy. In the car, when you told me about Sam. What you did. For me. You were… you know. There for me. It helped." He stops, suddenly uncomfortable, and he scowls at the sheer emo chickflickery of it before he plows on regardless. "You were – I don't know… like a father. And Jimmy had a kid." He snorts ruefully. "In fact, you had Jimmy's kid for a few minutes." And that didn't come out right, he thinks.

"Do you intend reaching an actual point at any time in the next few minutes Dean?" Castiel says dryly. "Only I need to sleep. And you said you needed to find Crowley." His voice turns knowing then. "And you can't hide from this situation."

Dean wonders for a moment if he is procrastinating, if he's putting off finding the demon and giving him the third degree because he's afraid of what he might hear. And he concludes that might be exactly what it is, so he keeps right at it, because on balance it's better than thinking about his brother screaming for mercy while Lucifer persuades him around to his way of thinking.

"Well at least you're too drunk for nightmares," he says finally. "And I don't know. I don't know what my point is. But Jimmy – he loved his wife and kid."

"Jimmy's wife thought he was going crazy," Castiel retorts. "His daughter probably still has nightmares. I ripped him from them, Dean. Are you suggesting I go back to Pontiac and play house with them?"

Dean ignores him, persists. "No, that isn't – maybe I'm trying to say that you could have that. You're here and you aren't a nobody. You exist. Maybe you need to just – embrace it. It could be an opportunity. Maybe you could have a life, a home, have a family, love somebody. As Castiel. It doesn't have to be all about regret for what you've lost." He shrugs carelessly. "I'm just saying. And anyway, Bobby says he'll keep an eye on you. You'll be able to room with him afterwards."

Castiel visibly flinches, comes more alert, sits up straight and looks right at him. His eyes are suddenly old and wise, his voice low and solemn, and it isn't a question, it's a bald statement. "You don't expect to survive." He studies Dean for a beat longer. "Or perhaps you don't intend to."

Dean deflects, breaks the moment. "Crowley says you're a world class hustler."

And Castiel's expression drifts back to weary sadness, and he twists his mouth up into a fake grin, reaches into his hip pocket, and produces a roll of notes. "Here, have a large sum of money," he says. "Perhaps it'll cover the motel room, since I can't Obi-Wan the desk clerks any more." His face falls back into doleful resignation. "Although I suppose you can do that now."

Dean ignores the dig, if that's what it even was, plucks the roll of bills out of Castiel's hand. He flicks through it, whistles admiringly. "Two hundred and eighty bucks. That's some pretty smooth action there, Cas."

Castiel watches him critically for a few seconds. "Yes, perhaps I can use my new skills to hustle my way across these United States hunting demons after you're gone," he remarks flippantly. And his lightness is as forced as his smile, because Dean can hear the strain underpinning his voice.

"Well, you'll have to do a damn sight better in bar fights if that's the plan," Dean snipes. "Just because that guy was bigger doesn't mean you couldn't have—" And he yelps, pulled up short by the iron grip squeezing and twisting his top lip around so far he thinks it might rip off his face. Of course, he thinks, and it all makes sense now. The twitch. "Where did you learn how to do that?" he snarls out thickly, around Castiel's fingers.

"Crowley showed me," Castiel replies gravely. "He learned it from Frank the-mad-axeman Mitchell while out drinking with Frank and a mobster named Reggie Kray in a Bethnal Green watering hole of ill-repute in nineteen sixty five." He smirks weakly. "So he says."

"Man. You got a heck of a grip there, even without your mojo."

"That's because your lips are unusually full for a thirty-one year old male of the species, Dean. In fact, Crowley describes them as cocks—"

"Stop. Right there."

Castiel stops, considers, rephrases as he lets go. "What I mean to say is that there's more to hold on to."

Dean feels his eyebrows shoot up. "You're damn lucky I didn't feel that." He shakes his head, pushes up to stand. "Will you be good there if I go see if Crowley's hanging around, or do you want some help getting into the car?"

"I'll sit here for a spell," Castiel says, on a sigh. "I'm sure you don't want me vomiting on the upholstery."

"True that," Dean says. He starts walking and then he stops, turns back. "One more thing. Michael Row the Boat Ashore?"

"It was Crowley's idea."

Dean rolls his eyes, hovers there for a moment, because what do you know, the emo chickflick moment isn't over after all and he has to get it off his chest, some expression of this thing he hasn't really let himself acknowledge before, even though he knows it's been sparking between them ever since the mess with Alastair and Castiel's vigil at his bedside. "Cas," he blurts out. "I don't even know how to – I can't, I mean… I'm not good with words. And this – connection – we have, you, me, whatever this is, because I'm damned if I really know… but it's there. Maybe it always was, maybe it's because of the Michael thing, or maybe it's the whole Hell deal." He falters, scratches the back of his head. "But you must know. After all this time." And what the fuck, he throws up his hands, races it out. "Your life does have meaning, purpose, and value. To me."

Castiel stares up, concentrating hard on him, and Dean can't quite decipher the expression in the other man's eyes but if he had to file it, he'd put it under serious. "But you won't be here," Castiel says then, pointedly. "And I can't do this without you." He looks down and away, and his voice goes quieter. "I already love somebody, Dean."

Okay, can of worms well and truly opened, and the weight of the words is suddenly, brutally intimate, even if they give Dean an odd, content feeling in his gut. "Let's keep some optimism going here," he replies awkwardly. "I don't really know where this is going. I'm not discounting any possibilities, I'm just being realistic. But it doesn't necessarily mean that—"

Tinny noise blares out abruptly, and it's almost a relief until Dean realizes what it is, and Castiel jumps out of his skin, eyes going wild as he starts fumbling in the pocket of the hoodie he's still wearing. He pulls out his cellphone, presses it to his ear. He frowns, holds the phone up.

"It's for you. Crowley."

Dean gapes. "You changed my fuckin' ringtone to the Macarena?"

Castiel blinks cautiously. "It was Crowley's idea."

Dean purses his lips, snatches the phone up resentfully. "Where are you?" he barks. "What do you mean where am I? Where you left the car, where do you think? Who? Why would she be calling me—Crowley? You're breaking up. Crowley? Fuck." He glares at the phone, flicks a hot laser-vision glance down at Castiel. "What did I tell you about checking messages?"

He spins as a voice hails him from the darkness. Crowley, chipper as ever, and he's giving off tells right, left and center as he trots up to them, radiating excitement, grinning whitely, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

He pulls up short, winces as he looks down at Castiel. "Ouch," he commiserates. "I'd drop by the butcher's if I were you, Cas. A nice strip of beef steak should take care of that shiner."

Castiel makes a desperate, strangled, groaning noise, slaps a hand to his belly, and Dean half turns, exasperated. "Deep breaths," he urges again.

Crowley furrows his brow, puzzled. "Was it something I said?"

"He's a vegetarian," Dean snaps.

"Oops." Crowley smirks. "I love a good chunk of steak myself." He leans down, raises his voice. "I like my cowmeat rare, Cas. So rare it drips blood. Just cut off its head and wipe its arse, and I'm good to go."

Castiel tips slowly over into a fetal position and retches dryly as Dean stares fixedly down at the demon. "You said you had some news," he remarks icily.

Crowley's face splits in a devious smile. "Lifetime immunity, Mike," he snakes out, and he waggles his eyebrows.

Dean scowls. "This had better be good, Crowley."

The demon chuckles. "Oh, it's good, Mike. In fact, it's a blinder."

It's all Dean can do to stop himself from burning the smug little douche out right there and then. But, "Lifetime immunity," he agrees grudgingly.

Crowley leans in closer. "The Cozy Nights Motel, Waterloo, Iowa." He nods for emphasis. "Your little Sammy busted out of jail."

Bobby is sitting on the porch swing, rigid and scarcely breathing, when he sees the car turn in off the road and roll slowly up the dirt track, and he thinks smart boy, because Dean is being damned careful, scoping the lay of the land first. "What are you going to do?" he forces out through gritted teeth.

Lucifer hovers inside the doorway, speaks airily and almost fondly. "Oh, we'll see. It all depends on how cooperative he is, Bobby. To be brutally honest…" He pauses, considers. "And believe me, I'm always brutally honest – I think my brother needs some help to put his control issues behind him."

Bobby swallows thickly. "It won't be a fair fight," he whispers, makes his fear sound as genuine as he can, and God knows, he doesn't have to try too hard. "He's, uh… hurt real bad," he lies.

Lucifer tsks. "So I see from his mode of transport. Perhaps Pestilence did me a favor after all." He reaches around the doorjamb, places a firm hand on Bobby's shoulder, grips it for a few seconds. "Try not to worry," he says softly, sympathetically. "I'd hate for the stress to get your blood pressure up."

Bobby bites down hard on his lip, and his terror is all mixed up with the elation that his boy said no, that he hung on, even if he doesn't know quite what that means for Sam yet. But Jesus, he's about to witness the prize fight to end them all, because the devil is about to find out his brother is back to his turbo-charged self, and right after that he's getting his tail shoved up his ass pointed end first if he doesn't get the hell out of Dodge the second he realizes what he's dealing with. And Bobby's counting on that, because he he's smack bang in the line of fire, and behind enemy positions.

"I really appreciate your help with this, Bobby," Lucifer croons, and he pats Bobby gently before withdrawing his hand. "I need to… hammer this out with Michael. Bring him around to my point of view." His voice goes regretful. "But you see, he's got a hair trigger, always has had. So getting him here now, like this, when he's hurt, well… that helps me. It gives me more options when it comes to convincing him that I'm right. And there's just no way I could have done this without you. So I'm honestly thankful that you were open about all of this, and that you didn't leave anything out."

Bobby clears his throat. "And what if he isn't convinced?" His hand is resting on his thigh, and he walks it up to his pocket, can feel the hard outline of the rings tucked down inside it. We don't have them all, he thinks.

Lucifer huffs out thoughtfully. "Well, I'm not going to lie to you Bobby. It could get messy." He chuckles. "Maybe we should paint you white to deflect the blast." He taps down on Bobby's shoulder again. "Here he comes now," he warns. "Try not to look suspicious, huh? Remember what I told you about that. We're getting along so well, Bobby, and I'd hate for that to change."

The Impala is grinding to a halt about fifteen feet away, and the driver debarks, slams the car door, and Bobby doubletakes, because the figure is smaller and slighter in the dark than he expected, and a sick realization starts to take hold just before Castiel emerges from the darkness.

He gazes owlishly at Bobby as he starts walking towards the porch steps, dragging weary feet through the dirt. "I thought you were a mechanic, Bobby," he complains irritably. "Has the end of the world robbed you of the ability to repair your truck?"

Bobby gapes. "What are you doing here?"

Castiel stops, throws up his hands cluelessly. "You left a voicemail message saying your truck wouldn't start and you needed a ride."

Bobby fumbles for words. "But it… it was… I used – codeword, I used a codeword." And then he remembers, and he closes his eyes. "Jesus," he mutters. "Dean gave you his phone."

The other man starts trudging along again, snorts. "Yes. And I don't know any of your codewords, Bobby. In fact, maybe you need to tell me what they are, because—"

"Get back in the car," Bobby cuts in hoarsely, and his legs are like jelly as he starts to push up from the porch swing. "Get back in the car and get away from here, do it now."

Castiel is just coming up the steps, his expression switching to puzzled, and Bobby can see he's pale, sporting a bruised, swollen eye, and he knows it's too late when he sees the good eye drift past him, sees the expression of surprise. "Adam Winchester? Is that Adam Winchester? Bobby, why didn't you—"

His voice is choked off then, and he flies violently back into the porch frame, the back of his skull impacting on the wood with a dull thud. He slides down onto his butt, blinks in confusion, and peers at them vaguely. "I think I hit my head, Bobby," he says childishly.

Lucifer moves past Bobby, squats down and tips Castiel's face up, fingers gentle under his chin. "Castiel," he breathes out like velvet. "What an unexpected pleasure."

He glances back to Bobby, smiles thinly. "Don't panic Bobby," he says reassuringly. "I don't blame you for this. It doesn't have to get in the way of our working relationship. If we can't come up with a way to get my brother here, I'm happy to go to him. And I'm sure Castiel will be able to remember exactly where Michael is once I jog his memory."

"What are you going to do to him?" Bobby croaks.

Lucifer winks. "Oh, I'll think of something. I have a vast repertoire to draw from, after all."

Bobby shakes his head, rapid, blurts it out and hears his voice go high and desperate. "No. Leave him. It's a mistake, he isn't supposed to be here. Me, me first."

The devil pushes to his feet, cocks his head, and his brow creases in consternation. "Calm down, Bobby," he says. "I don't want you stroking out on me or anything. At least not before we've had the chance to discuss your codeword policy. Don't worry, we'll do that after I've had my little debrief session with Castiel here." He sinks his boot into Castiel's thigh, along to a muffled yelp. "Oh, ignore him," he says at Bobby's look. "The little runt's tougher than he looks."

He bends down, heaves Castiel up and over his shoulder, and this time when he smiles, it's like he's baring his teeth. "I seem to remember you have a soundproof room, Bobby," he says and he motions his head at the door. "Lead the way."

She's hovering outside the motel room, smoking a cigarette, and the rain has her hair plastered flat to her skull. He can see her startle as he appears right there, and she backs away a few steps, and her eyes go wide in wonder.

"So it's true," she murmurs. "I didn't know whether to believe it or not." She cackles out laughter. "I can't believe I had my tongue in a real live archangel's mouth."

Dean cocks his head. "Turn-on, huh?"

She sidles closer, licks her lips. "Maybe we should crank it up a gear, the room is booked for the—"

"Enjoy Vatican City, Meg," he cuts in dismissively. "I hear the Pope's a real nice guy when you get to know him. But watch out for all the holy water and the praying."

Her face screws itself into a rictus of rage and horror. "You wouldn't," she hisses. "I made a deal with Sam, my safe passage—"

He snaps his fingers, and now he's staring at nothing. "Oh yes I would," he says. "And don't worry, you'll get there safely."

He pushes the door open, sees his brother sprawled across the bed. And he can't move for a moment, his boots feel like lead, and he can see the damage from ten feet away, and his heart skitters hectically in his chest. "Jesus, Sammy," he mutters, as he approaches. He sits, shakes his head at the mess, feels his eyes sting, because his brother is a wrecked, battered approximation of what he used to be, face welted and raw, nose pulped, lips mashed and torn, hair matted with blood, and one of his arms is lying at an angle Dean doesn't think he's seen since fifth-grade geometry. It hurts him in his heart and his soul, and he reaches his hand, ready to do his thing and set this right.

And Sam's eyes crack open, and he stares up at Dean, and Dean is gazing right back down and he can see disbelief, relief, joy, and he nods. "It's okay, Sammy," he whispers. "I'm fine. I got you now…" And then he trails off, because Sam's eyes are flaring wider, alarmed, and he starts stuttering out words so faintly Dean can barely hear, until he leans close, and he barely gets the jist of it at first, but when he does it turns him cold inside. Shit. Bobby. The rings.

His brother's lips are still moving, and Dean puts his fingertips there to hush him, rests his palm on Sam's cheek, and Sam shudders and leans into it. "Sssshhh," Dean soothes. "It'll be okay. I'm gonna fix this, Sam – Jesus. What the fuck did they do to your teeth… get you fixed up, kiddo, and then we'll go get Bobby…"

Sam's eyes go frantic again, and his whole frame is shaking where Dean's thigh is pressed up against it. "No… fix," he mumbles out brokenly. "Anna… had right idea." He nods just barely. "Scatter me. Problem… solved… peace…"

Caught on his back foot, Dean studies his brother for a long moment. "You can't ever say yes to him if you're dead," he breathes.

Sam smiles, sighs out relief, and his eyes drift closed, his whole body relaxes, and he waits.

And Dean feels anguish, pain, regret, sorrow. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he whispers. "I'm so sorry." And he touches his fingers to his brother's brow and lets the power streak out of him.

They don't get as far as the panic room, because Lucifer is nothing if not keen. He leans Castiel up against the wall at the foot of the stairs. "Where to start?" he muses, and Bobby doesn't understand until he hears a dry crack, and Castiel makes a stifled noise of distress, his whole frame locking rigid for a few seconds.

Lucifer turns around to flash a smile. "Fingers first," he says. "Those hands make work for idle devils."

Bobby can hear Castiel's breath sobbing out, and he tries not to look, holds Lucifer's gaze instead. "Please," he says softly. "Let him be. He can't tell you where Michael is. He doesn't know."

Lucifer studies him for a second and then his eyes track down to something parked in the hallway. "Is that a toolbox, Bobby?" he asks, and his face lights up suddenly. "That's right, you're a mechanic… you must have a welding torch or a soldering iron… wirecutters, a drill maybe?" He raises an eyebrow, pauses a beat, before he throws back his head and brays out laughter. "I'm being facetious," he says witheringly, once he's calm. "Don't be so humorless. Anyway, I don't need props." Then he frowns. "That said, a soldering iron would be handy."

It's a little like 'Nam, Bobby thinks abstractly, twenty minutes later. But he supposes it can't be as bad as Hell, even with the acrid smell of burnt flesh prickling his nostrils, because Castiel isn't making the kind of noises he said he did when he was there. In fact he's quiet, stoic, in between small gasps of effort and suffering, and he gazes over Lucifer's shoulder and straight at Bobby with sad eyes that tell him just how effective enhanced interrogation tactics can be.

"Where is Michael?" Lucifer rages as he works.

"No."

It's the only reply Castiel ever gives, and it starts out clear, and firm, and heartfelt, but it dwindles to a whisper and finally a dignified silence and sheer endurance, as the devil ramps it up to a savage assault and battery that has Bobby sweating, shaking, and retching behind his hand.

"You're no use to my brother," Lucifer gloats, as he metes out his wrath. "You threw your grace away for him and now you're no use to him. Do you think he can love you? You're a burden, one more drain on his resources, one more human. And there are plenty of those already."

Castiel is still obstinately quiet as Lucifer finally loses patience, and when he lands on the floor beside Bobby, a bloody and burnt bag of broken bones clad in shredded clothes, his eyes are glazed and vacant, and tears are tracking his cheeks, and his teeth are chattering out his shock. His hand is flung out carelessly, smashed fingers puffy and twitching, and Bobby dares to gather it loosely in his own and hopes the comfort of touch reaches the younger man.

Lucifer scowls at Bobby. "You're judging me," he snaps belligerently. "But you have to understand that he sinned. He took our Father's precious gift and rejected it. And he didn't even know who he was really doing it for… he debased himself for love of his mudmonkey. It's just so wrong."

And Jesus, he knows he's signing his own death warrant, but Bobby can't stand it any more, and he shuffles out of his corner and in front of Castiel, while the devil rocks on his heels and preens.

"Leave him now," Bobby stutters out. "Please. He doesn't know. Let him be."

Lucifer rolls his eyes bitterly. "You'll never understand."

Bobby raises a placating hand, and it's shaking so badly he can feel the tremors jar up his arm and across his shoulders. "I get it, I do," he races out. "It's…" He searches his memory, desperate. "Immoral. Iniquity. What he did. But – thou shalt not kill."

The devil goggles down at him, snorts. "You're quoting the sixth commandment at me? That's so utterly prosaic. And anyway, this isn't killing." His tone is lofty, superior. "It's cleansing. I'm cleansing him. Sanitizing him."

He flaps a hand fluidly, and Bobby finds himself briefly airborne before he crashes down on the bedframe and sees stars for a second or two. He shakes his head, focuses dazedly on where Lucifer is reaching down to Castiel again, and then he feels wind blast his face so unexpectedly he has to close his eyes so they don't dry up in their sockets. He hears the voice before he sees who it is.

"Lucy… I'm home."

Bobby cracks his eyes open again, sees the short, wiry figure edging his way past and around, motioning with his sword.

"Put him down, Lu, I think you've made your point," Gabriel says acidly. "There's kill, and then there's overkill. He isn't going to tell you where Michael is. He made his choice a long time ago."

Lucifer straightens, and Bobby can see emotions playing across his face, surprise, incomprehension, annoyance. "Come on," he says finally, and he's aghast. "I knew you were slumming, Gabriel, but for thisthing? He's meaningless, unimportant. He's human. A cockroach. He needs to be dealt with, like they all do."

Gabriel shrugs, swaggers forward a few steps, away from Bobby. "What can I say, Lu?" he retorts. "He had the guts to stand up to Zachariah and try to stop this mess. Which is something I should have done. And I like him. And you're just damned nasty."

Lucifer drops Castiel, and his head bounces off the floor. "I can't even bring myself to fight you for him, Gabriel," he says coldly. "And watch your tone, little brother."

He stalks away, and Bobby's on all-fours right then and there, crabbing back over to the unconscious man, scooping him up and heaving him out of the way. He can dimly hear the angels conversing, their voices muffled by his worry, as he shuffles backwards on his ass, plants his back up against the wall and cradles Castiel tightly in his arms like he's one of his boys. The younger man is limp and heavy, and when Bobby pulls one of his half-closed eyes open, his pupils are fixed and dilated. He leans in closer with his cheek fractionally above Castiel's mouth and hopes for the faint puff of air that signals life, straightens up when he doesn't feel it, and pats his face. "Come on," he whispers frantically. "Don't do this, son. Please don't do this."

A shadow falls over them, Gabriel, still tense and coiled for action, and he doesn't take his eye off the other archangel as he squats down beside Bobby. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "It's only by chance I stopped by. If I'd known…"

"He isn't breathing," Bobby chokes out raggedly.

Gabriel smiles, shakes his head. "Oh ye of little faith," he chides, and he taps Castiel on the forehead.

Castiel comes back with a cry, flails out in his panic and almost sucker-punches Bobby in the eye. He struggles wildly for a few seconds in the confines of Bobby's bear hug, while Bobby speaks a stream of soothing nonsense in his ear, until he realizes where he is. He falls completely still against Bobby's chest then, staring up at Gabriel, heaving out each breath. And then Bobby sees him flash his eyes to Lucifer and back to Gabriel again, a silent, measured appraisal of both of them, and his expression goes set and intense.

Gabriel stares down at him, and his own look is complicated, until his eyes soften and he smiles. "Not so untouchable after all," he murmurs. "You're the best of us, Castiel. You always were. Godspeed, brother."

Bobby doesn't know what the hell is being transmitted in those eyeball messages, but Castiel clears his throat, and his tone is utterly flat, and remote.

"Bobby. We need to leave. Now."

Bobby hits the dirt running, a few feet behind Castiel, and he doesn't see quite what happens but the other man smacks into something and Bobby slams right into the back of him so that they end up on their bellies in the dust, a tangle of waving limbs.

Castiel is wriggling out from under him, muttering a stream of vicious, barbed Enochian that can only be cusswords, and Bobby rolls over to see Dean sprinting up the porch steps and in through the door, as blinding white light explodes out of every orifice in his house, doorway, windows, chimney stacks, attic vents, cracks in the brick that he never even knew existed. It sears through his eyelids and it burns so hot he thinks it might have welded his eyes closed, and a hand grabs him by his shirt collar, crashes him down to the ground onto his face.

"Close your eyes," Castiel is hollering, over an earsplitting whine that feels like a needle piercing Bobby's eardrums. "Don't look at him."

The noise builds to a crescendo, cuts off abruptly then, and it's still and dark again when Bobby cracks his eyes. They're sore and weeping, and he groans.

"Can you see?" Castiel is on his knees next him, hauling him up, cupping his face, and his thumbs brush Bobby's cheekbones as he squints in close. "Bobby, did you look at him?" he demands urgently. "Can you see?"

His voice is muffled by the ringing in Bobby's ears, but he reaches up, grips Castiel's wrists dazedly. "I closed them," he says breathlessly. "I can see."

Castiel nods, huffs out relief, releases him and stands, and then he turns and looks at the house for a long moment.

Bobby pulls up the corner of his shirt, uses it to wipe the tears oozing from his eyes. "Was that Lucifer?" he croaks in wonder. "Was that – did Gabriel kill him? Is it over?"

Castiel wraps his arms around himself, hugs himself tightly, as if he's cold. "It wasn't Lucifer," he says quietly, and he starts back towards the porch, stumbling slightly.

Bobby scratches his head. "Wait a minute, what – shouldn't we clear out of here, then? And what about Dean? Is he—"

"Lucifer isn't in there any more," Castiel throws back over his shoulder, as he disappears through the doorway, and his tone is bleak. "He's running from Michael."

He hasn't a damn clue what this really is or what just went down, but Bobby pushes upright, trails along in the other man's wake.

When he gets inside it looks like a hurricane just ripped through his house. It's a trail of smashed wood and crumbled brick, a debris field that ends with a solitary figure, head hanging and shoulders slumped, staring down at the twisted body, its wings burnt black like charcoal into the floor.

TBC
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