Not Exactly Ovid

by ErtheChilde

When Castiel mysteriously disappears the night Dean is reunited with Sam, the brothers hit the road to find answers. But the Apocalypse was not as neatly tied up as they hoped, & pursuit by enemies forces them into "supernatural witness protection". Along the way, new truths come to light, Dean re-evaluates his relationship with Cas & Sam seeks redemption. [short arcs now long eps]

2. 6x01 - The Fugitives

One:

Braeden Household
Cicero, Indiana
Friday 14 May 2010

Dean Winchester knocked back two fingers of bourbon, wishing not for the first time that evening that he was chugging a bottle. Lisa was a health nut, though, so he figured he should just be grateful he was drinking something remotely alcoholic.

He grimaced.

Gratitude was the last thing Dean felt right now. In fact, he could feel very little besides the same numbing disbelief that had taken over about the same time he had watched Sam throw himself into a portal to Hell.

Lisa was moving around the kitchen with the kind of nervous energy that if he hadn't known her, might have made him ask if she'd just snorted a line of coke. She kept trying to fill the awkward silence in the room with light chatter, and was opening and closing drawers with more force than necessary in her quest to find him something to eat.

Dean wasn't hungry, but when she'd asked him when he'd last eaten and he hadn't been able to remember, she'd insisted on heating up the evening's leftovers.

Across the table, Ben didn't even pretend not to stare. He watched Dean with a focused intensity that would have done any angel proud.

The kid was two years older than when Dean had seen him last, a few inches taller and broader. If he'd thought Ben resembled him back then, it was impossible not to notice it now. Despite inheriting Lisa's dark hair and eyes, there was something about the jut of Ben's chin and the way his brow wrinkled as he frowned that was disconcertingly Winchester-like.

Not for the first time did Dean wonder if Lisa had been completely honest with him about the boy's paternity.

'Knock it off,' he told himself with a mental shake. 'Even if she did lie, you can't blame her. Not like it changes anything.'

It wasn't like it made losing Sam any easier.

He tightened his grip on the tumbler and took another draught, if only to give himself something to focus on. He had been trying to avoid thinking about Sam for a day now, with little success.

'Watching your little brother dive into the deepest pit of Hell to save the world isn't exactly forgettable,' he thought dourly. And he'd seen a lot of impressive sights in his thirty-one years – a forty year stint of his own in Hell notwithstanding. The calm look in Sam's eyes as he consigned himself to an eternity of suffering was something that would haunt Dean for the rest of his existence.

After everything they'd been through, it was still impossible for Dean to comprehend. He and Sam had spent their entire lives hunting down the creatures that regular people only ever saw in their nightmares. He couldn't believe that that part of his life was now over.

Sure, it hadn't been the easiest or most glamorous job – the pay was shit and the health package usually boiled down to a swig of whiskey and a sterilized needle – but it was necessary. In fact, with the exception of credit-card fraud, casual con-artistry and the occasional run-in with the law, hunting was remarkably honest work.

It also brought with it the unspoken satisfaction of being able to take out the bad guy, which wasn't necessarily a given in the 'normal world'.

"Saving people, hunting things," Dean had once said, and it was as accurate a description of the life as any. Even Sam, who had grown up wary of the lifestyle Dean and their father thrived in, had been hard-pressed to admit he didn't enjoy the perks sometimes.

Personally, Dean had always thought there were worse ways to spend a life than on an unending road trip. Even though Sam had always griped about Dean's music being limited to the greatest hits of mullet rock and Dean had always maintained that Sam's preference for light salads over red meat was a sure sign the latter was hiding a vagina, their relationship had always been a constant.

Until one day it wasn't.

Bad dealings with some of the shadier demons traipsing across the physical plane had almost completely severed it a few times. Dean had sold his soul to protect Sam from giving into his dark side, only to have a shifty demon bitch all-but invalidate that sacrifice while he rotted in Hell.

Things would have gone a lot differently if it hadn't been for Castiel.

The rather taciturn angel – with his inability to grasp neither the concept of personal space nor pop culture references – still made Dean gravitate between laughing and pulling his hair out.

Not only had he been the first angel to appear to the Winchesters in their many years of hunting, but Cas had fought through the fires of Hell to rescue Dean and resurrect him.

Dean was still coming to terms with the repercussions.

Even a self-confessed nonbeliever like him had nearly pissed himself upon realizing that, yes, angels were real. At the time, he had covered it up by lashing out at the bastard, but the implications had kept him awake on more than one occasion. That fact wasn't helped by Cas's tendency to make cameos in his dreams when he was starved for conversation.

He wasn't the only angel with the tendency to do that, unfortunately.

Over the past two years, Dean had learned that angels tended to be bigger dicks than demons. In the first few months of their acquaintance, Dean had been sure Cas was just another winged dick; over time, though, he'd come to respect the guy, even rely on him. Against all odds, a friendship had emerged.

Even though Cas didn't manage to help Dean stop Sam from accidentally releasing Lucifer upon the world, he had died trying. Literally. Even after being resurrected by God, Cas hadn't abandoned them. When the denizens of Heaven and Hell tried to manipulate them into playing out the Apocalypse, Cas had sided with them and their insane plan of trying to stop it.

In retrospect, not the smartest decision, but Sam and Dean had been raised to fight; damned if the end of the world was going to be something they just lay down and accepted.

So they had fought harbingers of Judgement Day, defied archangels and battled Tricksters; they had made and lost friends and family, including a brother they hadn't even known about, and forged cautious deals with demons. In the meantime, Cas – cut off from Heaven for throwing his lot in with the Winchesters – searched for God with the hope that the Creator could set right the chaos being wrought by the followers of the two archangels Lucifer and Michael.

Only to be told as events came together that God would not intervene in his children's wars.

Yeah, God was kind of a dick too.

Through all of it, Cas had stood by them, helped them and believed in them (and sometimes for them) even when his own faith was shattered.

"I gave everything for you," Cas had told him once when Dean was hovering on the brink of giving in.

The idea had stunned him more than the unholy smack-down that Cas had subjected to him to afterwards, when words failed. There was just something wrong about a creature as powerful as Cas voluntarily diving into the mess that was humanity for the sake of a man who had been one of Hell's more notorious torturers.

Dean had always wanted to ask Cas 'why', but he had figured the answer might be more than he was ready to hear. So he had just accepted it. It was easier than trying to decipher the tangle of thought and emotion that came from knowing an angel had defied Heaven for him.

Instead, he told himself that Cas had finally seen humanity as more than an abstract concept and had thus decided to defend it.

On the inevitable day when Sam finally said 'yes' to the Devil and lost himself to the power of Lucifer, and the only thing Dean could still do was drive onto the field of battle to be there for his family – not just Sam, but his estranged half-brother Adam too – Cas had followed him.

Followed him and died, again, beside Dean's adopted father Bobby to buy him a few more minutes trying to reach Sam.

Sam had managed to overcome Lucifer's control, but only temporarily. Dean had still had to watch him make the ultimate sacrifice, dragging the two archangels and Adam with him into the Cage.

'So much for not thinking about it,' Dean reprimanded himself, going for another sip of bourbon only to realize he had already finished the glass. He frowned down at it, as though the container had done something to personally offend him by being empty.

Even though Cas had been resurrected (whether by God or whoever was now calling the shots), Dean still felt an unwavering sense of abandonment. The feathery bastard had completely bailed on him at the one moment when it might have been nice to have a friend around. He hadn't even bothered with a goodbye.

Of course, it was to be expected – angels didn't understand grief or feelings, and so Dean shouldn't have been surprised at being ditched so that Cas could go play Clint Eastwood up in Heaven.

Still, in the past few weeks he'd started to think that Cas was finally beginning to get the whole 'humanity' thing. It was a bit of a letdown to realize he hadn't. Probably never would, now that he'd gone back 'on high'.

The microwave beeped, bringing Dean back to the present, and a few moments later, Lisa was there, putting down a plate of food. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Dean said, even though his lie was obvious. "I'm good."

Lisa offered him a sympathetic smile; she knew there was something he wasn't telling her, but she hadn't pried. Most likely she was waiting until Ben was in bed to ask him about what had happened, and it was something he wasn't looking forward to. Even though Lisa knew some of the details of his life, he wasn't sure how to share all of the particulars with her yet.

And talking about Sam being gone would just hammer home a reality Dean was still coming to terms with.

"You need salt."

"Huh?" he glanced up, the sentence a familiar one but completely out of context in his current location.

"You should put salt on that," Ben repeated quietly, offering him the salt shaker. The kid lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Mom's meatloaf's more of a tofu-loaf, if you know what I mean."

Dean forced a smile, while in the background Lisa quipped, "I heard that."

He obligingly reached for the offered condiment, even though he was pretty sure he wouldn't really be able to taste anything anyhow.

Across the street, a light flickered and went out, drawing his attention. A lifetime of hunting made you aware of even the smallest things. Being in a suburb in Indiana, he figured he would probably see a racoon or a large dog hanging by the lamppost. He nearly looked away before his brain caught up with him.

For a second, he froze, seeing a shadowy outline beneath the streetlamp that was too familiar.

"Sam," he murmured in disbelief, his eyes wide.

He dropped the salt and was on his feet in an instant, torn between hope and something else he couldn't quite put a finger on. Ben was following his gaze, but whatever Dean had seen was gone now.

Before he could give into disappointment, he felt a spike of pain.

A sudden, sharp burning pulsed through him. It radiated out from his left shoulder and surged throughout his entire body like splintering arcs of lightening.

"Dean?" Lisa asked, worried.

Dean hissed in discomfort, clutching his shoulder in a reaction of surprise. His vision swam and something unseen barrelled through him, its force knocking the breath from his lungs. He gasped for oxygen, reaching out his free hand to steady himself. Blistering heat washed over his body, like every blood vessel and bone had been torched, and he felt himself break into a sweat.

"Mom…" Ben sounded unsure, a hint of alarm in his voice; Lisa was instantly beside Dean, trying to get him to look at her. Dean jerked away from her touch, which was painfully cold for some reason.

Lisa's eyes were wide, and when she spoke it was with a forced calm. "Dean – are you alright?"

He tried to answer her, tried to pass it off as though he had just stood up too fast, except he couldn't make his mouth move. He concentrated on trying to breathe.

"Mom, is he okay?" Ben's voice was a little panicky now. "Is he, like, having a heart attack?"

As soon as the words were out, Dean tried to shake his head – he was pretty sure that wasn't what this was – but his movements were slow and sluggish. Lisa seemed to take his inability to move as some kind of sign that Ben might be right, because she started trying to loosen his clothes.

"Call 911," she told Ben in a would-be-calm voice, gently but firmly pushing Dean back into his chair.

Dean tried to protest, but he was suddenly wracked with tremors from head to toe. Somewhere inside, something was coming undone, like a rope that had frayed at the edges and was now snapping apart one strand at a time.

He was aware of a flurry of movement and a strange, insistent pounding in the distance, and voices streaming in and out of his hearing.

" – Dean – !"

" – going to be okay, just don't move – "

"Dean!"

Despite his numbness, Dean knew his body was seizing. His focus narrowed precariously, and for a moment all he was came down to one tiny pinprick of clarity –

'Cas,' he thought inexplicably, and an incredible feeling of emptiness took hold. All sensation disappeared and he imagined a thunderous rushing noise before all sound faded out.

His eyesight wavered once more and then went completely white, but he was still conscious somehow. In an agonizing instant, everything inside him came undone, the lines holding him together sliced apart; for a terrifying second, he was without control of his body, a puppet whose strings had been viciously and irreversibly severed.

And then stars exploded in his vision and the world rushed back to him, his body flooded with sensation once again.

He was being simultaneously frozen and scalded, and his stomach rebelled as the entire world spun on its axis. Feeling surged back into his body, like invisible hands grasping blindly to regain their purchase.

The pounding noise he had heard before got louder, and Lisa and Ben's voices were getting more frantic; there was an explosion of sound like wood splintering and then someone shouted, "DEAN!" in a voice that he knew and should not be hearing anymore.

'Sam,' he thought dimly, and the world sharpened.

'Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back. Now, Dean, go!'

It was an ingrained reaction to danger, the thought that Sam needed him and he had to get out of whatever trouble he had fallen into. Even knowing Sam was gone, that instinct helped to centre him. He mentally grasped at that, clinging tightly to it as he felt awareness return to him.

Control came back slowly – numbness slipped from his fingers and toes, retreating backward to where it had originated. His shoulder continued to ache, although now it was more the memory of pain than a physical sensation.

Once he was completely conscious of himself again, Dean blinked up at the ceiling.

He was on the floor, his chair knocked over a few inches away. His gaze fell on Lisa, who was standing several feet from him with an expression torn between worry and fear; she had planted herself between him and Ben, who was determinedly trying to peak around her, cordless phone in hand.

Neither of them seemed overly concerned with him, though; they were both staring at something else.

Someone.

Someone who was kneeling over Dean right now in a blatant disrespect to his personal space.

Out of habit, Dean wanted to think 'Cas', except he didn't feel the same charge in the air that would have accompanied the angel's presence.

Slowly turning his head, his mouth went dry at the realization of who it was.

His brother, in all of his lanky, awkward glory was looking down on him with an anxious expression, his too-long hair hanging into his face. He looked exactly as he had when he backed into the portal to Hell, his eyes all wide and earnest. He smelled of blood and dirt and Sam.

The emotions that Dean had been sitting on for the past twenty-four hours suddenly overcame him, and he grasped at the most obvious reason for the presence of his brother.

Dean had to be dead.

Again.

His stomach clenched at the realization.

"Are you kiddin' me?" Dean croaked, his voice trembling unforgivably. The illusion of Sam frowned at him in worried confusion. "I fight off the forces of Heaven and Hell, and a friggen heart attack takes me down?"

"'Takes you down'?" not-possible-to-be-Sam repeated, bewildered. "Dean, what are you talking about?"

"S'the only way I'd ever see Sam again," Dean murmured to himself, trying to get up but being held in place by the gigantor's huge hands. "Someone upstairs – or, I guess here – has been screwing around." He raised his voice. "Cas!"

There was a long silence in the kitchen.

"Dean?" Lisa asked, her voice wary. She continued to keep Ben behind her, eyes flitting from Dean to Sam, which Dean thought was a little weird. It didn't exactly jive with the eternal memory loop of Heaven – he didn't have any memories of standing in this kitchen with his brother, Lisa and Ben – but maybe things had changed since the last time he'd been dead. "Who are you talking to?"

"The dick that I'm pretty sure is responsible for me being here," Dean grunted, glaring upwards even though he wasn't exactly sure of directions in Heaven. "Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment, Cas, but I know it's not real and I know it's not Sam, so can you put me back now? I'm really not down for the Matrix treatment just yet."

"What is he talking about?" Lisa demanded, directing her question at the Sam-clone; her tone was laced with confusion and anger. "Who's this 'Cas' person?"

"He thinks he's dead," fake-Sam said, realization colouring his tone. "He thinks he's in Heaven – but Dean, Cas is dead. I – Lucifer demolished him, I remember –"

"Cas came back," Dean retorted firmly, finally slapping away the hands that held him and pushing up off the ground. Not-Sam inched away and Dean wobbled to his feet, using the table to steady himself. "And considering this is obviously not Hell – which I would definitely recognize – where else would it be? I wouldn't be seeing Sam if I was still alive, because he's gone and you're not him – so, s'cuse me while I rip a certain angel of the Lord a new one – CAS!"

Fake-Sam's face became strained, and Dean felt a measure of guilt at being the cause of it, but shrugged it off. He didn't particularly feel like apologizing, especially not to a Heaven simulation.

"Sam, what's going on?" Lisa asked in a loud whisper, like she was afraid Dean would hear her – another thing that didn't make sense, but Dean couldn't dwell on it. He was pacing back and forth, trying to think back to his last stint in Heaven. Maybe he could make it to the Garden – or Ash and the Roadhouse…

Why hadn't Cas showed up? Sure, he and Dean hadn't exactly parted on the best terms, but if Dean was dead and Cas had orchestrated it all to give him some crappy version of Sam to make him feel better, he would have thought the angel would at least be there to welcome him upstairs.

After Dean spoke to him about appropriate sympathy gifts, of course. 'Seriously, dude could have just dropped off a pie.'

"Dean." The Sam-clone was trying to get his attention again, but Dean ignored him; he couldn't allow himself to get used to seeing his memory's version of Sam if he was going to get Cas to pull him back to earth.

The fact that the angel wasn't answering him was annoying, and for some reason his brain kept coming back to the phantom pain that had incapacitated him. He had a niggling suspicion it was related, but he couldn't quite make the connection...

"Dean!" the fake Sam had grabbed him by the shoulders and was shaking him lightly. "You're not dead – you're alive and standing in Lisa's kitchen rambling like a mental case. And I'm really me, I swear." Dean tried to pull away, but the other man was gripping him tightly and staring him down. "Dean, look at me."

Something in his tone made Dean at least level a defiant stare at the image of his brother.

This Sam's hazel green eyes were as intent and focussed as Dean remembered, practically pleading with him to believe him. They were the eyes of someone who had seen and experienced more than any human should – a hunter's eyes. But where Sam's gaze had always retained some softness, some glimmer of the innocent little kid Dean had helped raise, now there was a hollowness there. It was the gaze of someone who had survived the worst kind of horror imaginable and somehow lived through it.

It was the same look Dean had seen in the mirror every morning since he crawled out of his own grave two years ago.

Realization grasped hold.

Heaven would never have – probably could never have – imitated the look of a man who had been to Hell and managed to get out. Probably because there never had been such a man, until Dean. Those controlling dicks with wings probably couldn't imitate the look of a man who had shared headspace with the Devil, either.

Which meant that those familiar, haunted eyes watching him worriedly could only belong to his brother.

"…Sammy?" he choked, the feeling in his legs threatening to give out again.

Sam gave him a strained smile. "Well, this isn't exactly the welcome I would have expected. A punch in the gut or a talkin' to – maybe some holy water in the face?"

"You're…real? Or…or am I just…and I'm not…"

"It's me, Dean."

Hunter's instinct flooded back to him, overpowering the abrupt flare of hope. Dean narrowed his eyes. "Prove it."

For a moment, possibly-Sam looked like he was at a loss, before quickly patting himself down and coming up with the silver switchblade he always carried on him. He took it out, slowly, so that Dean could watch him and have time to react if he tried anything. Rolling up his left sleeve, he flipped open the knife and drew it across his forearm with the smallest grimace of discomfort.

A thin trickle of red wound its way down to his wrist, but otherwise there was no reaction.

The flare of hope became a lot stronger, but Dean still didn't move. Sam had grabbed the abandoned salt-shaker from the table, poured himself a handful and swallowed that.

The grimace was more pronounced this time, and he murmured, "That's nasty." Rubbing the salt from his hands, he fixed Dean with an intent look and finally pulled down the collar of his shirt to show off the unblemished anti-possession tattoo. "It's me. I mean, if you've got some holy water lying around or you want to draw a banishing sigil just to be sure –"

Dean wasn't even aware of moving, his arms already encircling his brother in a tight embrace.

"You stupid son of a bitch." Sam was unnaturally tense against him, but a moment later relaxed and gripped him tightly in return. "How…?"

"I don't know," Sam murmured into his ear. "I just…am."

Dean pulled back, just staring at his brother for a time. He felt dazed by the situation, couldn't really think of what to say first, and so he focused on Sam's appearance and frowned. Little chips of wood were tangled in his hair and on his clothing. "Dude, you get in a fight with a beaver down there? You've got splinters all over you."

"Uh, yeah, I kinda…broke down the door."

"Which you're paying for, by the way," Lisa piped up, startling Dean. He had temporarily forgotten she and Ben were still there.

She was still standing protectively in front of Ben, who was watching Sam and Dean in utter bemusement. Lisa, at least, seemed on her way to recovering from the shock of a giant Sasquatch barging into her house. Ben slowly put down the phone. "You couldn't just ring the doorbell like a normal person?"

"I just saw Dean collapse, I sort of…reacted," Sam said, half-defensive and half-apologetic.

"Saw me collapse?" Dean had let go of his brother by now and was making a face. "When? And when did you get here – how did you get here? Last time I checked, Hell doesn't give time off for good behaviour."

A steely look flickered in Sam's eyes. "I have no idea –"

"Hold on," Lisa interjected, considering them both with wide eyes. "Hell?" She looked from one to the other, "As in, fire-and-brimstone-eternal-suffering-Hell?"

Dean and Sam exchanged glances. "…Yeah."

Lisa gaped for a full five seconds and then shook her head as though to clear it.

"You – " she pointed at Ben, "Bedtime. You –" she indicated to Dean, ignoring Ben's sudden protests, " – sit down before you fall down. And you –" she jabbed a finger at Sam, " – get the bottle of bourbon from the cupboard over the fridge." She crossed her arms, determined. "You guys have a lot of explaining to do – " Dean opened his mouth to protest and she cut him off with another gesture, " – and I don't want to hear any of that 'it's better if you didn't know' crap. That's worked for too long. Not anymore."

(*)

"…and then things kind of went dark. Next thing I know, I'm standing under a lamppost watching Dean flip out," Sam finished.

There was a long silence around the kitchen table, and Sam automatically regarded Dean. His brother was looking uncomfortable and overwhelmed. He hadn't taken his eyes off of Sam since they sat down, even when he'd volunteered his own side of their story. Sam hadn't been able to meet his stare at certain parts, although his heart had swelled when Dean told him how God brought back Castiel, and that the angel had then saved Bobby.

Having yet another loved one die because of him would have been too much for his conscience.

'That's another conversation that's going to be heart wrenchingly awkward –'Hi Bobby. I'm alive. Sorry I let the Devil use my body and ended up killing you. Beer?''

Lisa sat at the head of the table, her eyes bright and wide. She opened her mouth to speak, couldn't seem to come up with anything, and instead took a gulp of liquor. She'd already refilled it twice since returning from forcing Ben to go to bed (time during which Dean had drawn a hasty angel-banishing sigil on the kitchen table, just to be sure that Sam still wasn't hosting Lucifer).

Sam thought she was taking it rather well, actually.

Dean was the one to break the silence, finally focussing his full attention on Sam. "You really don't remember anything?"

The question was tentative, for Dean.

"Nothing," Sam affirmed. He shrugged. "I know time passed – I know it felt like…years. And I'm pretty sure it wasn't a picnic…" He trailed off, the void of his memories doing nothing to quell the frayed feeling somewhere deep within him. Dean nodded in understanding and continued, "but I can't remember anything since jumping into the hole. It's like there's this…wall."

"So, you've got no idea how the hell you got out."

"None. Though, when I saw you having some kind of seizure, I figured you might have done something."

Dean grimaced. "Like what?"

"I don't know – a deal, maybe."

"I told you I wouldn't."

"And I didn't believe you any more than you believed you."

"Well, I didn't do anything," Dean snapped, defensive and regretful at the same time. At Sam's raised eyebrow, he made a face. "Not yet, at least. I was going to at least try not to…Wasn't sure how long it would last. But I was going to try."

Sam instantly felt guilty, but before he could apologize, Lisa finally spoke up. "A deal? You'd sell your soul to a…a demon? Again? Didn't you learn your lesson the first time?"

She didn't look impressed.

Much as it was kind of refreshing to have someone else nag Dean, Sam decided to cut off that argument. He interjected, "It wouldn't work anyway. No demon could swing this. The only way to get out of Hell is if something stronger than a demon gets involved. And where I was…let's just say it was probably a lot harder to get to than where Dean was. So whatever put me here was – is – really powerful."

He barely repressed the shudder at the memories he didn't have but could only guess at.

"Could your friend have done it?"

"Huh?" Both Winchesters considered her.

"Cassiel? Cas?" Lisa clarified, hesitating slightly as though she couldn't believe she was actually having a discussion about angels and demons in the middle of her kitchen. "The one who pulled Dean out of…of Hell. The angel – could he have done something?"

"Castiel? Not without a lot of power backing him," Sam answered. "When he went to get Dean, he was part of a whole garrison of angels. It took them months – technically years – to get to him."

"But couldn't he, like, pull some strings or something? Dean said that he was brought back different somehow. More powerful."

"Even if he did get brought back more powerful, it would have taken longer than – what did you say it's been? A day and a half?" That was directed at Dean, but when his brother didn't answer, Sam turned his attention on him. "Dean?"

Dean's eyes had suddenly widened in a look of horrified comprehension. Before Sam could ask him what was wrong, his brother had stood up and hauled off his coat. Ignoring Sam and Lisa asking him what was going on, he frantically rolled up his left sleeve.

And swore.

Sam didn't immediately understand what Dean was so upset about, until he realized there was something missing.

The skin of Dean's left deltoid was completely unblemished.

Castiel's handprint was gone.

Lisa, to her credit, seemed to understand immediately. "Is that where…?"

"Son of a bitch," Sam managed weakly, exchanging a meaningful glance with Dean, whose jaw was set in a grim line. "You don't think…?"

Dean wasn't listening to him, because he was on his feet, glaring skyward again. "Cas, you have, like, ten seconds to get your all-hallowed ass down here before I introduce the shit to the fan."

"Dean!" Lisa hissed, scandalized. "You can't talk to…to an angel like that!"

"Well, I ain't in a praying mood," Dean retorted with a scowl, not taking his eyes from the ceiling.

"This is actually still pretty polite for Dean," Sam assured her, trying to keep things light despite the unease he was feeling. His brother didn't even offer him a dirty look.

When the ten seconds passed without the appearance of Castiel, Dean dug out his phone and started to call him.

"Angels have phones now?" Lisa wanted to know.

"This one does," Sam answered.

Lisa poured herself another finger of bourbon. Sam was impressed; most women her size would probably be on the floor by now. Maybe all that yoga helped her burn it off faster.

Dean snarled and tossed his phone onto the table with such force that Sam was surprised it didn't shatter. "Straight to voicemail. Goddamnit, Cas!"

"Maybe he forgot to charge it again?" Sam supplied hopefully.

"Or he did something stupid," Dean groused. He blinked, and sent Sam an apologetic look. "You know what I mean. I want you safe, Sam, but I never thought Cas would…I mean, how would he…?"

"I get it," Sam assured him. "Besides, maybe that –" He pointed at Dean's bare arm, "– has nothing to do with all this. Coincidence."

They were silent a moment. Both of them knew that there was no such thing as coincidence. In fact, not only was Sam pretty sure that Castiel's lack of answer meant he was involved in Sam's return, but that the angel had done something a lot worse than selling his soul to do it.

'And I'm also pretty sure that he didn't do it for me,' Sam added to himself, taking in the tense way Dean held himself. He always looked like that when he was worried about something, poker face or not.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and exhaled wearily. "We should find out what went down. Except…"

He was watching Sam now, doubtful; Sam read the torn expression for what it was and mentally finished the sentence. 'Except you don't want to do anything that might mean I go back to Hell.'

Sam remembered that same look from the year after Dean sold his soul, and how he had resisted Sam's help at every turn out of fear that trying to break his deal would cause Sam to die. So even though it was clear that Dean wanted to find Castiel, or at least figure out what he had done, he wouldn't. Even though Castiel was the closest Dean had to an actual friend, he wasn't going to do anything that might harm Sam.

'Which is a nice sentiment, but you'd think after dying to save the world, Dean'd stop treating me like I'm four,' Sam thought, not for the first time. There were occasions Dean needed to be saved from his own martyr-complex. Besides, while he might not have as strong a bond as his brother and Castiel had, Sam still considered the angel a friend.

So, in a firm voice, he declared, "It's Cas. Half of what we've managed to survive wouldn't be possible without him. We'll figure this out."

Dean's face remained impassive, but Sam didn't miss the appreciative glint in his eyes.

Lisa was looking from one to the other, and finally shook her head. "As dramatic as all this is, you both look like you're about to pass out. You need to get some rest before you do anything else."

"If Cas is in trouble, every minute could count," Dean deflects.

"Is there anything you can actually do about that right this second? Or tonight?"

"No, but –"

"Then take a few hours to sleep before you get ready to ride off into the sunset again," Lisa said simply. "You'll be able to function better that way. There're couches in the living room. You're both welcome here for as long as you need." She frowned at Sam. "Or at least as long as it takes you to either pay for or fix my door."

Sam snorted. "You are taking this way too calmly."

"Two years ago I thought I watched my son spontaneously combust and last week my neighbour's cat gave birth to a litter of snakes," Lisa remarked. "I'm still iffy on the whole angels and demons front, but I've accepted the fact that the world isn't what I thought it was. I just happen to be really good at ignoring it, I guess." She finished her drink, considered pouring herself another, and then shook her head and began to clear the table. "You two, though, still have a job to do. And considering how important it is, I want you to be in good enough shape to do it." She replaced the significantly emptied bottle of bourbon in the cupboard. "I'll be right back, I need to make sure Ben hasn't snuck out of bed. Then I'll find you some blankets."

She disappeared from the kitchen, leaving the brothers alone. Without the excuse of a test to bridge the uncomfortable silence, they simply stared at each other, neither really knowing what to say.

Sam decided to try the usual method of diffusing a tense situation. He forced a grin. "Dude, marry that girl."

To his credit, that got the barest hint of a smile from Dean, but it was without any real humour. His brother continued to exude an air of distraction.

Sam furrowed his brow. "Dean, you okay?"

"If someone asks me that one more time tonight, I'm gonna start throwing punches," Dean told him seriously. "What about you? You're the one who just cashed in your Get-Out-Of-Hell-Free-Card. You're the one I'm worried about."

"And the missing angel," Sam pointed out. "But yeah. I'm fine. Better than fine, I think. It's almost like…back in Ilchester. I'm not even craving, uh… Ovaltine…anymore."

Dean snorted. "Think it was God again?"

"If it was God, why didn't he bring me back with Cas at the graveyard?" Sam asked.

"Point."

"What about Death? He'd probably be powerful enough. And he seemed to like you. Sort of."

"Doubt it. The guy was pretty firm on the whole me-leaving-you-to-rot front," Dean shook his head. "Also, I get the feeling if he comes for you personally, that's it."

"Right."

"You sure you don't remember? Anything?"

"Nothing," Sam replied. "I'd say 'I wish I could', but I really don't."

"Well, that's something at least," Dean said, sounding partially relieved and partially frustrated. He went quiet again for a long moment, and then added quietly, "So, you've got no idea if…if Adam…?"

The question trailed off and Sam winced. He hadn't even thought about Adam, not really. Even when they had told Lisa about him, it had been in the detached, afterthought-like way that seemed to characterize the entire relationship.

Sam had never really forgiven their father for not telling them about Adam. No matter how pissed off he had been about Sam leaving for college or how much he believed keeping Adam and his mother out of their lives was supposed to protect them, there was no excuse for not coming clean about the fact he'd had another son.

"No…the last I saw him was when Michael tried to keep me from jumping into the Pit," Sam said softly.

They didn't say anything for another beat.

"That's Winchester luck for you, I guess. Even if you beat the Devil, you're still screwed over in some way," Dean finally managed.

"Are we really surprised by that anymore?" Sam asked lightly.

Dean allowed himself a light chuckle, before clapping Sam on the shoulder. He squeezed, a little too tightly, but then didn't let go. It was the closest to a declaration of 'I love you and I'm glad you're not in Hell anymore' that Sam was going to get.

"We'll figure this one out," Sam assured him. "We'll find out what's up with Cas. And if we can help him – and Adam, too – we'll do it. It's like you said. Winchester luck."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Jury's still out on whether it's good or bad, Sammy."

(*)

"Idjit."

Dean always marveled at Bobby's ability to fit the perfect blend of condemnation and affection into one word. Even over a phone line, the tone didn't lose any of its effectiveness. Dean exchanged a knowing look with Sam, who was taking measurements of the Braedens' front door, and replied, "That's what I said."

"Damn fool angel's been hangin' out with you boys too long," Bobby groused, more to himself than others.

"To be fair, we don't know that he's even involved," Sam remarked.

"What'd he say?" Bobby wanted to know.

"He said we can't prove Cas actually did anything," Dean repeated.

"Smack him upside the head for me and ask him if his stay down under rattled his common sense," Bobby ordered.

Dean grinned. Only Bobby could make a trip to Hell seem so casual.

Sam, who had no problem hearing Bobby, snorted and made a mark on the notepad Lisa had provided him with earlier; she hadn't been kidding about the door. She'd informed Sam that after she got home from dropping Ben off at baseball practice they would be making a trip to the local Home Depot to look at frames.

Dean made a mental note to remind Sam to look for iron door sills as well.

"Way I see it, whether your angel did anything or not, we've still got a mystery on our hands that I'd rather puzzle out before the other shoe drops," Bobby continued. "I'll get started with the lore I've got here, but you two best get here in the near future."

Although he didn't say it, Dean could hear the implicit, 'I want to see Sam with my own two eyes and put him through whatever tests you didn't think of.'

"Will do," Dean answered. "We just have some stuff to finish up here and we'll be on our way."

"Let me know if things change."

"You too."

They disconnected and Dean turned to Sam. "Bobby says you've got a horseshoe up your ass."

"Even if I did, it's still not getting me out of whatever he's going to put me through when we get to his place."

Dean grinned, warmed by the idea that they were once again thinking along the same lines. "Probably not."

Sam studied the door. "This should only take me about an hour once we pick up the stuff. We can leave this evening, if you want. Sooner, if you do the actual restoring. You're Mr. Fix-It."

"Yeah, well, you're the one who broke it down," Dean retorted. "Besides, I've got other stuff to get done before we go."

Sam nodded, understanding.

Dean tended to be a little obsessive compulsive when it came to protecting the people he cared about. Considering they didn't know what brought Sam back, it was better to be careful; with their track record, it was only a matter of time before something targeted them.

So, while Sam busied himself with replacing Lisa's door – accompanying her to the hardware store once she and Ben returned – Dean went about warding the Braeden's home against any kind of evil that might try to get in. Whether it was the average kind of evil or the 'you-know-the-Winchesters-I'm-going-to-use-you-as- leverage' kind of evil.

With his mother gone, Ben idled around watching Dean work. He looked as though he was filled with questions but couldn't bring himself to actually ask them; it was rather incongruous with his outgoing nature. Dean suspected that the kid had been eavesdropping the night before and knew more about the current situation than his mother intended him to know. If he was anything like Dean, he wasn't asking because he figured that would out him.

Lisa obviously didn't want Ben getting involved in anything supernatural after their first experience. Privately, Dean agreed with her. He hoped Ben could have a nice, normal, ghost-free life.

But he also knew what ignorance could do to you.

"Here," he said, tossing Ben a tin of salt from his bag of tools and paint. "Make sure every window and door in the house is lined."

"Salt?" Ben asked, staring down at the box.

"Don't knock it. Most things can't cross a salt line. It's a pure substance, so it wards them off," Dean explained. "Plus, it's cheap, easy to get, and doesn't draw attention. If anyone ever asks about it, you can tell them you're trying to deal with an ant infestation." He caught Ben's eye. "That's the most important part of all this. Not drawing attention to yourself. You get it?"

"Yeah," Ben said, setting his jaw. "It's like why Peter Parker wears a costume. So none of his enemies can find him when he's not being Spider-man."

"Something like that," Dean allowed, mentally adding, 'Kid needs better taste in comics. DC's where it's at.'

Ben set off to accomplish his task with determined intent, while Dean painted a Devil's Trap on the underside of the rug in the front hallway.

Throughout the day, Dean taught Ben other important tips and tricks of the trade – nothing that would get him in trouble, either with his mother or with a casual passerby who might ask questions, but things that any hunter's kid would know. He had Ben help him paint symbols, and taught him some code words to give Dean in case he ever needed to reach him and it wasn't safe to do so.

If Sam were around he'd probably suggest Ben read one book or another, but Dean could imagine the uninterested look on the kid's face if he tried that avenue, and so he ended up talking about how heavy metal used a lot of pagan imagery. Ben's eyes lit up at that and Dean could guess what he'd be googling later that night.

When Lisa came home, Dean showed her how to load and use a gun while Sam distracted Ben with some of the more PG stories of things he and Dean had seen. Once they were both far out of earshot, Dean also walked Lisa through hex bags, exorcisms and banishing sigils.

"It's a last resort," he told her, drawing the required symbol on a piece of paper. "I really, really hope you'll never need this. In fact, I doubt you will, seeing as how this place is tighter than the Pentagon right now. But in case you do…"

"It's better to be prepared," Lisa agreed.

"And you might want to think about getting some more permanent protection," Dean remarked, handing her two anti-possession charms. "Always keep these on you. Ben's still a bit young for ink, but you wouldn't lose anything by getting some."

"Except my self-respect," Lisa huffed, her eyes sparkling.

"Aw, come on – classy little tat, right here –" He grinned and reached around to brush the small of her back, and Lisa laughed and slapped his hand away. "In all seriousness, though, some body parts make it more effective – over your heart, your spleen, your solar plexus –"

"Sounds like the locations of the seven chakras."

Dean blinked. "Uh, yeah."

"Yoga instructor, remember?" Lisa grinned. "And as I recall, you and I had a conversation about chakra the night we met. Specifically the tantric aspects…"

Dean's eyes glazed over briefly and he leered. "Good times."

Sam and Ben appeared before Dean could suggest a re-enactment, which was probably for the best, considering.

They left the next day.

Dean spent the morning doing a precursory check of the Impala before they left, while Sam gave Lisa a few last minute instructions in case Dean had left anything out.

Ben was unhappy to see them go. He grunted out a sullen goodbye to Dean and Sam after breakfast, and then disappeared up to his room. AC/DC blared accusingly from his room for the remainder of Sam and Dean's sojourn at the Braeden's home.

Lisa shrugged, apologetic, while Sam loaded up the last of their things in the car. Lisa had given them a cooler of food for the trip. "He's just upset you're going."

"There are worse ways to throw a tantrum," Dean allowed. He faltered for a moment, and then cleared his voice. Half-joking, he went on, "I know I've asked before…but you'd tell me if he was…you know…right?"

Lisa smiled sadly. "Would you stay if he was?"

"Yes," Dean said without hesitation.

"Liar."

"Not about this," Dean replied.

"Then…and don't take this the wrong way –" Lisa bit her lip and looked away. "Yes, I'm sure he's not yours."

When she met his eyes again, there was a meaningful glint in them. Dean felt a lump appear in his throat. "Lis…"

"You've got important work to do," she told him, firmly, like she was telling herself as well. "And your job brings…risks with it. You understand?"

"Yeah," Dean swallowed, and nodded lowly. "Yeah, I do."

"I'm glad," she told him quietly, and then smiled again. "That being said, if you don't come around for a visit more than once every year, I'm going to do some hunting of my own. And you're not going to like it."

"Is that a fact?"

"That's a promise."

"Then I guess we've got no choice," Dean smirked. "We'll call you when we know more about what's going on."

"You'd better," she replied, leaning forward and brushing her lips against his. She pulled away before he could deepen it, and prompted, "And you're absolutely sure you can't stick around a little longer? It's only been a day –"

"If we knew what to expect from this whole thing with Sam and with Cas, I'd stay a month," Dean replied earnestly. "The past two years have been…messed up. Once I'm sure we're in the clear, we'll be back."

"Then I'll keep a few cold ones in the fridge."

"Tell the kid I'll see him around."

Dean ducked into the car, giving a final wave to Lisa as he did so. The passenger door slammed shut, and Dean pretended he didn't notice the flutter of warmth in his chest at the sight of Sam riding shotgun. Still, he allowed a satisfied smile to break out on his face and slid the key into the ignition. The Impala hummed to life beneath him and he backed out of the driveway.

The smile left his face as he watched Lisa wave them on through the rear-view mirror as they started down the street. Sam already had his laptop out and open, but he was staring out the window with a preoccupied expression.

They drove in silence for a while.

There was an uncomfortable tension in the air that reeked of unspoken sentiments and awkward words. It was the first time they were completely alone without the possibility of someone walking in on them; that possibility had so far staved off Sam's tendency to emote uncontrollably and Dean's usual gruff brush off. Nevertheless, Dean was still expecting and half-dreading his brother's first foray into the chick-flick moment of the drive.

He swallowed heavily, thinking of the last time he had been in the car with Sam –

'Christ, it was only four days ago,' he realized in disbelief. It felt longer than that – that day without Sam had felt almost as terrible as Dean's first thirty years in Hell.

Every now and then, he felt Sam's eyes on him from the passenger seat. Maybe Sam was thinking about something and was just as reluctant to break the silence as Dean was, he thought.

After about fifteen minutes of the awkward quiet where Dean tried to decide whether he should be the one to broach the subject or not, he gave up. He wasn't going to worry about it right now. He had Sam, his car and a destination in mind. Everything else could wait.

Dean shoved a tape into the player, twirling the volume up, and the car filled with the familiar bass intro to 'Crazy Train'. Beside him, Sam snorted and shook his head.

"Not even the Apocalypse is going to make you broaden your musical horizons, is it?"

"If by 'broaden my musical horizons' you mean 'listen to hack musicians slitting their wrists to the sound of a synthesizer', then no," Dean replied automatically. He felt himself relax; this was familiar territory. Mysterious return from Hell or not, this kind of banter never changed.

Dean turned past a church and then took the exit for the IN-32 West.

"You actually think we'll go back and see them?" Sam asked.

"Depends."

Dean wouldn't risk putting Lisa and Ben in danger if there was something out there gunning for them again.

"They'll be okay."

"I know that. It's not them I'm worried about. Their place'll give Bobby's a run for security, right now. I just want to find out where Cas is."

"And Adam."

There was an uncomfortable quiet, broken only by the sound of a few cars passing them. It was a mark of how distracted Dean was that he didn't give into his inner Mario Andretti and show exactly what the Impala could do.

"And Adam," he agreed. He and Sam were both pretty sure they knew where Adam was, even if they hadn't voiced it yet. Even so, Dean struggled past the sudden lump in his throat. "There's no guarantee, but I figure if you're up here, Adam was brought back too. Maybe he just showed up in a different place. I mean, Windom's on the way, we could stop in…"

Sam pursed his lips. There was a long, heavy pause as they both tried hard not to voice all the problems with that theory. "Dean, you really think we wouldn't have been brought up together?"

The lump got more painful, and Dean gritted his teeth at the thought of yet another younger brother that he had failed to save.

"Then we definitely have to find Cas. He can help us help Adam."

Dean felt Sam gazing at him sideways, sensed the expectant question there and shrugged as he tried to find the right words.

"Cas did something," he finally murmured, frowning at the steering wheel. Sam didn't even ask him what he was talking about. "Or maybe something was done to him. I dunno. But the last two times he died, I never felt…"

"Yeah?"

Dean opened his mouth, and then shook his head dismissively. "Man, I couldn't even tell you what it was. I was, like, anchored to something, and now I'm just…cut loose. Or whatever."

Sam made a thoughtful noise. "So, we're sticking with the Cas-angle on all this then?"

"Who else could have brought you back? We've already nixed God and Death."

"Yeah, but – Dean, I was in the Cage," Sam said him patiently, his voice low as though he really didn't want to remind either of them about that fact. "Another sixty-six Seals would have had to break in the one day that I was down there before it opened again. Considering the world is still intact –"

"– that didn't happen."

"Exactly. Also, the first and last Seal were kind of set. Unless another 'righteous man' broke in Hell or someone resurrected Lilith just to kill her again to break a Seal…I know Cas is a good guy and all, but I doubt he would have gone through all that trouble to bring me back."

Dean shifted uncomfortably at the unspoken, 'Though I'm sure he would have tried if it was you.'

"So he found another way," he deflected. "Cas is our kind of stupid – remember the box cutter stunt in Van Nuys?"

Sam grimaced. "I try not to remember that day, Dean."

Dean tried to avoid thinking about it too. He had sunk to a new low, letting Cas put his life on the line to pull off a plan that would probably see Dean becoming an archangel's sock puppet. He still didn't regret his decision at the time – making a deal to protect his family trumped everything else. Having Cas finally lose faith in him, though, however briefly, had hurt more than he would have thought.

He blinked suddenly, running through that last thought in his head. An idea came to him. "You don't think…you don't think Cas could have maybe made a deal?"

"What?"

"A deal. Cas might have – deals make things happen, right? Even the impossible – I mean, Bobby's deal with Crowley got us a meeting with Death, so who's to say maybe Cas didn't make a deal to bring you back?"

"Maybe…but he has no soul. What the hell would he have dealt with?"

"I don't know – maybe he convinced someone else we know to pony up the collateral."

"The only person who would even consider something like that is Bobby, and his soul's already in hock –"

" – Which is another thing we've got to worry about – making sure that demon douchebag doesn't try to keep it – "

"– and I seriously doubt that one human soul would be enough to power a deal like that," Sam finished.

"Or else it would have been done ages ago by some emo kid who was hot for Satan, you mean."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Right."

Dean frowned, and another idea occurred to him. This one made his stomach clench. "What about his grace? It'd be more powerful than a human soul, right?"

"I don't see how he could have," Sam mused. "Remember how Anna's burned up the demons when it manifested? Any demon who tried to take an angel's grace probably wouldn't get much time to enjoy it."

"You'd think," Dean remarked. "I dunno. That human soul we saw when we dealt with Famine looked a little bit like grace to me – you know, what little I saw without my eyes getting burned out. What if it's like that? What if being given grace by an angel somehow diffuses it?"

"Don't you think Cas would have mentioned something like that to us?"

"Why would he? It's not like we'd ever have a reason to consider an angel selling his grace to a demon."

They exchanged a meaningful look and lapsed back into a silence that was a hundred times tenser than it had been. Dean's hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles appeared bone white, his mind racing furiously as they passed through Lebanon and headed for Crawfordsville.

Because not only could he imagine Cas doing something monumentally stupid like sacrificing himself for Dean, but he was also fairly certain that it was exactly what had happened. As an angel, Cas didn't understand certain nuances in conversation and as Dean thought back to the last words he'd said to Cas, he knew how Cas might have taken his absolute frustration and anger at Sam's fate.

He had never asked Cas to do anything about it, though, because he'd known with certainty that nothing could be done. It was why he had promised Sam not to try to save him.

But it seemed Cas had taken Dean's scathing words and bitterness as an indication that he wouldn't be able to live without Sam. The fact that it was true to an extent didn't change the reality that Dean had never intended Cas to give any more of himself to the umpteenth-times-damned Winchester cause.

Dean wanted nothing more right then than to call the angel to his side and chew him out for his stupidity. If he really had traded his grace for Sam, though, then he wasn't going to be showing up any time soon.

Cas would probably never show up again.

The idea that the angel was dead and gone forever hit Dean with an inexplicably strong wave of melancholy. It was almost on par with how he felt when he was separated from Sam, only different to a degree.

Dean blinked, an idea occurring to him as they passed yet another dirt path leading toward a farming community. Without completely thinking it through, he swerved around on the empty two-lane highway and headed for that trail.

Sam yelled in surprise, gripping at the dash to ground himself as the car headed down the lane.

"Dean, what the hell?!"

"One way to find out, right?" Dean said, his jaw clenched and his eyes trained determinedly in front of him, searching. He ignored the sound of rocks and debris hitting the undercarriage of the car. "Time to talk to a local."

Sam saw the sign for the crossroads before the car even stopped.

"Are you kidding me?" he demanded, immediately realizing what Dean's plan was.

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" Dean retorted, tuning off the motor and getting out of the Impala.

"Dean, we just survived the biggest celebrity death match since ever," Sam reminded him urgently, tripping as he too climbed out of the car and met his brother in back of it. Dean was already opening the trunk and propping it up with a shotgun. "You really want to go poke the hornet's nest again?"

"There'll be no poking unless they ask for it," Dean assured him, grabbing the demon-killing knife from amidst the rest of their armaments and sticking it through his belt. "Besides, it's not like I'm going to make a deal or anything. I just want some information."

"And what makes you think you'll get anything from a demon other than lies and a hard time?"

"Demons don't tell the truth unless they know it'll hurt, right? They got an angel down there, they'll probably want to gloat."

"And if they don't?"

"There'll be one less demon in the world when I'm through."

"What if it's Crowley? He's not exactly easy to kill."

"Way I see it, we've already got a bone to pick with him. He shows up here, bonus. I only wish we still had the damn Colt."

Sam opened his mouth again to come up with another argument, and then closed it again. He watched Dean dig around for the proper materials to summon the crossroads demon, and sighed. "I still think this is a bad idea."

"I never said it wasn't," Dean said, snapping closed the tin and heading for the middle of the crossroads. "But seein' as how neither of us has a better one right now..."

"All the more reason you shouldn't do it."

"Sammy, if you're gonna bitch, go wait in the car and turn on some Morrissey or something."

"Jerk," Sam scowled, but didn't move to leave. Instead, he reached into the trunk and grabbed one of the other shotguns.

Dean knelt in the mud at the dead center of the crossroads and dug through the moist earth with his bare hands. Once he made the hole a decent depth, he buried the tin and scraped the dirt back over it with his hands. Sam loitered warily by the side of the road, keeping his ear out for innocent passersby or the expected demon.

Except no demon came.

Several minutes passed in silence, and Dean looked expectantly left and right. "Come on, lady, it's not like you've got anything better to do with Satan locked up tight."

The crossroads remained empty but for the two of them, the only change being a brief pick up in the breeze.

"Why the hell isn't it working?" Dean fumed.

"Did you put everything into the tin?"

"Of course I did!"

"Were the ingredients fresh?"

"Seriously?"

"What? Sometimes it can affect the summoning –"

"It's not the ingredients, Sam."

"How do you know?"

"Because when I made my deal for you, half of the stuff was stale or broken and the demon still showed up," Dean grumbled. "There's something else wrong."

Sam wrinkled his brow, and after a moment's hesitation went back to the Impala. He returned several minutes later with a tin of his own and was folding one of his fake ideas into it.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Dean cried. "The hell are you doing?"

"I'm going to see if it's just you," Sam replied, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Dude, you just got back from Hell – no way am I letting you put your soul on the line just so we can find out if Cas is down there."

"I thought you said we were just trying to get information."

"I did –"

"Then shut up and watch my back."

Sam crouched to dig up Dean's tin, tossed it at him, and then replaced it with his own. He buried it quickly, dusted off his hands and surveyed the four routes of the crossroads cautiously.

They waited in tense silence for almost ten minutes before exchanging meaningful glances and returning to the Impala.

Much to Sam's discomfiture, Dean stopped at three more crossroads along various stretches of highway as they made their way to South Dakota. He seemed determined to prove the first one had just been a fluke, but when each time yielded no result, he became tenser.

Sam knew better than to comment on it, and instead of rising to the bait as Dean speculated out loud about possible reasons for what was going on, Sam called Bobby. They carefully avoided talking about Sam's mysterious resurrection and Sam filled the older hunter in on the latest development.

"You'd think you two would be finished summonin' demons for kicks by now," Bobby's growl was grainy over the phone line.

"Hey, it was purely fact-finding," Dean protested loudly. "I'd rather not get caught with my pants down, thanks."

"Leave your pants out of it," Bobby replied. "Cause it ain't just you boys."

There was a ringing silence.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked. He already had a bad feeling he knew what Bobby was going to tell them.

"I mean, as soon as Dean left for Indiana, I tried to summon Crowley to get my soul back. Short story is, he never showed. Even though I did the summoning spell exactly the way I shoulda. I figured he was tryin' to welch, so I went to see if I could beat it outta the nearest crossroads demon. No go."

"Nothing?"

"Nope. And I ain't the only one. Spoke to Rufus and after he called me every name in the book, he tried it himself. It didn't take."

"Damn it," Sam murmured. "Why didn't you say anything before?"

"I figured you both had enough on your plate. Never figured you'd be stupid enough to go lookin' for demons right off the bat. I thought you'd be sick of their kind by now."

"More and more every day," Sam sighed. "So you're saying Hell's shut down?"

"Not exactly. Tamara exorcised some demons from a movie theater in Wisconsin yesterday, and I spoke to Garth this morning. String of Hellhound attacks up in Vermont, which means someone's still dealin' in souls."

"So there are still demons around, we just can't summon them. Right when we need to."

"Looks like."

"Just us, or all hunters?"

"I'm still waiting on some other contacts to let me know – it'll take a while, considering most aren't stupid enough to make a deal for themselves on a good day, let alone risk their soul just for some information on a bad one. But I get the feelin' it's just the people who don't spit on the name of Winchester."

Sam groaned again. "This just keeps getting weirder and weirder."

"We should go the psychic route," Dean spoke up. "We can't find out what we need to from the usual channels, might as well try that." He raised his voice so that Bobby could hear him on the other end. "Any psychics between Albert Lea and Sioux Falls?"

"None that I know of who'd help you. Word travelled fast about what happened to Pamela. Your best bet's probably Missouri Moseley out in Lawrence."

Sam and Dean frowned at each other. They weren't exactly keen on returning to Lawrence so soon after the Apocalypse That Wasn't. In fact, Sam was pretty sure that if he never again returned to his hometown it would be much too soon.

"Thanks Bobby, we'll keep that in mind," Sam said, deciding he and Dean needed to figure out the next step of the game plan first. "We should get to your place within the next three hours. Less if Dean keeps driving like Bo Duke."

"Please, the General Lee's got nothin' on my baby," Dean scoffed automatically, although Sam could hear the strained note in his brother's voice.

Stale jokes aside, their situation was yielding more questions by the hour, and even Sam couldn't blame Dean for his preoccupation with Castiel's disappearance. He was feeling his own brand of worry about their friend.

He gazed out the window, wondering idly if he and Dean would ever get to experience a normal day again. At this point, he wasn't even feeling picky – obviously 'apple pie' wasn't in the cards for either of them, but he had long since started yearning for the days of easy hunting when the most troubling choice he and Dean had to make was whether to take out a coven of witches or clean out a vampire infestation.

'We've survived the Apocalypse and we still don't get to take a break,' Sam mused in angry resignation as they stopped at a rest stop to fill the tank.

The sun was just starting to go down when they pulled back on the road, Lisa's rations a distant memory.

It was another thing that Sam regretted. His return to Dean meant that his brother was once again denied a chance at normal. Standing outside the Braeden's home the night he had mysteriously showed up, Sam had struggled for a full ten minutes about whether or not he should even reveal his presence to Dean. Perhaps if his brother hadn't collapsed, he might have simply turned around and walked away. Maybe Dean wouldn't be as worked up as he was now.

'Or not,' Sam thought after a pause. Dean was as curious about Sam's return as he Sam was, but he was also just as intent on finding out what had happened to Castiel. Eventually Dean would have realized the angel wasn't around, and maybe that would have propelled him back to hunting.

Sam wasn't sure if Dean had admitted to himself just how much the angel meant to him. Castiel had been there for Dean when Sam hadn't – whether by choice or not. As much as Sam hated to entertain the thought, Dean had obviously transferred some of his protectiveness and affection for Sam to Castiel. In fact, Sam was pretty sure that Dean's priorities these days proceeded along the lines of 'Sam – Bobby – Castiel – Impala – Sex – Pie'.

Which made the situation that much worse if Castiel had actually sacrificed himself for Sam. Not only would Dean be depressed at losing one more thing he had grudgingly come to care about, Sam would have yet another thing to feel guilty over. Granted, nearly being responsible for ending the world was still high on the list of things Sam had to atone for, but being the reason for his brother's misery ran a close second.

"We should go to Lawrence, I think."

Sam glanced up when Dean's voice broke through his thoughts. It took a moment for him to catch up with where their last conversation had left off before he answered, "What about Bobby? We said we'd stop in there first."

"It's not like he's going to ground us for not showing up when we said we would," Dean evaded. "And he already said he's got no idea what's going on. We're saving time this way."

"I don't know…"

"Come on, Sam, first Cas isn't answering and now demons aren't even jumping at the chance to monologue at us?"

"I get that. But this is all way too specific to be any other day's work. This is obviously something big, and we should treat it like that," Sam reasoned. "I mean, it's almost like someone changed the laws of the universe on us when they brought me up."

Dean considered that thoughtfully, and then suggested, "Point. We already knew some serious mojo happened. You think you coming back was just a side effect of something bigger?"

"More than that, I think we're in some serious trouble. It's like we've been cut off from Hell – which, you know, normally I might think is a good thing –"

"Except it's really not," a voice piped up from the backseat.

Dean swore loudly and nearly swerved off of the road in surprise, and Sam whirled around, switchblade already open and in hand.

A familiar, shapely brunette in her mid-twenties sat in the back of the Impala, mouth twisted into a smirk and once-blue eyes flashing a bloody red. She waved cheekily.

"Bela!" Sam gaped, reaching for the knife under his seat.

"In the flesh – so to speak," she purred as Dean got himself and the car under control and flipped her hair. "This meat actually belongs to a rather distant cousin. My body was sadly shredded when you boys left me to die, but she had such a remarkable resemblance to me…"

Her smile widened.

"You're a…you're a demon," Sam murmured, craning around to stare at the woman who had caused so many headaches in the year after Dean made his deal.

"Very observant, Sam – did your stay in the Pit rattle your brains so much that you can only state the obvious now?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" Dean demanded.

Bela ran a finger along the upholstery. "Funny how you were so keen to ward your girlfriend's home with hex bags, but not your car."

"Goddamn it, I'm going to draw a devil's trap on the backseat if you sons of bitches keep popping in."

"Don't be dramatic, darling, we all know you'd never defile your beloved fossil," Bela retorted. "Besides, I was under the impression you've been trying to get our attention."

"'Our'?" Sam asked. "You rockin' the royal 'we' now?"

"Very funny, but no; at the moment I just happen to be the right hand of upper management. You should be honored."

"Screw honor," Dean snapped. "Do you know anything about Cas?"

"Who?" Bela blinked, sounding oblivious. The boys knew her too well to trust only that.

"A friend of ours. An angel," Sam said through gritted teeth. "Pretty sure he had something to do with me being topside."

"Well, I don't know about any angels in Hell other than the two down in the Cage," Bela shrugged. "I'm sure if your friend were down there, all of Hell would be lining up to take pot-shots."

"Shut up!" Dean snarled.

"Honestly, Dean? After all the fun times we had?" she purred. "Up here…down there…you'd think you'd be the slightest bit happy to see me."

Sam gaped at Dean in surprised, but his brother ignored him. "So help me, bitch, if you don't get out of here, I will end you."

"Oh, relax, I was teasing," she pouted. "Besides, as I said, I was sent here for business, not pleasure."

"What do you mean, 'sent'?" Sam asked, trying to reorient the direction of the conversation.

"A mutual friend of ours is in the middle of securing a very lucrative real estate deal," she pronounced, examining her nails. "Crowley's got quite a following, and seeing as how he still holds the top job in the Crossroads department, his word is pretty much law down under. He's put the order out that no one's allowed to deal with you boys."

"Why would he do that?"

"If he had a better side, I'd assume it was a kind of gratitude thing."

"Which it's not."

"Not likely. I figure he's got an agenda of some sort, but it's above my pay grade to ask about it."

"Bullshit. You always know every angle of something before you get in on it."

"Maybe before I spent over two hundred years choking down my own intestines," Bela replied coolly. Sam winced, and she went on, "My boss may have decided you boys are to be left alone, but there's still a decent amount of demons still gunning for you." Her coy smile returned. "You see, they haven't quite gotten over the massive fiasco that was Lucifer's not-quite debut. You may want to lay low for the foreseeable future."

"Great," Sam scowled.

Bela's smirk widened. "Oh, I can just imagine all the things they'll do to you when they find out you're up here." She crossed a leg and tilted her head at Sam. "How did you manage that, anyhow?"

Sam remained quiet, glaring at her furiously.

"Oh, that's precious. You have no idea," Bela trilled. "Too bad. I know demons who would sell their non-existent souls to know how to get in and out of the Cage. And considering you boys and your absolute stupidity when it comes to family, I would have thought you'd at least have shared the secret with your latchkey brother."

Both Sam and Dean froze.

"You mean…Adam's still down there?" Sam whispered, unable to keep the emotion out of his voice.

"Did you think he wasn't?" Bela smirked. "Of course he's still there. Funny how whatever got you out of the Cage thought he was so unimportant in the big scheme of things." Her eyes flashed red in mirth. "He has such a distinct voice, you know? And he keeps calling out to you, Dean. Seems absolutely positive that you can save him."

"Shoot her, Sam," Dean growled furiously, reaching for his own concealed gun even as he said it.

"Actually, you might want to brace yourself," Bela remarked conversationally.

Before Sam could make a move, there was a sudden explosion of sound and the world abruptly shifted.

Something careened into the side of the Impala in a way that was depressingly familiar. Sam had the impression of a grill and headlights as the passenger side of the car crushed inward. Dean was yelling, and the world became a swirl of color as the Impala flipped off of the road.

(*)

The force of the impact was powerful enough that the Impala completed a full revolution, and Dean and Sam were forced to brace themselves against the interior of the car.

Glass exploded inward from all directions, and Dean clenched his eyes shut, gritting his teeth. He heard the sound of the roof skidding along the pavement, and felt a jarring sensation when the vehicle came to a shuddering, upright stop.

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the sounds of glass spilling from the windows and the suspension creaking in protest. Dean was thankful that the Impala was from the pre-airbag era in that he at least wasn't trapped in his seat. Still, the amount of bruising and the possible concussion that would come from this latest accident wouldn't be a joking matter.

"Sammy?" he croaked, his first reaction in any situation. He opened his eyes and gingerly moved his head to one side to examine his brother.

"M'okay," Sam managed, wincing in pain as he tugged his arm free of the badly dented metal that was once the passenger door. "Don't think anything's broken – just really bruised."

"Story of our lives," Dean grunted to cover up his relief. A passenger-side collision could be deadly or at least seriously injurious and he'd already lost Sam once this week.

As he struggled to get the door open, he noticed that Bela was conveniently missing from the backseat. Probably she had disappeared back to Hell after giving her crappy information and her ill-timed warning. He cursed her under his breath as he finally managed to get out of the driver's seat, wincing at every new exposed piece of abused metal that he saw.

He moved aside, allowing Sam a chance to get out of the car after him; his brother was cradling his right arm, and when he straightened up Dean saw that he was favoring his left leg as well. Once he was satisfied that Sam was more or less alright, he took in the damage to the Impala.

He held back an unmanly whimper at the unsightly dents and bulges in the body, and the ugly skid marks against the roof. The smell of burnt rubber, fluid and oil mingled in the damp night air. The damage was still better than the time an eighteen-wheeler had careened into her, but his baby looked a lot rougher than he had seen her of late. The crash had hit the side with the gas tank, and Dean could hear the sound of liquid spilling onto the pavement. They were lucky it hadn't gone up in flames

Movement caught his eye, and his awareness of their situation rushed back to him.

They had ended up on the opposite side of the road, just in front of one of the rarer forested areas you sometimes found in Minnesota. Across the street was the car which had swerved up unexpectedly on the shoulder of the road and careened into them; a battered four-by-four prior to the accident, its front grill now punched inward, despite the protective bar on the front, and smoke rose from beneath the hood.

It wasn't what made Dean tense up.

At least three other similarly tricked out vehicles had pulled off behind the first car, and in the time it had taken the Winchesters to climb out of the Impala, their passengers had lined the deserted stretch of highway. At least half of them were aiming firearms at them, while the rest carried other weapons – crossbows, knives – one of them held an old, medieval looking mace flail.

Hunters.

"I'm going to go out on a limb and say this isn't highway patrol," Sam murmured under his breath, and Dean inclined his head only slightly.

There were more than a dozen of them; Dean even recognized some of the faces.

The foremost hunter had a brush of mousy brown beard that fell halfway down his chest and was thick-featured under matted hair. His face was heavily scarred, as though he had been too close to a blast of rock-sat, and his nose was round like a tomato. Along with his potato-shaped body, Dale Houston was probably the most unfortunate looking hunter Dean had ever come in contact with, but looks didn't mean anything to a man who had killed more wendigos than anyone else on the west coast. Considering the expert way he was holding the blood encrusted machete in his hand, Dean doubted his physical appearance would impede his ability to kill if he had to.

In his shadow stood "Trigger" Luther, whose father Skip had been a well-known hunter and had also worked with John Winchester on a few of his cases where he'd deigned to accept help. Trigger was probably one of the youngest ones there. He was fresh-faced and smaller than the others, carrying a compound hunting crossbow with an arrow on the string and six more in a quiver clipped to the side of the weapon.

Beside him, Dean made out Spencer Case – a tall, bulky man who had enough tattoos up and down his arms to suggest he had spent more than one term in prison. He had a bowie-knife in his belt and was levelling his shotgun purposefully at the Winchesters, while beside him, Lonnie Thomas, a middle-aged black man with weathered skin and squint lines around his eyes, did the same.

There were others that he might have seen at the Roadhouse once or twice several years before, but no one else whose name he knew.

What he did know, however, was that he and Sam were in a particular sort of trouble.

He moved surreptitiously so that he was adding his bulk to the barrier provided by the Impala, hoping he was providing at least a little extra protection for Sam. Not likely, considering Sam's Sasquatch frame, but it was the best he could manage.

Attempting to stall, Dean pasted a grin on his face and prayed to whoever was listening that no one would try to shoot him in the face.

"There a problem here, guys?"

"You've got a lot of nerve, Winchester," Lonnie said quietly as the group of hunters began to cross the road toward them.

"Way I see it, you were the ones to run us off the road," Dean replied with false ease. "Kinda scratchin' my head as to why."

"You shouldn't be," Spencer growled. "You shoulda figured we'd be lookin' for you boys. You got a lot to answer for."

"Came in over alligator radio that a real beaut' of a car was drivin' up the highway," Dale interrupted, his tone also elaborately casual. "Thought we'd look into that."

Realization took hold, and Dean inwardly kicked himself for not thinking about it earlier. He was talking about the CB radio system that truckers used.

Hunters got a lot of their information from truckers; when you spend your life on the road, it stood to reason you needed as many contacts as possible. And the folk who made their living driving cross country were more aware of the things that went bump in the night. In fact, a large proportion of hunters had started their lives as back road truckers.

"She don't look like much now, though, does she?" a nameless hunter piped up.

"Keep talkin', buddy," Dean growled, flexing his fingers, itching wrap them around the other man's throat for the slight to his car.

"Dean," Sam warned him quietly, in that tight tone that told Dean his brother was trying to think out the various angles of a plan.

'Hope he's doing better than I am right now,' he thought tightly, considering their odds.

Outwardly, he tried to make himself look as non-threatening as possible. As it was, it was a miracle they hadn't been shot yet, but Dean attributed that to the unspoken courtesy that existed among hunters – you go to put one of your people down, make sure you tell them why you're doing it. It somehow helped justify the act, he supposed.

"Haven't you guys heard?" he asked lightly. "End of the world's over. Time to go back to your day jobs."

"Mebbe so, Winchester," Lonnie responded quietly. "But lots of people died. Lotta men here lost friends…family…all because of you boys, if the story's true."

"Depends where you're reading your stories, man," Dean remarked. "If you're talking National Enquirer, I've got a bridge to sell you."

Sam kicked him.

"Hull and Janklow are good hunters," Spencer defended coolly. "Never lied to me in all the years I've known 'em. And the way I heard, Roy and Walt took you boys out – yet here you are. So I'm willin' to go on a little faith."

'Not good,' Dean thought desperately at the name of the men who had killed him and Sam a few months before. His movements masked by the Impala, he began to dig into his coat pockets for something that could be of use. All of the weapons were still in the trunk, except for the demon killing knife he still had stuck in his belt – but he knew if he made a move, they'd shoot him.

"There's a lot you guys don't know," Sam tried, his voice causing some of the other hunters to take notice and refocus their aim on him. "It's really not as simple as – "

"Don't much figure you've got a right to talk right now, Sam," Dale interrupted, cocking his rifle. "It don't right matter about the whys and wherefores – fact is, you're the reason this whole mess got started. What makes you think you get to just go back to normal?"

Dean barely heard the injured noise his brother made but knew that Dale had hit a nerve. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the strained expression on his brother's face that told him Sam had just realized the gravity of his resurrection.

'Cas, you son of a bitch, if you're not dead, now would be a really good time for you to beam down,' Dean thought anxiously, still searching his pockets as whispers of discontent broke out amongst the other hunters.

" –Ain't right – "

" – Just as bad as the sons of bitches we hunt –"

" –Walkin' around, like nothin' happened –"

" – There's a price to pay, boys, step up and take it like men – "

Urgency ignited in his brain as his eyes flicked around the site of the collision for anything that might help. He and Sam had seen worse odds before, but that was usually a bar fight where none of their opponents were schooled in decent fighting or carrying firearms. There wasn't much they were going to be able to do in this position, but if he could manage some kind of distraction, get a hold of a shotgun –

There was a bright explosion of light that temporarily whited out the entire strip of the road, before the brightness diminished into something smaller, and more concentrated. The arcs of lightening rippled into the shape of wings and Dean felt the bottom drop out of his stomach as the glass on every vehicle's window suddenly shattered. The electricity from the massive wings sparked violently, igniting the gas that soaked the pavement.

Dean made a sound of dismay as flames roared to life beneath the Impala and followed a trail of fluid to the vehicle that had hit them. Several of the hunters ducked reflexively, but none of them let go of their weapons. Instead, some of the hunters shifted their attention from the Winchesters to the tall, well-built figure that stood in the flames without being burned.

"Shit," Dean muttered.

"I warned you and my brother not to leave me in that hovel, Dean Winchester," the archangel Raphael intoned coldly, either unaware or unconcerned that about half of the hunters had firearms pointed at his back. "You should have listened to me."

"I don't listen to anyone, what makes you special?" Dean returned, pretending his heart wasn't beating about twice as fast as usual.

The archangel ignored him. "Your bravado does not amuse me, and you no longer have a failed angel to guard you. I would suggest you show me some respect."

Dean tensed at the mention of his friend. "You know what happened to Cas?"

"Castiel's grace no longer perverts the Host," Raphael smiled unpleasantly. "The first in a long line of improvements to Heaven, I am sure."

"Who's the douche angel?" Sam asked out of the corner of his mouth.

"That's Raphael," Dean muttered back.

"What, not Donatello?"

Dean snorted in amusement, while Raphael levelled a gaze at Sam. "Your return to this plane is unexpected, abomination. But it is not unwelcome. You may have halted the smooth execution of the Apocalypse before, but it was only a delay. One I intend to rectify immediately."

Dean tensed in response to that, while beside him Sam gave a quick, violent jerk.

"Hold on there, partner," Spencer stepped forward, raising his shotgun. "Me and the boys might have a problem with that plan of yours."

Raphael's expression didn't change, although he did incline his head slightly over his shoulder in order to be heard.

"Depart, all of you," the archangel ordered in a bored tone. "Heaven will pass judgement on these men, not you."

To Dean's surprise, this pronouncement didn't cause any of the other hunters to budge; they continued to point their weapons at the angel, although some of them looked a little nervous. Dean would have put money on the fact that none of them had ever actually interacted with an angel before.

Lonnie stepped forward, raising his rifle. "You'll have to forgive us, friend, but we're not so keen on Heaven bein' involved. Not after the shitstorm of the last few mo – augh!"

Lonnie's warning dissolved into a howl of pain as the weapon in his hand – in fact, in all of the hunter's hands – suddenly seemed to glow red. Steam rose from the twisted, scorched tools that the men were forced to drop when the pain of holding them became too strong.

Sam hissed a curse under his breath, but whether it was in sympathy or alarm, Dean couldn't tell.

"I will not tell you twice," Raphael told the hunters simply, returning his attention to Sam and Dean. A sinister smile appeared on his face. "We have work to do. However, before that, I will enjoy taking out the proper retribution on your feeble, mortal bodies. Many times over."

He raised his hand in a familiar gesture that usually meant a bout of stomach cancer or broken bones was on its way. Dean tried to mentally prepare himself for that.

"I don't think so," Sam interjected, moving suddenly.

He brought his hand up, and in the firelight Dean saw that it was glistening red. Raphael's eyes widened in realization a second before Sam pressed his palm against his left side, but there wasn't time for him to react. There was a violent pulse of energy that propelled Sam to the ground, and a yell of rage, and the archangel was gone.

Dean was immediately on his knees, crouched beside Sam, who was clutching his left side and trying to stifle a curse. "Sam?"

"I'm fine – just, I think I might have rearranged all my internal organs," his brother said, offering a grin. He turned to one side and removed his hand, showing Dean the roughly drawn banishing sigil that was carved into the flesh of his hip. It wasn't a deep cut, but still bled profusely, and there were pieces of fabric stuck in the cuts; obviously his brother had carved it through his jacked with one hand when the angel appeared. "Took a page out of Cas's book."

Dean grimaced.

"You two aren't allowed to play together anymore," he told Sam, keeping his eyes on where the hunters were recovering themselves. Dean helped his brother to his feet and studiously avoided looking at the still burning Impala. "Come on, we gotta bail."

He figured that if the hunters had been holding a grudge for the Apocalypse before, it was nothing to how they would be feeling now that they knew an archangel was once again going to try to use Sam and Dean to restart the end of days.

'Just can't win,' Dean thought in annoyance.

They headed for the trees in the distance. If they could get far enough away, they could regroup and take the hunters out one at a time. It was their only shot right now.

They hadn't gone thirty yards when gunfire erupted; evidently some of the guns were still working, or the hunters had retrieved their spares. Dean tried to keep them running in a zigzag, which would make them a harder target, but it was hard to do while also trying to shield Sam from any of the blasts.

Bullets whistled past Dean's ears, and he felt two graze his right shoulder and left thigh. The pain served as an incentive to keep running. The one thing that Sam and Dean had going for them right now was the fact that on foot, they were a hell of a lot faster than the other hunters. He just hoped that their pursuers decided to run after them instead of coming in their cars.

"Dean, look!" Sam cried, and he glanced up.

About a football field's length away, an abandoned looking two-storey farm-style cottage was nestled within the broadleaf trees. Dean felt a note of triumph.

'That could work.'

By the time they made it to the cottage, Dean felt like he had been kicked in the ribs by a horse and then had his windpipe frozen with liquid nitrogen. Sam vaulted forward kicking in the front door, while Dean rushed in after him.

Dean pushed the door shut and dragged the first piece of furniture he could grab – a chair – over to barricade it. Sam started to go to each window, closing the shutters and drawing the drapes; the move was perfunctory, but might at least stop anyone getting a clear shot off through the windows.

The cottage itself had obviously been unused for a long time. The small foyer was empty and quiet and the hardwood floor was covered in about an inch of dust

The room where Sam and Dean found themselves looked more like a storage area than a place that had ever served any kind of function. Cobwebs lined the corners and dangled from the lamp hanging from the ceiling, and the large fireplace was filled with years' worth of ashes. A mounted trophy of a deer with antlers looked like the mildew had gotten to it before the place was abandoned, and the shelf rack in the corner had two broken shelves. There was furniture piled up in random places – a cot in the corner, an old termite-damaged desk near the wall and an end table with drawers that Dean went to rifle through right away.

"Anything useful?" Sam asked, navigating gingerly around an old couch in the middle of the room.

"What do you think?" Dean wheezed, examining the broken telephone on the end table with a look of disgust. He went to the other entrance to the room and barricaded that as well, and then tried to get a glimpse out the window.

"They out there?" Sam asked.

"No, Sam, they just up and decided that after going through the trouble of chasing us here they'd take a coffee break," Dean snapped, jerking his head toward the window. "See that?"

Sam shifted to the side near the window, peeking through the closed curtain so as not to present a target. The hunters were surrounding the house, armed but without the cars after all. "Crap. I'd say there's still at least seven out there."

"No shortage of ugly," Dean agreed. "Any ideas yet?"

"Considering this is usually the point in time where we haul out the salt or draw a banishing sigil, not so much," Sam replied. "Take 'em out one at a time?"

"That's as far as I got too –"

There was a blast of sound as someone came crashing through the nearest window, tearing the blinds as he knocked into Sam, who made a pained noise as the solid body collided with his injured arm, and slumped to one side.

The hunter – Spencer – tried to knock Dean's skull in with the butt of his shotgun, but Dean grabbed out, stopping the blow, at the cost of sacrificing his footing. Spencer threw his whole weight against him, heaving Dean backward; he landed on the table which broke beneath him, sending a cloud of dust in the air while the shotgun flew from his hands.

Spencer recovered himself and pulled out his bowie-knife; he tried to take a swipe, but Dean managed to avoid it at the last second by rolling off of the ruined table.

Sam, now on his feet again as well, attempted to tackle the hunter from behind. But Spencer sensed him coming and turned to catch Sam by the throat, then pulled back his free arm - knife glinting in the dusky light.

With the gun out of reach and a walking Alp about to gut his brother, Dean seized the closest thing at hand – the stuffed deer head from the wall – and charged Spencer, scoring him slightly in the side with one of the antlers. Spencer roared in pain, dropping a now gasping Sam, and whirled around to slash at Dean.

The deer head provided a decent barrier for now, blocking the knife the first time, but Dean knew he couldn't keep fighting with the taxidermy monstrosity forever. He shoved it forward, using it to maneuver Spencer aside as Sam, wheezing for breath, inched toward where the shotgun was still lying.

There was a crunching noise, and Dean realized another hunter was trying to come in; he had punched through the back door and was reaching around, trying to find the knob to unlock it.

The momentary distraction cost Dean.

A searing arc of pain throbbed across his senses; Spencer had managed to knick him in the arm. It would have been a lot worse if Dean hadn't shifted at the last second, but that move lost him his balance. He fell back onto the hard floor.

By now, Sam had managed to get the shotgun in hand and was aiming for Spencer, but before he could pull the trigger, the door was kicked in and Dale glided into the room.

He came at Sam with a machete, which Sam blocked using the butt of the gun; he snapped it forward, dislodging the machete, and then tried to land a knock-out blow. The gun connected with Dale's cheekbone, but it didn't do anything to slow him down.

Dale jutted his head forward over the handle of the rifle, head-butting Sam hard enough that he staggered back and loosened his hold on the gun. Before he could correct his grip, Dale threw him roughly away from him, slamming him into the shelf rack. As the gun dropped again, Dale came at Sam with a right cross to the face and an uppercut to the solar plexus.

Sam doubled over, almost on the ground; as Dale leaned over him, no doubt to bring down the final blow, Sam caught sight of the machete at his feet. Snatching it, he thrust upward and plunged it into Dale's chest.

Dale choked, eyes widening at the fatal blow.

Across the room, Spencer was closing in on Dean, who was still weaponless. Sam darted forward, machete in hand, but Dean was already moving, stooping forward to grab the end of the throw rug beneath his assailant's feet. As he yanked it out from under him, Sam crouched down and grabbed the shotgun once again.

Spencer stumbled backward, not falling, and Sam took a shot – and missed.

"Any time now, Samantha!" Dean snarled as Spencer took another lunging swing forward. Dean avoided it, grabbing onto the hanging lamp above him and using it as support to deliver a hard kick to the hunter's face.

Spencer went flying backward into the desk by the wall and fell back, only to get up again with an angry yell and rush forward.

Sam pulled the trigger. This time, the hunter went down.

Something flew in through the broken window, and Dean jumped back.

Glass and flames exploded outward as the Molotov cocktail hit the floor, igniting the cobwebs and old furniture.

"Son of a bitch!" he growled, just as Lonnie and Trigger burst in through the front door. Trigger let loose an arrow, which caught Dean in the upper thigh, and he went down, narrowly avoiding a patch of burning alcohol.

"Dean!" Sam yelled. He took a shot at the new intruders, but missed. Lonnie grabbed the gun, trying to jerk it out of his hands. As Sam fought to keep hold of the weapon, he stepped down roughly on the instep of his assailant's foot, making the man curse and let go reflexively. While Lonnie recovered, Trigger shoved Sam back into the sitting room with a well-placed front-kick, sending him flying over the back of the now flaming couch.

Smoke was beginning to fill the air, making it more difficult to breathe or see.

Ignoring the pain from the arrow shaft in his leg, Dean seized the bowie knife from Spencer's cold grasp and hurled it at Lonnie, pinning his hand to the wall behind him. As the man yelped in pain and anger, Trigger was moving forward, crossbow raised and aimed at Sam, who was still struggling to his feet.

Dean moved as fast as he could, sneaking around behind Trigger and bringing the bookcase down on top of him.

As the dust settled, Trigger struggled and tried to push the new weight off of him. Sam crept forward and used the butt of the shotgun to knock him out.

There was no time to celebrate the minor victory as several other objects flew in through the window, and as the smoke dispersed a little, Dean saw what they were.

"You've got to be kidding me," he growled as he realized that some kind of grenade had been launched in beside them. "Come on, Sam!"

He hauled his brother away from the timed explosive, knowing they could have anywhere from five to ten seconds to get clear of the blast. He pushed Sam through the sitting room and up the rickety stairwell, stumbling when something caught him around the ankles.

Lonnie, it seemed, had pulled free of the knife, and was now grasping at Dean with blood-soaked hands.

"Dean?" Sam cried.

"Just go!" Dean snarled, snapping his leg around and kicking Lonnie in the face. He told himself didn't care that he felt and heard the snap of the other man's neck as they ran up the stairs. Heading into the nearest room, Dean seized an old lamp from beside the bed and flung it through the window. Once the glass had shattered, he and Sam both hurried through the empty pane and down onto the gabled roof, jumping off of it without a pause.

They landed painfully – even as he rolled to his feet, Dean was pretty sure he had twisted, if not sprained, his left foot – but didn't hesitate for a second. They were running as fast as they could from the decrepit cottage, trying to get as far away before –

THOOM!

A huge fireball enveloped the lower level cottage and sent whatever hunters remained nearby to the ground, downed by debris and glass. Sam and Dean didn't wait to see if anyone got up again, instead taking off deeper into the trees.

They ran until Dean couldn't any more, his injured thigh and foot throbbing too painfully; Sam had to help him sit down for a spell.

Panting, the brothers exchanged appraising glances.

Dean offered a pained grin. "If I were Buffy, I'd totally be punning right now."

"You are such a child," Sam wheezed disdainfully.

He led them back to the site of the collision and headed for one of the hunter's tricked out jeeps; one which still had most of the glass in the windows.

Dean slowed his gait as they passed the Impala, a tortured feeling rising up inside at the sight of the flames. Everything they owned was in that car –

"Dean – not the time!" Sam cried, though he too was glancing at the car with a pained expression.

"I can't just leave her –"

"Would you rather stick around and get lynched?" Sam demanded desperately, looking beyond Dean. "It won't be long before they come after us again."

Dean squared his shoulders, making up his mind to leave the car that had been his and Sam's home for their entire lives – but not before he darted toward the trunk and removed the bag that held some of their belongings, a good proportion of weapons and Dad's journal.

Knowing it was all he could do at the moment, he ducked into the passenger's seat of the jeep. Whoever owned it had left the keys behind, obviously not expecting Sam and Dean to return. The roar of the engine as they drove off was so far from the comforting purr of the Impala that if Dean had been a lesser man he might have cried. He watched the flaming ruin that was his car disappear in their rear-view mirror.

"Anyone coming after us?" Sam asked.

"Not yet."

"That was way too close."

"You think?" Dean grumbled, trying to sit comfortably in the car despite the crossbow bolt. Once they got far enough away he'd tend to it. "I thought we were hidden from all the dickless wonders."

Sam massaged his ribs, where Cas had once branded him with protective sigils. Dean had a matching set. "I'm pretty sure we are. He probably knew the other hunters were looking for us and followed them to us."

"Damn it," Dean said again.

"Call Bobby," Sam told him once they were a decent distance away. Dean blinked at him uncomprehendingly for a second, and Sam added, "He needs to know about this – besides, he can send someone to pick up…you know."

Dean nodded, woodenly, feeling around in his jacket for his phone. He pulled it out, noting that at some point during the night, the screen had cracked.

Bobby answered on the first ring.

"Don't come here."

Dean blinked. "Uh, okay."

"Couple of hunters come by here just now, lookin' for you boys," Bobby told him. "Somehow, they knew you two idjits are still up and about, and they ain't too forgiving about the whole Apocalypse thing."

"No shit," Dean growled. "Sam and I were just run off the road by a group of them – the Impala's trashed. Had to leave her behind – and a few of the bastards are dead. Sam and I hightailed it –"

"Good. Keep hightailin' it. And not here, either. The guys that came in here seem real intent on me givin' you boys up. You and Sam need to lay low for a while."

"Thanks for stating the obvious, Bobby – that'd be helpful if the people hunting us weren't, I don't know, hunters?!"

"Don't take that tone with me, boy, I know exactly what kind of trouble you're in," Bobby groused. "You gimme a chance to get a word in between your bellyachin', I can point you in the direction of help."

"Yeah?"

"I got an old friend who owes me a favor. Doesn't like hunters, so she won't likely give you up to 'em if they come lookin'."

"Just as long as it's not a demon or a witch."

"You like breathin', you probably won't compare her with either of those things within her hearing."

"Jesus, Bobby, where are you sending us?"

"I won't lie, boy, you ain't gonna like it. And that's all I'm gonna say on the matter," the older hunter told him. "It won't work if you're not willing, and she can explain it better than I can."

There was a pause, and Dean finally sighed. "Alright. You got an address for me?"

"Remember that haunted painting job you told me about? The one where the little girl was doing the killin'?"

'New Paltz, New York,' Dean's memory supplied after a moment's lapse. "Yeah?"

"Head that way. I'll give you more when I can."

"Right," Dean exhaled. He forced his voice to remain steady. "Bobby – the Impala's on the side of the I-90 just outside of Albert Lea. I don't know if those bastards will leave much of her, but can you – ?"

"I'll make a call," Bobby assured him. "You boys just try to keep outta trouble."

He disconnected.

Dean stared at his phone for several seconds, fighting down the overwhelming desire to beat the dash of the battered jeep and curse to the high heavens. He didn't, though, because losing control in front of Sam was something he had long since schooled himself not to do.

"Head for New York," Dean told his brother heavily. "Bobby's sending us to someone who can help."

Sam snorted. "Help? Who's going to help us? We have ticked-off hunters on our tails, renegade demons trying to track us – "

"Probably angels too, seeing as how I figure Raphael has supporters."

"Great," Sam groused. He took a few aggravated breaths, visibly calmed himself down and then asked, "So what now? Assuming this friend of Bobby's helps us – what then? We keep running into more and more problems."

"We take 'em one at a time. And in the meantime, we figure out how to spring Adam and find Cas."

Sam full on stared at him this time, ignoring the road.

"Dean…are you sure? It's not going to be easy..."

"It never is. Obviously it's gonna be a bitch to find Cas, considering we've got no leads on him, other than…what Raphael said," Dean reasoned, only just managing to speak around the sudden lump in his throat. "But we do know where Adam is now."

"Just because some two-faced demon – who was already a two-faced sociopath when she was alive, might I add – says he's down there, doesn't mean he is," Sam argued. "Demons lie."

"Except when they know the truth will hurt," Dean reminded him. "You remember how hard it was, knowing that Dad was down there – that I was down there?"

A shadow passed over Sam's face at the reminder. He turned his eyes back to the road.

"If Cas found a way to open that door and get you out, it means there's another way," Dean was adamant. "And we're going to find it – I don't care how many people are after us or how hard it is."

Sam was hesitant. "Dean…I was serious before, when I said it's too dangerous to try to open the Cage. After all we went through, do you really want to risk letting Lucifer and Michael out? This whole thing will just start all over again."

"With Raphael on our ass, it's going to start all over again anyway," Dean said. "We might as well have as many people on our side as we can get – even if it means going to Hell for them."

"Dean…" There was silence, and then Sam slowly nodded in acceptance. "Okay."

"Good. We're clear," Dean said decisively. "He's family, he's innocent, and we're getting him out. Same goes for Cas, wherever he is."

"Alright," Sam nodded. After a beat, he sighed, "But before we even consider doing that, we're going to have to go off the grid. If you think staying out of trouble is hard now, it's going to be worse when we try to jailbreak Hell."

"Which is why we're going to New York," Dean said. "Bobby's got a friend or something there, and as sketchy as all this sounds, I guess we can't be too picky this time…"