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]

16. 6x08 - Thicker Than Water

Eight

Nina, Pinta & Santa Maria Motel
Columbus, Ohio
Monday 21 June 2010

Dean awoke to a muffled Spanish argument going on in the room next door and the obnoxious vibration of his phone. Grimacing at the interruption to his sleep, he loosened his grip on the demon-killing knife and peeked one eye at the motel clock – which wasn't working – then reached out with his free hand to grab his phone. He groaned when 7:03 gleamed on the display with a harsh brightness that his eyes weren't yet ready for, but the displeasure lessened once he read the text.

'Goin to baseball practice 1st game nxt wk. Coming?'

Even through the bald text, Ben's exuberance came through and Dean couldn't help the way his mouth tugged upward in response.

After the initial uneasiness bred from the revelation of their relationship, Dean had made a concerted effort to get to know the kid better. Once the mindfuck of Dean being trapped in a woman's body, and the reason behind it, sunk in Ben had even started to become cautiously receptive. Within the last few days, they had even managed to strike up a precarious rapport.

His smile faded a little as he thought about how he was going to answer the kid. With everyone going pear-shaped of late, he didn't know if he had any right to get more involved in Ben's life than he already was.

The option of being able to pop in for a visit whenever he wanted was seductive. It felt almost like the universe was finally cutting him a break and letting him have a taste of the normal life without giving up the job. At the same time, the circumstances were deceptive: any relationship he had with Ben would always feel incomplete because of the nature of hunting and because they had already missed such an important chunk of the kid's life.

"Christ, I got to be my Dad anyway," he had bemoaned sourly one night during the week when Lisa had been telling him stories about when Ben was younger. "He wasn't around for Sammy and me either."

"It's not your fault," Lisa had told him firmly. "You didn't know."

Her assurances didn't change the empty sense that he had missed out on something important.

'No promises,' he finally texted back, knowing from experience that even false hope was a sure way to break a kid's heart.

He put down the phone and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, glancing at the two beds to his right; they were both empty and unmade. He could hear the muffled sound of the shower going and decided that it had to be Cas; Sam had thrown a shit-fit when he had seen the bathroom, which Dean could sort of understand given the crusted black stains and yellowed scum on the walls and tub. Dean was pretty sure the only reason Cas was in there now was because he had low expectations of humanity's offerings and probably thought bathrooms were supposed to look like that.

'Remind me to introduce him to steam showers someday,' Dean thought affectionately, and then frowned, 'On second thought, that'd bite me in the ass, 'cause he'd probably turn into a priss like Sam.'

His phone buzzed again and he reached for it.

''Got a hunt yet? Wut is it?' Ben wanted to know, and Dean huffed. They weren't actively looking for a hunt these days, but he had no intention of saying anything about that to the kid.

'Off limits topic dude. You know that,' he wrote back.

Even though Lisa had accepted that Dean would probably never completely separate himself from that part of his life, she had insisted that he keep it away from Ben. For the most part, he even agreed with it – considering the way his and Sam's lives had been twisted and shattered by their life as hunters, he was fully onboard with Ben growing up to be something safe and boring.

But at the same time, he wanted to make sure the kid actually grew up. And Dean knew better than most that what you didn't know could kill you.

Right now, Ben and Lisa knew enough about the supernatural world to have a fighting chance protecting themselves. It was more than Dad had ever done for Adam and his mother, but it didn't stop Dean's anxiety over the matter. He had had at least two nightmares in the past week where the fight with the Erlking had gone fatally wrong. That alone had made him readily agree to Lisa's stipulations about what was a kosher conversation topic and what wasn't.

Judging by Ben's stubbornness, though, that might not matter. The kid had a fixation with his idealized version of hunting, and Dean's gut clenched both with guilt and sick validation every time he saw the admiring look in the kid's eyes. While during their time together Dean had made an effort to steer clear of any more hunting stories, he had occasionally lapsed into an anecdote or two. In those moments he had felt completely at ease, shooting the shit with his kid, before realization took hold and he had had to force himself on to another topic.

This discomfort and unconscious need to censor himself was one of the reasons he had decided it was time to leave Cicero. Dean couldn't shake the feeling that the longer he was around Ben, the more the kid was getting the wrong message. Lisa was obviously on the same wavelength, because when Dean had come to her the day before and announced that they would be leaving, she had looked relieved.

"I hate to see you go," she had assured him, squeezing his hand affectionately (she had gotten over the weirdness of his new form rather well), "but I'm worried about what all this is doing to Ben. I mean, it might be one thing if you guys were going to stay here permanently, but…"

She had trailed off on a sad yet resolute note.

Some of their more inclusive late-night discussions in the Braeden kitchen, where they were joined by Sam or Cas or both, had been about the Winchesters' plan to travel to Hell. While Lisa had obviously been discomfited by the idea, and still seemed unsure of herself when talking about the supernatural world, she seemed to understand why it was so important for them to free Adam.

"Just don't say anything to Ben," she had ordered, warning in her eyes and her tone.

'No danger of that,' Dean thought as Ben's next text came in ('Aw, come on! Plz?'). Dean didn't want Ben to know anything about the plan to get to Hell; in fact, if he could have managed to talk Sam and Cas out of tagging along, he would have done it already. The Pit didn't need to claim any more of his family.

'Kick ass at practice,'he told Ben and then tossed the phone back on the bed, rolling the kinks out of his back.

Stripping down to his underwear, he went for his duffel and rifled through for something that didn't have sweat stains or dried blood on it; the grimy texture of the motel carpet made him particularly desperate to find socks.

The room was definitely one of the worst ones they had ever stayed in, not that he should have been surprised. Anywhere that offered three singles for the cheap price J. Jett had paid was usually managed by crack dealers or something. The room was cramped and dirty, with the smell of stale smoke filling the air, clinging to the stained curtains and bed sheets. The only upside that Dean had found so far was that there weren't any bed bugs.

"Next time I'm springing for a suite," he mumbled, shoving a coffee-stained shirt to one side. He had no intention of sharing a queen with Sam, even if it was cheaper and even if Gigantor was girl-sized now. And sharing with Cas was out of the question, for obvious reasons.

"Oh…uh…"

'Speaking of obvious reasons…'

Dean paused in the act of reaching for his bag, eyes flicking up to the owner of the voice.

Cas stood, framed in the bathroom doorway, clutching one of the thin motel towels around his waist. His hair was still plastered to his forehead and neck, and he was clean shaven for once, thanks to what he had explained as Jimmy's residual memories. Water droplets clung to his skin from his shower, and Dean allowed himself a moment's detached observation that Cas was finally filling out a little now that he could eat like a normal human being.

The banishing sigil scar remained as angry looking as it always had, though.

Dean opened his mouth to ask why that was – until he realized that Cas was staring at him with wide eyes, color flooding his cheeks.

Realization hit Dean a split-second later: he was sitting on his bed in nothing but a pair of underwear. While in the past his bare chest would have been unimportant in the big scheme of things, that had been before he was given breasts.

He hastily folded his arms across his chest, feeling his own cheeks begin to warm.

"Dude, you don't just stop and stare when you walk in on someone near-naked!" Dean snapped, glaring at the ex-angel.

Cas made a strangled noise that might have been an apology and promptly turned on his heel, shutting himself back into the bathroom.

Dean rolled his eyes skyward.

Ignoring the fact that his tendency to pop up at the most inopportune times was apparently a trait that translated from angel to human, the spontaneous voyeurism wasn't completely Cas's fault. Despite more than a month of living on the female side of things, Dean still had trouble remembering that certain parts of himself had to be covered at all times.

'No friggen idea how girls do this,' he thought as he pulled on the requisite clothing and frowned at himself in the tiny, cracked motel mirror. His hair was shorter now, thanks to Lisa taking pity a few days ago – she'd helped him and Sam get rid of their cumbersomely long locks without making them look like a pair of butch lesbians, which was a bonus. 'Wish I was in France right now. Girls go around topless there, right?'

He allowed himself to bask briefly in that mental image, before his mind returned to the matter of Cas. This wasn't the first minor moment of discomfort he'd noticed between them in the past few days. For whatever reason, Cas was twitchier than usual, avoiding Dean's gaze and once again trying to fight off sleep.

"My dreams are troubling," the ex-angel had deflected on the one day Dean had managed to convince him to talk. "My brother has also taken to visiting me there, and it is… discomfiting."

"Well, now you know how I felt," Dean had snorted, and hoped that that was the end of it.

Instead, the awkwardness had actually gotten worse. He hadn't managed to revisit the issue again, either, because every time he had tried Sam had been around, and damned if he was going to try to have a heart-to-heart with an ex-angel with his little brother hanging around.

Sam had been a lot more irritating than usual anyhow, sending Dean calculating looks ever since their rather surreal conversation outside of the golf-course in Cicero. Although he hadn't come out and said anything at that point or since, Dean had a nagging suspicion that an implication had been made that he should be trying to defend himself from.

He just wasn't exactly sure what that implication was.

A dark shape moved past the filmy blinds, and a moment later the door to the room clicked open. Sam entered, carrying a carton of hot drinks in one hand and a newspaper folded into the crook of his opposite elbow; he was still wearing a brace from the broken wrist the angel Suriel had given him. Even with the beating he had taken during the last hunt, the fracture was luckily minor enough that he didn't need a cast.

"What happened to your Lance Armstrong routine?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

"For the millionth time, Lance Armstrong is biking. I've been jogging. There's a difference," Sam insisted.

Over the past week, his brother had started getting up before sunrise jog. Dean was pretty sure that nonsense had started with Sarah before she headed back to New York – apparently she had needed 'time to think', but Sam had kept it up every day afterward. Dean figured it was his way of coping with being dumped by the girl he hadn't even really been dating, but Sam insisted he was just trying to de-stress.

The shifty way he had said it, though, had tipped Dean off to the fact that Sam was having his own little date with Mother Nature that week, a scant twenty-four hours after Dean finished up with his.

On top of the Sarah thing, it was like adding insult to injury.

Jogging aside, Sam had taken the experience without the initial freak-out Dean had gone through. When Dean had mentioned it in passing (when everyone else was safely outside of earshot), Sam had shrugged and attributed it to dealing with Jess when she was going through her time of the month.

He had born the experience with an utter lack of bitchiness for the first day, like he was some kind of martyr. Of course, when it turned out the he, unlike Dean, was going to be like all those women who had to suffer through a full week of being on the rag, that stoic attitude ebbed away rather quickly.

It was the other reason they had extended their stay at Lisa's, because there was no way in Hell Dean was driving anywhere with Sam's bitchiness on a hair-trigger. His brother had even snarled at Cas a few times over the past week, which even without Cas's kicked puppy reaction was just…wrong.

Dean shook his head at the memory and reach for the nearest cup of coffee. "So, you finally over your Health Nut Barbie schtick?"

"No. I just decided to take today off," Sam rolled his eyes. "Didn't sleep too well."

"More nightmares?" Dean asked, trying to sound casual.

"Yeah, something like that," Sam replied, and Dean could hear the unspoken, 'and no, I don't want to talk about it', so he let it go.

This time.

"Where's Cas?" Sam asked, heaving himself into one of the rickety plastic chairs in the room. Even despite his diminished size, the cheap furniture still buckled a little.

"Bathroom," Dean grunted, ignoring the look which Sam sent him. His brother wasn't the only one who didn't want to talk about things. "So, what's up?"

"I dunno, maybe nothing. Maybe something," Sam answered, obviously taking the hint. He handed Dean the newspaper. "I picked this up while I was in line for coffee – there's this blurb in there about an open case up in Michigan – nine employees of an art museum were found disembowelled within the past six months."

"So?"

"So, disembowelment isn't exactly the most common form of murder, even in serial cases," Sam said. "Made me curious, so I went to the library down the street to check it out."

He unrolled the newspaper and handed it to Dean.

"What am I looking at?" Dean frowned down at a grainy, pixelated picture that would have been hard to make out even if the paper hadn't been covered in crease marks.

"The art museum out there's dedicated to modern art – and the most recent exhibit – which got in six months ago – includes a showcase of obsidian pieces," Sam explained. "Didn't Cas say a keystone might be made of obsidian?"

Dean made a face, trying to think back to that conversation. "Yeah, so?"

"Well, it's kind of coincidental, don't you think? People starting to die when this particular piece shows up – I mean, if it were something that was forged in Hell, don't you think it might have some negative energy attached to it?"

"That's…kind of a lot to pin our hopes on," Dean said carefully.

"But it is also possible." Dean nearly jumped a few inches as Cas's voice sounded in his ear; he hadn't even heard the bathroom door open. His hair was a little drier now, and he was clothed in the same sweatpants and the Eye of the Tiger T-shirt he had slept in. "Let me see?"

There was that weird feeling in the pit of Dean's stomach again, and instead of allowing himself to think too hard about it, he went on the offensive.

"Dude, am I ever going to get that back?" he demanded. "We bought you a whole bunch of your own clothes, you know."

Sam made a face, while Cas looked down at the shirt in confusion. A moment later he glanced up again, but carefully avoided Dean's eyes.

"I apologize, I did not realize it bothered you," he said stiffly. "If you had said something yesterday –"

"I was half asleep at the wheel, I didn't notice yesterday," Dean replied. Cas frowned, and then started to take the shirt off, revealing the pale and still scarred flesh of his abdomen. Something tiny in Dean's brain vibrated warningly and he snapped, "I don't want it now. It's gonna smell like ex-angel. Wash it first."

Cas paused, and then nodded. "Very well."

And then he moved forward, as though nothing had happened, took the newspaper from Sam and sat down at the table to study the article. Beside him, Sam sent Dean a very pointed look that clearly asked 'what the hell was that?'.

Dean turned away, like he didn't want to answer, when in fact he wasn't even sure he could answer.

Cas wearing his clothes didn't actually bother him that much – hell, he'd lived his whole life swapping hand-me-downs with Sam. Living out of a duffel bag meant sharing clothes, more often than not. Even with the sparse wardrobe they'd found Cas at various Salvation Army depots and Wal-Mart's along the road, occasionally Cas ended up wearing one of Sam or Dean's pre-genderswap shirt's.

This particular shirt, though, happened to hold memories of someone else Dean had allowed to wear it years before.

Cassie Robinson had always looked hot in his clothes, all legs and curves underneath his too-large shirts. Seeing her wearing his things had always given him a rush of protective warmth and ownership, which had meant a lot back in the days when it was such a foreign concept.

For some reason, seeing Cas wearing that same shirt brought with it the same feeling.

'It's transference,' Dean told himself resolutely.

He associated that shirt with the good part of his relationship with Cassie. As he recalled, the last time she had worn it she had ridden him long and hard on the floor her apartment. Obviously the memory of that, and his stupid girl brain, were messing with Dean's sensibilities.

"I'm not sure about that," Cas was saying when Dean tuned back into the conversations. "Although, I do think there's some potential here. I cannot tell through the picture." He grimaced it, like it offended him. "I would need to see this in person."

"What difference would it make?" Dean asked. "You said your angel senses didn't work anymore."

"No, but if it is a keystone, certain Enochian incantations could possibly reveal it as such," Cas answered.

"Still. That's a bit more 'if' than I like," Dean said. "And it could be a dead end – plus, after what Sam and I just went through? Kind of want to get my junk back, I'm not even joking."

Cas tilted his head in confusion, still in the dark as to the Winchesters' recent feminine problems, and Sam scowled.

"Dean, the exhibit is being shipped to London in a few days. If there's a keystone in it, that's one more component of the ritual that we need," he reminded him. "I'll take another few days in this body if it puts us any closer to getting Adam out."

And really, with that logic, Dean couldn't argue. They had checked out regular hunts for less.

"Fine," he grunted, "but we stay as freaking far away from Detroit as we possibly can."

(*)

It took three hours to get to Lansing, and another hour before they found a motel they could agree on. After a lengthy argument about whether to pay the extra cost for a suite or start some kind of bed-sharing rotation ("It's better to keep our research limited to one room, and besides, if we leave Cas alone he'll try to stay awake all night," Sam had pointed out reasonably, earning a defiant look from the former angel and a peevish look from Dean.), they booked a single room with two queens room and set to work preparing to investigate.

It was decided that Sam and Castiel would check into the actual art museum while Dean drove to the coroner's office; ever since Castiel's latest morgue mishap, there was an unspoken acknowledgement that he would stay away from any dead bodies until his stomach had become more used to the smell that often hung around them.

As for Sam…

'Being around dead bodies right now is the last thing I need,' he told himself, glancing around the entrance to the museum warily. There didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary, but the past week had taught him to keep his guard up at all times.

'We're not ready to let you go yet,' Michael had said, and even if it had been a hallucination brought on by exhaustion, an excess of hormones (and he didn't want to think about that particular week ever again) and the lingering effects of the Erlking's powers, it had rattled Sam.

Especially because it hadn't been the last one.

Sam shook his head, clamping his mental walls down on that thought. He was dealing with it. Jogging provided a bit of an outlet, and once they got Adam back, the dreams would stop. They had to.

He and Castiel entered the East Lansing Museum of Contemporary Art in the late afternoon, about an hour before the closing time Sam had found online. The institution itself was associated with the local university, and some of the victims had apparently been students working there. The building itself looked blatantly modern, with a façade made of pleated steel and glass that seemed a little out of place in comparison to the more traditional buildings in the neighborhood.

Given the serial nature of the deaths, Sam had decided they would use the FBI cover, which Castiel was getting better at every time. Part of this was due to his steep learning curve, while the other had to do with his serious demeanor.

It never ceased to amaze Sam how much Castiel could pull off the fed look once he shed Jimmy's worn trenchcoat; the intense stare and unsmiling mouth convinced people of his supposed vocation better than any story Sam or Dean could ever spin. It made Sam feel a little less ridiculous posing as an FBI agent, at any rate, although the new lack of overly long hair was helping in that respect.

Lisa had called it a pixie cut, which Dean and Ben had laughed themselves silly over, while Castiel had tilted his head to one side and remarked, "Pixies do not cut their victims, they bite them."

It wasn't hard to get to the administrative wing of the building and meet with the director of the exhibit. Mrs. Strong was a short, robust woman in her early sixties with shocking white hair and who was wearing a pair of dark sunglasses despite the fact that they were inside the building.

"Two of you guys were here just yesterday," she pointed out after Sam explained what they wanted, a complaining edge to her voice. "I've already answered all of their questions."

"I understand, ma'am," Sam answered smoothly, unsurprised that the real feds had already been by. They had probably done a cursory check of the place, interviewed a few people in conjunction with the crime, and then filed it away as unimportant. "The Bureau is just being as thorough as possible. The other team might have missed something."

"It's making a few of the patrons nervous," the woman sniffed. "I doubt you understand, Agent Stein, but it's a bit hard to experience art when there are federal agents hounding you at every turn."

"We don't want to inconvenience you or your patrons," Sam assured her. "In fact, we'll do our best to be out of your hair within the hour."

The director grudgingly allowed them to make their rounds, and after speaking to any of the remaining employees who had known the victims and coming up with nothing, they finally headed into the art wing to examine the display itself.

The art piece in question hung several feet off the ground and was held together by a stainless steel frame that was about five-by-three feet wide. Within the metal, seventy similarly sized, smooth rocks had been arranged in a grid-like pattern. The bordering rocks were all spherule patterned pieces, which gave them a kind of snowflake patterned sheen, while the inner stones were solid black in colour. In the top right quadrant, one rock was a piece of lapis lazuli, its bright colour striking a major contrast with the rest of the piece. The entire thing was protected by what Sam imagined was safety glass.

"Says here the rocks the artist decided to use were found outside of Osaka, Japan and possibly date from the Kofun period. I guess he was going for some kind of old-into-new theme," Sam mused after reading the description.

Castiel was gazing up at the piece speculatively. "I do not understand how this is considered art."

"Neither do ninety percent of the population – you going to do your thing?"

The former angel nodded and closed his eyes in concentration; a moment later he began to murmur quietly, a low chant of language that Sam recognized as Enochian but didn't understand.

After several minutes with no result, Castiel stopped and frowned up at the art piece.

"Either the thickness of the glass is protecting the rock, or we are not dealing with a keystone," he stated.

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but he suddenly noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

Kneeling down, he reached for the black stain in the crease between floor and wall. Not bothering with gloves, as the real authorities had already been by here and either missed it or hadn't considered the stain relevant, Sam lifted it with relative ease. He rubbed the familiar, greasy substance between his fingers and frowned, standing up.

"I think it's the latter," he said, unable to hide the disappointment in his words. He held up his stained fingers. "Ectoplasm."

Castiel's eyes narrowed.

"A spirit could be responsible for the deaths here," Castiel agreed slowly, but continued to look doubtful.

"And there is precedent for museum exhibit's being haunted, but usually that's because the relics they include contain remains – King Tut, the Titanic, the Hope Diamond…I've never heard of a bunch of random stones some guy picked up on the side of a road being haunted though," Sam postured.

"Perhaps there is more to the situation," Castiel suggested.

"We need to know a little more about the victims," Sam agreed. "And the artist."

They exchanged assenting glances and after a final once-over of the site, they returned to the director's office. Sam pretended to be an amateur art enthusiast in his spare time and enthused about the obsidian exhibit, wanting more details on the artist and the location from which he had taken his materials.

Mrs. Strong had given them what little she knew, but it wasn't much more than the exhibit blurb had told them. Apparently Takumi Kurosawa, the artist, was one of the introverted types that shunned society.

"Well, if the museum doesn't know, might as well call someone who might," Sam sighed as they left the building. He pulled out his phone and began to scroll through the contacts, thumb hovering over Sarah's name. He wondered if calling her over a case would be some kind of breach.

"Is there a reason you are hesitating to contact Sarah?" Castiel asked from beside him, staring pointedly down at the screen.

"She said she wanted time to think," Sam replied defensively, jerking the phone out of sight. "I don't even know if she's going to take my call."

"You have not spoken to her in nearly a week," Castiel pointed out. "I may be inexperienced in the matter, but that does not seem to be the proper behaviour when attempting to court a woman."

Sam felt the blood rush to his face. He doubted the former angel's sudden perceptiveness was inborn. "Whatever Dean's been telling you, I'm not trying to…to court anyone."

It had been five days since Sam had been pointedly friend-zoned – and he was being generous even calling it that. Sarah had gotten a phone call from a client the day after the Winchesters had been invited to stay with Lisa that she needed to return to New York.

"I've still got bills to pay," she'd joked lightly at dinner before she left. Lisa had offered to drive her to the airport in Indianapolis, probably in an effort to let Ben bond with the family he had just inherited. Sam's appreciation for Lisa had gone up a little more just from that, although it hadn't made him feel any better about Sarah leaving.

Especially as he knew a large part of it was because of him.

"It's not forever," she had mentioned casually while getting her things together, "at least I hope not. I was serious before, Sam, I really do want to help you guys. But I just have other commitments to deal with." She'd straightened up and looked him in the eye. "And I need some time."

"Time," he'd repeated.

"It's a lot to process," she'd said. "Before it was kind of easier to handle – we were going from place to place so fast, and things kept happening one right after another – I mean, gods, angels and missing kids – it forced me to push it back to deal with for another time. But now those things have calmed down a little…" She trailed off, looking apologetically at him and then looking away. "I just need to think."

"Yeah," Sam had repeated, feeling a little dazed. "Yeah, I get it."

"No, I don't think you do," Sarah had told him quietly. "I mean, I'm sure you can imagine you know how I'm feeling…but you don't, really. And I don't blame you, because you have a whole lot of stuff on your mind that kind of makes my issues look petty."

"Tell me what's wrong, then," Sam had wanted to know. "You know I'd help in any way I could."

"Yeah, you would. But you can't make me feel any better about some things. Like the lying," Sarah had told him. "I get why you did it. The longer I'm with you guys, the more I get it. But it's not over. Because there's stuff you're not telling me – and lying by omission is still lying."

The memories of Adam and the Cage had flickered in his mind. "Sarah, I can't –"

" – And then there's the fact you guys are trying to go to Hell – which means once you get your little backdoor spell up and running, there's a huge chance I won't see any of you ever again."

There had been a brief gleam in her eyes, like regret, which had made Sam's heart leap a little, but he had forced himself to ignore it. "You know why we have to do that."

"I know! If I was in your place, I'd be doing it too, it's just…" she had looked frustrated, and then stared him down. "This conversation would be a lot less weird if you were still a guy."

His mouth had gone dry. "I am still a guy."

Her eyes had softened for a moment, and she'd looked like she wanted to say something, and then shook her head. Her mouth had firmed into a line, and she'd repeated resolutely, "I just need time."

Lisa had showed up then, car-keys in hand, and Sarah had taken up her bags.

"You have my number if you need anything," she had said lightly as Dean and Cas wandered into the entrance way to say goodbye. "I'll keep on the lookout for you guys in terms of spell stuff. Now that I've got Professor Yong's email address, we can keep each other in the loop."

She had looked back once as she left, apologetic, and then the front door had closed behind her and Lisa and she had been gone.

A week later, and Sam still wasn't sure how to feel about it.

"You attraction to Sarah was noticeable since she re-entered your life, and your behaviour has been particularly anomalous since her departure," Castiel remarked now, as though he still had the ability to read Sam's mind. "The solution to both facts would be to contact her."

"After living as an emotionless ball of energy your whole life, what makes you the expert?" Sam asked waspishly. Castiel frowned, like wasn't sure if he should be offended or hurt, and Sam immediately felt guilty. "Look, man, I'm sorry. I'm just…I mean…these things are complicated, okay? Just trust me." In an effort to move the conversation from his issues with Sarah, he ploughed onward. "Unless…is that something you're even interested in?"

"Your association with Sarah?" Castiel asked, sounding curious.

"No, you know…" Sam said, trying to think of a non-sleazy, non-Dean way of talking about hooking up. In the end he managed a lame, "Uh, meeting people?"

"We meet people every day," Castiel pointed out reasonably.

"Yeah, no, that's not what I meant," Sam said, trying to hold back a groan. How did Dean manage to get through conversations with Castiel without wanting to throttle him? Speaking of… "Did Dean, uh, talk to you about stuff yet?"

"Stuff," Castiel repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, the whole not-sleeping thing and other…issues."

"If you are referring to our conversation about the benefit of masturbation, then yes," Castiel said unsmilingly. "Although, I believe he implied it was something we should not speak of again."

Sam looked quickly around the street they were walking down to make sure no one was paying attention to their conversation. "Dude, lower the volume. That's not the stuff you talk about in public."

"You brought it up," Castiel indicated helpfully.

"Okay, so he did talk to you," Sam went on, ignoring that. "Did he happen to mention other…outlets?" Off Castiel's blank look, he went on. "We could – you could always find someone to…you know."

God, this was embarrassing! Was this how Dean had felt when he'd sat Sam down almost twenty years ago?

"You are implying finding me a meaningless sexual relationship in order to achieve physical release as you two are prone to doing," Castiel stated, realization coloring his tone.

"Yes – and no – and hey!" Sam felt offended. "Unlike Dean, not all of my relationships have been meaningless."

"No," Castiel agreed. "Sometimes they have been dangerous."

"That's…not the point," Sam evaded.

"Then what is?"

"The point is that part of being human is connecting with other people," Sam explained. "And that doesn't just mean random hook-ups, either. I mean, okay, in our line of work those are the most common way of doing it, but if that's not for you, we can always look out for something more substantial. Jail breaking Hell aside, you might want to give it a try before you're out of time."

Castiel gave him a look. "Your advice is maddeningly conflicting."

"Yeah, I know," Sam mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm just trying to…just, you know you have a choice, right Cas? You've already fallen – if you don't want to stick with the hunting lifestyle, it's up to you. If you want something normal."

"There is no such thing as normal," Castiel told him simply. "And as I never harbored any desire to become mortal, the pursuit of a normal human life and its requisite values is not appealing to me either." His expression turned shrewd. "How does any of this relate to your fear of contacting Sarah?"

"I am not afraid of contacting Sarah!"

"We have been walking for several minutes now and you have yet to make the call," Castiel pointed out. "I do not believe contacting her regarding the case precludes having to inform her of your feelings for her."

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Castiel was not teasing or harping on him the way Dean would, merely expressing an opinion. In fact, it was probably the most objective view on the matter he would ever get.

He sighed and ran his good hand through his hair.

"Look, even if I did still…have feelings for her, it's not going to work out," Sam said quietly. "We're trying to break into Hell, first of all, and secondly I'm kind of trapped in a woman's body for the foreseeable future. Kind of makes the situation impossible."

"Mortal conceptions of the impossible are rarely so," Castiel told him. "If those are your only obstacles, I see no problem. You just finished telling me I should take advantage of the benefit of meaningless sexual encounters before we open a portal to Hell. I see no reason why you should not take advantage of the same advice. As for your current physical body, I fail to see how that impedes any impulses that you wish to act on."

Sam blinked.

"Huh. So the whole same-sex thing doesn't bother you?" he asked, genuinely curious. "I thought there was that whole bit in Leviticus somewhere…?"

"God does not care where you stick your genitals," Castiel answered calmly. "Yet another law set down by early humans during a time when the only way to counteract the high infant mortality rate was to ensure as many child-producing couplings as possible occurred."

"Huh," Sam said again, and then paused; an idea had occurred to him. "So what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Well, you've been human over a month now. Any…preference?"

"Preference?"

'It's like pulling teeth,' Sam thought with a roll of his eyes. "Has there been anyone you've been attracted to?"

There was a pause, where something like guilt flickered in Castiel's eyes, before the former angel replied, "I have no frame of reference to draw from."

Like every time Castiel tried to lie, the words sounded stilted and forced.

"Uh huh," Sam said, not believing him but not wanting to pry overly much. He still didn't have the same relationship with Castiel as Dean had, where point-blank meddling was normal. Instead, he tried another avenue. "What about Jimmy? Didn't you say you still had some of his memories?"

"They would be irrelevant in this exercise, as his attraction to and appreciations for his wife's form were all-encompassing," Castiel answered obliquely. "They were soul mates."

"Really?"

"Yes."

Sam frowned. His thoughts went momentarily to Amelia Novak, off in the world somewhere with no idea that the man she loved was long since dead. He supposed they would be reunited in Heaven, but the situation still sucked.

Judging by Castiel's grim expression, the angel thought the same. It had to be worse for him, considering he was going to be wearing Jimmy's body for the rest of his life.

Sam tried to think of something comforting to say (and really, they didn't exactly make Hallmark cards for this kind of thing). He settled on a light-hearted, "Well, you're human now. Maybe you've got one too."

"'Got one' what?"

"A soul mate."

A surprisingly bitter smile tugged at Castiel's lips. "I somehow doubt it."

"Why? You said it yourself – you have your own soul now."

"Even barring the fact that I existed as an angel for millions of years and the fact that when I expire from this mortal life I will completely cease to exist, there are only three humans that I am acquainted with," Castiel told him quietly, "and all three have soul mates already."

For a moment Sam was confused, and then his brain kicked in: Bobby, whose soul mate had probably been his wife Karen, and Sam and Dean themselves. During their recent stint in Heaven, Ash had implied Sam and Dean shared a bond like that of soul mates, which if true (and wow would that be weird if it was) kind of explained the wistful glimmer in the former angel's eye.

Sam's thoughts shifted back to his conversation with his brother the week before, and his suspicions that the bond between Dean and Castiel being something more. It occurred to him that maybe Castiel wasn't depressed at the thought of not having a soul mate – but perhaps the fact that the person he was closest to already had one, whether it was his brother or not.

'And I'm getting way ahead of myself here,' Sam told himself when he realized where his thoughts were leading. 'There's nothing like that going on between them. Cas doesn't even know what it is to be into someone as a human, let alone anything more than that.'

Out lout, he said in a reassuring, upbeat tone, "Well, the world's a big place. We could still find you someone. Plus, I think we might want to start your expectations off a little lower than 'soul-mate'. What about just working on that whole attraction thing?"

"Sam…"

"What was Jimmy into, anyway? Other than Amelia?"

Castiel watched Sam for a moment, as though attempting to discern the point of this practice, and then frowned thoughtfully. "He appreciated well-proportioned looks and a kind heart…I believe he valued sense of humour as well."

"Okay. And what about you?" Sam prompted. "It doesn't even have to be looks, you know. I guess if you were still an angel you'd be focussing on a person's soul, so maybe personality is the closest you can get as a human. Which is an important quality – don't believe guys like Dean, who just focus on looks."

"I don't –"

"Give it a try," Sam prompted. "I mean, the first thing that comes to your mind."

Castiel was once again inexplicably red in the face, and he lowered his eyes like he was embarrassed. "I –"

So, of course, that was the point where Sam's phone rang, startling both of them. With a resigned sigh, which turned into a long-suffering groan when he saw who it was, Sam put his phone to his ear.

"Hey, Dean," he said, watching Castiel, whose face remained flushed. Was it his imagination or did something just flicker across the ex-angel's face. "Find anything?"

"Got a look at the records for all the vics, and an up-close and personal visit with the last three before their families pick them up," Dean answered. Sam motioned Castiel into a small alleyway, trying to escape the sound of traffic passing, and put Dean on speaker-phone. "According to the coroner, not only were all of the vics disembowelled, but they were all done in exactly the same way – get this: harakiri."

Sam blinked. "You're kidding."

"Nope. I mean, the coroner wasn't an expert or anything, but that's what he said it looked like."

"That's…really weird," Sam said after a moment. "And by weird I mean weirdly specific. Harakiri was traditionally reserved just for samurai clans in order to preserve their honor. Even when employed as capital punishment, it was usually limited to that social class. It was highly ritualized and only certain people could carry it out."

"Thanks for that, Discovery Channel," Dean said dryly. "Anything on your end?"

"We found ectoplasm at the scene," Sam relayed. "We couldn't actually get our hands on the stones in the exhibit, but from that alone I'd say it's more likely we've got a ghost on our hands than a keystone to Hell."

"Yeah, a samurai ghost," Dean said, sounding resigned. Sam could sympathize; he had been hoping for a lead on Adam. "Didn't we deal with something like this in San Francisco a few years back? One of Old Man Campbell's old cases?"

"Maybe. Could be a completely different situation though. Either way, we're going to have to do some research into the background of the museum, the exhibit, the artist…" Sam sighed. "So much for finding a lead…"

"We knew it was a long shot going in," Dean said, "No point in cryin' about it now."

"We may have stumbled upon a sessho-seki," Castiel spoke up suddenly.

"A what?" Dean's voice demanded on the other end of the line, and even Sam had to shake his head in confusion. He wasn't familiar enough with Japanese terminology to even guess what that meant.

"The term means 'killing stone'," Castiel explained. "Japanese sorcerers often created cursed stones by imprisoning the souls of their enemies within; anyone who came in contact with those stones would die."

"I don't think all of those people who died actually handled the art piece, though – besides, the artist who set the stones would be dead too, and according to the information the museum director gave us, as far as she knows, he's still alive," Sam pointed out.

"As far as she knows," Dean repeated, sounding sceptical. "The dude could have created the killing stone to begin with."

"Still doesn't explain the people who died without coming into contact with it though."

"I have been thinking on that, and perhaps we were too quick to judge the circumstances," Castiel said thoughtfully. "Perhaps it is a keystone afterall – that would amplify the powers of the stone, meaning the spirit trapped within would no longer require the stone to come in physical contact with its victim."

"Keystone or not, that still leave us with the problem of the ghost being in there," Dean said. "Unless we could still use it somehow with it inside?"

"Yong's ritual requires actually touching the stone, so I would say no," Castiel said. "We would have to exorcise the ghost before we could use it, as the ghost appears to be using the stone as its remains."

"Is that even possible?" Sam wanted to know.

"We might be able to transfer the spirit into another receptacle where we could dispose of it before procuring the stone," Castiel mused. He fixed Sam with a curious stare. "Do you think Sarah would happen to have a curse box at hand?"

(*)

He was frozen in place, watching as Michael used Adam's hand to slice open his own belly, pale slippery intestines spilling out as the cut widened. There was a cruel set to his jaw that contradicted the pleading look in his eyes, and in Sam's head Lucifer whispered, "Thanks for leaving us a plaything, Sammy, we wouldn't want to get bored –"

"Sam!"

Sam blinked and shook himself a little, glancing up at Dean, who was waving a hand in front of his face. Across the Formica table, Castiel tilted his head to one side and studied him as well; Sam had apparently zoned out for longer than he had thought.

"What?" he asked lamely.

"Coffee – yay or nay?" Dean asked, and Sam became aware of the waitress hovering expectantly beside him. She looked to be in her late twenties, petite and grey-eyed, with brilliant red hair, high cheekbones and a pointed chin. She was smiling at them genuinely despite the fact that it was nine o'clock and she was likely just beginning the night shift. A slightly crooked nametag introduced her 'Arlene'.

"Oh – uh, yeah. Please."

"Long day?" she asked him sympathetically as she filled his cup. He noticed that Dean's had already been topped up, while Cas's remained empty. The former angel had still not adjusted to the taste of coffee, despite Dean's repeated attempts to entice him.

"Long month," Sam replied with his best approximation of a tired smile.

"Oh, honey, I know exactly what you mean," she said, and then disappeared back down the aisle.

"What's up with you lately?" Dean wanted to know as Sam reached for the packets of sugar. "With all the zoning out? It's weird."

"Takes weird to know weird," Sam pointed out.

"Meaning what?"

Sam deliberately raised an eyebrow and glanced from where Castiel sat by himself across the table to Dean's spot beside Sam.

Before the former angel joined their little hunting cell, the only time Dean sat beside Sam was when interrogating someone or going over case notes. After Castiel started tagging along, Dean usually sat with him. He had brushed it off as a moral support thing and how Castiel still wasn't used to being cut off from the hive mind of the Host; Sam had chalked it up to Dean being uncommonly perceptive and sensitive for once. As the weeks went by and the behaviour persisted, it had become more or less normal.

Right now, it was going a full day that Dean had been avoiding any type of close proximity to Castiel. Emotionally stunted as Dean was, he wouldn't just up and change his protective behaviour over night without some kind of catalyst. Considering Castiel had been steadily avoiding his gaze since the morning before, Sam was sure something had happened between them.

Judging by the way his brother suddenly busied himself with gulping down his own coffee instead of responding to Sam's unspoken observation, Dean was just as aware of the discrepancy and was looking to avoid it.

'Fat chance of that,' Sam thought, partly to pass the attention from his own problems and partly because he just hated Dean keeping secrets. "Is there something going on that you two want to tell me?"

"No!" they said at once, looked at each other in surprise for the first time that day, and then looked away.

Sam snorted. "Right, that was really convincing."

"Hey, what'd you say to Sarah to get that curse box here so quickly?" Dean deflected with ease, waggling his eyebrows at Sam. "Was there phone sex involved?"

"You're a pig," Sam retorted, really in no mood to relive the awkward conversation he and Sarah had had the day before.

After repeatedly babbling out assurances that he was still respecting her space and her wish for time to herself, he'd told her about the case.

"Our usual go-to guy's AWOL right now," he'd went on hurriedly to the silence on the phone, "so we were wondering if you might have access to a curse box or something?"

"Because I happen to be friends with witches, right?" Sarah had asked, a slight deadpan in her voice.

"Well – not just because you're friends with witches," Sam had deflected, even though they both knew that was a lie.

"Uh huh."

Scepticism aside, she had still agreed to arrange for one of the Starks' many bewitched containers to be sent by overnight mail to the motel where the Winchesters were staying. In the tense silence afterward, Sam had had to practically bite his tongue off to keep from asking how she was doing on the off chance it would fall into the category of 'disrespecting her space'. He'd actually commented on the weather (like an idiot!) before they had hung up.

He had no intention of telling Dean that, either, because Dean was a jerk and would never let him hear the end of it.

"You're a prude," his brother shot back now, flipping his phone open to check the time. Reflexively, Sam did the same; they had a schedule to keep.

The museum had closed hours ago, but according to the janitor that Dean had grudgingly chatted up the day before (after losing yet another rock-paper-scissors match), the custodial staff changed shifts at ten o'clock. It was then that the Winchesters and Castiel would make their move. Dean had managed to swipe a key to the back entrance long enough to make a copy, and Sam had hacked into the database for some clues as to where the security team would be during the night shift.

'The sooner we finish here, the sooner we can move on,' Sam thought, putting away his phone.

In the meantime, Arlene returned with a large piece of cherry pie for Dean and a cup of herbal tea for Castiel.

"Anything else I can get you?" she asked, her manner still as sunny as before.

The question was directed at all of them, but Sam noticed that her eyes remained on Castiel while she asked. The same gesture had been performed often enough on Sam for him to know what it meant; from the way her gaze flitted to Dean, and then briefly to Sam, before falling on Castiel's left hand, it was obvious that she was sizing him up. Judging from how her body language instantly became more open, it seemed as though she had come to a conclusion she liked.

"I'm good," Sam said casually, nodding at Castiel. "Anything you want?" And when, as expected, the former angel shook his head in the negative, Sam went on, "Just the bill, thanks."

Arlene beamed again, and with one last look at Castiel, flounced off.

"Dude, you are missing out on this," Dean said through an overly large mouthful of pastry, the fact that he was addressing Castiel only obvious because he gestured at him with the pie. "Why didn't you get something for yourself?"

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's pie-savagery, but Castiel only shrugged noncommittally, unbothered by the display.

"The names of the food offerings in these establishments confuse me. As it is, I have never eaten most of them and do not know what I would like," he said after a moment.

"That's why you order them and find out," Dean rolled his eyes. "I mean, you obviously like food – you completely demolished what I ordered for you."

"Fries are a rather ingenious culinary invention," Castiel admitted.

"What, you doubted me?" Dean snorted.

"Never," Castiel answered, with a more of a genuine note to his words than a normal person might inflect.

Which hit upon the crux of the matter, Sam thought. Over the past few weeks he had noticed that Castiel was very comfortable allowing the Winchesters, especially Dean, to make decisions for him, even in matters as trivial as ordering food. Sometimes he even ceded to complete strangers' suggestions, like the gas station attendant who had talked him into purchasing three cartons of whole milk because they were having a special.

That had led to the rather interesting situation of Dean – not wanting to hurt Castiel's feelings, Sam was sure – proposing a chugging contest rather than let the stuff go bad in the trunk of the car.

Sam hadn't had dairy since that day.

Arlene returned with the bill, giving Castiel another once over as she passed it to Sam and said, "Hope to see y'all again soon."

Sam watched her disappear, and then turned to Castiel.

"You should go talk to her," he said quietly, offering the former angel an encouraging smile.

Castiel blinked, nonplussed. "Why?"

"Because she couldn't keep her eyes off you," Sam explained helpfully. "And she was pretty much talking just to you. That usually means a girl's interested."

The sound of his brother shovelling pie into his mouth stopped, and Dean suddenly glanced up. "Wait, what? Who's interested in Cas?"

At this, Sam had to raise an eyebrow, because even though Arlene wasn't exactly Dean's type – which was usually dark haired, long-limbed and easy – she was still good looking, and his brother's radar for that sort of thing was always on. Except now, it seemed.

"Seriously?" he asked dryly. "You didn't notice our knockout waitress hitting on Cas all night?"

"No one hit me," Castiel frowned, while Dean defensively pointed at the folders he had shoved to one side, "Been a bit busy, Sammy!"

"That's never stopped you before," Sam returned, although without any sort of malice His brother was right to a certain point. They had been going over the specifics of the case while they ate, because it wasn't exactly one of the most straightforward jobs they were going to be pulling.

Purposely breaking into an art museum to actually lift something from one of the exhibits was a little more complicated than a salt-and-burn. Sam shuddered mentally, remembering how the last time they had broken into a museum they had ended up in Green River County Detention Center. Even though that had been their intent, it was not an experience he wanted to repeat for real.

"There something you wanna say?" Dean was asking, a challenging glare on his face.

Sam ignored it.

"Here," he said to Castiel, placing a few bills into the folder Arlene had left at their table and handing it to the former angel. "You go pay, we'll finish up here."

"Very well," Castiel said, although he still looked a little perplexed.

Sam sighed and shook his head, smiling slightly as Castiel wandered down to the front cash. His smile faded when he turned to his brother and saw that Dean was scrutinizing him with the beginnings of a frown on his face.

"What was that all about?" Dean wanted to know, in the too controlled tone that suggested he was trying not to be annoyed but failing miserably.

"What was what all about?"

"The way you're practically throwing him at her," Dean replied tensely. "He didn't even know she was alive until you pointed it out."

"I'm not telling him to take her out back and mount her," Sam deadpanned. "It's just some conversation. He's been human for a month, eventually he's going to start being interested in people other than us. He just needs some practice."

"Practice what? Getting into chicks' pants?" Dean wanted to know, sounding unimpressed. "You really think that's a good idea, considering the kind of schedule we're on here, Sam?"

Which was more than ironic coming from him.

"I think it's better than him only having crappy human experiences like dislocations and nightmares, before he decides to follow us into Hell," Sam argued reasonably. "I'd think you of all people would be gung-ho to get him out there. I mean, you're the one that took him to a brothel."

Dean's expression momentarily shifted, a lazy grin playing at his lips. "Now that was fun."

"Besides, he needs to start getting some street smarts," Sam went on, "unless you want him trusting everything anyone ever says for the rest of his life. He just figured out what free will means. He should be using it, not just taking orders from you instead of from the Host."

And the frown was back, although this time Sam could tell it was an expression of grudging agreement instead of displeasure.

They could hear footsteps approaching and soon the former angel was once again idling uncertainly beside their table.

"Hey Cas – how'd it go?" Dean asked, and again Sam raised an eyebrow, this time at the barely-there falsity in his brother's voice.

"Paying for dinner is a less taxing task than commanding a garrison of the Host," Castiel pointed out, no trace of sarcasm in his words. He held up the receipt. "The waitress provided me with her name and contact information. She suggested an interview at a later date. I was not aware that she heard us conversing about the case."

Sam felt the urge to burst out laughing; beside him Dean snorted inelegantly and reached for the rest of his coffee.

"It's got nothing to do with the case," Sam explained to the former angel, trying to keep from laughing. "She wants you to call her to go out." He paused, waiting for Castiel to get it, and then added, "On a date."

Castiel frowned, looked at the number, and then asked seriously, "And this would be a prelude to sexual activity?"

At this, the rather large mouthful of coffee Dean had just gulped down ended across the table and sprayed over the seat Castiel had occupied minute before.

This time, Sam couldn't stop the uproarious bout of laughter.

(*)

Sneaking into the museum, Dean couldn't help but feel like he was being watched. It was a sensation that often came with breaking and entering, residual paranoia mixing with adrenaline and the knowledge that he was doing something illegal. Since his first break-in at the age of eleven it had become little more than an afterthought, but for some reason tonight it seemed magnified.

Still, it was nothing like the gut-clench reaction that often preceded danger, and so he thought nothing of waving his brother and Cas along through the back door of the building. Thankfully, the sensation disappeared after the door clicked shut behind them and so he decided to blame it on the diner food having been undercooked.

As they came upon a hallway that split into two directions, Sam took the left path with a meaningful glance that Dean instinctively understood meant he was heading to the security office to take out the cameras and alarms.

Dean nodded, adjusting his hold on the knapsack with all of their tools. As Sam disappeared around the corner, Dean motioned for Cas to lead the way to the sculpture.

He knew better than to be lulled into a sense of security by how easy it was to get in; that was supposed to be the easy part. Actually getting their hands on the stone (so to speak) would be much harder. It wasn't as if they could just walk up to the display in question and just grab whatever they wanted.

Sam and Cas had said the piece itself was huge, and they didn't even know exactly what part of it was cursed yet. According to them, the display had about seventy different stones, any of which could be the one housing the ghost.

'Meaning we've got to narrow it down before we even try anything else,' Dean mused. 'And if Sam was right about it being bullet proof and sound proof, that might make things a bit trickier.'

Hopefully the signal from the EMF meter Dean had brought would avoid that problem. If it did, then the job was just a matter of transferring the spiritual essence into the box they intended to destroy, use a use a torch to cut the glass and hightail it with the rock – provided it was an actual keystone.

'Of course, if none of that works, we're gonna to have to do something crazy like blow up the damn thing,' he knew, which had its own risks, including possibly freeing a pissed off ghost.

Cas had already suggested that the ghost was powerful enough to kill victims without them coming into contact with its stone. That meant there was always a chance it might become strong enough or angry enough to deviate from its current pattern.

'Which is really the only thing keeping us alive,' Dean reflected.

When he had first done his tour of the morgue and inspected the bodies of the latest three victims – Ken Date, Melanie Oda and Geoffrey Shigematsu – he had thought he was just dealing with a spirit with a hate-on for Japanese people. Possibly something like the racist truck they had dealt with down in Missouri. A little more digging, though, had shown that that wasn't the case. Some of the first victims – Tanya LeBeau, Stephen Collins and Prudence Palmer – weren't ostensibly Asian. It wasn't until Sam did some more research and discovered that even these victims had some blood connection to old Japanese families that they the ghost's motives took better shape.

"It's not just old Japanese clans, per se," Sam had explained as he showed Dean records from a vital records website. "It's old bushi clans – samurai. It's why they're being killed by harakiri."

"So any poor bastard who happens to have a connection to one of those families is going to bite the big one if they go near this rock?" Dean had wanted to know. "If that's the case, why hasn't there been more of a body count?"

"I know, right?" Sam had agreed. "I mean, there's been major immigration from Japan since after World War II. There's got to be hundreds of people with some distant connection." Dean rolled his eyes a little at Sammy's excited tone; it was something that never changed. "But according to the stats I got while cross-referencing obits with the places the sculpture's been since it was purchased six years ago, there've only been about a dozen deaths in each location. Reported deaths, anyhow."

"Have you done more than a perfunctory look into the background of each victim?" Cas had wanted to know. "As you said, harakiri was usually a punishment ordered only in specific cases."

"Right," Sam had granted, scrolling through some of the windows he had minimized. "Like murder, rape, robbery, corruption or treason." Dean had watched him pull up one window on Ken Date. "Which is why this report here makes sense – this guy was accused by his ex-girlfriend of sexual assault, but it never went to trial." He had then pulled up another. "And it looks like Melanie Oda's got a few strikes against her for shoplifting."

"Kind of a big gap between lifting some CDs from Wal-Mart and taking advantage of someone, though," Dean had pointed out grimly.

"The spirit likely does not care for the varying degrees of severity," Cas had reminded him, "it cares only for meting out justice according to the old ways."

"Yeah, well, that's messed up," Dean had muttered. "Some people need to steal to survive – it's not right, but it doesn't deserve a death sentence either."

He remembered all too well the days back when Dad would go on trips that stretched longer than he expected, leaving Dean to fend for himself and Sam in any way he could. Money had to be saved to pay for whatever craptasic motel they were in that week, and so when they started running out of food Dean had had to steal. It was either that or go without food until Dad got back.

'Not that spirits ever care about the minor details,' he thought now as he followed Cas around another corner and into the wing which housed the cursed rock sculpture.

The thing was massive, and for a long moment Dean wondered what the hell they were going to do if things went south and the blow torch he had brought with him didn't work. There were some explosives in the trunk of the Charger a few blocks away, but nothing that could completely obliterate the art piece.

'Would still leave the pissed off spirit, though,' Dean thought as he began to take their tools out of the bag.

"I still fail to see the appeal in this," Cas said quietly, eyeing the sculpture like it had offended him. "There is no logic to it."

"I dunno, I kinda like it," Dean said, squinting up at the thing. He could feel Cas staring at him in surprise and glanced over. "What?"

"I was not aware you had a predilection for art," the ex-angel pointed out.

"Never said I did," Dean shrugged. "It's just kinda cool-looking. I mean, all those stones are cut the same, except the one. It's kind of like that one said, 'fuck you, I'm gonna be blue!'"

Cas glanced from him, to the art piece and back, and his gaze it softened slightly. Then, without any of the good-natured mocking Sam might have injected in his words, he said, "You have an interesting way of looking at things."

Dean looked away, very carefully not thinking about how the blue stone matched Cas's eyes, and mumbled, "Yeah, whatever," as he hauled out the EMF meter. At the same time he dialed Sam to make sure the security system had been dealt with before Cas did his little spell.

"We good?" he asked.

"Yeah, alarms are cut and cameras are taken care of," his brother answered.

"Good. Get your ass down here and help."

"On my way," Sam answered. "Just got to check something first, I think one of the night watchmen might be hanging around."

They hung up and Dean turned on the EMF. It immediately started to whir angrily, probably due to the proximity of the stone they were looking for. He needed to go to each one individually to pinpoint the right one, and was not looking forward to dealing with the topmost layer of rocks. He proceeded to make a slow progression from one end of the frame to the other, while Cas brought out the curse box and whatever materials he needed for his ghost-transferal plan.

So far things were going well; if they could finish the job quickly, that would mean time for a quick drink and maybe an extra hour of sleep for once. He glanced at Cas's focussed face and then remembered what Sam had said. The incident in the diner bothered him, but his brother had made a pretty good point.

"So, are you gonna call her?" Dean asked after a long pause, any overt curiosity masked by the hushed nature of his voice.

"Who?"

"The girl who gave you her number?" Dean deadpanned. "I mean, this thing goes the way it's supposed to, we might have some free time. We can stick around here a day, if you want."

"That would be counterproductive," Cas answered, sounding unconcerned. "There are more important matters to deal with than engaging in revelry."

"That would be where you're wrong, man, that's the best part of being human," Dean argued, going up another row of rocks. "No matter how crap life is, you can always find some time to blow off steam. How do you think Sam and I managed all these years without going crazy? You know, Apocalypse stuff aside."

"By drinking copious amounts of alcohol?" Cas suggested, in the usual tone Dean couldn't identify as serious or joking.

"Okay, fair point," he allowed, "but there are better ways. And seriously, that chick was hot."

"I thought you did not see her."

"I saw her on the way out."

"Then you are welcome to take my place," Cas said, a testy and defensive note in his voice. "I have other matters to attend to, not least of all helping you and Sam free your brother."

"Whoa, relax, man," Dean said, pausing in his perusal for a second. "I'm not trying to pressure you none. I just want to make sure you're doing okay. You're still acting like an angel, trying to power through things and experience as little as possible. It doesn't work that way. Trust me on that, alright?"

Cas cocked his head to one side, processing Dean's words, "I do trust you, Dean. However, I do not have time 'stop and smell the roses'." Dean almost dropped the EMF when Cas physically made air quotes. "Aiding you and Sam in yet another impossible endeavor is not the only obstacle I face at the moment."

"Why? What else is going on? 'Cause I didn't get the memo," Dean wanted to know, returning to the task of scanning the sculpture.

For once Cas ignored the figure of speech. "Matters with the Host remain troubling. My brother –"

The EMF suddenly howled as Dean passed over a stone a third of the way up the sculpture, and he and Cas went quiet. A secondary pass confirmed that it was the stone they were looking for.

Dean stepped back, ceding the spotlight to Cas on this one while he checked the blow torch they were going to need to cut through the thick layer of glass and the metal frame. He didn't know how long it would take, which made him glad for Sam's quick disabling of the museum's security.

'Speaking of, where is he?' Dean wondered as Cas placed a circle of objects at the base of the sculpture – the iron curse box, four white candles at each cardinal point and handful of flat stones Cas had inscribed with ancient characters. All of this was surrounded by various animal bones, teeth and claws that Sam and Cas insisted were sacred in most Asian cultures and would help strengthen the spell.

"We good?" Dean asked. Cas nodded. "'Kay, let's do this and get out."

"Should we not wait for Sam?"

"And have him bitch because we wasted time?" Dean snorted as he lit the candles. "Nah." He nodded at Cas. "So go ahead and do your thing."

Cas nodded, and a look of concentration appeared on his face.

"Deus, spiritum liga, " he began. "Animus ex interregnum ablega –"

The stone that they had identified as the possible keystone began to vibrate within the frame, and the dim emergency lights that remained on within that part of the exhibit began to flicker.

" – non est mortuorum, nec est viventum. Hoc continens esse vas, et hoc animam eius custodiet – "

The vibrations became stronger, shaking the sculpture. As the air around them began to cool, Dean cast a wary eye at the bolts that secured the piece in place.

" – Spiritus, qui e mundo praesideat," Cas went on, and Dean frowned when he felt his phone vibrate against his leg. "Non est mortuorum, nec est viventum – "

Surreptitiously checking the phone, he saw that Sam was trying to call him; he sent it to voicemail, knowing that interrupting the spell was not a good idea.

" – estra lapidem crucerem aufugias et velum transeat. Hoc continens esse vas, et hoc animum eius custodiet –"

As Sam tried to call again, Dean watched a wispy, cloying looking grey substance begin to emanate from the obsidian stone. He declined the phone call again as the spirit's essence began to settle in the box, making a mental note to bitch at Sam for interrupting –

"Freeze!" someone shouted from behind him, and the room lit up suddenly with flashlight beams.

'Fuck,' Dean thought, his body tensing in reaction.

"Step away from the sculpture," the unknown voice behind them continued, "and put your hands on your heads. Both of you."

"You really don't want us to do that," Dean said, trying to keep his voice calm and quiet, hoping that Cas could at least finish the ritual before they had to act. The ex-angel's body was rigid as well, and Dean knew his eyes were probably intent on the spirit still emptying into the box.

"Do as I say!" the man ordered, and Dean heard the safety on a gun being unclicked.

He swore under his breath, trying to calculate if he'd be able to disarm whoever was there before they got a shot off. Unlikely, considering he didn't know how many of them there were or how many were armed. Even if he did manage to keep himself out of trouble, Cas could still be harmed.

Slowly, he brought his hands up. "Cas…"

"Dean, we can't stop now –" Cas whispered frantically back. "If we do –"

"We don't have a choice," Dean shot back. "Just put your hands on your head and don't talk to anyone."

When Cas still didn't relax, Dean felt a sharp bit of anxiety that his friend wouldn't listen. He didn't want Cas to end up shot, but if Dean made a move to interrupt him or if whoever was behind them decided they were taking too long, the decision would be taken out of Dean's hands.

"Cas, just…trust me," he implored, trying to convey as much gravity in his request as he could without sounding like he was begging.

A terrifying second later, and Cas's shoulder's slumped. As the ex-angel slowly raised his hands to his head, Dean watched with dismay as the spiritual essence began to disperse until it nowhere to be seen. Just as it completely disappeared, someone came up behind him and forced his hands into a pair of cuffs.

(*)

Contrary to what every Hollywood film depicted, struggling to regain consciousness after being knocked out by a blow to the head was not as easy or as pleasant as waking up from a nice nap.

Even though Sam was, as far as he could tell, in a dark room, he had to concentrate several minutes to get his eyes to open properly. It felt almost like he was trying to stare into direct sunlight or right at an angel going supernova.

For a moment, he thought he saw Lucifer leaning against the wall, smirking at him, but eventually his vision cleared and he realized that he was alone.

Now that he could focus, he could make out a shabby, bare room. It looked like he was in some kind of a bunker, which was strange because the last thing he remembered was being in the museum security office. The only accoutrements were the chair where he was sitting, wrists tied behind his back, and the long industrial light bulbs lining the walls. The floor was painted with symbols and shapes that Sam recognized immediately, and at the sight of the iron door, he concluded that he was sitting in a panic room that was half the size of Bobby's.

"We still sure we're not dealing with some kind of shifter?" a muffled male voice on the other side of the door asked. "'Cause she looks way too much like Gwen for me to be comfortable."

"You've already stuck her with more silver than my Gran had in her tea service, so unless you want her to bleed-out on my floor, I'm gonna say no," a woman answered dourly.

Sam grimaced, feeling the telltale itch across his forearm that suggested he'd been scraped by something.

"Besides," the unknown woman went on, and there was the sound of movement on the other side of the door. It creaked open, slowly, "I'm pretty sure she's a hunter. Isn't that right, 'Agent Stein?'"

Three people crowded into the small room, close enough to Sam to intimidate but far enough away that he couldn't reach them if he managed to get free.

The nearest man was tall, about as tall as Dean was normally, with sandy brown hair and cold blue eyes. He was unshaven, with high cheekbones and a high forehead, and what looked like a permanent sneer on his narrow face. Beside him, a shorter, stockier man with blond hair and a beard considered Sam warily. They both framed the older, similarly stocky woman who had spoken. She was round-faced with greying dark brown hair and pursed lips. Dark brown eyes considered Sam judgementally in a way that reminded him in no small amount of Ellen Harvelle and Bobby all rolled into one person.

Further inspection revealed that all three wore charms beneath their clothing; in the background, he could also hear other people moving around, and the sound of someone sharpening a knife.

Realization dawned, and he glanced up at him warily, all the while starting to work the ropes around his wrists. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and say you're hunters too?"

"Well, looks like you've got some kind of brains after all, honey," the woman said sharply. "I'll admit it, I had my doubts."

"We haven't checked to see if she's a ghoul yet," the blue-eyed man insisted, hand hovering over the .45 in his belt. "I think we should make sure."

"And I think you should shut up, boy, and let your elders do the thinking for you," the woman shot back, before turning her attention back on Sam. "No reason we can't be civil."

"None at all," Sam replied tightly. "Mind telling me why you've got me strapped to a chair? Seeing as how we're all being civil?"

"Watch your mouth," the stocky man snapped, but the woman waved him off.

"We don't really appreciate other hunters in our territory – especially the kind that get their faces plastered over the news," the woman said quietly. "What exactly were you and your partners doing?"

Sam paused for a moment, focus momentarily shifting to thoughts of Dean and Cas. "What'd you do with them?"

"They're safe," the stocky man said lightly. "More or less."

"I swear, if you hurt them –"

"Worry about yourself –" the woman told him, bringing out something from behind her back – his wallet, he realized – and read off his primary ID, "Jane." She tossed it at his feet. "If that's really your name."

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," he offered with false cheer, back to working on his wrists.

The stocky man raised a hand like he was going to hit Sam, but the woman made another gesture and he backed off.

"See, that's the problem," the woman said lightly, taking another step forward and bending to eye level. "My family? We've got something of a reputation around these parts. And when some idiots like you and your friends waltz into our town, using our name and getting up to who knows what under our very noses? We don't like it."

The blue-eyed man smiled coldly.

"Your name," Sam repeated, a little caught off guard by what seemed like a non sequitur.

"Miriam Campbell," the woman said without any cordiality in her tone. "That's Christian –" she gestured to the blue-eyed man, " – and there's my boy Mark." The stocky man didn't even nod to acknowledge the introduction. "Understand now?"

Sam's mind raced. "You're…Campbells?"

His eyes widened as his brain brought him up to speed. He remembered the hunter in Illinois – Ryder – mention meeting some Campbells in Michigan. Sam hadn't really paid it much attention, not really expecting them to be any relation to him, but the situation that was unfolding was fast becoming too coincidental for comfort.

"Got it in one. This county's our territory, girl, and we don't take kindly to outsiders edging onto our hunts."

"Campbell territory," Sam repeated, his attempts to undo his restraints halting completely.

"The whole Clueless routine isn't convincing anyone," Christian drawled.

"You would watch that show," Mark remarked.

"Shut up. Gwen was six."

Sam ignored them, focussing on Miriam. It occurred to him that there were a few ways that this could go, but with no idea what these people were doing to Dean and Cas, he was going to have to take a risk.

"My mother was a Campbell," he told them.

"Sure she was," Christian snorted. "Never mind the family's pretty much gone. We're the last ones, and we've never seen you at Sunday dinner."

Sam ignored him and focussed on Miriam.

"Mary Campbell?" he pressed, deciding to gamble. "Her parents were Samuel and Deanna Campbell."

Miriam's eyes snapped to meet Sam's, although the rest of her body language didn't give anything away.

"Random names prove anything," Christian drawled. "There are hundreds of Samuel Campbells in the world."

"They lived in Lawrence, Kansas. He and my grandmother died in '73," Sam insisted "Mom died ten years later. Also in Lawrence."

"Real convenient that they're all dead –"

"Mind your mouth," the woman broke in harshly, watching Sam like she expected him to disappear into the floor or something. She practically barked out, "How did they die?"

"You want what actually happened or what story the cops got?" Sam asked, remembering everything Dean had told him about his trip to 1973. When Miriam gave him a hard look, he went on, "A demon possessed my grandfather. Broke my grandmother's neck, then gutted him while it was still wearing him."

"And your mother?" Miriam asked tightly.

"Fire," Sam replied, holding her gaze. "The same demon killed her, put her up on the ceiling of my nursery and burned her alive. The place was destroyed and Dad took us on the road with him to hunt down the thing that killed her."

By now, Miriam was focussing on Sam like he was the only other person in the world. There was a pause where Sam thought he was getting through to her, and then suddenly Christian's gun was in her hand and pointed at his head.

"Now you're either a really bad liar, or you didn't do your homework," she hissed, "because I know for a fact Mary Campbell had two boys. So you're gonna tell me the truth real fast, or I'm gonna give you a third breathing hole."

(*)

Dean leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, trying to keep his posture relaxed and expression unconcerned. Although it wasn't the first time in his life he had been caught by law enforcement, it was the first time that it had happened while he was working a job with Cas.

He only hoped Sam had been lucky enough to avoid the same situation. Considering they hadn't seen his brother while being processed, it seemed a safe bet. He'd lost track of Cas after getting their mug shots, though.

'So much for stayin' off police radar,' he thought with annoyance.

The interrogation room was smaller and grimier than the last one he had been in, lit by fluorescent lights meant to intimidate. Other than the table he was chained to – without, he noticed grimly, anything to help him pick the lock on his cuffs – and the two chairs on the other side, there was no furniture in the room.

The only door inside clicked open and two men, different from those who had made the arrest, sauntered in. They took the seats opposite him, their languid movements giving Dean a chance to study them.

The nearest one was pale and dark haired, with dark eyes that focussed on Dean like he could see right through him. His partner, a shorter Hispanic man, was more muscular in stature and more distrustful in his gaze. Both were vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn't pinpoint when he had seen them before.

"Erica Campbell," the dark-eyed one pronounced, pushing a plastic bag forward with several cards that Dean recognized as the fake IDs he had been carrying upon arrest. "Or is it Erica Joplin? Or maybe it's Larkin."

Dean didn't react, maintaining the lazy smirk.

"I'm betting none of those are real either," the cop went on. "Your accomplice just about confirmed that, but oddly enough refuses to give us your real name."

Dean kept his face blank. They had only mentioned one accomplice, which meant there was definitely a chance Sam had gotten away.

"Cas doing okay?" he asked casually.

The cops exchanged a barely there look, before the pale cop said, "That's not something you need to concern yourself with right now." He gestured to himself and to his partner. "I'm Special Agent Rhinebeck, this is Special Agent Ochoa. We've got a few questions to ask you."

"I don't care if you're Siegfried and Roy – I'm not saying anything to you until I know Cas is alright," Dean retorted.

Again the look, and then Rhinebeck said slowly, "You're talking about the man you came in here with, right? Cassidy Campbell?"

"Unless you morons managed to bag the ghost, too, then yeah, that's who I'm talking about," Dean replied, enjoying the momentary confusion on their faces before they decided to ignore the ghost comment. "He's a bit new to all this, so I just want to make sure he's doing okay."

Ochoa snorted. "Should have thought about that before you got him involved."

"Buddy, I tell myself that every day, but trust me, it's not for the reasons you think," Dean shot back.

"Oh? And what reasons would those be?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Dean returned with a charming smile.

Ochoa's eyes flashed, but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, his partner cleared his throat and took over on a different tact.

"It's strange, Erica, we can't actually find a record of you anywhere before a few weeks ago. You or your sister."

"Haven't got a sister," Dean answered truthfully.

"Fine. Your partner. Jane Whatever-She's-Calling-Herself," Ochoa interrupted. "We don't have anything on a Cassidy Campbell, either. Or any of the other false IDs he had on him." He smiled unpleasantly. "But we have a whole hell of a lot on James Novak."

Dean debated for a moment whether to screw with them some more by telling them that Jimmy had been dead since Cas's run-in with Raphael in Kripke's Hollow, Ohio. Instead, he answered, "No idea who that is."

"You sure?" Rhinebeck pushed a folder forward. "That's a Missing Person's Report filed in 2008 by an Amelia Novak regarding her husband." He flipped it open on a picture that looked like it had been taken from a wedding album. "Looks an awful lot like your friend Cas."

"Well, they do say everyone has a twin," Dean countered easily, not reacting to the unfamiliar image of a smiling Cas-lookalike with his arms around the pretty blond woman Dean had met once. "I know I've come face to face with myself more than once."

"Is this funny to you?" Ochoa demanded hotly.

"Little bit," Dean said cheekily, making a pinching motion with his thumb and index finger.

"He's got a wife out there somewhere. A kid, too," Ochoa growled. "But I get the feeling you already knew that. In fact…maybe you were the one who made sure they dropped off the face of the planet?" He sneered. "What's the matter, Erica? Fell for someone you couldn't have and did everything you could to get him?"

"Now you're just grasping at straws 'cause you don't know the whole story," Dean answered coldly.

"So why don't you tell us the story? We've got all night."

"What I could tell you would take twenty years."

"Good, because that's the kind of time you're looking at," Ochoa smugly. "Forgery, identity theft, abduction, breaking and entering, possible accessory to murder – you're going away for a long time if you don't cooperate."

"Whereas if I do, it'll just be a moderately long time, right?" Dean rolled his eyes. "Sorry to burst your bubble, boys, but this isn't my first rodeo."

"Seeing as how we can't find anything on you before last May, we'll take your word for it," Rhinebeck said. "We're just hoping you're a better human being than the file we have on you would suggest."

"It takes a pretty messed-up person to take advantage of a guy with mental illness," Ochoa added.

"Cas isn't insane," Dean told them plainly.

"We just spoke to him. Guy thinks he's an angel. Either he's nuts, or he's on some serious drugs. The point is, he's not in his right mind and you've just jumped all over that," Ochoa told him bluntly. He adopted a knowing leer. "Is that something you get off on? Having someone forced to depend on you – does it make you feel powerful?"

"Does your haircut make you feel like Antonio Banderas?" Dean replied curtly.

"I hope you keep that sense of humour in prison – 'cause that's where you're headed," Ochoa pretended he hadn't heard him. "We've got a laundry list of charges drafted for you three. For folks who just appeared out of nowhere one day, you sure don't waste time."

"I used to work in the forgery business, you know," Rhinebeck took over quietly. "Whoever you had cook you up knew lives did some pretty good work. Too bad you didn't try to keep below the radar, because that one's the first one we've got you on."

"Then there's the trail you've left us since Detroit," Ochoa added.

For a moment Dean was confused, but then he thought back to the day he and Sam had busted out of the hospital and remembered the two cops that had tracked them. He'd thought they were regular detectives, but apparently Cas' being found on top of the tallest building in Detroit had warranted FBI involvement.

"Huh. So that was you?" he remarked conversationally, and looked over Ochoa judgementally. "You're a lot shorter close up."

"Laugh it up, princess, we've got enough to put you away for a while."

"Even if we ignore the forgery, the identity theft and the possible complicity in the disappearances of Amelia and Claire Novak, we have surveillance footage of you and your partner abducting Novak from Sinai Grace," Rhinebeck told him severely. "We've also got your DNA at the home of Richard and Linda Tobin of Decatur, Illinois. Then there's the similar DNA found at the site of their daughter Nicole's murder across that same town – enough with enough genetic material from Novak to place him at that crime scene too."

"Hell, we could even speculate that he was the one to pull the trigger," Ochoa added.

"And now we've caught you both leaving yet another crime scene," Rhinebeck finished dispassionately. "You don't have a lot of options here, Erica. There's not a jury in the world that won't convict you. You – and your partner, when we find her – are going to prison. That's a fact."

"Well, this sounds like a carrot being dangled at me," Dean said quietly. "Too bad I was never really into vegetables."

"Then how about you sink your teeth into this?" Ochoa growled. "Novak's more or less clean – just deeply disturbed, if the medical records we have on him are anything to go by. From what little he's said, I bet he'd manage the insanity plea, no problem."

"But there's still a lot of circumstantial evidence to sift through," Rhinebeck added. "We could use your help clearing that up. You cooperate – give up your partner and clarify a few things, like what Novak was doing on that rooftop and who you people are – and we'll make sure Novak gets off easy and you ladies get reduced sentences."

"Or don't. Novak's pretty coherent for a crazy person, so I don't know," Ochoa took up. "A jury might still find him mentally competent enough to stand trial. For murder. And while Illinois doesn't have the death penalty, life in prison for someone like him isn't going to be a picnic. Good looking guy like him? Probably won't last two days before he becomes someone's bitch."

Dean hadn't even noticed he'd moved until he felt the hard edge of the cuffs digging into his wrists, stopping him from going for the asshole's throat. Neither of the feds moved or showed any surprise at Dean's outburst, although Ochoa smiled unpleasantly.

"So, for the last time. Here's you're choice," Rhinebeck concluded. "You give us your account of everything that's been going on, sign a confession and tell us where to find your partner. We'll make sure Jimmy goes to a nice rehabilitation center where he can get the care he needs. We'll even see if we can swing you and Jane staying in the same place for the next two decades or so."

"Or you don't, and you're all charged to the full extent of the law."

Rhinebeck slowly slid the paper with the confession to the charges over to Dean. They both looked at Dean expectantly.

'Son of a bitch, I do not need this right now,' Dean thought as he kept his gaze level, ignoring the churning anger in his gut. Out loud, he offered a toneless, "I think I'm gonna ask for my lawyer right about now."

(*)

Sam stared down the barrel of the gun in Miriam's hand; while outwardly calm, his thoughts raced. Being surrounded by a group of armed hunters and secured to a chair weren't exactly good odds, even given some of the crazy escapes he and Dean had made in the past. Although he could already feel the ropes around his wrists loosening, he still needed a little more time if he was going to pull one of those off.

"Bet you didn't expect anyone to call your bluff," Miriam continued on stonily. "Bit of advice, honey, do your research next time. I remember hearing about those kids. My daddy left to bring them home after my cousin died – called the night before he disappeared to say he'd found 'em, and we never heard from him again. So how about before I let Christian test out his ghoul theory, you wise up and answer our questions?"

Sam's eyes flitted to the blue-eyed man and back to Miriam; there was something hard in Christian's gaze which reminded him uncomfortably of Gordon Walker. He probably wouldn't mess around with the smaller tests, but would go straight to the headshot.

"Who are you?" Miriam repeated.

Sam's lips thinned as he tried to come up with a decent lie or cover, thoughts struggling to process all of the information he had been given since waking up. Miriam's story threw him for a bit of a loop, because he certainly didn't remember anyone ever coming to get him or Dean. Maybe he'd just been too young, but even if he hadn't been, he doubted Dad would ever let someone take him and Dean away.

A sudden recollection sprung up of an afternoon the year before Dean's deal came due. While Dean had been trolling for a possible hookup, Ruby had sought Sam out for the first time and dropped a hint about his family. He had spent the next days on the phone and computer learning about how almost every member of his mother's friends and family living in the states bordering Kansas had died. He could still remember most of the names and their relation to his mother – most of them cousins or aunts, and one uncle that had died about ten years after the fire.

There had been a few names of people who he had never managed to track down, family members who were missing and never found. One name in particular had meant something to him thanks to a story Dean told him about the man that paid for Mary Winchester's headstone.

"Jacob Campbell," Sam said cautiously, keeping his eyes on hers. "That was your father?"

Miriam's eyes gleamed again with recognition, and he saw her grip on the gun tighten fractionally. He'd hit another nerve, and he was going to have to act fast before she finally lost patience with him.

"If you know Mary Campbell and her boys, you know who their father was, too," he said quickly, all while keeping his voice measured. "Which means you know why I don't exactly want to advertise that particular name just yet."

"Fair enough," Miriam granted. "Makes sense why you'd lie about bein' one of us, at least."

"I wasn't lying," Sam replied.

"Girl, if you don't start –"

"You met Mary, right?" Sam prompted. He didn't wait for her to answer, before plodding on, "And if you've been watching us since we started the job, you probably got a look at all of us. Notice anything about my partner? Maybe in the looks department?"

There was a stretch where he could practically see the calculations going in her head, and then Miriam's eyes flashed in understanding. The gun lowered half an inch. "That's not possible."

Mark and Christian raised their eyebrows at each other in silently communicated confusion.

"A few weeks ago, I wouldn't have thought so either," Sam said, attempting humour but only succeeding in sounding weary.

"What the hell is she talking about?" Christian demanded, while Mark eyed his mother expectantly.

From the way her jaw was clenched, Sam had a feeling she was thinking very hard and very quickly.

"Things just became a damn sight more complicated, that's what," Miriam finally said. She took her eyes off Sam for a second. "You boys get the others and go around this place to make sure all our wards are in place. I don't want anything getting in here."

"But Mom –"

"You do as I say, boy, or I'll know what for."

Mark grimaced, the chastised look similar to the kind Dean had always worn after a raking over the coals by Dad, but he stalked from the panic room. Christian, however, paused, and said coldly, "You know as well as I do that the wards are fine."

"And you know as well as I do that when I aim to talk privately, I don't want you around hovering like an overgrown bat," Miriam pointed out, clearly not bothered by Christian's attitude. "I'll tell you what's going on when I know for sure – until then, go make sure everything's closed up tighter than a frog's ass."

Christian's eyes snapped to Sam, and he looked like he wanted to open his mouth again, but another warning glare from Miriam prompted him to leave.

She turned back to Sam.

"If what I think you're telling me is so, your survival instincts aren't as good as they say," she told him bluntly. "Me and mine happen to be of the opinion that those two boys have a lot to answer for." The look she gave him was laced with meaning. "Most of that answering involves being shot down like dogs. You haven't given me much reason to rethink that strategy."

"Maybe I'm hoping you got the same lesson growing up that I did," Sam suggested.

"That lesson being?"

"That blood means something. I heard enough about my grandfather to know he thought family was important, maybe your father believed that too." He narrowed his eyes in challenge. "Of course, if it's not, then how about this? You kill me, you're a step closer to restarting to Apocalypse."

Miriam's eyes narrowed. "That a threat?"

"More like a certainty."

They faced each other defiantly for a moment, and then Miriam nodded slowly.

"I'll tell you what," Miriam said to him, completely lowering the gun. "You're going to tell me your story, and then I'll decide what happens to you when you're done."

"Sounds fair enough," Sam agreed, glad for whatever little bit of time he could get. He was almost completely free of the ropes behind him now.

"It was your nursery where she died?" Miriam asked, the question sounding more like a statement. At his nod, she went on, "Then you'd be Sam."

"Yeah," he agreed, slowly, hoping it was an indication that she already half believed him.

"Start at the beginning then, Sam," Miriam ordered him. "The night your momma died."

(*)

The holding area of the East Lansing Sherriff department was small, but not small enough to require using one chamber; thankfully Henricksen's injunction to keep Dean Winchester in a maximum security cell until trial didn't affect Erica Campbell one bit, which was encouraging. Better so than the interview with the two agents, at any rate.

Dean was brought into the back of the building and led to one of the two small cells. Cas was already in the other one, sitting calmly on the cot with his hands folded in his lap and a meditative expression on his face.

'Only Cas,' Dean thought with amused affection as the officers closed and locked his cell door behind him. At his arrival, Cas stood up, expression anxious, and Dean's name obviously on the tip of his tongue.

"Alright there, buddy?" Dean said, circumventing the possibility of Cas giving away his identity. By now using his and Sam's aliases had become second nature to the ex-angel, probably due to the necessity in keeping them safe, but Dean knew just how easy it was to let things slip when you were relieved. He'd had years of practice avoiding it, but Cas not so much.

"Their interrogators are decidedly less effective than those of the Host," Cas told him seriously, and although Dean had a feeling Cas meant the comment to be a throwaway, perhaps even a joke, he didn't smile. The memory of how Heaven had hauled Cas home and replaced him with a soulless automaton that had nearly cost Dean his brother and the world would never stop haunting him.

"Yeah, well, be grateful for that," Dean said heavily. He ignored the thin cot and went to sit in the corner of the cell, which unfortunately stank of something he'd rather not think about, but which happened to be closest to Cas. It would make communicating a little easier. After a second of hesitation, Cas chose a similar spot in his cell. "They still think you're Jimmy, right?"

He kept his voice low.

Although they were separated by a narrow aisle, the cells weren't closed off or soundproof. They would be able to talk to one another, but it would have to be quiet and careful to face away from the surveillance camera in the corner. Dean knew from experience that some cops could read lips. For a wonder, the guard that had locked Dean inside had left the holding area; Dean could just make him out beyond the heavy door that was the only exit from the place.

Cas was nodding.

"They continually asked me about the whereabouts of Amelia and Claire Novak," the ex-angel said, a wrinkle in his brow. "They would not take my explanations about their safety for an answer."

"Cops rarely do," Dean sighed, his suspicions of how Cas's interview with the feds had gone coming true. He didn't begrudge him that, though, considering there hadn't exactly been time for Dean to school him in a story before they had been separated at the museum.

"They kept insisting I tell them your true identity. When I explained doing so would jeopardize your life, they insisted they would be able to protect you."

"And what'd you say?"

"I said that I found it highly unlikely that any human would be able to stand against the forces of Heaven and Hell unless they knew of arcane methods of protection," Cas answered matter-of-factly. Dean did laugh this time, earning a knowing look from his friend. "That is how the law enforcement officials acted as well."

"Yeah, well, speaking about angels and demons is generally a sign of insanity down here."

"It saddens me that so many humans are unwilling to see my Father's world for what it is," Cas remarked quietly.

"If it helps any, them thinking your insane will probably save you from doing hard time if we were sticking around here."

Cas made a noise like he wasn't so sure that was a good thing, but Dean knew better. The detectives' words and threats about what could happen to Cas if he didn't cooperate still rang in his ears. He knew that if they were in a situation where escape was absolutely hopeless, he'd take that deal in a second.

'Cas ending up in prison would be bad enough, but considering how many angels and demons are looking for him? He'd be a sitting duck,' he thought. As it was, they were lucky Balthazar had carved the handy rib-tattoos into Cas, because the cops had taken whatever hex bags and weapons they had on them – along with the curse box – when they were processed at the station.

Something like a light bulb went on in Dean's head.

"Hey, I know how we can get out of here," he announced. "Why don't you call your brother down here? He can zap us out of here no problem."

Cas's face, which had briefly flickered with optimism, turned sober. "I am unable to do so."

"Why? The rib graffiti? Call him on the phone. You still get your one phone call, right?" Dean pointed out. He had used his to send Sam a coded message on one of their burner phones, but he highly doubted Cas had taken advantage of his.

"The medium of communication is not the issue. The idea itself is impossible at this juncture."

"Uh, why?"

"Balthazar is engaged elsewhere and calling for him now could threaten his life."

It was on the tip of Dean's tongue to say, 'so what?', which was a reflex with dealing with angels that weren't Cas, but from the grim set of his friend's face he realized this was something the ex-angel felt strongly about.

"Shit," he managed, rubbing his hand down his face in annoyance. Hand still resting on his chin, he asked, "Is this what you were talking about before? About your brother dream-walking you and things with the other angels going south?"

"Yes," Cas said, voice laced with resignation. "He brought me news that Raphael has killed our brother, Remiel, and stolen his staff."

"I'm going say that's a bad thing?"

"Remiel was the angel tasked with guarding the gates to Purgatory."

"Purgatory," Dean repeated, hours of research into biblical lore coming to the forefront of his mind. "I thought that was made up in, like, the Middle Ages." Off Cas's surprised expression, "What, you think Sam's the only one allowed to remember useless facts?"

"Purgatory is very real," Cas allowed. "It is where all creatures once possessed of a human soul end up. There they atone for their sins and cleanse themselves before Heaven is opened to them."

"So…why's Raphael interested in it?"

"Because he wishes to resurrect Lilith."

The silence rang between them while Dean tried to process that.

"Run that by me again?" he ordered, willing himself to have heard it wrong.

"You know that Raphael wishes to restart the Apocalypse, something he cannot do without the first and last seal. The first seal is a difficult, albeit possible, seal to recreate. The last…" Cas trailed off. "It can only ever be Lilith, and so Raphael is looking for her."

"No, that I kind of figured out for myself – what I want to know is why Lilith would be in Purgatory," Dean clarified. "Sam iced her – shouldn't she be, I dunno, dead?"

"She was killed neither by God or Death," Cas replied placidly. "If she were a regular demon, her essence would be scattered to the universe, as Gabriel's was."

"I'm sensing a 'but' here."

"But Lilith was the first demon," Cas went on.

"Yeah, yeah, human soul that Lucifer twisted," Dean said dismissively. "I get that that makes her a bit of a special snowflake, but enough to merit a Get Out of Death Free Card?"

"Lilith was not simply the first demon. She was the first angel to fall to humanity after Lucifer refused to bow to humanity," Cas explained gravely.

"Wait…what?"

"I was still young at the time, but I remember the event clearly," Cas went on. "Leliel was one of the most devoted of God's angels, so much so that she was charged with the protection of human women and their offspring during childbirth. But she was also devoted to Lucifer above all our siblings. When discord broke out between him and God, she sought to mend it."

"By becoming human?" Dean asked incredulously. "How'd she figure that was going to work?"

Cas was looking off into the middle distance, seeing or relieving something Dean could only guess at. "I believe she thought that by showing Lucifer the good and potential in humanity that she could help him change his mind. That they were worth her sacrifice of tearing out her grace and becoming like them."

"He obviously didn't see it that way."

"No. In Lucifer's eyes – in the eyes of many – rejecting the grace God gave her was tantamount to blasphemy. Even more so was the fact that she had convinced others to follow after her. Other angels who loved Lucifer and who wished to show him the error of his ways by example."

"So him torturing her until she turned into that demon bitch wasn't just him telling your Dad to get bent, huh?"

"No," Cas agreed sadly. "It was anger at what he believed to be the direst betrayal. When he finished with her, he did the same to the others – Belial, Marchosias, Alastair –"

"Hold on – Alastair?" Dean hissed, physically recoiling. "That bastard was an angel?"

"The creature that tortured you in Hell had not been an angel for millenia," Cas told him quietly. "But yes. Until Lucifer shattered him and remade him as a demon, he was one of the Host. An angel of healing, if you would believe. It has been so long, though, that even I often forget."

Dean was quiet as he tried to come to terms with this new knowledge, while Cas went on, "Once Lucifer's crimes were discovered, his disobedience to God's will could no longer be tolerated. Conflict arose, angels took sides – some believed as Lucifer did. Those that supported him fled Heaven for Hell, where the very environment poisoned and ate away their grace. Azazel was one of those. There was a terrible battle, and it ended only when God finally gave the order to lock Lucifer away and imprison his followers in the Pit. Michael obeyed, but by then the damage had been done. The Host was depleted and those demons that escaped Heaven's might began to tempt humans to sin."

Dean felt like his head was spinning, but he forced himself to focus. "And all this goes back to Lilith being in Purgatory how?"

"She is important both to the forces of Heaven and Hell. As such, her essence could not be left to the universe lest either side attempt to acquire it. Purgatory is neutral ground, and until now has been guarded by Remiel – the only angel neutral to the plight of either side."

"And Raphael killed Remiel," Dean reiterated, a sinking feeling in his stomach at the full implications. "He's trying to open the door and get her out. Shit – he really wasn't kidding about restarting Judgement Day, was he?"

"Raphael does not know how to kid," Cas agreed. "He has taken Remiel's staff, which has the power to open the gates."

"So he could already have her?" Dean asked, alarmed.

"No. There are certain rituals which must be performed and materials which he will find difficult to acquire," Cas assured him. "There is time – which is why Balthazar is unable to aid us at this juncture. He is – I believe the term is 'undercover'?"

"With Raphael?" Dean guessed.

"Yes. No doubt Raphael does not yet trust him, and if I were to contact him now he would be expected to kill me or hand me over to the Host," Cas affirmed. "Neither option is particularly convenient at the moment."

"Damn it, Cas, you've got Winchester luck," Dean said, shaking his head in disbelief. He let his head fall back against the bars of the cage. "Well, add it to the list of things we've got to deal with."

"No," the ex-angel said firmly. "You and Sam already have too much to worry over."

"Dude, it's not debatable," Dean told him pointedly. "You brought my family back, I'm gonna help you deal with yours." He grinned. "Besides, it's not completely unselfish. I'm really not down for the end of the world to start up again."

"But if you're caught –"

"Speaking of the end of the world – how are we going to get Adam out of the Cage without letting your dick brothers out as well?" Dean ploughed on, not wanting to hear Cas's doom-and-gloom speech.

"I do not know," Cas answered honestly. "It has never been done before I ensured Sam's return. Even if another archangel were to make the same sacrifice, the consequences of that action are far from favorable."

"Hey, being human doesn't suck that bad," Dean said lightly, but when Cas refused to meet his gaze, suspicion formed. "That is the consequence we're talking about, right Cas?"

"Perhaps, like all cages, Lucifer's has a weak spot," Cas suggested, ignoring Dean's question and shifting away. He stood up, beginning to pace. "You still retain the Horsemen's rings. We might be able to modify the magic to help us."

"You already know as well as I do what Death had to say to that," Dean muttered darkly. "And nice try changing the subject, man – what consequences?"

"Now is not the time," Cas replied dismissively. "We should be concentrating on finding a way out of here."

"We've got time," Dean retorted. "The cops didn't find Sam, which means he's probably working on a way to get us out right now – even if he wasn't, it's not like this is the first time I've been in trouble with the law. Right now, we're waiting for the opportune moment. So you can spill whatever it is you're keeping from me."

"I am keeping nothing from you, I am simply refraining from speaking on the matter as there is nothing we can do about it at present."

"That would be keeping stuff from me."

"We will need to locate the curse box," Cas went on, clearly pretending he couldn't hear Dean."We cannot afford to leave it here."

"Yeah, I somehow doubt Sam's going to want to call Sarah again after his latest fail," Dean finally said, deciding to let Cas's avoidance of the subject go this once. He made a mental note to bug him about it when they weren't sitting in a jail cell facing multiple charges.

"Considering the ritual was interrupted, the spirit may very well have escaped, but we might still gain some use from the box."

"Either way, it makes our job a hell of a lot harder," Dean sighed. "And not just the getting out of here part."

"I thought you said you were planning something."

Dean snorted. "You sound worried there."

"I am not worried. This prison is nothing like that of Heaven."

"Look at you, being all optimistic," Dean teased. "Being human's rubbing off on you."

Cas looked torn between pride and wariness. "That is what my brother says, although I do not think he means it as a compliment the way you do."

"Yeah, well, your brother's a dick," Dean remarked. "I've never even met the guy and I know that."

Cas opened his mouth to say something to that, and whether it was an agreement or a retort, Dean would never know, because Cas's jaw clamped shut and he was suddenly turning to face the exit to the holding area. "What is that?"

Dean was about to reply, when he heard it as well. Outside the door, he could hear a commotion of people yelling orders and a cacophony of telephones ringing. In a police station, that usually meant only one thing.

"Something's happening on the outside," Dean said quietly. "And I have a hunch it probably has to do with our ghost…"

(*)

"…which is what brought us here," Sam finished. He swallowed, mouth dry from all the talking and surveyed Miriam speculatively.

There was a long lull in which she simply looked at him, her gaze scrutinizing where it had been thoughtful during his entire tale. He had taken a risk, confiding in her – the more people who knew the truth about him and Dean the more precarious their position – but Sam had also long since learned that there was no such thing as coincidence. And running into a heretofore forgotten branch of his family when he, Dean and Cas were desperate need of allies couldn't be an accident.

He hadn't told her everything. He had left out the specifics of his relationship with Ruby, and had implied that Adam had just ended up dragged into an undisclosed part of Hell, rather than being trapped in a cage with Michael and Lucifer. Otherwise, he had given her enough truth to hopefully make her think twice about shooting him.

Granted, his wrists were long since free and if she tried anything he could probably disarm her first, but that left more of a complication once he got out of the panic room.

"Well, you've either done a hell of a lot of research to come up with a story like that, or you've had some shit luck," Miriam finally said.

Sam nodded, wordless and expectant. She had yet to pronounce any kind of judgement on him, and he needed to know what his next move would be.

"That doesn't mean I trust you any more than before," she warned him. "Shit luck or not, you've made some real bad decision. Boy," she added as an afterthought with a wry twist to her mouth. "You're gonna have to square that at some point. But it's like you say – killing you would just be handing you to the angels, which we definitely don't want."

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. It was one less thing to worry about. Then he sobered up. "What about Dean and Cas? You said they were safe."

"Jail's safe," Miriam said bluntly.

Sam gaped. "They're in jail?"

"We needed them out of our hair for a bit while we talked to you," Miriam shrugged.

"And just approaching us and, I don't know, asking, was too much trouble?"

"Exactly what do you and your brother think of folk coming up to you out of nowhere and demanding who you are?"

Sam opened his mouth to argue, and then made a face in acknowledgement. Generally, the only people who did that were law enforcement, who the Winchesters liked to avoid like the plague. "Point."

"And you can stop pretending you didn't slip those ropes fifteen minutes ago," Miriam told him pointedly. "I wasn't born yesterday."

Sam blinked in surprise as Miriam chuckled mirthlessly and brought his wrists forward, massaging the feeling back into them.

"I've got pictures of you, somewhere," Miriam said suddenly, her face softening a little. "Mary sent them out after you were born. Invited me down to the baptism…" She shook her head, rueful. "There was a vampire nest down in Idaho that weekend, though, so I never made it…"

Sam allowed her a moment to reminisce, and then asked, "Are you going to tell them?"

"Hm?"

"The others. Christian and Mark, and whoever. Are you going to tell them who I am?"

"'Course I am. I don't keep secrets from my people," Miriam said firmly. "Only reason I didn't want any of them around while we talked is I know how they all react. Christian shoots first and asks questions later, Gwen thinks too much with her heart and Mark, bless his soul takes his cues from everyone else. As for Arlene…well."

Sam raised his eyebrows at the last name, because…no way could it be the same person.

"I'll tell 'em everything when it's relevant," Miriam went on. "Right now, there's this little matter of the ghost problem we've got to see to."

"About that," Sam started. "If this is your territory, why didn't you deal with that thing before all those people died?"

"Ingham County's a big enough place that patrolling it means we're not always here," she replied coolly. "It doesn't help we've been cleaning up a certain someone's mess over the past weeks. Just because the Apocalypse didn't happen don't mean all's right with the world."

Sam only just stopped himself from making a defensive retort.

"Speaking of our ghost – your friend thinks it's a sessho-seki?"

Another thing that Sam had carefully avoided was explaining too much about Castiel. He had told Miriam about the angels hauling Dean out of Hell, but he hadn't mentioned that Castiel had been the one to do it or that he was now human. Family or not, most hunters didn't adapt too easily to working with supernatural creatures, former angels or not.

"Yeah. And that it's extra powerful because it was made from a keystone."

"To get into Hell," Miriam said slowly, like she was still trying to understand.

"It might be," Sam granted. Then, more pointedly, "We never got the chance to find out."

"We saw a bunch of strangers edge onto a hunt and try to box up a spirit instead of exorcizing it," Miriam told him unapologetically. "For all we knew, you could have been looking to make some money."

Sam blinked. "On a ghost?"

"It's happened before," Miriam told him grimly. "Ran into some prissy British bitch in a graveyard outside Detroit bottling up the ashes of a local serial killer; apparently it's a hot commodity across the pond."

'Bela,' Sam thought with conviction, when there was a low, pounding knock on the panic room door.

"Yeah?" Miriam called, and the door slowly swung open to reveal several heavily armed people. Sam recognized Mark and Christian right off the bat, and to his surprise both of the women.

The first was of average height, with shoulder length, dark brown hair and almond shaped brown eyes. She wasn't particularly striking or commanding, but still Sam's felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Her face was uncannily familiar, not because he had met her before, but because he had seen a similar face before – both in the mirror every morning over the past month and in the frayed pictures of his mother that Dean kept with him at all times.

The second –

"You!" he gaped, staring at the pretty redhead that had been flirting with Cas earlier. She had one hand on Christian's arm, like she was steadying him. In return, he seemed to be unconsciously shielding her. It reminded Sam of the way he used to move around Jessica. "I thought you were a waitress."

"Ruthie's a family friend. We saved her from a poltergeist a few years back," the woman said cheerily. "When I said I needed to keep an eye on some people, she found me an extra apron. Real helpful of her."

"But…that whole bit with Cas…?"

"Your friend's a real cutie – a bit dim though," she told him seriously. "And sticks out like a sore thumb, which is why I marked him. I hope he won't take it personal, though." She bumped Christian's shoulder affectionately. "I'm an honest woman, after all."

"Apparently not," Sam bit out.

"We done with the slumber party in here?" Christian interrupted.

"You don't watch your mouth, I'll sew it shut," Miriam replied calmly.

"But I like his mouth," the redhead said, mouth curving up into a smile.

"You didn't grow up with it," the other young woman retorted in what Sam recognized as a longstanding argument.

"You've met Arlene. Christian's her husband," Miriam introduced, nodding at the redhead, "And that's his sister, Gwen." She gestured to Sam. "Folks, this is your cousin, Sam."

He startled at the frank use of his name, and noticed Gwen frown as well, like she was thinking about something. It looked too close to Dean's 'I'm figuring something out' face for Sam to be comfortable.

"Sam," Christian repeated, identical look on his face. Sam saw the exact moment when he got it, and he looked at Miriam with anger burning in his eyes. "You mean Winchester, don't you?"

The others recoiled at the name, which was a sign of just how bad it had gotten since the last time Sam had encountered hunters.

"That's not possible," Mark said, echoing his mother's earlier sentiments.

"How long have you been a part of this family?" Miriam wondered out loud, her amusement more of a warning. "Never mind the whys and wherefores of how it happened, the point is it's obviously possible. Now you're all going to sit tight and hold off on any stupid ideas about shooting Sam here until you've heard the full story."

She spoke with the same hard-as-nails quality in her voice that Dad had always used. Sam doubted Miriam Campbell, raised a hunter, had ever been in the army, but she certainly acted like she had.

"Oh, I'm all for it," Christian said snidely. "Doesn't mean I'm not going to shoot him at the end of it though."

Arlene kicked him surreptitiously, although even she was looking at Sam with barely contained dislike now.

"Can we maybe put the whole committing murder issue on the backburner for a bit?" Gwen spoke up, sounding annoyed. "That's not why we came back here." She met Miriam's gaze. "Calls are coming in over the scanner left and right. People are being gutted in the streets, but no one can give any description of who's doing it."

"Looks like your ghost is out of its prison," Miriam said grimly, frowning at Sam.

"Bang up job," Christian said.

"Hey, you were the ones who called the cops," Sam shot back.

"It doesn't matter how it happened, what matters is fixing it," Miriam stated. "Right now we've got a spirit on the loose and no remains to bury."

"And tricking a ghost into vanquishing itself it hard enough on a normal day, never mind that by now it probably knows it's being hunted," Arlene piped up.

"I repeat – bang up job," Christian growled.

"There are other ways to stop a ghost," Miriam stated. "My Gran wrote about some in her journal, but I'm sure there are other ways." She met Sam's gaze. "I bet that friend of yours knows a few, too. You said he had a good memory for the supernatural, right?"

"Cas?" Sam asked. "Probably, yeah."

"Which means me might want to get him out of the joint before we go to work," Miriam said decisively. She gestured at the door. "Okay, people, let's go."

She brushed past Sam and followed the others out of the room. Sam made a motion to follow, but was stopped by Mark and Christian putting their hands out to stop him. Christian followed through with a rough shove that send Sam back a few steps.

"What are you – you're just going to leave me?" Sam demanded.

Miriam reached out to smack Christian upside the head. "That's not how you treat a lady."

"He's not a –" Christian began to protest.

"I don't care," Miriam snapped. "Get outta here."

Christian threw one last annoyed look at Sam, and left the room.

"Thanks," Sam said, taking a step forward, but was stopped by a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"That boy might not be the most polite, but he's got a point," she told him firmly. "You're staying here."

"What?"

"If what you say is true, we've got to make double sure you and your brother don't fall into the hands of Heaven or Hell. Like it or not, you're under house arrest until we can figure stuff out," Miriam told him as she turned away and left the room.

Before he could react, she was gone and the panic room door was shut tightly.

"Hey – I can help!" he yelled, banging on the door with a fist.

The slat in the door slipped open, and he saw Miriam's eyes.

"You can sit tight until we get back," she told him firmly. "You might be family, but I still don't trust you."

The metal latch slid shut again and Sam yelled out a curse as he punched at the iron door.

(*)

"Is someone going to tell us what's going on around here?" Dean asked as he and Cas were led from the containment area, both cuffed. The skeleton force of officers at the station were running to and fro, answering phones and gesturing for several hysterical people, some covered in blood, to sit in the waiting area. "'Cause if we're about to watch a re-enactment of that scene from Terminator, I'm telling you right now, I'm so with the killer machines on this one."

"Shut up," Special Agent Ochoa growled. "We've got a situation on our hands right now. If I had my way, you two would be rotting back there until we had time to get to you. But your lawyers insisted on meeting with you now."

'Lawyers,' Dean thought with a frown. Probably the court appointed variety, which meant that Sam was not trying to get him and Cas out. He didn't mind – it meant his brother was probably out trying to do damage control on the pissed off spirit. 'Guess it's time to dust off the old 'great escape' playbook.'

Dean shrugged at Cas, who nodded as though to say he would follow Dean's lead on this, and they remained quiet as Ochoa led them past the interrogation room where Dean had been interviewed before and into a private conference room. He caught snatches of conversation as they walked by, confirming his suspicions about the recently freed ghost.

" – she was fine, and then the next minute she's got her guts spilling out –"

" – we were talking, and then he just –"

" – I've never seen so much blood –"

Ochoa sneered as he gestured for them to enter the room, and Dean shot him a winning smile as he closed the door in the guy's face. He almost missed Henricksen right now, though he was glad for the lack of follow-through these latest cops had. If he and Cas could play nice with the lawyers and make the rest of the feds think they were just run-of-the-mill dirt bag criminals, it would be easier to get out. He didn't exactly want a manhunt on top of everything else.

Turning to the two men already seated in the room, Dean felt himself tense up. The narrow-faced, blue eyed man was eyeing him judgementally, while the shorter blond man seemed unsure of whether he wanted to focus on Dean or Cas; their scrutiny was not what bothered him though. He recognized the subtle tension in their carriage, like they were prepared to spring at the slightest disturbance, and glancing down at their hands he saw the telltale burns and scars that came from fending off knife attacks.

Hunters.

"Well, look at that, Jimmy," Dean said, with confidence he didn't exactly feel. Inside, his thought were whirring a hundred miles a second. What were hunters doing here, looking for him and Cas? Had they been found out? It didn't seem likely, considering the chick make-over, but maybe someone had let something slip. "Looks like we got the butch lawyers. Should really help our case."

The taller man snorted. "Cut the crap. You know as well as I do that we've got no intention of you getting to court."

"Oh yeah?" Dean said, eyes flitting around the room for some kind of weapon. The chair was the most immediate thing that came to mind, and there was a metal siding to the table that if pried off might have a decent edge. He had no idea how the hunters had found him and Cas, but he wasn't about to go easily. "Well, with a winning attitude like that, why would you?"

The taller man smirked, the gesture not reaching his eyes and looked him over. There was something really familiar about him that made Dean's stomach waver. "You'd be Dean then, I take it?"

That comment caused Cas to give a sharp intake of breath, while Dean tensed even more if possible.

"I think you got the wrong case file there, mister," he said slowly, bracing himself in case it came to a fight. Granted, there were likely police watching the exchange to ensure there was no violence, but he'd take their intervention any day. It might just give him and Cas the chance to slip out. "The name's Erica."

"Sure it is," the blond man snorted, exchanging an amused look with the other man. "Well, Erica, the way we see it, you and Jimmy here are up shit creek right now. And we'd like to help you."

"Really," Dean said flatly. He met Cas's gaze, trying to communicate silently that if push came to shove, they were going to have to fight their way out of this one. The barely-there inclination of Cas's chin told him the ex-angel had gotten the message.

"Really. Especially considering all that trouble going on out there's pretty much on you," the blue-eyed man said, nodding at the commotion outside the conference room. "We've already managed to get that curse-box of yours from evidence. And Sam – I mean, Jane –already told us what you were trying to do with it."

Dean froze, mouth going dry. Worry hit him then that the reason Sam hadn't tried to contact him yet wasn't that he was out trying to gank a ghost, but because he'd been caught by some hunters. And if they knew their identities…

"Where is he?" Dean asked, abandoning all pretense.

The blue-eyed man smiled unpleasantly. "He's safe."

"And we should trust you, why?"

I don't particularly care if you trust me or not," He leaned forward, just out of Dean's range. "As a rule, I don't trust other hunters – especially not ones who jumpstarted the damn Apocalypse – but the plan is to get you and your buddy out of here, and so I'm sticking to it. But it doesn't call for you being conscious. In fact, you're welcome to try what you want. You mess with my family, I'll end you whether we're blood or not."

The threat didn't make sense on its own, but there was a challenge and warning in the man's eyes whose particular blend Dean had only ever seen once before in his life: in the gaze of his own grandfather.

"Holy shit, you're a Campbell," Dean uttered in surprise as realization took hold.

(*)

Sam had been pacing around inside the panic room for an hour, trying to figure out the next move. Although the Campbells hadn't seemed inclined to kill him right away, their decision to lock him up to keep him "safe" worried him. He had been on this side of that particular brand of logic before, and it hadn't worked out so well.

'What are you talking about, Sam? I think it worked out splendidly,' a familiar voice murmured in his ear. 'You let me out, didn't you?'

Sam spun around, half-expecting to see Lucifer smiling at him with the same penitent, sympathetic expression he had worn in Sam's dreams for the past year, only to find himself staring at the bare iron door.

'Damn it,' he thought, trying to regulate his breathing which had gotten a little labored.

Whatever delusions he was suffering from, they were getting worse. He pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting his eyes shut and tried to remember if Dean had ever suffered from daylight reminders of his trip down under.

'No, Dean's always come at night,' he contemplated. 'With the exception of those times in the day when he just gets real quiet. Like he's re-living it. But he never mentioned visits.'

Sam wondered, not for the first time, if the demon blood he had ingested had permanently changed his perceptions. True, he was no longer craving the stuff thanks to Cas's deal, but what if it had knocked something loose within his psyche?

He was distracted from that train of thought by the sound of voices and movement outside the panic room. He straightened up, stopping a few paces away from the door; his muscles went taut as he waited for it to open, still not exactly sure what the game plan was.

When he recognized one particular voice, though, he relaxed. 'Dean.'

There was the grating sound of a bolt being retracted and the door opened, revealing Sam's visibly pissed-off brother and their ruffled ex-angel.

"Sam?" Dean's expression softened a little and he strode forward, clasping him roughly by the shoulder that Sam knew was synonymous with 'I'm glad to see you'. While Dean's eyes flicked over him as though looking for any kind of physical damage, he deadpanned, "Great work on surveillance, bitch."

Sam snorted. "How was your visit with the cops, jerk?"

"Like going to Disney World," Dean retorted sarcastically. "It was Henricksen all over, but this time there're two of them."

"The FBI's involved again?" Sam asked as Castiel joined them. "Damn it."

Which meant their disguised bodies had just lost a lot of effectiveness; suddenly Miriam's throwaway comment about getting their faces plastered all over the news made more sense. They were going to have to be extra careful now, Sam knew. Despite the fact that they were now on the cops' radar, their new identities were still a lot safer than their real ones. Dodging the cops was a lot easier than dodging angels, demons and hunters.

'Although,' Sam thought as he frowned at Christian, Gwen and Mark, who were eyeing the Winchesters like they were about to spontaneously combust, 'maybe I'm getting ahead of myself.'

Miriam and Arlene were out of sight, but Sam could hear them moving around and talking somewhere beyond the panic room. Judging by the echoes and the distant sound of static, they were far away – there was probably a corridor or passage out there.

"How'd you get out?" Sam asked his brother.

Dean jerked his head in the direction of Christian and Mark. "These guys are nuts, that's how. They built a bomb in a janitor's closet and then pushed us out a two storey window when it went off."

Sam pursed his lips. "Not exactly subtle."

"We didn't have time for subtle," Mark stated with a shrug.

"Seriously? That's how you treat family?" Dean demanded, shooting a nasty look at Christian. "You people are so off the Christmas list."

"Too bad," Gwen retorted. "Miriam makes a mean turducken, and I'd sell my soul for some of Arlene's apple pie."

Dean's expression seemed to darken at the mention of Arlene, who he had obviously recognized as the waitress from the diner, and didn't even rise to the pie bait for once.

"If you guys are done re-enacting the latest episode of The View, maybe we could actually get back to the job?" Christian sneered. "You kept Rain Man here from speaking his piece about how to get rid of a ghost the whole way –" He jerked his head in Castiel's direction, " – now we brought you to see your partner's okay, so spill."

Dean smirked humourlessly, the expression Sam often saw grace his brother's face when he was trying to make life difficult for someone. "You didn't say the magic word."

Christian probably would have taken a swing at him right then if Castiel hadn't intervened.

"Your respective attempts to intimidate one another is neither useful nor constructive," he told them, the gaze he fixed upon Dean almost chastising before he went on, "If we can pinpoint the general location of the spirit, I can possibly draw it to myself. I am surprised it didn't seek me out immediately after it was released."

"Why would it?" Mark wanted to know.

"I was the one who called it out of its resting place and attempted to place it within the curse box. It would consider me a threat to its existence," Castiel explained. "Likely it took so long to realize it was free that it lost track of me. And in that time, it was distracted by other victims."

"That's…specific," Christian remarked, giving Castiel a distrustful once-over.

"Cas knows his shit," Dean told him shortly, raising an eyebrow questioningly at Sam as though to ask if the Campbells knew about their friend's former nature. Sam inclined his head incrementally to the side to assure him that, no, he hadn't mentioned it, and approval flashed in his brother's eyes.

"What good does bringing the spirit to you do, though? Other than getting shish kebobed?" Gwen wanted to know. "Without any remains to burn, it's not exactly the most solid plan."

"That depends," Sam spoke up, thinking back on a few cases where getting rid of a ghost's remains hadn't been the easiest job; cases like the ghost ship and the spirit of the serial killer sprang to mind. "Maybe we can trap the thing until we can transfer it to the curse box."

"How?"

"The incantation I used before would still be viable," Castiel suggested.

"So what, we're just gonna let it try and gut you and then we all jump out and put a ring of salt around it?" Dean asked, incredulous.

"Not us." Miriam had returned, followed closely by Arlene; Miriam was armed and looked about ready to set out, while Arlene was still casually dressed and wore a disappointed frown. "We." She pointed at Sam and Dean. "You two are staying here."

"Excuse me?" Dean demanded. "Screw the fact that this is a bad idea that could get Cas killed, never mind you people, but if you think for a second I'm gonna let you bench me –!"

"You haven't got much of a choice, kiddo," Miriam cut him off. "You're both still on Heaven's watch list. Your decisions nearly cost us the world once." Sam ignored the startled expression on Dean's face before his eyes flicked to Sam, less approving at this reveal. "Right now, we've got a responsibility to keep you safe above all else."

"From freakin' Casper the vengeful nobody?" Dean spat.

"From the ghost that's now killed at least thirty more people," Miriam snapped. "And you're gonna just accept that until we get back. And then we can come to some better arrangement when we get back."

Something rang false in her tone, which made both Sam and Dean tense up.

Sam knew better than to see Miriam's words as a comfort or some misplaced sense of familiar affection. There was a respect for the blood kinship there – he could sense that – but her tone spoke of duty and the hardness in her eyes of resigning herself to a difficult job.

A suspicion about her true motives began to form at the back of his mind, and he didn't like it.

Neither did Dean, it seemed.

"Yeah, well, you can go screw yourself, lady, 'cause we're leaving – come on Sam. Cas." He took a step away from the center of the panic room, only to have Christian plant himself in front of him. "You ever want kids, I'd get out of my way, McDouchebag."

"Try it, princess," Christian shot back. "If you think I have a problem hitting a fake girl, you've got another thing coming."

Dean was the one to try to make a move this time, and once again stopped by Castiel.

"I will cooperate," the former angel broke in.

Dean froze, gaping at his friend in disbelief. "Dude, what the hell? We are not going along with this!"

"I disagree with the decision to keep you here, however your safety is of utmost importance to me," Castiel told him firmly. "If that is the price in this case, I will pay it. Miriam has said we will revisit the issue when we return."

The subtle tightening around Miriam's eyes didn't sit well with Sam's burgeoning suspicions. Under normal circumstances Dean probably would have noticed too, but his brother was too busy looking at Castiel like he had just kicked him in the gut.

"Cas –"

"If I can help stop the spirit, I must do what I can," Cas went on, voice almost beseeching Dean to trust him. "I did have something to do with its release."

"After they called the cops to interrupt us!" Dean snarled, making another move to come forward.

This time the Campbells didn't bother physically restraining him, instead raising their weapons warningly.

Dean narrowed his eyes at the shotgun Christian was pointing at him. "Go ahead. You'll be the first one I come back for when I get raised."

"I might not be able to kill you, but how fun do you think it'll be to hobble around with a busted kneecap or two?" Christian asked conversationally.

"Try it!"

"Oh, I wouldn't be aiming for you," Christian said unkindly, not taking his eyes from Dean as he trained the gun on Sam. "You probably wouldn't care about you – but I heard this whole mess started because you don't like the idea of your brother getting into scrapes."

Dean went white from rage, but he also stopped trying to leave.

Christian chuckled. "Match."

"If you two are done with the measuring sticks, you mind if we get going?" Gwen broke in, sounding impatient. "We still have to retrace the ghost's path from the museum – which we can't do with the extra security force there."

"Yeah, yeah, keep your panties on, half-pint," Christian grumbled, backing out of the panic room with the others while the Winchesters remained standing. Castiel murmured something apologetic to them as he followed the hunters out, all the while fixing Dean with a gaze Sam couldn't quite decipher, before the door slammed shut.

Dean was already rounding on Sam.

"I hope he's exercising enough free will for your taste," he growled, "because now we're stuck in here and he's out with those lunatics – lunatics who for some reason seem to know a bit more about us than the average hunter does. Wanna explain that, Sammy?"

"I had a gun to my head and had to think fast," Sam said defensively. "At least we're safe for now, they're not going to kill us. That gives us time to work out some kind of plan."

"Right. A plan. In a locked panic room," Dean said, furious. "Meanwhile, Cas is getting ready to go toe-to-toe with a pissed off spirit with nothing but a bag of dicks for support."

"He'll be fine, Dean – remember what I said about easing off the training wheels?" Sam soothed. "Besides, the Campbells are supposed to be first rate hunters –"

"This isn't about fucking training wheels!" Dean hissed. "This is about me not trusting that giant douchebag out there not to get Cas killed if he figures out what he used to be."

"They wouldn't – he's human now anyway," Sam argued, also lowering his voice. Although it wasn't likely anyone could hear more than muffled screaming through the iron and concrete, he didn't intend to take the chance. "Besides, I don't know if you've noticed, but they're working an angle. I don't think killing Cas is part of it."

"Oh yeah? And what is part of it?"

"I'm still working on that," Sam replied. "I'll let you know when I've thought it through a bit more."

"Yeah, well, you've got plenty of freaking time," Dean grumbled, kicking half-heartedly at one of the walls. "I don't see us getting out of here until they let us out. If they let us out."

Which, unfortunately, was something Sam was having misgivings about, too.

(*)

Dean was fully expecting to sit and rot in the panic room with his brother for at least a few hours, and so when he heard the telltale grinding sound of the door being opened not twenty minutes later, he was torn between appreciation and wariness. From his spot in the corner of the room, Sam glanced up as well, frowning in confusion.

The confusion turned to outright shocked amazement when the door was pulled open to reveal not the Campbells, but a more familiar and infinitely more welcome face.

"Sarah?" Sam gasped, crawling to his feet.

"You weren't picking up your phone," Sarah answered wryly.

"How did you find us?" Dean demanded, pushing off the wall. "Scratch that, how did you get in here?"

"That would be me," another familiar voice piped up, hauling the door a little farther open. Donald Stark peered in at the brothers with a smug expression on his face.

"Oh, man, if you weren't a psycho witch married to a homicidal maniac, I could kiss you right now," Dean said seriously, striding out of the panic room as fast as he could; Sam followed suite. The hallway wasn't much better, in terms of bareness, but it was at least more open.

"If it's all the same, I'm not into guys," Don replied easily, eyes doing an appraising once-over of Dean's body. "Even if the packaging says otherwise."

Dean rounded on Sarah, goodwill gone. "You told him?"

Even Sam was staring at Sarah like she had lost her mind.

"He and Maggie already knew you were in different bodies, remember?" Sarah replied, meeting Dean's gaze without any sign of guilt over spilling the secret to a bunch of witches.

"It's actually the only reason Maggie signed off on this little road trip," Don spoke up before Dean could untwist his tongue and berate Sarah for her lack of judgement.

"How 'bout that," Dean croaked. "Where is Mrs. Witch, anyway?"

"She'd love to be here, but she had a business meeting with representatives of the DAR," Don said easily, and then noticed Sam and Dean's tense expressions. "Oh, you're worried about that whole Apocalypse thing." He made a dismissive gesture. "Don't be."

"Yeah, we're gonna need a little more than that," Dean grated as he followed Sarah and Don up the concrete hallway to the ladder leading to the main part of the compound.

"I'm a big-picture man – I know how things would end up if the End of Days were to happen," Don said wryly. "Heaven wins, Mags and I get smote within an inch of our lives. Hell wins, we get to be slaves for about a second longer, and then smote within an inch of our lives. Demon mother-in-law, remember?" He shook his head. "No one's going to hear about you two from us."

"Oh, well, that's good to know," Dean grumbled, somehow feeling less than reassured. He shot Sarah the stink eye and pointed at her. "We're gonna have to sit down and have a little chat some time about talking about family business with the creepy crawlies."

Sarah rolled her eyes.

"Speaking of family," Sam said quietly as they entered the main area, and Dean looked up to see what his brother was staring at.

Arlene was slumped over the nearest desk, hair splayed out in a tangle around her. When Sam made an anxious noise and went to check on her, Sarah put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "She's okay. Just asleep."

"Sarah was specific about not killing any hunters," Don said, sounding slightly irritated by the directive. "She seems to think that would give you two more trouble for some reason."

"Good judgement call there," Sam said shakily, and Dean could sort of sympathize with the spirit of the sentiment; he didn't like the idea of having any more of their family's blood on his hands, directly or indirectly.

Even so…

"These guys are dicks," Dean muttered, grimacing at Arlene's still form.

"You're just pissed because she came on to Cas," Sam told him with the hint of teasing in his words. "Don't know why, seeing as how it's obvious she didn't mean anything by it. She was just trying to investigate all of us."

"Exactly," Dean said angrily. "She could have targeted either of us – but no, she went for the guy who doesn't know any better."

"Dude, she thought we were women."

"Still."

It bothered him, because he had been the one to give in and try to encourage Cas to pursue her. What if the ex-angel had, and the bitch had led him along? What if Cas had actually started to like her and then found out that it was a lie? Dean wasn't sure he could stomach a broken-hearted ex-angel on top of everything else.

He blinked, realizing he had put an excessive amount of thought into the whole ordeal.

'Damn it, this is why relationships are stupid,' he thought with an inner groan and looked away from Arlene – only to meet Sarah's all-too-knowing gaze. 'And we're heading off that conversation right now,' he decided, snapping out loud, "Why are you even here, anyway?"

"What, I don't get any declarations of devotion?" Sarah asked. "Dean, I'm hurt." She returned her attention to Sam, "I thought the spirit you were hunting might have gotten to you, so I asked Maggie and Don to find out if you were still alive."

"Hence why we're here in this lovely establishment," Don said, sweeping his hand around the bare walls. "Which was a pain in the ass to find, by the way."

"How did you even do that?" Sam wanted to know. "I'm pretty sure this place is warded to keep anything supernatural out."

"I got us past those after Don did a blood spell to locate you," Sarah said, unabashed. Once again taking a cue from the looks on Sam and Dean's faces, she added, "I don't know if you've noticed, but you two tend to bleed a lot."

"You think?" Dean deadpanned, looking around the main area of the Campbell's home base. He hadn't seen much of it on his first trip down, having been a little preoccupied with getting to Sam and making sure he was okay. Christian and Mark had been jerks on the way over and insisted on blindfolds like it was some kind of Batcave deal.

Looking at it now he felt a little impressed. It was like Bobby's place and Dad's storage locker together, only better organized.

The walls were corrugated and stacked with a full variety of weapons and supplies that made the Impala's – 'No, the Charger's,' he reminded himself tensely – trunk look like a kid's toy chest. If the situation hadn't been what it was, he would have loved to peruse the arsenal there the same way Sam perused books at a library.

Sarah was still talking.

"…As soon as I found out what you were dealing with, I tried to get a hold of you," Sarah was saying to Sam.

"I was kind of busy being held against my will," Sam told her, actually sounding apologetic.

'The freak,' Dean rolled his eyes at the almost misty look his brother was getting over the notion that Sarah had come looking for him. 'Oh, yeah, Sam is 'definitely' over her. No danger there…'

Out loud, he asked, "So what exactly are we dealing with? Other than a pissed off ghost our idiot family made us accidentally set free?"

"A cursed pissed off ghost that will eventually see the resurrection and release of a particularly powerful nasty?" Don suggested.

The brothers stared at him.

"What?" Sam inquired flatly.

"I found out after I got off the phone with you last time," Sarah spoke up, businesslike. "It wasn't adding up that I couldn't find more on this Kurosawa guy. You know, the guy who made the sculpture? So I called Don."

"I have a few business associates in Tokyo," Don explained to answer the unasked question.

"Except when I told him the guy's name, Don said that he wasn't an artist."

"Oh, the term is debatable. I'm sure some consider him a great artist, just not the kind you're talking about," Don said grimly.

"You're about to tell me he's some kind of pagan vengeance god, aren't you?" Dean groaned.

"Not quite. More like a sociopathic witch with attention deficit disorder that Maggie and I met a few hundred years back. A real piece of work – he targeted everyone without a care, whether it was humans, witches, demons…it didn't matter that we have our own kind of code, he just wanted more power. Some of the most creative disasters in history are on him."

"And then he decided to dabble in sculpting?" Dean asked in disbelief. "Seems kind of low key, if this guy's all that bad."

"Just because someone's a major league asshole doesn't mean they don't still dabble in minor douchebaggery," Don said humourlessly. "The cheap bastard swindled me out of thirty thousand yen back in the '40s."

"You're talking about him like he's not around anymore," Sam remarked, wary.

"He's not," Don agreed. "About six years ago he came across a Trickster who took a dislike to him. From what I've heard, they were both conceited assholes that decided the planet wasn't big enough for the both of them, aired their philosophical differences and Kurosawa ended up taking the express train to the afterlife. I actually thought that was the end of him."

"But?" Sam prompted.

"But then Sarah brought this cursed sculpture of yours to my attention, and the possibility of a ghost being trapped in a keystone to Hell," Don explained and Dean couldn't help sending Sarah another glower for how much she had told the witch. Whether he was supposedly on their side or not, it felt like more and more people were being let in on the secret.

If she noticed, she ignored it. "Don asked to see what I had dug up on where the sculpture had been and all of the unexplained disembowelments associated with it. The exhibit's been in twelve cities over the past six years, as you know, and there have been deaths in all of them. The number was up to seventy-eight the last time I checked."

"That's more than the count we have," Sam frowned.

"I dug a little deeper and looked into some of the more loosely related crimes," Sarah explained. "And it's still only the ones that were in the unsolved crimes system, so there could be dozens more that I haven't found."

"How did no one notice this?" Sam asked. "Even the police aren't that stunned."

"Who's going to connect a bunch of weird murders with a rock sculpture?" Dean queried, and then addressed Don. "So that's it? He stuck some samurai in a rock hundreds of years ago and then decided it would be a good idea to put it in a sculpture? Why?"

"It sounds like an insurance policy, to me," Don said.

"What do you mean?"

"Kurosawa was a crafty bastard," Don said wryly. "If he was anything like me and Maggie, he had a plan for the off chance he lost to the Trickster." He clasped his hands thoughtfully. "See, Kurosawa may have sold his soul to a demon to get his power, but he was a devout worshipper of Izanami."

"Who?"

"The Japanese goddess of death," Sam spoke up.

"Right. She happens to be one of those gods that's open to deals," Don explained. "And hers are pretty straightforward. She likes to exchange souls for souls – a thousand souls for one, to be exact."

"So you think he set up the killing stone to get those souls and somehow…funnel them to the underworld?" Sam asked, frowning. "And once he hits the magic number, he gets out?"

"I think that's exactly what he did."

"That doesn't explain why his puppet ghost has been sticking to people of samurai descent, though," Dean pointed out.

"The guy was a bit of a xenophobic prick," Don allowed. "Likely that was part of the directive Kurosawa left."

"Well, shit," Dean said, not knowing what else to try. "Any way to undo his handiwork?"

"There's no counter spell that I know of," Don said. "But I know the spell he used in the first place. A little bit of tweaking and I could probably summon the ghost from the aether and then trap it again. Seal it back in the stone, as it were."

"What about the curse box?" Sam asked.

Don shook his head. "No, it would have to be its original prison. There's residual energy there that I can use as a kind of transmitter to bring the ghost to it. The stone will become a killing stone again, but I don't see any other options. The longer that thing is out of it prison, the more powerful it becomes and the more people it kills – which means the likelier it is that Kurosawa will be back. Trust me when I say no one wants that."

"But if you put it back in the stone, we can't use it," Sam said quietly.

"There are other keystones out there, Sammy," Dean said, both harsh and apologetic at the same time. "I want to get to Adam too, but if we let this thing stay loose that's more people dead because we screwed up."

Sam graced him with a long, measured look, like he was struggling with his good sense, and the nodded. "Okay."

"Good, that's settled," Dean said, rubbing his hands together in a mock-up of anticipation. He jerked his head towards the still unconscious Arlene. "Better take her with us. Never know when we're going to need some leverage."

(*)

Leverage turned out to be a little useless, in the end, because when they made it to the museum, the Campbells were long gone. They had left a chaotic mess of unconscious guards and a completely ruined security system in their wake too, Sam noticed as he, Dean and Don strode through the entrance way toward the exhibit housing the killing stone. Sarah had remained behind in case Arlene awoke from Don's sleep spell.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Dean said, speaking for the first time since they piled into Don's rather showy Mercedes ("It's still less conspicuous than the Corvette," Don had maintained when Dean shot it a dirty look.). "And it's not just because they're obviously not here anymore."

Sam made a noise of affirmation which turned into one of dismay when they reached the wing of the exhibit that housed the sculpture.

Or what was left of it, at least.

"Damn it," he heard Dean curse at the sight of the completely demolished piece of art.

It was twisted and melted in its frame, shards and whole pieces of black rock littering the floor surrounding it. There was a sharp, burning metallic scent in the air that Sam associated with acid, and parts of the frame still let off smoke. It confirmed his theory that the Campbells had done this, and not the ghost. And considering the spirit had long since been released, there was only one reason that they would have destroyed the piece.

"They were going for the keystone, weren't they?" Sam said dully, inwardly cursing himself. He kicked at the ruins of the sculpture, hating himself for having trusted them just because they were kin.

"You don't know that," Dean said roughly, although from the gleam of angry doubt in his eyes, Sam didn't think his brother was completely convinced. "Cas was with them. He knows how important it was to us, I bet he would have done his best to make sure it was protected. And it's not like it's here, right?"

Don toed some of the rocks. "Nothing here giving off any kind if vibes."

Sam shook his head, feeling disheartened. "I don't see how he could have protected it – not with Miriam calling the shots."

"Hey, you're the one who's always telling me not to underestimate him," Dean insisted. "For a nerdy little angel, he's got some skills."

"And if he didn't manage to?"

"Then we go to him and make sure his insane plan goes off without a hitch," Dean said. "Which means stepping in before those assholes get him killed." He addressed Don. "Hey, what do you need to work that witch GPS of yours?"

"Blood, generally," Don answered, sounding amused.

"As long as it's just that," Dean hedged. "Come on, let's get out of here. We've got a stop to make."

He was already heading back out of the building, a determined set to his shoulders.

"He's kind of obvious, isn't he?" Don chuckled as he and Sam followed Dean, his jovial nature seemingly unaffected by the direness of their situation. Sam was barely given enough time to parse what the witch mean, when Don went on, "On that note, I've got a bone to pick with you."

Sam blinked, wary, because one of the things you didn't want a witch talking about was anything involving bones. "Uh…sure?"

"What are your intentions Sarah?" Don went on, making Sam stumble a little.

"Seriously?" he squeaked, much to his embarrassment.

"Because I haven't seen her drop everything and fly across three state lines since that time her father almost died, which means she thinks a great deal of you," Don went on like he didn't notice Sam's discomfort. "And considering you and your brother are trying to get to Hell, I'm going to take a guess and say long-term relationships aren't in your five-year plan – or your five week plan, whatever."

"Are you – the guy who's actually cheated on his wife and got tracked down by an angry one-night stand – trying to give me dating advice?" Sam asked, trying not to sound as weirded out as he was.

"No, I'm trying to give you life advice," Don told him unsmilingly. "Sarah's like a sister to me. In fact, she reminds me very much of my actual little sister."

"And where's she?" Sam challenged, mildly annoyed at the surreal situation of a witch giving him the protective older brother speech.

"She was raped and murdered by Ottomans before I became a witch."

"Oh," Sam said, wincing. "Sorry."

"Mmhmm," Don made a noise, not taking his attention off of Sam. "Heard of the Black Death?"

"Of course."

"Started out with the guy that did it to her," Don told him coolly. "And his family."

A heavy feeling hit Sam in the gut. "Oh."

"I'll admit, my restraint wasn't great in those first years," Don said quietly. "But just imagine what eight hundred years of practice has done for my creativity?"

"Point taken," Sam ground out.

"Good. Just so we're on the same page," Don said. He stared Sam down for a long moment, and then nodded to himself and quickened his step, taking off in the same direction as Dean. Sam watched the empty space where he had been, and ran a hand through his hair in agitation.

'Whatever happened to falling for the girl next door, hey, Sam?' Lucifer whispered in his ear, and Sam jerked around, only to be confronted with an empty viewing room.

Swallowing, he turned and ran to catch up with the others.

After leaving the museum, the four of them drove to the street corner where Sam and Dean had parked the Charger earlier the day before. With the exception of a parking ticket they would never pay, it hadn't been touched – probably because the Campbells didn't expect Dean and Sam to need it if they were trapped in the compound panic room.

It didn't take long to dig through the trunk for the book of road maps that Dean kept in case their phone GPS failed, or to rifle through the laundry bag for one of Cas's blood encrusted shirts.

Using a generous dollop of holy water to eke out a few fluid drops of blood, Don wandered over to the map of Lansing which the brothers and Sarah had spread out over the hood of the car. They waited as he chanted something in what Sam guessed to be Romanian, and Sam found himself reminded of the ritual Bobby had done to find Lilith the day Dean's deal came due.

He shuddered, disliking the fact that if things went wrong, Castiel might end up the one with shredded guts. He could only imagine what Dean felt about the entire thing.

There was a flare, red flames bursting from the Don's palm, and Don tipped it over the map, sending damp trickles of blood down onto the paper. For a second, Sam expected it to seep right through, but instead the droplets swirled and swerved across the lines in the map representing streets and highways, coming to rest in the lower corner of the map. It was there that the moisture sank into the paper, bleeding into it until it blurred an entire part of the chart.

"That's the college area," Sarah said, leaning over and tapping the red smudge. "Looks like the student center building."

"Makes sense," Sam agreed. "It's the most likely place for there to be a significant Asian population – I mean, lots of international students, right?"

Dean glanced at his watch. "School will be starting up in a few hours. If I were Miriam and them, I'd be setting up a trap right now. They're probably banking on the ghost being drawn there anyway, what with so many tasty targets." He clenched is fists. "I bet they stick Cas right in the middle of it."

"So we get in the middle of it, too," Sam said, a plan already forming in his head.

(*)

It wasn't too difficult to break into the atrium of the student center from the roof, especially considering the maintenance door was hanging off its hinges in a way that told Dean the Campbells had already been through.

He hefted his shotgun, half of him hoping for the chance to take a few shots at Christian, ghost be damned. Sam seemed to recognize the look, because he shook his head and nodded for them to proceed.

"I feel like those teenagers in that movie about the SATs," Don remarked lightly, earning a glare from both the brothers. "Oh, relax, if any of them jump out at us because they hear me talking, I'll twist their heads around so they can look at their own asses."

"Uh, thanks but no thanks," Sam said quietly.

"But feel free to rough them up as much as you can without actually killing them," Dean put in.

Don snorted as they kept going, entering the main section of the atrium. They did go quiet this time, though, nearing a railing for the main staircase. Dean saw that lines of salt and iron had been lined along any of the entrances. Chancing a glance downward, he could make out the familiar shape of Cas in the center of the entrance hall.

The Campbells were nowhere to be seen, but Dean knew better than to think they had just left him there. He could hear the echo of people moving around down below, mixed in with the slow, gravelly sound of Cas's chanting.

He glanced back, and Sam quirked an eyebrow at him. He shook his head. 'Let's give Cas a minute to try to gank the SOB.'

It was sadly the best plan they had just then.

Cas's chanting got louder and louder, and the lights within the entranceway began to flicker and the walls began to shake.

"Incoming," Dean breathed.

The waited with baited breath for the lightshow to stop and for the telltale signs of the ghost dissipating to take over – but the building just began to shake more in earnest. The voices on the main floor grew louder, more panicked, and Dean could hear Cas's words become louder and more intent.

'Things are going south,' Dean realized as cracks began to appear even in the walls up on the top floor.

"New plan," he grunted out loud, leaping out from behind the railing where they had been hiding and barrelling down the stares.

"Dean!" he heard Sam hiss, but ignored it.

Appearing at the head of the stairs, the scene before him made him growl in angry frustration. The salt lines and iron barriers had been strewn aside, probably by the figure that was approaching Cas in the jolting, stilted way that spirits moved. The Campbells were dispersed around the room, dodging tables, garbage bins, plants and other objects that had filled the atrium that the charged spirit was attacking them with.

And for whatever reason, Cas hadn't been armed.

'There's bait and then there's stupidity,' Dean thought angrily as Cas ducked the spirit, whatever angel reflexes remained in his body helping him compensate for the fact he still wasn't at home in his body. 'And Cas isn't stupid.'

Dean didn't hesitate, cocking the gun and firing.

The spirit dissipated and Cas whirled around, staring in surprise as Dean made his way down the stairs. "Alright, Cas?"

"How did you…?" Cas wanted to know, but Dean could make out a brand of relief on his face. Behind him, he could hear Sam and Don appear out of hiding.

"Where's the stone?" Dean barked, using one hand to pump another blast of rock salt into the ghost's face, and the other digging into his coat to hand Cas a weapon

"They have it," Cas panted, unclicking the safety of the gun and pressing himself back to back with Dean. "They were going to destroy it, to keep you from having a way into Hell."

"How'd you manage to keep them from doing it?"

"I may have…let on that a keystone could double as an earthly prison for an angel," Cas answered, the punch of his shoulder hitting Dean's back suggesting he had gotten a shot off on the spirit.

"Would have paid money to hear that," Dean chuckled, knowing that lying wasn't exactly Cas's strong point. "And they believed it?"

"Evidently."

Sam and Don had arrived, the former charging across the room to Miriam, who was still trying to pick herself up off the floor after a ratty looking couch threw her into a wall.

"Give me the stone!" he yelled above the din of swirling rubbish.

"I can't give it to you, Sam," Miriam called back seriously. "I'm sorry about your brother, but givin' you this puts you too close to Hell's clutches for my liking. The world's a lot bigger than just one family."

"And that stone your holding is the difference between life and death for a lot more people than just us," Sam told her. "Give it here, Miriam. We need to put the spirit back inside."

"Think I was born yesterday!?"

"No, I don't," Sam told her seriously. "But we need to stop this ghost before it kills again. And that stone isn't the only keystone out there. If you want to destroy it, go ahead – but make sure the ghost is in there first."

"Don't be stupid!" Dean roared, ducking the intangible cloud of the ghost which he figured might be the weapon it had been using to carve people up. "Just give us the damn stone so we can stop all this!"

He couldn't see Miriam's face, but there was a long moment where he wondered if she was just going to stubbornly try to stick to the plan that obviously wasn't working.

And then Sam was yelling, "Don! Heads up!"

Across the hallway, Dean saw Don suddenly reach up and close his fingers around something, catching it one handed.

'The stone,' Dean realized, a feeling like relief flooding through him as the witch suddenly began to chant in low, fluid tones that echoed despite the chaos going on around them

From where it continued to attack Dean and Cas, the ghost flickered and began to jerk like it was experiencing static.

"Chant faster, Don!" Dean yelled as the ghost rounded on the witch and started for him. He and Cas continued to let off shots of rock salt, dispersing the thing the closer it got to Don.

And then there was the sound like the air being sucked out of a tube, and the ghost gave one last angry groan and disappeared.

Whatever objects were flying through the air dropped, scattering over the cheap industrial linoleum of the floor.

Abruptly, Don's eyes seemed to glow red in the reflected fire, and before everyone's stunned gaze, the rock he held in his hand suddenly turned bright, white hot and melted out of his hand.

"What the hell – ?"

Dean saw one of the Campbells – Mark, he realized – make a move toward the witch, hand reaching for the weapon as he tried to stand.

"Back off!" Dean snapped, hauling out the loaded .45 in his pocket and aiming it in Mark's direction. "He's a family friend."

His cousin growled, but stopped moving forward. "He's some kind of witch!"

"Who just saved your lives," Cas spoke up, sounding out of breath and annoyed. Obviously the failed plan had not impressed him.

"Family friend? I'm touched," Don deadpanned as Mark took a step backward. He looked around the ramshackle atrium, and then gave Dean a sidelong glance. "Although, not touched enough to stick around here. Too many hunters about."

"Noted," Dean said, keeping a careful watch on the rest of the Campbells in case they got any other ideas. "I guess we owe you one."

"Try not to sound so thrilled," Don smirked, offering Dean a mock salute and then Sam a gesture that looked strangely like the two-fingered 'I'm watching you' signal.

And then he was gone.

"Well," Miriam was the one to break the silence, a shaky note in her otherwise commanding tone. "That was an adventure."

Sam and Dean looked at her like she was insane.

"Guess we'd best get back to the compound before the cops show," she went on.

"You've got to be joking me," Dean said blankly.

"Of course not," Miriam snorted. "I said we had planning to do, didn't I? Don't know why you boys couldn't just wait for us to get back."

"Maybe because we know your plans have more to do with us taking up permanent residence in that bunker of yours than anything else," Sam accused.

Miriam's pursed lips confirmed that.

"Which is why we're gonna have to part ways here," Dean went on.

Mark and Christian both made aborted moves to approach them, but Dean brandished his shotgun. "Now, I know this won't kill you, but it'll make me feel a lot better about this whole mess."

"You can try," Christian challenged.

"I could," Dean granted. "Or I can give Don a call and tell him the 'no killing hunters' understanding we had going is out of effect. And he's a lot nearer to your wife right now than we are."

Christian went pale, rage flaring within his eyes. "You son of a –"

"Careful now, that's your family you're talking about too," Dean said smoothly.

"Everyone, just calm down," Miriam ordered. She raised an eyebrow at the Winchesters and Cas. "Put those down. Let's go back home and talk about this like civilized folk."

"Yeah, if that was an invitation, we're gonna have to say 'no'," Dean said roughly. "Maybe next family reunion."

Miriam narrowed her eyes, interpreting his meaning well enough. "We can't just let you go, Dean. You're both too important."

"Oh, I get that," Dean said harshly. "But I'd rather eat a bullet then spend the rest of my life locked up in a panic room. So you can take any responsible feelings you have for this branch of the family and shove 'em up your ass, lady."

"We know who you two are now. It's an awful large loose end to leave," Miriam said coldly.

"What are you gonna do?" Christian challenged. "Shoot us?"

"Oh, don't tempt me," Dean growled. "But no, I ain't that messed up yet."

"You're not going to tell anyone about us," Sam said confidently. "Because as many hunters out there who don't want the restart the Apocalypse by putting a bullet in our brains? I'm sure there are just as many who are insane enough and far gone enough on revenge to not care about that. Which you can't afford."

"Plus, you don't want it to get out that you're related to us," Dean added, smiling unkindly. "So, no, we're not gonna shoot you. We just aim to take our leave, peaceable like."

"We'll come after you," Gwen promised.

"Oh, I'm sure you will," Dean said, as Sam came up behind him and tossed a rolled of rope at Christian. "But I don't think that's today."

(*)

Sam made the executive decision to keep Sarah away from the Campbells when it came to bringing Arlene to join them. He wouldn't put it past them to try to get to him and Dean through her, and so after Dean secured their estranged family to the main staircase, he half carried, half dragged the unconscious woman inside.

"It'll wear off in twenty-four hours," he told Christian as they took their leave.

He was expecting Sarah to have left with Don once relieved of Arlene, but when he, Dean and Cas arrived where the Charger was parked, she was leaning against the back passenger seat, arms folded. Don's car was nowhere to be seen.

"What are you doing?"

"You guys can't go anywhere without getting into trouble," she told them simply. "You might as well have someone along who can dig you out of it again. Especially now that the three of you are wanted criminals." Dean and Sam exchanged surprised looks, and she went on, "I heard it on the radio driving over here. Is that a story I'm actually allowed to hear?"

"It's a long drive," Dean said after a brief hesitation, which Sam interpreted as his implicit permission for Sarah to come along.

"Where are we going?" Sarah asked as Sam went around the back and hauled out one of the extra license plates. They would need it to get out of the city.

"New York," Dean grunted as Castiel climbed into the backseat. Once everyone was inside, he gunned the motor and started off. "It is long past time we had a conversation with Aggie."

"Dean," Castiel spoke up, quiet intention in his tone. From his place in the shotgun, Sam couldn't see his expression, but from the way Dean glanced into the rear-view and then groaned, he supposed it was a reproving look.

"What, now?" Dean wanted to know.

"The longer we wait, the more likely Raphael will track down what he needs to open the door," Cas said.

"Son of a –"

"What's this about?" Sam demanded, trying to meet Dean's gaze. Clearly he had missed a conversation.

"Long story short?" Dean offered. "Raphael killed the guardian of Purgatory so that he can resurrect Lilith, who's apparently VIP enough to merit a room there."

Sam felt like he had been hit in the gut. "Come again?"

"I know, that's what I said," Dean grumbled, checking his mirror and merging into the lane leading to the highway. "I think we can both agree as weird as that is, we don't want it happening again."

"And how do we stop it?" Sam asked.

"Apparently he needs some extra stuff before it opens up, though."

"Like?" Sam prompted.

"Hold up!" Sarah interrupted. "Who is this Lilith person?"

"Lilith's one of the seals to kick off the Apocalypse," Sam explained, turning around to meet Sarah's inquisitive gaze. "There's a longer story than that, but now's not the time. But I will tell you." There must have been enough promise in his voice, because Sarah nodded slowly. He returned his attention to Dean and Cas. "So how do we stop it from happening?"

"A very powerful incantation, first of all; it will be shielded the same way that the War Scrolls were," Castiel explained. "And the blood of one who was blessed by a prophet."

"And how do we find either of those?" Dean grumbled. "We don't have the Witch Location System on us anymore, not that it'd work."

"And most people who actually met any prophets would have died centuries ago," Sarah added, obviously trying to be helpful despite being out of the loop on this matter.

"Not exactly," Sam said, wincing at the thought of having to explain the concept of the Supernatural books and Chuck to Sarah. He was still coming to terms with some of the speculations fans like Becky Rosen had written about himself and Dean –

His thoughts stalled.

"Becky."

Beside him, Dean blinked. "And random award goes to…"

"She's with Chuck, right?" Sam said quickly. "Don't you think, knowing what he knew, he might have tried to protect her any way he could?"

"Who's Becky? And who's Chuck?" Sarah wanted to know.

"Well, they're not together anymore," Dean said, "but you might have a point there." He snorted. "I hope you don't mind taking a grope for the team –"

"Why me? What about the other part of what Raphael needs?" Sam asked, uncomfortable. He really didn't want to be within thirty feet of Becky Rosen if he didn't have to be, female body or not. "Besides, we need to find the incantation –"

"In that case, the solution is obvious," Castiel spoke up. "We will divide our forces in order to lessen our search time. Two of us will track down the whereabouts of the incantation, while the others seek out this woman. Once we have found the first, we can regroup."

There was a short silence as the idea settled a little.

"Cas might have a point," Dean said after a pause, though Sam could see from the wrinkle in his brow that he wasn't exactly pleased with the idea.

Sam could see the benefits, though. "Now that we have to worry about the Campbells trying to track us down and stick us in the proverbial tower, it might be better to go our separate ways," he waffled. "It would at least make it a little harder for them once they inevitably get away from the cops."

"And how do you propose tracking down this incantation, huh? We had enough trouble trying to find the War Scrolls, and I do not want to have to pull another Back to the Future moment," Dean remarked.

"Only one person to try, what with Bobby being AWOL," Sam suggested. "Rufus is still up in Vermont, last time I checked."

"Which is on the way to New York," Dean said brightly. "Okay, here's the plan – Cas and I will grab another car and go find Rufus, see if we can't try to come up with a way to track this incantation. You and Sarah drop in on Becky and get her to safety."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"I don't know, offer to tie her up or something. She'll like that."

"Dean," Sam groaned, unimpressed.

"Hey, I'd totally pull fangirl duty, but she likes you better than me," Dean sniggered, grinning at Sam through the rear view mirror.

"Okay, I know you said you'd tell me everything, but this sounds like it needs an explanation now," Sarah remarked, raising an eyebrow.

"Uh…"

"Are you familiar with the Winchester Gospels?" Cas inquired seriously, and Sam shuddered at the cognomen. Even Dean flinched in the driver's seat.

"Cas," he began, warningly.

"No, I haven't," Sarah said, folding her hands beneath her chin and watching the ex-angel expectantly. "Do tell."

"Hey, how about we find another car?" Sam suggested with false good-humour.

(*)

It was still raining outside when he peaked through the blinds of the motel room, making it hard to discern shapes through the downpour, let alone possible threats. At least they wouldn't have to worry about the Campbells showing up any time soon, even if they had managed to somehow talk their way out of the clutches of law enforcement.

"I hope they forced Christian through a cavity search," Dean commented, earning a deep chuckle from Sam on the other line. "You guys stop for the night?"

"Yeah, we found a place just outside of Pittsburgh," Sam answered. "You?"

"Just made it to Buffalo before the sky decided to re-enact scenes from Noah's Arc," Dean answered, pulling away from the window. Without the sliver of light from the parking lot outside, the motel room was dark. Across the room in the bed closest to the bathroom, Cas was passed out, fully dressed, on his back, making light snoring noises. "How's Sarah?"

"Well, she's got a separate room, but she was actually talking to me again on the drive up, so I guess that's something," his brother said, sounding a mixture of relieved and frustrated.

Dean made an amused sound, shrugging out of his flannel and maneuvering the phone into the cradle of his shoulder.

"Anyway, she said she was going to call Maggie at some point and see if she can't drop into Aggie's club. Maybe she'll be back by the time we're done."

"Witch versus pagan god," Dean mused as he wandered close to Cas's bed. "Is there any point to hoping they'll just finish each other off?"

"Dean, the Starks have been nothing but helpful to us –"

"Yeah, yeah, books and covers and all that," Dean grumbled. "As long as they keep their bodily fluids away from me, we can all sing kumbaya together."

It was a measure of how completely zonked out Cas was that he didn't even react to the sound of Dean's presence or the loudness of his voice.

'Poor son of a bitch,' Dean thought, with a mixture of sympathy and affection. Out loud, he said, "So are you going to email your Number One Fan and let her know you're coming?"

"No," Sam said, quickly, and with an almost audible shudder. "Knowing her, she's going to assemble a mass of groupies that tear me apart when I show up looking the way I do right now. Best to go with the direct approach on that one."

"Sounds like you're learning."

There was a sound, like knocking, across the line and Sam sighed. "That would be Sarah. I promised I'd fill her in on the Lilith situation once we settled in."

"How's she taking the whole Supernatural thing?"

"I haven't gotten that part yet," Sam admitted. "I'm kind of hoping to ease her into it…"

"Look at it this way – if she reads the series, at least you're off the hook for awkward conversations."

"Yeah, thanks but no thanks. I'd rather explain things to her myself than have her read it through Chuck's eyes," Sam deadpanned. "She's going to be freaked out enough when she finds out she's actually in one of the books."

"Well, maybe she'll get off easy and not be described full-frontal," Dean told him before he heard the telltale click that signified he had been hung up on. Grinning to himself despite the absurdity of the situation, he tossed his phone over to his bed and stared down at Cas. "Dude, sometimes I just do not get our lives."

In response Cas snored softly and shifted in his sleep. Dean's facial expression softened into one of his first real smiles in months, feeling affection and protectiveness flood through him at the sight.

'Like Sam,' Dean thought indulgently, reaching down to ruffle Cas's messy hair. It had gotten longer in the month that he had been human, and Dean figured at some point he was going to have to say something or the ex-angel was going to start looking as girly as his brother. When Cas unconsciously moved into the touch, Dean frowned a little. 'And not.'

Not for the first time did he remark on the similarity in his protectiveness over Sam and Cas, as well as the differences. It made sense, considering Sam and Cas were two separate situations – both family, but in different ways. The recent run in with the Campbells had reminded him that blood might be strong, but it didn't necessarily mean it could be trusted.

'What hasn't Cas done for us?' he thought, his fingers still combing slightly through Cas's hair. 'For me?'

It was a moment of rare introspection, the like of which only ever happened when he was alone and didn't have Sam in his back-pocket psychoanalyzing everything.

Cas was family. That had long since been established, but there was something that bothered Dean about that qualification. Cas should by all rights have belonged in the same column as people like Bobby, and Ellen and Jo when they had still been alive. It was what made sense and was how it should have felt.

But while half his self firmly believed that, there was another part of him that liked to sneak up on Dean in the dead of night when he couldn't tamp it down any longer, a part of him that whispered knowingly, 'Not family.'

He shuddered at that thought, but not because it suggested Cas was an enemy or anything. Dean trusted Cas as much as he trusted Sam – probably more, when he got right down to it, because Sam had already done the unthinkable and Dean had meant it outside that hospital in Delaware when he said they would probably never go back to the way things were – but there was a licentious undertone to the thought that he wasn't comfortable with at all.

The same undertone that quietly insisted that the reason he could never sort Cas into the brother or blood kin categories was because the ex-angel didn't belong in either one but somewhere beyond both.

He still hadn't taken his hand from Cas's hair yet. The realization should have bothered him – he should have frozen up, backed away as he came back to himself and shook it off as having gone without sleep for too long –

Instead, he found himself trailing his fingers down the side of Cas's cheek, mapping the bone beneath and curiously noting the feel of stubble against his nails. They came to a rest at the corner of Cas's lips, which were parted in sleep.

Dean stared down at them, detached, not quite sure where he was going with this impromptu exploration, but unwilling to pull back. There was some unspoken question at the back of his mind, but he ignored it in favor of brushing a thumb across Cas's bottom lip, applying just the barest pressure there as he took in the surprising fact that a guy's mouth could be just as soft as a girl's.

He could feel the moisture and warmth of Cas's breath – a tired voice from within was asking him what the hell he was thinking – and then the pad of his thumb grazed the corner of a tooth and Dean jumped at the burst of sensation that rippled through his body at that.

Which is exactly the point when Cas decided to open his eyes.

For a long moment, he stared up at Dean – bleary eyed, confused, tense – before speaking.

"Dean?" he asked, his voice low from sleep. The movement of his lips and the sound sent vibrations through the hand that Dean had yet to remove.

"Cas," Dean answered simply, because he couldn't seem to think of anything else to say or how to explain.

Neither of them moved after that for a long spell, and Dean found himself trying to gage the look in his friend's eyes. Confused, expectant, curious and…the hint of something else…

The tip of Cas's tongue dipped out – probably a reflex and not any ingrained reaction, because it was Cas and not some normal guy who would probably be jerking away and demanding what Dean was doing – and caught the very tip of Dean's thumb. The nerves sparked from there, leading a trail up through his hands and arms, settling in the very base of his spine.

Dean shivered.

Cas seemed to be appraising him now, his head somehow managing the usual incredulous tilt despite the fact that he was lying on his back. It was like he was waiting to be told what happening or how to proceed in light of this new development. The absolute trust in his gaze, like he wasn't quite sure what was going on but that he trusted Dean enough not to steer him wrong made Dean's knees buckle and his guts begin to tie into knots.

He didn't even realize he was moving, not until he noticed the slow slide of his thumb and the slackening of Cas's jaw where he cupped it with his fingers. Cas's lips loosened around the digit.

Their eyes never left each other, but Dean was aware of his blood pumping loudly in his ears and Cas's breath coming through his nose in more ragged increments. These were secondary observations, though, because that was Cas's tongue caressing the individual sections of his thumb, and those were his teeth that were softly scraping the skin there –

And holy shit, Cas had just done something that created a sucking pressure around Dean's thumb, and Dean might not have a dick anymore, but it felt like all of his blood had just rushed into that general direction, because the feeling and that image in front of him were hot in a fucking wrong way.

His mouth was dry and he thought he might be shaking, even though it was really, really warm in this room. He was losing feeling in his extremities and now his knees really were buckling.

His thumb slipped from Cas's lips, but Cas had caught his hand in his own as Dean started to lean away, applying a light, insistent pressure to his wrist.

"Dean," he said again, more insistent this time, more gravelly and with a hint of both a command and a plea there.

His eyes were dark, not just from the unlit room or from sleep deprivation, but with something that made Dean feel almost like he was being sized up by a starving man getting ready to tuck in.

The hand around his wrist became more insistent, there was a tug, and Dean was sure that he was leaning – or slowly falling – forward, closer down to Cas and –

Dean threw himself so violently awake that he almost slipped off of the bed, an arm and a leg making painful contact with the grimy motel floor.

'What. The. Hell?' he thought, his heart beating rapidly from adrenaline and something that closely resembled fear but wasn't.

He was shaking, confused for a moment while his mind rebooted itself, and pushed himself off of his stomach to look around. His brain gave him several seconds to process his surroundings – the room looked just as it had when he had hung up the phone with Sam, and across the room Cas was still completely dead to the world – before assaulting him with the backlash of his dream.

He was suddenly painfully aware of the tight, twisted coil of unsatisfied want that encompassed his entire body. His limbs felt like they were on fire, and there was a needy throb in the place below his naval, like fingers grasping desperately for something and catching only air.

He recognized the familiar feeling of arousal, and his hand was already halfway on its way south to deal with the problem before he froze again, remembering he didn't have a dick to jerk off with.

And that whether he had long since figured the girl parts out or not, he couldn't exactly do that with his friend in the same room as him, anyway.

And that he had just been thinking some less than innocent thoughts about said friend.

Said male friend.

Dismayed realization swept over him none-too-gently.

"Fuck, no," he muttered, grabbing one of his pillows and pressing it against his face, willing the wanting pulsing in his body to go away.