A/N: So I received some requests for cameos! Gabriel and Ash. Hmm...I do believe some comedic relief is in order, and I do, in fact, miss my Trickster and Dr. Badass. :D

Thanks, fair readers, for the reviews!

*bows*

Take out the stories
They've put into your mind
And brace for the glory
As you stare into the sky, the sky

"Tempest" by Deftones

Dean shifted his cover behind the trash can, his favorite .22 cool and heavy in his hands. The gun had been his father's, mostly used for silver bullets and rock salt, and as he squinted down the barrel at Anna's scarlet head and he nearly pulled the trigger our of habit.

"Shoot first," John Winchester had always said. "Ask questions later."

Sam held his own Glock with similar precision. It had been years (and he was a little soft around the heart) but he was a Winchester, and Winchesters shot things that hurt other things.

They'd originally crawled into the kitchen, Sam automatically reaching for the salt. He'd imagined that Castiel was some sort of ex-hunter, pre-hunter, hunt victim or whatever, and in his well-meaning panic he'd cast Anna as a vengeful ghost. She was certainly pale enough, and the jabbering about "she only knows me" and Dean's rare-and-awkward sympathetic eyes had set his radar on full power.

Dean had told him not to go in there. That was where Anna wanted them to to go, where Castiel thought they were. Sam had frowned and smirked, and punched his older brother's shoulder with a look of who's the love-sick one now? He'd asked, somewhat jokingly, if Dean trusted Castiel as much as he trusted Sam. Dean went the color of a vampire's midnight snack, muttering something about basic survival techniques, and liking girls, and "sonuvabitch, Sammy."

But in truth, he really wanted to trust Cass. He just didn't. Love did funny things, and Holy friggin' Metallica did Cass love Balthazar. It sent a funny tremor through Dean's spine, that fact, and confused him to the bone. It didn't quite match with the man's recent behavior. Maybe Cass just liked kissing his friends (he was kind of a scatterbrain, a social pariah).

But he was a Winchester, so he loaded his gun, grabbed his brother, and prepared for war. He was a Winchester, and Winchesters didn't trust anyone except family.

"Family doesn't end in blood," Sam hissed from his position. He had curled his tall frame behind the trash cans, and his hazel eyes flashed over his shoulder every now and then. "We should trust Castiel. He won't sell us out, right?"

Sam trusted his brother's friend because Sam was a Winchester too, and he loved his brother like a father he never really had. But as he watched the panic and guilt play out a dangerous scene on Dean's face, he tried to put together the pieces of their puzzle of a relationship.

Dean was straight.

Castiel was a stranger.

Sam, like always, was caught in the middle of a lover's quarrel that hadn't even begun. He held his gun in his hand and thought of his own lover–six feet under and burnt to a crisp–and he found himself understanding Dean.

For three years after Sam left, Dean was all alone with things that go bump in the night. He had whiskey, one-night stands, a car that never stopped, and a radio that always played.

But he never had a friend. He never loved. That is, until he apparently met an unassuming guy in a trench-coat with blue eyes and dark hair. Until Sam lost Jess and with it his world, and came back with a vengeance.

Dean didn't want to lose everything again. He didn't want to live alone out of motel rooms and diners, and he sure as Hell didn't want Sam doing the same, Sam knew that. No, he must see something in Castiel. Maybe it was a white picket fence and someone to kiss goodbye in the morning, and goodnight in the evening. Or maybe it was a change, a rebellious "fuck you" to Heaven and Dad and the Winchester curse.

Whatever it was, Sam forgave him for lying to him about Castiel. Because that was what Sam did. He forgave.

"We trust Castiel, Dean. You trust him," He repeated, watching his older brother's face knit in concentration. "Let him handle this, man, it's his life. Whatever that means,"

"Dammit, Sammy! I'm not letting that friggin' bitch take anything else from him. She's ruined everything."

Sam frowned. The rocks of the parking lot dug into his knee, and he watched the red-haired woman try to reach out towards Castiel. He crossed his arms instead, and fixed her with a dark glare. It made Sam smirk. Dude could intimidate.

"What'd she take, Dean? You still haven't even explained Castiel to me yet," he hissed. The wind had picked up, and Sam grew nervous. What if the trashcans blew over? What if their voices carried?

"His...she took his..." Dean dragged a hand over his face, raking in a deep breath as he balanced his gun on his knee for a moment. He turned to face Sam, green eyes dark with an unreadable emotion. "She took his Jess, okay?"

(Sam's heart pitched at her name, and her face gleamed in the metal of the shotgun.)

"Oh," said Sam.

"Yeah," said Dean.

They waited.

...

Dean fidgeted. He wanted desperately to tell his brother everything, from the first night he met Cass, to the incident at the warehouse and Lucifer. But he knew that would only distract him further, and right now, they needed to be sharp like vampire teeth (excusing his cliché).

Anna was holding Cass' hand–for some reason that sent a shock of red across Dean's vision, his finger inching unconsciously close to the trigger of his gun. But he calmed himself quickly, as Cass angled away from the agent. It was too far to see their faces. Too far to make out words, but Dean could pick up the body language.

Anna was talking. Her shoulders were raised, tensed in anticipation.

Cass replied. His whole body was clenched, arms stiff at his side.

Anna answered. She relaxed, arms strewn across her chest in sudden satisfaction as she rocked back on her heels.

Cass did not say anything. He just pressed a hand to his mouth, taking a step back. Dean immediately froze, his veins going cold. Beside him Sam was still as well, obviously sensing the danger.

"What's going on–"

Dean shushed him.

"Jesus, Dean, we gotta go! She's gonna find us any second!" Sam grabbed his shoulder, shook him slightly. His eyes were widened in concern, near comical. "Whatever it is, Castiel can handle it,"

"I'm not leaving him!" Dean snapped suddenly, twisting to stare at Sam. "I'm not gonna leave him like I left Mom or Dad or you, okay?" He turned his head back towards the scene in the parking lot, trying desperately to hide the sting of tears in his eyes. He was Dean friggin' Winchester, goddammit. He killed ghosts. He wasn't going to cry.

Cass was standing all too still, his hand still covering his face. Whatever Anna had said it must have hurt. Balthazar, Dean thought instantly. It must have been about Balthazar. Maybe he's dead. Dean didn't really know why he wished it was that option, that path. Instead, he focused the scope on Anna's pale face, curled in a smile. She flicked her eyes towards the diner's back door–the door they'd only just escaped through.

"Damn," he hissed. Cass had told her. Definitely Balthazar, then. The only problem was, when Anna discovered no Winchesters in the abandoned kitchen (they'd scared off the patrons and employees), she was bound to head for the source–and that was Castiel.

Dean cocked his gun.

"Sammy," he said. "It's go time."

...

Anna opened the door cautiously. It wasn't that she wasn't prepared, because she was. It was that forty-two states listed John and Dean Winchester as wanted criminals, and Sam really couldn't have fallen far from the metaphorical hunter tree.

"I know you're in here, boys," she called, slowly stepping over discarded containers, an overturned vat of french-fry grease. The diner cooks had left in a hurry. "Come on out. Promise not to shoot." She nearly stepped into an over-ripe banana, her heel lodging into the peel before she yanked it out hurriedly. This place was filthy.

She leaned forward, checking under the two thin metal table. A few unopened crates. The freezer. Her Heaven-issued gun poised in front of her. It was completely silver, a special-edition containing bullets with chemicals inside instead of typical ammo. It could, quite literally, kill anything. Somewhat jokingly, Uriel had dubbed it an "Angel's Sword". Anna loved hers.

But right now, there was nothing to shoot with it. The kitchen was dark, completely empty. She growled out a single swear, turning as fast as her heels would let her, and slammed out the door again.

"Castiel, you lied to me!" she screamed, anger roaring red in her veins. Her hands shook as she shoved the Angel's Sword in front of her again, this time pointed directly at Castiel's face. "You fucking lied to me!"

He didn't move, didn't run didn't beg for mercy like Anna had always expected.

He just stared at her.

She reached for the trigger, her head pounding. Flicking hair from her face, she forced her teeth into another predatory grin.

"Heaven no longer requires your assistance, Mr. Novak," she called to him. "I'm so sorry."

Anna's finger twitched. Before she could pull the trigger, however, she felt something cold and heavy smack into her forehead, pain blossoming outwards in a sudden, electric spark.

And then there was nothing.

...

Castiel jerked back as Anna's body suddenly snapped forward, her eyes comically wide and her mouth hanging open. She slammed into the ground, blood pooling on the dirty cement.

"Oh–" Castiel started, before he heard Dean's loud voice from across the lot. He tried to turn and look, but something kept him rooted to the spot, staring blankly at the still form in front of him.

A moment ago, she'd been breathing, smiling, telling him stories about how Balthazar was going to kill Sam and Dean. He felt sick, his stomach roiling, his breath quickened. He could smell metallic blood on his own clothing, and if he looked down he was sure he'd find Anna's life substance scattered across his trench-coat like confetti.

"Oh God," he whispered.

Dean was next to him, wrapping his arms around him, pulling him into a forceful hug. Castiel couldn't see Anna anymore but he could smell her, the vanilla perfume overwhelmed by the sudden scent of death. He wanted out, wanted to get away.

But instead, he leaned into Dean Winchester's embrace, and finally let himself cry.

...