Massive thanks to Jenjoremy for beta'ing, and to SandraEngstrom2 and Gredelina1 for all your help hammering out the ideas.

Chapter Seven

A week after Dean woke on Missouri's couch at dawn with Charlie asleep on the other and Ezekiel standing, staring silently out of the window, Dean woke up panting in his own room in the bunker. He rolled over and hid his face in the pillow, groaning.

It had been the same dream that he'd been having since Sam was lost: a movie reel of the memories he'd seen when dream walking in Sam's head. His mind seemed to have decided that was the perfect nightly torture for him, and it delivered every time. One of the hardest parts of it was that he would know when he woke sweaty, breathless and scared, that Sam dreamed of those things often: the worst parts of his life combined with what he thought of as the best. It made him wonder sometimes how Sam handled it. How did he get himself out of bed and make himself look human in time to greet Dean every day? He would never have guessed Sam was going through that at night by the way he acted during the day. He didn't know if he would be able to make it through his days like that without massive amounts of whiskey if it wasn't for the situation he was living in—Sam missing. He had a reason to get out of bed, a reason to stay sober and fighting, researching and clinging to hope that they would fix it, because Sam wasn't there. Did Sam see Metatron and Abaddon as good enough reasons to fight it or was there something else that gave him strength?

Just as soon as he could, Dean would ask him.

He rolled out of bed, catching himself so he didn't sprawl on the floor, and stumbled out to the bathroom. He went through his morning routine on autopilot, his mind already in the library, anticipating the day of reading and researching. When he was working, it was slightly easier, as he felt that he was doing something that might actually help Sam. It was when he was eating, lying down to sleep, doing anything but actively searching for a solution that he struggled the most.

When he was finished brushing his teeth, he rinsed his mouth and wiped his face on a towel and dropped it into the sink. He turned to leave and then paused. Sam would hate that. He bitched about Dean letting the towels sit in the sink or on the floors all the time. He said it made Dean a teenager again. He would scoop them up and carry them off to the laundry room with its anachronistic appliances like a disgruntled housewife picking up after her kids.

Dean smiled, the memory so real to him it was tangible. He almost expected to hear Sam's voice scolding, but he wouldn't, he couldn't, because Sam was missing. The only way he heard Sam's voice now was through the formal intonations of Ezekiel. And that didn't happen so much lately. At first, Ezekiel had helped them in their research, but Dean had sent him away at the end of the first day. Seeing him, hearing him speak, had seemed to be peeling back layers of Dean's sanity and leaving him raw. Now, Ezekiel spent most of his time lurking somewhere else in the bunker—Dean didn't know or particularly care where.

He left the towel in the sink and walked out of the bathroom. On the way past Charlie's bedroom, he slapped the door and called, "Time to get to work, Charlie."

He carried on along without waiting for a response.

When he got to the library, though, Charlie was already there. She sat at the table with her laptop open in front of her and a travel mug of coffee in her hand. She took a large gulp and hissed before lowering it and tapping a few keys and scrolling down again. Dean cleared his throat and she started and turned. "Oh. Hey. There's coffee for you," she said, gesturing to the other side of the table in the place that had become Dean's during their search where a large travel mug sat beside his pad of scrawled and mostly useless notes.

Dean took in the scene and sighed. Charlie's usually ivory skin was dull white and her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She was wearing the same shirt he thought she had been wearing the day before, and her usually bright eyes were shadowed and red.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asked.

"Uhuh. Got a good few hours," she said.

"You need more than a few hours."

She glanced up at him from her screen and seemed to see something in his expression that made her pause for a moment to speak to him properly. "Did you get more than a few hours, Dean?"

"I'm used to living light on sleep," he said.

"So am I. That fact that I didn't spend most of my life hunting evil doesn't mean I always got a sold eight hours of sleep. I had an unhealthy Playstation addiction that meant coffee and I entered a committed relationship." She smiled. It was a forced thing without meaning. "Besides, I had an idea in the night that I had to explore." She took another swig of coffee as if fortifying herself. "Okay. We've been looking at where Sam could be instead of, you know, here, and I realized we're going about it wrong. It doesn't matter where Sam is as much as getting him back here. We looked at it like a treasure hunt—find him and then work from there, right?"

Dean nodded.

"But we ignored the obvious. You."

"Me?"

"You and Sam. You have this connection, this bond. According to Missouri, your soul living and being means Sam's cannot fail, which means there has to be an actual connection somehow, some way for the strength to pass between you both. Right?"

Dean felt something ignite in his chest, right above his heart. It felt like hope. "You think we could use me to track him down?"

"I think it's more than that. I think if we can find him using your bond, you will be able to bring him back to himself. I don't know how, but there has to be a way."

Dean nodded energetically. "Yes. Absolutely. There has to be. Otherwise what is the point of it? What have you found out so far?"

"Not much yet. I've been searching online for information about soul mates, but it's all pretty much dating sites and fanfiction. We'll find it though. We have all these books and all the research the Men of Letters did. We just need to keep looking." She smiled slightly and Dean felt the charge in the air as their hopes were both reenergized.

This was it, Dean was sure. This was how he'd save Sam.

Their confidence took a few knocks over the next couple of days as they failed to find anything that could help them trace Sam. The problem was the sheer wealth of knowledge available to them. There were literally thousands of books to trawl through, files upon files to review, and the whole internet to comb, although the last option seemed to add little more than confusion with theories and fake studies that basically said, "Yes, of course you and your husband are soulmates. It's proven by the fact you both love the music of The Eagles."

Charlie was following a lead from one of the catalogue cards that mentioned a study the Men of Letters had done on the nature of human connections. She had no real certainty this would be the answer, after so many false starts on the way, but she wouldn't stop until they had Sam back. If that meant going into the creepy room that blocked her view of the King of Hell in the dungeon, so be it. She straightened her shoulders and walked into the filing room, searching the shelves for box marked HN:13 where her file should be.

"Hello," a cheery voice called through to her. "Which of my beloved pets is here to visit today?"

Charlie sighed and tried to ignore the voice as she walked around the shelves.

"Hmmm… not Dean's ploddy feet, not Sam's clown shoes flapping. It's girly tippy-toes which means it's Ginger or Kevin. That you, Kev?"

"No," Charlie answered automatically, and then cursed.

"Language, Barbie," Crowley chided. "Think of the children."

Charlie ignored him and returned to her search.

"So," Crowley said expansively, "is Moose back yet?"

Charlie drew a deep breath through her nose, inhaling the dust of the room and sneezing.

"Bless you."

She couldn't help but marvel at the idea of a demon blessing her. She wondered idly if that was some kind of curse. Was she doomed because of an ill-timed sneeze? If she was, Sam and Dean would fix it, she knew. She found the box she needed on the top shelf and wrangled it down, almost smacking herself on the nose. She placed it on the floor and knelt to search for the file she needed.

"I'm guessing by your silence that's a no on the Moose hunt. Shame. Moose is always good for a laugh. I'm still up for that deal if anyone's interested," he said.

"No one is interested," Charlie said firmly.

"Pity for Dean—for you all really. I take it you're fond of Sam and Dean. You must be missing him. Of course, it'll be so much worse when Dean takes a bow, too."

Charlie strode forward and yanked on the shelves that hid the dungeon. She realized her mistake the moment she caught sight of Crowley's smug face. She had reacted exactly as he had hoped she would, giving him the attention he so craved. She thought she could use the situation to her advantage though. Crowley had been around a long time; moreover, he had seen a lot of the world. Maybe he knew something about souls that they didn't.

"Hello, pet," he said with a charming smile.

"What do you know about soul mates?" She was determined not to be dragged into a game with him.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Strange question."

"Answer it," Charlie commanded.

"Well, Plato had an idea. He thought humans started out as some kind of four legged, four armed, one headed creature. To his mind, that pissed off Zeus so he split them down the middle—creating the form you know and love today." He leered "The souls are supposed to spend the rest of time searching for their other half."

Charlie sighed and turned away. She wanted facts that could help, not stories.

"Why do you ask?" Crowley said.

"I've met someone," Charlie said. "Want to know if it's the real thing."

"Probably isn't," Crowley said blithely.

"Thanks anyway," Charlie said sarcastically, turning to leave.

"Wait!" Crowley said quickly, almost desperately.

Charlie stopped.

"This is about Moose and Squirrel, right?"

Charlie turned back to him. "What do you know about them?"

Crowley grinned. "I know everything. I have made watching and studying those pests my job since the day GI Joe stabbed Sam in the back and Dean tottered off to the nearest crossroad. I know what they are and I know what it means."

"Do you know how it works?"

"Yep. You up to make a deal, Ginger? A little information for a little something from you, maybe?"

"My soul?"

"Nah. I'll let you keep that. It's a phone call I want."

Charlie hesitated. This could be the answer they were looking for, but at the same time, she knew she shouldn't do it. Crowley said phone call; Charlie heard backup. Dean might be prepared to grant Crowley freedom for this, and a free pass, but Charlie wasn't, not while there were still other options—like finding the answers themselves.

"No," she said firmly.

"No? You're seriously going to say no to me?" Crowley actually looked a bit stunned.

Charlie crossed her arms over her chest. "I am, because a deal with you can end with nothing but bad. We'll work this out on our own, thanks."

She walked out of the dungeon, slid the shelves back into place and grabbed the file box from the floor. She would tell Dean she'd had trouble finding the files. She would not tell him about her conversation with Crowley, not unless there was no other choice, because there was nothing Dean wouldn't do to save his brother, and though Charlie loved Sam, she wanted a world for him to return to when they got him back, not another apocalypse.

They would find him without deals.

"Okay," Charlie said after a protracted period of silence. "I might have something."

Dean's head snapped up from the book he was reading. "Yeah?"

"Maybe. First off, the Men of Letters are creepy. Did you know they did experiments?"

"Well, they have a lab, so, yeah."

"I don't mean playing mad scientists with lab coats and beakers; I mean human experiments. They studied people and their connections by separating them."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You're saying my ancestors are creepy? That is not a shock. You should have met my grandfather, Samuel. The man was completely insane."

Charlie nodded thoughtfully. "That's the one that was possessed by Azazel?"

"Yes. And then he was resurrected by Crowley. He offered me and Sammy up like a buffet to a prison full of monsters. It was a good time."

Charlie smiled slightly. "You should write an autobiography—now that Chuck's disappeared and all."

"Dead, actually," Dean said. "According to Cas anyway. And no. So, back on point. These experiments?"

"Right. Okay. Back in their heyday, they were looking for information about split souls—soul mates. Apparently, they did some futuristic—for then anyway—tests using brain waves and stuff. They found similarities in the way people they believed were soul mates processed things. When they were done with that kind of test, they moved outside. According to this"—she tapped the file in front of her—"they took 'split souls' into the wilderness and dumped them there miles apart. The theory was that they could use their connection to find each other."

"Did it work?" Dean asked eagerly.

"They only did it a few times before deciding it was inhumane—like they shouldn't have known that before they started. It did work though. The first time, the pair found each other and found their way out. The other two pairs both died. One pair in the wilderness together, and the second… Well, they think one died from a high fall and the other just wasted away."

Dean could relate to that. He hadn't been able to last more than a few days after Jake killed Sam, and when Sam was in the Cage, he had only survived by keeping a promise. He was only coping now as well as he was because he had that flicker of hope that Sam was somehow still alive, just missing.

"How does this connection work?" he asked.

Charlie read down the page. "I don't know much. It says after the wilderness trip the surviving pair were reluctant to talk to them anymore—who could blame them?"

"What do you know?" he asked urgently.

"The 'subjects' reported no knowledge of an actual bond before experimentation began. They just thought they had a good relationship and well-matched personalities. Under stress, though, they said it was like a physical connection that they could sense, almost see. It was like a tether between them that grew more compelling to follow the closer they were to each other—like magnetism."

"And they could see it?"

"Almost—but they could sense it."

Dean closed his eyes for a moment and just breathed. He had something like an answer now, but he needed to figure out how to utilize it. He had never felt or seen anything like a tether to Sam. Sure, sometimes they seemed to know what the other was thinking, and he could read Sam's body language in a way he couldn't anyone else, but actually seeing something… No. That had never happened. Not even at the most stressful times in their lives.

Charlie was chattering on, triumphant at her breakthrough, but Dean was feeling less than excited. It, Sam's freedom, was down to him, and he had no idea where to start.

"What's wrong?" she asked, eventually registering his mood.

"I don't know how to do this, Charlie," he said. "I can't see or sense anything."

Inexplicably, Charlie grinned. "I have a couple ideas about that actually."

"Yeah?"

"Yep. How do you feel about meditation?"

"I feel like getting Zen would be quite the feat considering my current mental state."

Charlie bit her lip. "Okay, then how do you feel about mind altering substances?"

"You want me to get high?"

"Maybe. I thought we'd start with alcohol though. If we can get you drunk enough, it might open you up a little."

Dean attempted a cocky grin. "Finally. Something I can do."

"Awesome. I need to make a couple calls in case the liquor doesn't work. You get to drinking, and I'll be right back." She rose from her seat and made for the living quarters of the bunker.

Dean went to the cabinet that held their whiskey and picked up a crystal decanter. He filled a glass with a healthy measure and took a deep drink that burned his throat. He gasped. "Here we go."

Charlie knew Dean could handle his drink, she both seen and read about it, so she wasn't surprised when Dean burned through most of the decanter before he started to show the effects of the alcohol. She kept him company with a couple of beers and tried to keep positive as he reported no change to his perception. What did change was his mood. The longer it went on and the more he drank, the more melancholy he became. His posture became slumped and his eyes reddened.

They were sitting in quiet companionship when Ezekiel came into the room. He had largely remained absent from their search after Dean bellowed at him to leave them alone on the first day. Though Charlie wished they had his angelic brain to assist them, she understood Dean's feelings.

"What is happening?" he asked.

"It's a party," Dean slurred. "We're celebrating the life and times of Sam."

Charlie winced at the defeat in his tone. She had thought having some semblance of a plan would help him.

"This is going to help no one, least of all Sam." Ezekiel said, gesturing at empty tumbler in Dean's hand.

Dean lurched to his feet. "Like you care. You're probably thrilled he's disappeared. No sharing time anymore, am I right?"

"No," Ezekiel said stiffly. "I only ever wanted to help. I wish I knew how you could find Sam."

Dean advanced on him. "Then why aren't you doing more? You're an angel, dammit! You must be able to do something."

"I have done everything I can think of to do to find Sam. You sent me away from the research."

"Get out of him!" Dean shouted. "Give me my brother back."

"I cannot," Ezekiel said.

"Why not?"

"Because without my presence in this body, it will waste away."

Dean lurched forward at him, stumbling slightly. "He's not dead!" he bellowed.

"So it has been said, but this body, without me, is."

Dean swung a punch through the air and Ezekiel stepped back. Without impact to stop him, Dean spun on his heel and lost his balance. He fell to the floor, landing hard on his knees.

Charlie rushed toward him and knelt at his side. "Dean," she said sadly.

"I can't do this," he moaned.

Ezekiel cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Charlie. "Take care of him." He strode from the room, leaving Charlie with her devastated friend.

"He's not dead," Dean said.

"No, he isn't," she agreed. "He's just missing and we're going to find him."

Dean bowed his head. "How? I can't find him, Charlie. I am looking so hard, trying to sense him like it said I could, but there's nothing."

"I don't know yet," Charlie said. "We will though. Come on. Up you get."

She stood and helped him to unsteady feet; together, they got him back onto his chair.

"I don't think alcohol is the answer after all," she said regretfully. "Do you want to sleep it off?"

Dean shook his head jerkily. "Nightmares."

"Okay," she said sympathetically. "I'll get you some coffee."

She patted his shoulder and made for the kitchen. Halfway there, she heard the knock on the door. "Finally," she muttered.

"Who's that?" Dean asked.

Charlie didn't answer. She hurried up the stairs and unbolted the heavy door. As it swung open and the man was revealed on the threshold, Dean came up behind her, gripping the handrail hard.

"Cas?" he said blearily.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean sighed out a breath and said, "Thank God you're here."

So… Castiel is here at last. I know some of you have been eager for his arrival but it wasn't the right time until now as you will see in the next chapter.

Until next time…

Clowns or Midgets xxx