A/Ns: I am SO SORRY I fell off the face of the Earth. Oh boy, did I have a rough month though, guys. It started with a awesome reviewer (who will get a mention in a couple chapters) offering up a new idea for How-Not-To-Kill-Andy(yet) that I sorta-kind-absolutely-okay-I-want-to-see-that latched onto. But, it meant halting ALL writing because I had to have an emergency re-think and planning/strategy/outlining meeting with the muse since I was in the middle of writing the chapter that would need to change if we went that route. So I didn't write for two weeks while I tackled the change in script. Then, a Surprise!Depression boutpopped up out of the blue (my depression comes and goes in a fairly regular/trackable cycle) and it was a *doozy.* The worst I've had in a year at least. It also lasted three times the normal length of one of my normal bouts. And then, right when I thought, 'hey, I think I'm coming out of it!' I fell down my entire flight of stairs trying to leave for work one morning. I banged myself up pretty good and hyperextended two fingers on my dominant hand. I don't know if many of you recall, but my work is entirely computer based. And the program I use requires *two* hands to operate. -_- So work *suuucked* for a week, not to mention, typing generally requires two hands. So…uh…needless to say, I haven't written in over a month and a half.

And my parents are in town this weekend, so now that the depression has cleared up and I have two hands again, I have absolutely no time. I'm definitely speed-editing this chapter when I should have been in bed about two hours ago. I have to pick my parents up from their hotel in, like, six hours D:

And *that* is why this chapter is so horrendously late. I also didn't want to post a note telling you all what was going on, because as a reader I always hated the disappointment that came from getting a chapter update and only having a note. However, if I'm alone in this and you guys would prefer I leave a note update, let me know and I'll leave one in the future if something like this ever happens again.

Quality Warning: This chapter has had just one read-through. Barely even an edit. Half an edit. So I guarantee there are some typos and errors in it, for which I apologize but I really didn't want to hold it up for another week!

Angel Heirarchy and Titles: Alrighty, in an attempt to stay canonically correct, I went about looking for what Sphere of angel Zachariah is. Show-wise, Zachariah described himself as having six wings. According to the internet, that would make him a Seraphim. But he also has four faces, which would make him a Cherub (canonically a naked, diaper-wearing match-maker in the Supernatural World). However, if we go based on duties instead of descriptions, then Zach would most likely be in a Dominion – they rule over lower angels.

So, long story short (too late), my conclusion is as follows: gaaaaaaaaaaah!

We're clearly making this up as we go, then. So here's what I'm gonna say is canon for this story: we're going with duties. Zachariah is a Dominion, beneath the archangels but with room for a promotion to Principalities. (side note: outside the world of Supernatural, I would guess Angels were born/created into their specific power level and don't move up or down, but the show does seem to move angels around or emphasize promotions and the like. So we'll go with canon, then, and say angels can climb the ladder.) Castiel and his unit will be Powers, since they're described as angels that fight against the forces of evil. Sounds like our Bad-ass Warrior of God, no? :D Power it is!

Enough Author's Notes! Now that we've got that sorted out, let's get to an actual story. Sheesh!

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The Road So Far (This Time Around)

Season 2: Chapter 45

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Sam stepped back from the stolen hospital bed, wiping his hands on one of the pillow cases he'd had to strip from the bed once he realized he'd gotten it covered in blood just setting Angela down on it. Azazel's blood was still all over him. It reeked, in ways that required every ounce of Sam's strength to ignore. The metallic scent was practically palpable, a fact the young Winchester was ignoring with every fiber of his being. But he knew his limit was quickly approaching, and he would need to be out of those clothes and as far from that blood as possible before that point hit.

Angela was stable. Or, well, she was breathing and her heart was beating. The steady blip of the monitors and hum of the ventilator assured as much. She'd been braindead when Cas found her and she was braindead now. The only problem was, Sam didn't actually know if they'd done damage in the two minutes and fourteen seconds it had taken them to get her up the stairs and plugged in. Had a Reaper already come for her soul?

Staring at her unmoving, ashen body, Sam was having a tough time rallying any optimism at all. Or, maybe that was just everything else that had happened tonight. Andy was gone, dead or missing, with no clue where he might be and no yellow-eyed demon to summon him back. They'd lost the entire town of Rivergrove despite knowing everything that was supposed to happen. They hadn't stood a chance, it turned out. And Dean…

Sam glanced at his brother, sitting in a chair beside Angela's lifeless form, just staring at her. His lips were moving still – had been ever since Cas left them – so the younger Winchester knew he was uttering those desperate, pleading, increasingly-angry prayers for the angel to return. The broken handcuffs, a parting gift from the Rivergrove Sheriff's department, were still locked securely around his damaged, raw wrists. The wounds had stopped bleeding, but they would need to get those bracelets off to clean and wrap the skin.

The younger Winchester thought about saying something. Reassure Dean that Angela Garrett would be fine. Only, he didn't know that. He didn't know if the body lying on that bed was anything more than the empty husk of what had once been a beautiful young woman, kind and earnest enough to offer her body to an angel in need. And they wouldn't know until Cas returned, which was the person Dean really needed to hear would be fine. Would be coming back. But Sam didn't know that either.

The smell of demon blood was getting stronger, and his resolution was getting weaker.

"She'll be alright," he said aloud, because he felt like he needed to say something. They would need to clean and patch the burn wounds scattered across her body from what Sam could only assume was the trap Azazel mentioned. Those would be very susceptible to infection – burns always were – so they'd have to make sure they kept them clean until Cas returned and could heal her. The angel hadn't done so before she'd left, which seemed out of character for the organized, consistent, and conscientious Castiel. Of course, given the state she'd been in after battling Azazel, she probably didn't have it in her. Sam tried not to think about it, or about the fear that was still in Dean's eyes, buried deeper and deeper beneath mounting anger.

Glancing at his brother again, Sam decided silence was doing Dean no favors. "We'll have to clean her wounds. At least until Cas can come back and heal them."

"If he comes back," Dean muttered darkly, eyes still locked on the still form of Angela Garrett.

Sam closed his eyes and held back a sigh. Held back his own urge to be angry, to be hopeless and pessimistic. He really needed to change clothes. To shower off the blood, the failure, the entire night. To be free of the smell in all its pervasive, taunting memories and need. He wanted a coffee so he could see straight long enough to patch Angela up. Then they needed to be out there, finding Andy, who was alone and probably scared out of his mind, if he was even alive to begin with. And, though all of that, what Sam really needed was his brother, present, on board, with him.

But it was pretty clear that Dean needed him more right now. Sam could see it; his brother was afraid. The younger Winchester could count on one hand the things that made Dean scared, and so far, half that list had to do with his angel being beyond reach.

"Tell me about Uriel." Sam stowed his own tiredness, his aching body, and growing desperation to get clean. He wouldn't last much longer, but he could last long enough for his brother. He would just breathe through his mouth and ignore the sticky wetness clinging to his chest like it wasn't there.

Dean didn't answer immediately, still brooding. Maybe still praying. But eventually he shifted, not out of physical discomfort, and re-settled in the chair. His eyes never left Angela's face. "He was an angel. Is an angel. Real dick. Worked with Cas on some shit assignments…. He was no good, Sammy."

Green eyes finally glanced over and Sam found himself reevaluating just how much trouble Castiel might be in. His brother wasn't just scared, he was wrecked. It was hardly the time to think about it, but the younger Winchester found himself thinking about the relationship between his brother and the angel once more. Even after Dad's death, he'd never seen Dean quite like this. There was so much he didn't know about this brother from 2016. Mainly personal things, given the man never talked about himself so much as he did events to come. But the level of raw fear the older Winchester was exhibiting behind tired, ringed eyes, was reserved for family only. And, maybe, something more. Sam didn't know, he'd never seen that in his brother before, so he wouldn't know what it looked like, but he did wonder. He was pretty sure Bobby wondered too.

"He sided with Lucifer. Helped the seals fall, tried to convert other angels to his side. When he couldn't, he killed 'em." The older hunter reached up, rubbing that now familiar circular pattern across a sternum that felt so damn cold in comparison to the supernova it had been for the past year. "He framed demons for the murders. Almost got me killed."

Dean could still feel the pain of the beating he'd taken at that bastard's indirect hands. The soul-wrenching terror of facing Alistair again and losing. It was vivid enough, still after all this time, that Dean wasn't sure where the pain of Cas draining his chest ended and the approaching panic attack of Alistair began.

Sam was watching him closely – he could feel those puppy dog eyes locked on his face – but Dean was back to staring at the empty vessel. A vessel Cas should be in, damnit. Not upstairs, with friggin' Uriel. Trusting Uriel. Up where they could do nothing to help him when it all went to hell. And it was going to. Because Time wanted to stay the same, and the same meant Uriel trying to kill his best friend and almost friggin' succeeding. God damn it, Dean never should have let him go back up in the first place. He should be down here, where he belonged. Cas was a Winchester, he should be with them.

"When Cas confronted him…" Dean tried to keep talking, to keep his mind off what was happening to his best friend right now. What could be happening. And they couldn't even find out if it was happening. So, surprise, surprise, talking about last time, about what could be going down right now, was not helping. At all. Dean shifted awkwardly in the chair. "He was the first brother Cas had to kill."

He should have said something sooner. He should have sent Cas back up there months ago with a god damn list of who he could and couldn't trust. Why hadn't Dean said anything?

Because Uriel hadn't even been on that list, let alone his mind.

Dean honestly hadn't remembered the angel as an upcoming threat. They'd faced so many opponents, had so many enemies, that Uriel didn't even make the top twenty. It didn't help that Dean had been out of commission for the actual confrontation; he hadn't learned until later that Uriel was the one responsible for the worst beating of his life. And not because of the physical damage but the emotional wounds Alistair had ripped back open with glee. He'd always been so good at that.

Dean should have asked the last time Cas was here. Why hadn't he asked? Hey, which brother did you tell, exactly? Because there were so many bad answers. Too many to count. But he hadn't. He hadn't wanted to know, because he hadn't wanted Cas up there in the first place. Hadn't even wanted to think about Cas up there, alone and largely unprepared for a real fight. Because Cas was too busy thinking of it as his home. But it wasn't. It shouldn't be. His home was with his family, right. Friggin. Here. Dean was never gonna understand why every version of Cas fought so hard for those bastards that didn't want him and definitely didn't deserve him.

He'd also stupidly assumed the brother Castiel mentioned was Hannah, because it had always been Hannah for the last four years. Or Rachel, loathe as Dean was to involve her either, at least she'd always had Cas's best interests at heart. And Cas was always reminding Dean that angels didn't have genders, so it wasn't like Dean had eliminated those options just 'cuz he'd known them in female vessels (he'd even been proud of himself for that totally not-sexist or human-species-based call at the time).

And hell, even if he had knocked Hannah and Rachel off the list, thinking of them strictly as Cas's sisters, then Balthazar was the obvious next choice.

Why, why, would Cas trust Uriel of all people?

Because they had been best buds before the dickwad tried to kill him.

Dean's hand was shaking against his chest. He dropped it, fingers curling into a fist over his thigh. Cas was walking right into a trap. He had no warning and they had no way to reach him. Dean bit down on his tongue hard enough to bruise and glanced sidelong to his brother, still standing at the foot of Angela's bed.

"He'll kill him, Sam." Dean had to force the words out. They got stuck in his throat and didn't want to form. Didn't want to be true. "He'll kill Cas."

Sam was slower to answer, not wanting to immediately discount the knowledge his brother from the future had. Dean would know the events to come better than him, of course, but he was also blinded by his emotion. The older Winchester couldn't see past the possibility of what might happen because it had happened in his world.

"Maybe not," he began slowly, weighing his word choice very carefully. "Cas might be safe. She said the brother she confided in was a friend, someone she trusted." Sam raised a hand to stop his own brother from telling him that was exactly what was about to get her killed. "Uriel most likely wants her alive, Dean. As a friend and brother, but also as a potential ally."

Dean snorted. "Until she doesn't agree to help him raise the damn devil."

But Sam was already shaking his head. "That's years away, isn't it? And we already know Time wants to try and stay the same. Well…Heaven's gates aren't even opened yet, right? You said he framed demons for his kills, but he can't right now. And I'm willing to bet killing an angel in Heaven is a lot riskier than doing it down here."

The man from the future paused, his rebound protest already half formed, mouth hanging open. Slowly, he closed it. That… okay, maybe there was something there. Beneath his sternum, Dean's heart began to beat in earnest for the first time in what felt like hours.

"Cas is safe for now," Sam reasoned, putting as much confidence as he could into the statement. Probably more than he actually felt, but his brother didn't need to know that. Right now, Dean needed someone to tell him it was going to be alright, and Sam could do that for him with logic and well-acted confidence. He just hoped it didn't turn out to all be a lie. "Uriel will heal her, too. He needs her alive if he's going to recruit her. She'll be alright until she can get back down here, Dean. Then we'll warn her about him."

And lock her in the panic room if she even so much as considered going back up to Heaven, Dean decided internally. But his heart felt far steadier and though the ache in his chest was still icy and terrifying, it didn't feel so damn hollow. He was still tense – and likely would be for some time – but Dean realized Sam's logic was, as usual, right. Cas was probably okay. Well, as okay as a wounded, weakened angel stuck in heaven without his ears on and in a traitor's hands possibly could be. But Uriel had seemed like he respected Cas way back when. Dean had seen how hard the betrayal hit his friend afterward.

Which was one of only about six thousand reasons Dean still wasn't okay with this. But, he supposed, looking down at Angela's still form again, there really wasn't much they could do about it, was there? Dean bit down on his tongue again and his hand went back to rubbing at his chest.

"I'm going to get changed," Sam mentioned quietly, tossing the bloodied pillow case onto the pile of equally ruined sheets. They'd had to change them all once they'd gotten Angela hooked up. Sam was covered in blood, no-where near dry, and he'd made a mess of just about everything in their mad dash up the stairs to deposit her on the bed and resume CPR. Sam and Bobby had tackled the red-stained sheets while Dean made sure Angela stayed hooked as they changed the bed around her.

After that harrowing and exhausting experience, Sam had all new levels of respect for nurses and hospital staff.

Those soft words paired with Sam's utterly worn countenance sent warning bells ringing like crazy in Dean's head. Enough, even, to make it through the anger and brooding. He looked over at his brother, noticing the blood still soaking the poor kid's entire front. Demon blood. There were traces of it on his skin, lines of it down his neck, and a Pollack painting splattered across his hands and forearms.

Dean's throat dried up for the second time that night as the next round of realization and reality slammed home. Sam fidgeted under the attention, picking at the sticky wet cotton self-consciously. Dean knew better than to ask, but he couldn't help it. He had to know.

"You really didn't drink it?"

The defensive hurt that flashed across his brother's face, haunted and angry, was a reminder of why Dean shouldn't have asked in the first place. "No. I didn't drink it."

The older Winchester nodded, trying to accept the answer for the truth it was and not worry – not doubt – his kid brother. If Sam said he didn't drink it, then he didn't drink it. Dean would just have to trust that this wasn't the brother who'd spent a year and a half lying to him about exactly that.

"We'll patch her up after," Sam mentioned offhandedly, either trying to shift the topic or the tension. He gestured to Angela's still form and the electric burns dotting her body from that horrific lightning trap. "Then we'll…we'll look for Andy."

Dean's expression turned stricken at the reminder of another missing family member, but Sam didn't regret bringing it up. Cas wasn't their only friend in danger right now, after all. The older Winchester nodded, that curled hand tightening on his thigh.

"I'll- I'll try his cell." Dean fumbled for his pants pocket to pull out his phone.

"Bobby already tried," Sam said, words still discomfortingly quiet. The old hunter had tried Andy's number three times while Sam finished up with Angela, Dean sitting by her side, catatonic except for his silent praying. The line had gone to voicemail every time and the chip wasn't returning a GPS signal. Andy's cell was either dead or out of range. Sam really hoped it was the latter.

Dean slumped back into the chair, the helplessness of the situation – his own uselessness in particular – hitting hard. Sam took pity on him. He never could help it when it came to his brother.

"They'll both be alright." This time the confidence in his words was definitely more than he felt and it showed. But he doubled down, because they were going to be alright. Somehow, they would get through this. All four of them. Because despite the demon's words, Sam had to believe that Azazel needed Andy alive. He must have healed him before he transported him; there was no point in a demon hiding a corpse. "We'll find them and bring them home."

Turning to his brother with watery green eyes he'd never admit to, Dean nodded, before dropping his head to stare at his hands. Then he staggered up from the chair and grabbed the first aid kit Bobby had left on the nightstand. Not for Cas, but Angela this time. She was a part of their little fucked up family too, and it was time he took care of all of them, not just their one wayward angel.

The younger Winchester watched for a heartbroken moment before he turned and left the room.

-o-o-o-

Zachariah charged for the Upper Archival Halls like an angel on a mission. He was an angel on a mission. A mission to root out the traitor among his men. The ugly wrench thrown into an otherwise perfectly planned machine. An explosion of grace had been detected on earth and early reports were coming in about a large spike in demonic activity at the exact same time and place.

An unauthorized angel on earth and more demonic activity than should ever exist all in one spot? Oh, Zachariah knew who the wrench was, yes he did.

Today was the day he would finally pin something on that little upstart Castiel and get their Apocalypse Plan back on track. He could feel it.

There was no way the angel would make it back to his post in time, not if he had been the one in the middle of that grace bomb in Oregon as Zachariah suspected. No, not suspected: knew. And now, he finally had him. He'd be getting that promotion in no time at all.

One of Heaven's top head Honchos, the best of the Dominions and most deserving of an upcoming promotion in status (in his always-correct opinion), headed directly towards Archives with four other angels hot on his heels. In case Castiel resisted his arrest, of course. Oh, Zachariah hoped Castiel resisted.

The contingent passed several angels coming and going – it was a fairly busy district in Heaven's inner ring – but Zachariah drew his men up short at the sight of Uriel not far from them, heading away from the general direction of the Archival Halls. The larger angel was a close contact of Castiel's. One might even call them friends (if one was inclined to use such a human sentiment).

"Uriel!" Zachariah barked, causing the other angel to come to a formal stop in recognition of his superior. "Where is Castiel?"

Uriel arched an eyebrow – one of several – at his commanding officer and his facial colors shifted into something close to confusion, but not quite there. "Castiel? He has Archival duty right now, doesn't he?"

Indeed he did, and had for the last six centuries. Heaven wasn't really big into change, after all. The problem was, Zachariah already knew that. Why else would he be headed there? The first thing he'd done upon hearing the report of a massive explosion of grace on Earth, followed by secondary reports of demonic activity by Ishim's team on site, was ask his assistant where Castiel was right at that moment. The little puissant could only offer the Power's current duty roster, which would be no help if Castiel wasn't on duty, being planet-side instead.

But Zachariah could at least prove the little angel disobedient if nothing else.

"He should be wrapping up shortly," Uriel continued, glancing skyward at the slowly moving sun inching its way across the sky.

The burning ball of gas was a simulated representation that only ever took two forms: the most beautiful sunrise the planet below had ever seen, or a never ending sunset that would take your breath away each time you looked upon it, had you any air to breathe to start. Heaven, as it always had been and always would be, really didn't change much. Sunrise, Sunset, Repeat. Except for the buildings. Those liked to move around quite a lot. No one really knew why, but, then again, no one had yet to ask.

Two of Zachariah's three faces flushed an ugly color at Uriel's helpful and conveniently counter-productive reply. The far too readily offered alibi for his friend rubbed the Dominion the wrong way. He pushed past the larger angel, waving his men onward. "Well, we'll just see about that, won't we?"

Uriel stepped out of their way, turning to watch them head into the towering building he'd just come from. He kept the waves of his grace carefully neutral as they disappeared into the Archival Halls.

-o-o-o-

"Castiel!"

The angel in question's head shot up from his work, pouring over ancient battlefield reports. His eyes widened at the approach of his direct superior and a contingent of men who frankly had no business coming here. It was a somewhat uncommon sight, particularly in a place that's usual weekly allotment of action was a book falling from the higher shelves to make quite the racket in the near-silent halls.

Castiel drew himself to attention and nodded sharply to his superior. "Zachariah. What has happened?"

The Dominion drew up short, all four of his faces caught in a comical coloring of disbelief. His two human mouths hung open in a little 'o' shape, one stuttering closed as eight metaphysical eyes blinked at the smaller angel like he might be an illusion.

"Castiel…" the Dominion spoke slowly, as if he hadn't expected an answer from the angel he'd been hollering for among the endless halls of the Archival building. His third head, resembling that of an Earth lion, glanced around, but didn't seem to find what he was looking for in the handful of other angels milling about in their duties, several of them casting the group curious or speculator looks. All four faces focused back on the Power, grace shifting into a higher saturation of suspicion. "How long have you been here?"

Castiel's colors shifted as well, growing dim with mild confusion and concern. "I arrived during the morning shift. I have another twelves minutes of duty. But if you require my assistance elsewhere-"

"Can anyone verify that?" Zachariah snapped, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Castiel blinked at the demanding tone.

"I updated the roster upon arrival…" The angel gestured somewhat uncertainly back the way the unit of men had come. All angels noted their arrival and departure anytime they were on duty anywhere in Heaven. A positively absurd amount of information that was kept in a ridiculous number of large tomes in nowhere else than the Archival Halls. The room for storing those books alone was larger than both the Lesser and Greater Halls combined. It had to be; over a millennium of duty scheduling for thousands of angels took up quite a lot of space. "You can check the records, but…have I done something wrong?"

"And I don't suppose you left anytime between then and now?" Zachariah ignored the angel's question, his tone and color growing more accusatory by the second.

Castiel hesitated. Behind Zachariah's men, the closest other angel in the Archives Hall slid a thick book he'd been inspecting back into the shelf with a single finger. Dark, glittering eyes focused on the escalating situation.

"Is there a problem here?"

All six angels turned at the new voice, and Zachariah dropped his arms in surprise, not only at the newcomer for interfering, but for being seen in the Archival Halls at all.

"Malachi?" He blinked at the angel best known for his anarchist views and utter distaste of authority. Zachariah glanced between him and Castiel, brain completely short circuiting at the notion of this angel coming to the defense of any member of the host, but particularly Castiel.

For all that Zachariah called him an upstart, Castiel was far too goody-two-shoes for an angel like Malachi to ever associate with. But Castiel just stood there, a single blink and a slight tilt of his head suggesting he didn't know the angel or expect his assistance any more than Zachariah did.

"What are you doing here?" the Dominion asked instead, not bothering to curb his incredulity (or condescension).

"I don't see how that's any of your business as I don't report to you, Zachariah," Malachi answered coolly, crossing from the shelves to join the small gathering. Unlike most angels, the anarchist's colors rarely shifted, staying in an unappealing range of neutrals. It made him awfully hard to trust. Zachariah could feel the angels behind him fidget. "Now, did you require something of Castiel, or have you simply come to interrupt everyone working in the Archives today?"

Zachariah's hands fisted by his side at the blatant disregard of his authority, and in front of his men, no less. He drew up to his full height, puffing out his chest in indignation. "I suppose you'd like to vouch for him, then?"

The comment was made offhand. A scoff at most. A preposterous idea. Malachi didn't stand up for anyone. The anarchist didn't care enough.

But the angel just tilted his head in regard of Castiel. Then, looking Zachariah once more, he shrugged with such indifference that the nonchalance leaked off him in waves of translucent gray. "I can only speak for the hour that I have been here."

The Dominion's feather's ruffled, both incredulous and insulted by the blatant runaround. "And Castiel has been here with you for that hour?"

Malachi stared. "Did he not say that he was?"

Zachariah's teeth ground together so hard all four of his heads hurt from it. Grace growing an ugly, humiliated red, he turned, furious, to Castiel, but the smaller angel just blinked his many eyes in that innocent way of his that fooled all the others. But not Zachariah. Although…Castiel certainly didn't look like an angel that had just come from Earth after expelling so much grace that most of his reserves would have to be depleted. He looked perfectly, distastefully, frustratingly, normal.

"Finish your duty and then return to the barracks. The both of you!" Zachariah snapped out, snatching control of the situation back by the lungful regardless of whether Malachi would listen to it or not. He spun to his men, all of who backed away from his very obvious ire. "What are you staring at? Get back to work. All of you!"

The angels scrambled to clear out of the library, Zachariah following behind in a huff.

Not three seconds after the last of the apoplectic Dominion and his men finally vanished from sight, Castiel's legs buckled beneath him and he caught himself heavily on the table. Malachi was by his side in four concise strides, easing Castiel off of the cluttered surface, scrolls and parchment now a bit haphazard, and into a nearby chair. The Power was shaking, the last of the strength Uriel had lent him long gone, along with all the saturation to his grace.

"That was a halfway decent performance," Malachi praised as he got Castiel off his feet. The angel sagged into the chair, his celestial wavelength more closely resembling liquid than air. The anarchist stood back, but not so far as to withdraw from Castiel completely. "You're not as entirely terrible at this as I thought you'd be."

Castiel stared up at him, all of his eyes blinking but not completely in synch. Uriel had only been able to provide him with a surface healing; a mask to cover his injuries more than a bandage to treat them. It was a very, very thin mask now. Maintaining it in front of Zachariah had taken the last of Castiel's already depleted reserves.

"You are Malachi," the Power spoke, still staring up at the angel that had helped him. The angel Uriel had left him with to better disguise their partnership and throw Zachariah off the trail. Castiel had never before spoken to the angel most identified as an Anarchist. He had never had need nor care to.

"And you are Castiel." Malachi hardly looked impressed, but then Castiel supposed the angel not known for making friends or even being pleasant to start with had just complimented him.

Well, sort of.

Castiel was fairly sure Dean would call it a backhanded compliment. The phrase was quite evocative and the angel found that he rather liked it as a descriptor. But that was neither here nor there at the moment, and Castiel worried to find his thoughts drifting so flagrantly.

The Anarchist held out his manifested hand, an extension of his grace, palm down over Castiel's straining chest. Malachi's head tilted ever so slightly to the side. "You'll permit me?"

Castiel swallowed reflexively at the offer. He needed the healing, but he was hesitant to trust an angel he did not know. Worse than did not know: had heard unkind words about. However, Uriel told him he would assist their cause, and Malachi had yet to prove himself otherwise.

"Thank you, brother," he granted with a nod, and Malachi crouched beside him, fingers of grace wrapping around his center of mass. Castiel's many eyes half-shuttered at the healing touch of another so close to his damaged core. His brother's soothing grace was a therapeutic balm to the turbulent flow of his own.

"This is quite the beating you took," the Anarchist mentioned offhand, eyes scanning the length of Castiel's grace.

The damage was primarily to his cracked and singed core. That trap had been powerful and, while flawed, intended for him almost specifically. Castiel suspected the demons had attempted to carve his name into the sigils of the trap. He was very, very lucky that whatever they guessed, they had not gotten it entirely correct. If they had, he likely would not have been capable of flying himself, let alone Dean, Sam, and Baby, out of that town. And certainly not back to Heaven in time.

"It will take multiple sessions to mend completely. Even the most untrained Healer would recommend a trance at this point."

The injured angel nodded tiredly, already well aware of that fact. The second he'd taken off from Bobby Singer's living room, he had figuratively powered down all non-essential systems feeding off his limited energy supply. Uriel had been the one to inform him Zachariah was on the move, Castiel having silenced his brothers' voices (what Dean coined as 'angel radio') as well as the far more muted prayers of the thousands of devout humans on Earth. Castiel was running on base functions only and would be until a healing trance could be initiated by another angel.

"I have not seen this type of damage before," Malachi commented again, still rather detachedly as he observed the wounds with nothing more than clinical interest. Castiel did not know why, but it made him feel cold.

"A demonic trap," he supplied, not interested in expanding upon it any further.

"Yes, Uriel mentioned you've been making trips to Earth." Another offhanded comment, as though Malachi could hardly be bothered with the information Castiel regarded as highly sensitive and quite dangerous to simply toss around.

Castiel found his discomfort with his brother's apathy, as well as what information Uriel had chosen to disclose, growing rapidly. Malachi was not the type Castiel would have been comfortable discussing his impermissible planet-side visits with. Nor was he one of the angels Castiel would have trusted with such information. But Cas did trust Uriel. And, he supposed, an Anarchist was the sort one might garner support from when looking for angels willing to oppose Heaven. Just…not the sort Castiel would have gone to first, perhaps.

"I should return to the barracks." If Malachi noticed the less than subtle dismissal, he did not speak of it. But as Castiel attempted to stand, the angel did step in, pushing the injured Castiel back down.

"You need to enter a healing trance," Malachi corrected, reproach coloring his grace a darker brown for needing to say it twice.

What Cas needed was someplace private – someplace safe – where Zachariah could not return unexpectedly. That was not the Archival Halls with an angel he barely knew. "Uriel will assist me-"

"Uriel is busy covering for you," the Anarchist interrupted, and Castiel's grace, what little color it had left, flushed with guilt. "I will assist."

Once more, Castiel found himself hesitant to accept the largely-unknown angel's aid. There was little reason for it; Castiel did not know most of Heaven's Healers by anything more than name alone, and he had and would again trust them with such a task. Perhaps it was that Malachi was not a Healer, or known for any talents in that field.

Then again, neither was Uriel.

Either way, talking himself in circles was getting Castiel nowhere other than more exhausted. Uriel had entrusted him to Malachi's care, and his friend and brother was currently risking Zachariah's wrath by lying for Castiel and his cause. A cause Uriel had believed largely on Castiel's word alone. It would be shameful not to extend his brother the same faith in trusting Malachi now to do what Uriel could not be present for.

"Very well," Castiel conceded, relaxing back into the chair. Malachi was not wrong; he would be risking permanent damage to his being if he did not enter a trance soon, and there was no telling when Uriel would return, or if Castiel could even make it to the barracks unnoticed.

The Anarchist looked utterly unimpressed by his blessing and instead wrapped his hand across Castiel's forehead, forcing his eyes to close.

"Rest," he ordered, though not unkindly. "Uriel will finish the healing when he returns."

It was the last thing Castiel heard before his brother's calming presence guided him into the soothing silence of oblivion.

-o-o-o-

Uriel returned some twenty minutes later, once he was certain that Zachariah and his people had left the Archives and surrounding district with no intention to return. The overpowering angel had stood guard by the entrance to the Halls, though not within direct line of sight should the puffed-up Dominion choose to double back. When Uriel made it down to the lower levels where he had left Castiel, barely able to stand some hour and change ago, Malachi was crouched over the smaller angel, grace pouring into his battered form in waves of pastel healing.

The Anarchist withdrew as Uriel came near, the larger angel taking his place by Castiel's side to immediately wrap his hand across the injured angel's forehead.

"He is in a healing trance now," Malachi stated, though that much was more than obvious, given the dulled, glacial waves of Castiel's slowed grace.

Uriel's own flickered in annoyance that he had not been the one to assist his friend in such a manner. He could feel Malachi's echoed annoyance without even looking at him. Withdrawing his hand from Castiel, Uriel faced the anarchist head on.

Malachi regarded him with a cool disdain. "We should eliminate him. He put the entire operation at risk returning with those injuries."

Uriel's meaty hands curled into fists, furious that the angel in front of him should even suggest as much. Malachi did not even know Castiel. No, his brother's fate was Uriel's call to make and Malachi would have to go through him if he wanted to lay hands on the injured angel. Of course, he could have done as much at any moment over the last hour that Uriel was away guarding against Zachariah. Or simply inform the blustering Dominion of Castiel's absence from duty and let Zachariah lead Castiel away in chains. The fact that he had not soothed some of Uriel's blistering possessiveness.

Besides, his breed of angel did not respond to brawn. So Uriel dug a little deeper for the logic he knew his brother was a slave to, rusty as he was using it. "Castiel is our only connection to the Michael sword. If we are to succeed in our plans, we must have access to the Righteous Man."

Malachi did not immediately agree, and Uriel could tell he was still wary of Castiel's involvement. Or, more so, Uriel's insistence of his involvement. Malachi had not been subtle in calling out the larger angel's attachment to his friend and partner, but Uriel had been able to make the necessity of Castiel's involvement perfectly clear to the others they had recruited. They would need the information he could provide on the Righteous Man but, more than that, they would need the human's obedience, something the smaller angel was slowly garnering with every visit to Earth.

So Castiel was off limits, no matter what Malachi had to say about it.

"We will bring Castiel to our side yet, brother," Uriel tried once more to reassure Malachi's doubts with something he had no such qualms about himself. Castiel would come to see the light; Uriel was certain of it.

The Anarchist remained cold and detached in his assessment of both Powers. "If you're wrong, you'll be the one to deal with it."

With that, Malachi withdrew from the Archival Halls, leaving behind a seething Uriel. He did not like to be ordered around, but he particularly did not like to be ordered around by an equal, if Malachi even qualified as such. Still, Uriel told himself as he turned back to the unconscious Castiel, there was no sense in fighting amongst themselves. If they were to succeed in overthrowing Heaven's rule and raising their brother from the pit, they would have to work together, dislikes aside.

Uriel hoisted Castiel into his arms to find the smaller angel someplace safe and out of the way to recover from his ghastly injuries.

"Don't worry, Castiel," he said as he took him deeper into the Archives to utilize a little-used back entrance. He let his grace flow off of him in soothing pastels, washing over and ultimately absorbed by his smaller friend. "I will show you the light, little brother. That of the Morning Star, which burns brighter than any of us."

Predictably, Castiel did not answer him, but that was alright. He would soon enough.

-o-o-o-

Sam hated blood. He'd always hated blood. He'd thrown up after his first kill, in part because he had just ripped the life from something he had no right to judge worthy of living or dying, but mostly because of the blood. Over the years, his distaste had not improved, only numbed until Sam was able to do his job – the family job – without throwing up. And he'd learned quickly as a child how hard it was to wash dried blood off.

It wasn't that it didn't come off with water, because it did. Blood was pretty damn dissolvable. It was that it got everywhere. Like sand. Little crusty red particles wedged beneath his nails, along the curve of every cuticle, in the lining of every dry patch of skin, every imperfection of flesh and soul. That's what blood did. It showed all your flaws like open wounds. Sam used to pretend, as he washed his hands in motels, gas station restrooms, rivers and lakes. He used to pretend he was an astronaut – the first man on Mars – scrubbing the red dirt from his hands as the water flowed over his skin. A crew member of the U.S.S. Enterprise (not a red shirt, no, Sam would definitely be in the Science Department. It was blue for him all the way) exploring a new planet, red and dry like Vulcan. Red and dry like Mars. Red and dry like Doctor McCoy, washing the blood from his hands after saving a life, not taking it. Never taking it.

Sam hated blood like he hated his bloody childhood.

Washing the crusty red specks from his hands now, Sam stared at them, at the pink water swirling around the drain. It was no different this time; it still wasn't coming off, even as it bled into the sink like every other water-soluble substance on the planet. But it was still on his hands. Crusted in his cuticles, lodged under his finger nails, clogging his nose. He could taste it on the air. He could feel it on his skin.

And, worse, beneath it.

Sam turned his hands over, water pooling across both palms, the right shaking ever so slightly as the churning liquid pulled and pushed at the multiple lacerations cut both shallow and deep across his skin. Skin still stained red with the blood of a demon.

The younger Winchester closed his eyes and felt it. The buzzing snaking through torn flesh and muscle, where the jar had sliced him open and spilled blood so dark red it was nearly black all over the open wounds. The softer, subtler vibrations buried in the junction of his neck and shoulder, where he'd been injected with the virus and what he could now confirm had been more than just human blood. A little contingency plan, no doubt, for if he turned down Azazel's deal.

Back in Rivergrove, he'd hoped that buzzing in the back of his skull was just fear. Terror. Adrenaline. But Sam was utterly drained now and still that buzz remained.

He slowly curled his bleeding, tainted hand into a fist beneath the water, the other wrapping around the edge of the sink as he soaked in the buzzing. He was drained, but he felt strong. The utterly wrong kind of strong that was like a drug he couldn't quit. Didn't want to, even if he knew, he knew, he had to. Sam opened his eyes, staring at the man in the mirror. A man he still recognized, for now.

His hands shook.

The younger Winchester looked down at the sink, the water finally running clear. No more blood, no little red particles left, no Mars dirt to wash off, but he knew it was still there. It was just beneath the surface now, like it always had been.

Sam looked back up at his reflection, at the face he'd almost been afraid to see. But it was just a tired, pale wreck of a man staring back at him. A man who was starting to look a lot older than his actual age. The young hunter sighed. He hadn't known what he'd been expecting to see, but he couldn't wrestle with the dropped weight in his gut. It should have been relief, to still look like him, still be him, but…

Sam shook his head, shoved that buzzing back by pure force of will, and went to open the mirror cabinet. As he grabbed a suture kit (Bobby was a wise man, keeping a fully stocked kit in just about every room in the house), Sam didn't notice the hairline fractures running across the edge of the sink where his hand had curled around the porcelain in a white-knuckled grip. He threaded the needle and opened his lacerated palm. His hands were steady as stone as he started the first stitch, and he didn't feel a thing.

-o-o-o-

"Still nothing," Bobby offered as both boys came downstairs an hour later: Sam in fresh clothing, hair wet and hand wrapped, and Dean looking just as wretched as he had before, but now with an air of hardened determination. "Ain't heard a peep 'bout your town; news channels are all quiet."

Sam nodded tiredly, not having expected much else. The sun was just rising; it had only been a couple of hours since it had all gone down. If the town had gone the way of the Roanoke Colony, it would be hours yet until someone noticed all the residents were missing.

With reluctance born from even more bad news, Bobby offered over the younger Winchester's phone. He'd been at the mobile device ever since Sam told him Andy was missing, eyes all sorts of devastated as he delivered the news. "Sorry, boys, but the kid's phone is either out of range or outa battery."

Neither brother commented on Bobby's avoidance of the third option, but they were grateful he hadn't mentioned it. Hadn't even used the word 'dead' when referring to the cell phone.

"Then we head to Cold Oak." Dean turned to his brother, the words falling from his mouth with the kind of confidence that came when you've only got one option. At least it made choices easy.

Sam nodded again, rubbing at the back of his neck and the sore injection site there. He wished they had more to go on, but Dean's future knowledge probably was their best lead. Azazel shouldn't know they were aware of his little Battle Royale Arena off in the South Dakota woods, which meant it was still the most likely path the demon would take, as long as they hadn't altered the timeline that badly.

They could only hope their most recent misadventure wasn't a sign that they had.

"Yeah, alright," the younger Winchester conceded, and that was that.

The two packed quickly, Bobby telling them he'd take care of their upstairs guest. Dean's face was so damn relieved, but grateful, but guilty, that Bobby just offered a hand on his shoulder and the cherished silence that emotionally challenged hunters like them did best. Dean had mostly patched Angela up on the surface, Sam helping once he'd finished cleaning himself up, but they had no idea what real shape she was in. And leaving her was hard, knowing it was the spot Cas was most likely to return to, when she did return (not if). But there wasn't any place more secure than Bobby Singer's Salvage Yard, and no hands better to be left in than Bobby's.

It took another half hour to restock their supplies, having lost a huge chunk of their weapons and amo supply to the failed job in Rivergrove. Another thing they owed Bobby when this was all over. Then they were heading out to the Impala, which had shown up on the edge of Bobby's property, about a hundred yards away from the house. Bobby had discovered her about an hour ago when he'd gone to check and re-check all the wards once Cas had gone skyward and Angela was hooked back up.

As they climbed into the car, Dean cast his brother one more sidelong glance, sliding the key into the ignition. "You sure you okay?"

Sam, settling into the front seat, paused with his hand – his wrapped hand – still on the passenger door. He stared at the gauze tightly encasing an ugly truth. Slowly, he closed the door.

"Yeah, I'm good to go."

Dean hesitated for only a second worth of silence more before he threw the car in reverse and they were heading for Cold Oak as fast as Baby could carry them.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

A/N: Apologies again for the lengthy, uninformed delay. I think, in this case, it's safe to say: Shit happens. Hopefully the chapter was worth the wait!

Secrets: Balancing what is canon in the show (eleven years of the same damn secrets and lies over and over and over again) and actually getting our boys to grow as characters while still keeping them in-character is a challenge, and one I wish I could skip. I'd rather Sam just started coming clean and Dean didn't have anger issues :P But those aren't our boys. So if you're rolling your eyes in annoyance at this, no worries, I'm aware of it and working on it! Just keeping our boys in character while I also grow them up in a quarter of the time the show did ;P

Next Up: Okay, I will not lie, I have *no* idea when the next chapter will be up. I haven't written in a month and a half, and while I have high hopes that will change this week, I can't make promises. We're definitely moving to a two-week posting schedule at a minimum, but I'll keep you updated from there the best I can.

In the meantime, thanks for sticking with me guys. I am sorry to make you wait longer for it!

Aaaaaand A03 is currently down right now -_- So I will be uploading this chapter over there when I wake up *head thud*