A/Ns: Whelp, this season is officially twice as long as I thought it would be. Oi Vey. And, and, and we're not close to done with it. *head thud*

Milestone! Whelp, we did it! We have crossed that 2000th review on ff dot net. Thank you everyone who took the time to help, both this chapter and every chapter before it. YOU all keep this story alive. I'm very serious about that.

I wanted to get this chapter up this morning (Saturday) and the next tomorrow morning. Alas, along with returning to work and having significantly less free time, I did not realize I would have significantly less energy as well. I got no writing or editing done this week at all, leaving two chapters to be edited over the weekend. Le sigh.

The next chapter will be up tomorrow (Sunday) night, and that is still good, regardless of the timing being later than I would have originally liked.

Chapter Reference – Cas demoted: When Balthazar was killed and Cas returned to Heaven to await punishment, Zachariah demoted him and put Uriel in charge of their flight. See Chapter32: Season 1 Interlude I for a refresher. Fun fact: you might remember this happened in the original timeline, too, but because of Cas's shifting priorities (aka: caring too much about his human charges :P)

Chapter Warnings: Rachel is chasing Uriel, Uriel is chasing Castiel, Castiel is gripping Dean Winchester tight, and Dean is screaming like a little girl because he's mother effing *flying* and that is not okay. Oh, yeah, and other things happen too, like craters and brush fires, and explosions going off, and shoes smoking. Ya know. A normal Tuesday. (Pretty sure it's Thursday...)

-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 61

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

Rachel was on her nineteenth door to yet another Human Paradise empty of her commanding officer when she heard the crash. Her first immediate thought was that Zachariah's men had found Dean Winchester. The second (far less credible) thought was that Dean Winchester had found Castiel. Because it was Castiel's energy she felt spike, along with the briefest flash of her commanding officer as he barreled down the hallway, Uriel in heated pursuit.

"Uriel!" Rachel yelled, both in alarm and abhorrence. She had not felt the second angel arrive in the Paradises, but she also had no longer been keeping an eye on his grace signature. Rachel took off after her two superior officers, realizing with a flash of terror that the energy coming off of Uriel now was volatile. Her fear of him harming Castiel had just become very real.

She had no time to wonder what had become of Dean Winchester in all of that, or check the paradise Castiel had come bursting out of. Having witnessed his commitment to Castiel first hand, she had no doubt the human was somehow still with the other angel.

-o-o-o-

They shot out from behind the couch with the kind of speed and force that Dean knew was gonna hurt like hell when they hit the ground. Honestly, the hunter's brain was still trying to catch up with Cas wrapping around him like a human octopus (angelic octopus?) and then launching himself (and therefore Dean) straight off the ground and over the back of the couch like they were liquid speed itself. All his limited human brain got out of any of that was that it was going to hurt like a son of a bitch when they hit the ground.

Only they never did.

They hit something, for sure, but it gave like flesh, grunting as they barreled past it and into the white, white, white of the hallway. Which they kept barreling down. That was about the point where Dean realized they were flying. Actually flying. Sure, he'd traveled Angel Air with Cas on more than one occasion, but this time, this time he could feel it. He could feel the air warping around them, his jacket flapping in the turbulence. He even got the distinct impression of wings on Cas, the high-frequency ruffle of feathers in wind, the great spans beating back air and gravity with each powerful flap. He couldn't see them – couldn't turn his head from where he was cradled into Cas's body (not cradled, that's friggin' girly), but he could still tell, somehow, that the wings were there. Like a presence, more than a reality. Something more for his human brain to deal with. Awesome.

When Dean managed to open his eyes against the buffeting winds, protected only somewhat by Cas's body wrapped around him like a trenchcoated cephalopod, he could barely make anything out as it blurred past. He caught a flash of something that looked like a gate before they were barreling right through it, Vin Diesel style. Dean braced for the impact, but Castiel took the brunt of it, with those impressions of wings suddenly wrapped around them like a downy cocoon. A downy cocoon battering ram. That was…pretty damn cool, actually.

Was Cas always this cool in his true form?

Then Dean could see stars and dark sky and space and clouds and mountains and rivers and oceans and the whole of the Earth so so so very far below. It- It was incredible. Incredible and beautiful and…coming up really fucking fast.

That was about the moment Dean realized – truly realized – that he was flying (falling). It happened to be the same moment, down to the microsecond, that Dean also remembered he didn't like flying (because it absolutely included the possibility (inevitability) of fucking falling!). Both realizations simultaneously led to the next moment, where Dean started screaming like a little girl.

When they finally did hit the ground it was, point of fact, hard as hell. The impact was jarring, so much so that Dean felt his brain rattle in his skull, and he was just a soul with no physical body (no matter what that soul was trying to tell a brain that didn't actually exist so that it could rattle or interpret that rattle through its limited human existence. Fucking Rachel. Fucking angels. Dean would show them. Just as soon as he could figure out which direction was up and then go that way). It was disorienting as hell, body or no, and anything but comfortable. Even a glowing ball of light in the shape of Dean Winchester protested against playing pinball where he was the ball. But as Dean did manage to figure out which way was up and get his feet back under him in order to go that general direction, he couldn't feel any damage. A quick assessment revealed no new bumps or bruises. Had he been good old flesh and bones, he definitely wouldn't have gotten up from that.

(Dean's limited human perception was also totally comfortable with the idea that he'd hallucinated the last three and a half minutes. And was currently still hallucinating, considering the crater around them.)

Cas was on his hands and knees beside the hunter, probably having taken a lot more of the impact than Dean. Despite the fact that he looked pretty normal and alright in Jimmy Novak's vessel (not a vessel, Dean reminded himself, just an interpretation of human eyes), Dean was pretty sure the angel wasn't entirely healed up from his bout with Azazel's trap. For one, he was panting. For another, he hadn't made it back to his feet yet.

Dean looked around them, at the ten foot crater they'd created, which he and Cas sat in the bottom off. From what he could see over the ridge of upturned earth and through the cloud of dust still settling, they were in a field of some sort. Looked like the Midwest, though that covered a lot of possible territory. It was too dark to make out much more than the fifteen or so feet around them, though the brush fires along the edge of the crater were helping.

(They'd fucking fallen (not flown. Fallen.) from Heaven hard enough to create a crater and brush fires. Jesus, how were they even alive? Oh, right. He wasn't, for starters.)

Then Cas was grabbing him and they were flying again, though not nearly as nicely (not that the first time could be called nice). It was more like being tossed, really, as the two of them flew out of the crater, hitting the ground a half dozen feet away and rolling the rest of that dozen. Something came screaming out of the sky above them and slammed into the space they'd occupied only seconds ago. Someone had apparently decided to show up their crater with an even bigger crater. Dean curled in on himself, feebly covering his head with his hands as dirt and clods of long grass rained down around them, a couple on fire. Luckily, none that fell around him and Cas. Dean could hear the angel stumble to his feet in the dust-darkened space around him.

"Cas?" Dean coughed in the dust, and how was that even fair? He wasn't supposed to have lungs right now!

"Uriel," the angel responded to his unasked question and Dean scrambled to his feet, too. The two friends back away from the rim of the crater, edging out of the settling dust cloud. Castiel kept his hand out, forcing Dean to stay behind him, but the hunter made sure the two moved in tandem, his hand fisted in the back of Cas's coat as a reminder that the angel better be backing away right alongside him. They got another ten feet back before Castiel stopped, his sword dropping into his hand from the sleeve of his coat. Dean tensed, one hand still clenching the angel's jacket, the other desperate to wrap around a weapon of his own.

"Stay behind me."

"Like hell," Dean growled in return, but then Uriel was stepping out of the crater – looking like the exact same douchebag Dean had known in his timeline – before Castiel had a chance to remind the human which one of them was more vulnerable.

(Cas. Cas was more vulnerable and Dean had a friggin' fifteen-point lecture complete with Power Point on just why that was.)

"You would choose this- this human over me, Castiel?" Uriel roared, dropping his own blade into his hand. Those dark eyes slid from his brother to the man standing just behind him, possessively close, and Uriel sneered to see him clinging to Castiel like an infant. He knew it must be the Righteous Man. "Winchester."

The hunter had the audacity to smirk. "Chuckles."

"Dean," Castiel murmured, so low that the human almost missed it. But he didn't miss the warning in it. Don't push your luck. Yeah, yeah, he got that, but he'd never been particularly good at listening, now had he? Before Dean could teach his friend that lesson through practical experience, Castiel raised his voice, calling to the dickwad, "You are the one who chose Lucifer over your brothers, Uriel."

"Lucifer is our brother! He was the best of us and we abandoned him for the humans. For them." Uriel spat the word like a bad taste in his mouth, leveling his sword at Dean. Castiel purposefully put himself between the blade and his charge, no matter the fifteen feet that separated them. Such a distance was nothing for an angel and, unlike Dean, Castiel was under no illusion of who Uriel's real target here was.

He couldn't let the other angel reach the Righteous Man's soul.

His brother charged with a rage-filled cry and Castiel shoved Dean as far from him as he safely could with one push. He met Uriel's blade with his own, the clang of celestial metal loud in the otherwise quiet night. Castiel's weaker leg gave way under the ferocious attack and he fell to one knee, using both arms to brace against his brother's strength.

Uriel was stronger than him, but Castiel had his speed, unrestrained by the weight of a vessel or the weakness of cracked and healing grace. He pushed off the ground, throwing his strength into Uriel in a feint before darting quickly to the side. Predictably, Uriel countered the false strike with the full force of his might, tripping forward when he was met with no resistance, Castiel already spinning past him. Uriel stumbled to the ground and Castiel turned, blade up and ready for another attack.

The smaller angel suddenly staggered out of nowhere, his vision spinning. His grace flagged as it distributed power unevenly across his injured mass, causing nothing short of disorientation. His vision and strength both dipped in power while his wings buzzed with a surge of energy, over-correcting for the imbalance.

Okay. So, he was still not fully healed. Yes. He would need to remember that-

Uriel charged again, slamming into Castiel and sending both of staggering back towards the crater. Castiel turned into his brother's thrust, managing to evade another blow as Uriel's weight glanced off his side and the smaller angel side-stepped his mass. He kicked at the back of Uriel's weight-bearing leg, sending him to the dirt once more. But a hand lashed out, wrapping around Castiel's arm and pulling him harshly into the upturned earth as well. The dirt hardly had time to give beneath Castiel's body before the smaller angel was scrambling away, rolling several times until he could safely climb back to his feet. He knew Uriel would try to pin him if given the chance.

"Don't make me do this, Castiel." Uriel climbed to his feet far slower, the earth clinging to his grace until he brushed it free. He raised his blade, pointing it at Castiel once more. "I beg you, brother. Do not make me kill you."

"I am not making you do anything." Castiel straightened, his own grace – still pale from his yet-healed injuries – swirled angrily. "You are doing this all on your own, Uriel. You chose it."

His brother's fury – what was really denial he could not afford to embrace, Castiel knew – turned his grace a brilliant, bloody red. It was a color the smaller angel only now realized he saw entirely too often on his- on this angel he had once considered a friend. Castiel raised his sword, realizing the inevitable end to this fight, should he survive to achieve it.

Uriel charged, and Castiel blocked once more.

-o-o-o-

Rachel flew for the gate, in part utterly disbelieving that Castiel had broken through it. Of course he had. At this point, Rachel's understanding of what her fellow angel and friend would and wouldn't do was whittled down to 'was a human named Dean Winchester involved?' Still, it was looking more and more like that human had been right: Uriel had attacked, hidden away, and was now in pursuit of Castiel. So Rachel would follow. She was loyal to her commanding officer, and that officer was Castiel, regardless of what Zachariah had decreed as punishment for Balthazar's death.

She was within striking distance of the gate when four armed angels launched themselves in front of her, barring the way with spears that identified them as part of Heaven's Guard. Rachel pulled up sharply, wings countering her incredible momentum with harsh, violent flapping as she came to a painfully abrupt halt inches from them.

"Let me through!" she demanded, standing tall.

"The gate has been forced open," one of the guards replied, deep voice like unmovable stone in the large expanse that stood before the gate. "Heaven is now on lockdown. None may leave."

"My commanding officer is in danger," Rachel bit out, pointing at the beautiful, ornate entrance to Heaven, currently dented almost in half by what she could only assume was Castiel's mass bursting through it. "Our second in command has turned traitor. You must let me through!"

"None may pass," the same guard said again.

Rachel opened her mouth to tell him just what she thought of his professional opinion on the matter when the angel to his left stepped forward.

"You have knowledge of what has occurred here?" His tone was not like earth and rock, but something in the way he regarded her, like he was testing her, made Rachel instantly wary. She straightened under the angel's gaze, glancing at the other three guards.

"Yes. I was present when Uriel-"

"Zachariah will want to speak with you, then." He nodded to the two on either end of their line barricade, and Rachel suddenly found herself flanked by her brothers. "You will report to him."

"I need to help Castiel," she insisted, growing frustrated with these angels' inability to understand what she was making very obvious.

"You will report to Zachariah."

The two angels on either side of her latched onto her limbs, hard enough that Rachel was unable to pull away. Something unpleasant twisted in her grace, a trepidation and worry she was neither familiar with nor comfortable addressing. But her brothers would hear nothing of her protests, however logical she insisted (and knew) they were. The two on either side of Rachel escorted her back the way she'd come, heading for the inner ring where Zachariah's office was located.

-o-o-o-

Sam kept his spine pressed to the back of the old house, glancing down at the doorknob of the back entrance he stood beside. He'd already managed to pick the deadbolt, quietly as possible. Though, in the silence of an abandoned house…. Sam was worried it hadn't been quiet enough. He'd already given the knob itself a preliminary twist. It had some give, so it wasn't locked or rigged with a tripwire, a trick hunters often used with a loaded shotgun on the other end for the more corporeal monsters they tackled. John had spent countless hours teaching his boys how to feel the tension of a rigged door. But just because this one wasn't rigged didn't mean there wasn't worse waiting for him beyond the door. Sam was going to be very careful about this. This wasn't a monster he was hunting, it was a hunter. A dangerous hunter, according to his brother.

It was Gordon Walker sitting in the living room of this broken down house, with a gun trained on the front door and Dean's phone very obviously sitting on a table a half dozen feet away. Gordon Walker who had set a fake message, obviously a trap, and expected Sam to walk right into it. Gordon Walker who knew where his brother was and who had a lot of explaining to do.

If Sam didn't kill him before he could talk.

The younger Winchester hadn't spotted his brother through any of the windows as he'd made his way around the house when he'd first arrived. But that didn't mean Dean wasn't in there, the hunter told himself. His brother had told him before what Gordon Walker was capable of; he'd tried to kill Sam in another timeline, he'd used Dean as bait when he failed, and laid a trap for Sam to come calling. Dean hadn't gone into details, but Sam didn't imagine Gordon was creative or unpredictable enough to alter the timeline. Sam was betting this was exactly the same trap.

Which meant Dean would be in that house. He had to be in there, somewhere out of sight. If he wasn't, Sam was going to beat his location out of Gordon.

Slowly, back still pressed to the wall, Sam reached out and gave the knob a slow, full twist. The door swung inward an inch or so, the creak of old hinges minimal, which Sam was grateful for. Sneaking up on a hunter was already going to be a challenge without added obstacles.

Speaking of obstacles. Sam bent down, door still only cracked, and stared at the trip wire two feet away. It gleamed silver in the very dim light. Honestly, if he hadn't been expecting it – not only because this was a hunter he was dealing with and an obvious trap, but literally because Ava had warned him it would be there – Sam probably wouldn't have seen it. It was far enough in front of the door that he should be able to push it open enough to get fully through with some clearance before he had to deal with the wire. Which, according to Ava, was attached to a live grenade.

It was a tight fit for his gargantuan frame, but Sam was able to squeeze between the door and its frame, side stepping into the kitchen without tripping the wire. The large gap made sense, really. There'd be little point in having the door itself be the thing to trip the wire, at least not until it was fully open. Anything earlier than that and you would just be giving your target a natural shield of inch-thick wood when the explosion was triggered.

Sam knelt down, backside all but pressed against the interior wall now, as he traced the wire to – sure enough – a grenade taped securely to the side of the kitchen counter. Quietly, and with a glance up towards the silent living room, Sam pulled out his knife and put it to the wire, close to the pin. He didn't cut it, though, as another thought occurred to him.

A grenade going off was a good distraction. The best he could ask for, actually.

Sam checked the doorway to the living room again, but there still wasn't movement. Gordon either didn't realize he was in the house or was waiting for him to trip the wire. Well, Sam wouldn't want to disappoint him.

Slowly, the hunter shuffled to the other end of the trap, where the wire was wrapped around a screw that had been driven into the side of the kitchen counter. With great care, Sam snipped the wire with his knife, as close to the screw as he could without risking wetting the whole thing off. He let out a breath, wire in hand and eye on the pin of the grenade, which never moved.

Sam dropped the wire to the ground, where it coiled, loose and harmless. Then he grabbed the back door, still kneeling and keeping an eye on the living room. Shuffling himself back into the corner and crouching into as small a ball as he could make himself, Sam pulled the door back towards him. It formed a little triangle of space between the counter, door, and wall. Now, with a shield in place between him and the grenade – a low enough yield from what Sam had spotted that it shouldn't penetrate the door – Sam reached out, picked up the loose wire, and purposefully tugged it towards himself.

The sound of the pin clattering to the floor was almost the only sound in the silence, and then it was immediately overtaken by a concussive explosion. Sam winced at the debris that hit the door, the door itself banging pressing into him, but the wood held up. Smoke and dust filled the kitchen, along with the acrid smell of burning metal and incinerated chemicals. Sam covered his mouth with his sleeve to keep from coughing. Quickly but still as quietly as possible, he swung the door outward (which was a little harder than he predicted, given one of the hinges was no longer fully intact) and stood.

The kitchen was a war zone, but that didn't matter. Sam could barely see through the dust and haze, but he thought he saw movement in the direction of the living room. Not enough to be Gordon entering the kitchen; he'd wait until the smoke settled before checking for Sam's corpse. The younger Winchester didn't plan to let him find it. The hunter pulled his gun from his backside, holding off on cocking it in case the click so close to his opponent gave away that he was still alive. He raised the weapon in front of him, thumb poised on the hammer, and took one careful step forward, minding the debris. The younger Winchester instantly froze, eyes wide, as his ankle met a thin, taut resistance he hadn't been expecting.

Sam looked down at the second trip wire in time to hear the pin it was connected to hit the floor.

Crap.

-o-o-o-

Dean scrambled back to his feet, thrown a good twenty feet from the fight as the angels battled on. He groaned, his chest pounding furiously from his son-of-a-bitch best friend shoving him out of the way (with angelic strength, he might add). The landing he'd taken after a twenty-foot soar hadn't done anything nice for him, either.

Had he mentioned lately, son of a bitch?

"Cas!" he screamed as he started back towards the fight at a full sprint. He had no weapon, no defense, but Dean didn't give a shit. That was a fight he belonged in, a fight Cas needed him in. One the angel was very clearly loosing.

Uriel delivered a vicious kick to Cas's midsection. The angel had managed to block his latest barrage of attacks, but it had left his midsection wide open to a lower attack. Cas tumbled over the edge of the crater and disappeared beneath the rim.

"Damnit," Dean swore, but he didn't stop to think about what exactly he was gonna do. Instead, he straight up tackled the bulky beast of a man that was Uriel.

The angel grunted in surprise, having not expected the attack from behind (or the audacity of a measly human soul to try taking on an angel), and the two hit the ground together. Uriel managed to turn as they fell and Dean landed heavily atop the other angel, already raining down punches. Blood splattered from a dark cheek and busted lip, but Dean didn't stop to wonder how he was getting blood out of an angel that wasn't apparently wearing the vessel he swore he could see.

"Enough!" Uriel roared, grabbing a fistful of Dean's shirt in his meaty hand, halting the hunter's next swing.

"Oh crap," Dean had time to breath out before he was soaring like a bird (ha, Big Bird, maybe) for the second time that night. He landed hard, groaning into the loose soil beneath him. A heavy hand fisted the back of his jacket and Dean was hauled back to his feet before he had time to blink the dust out of his eyes.

"You think you can take on me?" A fist crashed into Dean's face and goddamn it was a good thing he didn't have an actual jaw, because he was pretty sure it just broke. "You, the mud monkey?"

"Grk-" Dean took in a staggering, abruptly cut-off breath as Uriel wrapped that ridiculously large hand around his throat and lifted the human clear off the ground. Dean kicked out with his legs, struggling to find purchase with just the tips of his toes. The entire weight of his body (not body? Was his soul seriously a hundred eighty pounds too?) was resting on his neck, currently being crushed beneath McMeaty's paw.

Uriel stowed his blade. He would not need it for this pathetic man.

"You are vermin. You are a plague upon this earth." He shook the pathetic excuse for a lifeform and watched as Dean Winchester's body jiggled in response. Meat and bones wrapped in a bag of flesh. Disgusting. How their Father could call them his favorite, Uriel would never understand. "I'm going to drag you to the nearest crossroads and you're going to sell your soul to the first demon filth that comes calling."

"Doesn't…sound very…Righteous to m-me," Dean managed to spit out past Uriel's firm grip on his windpipe.

Dark lips split into a wide, dangerous smile. "Then we'll fetch your abomination of a brother and kill him first. Wipe the scar of his existence from this planet. Then we'll see how righteous you feel."

The hunter clenched his teeth, hand fisting across the muscular forearm holding him captive. He even drew blood – could feel it welling up beneath his nails – but Uriel's grip didn't lessen. No one threatened Sammy. "You touch my brother and I'll kill y-grk!"

His captive's hand tightened dangerously, cutting him off with a clear warning of just what this angel thought of his feeble threats. The hunter could feel his face turning dangerously red. His hands scrabbled for purchase anywhere: across Uriel's arms, stabbing at his neck and chest, even pushing at his stupidly thick waist.

Could he even be strangled to death when he didn't have a friggin' body?!

"Pathetic." Uriel shoved Dean's hands away with his other arm and the human made a grab for his wrist, latching onto the sleeve of his suit. The angel batted off like a horse would a fly. "You're species has grown even weaker than the last time I held one of you by the throat and squeezed the life out of you."

Despite the way Uriel's grip tightened suggestively, Dean managed a grim smile. He was busy thanking John Winchester for years of leaving him on his own to fend for Sammy. It had taught Dean to develop certain…five-fingered talents he'd never forgotten (or stopped using, really).

"I…grt…yrr…ss- ss-"

Uriel brought him closer, a sneer on his upper lip and Dean didn't both to hide his red-faced, bulging grin as he was pulled within breathing space of the douchebag (also, ew). But holy shit. It was actually working; the angel was playing right into his role, damn near perfectly in fact. A role he obviously didn't know he was supposed to be playing, because the movie Dean was thinking of didn't even exist yet. Maybe Hollywood wasn't so fake, after all. Suck it, Bill O'Reilly.

Ha, that was kinda funny, actually. Or maybe it was just oxygen deprivation.

"What was that, mud monkey?" Uriel barred his teeth, and Dean pulled a face at the wave of hot air and nasty breath he had to endure (okay, stupid brain on this one. Bet if he was seeing all grace and light and wavelengths of celestial intent, he wouldn't have to smell it) "If the fleshbag has something to say, it better speak up-"

"Uriel!"

Dean hit the ground with a painful jolt and a gigantic gasp of air as Uriel was ripped clear away from him by a flash of black and tan. Castiel tackled the angel into the dirt and grass, the two grappling together. Uriel's meaty hand wrapped around the smaller angel's wrist, all that kept his brother's blade from piercing his chest as Cas came out on top.

"Cas!" Dean started forward, rubbing at his throat and choking on the word as it battered it's way past a raw and damaged windpipe.

"Damn you, Castiel," Uriel hissed, throwing the injured angel off of him. It wasn't difficult. His brother was clearly weakening and Uriel knew Castiel could not remain on his feet much longer without further healing. Healing that the larger angel was still willing to offer. For certain concessions, of course. Uriel climbed to his feet once more as his brother did the same, albeit slower and with an obvious stumble. Still, the smaller angel flicked his sword, the blade held out at his side once more.

"You are a fool, brother." Uriel straightened, chest swelling with the bulk of his large mass. "This can end only one way, and you know it."

He stretched out his own hand, flicking his wrist to summon his blade from the ether. Castiel stared at him with hard, blue eyes. Uriel blinked, turning his head to look down at his empty hand.

"What-"

Castiel charged and Uriel, still shocked, was forced to block the attack with his bare hands. He still had great strength over his brother, injured as he was. He caught Castiel's sword hand in his own, his other forearm raised to block the rest of the angel's momentum. Even without his blade, this fight was his to win.

He had simply yet to decide if it would end with his brother's death. A decision that was Castiel's to make.

There was movement at his back and a moment of time – a single blink in the span that was the universe - for Uriel to garner further frustration at the pathetic human who dared interfere, before pain suddenly erupted throughout his chest. With a gasp born of pure shock more than agony, Uriel lowered his eyes to stare at the tip of an angel blade – his blade – sticking clear through his grace.

"I said…" Dean rose from behind the angel as Uriel fell to his knees with a heavy thud. Castiel's wide – so wide – blue eyes shifted from his brother's stunned face to the hunter's. Dean twisted the blade deeper, Uriel groaning, as he leaned his weight into the angel. "I got your sword."

-o-o-o-

Gordon waited for the second explosion. He didn't move, didn't surrender his protected position, didn't even breathe until the next blast ripped through the kitchen. When it went, it took a portion of the wall with it, and Gordon turned his head away from the concussive force.

He'd known Sam Winchester was too good to be tripped up by just the first.

The second grenade had been a higher yield and located much closer to the kitchen doorway than the first. A plume of dust erupted into the living room, blasted through the kitchen door by that second explosion. Gordon waited as a couple pieces of wood and smaller debris clattered against the walls and floor. A brass cabinet knob, slightly singed along the edges, rolled in through the doorway, doing lazy little circles on the ground before coming to a stop next to Gordon's boot.

Now he could make sure his target had been properly taken out. He gripped his rifle in hand and stood from his rickety chair. Should Sam Winchester be unfortunate enough to still be alive after that, Gordon would make it quick and put the man out of his misery.

The hunter entered the kitchen slowly, gun ready for anything. This wasn't any normal monster. This was another hunter. A damn good hunter, according to his Roadhouse connections. Gordon wasn't taking any chances.

There was a shoe in the middle of the kitchen, close to where the second trip wire had been. It was large – six-and-a-half-feet-tall large, and male – and hadn't been there before, Gordon was sure of it. Also, it was smoking.

"Hm," Gordon hummed, lowering his gun.

It was the wrong thing to do.

The hammer of a handgun locking into place clicked off just behind his ear, and Gordon froze as a ring of metal, solid and deadly, was pressed to the back of his skull. Damn. His connections hadn't been wrong.

"Where's my brother, Gordon?"

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

A/Ns: :D

So, turns out I wrote the 'up next' of last chapter ("Dean and Cas are fleeing Heaven, Uriel is hot on their heels, Rachel is hot on his, and one of them isn't gonna make it.") and totally meant 'one of them's not gonna make it out of Heaven'. Then reviews start coming in telling me I better not kill Rachel, it better be Uriel that dies, and I was like….'ohhhhhhh….I see what I did there…yeah, that's not what I meant at all! No one dies- oh, wait…' only to realize, haha, that still holds up, one of them doesn't make it out of Heaven, and one of them doesn't make it at all! XD Go me and my very big awesome brain (snort).

Yet Another Star Trek Reference: Lol, this one wasn't intentional or planned (actually…none of them have been…Huh…I may need to work on diversifying my references…daaaamnit). I had Uriel choking Dean and realized Dean could totally steal his blade off of him in the meanwhile (I knew Dean needed to get the blade, but originally Cas knocked it free and Dean scooped it up). Then as I was writing it, I was like "huh, this feels familiar, why does this feel familiar- oh." That is literally a scene from Star Trek 2009. So…yeah, I rolled with it. I'm betting Dean woulda liked that movie and seen it often enough to quote it (like all movies). Besides, it would have made his total fanboy-self insanely happy to successfully re-enact a badass scene from a movie he likes.

Up Next: Next chapter will be up tomorrow! Awesome job, FF dot netters. Thank you all so so so so much for 2000 reviews! [blows big, dramatic, overrated-Hollywood-star-on-the-red-carpet kisses]

Cheers,

Silence