(A/N: Hello everyone! And once again, this has been a blast writing this story. It's definitely been a long week! Also, Happy Valentines Day y'all's! With that being, this is a shorter chapter and thank you for the support!)

Anywho, enjoy!


Dean had taken his chances to evade interaction with as many demons as he possibly could. That meant heading to Price Rite to grab some cheap ass pie so they wouldn't stumble upon that group of hell dwellers on their way back to the Astoria Motel. Sam was still questioning what the hell happened with Pamela, even though it was simple to comprehend. At least for Dean.

"How's she doing?"

"ICU," Sam's phone closed shut, slamming the passenger door behind him.

"It's simple, she peeked at Castiel and her eyes burned out of her skull," Dean clarified bluntly, reaching for the golden doorknob to their single room. "But whatever brought me back wanted me back," He glanced over to his brother, who began folding his laundry. The nighttime was quiet, with clear skies and the milky blues reminding Dean all too well. Now he wasn't having Hell nightmares, but future nightmares.

"If you say so," Sam breathed, tossing away his shorts.

Dean's bed groaned underneath him, squeaking and shaking. The metal springs underneath were hard, the mattress too firm for his liking. He had to sit on his left side, where it had been broken in by previous users. Dean allowed the musk of the room to fill his nostrils, the comforting images of the Bunker filling his mind. His eyes closed, imagining the good things that came from that place. Instead of the gruesome past it held. Sam's occasional shuffling and scurrying made sure no white noise could stay for longer than ten minutes.

Dean fell asleep five minutes later.

It was peaceful. That single space between awake and asleep. No dreams, no nightmares, no sound— only empty. The sensation of floating peacefully into an abyss was the best feeling. The feeling of no worries or doubts, fears or escapism. Just—calm.

A silent ringing eased into his consciousness, tugging him awake bit by bit. He squinted, inhaling deeply while the hand that lay limply in his pocket gripped the circular trinket.

Just a reminder.

A reminder for what exactly?

Once rendering the room around him, surveying. He'd realized the TV once again to his left popped on. Dean sprung from the bed and stumbled back once.

Sam's bed was neatly folded, with no sign of use in hours. He grimaced. Oh yeah. Ruby.

The popcorn screen glared, and the hairs on the back of Dean's head and body stood upright. The television hissed in his ear, growing in volume. He clenched his ears ducking down.

"Shit!" He cursed, the whole room trembling underneath the deafening sound. He darted to the side table. Which was in the middle of the room, propped behind it was a painting of blue flowers. Sliding under the table, he scrunched his body together.

Stop Cas, stop Cas!

The mirrors along the creases of the ceiling shattered, cascading a rainstorm of glass and white. Liquid leaked from his right ear, holding them tight under the cover he struggled to compress in. If it wasn't for the excruciating pain from his eardrums blowing, he might've been able to hear himself screaming.

Seconds later, it was over. As fast as it came— he'd escaped the inner wall in the eye of the storm.

The door to the motel room busted down as the thoughts were processing in Dean's head. "Dean!" Boby yelled, bending down, and hoisting him under the shoulders. Squishing through the broken hinges and maneuvering through the sea of glass shards.


"How you doin', kid?" Bobby questioned, one hand on the wheel while Dean patted the remaining blood that dried along his inner ear.

"Aside from church bells ringing in my ears, peachy." Bobby stifled a chuckle. Dean's hand cracked the inside of his pants pocket, grabbing his phone. He stopped. The last time, he'd told Sam he was going with Bobby to grab some beers. It was either one: To summon Cas, or two: to sniff out if he was hunkering with Ruby. Both had been deemed successful… making that call seemed rather more risky. His hesitation caught the eyes of Bobby, his brows knitting together.

"What's up?" Bobby asked, still glued onto the road.

Dean sighed deeply, "We're gonna summon him. Castiel. Tonight."

The car hitched from Bobby's misstep regarding the break petal's location. "What? You have to be insane, Dean! Whoever this Castiel guy had to offer left Pamela in the ICU!"

"I know," he clarified, "But we can't afford any more backroads, Bobby." The eyes that connected with the hunter were nothing of the reckless Dean, Bobby once knew. It was nearly upsetting and unsettling at the same time. The glow for adventure wasn't shielded away completely— but rather pulled from his soul. Ripped away by things he should've never seen.

"This is a bad idea," Bobby warned.

"That's why we have to try it," His hand secretly grazed the cold metal of Castiel's angel blade. Tucked away, the hilt was warm. "It's our only option." His resolve was flushed with that faint day, today was that day.

The duo soon arrived, unpacked, and loaded the abandoned warehouse where they were stationed. Seals, traps, talismans, and wards were along every corner. Some chalk, spray paint, and a few dabbling dry with blood. In the center, their table lay flat with stakes, knives, silver, salt, you name it. Anything that could kill something supernatural was presented in its bold glory.

Except for the Angel Blade. The one thing he had started to worry about. Since it was technically Cas' blade, would he sense it? Like other angels could with holy weapons or anything of heavenly origin?

Bobby's paint bowl clattered to the table, it rattled, "That's everything,"

"A on the art project," Dean nodded, impressed.

"You?" the hunter asked, nodding with a dirty rag in hand.

"Stakes, iron, silver, salt, knife. I mean, we're pretty much set to catch and kill anything I've ever heard of…" Except angels.

"Not saying that I agree with you, but this is still a bad idea,"

"Yeah, Bobby, I heard you the first ten times. What do you say we ring the dinner bell?" The closer they got to their marks, the more Dean's heart was about to leap out of his chest. Just a minute longer, and he will see the damn baby in a trenchcoat.

Bobby nodded reluctantly, prowling over to the two bowls placed in front of him. Both were seemingly wood in color, it was ash he was sprinkling in the bigger bowl. It crackled, a continuous stream of smoke snaking upwards. Chanting Latin.

Patience, patience. He forced himself into a blank expression.

Where was Sam around this time? Wasn't he going out and exercising demons? His whole 'saving the soul, killing the demon' mojo he'd learned to use. Sam was always the one to do such things. Dean really might have given him a little more of a tug on the rope when he came back. Scolding him, thinking he didn't try when he was dead, blaming it on him first thing because of his demonic ties. He'd learned from a friend that maybe blaming someone for their actions when something that bad had just happened, might not have been the smartest idea.

But in the end, it did bring the brothers close together.

Dean counted down the minutes, the seconds left until the angel's arrival.

Soon, there was a slight, but noticeable shift in the air. The ranting owl outside the barn had stopped hooting, the wind began to pick up and rattle the metal sheets. An eerie howl rolled in. Bobby flew to his feet, grabbing his shotgun in hand. Dean skyrocketed in lieu, eyes peeled to the door while Bobby's head began flipping around. He had no idea what was going to come for him. That an angel was going to walk right on into the place they very stood, and change his perspective on reality as they knew it.

Dean could prevent Cas from knocking his friend out, but he had to be careful. If he did let Bobby stay awake, to hear their conversation— they both would become a problem. Know that he isn't the Dean that a day ago, clawed his way out of a pine box.

The beaming circular lights popped, the bulbs nearest to Bobby shattering on him. He slinked away, out of the clear line of fire. Half blinding them, the doors unlatched with an unknown force. A silent wind.

A stoic, tall man presented himself to the duo. Unflinching by the sparks toppling, gunshots along his vessel's trench coat. His eyes focused beyond understanding; Bobby's eyes soon became more fearful than before, as the mystery person strutted past the large demon trap along the ground.

"Cas," Dean quietly mouthed, while the angel circled in tandem. He would've had Ruby's knife hidden behind him, but instead both his arms were slack to his sides. Unafraid, but enough to put on a show. "Who are you?" God, it felt like poison.

"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition," The monotone voice filled the hunter up. This wasn't the Cas he'd known. Not before he took in care and human emotion. The angel that rebelled from Heaven, fell for the sake of humanity.

"Yeah, thanks for that."

Castiel made a noticeable nod, a small curtsey; Dean had to hold back his enthrallment. He was going to have to stab him now— or he would've. He needed to change some things, he couldn't muster to see another blade lodged in his angel buddy's chest. Not again. They stared at each other, and a beat passed in silence. Maybe Cas was expecting Dean to stab him too because he too was unflinching.

In the corners of his vision, Bobby was already winding up to swing at the angel with his crowbar. Oh Bobby, dont—

The attack was easily deflected by Castiel, and with two quick fingers pressed along the hunter's temple; his eyes rolled back, and collapsed to the ground. Staring at Bobby's unconscious body, his eyes dragged up to Dean.

Could he just crumble now? Break and shutter? Tremble and cry in the angel's arms? Would it be worth it to change time that much just so he could hug his friend? "We need to talk, Dean." his eyes flicked to the unconscious body, then back. "Alone," he clarified.

His lungs compressed like shriveled raisins, he couldn't breathe. Remember the timeline, remember Zachariah's tedious warnings, remember—

Three steps. Three steps was all his body took. Dean's arms were already wrapped around Castiel's stiff trench coat. His angelic scent of cinnamon and rosemary wafting his fears free. He had to break from the chains. He couldn't live by the grim reminder of what was to come. He would not stand to be the shadow behind the conductor. Fuck what Zachariah said, fuck what he warned. Because if Dean really wanted to change fate, his fate, everyone's fate…he wasn't going to go by some twisted rules.

So why not? Why instead oblige— if he simply crafts his own?