Consciousness was a vapor, thin and almost intangible, sweeping beneath the whim of the wind. He wasn't sure how many times it passed him, how many times it whisked away. And yet, the hum of lights buzzed overhead, the soft rattle of ventilation, returned slowly.
Castiel blinked, squinting at the brightness as his eyes adjusted. For a moment, he simply lied still, a frown twisting his face. He felt… different. Lighter. Stronger.
He sat up, glancing over himself, trying to distinguish what exactly… he froze.
At the grace pumping along the lines of his intangible being. The grace that wasn't his.
Horror laced along his veins, even as the grace sang in tenuous cord with his own. It was foreign to his bones, the connection somewhat strained, its power steady, yet burning at a rate far exceeding his own. It took several seconds to quell the dread enough to realize the glimmer of the grace was familiar. It was from his sister, who had offered it so generously and freely. From his sister, who he had thought had accepted his refusal.
His fists clenched tight, his eyes flicking about the room hastily, only to find Dean slouched against the wall, his head lolling.
"Dean?" Alarm shot through every nerve of Castiel's body; he swung his legs off the cot and practically dove to the ground. As soon as his hands touched Dean's shoulder, he realized he could still see the Winchester's life pulsing steadily. Dean jerked awake, his hand smacking against the wall as though he was trying to reach for something that should've been hidden beneath a pillow. His eyes were wide before they locked on the angel before him, and relief and familiarity relaxed his face.
"Cas," Dean breathed, a weak, yet sincere smile curling his lips.
"What happened?" Castiel asked, his tone rougher than he expected.
Dean glanced around, as though realizing he was on the floor, and wiped a hand over his face, "Sorry… must've passed out."
The angel's gaze flicked over him. Dean looked weary, unsurprisingly, but it wasn't the purpose of his question. Faintly, he wondered if he caught a glimpse of guilt cross Dean's eyes—of avoidance, of hesitation.
"Dean," he repeated, his voice tentative. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted the answer. "What happened?"
The Winchester pushed himself up, apparently unwilling to have the conversation with the angel bearing over him and his back to the wall. He leaned against one of the other cots, running a hand through his hair, "How are you feeling, Cas?"
"I'm fine," the angel replied readily, a frown contorting his face, his desperation rising with the plea, "Dean."
Dean shook his head, turning away as he cursed. It took several more moments for him to finally ground out low. "You were supposed to call your angel pal, Cas. To take out a loan for some grace." His tone flared with anger, irritation—betrayal.
Castiel breathed a sigh. Dean was angry. Perhaps he had a right to be. "It isn't that simple."
Ignoring the remark, Dean continued, "So why did I come to find out she never heard from you?"
"Dean, I—"
"You told me you'd contact her. I was waiting for her to show up." Dean pressed, gesturing to the cot, "You were dying."
Castiel shifted, guilt rising in his throat. "I'm sorry… I couldn't."
"You couldn't?" Dean repeated, annoyed disbelief written on his face, "What does that mean?"
"Dean, an angel's grace… it isn't something that can be taken lightly." Castiel tried, but his voice wavered against Dean's irritation.
"You were dying," Dean echoed again, "And you know what? She said she offered to give you some of her grace days ago, and that you said no. Sam and I have been trying to find something to help you for weeks, and you didn't even bother to tell us that you had the solution in your pocket this whole time?"
"It's not a solution," Castiel objected, his voice low, "It's temporary. It only buys us a little time."
"And you don't think we could've used that?" Dean pressed incredulously, "I was tearing myself up about sending you out there on empty, but you could've been running on full power for free." He dropped his head, only raising his gaze to prompt, "Hell, Cas… tell me we'd still be in this mess if you'd taken her grace earlier."
"What?" Castiel replied thinly, his eyes crinkling.
"Tell me those demons still would've taken you down," Dean demanded, his tone quickening and hardening by the word, "Tell me Sam and I still would've had to come rescue you. That Sam would've relapsed again anyway."
Castiel winced at the sting of the accusation, his throat tightening. It wasn't a fair challenge—it wasn't a fair burden to assign. And yet… perhaps Dean was right. With the charge of Zophiel's grace, those demons would never have landed a blow. And Sam might still be on track for detoxification.
"I'm sorry, Dean," he spoke softly, and Dean seemed to relax ever-so-slightly at the apology. And yet, the angel added, "But I couldn't."
Dean's fists clenched tight, his anger again crackling like a furnace, "So what was the plan, then? You were just gonna die on us?"
Castiel forced a slow breath, "I couldn't take another thing from my brethren."
Dean scowled, shaking his head, "They owe you. They owe us. How many times have we saved the world while they've been sitting on their thumbs? This is the least they could do."
"I have killed hundreds of my brothers and sisters," Castiel's voice was rough, his breath unsteady with the weight of his words, "Many died at my hands, many for the choices I made." He held Dean's gaze unblinking, "I will spend my life trying to rectify the things I have done. But I won't take another drop of their grace."
"That means you'll die," Dean forced out, eyes searching Castiel's as though for some chance it'd shift his stance.
It didn't. He couldn't blame Dean for his inability to understand—he couldn't grasp the preciousness of an angel's grace. It wasn't like a simple transfer of blood, though the grace would eventually replenish if enough remained. No… grace wasn't the mere fuel for an angel's life, it was their link to the divine, the very threads of their existence. Taking an angel's grace was more akin to draining the energy of a soul. He didn't think Dean would find it righteous—or even an option at all—to take a piece of his brother's soul to prolong his own life. And neither could Castiel. Not after everything he'd done—not after everything he'd taken from them.
And yet, as he parted his mouth in an attempt to explain… he hesitated. He could glimpse the anger swirling around Dean's skull, weaving through his chest, springing from the Mark on his arm. The anger, and the fear. In the years spent at the Winchester's side, he had learned a great deal—both about the world, and about the man himself. Not least among which was Dean's need for a target, a focus for his virulent emotions—else he might just crumple beneath their weight.
He closed his mouth, dropping his gaze—his silence echoing his resolution.
"That's not an option," Dean ground out, his voice now bearing a slight tremor, "I can't…" he cut himself off, apparently catching the crack and swallowing hard to contain it, "I need you, Cas." His gaze was low on the floor, his words quiet, "I need you to help me save him."
Castiel's resolve wavered for several seconds, the rare vulnerability a knife to his chest. Among the other things the angel had learned about Dean, perhaps most prominent was that he needed his brother. More than anything, more than the world itself.
He nodded solemnly, forcing himself to meet Dean's eyes as he promised, "We will, Dean. Sam will be fine." And he would—he had to. Maybe the second wind of grace offered the time they needed. To help Sam's recovery. To cure the Mark. It had to be enough.
Dean shook his head—Castiel didn't think it was in disagreement, but maybe disbelief, uncertainty.
"How is he?" Castiel asked softly, not without some trepidation.
He exhaled in something not far from a scoff, "He was talking to the walls, screamin' like someone's torturing him, begging for more blood." Dean gritted his teeth, "He's not good, Cas. He's… he's really not good."
Castiel's heart sank, his chest a hive of needles. His only response was a feeble murmur, "I'm sorry." He tried to swallow down the voice that insisted it was his fault. That Sam's renewed suffering could have been avoided.
"He might be dying," Dean whispered, so quietly the angel wondered if he'd heard it at all.
"You knew this type of detox would be risky," Castiel replied somewhat warily. Sam had insisted it would be fatal. The danger couldn't be a surprise.
"What was I supposed to do?" Dean demanded, though Castiel wasn't sure he was seeking an alternative. "He was out of control. Draining demons by the gallon."
Castiel sighed, "I don't know." After a long pause, he offered quietly, unsure if it was even a good idea. "I could find more blood."
Dean wrung his head, but his lack of an immediate objection was surprising. He almost seemed to falter for a moment, before catching himself and withdrawing as he pressed, "And then what?" he searched Castiel, "We give him more blood, keep him locked down. We don't even know if that'll work." His voice quieted again, "He might die anyway."
Castiel didn't reply—they had no assurances of Sam's survival, regardless of which path they took. The demon blood was violent, clinging like a parasite. And Sam's body clung to it as much as it latched itself to him.
"There's gotta be another way, Cas," Dean's words were almost pleading, flooded in desperation.
The angel paused, wishing any other answer would be the truth, "I'm not sure that there is."
Dean nodded, his gaze low, before he cursed. "If I call Crowley… agree to whatever favor he's got in mind… maybe it'll buy us some time."
Castiel's brow twitched in subtle disbelief. But maybe he shouldn't be so surprised. Dean wasn't ready to lose his brother—not again. And as much as he hated giving him the blood… he might just do anything to keep him breathing.
The angel restrained his own wariness of Crowley's schemes—nothing ever came free when a demon was involved—because he wasn't sure they had a better alternative. His renewed grace might grant him better sight of the infernal, but Crowley had had plenty of time to divert any demons in their vicinity. He wasn't sure they could afford days of a wild fowl chase.
Dean released another tired breath, glancing to his watch and pulling a face, as though surprised by the time. Perhaps he'd passed out for longer than he thought. He'd probably burned himself past the point of exhaustion worrying about Sam. He didn't glance up, murmuring, "Should probably check on him."
Castiel nodded, and the Winchester started toward the door, but his head tilted back, and he paused—Castiel interpreted it as an invitation to follow.
As they approached the door to the archives' room, Dean slowed notably, his eyes flicking up to Castiel, "He might say some things…" Dean trailed off, though his face pleaded understanding. "And he might not… see us."
Castiel frowned, confusion creasing his brow.
"He…" Dean shook his head, setting his jaw, "Never mind."
Castiel's gaze lingered on the Winchester, on the storm of emotions boiling beneath the surface. The fear, the frustration… the guilt. Dismay and pity swelled in the angel's chest. He still blamed himself, at least in part.
It was hard enough to see his brother like this, Castiel knew. He could only imagine it tore at him all the more, knowing the role he played in Sam's suffering—even if it wasn't truly him.
Dean slowed as he approached the bookshelves that concealed the entrance to the dungeon, his face slowly assembling into a mask of stone, though his eyes still read pain. He didn't bother with another glance toward Castiel—maybe he didn't want to risk a falter in his resolve—as he pushed the bookshelves aside to reveal the dark room.
Dean took a few steps in and froze.
Castiel's gaze slid to the center of the room, and he found himself mirroring Dean's reaction.
Beneath the dim light, at the heart of the devil's trap, iron shackles laid empty on the floor, their jaws parted as though to share in the shock.
Several seconds passed of utter, uncanny stillness.
Dean didn't move, staring at the empty shackles without a single shift in his expression.
"What happened?" Dean's voice came out low, almost a breathless whisper strained in disbelief. Castiel found himself shying away from Dean's side, allowing him space, even as confusion and worry sparked a fire in his own chest.
Dean's boots echoed in the empty space as he stepped forward, eyes scanning madly as though they might find some explanation hidden in the cement.
"Dean…" Castiel started softly, tenuously, his gaze flicking over the Winchester warily.
"Where the hell is he?" Dean shouted, rounding on Castiel. The angel retreated several steps, and Dean shoved past him, stalking through the parted bookshelves.
Castiel took a step toward him, then hesitated, glancing back toward the center of the room. Quietly, he started toward it, crouching beside the shackles. Dried blood crusted the iron, collected on the floor in small, smeared drops. He brushed his fingers against it, eyes narrowing. The blood was distinctly Sam's—none other had the distinctive shadow of sulfur and bright, pulsing life intertwined so seamlessly. His gaze flicked down, and he frowned. He traced the painted lines of the devil's trap across the floor, his fingers pausing along a crack gouged into the cement.
A loud crash behind him made Castiel twist over his shoulder and rise, starting back toward the exit. He paused at the entrance to the archives' room, his eyes landing on the iron bookshelf toppled diagonally across the path, leaking papers from filing boxes and sending books and spools of film bouncing to the floor. Just beyond it, Dean slammed the door to the room, disappearing into the hall.
Castiel carefully picked his way over the shelves, following Dean as quickly as he could manage and calling, "Dean, slow down."
"He's gone, Cas," Dean shot back, not slowing in the slightest as he yelled, "Sam!"
"Dean," Castiel repeated, jogging to his side, "The devil's trap was broken."
Dean paused a single heartbeat, his eyes flicking to Castiel. Almost immediately, rage overtook the moment of calculation, and he started walking faster.
"When I find the demon freak that did this, I'm gonna tear its lungs out," Dean shouted, his gaze rooted ahead.
"When was the last time you checked on him?" Castiel asked gently, trying to temper the volume.
Dean's scowl darkened, his words pointed and sharp, "I've been a little busy, Cas."
"I'm not blaming you," the angel corrected, voice rough, "We just need to know how far he could've gotten."
A thread of guilt crossed Dean's face, and he looked back, "I dunno. Might've been last night."
Hours, then. Sam could be anywhere. A dozen questions raced through the angel's mind. Perhaps it shouldn't have been among them, but he couldn't help but wonder if Sam left voluntarily. Frankly, it was likely—no matter how much Sam wanted to rid himself of his addiction… he needed a locked door for a reason. And yet, a part of Castiel hoped it wasn't by choice—he didn't want his friend in any danger, but he hoped he might still be resolved to get clean.
Dean slammed into the door to Sam's bedroom, gaze quickly skimming over the furniture before he cursed and started back down the hall. He certainly wasn't expecting Sam to be there—maybe he was hoping it'd hold a sign as to where he'd gone. Castiel's eyes landed on the upturned nightstand, the papers scattered across the floor.
"Dean," he called, staring at the destruction. Shouldn't they investigate? It looked like someone had rummaged through Sam's things, leaving only wreckage in their wake.
"We're wasting time," Dean snapped back, already halfway down the hall.
Castiel set his jaw and again closed the distance. He tried to position himself in Sam's footwear, as it were. Unfortunately, there weren't many places that Sam would have gone in his state. Grimly, Castiel could only think of one thing he knew with reasonable certainty that Sam would be chasing. But it didn't exactly narrow down where to look.
Dean burst into the library, striding along the table and cursing to find Sam's phone still atop it. He snatched it off the table and chucked it at a wall without hesitation, seething.
Castiel tensed, his gaze trailing to the Mark on Dean's forearm. Apprehension knitted itself in his veins.
And yet, Dean slowed, swiveling back with a frown—not purely of anger, but of confusion. His eyes skated across the table, landing on the warded box at the end.
"Cas… do you feel it?" his voice was thin, his gaze unwavering.
The angel glanced toward the box, his brow furrowing as he searched for the familiar, malevolent presence that somehow managed to escape the warding sealing it. Only… he couldn't detect even a whisper.
"No," he answered slowly, approaching the table.
"Neither can I," Dean remarked with escalating alarm, unlatching the lid and snapping it open. His fists clenched white immediately.
It was empty, with barely a hint of shadows as evidence the Book had ever rested inside.
"He took it," Dean gritted out, "Or whatever got him out did."
Castiel glanced over the lines of the warding. The Book of the Damned had been contained for a reason. It was dangerous, potent, and in the wrong hands… catastrophic. Sam had probably taken it to search for a cure for the Mark, but… Castiel feared Sam teetered too close to the edge to hazard cracking the tome. Much less alone, with no one to anchor him should he spiral into its dark depths.
"We gotta find him, Cas," Dean's voice was more than framed in urgent panic, more than hinted with desperation. It was tainted with the terror of facing defeat. The thought that they might have already lost.
"We will," he assured, though the promise felt empty, and he supposed it was. Sam's ribs were engraved with angelic warding of Castiel's own design—no angel would be able to locate him. Perhaps they could try a spell, if whoever liberated or kidnapped Sam didn't provide him with a hex bag for concealment.
His frown deepened. Given the broken devil's trap, their culprit was very likely a demon. But why would a demon free Sam in the first place? He didn't exactly hold any fondness for them. Although… unease threaded deeper. Given some of the demons from whom he had harvested blood over the past several weeks… perhaps it was a demon that held a particular loyalty for him. The thought wasn't exactly comforting.
Dean cursed, pacing as he shook his head. Finally, he waved a hand, evidently narrowing their options similarly, "Get a tracking spell going."
Even as Castiel nodded and began to turn, a familiar voice prompted him to spin back around with a dark scowl.
"I don't think that will be necessary." A demon smiled back, the distinctive red smoke casually filling its vessel's every inch, sparked with an air of indifferent confidence and snark.
"Now's not the time, Crowley," Dean's words sounded more like a warning than a dismissal, flooded with irritation as he faced the demon. Then his eyes narrowed, as though he'd just registered Crowley's words, and he demanded, "What do you mean?"
"You're looking for Moose, aren't you?" he arched an eyebrow, a faint smirk flirting with his face as Dean's glower deepened.
"And you know where he is," Castiel presumed, stepping closer.
"Of course," Crowley shrugged as though it were nothing, "I'm the one who let him out, after all."
"The hell did you do that for?" Dean hissed, crossing the distance between them immediately as though to snatch the demon by the coat. Only, Crowley vanished, leaving the Winchester grasping air tinged in sulfur. He cursed, head snapping to face the demon standing at the opposite end of the table.
"Calm down, darling—no need to get handsy," he remarked, his lips curling.
"Where is he?" Dean shouted, bristling—he looked like he was barely restraining himself from trying to grab the demon again. Or perhaps from pummeling him.
"Relax," Crowley stressed again, affecting mild annoyance, "We'll get to that. Do you really think I'd come here just to gloat?"
"It wouldn't be beyond you," Castiel replied roughly, eyes thinning as he studied the demon.
"And here I thought you and I were starting to become friends, Feathers." Crowley looked at the angel, disappointed.
"Crowley, tell me where he is, or I swear—"
"You'll what?" The demon tilted his head, "Lock me up in your little dungeon, like you did your brother?" His face twisted into a mock frown, "Poor thing, that Moose. It was no wonder he was so eager to leave. Your little treatment was making him look like he'd done a few rounds in the Cage."
Dean's gaze dropped; his rage still simmered, but guilt had nudged its way into a steady hold.
"What do you want?" Castiel interjected, glancing over Dean briefly. If he wasn't here to gloat, he needed something. Was he holding Sam hostage, using him as leverage? Dean had mentioned the King of Hell had been after some nameless favor. How bad must it be if Crowley had to further their desperation to secure their acceptance?
Crowley fit his hands in his pockets, eyes sliding to Dean, "Your brother's about to play on the big stage. And," he glanced at his wrist, as though checking an invisible watch, "He's gotten quite the head start. But I'm sure you two wouldn't want to miss the show."
"What are you talking about?" Dean pressed, gritting his teeth. Castiel could trace the concern in his words, even as it weaved its way through his own chest.
"I have a problem with a certain First Murderer—and your brother's going to help me take care of it."
"What?" Dean stared aghast, "You sent him after Cain?"
Castiel stood in silence, the information whirring through his mind. Was it even possible—killing Cain?
"If you haven't noticed, your brother has recently reacquired a unique skill set," Crowley explained patronizingly, "And it happens that Cain's decided to stir up trouble for me. Moose may be our best chance at taking him off the board—which, trust me, is good for both of us."
"You think he can take Cain?" Dean objected, his anger flaring, "Have you seen him lately? Cain would snap him in half." Dean shook his head, lip curling, "Bring Sam back, and I'll do it. Get me the Blade, and I'll kill him for you."
Crowley chuckled, "You think I want that Blade anywhere near Cain? Near you?"
Frankly, Castiel couldn't help but agree. He'd seen what the Blade did to Dean, and he had no desire to ever witness it again. But he didn't want Sam to face Cain either… especially not alone.
"And you don't have to worry; I wouldn't send our little nuke flying in on empty. He'll have all the juice he needs before he's off to battle."
"You can't give him more blood," Dean ordered—only it came out almost as more of a plea.
"Having some trust issues are we?" Crowley taunted, "Rest assured—I'll leave the decision up to Samantha."
Dean ground his jaw, pacing several steps, his muscles tense in rebellion against his helplessness.
"Why tell us?" Castiel asked, trying to ignore Crowley's prod, his eyes narrowed. "If you want Sam to kill Cain, why tell us now?"
"Well, if our Moose manages to defeat Cain, I don't think either of us want the little addict running around loose. And if he doesn't win…" Crowley raised his shoulders almost as though in apology, "You two might be able to finish up what he started."
Dean seemed to snap at that, slamming a fist against the table. His eyes flicked up to the demon, his breathing heavy—his words drenched in a desperation he didn't even try to disguise. "Crowley. Don't do this."
Crowley smiled, "I'll send you the address when it's your turn."
With that, he disappeared.
The silence hung heavy between them; Castiel didn't move, didn't speak, merely watching Dean for a sign as to whether he was about to hurl a chair or crumple to the nigh hopelessness of their circumstances.
Instead, he asked in low murmur, "Is it possible?" His eyes flicked to Castiel, "Sam, taking down Cain."
"I don't know," Castiel admitted, grimly adding, "But to have any chance… he'd need to drink a substantial amount of demon blood."
Dean shook his head, face twisting, "He can't say no. He won't." Dean cursed, gripping the sides of his head as though to try to press the answers from within. Finally, he decided, "We're not waiting for Crowley. Start a tracking spell. We need to find him before that happens."
Castiel couldn't help but wonder if it was already too late. But it wasn't the hesitation he voiced. "Dean… Crowley will have Sam concealed with hex bags." He'd used them to conceal the demons he'd assigned to monitor the Winchesters—there was little doubt he'd use them to ensure his plan ran smoothly.
"I don't care," Dean bit back, his voice lethally low, "Try it anyway." He couldn't quite hold the angel's gaze for more than a couple seconds, his whole body nearly trembling with the tension of rage and worry.
Castiel inclined his head, turning to collect the necessary components for the spell. He knew they had everything they needed, since Sam had attempted the same spell to locate Cain in hopes of finding a cure for the Mark—only to discover the demon was either warded or impervious to such magical tracking. Except… Castiel paused.
His brethren had managed to find Cain. He hadn't had the opportunity to follow up on the information yet, but… He looked back toward Dean, "I might know where Cain is."
Dean's eyes flicked immediately to Castiel, searching. After a mere handful of seconds, Dean started toward the war room, snatching the keys to the Impala from the table, "Then let's go."