Chapter III

Let's Take a Peek

Screw Father's plan! Screw dad's orders!

Dean relaxed against the couch, finally fully content with himself. His two identities seemed to reach an agreement and now were in peace with each other. He touched his chest with his free hand, feeling comfortable warmth sitting just under his ribs. Dean's soul and Michael's grace remained in harmony, fitting perfectly together as if created for such purpose.

Dean dared not to dwell on thoughts about what could that mean.

He opted better to watch Sam, opening his newly regained senses to feel the kid's soul. His heart ached at all the injuries it had already sustained and would still gain in the future if he allowed the demon to poison his brother further.

To help Sam, Dean had to get rid of Ruby. Which, honestly, would turn out to be harder to do than it should be, seeing how his little brother developed a genuine attachment to the skunk. Not entirely his fault—Lilith needed Sam obediently feeding from her lackey's palm so that he could be at their beck and call. Like a trained dog on a leash that they could sic on a target at the right time and place.

Now, how to convince his brother that Ruby was up to no good? A frontal confrontation wouldn't work with Sam's personality, so he needed to find another way.

Shifting slightly in his spot, Dean cleared his throat when Sam started frowning at his intense scrutiny. "I'm guessing you didn't come to plant flowers on my grave," he spoke casually. "What were you doing here?"

"Well," the younger man paused, briefly considering his words. "Once I figured out I couldn't save you… I started hunting down Lilith, trying to get some payback."

"With Ruby?"

"Yeah, Dean. She really wants to help," Sam assured. Seeing the blank look from his brother, he added, "She's trying to track down Lilith so that we could kill her."

Dean didn't say anything. He just sat there calmly with his head propped against his hand and just stared.

Sam almost squirmed under his heavy gaze, his guard rising with every second that passed in silence. "What?" he snapped.

"Did you know," Dean began, leaning forward to put his empty beer bottle on the table, "that the time in Hell flows differently?"

Sam stiffened at the mention of Hell, but his furrowed brow showed that he had no idea what the other man was saying.

"Four months here," Dean made a circle in the air with his finger before pointing it down, "means forty years downstairs." He watched as the kid's expression turned from not-nearly-a-bitch-face to the mask of absolute horror. Green eyes softened. He had planned to keep that information secret, but if using his brother's natural empathy would help to make a bigger impact in order to convince him, when there was no point in hiding it. "That is not a short time. I've seen and heard many things. Do you know how demons are made?"

Sam simply gawked at him with wide eyes. "Dean, I—" He looked so young now. Scared. And the weight of the world seemed to settle on his shoulders again. "I'm—"

"That's alright, Sammy, I'm okay. It wasn't your fault," Dean soothed. "The reason why I'm telling you this is so that you'd believe me." At a sudden idea, he took his abandoned empty beer bottle. "Imagine that this is a human's soul, the one that just went to Hell. Naturally, human souls are pretty sturdy—you have no idea how many times I heard that from frustrated demons."

A small smirk slipped on fallen Archangel's lips, admiration for his Father's creation rising. Souls were truly a remarkable masterpiece. He wondered how he had never noticed this before. After a moment, his amusement vanished. The soul's innate durability and ability to remodel itself after deformation were exactly what Lucifer used to make the First Demon, to pervert Father's ingenuity and turn it against Him.

"But down there," Dean continued, banishing any thought of his wayward angelic brother, "after years of torture and conditioning, even human souls sustain injuries. Wounds and scars that get deeper and deeper and deeper until—"

The sound of a beer bottle smashed into a thousand glittering fragments against the table's hard surface cracked like thunder in the silent room. Sam flinched, face wrapped in a fierce scowl.

"—it shatters. And then, reassembles itself anew." Dean started picking up shards and putting them on top of each other. "But manages to do so only in a wrong way with corruption and vile essence of Hell clinging to each of its pieces twisting it further from what it's supposed to be." He carefully placed the last shard on a jagged, haphazardly built tower. With smaller bits stacked on top, its shape somewhat resembled its previous shape. "And that, Sammy, is how demons are made. No matter how similar they might look to what they were, they are not the same anymore."

Sam stared at the broken bottle, lips pursed and face taut.

"I've seen it with my own eyes," Dean added as he reclined back against the sofa with a soft sigh. Of course, as a human, he couldn't quite perceive the soul's metamorphosis for what it was, but now, as an Archangel, he knew exactly how and why it happened.

After another minute, Dean heaved himself up with a nonchalant, "Anyway," and walked to pick up the trashcan from the corner of the room. "Lilith is in Pontiac?" He returned to the table, but his brother was still staring at the shard tower and obviously didn't hear the question. "Sam?" Dean called before he swiftly swiped the shards into the trashcan.

Sam blinked, unearthing himself out of whatever thought process had consumed him. He glanced up at Dean and blinked once more. "…What?"

"Lilith is in Pontiac?"

"Wha—no. No, uh…" the younger hunter muttered, rubbing his eyes with his index and thumb as if trying to massage away the headache. He visibly shook himself before speaking again. "I was checking these demons out of Tennessee, and out of nowhere they took a hard left, booked up here."

Dean raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "When?"

"Today early morning."

Dean almost smacked himself. An angel's touch sent ripples of purifying power throughout the surrounding area, making it a holy ground and, at the same time, a shiny beacon for all the evil sons of bitches out there. As expected, demons would come to investigate. It was, after all, the matter of self-preservation. An angel walking the Earth was a thing of true terror for them and they needed to make sure it wasn't true.

"You should call Bobby," Dean abruptly stated. Before Sam's inevitable 'why', he explained, "If your demons came here at the moment I busted out, there may be more of them coming. We should clear the place before leaving."

Sporting a troubled expression, the other man nodded, rummaging through his pockets in search of his phone.

"Don't tell him I'm up and running," Dean said as Sam dialed the number and waited for Bobby to answer. His youngest brother shot him a bitch face in full effect which only made Dean grin.

A moment later, Sam's expression relaxed. "Hey, Bobby," he greeted before frowning. "Yeah, I know, I should have called sooner." He pinching his nose bridge, listening to what was definitely a scolding. "Sorry, Bobby, I was pretty messed up." A pause. "I, er, I need help. With the hunt. It's demons. A few of them. I'm at…"

Dean didn't pay attention to the address Sam rattled out into the phone, instead, he finished cleaning the mess he made on the table. The remaining shards clinked sharply against the ones already in the trashcan.

Reacting to the sound, Sam turned around and eyed his brother from head to toe. "Hey, Bobby, can you bring Dean's duffle bag with his clothes?" He rolled his eyes at something the old hunter was saying which sounded like 'idjit, what have ya done?' or something along the line. "No, I haven't done anything stupid."

On the other side of the room, Dean hid his snort of laughter at that comment. Oh, boy, his youngest brother sure did something very stupid. He just didn't know it yet.

"See you soon, Bobby." Sam slid the phone back into his pocket. "Bobby will be here tonight."

"Awesome!" Dean's stomach grumbled. He shuffled his feet before clearing his throat, "Let's get something to eat." A wide grin broke on his face at the thought of food. "I'm starving!"

Sam tore his gaze from the laptop, leaned against the couch with a weary sigh, and closed his eyes to rest for a few minutes. Instantly, his mind brought him to the broken bottle and shard tower. 'And that, Sammy, is how demons are made.'

A groan of frustration slipped from his mouth. Sam rubbed his eyes before glancing at the big bundle in the middle of the king bed.

Dean loved to sleep sprawled all over the bed, with his limbs stretched in every direction. Now, though, his brother huddled up into the smallest ball he could manage with his bulky frame and hid completely under the blankets. As if trying to protect himself from the non-existent threats.

Sam still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that it was forty years for Dean in Hell. He didn't even try to imagine what kind of horrors his brother had to live through. Maybe, he didn't want to imagine, to really know what happened down there.

Unbidden, the image of the shard tower slithered to the forefront of his mind again. Dean sounded… no, felt so different when he talked about it. Old and wise; two traits that Sam would have never associated with his big brother until now.

The treacherous voice came back, whispering to him that Dean didn't just felt different, that he was different. That maybe he wasn't his brother at all.

Dean's attitude only strengthened the suspicions. He acted like nothing was wrong with him, had smiled more times during this day than in the past year—way too happy and carefree for a man who just busted out of Hell.

Sam frowned at his own train of thoughts. It's not like he wasn't pleased that Dean wasn't a broken shell of a man. He felt thrilled, really, but that kind of happy-go-lucky attitude couldn't be healthy. Perhaps his brother was too broken to function normally back in this world. Sam wondered if it was safe to take him on the hunts. What if Dean would crack under the pressure?

A knock woke Sam from his musings. He stood up, crossed the room, shooting a quick look at the hidden bundle on the bed, and opened the door. The grumpy glare he got from Bobby made him roll his eyes. "Bobby, good to see you," he greeted, backing to the side and motioning the old hunter to enter.

After a quick half-hug as a greeting, Bobby made his way into the room. A duffle bag landed on the floor with a heavy thump. "So, boy," the man started, taking a sharp turn to glare at Sam, "what did ya do?"

Sam knitted his brow, genuinely confused. "What do you mean?"

"You didn't show up or call for four months after Dean's…" Bobby trailed off, unable to say the last word. The wound was still too deep, too fresh to mention it out loud. He straightened his shoulders and continued, "And suddenly you want help on a demon hunt, in addition to asking for Dean's clothes?!"

Sam huffed, exasperated. Before he could retort, a groggy voice drifted from the bed, "That's because those clothes are for me. You tend to get dirty while crawling out of your own grave."

Bobby went rigid for a moment, then whirled in the direction of the voice, eyes wide in utter disbelief.

A sleepy smile appeared on Dean's face. "Hey, Bobby," he said softly.

The old hunter stepped back with a stammered, "What..?" still not willing to believe what he was seeing with his own eyes. "I don't beli—Dean?"

Dean stared at the old man, chest swelling with fondness. With two absentee fathers, Bobby was the closest thing to the father Dean or Michael had who hadn't bailed on him. Bobby had always been there for him, had stuck through thick and thin. And, damn it all, Michael loved this human too!

Bobby jumped when Sam's hand landed on his shoulder. The younger man smiled at him as his startled eyes met his. "It's him, Bobby. I checked him already, it's really Dean," he assured.

Dean wrestled himself out of the blankets. As soon as he stood up from the bed, Bobby crushed him into the tight bear hug, barely able to hold his tears from spilling. Dean embraced him in return, smiling in delight.

Universally, angels were called beings of love and compassion, yet only after becoming a human, Michael realized how different the same feeling could be. Yes, they all were capable of loving—loving their Father or each other—but it was clinical love, almost impersonal. Something they were told to do and they continued doing it without truly comprehending what love was.

The depth of the same emotion surging from the human's soul was unfathomable. Michael felt proud that he could feel the love how humans felt it and receive the same in return from the people so dear.

Bobby pulled away and glanced over his boy. Dean looked good, unhurt, and had that vivid mischievous spark in his eyes which was always present in his childhood. It slowly faded away during his adolescence until there was no trace of it left at all. Bobby had to hold the tears in as he peered at those bright pools of green. "It's…" he took a moment to clear his throat around the giant lump of Dean is alive, "it's good to see you, boy."

"Yeah, you too," Dean said, patting Bobby on his shoulder. A simple action, but it brought the desired result—Bobby's teary gaze cleared and sharpened.

"But… How did ya bust out?"

"Someone yanked me out from Hell," Dean replied and then added with a smirk, "So, here I am."

"That doesn't make a lick of sense," Bobby grumbled, taking a seat on the back of the couch. "Dean, your chest was ribbons, your insides were slop, and you've been buried for four months!"

Lifeless Dean on the floor. So utterly still. Unmoving. Eyes wide open, but now vacant and staring hopelessly into the heavens. Once handsome features ghostly pale, marred by horrid claw marks, and face frozen into a rigid grimace of fear. Flowing blood, thick and sluggish, from numerous gashes across his body. And the smell. Oh, the smell. A sickly-sweet—

Sam's breath hitched when someone patted him on his back. He snapped his head to the person standing next to him. Dean smiled at him. A gentle, reassuring curl of his lips. Not stiff and agape as he remembered.

"Even if you could slip out of Hell and back into your meatsuit..." Bobby continued, oblivious to the mute exchange between brothers. "Well, there was not much of that meatsuit left in the first place."

Dean just shrugged. Short and unhelpful and that could be taken either way.

"How're ya feeling?"

"I'm alive. And before you ask – no, I don't feel anything strange. Nothing demonic or whatever. I'm all alone in here." Dean motioned over himself. "There are no extra passengers."

The older hunter hummed thoughtfully. His eyes darted to Sam, who didn't look away from his big brother since the moment he mentioned Dean's death. "Yer awfully quiet, Sam. You wouldn't know anything about it?"

Sam immediately turned to him and returned the gaze of seeking narrowed eyes with a sour look. "No."

"Really?" Bobby sounded anything but convinced. "You were pretty stubborn to find a way to get your brother back."

Hard lines of rage tightened Sam's face. "It wasn't me, alright?! I tried! But nothing worked! I—" Weight of Dean's hand on his shoulder stopped his angry outburst. Comforting warmth instantly calmed him down, his posture relaxed.

The Dean from back then was cold and stiff and dead. Sam looked at his brother again. This Dean was warm and breathing and alive.

Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder, anchoring him further to here and now, chasing the unseen ghosts that threaten to pull his brother to a very bad place. "It wasn't a demon deal," he said to Bobby.

Bobby shook his head. "How do you know that? You, Winchesters, always do stupid—"

"Because I remember," Dean interrupted. "As I told Sam, the being that pulled me out—pretty sure that wasn't a demon."

The other man stared at him incredulously. "Then what?" he asked.

"If I had to guess…" Dean glanced from one human to another, ready to gauge their reaction. "An angel."

Hunters blinked. "An angel?" Bobby echoed, his eyebrows rising to his hairline in an honest astonishment.

"Well," Sam started carefully like he was afraid to spook someone, "there is much more lore on angels than on any other supernatural creature. Your theory… it's possible, I suppose."

"An angel?" Bobby repeated. "Really?" After another Dean's shrug, he blew a deep breath out. "Alright, we need help," he decided. "I know a psychic a few hours from here. Something this big, maybe she's heard the other side talking."

Dean mentally groaned. Psychic. Wonderful. He didn't feel comfortable around those while he was just a human, but now meeting one would be a real walk on eggshells. Despite the huge difference in power levels, humans had what angels lacked: curiosity, imagination, and, most importantly, an unhealthy amount of distrust of something they didn't fully understand.

"I think that's a great idea," Sam agreed.

Bobby stood up to make a call. "I'll be right back."

"Pamela Barnes. Best damn psychic in the state."

Pamela Barnes wasn't like Dean imagined her to be, but of course—of course!—she had to be the best. Dean greeted a young, gorgeous woman with his finest business smile plastered on while cursing his luck in the privacy of his head.

Why did Bobby know only the best ones? He could use the worst psychic right about now.

Pamela let out a soft 'hmm', her eyes narrowing just a tiny bit as she stared at the man in front of her. After a moment, the brief flash of doubt disappeared and a wide friendly smile bloomed in its place. "Dean Winchester," she said. "Out of the fire and back in the frying pan, huh? Makes you a rare individual."

She had no idea just how rare he was. "Oh, yeah," Dean replied, his smile taking a flirty edge. "I'm one in a million sort of guy."

Pamela raised an eyebrow. "We'll see about that." She turned away to invite them into the house, but not before Dean caught a wink and a coy smirk directed to him.

Dean felt more at ease. That was how one should shake the psychic of their you're-not-fully-human case.

The bliss didn't last long. More precisely, right until they made the preparations for a séance, and everyone sat around the table.

"I, uh, I was thinking," Dean spoke, uncertain how to persuade them not to do it. "Maybe we shouldn't go spying at the being that can penetrate Hell and snatch a soul from there."

"Why not?" Sam asked.

"Just a peek at it could burn your eyes out of your skull, for all we know!"

"Don't worry, Dean," Pamela smiled brightly at him. "I'll be fine. Now take each other's hands." She waited till everyone held hands and turned to Dean again. "It would be easier if I could touch something our mystery monster touched." Her gaze sharpened. He didn't like it, not one bit. "If I'm not mistaken, it left some sort of mark on you."

Dean's mind whirred. Peeking at angels was dangerous. No mortal could withstand even the briefest glance at their kind's true form, psychic or not. He deceived Sam with his demon knowledge because he had just returned from Hell. Unfortunately, he wouldn't be able to explain his knowledge of angels.

"You sure this is the only way?"

Dean could almost hear his brother's bitch face as the latter bit out, "Dean." Bobby's glower from the other side of the table agreed completely with Sam.

"Fine, fine," he grumbled as he pulled one arm from his flannel and rolled a t-shirt sleeve up, revealing the handprint scar on the shoulder. He would just have to go along and see how this would turn out.

Bobby seemed startled by the sight of it, but Pamela showed no sign of surprise, despite seeing something like the for the first time. "Alright," she said, gently placing a hand on the mark. The psychic took a deep breath and started chanting, "I invoke, conjure, and command you… Appear unto me before this circle."

After several repeats, the TV suddenly fizzled and snapped to static. The table started to shake. The familiar feeling of an angel's grace washed over Dean even before Pamela fully established the connection. The angel quickly shielded himself before the psychic noticed him, and warned the human to turn back.

"Castiel?" Pamela tried the name. "No. Sorry, Castiel, I don't scare easily. I conjure and command you… Show me your face!"

While ascending from Hell, Dean was only a confused and frightened human. Even if he regained his angelic memories at the end, without his grace, there was no way for him to recognize the angel who rescued him. Especially when Michael never was particularly interested in getting to know all of his younger siblings. Their names, however, were engraved into his mind from the beginning of time, so he knew about Castiel, though had never met him as Michael. A good soldier, extremely loyal, never questioning his orders, and one of the youngest garrison captains.

And also his savor. In some sense, Castiel was his guardian angel.

Dean almost laughed out loud at the sheer absurdity of his predicament.

His mirth died when Pamela pushed forward, ignoring all the warnings from the angel. That was not good.

Coming to the same conclusion, Bobby suggested, "Maybe we should stop…"

Pamela gritted her teeth. "I almost got it!" she insisted. "I conjure and command you… Show me your face!"

He couldn't wait any longer. Dean jerked from Pamela's touch, using a tiny bit of his own grace to disrupt the connection before the human lost her eyes the moment his sibling's true form came into view. None of the participants should have noticed it.

Pamela jumped from her chair, eyes wide with alarm. She backed away from Dean until her back hit the wall. "Who… What are you?!"

Apparently, luck was not on his side today.

Well, crap.