#OR it accurately assessed dean from cas's memories

[shallowseeker]

But this. This right here.

It knew.

Contrary to thinking, "There's nothing back there for you," it actually knew that not only was something indeed "back there" waiting for him, but that Cas would get his happiness.

Hmm.

15x13

[newtothewaywardparty]

The Ghost of an Idea 5

Read Stave One: Bobby’s Ghost, Part 1

Read Stave Two: Bobby’s Ghost, Part 2

Read Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits, Part 1

Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits, Part 2

Stave Three: The Second of the Three Spirits

The clack of hooves were the first sound to penetrate Dean’s dreamless sleep. “Huh?” he snuffled into his pillow as he canted his ear towards the motel window. The unmistakable sound of a horse blowing air through its mouth? Nose? Whatever, Dean wasn’t really a rural kind of guy, cowboy fantasies notwithstanding. Anyway, that was definitely a horse within earshot of his room. He groggily pushed himself up off his stomach and stumbled towards the window. It was still open, cigarette-scented curtains waving in the sharp December Kansas wind. Dean peered out, wiping sleep from his eyes. Yep, that was a horse all right.

A big fucking white horse stood outside his window. Atop it, resplendent in velvet green Renaissance-style gowns, sat Charlie Bradbury, her auburn hair long again and styled with a circlet crown of twisted gold. She haughtily peered down at Dean. “Hop on, Handmaiden,” she ordered, tacking a crooked smile on at the end.

Dean eyed the horse warily. Again, he was more comfortable around engines than livestock. “Uh, I don’t really…” he began weakly.

“Shut up, bitch. Atreyu can smell fear.” Charlie said, suppressing laughter. She pat the horse’s flank behind her, indicating where he should sit. She extended the hand to assist him up.

Dean was expecting an embarrassing interlude that would rack up a lot of hits on YouTube (He could picture the headline now: Dad vs. Horse, Who Would Win?) Instead, the instant Charlie’s hand touched his, he felt the same weightlessness Jo’s touch had bestowed upon him. In a blink, he was seated, comfortably if not confidently, astride the brilliant white horse. Bow-leggedness had its advantages at times.

Charlie leaned forward in the saddle. “Engage.” she whispered with a smile in Atreyu’s ear, and they were off, flying through the air back to the bunker.

Dean tried not to enjoy it but it was hard, grasping Charlie’s warm green robes, watching the countryside float past in the darkness below. He had always hated airplanes but this felt almost nice. Secure. Maybe it was just Charlie. He adjusted his grip on her waist.

“Don’t get fresh, cowboy” Charlie teased, glancing back at him enough to wink. Dean grinned. Damn. He had really missed her.

“I wouldn’t dare.” he solemnly replied. He swallowed. Stingy. The word ricocheted around inside his head, fresh from his encounter with Jo and his trip down memory lane. “I, uh, really” Dean took a breath. “Missed you, Charlie,” he finished haltingly. See? He could use his words like a grown-up.

Charlie threw a knowing look over his shoulder. “Enjoy the clip show, did ya?” Dean avoided her gaze. “Yeah, Jo can come on a little strong. You should know, though; Bobby told her to not take it too easy on you. That’s how she got chosen for that part of the mission. I wanted to do the flashback sequence but he thought I’d be too nice.” Charlie scoffed. “As if.”

She whispered a command for Atreyu to come out of Warp and they descended. “You know the drill here, right?” Dean loved that about Charlie. She never acted like he was dumb. And she was almost as allergic to chick flick moments as he was.

Dean swallowed. “Yeah. Ghost of Christmas present, right?” She nodded and they hit solid ground, Atreyu smoothly trotting to a stop in front of the bunker door.

“Ladies first,” Charlie said, indicating the door. Dean rolled his eyes and opened it. They descended the stairs together, unnoticed. The scene was exactly as Dean had left it earlier in the night. An assortment of found and recycled ornaments adorned the Christmas tree’s branches. Lights were evenly distributed throughout the branches, except for where Sam had obviously tired of detangling them. A large knot of lights clumped in the back, where Sam probably figured no one would see them. Dean bit back an affectionate smile.

Dean’s eyes were immediately drawn to Cas. He was the brightest thing in any room. His posture was unusually relaxed back in his chair, which was pushed back from the table so he could watch Jack by the tree. He had loosened his tie, and gripped a beer bottle’s neck loosely in a hand. His eyes were wide and warm, focused on Jack.

Jack was stringing popcorn with an intensity and focus Dean associated with Cas. Dean noticed the needle in use had been liberated from their medical stash, probably last used to give someone stitches. Jack’s tongue was sticking out slightly as he aimed the needle toward the center of a kernel. Dean’s chest tightened in that predictable way when he thought about the nephilim and his relationship with his chosen father.

Sam sat at the war table. He leaned back, jamming his chopsticks with finality into a take-out container, and pushed his chair back, humming in satisfaction. Dean peered into the white box with Chinese characters on it, frowning at the veggie tofu dish inside. “Typical” Dean muttered, under his breath. Charlie elbowed him.

Cas took this as his cue, and pushed his chair back. He cleared his throat, looking at Jack, who dropped his craft project. “I’d like to propose a toast,” began Cas formally. Dean couldn’t help smiling. What a dork, he thought. He could practically hear the air quotes.

Sam looked surprised, then amused. He picked up his own beer bottle and waited for Cas to continue. Cas looked at Jack and raised an eyebrow, waiting. A few seconds ticked by before Jack picked up his own beer bottle, looking sideways at Sam to copy him. Dean was grinning now. That was just fucking adorable. Not like when Jack was trying to learn by imitating Dean. His grin slipped a little at the memory of how hard he had pushed Jack away at first.

Cas nodded, satisfied now that all members of their little party were participating in this social ritual. “To Dean,” Cas began. Dean’s mouth fell open in shock. Cas was still talking. “Even though he wasn’t able to be here tonight, he’s in our hearts. Always.” Cas raised his bottle a bit at this and made to drink when Sam interjected loudly:

“In our hearts?!” Sam’s eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline. “I wish he was here right now. I’d serve him a piece of my mind.” Sam scoffed. “Shit, I’d shove it down his throat.”

“Sam!” Cas said in a warning tone, cutting his eyes at Jack who was watching, nervous and confused. “It’s Christmas.”

“Yeah, yeah.” said Sam, running his fingers through his hair in a familiar gesture of frustration. “Just another Winchester holiday to remember; drinking a toast to a cowardly, weak man who ran out on his family.” He was as angry as Dean had ever seen him, lips pursed, pacing up and down in front of the tree, clenching his beer bottle tightly.

Cas put out a placating hand and repeated: “Sam. Christmas.” in a gentle voice.

Sam raked his hair back from his face, stopping his route in front of Jack. “I’ll drink to Dean for your sake and for Jack’s” said Sam, indicating them both with his beer bottle, “but not for his. A very Merry Christmas, big bro, wherever you slunk off to.”

Sam tipped his bottle up and Jack and Cas followed his lead, subdued. Dean’s face burned. How could Cas defend him like that? Why would Cas bother toasting Dean at all, like he was a worthy man, in the face of all evidence pointing to the contrary? He felt a flood of affection for his friend.

Dean felt Charlie’s elbow jostle his side again. “Aw. That was cute.” Charlie’s words held real affection. Dean gazed at Cas, who in turn was beaming at Jack, hanging up grody old socks for Santa. “You’re in his heart!” she practically squee-d, smacking his arm. Dean blushed furiously and looked away.

The truth was, Cas deserved better. He always had, and recent events did nothing to convince Dean otherwise. Why wouldn’t Cas get the hint and move on? Maybe he just needed time. Time away from Dean. Time to listen to Sam’s fairly accurate assessment of Dean’s strength and courage when it came to emotional intimacy.

But what if he didn’t move on? “What will happen to Cas?” Dean asked Charlie suddenly. Now that the worry had entered his head, he found it impossible to forget. Dean could always run; he had the Impala, he had hunting, he had alcohol and one-night stands and long- and short-cons and violence. He had Sam. In short, Dean had a lifetime of experience with unhealthy coping mechanisms for heartbreak and loss. Cas had no such practice.

Charlie just gave him a look of pity and understanding. “C’mon” she urged, dragging him up the stairs. Dean gave one last look at the trio around the tree, now exchanging presents wrapped in old magazine paper. He caught a flash of Cas’ teeth as he smiled broadly at the assorted-flavored Osage honey sticks Jack had bought him at a convenience store in the Ozarks. The metal door of the bunker clanged, cutting off the beautiful sight of that smile.

With a snort and a whoosh, Atreyu bore them aloft and they landed in a field outside the bunker. Charlie dismounted with an imperious air. She strode away from Dean a few paces. “I want to show you something” she said, grimly.

She whisked her green velvet skirts out of the way to reveal two tiny figures huddled by her legs. One was a person of extremely advanced age: emaciated skin dotted with skin sores, balding head peppered with white stringy hair, mouth puckered with toothless gums, hands tipped with claw-like yellowed nails, eyes cloudy with cataracts. “This is loneliness” Charlie intoned.

The other was an emaciated young teen, bright red scars lining their arms and legs. Their eyes were red with tears and their hair was greasy and unwashed. They were curled in on themselves, clutching their stomach and rocking themselves. “And this is self-loathing” Charlie said carefully, piercing Dean with a knowing gaze.

Dean moved on instinct. He rushed forward to help, but Charlie halted him with a ghostly strong hand. “Can’t you save them?” he shouted at her angrily.

“Dean,” Charlie began in a mockingly cheerful tone sharper than any Dean had ever heard her use in life, “Better for them to be alone, to be the ones pushing others away, right?” Dean grit his teeth. He had never said those words aloud, had only thought them to himself every time he wanted to gather Cas in his arms.

Her face softened and she said “I know you like to pretend to be functionally illiterate but even you’ve heard the Tennyson quote. ‘Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.’”

Dean snorted in derision. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the opposite of my life motto.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Again, Charlie threw his words back at him. “Why do you think I’m doing this for Bobby? We’re trying to get through to you, bitch.” She rolled her eyes dramatically, re-covering the shrunken nightmare figures below her skirts.

Dean retorted ‘I’m as free as a bird, now, and this bird you cannot change.” He crossed his arms across his chest with a defiance he did not feel.

Charlie’s look was pure pity. “Did you really just quote ‘Free Bird?’ What’s next? You going to tell me how when it’s time for leaving you hope I’ll understand that you were born a ramblin’ man?” She stage-whispered, “Do you ever think learning about love and relationships exclusively from your grief-addled father and classic rock lyrics might not have given you the healthiest outlook?”

Dean meant to sigh dramatically, to cast his eyes skyward, to give a witty retort, preferably with a nerdy pop-culture reference. Instead, he found himself reaching forward to pull Charlie into a hug. To press his lips into her red hair, to tell her just how much she meant to him. Just as his arms extended, she abruptly disappeared. A glance behind him showed Atreyu was toast, too. And now he was choked up with the loss of her.

He saw the glint of light off metal across the field had Dean prepared to flee. As the figure drew closer, Dean relaxed, if only minutely. It was a woman with a glorious crown of black curls, perfectly painted red lips lips, and a leather jacket Dean could find himself coveting. It was Billie. Death.

Read Stave Four: The Last of the Three Spirits

[klove0511]

At Any Cost Chapter 4

“No, Dean, I know what I saw. I’m done. He has to go, now,” Lisa said, throwing her arms up in frustration. Sam stood off to the side, offering no defense for himself. “He’s not human! And that thing—” She took a steadying breath, crossing her arms in front of her. “Ben was in danger because he was here.”

Ben piped up. “But he saved me! He protected me, Mom!”

Finally, Sam spoke. “Your mom is right. I’m the reason you were in danger in the first place.” To Lisa he said, “It’s ok. I’ll go. Just let me go grab my bag.”

She nodded tightly, chewing her lip, and Sam hurried up the stairs. Dean couldn’t believe it. It felt like his world was falling down around his ears. The argument in the kitchen had been one thing, and he’d understood where she was coming from. This. This was something else entirely. He still understood, even if he didn’t want to admit it. Sam wasn’t human. He wasn’t human, and he’d hidden it from all of them. It was the demon blood all over again. They were going to have to have words about this one.

That didn’t mean he was prepared to just let Sam waltz out of his life.

“You don’t have to go, Dean. This isn’t about you,” she said, quietly, already knowing what his answer was going to be.

“He’s my brother, Lisa. I can’t—I just got him back. And now something is gunning for him. I’m not saying you’re wrong. We’re putting you in danger, and we’ll leave, but I can’t let him deal with this on his own.”

“Where will you go?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Maybe Bobby’s. Maybe not. We’ll figure it out.”

 They were on the road less than an hour later. Sam looked pissed that Dean had insisted on leaving too, but Dean couldn’t figure out who he was pissed at. With the rumble of the Impala soothing the worry in his bones and the roar of the road under her tires, Dean felt happier than he had in a long time. He could argue with Sam later. For now, he just wanted to enjoy being back on the road with his brother.

Dean drove vaguely north, vaguely west. They would end up near Sioux Falls eventually, and then they would stop and see how Bobby was. He didn’t broach the subject of what had happened that morning until after they’d stopped for gas and food and were back on the road, Indiana in their rearview mirror.

“So, Sam, you want to tell me what the hell happened?”

Sam didn’t look at him, just kept staring at the road. “Got my ass kicked by an archangel.”

Dean glanced at Sam. He hadn’t known that was another fucking archangel. Briefly biting his tongue before he spoke to try to keep this civil for as long as possible, he felt the anger bubbling up now that they were safe. Safe enough, at least. “Care to elaborate on that? For example, how are you even breathing right now? Or let’s try: when did you get wings? Speaking of your wings, what happened to them?”

Sam sighed tiredly. “I brought grace with me out of the Cage. Not—not either of them. Just bits and pieces. Cas said it was basically harmless. The wings are new.”

Dean’s jaw worked. “You didn’t think this was information to share with the class?”

“And do what? Drag you out of retirement earlier? I wasn’t using it. I wasn’t—” He looked down at his hands and swallowed hard. “I thought it wouldn’t matter as long as I didn’t use it.” Dean looked over at his brother. Sam’s eyes were wet, and he kept opening his mouth like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

“You still should have told me.”

This time Sam did look at him. His voice was edged with anger when he said, “That’s really easy for you to say. You aren’t the freak in this family.”

 Later, when they stopped for the night, Dean sent Sam out for food. They’d been sniping at each other all afternoon, and Dean knew they needed a break before they came to blows. Besides, he needed to have a word with Cas. He perched himself on the edge of the bed, closed his eyes, and prayed.

“Castiel, you feathered asshole, I’ve got questions for you. For starters, why the hell is a winged arch-dick coming after Sam? Second, how did Sam—”

“Where is Sam?”

Dean opened his eyes and found Castiel standing far too close. The angel looked haggard, but his eyes were bright with concern. “Where have you been?” he asked instead of answering the question.

“I am fighting a civil war. One which Raphael apparently has decided to make personal. Now. Where is Sam?” Power radiated off the angel. It was impossible to mistake the overt hostility in his voice.

“Grabbing food. What the hell are you talking about?” He managed to resist stepping back from the angel.

“You said Sam was threatened. He shouldn’t be out alone. Raphael may be able to find him through his grace, despite the warding imprinted on his ribs.” Castiel shifted his weight, seeming uncharacteristically nervous.

“His grace. Right. About that. How did he end up running around with freaking grace? Or better yet, can you get rid of it?”

Castiel whirled, staring at Dean until the hunter awkwardly broke eye contact. “Why would I want to do that?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, Cas, maybe because Raphael definitely can use it to track him. Has, actually. He wasn’t threatened; he was attacked. So being able to keep a low profile would be nice. That a good enough reason for you?”

Castiel’s eyes widened and his voice dropped even lower. “He was attacked? What happened?”

Geez. Dean could tell he wasn’t going to get anything useful out of the angel until he filled him in. He did, just giving the broadest strokes, then asked again, “Can you get rid of the grace?”

Castiel shook him head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

Dean frowned. “Why the hell not?”

Castiel spoke slowly, as if trying to explain a difficult concept to a child. “His grace is deeply entwined with his soul, likely more so now that he has used it and manifested wings. Removing it could cause irreparable damage.” He gazed steadily at Dean. “It may kill him.”

Dean blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. “How did he even end up like this?”

“I don’t know. Given the way it is threaded through his soul, I would say that he did it to himself while he was in the Cage. Has he discussed his time in Hell with you?”

Dean shook his head. “No. I haven’t pushed. He seems to be dealing ok.”

“You know how long he was there. With the damage he sustained, to be functional now—” Castiel pursed his lips. “The grace is likely dulling the memories, protecting his mind from the damage his soul sustained. I believe his soul gathered scraps of Michael’s and Lucifer’s grace as a means of defending itself, but I can’t be sure without a closer look.”

Dean tried to understand. “What, like—like some civilian that finds themselves in a warzone and picks up some dead soldier’s gun they don’t know how to use because it’s better than nothing?”

Castiel tilted his head to the side. “That seems excessively dangerous.”

Dean rolled his eyes and made a “that’s my point” gesture.

After a moment, the analogy seemed to click for Cas. “Yes. That is…an accurate assessment of what I believe has happened.”

“My soul is being held together by grace?” Sam asked from the doorway.

Cas nodded, apparently unperturbed by Sam’s stealth entrance. His freaky angel hearing had probably heard the giant come in.

“So there’s nothing we can do about it,” Sam said definitively. “I just have to learn to deal with this.”

“Sam,” Dean said, then stopped. Dean’s heart ached for his little brother. He still had nightmares of listening to Sam detox from the demon blood. Still remembered the hopelessness on Sam’s face when he talked about what Azazel had done to him as a baby. He hated that Sam had hidden this from him too, but the way Sam had called himself a freak earlier had raised his big brother protective instincts.

Still. Maybe this could be useful. Cas’s powers had helped them out of tight situations plenty.   Dean couldn’t complain about some healing mojo instead of stitches or hospitals. He may not like that Sam was one step further from human—ok, he hated that part—but it was a damn helpful set of tools if Sam could use them. Dean looked from Sam to Cas. “In that case, I guess Sam could use some flying lessons. What do you say?”

Sam had protested, but with Dean on board it was hard to argue against Sam learning how to use his new abilities now that Raphael had painted a target on the younger Winchester. Castiel, for his part, had readily agreed to teach Sam what he could, but he’d been called away that first night before anything could be taught.

 “Stop trying to force your grace to function, Sam,” Cas said with exasperation in his voice.

“I am. Or I’m trying to. This isn’t exactly easy for me.” They’d been working for an hour in Bobby’s junkyard, and so far, Sam had managed little more than manifesting his wings once.

Castiel frowned. Sam’s grace glowed brightly, but it seemed to shrink every time Sam attempted to use it. “It would be easier if you were not fighting with yourself.”

Sam threw his hands up. “Sorry. I don’t have much Zen today.” His unspoken desire to not do this at all was clear even to Castiel.

Castiel tried not to be offended. He knew both Winchesters valued their humanity, and this was a difficult adjustment for Sam. His affection for the younger brother aside, he had been pleased when they asked him for help with Sam’s powers. It just seemed that he was not a very good teacher. How does one teach what has been instinct since the day they were born?

He opened his mouth to speak when he received a summons from Rachel. Raphael had attacked another flight—the third attack this week to interrupt a lesson with Sam. He growled in frustration and looked to Sam. “Rachel is calling. I’m sorry. Keep practicing, and I will be back when I am able. Possibly not for a day or two.”

 Sam understood Cas was fighting a war. He did. He tried to practice on his own, moving things, stalking Dean to be there to heal any minor injury his brother managed to accrue while working on a car in Bobby’s garage. His results were sporadic at best. Healing his own injuries happened without thought, but he had yet to successfully heal anyone else. He even tried flying once or twice—terrifying, when he wasn’t doing it on instinct. He’d ended up across town the first time, and halfway across the state the second. After that, he had decided he wasn’t practicing flight again until Cas had a chance to give him a real lesson, lest he end up in Norway with no way back into the US.

Besides, his heart wasn’t really in it. Even though Dean was on board, apparently, a little voice in Sam’s head kept whispering Freak! Freak! Freak! anytime he reached for his power. Cas showed up when he could, but their lessons were erratic as Raphael stepped up his aggression. None of them were sure what it meant, but Cas had received word that Raphael may be making moves to reopen the Cage. No details on how that was going to happen, but they all knew enough to be wary. Sam had opened the Cage from this side not once but twice, and he was the only one to also somehow escape from the inside. If Raphael was looking for a way in, Sam was a target.

Sam knew Dean feared another attack on them, and that plus the added stress of trying to master powers he’d rather ignore was starting to wear on him.

“I’m just frustrated, man,” Sam said, throwing a shirt into his duffel. Sitting still at Bobby’s for weeks was making everything worse, no matter how much they loved their foster father. Dean had finally agreed to hit the road that morning. No hunts, just driving. It would feel good for both of them to be on the road again.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “I thought you said you understood. You afraid he’s just not that into you, Sammy?” He chuckled at his own joke, stifling the laugh a little when he caught Sam’s glare. “Come on, untwist your panties. He’s doing his best.”

Sam swallowed hard. He was not about to tell Dean about his crush on the angel. “I just feel like I’m not making any progress, you know? I know he’s trying, but—”

“You think Raphael’s going to come after you again?”

Sam shrugged and continued packing his bag for a moment. “You don’t?”

Dean hummed noncommittally.

Sam didn’t say anything. He was worried about Cas, with Raphael’s increasingly frequent attacks. And yes, he was worried Raphael was going to attack them before he had a handle on his abilities. Right now, his powers were unreliable at best, and Dean, while an incredible hunter, was just a man. An archangel on a mission would squash them both like bugs. Sure, they’d survived encounters with archangels before, but never an archangel that wanted them dead.

 Dean cautiously watched his brother packing. Sam was struggling, and Dean was keenly aware that Sam hadn’t denied his implied feelings for Cas. Whatever Dean had thought might be happening between them had stalled out after Raphael’s attack, and Dean could be the bigger man. Regardless of his own feelings toward Sam, he knew the role he had to play here: tease Sam mercilessly like the big brother he was, then help his little brother out by being the best damn wingman he could be.

He could bide his time, though, and did. Two days later as Sam was brushing his teeth before bed, Dean decided it was the perfect moment for a little ribbing. “So, is it Cas’s ass that does it for you?”

He was rewarded by Sam choking on his toothpaste and turning bright red. Dean grinned, pleased with himself. When Sam could finally breathe again, he managed a strangled, “What?”

Dean plastered an innocent look on his face. “I mean, I suppose it makes sense. He’s an angel. You’re kind of like an angel now. Hey, can you see his wings?”

He turned to face Sam and found him staring at Dean openmouthed. “Is that why?” Sam asked.

“Why what?” Dean said, shooting his brother a genuine look of confusion.

Sam shuffled and stared down at his feet, suddenly nervous. “Why we—Why you’ve been sleeping alone.”

Panic threatened to flood Dean’s senses. They didn’t talk about this. Regardless of what they might or might not have been willing to do, this was not a topic of conversation Dean had ever been prepared to discuss.

Sam sighed. “I—Sorry. I know. I figured with the grace—” He paused, trying to compose himself. “I figured you didn’t want that, anymore. Whatever it was we were doing at Lisa’s. But if—if it’s because you think Cas—” Sam closed his eyes, missing Dean’s very loud thoughts telling him to shut the fuck up already, and barreled on. “I do. I want—what we were. But if you—”

“Dude, stop,” Dean choked out. “I can practically feel myself growing a vagina.”

There was Sam’s trusty bitch face. Dean beamed at him. “So, not Cas?”

Sam blushed. Dean raised his eyebrows. Finally, almost so quietly Dean missed it, he managed to say, “Not just Cas.”

Ah. Now that was interesting. Dean thought for half a second before deciding he’d be game for pretty much anything Sam could throw his way. Break one major taboo and the rest just didn’t seem so bad in comparison. “Kinky.” The word was out of his mouth before he even really thought about saying it, but he wasn’t going to backtrack. It was kinky, and if Sam interpreted it as Dean’s interest, then he wasn’t about to dissuade him. Dean grinned suggestively, and Sam blushed harder. He chuckled. Flustering Sam was going to be his new favorite pastime.

After that, they started enjoying their time just being brothers on the road so much that they were completely blindsided when one day Raphael appeared behind Sam, angel blade held to his throat. Dean had no time to react before the archangel had gripped a chunk of Sam’s hair, tilted his head back, and used the blade to slice a wound in Sam’s neck. The wound glowed blue, and Dean was horrified when he realized Sam’s grace was leaking out, right into a small vial Raphael held to the wound. The angel shoved Sam’s limp body forward with a wicked grin. Dean was already screaming for Cas as the arch-dick disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived.

Dean caught Sam, clamping a hand across the wound in his neck. It now bled only red and looked shallow enough that it might not be fatal. He levered Sam to the ground and realized that though Sam hadn’t really lost much blood yet, the attack had left him dull and glassy-eyed. Dean remembered Cas’s warnings about irreversible damage and prayed to a God he didn’t believe in that Cas was wrong.

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