Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Beware; your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour. 

1 Peter 5:8 

                      Canton, North Carolina 

                          February 16, 2010

A crack of lightning splits the sky. 

There’s a full moon out, but no one can see it because of the thunderstorm. This is gonna be one for the books, said Jason Boyer, the weatherman, earlier that day. He was right. Rain pelts the windows, hail rattles the side of the house, and one particularly loud thunderclap sends eight-year-old Willie Johnson sitting straight up in bed. 

It’s just a storm, he tries to tell himself. You know that. It’s just a storm.

Mama will say go back to sleep, if he wakes her up. She’ll be pretty tired, and his sister’s asleep, too. He definitely doesn’t want to wake her up. And Dad’s not here. A work thing, Mama said. 

BOOM! 

Another jolt of thunder; this one’s louder. Willie flinches. He just wants it to go away. He wants to go see if Mama actually is awake. It’s not because he’s afraid, he tells himself. He’s just curious. 

Willie climbs out of bed, avoiding the loose nails in the floor; Mama keeps saying Dad’s gonna replace them, but she’s been saying that for months. He moves carefully, out of his room, and down the hall. 

He listens. Mama’s door is halfway closed. 

BOOM!

“Mama?” he whispers. 

She answers with a soft snore. He can’t wake her up. Willie shivers in place. He really wants to crawl in bed with her, even though he knows she’s tired; he wants the storm to stop. 

Like God heard him, the storm stops. 

It’s not slow, either. Just immediate nothing. No more thunder, no more hail, no more wind. Rain stops pelting the windows. Everything is silent. 

“Thanks, Jesus,” Willie says. 

But now he’s really curious. 

Drawn by it, he turns away from Mama’s room and toward the front door. He slips his shoes on. He knows not to go out in the dark, he knows this. Don’t look into the shadows. Why? he always asks, and everyone tells him that’s because it invites the devil in. 

But he’s not inviting the devil in. He just wants to know why the rain stopped. 

Carefully, quietly, he unlocks the door. Everyone’s right; his backyard is a lot creepier in the dark, but the moon is starting to come out now. There’s a little bit of light to see by; and anyway, the woods really are just his backyard. His house is right here the whole time. 

Squeak, squeak. The grass is wet, so Willie’s shoes squelch in the mud as he walks away from his house.  It’s not the only sound, though. There’s a low sound - almost like a voice. Is someone…here? 

Willie moves closer to the trees, whose branches extend their shadows to him like open arms. 

He starts to pick out the voice, as he walks closer. The voice is talking, but he can’t understand it; far as he can tell, it’s not speaking English. 

And it’s coming from the woods. 

Willie shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. This is real fishy; a strange voice in the woods at night, after a scary storm. He should turn around, but Mama and his sister are asleep. Dad isn’t here, which makes him the man of the house. He should at least make sure this voice doesn’t mean any danger to them. 

He keeps walking, feeling a little bit like he’s dreaming as each step carries him toward the trees. The murmuring gets louder, so that means he’s going in the right direction. He’s left his house behind, and a few seconds later he reaches the first tree, the big one Dad used to climb with him before his knees got bad. 

The voice is louder. Willie is almost there. He’ll find out what this is about, then go back to bed - 

But Willie realizes he doesn’t see anyone, even though he’s right where the voice should be. But now the voice has stopped talking. It’s like he imagined it. 

Time to go back. He turns around. 

“William,” says a deep voice. 

It’s right behind him. 

Willie should start running, but it’s like he’s frozen in place. He can’t move. Maybe it’s his fear; maybe it’s that the voice, as scared as he is, sounds so nice. 

He is able to turn back around. 

In front of them, there’s a set of clawmarks in the cold earth. 

The moon hides back behind a cloud. 

A moment later, Willie is gone. 

Rain starts to fall again. There is no sign that a little boy had once stood here, other than the claw marks under the trees. 

Lucifer is sitting next to Sam in the motel, watching One Tree Hill on TV. 

“I told you you’d say yes to me,” he says, not taking his eyes off the screen. “It’s just a matter of time.” 

“I didn’t say yes,” Sam snaps. “And I’m not going to.” 

Now the bastard turns to look at him, pity in his eyes. “Oh, you keep telling yourself that. I know the truth, Sam…you’re closer every day. I mean, okay. Exhibit A: you thought you’d never touch demon blood again. Now look at you.” 

“Because your cronies made me,” Sam says, but the way he talks, it feels weak. “I didn’t choose that. And I won’t choose to say yes to you.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, we’re too early.” Lucifer turns back to the TV. “I’ll give you time. But you will say yes.” 

Sam’s eyes snap open. 

It takes him a few seconds to remember where he is. The bed he’s sleeping in is strangely comfortable; too comfortable for the panic room, which is the last place he remembers. The quilt over him is prehistoric, and Dean isn’t sleeping in a bed next to him, and that’s because - they’re still at Bobby’s. Sam’s sleeping in one of the guest rooms, the room that used to be his every time Dad dumped them here - or just him, once Dean was old enough to hunt. 

The sun shines through the curtains, and Sam hates it. It feels like it’s mocking him. This might be the best he’s felt since Famine walked into town, but he still feels like shit. He remembers cutting into the demons. He remembers the rush of power, the first in months; he remembers the thrill of drawing all those demons out of Famine. Nice and useful, for the time being; but even after begging Dean to take him back to Bobby’s, he remembers when the first cravings hit and he started begging his brother to turn the car around and find the rest of the demons. 

He even vaguely remembers his hallucinations afterward. 

He lies there for a few more minutes. If he gets up, everyone’s going to ask him how he feels, if he’s okay, how much he remembers, and he doesn’t need that. He’ll have to acknowledge what he had to do. He’ll have to think about the fact that Lucifer’s getting stronger by the day, and they’re no closer to stopping him. 

If he doesn’t get up, he can ignore that. 

It gets harder to do, though, when he starts hearing noises from the kitchen, someone puttering around. Bobby, Sam thinks, and then remembers; not anymore. Bobby’s wheelchair-bound, thanks to them. 

The smell of bacon and eggs drifts into the room. Sam feels like a kid again. 

With a sigh, he swings himself out of bed. Doesn’t bother to change clothes or wash his face, just stumbles out of the room probably looking like death. 

It’s not Bobby at the stove. 

Dean is wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans, but no shoes; a stack of pancakes sits on a place to his left. The old radio warbles out American Pie by Don McLean, and Castiel sits at the kitchen table, sipping coffee as he reads some ancient book. It’s all weirdly domestic, and Sam almost wants to cry. It feels like the childhood he missed. 

“‘Did you write the book of love?’’ Dean sings, badly off-key and about half a second behind Don as he turns the bacon. “‘And do you have faith in God above -’” 

“I don’t understand the point of the song,” Cas says, putting his book down. “God. American pie. The death of music; what do those have to do with one another?” 

Sam expects Dean to laugh, but he just stops singing. Maybe the morning domesticity isn’t genuine; maybe, like with everything else about Dean, it’s just an act to distract him from reality. 

“It’s about Buddy Holly,” he says, examining one stubborn strip of bacon with a fork. “Well, Ritchie Valens too, but mostly Buddy Holly. He was a singer in the 50s, and he died in a plane crash. That’s ‘the day the music died.’ Not really, but then a whole lot of shit happened after that. Vietnam, you know. So.” 

Obviously there’s a lot more to it, but Cas nods as if it makes sense. 

“The music didn’t literally die, though,” Dean adds. “Some of the best stuff came after. In my opinion.” 

Cas looks up with something like a smile. 

“A good metaphor for life,” he says, as if he’s taken some deep wisdom from this conversation about American Pie. 

“I guess,” Dean says with a laugh. “Weirdo.” 

That one is genuine. Sam can tell when Dean’s acting and when he’s not. He doesn’t want to break this, but they’ll notice him sooner or later - 

And then they do. Dean turns to move the pancakes, and his eyes land on Sam standing there in the entrance to the kitchen. Sam feels like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar or something. 

“Jesus!” Dean almost drops the plate. “Be quieter next time. You, you’re getting way too good at sneaking around.” 

There’s something angry in his tone, and defensive in his face, like Sam’s not supposed to see him like this. The walls are already going back up. Sam watches it happen in real time. 

He sighs. “In my defense -” His voice is gravel. He clears his throat. “There seemed to be a conversation going on, I didn’t wanna - interrupt, or anything.” He takes a step forward. “That smells good.”

“Yeah. It’s about ready, come and grab something.” Now Dean’s all business. “I’ve got pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs here - oh, and some fried, Cas says that’s the only way he’ll eat them.” 

Sam shoots the angel a glance, who doesn’t seem much like an angel at the moment as he sets his coffee down and stands up. 

“You warming up to food?” he asks, deciding not to touch on the way Cas himself had been affected by Famine. Outside of that, he’s never seen the guy eat. 

“I’d like to eat something that I -” Cas looks uncomfortable. Sam shouldn’t have even asked. “Of my own volition. Dean recommended I try this.” 

“But no scrambled eggs,” Sam says, trying to keep the conversation lighthearted. 

“The texture is reprehensible,” Cas says as Dean slides two fried eggs onto his plate. 

“Well, alright.” Sam picks up his own plate. “No judgment from me.” He takes some scrambled eggs for himself, a pancake, and one piece of bacon. He’s never liked bacon all that much, but he knows Dean’s making food as a way to stop, well, everything, so he has to eat at least one. “Got any syrup?”

“In the fridge.” Dean points. “And there’s still coffee.” 

“I don’t drink coffee this early, but thanks.” 

Dean shrugs. “Suit yourself.” 

Sam opens the fridge and is shocked by how little is in there; obviously Bobby can’t go shopping, but somehow they have to find some time to do it for him. Fortunately, there’s still some orange juice. Sam pours himself a glass. 

“You can turn the radio back on,” he says, uncomfortable with the silence. “I know you like that song.” 

“Oh, sorry, just thought you wanted an emotional jerk off,” Dean says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Can’t have you drowning Don out with your therapy talk, it’s a real mood killer -”

Sam shoves him, feeling something like a smile coming on. “Now you’re just being a dick.” 

Dean shoves him back. “You - you’re the dick, don’t shove me in front of the goddamn stove.” 

“I’m sorry,” Cas cuts in, “but why is it customary to use human genitalia as an insult?”

Sam can’t help it; he doubles over laughing. Last time he was awake, he can vaguely remember Dean holding his hair back while he vomited. Now, he and Dean are having the stupidest conversation ever with their angel friend. 

It feels good. 

Bobby, of course, chooses this moment to enter the kitchen. 

“You know, I wanted to sleep,” he grumbles, “but apparently you two decided to start a comedy club in my kitchen.” 

“Sorry, Bobby,” Sam says, still grinning. 

“Here, Bobby, have some food,” Dean says by way of his own apology. “I’ve got eggs, bacon, pancakes -” 

Bobby whistles. “Looks good, boy. Who taught you to cook like this?” 

“Uh -” It’s incredible. One personal question and Dean retreats behind the mask again. Sam notices his brother hasn’t taken much food for himself. “No one really…taught me, I guess. I used to cook when Dad was on a hunt.” 

Sam wisely doesn’t mention the fact that the money Dad gave them usually ran out, and Dean had to use whatever was there. He’d hated eggs for a while because sometimes, that was all they had for days on end. And sometimes, Dean would come back with more money. Sam knew not to ask where he’d gotten it, but he had some guesses. 

“Well, it smells good,” Bobby says. He shoots Sam a glance. “You cook, too?” 

“I tried,” Sam says. “Dean wouldn’t let me.” 

“Yeah, cause every time you cook noodles they come out too sticky,” Dean mutters, sitting down at the table. 

Now, this is getting unfair. It’s certainly better than the pile-on Sam thought he’d be subjected to, but still unfair. He doesn’t say anything, though. Whatever this is, this pseudo-family breakfast thing, he’s loath to put a stop to it. 

“I don’t know how to cook,” Cas says. Like usual, he seems to think deeply through whatever he wants to say before he says it. Dean could stand to learn a thing or two from him. “I would be interested in trying.”

Dean snorts, like he finds it funny. “You wanna learn? In the middle of the apocalypse? Yeah, inbetween the horsemen making people kill each other and Michael and Lucifer trying to find us, let’s teach the angel how to cook bacon.” 

“Dean, we could all be dead tomorrow,” Cas says, serious. “I would like to learn things about humanity that I may never have the opportunity to know.” 

“Oh,” Dean says, his expression changing from his usual state of derision to shock. There’s something open on his features now, more raw than usual. Maybe it’s not just Sam, then. Maybe they’re all struggling with this. 

And yeah, that did it. Just like that, they’re all thinking about the apocalypse again. 

“Well,” Bobby says. “Alright. We gonna address the elephant in the room or not?” 

They’re silent. Sam knows what’s affecting him. They’d hightailed it back here because of him, because he’d been begging them to go before he lost it, and lose it he did. Famine had made him relapse, and they’re all still here in Sioux Falls. 

He knows Dean’s still affected; it’s obvious in the way he cooked for everyone but took one piece of bacon and a measly helping of eggs he’s just picking at. Sam knows Cas feels guilty for his lapse of control. And then there’s Bobby, who’s unable to help them at all. 

Sam doesn’t want any of them to feel guilty, because they shouldn’t. There’s still one person who’s responsible for all this. 

“It’s me,” he says before anyone else can get to it. “You all had to bring me back here and deal with -” 

Dean throws a piece of bacon at his head. “No. We’re not doing the family therapy thing. We - none of us had control. It’s over.” 

“Eat your food, then,” Sam snaps before he can think. 

It’s a low blow. He sees what it does to Dean; there’s a look of momentary panic in his brother’s eyes, before his expression shutters completely. Windows go dark. Nobody home. It’s the look he used to get when he messed up and John snapped at him. So what? Sam isn’t their dad. And besides, the whole situation is not over. Dean never used to shut up about how everything is Sam’s fault, how he started the apocalypse. Now he wants to move on? 

Sam knows what Dean wants. He wants Sam to not have anything wrong with him in the first place. Well, they can’t do anything about that. And it’s not his fault Dean sees his dad in Sam. But…

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “Maybe - we just don’t talk about it.” 

He wishes more than anything they could find a case. Then they could get out of here, do something with their feelings instead of stewing in them. 

“I know what Ellen would say,” Bobby says, which surprises Sam. Bobby hasn’t said a word about Ellen or Jo since - well. “She’d tell us to quit sitting on our asses and whining about shit we can’t control. Probably doesn’t help anybody. But.” 

Shit we can’t control. But that’s the whole problem. They’re saying no to a story written for them. 

You will say yes. 

That would stop all this guilt, right away. Sam wouldn’t have to feel it anymore. But it wouldn’t stop the pain. It would create more; Sam would be accepting culpability for the death of billions. 

“We need a case,” he says. “Any word on where Death’s gone? Or Lucifer?” 

“I got nothing,” Bobby says. “And trust me, I was looking all night.” 

Dean hasn’t said anything since Sam’s comment. At least his food is mostly gone, but he’s eating mechanically like Sam gave him an order. 

Yeah, he really needs to get Dean out of here. His brother is starting to scare him. 

“I don’t think Lucifer will act for some time,” Cas says. His eggs are gone, but everything else is untouched. “He’ll expect us to come for him, especially after Famine. Looking for him now will either exhaust us, or lead us to our deaths.” 

“Honestly, that’s a relief,” Sam says. He doesn’t want to go near any demons. “We might get a normal case for once.” 

“That’s what this was supposed to be,” Dean says flatly. “I don’t think there’s such a thing as a normal case anymore.” 

Bobby looks sideways at Sam. He’s worried, too; and suddenly Sam is afraid Dean’s got a yes somewhere in there. He can’t say yes. It’s Dean’s fire and stubbornness that’s kept Sam confident on his path. 

Well, they’re not kids anymore. Sam will just have to be strong enough for both of them. 

“Well, I’ll do some digging,” is what Bobby says. 

“Guess we’ve still got a job to do.” Dean glances at Cas. “What, you didn’t like the bacon?” 

“Most human food still tastes like molecules,” is Cas’ answer. “I can feel each individual atom. It’s very distracting.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, looking slightly offended. But he still stands up to clear the plates. 

“Maybe he’s trying to encourage you not to give yourself heart disease,” Sam says. 

Dean whips his head around. “I heard that.” 

“I think I would like bacon more if it was…” Cas frowns, like he’s searching for the right word. “Easier to consume.” 

“Oh, so you like it crunchy,” Sam says. 

“Crispy,” Dean corrects, as if there’s a fucking difference. Sam shoots him his best bitch face. 

“Yeah, you boys need a case alright, you’ll kill each other,” Bobby says, but he’s smiling. 

“We’ll find one, don’t worry.” Dean grabs Sam’s plate. “Haven’t heard anything, though.” He nudges Sam’s elbow. “Come on. You didn’t help this morning, so you’re washing the dishes.” 

“I -” Sam’s not exactly opposed, more shocked at the way he’s been voluntold into dish duty. “You could’ve waited for me to wake up before you started cooking.” 

Nevertheless, he makes his way to the sink. Washing dishes in Bobby’s house isn’t exactly a punishment, but Dean has a weird energy this morning. It’s like - Sam realizes, it’s like the way he was after hell, forcing himself to act the way he thinks he’s supposed to, but so raw underneath that anything touching him the wrong way makes him snap. Sam doesn’t want to trigger it. 

But he’ll still go out of his way to be a dick in return. That’s more than allowed in the realm of normalcy. 

“I don’t suppose you’re just gonna sit down with a cup of coffee and watch the morning news,” he says to Dean, who rolls his eyes. 

“As a matter of fact, there’s a pile of logs in the backyard,” Bobby says. “Rufus started in on it for me, but he’s been tied up for months now. I don’t mean to put you boys to work, but -” 

“Not a problem,” Dean says quickly. “That’s what we’re here for.” He gives Cas a nudge. “Guessing you’ve never cut firewood before?” 

“No.” Cas puts his book aside. Sam can’t tell what it’s about; the title is in Aramaic. “Will I need my angel blade?” 

“No,” Dean says with a short laugh. “You’re gonna learn how to use a hatchet.” When Cas stands up, Dean pulls at his arm like they’re both kids. “Come on.” 

When the door closes, Bobby shoots Sam a look. 

“Something’s wrong with your brother,” he says. 

“Well -” Sam pauses, forearm deep in sudsy water. “In case no one told you, which I’m guessing they didn’t - it was like Famine didn’t affect him at all, or else affected him worse than everyone else. Guess he’s just gotta…get over that.” 

“Mm-hmm.” Bobby raises his eyebrows. “And how are you, Sam?” 

“Fine,” Sam says as a reflex, before realizing maybe that’s a lie. But they can’t afford both Winchesters having a crisis. 

“You boys sure like turning a mirror on everybody but yourselves,” Bobby says. 

Dean doesn’t think he can put a name to what he’s feeling. 

He knows everyone else sees…well, what Famine saw. Nothing. They see him going through the motions, and to a certain extent, he is. But what he’s really feeling is just - just insanely out of control. Everything is too much and not enough. He’s a little hungry now; he supposes the bacon tasted good. He wants things again. But he still doesn’t want anything as much as he wants it all to be over. It’s like he was in denial about that before Famine; with that influence removed, now he knows how he felt, and he can’t get rid of that. 

He wants to die, he guesses. If he has to put it that way. Except he knows what happened the last time he did that: Sam went off the deep end. 

So he just keeps going, because everyone is depending on him to keep them going. And if he lets them know how he’s feeling, they’ll assume he’s going to say yes to Michael, or something. So he makes breakfast and hopes it’ll be enough. Even though he’s still not that hungry, and he doesn’t really want a case, but he also doesn’t want to do nothing, he just wants - 

“Dean,” Cas says. “How do I use this?” 

With some effort, Dean pushes his thoughts to the backburner. This whole morning feels like it’s not - allowed, really. Just hanging out, no case, no chasing Lucifer. It’s a dream. It’s a nightmare. It’ll all end. If only he wasn’t so trapped in his own head, he’d enjoy it more. He never gets this much time with Cas. It’s the one thing that makes him feel - not hope, but something like it. 

Cas is holding an axe in both hands at arm’s length, like he’s afraid of it. Dean takes it away from him for the time being.

“You’ve seriously never used one of these?” Dean asks. “Not in like…a prior vessel or anything?” 

Cas frowns, looking self-conscious. “I haven’t been on Earth much before now. The last time was over a hundred years ago. Before that…I don’t remember.” 

Dean feels bad for asking; it’s sad to hear. Cas really just sat around in heaven for thousands of years, doing…what, exactly? Whatever it is angels do with their free time. Dean guesses it’s important, leading battles and all that. But anything he comes up with is either too boring or too grand in comparison. 

“They never let you out much, huh?” Dean bends down to set one log flat on the ground, then picks up his own axe. “You might wanna…stand back a little.” 

Cas doesn’t move. 

“I mean, physically move back,” Dean says. “I don’t want to…accidentally hurt you, or anything.” 

He realizes how stupid that sounds after he’s said it. Sure, Cas is running out of mojo, but he’s still an angel, and he could probably heal himself if Dean sliced him in half. But Cas doesn’t say anything, just dutifully takes three steps back. 

“Alright. Now, make - make sure you’re watching.” 

“I am,” Cas says gravely. 

Dean doesn’t know why that makes him so uncomfortable. Even when he turns back around, he can feel Cas’ eyes on him. 

“Uh, alright. Now you just sort of hold it over your shoulder -” Dean swings back, really self-conscious with Cas watching him. He swings the axe upward. “And bring it down right toward the center here.” He swings in a downward motion a few times without following through, making sure not to pierce the log, before finally completing the action. “Like that.” 

Splat. The log falls in two perfect halves. 

“It’s kind of time-consuming,” he says, turning around. Cas looks engrossed, for whatever reason. “But Bobby doesn’t have a chainsaw because he doesn’t want the noise attracting anything, and, you know.” He doesn’t know why he feels so awkward. Maybe it’s something to do with the fact that Cas hasn’t said anything. Dean tries a smile. “Chopping wood with an axe is just cooler.” 

Cas still doesn’t move, like he’s completely zoned out. 

“Cas,” Dean says. “Hello. So… do you wanna actually try it, or are you just gonna watch me do it?” 

Cas blinks owlishly. 

“Oh,” he says, like he’s coming out of a trance. “Yes. My apologies.” 

Dean frowns. “You were watching me, right? You don’t need another demonstration or anything?” 

Once again Cas blinks. “Yes. I was watching.” 

“Alright,” Dean says with a half-laugh. Weirdo. He hands Cas his axe back. “Here you go.” 

When Cas takes it, his pointer finger touches Dean’s, and Dean shivers against his will. Like he’s gotten an electric shock. 

Reflexively, he takes a step away from Cas. Safer to not stand too close to each other, he tells himself. 

The next few tries go alright. Splitting logs is satisfying; it won’t take Dean’s problems away, but it’s cathartic. Like he’s actually attacking something. That is, until Cas has to keep asking him for help. The angel moves too slow at first, and Dean has to tell him the log’s just gonna fall over. And it does. 

Then it’s like a switch flips in his head. He goes from holding the axe like it’s made of glass to holding it, well, like he holds his sword. This turns into a bit of overzealous axe swinging, in which he almost hits Dean’s arm and spends the next minute apologizing. 

Cas seems on edge these days, Dean notices, which is…frightening, to say the least. He’s used to Cas as this untouchable, terrifying, sort of offputting creature, but an uncertain Cas is worse. 

Well. No shit. He’s got all of heaven against him. He’s running out of power, and he can’t find God.

Like Dean needs anything else to feel guilty about. 

No, scratch that, outside Sam’s relapse, Cas betraying heaven for him might be the number one thing that’s eating at him. He told him to do it, yes the apocalypse needed to be stopped, but then Lucifer broke out anyway and now - now - 

So don’t think about that. Don’t. 

After about ten tries, Cas gets the hang of it, and Dean just watches him. It’s fascinating. The change: from vicious swings down to ever so gently reaching down to lift each log half and place it delicately in a pile. Dean throws his off to the side; he doesn’t care. But Cas seems to, trying to line the logs up just so. 

Dean doesn’t know why, but he’s transfixed. This is the most interesting thing that’s happened since Famine infested Sioux Falls and sucked all the want out of Dean. Just this, watching Castiel the angel wrapping his fingers gently around a log he’s just carved in half and lifting it onto its place on the pile. 

He doesn’t remember getting lifted out of hell. But he wonders if it was like this. 

He wonders if death - a real death, not getting dragged to hell - would feel like this. 

This isn’t what Cas is meant for, though. (It’s not what Bobby’s meant for, either, to sit in a wheelchair and watch the war happen.) Cas should be out on some heavenly battlefield, taking orders, or giving them, and smiting demons left and right. 

But Dean likes that he’s here now, because Dean is a selfish asshole.

“Dean?” Of course Cas notices the second he’s having a crisis. “You’ve stopped. Are you alright?” 

Oh. He actually fucking stopped working? God. He picks up his axe again. 

“Yeah - yeah, I’m fine,” he says with the good old forced smile. “Just tired.” 

Cas squints at him. “Why? I made certain you and Sam slept for eight hours.” 

Oh. Well, fuck, of course you did that. 

“Cas, you -” Dean rubs a hand over his eyes. “You don’t need to do that, seriously. You need to look after your own mojo right now, don’t waste it on that.” 

“If you say so. But neither of you sleep particularly well.” Cas’ axe slices through another log. “There were lightning storms reported on the east coast over the last week.” 

Might be Lucifer. Dean can bring himself to care just enough about that. “Oh. You think it’s Satan?” 

“No. I think it’s a sign of God.” Cas sets his axe down. “I’ve been away from the search for too long, and with…with the fragile state of my grace, I’m running out of time. I can’t let the opportunity go to waste.” 

And there it is. Dean was so stupid to think Cas was just going to hang around now. Of course Cas is going to leave again, no use hanging around Dean’s empty soul. 

“Well - well, do what you need to do,” he says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice as he chops through another log. 

“I will,” Cas says solemnly. Naturally, he misses Dean’s whole point. But what would happen, exactly, if Dean actually asked, if he uttered the words I want you to stay? Cas will still fuck off, or he’ll die again, and Dean will just look like an idiot. 

They fall into a rhythm after that, which means they stop talking. Dean’s more than fine with that. He doesn’t feel up to talking much these days; not much to say. He really doesn’t want to talk about Cas leaving, or what they need to do next, or what just happened. They can just be two guys cutting firewood for their wheelchair-bound father figure. Except one of the guys isn’t even a guy, technically. 

“You know,” Cas says while he’s arranging his logs again, “this reminds me of reconstructing your bones.” 

It what now? 

“Uh,” Dean says out loud, his brain moving too slowly. “Okay?” 

It’s a generally accepted fact that Cas raised him from hell. Considering the apocalypse and the way Cas has become such a part of their team, some days Dean tries not to think about it. But he never forgets. Their weird angel friend gave him a second chance at life. How can he forget it? He sort of owes Cas, forever, for that. He can never make it up. And yet he keeps adding more shit to the pile. 

So, yeah. Cas got him out of eternal torture. 

He doesn’t really think about…everything involved with that, though. He was a corpse rotting in the ground. Why is Cas comparing that to chopping logs? 

“It’s just…” Cas is thinking out loud, which is never good. Thankfully, they’re almost done. “I have to arrange these in a specific order.” I mean, you really don’t. “I have to make sure they all fit together in a certain way. None of the logs can fall sideways. If one did, it would threaten the integrity of the entire pile, which would collapse. But it hasn’t because I made it that way.” 

Because I made it that way rattles around in Dean’s head as he thinks about what Cas is talking about, which is - bringing him back to life. And then the old bitterness rears its head. You made me this way, he wants to say, really? You made me empty and wrong? 

He doesn’t say it. 

He casts a glance at his own pile. It’s not a neat structure, just logs thrown haphazardly in the ballpark of the same spot. 

“And that’s what…putting my bones back together was like,” he says, feeling insane. 

“It was difficult,” Cas says, turning now to look at Dean. As always, the eye contact is uncomfortable, like Dean’s caught in the pools of Cas’ blue eyes. “There are two hundred and six bones in the human body, and some of yours were not in the best condition.” 

Yeah, comes with the profession, sweetheart. 

Dean also doesn’t say that out loud. 

“I mean, I appreciate that -” Do I? “But this is…we’re just cutting logs, Cas. For Bobby’s fire.” 

“I know,” Cas says, his voice soft. He turns then, releasing Dean; bends down to run his fingers over one of the logs. Like he knows which tree it came from. “This is probably uncomfortable for you to hear. I apologize. It was just…a happy memory, I suppose.” 

Happy? 

“Right,” Dean says, more and more confused at where this conversation is going. He also really doesn’t like how vulnerable it feels. “These logs you’re putting all this time into lining are going right into Bobby’s fire, though. To burn. Just so you’re aware.” 

Cas doesn’t say anything. 

Belatedly, Dean realizes that isn’t that far off a comparison. Maybe that’s why it’s affecting Cas so much, because from an angel’s perspective, Dean supposes he’s the same. Raise the man from hell, just so Michael can possess him to burn the world down. 

So, back to Dean’s age-old dilemma: what’s the point of all this? 

“Come on,” he says, throwing his last logs in the pile. He cringes; there’s a spot on the upper right side of his back that’s tight. Oh, well. “Let’s get these inside.” 

Bobby keeps all his spare firewood in the basement, but he can’t access that right now. Dean figures they can keep most of it in the living room, where they’ll be readily accessible if no one is around. 

He walks a few paces to grab the wheelbarrow; but when he turns around, Cas has all of his pile in his arms. Which reaches well above his head. 

“Uh,” Dean says. “I kind of meant a few trips -” 

Cas gently tips the pile over into the wheelbarrow. “I thought you could bring those, and then I’ll be here with your pile. That way you won’t hurt your back.” 

Dean scowls, feeling self-conscious. “What are you talking about? I’m thirty, my back’s fine -” 

“I saw you cringe, just now,” Cas says. “It’s likely under stress from recent cases, and I -” His shoulders slump, almost imperceptibly. “I can’t heal you right now. This is the best I have.” 

Cas wants to help, Dean tells himself to tamp down on the feeling that he’s being patronized. Let him help. 

“Well, alright,” he says, trying to sound casual. “If you feel so strongly about it.” 

Dean pushes the wheelbarrow toward the house, ignoring the way he knows Cas is staring at him. He feels weirdly raw these days, like a fresh sunburn; except he’s felt more things this morning, he’s been distracted in a way that’s almost refreshing. 

What if it was just this for the rest of my life? 

He can’t have that. He knows. But just to pretend for a moment, to cook breakfast for his family and do yard work with Castiel - 

Right as Dean approaches the back door, it opens for him. Sam, holding his computer and a coffee, almost bumps into him. 

“Oh,” Sam says. “Sorry! I just -” 

“You in a hurry?” Dean pushes the wheelbarrow into the house. 

“I was just coming to find you.” Sam follows him into the house, right on Dean’s heels. He used to do that, when they were kids, just follow him like a shadow. It’s less cute and more funny now that he’s a lanky giant. “I think I found us a case.” 

FIFTH CHILD GOES MISSING IN CANTON

On Tuesday, eight-year-old William Johnson went to bed like normal. But when his mom came to check on him in the morning, he was gone. Lily Johnson asked neighbors, friends, but no one had heard a thing. 

“I just don’t know where he could’ve gone,” she said. “Willie’s such a good kid, he gets straight A’s, he goes to church, he does his chores and doesn’t complain. I don’t understand, I just want my little boy back.” 

Further investigation by local police proved insufficient. William’s bedroom was closed, and all doors in and out of the house were locked. 

“This is puzzling the whole community,” said Sheriff Jeff Dule. “When we took a look at the kid’s house, the ground was wet from rain, but there weren’t any footprints. He couldn’t have gone out.” 

There were no marks, but they did find something on the ground in the Robinsons’ backyard that adds to the puzzle: a cross necklace, one that Mrs. Johnson says belonged to her son. 

William’s disappearance marks the fifth Canton child to go missing in the last two weeks. Multiple parents have reported missing children, all with the same circumstances: an overnight disappearance, and no tracks left behind. Police are investigating whether these disappearances could be connected. 

Sam sets the paper down. 

“Five missing kids,” he says, thinking aloud. “All at night. Doors locked. No footprints. This might be our kind of thing.” 

Naturally Dean looks hesitant. Sam has no idea what’s going through his head, and that scares him; this one is very obviously their kind of thing, even if it’s just a ghost (and honestly, just a ghost would be more than welcome. Almost like a day off). 

“I guess,” he says at last. “I think the proof is still too…I don’t know, vague. And I mean, don’t we need to try to find Lucifer, or something?” 

“Lucifer has made himself scarce,” Cas says. “But, Sam, Dean makes a good point. Are you certain there’s enough evidence of supernatural elements? And…do you need my help? If not -” 

“Of course we need your help,” Dean says quickly. 

Sam shoots him a look. He’s barely processed Cas’ question. 

“I mean…” He frowns. “First, I think the ‘doors locked, missing kid, no footprints’ would already be enough. The cross necklace makes it even weirder. And you don’t have to come, but case aside, what if Lucifer happens to be around? Milk run case, he wouldn’t expect us. Better safe than sorry.” 

“Alright,” Cas says. “As long as…my connection to heaven isn’t too weak.” 

It might be the most emotion Sam’s ever seen on his face. He knows Cas has been losing power, and they’ve been so dependent on him the whole time. Maybe he doesn’t want to come with; maybe he’s tired. 

“You know, you don’t have to come,” he says. “I mean, we’d be happy to have you. But we’ve been asking a lot of you lately, Cas.” 

Cas immediately straightens up. 

“I’ll be fine,” he says. “And there isn’t a…direct line to God, at the moment. I’ll come along, if that’s all right.” 

Somehow, Sam feels like they’re having two separate conversations. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Maybe he should leave these conversations to Dean. 

“Sounds good to me,” he says, by way of moving on. 

“Okay,” Dean says. “So we hit the road. Where is this, exactly?” 

Oh, so now he’s interested? Okay. Sam ignores this for the time being. “Uh…North Carolina. Canton. So right on the Tennessee border. What do you think, Bobby?” 

“Well, it ain’t like I’m coming,” Bobby says. “You boys might as well make yourselves busy. We’ve still got a job to do, even with the apocalypse.” 

But Sam notices Bobby already looks down, like he’s starting to withdraw. 

“I’m talking about you,” he says. “You’re here by yourself. Are you sure -”

“How do you think I’ve been dealing this whole time?” Bobby snaps, in a tone that instantly makes Sam sit up straighter. “I’ll be here to manage the phones, if you need it. Don’t - don’t worry about me.” 

There’s something sad, though, about the way he says it. Sam shoots Dean a glance, and he can tell Dean’s seeing the same thing. Sure, they’re all getting more hopeless by the day, but they get to go out and do something about it. Bobby has to stay here alone. 

“Well, you better be here,” Dean says. “I don’t know what the hell we’re gonna do for a cover, if they call the director of the FBI -” 

“Yeah, I get it, don’t butter me up,” Bobby grouses, but he looks marginally more cheerful. 

“It’s settled then,” Sam says. “When do we leave? Today?”

Dean shakes his head. “It’s noon, and this is a seventeen hour drive. We’ll leave tomorrow before the crack of dawn, so you’d better be ready to get your ass on the road at four in the morning.” 

Then, strangely, he keeps staring at Sam. 

“Before we get going,” he says. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

Here it is. Sam’s been expecting it; but that doesn’t make him feel any better. 

“I’m fine,” he says shortly. 

“Well - okay, you look fine,” Dean says. There’s a bitterness behind almost everything he’s said this whole conversation. “You hadn’t woken up normally before today. Not without throwing up, or -” 

“Okay!” Sam doesn’t mean to shout, but the familiar shame that lives in his spine is taking over again. He felt so angry the last few years; when he was on demon blood, it was a near constant. Let it out, let it out. Without that, there’s just the self-loathing. Except, after his Famine-induced relapse, the anger has returned. It’s like he’s feeling both at once, and it’s almost overwhelming. “Tomorrow. Fine.” 

Because he is fine, to do a case. That’s what nobody understands. He’s more than competent. What he’s feeling inside won’t affect that. 

“Okay,” Dean says, like he’s talking to himself. “Tomorrow. Okay.” 

He gets up from the kitchen table. 

“I will…talk to him,” Cas says awkwardly. “But, Sam, there might not be any harm in taking an extra day before leaving.” 

“Yeah.” Sam’s jaw feels tight. At least Cas has stopped talking at him like he’s a nuclear bomb. “Sure.” 

Bobby wheels himself away from the table, but not before putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder. 

“Don’t beat yourself up,” he says. “You know Dean tends to lash out when he’s hurting, himself. Don’t make it right. But it’s not about you. It’s not your fault, kid.” 

Sam doesn’t want to snap at Bobby. He’s not going to. 

“Just give it a rest,” he says quietly. “Thanks.” 

With one last look at him, Bobby wheels himself away. 

Sam doesn’t know what to do with this toxic cocktail spinning around in his head; the mix of shame and self-hatred and anger. He wants to do something with the anger; it has a purpose, has had a purpose since Azazel found him as a baby. He can’t do anything with it, because he knows what that looks like. He hates himself, and he wants to do something to get these feelings out of him. 

Instead, he turns back to the newspaper. 

There were no marks, but they did find something on the ground in the Robinsons’ backyard that adds to the puzzle: a cross necklace, one that Mrs. Robinson says belonged to her son. 

He’s not sure what it is about that particular detail, but it sticks with him. 

Going through the motions as he is, Dean doesn’t like sleeping. Hasn’t, since he left hell. 

It’s been a year and a half, but the dreams haven’t really gone away; they’ve just changed. Shifting as new horrors happen. First, he couldn’t believe he was back - couldn’t, as in, it didn’t seem possible. This must just be another part of hell, something designed to trick him into thinking he was free. Dad and Alastair featured pretty evenly in his dreams, back then. 

They still do, but now there’s a more…variant cast of characters. 

Dean’s learned what to expect by this point. Sam beating the shit out of him, Sam’s eyes turning black, Sam screaming himself hoarse in the panic room. Bobby dead instead of paralyzed. Torturing Bela, which happened. Torturing Cassie, which didn’t. Mom telling him how disappointed she was. Cas there to save him, only to turn his back on him when he saw how corrupt he’d become; Cas himself tortured. That’s a recent one. The angel hadn’t been particularly vulnerable before now. 

Dean wants to rest. He doesn’t want to sleep, because he knows what’s going to happen. 

“Don’t give me eight hours,” he says to Cas before they all retire. “Don't make my sleep. Just let my body…do what it’s gonna do.”

That sounds wrong, he thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud. 

Cas freezes with his hand inches from Dean's forehead. "If that's what you want."

He sounds oddly…detached. Not that Cas shouldn’t. But it’s like he’s learning to be bitchy, or something. Dean can see it in his eyes: he wants to help, like before. 

But he doesn’t. He just walks away, and Dean feels disappointed. 

What exactly did he want? For Cas to demand he sleep the whole night through? To force him to rest? 

Yes, says a small traitorous voice in the back of Dean’s head. 

No. His brain is just confusing. 

He lays down on the couch. Technically there’s a room for him. But he feels better when the front door’s in his line of sight. He sleeps better that way, or at least that’s what he told Bobby. Maybe it’s true. Sam’s still recovering and Bobby’s disabled. Never mind that Cas could watch the door. Dean has to, for his own peace of mind. 

So he settles down on the couch and closes his eyes. 

He’s standing in someone’s blood and guts and fluids. There’s screaming all around him. Inside him. He’s just pulling his knife out of someone’s face. 

No, not just someone. Sam. Dean almost couldn’t tell at first. He’s torturing Sam. But it’s not Sam as he is now. He looks around twelve. 

As Dean removes the knife and steps back, Sam starts screaming the same screams from the panic room, and it’s Dean’s fault. 

But he doesn’t feel anything. Because he’s empty.

There’s someone behind him; Dean hears footsteps, and knows to expect Alastair. The knife drips blood, and he slowly turns around. 

It’s not Alastair. 

It’s Michael, in the visage of his dad in the 1970s. 

“Dean,” he says. 

Dean’s voice doesn’t work in the dream. He can’t say anything, but he knows what he feels: fear. Hatred, for Michael, and for himself. Michael has seen him doing this. Maybe the bastard always knew.

“I know how you feel,” says Michael, in John Winchester’s voice, but deeper. More measured. Gravitas belonging to the John Winchester of the future, not 1979. “You know what you are, and what you’ve done. You feel that you deserve nothing good, and maybe you’re right.” 

He pauses then, like he’s letting Dean think about it. 

“You’ve said yes once, to this,” Michael says, and there it is. “Why not say yes again? Atone for everything you did down here? You could fix it all.” 

Dean has considered that angle, a thousand times. He thought about that at the beginning, when he first learned he was supposed to be Michael’s vessel. It’s not logical. 

These days, though, it’s a little tempting. 

“I,” he says, somehow able to talk now. “I -” 

Michael is in front of him. A good four feet away. Dean takes a step forward. And behind him -

Someone grabs his arm. No, not just his arm; his right bicep. Right, right over the mark he knows, the handprint. 

Castiel. 

Dean turns around. Sam is gone. The rack is gone. It’s just Cas, and him, and Michael. Cas has a hand on the mark. 

Seeing him here feels unbelievable. It’s like a breath of fresh air, cold water on a hot day. 

“You don’t have to atone,” Cas says, “for any of this. Your debts were wiped clean. If you say yes, worse things will happen.” 

“But -” Dean can’t accept it. Michael is still here. “What if that’s all I’m for? To cause pain?” 

“It’s not,” Cas says, his voice firm. His hand slides down until he’s holding Dean’s hand in his. Dean's body is turned around by some will that's not his. Then, Cas' other hand comes up to touch Dean’s face, and - Cas has never touched him like this. No one has touched him like this, in years and years.

That’s because it’s not real. But - 

“It’s not what you’re for,” Cas says again. 

“Michael’s an - he’s like, the archangel,” Dean protests. Even in dreams, he can’t stop himself from being a bitter asshole. “He knows a lot more than you.” 

“He didn’t raise you out of hell,” Cas says. “He has not touched your soul. I did, and I have. You are not made for this.” 

How is it possible for Cas to know the exact things Dean wants to hear? That he just wants to be told he’s wrong, he wants someone to come in and make him not do what he’s going to do, tell him what the right thing is to do? It seems too good to be true. 

Well, regardless, it’s happening right now. And Cas is still here; he hasn’t left. For whatever reason, Dean’s desperate to make sure. 

“Stay,” Dean finds himself saying. “Don’t leave me.” 

Cas’ hand swipes over Dean’s cheek. “I will never leave you.” 

And he’s never said that. The real Cas would never say that. Dean closes his eyes, overwhelmed, and leans forward - 

His eyes fly open. 

He’s on the couch. The door is in sight. It’s…the clock reads 3:15. They have to leave in about an hour, so he has to be up soon anyway, but - 

He thinks about his dream. 

He doesn’t want to think about his dream. What the hell? He’s never dreamt of anything like that before. Michael and Cas and what he was about to - 

Cas is next to the couch, on a chair. Dean jumps. 

“Sorry,” Cas says, the weird tilt to his mouth looking way too human. “I…was about to wake you.” 

“Uh -” Dean shakes off the dream with difficulty. “Okay. Sorry, I -” He runs a hand through his hair, forcing himself back to the real world. “Sorry.” 

Cas frowns. “Did you have a nightmare?” 

“Uh, yeah, I guess. Don’t worry about it.” Dean sits up. “You think you can move our weapons to the trunk? I need to go get Sam up.” 

Then he scoots out of there before Cas can say anything else awkward. 

Sam is standing in the woods where he drained the last demon; the nurse from the hospital. He doesn’t want to be back here. He hates what he did here. 

Well, he hates everything he did that day, but this is high on the list. 

There’s no car, though. No demon. Even the trees are different: thinner and taller. Ancient. And then, around one large tree steps Ruby. 

Sam flinches; he can’t help it. 

“You’re dead,” he snaps. “Get away from me.” 

“Oh, get over yourself,” she says. “I might be dead, but I’ll always be here.” She taps the side of her head. “Why are you fighting your destiny, Sammy? I thought we’d worked everything out.” 

“We didn’t work everything out, and you know that,” he says sharply, while he continues to step backwards and away from her. “You manipulated me - just directly lied, to my face, about Lilith.” 

She gives him a simpering smile. “You saw what you wanted to see. How is that my fault?” 

He knows what she means, too. The conditions had been perfect. Dean had to sell his soul, so that Lilith would own the contract, so that Sam would hate her so much he wouldn’t need any pushing to kill her and jumpstart the apocalypse. He hadn’t needed Ruby for anything other than powering himself up. 

“And now you know what you are,” she says, in the kind of sexy whisper she used to reserve for sex or blood drinking. “You went back to it, the other day.” 

“I’m not having that conversation,” Sam says. “It wasn’t my choice, Ruby. Besides, as long as Famine’s dead. Lucifer hates that, right?” 

“He doesn’t hate anything that leads you closer to saying yes.” 

What? How is drinking demon blood supposed to help him say yes? Is that connected? 

Sam shakes his head. None of this is real, he’s not letting himself be talked into psychosis. 

“Go,” he says. “Get out of here.” 

“Get out of here!” echoes another voice in the distance. 

Sam whips his head in that direction. What the hell? Is someone else here? It sounded like it was coming from somewhere to his right. 

“Sam,” Ruby says, but he ignores her and takes off running. Anything that gets him away from her. 

Did he imagine it? 

No. The voices are talking again. He slows down to a walk; he can’t be discovered. It’s difficult to move quietly through the underbrush, but he manages to do it. 

“How could you?” shouts another voice; this is a different voice from the first, but another man. “I’ve put up with a lot of your tendencies, but this -” 

Sam ducks into a crouch. He can’t see much. There are two men standing across from each other. The one who just spoke stands with his face in Sam’s direction. He’s tall, with sandy hair and a beard.

“You don’t get to blame me,” says the man with his back turned to Sam. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but this one’s on you.” 

“On me?” The man’s face explodes with rage. “On me? What deranged universe do you live in? What part of this isn't on you? I didn't tell you to -" 

"You're a control freak," says the second man, "and you've gone too far. You know it. It's not long before the whole town knows it, and it most certainly is not my fault some people have realized you're poison!"  

The first man pulls a gun. 

So does the second. 

But before either can fire, there’s a scream in the far distance. A woman’s scream. Both men turn in that direction - 

And Sam wakes up. 

He gasps, disoriented; what the hell? Was that some kind of vision? First there was Ruby, which is terrifying on its face, but then - Sam has never seen those men before in his life. He hasn’t had a vision in - in years, not since his death at Jake’s hands. 

But this can’t have anything to do with the case. There aren’t any signs of children or monsters. 

“Hey,” and Dean’s got a hand on his shoulder. “Bad dream, huh?” 

Sam rubs the back of his neck. “Not…exactly.” 

“Not exactly?” Dean frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Well, it was a bad dream, because Ruby showed up and started saying weird shit about the demon blood, but then I heard some weird voices and saw something that definitely feels like the visions I used to have, except I don’t have any headaches, and I have no idea if any of this is a good sign or not. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam says. “I feel great, if that’s what you’re concerned about.” 

“Well, in that case.” Dean stands up. “It’s 3:45. Time to head out.”