Revelations
Weeks 12-13
By Nan00k

Sorry for disappearing for a bit, guys! I got significantly distracted by my other stories, but here's the next installment. :) Hopefully now we can return to more frequent updates!

An old friend appears and the boys realize they're grounded. Dean has problems (this isn't new).

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Warnings: graphic violence, foul language, brief descriptions of sexual acts, religious overtones, original characters, canon/OC pairing, canon pairings, alternative universe (post season five)
Disclaimer: Supernatural © Eric Kripke/CW. I only write this mess.

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When Dean walked into the motel room and saw Castiel with his eyes closed facing the door, the first thing the hunter wanted to do was scream. Castiel looked dead—not unconscious, not healing—freaking dead—

"CAS!" Dean shouted, barely remembering to slam the door shut. He had to put salt up, he had to protect Castiel, but Castiel was dying—

Nearly flying across the room and falling over the bed, Dean barely stopped himself from grabbing the angel by the coat collar. "Oh, no… Cas… Castiel!" Dean shouted again. He dared to touch the splattered white shirt to try to shake him as gently as possible. "Hey, hey, what the hell, don't you die on me—!"

"Hello, Dean!"

Dean's gasp choked him as he spun around. First instinct told him to grab his gun. It was on the table by the door. Second instinct told him to duck and dodged. But Castiel was right behind him and was a prone target.

However, just as those two fleeting fight-or-flight feelings hit Dean, they left, because Dean was not staring down a demon emerging from the bathroom. He was facing down a human… a familiar one.

"Jesus Christ—Chuck? !" Dean sputtered, dropping the bag of ice that had been in a vice grip in his hands. He stumbled backwards at the sight of the bearded prophet smiling at him from the other side of the bed. "What the fuck? ! How—where the hell have you been? !"

Chuck Shurley smiled nervously and waved slightly as he braced against the wall now under Dean's angry response. "Sorry. I took a little vacation…" he said, trialing off. He looked sheepish. "I didn't think that was such a good idea, was it?"

Frankly, Dean didn't give two shits about Chuck Shurley, not now. He turned back to Castiel, who was unconscious even after all that yelling. Dean hesitated as he reached to touch Castiel's shoulder. The only way Dean knew he was still alive was because his skin was still flush; damn angels didn't even breathe normally.

"Aw, man… Cas… wake up," Dean pleaded, hating the fact he sounded like he was begging. Dean Winchester didn't beg. "Come on."

The floorboards creaked under the worn motel carpet. "He'll be okay," Chuck said, surprising Dean again. He rubbed his chin, looking at Castiel with both wariness and concern. "A few days rest will do him good."

For the first time since realizing who it was, Dean peered closer at Chuck. His mind struggled to keep up.

What the hell was he doing here?

"Y-you saw this?" Dean asked, venturing a guess.

Chuck nodded, shrugging as he moved back around from the bed, Dean watching him carefully. "Yeah. Bits and pieces," the Prophet said, stuttering. "He just needed a healing trance."

Dean paused. "I thought he said he needed another angel to do that," he said, glancing upwards. Ugh. He'd prefer not to have to get another one down there, but it wasn't like Raphael was sending anyone anyway.

"I guess it worked out. I don't know, Dean," Chuck said, suddenly exasperated. He stopped and gave Dean an oddly appraising look as the hunter got to work trying to make Castiel comfortable. "I… how are you?"

Stopping in mid-reach to grab a towel off the side table and the ice bag on the floor, Dean almost laughed. Almost. He turned and gave the Prophet a sneer, even if the awkward man had meant well. Dean was not in the mood for meant-well conversation.

"How am I?" he asked, trying not to be bitter. He smirked as he wrapped the ice in the towel, adrenaline rush crashing down into the barest-there trembles. "I'm beaten, bruised, bleeding… the usual. You're the one who already knows, right?"

Perhaps that had been harsh. Dean didn't care. He set to work dragging Castiel's coat off his motionless, but still incredibly heavy, body. Even if he couldn't help his friend, at least he could make him comfortable.

Then again, Castiel and comfortable just didn't go. Still. It made Dean feel better pretending he was doing something worthwhile.

Across from him, Chuck continued to hover awkwardly. "Right…" the short man said. He rubbed the back of his head and seemed to be reluctant to speak. When he did, it was quiet. Remorseful. "I'm… sorry. About Sam."

Dean didn't look at the so-called Prophet. He stared at the beige bedspread, eyes seeing nothing. He forced himself to let go of Castiel's coat before he ripped it in half.

"…What's done is done," Dean said carefully, draping the coat of Castiel instead. He didn't' need this now. Not now.

Chuck frowned when Dean finally did look up at him. "You didn't used to think that way," he said. It wasn't accusing the way he said it; just a fact.

Dean scowled. "Yeah… well…" He looked back down and decided to focus on the injured angel passed out on the bed. "Shit. Is he really going to be okay?"

Despite the fact that he was a prophet and he should have been able to give a better answer than a goddamn shrug, Chuck shrugged. "Yeah. Give him time, he'll come out of it," he said. He edged a little further back from the bed with his shoulders hunched. "I should go."

"Why?" Dean demanded. Sure Chuck was useless, but it was irrationally comforting to have at least someone else backing him up.

Then again, he already had one companion who was useless currently, so maybe it was a good thing to downsize.

Chuck wrung his hands nervously. "I don't want the angels finding me again. They're not my favorites. No offense to Cas," he stammered, eyes going down to the angel on the bed.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Right. I hear ya." He adjusted the bag of ice distractedly. "How are you hiding from them?"

"I got you know, protection," Chuck said, gesturing at his chest. Dean nodded; those protective sigils that Cas gave him, then. "And I don't like staying in one place, you know?"

"Right." Dean sat down on the corner of the bed and ran a hand over his face. "God… I am so damn tired of running."

Chuck was quiet for a moment. "…I'm sorry," he offered pathetically.

Dean allowed himself another moment of feigned peace before opening his eyes and getting up again. "Whatever." He moved over to take Castiel's wrist to try to feel a pulse, but yeah, that was pointless. Damned angels.

"So, ah, I guess I'll just leave…" Chuck said, gesturing at the door and already moving toward it.

Dean ignored him pointedly—until he realized that in his haze of panic over Castiel, he had missed a very important fact about running into Chuck of all people. Even if Castiel was down for the count now, Dean still had a job to do.

"Wait!" Dean called out. He pointed at the Prophet, who had shrunk down in fear when Dean rounded on him. "Chuck, shit. I forgot."

"Wh-what?"

"I need to ask you something." Dean hesitated and wondered how to go about asking what he needed to ask. "If you've had visions about it, I mean."

Chuck looked like he was trying to figure a way out of answering, which made Dean glare more. "Well… my visions really haven't been the same. I haven't been writing much, you know," Chuck offered. He hesitated. "About what?"

"Jesse Turner." Dean leaned more into his personal space. "Tell me everything you know about him."

Chuck stared at him. For a moment, Dean was almost taken back by the look he received, for just a split of a second. It wasn't Chuck's usual demure look. It was… more distant.

The look faded away rapidly and was replaced by a nervous chuckle.

"Oh… that."

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Quarter past eleven, Castiel woke up. He was never one for dramatics, but it certainly made Dean jump when the covers moved and he was suddenly staring down very intensely confused blue eyes.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," Dean began in lieu of a proper greeting, because he was honestly too happy to see his friend not unconscious to be series.

"Dean?" Castiel froze. "…I was unconscious." That wasn't a question.

Dean dumped the now-water ice bag to the side. "Yeah. Healing trance, I heard."

Castiel did not look convinced. He actually looked alarmed. "I cannot go into one without the use of my Grace. It was tied up, by… by the altercation."

Dean shrugged. "Well, maybe it fixed itself, 'cause you were out like a light when Chuck showed up."

"Chuck Shurley?" Castiel blurted out, shocked. He tried to sit up. Dean almost laughed at his reaction.

"Yeah." Dean leaned against the wall with his arms against his chest. "He saw we were going to be over here and he was traveling through, so he thought to stop by. Said hi, by the way."

For a long second, Castiel stared at him; the look in his eyes made it seem like he was trying to answer a difficult riddle in his head. Dean figured that meant the angel was on the mend. "…That makes no sense," Castiel accused. "Where has he been? How is he remaining untraceable?"

Dean gestured at his chest, now feeling much better. "You gave him the sigil protection, remember? Chuck's not stupid. He'll keep his head down," he said. "He said he was going soul searching or something. Wanted to get away from the mess of writing, and, well, the whole… apocalypse thing."

No one could blame a guy for that, Dean thought, even though he was incredibly jealous about being able to slip away like that. He would totally trade visions of the end of times for the actual stopping said-end of times.

"We needed his input about Jesse," Castiel immediately said, mind going exactly where Dean's had gone.

"Don't get your feathers in a knot, genius, I did ask him that," Dean said, waving his hand.

"And?" Castiel prompted, moving his coat to the side, disinterested in having it for warmth. It was kind of silly in hindsight thinking that he did need it.

"He says he can't see where Jesse is, because of the whole anti-Christ thing, we figure," Dean replied, remembering what Chuck had rambled off before disappearing into the night. "But Jesse is alive and he's apparently moving. Chuck saw visions of different places he's been, in the after-stages, because of all the demon that follow behind Jesse. Even if the kid isn't evil, his little groupies are causing a shit storm once they catch wind of him, too."

"Then we have no lead?" Castiel asked, frustrated.

Deans shook his head. "Nothing right now. Chuck said if we follow the demons, we could probably figure out where he is."

A small sigh escaped Castiel's mouth, which was surprising. "Not now," the angel said, leaning his head back against the headboard. He generally didn't allow himself to look tired, so he must have been exhausted.

"Hell no, not now," Dean said firmly. He patted Castiel on the shoulder, ignoring how the angel sent him an odd look in return. "You rest up, buddy. You aren't up for moving around yet anyway, so let's enjoy a little vacation from the whole anti-Christ hunting."

They'd definitely have to keep to the car after this, at least for a while. Having Castiel grounded would be a problem if they ran into more of those demon swarms that were hunting Jesse down. Dean wondered if they could take a risk and simply wait on continuing the hunt until Castiel had his mojo back in order. Chuck said it could take up to two weeks…

"…Dean?" Castiel began, surprising him. He looked curiously at the hunter. "I never gave Chuck protective seals."

Dean stared back at the angel. It took him a moment to catch up to that spontaneous piece of information, but when he did, it still didn't make any sense.

"…What?" he asked, startled. But how did he escape the angels this whole time? Did another one give him the seals?

Castiel's frown and narrowed eyes deepened. "I never did. They would not work on a Prophet of the Lord."

That wasn't… Dean wasn't entirely sure what the hell that even meant. "…That's… weird," he said, mind still stalling.

"Yes," Castiel replied, almost glaring now, he was so confused.

Despite the weirdness, Dean wasn't overly concerned. After all, out of everything else happening in their lives right now, this was probably the least weird. "Whatever," he said, dumping his jacket over the chair back. "He's not our concern anymore."

He decided to wash up—there was angel and human blood on his hands, on his clothing and probably over his poor baby outside—but it was already closing in on midnight. He'd have time to linseed oil the hell out of the seat cushion in the morning. Now, he just wanted to get the blood flakes out of his hair and out from under his nails.

"Takin' a shower," he said, almost as a warning, as Castiel gingerly sat up straighter. The angel nodded and seemed alright sitting there alone for a few minutes.

Dean pealed off his shirt and was glad that it had absorbed most of the blood. He turned the shower on and started to wash his hands in the sink.

He should have been grateful, he realized, that there was only a small part of the water turning brown. Castiel had been really screwed up by this. He had escaped mostly unscathed as well. A little blood was a million times better than a lot—

"You nearly lost it there, Dean."

Dean froze. He didn't look up. He didn't want to. He couldn't.

Because for the first time in his long time, he was afraid of ghosts. He was fucking petrified.

"You nearly lost him, too," Sam said, shrug in his voice. Dean shuddered when he felt his brother step up behind him. "Don't tell me that doesn't bother you."

"Cas!" Dean shouted, voice startling himself fiercely. He nearly lost a fight with vertigo as he spun around, eyes blind to the world, and stomped out into the main room.

Castiel was sitting exactly where and how Dean had left him, propped up against the headboard. At Dean's shout and rushed reentrance, the angel sat up straighter, eyes narrowed.

"Dean?" he began to ask, before Dean cut him off.

"Am I dreaming?" the human demanded, marching straight into the angel's personal space. Behind him, the sound of the shower was like thunder.

Castiel was undaunted as he peered up questionably into Dean's face, oblivious to Dean's rapidly beating heart. "…No," the angel replied. A question tinted his words. "Why?"

Dean felt a cold sweat drink down his back. "…nothing. Nothing." He turned away, his emotions turning from an undistinguishable state into anger. He didn't want to go back into the bathroom. Instead, he grabbed one of the pillows that had ended up on the end of the bed. "If you're not going to sleep, at least give me the pillows. I'm crashing on the floor. I'm exhausted."

Castiel immediately sat up and attempted to stand. "Don't," the angel said. He ignored Dean's protest. "I do not require the bed. I don't need to sleep."

"Bullshit," Dean said, glaring. He pointed at Castiel's face, which was still way too pale and gaunt, even for a freaking angel. "You look horrible."

"Regardless, you need sleep. Use the bed," the angel replied. "I can rest sitting in a chair just as well as laying down."

They ended up staring at each other for way longer than they should have. Dean knew winning a stare down against Castiel of all creatures was a hopeless. After a whole night of running around in panic and then—then that, in the bathroom—he was just too tired.

"…stubborn ass," Dean growled. He followed Castiel with a glare back to the table, where Castiel moved to the bathroom to turn off the water. At least he knew how to do that. "Don't go anywhere while I'm sleeping. I mean it."

"I will not," Castiel promised once he came back into the room and silence rang out between them. He sat down on the recliner, almost amused. He tilted his head in a tired manner at the human grumpily shoving blankets aside on the bed in order to lie down. "Dean. Sleep well."

Dean didn't bother finishing getting changed, though he did take his shoes off. He climbed under the sheet and froze when he went to turn the light off. He wasn't sure what stayed his hand more—the idea of the dark returning, or the fear he would fall asleep and have to deal with whatever happened afterwards.

"…Thanks," he muttered. He tugged on the cord and the room was drenched in darkness. "Get better."

Castiel said nothing and Dean shut his eyes tightly, glad the dark hid his grimace.

He prayed that he wouldn't dream.

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End Week 12-13.

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Next, both Deborah and Castiel do some soul searching.

Notes:
-No, Sam is not a ghost. This is just pure psychological fuckery for poor Dean.