One track mind,

one track heart,

if I fail

I'll fall apart;

Maybe it is all a test,

cause I feel like I'm the worst,

so I always act like I'm the best.

I know exactly what I want,

and who I want to be,

I know exactly why

I walk and talk like a machine;

I'm now becoming

my own self-fulfilled prophecy.

- Oh No!; Marina and the Diamonds

,.,

two

,.,

Sterling, Colorado

,.,

Just as Dean finishes filling up the Impala, Sam emerges from the Mini-Mart adjacent to the gas station with several plastic bags looped about his wrists, full of stuff. As he approaches the car, Sam maneuvers his arm until he can reach into one of the bags and pulls out two beers. He holds them out and Dean takes one with a little nod of acknowledgement. Twisting the cap off, Dean takes a sip. He makes a face.

"This is all they had?" Dean asks, shaking his head until the world ceases to swim in front of him.

"Afraid so," Sam answers apologetically. "I'm kind of scared to try it now." He retreats back to the side of the Impala and opens the side door, gently depositing the bags inside.

Dean shrugs, giving his brother a strange look before sliding into the driver's seat. Taking another sip of his beer, he places it in the cup holder. "You shouldn't be surprised by now. You're the one that keeps buying the stuff. What is it with you and cheap beer anyway?"

"Uh, maybe the fact that it's cheap?" Sam responds as if Dean should know this already. He folds himself into the passenger seat, grimacing as his legs press against the front of the dash.

"There's nothing wrong with buying the good stuff once in awhile," Dean says. "Remember: unlimited money." He waves his wallet at Sam as if to prove his point before folding it back into his pocket.

"You know how I feel about the credit card scams," Sam says, face twisting as he takes a sip of his own beer. The weird green and orange pattern on the bottle is terribly outrageous. Maybe it was designed that way in order to discourage potential buyers. "I just think we should save our money for important things."

"Beer is important," Dean retorts, looking positively offended. Inwardly, he's thankful for the distraction that these interactions with Sam provide. He needs it after last night.

The elder Winchester slots the key into the ignition and twists it, smiling as the engine comes to life, snarling.

"I thought it's the pie you consider invaluable."

Some jackass in a minivan honks repeatedly from behind them, and, with a sneer, Dean pulls away from the gas pump and guides the Impala onto the main road.

"You can't compare the two, Sammy," Dean says. "They're in two totally different categories."

Sam raises his eyebrows at that, but Dean ignores it, reaching for one of his Led Zeppelin tapes – the one that Sam hates listening to - and inserting it. The opening chords of Stairway to Heaven fill the car, and Dean's face smoothes out. He smiles. Music never fails to cheer him up; he's usually at his happiest in the Impala with either Led Zeppelin or Metallica pounding through the stereos.

"Well," Sam says, "I guess I can't feel guilty for getting you this then." He reaches back and pulls a little box with rainbow designs on the sides from one of the bags. "Here," he says, tossing it to Dean.

Dean's face lights up.

"You brought me pie," he breathes with a huge smile.

Scratch that: He's at his happiest in the Impala with his music and pie – maybe even with Sammy in the passenger seat, if he's not being a pain in the ass.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Dean tears at the plastic wrapping around the box. He sticks at it relentlessly until finally he's able to open the box and stare his prize in the face.

"Am I forgiven for the cheap beer?" Sam asks, raising his beer in the air. He winces as Dean reaches out and turns up the music.

Again, Dean ignores his brother. He tilts his head to the side - lips pursed - and then shoves a chunk of apple pie in his mouth, practically purring as he chews.

"I'll take that as a yes," Sam determines with a smile. He takes another sip of his drink and, in a move far too automatic, runs a hand through his mane of hair, ruffling it.

"Absolutely," Dean mumbles, almost incoherently, around the pie in his mouth. He wipes the back of his hand across his face, brushing crumbs off. As he does so, Dean's eyes un-focus for a minute. The cell phone in his pocket burns as if to remind him of the phone call last night and even the pie can't rid him of the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

All too soon he finishes devouring his pie. Dean eyes the empty box sadly before closing it and dumping it on the floor by Sam's foot.

"So where are we off to now?" Dean asks, rubbing at his face once more. Sam hasn't said anything in the last few minutes, which is strange enough in itself. However, Dean's too enraptured by the taste of apple pie on his tongue to care as much as usual.

"Um," Sam says, "Garth called about a nest in Northern Texas…"

Lost in the purr of the engine, Dean doesn't really hear the rest of what Sam is saying. He yawns, the motion accentuating the dark bags under his eyes. Last night they'd actually not been in a hurry to get anywhere. Without a hunt, they could actually relax. Sam had bought a six pack of a different kind of cheap beer from the liquor store down the street from the motel and when he returned, Dean had already started watching his favorite Godzilla film. Dean doesn't remember the details, only that he'd finally collapsed on his bed – still fully dressed - sometime later that night, twisting to avoid the crushed cans on top of the sheets. He'd only barely begun to doze off when his phone began to ring.

Dean exhales slowly, Sam's voice fading into the background. He shouldn't have gotten so messed up last night. His dad had taught him better: keep alert, shoot first and ask questions later, and protect Sammy. If something supernatural had burst into their motel room, Dean isn't sure that he'd have been able to do much. Even now, his head is pounding. Honestly, he's surprised that he managed to answer his phone at all, considering how messed up he was.

The sound of Metallica shatters the silence.

Through the pounding in his head, Dean manages to register that it is his phone that's making the noise. He groans, rolling over and trying to ignore it. The sound of sheets moving on the other end of the room reminds him that he's not alone. 'Can't wake up Sammy', is Dean's first thought. It's been drilled into him by this point.

He reaches for the phone where it sits, lit up, on the edge of the nightstand. It takes several tries – fingers scuttling across the polished surface – before Dean manages to grab the damn thing. He rubs his eyes with his free hand, bringing the phone up to read the Caller ID. If this isn't something related to an important hunt, he'll be throwing punches in the morning.

It's Cas.

Dean stiffens, sitting up in bed and cupping the phone between his palms. Sam mumbles something that Dean can't make out.

"Shh, it's okay," Dean murmurs soothingly, stumbling out of his bed. He presses the phone to his ear.

"Cas?" Dean's voice is little more than a hoarse whisper, thanks to their impromptu celebration last night. He reminds himself never to indulge in so much alcohol again.

Sam is still mumbling under his breath, but he sounds barely conscious. Dean sends a couple more reassurances his brother's way before heading toward the door. He doesn't bother slipping on his shoes.

The cold air hits him like a punch. Dean hardly registers the fact that he's shivering, too busy pressing the phone as tightly as he can get it to his ear.

"Hello, Dean."

The familiar, gravelly tone eases an ache within Dean that the hunter hadn't bothered to address. He sighs in relief, relaxing for a moment. Then he's overwhelmed by anger.

"Where the hell have you been, Cas?" Dean hisses, leaning back against the wall of the motel next to the door. "I've been praying for you to show up for the last week and a half. Was the signal bad or something?"

"I am doing what I must," the angel responds, something off with his voice.

So he's still as cryptic as ever. Normally it's endearing, but this time it only serves to enrage Dean further. He's about ask the angel – scathingly – if he's run out of minutes again when the odd note in Castiel's voice reaches him. It sounds like his friend is on the brink of tears, something that Dean has only witnessed once before in the whole time he's known the angel.

Dean sighs as his anger is overtaken by fear. There isn't any need to upset Cas anymore, not after everything he's already been through. The angel's fragile enough as it is.

"Your obligation is to me and Sam," Dean snaps. "Remember the whole hunter thing? Ring a bell?" If he had a uterus, Dean would be pleading with the angel to return, both to assure Castiel's safety and because he misses him more than he'd ever expected to.

"Do not treat me as a child," Cas responds, voice chilly. "You know I have many duties besides the two of you."

Dean flinches. He hasn't heard the angel say something so high and mightily since his short lived reign as God. It brings memories forward that Dean isn't ready to deal with yet.

Castiel's voice softens then as if he's aware that he has hurt Dean.

"I will return to you when I can," Cas says gently.

'No, you need to get your ass over here now,' Dean wants to say. He watched Cas fall apart in front of him in that motel room, revealing a part of himself Dean doesn't think anyone has ever seen. If Cas can manage to trust him with that, then why is he staying away now? All Dean wants to do is protect him, and Cas can't even give him that chance. Unless…

He wouldn't, Dean tries to reassure himself. He wouldn't kill himself. Surely things haven't gotten that bad. Only, Dean knows that they have. He saw the fathomless depths of pain through the tears in his friend's eyes and it was enough to scare him then. Now, Dean's terrified that he's too late to save Cas, all because he didn't try hard enough. He just let Sam interrupt them. Dean should've found Cas after the case was over and discovered some way to make the angel understand his worth.

"Cas," Dean manages as his throat closes up. "If you're thinking about – don't." Please don't.

There is silence on the angel's end.

"Cas?" Dean growls, desperate for an answer.

"Yes?" Cas answers slowly.

Dean's head goes blank. He doesn't know the words to say to make this all okay. He's never known what to say when it comes to Cas. What can he possibly say as a pitiful human being to an Angel of the Lord that will make a difference? Dean tries to think of what he'd say if this were Sammy.

"We'll figure something out, like we always do," Dean murmurs. "Promise me that you'll come find us so we can help, Cas. Otherwise I'll hunt you down right now."

There is another long bout of silence. Dean's fingers dig into the phone, scratching his ear.

"I will find you and Sam soon," Cas says.

Dean opens his mouth to answer but is met with the sound of the dial tone. His jaw works silently as he tries to come to terms with what has just happened but the fog in his brain isn't helping matters.

He pulls the phone away and skims through the buttons quickly until he reaches speed-dial, punching the number in the second position, underneath Sam's. It rings over and over, eventually connecting to Cas's bumbling voicemail.

Dean hisses, the sound cutting off as he chokes on a mouthful of cold air.

'Damn it, Cas', he thinks, squeezing the phone in his palm as he prepares to call again. 'I've already failed everyone else. Don't let me fail you too.'

"Uh, Dean?" Sam says. "You missed the turn."

The memory splinters in front of him. Dean blinks in surprise, hoping that there aren't any tears in his eyes. The last thing he needs is more stabs at his masculinity.

"What'd you say?" he asks through the remaining wisps of his memory.

"You missed the turn," Sam repeats slowly, as though Dean is a child determined not to learn his ABCs. "What's up with you today? You're…"

"Nothing," Dean says before his brother can begin to think of the possibilities. The last thing he needs is Sam getting all morally supportive. "Just didn't sleep so well last night."

Sam gives him an odd look. "You never sleep well," he points out, reaching over to turn down the stereo. Dean slaps his hand away.

"I was listening to that," he growls, cranking up the volume until Sam's wincing back into his seat. The Impala begins shaking with the force of the song, thrumming along with the bass, and it drowns out the thoughts beginning to creep across Dean's consciousness.

That is, until Sam shoots forward and slams his hand over the volume control, turning off the music completely. Dean's ears ring with the sudden silence.

"What the hell was that?" Dean asks quietly, his voice layered with something dangerous he knows Sam will pick up on.

Instead of turning back on the music and saving himself in the process, Sam keeps his hand firmly on the control. "We need to talk," he says with a fierce look up at Dean.

"Don't be a bitch," Dean retorts. He reaches out to turn back on the music, but Sam swats his fingers away.

"Don't be a jerk, then," Sam says.

Dean tries to breathe through the rage building up in his chest, bringing with it an indescribable tightness. His fingers scramble uselessly on the steering wheel for a moment and the Impala jerks to the right. Honks sound behind them.

"Son of a bitch," Dean curses, yanking the Impala back into the middle of the road. "Sam, just let it go." He isn't exactly sure what it is, but it must be semi important if Sam is willing to have a heart-to-heart over it. Though, by the molten hot tendrils creeping up his throat and across the backs of his eyes, Dean is pretty sure that the thing he's trying to bury is more than a little important to him. It might even be the same thing that's currently giving Dean the intense desire to chuck his cell phone out the window. Damn it.

"No," Sam says.

One of Dean's lungs feels as if it has been punctured. He sighs heavily.

"Fine," Dean grunts, releasing his death grip on the wheel. "What's bothering you now?"

"You," Sam snaps.

"Look dude," Dean begins, hoping it will cool Sam down, "it's not that you're not attractive in your own geeky, moose-like way, but I don't-"

"Dean," Sam says darkly, ignoring Dean's attempt at humor. He continues to glare angrily at his brother.

Has Sam really not realized by now how unmanly these tear-felt heart-to-hearts are?

"Dude, I'm really not-" Dean begins, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the road. Suddenly the broken yellow line separating the lanes seems fascinating.

"You're obviously upset about something and I think we both know what that is," Sam snaps, cutting him off.

"I think you've been watching too much Doctor Sexy," Dean says, wondering briefly when the last time was that he watched Doctor Sexy. The show kind of lost its appeal after Gabriel trapped them in it to play his little game.

"Don't do that," Sam growls. "You're worried sick about Cas, Dean. Just admit it!"

"Like I said," Dean mutters, flexing his fingers, "too much reality TV."

"I think you know exactly why he hasn't gotten in contact with us," Sam barrels on.

Dean gives his brother a curious look.

"Do you now," Dean says. It's hard to force away his emotions, but Dean does it anyway, thinking of soul-sucking monsters and hotel rooms until his face draws tight. He turns his head just slightly, staring down Sam with impenetrable green eyes until Sam is forced to look away.

"He called you," Sam figures out after a minute of mumbling to himself. "The call last night, when you left the motel…?"

Dean nods, just barely. His jaw tightens.

"Would you mind telling me why he called?" Sam asks grouchily when Dean says nothing about the matter. "You know, Dean, I care about Cas too. I might not have a profound bond like you two, but you can't -"

"He was just checking in," Dean murmurs over Sam, focusing on keeping his tone flat even as heat climbs up his neck. "He said he had some things to take care of." The thought of the phone call sends a lump to rest in Dean's throat. He swallows, trying to dismiss it.

"Then why do you look so devastated?" Sam wonders quietly.

"Who paid you to be my therapist," is all that Dean can manage.

Dean has no desire to speak about Cas, nor the capability. His throat feels raw and the lump is crawling up his throat, making his eyes itch. All he can do is keep driving and thinking, always thinking. This is the one thing that Sam doesn't seem to understand: forcing Dean to talk about his problems, especially when they're regarding people he cares about, does absolutely nothing but make Dean dig his heels in. Sam needs to learn to shut up once in awhile.

Dean grits his teeth. The engine hums as he presses down roughly on the gas pedal.

Thankfully, Sam appears to sense Dean's unwillingness to fill in the details and drops it for once. They fall into a tense silence.

Predictably, Dean begins to fidget after about ten minutes. He's always hated long stretches of silence, usually because it means that Sam is pouting. It shouldn't bother him so much, considering that he's grown up learning how to move in a way that's practically silent – a useful tool to utilize during hunts – and often finds himself appreciating the quiet moments he's given.

A quick look out of Dean's peripherals proves that Sam is, in fact, sulking. He's got the full on puppy dog face going. Dean pointedly turns his full attention to the road. His little brother doesn't need to get his way every time. He already folds enough as it is to make Sam happy.

Several more minutes pass and Sam's still keeping up the puppy dog face. Only, at this point, Sam has decided to make his eyes water even more profusely until it looks like Dean's refusal to talk has absolutely devastated his brother.

Damn him. Damn this job. Damn nonexistent self-esteem.

"Would you stop with that?" Dean asks, his voice sharp as he gestures pointedly to the expression on Sam's face.

"What is so important that you can't tell me?" Sam retorts quietly, turning his giant frame until he's twisted in Dean's direction. "I mean, I get it if it's not my business. I just – Dean, it's obvious how much Cas means to you, and if something's wrong I want to help lighten the load." His tone is so genuine that Dean finds himself deflating without his permission.

"You can't," Dean says, but the fire has disappeared from his voice, extinguished in the wake of Sam's watery eyes. He goes to take a breath and it's shaky.

Sam waits patiently, his eyes moony, round with sympathy.

"A few weeks ago, when you were out investigating the Loony-Toon accidents," Dean murmurs before he can convince himself otherwise, his voice flat, "Cas and I had a conversation in the motel room we were staying at." Dean swallows. A reflection of Castiel's blue eyes dances across the windshield.

"He told me…" The words are stuck in his throat, and the more that Dean struggles to drag them up, the more the ache grows in his chest, until it is nearly unbearable. "Cas told me he might kill himself."

"Oh," Sam says gently, instantly Mr. Sympathetic. "Dean, I-"

"Don't oh Dean me," Dean snaps. His eyes are really beginning to sting. He squints, refusing to let himself be taken over by the tidal wave of thoughts and emotions.

"We need to go find him," Sam says. He turns back in his seat and dives for the pile of papers at his feet again, dragging the map out from under pictures of pagan gods. "Where did he say he was?"

I don't know. The thought stops Dean cold. Castiel rarely calls unless he is asking for coordinates and the knowledge that the fallen angel could be anywhere in the world, possibly preparing for his death…

No, that doesn't matter, Dean tells himself sternly. If Cas doesn't want to be around him and Sam, that's his choice. There isn't any use whining over the angel's autonomy now, of all times. Dean has never questioned Castiel's other responsibilities before and he really doesn't have a right to now, despite the acute longing to find Cas lodged into the pit of Dean's stomach. God, I sound like an insecure girlfriend.

"No," Dean says coldly, half-surprised that he's actually spoken aloud.

Sam looks confused. "But this is Cas we're-"
"No," Dean says again. "Cas said he'll find us when he can. Until then, we're on our own." He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. "Now, how about we haul our asses into Texas and bury those sons of bitches?"

Dean's eyes stare down his brother, cold as steel, almost daring Sam to defy his wishes. At least then he'll have an excuse to go off the deep end. After a minute, Sam nods, and again the two brothers fall into an uncomfortable silence.

"So, what do we have?" Dean asks once he's had a sufficient amount of time to calm down. His nerves still feel frayed, but at least he has control over his face.

"Um," Sam begins distractedly, looking like he's just been hit with a pan.

"About the case," Dean clarifies, annoyed. The kid needs to pick up the pace. Usually he's on top of this research stuff.

Regardless, Dean thinks, I should at least play nice. A heavy sigh escapes from him.

"Right," Sam says, chuckling flatly. He shakes his head and begins to ruffle through the papers at his feet.

"Seems like our sort of thing," Sam continues once he's collected the papers. He sounds a little more like himself. "One week ago everything is fine and then bam. Three people go missing consecutively, each one the day after the last."

"Anything these people have in common?" Dean wonders.

Sam shrugs and says, "As far as I can tell, nothing. One guy, mid-forties, a teenage from the local high school, and a soccer mom…the only thing they appear to have in common is the last place they were seen."

"What's that?" Dean asks, releasing his tight grip on the steering wheel and relaxing his facial muscles.

"A gardening shop a few miles from the main part of the town."

Dean's eyebrows furrow.

"That's a little out of the way to go for a few hoes," Dean says, smiling at his own innuendo, if a little distantly. "And Garth said that he thought it was a nest causing all the trouble? Does he know how many we're dealing with?"

"Um, no, he didn't say," Sam says, reading through one of the pages.

"Well, that's just awesome," Dean comments, mouth twisting in a sarcastic smirk. "What's the quickest way to get there?"

"Let me see," Sam mutters under his breath, studying what looks to be a map somewhere in the middle of the stack of papers. After a second, he snaps his fingers and says, "We're headed toward the 287, yeah?"

"I guess," Dean says. "Can't see a damn thing out here." He flips on his headlights, illuminating the single-lane road. They're the only car out here, so far as he can tell. It would be creepy if they weren't used to dealing with things that lurk in the night.

"Okay," Sam says after another minute. "Keep on the 287. When you see the 54, head west. It should run by the town." He points to the speck on the map which reads Channing in tiny black letters.

Dean nods to let Sam know that he understands.

"Alright then," he says, giving Sam a genuine smile this time, "I'm gonna need another beer. Please tell me you bought a six pack."

Sam grins back, reaching toward the back seat.

"Actually," the younger Winchester answers, "I bought two."

,.,

A few hours and more than enough bathroom stops later, the boys reach the outskirts of Channing. Dean is beginning to feel a strange burning sensation in his pubic area and figures that he must've touched poison ivy while taking a dump earlier. He's still cursing to himself when Sam pulls the Impala into a parking spot in front of the town's motel. The glowing light of the sign nearly blinds both of them. The hotel is decorated with crappy decals and several inflatable fish which stare unflinchingly at the boys.

"Who would name a motel Vaporous Springs?" Dean grumbles as they head into the main office. Sam shushes him and flashes the hotel clerk what he hopes is a warm smile.

"We need a room for the next couple of days," Sam says politely.

The clerk rubs his bald scalp; his blue eyes narrow as he assesses them.

At last he asks, "One bed or two?"

Dean grits his teeth and mutters something along the lines of do I look like a raging homosexual as he makes his way over to the other end of the room, glancing over a wall of what appear to be owners.

"Two," Sam says, flushing.

The clerk sets them up with a first floor room for ninety bucks a night, cash only. As they're heading out, Dean points to the wall he'd been at earlier and says, "Bad economy, huh?"

"A lot of deaths in the family," the clerk answers as he rises from his seat. "My grandfather-" he points to one of the black and white photos, "got crushed by a meat grinder, and my mom, she-"

Dean turns to Sam and they share a wide-eyed look.

"That's a shame," Dean says before the clerk can continue his story. With a fake, glittering smile toward the clerk, Dean grabs Sam by the arm and hurries out of the office. "Yeah, not creepy at all," he mutters as he heads toward the car, twirling his keys around his pointer finger.

"Do you think that's wise?" Sam asks. "The car is rather conspicuous. We're only supposedly dead mass murderers."

Dean glowers at him, patting the hood of the Impala.

"He didn't mean it like that, baby," he whispers to the Impala, patting her hood again before sliding into the driver's seat and raising his eyebrows at Sam. "Quit being paranoid, Sammy. We haven't had any problems with the car since we were the FBI's Most Wanted."

"You say that like you're proud of it," Sam mutters under his breath. He rolls his eyes and unlocks the door to their motel room. "Only you would boast about your spot on the Most Wanted list."

Dean pulls the Impala into a spot a few doors away from their room, and then makes his way into the room. He finds Sam with a grotesque expression on his face.

"No wonders it's ninety bucks a night," Sam mutters as Dean stops by his side.

The room is plain: walls a yellowy-green, chunks of wood missing from the headboards. The TV is unplugged and a sign saying Don't Bother Touching has been taped to the screen.

Dean chuckles.

"What?" he asks, patting Sam's shoulder. "Afraid you're gonna get hustled?"

Sam flushes again, much to Dean's delight.

"You know," Dean continues with a cheeky grin, "I think the clerk was checking you out. You might get some action here after all."

"Shut up," Sam mutters. Dean laughs.

After unpacking their stuff, Dean yawns for the hundredth time and checks his phone.

"Damn," Dean mumbles, rubbing his jaw with the palm of his hand, "it's already a quarter to one. We'd better crash. I'm assuming you want to be up early as hell to speak with the next of kin."

"You assume right," Sam says, reaching toward the buttons on his shirt.

"Four hours," Dean says, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling down the fly. "That's all I ask for." He points a finger at his brother and then turns toward the other end of the room. "If you wake me before then, may God help you."

Within minutes, both brothers have stripped down to t-shirts and boxers. Sam falls asleep on the bed in the back of the room instantly, and Dean is left lying on the other lumpy mattress, listening to his brother's soft snores. His eyes feel like lead weights. As they begin to close, he catches a glimpse of the only chair in the room, by the door, and stiffens.

I'll watch over you, Cas had offered, flicking his eyes toward the chair in the corner.

And yet Dean had said no. Granted, Dean had his reasons, but looking at the empty chair, he'd forget them all – temporarily, at least – if the angel would get his ass over here and be their third wheel again.

Dean's eyes slide closed, the thoughts of his best friend slipping away as sleep beckons him. His fingers lose their grip on his phone, and it slides into the sheets.

Seconds later, or so it feels like, Dean's phone vibrates against his thigh.

Once. Maybe it's a message from Garth.

Twice. A call. Someone is calling.

Dean plunges his stiff fingers down until they close around his phone. He doesn't bother reading the Caller ID. Instead, he flips the phone open and presses it to his ear, mumbling, "You'd better have a damn good reason for waking me up."

"Dean."

Cas.

Instantly, Dean is wide awake. He kicks his covers off, throwing himself out of the bed.

"Cas, what's goin' on?" he asks softly, stumbling toward the door so he won't wake Sam.

There is the sound of heavy breathing, followed by coughs that appear to crack something deep within the angel.

"Dean," Cas says again, his voice more broken than Dean has ever heard it. "I need…need help."

"Okay," Dean agrees without thinking. He doesn't have to think, not with Cas, not in these circumstances. "Where are you?"

Sam is sitting up in bed, his hair looking as if a tornado has hit it. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and glances over at Dean.

"I'm…I'm in a barn, in…in Michigan," Cas whispers, pausing to take a shuddering breath. "Dean, I-"

"If you say you're sorry I swear to God, I will take you back to Purgatory myself," Dean threatens, knowing that he'd never do such a thing, yet not knowing what to say. All knows is that something is horribly wrong with Cas. "What city are you in?"

"Ho…Holland," Cas says weakly. He begins to hack.

"Okay, I'm on my way," Dean promises, glancing back at Sam with what he hopes is an apologetic look.

"They took it," Cas whispers. His voice sounds garbled, as though he's swimming in blood. Considering that he's an angel, Dean wouldn't count out such a scenario.

"Took what?" Dean asks sharply. He reaches for a pair of his jeans, then proceeds to pull them on awkwardly, juggling the phone in between his ear and shoulder.

Sam is up by this point, staring intently at his brother.

"Red…barn…" Cas whispers to himself, sounding a little too similar to the birds-and-bees, lying your lean, naked body on peoples' cars Cas. The thought makes Dean shiver.

"Cas, damnit," Dean swears. "What did they take?"

He grabs the keys to the Impala and charges toward the door. Only Sam's hand on his shoulder keeps Dean from hurrying out barefoot.

"My Grace," Cas breathes in his gravelly voice, and then the line goes dead.