Soooo… it's been awhile. My apologies to those of you who waited (if any of you are left!). It's been a long summer, and not a terribly great one. With all of what I had – and have- happening in my personal life, I had to take a break, from writing and a lot of other things. I hope that some of you will understand, and those of you that don't … well, I can't blame you!
That being said, I hope you enjoy the chapter. Writing in new characters – especially one as beloved as you know who- is nervewracking, and I hope I managed to do him a little justice. Let me know!
Chapter Ten: All The Juice Of Heaven
The storm carried on through the afternoon and the night, raging with an intensity that even Dean had a hard time believing was entirely natural. The rain beat against the house in a roar; lightning split the sky. Bobby drew all the curtains, lined every doorway with salt, every window with sigils.
"I don't like this storm," he said at one point, and Dean, sitting on the couch with Sam cowering in his lap, agreed. "Something don't feel right," Bobby added, and Rufus, drinking beer by himself in the kitchen, grunted. None of them said what they were thinking: that their meeting with Gabriel had left them unsettled, that Dean's declaration had frightened them. Neither Bobby nor Rufus had said anything to Dean yet about his decision to summon Castiel, but Dean knew it was coming. He sat on the couch and tried to organize his scattered thoughts into some sort of a decent defense, but he kept coming up blank.
"It's the only option we have left," he said finally to Bobby, a little after ten when Sam had passed out in his lap. Bobby cocked an eyebrow at him.
"I thought that's what catching the Trickster was," he said, and Dean bit off an impatient sigh. Bobby went on: "You know I'd do anything for you boys, Dean. But this- this is stupid. Summoning Castiel is the worst thing you could do for Sam right now."
Someone with all the juice of heaven, Dean thought. He rifled his fingertips through Sam's bangs, made a point of studying his brother's face, squished in sleep against his shirt front. "We need him, Bobby," he said at last, quietly. "He can help us."
"And if he can't?"
"He can."
"And if he won't?"
Dean ignored the question and took Sam upstairs to bed. He lay on top of the blankets next to him and fell asleep with Sam's breath hot on his arm. It was a restless sleep: in it he stumbled down long dark alleyways, fetid with the scent of rotting garbage and wet with cold winter rain, some nameless, faceless beast lumbering on his heels. He ran with a speed that he lacked in real life, his boots splashing through puddles and soaking his jeans, his amulet beating his chest, his sawed-off cold and heavy in his hands. Somewhere in the maze of alleys and brick buildings, the heavy beating of the monster's feet behind him turned to a light and dogged, persistent, pattering; at a corner he stopped and turned, gun held ready, and Sammy stumbled into the yellow shroud cast by a streetlight, his curls wet and peeling against his forehead and his eyes bright. "Hey-o, Dean-o," he said, and a keen screaming ripped the sky in half, tore against Dean's face. He threw himself at Sam as a burst of white light exploded above them-
He woke sweaty and shivering in a gloomy predawn chill. The bedroom was cold, the sky outside the window gray and foreboding. Sam was curled around him, one leg thrown over Dean's stomach, his arms across Dean's chest, his fingers tangled in the collar of his t-shirt. Dean lay still and fought against the creeping sensation of rising nausea in his stomach and the hot burning under his eyelids. It was 5:49 am, and the storm had passed.
He rolled out of bed, leaving Sam where he was, and stumbled downstairs in the half darkness. In the living room, Rufus was snoring softly on the couch; in the kitchen, Bobby was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper and sipping on a cup of coffee. Another mug, steaming and black, rested on the tabletop across from him. He nodded at it as Dean entered.
"Heard you getting up," he said, and Dean dropped gratefully into the chair, took down a burning gulp of the bitter brew.
"God, I love you," he said, and Bobby chuckled drily.
"Sam asleep?"
"For now." He put the mug down; Bobby was watching him over the brim of his newspaper, his eyes shaded. He sighed. "Look, I know what you're thinking, man-"
"If you want to summon him here, you're going to need to take the wards down," Bobby interrupted in a steely voice. He shook his paper roughly, folded it shut. "You do that, you know more than just Castiel might come knocking."
The coffee was suddenly cold and acrid on his tongue. "I know."
"You got a plan for that?" When Dean said nothing, Bobby continued, "Of course you don't. So while you were sleeping, I thought it might be a good idea to move some things downstairs into the panic room- some food and water, some of Sam's toys, that damned book of mine he ruined."
Sam had spilled grape juice on the story of Snow White in the Grimms the other day and had cried for hours over it. "Bobby, the Panic Room isn't angel proof. You didn't even know about angels until a few months ago."
"Of course I did," Bobby growled. "You're disbeliefs aren't my disbeliefs, boy."
Dean ignored the jape and took another slug of his coffee. "You're telling me that Sam will be safe down there?"
"As long as we're safe up here, yes."
"How?"
Bobby shrugged. In the bare light of the kitchen's ceiling fixture, the shadows under his eyes and the lines in the corners of his mouth stood out in sharp relief. "Some Enochian wardings- couple'a verses from the Psalms. Hebrew, mind you. There's power in language, boy."
Dean shook his head. "The Psalms? Like- the Bible?"
Bobby nodded and, draining the last of his coffee, recited softly, "Save me by your power, O God; set me free by your might."
He wasn't a religious man by any means, but even Dean had to grudgingly admit that there was some measure of comfort in the verse. "Will that work?" He asked, and Bobby shrugged.
"Worth a shot," he admitted. He stood, scraping his chair backwards along the faded linoleum of the kitchen floor. "Go wake up your brother," he ordered. "We've got a long day ahead of us."
Dean finished his coffee, left the cup in the sink, and went upstairs. Sam had knocked the pillows to the ground; his legs were wrapped together in the sheet. Dean sighed and picked up the pillows, shaking the dust off of them, before waking Sam.
Sam woke slowly, blinking his eyes and mumbling into the mattress. When he was finally coherent, he frowned muzzily at Dean and said, "D'you have dreams too, Dean?"
Dean felt the back of his neck prickle. "Sometimes," he said. He helped Sam sit up, shaking away the remnants of last night's nightmare. "Everyone dreams, Sammy," he added, in what he hoped was a normal voice. "Why?"
Sam shrugged. He stuck two fingers into his mouth and sucked on them, hard. "D'you get nightmares, Dean?" He asked in a small voice, and Dean smiled, but it felt cold and tight.
"Everyone has nightmares, Sammy-"
"Do you?"
Last night was still too real- yesterday, with Gabriel and what he'd revealed, was still too real. Dean shook his head and set about unwrapping the blankets from Sam's legs. "You're all twisted up," he said as lightly as he could manage. He offered Sam a smile, which wasn't returned. "What happened, dude?"
"I was running," Sam said grumpily. "I was running, in my dream. You wouldn't slow down."
Dean forced himself to brush aside Sam's words, his own growing unease. "You want breakfast?" He asked, and Sam sighed.
"I gotta pee," he said, and Dean hefted him off of the bed, set him on the floor.
"Go then," he said, and Sam sidled by him, but stopped in the doorway to look back. His eyes were dark.
"Where did your friend go, Dean?" He asked, and Dean nudged him out of the bedroom, towards the bathroom across the hall.
"He went back home," he lied, and Sam sighed.
"I want us to have a home, Dean," he said, and closed the bathroom door behind him.
xxxx
Bobby had made breakfast by the time Dean managed to finagle Sam back downstairs – after the bathroom, Sam had wanted to change his socks, then wash his hands, then find his blankie. It consisted of re-heated coffee, which Dean was grateful for, and Lucky Charms, which Sam was grateful for. He sat at the table, chewing happily and noisily, while Bobby puttered quietly around in the den and Dean debated on what he was going to tell Sam about being locked in the basement. Finally, just when he thought there was no viable option, Rufus came in yawning from the living room, and Sam spat a mouthful of chewed marshmallows back into his bowl.
"You didn't leave?" He cried, and Dean groaned, reached over to pull the bowl away from Sam.
"Sam, that's disgusting." He stood, taking the bowl with him, being careful not to look too closely at the masticated mash floating on the milk inside of it.
"I'm still eating, Dean!" Sam snapped, and Dean dumped the bowl into the sink, turned the faucet on.
"Not anymore." When Sam didn't answer, he turned to find him pinning Rufus to the doorway with a stare as fierce, Dean supposed, as a four year old could muster. "Sammy, knock it off."
"Your other friend left," Sam told him over his shoulder. "How come he can't?"
"Sam, I mean it."
Sam muttered something under his breath in a high pitched voice and scrambled off of his chair. He darted away in the direction of the den, dragging his blue blanket in his wake, making sure to give Rufus a wide berth. Rufus watched him go with a resigned expression before turning to Dean.
"I'm not sure what I ever did to him."
"Don't ask me." Dean opened the cabinet, rummaged through it for a clean mug. "Coffee?"
"Black is good."
Dean poured him a cup and stuck it in the microwave. In the den, he could just make out the overtures of Bobby's gruff voice and Sam's shrill one. "Bobby thinks our best option is to stick Sam in the panic room downstairs while we summon Castiel," he said, handing Rufus his cup of coffee. "He warded it so he should be safe."
"You planning on taking down the wards around the property?" Rufus sipped at his coffee, grimaced. "This is disgusting."
"I'm a hunter, not a barista."
"A what?"
It was a word Sam had used, once or twice. Dean waved the question away. "Just the one for protection from the angels, I think," he said. "No need to invite any demons or whatever in. Cas is enough."
Rufus eyed him sharply over the lip of his cup. It was one thing, Dean thought, that he was learning to appreciate about the man: he was straight forward. He didn't shy away from a fight. It put him in mind of his father.
"You think you can handle this Castiel fella, Dean?"
Dean shrugged, but his shoulders were tight. The back of his neck was warm and clammy with his own sweat, despite the seasonable coolness of the kitchen. "I can," he said gruffly. "I'm not worried about it."
Rufus took another heavy sip of his coffee, rolled it around in his mouth. "There's no need to go putting on a brave face for me," he said quietly. "I know you've seen some shit, Dean. I saw you before you went to hell, man, and not a day goes by where I don't remember what I saw in your eyes then. But this is different, isn't it? This look you're wearing these days ain't the same look that it was a year ago."
It was a year ago, Dean thought distantly. His one year anniversary of his trip down under was rapidly approaching. Maybe I'll get a cake or something, he thought dryly, then shook his head. Rufus was watching from his seat at the table, the ceramic mug loose in his hands.
"It's different because it's Sam," he said pointedly. "You know that. If we fuck this up, it's not my ass on the line, it's his."
"These angels- they don't like Sam much, do they?"
Dean snorted, but the thought hurt, dug at his chest like a thorn or a stake. Sam, the boy who'd believed- the boy who's spent his days looking heavenwards for a sign and his nights praying for compassion or intervention or escape- ended up being the boy that Heaven's messengers ground into the dirt, under their heels.
"You could say that," he said carefully, and Sam spilled suddenly into the kitchen from behind the living room doors.
"Who don't like me?" He demanded indignantly, and Dean laid his mug in the sink and scooped Sam off of the floor in one swift movement.
"You listening to us from the other room?" he asked roughly, and Sam buried his face in Dean's neck, avoiding his eyes.
"You're too loud," he complained, his voice muffled. "Dean, I gotta take a shower. Bobby says."
Dean sighed. Sam peeked up at him, then went on, "Bobby said me and him are gonna play together all day. He said you got stuff to do."
"He's right." Dean started out of the kitchen, up the stairs.
"Are y'going out, Dean?"
They'd summon Castiel out in the garage on the back property, Dean thought. There was no need to bring him into the house if they didn't need to. "Just outside for a little while."
"Are you gonna come back?"
Dean stopped in the middle of the staircase. Sam's arms were so tight around his neck that he was beginning to wheeze, a little. "Sammy, of course I'm coming back. Don't ask questions like that."
"Daddy didn't come back."
There it was, out in the open. Dean closed his eyes, sagged against the wall. "Sam," he said tiredly, "That was different, okay?"
"What if it's different this time?"
"It's not." He started up the stairs again. Sam dug his fingers into the nape of Dean's neck. "Sammy, that hurts."
"How d'you know?"
"I can feel it-"
"How d'you know it's not different this time, Dean?"
"I just-" How did he know? He had no idea what he was bringing to them by bringing Castiel in. He was as clueless as Sam. "I just know, okay?" He nudged the bathroom door open with his hip, flicked the light on. In the mirror above the sink, he took in their reflection: he with three days' worth of growth on his chin and cheeks, bloodshot eyes, creases in the corner of his mouth. When had he gotten so old?
In his arms, Sam squirmed, turned around to look into the mirror. He pushed his hair back off of his forehead with his hands and sniffled. "I wish I had a beard, Dean," he said sadly, and Dean chuckled, put him down on the edge of the sink.
"Don't fall, Sammy," he warned, and leaned into the tub to turn on the shower head. He held his hand under the spray and leaned against the wall. Sitting on the sink, Sam swung his heels into the cabinet.
"You promise it's different?" He asked in a small voice, and Dean forced himself to nod amid the clamor of doubt banging around in his head.
"Cross my heart," he said seriously, and Sam slipped off of the sink, landing clumsily on his bare feet.
"Don't say the rest," he said stoutly as he wriggled out of his shirt. "I hate that part."
Me too, Dean thought.
xxxx
Sam showered and Dean helped him dress with shaking hands. Sam was quiet too, as if he sensed that something was about to happen. Throughout the time that he was getting dressed and brushing his teeth, he kept shooting Dean anxious looks. His fingers found his way into his mouth several times, and after correcting him three or four times, Dean just gave in and let him. Sucking his thumb, he thought, was probably not going to do Sam any damage in the long run. A few more hours and he wouldn't even remember the habit at all.
He wondered suddenly what he was supposed to tell Sam. Sam wasn't an idiot – he never had been. He'd have questions. He'd want to know about the drawer stuffed full of t-shirts with animated characters on them, about the Grimm's Fairytales gathering dust on the nightstand, about the Fluff in the cabinet and the grape juice in the fridge, about the blue blanket with the holes in it draped over the footboard of the bed. He'd have questions – and if he didn't, it would only be because he could figure it all out on his own.
Still- two months. They were four days away from it being two months. Sam had missed two whole months of his life. How do you explain that? You don't, Dean thought tiredly as he tied Sam's sneakers. Sam frowned at him.
"You could teach me that soon, Dean," he said. "Then I could tie your shoes when you're too tired."
Dean shook his head, snorting. "Sammy, if the day comes that I'm too tired to tie my own damn shoes, you'll be the first person I call."
"You don't have to call me, Dean," Sammy said earnestly. He placed a hand, small and sticky, on Dean's forearm. "I'll just always be here, Dean. Okie dokie?"
Dean blinked, nodded, smiled. "Okie dokie," he repeated, and Sam sprang off the bed and raced for the door.
"Me'n Uncle Bobby are gonna play today," he said. "You wanna help me pick out my toys?"
Dean swung Sam up off of the floor, into his arms. "Uncle Bobby already picked out your toys," he said. "Okay?"
"Okie dokie, Dean-o."
Downstairs, Rufus was nowhere to be found, but the back door was open and a heavy breeze, laden with the scent of rain and cold, was sweeping across the kitchen, ruffling the papers stacked on the tables and countertops. "Where're we gonna play?" Sam asked, and Dean carried him into the living room, dumped him on the couch.
"Downstairs," he said. "He's got a surprise for you."
Sam regarded him askance. "In the basement?" He asked with the same amount of distaste that he usually reserved for Rufus and chicken. "That's a gross place, Dean."
"Nothing in my house's gross." Bobby appeared in the doorway. He had a wooden crate in his arms and his flannel jacket on; over the top of the box Dean could see a couple bottles of colored oil, a mason jar of thick red liquid, a clay bowl brimming with black sand crystals. A chill razed his spine; in his mind, the mantra that Bobby had quoted to him just a few hours ago looped on repeat through his mind.
Save me by your power, O God; set me free by your might.
"You gonna stand there and stare at me all day, or are you going to take this?"
Dean started. Bobby was looking at him with an unreadable expression, the box held out towards him. Dean ignored it, bent to unbunch the zipper on Sam's sweatshirt, brush the hair out of his eyes. All things that didn't need doing, but things he suddenly needed to do. He lingered a moment with his hand on Sam's shoulder. "You be good for Uncle Bobby, you hear me?"
"Okie dokie, Dean-o," Sam said chirply. He smiled brightly, then, to Dean's surprise, leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Dean's neck. "I got a s'prise for you," he whispered into his ear. "For when you come back inside, okay?"
Dean closed his eyes. His throat was suddenly tight and dry. "Sure, Sammy," he said, and over Sam's head, Bobby was pursing his lips and looking away, and Dean could just imagine what he was thinking, what he wanted to ask: Is this really the right thing, Dean? Are you sure that this is best for Sam?
Dean shook off the nagging feeling of indecision rising in his stomach like a hot air balloon and stood. He took the box from Bobby, tucked it under one arm, used the other hand to palm the top of his brother's head. He wanted to remember this, he thought suddenly, remember all of this, for as long as he lived: Sam's fingers stuck in his mouth, his cheeks sticky with Fluff, his head drowsing on Dean's arm on the couch, Sam's knees sticking him in the back while he slept, Grimm's Fairytales propped up in front of a plate of pancakes, syrup stuck on his jeans and Cheerios crushed in the leather seams of the Impala's backseat. He wanted to remember this: Sam's feathery curls beneath his hand, Sam's eyes crinkling up at him, his fingers poking at the hole in the knee of his jeans.
"You okay, son?" Bobby asked quietly, and Dean nodded, choked back the gaping maw of sudden regret in his chest, and turned to leave.
"Keep an eye on him, okay?" He said as he pulled open the door, stepped out into the blistery grey windswept morning of late March, South Dakota, and when the screen door banged shut behind him, echoing like a gunshot across the icy yard, Dean thought to himself that Bobby was right, that none of this had been that bad in the long run.
xxxx
Across the yard, behind stacks of crushed cars and heaps of scrap metal, Rufus had cleared a table in the garage. When Dean stepped through the door, blinking to let his eyes adjust to the sudden dimness of the bay, Rufus was leaning on the Impala's back fender and smoking a Woodbine.
"I didn't know you smoked," Dean said, and Rufus shrugged.
"Just when the need arises," he replied aloofly. He nodded towards the box. "Got everything you need?"
"I hope," Dean said glibly, but the words felt empty in the cold air. Rufus eyed him shrewdly and hoisted himself off of the back of the car.
"Let's get to work then," he said.
They worked in silent tandem, marking the scarred wooden tabletop with charcoal glyphs and chalked runes, measuring the black crystal salts and holy oil, mixing it together in a brass bowl. Rufus thumbed slowly through an old holy book while he paced, sprinkling the concrete floor around them with holy water and oil, chanting in a low tone. Dean pressed the soft beeswax of honey colored candles in a circle around the bowl, straightened the wicks with his fingertips. He felt sick.
"You're good at that," he said to Rufus, and Rufus stopped his chanting long enough to look up, his eyes hooded.
"Hebrew," he said. "I grew up reciting this stuff every week at the synagogue."
"You're Jewish?" Dean asked in surprise, and Rufus chuckled.
"Don't look so shocked, kid."
He went back to his chanting and pacing, and Dean put the final touches on the summoning alter, scrawling Castiel's name on a piece of thick cream colored parchment. "I think we're all set," he said, and Rufus closed the holy book, slid it into his pocket.
"You know, Dean," he said, rhythmically, in almost the same cadence that he had just been chanting in, "I don't know you're brother, and I get the sense that he's kind of okay with that, right now, but I'm not an idiot. I had a wife once, and we almost had a baby, and well- I can imagine what it's been like for you with your brother, these last few months. I know you think you're doing the right thing- but believe me when I say that if you change your mind, Bobby and I won't say shit about it."
Dean studied the name scribbled on the paper in front of him, rubbed at the still bleeding ink with the ball of his thumb, and said, "Rufus- I need to do this, okay? I need Sam- not this Sam, my Sam. He can't stay like this. It isn't right."
"If you say so," Rufus said, and he stepped out the door, zipping his jacket shut as he went.
Dean didn't move the entire time Rufus was gone. His apprehension – his dread and uncertainty- had begun to weigh on him like a mill stone, and he wasn't sure that if he moved that he wouldn't be sick. He stood with Castiel's name tight between his fingers and his legs limp and told himself fiercely, over and over, that he was doing the right thing, that this was what was best for Sam. He couldn't protect Sam if he stayed like this; he couldn't protect Sam and he couldn't protect himself if he had to have one eye on his brother at all times. He couldn't keep Sam locked in Bobby's house forever, couldn't keep him out of the clutches of the demons and the angels and all of the other things that were after them. That was no plan, and this, Dean thought dully as Rufus stepped back through the open garage door, was the only option that they had left.
Rufus nodded at him. "Wards are down," he said grimly, and Dean stiffened. His stomach in knots, he asked:
"You see anything?"
"Does the first blue jay of spring count?"
Spring, Dean thought distantly. Had it really been so long already?
"You ready?" He asked, and Rufus stepped up to his side, fingering open his holy book as he did, uncapping the jar of oil.
"Whenever you are, son," he said, and Dean suspended the paper with Castiel's name on it over the bowl of oil and sand, thumbed open his lighter. He lit it, watched the flame waver blue in the thin winter air, reaching for the ink stained parchment.
I got a s'prise for you, Dean. When you get back inside.
Rufus cleared his throat. "Dean?"
What if it's not different this time, Dean?
"Dean?"
"Do it," he barked, and Rufus began the low, swift incantation, words tumbling over his tongue, crystalized and heady, resplendent with power. Dean touched the tip of the parchment to the flame, watched it catch and burn, blue and white flames eating at the paper, lapping at the name inked across it. He let it go and watched it fall, watched it waft slowly into the bowl, watched the oil catch and spread, watch the bowl consume itself in fire-
The words were heavy, thick, faster and faster. Rufus swayed, sweat running down his face, his knuckles bleached white across the leather bound spine of the holy book, his arms shaking. One by the one, the candles on the tables caught, as if by magic, and flared, golden-white flames reaching for the roof of the garage, intertwining with the sudden screaming, the white light splitting the air, the ricocheting of shattering glass garage windows-
There was a light, so bright, so sudden that it dumped Dean to his knees, pressed his flat on his face against the cold cement of the garage floor, his hands clamped over his ears, screaming in pain. They'd done this before, he was dimly aware, but he couldn't remember how or where or why-
Rufus thudded to the ground beside him, his lips fumbling silently as he struggled to maintain the spell. The garage pulsed with the vivid crystalline light of a coming doom; the air flared with heat, then sudden cold, then a burst of heat again, so violent that Dean felt the hair on the back of his neck singe. He screamed again-
And then it was over. The garage was plunged into darkness. Dean lay on the ground, ashamed of the tears that smeared on his face, of the fierce drumming in his head, choking on the rotting scent of burning flesh. Across from him, on the other side of the table, Rufus was stirring, his eyes rolling in his head, blood dripping from a cut at his hairline. Dean blinked at him, and into his line of vision stepped a pair of wing tipped black dress shoes, smartly creased blue slacks, a long khaki trench coat, buttons undone and belt hanging. Dean felt sick. He rolled over onto his back, squinted up.
Castiel looked down. "Hello, Dean," he said.
xxxx
It took Dean longer than he would have liked to admit to mobilize, to haul himself off of the ground, to help Rufus up. Castiel was annoyingly patient, standing to the side with his head cocked slightly, scrutinizing Dean with those shrewd blue eyes of his. When Dean was ready – when Rufus had found a handkerchief to press to his forehead, when Dean was done settling his stomach with a few gulps of Jack Daniels- Castiel said, his arms stiff at his sides, "I had thought that you would be hiding out here, Dean."
"No one's hiding," Dean spat. Castiel regarded him coolly, then turned to Rufus.
"I don't believe we've met," He said cordially, and Rufus offered:
"I'm a friend of Dean's. Rufus –"
"Turner. I know who you are. We just haven't had the luxury of meeting yet."
Rufus fell silent. Castiel turned back to Dean. "I assume there's something you want, for you to call me after so many months running from us."
"I had my reasons," Dean replied stiffly. Gabriel's voice echoed in his head: All the juice of heaven. "Truth is, Cas, I need your help with something."
"Dean Winchester, asking for help? Remarkable."
Dean didn't remember Castiel being quite so witty before. "Listen, shove the sarcastic shit, Cas. This is as important to you as it is to me."
"We'll see." Castiel looked idly from side to side, sweeping his eyes over the garage. "Where's Sam, Dean?"
Dean bristled. "He's what you're here about."
Castiel's eyes narrowed. "He isn't dead. I can feel that much. He's just – he's different, isn't he?"
"Something happened to him," Dean said tersely. "Something we can't fix. We've tried a lot of other stuff, and I have it on good authority that the only way to fix this is through you."
Castiel was silent. After a moment, he asked, "When you say good authority, am I to incur that you mean someone other than yourself or Bobby Singer?"
Gabriel, he thought, but he didn't say it. Gabriel had been hiding for a reason and, despite how infuriating he'd been, he'd helped them. He'd warned them, gave them a little insight into their future. He'd directed them towards Cas. Dean didn't think that he should betray him now.
"Yes," he said. Castiel inclined his head towards him. "I won't say who, so don't ask."
"You know I can just rip it out of you," Castiel said softly. Beside Dean, Rufus stiffened.
"Don't be an ass," Dean snapped. "Look, are you going to help me or not?"
"Probably not," Castiel said.
Dean ground his teeth together. "Look," he said, "I know, okay? I know all about the Apocolypse, about Sam being Lucifer's vessel and me being Michael's. I know, okay? I know that you dunderheads need me and Sam as badly as we need you right now. So cut the shit and let's talk business, allright?"
Castiel's lips flattened. "Are you offering me a deal, Dean Winchester?"
Dean hesitated. He could feel Rufus's glare, hot and sharp, on him. "What do you want?" He asked warily, and Castiel took a step forward.
"Swear yourself to me," he said gravely, "To me and the hosts of heavens, to our cause- and I'll see what I can do for your brother."
"You can't hurt Sam," Dean said stonily. "You just fix him, you hear me? And then you winged bastards leave him the hell alone."
"I can't speak for my brothers and sisters," Castiel said. "My voice is only my own. But I won't harm your brother, and I won't incite others to. He doesn't belong to our cause. All we need, to win, Dean, is you."
Dean shuddered. "Call Bobby," he told Rufus. Rufus eyed him warily. "Tell him to bring him upstairs, okay? And wait for us."
"You sure?" Rufus asked, and Dean shot him an impatient look.
"Do it," he ordered, and as Rufus thumbed his phone open, Castiel offered him the barest of smiles, cold and open teethed, almost leering. Dean shivered again.
Save me by your power, O God; set me free by your might.
"Come on," he said to Castiel, and led the way out of the garage.
xxxx
Bobby met them at the back door, rifle in hand. He was scowling, his eyes flinty under the brim of his dirt ball cap. Castiel, stepping carefully around a mud puddle, stopped short.
"Bobby," he said, inclining his head. Bobby didn't reply; he pushed the screen door open with one hand. The other he used to keep the rifle leveled at Castiel.
"He's sleeping," He said to Dean. Dean, cresting the porch stairs, coughed.
"Already?" He asked. "He just woke up."
"He said he didn't sleep well last night," Bobby countered. He stepped aside while they filed through, nodding at Rufus, glaring at Castiel. Cas returned the glare with a confused look.
"He's in the living room," Bobby said. He let the door fall shut behind Rufus, moved around them until he was at the front of the group, standing between them and the living room. "You can look," he barked at Castiel. "But you make a move and I'll pump your ass full of lead, you hear me?"
Castiel looked unmoved. "I didn't come here to bring any harm to Sam," He said steadily. "Dean and I have a deal."
Dean almost groaned aloud. Bobby blinked, sputtered. He turned from Castiel to Dean and thundered, "He and you have a what?'
"It's okay," Dean said uneasily. "We haven't shaken on anything yet." He paused. "Or kissed."
Bobby's face was moving rapidly towards a shade of red that Dean didn't think was altogether healthy for him. "Dean-"
"Bobby, let's just get him to Sam, all right?" Dean interrupted. He side stepped around Bobby, taking care to give his gun a wide berth, and beckoned to Castiel from the living room doorway. "Come on. And be quiet."
They followed him into the living room. On the couch, Sam slept with his back pressed against the seat back, his afghan tucked under his cheek and his thumb curled into his mouth. His eyelids fluttered over his cheekbones, flushed a slight pink and spotted with sugar from that morning's breakfast. Dean laid his sawed-off on the coffee table and knelt at his brother's side to press a palm to Sam's curls. Sam stirred at his touch; behind him, Rufus coughed pointedly.
Dean turned. Castiel was squinting at him, at Sam, with more than a touch of confusion on his face. "This is very funny," he said after a long moment. "Where's Sam, Dean?"
"This," Dean told him stonily, "is Sam. This has been Sam for the last two months. No one's pulling your leg here, Cas."
Castiel offered his feet a fleeting glance and then stepped forward, stopping just shy of the coffee table. "Dean," he said in a low voice, "What happened to him?"
Dean traded a heavy look with Bobby, who gave him the barest of nods. "We…don't know, Cas."
Castiel didn't so much as blink. "You don't know." He paused. "This just- happened?"
"While I was sleeping," Dean muttered. He hadn't realized until now how implausible the story actually sounded. "I just- woke up one morning, and this was Sam."
"Are you sure it is Sam?" Castiel implored, and Dean snapped:
"I think I know my own brother, Cas." He stood and turned, putting himself directly between himself and the angel. "Look, we haven't had a lot of luck with finding a fix for this. We thought we might have, but it was a dead end. We were told that this- that this might be something like an act of God."
Castiel narrowed his eyes. "Your 'good authority' told you this?"
"Among others," Bobby answered gruffly. He came around the coffee table, aligned himself, shoulder to shoulder, with Dean. "We're thinking this might have been done by one of you morons. You've had plans to put Sam out of commission for months now."
"If we wanted Sam out of the way that badly, we would just kill him," Castiel told them flatly. "Turning him into a child serves no one's purposes."
"What is it with you asshats and purposes?" Bobby spat violently. "Why the hell can't any of you just leave well enough alone?"
"It is not my place to make these decisions," Castiel said coldly. "You know this, as it is not your place to question the workings of the Lord and His servants. You creatures were made to obey, to minister- it would do well for you to remember your place."
"You've got a lot of nerve," Bobby growled. In his hands, the gun was trembling with his anger. "Your God did this. You know He did."
"He may have," Castiel allowed. "I can't be sure until I check."
"Check?" Dean shouldered forward, in front of Bobby. "What do you mean, check?"
Some of the stark anger, the cold righteousness, fled Castiel's face. "Dean," he said, quietly, "I will not harm your brother. You have my word."
For a long minute, Dean stood, planted like a stone in a river between his brother and Castiel. He could feel Bobby moving at his back; over Castiel's shoulder, Rufus held his hand gun at the ready.
"Don't you hurt him," he said to Castiel. "You hear me?" Castiel acknowledged him with the barest of nods, and Dean slid to the side. Castiel moved past him, his shoulder brushing Dean's as he went.
Despite their commotion, Sam still slept soundly. He made no move, no noise, as Castiel knelt down beside him, laid a hand on his head. He closed his eyes and for a moment, a split second, the room flared with a light that seemed to resonate from within the two of them: the angel kneeling at the couch, the little boy sleeping atop it. Then Castiel opened his eyes, drew his hand back, laid it in his lap. He was shaking.
His heart racing, Dean demanded, "Well?" Castiel started, turned to him, his face tight.
"This is not something," he said softly, "That I can have any power over."
All the juice of heaven, Dean thought, and even as he was thinking it, he was moving forward, catching Castiel by the lapels of his trench coat, hauling him to his feet. "Don't you dare," he rasped. "Don't you tell me you can't do a thing. He said – he said you could-" He floundered, shook his head. "Damn it, Cas- you can have me. You and your fucking precious garrison, your army of the Lord- you can have me. I'll play my damn part. But give me back my brother."
Castiel was still, even under Dean's rough hands. "Dean," he said gravely, "When I said I have no power over this, I did not mean that I would not try. I meant that I could not try. There are some things that cannot be overwritten- not by angel, not by man. Certainly not by you. This – your brother, Samuel, this is one of those things."
Dean's grip was slack suddenly. He felt more than saw Castiel pry himself gently away, step back, turn towards Bobby. "You were right," he said. "For whatever reason, this was not a change that one of my kind made. This was a decision that goes far beyond my capacity to understand or control. There are some powers in this universe that are greater than I can even comprehend. I think that you know of whom I speak."
"Why?" Bobby asked, and Castiel inclined his head.
"I gave you a warning," he said to Dean, "Many months ago, now. I told you to stop your brother, or we would." He glanced over his shoulder, at Sam. "Consider him stopped."
They were looking at him, Dean realized. Looking and waiting for him to make the next move, to speak. He looked down at his hands, shaking and stained black with charcoal dust. "If you don't fix him," he said quietly, "You can't have me."
"If I don't fix him," Castiel countered, "Then we don't need you."
Dean closed his eyes, swallowed. What if it's not different this time, Dean?
"Please, Cas," he croaked. "Please."
Castiel was already backing away, his face twisted with what Dean supposed passed for pity with the angels. "I'm sorry, Dean," he said, and Rufus asked:
"That's it? That's all? You're going to give us nothing?"
Castiel regarded him coolly, then turned back to Dean. "Take your brother," he said, "Take Sam and find somewhere where you can be safe, where you can be alone. Do it right this time, Dean, and maybe, in twenty years, we won't have to do it this way again." He spared one more look at Sam, then turned his back. "I won't be back," he said. "My mission is over. I won't need you, Dean, and we won't need Sam. You have my word. Heaven is done with the Winchester boys."
"What about Hell?" Bobby spat. "What about the demons?"
Castiel looked back. "They are not my concern," he said, and, with a brushing of wind, the fluttering of wings- he was gone.