A part of his mind was looped ona a single thought; like an itch, like a bug trying to bore its way through his skull. 'It had already happened. You know it'.

The rest was petrified.

It was not panic; panic would make him look for a solution, set his blood on fire, give him a jab of energy.

His heart was pumping like crazy, but in vain. Limp muscles did not react; oxygen rush was making his head dizzy and his sight hazy. Spikes of frost were creeping up his spine, locking every fiber of his body in an icy trap.

Atop of it there was this small, frail spark of warmth fluttering in his stomach, like a ray of sunlight hitting his face through thick shade of an early spring morning.

Dean could not name this feeling.

All he knew was that he felt every step of that being; its feet sending waves of tremor through his bones. Formidable, but not fearsome.

It was Bobby who shot first and Dean followed his example blindly as soon as the sound of gunshot triggered his instincts.

If the creature did not blink, perhaps the hunter would simply feel the well-known disappointment spiked with anger, as usually when a weapon they chose proved ineffective. If this being just continued its menacing march, it would be normal.

It blinked. Next step came with a minimal delay. It was not a spectre, oblivious and immune to anything that was not the weapon destined to them. It was physical.

And yet walked on.

When it approached Dean it was at ease. Just a casual visit. Its shoulders relaxed, perhaps even hunched a bit; the being proved smaller than Dean would have sworn it had been just a few second earlier.

The familiar roughness of Ruby's knife in his hand eased him a bit. Just enough to let him force words through his throat:

"Who are you?"

"I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition," it said like it was a natural thing to say.

A pang of burning pain burst in his left shoulder. It lasted but a moment, but gave him strength for the blow.

Dean felt the blade pierce the being's skin and muscles, chip its ribs, dig into the throbbing hollow of aorta. Never before had a stab felt so real; the hilt vibrated with life of this body, with the flow of blood against the blade. If it was not for that slightest wince of the being's chin, the barely visible twitch when the being clenched its jaws Dean would be less baffled.

A creature that does not feel a stab is one thing. A being that feels it and stands still is another.

It looked at that hilt, then at Dean again; this strange mixture of anger and amusement or even appreciation made the Winchester boy feel like a child. It was too close to the way his father looked at him when he had gotten into mischchief that was particularly nasty, but required wit or strength. It was angry, but it did not threaten; just traced Dean's features with its blood-chilling look as if it wanted to sear every flicker of Dean's muscle into its memory.

It just waited. Endlessly patient, incomprehensibly perspicacious. The thing about that angel that terrified Dean the most was not that it was capable of harming him; it was that the angel was capable of knowing him.

He woke up with a violent gasp, tired and sore. In full light of the day it did not take him long to gather his thoughts, nonetheless he didn't move yet. He scanned his immediate surroundings with discredit, focusing on separate stimuli one by one. The bedsheet was rough and itchy; perhaps crumbs of the pie he had eaten in bed the previous evening - or rather night - contributed to the feeling. The pillow against his cheek smelled of cheap detergent and insecticide. The wallpaper on the wall adjacent to his bed was greasy and tattered. It all meant that the room was real and Dean was truly awake. Over time he had learned to tell reality from his dreamy rendezvous' with Castiel by the details. Perhaps the angel could not capture all the dirtiness of the world, perhaps he chose not to. Whatever the reason, everything in these dreams was somehow nicer, a little bit less unkempt, a little bit less miserable.

There was another thing to check. Dean inhaled slowly, focused on discerning every component. There was no trace of this particular scent of frankincense, chrism and...sacredness; the aroma of an old catholic church that always surrounded Castiel. The hunter decided to take the final step - roll to his back, sit up and look around. There was noone in sight. He sighed with relief.

Somehow the thought that he would see Castiel sitting on the edge of his bed or leaning against a wall was more troubling than usually. It was not the first time he had had this particular dream - one of the most realistic of his recurring dream and the only one of them that was not exactly a nightmare. It was not pleasant, though.

Every time after waking up the hunter was mortified by the thought that anyone could invade his mind while it was replaying his first encounter with an angel; scrutinizing every detail of that night, etched into Dean's memory with painful minuteness.

That barely discernible smirk of pride on Castiel's face when they were talking about his vessel.

That birdlike tilt of his head.

That weakness in Dean's legs he felt when he stood there, breathing heavily, feeling naked and defenseless against Castiel's piercing gaze.

That furrow on the angel's forehead when he did not understand why Dean refused to believe him.

That ocean of compassion and sorrow spilling from his calm, beautiful eyes when he finally did.

Dean threw his legs over the edge of the bed and checked the time. He still had 6 hours of driving ahead of him, which meant much time to forget about the dream before he reached Saint Louis. Before he needed to speak to people.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He spotted a hunched figure in beige trench coat sitting on an old empty concrete planter even before he noticed the dirty blue and yellow signboard. He pulled off to the parking lot. Castiell stood up and followed the Impala as it crawled in front of him. In the rear view mirror Dean could notice a faint attempt of smile on Cas' usually sullen face.

"Hey, buddy," Dean greeted his friend having parked and gotten off the car, "Sorry it took so long. Waiting must be a new thing for you, huh?"

"On the contrary. And I didn't waste time here. Let's talk inside."

Cas extended his arm and for moment Winchester had an impression that the angel wanted to shake hands. He looked down in astonishment and noticed that Cas was handing him keys.

"You got us a room?" Dean chuckled "I guess it used up your daily quota of interacting with normal people. How was it?"

"This isn't funny. People are... bizarre."

Refusing to wonder what the angel could mean Dean took his duffel from the trunk, then followed Castiel to the door, still snickering.

"You could have waited if it is so difficult."

"I don't think I could," Castiel answered dourly and with a hint of grouse while the hunter was struggling with an old, rusty lock "There is a price on your head. Everyone is looking for you."

"And?" Dean quirked his eyebrow.

They entered the room; the hunter slumped down onto a bed to start undoing his shoes while Castiel sat stiffly at the table.

"And they have lackeys among people too. Eyes and ears everywhere. I figured that a holy tax accountant is less characteristic than..." Castiel tilted his head and squinted for a while, as if trying to remember something, "Overcompensating, military-style, gay-porn type yahoo."

Winchester coughed and straightened up.

"Excuse me?"

"This is the description they are using to inquire about your whereabouts, I believe. Demons, at least," Castiel answered, most sincerely clueless. His loss was so endearing that Dean's outrage melted down in no time.

"So you think that Columbo slash Rainman is totally inconspicuous?"

A frown of bafflement appeared on Castiel's face. The hunter sighed.

"Come on. You've been here for like a year. It's high time you pick up some culture."

"I seriously doubt it is possible. I still don't understand half of what you say," Castiel's remark was half-indignant, half-teasing. "Last time I took vessel and roamed Earth, people spoke Aramaic and what you now call pop-culture references was very different," the angel stopped short, tilting his head and somehow sinking into a state of distrait rumination "which, in fact, is very unfortunate."

This time the hunter's grimace of amusement was accompanied with a snort.

"Jeez, seriously..."

"This is not trivial, Dean. In fact it might have contributed to many wars. I doubt that Jesus took it under consideration."

Having opened his mouth to utter another scoffing remark Winchester noticed the look Cas gave him was entirely serious. He figured he would simply let the angel continue.

"He was a lot like you. A careless urchin, thoroughly good deep down, but making very bad decisions very capriciously," he ignored Dean's indignant 'hey' and spoke on "Telling his parables in such a cryptic language might have been one of them. In retrospect it seems obvious that it had to lead to certain misunderstandings eventually. But he thought it would be... cool..." he finished with a sassy jeer, perhaps mimicking someone he knew well.

For the first time Dean witnessed the angel mock someone in such a humane, lively way. In this astonishment the real meaning of Castiel's word almost escaped his notice.

"You mean that there was really a hippie carpenter who hitched a desert with a bunch of Charlton Heston dudes and said all these weird things you read in the Bible?"

"Which Bible?"

Castiel's dark tone and brooding look suggested that the answer was there, but Dean did not get it. The angel sighed.

"That is the point. He used metaphors, culture references, quoted silly folk songs just like you do. Imagine that you left a commandment for people to be like..." Castiel's look wandered about the ceiling for a moment before it rested on Dean again, "...Luke Skywalker, meaning that you want them to be brave, selfless and honest, and people ended up arguing that your religion is stupid because it requires people to walk on sky."

Dean's jaw dropped. For an instant he felt like throwing his arms around his friend, hugging him ans saying how proud he was.

"You watched Star Wars?" he exclaimed in amazement.

Next second his joy was squashed. Castiel seemed to be perfectly serious when he said:

"No. It would take too much time. I read a detailed synopsis."

Winchester hid his face in his hands and laughed out hysterically.

"What?"

"No, nothing," Dean choked out between fits of chuckle. He run his palms down his face to calm down and asked, looking into Cas's eyes:

"So what did you discover here, Clouseau?"

There was a flicker of tentative smile on Castiel's face; his features softened somehow, revealing barely discernible affection all but masked by his usual gravity. Dean felt his own cheeks twitch when he half-consciously mirrored this expression.

"No, really. What did you find here."

The angel's face got back to its usual impervious expression.

"There is a place here in an abandoned hotel. A gathering place for prostitutes, drug addicts, fetishists, wannabe devil worshipers. Apparently demons as well. Strange things started happening there a while ago."

"You mean stranger than stoned trannies sacrificing black cats?"

"I mean people healed of AIDS or finding suitcases full of cocaine under their foam pads."

Dean rose his eyebrows.

"What does it have to do with the Colt?"

Castiel took a thin file of worn-out, untidily folded pages from his pocket and handed them to Dean.

"These are some photos from the place."

"How did you get them?" Winchester gave his friend a suspicious glance.

"Doesn't matter. Just look."

It took Dean some time to recognize shapes in black and white printouts. Finally he noticed darker lines on dirty, fissured walls.

"Woah... That's some serious devil worshiping."

"Look again."

Dean squinted and started to scrutinize the pictures. As soon as he got a grasp of it, more and more details started to pop up.

"They're all wrong. Upside down, wrong runes, mirror image... This one is painted on a crack in the wall. Dude, there's even Imperial Crest. Some morons scribbled it. What the fuck?"

"My guess is that whoever nests there, he or she doesn't want to be noticed by Lucifer or any higher rank demons. Anyone who is busy dealing with global-scale actions."

"All right, so there is a crossroads demon selling crack to some junkies and scribbling bullshit in some bughouse. What does it have to do with us?"

The angel stood up to take the pages from Dean, found one large picture of a single pentagram that was painted upside down and had symbols added in every space between its arms - absolutely wrong and powerless. The whole wall around it was covered in chaotically spread symbols.

"This," Castiel spread the page in front of Dean, then leant against the table "this is not meant to lure people. It's enochian. It's a message to other demons."

"What does it say?"

"It's gibberish. Except for these five inscribed into the pentagram."

"And these? What do they mean?"

"Nothing."

Dean snorted.

"Nothing? Wow. Nothing, but not gibberish."

Castiel rose his hands, then let them fall heavily onto the table a gesture of bitter surrender.

"They mean nothing, but they spell something," he explained with exasperation.

"That being?"

"B.L.U.E.S."

Dean opened his mouth to speak, let out a quiet sigh, considered something for a while, then gave his friend a questioning glance.

"Crossroads blues? The king of crossroads is there? It's a message for demons?"

"Not all of them. As I said, only the lesser grade. Those, who have roamed earth lately. Those, who have nothing to gain if they follow Lucifer."

The hunter's brows furrowed; a spark of anger glinted in his eyes.

"Cas, how do you know it? There's no way you figured it out on your own."

"This is not important. If anyone knows anything about the colt, they are meeting in this hotel. Shall we check it?"

Dean gritted his teeth. However Castiel got the information, it was high time to use it.

"When?"

"As soon as it gets dark."

"All right, let's take a look."