A/N: Hello, all! Here's the fifth story in the 'Six Dawns' series, following 'Brotherly Discord' and the tag on 'Broken'– but picks up in the middle of episode 5.06. As a forewarning, this story is going to contain some heavy content in regards to drug use; therefore there'll be some stylistic differences in the writing at certain times. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Supernatural is Eric Kripke's but in lieu of the most recent episode, I must make this clear: this version of Gabriel is mine. M'kay? He is NOT the Trickster in my universe. And I guess while I'm at it, I'll claim Belial too. :)

There was naught here but darkness, the color of sin and nothingness all around him, twisting icy fingers around the faintly gleaming dimness inside his soul; a candle's flickering flame nearly gone and he couldn't fight it, didn't have the strength to keep it at bay. He was exhausted and spent and there was no reason to continue the struggle anymore- perhaps it would be better to just lay down quietly and perish but the sweetly seductive voice pounding in his skull and weaving intricate patterns through his soul wouldn't leave him be and where was- why couldn't he…

He'd always been able to feel the light of his Father through His creations but encased within these confines of a prison of skin and bones that were too easily broken, faith was but a word and he couldn't hear his brothers or sisters singing praise anymore; he cried out unintelligibly, his own words garbled and voice weak… There was too much pain here because the human body was intricately made and yet so fragile, nerves screaming out so loud, louder than the shameful guttural croaks rolling from his throat; he couldn't hold out anymore, he wanted to go back Home because this place, this place was even worse than Hell and he needed to feel the warmth of his Father's mercy and grace, he needed to feel the love of his brother's embrace-

"Abba," came the rattling gasp, a harsh plea torn from Castiel's throat, the desperate cry of a soul shattered, of one who had carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders and crashed to his knees, knocked down one too many times and was now incapable of getting back up. Dean's heart seized in his chest because the position was too familiar, an angel splayed out facedown in his lap like Michelangelo's pieta reversed or something (although the elder Winchester sure as hell was no Virgin Mary); his mind whirled with the terrible image of a Castiel whose glazed eyes reflected an emptiness fogged over by drugs, frozen fingers clutching at the hunter in his final agonizing moments-a vision that was so wrong-

Except this time there were no bloody holes punched through skin and flesh by lead, no bloody gashes or broken bones that were visible to the human eye but Dean knew they were there, the invisible wounds that were dragging up the gut-wrenching sobs from the depths of a soldier who'd simply endured too much (pain torment abuse temptation), sacrificed too much of himself, lost too much (Heaven home faith hope); the weeping of an abandoned child.

Cas… Fingers were digging into his thigh so hard that Dean winced. His voice stuck in his throat and he was incapable of speaking or even touching the twitching, battered figure that lay prostrate over his lap, for fear of causing the other more unspeakable torture. One of Castiel's hands was clenching onto the hunter like he was the only solid thing in a world flipped upside down and turned helter skelter, the fingers of his other hand flexing spastically in the water that rained down from above and surrounded them both; his shoulders were shaking and Dean could feel the tremors of shock and exhaustion wracking his abused frame, could feel the other's ribs through the thin shirt as the angel's breaths came wheezy and about as easily as an asthmatic's after running a mile. "El Shaddai, checed…Abba-"

Droplets of moisture trickled down the back of his neck and seeped under the cotton of his shirt, plastering his hair to his skull, clumping on his eyelashes and slipping down along the contours of his jaw when he blinked. And at the moment, that was all Dean Winchester could do as he knelt on the cold linoleum floor in about an inch and a half of standing water, the blaring of a fire siren in his ears and with disgustingly taupe colored walls rising up on either side and stretching out down a hallway that seemed to go on forever, barely holding a terrified, sobbing angel of the Lord together in his arms. He stared past the bodies of unfortunate bystanders littering the corridor and the shattered glass covering the floor, not having to squint at the individual at the other end despite the flickering dimness of cracked or broken florescent lights from above because he knew exactly who it was.

"The name is Belial, Dean Winchester, and remember it well- because it's the one you'll hear Castiel screaming when I fuck the angel right out of him."

How in God's name had things come to this?

Three weeks ago:

"You didn't," Castiel more or less growled uncharacteristically, grinding out the words one by one like they were gravel between his molars, sapphire eyes fixed darkly on Sam. Dean knew that look; it was the same glower that had been upon the angel's face almost a year ago in the darkness of Bobby's kitchen, the I'm will smite you so you'd better show me some respect glare, easily trumping Sam's epic bitchface number twenty-one, although Castiel's vessel was a clear four or five inches shorter than the younger Winchester. "And-I-can't-take-that-chance."

Sam looked about ready to explode as the words were bitten out one by one; a vein pulsed dangerously in his temple and his nostrils were flaring as he struggled to control his temper. Dean's eyes strayed down toward the floor because he knew this was no longer the power-hungry stranger who went out and cavorted around with a demon bitch; this was Sammy who was doing all he could to atone for his sins of the past, trying to give a smart, innocent little kid the chance to do right by giving him the information he himself had not known- a stab at redemption.

Here was the little brother Dean had practically raised, the one he'd looked out for, ever since running out of a burning house twenty-six years ago. There were a lot of years and memories and pain along with the good times between them two but hey, it was worth it all because blood was thicker than water, right?

When it all came down to the wire, Dean knew he would do anything for his brother- after all, he'd already gone to Hell for the kid; he dared anyone else to say that that wasn't the greatest act of sacrifice one could perform. Sam was his brother, and there was no way an angel of the Lord would ever replace his Sammy.

But there was no way for him to take sides. No, the angel wasn't and wouldn't ever be Sam- but it was because Castiel knew everything about Dean, absolutely every single shameful sin he'd ever committed, every terrible thought; he knew the names and faces of the souls the elder Winchester had taken apart in the depths of Hell- and he stayed all the same, he stayed and faced down a freakin' archangel and rebelled against the wrath of Heaven for his flawed mess of a charge. The bond between human and celestial was not based on or through biology; it started with ever-merciful redemption and salvation through a hand burning of pure fire and holiness, slowly building up by episodes of misunderstanding and error, of initial friction eased slowly by a faith and hope and a trust so unparalleled that it was almost unreal.

"If there is anything worth dying for, this is it."

"I killed two angels this week. Those are my brothers. I'm hunted now; I've rebelled, and I did all of it for you."

At times, Dean forgot that Castiel was a being who could burn demons and other supernatural sons of bitches into nonexistence by lifting one finger, who carved intricate sigils into people's ribs as easily as one-two-three, who radiated otherworldliness like a humming power generator of a strength so raw and undeniable and yet so pure, so unlike any other dick with wings that Dean had ever met before that he often forgot they were one and the same. Oh sure- it was easy to see sometimes, like when Castiel trapped and faced down an archangel and told the dick exactly what was up, the fact that he'd been reduced to nothing but the charcoal shadows of wings against a concrete floor and had somehow been resurrected, and the same appearing and disappearing out of thin air act that never seemed to get old.

But upon other occasions- like when pulling him into a hug of relief (stupid trench coat and all) and telling him to never change, or when sitting in a seedy so-called "den of iniquity" and seeing the angel's blue eyes open wider than a pair of dinner plates in comical terror at the sight of a push up bra- suddenly he wasn't Castiel, angel of the Lord anymore. Dean didn't know how it happened, but all of a sudden the other was just Cas; the holy tax accountant with no concept of personal space, the Cas who was always there whenever help was needed, the Cas who didn't know how to pass as a normal person to save his life let alone an FBI agent, and all of that was okay. Was it really that hard to believe that the thought of losing he who'd slowly but surely become as important to the elder Winchester as Sam was had hit Dean like a fist in the gut, had made him almost dumb with shock at the prospect of no longer seeing that ridiculous head tilt and sharp sapphire eyes that were too blue and too pure, too filled with faith and goodness for anyone?

And here he was, staunchly defending and seeking to protect those who'd tossed him out to the dogs after using him as merely a means to an end; and surely not even Locke could've agreed that the friggin' Apocalypse was a justifiable goal. The Host of Heaven was nothing but a bunch of heartless sons of bitches, turning around to hunt down and destroy one of their own after already wasting him once- so why the hell did Castiel care at all?

Dean was suddenly aware of the fact that it was all too quiet in the room and he felt the weight of two stares on him and- Aw, shit. Don't tell me I just said that last part out loud... But apparently, judging from the faint look of surprise on Sam's face, he had and if there was any doubt at all, it flew out the window as soon as the hunter glanced toward the angel and found himself being pinned down by the same glare that was capable of making the great Dean Winchester quake in his boots and an angry hiss that could turn one's bones into dust- "So keep your opinions to yourself"-

"Those 'heartless sons of bitches' are my brothers," Castiel said now in a low voice, staring straight at Dean and the hunter had the feeling of being an ant under the magnifying glass of a really ticked off kid. "Their welfare is my concern."

This was what was most admirable and yet frustrating at the same time about the angel: his sheer blind faith and stupid loyalty; both of which would land him in serious hot water someday and now more than ever before because both Heaven and Hell were on his ass now, wanting to screw him over just as much as the Winchesters he'd aligned himself with. Dean wanted to grab the angel and shake him hard, to punch some sense into that thick skull of his, broken hand be damned.

"Yeah? And you think your welfare is any of their concern? You think they'll stop trying to hunt you down? Help you out in a pinch?" He scoffed at the absurdity, for once wishing that Castiel wasn't so damn hopeful (this time for his sake, really). "Or, hey- maybe they'll even come when you call." Sapphire eyes narrowed, daring him to continue and Dean knew he was pushing it but to hell with it; he didn't care. "Face it Cas, it's not like any of your brothers give two shits about you and you know it."

The younger Winchester had sensed the shift in the air between his brother and the angel as they addressed each other; whereas before there had been unspoken tension sparking in the air now there was trust and a degree of friendliness, of understanding. Certainly the angel had never looked upon him with such ease or familiarity and that part was to be expected; after all there were times these days Sam couldn't even pluck up the courage to look himself in the mirror, and of course there remained the inescapable fact that he'd once tried to rip the guy's ribs out of his back. Sure, he'd just been glaring at Castiel like he had the right to do so (hell, he wasn't about to kill a little kid!) but even as the angel glared back with an icy glower that made the six-foot four hunter feel like a mere three feet tall, Sam hadn't missed the way the antagonism and anger had slid away as easily and naturally as water off a duck's back when the softened gaze turned upon Dean.

He had no right to be jealous (and he wouldn't allow himself to be caught that easily again, given that the green-eyed monster was the reason he'd been tricked into torturing an angel of the Lord in the first place), but he was admittedly surprised at the change and wondered just how much occurred in his absence and exactly what his older brother and the angel went through together.

In the silence that followed Dean's words, Sam had halfway expected the TV to turn itself onto eardrum-piercing white noise, for the light bulbs to shatter in their sockets or the neon sign outside to spark and sizzle and he was ready to duck and cover or get the hell out of dodge in a hurry- but what he didn't expect was the flash of something inexplicable across the angel's face, something much too clear and far too human displayed there, raw and naked as Castiel's lips pinched tight, as his Adam's apple bobbed up and down once in a hard swallow. He'd been expecting a hellfire and brimstone speech of wrath, but he wouldn't have been able to boast of being prepared for the whisper of denial that came instead.

"That…" Sam flinched then, shoulders stiffening because the younger Winchester really did not need to hear what it sounded like to hear an angel's voice, normally so commanding, actually breaking. Castiel steeled himself, a muscle in his jaw jumping, mouth opening. "…That is not true."

Dean saw it too, for there was guilt and worry in the elder Winchester's contrite expression. He stepped forward and opened his mouth to say something- an apology, a recant, anything- remembering too late a scruffy-faced and hazy-eyed Castiel whose brothers had left him five years into the future, who was filled with nothing but flat sarcasm and a defeated cynicism with hope so far gone that the memory squeezed the hunter's chest painfully tight even now. "Cas, I didn't-"

He was answered by the soft beating of wings that seemed swifter than normal, left blinking at the rush of displaced air as the angel disappeared and Dean bit his tongue, hard. Goddamn it.

He watched the glass of water fall from small fingers slackened in shock to shatter upon the hardwood floor below, sending its liquid contents spilling everywhere. There was fear in the child's face, stark terror undisguised by familiarity or pride as his eyes rounded, huge brown orbs fixed upon the stranger who'd appeared in the foyer without a sound.

"Don't be afraid," Castiel murmured in a low voice, the remorse in his features bleeding into the angel's attempts at a placating tone. "I won't hurt you."

Jesse's mouth opened and closed in a silent gasp as his feet faltered backwards, wide-eyed gaze never leaving the sudden new arrival walking toward him; this man who resonated an ethereal quality so alien that even this young member of humanity understood that there was something different about this penetrating sapphire gaze, something great and awe-inspiring; something to be respected and to be feared. After all, the unseen and cloaked spectator mused, how was it possible not to identify Castiel's unblemished soul as a breed apart from these lowly mudmonkeys?

"Mom! Dad!"

Ah, yes. He cocked an eyebrow, blue-grey gaze traveling from the spawn of his right hand man- or demon if you will, the lord of lust had gotten a huge kick out of impregnating a virgin- to the young one who had managed to captive his attention in the halls of Heaven without even striving to do so. And what did you do with the boy's parents, I wonder? The easiest and most convenient possible course of action would have been to end their existences, as to avoid any mishaps. But somehow, he didn't think Castiel was one to choose that alternative.

"Your mother and father are sleeping," came the gentle assurance, quietly insistent. "I assure you they won't wake until morning."

Little brother, how so very predictable you are. And he smiled then, smiled because of course Castiel would have done such a thing, sending Jesse's guardians off into a state of restful unconsciousness so as to spare them the anguish of losing their child because that was exactly what the lesser angel had been like since the very beginning. Always trying to do what was right, always so eager to please Almighty God and the older brothers whom he so admired, always so full of hopeful (albeit utterly blind) faith. Sweetly ignorant Castiel who had nary a disobedient tendency or deviant thought against the Father he'd never even seen or the orders he received; innocent little Castiel who followed the Lord's messenger and his favorite brother around, blue eyes wide with admiration and naivety; Castiel the resilient fighter who thought nothing of his own self so long as he carried out the word and will of el Shaddai, of Lord God the Almighty.

"…I'm sorry," Castiel breathed, soul flickering with uncertainty and remorse, overcome with guilt and yet focusing on the noble task of doing what would help to preserve the brethren who wished his destruction, but for whom he still loved. Lucifer shook his head piteously as the lesser angel's hand and resolve faltered momentarily, hesitating at the sight at the terrified little half-human, half-demon boy. Oh little brother…having a heart hurts, doesn't it? The knife fell then and Jesse reacted instinctively out of fright, but the Son of Perdition departed from the scene, not caring as to the fate of the boy or even reacting to the Winchesters who were rushing up the path and bursting into the house. Such trifling matters could wait until later for right now, there was only one thought weighing heavily upon his mind.

Castiel, Castiel…what am I to do with you?

Apparently a lot had changed since he last saw Castiel last as the lesser angel fought bravely in the Battle of Heaven under Gabriel's watchful eye because here he was standing all alone, having rebelled against the Host and already having perished once because of it. While Satan still sensed the same strong will and loyalty, it was also plain to see the weary and battered condition of the other angel's spirit; the confusion and loss of direction, for Dean Winchester was a less than adequate substitute for God the Father, no matter how much hope and faith Castiel had in the man. Zachariah was a fool indeed, because whereas the commander saw naught but a rebel and a weakling, Lucifer saw a perfect soldier and the epitome of a disciple in this little brother whose pure soul glowed with an allegiance and devotion so fierce that it made his being burn as beautiful and tragic as an exploding star- but more than that, he saw opportunity.

"Have you considered my servant Job?"

A contemplative smile came upon the features of the vessel of the great Tempter and Deceiver and he chuckled quietly into the night. Dear little Castiel…do you fear God for nothing?

When God the Father first took a handful of dust and molded it into His image, when He breathed the breath of life into the nostrils of the first man and declared His creation to be good, the Almighty gave but one command to the sons of sanctified flame and it was to serve and protect their earthly charges, to love them. However, the bright Morning Star's refusal to comply and the consequent Great Battle where brother struck down brother, where Michael succeeded in casting Lucifer and his followers from the hallowed halls of Heavens made it increasingly difficult to think anything the slightest bit amicable about the lower creatures whom were thought to be the cause of such disaster, much less love them.

Many angels could not understand God's purpose for creating these disobedient, prideful beings and only the memory of Lucifer's punishment kept them from speaking out against these baffling, offensive humans. If the loss of their own kin wasn't already enough, man and woman proved themselves to be weak of mind and will, rebelling against the goodness and grace of their Father and rejecting all that had been given to them freely for sin and the pleasures of the flesh. The most powerful of the soldiers of the Lord folded themselves away into the holiness of Heaven and far from the dirtiness of the created realm below, waiting for the day when God would do away with all the unrighteous and their sullied ways in a wave of holy wrath and bloodied flame, when Paradise would reign upon both Heaven and Earth.

Few were the number among the Host who strove to do as they were originally commanded, actively seeking out ways to serve and protect humanity, unless instructed to do so by the Most High. The messenger archangel was one of their number, having appeared to the prophet as an interpreter, to the High Priest and Virgin as an emissary, and was generally regarded by mankind as not only he who stood at God's left hand, but also as the angel of mercy.

No one was really surprised then, when Gabriel's little protégé took after his elder brother in looking over the human race and their affairs- not so much in patronage as with wonder and awe in his naively round, big blue eyes.

"These people…they're all my Father's creations. They're works of art."

He'd spent countless millennia observing these fascinating beings his Father created, gazing upon them from within the security of Heaven's perimeter and Gabriel's wing. He was watching when singing out the praises of Christ's arrival one cold spring night over the fields surrounding Bethlehem, looking out through the eyes of the Canaanite farmer, the Persian servant boy, the Roman statesman, the radio ad salesman.

So was the natural order of things; he kept watch, just as the Lord commanded, and did nothing but watch unless given an order to act. Even when reduced to a mere four and a quarter inches and transformed into a figure made of plastic resin and polypropylene instead of flesh and bone, Castiel could do nothing but stand stiffly where careful fingers placed him upon the mantelpiece, silently bearing witness to the unfolding scene.

"Because I have to believe someone can make the right choice, even if I couldn't."

"Look, uh…truth is, he's kind of a buddy of mine."

And so watch he did; even after thankfully being restored to Jimmy Novak's form and constitution but departing without a word of notification. Even now as he stood here in the quiet parking lot outside the Winchester's motel room, blue eyes pierced past waterlogged wood paneling and cheap plaster, peeling wallpaper and mothballed curtains to the brothers who had, between the two of them, condemned the entire human race to utter destruction and yet were unwilling to kill perhaps the second greatest threat to Heaven after Lucifer himself. The angel's brow wrinkled slightly. It was interesting that, despite all his time spent scrutinizing humanity, Castiel had yet to learn to ways of mankind and still knew nothing on how to view the world with a screened perspective through a telescope broken and blurred out of focus.

Or perhaps this solitary angel who had his eyes opened by the one he first saved; this angel who was so uniquely unlike the rest of his kin who were too busy giving up on each other and on their absent Father, who had turned his back on his family to stand alone bravely against the Host of Heaven for the sake of not the bigger picture, but the here and the freakin' now- wasn't all that clueless after all.

There was no one here to give orders and there was no God to be found at the moment- but there was Dean Winchester, confident and strong and beautiful yet who would never believe his soul worth saving. And then there was Sam Winchester. Gone was the power-hungry boy with the demon blood who, blinded by his ambition, once chose a demon over his own brother and sought to destroy an angel of the Lord, gone and how replaced by a man hopeful and passionate and contrite, touched and cleansed in both body and spirit by the Father.

Castiel inhaled a deep breath of cool air as the light from within the motel room went out and movement ceased, turning away as he saw the two hunters settling underneath the lodging's threadbare coverlets, forgoing the usual "'night, Sammy" and it's answering reprise of "g'night Dean", both too weary and troubled by the events of past few hours to speak. However, despite the lack of a verbal exchange the air between the two was clear, the silence one of trust and mutual understanding.

Seeing the two brothers working together despite their past differences made something in the angel's chest ache, deep down and silent. It was the same ache Castiel felt when he awoke to find himself alone, truly alone in this form, grace somehow miraculously restored but without Jimmy Novak's presence; he had felt it with knife in hand as he stared into Jesse's innocent, terrified face- but he'd felt it the sharpest at elder Winchester's earlier scoffing words and dismissive tone.

"Face it Cas, it's not like any of your brothers give two shits about you and you know it."

"GABRIEL!" He cried out as his brethren shredded his wings, brutally taking a hold of each appendage and renting it into countless irrecoverable pieces; the torture was too much to bear and Castiel's vision was growing dark at the edges although his form was being bathed in the glory of Heavenly wrath. Somewhere above the agony he heard Jimmy's screams of suffering before the man's weary and damaged soul was taken away to his rightful reward in the fields of the Lord and Castiel was sorry to have caused his host so much pain- but then Raphael was here, hand outstretched to do what Gabriel could not and where was his brother? Castiel wanted to weep but he had no voice and all that was exploded and then was shrouded in a veil of brilliant white-

"Hello, Castiel."

The memory dissipated instantly and he went still, heart suddenly thumping double-speed as the blood rushed in his ears, all too human responses to the voice of the one who had the pride to speak out against God. Lucifer. The Light Bearer had never allured Castiel; far from it actually, for every instinct, every nerve within him right now was screaming to move, to run, to get away. But the fact remained that the angel was unable to do anything save for stand there before his approaching former brother, powerless in the presence of such evil as Michael's vessel and Lucifer's true vessel lay slipping into dreamless unconsciousness not fifty yards away.

"You look weary, Castiel. Why are you here? Aren't you supposed to be looking for our Father?" The Devil asked quietly and conversationally. Oh, now that was apparently a sore point, for the lesser angel actually bristled, blue eyes narrowing. I suppose the search isn't going so well now, is it? He appraised the other thoughtfully, one eyebrow arched, unperturbed when he received no answer. "Maybe the reason you're here is to watch out for something…" The eyes were widening now, fear shining through the stoic countenance as the Lucifer's gaze flickered over to the motel- "…or watching over someone?"

Dean. Fueled by a desperation so raw that it easily superceded that which he felt when facing his own death, Castiel swiftly reached within his soul to draw out the power that stemmed from his grace to protect his charge and-

Lucifer held out his hands in a placating gesture as he walked closer to the lesser angel who now hung suspended in midair, eyes panicked and arms pinned firmly to his sides. "I'm not here for either of them right now; it's you I wish to speak with." With a slight inclination of his head he let the angel down gently onto the pavement, hands moving to settle comfortingly onto tense, frozen shoulders. "You've always intrigued me, Castiel," the former angel began, voice soft and alluring. "Ever-faithful to an absent Father, despite all that has already happened." And I wonder what it would take to break such devotion?

"Did you know that to own one's own body is to give permission to feel everything that goes along with it?" he murmured, lips brushing against the top of Castiel's head in a kiss promising pain, of devastation, of betrayal. Castiel struggled mutely, uselessly against the Devil's hold and Lucifer chuckled, low and quiet in the back of his throat. "Never been one to say much, but I can see everything in your eyes, Castiel." He raised a hand and cupped the back of the other's head, feeling the pulse jump and quicken under his fingers as the action brought their faces close together, his vessel's slate colored eyes boring deep into terrified sapphire blue. "We're not all that different, you and I." Castiel's soul trembled violently in protest at the claim and Lucifer drew back slightly, smiling gently, kindly. "Don't be afraid, little brother."

Cupping one hand under his captive's chin, Lucifer opened Castiel's mouth and leaned forward, blowing a single long exhale of breath into the other's mouth. The impure air tainted by the sin and unrighteousness of the Most Unclean passed into the angel's lungs and reached down to bind Castiel's grace in an impossible grip– a parody of the Almighty breathing the breath of life into the lungs of man- and the angel's eyes rolled back in his head, muscles slackening and his body going limp in the Devil's grasp.

"Have you considered my servant Job?" the Lord asked. "There is no one on earth like him; he is blameless and upright, a man who fears God and shuns evil. And he still maintains his integrity, though you have incited me against him to ruin without any reason."

Satan replied, "Ah, but does Job fear God for nothing? Stretch out your hand and strike everything he has, even his flesh and bones, and he will surely curse you to your face."

The Lord said to Satan, "Very well then, he is in your hands; but you must spare his life."

She watched silently as the scene played out in the dimness and shadows of the single overhead street lamp and flickering neon lights of the motel's sign, slim hands pressing against her trembling lips to deter even the smallest shrieks of surprise or whimper of fright from escaping. The little girl remained motionless throughout the entire exchange, even as a white van drove into the parking lot and as the limp form of the dark-haired man was stripped of his clothing and dragged into the back of the vehicle, pressing as far back against the solid wall at her back as she could when slate blue-grey eyes passed casually over to the row of motel room doors.

A tiny gasp slipped out of her mouth as the man disappeared and the van turned out of the parking lot and down the street, driving away into the night with its new captive. She crept forward after a moment, shivering in her flimsy pink and white paisley patterned nightgown, her bare feet tip toeing daintily across the cool black gravel over to the pile of clothes heaped on the ground. A pale, slender arm reached out tentatively, fingers brushing against the material of a dark blue tie, still warm from its previous wearer.

The little girl shivered, clenching the cheap fabric in a small fist, hesitating as to what to do next.

A/N: I'm back! Sorry for the long wait, and I know this chapter was really dense, material-wise, but hopefully worth it.

Things might be a tad bit confusing with the skipped episodes and all, but important information will be included by the use of a lot of flashbacks. As usual, I love feedback and if you have a question, just ask! As a FYI, I'm sort of giving Belial a leave of absence for a while to explore Lucifer's character. Don't worry, he'll still show up but just not as often. Look for the next chapter this upcoming Thursday or Friday, but until then, please drop a review!