Hi there. Thanks so much for stopping and checking this out. Episode 5x04 has got to be one of my favorites from that season, if not one of my favorites from all the seasons. There was still so much mystery that remained unsolved in that episode, and that really appealed to me. This story is a result of that. It's three parts in total. I hope you enjoy it, or that I at least don't ruin that episode for you forever ;). Reviews are very much appreciated! Thanks again for your time!

Disclaimer: Supernatural is not my property. My property isn't even my property.

Now.

"Dean, don't do this."

It's the last thing he hears in his dreams, whispering in his ear, a waft of a memory he cannot –try as he might- snuff from his mind. He's jarred awake in a violent manner, like always. He makes a sound when he jerks bolt upright on his mattress, he's sure of it. It's not really an issue, anyway. Tonight he's sleeping alone, so it's not like he has to worry about waking anyone up. He runs a hand over his face roughly, forcing himself into alertness as he concentrates on slowing his heart, which is racing.

It's so dark he can't even see his own hand in front of his face, but Dean doesn't need to. He knows exactly where he is. He makes no illusion of it, not anymore.

The hunter rubs a hand across the back of his neck. He knows by rote the manner in which the rest of this night will pass, and it definitely doesn't involve him falling back asleep. Even if he wanted to sleep, he can't stop the dreaming. Ever since – it – happened, there's been no respite. It's like someone turned a valve in his brain. His sleep is flooded.

Sleep. Deep down, it's what he's most desperate for. Just one night of blackness – blissful, wonderful blackness – would be miraculous. Hard to believe, but he used to think he had a hard time sleeping when he came back from the pit, before…this. It's gotten to the point now where the hunter can't help but wonder if the dreams are some sort of divine retribution for his failures. He did, after all, drop the biggest, most important ball known to humanity. Dean snorts.

Sleep.

Who the fuck needs it, anyway?

The solution is straightforward: do with less of it, a couple hours every night or two, maybe a little more or less. Getting his rest in small batches seems to keep the problem to a minimum, doesn't give the dreams a chance to start up as bad. He makes due with that, figures it to be a best-case scenario. Any night where he doesn't come awake screaming is a good night in his books.

It's almost his shift, anyway, and Castiel probably wouldn't mind being relieved a little early. It's miserable weather, has been all day and now all night, too. It's raining hard enough to drown a bloody orca.

And he's been out there since this afternoon. He's probably tired, could use some sleep.

That thought clinches it. Dean throws back his blankets and swings his legs over the edge of his cot, dressing quickly in the dark. It's not like he's getting any sleep himself, anyway.

Every goddamn night…

Christ, you'd think he'd be desensitized to the dreams, that he'd be bored by now from the regularity of it all.

He's already drenched before he even has his cabin door shut all the way behind him. He flips the collar of his jacket up, for all the good it does. It maybe keeps the back of his neck dry for two, three seconds longer than the rest of his head but that's it. In this rain, no one can escape dry. It's practically torrential. At least it's kind of warm out, he thinks as he soundlessly makes his way towards the outskirts of camp. It's about all the enthusiasm he can drum up but it's more than what he usually gets and he knows it. A little inclement weather is nothing compared to an outbreak or an attack. Or any other mass hysteria-inducing event, like the Apocalypse. Yeah, thank God it's rain and not the Apocalypse. He shakes his head, emits a nearly silent chuckle.

It's a little funny.

Castiel hears the low whistle far off in the woods behind him, still just barely audible over the sound of rain pelting the trees, the ground. Him. In the days before he'd never had to think about weather and its various discomforts. He was immune, then.

Now, he does think about it. He thinks weather sucks most of the time.

He returns the whistle in acknowledgement that it's understood: a non-hostile is approaching. He eases his shotgun back down to his side, settles back against his tree and waits for his visitor. He isn't at all surprised when a familiar shadow breaks through the cover of the forest.

Dean approaches Cas without a sound, face serious and set. It's the same expression he's worn since Sam. Dean changed after…that. Cas bitterly suppresses a chuckle at the thought.

Hell, they both changed after that. No point denying it. And then there's the small matter of the end of the world.

"Cas," Dean says simply. The hunter nods once, curt.

"Dean," Castiel returns. He lifts an eyebrow in query. "Didn't I just see you barely three hours ago?"

"Did you?"

So it's this, again. Cas sighs. "As a matter of fact, I did. You're not due to relieve me for another three."

"You'd rather I turn around and go back? Wouldn't you prefer to be off somewhere conducting an orgy or something?" He holds his hand out for Castiel's walkie-talkie. He hands it over with a meaningful look.

"You're not fooling me," he tells the hunter as he turns away to head to camp. "I know what you're doing."

"I thought you lost your mojo and you can't get in my head anymore," Dean calls out after Castiel's retreating form. He grinds his teeth and tries not to flinch under the hunter's words as he walks purposefully away.

"I don't need it," is all Cas mutters in response.

It gets lost in the distance between them.

Castiel never developed the taste for alcohol. Not like Dean, anyway. Not to say he would ever turn booze down, but he certainly isn't thirsty for it the way the hunter is. No, Castiel's preferences lie in other directions. Hallucinogens are always a favorite, but he isn't exactly fussy. These days he's content enough if he can just get his hands on a source for some good weed. He supposes his love for mind-altering recreation stems from his desire to feel…less. And therein lies the similarity between himself and Dean, because the last remaining Winchester drinks for the same reason.

Back when he was an angel, Castiel couldn't understand it.

He gets it now.

He wonders idly if Cindy will still be in his cabin, if she waited for him to get off watch. He hopes so. It's one of the few comforts of being mortal, the feeling of the female body. The welcome, the warmth. The pleasure. It's the closest feeling he's found so far, nearly reminiscent of his former, angelic state…when he was connected to Heaven. He almost doesn't remember what that was like anymore, and he's not sure if he should be glad for it or petrified.

The post is only a mile out from camp and Cas makes good time, despite the pitch black of night and the relentless, drizzling rain. He knows this particular trail like the back of his hand. He's been keeping guard from this point for the last six months, working at least four shifts a week. He's more than a little familiar with the area, but it's not like he has any difficulty navigating the rest of the zone. Strange, but Camp Chitaqua has become more or less a home for him. Back when he had his wings, he never thought he could say that about a place that wasn't Heaven. He never felt at home on Earth before he was demoted or left behind or whatever the hell happened to him. Things are different now, and this camp has indeed become his home. He doesn't have much to compare it with; it's the only place he's lived in as a human. It's just this feeling he has whenever he thinks about the people in the camp. There's a fierce sense of urgency, of desperation that he gets. Like he needs to protect everyone, to shut out the horror of the world and just keep them safe.

That's another similarity between he and Dean.

He gets that, too.

Then.

"Camp Chitaqua, Bobby? Sounds like a place parents send their kids to over the summer in a big yellow bus." Dean sets his empty glass down, pours himself another generous helping from the bottle of whisky that sits on the table between he and Singer.

The older hunter eyes the glass Dean's just poured but otherwise doesn't mention anything about it. "It's not," is all he says, voice level and eyes unreadable. Castiel can't help but lean forward, listening. Outside, the wind is howling through Singer's salvage yard and the junk heaps are groaning with the force of the gale. It sounds unsettlingly human.

Dean takes a long swallow, drops the glass down on the table heavily. "It sounds like running away."

"It's not that, either."

The younger man spins his glass on the table in a distracted manner. He moves as though to pour himself another drink but Bobby beats him to it, fills the glass with a deft tip of the bottle. Cas isn't sure why Bobby would willingly abet Dean's drinking since he's consumed more than enough this evening. The angel is about to say something but as he shifts in his seat he gets a sharp glance from the grizzled hunter. He knows that look means shut up and stay out of this, pure and simple. It's then that Cas understands that Bobby has an endgame; he wisely sits back and lets whatever this is play out.

Dean remains oblivious to the silent exchange between the angel and the older hunter. "So why don't you tell me what it is, then?" He sounds acrid, bitter. Cas flinches as the hunter drains the whisky from his glass again, but Bobby takes it in stride, doesn't even bat an eyelash.

"It's helping an old friend, Dean. And a whole lot of people."

Bobby begins to explain the situation, and right away Castiel can see that Dean will end up agreeing to it.

"Camp Chitaqua. Yeah, it was a summer camp for kids. You got that much right. These days it's a hell of a lot more. You remember Marcus? From Connecticut? He started it up as a haven of sorts. It's out of the military zone - they're not under jurisdiction, but they're open to attack and if they are, the cavalry ain't exactly gonna come rushing in. They're pretty much on their own out there. Just civilians looking after civilians."

"And?"

"And he could use the help. He needs other hunters, Dean, people who can keep the shit from hitting the fan. He's got a bunch of people there, and more keep showing up every day. There's a whole lot more to be afraid of besides Croats, too. It's like the supernatural world is having a jamboree out there; don't tell me you haven't noticed that business seems especially good these days." Bobby's voice is laced with sarcasm, his tone blunt. Of course Dean's noticed. It's the only thing he's lived for, ever since he and Sam parted ways.

Dean looks at Bobby, disaffected. "Don't you know some other people you can send in? Like the Babysitter's Club, maybe?"

Bobby sighs, weary. Cas can hear it in his voice. See it in the way he slumps in his wheelchair. If this doesn't get through to Dean, nothing will. The elder Winchester has proven himself to be harder and harder to reach. Between dodging Michael, keeping tabs on Lucifer whenever possible, hunting, and maintaining all outward appearances that what his younger brother does is of no concern to him, the hunter is exhausted. Not just physically, but emotionally. Dean's lost his fire. Every day is a matter of waking, rising, fighting. It's a vicious cycle that doesn't seem like it's about to break itself anytime soon. And Castiel has long run out of methods to keep Dean from imploding. It's clear that the hunter has taken the separation from his brother hard, despite the fact that it was ultimately Dean's decision. Or maybe especially because it was Dean's decision.

"Look, son," Bobby tries again. "I don't know what else to tell you. Marcus needs help keeping these people sane. It's not babysitting, it's protecting them, fighting for them. This Croatoan virus is going to be the end of a lot of people. A lot. We know this, but they don't. They're still looking for hope, for a reason to believe that this shit will either resolve itself or that somehow, some way they'll be saved. It's a god-awful fight, I realize. And there's not much chance that this will end well. This outbreak, it's just getting started. And Lucifer is behind it. And Sam-"

"Leave Sam out of this," Dean growls in warning, eyes flashing dangerously.

"And Sam," Bobby continues, unfazed, "Sam will do what he's going to do. You need to trust your brother, Dean. You guys have gone your separate ways. Fine. He's off chasing the devil, and you're fighting the good fight. But I can't stay here, in this chair, waiting for the news that one or both of you has gotten yourselves killed. I'm done."

Bobby pauses, inhales. Then, "I'm going, Dean. I'm going to Camp Chitaqua. I can't sit around like this anymore. I need to feel like I'm doing my part in this fight, too. I have to help. Do you see what I'm saying, boy?"

It takes Dean a long time to respond. A heavy silence hangs in the air, one that Castiel dares not break. Instead, the angel watches as Dean grabs the bottle of booze, twists the cap off. He pours himself another drink and one for Bobby, too. Bobby watches silently as Dean pushes the glass towards him, setting the bottle down with a thud. He cocks an eyebrow as he reaches for his drink, fingering it thoughtfully. Finally, he raises his eyes to the elder man.

"Then I guess I should go pack my toothbrush," is all he says. He raises his glass to Bobby in silent tribute and both men drink.

Now.

He's barely put his hands on his cabin door before he can smell the unmistakable scent of fresh incense burning. It's Cindy, he knows, and he's eternally grateful. He pushes the door open and she's there at his table, sitting with just one of his t-shirts on, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug.

Her smile is bright, comforting. It draws him inside, although he didn't need the prompting. Just her presence is enough. Castiel smiles in relief at her as he tugs at his laces and toes his muddy boots off. Next he shucks off his outerwear, tossing the garments on the floor in a sodden heap.

"I've made tea," Cindy says. She rises to her feet and grabs a mug off the table, shaking her head so that her hair falls off her shoulders and settles down her back. That's another thing Castiel missed out on when he was an angel: the enjoyment of watching how a woman can move, can do the most intimate things with barely a gesture. He wants to reach out for her long hair and wrap it around his hand, breathe deeply and take in her scent and carry it with him always. He never understood what it meant to have "chemistry" with someone until the first time he smelled a woman's scent, until the first time he was aroused. It's so near to perfection he could cry at the thought.

Instead, he takes the proffered mug and returns her grin.

"Thanks," he says, wraps his arm around her, hand squeezing her buttock as he leans down and kisses her. "I needed this." There's no need for him to clarify whether he means the tea or Cindy.

They sit down at Castiel's table. "Did you see anything?" Cindy asks, crossing her legs the way that drives Cas crazy, exposing the sleek curve of her thigh. Castiel lets his gaze travel the exquisite lines of her body before answering. Cindy blushes slightly under his approving eye.

"Nothing," he tells her. "I'm not sure if we'll see him."

"I hope not," Cindy responds, shivers. "I hope he's dead."

"Dead is better," Castiel agrees, taking a long swallow of his tea. It's strong, and he smiles gratefully at Cindy. "Thanks again," he tells her.

Cindy smiles, laughs. Her pupils are only slightly dilated, a sure sign she waited for him before she tied in, herself. "No problem. I had a feeling you'd need it, with this weather."

"That I did," Castiel agrees, shrugging off his soaked undershirt. His forearms are covered in goose bumps. "But there's something else I require besides your famous mushroom tea."

Cindy smiles, knowing. Her hands move to the t-shirt of Castiel's that she's donned in his absence. She removes it and sits naked in all of her beautiful, mortal glory.

"So you have no clinic scheduled for tonight?" she asks, bemused.

Castiel shakes his head. Cindy's smile grows wider in understanding.

They may not be exclusive, but tonight he is exclusively hers.

"You could be in trouble," she warns him.

"I hope so."

It proves to be a long night.

It's morning, and he's overslept. Again. His eyes snap open at the sound of vigorous pounding on his cabin door. His name is being shouted tersely.

"Cas, dammit! Get up before I kick the door in."

He will, too. He did it once already, last fall. Cas flips over onto his back, his hand flopping out and striking nothing but rumpled blanket. Cindy's slipped out already, it seems. The sheets still hold her smell.

"Cas!" The door is rattling violently against its hinges. Cas throws the blanket off. He darts a look out his tiny window and can tell by the light slanting in that it's way too early before he's supposed to report in.

"I'm up," he calls, clearing his throat. He pads sleepily over to the door and throws it open. Dean looks Cas up and down briefly with disgust.

"Christ, Cas," the hunter complains. "You couldn't throw a little mascara on?"

Castiel looks down at his nakedness, absently unashamed, before he answers Dean. "I didn't realize I'd be reporting for duty early." He steps aside to allow Dean room to enter.

"We're running an errand in town. Thought you'd be interested in coming," Dean responds. He picks up one of last night's tea mugs off the table and sniffs the remains at the bottom, makes a face and puts it back down. He pulls out one of the chairs and makes himself comfortable while Cas slowly begins pulling himself together.

"And what makes you think that?" Cas shoots over his shoulder as he zips up his pants and bends down to pick up his boots, still damp from traipsing home in the rain and the mud. He pauses and squints at Dean. "Have you even gone to bed lately?" The hunter rolls his eyes in response.

"Because it's a supply run to one of your favorite shopping outlets, Cas," Dean says, deliberately not answering the latter question. He grins tightly. "The hospital."

Cas pauses, considering. As tired as he is, he is running low on diazepam, and Dean can't be trusted with such matters. Last time, he requested oxycodone and the hunter brought him back Children's Tylenol instead, as a joke. Castiel thought it was bad taste and returned the favor when Dean twisted his knee badly on the very next mission and could have probably used the good stuff.

"We need more antibiotics." Dean scratches behind his ear. He only fidgets when he's thinking about something he's not saying.

"For Greg and Shelley's daughter?" Castiel stomps his feet to settle them in his boots. He grabs his rifle, leaning against the wall by the door, straps it to his back. He tucks a knife in his belt and Dean stands up.

"Yeah," Dean responds, drops his eyes briefly.

Cas nods, doesn't say anything else. He'd visited the family the other day after his morning watch was over. A wild dog recently attacked Marissa, the twelve-year-old daughter. She's lost most of the left side of her face and her right arm was badly bitten from trying to fend off the animal. It's looking very likely that she may lose it. The parents are understandably taking it hard; Greg hasn't been at his post since it happened, and Shelley hasn't left her daughter's side. Luke, the resident medical hack, isn't holding out much hope that the girl will even survive.

Judging by the grim look on Dean's face, Cas guesses that the hunter doesn't, either. He doesn't comment, just holds the door open for Dean.

Outside, the morning is gray and overcast, the rain stopped sometime during the night. There is a bluster of activity about, but that's not an unusual sight. All around there are men and women busying themselves, carrying wood or building supplies, holding inventory lists, reporting for scout or watch post duty. There are the boisterous sounds of companionable conversation, the murmurs of quiet talking, and a ripple of other background noise. Those who pass near Dean offer a nod of deference, and he returns one in kind. A small pack of children are darting around, laughing, with a makeshift daycare attendant in tow, holding the hands of the smaller ones. A little boy cuts in front of Dean and the hunter automatically reaches out a hand without slowing his pace and pats the kid's blonde head.

As they walk, Cas sees a familiar sight in his periphery. He turns his head and is met with a host of gorgeous smiles. Cindy is among the group of women, helping fill a wheelbarrow with large rocks. She's still wearing his shirt. He returns the smile, grinning widely. He knows them all quite well: they regularly attend his clinics, or "hippie love fests," as Dean calls them. The hunter notices the wordless exchange and chuckles, shaking his head.

"You dog," he murmurs appreciatively.

Before long, they've left the centre of the camp and come to its edges. Here, it's quieter, somber. The sounds of conversation are softer, more serious.

"Who's that?" Cas asks as they come up to Benny's pickup and a figure rises from a squatted position in the truck bed, rifle in hand.

"Alex."

Cas glances at Dean sharply, and the hunter quirks a lip. "I know what you're going to say," he says, "and it's the same thing I told him. But he insisted, and he's a damn good shot. With any luck, he won't have to use it, anyway."

"He's only eighteen."

"Yeah, and when I was eighteen I was cutting the heads off vampires."

It's not the boy's age that Cas has the real problem with: it's the fact that Alex is Marissa's brother. Cas opens his mouth to say so but Dean cuts him off.

"He begged me to come, Cas. He needs the distraction."

"Well, he'll find it, alright. And so will his parents, if anything happens to him. Have you thought of that?"

"Cas," Dean growls, then sighs. "You wouldn't understand. Just let him help his sister, okay?"

As they come up to the truck Benny swings open the driver's side door and hops out. Being a hunter, he also drives a hunter's vehicle. The massive pickup is reinforced with bulletproof siding and windows, floodlights, and a small artillery. Benny extends a hand in greeting to Dean and then to Cas, pumping their hands once in solemn greeting. Dean turns to Alex, who squats down again to shake hands as well. Dean eyes the boy up.

"How you doing, Alex? You good?"

Alex nods resolutely, his expression serious as he climbs down out of the truck bed to stand with the rest of them. "I'm good, Dean."

Dean holds his gaze a few moments longer, evaluating. A strange expression rolls over his face briefly, gone in an instant before his eyes harden again.

Cas knows he's thinking of Sam.

It's a quick drive out of camp, the truck not having any difficulty negotiating the forest floor terrain, following the path that's been carved out by previous trips. Beside Cas, Alex shifts nervously on the backseat, keeps checking and rechecking his rifle. The boy's face is pale and set, jaw clenched and palms sweaty. In the front seat, Dean pretends not to notice. Cas averts his eyes and stares out his passenger window in silence.

He's met with the view of the Impala, sitting near the gated entrance to the camp. It's still as broken and smashed up as the day they arrived here.

Again, Dean pretends not to notice as they pass by. The hunter stares straight ahead, refuses to look out the window on Castiel's side.

A muscle twitches on his jaw, below his ear.

Then.

"Cas! How's he doing?"

Dean twists his head to stare back at the angel and Bobby in the backseat, knuckles white on the Impala's steering wheel. The elder Winchester is driving frantically, careening around the back road's tight corners, windshield wipers turned on as high as they can go and yet still barely managing to keep the rain at bay. Lightning strikes savagely, lighting up the sky with cold light and thunder cracks instantly after. Bobby, however, is blind and deaf to any perception beyond his own pain.

Cas presses harder on Bobby's chest and abdomen over the bullet holes. There's blood everywhere and the angel can't tell if the bleeding has stopped. Bobby's beginning to make noise, gasping like a dying fish. His face and lips are white, and the crimson stains on his teeth look obscene in contrast.

"Cas!"

"I don't know, Dean," the angel looks up, peering out into the stormy night. All he can see is what the headlights illuminate: crisscrossing rain, thrashing tree limbs, and reaching shrubbery. "How much further?"

Dean doesn't answer him. He doesn't know. Instead, he pushes harder on the accelerator.

Cas turns his attention back down to Bobby. The grizzled hunter reaches up and wraps a shaking, bloodstained hand around the angel's wrist. His mouth moves but no sound comes out besides the sound of hissing, escaping air.

The car fills with the sound. "Dammit, Bobby, hold on!" Dean barks. Then, "Shit!" The hunter jams his foot on the brake, keeping the car's rear end from sliding out of control as he slides on the gravel to a full stop. Cas has to use his body as a shield to keep Bobby from flying off the backseat. When he's able, the angel looks up and sees what Dean's staring at, slack jawed.

A person is standing in the middle of the road.

Dean leans forward, squinting. "Is that-?"

"Dean." Cas says softly. Dean meets his eye in the rearview mirror, and Cas jerks his head over his shoulder towards the rear window. It's hard to make out in the storm, but there's another person standing on the road behind them, apparently having just stepped out from the middle of nowhere. They're deep in the woods, no other cars or houses around for miles, and it's the dead of night.

"Bloody hell," Dean mutters. "There's Croats out here, too." His voice sounds strange, sleepy. Cas leans forward and notices for the first time that blood is running down out of the sleeve of his black t-shirt, darkening the fabric in a spreading bloom across his shoulder and upper chest.

"You've been shot?" the angel queries urgently, and needlessly. Dean grimaces but otherwise doesn't respond.

"Hang onto something," the hunter tells Cas. By now three more Croatoans have stepped out of the darkness and joined the first, just out on the fringes of the light from the Impala's headlights. Their faces are visible, staring dispassionately with cold eyes, the demonic virus having winked out the light of humanity in them. "I'm going to run these sons of bitches over."

It's a horrific drive, but it's even worse when the Impala finally stops.

They approach Camp Chitaqua's gate, and there are signs of life on the other side. Dean starts blasting on the horn but doesn't slow down. Suddenly the motion on the other side of the fence becomes frantic, and people are running. The gate is swung open just in time before the Impala goes sailing through it.

It's at that moment the hunter passes out from blood loss, having finally delivered Bobby to safety. Cas has just enough time to brace for impact and keep his charge protected before the Impala crashes. Castiel's body slams against the back of the front seat, Bobby lurching beneath him. There is the sickening sound of metal crunching and the cacophony of breaking glass. It's so loud that the shouting that follows seems hushed in comparison. The angel raises his head, blinks.

He realizes Dean's been thrown from the vehicle when he sees that the front seat is empty. By then there are bodies around the car, hands reaching in and tugging gently at Castiel's shoulders.

"Hey, fella. Are you okay?" Then, directed somewhere outside of the car, "Bring stretchers! And blankets!"

Castiel raises his arm, disengages the hand that's wrapped itself around his bicep. "I'm not in need of assistance," he says as he climbs out of the car. Already, someone is reaching into the backseat, carrying a stretcher. "Where's Dean?"

The man who is standing with Cas, still checking him over for any sign of apparent injury, startles a little.

"Dean? You mean, Dean Winchester?"

"Yes."

"And that's Bobby Singer?" The man motions to the direly injured hunter, being whisked away with a small group of people.

Cas nods. "It is."

The man looks at the angel. "What happened? Who attacked you?" He shifts and steps to the side, and now Cas can see Dean. He's sprawled on the ground, and there are people attending to him. One woman is keeping his neck and head immobile while two others gently turn his body and roll it onto another stretcher. There's blood smeared across his face and his eyes are closed.

Cas follows them as they carry Dean away after Bobby. "We were attacked in Bobby's home," he begins.

"Croats?" the man asks.

The angel nods. Clearly it's not a secret, not anymore. "The demons brought them there and they attacked us. We barely escaped and Dean didn't know where else to take him."

The man's hand falls squarely on Castiel's shoulder, offers the angel a grim smile.

"He made the right choice. We were expecting them, but not under these circumstances, I'm sorry to say." He holds his hand out to Cas.

"Don't think we've met, but I'm sure we'll have all the time left in the world to get to know each other." His eye twinkles. "Please excuse the bad joke. Name's Marcus."

The angel shakes it.

A/N: Two more chapters. I hope to see you back here! Thanks again.