Chapter 1

It was those of those rare moments in his life that Dean was content. Here he was in a bar in the middle of Nowhereville, North Dakota, drinking cheap whiskey and inhaling the scent of stale perfume and rancid sweat and he was happy. Castiel sat on his left, trying to struggle his way through a conversation with the barmaid as she shamelessly hit on him, and Sam was sitting on his right trying to contain his laughter by muffling the few short gasps of breath that came out every few seconds with his beer. Dean smiled, really smiled, and felt his soul inflate with a joy that caused his stomach to shake and his brain to buzz. He tipped back the shot sitting in front of him, shuddering as it burned its way down his throat.

Sam couldn't hold it back any longer and laughed openly at Cas' frustrated answers to the barmaid's questions, earning a sharp but puzzled glance from the angel. Dean even let out a few chuckles, though he was almost too happy to find anything amusing enough to laugh.

The younger Winchester chugged his beer and slammed the empty bottle down on the bar, motioning for the woman behind it to get him another one. She nodded at him and gave Cas a confused look before walking away. Dean leaned over the counter, eyeing her impressive ass and she walked away.

"Dude," Sam reprimanded lightly, slapping his brother on the shoulder sternly and Dean regretfully tore his eyes from the appealing sight. Castiel stared at the pair with wide eyes, wondering what had been so funny. He sat as he always did, back impeccably straight and hands folded politely in his lap. It was a comical sight, the angel in his trench coat in a middle of a bar filled with cigarette smoke and scantily clad women.

"Is something amusing?" he asked, perplexity etched plainly into his voice.

"Yeah. You!" Sam snorted and Dean grinned in agreement. Cas scowled and lifted his chin indignantly.

"Come on, man, we're just teasing you," Dean said, trying to pull out a straight face but failing miserably. He clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder instead, and Castiel looked down at it like it came from another planet.

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes before removing the intruding appendage. Even though Cas had been with them more and more, he still only had a slippery, possibly nonexistent grasp on the idea of friendly physical contact and normal social interaction. On the last hunt, a small cluster of remaining Leviathan the town over, the angel had even gone so far as to wink at the male cashier at a gas station, leaving the poor boy with a look of utter humiliation and a face as red as a lobster. When Dean confronted the angel about it, his only reply was that Dean did it with the girl at the post office, and she had enjoyed it. Obviously, he still had trouble drawing the line at friendly and flirtatious.

But Dean was happy and he couldn't be bothered by that now as the blissful smile returned to his face. Sam's new beer came and the woman decided to leave Cas alone, focusing her attentions on a more wealthy looking customer as he handed her a tip. She shot a sizzling glare at the older hunter when he motioned for another shot, but not even the attractive barmaid's disinterest (which would normally have wounded Dean's pride deeply) could dampen his happiness, and he almost regretted ordering the whiskey. He didn't want the buzz of alcohol in his system to muffle his joy, so instead he passed the shot to Cas, who eyed it like it was about to rear up and bite him.

"It does not look enjoyable," the angel said flatly, still frowning at the drink.

"Oh just take it, you big baby," Dean chuckled, and Castiel obeyed, mimicking what he had seen the hunter do a thousand times as he chucked the liquid back in his throat. He made a twisted face that caused Sam to choke on his beer and the brothers laughed. The corner of Cas' lips twitched upwards in a way that told Dean that the angel was laughing internally, even though he didn't really get the joke, and it just felt so fucking good.

And then, of course, it ended.

Five people came barreling through the door straight at Sam and Dean, their mouths twisted into snarls and their hands gripping at guns and blades. Dean instinctively reached for his gun, but with a stab of panic realized it wasn't there, and by the look on his brother's face he figured Sam didn't have his on him either. He inwardly cursed himself for leaving it in his duffel in the car outside, which seemed like miles away at the moment.

"Cas, what are they?" he yelled over the screams of fleeing customers, drinks and food flying everywhere as tables were overturned.

"Leviathan," the angel called back, stepping protectively in front of the brothers. "Close your eyes!" The Winchesters snapped their eyes shut as the angel inhaled and spread his arms out, letting his true form seep out of his vessel. Even with their eyes closed, Sam and Dean felt their pupils contract to pinpricks and the Leviathan realized what was happening too late- the angel's celestial form burning their eyes out of their head as they screamed in agony.

When the light faded, the brothers opened their eyes and scrambled to look for a weapon and the evil sons of bitches clutched at their faces, syrupy blood leaking from the hollow holes that were their eye sockets. Sam launched himself over upturned tables and chairs and Dean vaulted the counter, looking for something, anything, he could use to defend himself. He caught the frightened gaze of the barmaid as she huddled under the counter, gripping a satisfyingly large knife and pepper spray and looking like she was about to explode with fear.

Without asking, Dean wrestled the knife from the terrified woman and leapt over the counter again, seeing Sammy come back with a bottle of cleaner triumphantly clutched him his hand. The Leviathan were coming too, their eyes healing, and even though the angel was doing his best to fight them off he dared not get too close. Castiel thought it best to keep his guts inside his body, and seeing these were one of the few things in all creation that could kill him he carefully kept space between him and the monsters.

The first one Dean decapitated was easy, she hadn't even known it was coming. He picked up the head by its long, blonde hair and tossed it to the other side of the room, hoping that would slow the freak from healing for longer. The action sent gooey, black Leviathan filling everywhere as the head spun in the air, landing with a sickening thud on the floor near the bathrooms. Dean's lifetime of fighting took over as he fought the creatures, dancing easily between their punches and stabs. They were clutching guns, but not using them, and only when Dean heard the softly clicking did he realize that the dumb fuckers had forgotten to load them.

Ganking Dick had indeed caused "the body to flounder," and the powerful Leviathan army had crumbled into nothing in what seemed like just a few days. Now, they were just monsters, no different from any other job Sam or Dean worked. Without an objective, the gooey things had also lost their bloodlust, and usually the only ones they actually found dug up graves or fed on the homeless. It was like their (for lack of a better phrase) "lust for life" had been extinguished and they were just trying to survive, and Dean almost felt sorry for the poor bastards.

And then he remembered that Bobby and he wanted every last one of them to suffer for all eternity.

When the last, Borax-singed Leviathan was lying detached from its head on the floor, Sam gave his older brother a triumphant grin. The latter's hand was drenched in Leviathan blood, and he concluded that it smelled, looked, and felt like ass. And not in a good way.

He made a small sound of disgust in the back of his throat and whipped his hand, trying to remove some of the stuff, but only a few drops flew off of his finger tips. Dean rubbed his palm on a nearby booth, giving a small sigh when his hand started to show through the mess as a streak of black was left in his its wake.

Sam started to pick up heads, dumping them into a cloth bag someone had left behind as Dean found a napkin dispenser and yanked out a handful of flimsy white pieces of paper, rubbing his hand furiously. The stuff had settled into the creases in his skin and under his nails, and it was giving his flesh a slight burning sensation.

"Hey Cas," he called, still rubbing his hand. "Wanna clean some of this up?" When his question received no response, Dean turned around. "Cas?"

The angel was standing towards the back of the bar, staring at a fixed point in the wall opposite him. Then, he slowly let his gaze travel down to his torso where a blade was sticking out of his side just above his hip. He reached down and wrapped a hand around the knife, slowly pulling it from his body with a sickening wet noise.

Instead being covered in blood, the blade was dripping with a gleaming, silver liquid that started to pour from Cas' body as soon as the knife was removed like a cork being pulled out of a keg. The angel gasped in pain and slumped against the wall as he fell to the floor, letting the knife clatter down onto the tile besides him and clutching at the wound.

"Cas!" All thoughts of his fouled hand fled his mind as Dean crossed the room in two huge bounds to reach his friend. The silver stuff was still seeping through Castiel's fingers, drenching the right half of him and making the mysterious substance pool beneath the kneeling angel. Dean heard a hollow thud as Sam dropped the bag of Leviathan heads and raced over to the shuddering angel, joining his brother by Cas' side.

The older Winchester knelt besides the angel, pulling his hand from the wound to try and inspect it, but the glowing fluid just started spraying from it faster, and Dean pressed a solid hand over the wound, earning a groan and tremble from Cas. He felt the stream of silver slow, but it still oozed out.

"Oh fuck! Cas! Oh go- CAS! What is this stuff?" Dean cried helplessly, pressing the blackened hand on top of the first one in an effort to try and stem the flow. The silver enveloped his hand, joining the subtly glowing puddle and throwing strange shadows across Castiel's face.

"It's his grace," Sam- who was frozen with shock- said from behind him as if he had known the answer all along, and Castiel gave a sharp nod, biting his lower lip to restrain a cry of pain as another shudder racked his body. Dean's eyes widened as his eyes shot to the puddle he was kneeling in. Castiel's grace? He knew angels could choose to shed their grace to fall to earth, but he had never heard of a weapon that could cause unwilling loss of the stuff. He suddenly felt like he was violating Cas by kneeling in the puddle, but there was nothing to do about it so he just pushed the feeling to the back of his mind.

Pain danced across Cas' face, plain and obvious, and it brought tears shimmering to the edges of Dean's vision. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat and pressed against the wound harder, ignoring the sharp intake of breath from the angel. Castiel's eyes were rolling and a dribble of saliva was trailing out the side of his mouth as his body started to spasm.

And at that sight, Dean lost it.

He bent almost in half from the tight knot in his gut, babbling nonsense as he tried to calm to angel. This was wrong on so many levels, just so wrong. Cas was…well, he was Cas! Castiel, angel of the fucking lord, and he was dying right there in front of Dean and there was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do and it was wrong. His brain simply stopped functioning, except to give him the completely useless idea that maybe Dean could give the grace back to Cas, that he could simply pick it up and put it back in and the angel would be fine, like an electronic that just needed new batteries.

Spurred on by the irrational thought, Dean removed his hands from the wound and dipped them into the puddle instead. But every time he lifted a cupped hand from the puddle, it came up empty, like the silver wasn't really there. He could feel it, slick and smooth and warm, but he couldn't lift it for the life of him. He started to paw at the floor, feeling his fingers rake across tile, but his movements didn't even cause ripples in the puddle.

And then, there was Sam. He knelt in the puddle right beside Dean, pulling him back to earth as he watched his younger brother press his giant hands over the wound. A startlingly fierce emotion overcame the hunter, and the pathetic helplessness he felt before was replaced with blinding will, because he needed Cas and Cas needed him and he was not going to die as long as Dean was there. Here was the being that had raised Dean from Hell, sacrificed so much, thrown himself between the hunter and death countless times and he was not going to die.

Period.

End of discussion.

The older Winchester immediately ceased his dry sobbing, feeling a single tear slip down his face as he blinked. Dean stood abruptly, ignoring the black that crept in around his vision from the sudden movement as he stumbled towards the bar, slipping on Leviathan blood and boots crunching over bits of broken dishes. He clutched the bar with a white knuckled hand and leaned around it; letting out a breath he hadn't known he was holding when he saw the girl still crouched behind the counter, clutching her can of mace to her chest as if her life depended on it.

"Where's your first aid kit?" he barked gruffly, causing the girl to flinch. He would have felt bad in any other situation, but there wasn't time for niceties now. She pointed a shaking finger to the double doors of the kitchen and Dean poked his head through, spotting the white box just a few feet from the door. Grabbing the kit, he ordered the girl to bring him a full pitcher of whiskey as he marched back to kneel in the pool of grace again.

"Cas? Buddy? I don't know if you can hear me but I'm going to stitch the wound up," Dean said loudly, not sure if the angel was even conscious. If he was, he gave no response, eyes still rolled back in his head and foaming slightly at the mouth. The hunter registered the barmaid hovering at the edge of his vision clutching the pitcher, and he motioned to Sam to retrieve it from her. Sammy did so without question, giving the girl a soft smile that did little to comfort her as she darted back behind the counter to hide, probably scarred for life and requiring years upon years of therapy.

Dean gently laid Cas down on the floor, the angel's trench coat soaking up the silver like it was trying to force itself back into its original owner's body, confused as to why it was suddenly on the dirty, tiled floor of an old bar. Using a pair of scissors in the box, Dean sliced open Cas' shirt and undershirt (how did he breathe under all those layers?) and flicked his hand at Sam, urging him to pour whiskey over the gash.

As his little brother emptied the amber liquid onto Castiel, Dean reached into the box and pulled out a suture kit, lacing the needle as he had done innumerable times before. Fortunately, the wound had not gone very deep into the flesh, Sammy had gotten nastier wounds that Dean stitched up with ease. But this was an entirely different matter- the grace didn't seem to be clotting like blood did to cease bleeding and Dean didn't even know if the wound was the problem. He glanced down at the weapon that had caused it; the blade was short and etched with foreign symbols and it glowed with a dull red, pulsating light that forced the grace away from it in a perfect, six inch circle.

Yeah, not good.

But Dean had to try, and if that didn't work he would try and try and try until one of them died, and then he would keep trying because Cas hurting, goddamnit. Family was the most important thing in the Winchester's life, and Castiel definitely fell under that category. The hunter didn't care that the angel was, well, an angel. Family didn't stop at blood.

The fact that the being convulsing in pain before him was a wavelength of celestial intent didn't matter any more than it would have if Cas a fucking toad, only that he was in agony, and that was the end of that. He needed Cas just as much as he needed Sam, and if it came down to selling his soul again he would do it without a moment's hesitation.

The alcohol in the pitcher ran out as Sam dumped the last of it over the wound and Dean went to work, forcing his shaking fingers to still as he quickly sewed the wound shut with small, precise stitches. It didn't take long, the procedure was over in less than a minute, and to Dean's immediate relief it seemed that the gash had stopped leaking, save a few drops that beaded out around the sutures one last time. Castiel's body stopped quaking and his eyes stopped rolling and his mouth stopped foaming and he just stopped and it was such a fucking relief that Dean thought he would start crying again.

But there were still the problem of a ruined bar, unconscious angel, cursed knife, puddle of grace, and terrified barmaid. Sam and Dean glanced at each other, sharing the silent comprehension that no amount of false badges were going to get them out of this one, so Dean just sighed and tipped his head towards the bar, suggesting Sam fix her with those puppy-dog eyes and grind out some semi-believably lie for what the poor woman had just witnessed. Dean's experience with traumatized victims told him that she would probably lap it all up gratefully, relieved for an explanation other than the obvious conclusion that she was going insane.

Sam stood with a grunt and dragged himself over to the crouching girl, offering a hand to help her up. Dean heard his younger brother dish out soothing words and some sort of complete lie, but he wasn't really paying attention much because there was Cas to worry about, laying in a puddle of what should be inside him.

Dean had seen his share of weird and gross in his lifetime, but this was almost…beautiful. The softly glowing, silvery sheen of the liquid really did suggest holiness and now that the fear and panic were over, the hunter felt as if the liquid radiated peace. He gently ran a finger through the puddle, feeling it swirl around his finger and warmth spread up his arm. He wondered how the grace had taken on a corporeal form like this and not seared every around it to ash, killing them all or at least frying their eyes out of their head like eggs. He could feel the pure energy of it thrumming the air around it like a guitar string, but not with the same noise that was usually related to the feeling.

And then Dean's eyes landed on the blade and the serenity and peace all came crashing down around his head, replaced by anger and fear as he gazed at the weapon, lying in a circle of gracelessness like it was made of pure evil and the two repelled each other. He wouldn't be surprised if it was made from just that- pure evil. The metal had a wicked malevolence to it and Dean imagined it had been created in the fires of hell, the screams of tortured souls he knew all too well embedded in the blade.

He tore his eyes from the disgusting knife and back to Cas. The stitches seemed to be holding up pretty well, but the man wrapped the angel's wound in gauze just in case, though he doubted the absorbent fabric would do much but stop the grace from getting everywhere if the gash did reopen.

"Who owns the bar?" Sam asked gently, and Dean noted with pride that he had somehow coaxed the girl out of her hiding place and the can of pepper spray was nowhere to be seen as she sucked down tequila, the bottle sitting in front of her as she refilled her shot glass for the third time.

"Me," she replied shakily, downing another shot. She looked pretty calm considering what had just happened.

"You're closing down shop for a couple of days," Sam insisted gently, laying a hand on her shoulder. "Just lock the doors behind you and leave. Go on a vacation, spend a week in Cuba." A smile momentarily flickered over the barmaid's face before she poured herself another shot and downed it without another moment's hesitation. Sam lifted his eyes to meet Dean's and shrugged, and the older brother gave the other an encouraging thumbs-up.

The older man blocked out the pair again as he turned to Cas. The angel was as unconscious as before, and Dean bent down and lifted him, surprised how easily he came up in his arms. The hunter had expected him to be heavier, as if the angel inside the vessel would add weight. It was preposterous of course, but it seemed right inside Dean's head.

Gently, he laid his friend across a booth that was semi clean, somewhat strewn with the remains of some fries and what looked like meat, but it was preferable over the Leviathan covered furniture that seemed to dominate the room. This would be a bitch to clean up without a little angel help, and his eyes flicked curiously and against his will to the puddle of grace, gleaming alluringly.

No. Absolutely not. Dean thought, giving himself a mental smack. Even if he could utilize the angel's power, which he couldn't, it would feel wrong. The best metaphor Dean could conjure was plagiarism, but it didn't even come close to what it would feel like to use the grace. It wasn't important though, and the thought shifted to the back of his mind.

The hunter rolled the grace-soaked trench coat, dress shirt, and undershirt from the angel, but left the pants on him. Not only would it be extremely awkward for Dean to yank off Castiel's pants in front of his brother, but it would most likely send the barmaid into an emotional meltdown. Plus, Dean really didn't think Castiel would appreciate waking up and finding out that Dean had undressed him in the middle of a bar.

If he even does wake up, a bitchy little voice in the back of the Winchester's mind nagged, as if it was poking him with a stick to see what his reaction would be. Dean shook his head to rid himself of that voice and squashed that thought right there. There would be no more chick-flicking as long as Castiel didn't start leaking himself all over the place again- Dean didn't think his masculinity could handle it.

He eyed the dress shirt and trench coat, his mind suddenly making a connection as his eyes flicked back and forth between the clothes and the puddle of grace. He experimentally tossed the torn shirt back into the puddle, but it landed with a thump as if the liquid wasn't even there. The hunter sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, disappointed that his ingenious idea hadn't worked.

He stomped over to retrieve the shirt, the evil maliciousness of the knife catching his eye as he did so. Dean lifted the shirt from the puddle and wrapped his hand in it, gingerly reaching out to touch the knife's hilt with the tip of his index finger before leaping back as if worried it would explode.

When the weapon remained perfectly un-exploded, Dean shot a worried glance at Sam and the barmaid, but they hadn't seemed to notice his strange behavior. The Winchester wrapped his shirt-covered hand around the knife's hilt and he brought it up to his face to inspection, not missing the way that the tile was singed black where the knife had been.

The blade whispered and seemed to be alive in his grasp. It made Dean shudder, he could physically feel heat emitting from the metal and a strange tingling power starting to travel up his arm.

Having quite enough of that, Dean dropped the knife into the nearest container- a seriously ugly pocketbook sporting a neon blue and orange geometric design. He stuck his tongue out at it and zipped up the top, holding away from his at arm's length, handle pinched between two fingers as one would hold a smelly sock- partially because of the evil concealed inside and partially because it just hurt his eyes.

Of course, Sam chose this moment to turn around, locking Dean with an amused stare as his brother looked up from his inspection of the accessory. Feeling heat rise up his neck, Dean dropped the bag down on the nearest flat space.

"Inspecting the merchandise?" Sam teased, a smirk playing on the edges of his lips.

"Bite me," Dean snapped, turning towards Cas, sprawled out unceremoniously on the table, a fry caught in his midnight brown locks. Well, two out of five down. That still left the trashed bar, sleeping angel, and puddle of grace to fix.

The woman grabbed a bag from under the counter, only pausing to load two bottles of whisky and one more bottle of tequila into it before striding into the kitchen. Dean heard banging like she was packing up, and decided Sam had been successful.

"What did you tell her?" he asked in a hushed voice, hoping the noise would drown out any quiet words.

"That Cas was an alien and we were trying to protect him from the government," Sam mumbled, now his turn to blush. Dean smirked and lifted the angel in his arms, Cas' head rolling almost adorably as he did so.

"I wasn't aware those bossy bastards bled black goo," he grunted, trying to shift Castiel into a more comfortable looking position in his arms, but eventually giving up and just letting the angel flop awkwardly around him like an overgrown rag-doll. Sam shrugged and muttered something that sounded like whatever works before tipping his head towards the puddle of grace. He narrowed his eyes and stepped towards it.

"Is it just me or was that a lot bigger a minute ago?" Dean frowned and, after considering what his younger brother had said, he realized he was right. The puddle sunk into the floor before their very eyes, silver glow disappeared in less than ten seconds flat.

"Uh," Dean said uneasily. "I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing." Sam marched over to the spot and ran his hand over the ground. When he didn't turn inside out or at least snatch his hand away, the older brother figured it was probably a good thing and turned clumsily, angel causing his usually perfect center of balance to upset. He would have tipped over were it not for Sammy's steadying hand on his shoulder.

"What are we going to do about the mess?" the tall man thought out loud, glancing around the destroyed bar. "I'd hate for Tina to have to pay for it." Dean cocked an eyebrow.

"You got her name? I'd expect she gave you her number too?" the older Winchester teased, not expecting the embarrassed glance to the floor the question squeezed out of Sam. A grin spread across Dean's face and he nudged his brother with his shoulder.

"You Casanova, you," he chuckled before stumbling out towards the car, Sam following moodily behind and muttering something that Dean was sure he didn't want to hear.

After the hideous pocketbook, the bag of heads, and the angel's trench coat (from which the grace had also disappeared from) were in the trunk and Cas himself was sprawled out over the back seat, Dean started up his baby with a purr and they left the wrecked bar behind them as they took off in a cloud of dust.

...

Hello my fellow SPN addicts! This is to be my first longish fanfiction, so any reveiws would be highly appreciated!(: Constructive critism is appreciated, but I suppose you can write firey comments if need be. I plan on updating this every Monday (I'm sort of a perfectionist and try to make sure every chapter is pristine before I release it) so keep checking back! Ciao and cheerio! :D