Through the storm, we reach the shore
You gave it all but I want more
And I'm waiting for you

As soon as she sees the house in the distance, Jody sighs in relief. Other people, luckier people, take this for granted – they leave in the morning, spend the day working and chatting with colleagues and having lunch in pretty little cafés, and they never think, not even once, that everything they know and love could be bone and ashes by the time they head back in the evening.

And the house is just fine, sure – Jody can’t stop glancing at it, looking for hints of trouble – signs of fire, perhaps, or even – because what about the people inside it? What about Claire and the children?

“Relax,” says Crowley from her right. “Everyone is just fine.”

“Neat trick,” she bites back, pressing down on the gas. “Now stop it.”

“I - excuse me?”

Crowley remains silent for all of two seconds, and Jody can almost feel him working it out.

“You think I’m reading your mind? Demons can’t do that, Jody.”

“Right.”

She feels him huff and shift in his seat, and the realization he’s now looking directly at her is enough to make her feel ten times less safe.

“I know people, that’s all.”

“Because you’re a demon.”

“Because it’s my job, yes. And because I used to be people.”

Jody keeps her eyes on the road, refuses to look at him. She’s been on the edge of falling for the whole day - she’s had this feeling, this one step away from a panic attack taste in her mouth for hours, actually, because Crowley - Crowley has been nice. Crowley has been, in fact, the perfect gentleman. And it’s thanks to his British lilt and charm and negotiation skills that they’ve managed to establish a safe area in half the State - thousands of people are now safe (well: safer) because the King of Hell has been sweet talking mayors and police chiefs for two days, because he (once) flashed his red eyes at a particularly stubborn captain - a stocky, stubborn man who’d then promptly shot Crowley, straight in the chest (he’d resigned as soon as it had become clear that Crowley wouldn’t die, not even a little, and therefore Jody was telling the truth). His successor, a woman in her fifties with a no-nonsense haircut, had been much more amenable to their suggestions.

But Crowley is not people.

Jody’s hands contract on the wheel as she remembers the moment - when the guy had unholstered his weapon, she’d instinctively tried to put herself between him and Crowley, but it had all happened so fast - the noise of the gunshot had made the little office somehow overcrowded, and Jody, like everyone else, had stared at the hole in Crowley’s waistcoat, had been shocked back into reality only by Crowley’s annoyed drawl (‘I just had this dry-cleaned.’). And next - next Crowley had stretched his neck, had flashed her a quick, private look before - before taking a step forward and materialising fucking wings from his fucking shoulders (black and feathery and huge and scary and yet -). Jody can still see it, all of it (the wings unfurling from the elegant suit jacket, the focused expression of Crowley’s face, the slight, barely there translucence shimmering around the demon’s body); of course she can. It’s probably the most breath-taking thing she’s ever seen.

Because, well, so far this other world, this supernatural nonsense which has crashed into her life and turned her from a childless mother into an even more complete and utter mess - so far it has been, all of it, darkness and blood. Jody was never the type to read vampire novels, and has never seen the point in any of it - monsters were always things to be killed. Nothing else. There was never any beauty to be found in them.

Until today.

So, well, she really wants to be mean, because she’s scared by this, all of it: not only the world ending, and the people she cares about in mortal danger, but this thing riding in the car with her, this dangerous, mean thing; this enticing, perfectly polite thing.

This thing which is not a thing at all; not anymore; not, perhaps, for a long time.

“People,” she scoffs. “People don’t have -”

- wings, she’s about to say, and then she bites down on the word, on the reverence inside it. Something about Crowley is stripping her of her skill as a police officer, her experience in dealing with criminals. Because this is the second time today she’s been on the verge of admitting she’s impressed by him- which is really not a good idea - which is, in fact, a direct fuck you to the very first rule in the book (always be in control of the situation).

“I’m glad you liked them,” says Crowley, after it becomes clear she is not going to finish her sentence. “It took a lot of effort to make them visible. They’re not mine, unfortunately, so don’t get any ideas.”

“What do you mean, they’re not yours?” asks Jody a bit desperately, because a man has suddenly appeared on the porch of their house, and please God -

“It’s just a trick. There is nothing special about me. Without this borrowed body, I would probably -”

This time it’s him who doesn’t finish the sentence, and there is such bitterness in his voice that Jody glances his way, briefly, and finds he’s not looking at her anymore. Instead, he’s looking at the house as well, a carefully blank look on his face.

“Is that Dean?” asks Jody, because it’s a really, really bad idea to say what she’s really thinking.

“Where?”

They’re getting closer now, and Jody can see it clearly - there’s definitely a guy, and he’s now walking up the driveway, and something in the way he’s walking - the dogged determination, the world-weary army gait, makes Jody’s heart skip a beat.

“That’s Dean,” she says, smiling a bit, and speeds up a bit.

“I don’t see anyone.”

“How can you not see him - he’s right -” says Jody, and then she realizes, at the same time Crowley does.

“So that’s how you did it,” he answers, after a moment.

His words are slow, his normally perfect delivery a bit off, as if he’s focusing on something else. Jody glances at him again, and sees he’s frowning.

“They’re impressive,” he says, turning to nod at her. “Who made them?”

“Nice try.”

Dean is standing still now, and when he recognizes them he lifts a hand in greeting and moves beyond the ratty old mailbox, outside the wards. Jody can practically hear Crowley’s smile at his appearance. Suddenly annoyed, she parks, a bit lopsidedly, and then gets out of the car and moves in to hug Dean, allows herself to be hugged back.

“Good to see you,” she says, and then she’s unsure as to how she should continue the conversation - surely if Dean has important news from Heaven he’s not going to share it with a demon?

“You too,” he says, and he tries to smile.

He’s looking, thinks Jody, even worse than he did the last time she saw him. The cuts on his face are still very red against his pale skin, and he’s now sporting a bruise under his eye and a tired, defeated look. He looks, in fact, twenty years older, and if Jody knows anything about Dean, well - that look on his face means something is seriously wrong with Sam. There’s no one else Dean would get this broken about. Except perhaps -

“So you’re still in one piece, then.”

“No thanks to you.”

Jody takes a step back and looks from one man to the other. Crowley is still smiling, but this is a different smile, somehow. And Dean - Dean looks almost -

“Hey, I apologized for sending her after you.”

“Not to me, you didn’t.”

Crowley sighs.

“Look, she double-crossed me. She almost got me killed. What more do you want?”

And now Dean is looking very hard like he wants to be pissed, but he just can’t. Jody blinks.

“Any news from your mom?”

“No word. You’ll be the first to know, I promise.”

“Yeah, well.”

Jody can see, very clearly, that she’s missing a good half of this conversation. The sentences are short, to the point, and seem harmless enough; and yet there is so much she’s not getting - she can see it in the slight movements around Dean’s mouth, in the feigned exasperation on Crowley’s face - and something about this, about the familiarity of it, is seriously annoying her.

“Dean -” starts Crowley, and then cocks his head to one side, and all of a sudden there is a different kind of urgency in his voice. “Great. Your ride is coming. Catch you later,” he adds, nodding at Jody, and then there is a very soft noise, and the demon is just gone.

“What was that?” Jody asks, staring at the patch of dirt.

“I - met - Crowley before I came back here. I -”

“No, not that. I thought this alliance with him was a strategic thing, but, Dean -” Jody moves closer to Dean, sees a sort of Please don’t finish that sentence on his tired, ruined face, and ignores it. “- you actually like him.”

“I -”

“He tried to kill me,” she forces out, even though this is not what’s bothering her, not really, because she's just that much of a mess.

Dean clenches his jaw.

“He’s changed. I think the Trials did -”

“He’s a demon. You can’t -” starts Jody, and this time she sees it, quite clearly - this time she knows she’s talking to herself, not to Dean; she remembers her own mother waving her perfectly manicured fingers in the air (‘Jody, for goodness’ sake. He’s not good for you, can’t you see that?’), remembers how fiercely her teenage self had fought to protect Danny’s honour (Danny Wilkins: five years older, unemployed, a budding alcoholic, and, occasionally, an incredibly romantic and talented drummer), remembers wondering (not very often, so this is, surely, normal) if she ended up choosing her entire life to shut her mother up. The perfect husband, the perfect child.

And now look at her.

But Dean never finds out what is it, exactly, that he can’t do, because before Jody can pull herself together and find an ending for her sentence, he’s pushed her, hard, back through the wards. Jody lands in the dry grass, and she immediately turns around, drawing her gun; and then she almost drops it, because Dean is no longer alone.

Bobby Singer is standing next to him.

And before Jody can do anything, they both disappear into thin air.

.:.

Dean breathes in, deeply, before opening his eyes. He knew what he would see, but apparently that thing about being forewarned and forearmed is just bullshit. Because when Cas steps closer to him, unharmed and whole, Dean still feels a huge wave of relief crashing down on him, and, for a second, he almost stumbles under the weight of it.

Because Raguel wants to kill Cas. Or, at least, he has no problems doing so if it suits his purpose. Of which Dean knows nothing. What he does know, on the other hand, is that angels are dicks, so.

“I will have that, please,” says Raguel, and he extends his hand.

Dean crosses his arms and pretends this is a completely equal fight - him, a dead guy, against an archangel who can smell Claire’s blood on him. Great.

“Let’s discuss terms first.”

“Terms?”

Raguel takes a step closer, and so does Cas. Dean glances at him, shaking his head.

You stay out of it.

“My brother is getting out of Purgatory soon, and I want -”

“Of course.”

“Of course?”

“I’m sure you’ll want to pick him up. The portal is in - Maine, is that right?” asks Raguel, and he actually frowns, as if turning into green light and meeting God was no biggie, but, boy, remembering the names of all the US states is a motherfucking chore.

“Yes.”

“Perfect. Now give me the Nephilim’s blood.”

Dean puts his right hand in his pocket, then stops.

“Why are you being so nice of all a sudden?”

Because, okay, maybe it doesn’t say good things about Bobby, but seeing a smile on his face is really - it’s creepy, is what it is.

“It’s all part of the Plan, Dean. You need not fear me.”

“Right.”

Raguel extends his hand again, palm up, and this time Dean gets the bloody handkerchief out of his pocket.

“Both of them, please.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but he takes the second handkerchief, the one with Jesse’s blood on it, and hands it over.

“Yeah, don’t thank me or anything.”

“How did you know?” asks Raguel, turning his back on him and walking to the weird-ass table in the middle of the room.

“It’s how magic works, isn’t it?” says Dean, keeping his eyes on Raguel to avoid looking at Cas. “Balance, and shit.”

“So Lucifer’s spawn is still alive. I must admit, I wasn’t sure he’d survive this long.”

Dean thinks about Jesse, about the way Jesse looks at Claire, and the wish to strangle Raguel becomes almost unbearable. Lucifer’s spawn. Right.

“What’s next?” he asks, breathing through it. “What do we need?”

“You’ll know when it’s time for you to know.”

Dean turns slightly, and catches Cas looking down at his clenched fist. He forces himself to open his hand.

“So what do we do in the meantime, then?”

“I promised we’d get your brother. So let’s go.”

.:.

Sam shudders, opens his eyes.

“You okay?”

Madison’s voice seems to come from very away. Blindly, Sam reaches out and feels her reach back, seize his hand between hers. He squeezes her fingers, and reality seems to compose itself around him at the touch.

“Yeah,” he rasps out, then clears his throat. “Yeah. I talked to Dean.”

He hadn’t been sure Dean had really been there, not until that last, heartfelt Bitch, but he’d known Claire had been calling straight away – her voice had echoed right inside his head, had woken him up, actually, and Sam had barely had the time to kiss Madison awake (a quick, perfunctory kiss, no matter how much more he wants from her, because it doesn’t seem right, somehow, to start anything in such a place, and Madison is -) and tell her what was happening before being jolted back in that gray, confined space – there was no reality at all, no sounds or colours, not after that first, frantic Sam? from Claire, but there were words, somehow, and Sam had managed to communicate with her. And Dean.

And Dean is alive.

Sam breathes in, deeply, and forces himself to focus on the thought.

Dean is all right.

You don’t know that, says a voice inside Sam’s head, but Sam shuts it out – if Dean is top side, if he’s with Claire, then surely – surely everything is fine? It must be. And Dean is right about Benny – it isn’t a good option, but it's the best one they have.

He’d wanted to tell Dean about Lucifer, as well, but it was too much of a mess, it would have taken way too long. And Lucifer is not Dean’s problem, anyway. He’s Sam’s.

“Is he okay?” asks Madison, softly, and Sam is shaken out of the memory – Lucifer coming closer and closer, the clean, enticing smell of him, his words, his – the things he’d put into Sam’s mind -

“Yeah. I guess,” says Sam, sitting up and looking around, checking if they’re still alone.

He’s managed to find the river bank again, and he knows he’s supposed to follow the river upstream if he wants to find the portal, but he’s forgotten where it is, exactly – and he doesn’t know if it will even work, because this time, he actually died. And if there is enough of Azazel’s blood left inside him – that would make him a kind of half-breed (a freak), someone who belongs here. He’d be a sitting duck, in that case - he’d just have to wait for Lucifer to come and kill him, or possess him, or whatever Lucifer wanted from him this time. And Madison would die. Because of him. Again.

“Have you seen any vampires since you’ve been here?”

Madison sits back on her haunches and pushes a strand of loose hair behind her ear.

“Vampires. Of course there’s vampires,” she says under her breath, as if to herself, and then she adds, “You know I can’t remember anything from before I met you,” and Sam’s heart sinks.

“Right. So, we need to find this guy,” he says, because, really, they have no other plan. “His name is Benny Lafitte. He’s a vamp, a pretty powerful one, and he knows how to get out of here.”

“Sounds good,” says Madison, though, of course, she doesn’t sound convinced at all. “How do we find him, though?”

Sam sighs.

“The old-fashioned way, I suppose.”

Ignoring Madison’s confused stare, he roots through the stones around him until he finds a sharp one, and then he passes the edge of it on the palm of his left hand.

Madison gives an involuntary shudder and seems to force her eyes away from the blood.

“Question,” she says, a bit unsteadily. “What if another vampire shows up?”

“We kill him. I guess.”

“Okay. How?”

“Beheading.”

Madison turns a bit pale, but her eyes glitter with determination.

“Okay. And what if nobody shows up? You’re – you’re dead, aren’t you? Aren’t dead people – I mean, according to Anne Rice, anyway.”

And, oh God, she’s right. Dead people are poison to vampires. So this plan went from foolhardy to stupid to ineffective pretty damn fast.

“You’re right,” Sam says. “I’m sorry, I’m not thinking straight. Let’s just – let’s keep walking.”

Sam stands up and forces himself to focus. What the hell is wrong with him? He’s slow. He’s so slow it’s dangerous, and he can’t fix it.

Because, of course, he knows exactly what’s wrong with him.

It’s not the fact that they’ll never get out of here - that Benny could be dead already, that Benny will never find them - is what will happen after. Because Lucifer will find him. And Lucifer will - have him, somehow. Possess him, or use him, or whatever the hell he wants. Sam is not strong enough. He never was. And maybe, just maybe, the time has come to stop to feel guilty about it - Lucifer is an archangel, how could anybody -

But Dean had said no to Michael.

(Michael has not spied on Dean’s dreams, though. Michael is not the Devil, Michael has not spent weeks chatting at Dean and smiling at Dean and promising Dean -)

Sam lets go of Madison’s hand and almost doubles over as a wave of nausea makes his stomach clench.

“There’s something wrong with me,” he manages to say, before falling to his knees.

He’s vaguely aware of Madison kneeling down next to him, and he can feel, only just, her hand in his hair, on his shoulder. And then the forest around him shimmers and all the few colours left in this world blend together into cold grey. Sam tries to breathe and digs his fingers into the soft earth - he needs to remember where he is, he needs to come back - but everything is just gone, is just -

Sam closes his eyes, then, and he thinks about Dean - he remembers, for some reason, the badly wrapped copy of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar Dean had bought, or stolen, for him when Sam was twelve. He’d only just started to learn Latin, and, unlike Dean, he hadn’t been satisfied by the five pages of blessings and curses in their dad’s black notebook. No, Sam had been fascinated by the sound of it - by the clean vowels, by the music they created when words were strung together - he’d started to study Latin on his own, but it was slow work. By Christmas, he was on page 15 of his old grammar, and quickly losing heart. And then he’d opened the package (it was clowns on the wrapping papers, because God, Dean could be such a dick about it) and found the book - an unusual choice of gift in itself - had looked up at his brother, and Dean had shrugged.

“The movie was okay,” he’d mumbled, but Sam had been -

Because John had not noticed. Not that he would have supported Sam’s choice if he had noticed (perhaps because he’d have recognized for what it was: a desperate attempt to get out), but still.

But Dean had seen Sam’s eyes shine with pleasure, and then glaze over as he fought to ignore everything else (the seedy motel rooms; the handful of dog-eared books; the oversized clothes) to focus on grammar tables in the dim brightness of the Impala's lights. Dean had understood how important this was to Sam, and Dean had encouraged him. Despite his dislike for school and his mistrust of books, Dean had been the one to introduce Sam to Shakespeare, to read the Julius Caesar with his little brother, night after night, cursing at the flowery language, and then getting endearingly addicted to it as it opened and budded and started to make sense.

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.

“Are you -”

It’s Madison’s voice, and Sam can hear it, barely; what snaps it into focus is a second voice, deeper and farther away.

“What the fuck are you doing back here?”

The speaker is not unfriendly. He sounds curious, if anything, and Sam wishes he could stand up and hug the guy, because this is Benny, of course it’s Benny, Sam would recognize his Southern rasp anywhere.

Thank God.

“How - how did you find me?” he says, pressing a hand on his mouth.

“Sam Winchester. The demon boy. I’d know your stench anywhere,” Benny says, but he sounds good-natured enough.

Sam feels Madison’s hand on the small of his back, painting slow, comforting circles on his t-shirt, and he keeps breathing, in and out, forcing the world to take shape around him once more.

“I watched you go through the portal two hours ago. What are you doing back here, kid? And who killed you?” asks Benny, and now he sounds really, really close.

“Are you Benny?” asks Madison. “Benny Lafitte?”

“I didn’t leave today,” says Sam, and then he sighs and sits back, kneeling on the dry grass. “There’s something wrong with this place.”

“Is there now?”

Sam tilts his head back, slowly and carefully, and sees Benny is smiling down at him.

“It wiped your memories,” he insists. “It’s been two years since you got me and Bobby out.”

Benny seems to think it over, then shrugs.

“Doesn’t make no difference to me. What do you want? Another ride up?”

“Yes, only now -”

There’s another bout of nausea, and this time the world doesn’t go gray, it goes white - this time there is a blinding light, a cold sort of love pulsating from the very centre of it - Sam swallows it all down, tries to keep talking.

“- you need to come with us, Benny. You need to get out.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You need to. The archangels, they want -”

“I know. I don’t care. I’m fine with dying.”

Sam shakes his head and gets to his feet.

“No, you’re not. If you’ve seen them and you’re still alive, it means you ran.”

“I didn’t see them, I just -”

Sam looks down at the vampire, waiting for the end of the sentence, but Benny doesn’t say anything else.

“You can’t remember how you know they’re here,” says Madison, stepping closer to Sam, and Benny frowns.

“Doesn’t matter, sweetheart. I’m not still not coming.”

“Look, you don’t know what you’re saying - if you could just remember -”

The world is curling up at the edges again like burning paper, and Sam cannot quite grasp his thoughts any longer - they seem to move inside his brain at will, coming together into new concepts and grand projects and fear and pretty sensible ideas.

“Madison was cured when I kissed her.”

“Sam, I wasn’t -”

“Well, I’m not kissing you.”

“Benny, look, just -”

With a huge sense of misgiving, and yet a God-given certainty he’s doing the right thing, Sam closes the distance between himself and Benny, dips his head forward and kisses Benny on the lips. He barely tastes the vampire (dirt and blood and -) before Benny pushes him away, and Sam stumbles back against Madison. He manages to stay upright, but it’s a very close thing.

“Jesus, kid, how dumb are you?” he says.

“I’m just trying -” starts Sam, and then the world goes white for a second and he doesn’t remember what the ending of his sentence should be.

“Sam, are you -”

“But when I kiss Madison -”

“It doesn’t fix everything, and it’s called the True Love’s Kiss for something. I don’t think we’re quite there yet.”

White. Black. White. Benny’s last words echo around him in fog and shrilly noises. Sam blinks them out of his eyes, and then reaches down, tries to pat Madison’s arm, gets her face instead. Her skin is very, very soft.

“True Love’s Kiss,” Sam says, and he smiles down at her.

He faints before he can see if she’s smiling back.

.:.

When Dean opens his eyes, the portal is the first thing he sees. It glimmers, light blue and eerie, in the very middle of the large clearing in front of him. It looks creepy and out of place and like something Dean truly and honestly never wanted to see again.

Setting his jaw, Dean looks up at the dark sky, and then at the two angels standing on either side of him. So Raguel has brought Cas along for the ride - good for him. Dean glances at Cas - the stony, indifferent expression on his face; the blue of his eyes, perfectly visible despite the gloom - and feels the usual knot of want and worry. Despite himself, he lets his eyes linger on Cas’ lips, thinks about how they felt against his own, too dry and too hot and just plain right, before forcing himself to turn away and face the portal again.

Because nothing has changed, and that will never happen, and Dean must do what he always does - move forward and pretend nothing is actually going on. He once heard somewhere that, as far as this bullshit goes, being a blind, stubborn fucker is actually healthy (fake it until you make it, and all that). Too bad it never worked for him, then. Dean has spent his life pretending that his family is normal. That his job is acceptable and he actually wants to do it. That his unnatural attraction to men (to a certain angel) is just not there. He’s pretended, most of all, that Sam wants to be around him; wants to be like him.

Which, well.

But what else can you do? How is that good to let any of this stuff out - what’s the point about yelling and breaking things and being heard and seen?

And he needs to get his shit together, badly, because this is hardly a priority, now or in the future - people fall for the wrong person every fucking day. If Dean just leaves him alone, Cas will surely forget about him. And even if he doesn’t - well then, Cas can look forward to about fifty years of pining before Dean is (finally) a 100% dead, and Dean isn’t feeling very sympathetic at the moment, because for Cas those fifty years are merely a blink - grains of salt, and all that.

And now Dean is getting angry again, because it’s so fucking unfair - how do they deserve to be immortal, to just go the fuck to sleep and wake up after three thousand years and find all their problems have just gone - really, who the fuck do they think they are - Dean can see every fucking one of those fifty years ahead of him, and it’s going to be pain and regret and guilt every fucking step of the way, and that’s it, he’s going to talk to the fucking guy, he’s going to -

Just as Dean takes half a step towards Cas, the portal flares brighter and Sam stumbles through it, looking pale and haggard but - God - alive.

And then Raguel launches himself at Sam and pushes him back through the portal.

“NO!”

Dean runs after them, but Cas is quicker - Dean fights and yells as he feels the angel grabbing him from behind.

“Let me -”

“Dean -”

For a fleeting moment, the blink of an eye, Dean misses the Mark - remembers how easy it was to turn on Cas, to push him back, to make his vessel bleed and break - and then, before the thought can turn to bile in his mouth, then Sam and Raguel fall through the portal again. Sam looks even paler, but Raguel is downright glowing with power. Without sparing a glance for Dean or Sam or even Cas, he moves his hands upwards, as if preparing to jump, and he disappears.

Dean stares stupidly at the empty space for half a second and then he starts struggling again - this time Cas lets him go, and Dean runs forward, just in time to catch his brother as Sam is about to fall.

“Are you okay? What did he do to you?”

“He cut me -” says Sam, in a drowsy stammer, and he sounds so unlike himself that Dean’s hand moves to his neck on instinct - and finds no heartbeat.

“Raguel simply needed -” starts Cas, from behind him, but Dean cuts him off, low and urgent.

“Sammy’s not - what’s wrong with him?”

“Dean -” says Sam, reaching for Dean, and missing.

“Sam,” says Cas, quietly, “Sam, did Lucifer touch you?”

“Lucifer?”

“He - he -”

Sam’s eyes turn white for a second, and he shudders. He’s leaning more heavily on Dean now, but Dean just takes it. He can carry his little brother; he will carry Sam, in fact, right now, the fuck of of here, because something is really wrong -

“Sam, did Lucifer touch your bare skin?”

“Yes,” says Sam, closing his eyes tight, and Dean closes his arms more firmly around him, because What the hell?, he will fucking end the guy.

“Dean, your brother needs -” starts Cas, and then everything disappears in a flood of light so bright Dean is almost blinded - he turns around with a curse, still keeping Sam upright, and sees Adam - Michael - standing in front of the portal - and he looks - he looks powerful and dangerous and so not like Adam - but before Dean can understand what, exactly, is different about him, Michael creates a ball of flames out of thin air and throws it right at Sam.

Dean pushes his brother to the ground and falls on top of him, but Cas is quicker; he takes one swift, graceful step to the left and comes to stand directly between Sam and Michael. His coat explodes in flames, and then - Dean forces Sam’s head down, because both angels are burning with white light, they are changing - they still look somewhat human, but only just - Dean cradles his brother in his arms, shielding him from the sudden chaos, because this is -

Son on a bitch.

Michael is now as tall as a tree, and still growing - he’s wearing some kind of golden armour, and a sword across his back, but he’s so bright Dean almost can’t see him anymore - heart in his mouth, he looks up at Cas, and for a second he forgets everything else, because Cas - Cas is still standing in front of them, straight-backed and fearless, and he’s full of blue flames and many winged and goddamn beautiful, but he looks as defenceless as a child in front of Michael -

Because Dean has spent his whole life fighting, and he knows losing odds when he sees them. Still, he has no time to wonder why Cas is not using his full powers (he’s about twice as tall as a human being, and goddammit, that makes him pathetically small compared to the archangel looming over him); he has no time to allow the half-formed thought to take shape in his head (this quiet admission that this, right here, is the most amazing thing he’s ever seen in his life, the most amazing thing he will ever see in his life, and that he wants, more than anything, to see Cas’ true face, because the angel is looking away from him, and Dean can’t -); and he has no time to stand up and fight with Cas (he’s not going to allow Cas to die alone, he’s not going to allow Cas to die for Sam - he’s fucking not -). No, all of that is only beginning to come into existence when Dean hears Cas’ true voice, and this time it is not an unbearably loud noise, pressing against his face and nose and ears - this time it is sea currents and music -

“You will not harm Sam Winchester.”

- and definitely not English, Dean can hear the sounds of Enochian in every word - the sharp consonants, vowels like falling summer rain - and yet he understands it, he can feel them deep within himself like drum beats - and then Michael steps forward, draws the gigantic golden sword hanging across his back - Dean is blinded for a second, and when he can see again he watches, with mounting horror, as Michael puts all his weight on his sword, brings it down - and Cas doesn’t move, can’t parry such a lunge - Cas just stands there, and the golden sword gets right through him, comes out on the other side, and stops, the blade covered in shiny silver blood, two inches from Dean’s face.

Cas glows, then, and there is an explosion of white light from him, a noise of thunder and storms - when he opens his eyes again, Dean sees Michael first - he sees Adam sprawled in the grass, two huge, black wings etched on either side of him (sees his face, his eyes glassy, unseeing) - and then he sees Cas, lying face down, the back of his trench coat splashed with red blood -

“Cas?”

Dean gets up, falls down again, crawls to Cas, turns him over. The angel gasps with pain, and then his eyes find Dean’s.

“Cas, hold on, we’ll fix you -”

“Dean -”

His voice is weak and gurgly, has that horrible sound in it, the sound which means Cas’ lungs are full of blood -

“I got you, it’s okay -”

“Yes,” says Cas. “It’s okay.”

He looks at Dean for another second, as focused and intense and puzzled as he used to, and then his eyes roll backward, and Dean suddenly knows -

“No,” he says, “No, no, no -”

He clutches Cas’ body to his chest and looks up, towards what little of the sky he can see through the trees.

“Gabriel,” he yells. “GABRIEL!”