Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run
There's still time to change the road you're on.
And it makes me wonder.

Everything happens very quickly, and yet, not nearly quick enough. The skies remain empty for another agonizing second - Please, Dean yells, still cradling Cas against his chest - and then Gabriel is there, his mouth a tense line of anger and pain, power shining off him like live current.

Without saying a word, he looks around the clearing - sees Adam’s body, the huge black wings scorched on either side of him - sees Sam, who’s now unconscious, and only just breathing - sees Dean cowering like a child in the very centre of the clearing - and then his eyes fall on Cas’ form, still and unmoving, and something seems to soften inside them. He takes a step back, closes his right hand on Sam’s wrist, and then he offers his other hand to Dean, who takes it and clutches it and hopes that this is it - that Gabriel will just fix it - that everything will be -

Colours swing and fade, the trees become translucent, and Dean can suddenly see through them, can see the space around him resolving itself into a familiar room. There is a gasp as the lines unblurry and reality settles again. Gabriel lets go of his hand, and Dean is vaguely aware of someone else coming near him, hears a woman’s voice, from very far away (‘What happened?’), but he can’t spare any attention to it - he glances once, briefly, at his brother, sees Claire and Jesse kneeling beside him, glances away - because everything he is, everything he’s ever going to be it, is focused and sharpened in the body cradled in his arms. Dean tightens his grip, thinks, vaguely, about standing up, getting Cas to a bed or something, but finds he’s unable to move. Cas’ form is heavy and unresponsive in his arms, the familiar, beloved features completely empty, and Dean pushes against the sight, because he can’t bear it, he can’t take it in - a flood of memories crashes down on him - Cas walking into that barn, looking dangerous and hot as fuck and just utterly, completely alien - how natural it had felt to have Cas walk around in his dreams - Cas’ first, broken admission (‘I have doubts.’) - Dean can’t remember a life without Cas in it, and he knows in his gut he won’t survive a life without Cas in it; he understands, in some unclear way, that what he’s doing right now, on his knees on the hard floor, this pain that’s crashing down on him - he knows he’s mourning himself as much as his best friend and guardian angel. He understands, clearly and completely, that his own life is now over, but the gut-wrenching panic which usually comes with that realization - because yes, Dean’s life has been shitty enough that he’s lived through this before, and many times - simply won’t come. Right now, Dean doesn’t care about dying. It doesn’t matter, not when Cas is -

“Move,” says Gabriel, roughly, and the next second, both he and Cas have disappeared.

Dean simply stares at the empty space where Cas used to be, then raises his eyes, sees that there’s actually a lot of people surrounding him - Jody is kneeling in front of him - Jesse has managed to bring Sam up to a sitting position, and Claire is passing her hands on Sam’s face - Donna is standing on the threshold, Hunter in her arms and another child, a little girl, poking her head out from behind her - Dean sees them and yet doesn’t - he scans the room, looking for Gabriel, and when he can’t find him he starts calling the angel’s name, quietly at first, and then in a deeper and deeper growl - he finds himself standing up and almost roaring at the ceiling (‘You come back! Come back, you bastard!’) - before a voice answers inside his head, so loud it leaves Dean’s ears ringing.

I’m upstairs, you moron. Stop yelling.

Dean presses his hands on his forehead, and then he stumbles forward, ignoring Jody’s hands and Donna’s quick, panicked question (“Dean? Dean, what’s going on?”), he climbs the stairs, all the way to the attic and he wrenches the door open -

Gabriel is standing in the centre of the room, looking down at Cas, who’s lying on a ratty old carpet. There is no fireplace up here, no other source of light, but Gabriel is glowing so brightly it doesn’t matter.

“Stand back,” he says, without turning around.

“Can you help him?”

There is a moment of silence - one, two seconds? - which seems to stretch forever.

“No.”

Dean exhales.

“What about Raguel?”

“Raguel will kill him on sight.”

“So he’s not - he’s still -”

“Cas is alive. Or sort of alive, anyway. For now.”

Dean is about to ask what sort of alive even means when the light surrounding Gabriel turns from white to golden to a fiery, dangerous red. The sword flickers into existence across his back, and the blade is bright with angry flames. Gabriel hisses in pain. His right hand raises instinctively towards the hilt, but then, slowly and deliberately, Gabriel brings it down again.

“Get Lucifer’s child,” he says, through gritted teeth.

Dean just stares at him. There are no coherent thoughts left in his brain, not really. He wants to believe in Gabriel’s soft admission (Cas is alive), but this vital, final word is bouncing against the inside of his skull, slowly losing meaning with every repetition. And even if Dean wanted to believe, wanted to have faith in Gabriel (and faith, trust - they don't come easy for him, they go, in fact, against everything he is), even then everything is dulled by the harsh reality of Cas’ body - his body, because that is not Cas, not anymore - looking up at the dark ceiling. And Dean doesn’t understand what Gabriel wants - doesn’t understand why the archangel doesn’t simply heal Cas - didn’t he say it himself, doesn’t he brag, all the fucking time, about how powerful and awesome he is? But this is the thing Dean hates the most about angels: he’s constantly wrong-footed. Werewolves, he gets; vampires, he gets; even demons - after forty years in Hell, he understands them more than enough; not simply how to kill them, that is, but how they think, what they want (except for Crowley, who, well). But angels - since the very beginning, it has been crystal clear that angels have their own agenda, and no matter how much Dean has tried to bring them down to his level - after his little speech to Gabriel in that abandoned warehouse, Dean had drank himself to oblivion for three straight days, because, fuck it, that thing may have been contained by Holy Fire, but all the bullshit Dean had thrown at it - that was bullshit on an epic scale - as if Dean could even begin to understand - he’d just said it because he’s a suicidal douche, and that’s what he does, but the truth was, he’d been scared shitless, because angels, man - he doesn’t understand them, can’t understand them, and even Cas -

(Cas prowling towards him in the dark kitchen, Cas leaning closer and closer to him, until his soft breath had tickled Dean’s ear: ‘I dragged you out of Hell; I can throw you back in.’)

- but he can’t think about Cas right now, he just can’t -

“Please,” he says, forcing the word out, and Gabriel turns to look at him, and there is such rage and pain on his face that Dean unconsciously takes a step back.

“Get - Jesse,” Gabriel repeats, and Dean does what he’s told.

.:.

“Don’t move. I’m going to get him some water.”

Jesse nods, and shifts on his knees until Sam is sitting almost all the way up. Sam’s weight is heavy against his chest, but Jesse doesn’t mind. He looks up at Claire’ retreating back (glances, fleetingly and despite himself, at her bum) and then turns, finds Donna looking at him.

“Don’t think water’s going to do him any good,” she says, in a tense voice.

“Not if we can’t wake him up,” Jesse agrees.

Donna moves forward a bit, takes Claire’s place, passes her fingers, gently, on Sam’s face.

“Sam?” she calls. “Sam, can you hear me?”

For the third time in five minutes, Jesse shifts his right hand over Sam’s chest and looks for a heartbeat. But, well, there isn’t one. He moves his hand again, trying to tell himself that this means nothing, that Sam will be just fine, and has a sudden flash of the first time he saw Sam - Sam had been twice as tall as Jesse, back then, had looked extremely grown-up in his FBI suit, and yet Jesse had sensed something off about him. He hadn’t been old enough to understand guilt and self-hatred back then, so he’d shrugged it off, he’d accepted Sam’s words at face value (‘Hello Jesse. I’m Robert. Nice to meet you.’), basking in the fact an FBI agent would treat him like an equal, and ignoring everything else. And now - now he misses his powers more than ever, because he can’t read Sam, not really - all he has are a few, disconnected details, which he’s been turning over in his mind, which he can’t fit together - Sam’s heart is not beating; there is a deep, ugly cut on his right arm Donna is now inspecting; Sam’s hair is matted and dirty, the hem of his jeans caked with mud, as if he’s been walking outside for days (he was in Purgatory, Dean had said; whatever that means); his skin is almost grey. When he’d first seen him, Jesse had been sure Sam was dead, had felt a bitter taste in his mouth, and an oily tide of panic in his stomach before realizing Sam was only unconscious (because Sam is not breathing, but he does sometimes twitch or mutter in his sleep). So Jesse has taken Sam’s weight and has been waiting for each and every sign of life, because that’s all he can do now (now he’s normal - now he’s weak).

It will be fine, Jesse thinks, for the umpteenth time, but he knows that thinking it and willing it so are two very different things.

There is a noise from upstairs - a door slamming, footsteps on the stairs - Claire reappears in his range of vision, a glass in her hand, just as Dean opens the door behind her.

“Jesse,” he rasps out, and then he sees his brother in Jesse’s arms, seems to remember himself. “How is he?”

“He seems to be dreaming. He’s not breathing, or anything,” Donna says, with a very forced smile, as if this is completely normal. “but he’s been muttering things, so -”

There is no possible ending for that sentence, of course: he will be all right? he will wake up soon? Donna hesitates for a second, then tries to look up at Dean, sees the expression on his face and looks down again, pressing a clean kitchen rag on Sam’s wound.

“Good,” says Dean, roughly. “He will be - Jesse, I need you to come with me.”

Jesse doesn’t ask why. He looks at Claire instead, and she nods, comes closer, and takes Sam’s weight from him, slowly and carefully. The transition is not very smooth - Sam has about 80 pounds on Claire - but she grits her teeth and tries to find a comfortable position, cooing at Sam when he starts to whimper in her arms.

Dean looks even more haggard for a second - he starts to move back towards the door, then seems to reach a decision, comes back.

“Call Crowley,” he says, curtly. “If Sam is awake in there, Crowley can talk to him.”

Jesse is not sure he’s getting this right. Frowning, he looks back at Claire (confused) and Donna (worried) and then at Jody, who’s just come into the room carrying a basket of medical supplies.

“Why can’t Gabriel do that?” she asks.

“Gabriel is busy. And angels can’t -”

Dean doesn’t finish his sentence, but Claire’s face suddenly goes blank.

“You want Crowley to possess him,” she says, neutrally, but Jesse can hear the anger in her voice.

Dean clenches his jaw.

“Just do it,” he says, and then glances at Jesse and walks upstairs again.

“Dean is not -”

Jesse doesn’t catch the ending of Jody’s sentence; he runs after Dean instead, but can barely keep up with him. When he gets to the attic, he finds Dean already on the threshold. Jesse sees Dean’s right hand move to the back of his jeans, looking for a gun that is not there, and for a moment, he is very relieved that Dean is not armed, because he looks completely unhinged.

And then Jesse moves to stand closer to him, and peers inside the cavernous room, and understands why, exactly, Dean looks like that.

Gabriel is standing over Cas’ body, his white wings completely outstretched and as bright as sunlight. His shoulders are heaving rapidly, and the archangel is shaking with - pain, perhaps, or anger, or just bare power; it’s impossible to tell. Jesse looks instinctively for the flaming sword - he still remembers, quite clearly, how the blade was singing for his blood - of course, neither Dean nor Claire could hear that, but Gabriel certainly could, and Jesse had wondered a couple of times since if Gabriel had been in fact acting on his sword’s orders, if that was why he’d come so close to killing Jesse, because angelic weapons are infused with raw Grace, they are forged within it, aren’t they - they are crafted to do the Will of God, and surely God didn’t want someone like Jesse to walk the Earth, didn’t want -

“Ahriman,” says Gabriel, and Jesse’s hair stands up to the word, because this is how Lucifer used to call him - he’d been dreaming about it, heard it in his head for months before Sam and Dean had even found him, and then, of course, then it had all made sense - then he’d understood it, or most of it, anyway, even if he was ten, because it had been in his blood, because Lucifer -

“Ha-elyon,” he replies, without knowing where the term comes from, of what it even means.

“I need you to restrain me,” says Gabriel, after a short pause, and it looks like forcing the words out is causing him physical pain.

“Restrain you?” says Dean, but Jesse ignores him.

“You know I can’t do it,” he says instead. “I don’t have my powers.”

Gabriel shudders, and his wings disappear. Slowly, he turns and looks straight at Jesse.

“I will give them back to you. Just remember I did it willingly.”

There is the hint of a threat there, but Gabriel’s voice does not waver.

“I will restrain you,” Jesse says, “for as long as you wish it to be so.”

“So be it.”

Gabriel moves his hand downwards, a sharp, rapid gesture, and Jesse suddenly feels he can move again - he hadn’t realized, not fully, how heavy the air had been, how difficult to even breathe - unable to stop himself, he laughs, and his laughter dissolves in dozen drops of light which dash around the room, filling it with a warm, golden halo, a sharp contrast to the cold light still emanating from the archangel.

“Jesse -”

This is Dean’s voice, but Jesse ignores it. Focusing on Gabriel, he narrows his eyes, turning his head this way and that until he can see it - until Gabriel becomes two different figures - until there is just a man where the archangel is standing, a slender, unassuming man with badly cut hair - and around this man, completely separate from it, Jesse sees the white light of the angelic presence inside it - he is overwhelmed for a second by the size and brightness of it, but then Gabriel’s words echo inside his head, half plea, half command (Restrain me), and Jesse opens his mouth and breathes in, calling the light to him, feeling it enter his body, inch after inch, and it hurts and burns and at the same time it’s an exhilarating, addictive feeling, because this is divine Grace, and Jesse -

“You alright, buddy?”

Jesse moves his head, finds Dean looking back at him.

“Never been better,” he smiles.

“You look a bit -”

“I’m fine.”

Jesse is young, but he’s been drunk and high and desperately in love; he’s even flown a few times, willing himself inside a raven’s brain, hitching a ride on its black wings; and yet - yet nothing compares to this, to the feeling of the archangel sheathed deep inside him, to the physical presence of the love of God he’s now feeling for the first time, fluttering and glowing around his beating heart.

“Focus, before you kill us all,” says Gabriel, sharply, and Jesse looks around, slowly, to see that the room around them is now a kaleidoscope of colourful patches of light, moving quicker and quicker, twisting and turning -

Enough, he thinks, and with a sweeping gesture, he point upwards at the old-fashioned chandelier. The disconnected lights obey his command, and the chandelier’s bulbs almost shatter in the effort to keep them in.

“Et facta est lux,” he hears Gabriel mutter. “Great.”

And then something collides, hard, with the back of his head, and everything goes black.

.:.

“Yeah, don’t thank me, or anything,” says Dean, looking down at Jesse.

“Why did you do that?”

“I’ve seen what demon blood did to Sam. Trust me, Jesse needs to sleep it off for a few hours,” says Dean letting the empty bottle in his hand fall to the floor. “So, you don’t have your powers anymore, then?”

“No,” says Gabriel, warily. “I am not human, but I’m not - myself either.”

Dean hesitates for a second and sees very plainly on Gabriel’s face that he and the archangel are wondering the same thing; then he shrugs, lets it go.

“And how does that help?”

“You have no idea, have you?”

“I swear, if someone says that to me one more time -”

“Cas killed Michael.”

The sentence hangs in the air for a second, grave, almost portentous, until Dean shakes his head and scoffs.

“Yeah, I know. I was there. So what?”

“So - so what?”

Gabriel turns away from him, takes a step towards Cas’ still figure, then stops. His shoulders slump slightly, and Dean suddenly notices how frail he looks. Without his powers and his wings, Gabriel is way too ordinary, and looks even more fragile and out of place than Cas did when he was human.

“He was my brother, Dean,” Gabriel says, so quietly Dean has to strain his ears to hear him. “He was a dick and a bully, but he was my brother. He’s been my brother for millions of years, and I -”

Gabriel’s voice trails away and is swallowed by the room around them.

I cannot imagine life without him, Dean thinks he hears, but he’s not sure if Gabriel said it out loud, or inside his head, or at all.

Uncomfortable with a conversation that’s hitting him way too close to home, Dean squares his shoulders and frowns.

“We’ve killed angels before,” he says, without fully realizing how harsh that sounds.

“It’s different.”

“How?”

Gabriel bows his head, and then turns, walks towards the door.

“I need a drink,” he says, and almost brushes by Dean on his way out.

“Wait,” says Dean, grabbing his shoulder. “What about Cas?”

Gabriel tries to get free, and his eyes glitter when he realizes he can’t - that Dean is now stronger than he is.

“It’s over. Don’t you understand?”

“Stop saying that to me and fucking explain,” bites back Dean, moving forward, pushing Gabriel against the wall.

Gabriel narrows his eyes, in anger, perhaps; Dean has never learned to read his face, not very well, anyway, because Gabriel has been on Earth long enough to know how to mimic human expressions; to use them and discard them at will.

“You pathetic little creature. There is a balance in this universe, and this balance rests on four points - the four names of God, and the four Archangels who stand before Him. We were willed into existence for this purpose at the very beginning - Michael, Lucifer, Raphael and Gabriel - this is how you chose to call us - ridiculous, childish names - and now - now it is all over.”

Gabriel tries to get free again, and Dean brings up his other hand, presses it on Gabriel’s neck and holds him still.

“Cas killed Raphael ages ago. I don’t remember anyone making a fuss about it back then.”

“Kill -”

Gabriel laughs then, one of his usual laughs, a laugh that’s not a laugh at all.

“- he didn’t kill him - he simply - look, Raphael doesn’t have his powers anymore, okay?, but he’s alive. And when Raguel stepped up from the Shadow, he took his rightful place among us, and we were four again.”

“But why -”

“I told you. The universe needs four Archangels to keep its balance. And we need that balance to finish the spell. So it’s over, Dean. This time it’s really over.”

Gabriel spits the last word at him with such ferocity that Dean lets him go; and then, with a last, contemptuous glance at him, the archangel disappears down the stairs. Dean manages to stay upright for only another second before collapsing against the wall and sliding down to the floor.

.:.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed before there is a knock at the door and Jody pokes her head in.

“We have company,” she says, curtly, her eyes passing from Dean to Jesse and then to Cas.

Dean follows her gaze and grunts.

“Yeah?”

“Crowley is here. And some woman.”

“Who?”

Jody shrugs.

“If you want Crowley to - to help Sam, we need to let him in,” she says, instead of answering his question. “I don’t think I want to move your brother, he looks -”

Dean feels like he’s lived a hundred years of misery since he last spoke to Sam (he remembers how it had felt to put his hands on the wheel of his Baby and to glance at Sam - how it had been like to be able to look at Sam without feeling that sick, primal urge to hurt him, because the Mark was gone and things were going to be alright, or so he'd thought, for a glorious thirty seconds). He doesn’t even have enough strength to feel guilty about not being with Sam right now, and he thinks that perhaps his brother would understand. Because, well, for the last year Sam has been pretty heavy-handed whenever Cas has been mentioned; has implied, several times, that Cas was more than welcome at the bunker, that they could just - and Dean had ignored all of that, because, well. There is nothing he can actually offer Cas, so perhaps it’s a good thing he’s not even allowed to do so. He even wishes, somehow, that he’d known about it earlier; that someone had told him, as soon as Cas had started to talk to him in that too-loud voice that had almost killed Dean, Whatever you do, do not fall in love with the guy.

Too late now.

“I’m coming,” he says, and he remains where he is, his eyes still on Cas.

The angel’s trench coat is slightly singed in the margins, but other than that, his body bears no signs of everything Michael has thrown at him. There isn’t even a wound where Michael’s sword has gone through Cas’ chest - Dean had checked, had opened Cas’ shirt as soon as he’d managed to get to the angel, but the skin was smooth, unbroken.

“We’ll fix it,” says Jody, and Dean feels the warmth of her hand through his hair, and leans into the touch. “Come on, now.”

.:.

“So it’s true, then,” says Crowley, taking in Hannah’s frayed, crumpled look.

Angels can’t cry, not to his knowledge, but her vessel’s eyes still look a bit puffy, as if she’d tried to do so anyway.

“Shut up,” she says, without looking at him.

“I have a right to know. I have as much a stake in this as anyone else.”

“What kind of claim could you ever -”

“Hell needs people, sweetheart. And Hell definitely needs a world which actually functions. A world where I can have a Thai massage and a bottle of Domaine Leroy whenever I choose.”

Hannah scoffs and takes a step to her right, as if she’s not already standing a good twenty feet from Crowley. Angels and their bloody theatrics.

“I can feel it falling apart, brick by brick,” he says, staring at her. “So I ask you again: who will take Michael’s place?”

Hannah remains silent for a full minute, and Crowley is struck again by how wrong she looks. She was never all that good at pretending to be human, but now she’s downright unnatural; her arms too straight, her eyes unnaturally blue, and, oh sister, that poorly cut dress does nothing for her body, like, at all.

“No one is worthy,” she bites back at the end, and Crowley rolls his eyes.

“Worthy - it’s a job, isn’t it? I don’t know why you people always complicate things. What are the requirements? Unshakeable faith in the good Lord, proven military abilities? I’m sure you can find dozens of angels fitting the profile.”

So, great, this time he’s succeeded in making her angry, because she abandons her study of the seemingly uninhabited house to turn towards him.

“You are nothing, and you understand nothing. You should hold your tongue, shedu.”

“Name-calling? Really? How juvenile,” says Crowley, half to himself, and then he raises his voice again. “What about your bestie?”

Hannah doesn’t reply. She now looks so angry her mouth is about to disappear inside her face.

“You know, Castiel?” Crowley insists, almost spelling the name, and his right hand closes around the Akkadian protection charm he keeps in his pocket, because he has this feeling he’s about to be -

“Castiel killed Michael,” spits Hannah.

“To protect an innocent, if the gossip is reliable.”

“An innocent! Sam Winchester is hardly innocent.”

“Look, he has a crappy haircut, that’s true, but his soul is untarnished, as you well know. And he is still Lucifer’s vessel.”

Hannah actually scoffs at that.

“Hey, I’m just pointing it out. I thought you guys were sticklers for tradition.”

“There is nothing worth fighting for. Not anymore.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Without Michael -”

“Michael was a cock and a moron. Just give the job to -”

“Even if we could, he has no right to it.”

“He killed Michael - he won the position, fair and square.”

“That’s not how -”

Hannah is so outraged she can’t even finish her sentence, and Crowley takes advantage of it to step closer to her.

“Listen to me, now. I know what your boss is trying to do, and I know what he needs. That little experiment of his will go nowhere unless I help him out. And I’m perfectly willing to do so because I’m nice and I don’t like living in a nuclear WASTELAND,” he almost shouts, gesturing at the valley around them and at the dark, empty sky. “Castiel has been killed at least twice, and yet he’s never died. I would say that’s a pretty big hint that Someone likes him. And need I remind you that he rescued Dean Winchester from Hell?”

Crowley takes another step forward, and now he’s close enough to smell the cheap perfume that still clings to Hannah’s vessel.

“I can guarantee you - that would not have happened without a generous push from upstairs, dove. How many angels had tried and failed? Alastair was keeping count, Lucifer bless his dead black heart. It was seventy-two, Hannah. All of them seraphim and ophanim - all of them loyal and capable soldiers. And yet God,” he adds, lowering his voice to a growl, “chose to let them die. Chose to help Castiel instead. Now, you think on that, and you talk to your boss about it. Let’s work for the common good for bloody once.”

Hannah’s expression has not changed, but before Crowley can blink, she has disappeared: whoever sent her has now summoned her back. Which means Crowley’s message has been heard.

Crowley breathes out, his fingers contracting on the charm, and then he smiles.

“Anyone home?” he yells, looking at the house. “Hello? I’m freezing my balls off, out here.”

.:.

Dean is finally about to follow Jody downstairs - he heard the front door open and close, which means someone is now talking to Crowley, probably inviting him in, and that sounds like the kind of situation which needs supervision - when Jesse stirs.

“Ouch,” he says, passing his hand on the back of his head; and then his fingers glow, light blue, for only a second, and Jesse sighs and sits up. “Was that really necessary?” he adds, looking at Dean.

“Dude. You were breathing out green light.”

“Was I?”

“Yeah. And it’s not what I call being in control. How are you feeling now?”

Jesse frowns, looks from Dean to Cas, then back again.

“I’m fine. What about you?”

Dean relaxes his head against the wall again.

“Been better.”

“He’s not dead, you know,” says Jesse, a bit diffidently, and Dean closes his eyes.

“He’s - it’s like he’s sleeping, Dean,” Jesse adds, more gently, after a long stretch of silence.

“Gabriel said -” starts Dean, and then he sighs, opens his eyes. “Never mind. We should join the others.”

“Okay.”

Jesse stands up and brushes dust off his jeans, and then he waits for Dean, all quiet and polite, as if he isn’t the freaking Antichrist; as if he hasn’t just eaten Gabriel’s soul, or whatever the hell just happened. Dean doesn’t understand any of it, not anymore.

As he stands up, he glances at Cas again, at loathe to leave him behind, and a sudden thought flashes through his brain.

“You said he’s sleeping,” he says, grabbing a sleeve of Jesse’s hoodie as the boy crosses the threshold. “Does that mean he’s dreaming?”

Jesse looks back at him, and then at Cas, a focused expression on his thin face.

“Sort of,” he says, slowly. “Angels do not exactly dream, but a part of him seems to be awake.”

“Can you send me to him?” asks Dean, his fingers tightening on the cheap fabric.

“What?”

“Cas used to - he walked in my dreams, a couple of times. Can you send me inside his dreams? Is it possible?”

Jesse seems equally scared and fascinated by the concept.

“In theory, yes,” he frowns, “but Dean -”

“Great. Do it.”

“Dean, our dreams are just - it’s still us, we’re still human, and it’s not - I have no idea about what’s going on in the angel’s head.”

“I don’t care,” says Dean, because he doesn’t, because if he can just speak to Cas, if he can just find out what’s going on, then surely -

“Dean - I’m saying his dreams could be emptiness, or could be about things we’re not supposed to see - God, for instance - it’s also possible angels don’t dream in images at all, but sounds and light - anything too loud or too bright -”

“I don’t bloody care -”

“I’m saying you could die in there.”

“And I’m saying I don’t care.”

Jesse bites his lower lip and looks at Dean - really looks at him, Dean can feel the weight of Jesse’s stare against his skin, all the way down to his heart - he feels himself blushing, but doesn’t look away. Jesse can think whatever he wants as long as he bloody sends Dean in -

There are voices coming from downstairs now. Dean can recognise, only barely, Donna’s forced cheer, and then Crowley’s polished vowels. He reaches out, grabs Jesse’s wrist.

“Please,” he says, and there was a sentence which came after that, but it remains stuck in his throat, as it always does.

Jesse still looks uncertain, but he finally nods.

“Whatever you find in there,” he says, walking back to Cas, kneeling next to his still form, “it’s likely to be the centre of his - of whatever it makes him him. If he is dying, there are probably parts of him which don’t -”

He stops, frowns.

“Just don’t be surprised if he doesn’t remember stuff, you know. The Castiel that’s still in there is not the one you’re familiar with. You’ll probably not recognize him at all,” he adds, and Dean understands this is Jesse’s last attempt to talk him out of a foolish and dangerous idea.

“I’ll recognize him,” he says, closing his fingers around Cas’, moving his thumb, very lightly, on Cas’ skin.

And then Jesse touches him, and everything explodes in a rainbow of bright pink light.