Archive of Our Own

December 30^th, 2011

Green Lake , Minnesota

“Ha-ha! Gotcha, fugly!”

            Dean pinned the writhing fish on the dock with his knees clamped around its huge slippery sides, and shoved the stick of dynamite down its throat. “Better get clear!” He shouted just as Reggie and Sam dove for cover in the thick bushes beside the lake. Dean straddled the fish until he felt it swallow; then he let loose and flung himself sideways, rolling across the caving wooden planks as the fish—easily as big as he was with a huge mouth full of dagger-sharp teeth—took the plunge back into the water.

            Dean scrambled onto his feet and started running, flagging Reggie down when the guy picked his head up for a peek. “Down! Get down!”

            A massive explosion cannoned several tons of water sky-high. Dean leaped and rolled into the bushes, barely missing the sick wet spatter of water and fish entrails on his surroundings. Tangled up in the undergrowth, he waited for the shower to stop before he could even think about crawling out.

            When he finally did—mud splattered, thorns from that stupid bush embedded into the skin on his arms—he had to dodge a pile of ripe fish that had a couple teeth swimming in it.

            “Unless this thing is the T-One-Thousand, I don’t think he’s gonna be a problem anymore, Reg.” Dean said, hauling to his feet and wiping his hands on the thighs of his jeans. Reggie got shakily to his feet, adjusting the Wildlife Preserve cap on his balding head. His blue eyes squinted in a sun-crinkled face.

            “That’s it, boys?”

            “Lake monsters come in all kinds of shapes and sizes.” Sam said. “Not all of them need some sort of ancient weapon to be killed.”

            Reggie pulled off his cap and scratched his head. “Well, I’m grateful. Just wish I’d’ve thought to call you sooner. Had your number the whole time, from that haunting up at the cabins a few years back.” He shook his head. “Could’ve saved a few lives.”

            “Big lake. There was no way you coulda known what was out there.” Dean said.

            “Doesn’t make a man’s job any easier.” Reggie tugged his cap back on. “New Year’s Eve. You boys headin’ anyplace special?”

            Dean glanced at Sam, who was staring determinedly out over the lake. Dean shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “Ah, you know how it is. Work never sleeps, right?”

            “That’s right.” Reggie nodded. “You boys wanna stay for dinner?”

            Dean perked up. “Well, if you’re offer—”

            “We need to go.” Sam said, quiet but firm, gaze still pinned on the lake.

            Reggie looked at Dean, who wrestled down his anger and pinned on a smile. “Yeah, he’s right. We got somethin’ we gotta take care of.”

            Reggie shook their hands. “You boys stay safe, now. And we’ll get this mess cleaned up, don’t you worry. Far as any folks’ll know, it was a water snake.”

            “Anaconda?” Dean teased.

            “I’d play a mighty convincing John Voight, eh?” Reggie smiled and stepped back. “Happy New Year, boys!”

            “Yeah, same to you.” Dean kept that smile in place as he and Sam rounded the lake and walked back to the Impala, parked on its edge. They got in and pulled out, heading east, for no good reason other than that was where Dean felt like going. But inside he was raging; he was pissed.

            Vermilion had been almost a week ago. In terms of Winchester warfare, this one was going in the books.

            Sam and Dean hadn’t said a word to each other since Sam had sobered up off the sleeping pills. Thank God it hadn’t become an addiction—mostly because Dean was keeping hawk eyes on Sam and going through his stuff whenever he was sleeping. Which wasn’t that often, anymore. Maybe forty-five minutes at a time, every few hours. They’d had a decent break from Christmas until Reggie Bay had called them up to Minnesota to handle a lake monster that was out of control, two days ago.

            Dean wasn’t some bookwhiz, but he knew a couple words for how their wheels had turned during the case: stiff, awkward, jittery, it just plain sucked. They’d been tripping each other up all weekend, and Dean was sick of it. Sam kept undercutting him and Dean kept kowtowing to keep the peace.

            The part that made it all burn under his skin was that he wanted to help Sam. He did. He wasn’t that heavy of a sleeper himself, he heard the kid tossing and turning and waking up a hundred times a night, sounding like he’d been running a freaking marathon. He knew Sam had been telling him the truth in Ohio when he’d said the wall was crumbling and he was getting a good look at Hell, at what his shell-body had been doing topside all that time. And Lucifer. He could tell just by looking at Sam that that part wasn’t going away; Sam wouldn’t look in mirrors or reflections anymore. Just kept his head down and didn’t say anything.

            Dean’s phone rang, cutting the quiet. He grabbed for the opportunity to talk to someone, and connected the call. “Bobby?”

            A pause. “Boy, last time you sounded that happy to see me, you’d just crawled your way up out’ve a pine box.”

            “Sure feels like a grave in here.” Dean jabbed, glancing at Sam. He saw his brother bristle up, but Sam ignored him.

            “What’d you boys get into now?”

            “Nothin’.” Dean fixed his eyes out the windshield. “Tell me you got a case.”

            More silence. “Yep. Motor out to my place, kid. I’ll fill ya in.”

            Dean disconnected the call, tossed the phone onto the seat and did a U-Turn, heading west. He felt Sam’s glare fixed on him as the maneuver pinned him up against the shotgun door. Dean pulled half a smile.

            They headed out for Sioux Falls.

            Bobby’s place was cold, quiet, snowy, and the kind of sane familiar that Dean was looking for. The knot in his chest loosened the minute they pulled through those front gates; he slumped back against the seat and breathed out, long and slow.

            They parked beside the house and got out, heading inside without a word to one another and without knocking, either. Dean had stopped announcing himself at Bobby’s when he was fifteen.

            The whole place smelled—huh. Pretty good, actually. Usually it was dusty and sort of moldy. Now it was actually warm. And…pie. Dean smelled pie.

            He made a beeline for the kitchen.

            Yep, pie. Three pies, to be exact, lined up on the counter like soldiers. And Bobby was sitting in a study that was actually kind of organized.

            “You get a maid?” Dean asked.

            “Bite me.” Bobby slapped a book shut. “It’s the holiday season, can’t a man have a little Christmas cheer without getting’ his head bit off?”

            “As long as I get some pie.” Dean walked over and gave the pies a sniff: blueberry, apple, peach. Coulda been Heaven, Hell and Purgatory and he’d still bite.

Bobby appeared behind him, elbowing him hard. “Keep your shnoz outta the food, idjit.”

            “The hell is a shnoz?” Dean muttered, rubbing his side.

            “Hey, Sam.” Bobby ignored the question and nodded as Sam walked in, looking huge and awkward standing in the doorway.

            “Bobby.” He replied solemnly. Dean rolled his eyes.

            “So, what’s the case?” He asked as Bobby pulled another pie out of the oven. Dean’s stomach was trying to claw its way out and get at the food.

            “The case?” Bobby echoed sharply. “The case here is how you two idjits ended up on opposite sides of the line again!”

            Dean straightened up, pie sidelined. “Whoa, hey, Bobby.” He forced a laugh. “Who says we’re—?”

            “Don’t pull that dewy-eyed crap on me, Dean, I’ve seen it all before.” Bobby said furiously. “Heard it in your voice soon as you picked up that phone. You know, you get this whiny, angsty tone in your voice whenever he,” He jerked his head at Sam. “Is pissing you off.”

            “Bobby—” Sam leaned forward.

            “Hang on a second.” Dean cut him off coldly. “Bobby, Sam and I fight, okay? I mean, we fight, a lot.” He shook his head. “Why the sudden interest?”

            “We can’t afford your fights, Dean!” Bobby snapped. “In case you didn’t notice, we’re the front line, here! We’re the ones fighting back. We’re all the humans got between their sorry, ignorant asses and whatever Purgatory threw up! I’m goin’ through every contact I got trying to find out who that girl was that called you, rippin’ apart all the books trying to find out what big monster slipped the pit when it was open. So if you two got problems, boo-hoo! Sack up, duke it out, and get your heads on straight! This whole, ‘he stole my cookie, he stole my thunder, I want out, I don’t wanna hunt with you anymore’—that crap stops, right here, right now. Understand me?”

            Sam shifted from foot to foot, looking like the kid who’d got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

            “Boy, you better answer me!” Bobby snarled.

            “I hear you.” Dean muttered.

            “Good.” Bobby clapped Dean on the side of the arm and pointed to the pantry behind him. “Now, you two suit up.”

            “Suit up?” Dean glanced wide-eyed at Sam. For the first time it struck him as weird that they were even here. Where there was pie. “Wait a second. Bobby, what’s goin’ on, here?”

            “Mighta escaped your notice, but you boys missed Christmas.” Bobby pulled out that condescending tone that always made Dean feel like he was five. “So this is how we’re celebratin’. You gonna make the old man do all the cooking?”

            “Sorry, I don’t feel much like celebrating.” Dean said stiffly.

            “Well, buck up, ’cause that’s what we’re doing.” Bobby grabbed his ‘Kiss Me I’m A Cook’ apron off the hook on the wall. “Called in a few favors for ya. So for the next—ten hours—let’s pretend we don’t all wanna kill each other.”

            Dean looked at Sam, torn, then at the door. Figured he probably couldn’t make it to the door before Bobby pulled a tranquilizer gun out of his ass, and Dean sure as hell didn’t want to spend New Year’s—better known as National Drunken Party Night—stone-cold out of it in the panic room.

            “Still got that old AC/DC vinyl in here somewhere?” Dean asked, walking into the study and rifling through a pile of old records on the bottom of the bookshelf.

            “If you wanna kill the mood.”

            “Believe me, no mood in here worth saving.” Dean said under his breath. He straightened up and pointed at Bobby. “No aprons.”

            Bobby shrugged.

            Dean dropped his arm and sighed, dug up the vinyl and put it on Bobby’s old turntable, then walked back into the kitchen rolling up his sleeves. “All right, Ramses, put me to work.”

            “Ramses as in the pharaoh? Or Gordon Ramsey?” Sam asked.

            “What, they’re different guys?”

            Sam cracked a reluctant smile, and Dean got the weird feeling he might not die from this after all.

            Dean wasn’t a cook. He’d known that most of his life. Sure, he could heat up a can of pork-and-beans, if he followed the directions to the letter. Lisa had taught him how to make eggs like a pro—after about a hundred failed tries and one ruined skillet. Hunting for a good cheeseburger—now, that was more up his alley. He could conquer a whole platter of those things, no problem. But he was good at two things: wielding knives, and measuring in his head.

            So chopping was pretty much his thing.

            He had no idea what the hell it was Bobby was making, but after fifteen minutes the place started smelling fancy. “Highway to Hell” in the background, Bobby and Sam joking around about whatever they were throwing into that witch cauldron on the stove. Smelled so damned good Dean wouldn’t be surprised if Bobby was working some voodoo over there.

            It was—all right, it was pretty domestic. Maybe a little corny. But now that Dean thought about it this wasn’t half bad. After Vermilion—and John, who they hadn’t heard from since Dean had let him walk away—they needed something like this. Something stupid and kinda like a family.

            It hit Dean right in that spot that was missing Lisa and Ben so bad it hurt. He’d only had one chance at Christmas with them, and he’d spent half of it wasted, thinking about Sam. But the parts he remembered had been pretty good. Lisa curled up under his arm, Ben sitting on the floor playing some new video game his mom had gotten him for Christmas.

            Dean had been sort of torn between two worlds: that Christmas and the last one he’d actually had a chance to celebrate, drinking warm eggnog in a motel room, watching a game with his brother.

            Man, Christmas sucked.

            “Hurry it up, woulda ya? We’ll all be on disability before you get that thing finished.” Bobby chided.

            “Gimmie a break, this stuff’s art. All right?” Dean lobbed the end of the onion at Bobby, bouncing it off his shoulder, and Bobby gave him the look that meant Dean was taking one step too far into being goofy. Next one would get his ass spanked with a wooden spoon.

            “Dean, come on!” Sam laughed suddenly, shouldering him aside and grabbing a handful of onion. “You’ll be in a nursing home before you’re done with that.”

            Dean looked at him, not really sure if Sam was trying to make peace here.

            Then he figured, what the hell.

            “Dude. You’re too sensitive to chop onions.” Dean pointed the knife at him. “Every time you gotta cut one up you start cryin’.”

            “It’s acid, Dean. I’m not emotional.”

            “Yeah, sure.”

            Sam picked up the bag of flour from the counter. “I will throw this at you.”

            Dean spread his arms with a smirk. “Bring it on, little brother!”

            “What, are you boys five again?” Bobby snapped. “Don’t go messin’ up my house, you hear me? Sam!”

            “I’m not bluffing, Dean!”

            “Dude, which one of us has the knife?” Dean waved it through the air. “Gimmie the flour or I’ll shred your shirt.”

            “Crap!” Sam took off running and Dean was right behind him.

            “You gotta be kiddin’ me!” Bobby stormed after them. “You boys, get back here! Damned food’s gonna burn!”

            Dean winged around the corner and caught up to Sam at the foot of the staircase, made a grab and missed him. Sam leaped up the steps two at a time, hit the top of the staircase, and kept going.

            “Son of a bitch!” Dean panted out a laugh. “Sam!” He got to the hallway and slammed on the breaks. “Whoa! Holy—crap!”

            There were five huge guys standing in the middle of the hallway between him and Sam. He didn’t recognize—okay, scratch that. He knew that nerdy one in the front.

            “Dean?” Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Why are you chasing your brother?” He looked over his shoulder at Sam. “And why is he carrying a bag of flour?”

            Dean hunched over, panting, hands on knees. “Cass, what are you doing here and who are these chuckleheads?”

            “These?” Castiel glanced at the guys behind him. “These are my supporters.”

            “Supporters?” That voice was definitely not a guy’s. “I thought you considered them your friends, Castiel.”

            Yep, definitely a girl; she stepped out from in between the guys and Dean did a double-take. He’d seen hot angels before—Anna—but this girl was smoking. Dark hair, curvy in the right places. Big eyes, nice lips. Definitely his type.

            And giving him a look like she wanted to skewer him.

            Dean snapped his jaw shut and straightened up, putting on a grin. “Don’t think I’ve met you, sweetheart.”

            “This is Ciel.” Castiel said. “I suppose you could call her my wingman.”

            “Hm. Sounds pretty important.” Dean said. “So how’d you end up working for our buddy Cass over here?”

            “Raphael made the mistake of being my enemy.” Ciel said. “Castiel, are you going to introduce the others?”

            “Their names are not of import.” Castiel waved a hand. “I doubt you could pronounce them, in any case.”

            “Dean?” Bobby stomped up the stairs, butting in at the perfect time. “Who’re you—?” He stopped. “Ever heard of usin’ a door when a man invites you into his house? And who the hell are they?”

            “You invited him?” Dean demanded.

            “He said it was an affair of some importance.” Castiel looked at Sam again, who hadn’t moved. “Though how it involves a bag of flour is rather uncertain at the moment.”

            “Belated Christmas party.” Bobby came to stand beside Dean. “Figured you could use some time off, didn’t plan on you bringin’ the whole damn brigade into my house, ya idjit!”

            “My apologies. I can dismiss them, if you wish.”

            “Castiel!” Ciel snapped. “That would be rude.” She smiled at Bobby. “Please. We’re sorry to intrude. But I smell something delicious. Is that pineapple?”

            “Gotta baste a ham somehow.” Bobby grumbled.

            “My human vessel was a vegetarian.” Ciel patted her stomach and laughed. “I think I could swing a bit of that pineapple, if you have any left.”

            Bobby looked wide-eyed at Dean, then shrugged. “Might as well.”

             “Excellent!” Ciel motioned for the other angels to follow her downstairs and they did. The minute they were gone, Sam set down the bag of flour and joined Castiel and Dean.

“What’s going on, Cass?”

                        Castiel’s mask of calm dropped. “These are not just my supporters. They’re the most powerful, influential angels in the garrison. They’ve been following me for some time—studying me. Deciding if their loyalties truly lie with me. They’re outspoken against Raphael, but make no mistake—they’re here to test me. And what better way than through the humans I am affiliated with.”

            “So this is an angel interview?” Dean demanded.

            “Yes. But not for myself.” Castiel looked from Dean to Sam and back again. “For the two of you.”

            “Why us?” Sam asked.

            “It’s not…” Castiel broke off with a sigh of frustration. “It’s a well-known fact in Heaven that I have a bond with the humans. With you two in particular. It makes many of my brothers uncomfortable. I suspect Ciel is—a mole, as you would call it. Planted by the greater angels to learn what my intentions are.”

            “So you want us to put in a good word for you, is that it?” Dean rubbed his face with both hands.

            “It would be beneficial for us both if you did.”

            “Awesome.” Dean dropped his hands and glared at Castiel. “You crash our Christmas party and bring a whole new bag of dicks with you.”

            “I wish I could have come alone.” Castiel replied quietly. “I enjoy your human festivities, more than you can imagine.”

            Something downstairs clattered and crashed, followed by an outbreak of laughter. Dean swung toward the top of the stairs and Castiel grabbed his arm.

            “Dean.” He said quietly. “This is a crucial night for me. Be on your best behavior, if at all possible.”

            Angels fresh in their meat-suits had one thing going for them: they were still a little bit human.

            It was a lot of Bobby, a lot of good food around a card table in the study, and a little bit of Ciel and Castiel keeping the peace, but somehow things actually worked out. Not only that, but Rufus dropped by, which added a kind of funny spin to everything. Dean caught a couple angels smiling at some point or another and none of them turned down the food—which was the best damned thing he’d eaten in months. Food tasted a lot better when it wasn’t cold, reheated or drowned in grease.

            Things were pretty strained, though, under the surface. Castiel kept flashing panicked looks at Dean every five minutes, the angels were glaring daggers at Sam and Dean, and Bobby’s jokes started falling flat after Rufus bugged out. Dean hustled to the fridge for a beer right after dinner and spent more time than he really needed to staring inside, imagining dousing the whole place in Holy Oil and lighting it up.

            He grabbed a beer, turned around and smacked into Ciel.

            “Geeze!” He snapped. “Watch it!”

            “Your reflexes are terrible.” Ciel put a steadying hand on his arm. “What are you drinking, Dean?”

            “Beer.” Dean slouched back against the counter.

            “I’m unfamiliar with it.” Ciel snatched the bottle out of his hand, took a drink and smacked her lips, handing it back to him. “Mmm. It’s strong.”

            “What is it with you angels and personal space?” Dean muttered, wiping off the lip of the bottle and taking a swig. Ciel leaned her shoulder against his and cocked out her hip, bumping him sideways.

            “I guess we don’t really see the point. Heaven is so crowded, we’re used to running into each other all the time.” She shrugged.

            “Yeah.” Dean sighed. “All right, sweetheart, let’s cut the crap. What do you wanna know about Cass?”

            Ciel’s eyes slid sideways, then snapped back to him. “He’s an angel.”

            “Glad you noticed.”

            “A good one.”

            “He thinks so.”

            “How long have you known—?”

            “Couple years.”

            “He saved your life?”

            Dean held up two fingers. “Twice.”

            “But you treat him like dirt.”

            Dean pursed his lips and shrugged. “It’s part of my charm.”

            “Does he think so?”

            Dean leaned over her, resting his hand on the fridge behind her head. “Why don’t you go ask him?”

            Ciel smirked, looking away again. “He’s looking to be the next archangel, Dean. Do you have any idea what that means?”

            “He’s gonna be a serious douchebag?”

            Ciel looked back at him, expression hardening. “He’ll become powerful, more powerful than any other angel that’s left. And he’ll have to pin his loyalties on Heaven. Not on the humans. Not on you.”

            “My heart’s breaking.” Dean said flatly.

            “You’ll lose your friend.”

            “That’s the thing, y’know, Cass is his own feathery freak. I’m not his biggest fan, he’s not mine. He can do whatever the hell he wants.”

            “Really? Because I heard you consider him a part of this family.” She nodded to the study, where dinner was winding down.

            Dean licked his lips, swallowed, and smirked, changing gears. “Heard he saved your ass in a fight a few weeks back.”

            Ciel’s eyes hardened. “That’s none of your business.”

            “How about we be honest? You wanna follow Cass, follow him. You wanna kiss ass with your superiors, do it. But my experience? Nothin’ good comes outta walkin’ on the fence. Sooner or later, someone’s gonna push you over.” He shrugged. “Might as well make the jump while you still got a choice.”

            “Wow. Inspirational.” Ciel sneered.

            “I’m not some stupid, lower life form, all right? I can see right through that dark curly head’a yours. I’m gonna tell you the same thing I told all your dick brothers, and maybe you’ve got the brains to listen.” He slid his hand higher up on the fridge behind her. “Be your own man.”

            Ciel blinked up at him, then ducked under his arm and headed back to the study. Dean looked over his shoulder, watching her go, and caught Castiel’s eyes. He got that panicked look again. Dean looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes.

            Punched the door out of his way on his way out.

            Dean drove the Impala into the middle of the salvage yard and parked her. Not that it’d do much good if an angel came looking for him. Even with his bone tats still on, it wasn’t like he was that hard to find. But it was the thought that counted, and illusion was pretty much bliss. Dean turned on the radio and found a station playing some good sad strains off of a Blind Faith song. With an ironic smile, he climbed out, hopped up on the hood, boots on the front bumper, and stared up at the stars.

            Christmas parties for normal families probably weren’t like this. They probably didn’t get gate-crashed by CEO angels. Then again, normal families weren’t made up of a town drunk, high-school dropout, old vessel of Lucifer’s and an ass with wings. That was just how lucky Dean was.

            He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck and sighed.

            Boots crunched through gravel, but Dean didn’t look up; wasn’t Castiel, he wouldn’t make that much noise. Bobby would make more.

            “Hey.” Sam said quietly.

            “Hey, yourself.” Dean didn’t look at him; wasn’t really sure what to do or say. The song coming through the car’s open windows segued into something by Mumford and Sons. Sam stopped beside the car, hands deep in his pockets, blowing out a steamy breath into the frigid air.

            “Mind if I sit?” He asked.

            “Free country.” Dean scooted over and Sam hopped up on the hood beside him, leaning back against the windshield. Dean looked at him sideways, then took a swig of the beer and passed it to him.

            “Thanks.” Sam drank and handed it back. “When are we gonna talk?”

            “’Bout what?”

            “About…Vermilion?”

            “Not much to talk about.” Dean said—which was a flat-out lie. But he didn’t really know what he was supposed to say. Like anything would explain it. Like Sam could make it right. Or Dean could.

            “Okay.” Sam said. There was a silence; then he shifted, sinking back further against the windshield. “I’m going to Memphis.”

            “Memphis?”

            “Alone.”

            “What? Sam, what are you—?” Dean twisted around to look at him.

            “Something came up.” Sam said. “There’s something I need to check out. And I need to go by myself, Dean.” His expression was stone-solid, but his eyes were glimmering. Same look he got whenever he was trying to hold it together. “You need to let me go.”

            “Last time I did that, you ended up in Hell, Sam.”

            “This isn’t a suicide mission.” Sam insisted. “It’s just,” He shrugged. “It’s something I need to do. All right?”

            Dean felt something sour sludging up in his gut. Something telling him this was a bad idea, the worst one they’d had in a while. “What’s in Memphis?”

            Sam stayed quiet for a minute. “I’m not sure yet.”

            Dean shook his head. “I don’t like it, Sam. I don’t think you should go.”

            “Dean, I have to. It’s killing me. I need to go back.”

            “Back?” Dean echoed sharply, and Sam looked away. “This about something you’re remembering, Sam?”

            “Maybe.” Sam gave him a challenging look. Daring Dean to say something.

            “Dude. I’m coming with. That’s it. You are not doing this one alone.”

            “It’s not your choice, Dean!” Sam sat up a little, glaring at him. “This is my fight, all right? It’s my life.”

            “Doesn’t mean I can’t fight it with you.”

            “Yes, it does.” Sam insisted. “This time, it does.”

            Dean looked back up at the stars. “Look, I’m not a psychic, that’s…that’s your thing. But I gotta really, really bad feeling about this.” Dean looked over his shoulder. “Don’t go, Sam. I’m askin’ you, as your brother…as someone who cares a helluva lot about you. Stick around or let me come with.”

            Sam’s gaze softened. “Dean. You know I’d do anything for you. Right? But this…this is bigger than the two of us. I can feel it. I have to go, or it’s gonna eat me alive. I can’t live with that.”

            Dean closed his eyes and tucked his head down. “I’m tellin’ you, Sam—”

            “Dean, please. Just…promise you won’t follow me.”

            Dean straightened and chucked the bottle out into the sea of cars. “Yeah. I’ll stick around, see what I can dig up for a case.”

            Sam let out a slow breath. “Thanks.”

            “Eh, don’t thank me.” He hung his wrists on his knees. “So, when are you takin’ off? Any ideas?”

            “Well, as soon as Bobby can lend me a car. Tomorrow, maybe?”

            “When were you plannin’ on tellin’ me this?” Dean demanded.

            Sam’s silence told him enough: he hadn’t been planning to at all. Sam had been planning on ditching him in the middle of the night and running.

            “Look, Dean.” Sam said. “I just think that…you know, after Ohio…maybe we need to work separate cases for a while. Figure things out. We’ve been butting heads since I came back, and I know that. I don’t even feel right in my own skin. And I can tell you don’t feel right in yours, either. Maybe it’s better if we just take a step back and start over.”

            “Yeah.” Dean said shortly. “Maybe.”

            Sam scooted forward to sit beside him on the edge of the hood, digging into his pocket. “I was packing my stuff up, and, I found this.” He pulled something out and held it toward Dean. “I had it the whole time after I came back, I guess I just…never figured you’d want it after what happened.”

            Stock-still, Dean stared at the amulet in Sam’s hand.

            “Son of a bitch,” He murmured. “You grabbed it outta that trash can?”

            Sam nodded. “I was gonna give it back to Bobby, but, uh…I couldn’t do it.”

            Dean met Sam’s eyes. “You know why I tossed the thing, right?”

            Sam’s mouth quirked into a sad smile on one side. “Yeah, I know. Trying to let go of everything so you could say yes to Michael.” Sam dropped the amulet into Dean’s hand. “It’s not for finding God, Dean. It’s something else. Y’know?”

            Dean slipped the amulet over his head, that familiar weight sitting right over his heart. Man, that thing had felt his heartbeat through everything: terror, happiness, sex, love, loss. Hell. Heaven. Sitting right there, right where it was supposed to be. Right back where it was supposed to be. “Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

            He couldn’t see Sam’s smile, but hell if he didn’t feel it. “Happy New Year, Dean.” Sam shifted. “Got any resolutions?”

            “Yeah.” Dean stretched. “Neither one of us dies this year.”

            Sam laughed quietly. “That’d definitely be new.”

            “I’m serious, man.”

            “I’ll do my best.”

            “You better.”

            Everything was quiet after that—angels in the house, and Sam and Dean lost in the middle of the salvage yard, just like old times.

Watching the stars without saying a word.

A gust of wind ruffled across their backs, strafing Sam’s hair into his eyes and crawling up Dean’s spine. He frowned and turned. “Cass, you gotta work on that—” He broke off, staring. “Balthazar?”

“Hello, handsome.” Balthazar leaned heavily against the roof of the Impala, bracing one arm on the roof, the other curled around his ribs. “Cass is here, I take it?”

“Balthazar.” Sam slid off the hood. “What are you doing here?”

“Yeah, and how the hell’d you find us?” Dean added, hopping down beside him.

“Ah, I see you got your charming little soul back.” Balthazar directed his gaze toward Sam. “And how’s that feel?”

“Totally…awesome.” Sam said. “No thanks to you.”

“I was only being helpful. Now,” Balthazar sucked in a shuddering breath. “How’s about you boys run along and find Cass for me, hmm? Haven’t got a lot of time, here.”

Dean felt something switch on inside of him, some part that was just geared for picking up when something was wrong.

“The hell’s goin’ on—?”

“Time! Imperative! And we are short on it!” Balthazar snapped.

Sam’s gaze lowered to the angel’s side, his eyes widening. “What happened to you?”

Balthazar pulled his arm away from his body, revealing a gaping bloody pit in his side. Dean gritted his teeth.

“Sam.”

Balthazar sagged, sliding down onto his knees, leaving a streak of blood on the Impala’s shotgun door.

“Cass, get your ass out here!” Dean hollered—didn’t matter how far away they were from the house, Castiel had pretty good ears. Dean grabbed one of Balthazar’s arms, Sam on the other, and they turned him, sitting him back against the door.

A whirlwind whipped snow off the nearby cars and into their eyes as Castiel, Ciel and the rest of the Angel Brigade appeared beside the Impala. The others hung back but Castiel hurried forward, kneeling beside Sam and Dean.

“Balthazar.” His face was composed but his eyes bugged out. “What happened?”

“I dunno, he just showed up.” Dean said, pinning Balthazar against the right front tire with his hand as the angel slumped forward. “Someone carved a freakin’ Grand Canyon into his side!”

“Let me see.” Castiel shouldered Dean out of the way, crouching beside Balthazar and pulling his arm away from his ribs. Castiel stared at the wound for a few seconds, and Dean was sitting close enough to see every ridge on Castiel’s back when he tensed. Even with that trenchcoat on. “Balthazar. Who did this to you?”

“Oh, I think we both know the answer to that.” Balthazar said teasingly, voice unsteady. “I picked up the snake at the wrong end this time, I’m afraid. Raphael didn’t like me choosing your side. And this is what I get for being loyal. Fancy that.”

“Why?” Castiel’s tone gutted Dean; he sounded like he was breaking into pieces. “If you knew this would happen—then why?”

“Better—taking my chances this way.” Balthazar crooked a finger at Castiel. “Come a little closer. I’ve got a secret that’ll blow you right out of those bloody knee-high stockings of yours.”

Castiel hesitated, then leaned in, his chin almost on Balthazar’s shoulder.

Dean couldn’t pick up what Balthazar was saying, but Castiel sure did. He sat back on his heels, eyes so wide Dean was thinking about hunting up something to catch them in when they popped out of his head. “How long have you known this?”

“Mmm. Centuries.” Balthazar nodded slightly. “Why do you think I was biding my time down here? They won’t exactly roll out the red carpet for someone like me.”

“We can find a way to make this right.” Castiel said desperately.

“That would be lovely. But unfortunately, not possible.” Balthazar’s face tightened. “Our dear friend Raphael has a few…extra tricks up his sleeves. This is a very good one. Can’t even feel my Grace anymore.”

“That’s because it isn’t there.” Ciel murmured. “I can feel it. Balthazar. You’re becoming mortal.”

Balthazar closed his eyes. “Never should’ve given that fanatic the time of day.”

His eyes shot open and he looked at Sam; Dean did, too, force of habit. Sam had one hand braced on the Impala and was staring at Balthazar like he was gonna drill holes through the angel with his eyes.

“Time’s…just about up.” Balthazar reached up and grabbed the front of Cass’s trenchcoat, hauling him down close. “The weapons are hidden in a very safe place. Be careful how you use them, eh? Got me in a world of trouble.”

“Tell me where they are, and I swear to you, I will use them for good.”

“Well, now, don’t be afraid to have a little fun.” Balthazar whispered something else in Castiel’s ear, then pushed him back. “The race is on, darlings.”

“I’m sorry.” Castiel said quietly. “I never should have brought you into this.”

“That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard all night.” Balthazar moved his hand up, grabbing a fistful of Castiel’s hair. “You kick it in the ass, Cassy.”

Castiel’s face fell like a ton of bricks as Balthazar leaned back, eyes sliding shut.

A thin, bright stream slipped out of his side; hovered in the air for a second; then vanished like smoke.

“His Grace is gone.” Ciel said quietly. “He’s dead.”

“Balthazar?” Castiel rested a hand on the side of Balthazar’s neck, and Dean had a feeling the angel was hoping for something.

Castiel dropped his hand and stared at the ground. A minute—two minutes—like he was frozen solid.

Then he looked up at Ciel. “The weapons are hidden far from here.” He stood up. “We cannot waste any more time.” He looked over his shoulder, hesitated. “Go on ahead. I will follow.”

Ciel’s eyes narrowed; she nodded, and in a second it was just Sam, Dean and Castiel standing beside the Impala.

“Cass, what did he tell you?” Sam asked carefully.

“Nothing that would concern a human.” Castiel brushed the question off. “I’m sorry. Both of you. You should not have had to see that.”

“Okay, wait a second. How’s an archangel rip out another angel’s Grace? And how the hell’d he kill him?” Dean demanded.

“Some perverted form of a seraph blade. It couldn’t be anything else.” Castiel’s eyes flicked between them. “Be careful, both of you. This confirms that Raphael has a vessel. And if he’s targeting those who support me—”

“We’re on his hit-list. Peachy.” Dean turned away.

“I’m sorry.” Castiel said again.

“It’s okay.” Sam murmured. “We’ll take care of the vessel’s body.”

“Thank you.” Castiel said. Dean felt the angel looking at him, but he didn’t acknowledge him. Just rubbed a hand over his jaw, cupped it over his mouth, closed his eyes.

Another rush of air, and Castiel was gone.

“Hell of a Christmas.” Sam said quietly.

Dean looked down at Balthazar’s body. “This is bad, Sam.”

And for the first time in a week, Sam nodded his agreement.

"Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow."—T.S. Eliot