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“Dean, please… I need your help. Come quickly—”
The line went dead.
Dean froze. Cas’s voice hadn’t just sounded off—it was raw, strained, scared.
He wasn’t supposed to be in danger. It was barely even a case, just a lead they weren’t sure about. Cas said he’d call if he found anything. He was supposed to check in. He always checked in.
But Dean hadn’t heard from him since yesterday.
And now this.
Panic gripped his chest before he even realized he was moving—grabbing keys, heart pounding, every part of him screaming one thing: Cas is in trouble.
Sam was out with Eileen—Dean would call him on the road, fill him in later. There wasn’t time for explanations. Not now. Cas’s voice had been too shaken, too raw.
Two hours. Cas was only two hours away. But it might as well have been a lifetime.
Dean threw his bag into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut behind him. The Impala groaned to life beneath his hands—keys in, engine roaring, gear shifted. One fluid, practiced motion. His foot hit the gas hard enough to rattle the frame.
Hold on, Cas.
The tires screeched as he tore out of the garage, adrenaline burning in his veins.
Why didn’t you call sooner? he thought bitterly. Why the hell didn’t I check in with you?
The road stretched ahead, but his mind was already with Cas—picturing blood, pain, fear.
Please be okay. Just be okay. Don’t make me too late.
He gritted his teeth and pressed harder on the gas. Nothing else mattered. Not the speed. Not the danger. Not even the consequences.
He just had to get to Cas.
His mind spun the entire drive. He had no idea what he was walking into—no clue what kind of danger Cas had stumbled into, or what shape he’d be in when Dean got there.
If he was even still alive.
The thought clawed at him, tightening in his chest like a vice. Every mile felt heavier, every second dragged with the weight of not knowing.
He just needed Cas to hang on. Just a little longer.
He tore into the lot outside the abandoned warehouse, gravel spitting under the Impala’s tires as he slammed on the brakes. Cas’s last call had pinged just long enough for Dean to trace the GPS. It had led him here.
He killed the engine, heart pounding, and grabbed his gun, tucking it into the back of his waistband as he jumped out. In seconds, he was at the trunk, popping it open with a practiced motion.
Angel blade—check. Shotgun loaded with silver-laced shells—check. He grabbed both, then stuffed a grenade into his jacket pocket, just in case.
Whatever was waiting inside, he was ready to meet it head-on. He had to be.
He slipped through the side door, moving slow and steady, shotgun raised and tight against his shoulder. Every step was deliberate, silent. His eyes scanned the dark, every shadow a potential threat, his head on a constant swivel.
Whatever had gotten to Cas could still be here. And Dean wasn’t about to be caught off guard.
“Cas?” Dean called out in a harsh whisper, voice low but urgent, echoing slightly in the stillness.
Silence.
His grip tightened on the shotgun as he pushed forward, each step tense with dread.
He rounded a corner and found a row of small offices lining the hallway—dark, cramped, quiet. He began clearing them one by one, door after door, his breath shallow, heart pounding.
“Cas?” he tried again, voice cracking just a little this time.
Then—a sound. Faint. Muffled. Coming from one of the last two rooms.
Dean inched toward it, every nerve on edge. He raised his gun, jaw clenched tight, and slowly pushed the door open.
“Dean?”
A low, muffled voice—weak, but unmistakable.
He whipped around, eyes locking on a shadow hunched in the far corner of the room.
“Cas!”
Dean bolted toward him, dropping to his knees beside the angel.
Cas was slumped against the wall, battered and broken. His face was bruised, lip split, blood smeared across his skin. But his eyes were open. He was breathing.
He was alive.
Relief hit Dean like a punch to the chest.
Dean dropped to his knees beside him, eyes scanning the damage—every bruise, every cut. His chest tightened.
He reached out, steady but gentle, and cupped Cas’s chin, tilting his face toward the light. Blood glistened on his lip. Dean brushed it away with the pad of his thumb, touch barely there.
Their eyes met. Cas’s were tired, pained—but still burning with that quiet strength.
Dean’s jaw clenched. The rage was already building, sharp and blinding.
“Who did this to you?” he growled, voice low and deadly.
He didn’t know why the anger burned so hot—he’d seen Cas hurt before, too many times to count. But this… this felt different. This felt personal.
Lately, he’d caught himself watching Cas more closely, keeping him closer, always tracking where he was. Ever since Lucifer—since almost losing him again—something in Dean had shifted.
He didn’t just want Cas safe. He needed him safe. And seeing him like this—bloody, broken—lit something savage in Dean’s chest.
“Werewolves,” Cas groaned, voice rough.
“I thought there were only two,” he continued, wincing.
“But… they must’ve known I was watching. Led me into a trap.”
Dean slipped an arm around him, steadying him as he helped him up.
“How many?” he asked, voice tight.
Cas swayed slightly but held on.
“At least five. I got one of them when the jumped me.. but then I ran.”
He grunted as he rose, legs shaky beneath him. Dean didn’t let go.
Then they heard it—
Footsteps. Muffled voices. Getting closer.
They’d been found.
“Time to move,” Dean said, tightening his grip on Cas to keep him steady.
He pressed the shotgun into Cas’s hands, eyes sharp.
“Can you walk? And shoot?”
“Yes.” Cas nodded, jaw set despite the pain.
Dean drew his silver blade in one swift motion.
“Good. Stay close.”
They moved down the hallway, slow and silent, every step deliberate.
As they rounded the corner, the exit came into view—just a few yards away.
Then—
“Dean!” Cas shouted.
A werewolf lunged from the shadows, slamming into Dean and knocking him to the ground.
“I FOUND THEM!” the creature roared, as the sound of pounding footsteps echoed behind him—more werewolves, closing in fast.
Dean wrestled with the werewolf pinning him to the floor, its teeth snapping inches from his face. He gritted his teeth, straining against the creature’s strength.
Across the room, Cas fired a shot, hitting one charging toward them—only for another werewolf to tackle him from behind. The impact sent Cas sprawling, the shotgun skidding out of reach as he hit the floor hard.
Dean let out a grunt of rage as claws tore at his jacket. The werewolf above him was relentless, jaws gnashing, trying to rip flesh from bone. With a surge of desperation, Dean wrenched one arm free, grabbed the hilt of his knife, and drove it upward—straight into the monster’s heart.
The werewolf let out a choked snarl before going limp, collapsing on top of him.
Dean shoved the blood-soaked body off, his chest heaving, clothes stained red—but he didn’t stop to breathe. Cas was still in the fight.
Dean rolled onto his side, eyes locking on the shotgun lying between him and Cas. Without hesitation, he scrambled to his feet, grabbed it, and sprinted toward the angel.
Another werewolf came out of nowhere, slamming into him mid-run.
Dean’s instincts kicked in—he still had his blade, but Cas was unarmed, wounded, vulnerable.
The shotgun had to get to him.
With a grunt, Dean hurled the weapon just before he hit the ground.
“CAS!” he shouted, voice raw.
Cas turned, just in time to see the gun skidding across the floor—stopping inches from his outstretched hand.
The werewolf’s jaws snapped inches from Cas’s face, hot breath and blood in the air. The shotgun was still just out of reach.
His body ached, every muscle screaming—but he didn’t care. Dean needed him. They were outnumbered. If he didn’t act now, one or both of them wouldn’t make it out.
Summoning everything he had left, Cas twisted his body, teeth clenched against the pain. He stretched—fingers scraping the floor—and finally seized the shotgun.
In one swift motion, he rolled beneath the creature and fired point-blank into its chest.
He shoved the bloodied corpse off and scrambled to his feet.
He spun just in time to see Dean locked in a brutal fight with the other werewolf.
Without hesitation, Cas raised the shotgun again and fired—a sharp blast echoing as the shot tore into the creature’s back.
He hurried to Dean, who was sprawled on the floor, and reached out, steadying him with a firm hand. Their fingers brushed—and for a moment, neither let go.
“We gotta move… I think there’s more coming,” Dean said quietly, finally loosening his grip on Cas’s hand.
They spun toward the door—and froze. Three more werewolves stepped in, cutting off their escape.
Cas realized the shotgun was out of shells. Without hesitation, he snatched Dean’s knife, sliding the empty gun into Dean’s other hand.
Dean’s hands moved fast, fishing shells from his pocket and reloading with practiced ease.
Ready.
They braced themselves for what was coming.
The werewolves lunged—one at Cas, two at Dean.
One grabbed Dean’s gun while the other shoved him hard against the wall. Dean’s head slammed into the surface, white flashes blurring his vision. Somehow, he held onto the gun.
He kicked out with brutal force, knocking one werewolf back, then yanked the weapon close and slammed it into the other’s skull.
At the same time Cas was slashing at the werewolf in front of him before it managed to tackle him to the ground.
They crashed to the ground in a violent tangle. Cas scrambled up, leapt onto the creature’s back, and drove his knife deep into its neck.
Dean raised the shotgun and fired, finishing the werewolf he’d just staggered with a brutal, point-blank shot.
The last one turned to flee—but didn’t get far. Dean fired again, the blast catching it in the back of the leg. The creature howled in pain, collapsing to the floor, clawing at the ground.
“Oh, you’re not going anywhere,” Dean growled, voice dark.
He stalked toward the injured werewolf and grabbed a fistful of hair, yanking its head back. The thing snarled weakly, but Dean’s glare was pure fury.
They’d hurt Cas. This one had hurt Cas. Tried to kill him.
It didn’t deserve mercy.
Dean’s glowing green eyes flicked to the angel behind him.
“Cas…” he said, his voice low and rough. “Would you like the honor?”
Cas stepped forward, silent. He met Dean’s eyes—saw the fire there, the protectiveness, the pain.
They had tried to take the one thing Cas cared about more than anything in this world.
His voice was flat, devoid of warmth.
“My pleasure.”
He plunged the blade straight into the werewolf’s heart, holding it there until the creature went still.
Dean released his grip, letting the creature’s lifeless body collapse to the floor with a dull thud.
Slowly, he stepped over it, eyes locked on Cas.
Both of them were bloodstained, bruised, barely standing—but alive.
And standing together.
“You okay?” Dean asked quietly, his gaze lingering on Cas’s face, searching for any sign of pain beneath the blood and bruises.
Dean’s mind was spinning. He had almost lost him—again. The thought alone was suffocating, clawing at his chest. He didn’t know how many more times he could survive that kind of fear.
“I’m fine. Are you okay?” Cas asked, concern threading through his voice.
“Yeah… yeah, I’m good,” Dean murmured, his voice low, steady—but soft.
He took a slow step closer, eyes never leaving Cas.
With quiet care, Dean lifted his hands, gently cupping Cas’s face. Their eyes held, the world falling away around them.
Dean gave a small, warm smile. Cas returned it, something tender flickering in his expression.
For a moment, all they could feel was the rush of breath and the quiet thunder of their own hearts.
The silence between them stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable—charged. Dean’s thumbs brushed softly along Cas’s jaw, smearing a bit of dried blood, but neither of them seemed to care.
Cas leaned slightly into the touch, eyes searching Dean’s, uncertain but hopeful. He could feel Dean’s breath, warm and shallow, and the way his fingers trembled just a little against his skin.
Dean swallowed hard.
“You scared the hell outta me,” he whispered, voice rough with everything he couldn’t quite say.
“I know.. I’m sorry.” Cas replied quietly.
Dean shook his head, barely.
“Don’t be.”
His eyes dropped to Cas’s lips, then lifted again—checking. Waiting.
Cas didn’t move. He didn’t have to.
Dean closed the last of the distance and kissed him—slow, steady, grounding. Like everything he’d been holding back for too long had finally found its place.
Cas didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, deepening the kiss with quiet desperation, hands fisting lightly in Dean’s jacket.
It wasn’t perfect—they were bruised, bloodied, and trembling—but in that moment, it was everything.
It felt like it lasted forever—and ended far too soon.
Dean slowly pulled back, his forehead resting against Cas’s for a fleeting second. He didn’t want to move. He could’ve stayed in that moment forever—wrapped in the quiet, in Cas’s warmth, in the safety of something he’d denied himself for far too long.
His best friend. His angel. The one person he’d die for without thinking twice.
But reality pressed in.
“We’ve gotta go,” he said softly, reluctantly.
“There could be more.”
Even as the words left his mouth, part of him ached to stay—to just breathe in this moment a little longer.
“Okay…” Cas murmured, his sigh soft, eyes drifting away with quiet disappointment.
Dean reached out, his fingers brushing Cas’s cheek as he gently turned his face back toward him. Their eyes met, and for a moment, everything else fell away.
“To be continued,” Dean said with a small, warm smile.
He laced his fingers through Cas’s hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze, and turned toward the exit—ready to run, but holding on tight to what they’d just found.