Chapter Text
Most humans would think that it was an unscheduled meteor shower. They’d happen to glance up and see streaks of light across the sky, maybe mutter ‘ooh’, watch for a while, and then move on.
Castiel knew far better.
He emerged from the woods, fresh, strong emotions washing through him. Seeing his brothers and sisters tumbling to Earth was the final straw. Everything caught up to him: the stress, the hurt, the betrayal, the apologies Dean hadn’t accepted. A tear rolled down his cheek, almost without him noticing.
There was also the realisation that, yet again, Castiel had chosen the wrong path. He’d messed up again. This time, he’d even been warned off of it, but he’d soldiered on to do it anyway. Another tear fell, this time from the other eye.
Before he could linger much longer, there was a high pitched whine from overhead. It was like it was spearing through his head, splitting it in two, and he raised his hands to cover his ears as he squinted at the sky. One of the ‘meteors’ was steadily heading towards him and the field he was standing in.
First, he was surprised he couldn’t hear the angel’s voice. Surely he should have been able to hear something across the ‘Angel Radio’? A cry for help, perhaps, or maybe a scream of terror. But no, there was only that whistle that was growing ever louder, and giving him a headache, to boot.
Second, Castiel made a swift leap to the side to dodge the angel hurtling towards him, and tried to spread his wings to give himself a bit of extra lift – which was where he made his mistake. Because of the nature of the jump needed to successfully move into flight, his balance was off. When his wings didn’t come into being with a familiar rustle of feathers, Castiel toppled to the ground, rolling a few times down the slight incline of the field. He grunted as he hit the dirt, flinging out his hands to stop himself from going any further.
There was a sound like a whip cracking behind him, and a bright flash of light. Castiel scrambled to his feet and unsteadily made his way back up the hill, swerving uncertainly across the ground as his equilibrium struggled to right itself.
As soon as he saw the angel, he knew that it wasn’t going to survive.
It didn’t have a vessel. Castiel had no idea why that was – maybe it had never acquired one, or it had been destroyed and had been in the process of finding a new one. The angel was simply a ball of white and pale blue light, writhing in the grass as it quickly began to dissipate. Little wisps came off from it and melted into the air. (It didn’t occur to Castiel that he shouldn’t have been able to look at his brother without his eyeballs burning in their sockets; he was far too distressed by his dying sibling to realise that he was basically human, and that looking at the naked Grace should have blinded him.)
Castiel was certain that if he’d been able to access the correct wavelength, he would have heard his brother howling in agony. After all, his very essence was drifting away.
His throat gave a sharp throb of remembered pain. Fear gripped him for a moment, holding him still, trapped like a mouse under a cat’s paws. There was an unfamiliar ache just under his shoulder blades, where his wings should have burst from earlier.
He ignored it all for now, however, as an angel was dying before his very eyes.
“Brother,” he gasped, and fell to his knees beside the light, which was already far smaller than when he’d first seen it. He scooped it into his hands, cradling it carefully. His skin tingled where it touched the Grace, little sparks of energy following the paths of his nerves before fizzling out.
If he could just find a vessel for the angel, all would be well. Even a rabbit would do. But no matter how hard he tried, Castiel couldn’t reach out to any of the creatures that were undoubtedly hiding in the field. If he saw one and held out a hand to encourage it, it darted away before he could even twitch a finger.
Before long, it was too late. The ball gave a last quiver and unravelled completely, the final particles of it spreading and fading. Castiel’s lips parted on a trembling exhale, his eyes widening. “No…” His voice was little more than a rasp. It sounded like he hadn’t had a drink of water for days.
It was all Castiel’s fault. The thought hit him like a train, slamming into his chest and leaving him winded. He’d killed his brothers and sisters again. Not all of them would die – he knew some had vessels – but not every angel possessed one. Those that didn’t would end up like the one that had landed here, in this field.
Tears welled up in Castiel’s eyes and spilled over.
* * *
Sam and Dean were still sat against the Impala outside the church. They hadn’t moved yet; Dean was struck by the sight in the sky, while Sam was simply unable to summon the strength to get up. Neither of them had even considered Crowley, bound, trapped and weak inside the building behind them.
When Sam heaved a cough that sounded like he’d throw up a lung, Dean’s arm tightened around him, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the angels. Was Castiel among them? Or did the ‘die at the end of the Trials’ rule apply to the angel ones, too? Dean wanted to ignore that question, throw it down, stomp on it, and maybe shoot if for good measure, but he had to be realistic.
Well, he tried. Losing Castiel was a thought he just couldn’t face.
If Castiel was alive, he’d know that the most likely places he’d find the two of them would be the church or the bunker. He was a smart guy; Dean would put his money on Castiel’s first decision being ‘find the Winchesters’. He could fend for himself, he’d proven that time and again. Sooner or later, he’d turn up. If it ended up being never, well, Dean would deal with it, but whether that would be by going out himself to find him or with a bottle of something strong in his hand was up for debate.
He tore his gaze away from the flashes of light – which were steadily slowing now – and instead set it on Sam. His brother was barely able to hold himself up under the force of the Trials leaving his system. He opened one bleary eye, watching Dean in return with a glazed look.
Falling into mother hen mode was almost natural for Dean. He moved his arm from Sam’s shoulders to under his armpits and put all his strength into hauling him up off of the dirt. It was difficult because Sam was a dead weight in his arms, trying pathetically to help with little bursts of energy until Dean told him to stop, and he had to awkwardly open the passenger door to bundle him in before he could finally let go.
As Dean clicked the seatbelt into place, Sam curled a hand around Dean’s wrist with surprising strength. Dean frowned up at him, waiting not-so-patiently. “What?”
Sam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed; Dean could hear the dry click of it. “Crowley,” he muttered. The open eye flicked back towards the church before settling on Dean’s face again. He inhaled sharply, eye falling shut as he grimaced. “Can’t leave him.”
Dean hissed air out between his teeth, but he nodded as he pulled out of Sam’s grip. “Fine. Don’t move.” The stare he aimed at his younger brother was firm and warning, even though he couldn't see it. In reply, a weak smile pulled on one corner of Sam’s lips.
“Can’t really go anywhere,” he rasped, and Dean had to admire his ability to keep up the jokes even when he was so exhausted.
Dean didn’t bother trying to come up with a response to that. Instead, he retrieved a gun from the trunk of the Impala and headed inside.
Crowley hadn’t even tried to move, it seemed. As Dean moved around to his front, he raised his tear-stained face. The sight of his eyes rimmed with red was enough to make Dean raise an eyebrow. Oddly, a ghost of the cocky smirk Crowley used to wear flitted across his mouth. “Have you come to finish me off?” he asked, tilting his head. “You’d be doing me a favour, you know. Funny, that. It's almost poetic.”
Raising his chin slightly, Dean snorted. “No, I’m not gonna kill you.”
When Crowley spoke again, his voice was a growl, an attempt at being intimidating. “You might as well,” he snapped. Dean realised then that he’d been wrong; Crowley wasn’t trying to be threatening. He was frustrated.
“Everything’s been taken from me!” he snarled, straining against his bonds with the little strength he had. “Hell isn’t going to stay mine for very much longer, thanks to you two idiots messing up. And while we’re on the subject of you…” The fight seemed to melt from his limbs, leaving him slumping against the frame of his chair. Crowley turned his face away, disgust making his lip curl. “You’ve made me into a… into something that’s neither here nor there, and judging by the missing moose, you’re not planning on finishing it, are you?”
Dean merely shook his head. It was enough to make Crowley give a little hysterical laugh. “Tell me, Dean,” he continued. The use of his actual name made him listen a little closer. “How am I supposed to recover from that?”
“You want my honest answer?” When Crowley didn’t give any verbal reply whatsoever – although, there was quite a strong glare he was aiming his way – Dean carried on. “I don’t know. Okay? I don’t know. Hell, I don’t even know what I should do with you now.”
They couldn’t leave Crowley in this condition. They couldn’t take him with them so he'd find out about their base. Neither of them could stay until a plan formed – Sam needed rest and looking after, and Kevin was still waiting at the bunker.
It would be stupid to let him go, but Dean couldn’t see any other option. They needed those chains back, as they were infinitely useful, which meant they couldn't strap him in tighter and come back later. Dean didn't even know if they had any paint left to secure the building, if that was the case.
Besides, as Crowley had pointed out, he was mostly human now. He wouldn’t be able to do as much damage as before. If he could, Dean would have discussed it with Sam, but his brother was in no state to make big decisions.
Dean looked down at his feet and sighed heavily, turning it over silently with a twist to his mouth. After the brief pause, he looked at Crowley again, who was waiting expectantly. “I’m gonna let you go. But there’s a condition to it.”
There wasn’t a single comment from Crowley. Not one. He simply looked resigned. That was when Dean realised the extent of the damage that had been done to the previous ruler of Hell. He’d been kicked off his throne, and now he had no place in his previous home or on Earth, and certainly not in Heaven. Oh, Dean knew Crowley would do his damnedest to get back to his rightful spot as King of Hell, but it would be a struggle, especially with his now-human side working against him. He doubted demons would want to be led by someone like him.
Nobody even knew what powers Crowley still possessed, or if he’d ever get them all back.
Dean squatted in front of Crowley and began undoing the chains around his ankles. “As soon as you make a move against us, we’re gonna hunt you down and end you. There won’t be any mercy this time, either.”
There was a moment of silence, during which the only sound was the soft clink of chains as Dean freed him, and then Crowley answered. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” he said eventually. “You have me in the palm of your hand. Why risk it?”
Dean looked up, smiling innocently. “I figured it could be good to have a demon indebted to us. Also, I’m pretty sure you know Sam’s hardly in good condition right now, and even with you like this it’ll probably be difficult to keep you pinned.” He paused, and if Dean had seen himself, he would have recognised and been disgusted with the hard look in his eyes. It meant revenge, and pretty damn coldblooded revenge at that.
Crowley chuckled quietly. “You’re playing a clever game, squirrel. And just when do you plan to collect on this debt?”
“When it suits me.” He straightened and moved around to Crowley’s back so he could start on the rest of the bindings. “Could be when you’re tryin’ to get rid of us next. Might be when we need a demon up our sleeve. Who knows?”
“It seems I underestimated you.” Crowley stretched his legs out in front of him with a sigh, rolling his ankles to soothe the aches. “I’ll make certain not to do so again in the future.”
The conversation lapsed again, only this time it seemed like that particular topic was done. Dean left the various chains in a pile by the door, and now he was working on the last restraint – the collar. He hoped the devil’s trap would keep Crowley until he’d packed everything away. The piece of metal came away from his neck with a click and fell into Dean’s waiting hands.
Crowley stayed where he was, hands folded on his crossed knees. He glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised, when there was no sound of shoes on the floor. “Well? Are you going to finish up?”
“Just to be clear, you’re not leaving the room until me and Sammy are on the road.”
“Well, unfortunately, I have the feeling I’m going to have to walk out, so I can hardly leave in my usual style.”
Dean chuckled and, looping the collar over one arm, he took out a pocketknife to scratch at the paint on the floorboards. “Restoring the balance already?”
Crowley’s laugh made him seem more like himself. “Oh, naturally, darling.”
* * *
Dean was guiltily grateful that Sam was out cold by the time they got back to the bunker. He’d endured enough half-assed questions from his brother, slurred and faintly annoyed, to last him a lifetime. (A small part of Dean was smug about getting to choose Crowley’s fate; after all, Sam had suddenly decided he wasn’t going to make it out alive, which was so out of order Dean couldn’t even try to forgive him yet.) It was a good thing Sam had passed out, because it let Dean enjoy the silence, but it looked like Sam needed it, too.
The moon was high up now, swollen and full, and the angels had stopped falling completely. There wasn’t even the occasional flash anymore. It seemed that Heaven was empty.
He forcefully pushed those thoughts out of the way. Dean had other things to concentrate on, like getting the door to the bunker open and carrying his giant of a brother inside without falling over or dropping him.
Before he was even fully inside, Kevin was darting over, eyes widening when he caught sight of Sam. He took over the task of supporting his legs without asking, leaving Dean with Sam’s torso, which was far easier. Together, they took him through to his room and lowered him onto his bed; Sam’s head nodded to the side, mouth hanging open, and Dean had to avert his gaze to stop the hot burn of anger and worry in his stomach.
It didn’t look like Sam would be waking up for a while, so Dean located his brother’s phone and left it on the bedside table, next to a note: Let me know when you’re awake. – Dean. He made sure to pull off Sam’s shoes and socks before he and Kevin ducked out.
Kevin seemed to understand that Dean wasn’t ready to talk yet, so he withdrew, leaving Dean to get his cup of much-needed coffee while he sat opposite him at the table. Dean sipped it silently while Kevin went back to work on decoding the Angel Tablet. Dean was sure that it meant something that Kevin did it without asking now, but he couldn't bring himself to think about it properly.
When his mug was half empty, he heaved a sigh and sat up a little straighter. Kevin glanced up from his work, eyebrows raised slightly.
“I only know for certain what happened on our end,” he began. “I don’t know about Cas, but I can take a good guess.” His gaze fell to his coffee, his forefinger tapping the rim of the cup.
“Sammy stopped the last Trial and it sorta just… went outta him. At least, I think it has. I guess it took a lot outta him, because he fell asleep on the way back.” Dean glanced through to the corridor, but there was no sleepy Sam there this time, asking what to do next. It was empty, and his brother was unconscious, worn out and worn down.
Dean purposefully left out the fact that he’d let Crowley go. He’d talk about that if Kevin asked – which he probably would, in time; he was a smart kid. But Dean glossed over that part for now, skipping straight to Castiel.
“And it looks like Cas went ahead and finished the Trials anyway, 'cause the angels fell.” Dean sat back in his seat, head tipped back, eyes closed. There was no denying that he was furious with Castiel, even more so than he’d been before. He’d ignored Dean’s advice again, despite the warning that the Trials weren’t going to solve anything.
Although, if he was honest, Dean would let it go just to know that he was okay.
“That’s what it was?” Kevin asked, startling Dean out of his head. “The angels? The power went weird at one point, but I had no idea it was them.”
With a grunt, Dean went back to nursing his coffee. Kevin leaned forward to go back to the Tablet, paused, then sat up again. “Where is Castiel?”
The silence from Dean became frostier. He released his cup, hands balling up on the table instead; he was worried he’d end up throwing his mug at the wall if he held onto it.
“I don’t know,” he said shortly. Suddenly, Dean snapped, unable to take the weight on his shoulders anymore. It was pressing, suffocating, holding him down with claws that were tearing at his lungs and making it difficult to breathe.
He stood up, his chair falling back to crash against the floor. “I don’t know! And I’m- Jesus, I’m pissed at him and worried and- shit.” He buried the heels of his palms in his eyes, as if he could scrub out his anger. “I need to find him, but I can’t. I need to look after Sam. Cas is such a selfish child!”
The cup didn’t suffer Dean’s fury, but the chair did; he kicked it as hard as he could, hurting his toe in the process, but the pain was a good one. It helped centre him somewhat. The chair skittered across the floor, squealing on the tiles, until it came to a rest by the counter. By then, Dean had already stormed out.
He had the distinct feeling that violence wasn’t a good way to deal with anger – he probably had proof if he thought about it enough – but it damn well made him feel better. He made straight for their little shooting range so he could take it out on a target and get some practice in at the same time. Scooping up the first gun that his hands came into contact with, Dean loaded it and stood in one of the booths.
Even though his veins were burning, Dean knew better than to shoot without being careful. He set himself up appropriately, made sure all was well, and forced a couple of calming exhales before firing.
The sharp crack and the shockwave it sent down his arm were just what he needed. He exhaled long and slow as the echo faded, leaving the range quiet again but for his pounding heart and quick breaths.
Another shot rang out, jolting Dean’s arm again and releasing a little more of his irritation into the air.
The process continued until Dean was out of ammunition. The faint numbness in his arm from the repetitive bursts was something easily ignored; he was used to it, therefore it was pushed to the back of his mind. Some of his anger remained, but it was the usual simmer under the surface, also simply knocked away. He'd worked with that for a long time.
Dean stood there until he felt relatively normal again. He went through the methodical task of cleaning the gun to try to cool off further, then put the gun away and left the range to go to his room instead. He left the mutilated target where it was; to those fluent in his language, it was a clear sign that he shouldn’t be bothered.
After spending so much time stressing out, the sight of his room was a welcome one. Exhaustion set in mere seconds after Dean stepped inside, the door shutting behind him. He could just see the white of the walls, creamy in the gloom; they were lit up with an orange glow when he switched on the desk lamp.
Instead of just toppling onto the covers and falling asleep as he wanted to do, Dean perched on the edge with his elbows on his knees, hands linked together in front of him. He bowed his head, eyes sliding shut.
Dean took a second, letting his muscles release their tension, making him sag where he sat. The familiar lull of thought that a prayer brought on was soothing in itself. After the pause, he spoke, voice soft.
“Second time in a short while, huh? I dunno what’s come over me.” He chuckled quietly, but there was no humour in the sound. It was rough, more of a cough than a laugh. “Cas, I don’t know if you can hear me, or if you’re even listenin’, but… I figured, why not?
“Look, I know we didn’t part on real friendly terms – I’m still pissed at you, FYI – but I’m worried. About you, Sam, Kevin, even me.” He halted at the admission, swallowing down the words that would take it back. “I need you here, man. And not just for my peace of mind.” You’re family, was what Dean wanted to say, but that wouldn’t come out either.
Dean tipped his head back, another laugh rasping in his throat uncomfortably. It was a little bit shaky, but nobody needed to know that. “Are you even an angel still? Am I just talkin’ to thin air this time, for real?”
There was no answer.
Shaking his head, Dean let it hang down over his chest again. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… be okay, Cas. Just- be okay. Come back to us in one piece.”
I'm still pissed at you, but if I never got to forgive you before things went to shit...
Still nothing.
Swiping a hand across his face, Dean straightened his spine again and slapped his knees. “Good talk,” he announced to his room. He briefly contemplated the idea of cooking something, since Kevin was still out there, but then decided against it; Dean didn’t trust himself to focus on something like that at the moment, so he went along with his original plan: he fell face-first onto his pillow and stayed there until he drifted into a shallow sleep.
* * *
It wasn’t the cold that drove Castiel from the field, nor the lowing that told him that cows were on the other side of it. It was the glow of morning on the horizon, coupled with a faint itch in the back of his mind. That itch used to be a voice for when prayers came through, only now it wasn’t audible at all, and it had the air about it of a late-received one, too.
Of course, that was only speculation. Castiel had long come to the realisation that he was no longer an angel. Metatron had taken his Grace, and the proof that there was nothing left had been his failed attempts to save his brother at the beginning of the night.
Castiel was completely human. It was a shock to the system, certainly. The realisation that he now needed to breathe and eat and sleep in order to stay alive had knocked the wind from him, ironically. He was as human as Sam or Dean; no longer would he be able to smite a demon with a simple touch to the forehead, there wouldn’t be any wind in his feathers as he flew back to Heaven, and there definitely wouldn't be the gentle hum of his brothers and sisters in his head that used to wrap him in warmth.
Anyone might expect that to be the reason to make him cry, but it was quite the opposite. Castiel was upset, obviously – there was a hollow feeling in his chest, an ache in his shoulders and a raw feeling in his throat – but it was his punishment for what he’d done. He knew that. Losing his powers, halo and wings was a way to pay for all of his crimes, in his mind. A brief sputter of hope made him check his mobile, but it was clear that his situation was worse than he'd realised; even to his inexperienced eyes, it was clearly broken. The screen was cracked, and when he pressed the button that was meant to turn it on, it stayed black.
It seemed like he had to suffer for his actions a lot more recently. Purgatory, Dean’s rejection of his apology, and now this.
So no, Castiel didn’t weep for himself, but for his race. His tears had long dried, however; there weren’t any left, and besides, his eyes stung at the mere thought of shedding more. By the time the sun had risen above the top of the trees he’d emerged from, Castiel had a goal in mind. He needed to leave the field and the woods behind so he could find the Winchesters – and, his body reminded him, food. Sleep, too; Castiel had spent the entire night awake, and he could feel the drag of weariness on his limbs.
Before he could even consider heading off to find the bunker, Castiel needed to eat and rest. Finding out where he was would be helpful, too. He didn’t recognise his location, so who knew how far away he was from his friends?
Castiel might be human, but he was still the same Castiel as he was before. Admittedly, there were a few more scars now, ones that Naomi and Metatron had left behind, and those would take a while to fade, if they ever would. But he was still Castiel. He was still a warrior and a friend of the two most popular (though not necessarily liked) hunters to ever walk the Earth. He was a man who had quite literally fallen from grace, but he was by no means beaten.
Castiel stood and breathed in the scent of a new day. It was fresh, so clean he could almost taste it. He made himself feel the stretch of his lungs as they expanded, surprising himself when he found it to be an enjoyable sensation.
It felt… human.
He would find Sam and Dean, and he would become a real hunter this time. It wasn’t only because he was now obligated to use human methods of hunting, but also because it felt like the right thing to do. He had nowhere else to go, after all. It was a compelling idea.
Castiel surveyed the ground before him, spotting a small village along a path at the foot of the hill. It was a start, albeit not the best one, but it was a place to go from. Had he still possessed his wings, they would have been spread wide in a challenge directed at the world.
That stopped him in his tracks for a second, something squeezing around his heart uncomfortably. It was all very well acknowledging that he deserved this, but facing the reality was something else entirely. He neatly tucked the thought away for now.
He set off at a steady pace, determined to reach the village before everything became busy. After he’d taken care of his body’s needs – his body; that was another shocking thought. Before, it was simply a vessel, but now it was his body – he would find a bus to take him home.
* * *
When Dean woke the next morning, he felt more like himself. Sure, there were still problems – Sam was still asleep when he checked, and Castiel hadn’t even tried to call – but it seemed more hopeful in the light of day.
He found Kevin passed out at the table, the remains of a sandwich next to him. The chair he’d kicked was still on its side, so Dean righted it with a little guilty flush. He felt that his anger had been completely justified, however, so he wasn’t going to apologise for it. He’d been under a lot of pressure to make sure Sam didn’t end up killing himself over the Trials, so he’d pretty much been a ticking time bomb of violence. At least inanimate objects had suffered instead of people. He felt significantly better after his outburst, too, which only strengthened his resolve.
Dean cleaned up the plate Kevin had used, moving some papers and the hunk of stone to make him more comfortable. After a moment’s thought, he stole a pillow from a spare room and eased it under his head. Kevin snuffled and began to drool into it almost immediately.
With that done, he set about making a late breakfast, enough for all three of them, complete with anything someone might want for a recovery. He cooked up most of what they had, in fact: sausages, bacon, toast and, after consideration, a burger each, too. Dean thought they all deserved it.
Kevin stirred at the first sizzle of bacon; Dean heard him make a confused grumbling sound, and then there was the thud of his hand on the table before he pushed himself upright.
“What time is it?” he mumbled.
“About ten.” Dean shrugged, poking at the bacon and sausages with a spatula. “When did you go to sleep?”
Kevin groaned, and a glance over his shoulder confirmed his suspicion that he'd dropped his head back onto the pillow. “Around six, maybe?”
Dean paused, frowned, and put the food on the backburner – quite literally. He turned to lean against the counter and face Kevin. “You know there’s no rush now, right? Take it slow. Relax. You’re gonna kill yourself at this rate.”
“I’ve gotta get this done,” he protested, voice muffled but firm. “The sooner it’s done, the sooner I can…” He trailed off, fumbling, and finished with a weak, “Relax.”
Unconvinced but lacking an argument, Dean went back to making breakfast, pulling the pans back onto the heated rings. “What’re you really gonna do when you’re done?”
Kevin made a thoughtful sound. Dean could picture the hesitant expression, wanting yet knowing that whatever he was picturing might not be a possibility. “I don’t know. I’d like to go back to school, but I don’t know if that’s realistic now. And there might even be more Tablets out there that I’ll get kidnapped over.”
Dean was reminded painfully of a younger Sam, eager to go to college but simultaneously worried to. John’s obsession had nearly ruined that for him, and it looked like all the crap that surrounded this life was stopping Kevin, too.
“You can hang with us for as long as you want,” Dean promised, then added, “Coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.”
After setting the pot on to make it for them, Dean started collecting plates and cutlery, ready to dish up the food. Dean was still walking on tiptoes, worried that Kevin would come to the conclusion that he hadn’t said anything about Crowley, but it looked like he wasn’t going to ask for now. It might’ve been because of Dean’s behaviour the previous night, but whatever it was, Dean was grateful for it.
Whether Sam would abide by the same rule when he woke was a question Dean didn’t want to ask.
He’d naturally want to know what he’d missed – it was important, and therefore necessary information. The truth would come out sooner or later, but a traitorous voice in his head started calling him a hypocrite for even thinking about keeping a secret when he didn’t want any from anyone else.
His worry was quickly batted from his head. Bare feet dragged across the tiled floor, squeaking slightly, catching Dean’s attention just as he was putting sausages and bacon onto the plates (even distracted, Dean automatically continued making the food; it was extremely helpful for someone like him, as it let him perform a task while he thought about something else).
When he was done, the spatula fell to the counter with a clatter, but the pan was set down more carefully.
Sam looked like he had when he’d been in the middle of the Trials and his sleeping had been erratic, only this time there wasn’t the air of sickness about him. His hair was ruffled, he was unshaven, he was still wearing last night’s clothes, hell, he probably hadn’t even brushed his teeth, but seeing him awake was one of the most relieving sights Dean had been greeted with in a long time. As soon as he’d eaten, Dean would push him towards the bathroom so he could clean up.
“How long was I out?” Sam asked. His voice was gravelly from his long rest, so he cleared his throat. Dean caught the wince that he tried to hide, but he kept his mouth shut for once.
“No idea.” It felt like it had been days. In reality, it wasn’t even as long as Dean had expected; after a mere handful of hours, Sam was up and about. “How’re you feeling?”
“Better?” Sam made it sound more like a question than a statement, but as he’d only just woken up after being ridiculously sick from the Trials, Dean let it slide. His brother’s nose twitched as he sniffed, then he licked his lips. “Do I smell bacon?”
Even Sam was looking forward to bacon. That was all it took to send Dean across the room and sweep Sam into a hug. His brother’s arms remained by his sides for a moment, then slowly came up to circle around Dean in return, a confused sound escaping him.
“Uh… you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Dean growled. He hung on for a moment longer, then pushed himself off with a final slap to Sam’s back. Turning, he went to finish setting out breakfast.
“So, fill me in,” Sam said. He slid into the seat opposite Kevin, who gave him a small but friendly smile.
For a second, no answer was given. Dean simply put down a plate in front of both Sam and Kevin, then grabbed his own before sitting down. It was practically a glowing sign above Dean’s head saying ‘something’s wrong’.
“Dean?” Sam prompted. Despite his earlier interest in bacon, he was only prodding at his breakfast, still looking a little queasy. “You gotta tell me what happened, man. I can barely remembered it. It’s all…” He waved a hand in front of his face, watching as it passed his nose. “It’s all hazy. What happened to Crowley? And what about Cas?”
“You never said anything about Crowley,” Kevin added, turning a suspicious look on him. He put his pen down, half reaching for his food while he kept an eye on Dean.
Dean’s cutlery clicked on his plate as he put it down. “Ah, crap. Fine. But hear me out.”
Sam and Kevin exchanged a glance. “That doesn’t sound promising,” Sam sighed. Then, louder, he said, “Well, let’s hear it. Better get this over with.”