A/N: Oh hey, I finished a one shot for this week. *fist pump* This fic is a combination of two requests. First, for Castielle, who wanted a one shot of the brothers learning how Heaven's "re-education" meant Cas was tortured. And second for Miyth, who had a ghost story prompt ready and waiting that perfectly filled that request. I hope you both like what I came up with. It ended up a little on the horror side, even though this isn't actually my Halloween themed one shot (I'll post that one on the 26th.)

I also have to thank Dream Root for an unrelated comment on a completely different story, but which ended up inspiring the title for this. And to 29Pieces for beta reading as always. ^_^

Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine. Takes place between 5x13 and 5x14.

"The Ghosts Inside My Head"

Castiel shifted in the backseat of the Impala. He'd gradually been acclimating to the slow and confining travel by car, but today his wings ached, making his cramped position all the more uncomfortable. He was still recovering from his recent bit of time travel, which was why he was accompanying the Winchesters on a case. Both brothers had seemed more keen than usual on Castiel staying with them. They had obviously been shaken by their encounter with Michael, and probably felt better with the added protection.

"Family moved into the place a few months ago," Sam was saying from the front passenger seat. "Apparently the mom had an accident last week—minor electrocution. They chalked it up to bad wiring. But then yesterday their eight year old son was playing on a tree swing when the ropes got tangled around his neck. They had to chop him down." Sam paused, lowering his voice. "Kid's still in the hospital. They're not sure if there's brain damage."

Castiel felt a pang for the poor child. If he'd had all his powers, he would have immediately flown to the hospital and healed the boy. But not even his full-powered brethren would deign to aid what they viewed as a single insignificant existence.

It pained Castiel that he used to hold the same viewpoint. He knew differently now, though—each life was precious. That was why he could no longer justify letting the Apocalypse run unchecked, because ushering in paradise would cost billions of lives.

Not that people weren't dying already, but at least this time Castiel wasn't the one standing idly by, or worse, helping to bring about the end of the world.

"Any info on the previous owners?" Dean asked.

"Actually, yeah." Sam tapped a few keys on his phone. "There's a news article from a decade ago. This guy slaughtered his wife and kids, then killed himself."

Dean made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "Family picked the wrong house to move into."

"House has been sold twice since then, but the first people who bought it walked on the mortgage four months later." Sam shook his head. "Guess we can figure why."

"So we're looking at a ghost," Dean said, pointing out the obvious. "Probably that douche who offed his family."

"Sounds like a good place to start," Sam agreed.

They went to the hospital first where Sam and Dean interviewed the parents of the injured child and asked for permission to check out their house. Castiel barely listened to the exchange, even though he was supposed to be learning and "taking notes" as Dean had instructed, but his gaze was repeatedly drawn through the plexiglass window to the boy in the hospital bed, attached to various tubes and machines. So much suffering…

"Cas," Dean hissed impatiently.

Castiel jolted as he realized the Winchesters were ready to leave, and the parents had returned to their son's side. Sam was giving him a sympathetic look, but Dean seemed annoyed, so Castiel turned sharply to follow them out. He briefly wondered what the Winchesters had told the family about why they were investigating what most would consider a freak accident, but figured that asking would reveal how little he'd been paying attention, so Castiel stayed silent.

The three of them left the hospital and went to the house in question, a small dwelling set in the back of a long driveway and enclosed by a wooded area. Dean parked, and then he and Sam exited the car. Castiel followed, pushing the clunky backdoor open in a way that was tedious and somewhat demeaning for an angel of the Lord. But Dean had told him to stop "zapping in and out" and to use the door like a "normal person." Never mind that Castiel wasn't a "normal person," but he'd learned not to argue with Dean when it came to certain topics. Especially the older Winchester's car.

Castiel followed the brothers up to the porch, roving his gaze up at the clogged gutters, then over the paint peeling down the side wall. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted a woman in the driveway across the street, standing at her mailbox and leaning over not at all inconspicuously to watch them.

Dean apparently noticed as well. "Why don't you take Mrs. Busybody," he suggested to Sam, who rolled his eyes, but nevertheless turned to go over and speak with the woman. Dean retrieved a hide-a-key from under a ceramic frog near the door, and inserted it into the lock.

He and Castiel entered the house, and Dean immediately pulled out his EMF reader. The soft whir of the device crackled as he began sweeping the living room, occasional blips in the signal indicating that there had been electromagnetic activity here recently.

Castiel wandered into the kitchen. He took in the dirty dishes piled in the sink, the box of cereal on the table. There were coffee grounds sprinkled on the counter, a sauce stain on the stove top. He couldn't say why, but he suddenly felt uncomfortable in this place.

Backing up, he accidentally knocked the table, which sent a glass of juice toppling over, its contents splashing over the rim and onto the floor. Castiel stared as the purple-red punch pooled. There was something about it…something that put his nerves on edge. As he gazed at the spill, the liquid seemed to congeal and morph into something thicker.

Castiel didn't notice the temperature dropping, or the kitchen knife rattling on the counter. His attention remained fixated on the growing red stain on the floor, his heart beginning to pound irregularly.

His next breath puffed out white, and he whirled as the air to his left suddenly flickered and crackled.

.o.0.o.

Sam plastered on a friendly smile as he approached the elderly woman across the street, and held up his badge. "Good afternoon, I'm Agent Rizer, FBI."

She regarded him warily. "FBI? Goodness, what brings you out here?"

"Doing some follow-up on an old case," he replied smoothly. "How long have you lived here?"

She lifted her chin. "Thirty years."

"So you knew the Jackson family?"

Her eyes shadowed, and she gave a shudder. "Oh yes. Horrible what happened." She frowned. "But that was ten years ago, and everyone knows about it."

Sam nodded. "Like I said, we're here doing a follow-up. What can you tell me about the Jacksons?"

The woman shrugged. "Husband was a right son-of-a-bitch, as you know. Wife was alright, sweet, but kind of timid. Those kids…" She trailed off and shook her head. "Never seen such sweet angels."

Sam grimaced sympathetically. "So Mr. Jackson wasn't friendly? Or did…what happened…come as a shock?"

"Of course it came as a shock," she retorted. "That kind of thing just doesn't happen around here. But as to him being a gentleman, hardly. Never said a word to me, even when I wished him a good morning."

"You wouldn't happen to know where Mr. Jackson is buried?" Sam asked nonchalantly.

"He was cremated." She crossed her arms with a huff. "Nothing for his type except to burn in hell."

Sam didn't disagree, but that was news he hadn't been expecting, and which complicated things. Maybe the ghost was one of the murder victims.

"And the rest of his family?" he asked.

"Blackwall Cemetery." The woman shook her head again sadly. "Tragic."

"Yeah," Sam said. "Thank you for your time."

He turned and headed back across the street to meet up with Dean and Cas. They needed to talk about their next plan of action, namely how to narrow down which ghost they were dealing with.

He heard the sound of glass shattering and a resounding thud, and bolted up the porch steps into the house. "Dean!" Twisting around, Sam scanned the empty living room, then caught sight of movement in the kitchen. He barreled through the entryway, pulling up short at the sight of his brother and Cas standing in the middle of the kitchen, a chair overturned between them. Dean had his crowbar in one hand, and there was what looked like juice spilled all over the floor.

Sam quickly roved his gaze around, trying to get a sense of what happened, and jolted at the three steak knives sticking point-first out of the wall just to his left.

"It's a ghost," Dean said unnecessarily.

Sam gave himself a sharp shake. "Which one?"

Dean quirked a brow at him before his eyes widened in realization that they had multiple candidates. "Didn't get a good look," he said. "I hit it from behind. Cas, you see it?"

Cas didn't respond right away, and it seemed to Sam that the angel was holding himself a little more rigidly than normal.

"No," he finally said.

Sam held back a sigh. "Well, neighbor across the street said the husband was cremated. So either there's some personal object he's attached to—no idea how we'd possibly find that—or it's one of the other family members. They're buried in the cemetery."

"Fantastic," Dean grumbled. "Cas, think you could get a better look, even if the ghost doesn't want to show itself? Would save us a lot of time if we didn't have to go digging up everyone's grave."

Cas canted his head in consideration. "I suppose I could attempt it."

Dean waved his crowbar. "Great, let's hop to it."

Sam waited for Cas to say something about walking, not hopping, but the angel was stoically silent—tensely so. But Sam just shrugged and fell into step behind Cas and Dean as they began to search the rest of the house.

.o.0.o.

Castiel ran his gaze over the picture frames hung up in the hallway, mostly of the little boy currently in the hospital, his parents, some older photos that were probably relatives. He felt a prickle down his spine, and for a split second, the images were replaced with another couple and the beaming faces of three little girls. Castiel blinked and they were gone. He frowned, turning toward one of the bedrooms. It had been set up as an office, but Castiel had the strange inkling that there should have been stuffed animals on the built-in shelves, not baseball memorabilia. As he stared at the furniture, trying to understand what he was sensing, there was a splash of blood across the wall and a distant scream.

Castiel jerked away, his breaths coming rapidly. Dean and Sam gave him curious looks. There was no blood in the room.

"What?" Dean asked, looking around. "The ghost coming back?"

Castiel gave himself a sharp shake. "N- no."

He tried to force his heart rate to calm down. He knew this place, knew the intimate details of the horrors that had gone on within these walls. This room was where five-year-old Susie had run, desperate to hide under her canopy bed. Her father had calmly walked into the room, dripping the blood of her sisters onto the carpet, and dragged her back out. She'd screamed as he'd stabbed her with the kitchen knife, over and over, her arterial spray coating the white bunny rabbit on the shelf.

Castiel remembered now. He'd never been to this house before, but the memories were some of Zachariah's choice pickings for Castiel's "re-education," to show him just how depraved and sick humanity was, how it needed to be destroyed and paradise established. Castiel had been forced to live through this little girl's memories of her father brutally murdering her. He'd felt her terror, the blade piercing tender flesh with fiery vengeance. And he'd screamed too.

Castiel took a staggering step, his stomach lurching violently, similar to after his trip through time. He needed to get out of here, needed to breathe…never mind there was oxygen in the room, for all the good it was doing his hyperventilating lungs. He had tried so hard to forget what Zachariah had shown him—the heinous, unadulterated depravity—buried the experience down deep and soldiered on, determined to help the Winchesters regardless.

But it was flooding back now; even though the room had changed in those ten years, he still saw it all in his mind's eye.

The air in front of him flickered, static crackling on the air in an amorphous shape.

"Yeah, show yourself," Dean challenged, but his voice was distant, muted.

Castiel looked up as the specter loomed before him, the flashing gray of electromagnetic waves glinting like the steel of a blade. A nebulous hand shot out to grab his throat, squeezing with vice-like strength. Castiel gasped, too stunned to react. The phantom echo of large fingers wrapping around a child's delicate throat paralyzed Castiel in that instant. The screams resounded in his ears, pleas for daddy to stop, please stop!

And somewhere in the back of Castiel's fragmented consciousness were the leftover residuals of a terrified, emotionally abused little girl who thought, on some level, that she somehow deserved this.

.o.0.o.

Dean waited for Cas to throw the ghostly hand off his throat, or to make his eyes glow and smite the thing, save them all a bunch of extra work. But the angel was just standing there, rigid, his eyes bulging and face reddening as the spirit choked him. The specter wasn't fully showing itself, either, but Dean had had enough. He surged forward and swung the iron, dissipating the spirit. Cas dropped to his knees, gasping for breath.

"What the hell, man?" Dean shouted. "Why'd you just stand there?"

Sam hurried forward and crouched down next to the angel, bracing one hand on Cas's heaving shoulders. Cas's pupils were wide and dilated, and he looked on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.

"Cas?" Sam called worriedly.

Cas lurched to his feet, pushing Sam away. Dean gaped incredulously as the angel lumbered out the door and toward the back exit. Trading a startled look with Sam, the Winchesters hurried after him, slowing when they saw Cas staggering out into the backyard and finally coming to a stop at the tree swing. Cas squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his hands over his head.

Dean's heart dropped into his stomach. Crap, what the hell had the ghost done to him? "Cas, hey man, talk to me. What's wrong?" Dean dumped his crowbar on the ground and came up behind the angel, curling his fingers around Cas's arm.

"I'm sorry," Cas said haltingly. "I- I can't."

"Can't what?" Dean demanded. Cas was really starting to freak him out.

Cas's jaw clenched hard enough to drain the blood from his cheeks.

Sam came to stand in front of him, hands hovering worriedly. "Is there some kind of psychic imprint? Did the ghost zap you or something?"

Cas shook his head. "No. No, it's not that."

"Then what?" Dean pressed. "Shit, Cas, breathe would you?"

"I'm…trying," the angel gritted out. His chest hitched a few more times before it seemed like Cas got it under control. He was still practically trembling. "I'm sorry," he gasped, breathing a little more steadily. "It's just…I remember what happened here, the man killing his family."

Dean frowned. "What, you were here?" The next thing he wanted to demand was why Cas hadn't stepped in, except he knew the answer to that; angels were totally fine with letting people die, and Cas had been towing the party line back then. Dean didn't realize he'd tightened his grip on Cas's arm until the angel flinched. And since when did the guy who took a punch like a slab of granite feel that?

Since time traveling stuffed his internal organs in a blender set to puree.

Cas shook his head, gaze directed toward the ground. "No, I wasn't here."

"Then how do you know what happened?" Sam asked.

"I…"

Dean waited, but Cas didn't try to finish his sentence. "You what? Come on, Cas, if you know something that can help us deal with this ghost, then you need to tell us!"

Sam shot him a bitch-face before looking worriedly at Cas again.

Cas still wouldn't look up. "It's…not the ghost of the victims," he said carefully.

Sam's brow furrowed. "How can you be sure? The father was cremated, and we still didn't get a good look at the spirit inside."

"I'm sure," Cas said softly.

Dean scowled. "That's not good enough."

And there was another pissy glare from Sam. Like Dean was really the bad guy here, given the homicidal ghost on the property.

Cas's throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly. "The mother and children…they're in Heaven."

Sam quirked a confused brow. "Are you saying you collected their souls? I thought that was a reaper thing?"

Cas shook his head. "No, I…"

"What?" Dean pressed.

Cas finally glanced up at him, and Dean was startled by the sheer agony etched across his friend's face. Then Cas ducked his gaze again. "They're in Heaven because…because their memories were recorded in the repository and used for…for…"

Dean tightened his grip again, but didn't demand Cas spit it out, because he was suddenly afraid to hear whatever it was that could make Cas go white like that.

"For re-education," Cas finished.

Dean frowned. Huh? That didn't sound like anything serious. "Wait, you mean Bible Camp? Like when you got dragged back to Heaven?"

Cas didn't respond.

"Cas," Sam gently prompted, his tone now cautious and guarded. "What do you mean the memories were used for re-education?"

Cas swallowed hard again. He straightened and pulled out of Dean's grasp, moving over to the tree to lean his palm against it, head bowed in what looked like contrition.

"Angels who…lose sight of the mission, are made to relive certain moments in human history, from the perspective of humans, to show them that the Apocalypse is the only option."

Dean blinked at him dumbly for a moment. "Moments like…" He trailed off in dawning horror. Moments like a father butchering his wife and kids. "Cas," he breathed. "Are you saying you were forced to go through what happened here?"

"It's an…effective method of persuasion." Cas tilted his head up, mouth twitching wryly. "Zachariah's favorites were the ones of the most personal betrayals. He liked this one because I could see and feel everything the mother did as she watched her children die—and them too, as their father slaughtered them."

Dean exchanged a horrified look with Sam, who looked as green as Dean suddenly felt. Son-of-a-bitch, that was Heaven's Bible Camp? Dean flashed back to the moment Cas had returned to possess Jimmy Novak. "I learned my lesson while I was away, Dean. I serve Heaven, I don't serve man. And I certainly don't serve you."

Cas didn't up and decide to just be an asshole again, to turn his back on Dean after a lecture from the dicks upstairs…oh god, it hadn't been a lecture. It'd been torture, plain and simple. For a moment, Dean tried to imagine what it was like to live in someone else's memory, to experience a child's terror as her father cut her to shreds. It wouldn't be any less horrific for a stranger, not even for Cas, angel of the Lord.

Dean had no idea what to say. Cas had gone through that because he'd tried to warn Dean about Lilith, and when Cas was so reticent and distant in the angels' green room afterward, Dean had chewed him out, accused him of being a spineless coward. When the truth was that coming back to help Dean, after what Cas had been through, had to have been the bravest thing the angel could have done.

But Dean didn't know how to say all that, so he cleared his throat uncomfortably and focused on the things he could tangibly tackle in that moment. "So, we are dealing with the bastard father, then."

Sam's jaw ticked as he continued gazing at Cas, seemingly torn between doing or saying something. But, like Dean, what was there to even say in the face of what they'd just learned?

"That means he's attached to an object," Sam said gravely. "But the place was cleared out years ago; how are we gonna find it?"

Cas let out a shuddering breath and drew his shoulders back. "I have the wife's memories. I can delve into them again, try to find a clue…"

Dean held up a hand. "Whoa, all of the memories? Or just the last ones?"

Cas regarded him stiffly. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does. Cas, you shouldn't have to go through that again."

"We don't have a choice."

Dean clenched his fists and fought back a frustrated noise. Dammit, he didn't want to put Cas through that kind of torture again. Once was enough.

But if they didn't find the object the father's ghost was attached to, then the family currently living in the house would still be in danger.

Dean huffed out a sigh, and snatched up his crowbar again. "Okay, just…me and Sam are right here with you, got it?"

Not that it would do much good, but at least Dean would make sure Cas wasn't alone this time.

Cas gazed at him for a moment, a flicker of understanding and gratitude easing some of the haunted darkness in his eyes. He nodded slowly. "Yes, I…got it."

.o.0.o.

Castiel took slow, measured breaths as he cautiously re-entered the house. Dean and Sam were flanking him much more closely than was usual, and yet he felt comforted by their presence. Because as long as he sensed them by his side, he knew the flashbacks weren't real, that they were just the ghosts inside his head from Zachariah's cruel machinations.

Taking a centering breath, Castiel stood and embraced the memories that came flooding back. High-pitched shrieks of pure terror clamored in his ears, but he tried to push past them, tried to filter out the horror of Elaine Jackson's last moments and grasp a small thread of what her life had been like before her husband became a family annihilator. He forced himself to stand firm against the maelstrom of sensations assaulting him. This time he was in control, not Zachariah.

He watched the memories play out in his mind's eye, attempting to distance himself from then logically. It didn't keep his heart rate from ratcheting up, or his palms from turning cold and clammy. But Castiel was able to see more this time, as Mr. Jackson dragged his bleeding wife downstairs to the basement where he'd dropped her on the floor. There was barely any breath left in her at that point—but enough to shift her gaze to the bodies of her children where they lay lifeless in the corner. Castiel felt the crushing weight of her horror and despair as if it were his own.

Yet he steeled himself and headed downstairs. The basement looked untouched by the new owners, a thick coating of dust layering the steps and floor, cobwebs in the corners. Castiel's gaze roved over the bare concrete, memories briefly showing him a glimpse of sprawled corpses. He squeezed his eyes shut to banish the phantoms.

A firm hand settled on his shoulder. Dean didn't say anything, but Castiel drew strength from the contact. Opening his eyes, he let the last seconds of Elaine Jackson's life play out before him, up until her husband ended the bloodbath by shooting himself. But not before he stashed an item inside the ventilation grate.

"His wedding ring," Castiel said hoarsely. "In the vent."

Sam quickly went over and knelt down to look for it.

"That's just sick," Dean spat. "Guy butchers his wife, but his wedding ring is his most prized possession?"

"I'm sure it was a symbol of…" Castiel trailed off. A symbol of love? Hatred? Did it matter?

Sam stood up, holding a faded gold band between his thumb and forefinger.

The temperature in the room plummeted, and Dean let out a soft curse.

"Now, Sam!"

The younger Winchester fumbled for his lighter while Dean pulled out a small bottle of lighter fluid. Castiel narrowed his senses on the air flickering in the corner and the malice suddenly permeating the room. Sam got the lighter lit, and dropped it and the wedding ring in the puddle of accelerant. The item went up in a whoosh of flames.

But the ghost didn't.

A screech pierced the air, making the Winchesters flinch and shrink away. There was a ripple of power, and Sam and Dean were lifted off the floor and thrown back against the wall. Castiel felt a feeble push as the spirit tried to telekinetically toss him across the room too. He whirled to face it, stunned and horrified that he'd been wrong about the object needed to banish the ghost.

There was a spitting hiss, and then a sibilant shriek. "Stay away!"

The air vibrated and wobbled, and suddenly Castiel was facing the visage of a little girl, pitted eyes glaring up at him. He stared dumbfounded. How was this possible? The children were in Heaven; he'd lived their deaths, and that was the only way…

The specter crackled and fizzled, making his vessel's skin tingle. He felt the pressure closing around him like a vice. The ghost reached out with clawed fingers and plunged them into Castiel's chest. He gasped at the electric current that shot through him, seizing his muscles in a paralyzing spasm.

"Cas!" Dean shouted.

He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. And in that moment, Castiel saw the ghost's memories, different from the ones of her sisters that Zachariah had shoved into Castiel's mind with brutish intent. This little girl had experienced it all, just the same, but when the reaper had come to collect their souls, the child had fled, terrified. Thus leaving her ghost here, adrift and alone, until she'd become a vengeful spirit.

Choking on seared oxygen, Castiel managed to lift his hand and grasp the girl's wrist. Her eyes flared, slivers of lightning spitting out.

"Darla," Castiel choked out. "What happened to you was terrible. But you don't have to stay like this. You can be healed."

"No," she hissed, clenching her fist inside Castiel's sternum. His back arched as he choked back a cry.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Dean stagger to his feet and raise the crowbar.

"Don't!" Castiel gasped, holding his other hand out to ward Dean off. "Darla," he tried again, eyes watering. "You can be with your mother and sisters again. They love you and miss you."

The girl's spirit glowered, spritzing static. "They left me."

"They didn't mean to." White spots speckled Castiel's vision, but he called upon his weakened grace to exude warmth and love into the lost little girl. "They want you to come home," he gritted out. "But you have to let go of the rage."

He felt Darla's energy waver, and then it was like a glass sphere shattering. Light blazed forth, whiting out the basement for a split moment. When it dimmed, Castiel staggered to find himself released, and Darla standing several feet back, her pretty pink dress ruffled around her knees, ribbons in her hair.

"I want my mommy," she whimpered.

Castiel startled as a foreign presence joined them. A reaper.

The brown-skinned woman with dark curly hair cast Castiel a brief glance, then held her hand out to Darla. "Come on, sweetie, your mom's waiting."

Castiel watched the child smile shyly and take the proffered hand. Then the two disappeared, leaving Castiel as the last living being to carry the weight of what happened here. He vaguely heard Sam and Dean cautiously come up behind him.

"Cas, you okay?" Dean asked.

He swallowed thickly and whispered, "I'd like to leave now."

.o.0.o.

Sam followed Dean and Cas up the stairs and outside, keeping a careful eye on the angel, who still looked a bit shaky in spite of his assurances otherwise. Sam was still processing everything himself, too. What happened in that house all those years ago, that Cas had been forced to live it as Heaven's brand of "correction"—and everyday Sam found himself hating angels more and more—then what Cas just did, talking down a vengeful spirit so it could find peace.

"You okay, Cas?" Sam asked hesitantly.

"I'm unhurt."

Well, that answered part of his question, but he'd meant more than that.

Dean cleared his throat. "What went down in there…you did good, man. I'm glad this was one ghost we didn't have to burn."

"It wasn't her fault she became vengeful," Cas protested. "She didn't deserve what happened to her."

Dean stepped around to stand in front of the angel, jaw tight and expression stern. "Neither did you."

Cas looked away, the memories obviously still fresh. Sam remembered how deadened Cas had seemed when he'd come back from Heaven that one time, and now he knew why.

Cas took a step back. "I- I should go."

Sam saw the look of panic flash in Dean's eyes, but he spoke first. "Please don't, Cas."

"I think you're safe from the angels," Cas said. "You don't have to worry about what happened in 1978."

Sam blinked at him. "What? That's not why we don't want you to leave."

The look of confusion Cas gave him made Sam's heart ache with equal perplexity, and then just plain ache.

"Dude, you think we keep you around as some kind of angel repellant?" Dean asked incredulously.

Cas's brow furrowed. "I can't repel other angels, but I assumed the added protection was a benefit…"

Sam held up a hand to stop him. "No, that's not it at all. You scared the shit out of us with that time travel stunt that practically left you in a coma. And with what just happened here…we don't like seeing you hurt. As long as you're with us, we know you're okay." Sam paused, thinking about recent events. "And if you're not okay, we're here for you. If you want to talk or not or get drunk. Just…stay?"

Cas stared at him owlishly before letting out a soft, "Oh."

"Yeah, oh," Dean rejoined, shaking his head. "So you good? No flying off on us, right?"

Cas rolled his shoulder awkwardly. "Alright. May…may I have a minute though?"

Dean nodded slowly. "Sure. We'll be at the car." He turned away with a reluctant glance back, and Sam fell into step beside him as they made their way around the side of the yard, far enough away to give Cas a moment of privacy to deal with everything, but not letting the angel out of their sight.

Dean clenched his fists, fury igniting in his expression. "Before this is over, I'm gonna kill that son-of-a-bitch," he whispered.

Sam knew exactly who his brother meant, and let out a soft noise of agreement. "If you don't, I will."

"And I thought demons were deranged."

Sam looked back toward Cas with a new measure of regard, and sense of protectiveness. What Cas had gone through was horrific. Just like Dean's time in Hell. There was nothing Sam could do to change it, for either of them, and Cas might never even be ready to talk about it. Either way, though, Sam and Dean would be there for him.

The angel had become family, after all.