This moment balances on a knife's edge.

To human eyes, he would be a man sitting on a poured concrete bench. Dark haired and blue eyed, he appears not to notice the chill in the air; there's snow on the ground, though purple and orange crocuses show through it with the hope of early spring.

Human eyes couldn't have seen the light that burns under his skin. He's been speaking for some little time, but he seems to have reached the end of his musings. He is no longer recounting; now he's asking—for judgement, for guidance. The watcher intends to provide both, if necessary.

"Am I doing the right thing? Am I on the right path?" he asks. He sounds weary, sad, and the watcher feels it with distant compassion. "You have to tell me. You have to give me...a sign. Give me a sign. Because if you don't...I'm going do whatever I...whatever I must." He looks down at his hands, and something moves over his face. "Maybe Dean is right. We've taken on more with less. I have the weapons; if I can choose my ground—"

The watcher shifts enough to be visible to the man on the bench, and speaks.

"Cas," someone said, and Castiel looked up. He stood, his will reaching for his blade; he'd chosen an obscure heaven for this, but it was always possible that he'd been tracked. On the other hand, his enemies never called him Cas.

His eyes fell on the speaker, and for a moment he was stunned. "Dean," he said blankly, even as he realized that this couldn't be Dean Winchester. It looked like the human, down to the arrangement of faint freckles on its face, but Castiel couldn't see the soul beneath the skin that was the essence of Dean; this being, whatever it was, was purely physical to his senses, as Dean had become in those last terrible days before Stull when he'd felt mortality, humanity, settling over his shoulders like a cloak. "Who are you?" Castiel demanded. His sword was a reassuring weight in his hand and he cast about for traces of an ambush.

"I'm here to help," the thing said, holding its hands out to show them empty—a purely symbolic gesture for something that could track him into Heaven, but he could appreciate symbolism. "I thought you might like to see me like this, but I can change it if it makes you uncomfortable." It didn't talk like Dean, that was certain.

If nothing else, it didn't sound angry at Castiel.

He couldn't detect any sign that the being before him had allies; on the other hand, he'd had no warning of its approach, either, and it seemed prudent to stay ready. "I think Dean wouldn't like it that you're using his form," Castiel said carefully. "If you wouldn't mind." He didn't mention that he didn't like it either; Dean's physical form without the shine of his bright soul within it was a travesty.

The thing nodded, and suddenly Castiel was looking at himself, Dean's leather and denim swapped for a duplicate of his own suit and coat. The thing inclined Jimmy Novak's head questioningly. Castiel swallowed his surprise and said, "That's…fine." There had been a shiver of power when the form shifted that frightened him, but he didn't have time for fear now. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I said I'm here to help," the thing said serenely. "You asked for a sign, Castiel. I'm going to give it to you."

Castiel's sword hand dropped to his side and he almost lost his grip on the blade. "Father?" he whispered, hope swelling in his Grace. Though he thought the way it said his name was…odd.

The thing's lips quirked into a small smile. "I am not your Father. But I can show you things that He could. If you allow it." Castiel frowned at it, wondering why the first word that sprang to mind was Bullshit. Perhaps it was that hint of the thing's power; he was sure that it didn't need his permission for anything much.

"I don't understand," he said, around his disappointment. "If you aren't my Father, why would you answer my call?"

The thing's tiny smile never wavered. It said, "I know what it is to beg for answers that are never received, Castiel. To search in vain. I would spare you that, at least once. Call it the gift of certainty."

Suddenly he was tired of hints and suggestions; it gave him sympathy for the way Dean had always complained about him not sharing enough information. "What do you want to show me?" he asked bluntly, shoving down the pang that the thought of Dean brought. The thing's smile widened ever so slightly.

"If you give in to Dean's wishes, his shortsighted, human perspective," it said, stepping to within arms' reach. Castiel didn't raise his sword. "If you let him rule you, this is what will happen." Two fingers reached for Castiel's forehead.

He landed, and staggered. Castiel didn't recognize his surroundings for a moment, but then they snapped into focus: the living room of Bobby Singer's house. In the back of his mind he was aware that he'd already done this, already had this conversation, but the knowledge was easy to suppress in his need to make Dean understand.

Dean lay on the couch beneath the windows. Castiel stared at him, drinking in the sight of that soul, for long seconds until Dean stirred. Castiel wanted to smile. Dean was always too much of a hunter to stay asleep long when there was someone unexpected in the room.

It hurt, though, to watch Dean tense when his eyes met Castiel's, as if he expected an attack. "Hello, Dean," he said, trying to sound reassuring. Dean sat up and said roughly, "How'd you get in here?"

"The angel-proofing Bobby put up on the house," Castiel said. "He got a few things wrong." It was a matter of drawing one set of lines in the wrong order; Castiel was sure Bobby would fix it soon enough, given a hint something needed fixing. This might be his last chance to talk to Dean for a while.

"Well, it's too bad we gotta angel-proof in the first place, isn't it?" Dean asked as he got to his feet. Castiel knew Dean was aware that standing up wouldn't improve his chances if it came to a fight, but Dean never felt comfortable in a position of vulnerability. "Why are you here?"

Castiel didn't sigh, only said, "I want you to understand." He stepped closer and met Dean's eyes squarely, trying not to recoil under that accusing gaze. Dean was so angry, so sure of himself, and Castiel didn't know how to make him see.

"Oh, believe me, I get it," Dean said shortly, and immediately proved he didn't. "Blah, blah, Raphael. Right?"

"I'm doing this for you, Dean," Castiel insisted, a conscious echo of a time when he'd actually managed to persuade the man. I've rebelled, he heard in his mind, and knew Dean remembered too. And I did it—all of it—for you. "I'm doing this because of you."

"Because of me," Dean said, a humorless smile stretching his lips. He turned away, rubbing at his face with one hand. "Yeah. You got to be kidding me."

"You're the one who taught me that freedom and free will—"

"You're a friggin' child, you know that?" Dean snapped, turning back. He moved in on Castiel like he was advancing to attack. Castiel refused to retreat. "Just because you can do what you want doesn't mean that you get to do whatever you want!"

"I know what I'm doing, Dean," Castiel said, allowing some of his own frustration to show. Dean took a breath, let it out, and spoke a little more calmly.

"I'm not gonna logic you, OK? I'm saying don't…just 'cause. I'm asking you not to. That's it."

"I don't understand," Castiel said. That little witness in the back of his mind knew what was next; Dean would make an appeal to family, because family was always the most important thing to him. The part of Castiel that was present in the moment, though, just wanted the conversation to be over.

Dean closed his eyes, and Castiel cocked his head in puzzlement. This wasn't how it went. "Look, Cas. Next to Sam, you and Bobby are the closest things to family I have left." He opened his eyes again, naked pleading on his face, and Castiel almost had to look away. "You're like a brother to me. Brothers' job is to look out for each other, and I just…I know you think you got into this for the right reasons, man, but you gotta trust me. I'm outside it. I can see, we can see, that you're gonna get hurt." He put a hand on Castiel's shoulder and his voice dropped till he was almost whispering. "I don't want to see you hurt, Cas. Let us help you."

"This is beyond your power," Castiel said, off-balance in the sudden shifting of what he remembered. "You're just a man." He pushed his silent witness down, ignored it in favor of just existing in this moment as it should have been. This was Dean at his best, trying to help someone he held dear even if he didn't always go about it the right way; this was Dean, trying for once to persuade instead of command. And rather than be insulted, Dean looked faintly but truly amused.

"I dunno," Dean said. Castiel saw hope in his eyes, when before there had been only despair and anger and confusion. "I've taken some pretty big fish. Sam, don't." Castiel turned, and there was Sam, dressed for bed but holding his hand poised over a banishing sigil drawn on a piece of cardboard. Focused on Dean, Castiel hadn't noticed him. Hadn't thought to look for him, since he hadn't been there the first time, and that was when Castiel made a conscious decision to ignore the first iteration of this conversation.

"I'm guessing Crowley thinks you're too close to us," Sam said. "That's why he sent his guys after us, right?" He still sounded stiff and angry; Castiel didn't really blame him. But at least he was talking.

"Yes," Castiel said. "He's very angry that you killed Eve. Angry with me for helping you find the means to do it."

"What about Eve?" Dean asked. Sam went over to Bobby's desk, flicking the light switch on the way, and said, "She came from Purgatory. Crowley thought she could help him open it."

Castiel drew in a breath he didn't really need and decided. Cards on the table, as Dean would say. "Yes. The souls...souls are power. Crowley wants them to consolidate his rule of Hell. There are those who contest him." He paused and continued more softly, "As there are those who contest me."

Sam dropped into the chair behind Bobby's desk. "You used Bobby's soul to power up. Now you want to use all the monster souls to do the same thing, just bigger." He sounded almost winded by the idea.

"To win the war with Raphael," Castiel agreed grimly. "Yes. Do you see now why I kept this from you? Crowley is King of Hell. Raphael is an archangel. There is nothing you can do to help me. You'll be killed if you try, perhaps worse than killed. It's within Raphael's power to simply destroy your souls." Dean's endearing bravado notwithstanding, Castiel knew that if they got involved, they wouldn't escape unharmed—and he was familiar enough with emotion, now, to recognize that the thought terrified him.

"Not like mine'd be any great loss," Sam said, and then, "Joke, Dean. Don't look at me like I killed your puppy."

"Don't joke about it," Dean snapped in return. Castiel had to agree with him. The topic of Sam's soul was a tender one, though, and silence fell. Finally, Castiel broke it. "Sam, I'm sorry," he said simply. He had admitted it (would admit it) to his Father; there was no harm in telling Sam as well. "I was…arrogant. I saw your body and it didn't occur to me that your soul might not be in it." It should have; he of all beings should have known that things were never that easy for these two. If nothing else he should have realized something was very wrong when Sam hadn't gone to his brother immediately.

"Yeah," Dean said, belligerence growing in his voice again. "How did you not notice the first time you saw him topside? Why'd you have to do the whole…thing?" Dean made vague groping gestures with his hand. Castiel assumed they weren't meant to be obscene.

"In this form, I have to make an effort to detect souls," he said, mildly surprised. "Except yours. I would have had to see Sam in my true form to simply notice."

"Except mine?" Dean asked, propping himself up on one elbow to stare. "You can see my soul all the time, but no one else's?" He threw an arm over his eyes and collapsed against the couch cushions. "This is part of that profound bond thing again. Just when I think you're over being stalker-y, Cas, I swear." Castiel didn't know quite how to respond to that, but it was comforting anyway, a complaint from the time of Team Free Will; he'd been lost then, but Dean and Sam had been there to anchor him.

"Dean. Could we deal with your inappropriate crush later, maybe?" Sam asked, and Castiel was grateful, because he was well aware that 'being stalker-y' could describe more of his recent actions than just looking at Dean's soul. Without moving the arm over his face, Dean raised his other hand in the gesture he'd spent an hour trying to explain the subtle uses of, once. All Castiel had ended up retaining was that it was an insult, though Dean hadn't been able to articulate exactly why.

Sam snorted, but neither of the brothers seemed inclined to pursue the subject further, and Castiel didn't know what to say, if for no other reason than that he wasn't entirely sure what a "crush" was in this context.

At last, Dean uncovered his eyes and said, "You made Raphael back off once, Cas. I don't get why you can't do it again."

Castiel sighed and stepped over to the wing chair in the corner. He didn't technically need to rest, but he'd grown accustomed enough to being in a vessel that it was comforting to act human sometimes. Dean and Sam were sitting, so he would sit. "I made Raphael back off once, when she had none of her supporters with her and I had just told her of an increase in my power. I can't surprise her the same way again. If the weapons were an overwhelming advantage, she'd have surrendered already."

"She?" Dean asked, and Castiel tried not to smile fondly. Trust Dean to catch on the most irrelevant part of the statement.

"Raphael's current vessel is female. We don't really have gender, Dean."

"Right, multidimensional wavelengths," Dean said absently.

Sam leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head. "The weapons aren't overwhelming."

"No," Castiel said. "At best, they render me close enough to her equal that she can't destroy me out of hand."

"You shoulda hit her with everything you had back then. Go for the surprise shot." Dean said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Castiel stared at him for a moment, and then said, "Yes. Clearly, I should have ambushed my sister and killed her with no warning." Dean managed to look abashed; Sam made a thoughtful noise.

"Cas, I don't mean to step on your toes or anything, but…yeah, maybe you should have," Sam said reluctantly.

Castiel looked down at his clasped hands. "I considered it," he said finally, quietly, admitting it aloud. "But the archangels…" and he trailed off, not knowing how to explain.

"They're your big brothers," Dean said. He sounded sympathetic. "Big sister, I guess."

"Still," said Sam, sliding into the clinical tone of voice Castiel remembered all too well from the young man's time soulless. "It would have ended the war, right? The other angels, they'd have accepted you if Raphael were dead?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then you should have done it," Sam said coldly. Dean was giving his brother a look that Castiel couldn't interpret, as if he wanted to protest but wouldn't. Perhaps he thought Castiel deserved the reprimand.

"Raphael is my sister," Castiel began, and Sam spoke right over him.

"Doesn't matter. You could have ended it right there, you should have ended it."

"Sam, I—"

"You should have," Sam persisted, and Castiel began to be angry with him. These two, always judging him, as if they knew better. "Sam," he began again, aware his voice was lower.

Again Sam overrode him. "'She's my sister' isn't enough." Dean bit back a word, but Castiel didn't spare him a look and neither did Sam, who was sitting forward again, hands flat on Bobby's desk. "One sister, Cas, against everyone else, the whole world, you should have done it."

"I couldn't," Castiel said flatly, willing Sam not to push. It didn't work.

"Why not?" Sam looked him up and down, his mouth twisting into an ugly sneer. "Too good for it?" Castiel stood up, noticing distantly that Dean was tensing on the couch.

"It was an unacceptable risk."

"Oh, you were afraid it wouldn't work. I get it," Sam scoffed.

Castiel took a half-step forward, stopped himself. "No. I could have killed her then." Absently he wondered when Sam had become the one who prodded him into this kind of emotion; usually that was Dean's job.

"Then why?" Sam demanded. "Why didn't you end the whole thing?" He was standing now too, leaning on the desk, openly scornful.

Castiel's control slipped. The light bulb of the overhead fixture popped and sparks rained from it as he shouted, "Because it could have killed you!" Sam and Dean winced, and Castiel took a moment to move his voice back into the ranges they could stand to hear. "I am more powerful than I was, but I'm not technically an archangel. I could not have simply smitten Raphael, and the release of power would have been fatal to you both. And anyone else close enough." Though he was a little ashamed to know he hadn't considered anyone else at the time.

Suddenly, Sam smiled, all the hostility draining out of his posture in moments; Castiel realized Sam had been deliberately provoking him, though he wasn't sure why. "OK," Sam said. "I'm sorry. I just…I thought it might be something like that." He sat back down. "What you're telling us is that we're a liability in angel fights." He gave Dean a significant glance that Castiel couldn't entirely read. "Which, seriously, not a big shocker. So what we need is a way for us to help you without being right there where we'll be in the way."

"So Sammy," Dean said conversationally, "when did you decide to be the one who mouths off to the angels?" Sometime in there he'd sat up again. Sam shrugged and said, "We needed to know, and Cas learned how to talk about stuff from you." Dean looked a little affronted, but Sam didn't seem to care. "It was the only way I was gonna get a good answer."

"So you decided to taunt the guy who could smite you?"

"Pretty sure I'd've had to piss him off way more than that," Sam said, and lifted an eyebrow in Castiel's direction. Bemused, Castiel nodded. It shouldn't have been that easy for Sam to make him lose his temper. Perhaps it was the stress.

Again silence fell, but this time it wasn't strained; they were simply all lost in thought. Castiel wasn't surprised when Dean broke it first. Dean wasn't stupid, but quiet contemplation was not one of his strengths.

"So what do we do?" Castiel found the simple question incredibly warming. 'We' was not a word he'd expected to hear from Dean ever again, after that disastrous confrontation, the holy fire between them like a wall. And…it wasn't Dean asking Castiel to provide the answers, so much as opening the floor for discussion.

"For starters you can tell me why Feathers here ain't in a ring," another voice said. All three of them startled and turned, but it was just Bobby, standing a few steps from the bottom of the stairs. He had a bathrobe wrapped around him and no hat, which Castiel found strange.

Dean waved a hand and said, "We're good, Bobby." Bobby continued to look wary and glanced at Sam, who nodded. Dean looked a little put out, but Bobby's expression softened slightly.

"You break any windows?" Bobby asked. Castiel shook his head. "Fine. So why're we shoutin' at this hour?"

"My bad," Sam said. "I wanted to know if I was right about something, so I, uh, kind of made him mad on purpose."

"And you're all sittin' here in the dark because he broke the lightbulb," Bobby said, sounding a little sour. Dean and Sam looked startled, as if they hadn't noticed. Castiel glanced up and spared a flicker of power; the light popped back on. "Thanks," Bobby said. Castiel nodded.

Before anyone else could speak he said, "I…feel I should tell you I didn't come here only to talk to Dean." Three pairs of eyes fixed on him, instantly narrowed in suspicion. Castiel bore it without comment. "Bobby. You have a book that Crowley suspects will help in our search for Purgatory. From Samuel's library, in fact—the journal of Moishe Campbell. Crowley insisted I retrieve it."

"You were gonna steal one of my books?" Bobby growled. Castiel just looked at him.

"Technically it's probably our book," Sam said, sounding a little amused, but he held up a hand in mock defense when Bobby glared. "Either way we can't let Crowley get his hands on it."

"If I don't bring it back," Castiel said, "Crowley will assume I'm working with you. He won't react well."

"Are you working with us, Cas?" Dean asked bluntly.

Castiel met Dean's eyes and said, "I would appreciate your help, if you're willing to give it. But I can't risk your lives, and you know the stakes. If Raphael wins, all of humanity will die."

"Kind of part of humanity here," Dean muttered. He rubbed a hand over his face, a gesture Castiel was all too familiar with. He'd seen Dean frustrated or angry or unhappy too many times. "Damn it. Why didn't you come to us earlier?"

"Not the time, Dean," Sam said. Dean glared at his brother for a second, but Sam just raised an eyebrow.

"Right," Dean said. "OK. This Purgatory thing."

Bobby said, "At the very least we got to look through the journal ourselves."

"I have to return to Crowley soon, or he'll be suspicious," Castiel said. He didn't attempt to hide his distaste for the idea. "With the book."

"What's soon? We need time to read through it," Sam said.

"That ain't the problem," Bobby said. They all looked at him and he offered them a shrug. "Hi, glad to meet you; Bobby Singer, paranoid bastard? I've got a copy." He paused. "The problem is, are we on board with finding Purgatory in the first place?"

"Opening," Sam said, and Bobby's eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. "We were right—they're planning to open Purgatory and get the souls out."

Bobby fixed Castiel with the glare that usually accompanied the word idjit and said, "You told me just my soul coulda blown you up. How many monster souls in Purgatory, anyway?"

"Millions," Castiel said. "Tens of millions. But it isn't quite the same operation." Not that it was less dangerous, but it was different. He essayed a smile and said, "Besides, Crowley gets half."

They all just looked at him for a moment, which meant that wasn't the right thing to have said.

"So we gotta find out about this lead," Dean said at last, dropping the topic of Castiel's dubious alliance with a thud that was all but audible.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Can't stop the ritual if we don't know how it works. It might be something Crowley can't do anyway, who knows?"

"Cas," Dean said suddenly. "You said you could take Raphael now, right?" Castiel nodded, frowning in confusion. Raphael still held greater power than he did, but there were compensations for risking oneself in combat the way he had; you got better at fighting, quickly, if you survived at all. And Raphael had been the Healer, long before she'd been a general. "OK. OK, but you need to have her alone. So what we need to do is draw her out. Get her somewhere she wouldn't go with backup. Somewhere she wouldn't go with...let's call 'em witnesses." Dean grinned. Castiel watched him warily, as did Bobby, but Sam seemed to have an idea where his brother was going with this.

"You really think we can double-cross them both?"

"I think we've taken more with less," Dean said fiercely. "So what you're going to do," he pointed at Castiel, "is take the book to Crowley while we look at the copy here. Tell him you scared us into going along with you."

"He won't buy that, Dean," Sam said, and Bobby made an affirmative noise. Castiel just decided to wait and see where this plan took them.

Dean rolled his eyes and said, "Come on. Cas can be a scary son of a bitch when he wants to be." He looked at Castiel for confirmation, and it was so good to be trusted again that Castiel hated to shake his head.

"Crowley...knows me too well," he said. "He knows I couldn't threaten you convincingly." And if you meant Dean rather than you three, Castiel didn't think it was important; the effect was the same.

"Yeah, you could," Sam said, and shrugged at Castiel's questioning gaze. "Tell him you threatened me." The look he gave Castiel was thick with meaning, as if he knew the definition of you Castiel had been using—and maybe he did; Sam had always been perceptive about such things. "All the monsters we've ever met have known Dean and I are each other's weakness, Cas. Tell Crowley you threatened to kill me, just me." He looked down at his hands and smiled. "Better yet. Tell him you threatened to break my wall."

"Sam, no," Castiel said, appalled. "Those memories would destroy you. I wouldn't—"

But Dean's smile was still firmly intact. "We know that, Cas, but Crowley will believe it. Because he's a dick, and it's what he'd do, and he wants everyone to be just as much of a dick as he is. He'll buy it." Castiel considered it for a moment, and decided Dean was probably right; Crowley could imagine loyalty and friendship, but for him they were weaknesses in others to be used against them.

And perhaps they were weaknesses, but if so Castiel preferred to be weak.

"You sure you can do this, angel?" Bobby asked, and even Castiel could read the expression on his face; what Bobby was really asking was Are you gonna screw us over again? He met the hunter's eyes squarely, remembering Look me in the eye and tell me... and said, "I can. I will. But I have to go soon. There's only so much I can cover by telling Crowley I fought with you."

"I'll get you the book and then I'm goin' back to bed," Bobby announced, and stamped off.

Castiel considered saying he could fetch it himself, but thought better of it in time. Pointing out to Bobby that he could have simply stolen the book was unlikely to go over well.

"Yeah, I need to get a little more sleep," Sam said. He stood, stretching elaborately, his eyes on his brother. For his part, Dean looked uncertain—not an expression Castiel was used to, but infinitely better than angry or frustrated, which Dean had seemed to be every time they'd talked for most of the last year. Sam continued, "I don't know if it's later yet, man, but you might want to think about it." Dean seemed to know what that meant, and he shrugged at Sam. "At least we're talking," he said. Sam grinned; Castiel looked between the brothers in puzzlement, wondering if this were another of the seemingly endless series of "inside jokes" that made up so much of their conversations.

If so, it had communicated what it needed to. Sam left the room without another word and went up the stairs. Dean sighed and stood.

"Do you get what we're doing here?" he asked. Castiel thought about it for a moment and said, "Yes and no. You want to lure Raphael into an exposed position, and you think giving Crowley what he wants will accomplish that."

"We give Crowley what he wants for now," Dean said. "Then we pull the rug out from under him. And he'll run to Raphael."

Castiel blinked at him. "Raphael will smite him. She'd never—"

"Yeah she will," Dean said confidently. "She'll do it because in the end she's just like Zachariah. She pretends to be all righteous, but she'll get in bed with anything that'll give her what she wants. I mean, you gonna tell me she didn't know about the whole Lucifer plan? She'll go for it." He paused, and then his expression changed. "Cas…why didn't you come and talk to me?" he asked; Castiel doubted very much that he had intended to sound so hurt. "Why Crowley?"

Castiel put his hands in his pockets and tried not to look down. This question deserved as honest an answer as he could give. "I went to talk to you," he said after a moment to marshal his thoughts. "You were raking leaves. I didn't want…I thought you were happy. I thought you deserved to be left alone. I was going to let you see me anyway, just to talk, but then Crowley…I thought I could leave you in peace, Dean. You deserve that." He considered the next part for long enough that Dean seemed ready to interrupt him. "And. It's not, it shouldn't be, your burden to help me. I shouldn't need your help."

"Because you're an angel, and I'm just a man," Dean said, his voice rough.

"Because you've done enough," Castiel said, "and I chose this war. The burdens should be mine to bear."

"You're letting Crowley help you bear them," Dean muttered, and suddenly Castiel understood.

"Dean. Dealing with Crowley is one of the burdens." He wanted to move closer, but Dean was hunched on himself in a way that meant he'd be even less amenable than usual to an invasion of his "personal space".

Except Dean lifted his head, straightened his back, and moved to stand close enough that Castiel had to tilt his head back a little to look into his eyes. "Cas, damn it," Dean said, too softly for the words. "I was happy with Lisa, sure, happy as I could be thinking Sam was dead, but man. You shoulda told me. You've done so much for me—us. You gotta let us return the favor."

Castiel nodded, but couldn't think of anything to say. His breath was coming faster than he was used to. "Let us help you, Cas. Let me help you." Dean was barely even whispering now.

"You shouldn't have to," Castiel said, just as quietly, and Dean smiled. "I want to help you," he said, and bent his head. Castiel realized what was happening right before it did.

The kiss was soft, almost tentative, nothing like the fevered touch of the demon's lips, and Castiel didn't know what to do. With the demon it had been a matter of transferring power; she'd never have been able to hold his sword otherwise, without the permission in that kiss. Dean wasn't demanding anything. Dean was just there, offering something Castiel had never known he wanted to ask for. He opened his mouth and was rewarded with a soft sound against his lips and a hand threading through his hair.

Castiel was just realizing he had no idea what to do with his own hands when Bobby said, "Oh, balls." Dean broke away from Castiel with a speed that was almost comical, his eyes gone wide, and turned to Bobby, who was standing in the hallway arch with a heavy book in one hand. Bobby looked annoyed in a more directed fashion than usual. "I, uh," Dean said. "We were—"

"Yeah, I saw what you were," Bobby said. "Hope you're happy, now I owe Sam ten bucks." Dean seemed to be struck dumb, which Castiel found endearing, though he wasn't sure why kissing Dean was relevant to Bobby owing anyone money. Bobby turned to Castiel and held out the book. "Here. Don't screw this up," he said. Castiel took it, nodding in acknowledgment. "No sex in my living room," Bobby said with finality, and turned his back on Dean's sputters.

When the older man was gone, Dean sat down on the sofa, buried his face in his hands, and started to laugh. It reminded Castiel powerfully of that moment outside the den of iniquity, and just as then he thought Dean wasn't laughing at him precisely. He let it go on for a few seconds before he said, "I need to go." And a month ago, even a week ago, he'd simply have left. He wasn't entirely sure what was stopping him now.

Dean drew in a deep breath and looked up. He was still smiling, and Castiel smiled in return. "Dude. Our timing sucks," Dean said. "Just, I don't know. Check back as soon as you can and we'll make more plans, OK?"

"Yes," Castiel said, and on impulse bent to brush his lips over Dean's again. A moment later, he was elsewhere.

"Took you bloody long enough," Crowley snapped, before Castiel was even fully present. "Did you get it?"

"Of course," Castiel said coldly. He offered the book and Crowley snatched it.

"Good little birdie," Crowley said, poisonously sweet. He glanced at the book, but then his attention seemed to fix on Castiel. "You were gone a long time. Have a hard time finding it, did we?"

"Dean was awake," Castiel said. "I had to talk to him."

Crowley closed his eyes and moaned in mock pain. "No, you didn't. You didn't have to talk to him, you didn't have to let him see you. There was no reason for him to even know you were there."

"The Winchesters are resourceful," Castiel said. "I thought it was better to try to reason with him—"

In one of his mercurial turns of mood, Crowley roared, "Those two can't be reasoned with! Have you not bloody noticed that by now?" He paused, theatrically fighting for control, and Castiel took the opportunity to interject.

"I told Dean that if he didn't stand down, I'd break Sam's wall," he said flatly, and felt a surge of enjoyment at the look of frank astonishment that fell over Crowley's human face.

"Why, Thursday," Crowley said after a moment. He sounded surprised and approving, and Castiel loathed the approval though he knew it was a good sign. "Did you finally grow a pair when it comes to your little pet?"

"I can't afford to let them distract me," Castiel said. Unsure how Crowley expected him to feel, he slipped into the iron control of the garrison; it had been his only way of being for so long, it was easy to fall into. Let Crowley read into it what he would. "I would rather have them fear me for now."

"Still," Crowley said, eyes narrowing. "Wouldn't have taken long to deliver that message. So what. Kept you?"

"That's none of your concern."

Crowley set the book down on one of his tables with a thud that rattled the instruments upon it. He stalked much closer than Dean would have been comfortable with and said softly, "Oh, angel, I disagree. I need to know what you're up to with those two. I need to know—" and he suddenly stopped talking.

"You didn't," Crowley said after a pause. "But he's all over you. You did." Castiel cocked his head in confusion as Crowley's expression went from angry to a slowly-growing smile that the angel found extremely unpleasant.

Castiel did not take a step back, but it was a near thing; Crowley was actually sniffing him. "So you finally cut him a slice of angel food cake, did you?" Crowley asked smugly. "Does he get off on being scared of you, or did you just hold him down? Nice having someone else be the bottom sometimes." Castiel didn't want to find out how long the demon would continue in that vein, so he broke in, "That's enough. I got the book; whatever else I did isn't important."

"Far be it from me to intrude into another man's sex life, kitten," Crowley said airily, after a pause that lasted far too long for Castiel's comfort. "I just thought you two were going to be stuck on intense staring for the rest of your lives."

Castiel knew he sounded uncomfortable when he replied, "My relationship with Dean is not relevant here. We have a lead to investigate." At least it probably wasn't out of character to be unhappy at Crowley's mockery.

"That we do," Crowley said jovially. The tone made Castiel's skin crawl. "Time for book club."

It didn't take long to find the lead; the man's name had been Lovecraft (and Crowley had sniggered at that) and he'd been a writer. Not a prophet, or at least not a prophet of God, though there were other powers known to grant knowledge beyond the ordinary. And often enough humans simply discovered things on their own. The man had died decades earlier, but Castiel didn't have to contemplate the draining prospect of time travel; Lovecraft was still famous, and there were a number of people who studied his life and work. One of them was the acknowledged expert, so Castiel went to talk to him as soon as it was what Crowley called a "decent" hour of the day.

He pretended to be a journalist. It didn't seem to be the type of situation in which mortal law enforcement would have been interested.

He was tucking the young man's collection of letters into his coat, unseen, when Dean's voice echoed in his head. Castiel recognized the panic from the first syllable; it was how Dean sounded when someone he loved was in immediate danger. Castiel, Cas, you gotta get here right the hell now. That son of a bitch Crowley has Lisa and Ben. Castiel went rigid with shock for a moment, a human reaction, and shook it off. He reached for Bobby's house and with a thought was there.

He didn't have time to greet them; as soon as Dean could perceive him, he was speaking: angry to cover the fear, of course. "Tell me you didn't know about this," Dean demanded. Castiel made sure to hold Dean's gaze with his own before he said, "I didn't know. I will get them back."

"You said you were gonna tell Crowley you scared us!" Dean exclaimed, his voice rising to a shout. "Did you screw it up, Cas? Or are you just playing us. Again."

"Dean," Sam said, from where he sat on the sofa. "This kind of thing, Crowley could've had it planned for weeks, just waiting to pull the trigger when we found out for sure he's alive." Castiel tried to nod gratefully to Sam without looking away from Dean.

"Can you find 'em, Feathers?" Bobby asked. He was standing behind his desk, the copy of Moishe Campbell's journal open before him.

"I should go back to Crowley," Castiel said reluctantly. "It would be more efficient to just ask him."

"He's not going to want to tell you," Sam said. Dean had started pacing, his cellular phone clenched in one hand like a touchstone.

"I can at least register my displeasure," Castiel said, feeling wrath bubbling in his Grace.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Yeah, do that. Don't smite him. No matter how much I want you to, we still need the slimy jerk. This Raphael thing is a big ball and we can't drop it." He ran a frustrated hand through his hair; Castiel found himself tracking the movement.

"Speakin' of which, someone's got to go after the lead from Moishe's journal," Bobby said.

"Seriously, Moishe?" Sam asked, sounding as if it wasn't for the first time. Bobby shrugged at him and said, "Of the New York Campbells."

"You and Sam go," Dean said. "Cas and I can bust Lisa and Ben out." All eyes turned to Castiel, and it was very tempting to do as Dean suggested; it had been a long time since he and Dean had properly fought side by side. But he couldn't indulge himself that way.

"If your lead is a young man named Judah, there's no need to go after him," he said. He pulled the sheaf of papers from his coat. "I believe I have everything here. As for Lisa and Ben, I can't stay to help." Dean started to protest, but Castiel spoke over him. "I can get you other help, Dean, while I go talk to Crowley. Dealing with him isn't something I can delegate. Looking for Lisa and Ben is." He tried to sound reassuring, but he wasn't sure how well he managed. "With any luck it won't be necessary."

Dean made a scornful sound, but looked mollified, probably by the prospect of action; he always hated waiting. And at least he stopped pacing. Castiel, meanwhile, composed his mind and called.

When Balthazar landed, he was holding a tall, thin glass in one hand. "Cassy, you know I'm delighted to see you, but I'm right in the middle of something," he began, ignoring the three humans entirely. Castiel shook his head and said, "This is business, Balthazar." For all his protestations of freedom, Balthazar had served as long as Castiel had; he had fled Heaven's authority, but he still took Castiel's orders willingly enough. Castiel tried to be sure he was always the one to deliver them, because Balthazar didn't react well to having them relayed.

"Business," Balthazar drawled dismissively, but he set his glass down. "What've the marmosets gotten into now?"

"Crowley's got some friends of mine," Dean said. "Because he's not actually dead."

"I'm sorry, was that supposed to be news?" Balthazar asked. "You've been scooped. Cas already told me." He rolled his eyes for Castiel's benefit.

"Did Cas tell you he's been in bed with Crowley?" Dean snarled. Balthazar's eyes went wide. Castiel kept his face carefully still as he nodded in response to the questioning flare of the other angel's Grace.

"Ah, yes. Yes, of course he did," Balthazar said, but even Castiel would have been able to tell he was lying.

Sam said heavily, "Yeah, of course. We can see it all over your face." Balthazar's lips thinned in annoyance, but he kept looking at Castiel.

Castiel said, "For now, I need you to help the boys find Lisa and Ben in case Crowley is...unreasonable."

Balthazar's face went through a series of expressions before settling on bored, and the look he gave Castiel clearly communicated that he wasn't pleased. Castiel had no intention of letting Balthazar berate him for his choices, though he felt a little ashamed of letting his friend find out about his alliance with Crowley this way. In any case, he had things to do.

It was the work of moments to duplicate Judah's letters. Castiel gave Bobby the extra set and the older hunter immediately started paging through them. Sam and Dean moved to look over his shoulder, though Dean went a little reluctantly.

"Cassy," Balthazar said quietly. "Are you really—"

"Yes," Castiel said shortly. "We'll talk later, Balthazar, but right now I can't. I'm going to go discuss things with Crowley," he continued, a little louder. "I'll return as soon as I can."

Dean looked up from the letters Bobby had handed him and said, "Thanks, Cas." Castiel didn't know quite what to say, so he just nodded. Dean still looked angry—and Balthazar was the only one in the room who might not realize he was frightened as well—but the edge of panic was at least gone from his posture.

Castiel took a step towards Dean, though he wasn't sure why. Dean's eyes got wider. Castiel took another step, and then realized no one was talking and Sam, Bobby and Balthazar were all staring between the two of them. He blinked, stood up straighter, and threw himself into flight.

Crowley was arranging a tray of instruments when Castiel stalked into the demon's lab. "Sweetie, you look tense," Crowley said, mock-sympathetic. Castiel ignored him until he was within arms' reach and then lashed a backhand blow across the demon's jaw that took him by surprise. He fell back into his table with a clatter.

"You utter fool," Castiel ground out. "You took Ben and Lisa." He knew Crowley could see the fury that crackled around the edges of his Grace, though Castiel hoped he was misinterpreting the exact reason for it.

"Oh, that," Crowley said, in a tone that wasn't quite as casual as he probably would have liked.

"I told you—"

"Not to touch Sam and Dean. And I've respected that," Crowley said, his natural self-assurance beginning to reassert itself. "I'm merely exploiting the obvious loophole. As long as I have the woman and boy, your fop-coiffed little heroes will be scouring the earth for them. It'll keep them too distracted to worry about anything else. Everybody wins." He stood up again as he spoke, feeling at his jaw and straightening his suit.

"I told you that I got Dean to agree to stand down, Crowley. Now tell me where they are."

Crowley smirked and performed an infuriating little pantomime of locking his lips and tucking the key away.

Castiel gritted his teeth and stared at the demon for a second. "Sam and Dean have little enough faith in me as it is," he said, trying to appeal to Crowley's self-interest. "They're more than half convinced I knew about this. You should have left well enough alone."

"It's not my fault you finally got through the Hardy Boys' thick skulls just in time for this operation to go off," Crowley retorted. "Just call it a little extra insurance, eh?"

Castiel's eyes narrowed. "You're not to harm them, do you understand me?"

"You know what? You're all maxed out on putting humans out of bounds," Crowley said. "You want to stop me, go find freaking Purgatory!" By the end of the speech he was nearly shouting, and Castiel wanted to close his eyes in weariness. Every time Crowley took that tone, it was more difficult to refrain from simply smiting him. But Dean was right; they still needed him.

"I have the information from the Lovecraft expert," he said, clamping down on his control again. He pulled out the letters and handed them over; Crowley took them as if they were an offering, no more than his due, and Castiel felt his teeth grind.

"Well done, kitten," Crowley said smoothly. Castiel's hand itched to strike him again. He was tired and more than tired of the demon's smirking superiority, and Crowley knew it, not that it would have mattered; smugness had been the usual setting for every demon Castiel had ever interacted with beyond the simplest of fights. Even in battle, many of them liked to taunt and jibe. Castiel was sick to death of it, sick of dealing with this literal devil, sick of his friends not trusting him, sick of Dean not trusting him.

Well. It wouldn't be much longer now. When Raphael was dealt with, Castiel would at the very least ensure that Crowley went back to Hell for a while.

It took hours before he could escape Crowley without arousing too much suspicion, and by then he'd ignored Balthazar's calls several times. At last he cut off yet another insinuation about his relationship with Dean by simply leaving, and if Crowley didn't like it he could, as Dean would say, sit on it and spin.

The afternoon light was beginning to slant towards evening. Balthazar was standing outside Bobby's garage, managing to look nauseated and disapproving at once. "Cassy, so good of you to come," Balthazar said, offering a weak smile.

Castiel nodded. He could hear Dean's voice, if not the words, and the tone of it was sickeningly familiar; that was the voice that had asked Alistair who was killing the angels.

"You've been en flagrante with the king of Hell," Balthazar went on, the hint of a questioning lift in the statement.

"Yes," Castiel said. "It was, and is, a means to an end."

"Oh, absolutely," Balthazar said. "And what's the end here exactly? Raid Purgatory, snatch up all the souls—or has the plan changed? Your howler monkeys were a little unclear on that."

"It's changed," Castiel said. "Unless there's no other way."

Balthazar's expression changed to one of pure worry to match the pulse of his Grace. "You'd be the vessel, correct? Suck up all those souls into yourself? All that power?"

"Crowley couldn't hope to contain it, you know that."

Balthazar barked out a laugh and said, "It'd be too much juice for you too, Cassy, you'd explode. Take a substantial chunk of the planet along with you."

"I could do it if I had to," Castiel said. "But Dean and Sam have convinced me there's a better way."

"Ah yes. Which would be working a double-cross on the king of Hell and the only bloody archangel we have left. I'm reassured, Cas, really I am."

"Balthazar—I'm sorry I didn't tell you," Castiel said, as sincerely as he could manage, and Balthazar's face softened. "But I need to know. Are you with me or not?"

For a moment he wasn't sure, but then Balthazar chuckled. "You're certifiable, but fine. In for a penny, in for a pound."

From the garage came the sound of a scream. Balthazar flinched, and Castiel tried not to. "Winchester's...a touch worked up about that kidnapping business," Balthazar said, his voice carefully neutral, his Grace flexing uneasily. "I've brought him a few demons. And you know, they are demons, but he's rather worryingly enthusiastic."

"Dean is protective," Castiel said absently. He was no happier about the prospect of Dean torturing again than Balthazar was, indeed less so. "I'll speak to him. In the meantime, I would take it as a favor if you'd do some more direct searching. Crowley wouldn't tell me anything, but the trail may not be cold yet. I'll keep an eye on the boys here. Did they give you Lisa's address?"

Balthazar nodded, and for a second he looked like he was going to say something, but then he took flight without a word. Castiel turned to the garage again, prepared to enter it the human way, when from inside he heard a crunch and a grunt of pain in Dean's voice.

He was inside with a thought. The demon was out of the chair it had clearly been bound to, out of the devil's trap (one line was scuffed, just enough), and holding Dean by the throat against the side of a van. "So you can stop talking—" the demon snarled, and Castiel slapped his hand onto its head and let his Grace flow through his fingers. The demon gasped and died, Dean turning his head aside from the flare of light from its eyes and mouth. The host body crumpled, already dead as well.

It wasn't Crowley, but it was satisfying—though Castiel had a moment to feel sorry for the dead man, who had certainly never asked to be possessed.

Dean gaped at him for a second, but pulled his assurance back around himself quickly. "Nice timing. Again."

Castiel shrugged. "I would have come in by the door, but it sounded like something had gone wrong," he said. He wasn't going to talk about the brief fight in Ellsworth's cabin unless pressed.

"So why are you here?" Dean asked. It seemed he was willing to ignore the last time there'd been nice timing as well. He stepped over the body and over to the broken trap, bending to pick up the strap he'd had the demon bound with. Dean bent it between his hands.

"I wanted to see how you are, Dean," Castiel said simply. Dean turned to look at him, his face a nearly perfect blank. "I'm peachy," he said, a blatant lie that Castiel didn't challenge. "What'd Crowley say?"

"He wouldn't tell me where they are," Castiel admitted. "I sent Balthazar to search more directly." He looked at the little worktable Dean had arranged near the trap, and couldn't entirely control the disapproval that crossed his face. Dean caught it, of course, and his own expression went hard and set.

"What else did you want me to do, Cas?" Dean demanded. "Lisa and Ben, they're in trouble and it's my fault. Whatever I gotta do to help them, I'm doing."

Castiel said, "I know that," and hesitated before quoting himself from three years ago. "I...I would give anything not to have you do this." Dean's eyes widened a bit, and then he let out a long breath. Castiel felt just a little of the tension leave his body. Dean wasn't lost to the torture, at least.

"Yeah, I get it," Dean said. "Didn't work out for us so well last time either, I guess." His shoulders slumped. "But I don't know what else to do, Cas, and Ben..." He sat heavily in the chair, scraping a hand over his face in his familiar gesture of fear-anger-frustration. Castiel hated that gesture, and hoped every time he saw it was the last one. "Lisa's a big girl, and she kinda knew what she was getting into at least. But Ben, he's just a kid. He might be mine, you know that? The timing fits. Lise said not, I don't think she lied to me, but she might be wrong."

"Balthazar will find them," Castiel said, trying to make his voice reassuring. He wasn't any good at it and never had been; it wasn't a skill taught in the garrison, much. But Dean would understand the intent.

"He better," said Dean quietly, "because the demons, they're not talking. This is the best I got, and it's not doing any friggin' good."

Castiel took a deep breath and said, "Please don't." There was a long silence, which Dean made no motion to break, and finally Castiel had to continue. "Please don't...hurt yourself this way. Dean. I do everything that you ask. I always come when you call, and I am your friend. Trust me that you don't need to do this to yourself."

Dean looked up at him, and his eyes were wide and hurt and Castiel took a step before he quite knew what he was doing; another, and he was close enough to put his hands on Dean's shoulders. Dean's head tipped back to maintain eye contact. He said roughly, "This, it's the only thing I can do that might help them."

"You don't need to. Balthazar can search, and so can I if necessary. All I ask is this one thing, Dean. Please."

Dean's eyes closed for a moment. "OK. OK, Cas, but I gotta do something. Sitting around here, I'll go nuts." As if to confirm that he couldn't sit around, he opened his eyes and stood. It was a slightly awkward operation, given Castiel's proximity, and when it was completed Dean was once again well inside the limits of what Castiel understood to be personal space.

"You can come with me," Castiel offered. "I need to talk to someone about the Purgatory ritual, and I would welcome your assistance." He could feel Dean's body heat on his hands; the sensation was inexplicably distracting, just like Dean's face, perhaps a handspan from his own. "I would...welcome your company."

Dean went suddenly rigid in Castiel's grip. "It was a year," he said. "You just left in the middle of a conversation, and that was it for a year. So don't tell me you welcome my company." He extricated himself from his position between the chair and Castiel, shaking Castiel's hands from his shoulders as he went in the way he might shake off the cold. He came to rest a few feet away, half-turned, his shoulder presenting a barrier to Castiel's gaze.

"I have responsibilities," Castiel said, thrown a little off-balance by the sudden shift in topic.

Dean snorted at him in a way that was clearly not actually amused. "Yeah, so you said. Got plenty of time to hang out with Crowley, but us? We had to freakin' beg you. And that was after the whole year. Jesus, Cas."

"Dean, haven't we discussed this?" Castiel asked. "I thought you wanted to be left alone. I thought you'd call if you needed me." And it was occurring to him, now, that he'd waited for that call all that year. That it had been a continual irritation not to hear Dean's voice, irreverent and demanding and welcome.

"Seriously? I was living in the suburbs! What was I gonna need you for, to light the barbeque for me? I wasn't gonna interrupt your important angel business so you could come have a beer!" At the moment, though, Dean's voice was just angry.

"Dean," Castiel said, but Dean ignored him. "Every time I see you, it's all Raphael this and war that, and now you're asking me why I didn't bug you when I was perfectly safe?" He spun, hands in fists at his sides, his head lowered aggressively.

Castiel tried again, "Dean, I—" He was starting to be angry himself, in an entirely different way from how he'd been with Sam.

"I thought we were friends. I thought you'd come and say hi once in a while," Dean snarled. "You left without even saying goodbye."

"I didn't intend it to be goodbye," Castiel snapped. "When you never called for me, Dean, I thought you didn't want to see me." And oh, how it had hurt to think so, but he'd had so many other things to occupy his mind. "My sisters, my brothers, they've been dying. Far too many because I killed them." He moved towards Dean, too close and aware of it, staring into the hunter's wide eyes. "I couldn't afford to think about you if you didn't want to see me. I couldn't afford the distraction. I still can't."

"But here you are," Dean said, waving a hand up and down. "Plenty of time to pop up and bitch at me about your war, and Sam's soul, and how you're planning to eat a bunch of nuclear bombs. Oh, except you didn't tell me about that one. That one I had to find out on my own."

"Enough!" Castiel growled. He grabbed Dean by the front of his jacket and dragged him even closer, ignoring his startled intake of breath. "I cannot afford to lose this war. You don't have to like the means I chose, but be satisfied that I've changed my mind." He almost smiled at that. "Again, for you. You have changed me so much, and you don't even realize it. And I don't understand why I let you do it." He ran out of words. Dean was staring at him, but Castiel didn't think he was angry anymore; though he was breathing hard he made no attempt to answer, or escape Castiel's grip.

For a long moment they just stood there. Then Dean licked his lips and the movement caught Castiel's eyes. "Cas," Dean said. "I 'm—"

"Shut up, Dean," Castiel said calmly, and pulled him the last few inches. Dean made a surprised noise against Castiel's lips, but Castiel thought it was pleased surprise rather than protest. Especially when Dean's lips parted. He wrapped one hand around the back of Castiel's neck and slid the other under Castiel's coat and jacket to rest on his waist. Castiel sank into his vessel's flesh, his flesh, as deeply as he knew how, to feel those spots of warmth against his skin. His own hands, still fisted in Dean's jacket, had begun to shake, a fine tremor he didn't know how to stop. He didn't think he wanted it to stop.

This wasn't the gentle, tender kiss of the night before. Dean was nipping at Castiel's lips, just hard enough to spark, and his tongue ran over Castiel's in a wet slide. Castiel loosened one hand and spread it over Dean's chest, feeling the beat of his heart through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

He paid no attention to how long they stood there, kissing; he could have marked each millisecond as it passed, but he felt no need to. At last Dean pulled back a little. "Not what I was expecting," he said, softly, and Castiel shivered at the feel of Dean's words brushing over his lips.

"I'm tired of fighting, Dean," he said, and for once didn't even try to hide the weariness. That one sentiment told Castiel he'd changed more than should have been possible; angels were made to fight the Lord's battles.

"You mean tired of fighting me?" Dean's voice was unexpectedly understanding.

"Tired of fighting. You, Raphael. Anyone. I'm tired, and we don't have much time." Castiel let his eyes close, leaned into Dean until their foreheads touched.

"You, um," Dean said, still soft but with a tension Castiel didn't understand underlying the words. "I can probably help with that. If you. You know, if you want." And Castiel found his breath catching in his throat, because from the sound of it Dean actually wondered if that offer was going to be accepted. As if there had ever been any doubt.

"Dean," he said, willing his voice steady. I fell for you. I've died for you, killed for you, he thought. "I have wanted you since the first moment I saw you—since before I even knew what it meant. Surely you know that."

"You saw me in Hell," Dean said, and Castiel made himself open his eyes and draw back enough that Dean could focus properly.

Castiel said quietly, "That doesn't matter. It's never mattered." He stared into Dean's eyes, trying to make him understand; he knew he'd failed when Dean produced a small and sideways smile.

"OK," Dean said, though it clearly wasn't. "Do we have an hour? I mean, I hate to rush you, but—"

"The lead can wait for morning—it's too late to go tonight anyway," Castiel said. It was an assumption, but this once he was going to indulge himself. "But I don't know when Balthazar will find something." Dean didn't flinch at the reminder of Lisa and Ben's plight, and only how well he knew him let Castiel see he wanted to.

"OK," said Dean again. "Let's...let's go somewhere else. Not here." He made a vague gesture with his head that took in the dead body of the demon's host and his work table, and Castiel couldn't help but agree.

"Where, then?" Castiel asked. He thought it might be better to let Dean have the lead in this.

"Just back to the house." And Dean smiled, a real smile this time if a fleeting one. "Bobby said no sex in the living room. So we'll use the guest room instead. There's beds in there." Castiel nodded and took them there, steadying Dean when he swayed, disoriented by the transition. "Man, I hate that," Dean muttered, but he leaned forward to kiss Castiel again, briefly, and then let his hands fall. "Just a sec." He stepped over to his bag, which sat on the floor next to one of the room's two small beds, and extracted a single sock. Castiel watched in bemusement as Dean looped the sock over the doorknob on the hall side of the door and pushed it firmly shut.

"So Sam won't barge in on us," he said. "It's how we tell each other we've got a girl. Or, you know, an angel."

Castiel nodded, but he couldn't help saying hesitantly, "I know this must be strange. I'm not...my vessel has gender, even if I don't."

At that Dean grinned and shrugged, an echo of the easy nonchalance he used to call on so readily. "I had my big gay freakout over you back around 'You should show me some respect', Cas. I'm cool." He paused, thinking visibly, and a hint of a frown crossed his face. "Except, um. Is Jimmy gonna be OK with this? He didn't seem like the kind of guy..."

Castiel realized he'd never had occasion to mention it. "Jimmy's soul has been gone since Raphael killed me," he said; an old sadness, but one he still felt sometimes. "I'm alone in this body."

A little of the worry went out of Dean's posture and he said, "OK. Good. I'm not really an exhibitionist." He stepped close again, and reached out to shove the fabric of Castiel's coat from his shoulders. Castiel let it fall. The weight leaving him, slight as it was, was a revelation.

"Cas," Dean said, and kissed him again. Castiel closed his eyes and kissed back.

Dean protested, but in the end he let Castiel take them to the institution. He'd stood firm on refusing to wear his suit, though, and in fact tried to persuade Castiel that a suit and tie was too formal for a reporter. Castiel just looked at him until Dean grinned and announced you couldn't blame a guy for trying.

The staff of the institution was a little wary of them, but eventually Dean managed to be charming enough to persuade the woman at the desk into letting them talk to Mr. Westborough. The man was old, and Castiel could tell his thoughts didn't run as easily as they had when he was younger, but there was no sense at all that he was actually insane. It puzzled Castiel, how humans pretended. As if refusing to acknowledge the existence of the supernatural would prevent it from harming them.

Westborough sat on a shabby couch in the patients' common room. He nodded at Dean's quick introduction, though his eyes narrowed a little at Castiel (who Dean dubbed 'Cas Novak'). Castiel only offered a Hello, letting Dean do the questioning. Dean didn't seem in the mood for extensive pleasantries; as soon as they were settled he said, "We just have some questions about the dinner party, the one Howard Lovecraft had in 1937."

Mr. Westborough nodded again, looking unsurprised. "Every few months I get someone in here asking about that. Wanna know about my night at the home of the great H.P. Lovecraft."

"If you don't mind," Dean said, a little apologetic. Castiel thought the old man didn't mind; perhaps he welcomed the questions as a distraction from a daily life that had to be dull.

"Well, you know the story," Westborough said. "They did their spell, and they all said it failed." He paused, and looked around to verify that none of the staff were within hearing distance. "Do you believe in monsters?" he asked, his voice low and conspiratorial.

Castiel didn't laugh. Dean looked like he wanted to, but instead he leaned forward a little and said, "Yeah."

The old man looked him up and down and said seriously, "You know, you go saying that, they'll lock you in here, rest of your life."

Dean locked eyes with him and said, "Whatever you saw, I'll buy it. I swear." He paused in his turn and then said, "I've probably seen weirder, man."

Westborough's eyes widened slightly, but after a moment he seemed to decide there wasn't any reason not to. "The spell worked," he said softly. "A door opened and something came through it. But—it was invisible, so no one knew except me." Dean glanced at Castiel, but there was still no indication that this was anything but an improbable truth; Castiel inclined his head in the barest hint of a nod and Dean turned back.

"Then how'd you know?"

"Because it took my mother. It went into her. She wasn't the same. She even smelled different," Mr. Westborough said, and Castiel thought this memory pained him. "And then, she disappeared. And surprise, surprise, one by one, they all start dying."

Castiel grimaced. It seemed strange that something from Purgatory would want to keep that door closed, but he could think of no other reason for whatever-it-was to have killed the party guests; perhaps it had simply wanted to be the only one of its kind to make the journey. Westborough was unlikely to know the thing's motivations, though, and he didn't appear to know any details of the spell itself; it seemed likely this was a dead end.

Dean was looking at the old man with compassion. "Hey," he said. "I'm sorry. About your mom." Westborough didn't reply for a second, but then he said, "You're the first person who ever said that. You wanna...you wanna see a picture?"

"Sure," Dean said. The old man fumbled in his shirt pocket and produced an old photograph. On the back it said Eleanor – 1935. Dean turned it to look at the image, of a blonde woman standing next to a small boy who Castiel assumed to be Westborough himself.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered, and Castiel shifted his attention. Dean was staring at the picture.

"What'd you say, young man?" Mr. Westborough asked a little sharply, and Dean startled a bit. "Oh, no, sorry. Just...she looks a lot like someone I know," Dean said, trying for casual and probably managing it as far as Westborough was concerned. Dean gave Castiel a flicker of an expression that promised explanations later. "Look, man—could I have a copy of this? Friend of mine, he knows this lady too, he'd get a kick out of this picture."

"I guess," the old man said slowly. Dean smiled and handed Castiel the photograph. "Cas, can you go get the ladies in the office to copy this for you? I'll stay here till you get back."

They had to leave the institution before Castiel could fly them back to Bobby's, lest they be seen vanishing. As they walked, Dean flicked a glance sideways at Castiel and said, "The old guy told me to watch out for you, y'know." Castiel raised an inquiring eyebrow and Dean shrugged. "Said you weren't what you were pretending to be."

"He's right," Castiel pointed out. "I'm not a reporter. I'm not even human."

"That's probably it. I wonder how he could tell."

Castiel considered it for a moment, then said, "Exposure to Purgatory at such a young age could have made him sensitive. Some humans are sensitive from birth, psychics."

"Or it's just that you're a bad liar," Dean said, in the completely innocent way that Castiel had eventually learned meant he was teasing.

"It could be that," he agreed solemnly. Dean snorted laughter, but then he sobered; Castiel was aware he didn't read human expressions well, but he knew that one as clearly as if it were painted in sigils: Dean had just felt guilty for laughing when Ben and Lisa were still in danger. Castiel stopped walking and grabbed Dean by the arm.

"Stop that," he said.

Dean turned, but refused to meet his eyes. "Stop what?"

"Stop telling yourself that this is your fault."

"They wouldn't be in trouble if it wasn't for me, Cas."

"No," Castiel agreed. "They'd be dead. Years ago. The creatures you saved Ben from would have killed them both." Dean drew in a sharp breath and shook his head.

"That was then. Now...if I hadn't listened to Sammy, they'd be fine."

"Sam shouldn't have made you promise, Dean," Castiel said, a little more sharply than he'd meant. He glanced around. There were still staff members within eyeshot. "He meant well, but it wasn't what you needed, and Sam should have known that." Castiel should have known, too, and not hesitated to talk to him, but there was no changing that now.

Dean sighed and started walking again. "Look, dude, it's just how I am, OK? Something happens, I feel responsible. The Lindbergh baby, that's on me. Unemployment—my bad."

"I don't—"

"You don't have to understand the reference," Dean said, as they pushed through the front door. "I'm not gonna feel right until we get them back."

I was going to say," Castiel said, "that I don't think it's good for you."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, thanks for the insight, Doctor Phil." He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, and Castiel, recognizing the signs, said nothing else.

"This can't be right," Bobby muttered as he and Castiel walked towards the cabin. "Ellie's changed just since I've known her."

"You and Dean agreed it was her in the picture," Castiel said.

"I'm here, ain't I?" They mounted the steps, and Castiel stood back while Bobby knocked. After a moment there were sounds of movement from inside, and then the door swung open. The blond woman who stood there looked perfectly normal to his eyes, but something not-human crawled over her presence; it set all of Castiel's instincts on screaming alert, and from the look she gave him she felt similarly about him.

"Bobby," she said. "And who's your friend?"

"Ellie. It's been a while," Bobby replied. "This is Castiel."

Eleanor Visyak paled, just as a human would have, and her eyes narrowed. "You know what he is?" she demanded. She was trying to look at Bobby, but she kept darting quick glances at Castiel as if to verify he wasn't attacking.

Bobby sighed. "Yeah. He's here to help, Ellie, I swear."

"He and his demon pal are trying to open Purgatory," she said tightly.

"Not anymore," Bobby said. "Look, can we just talk?"

Eleanor exhaled sharply and said, "Guess I can't stop you. Come in—if you can." She stood back from the door; Bobby entered the cabin, and Castiel followed. There was some resistance as he crossed the threshold, but he was able to overcome it with a small effort. Eleanor didn't look pleased.

In the cabin's living room, Eleanor went to a side table and poured two drinks. She handed one to Bobby and kept the other, which Castiel assumed was meant to insult him somehow. "So how did you find me?" she asked, sitting stiff and uncomfortable on one of the couches. Across from her, Bobby sipped at his drink. "Well, we weren't together long, Ellie, but I know a thing or two about you. I know your safe houses. And let me tell you, this one ain't all that safe," Bobby said. He gave Castiel, who leaned against the wall near the door, a significant glance.

"I assume you aren't here just to chat," she said.

Bobby rolled his glass between his hands. "I know what you are, Ellie." He pulled out the copied photograph and handed it over. "You're not exactly from Milwaukee, are you?"

She glanced at it and grimaced. "Not exactly."

"And, not that I'd have minded, but you kind of fibbed about your age too," Bobby said. Castiel assumed that was a joke, meant to put her at ease; it didn't seem to work.

"Just slightly... 900 years, give or take," she said. She flashed Bobby a smile but it faded quickly.

"So what's your game, then?" Bobby asked grimly.

"Game?" She looked honestly puzzled to Castiel's eyes.

Bobby leaned forward, staring. "Yeah, why are you here? Eve came through and raised all kinds of hell quickly. You've been here how long, what's with the slow burn?"

"Well, you know, we're not all alike."

"Monsters?" Bobby asked pointedly.

Eleanor looked faintly insulted, but her voice was even when she said, "Okay, if it makes you feel better to call me that? Fine." She made a gesture of permission with her glass.

"You're from freaking Purgatory," Bobby said. "You never thought to mention that the whole time you slept with me?"

"Yeah, you'd've taken that well," she scoffed. "I am what I am, Bobby. And I happen to be a friend."

"You wanna explain that to me?"

Eleanor set her glass down on the low table between the couches. "I didn't ask those idiots to crack the door. I just happened to be the thing that fell through. And let me tell you something, you are lucky it was me."

"You're saying you're on our side?" Bobby asked. He sounded skeptical, but Castiel thought he wanted to believe her.

"I'm on my side, and I happen to like it here. I don't want to see this place turned into some bloody wasteland," Eleanor said.

"So you killed H.P. Lovecraft?" Bobby was trying to sound angry about it, though Castiel thought he was having difficulty working up the appropriate level of emotion for a man who'd been dead longer than Bobby himself had been alive. Human lifespans were so limiting that way.

Eleanor no doubt could tell too, because she rolled her eyes. "Please. That guy couldn't even write 'hello'." She stood and walked around her couch, still talking. "Look, I have spent 75 years trying to keep Purgatory closed. Why do you think I gave Dean the sword? To stop Eve. Hell, you guys were supposed to kill the damn dragons."

"They failed," Castiel said. Bobby and Eleanor both looked at him as if they'd forgotten he was in the room. "Now we have another problem. We need to know how to open Purgatory, so we can ensure Crowley can't do it."

"Or I could not tell you, and no one would be able to do it anyway," Eleanor said, glaring at him.

"Ellie, look. I know him," Bobby said, waving at Castiel. "He's gonna figure it out, one way or another."

"It'll have to be another," Eleanor said. "I am not telling you. It's too dangerous for anyone to know." Castiel stood up straight and stepped towards her.

"If Bobby found you, so can Crowley," he said.

"I can handle demons," Eleanor said.

Castiel was suddenly very tired of her defiance. If their plan was to work at all, he needed to provide Crowley with the ritual. He took another step towards her, letting his Grace expand and his wings flare. She could sense it, of course, far better than Bobby, but the man nonetheless looked back and forth between the two of them.

"Hang on, Feathers, there's no need to start smitin'," Bobby began. Castiel reached out and tapped him on the forehead and Bobby slumped.

"He'll remember persuading you," Castiel told Eleanor. Her eyes were wide, and she'd backed up against the desk under the window.

"I'm not going to tell you," she said nonetheless.

"Yes," Castiel said, "you are."

Back at Bobby's, the four of them sat at the kitchen table and contemplated the Mason jar half-full of Eleanor's blood. Dean reached out and picked it up. "This is creepy," he said. "It should be clotting like hell by now." He shook the jar and the blood sloshed, still perfectly liquid. Sam, tapping on his laptop, looked sick and shot his brother a look. Dean set the jar back down with half an apologetic shrug.

"Purgatory," Bobby said. "Who knows? Different rules." He seemed a little unsettled. Castiel resolved to pay attention, in case he started to question his memory of his conversation with Eleanor. His own mind had supplied details, but Bobby was canny and used to suspicion.

"Yeah, I guess," Dean said. "Cas, you haven't heard anything yet, right?"

"Balthazar will call me as soon as he has any information, Dean," Castiel said patiently.

Dean sighed heavily and sat back in his chair. Castiel was beginning to wonder if he was going to have to go help in the search.

"Crap," Sam said. "Next lunar eclipse with enough totality? Five days." He pushed the computer around so they could all see the screen. There was a map of North America with a shaded band running across it.

"Crowley's lab is there," Castiel said, pointing at the screen, after a moment spent matching his own sense of place to the map.

"Not far from the place you helped us break into," Dean said. There was an awkward pause as the three humans eyed Castiel. Finally Dean asked, "Was that whole thing a setup?"

Castiel winced, but it was a fair question. "Not on my part," he said. "Once I'd shown myself to Sam, it would have been suspicious to leave without helping you." Sam looked a little adrift—his knowledge of the event was limited to the bare-bones synopsis Dean had grudgingly supplied—but Dean was nodding. "Then your grandfather banished me—Crowley must have suspected I would come, or he taught Samuel the banishing sigil earlier as a precaution. The bones I…improvised."

He was, in fact, proud of himself for that. He'd known he could count on Crowley to catch on quickly, and play along. It had gotten Crowley out of the Winchesters' sights—and given Castiel a chance to look like a hero to them. He'd long since given up lying to himself about how much that mattered to him.

Dean actually laughed. "You came up with that? Dude, never knew you had it in you." Castiel smiled tentatively.

"I've had to learn," he explained. "Angels aren't creative, as a rule. It's one of the reasons I've managed to stay ahead of Raphael."

"You know," Sam said thoughtfully, "The eclipse is so close, we could just try to stall Crowley. It'd give us time to come up with something better." Castiel considered it, but then reluctantly shook his head.

"If it were only Crowley, I would agree," he said. "But…the fact is that my forces can't resist Raphael for much longer. It will take something very important to prod Crowley into going to her and I don't have time to wait for another chance."

"Cas, dude. Why'd you get into this if you knew you couldn't win?" Dean asked, and then, "What?" when Sam and Bobby and Castiel turned identical looks of skepticism on him.

"Because we never get into fights we don't think we can win," Sam said. He didn't even bother making his voice sarcastic; the statement alone was plenty. Bobby snorted in agreement.

"I had no choice," Castiel said as Dean rolled his eyes. "Raphael demanded my allegiance, and giving it would have meant helping restart the Apocalypse. And, well." He paused and shook his head. "I thought more of the angels would be glad of the freedom. I thought they'd want to be able to make their own choices." In fact, most of them had seemed to make precisely one choice, following him or following Raphael, and then expected to go on taking orders.

"We're not built for it, Cassy," Balthazar said. The humans jumped, and reached abortively for weapons. "You and I are freaks." He flashed a smirk. "Much more fun, I think, but not everyone had the élan to manage it."

"Tell me you found them," Dean said urgently. He shoved his chair back from the table and stood.

"Well, the upside is yes," Balthazar said, his brow furrowing. His Grace was folded carefully in, to make him less visible to supernatural senses. "The downside is no, I can't get them for you."

Sam and Bobby got up as well, and Sam said, "Why not?"

"Because Crowley's angel-proofed the whole bloody building. I guess he doesn't trust Cas." Balthazar made a wry face in Castiel's direction, and his Grace flickered in sour amusement. "Seems that marriage is going swimmingly." Castiel felt a flare of irritation he didn't try to hide, but Balthazar affected blithe unconcern.

Sometimes Castiel wondered just how much time Balthazar had spent with Gabriel before the archangel went missing.

"You'll get us as close as you can, though," Dean tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the living room.

Balthazar replied, "Sure. But then you're on your own."

While the humans prepared their weapons, Balthazar said soberly, "This isn't going to make your red-eyed boy happy, Cassy."

"He'll survive the disappointment," Castiel said. His eyes followed Dean around the room, but he could feel Balthazar studying him. "I have the Purgatory ritual. That should help him forgive me."

"And you're still planning to use him to draw Raphael out, correct?" Castiel could sense the worry under Balthazar's calm. "Only I'd be quite put out if you exploded, you know."

"I wouldn't explode," Castiel growled; Balthazar's look went sharper. "But yes, that is still the plan."

After a moment, Balthazar nodded. "When you fight her, Cas, don't hold back," he said, for once sounding completely sincere. "She won't."

Castiel waited as close as he could get to the warded building. Dean, Sam and Bobby had been inside for almost twenty minutes, and he was beginning to wonder if a lightning strike would damage the angel-wards enough for him to enter. He'd seen no sign of life since the demon he'd exorcised when they arrived—the host had at least been alive, and Castiel had sent him to the nearest hospital.

He itched to help. He could have come up with some excuse when the Winchesters had called him for their assault on Crowley's lab; in truth, he simply hadn't wanted to. He'd been tired of being the general, and the leader of the opposition, and the strategist, and the angel of free will; he'd wanted to simply be Castiel again, Dean and Sam's friend, who helped them.

Standing in the dark street, straining every sense for a hint of his friends, Castiel longed to help them now.

More eternal minutes later he finally heard voices—Dean shouting his name, a child demanding reassurance, Sam trying to provide it. The door they'd gone in burst open. Bobby and Sam were half-leaning on each other, but seemed mostly unharmed; Dean carried an unconscious woman in his arms, and a boy hurried beside him.

"Cas, she's stabbed, she's bleeding out," Dean panted. "Help her, help her, Cas, she's dying." He slowed a little, and when the boy made a small hurt sound Dean flinched visibly.

"I can't get any closer, Dean," Castiel said as calmly as he could. He'd already pressed his body and Grace as far towards the building as the wards allowed. Dean nodded and half-stumbled across the asphalt. As soon as he was within reach Castiel grabbed him and helped him sit, Lisa draped across his lap like an offering. Castiel ignored Sam and Bobby and Ben and even Dean's desperate eyes as he laid his fingers on Lisa's forehead. It was cooler than it should have been; she'd lost a lot of blood. Worse, he could feel the thread of her life unraveling. He let his Grace rush in.

The wound was severe, something sharp, sunk into the abdomen and twisted to do the most damage in the least time. A human emergency room might have saved her, though Castiel would not have cared to bet anything he valued on it. But human bodies were simple, and he'd had plenty of practice. A flow of Grace repaired the damage; another replaced her lost blood and cleaned what she'd shed from her body and Dean's hands.

Lisa gasped, choked, and sat suddenly upright, nearly hitting her head on Dean's chin. Her hands flew to her stomach, feeling for the vanished injury, and she exclaimed, "Oh God!"

"Not quite," Dean said, his voice thick with relief.

He'd barely gotten everyone back to Bobby's house when a call stabbed through him like hot iron. Crowley's summons were never subtle, but this one was worse than most; the demon must be angry.

"I have to go," he said. Dean looked up from where he was settling Lisa on the couch.

"You being paged?"

Castiel said, "If I understand the expression correctly, yes. I'll be back as soon as I can." He took the jar of blood from the kitchen table and put it away. Sam was watching him thoughtfully.

"Your guys, or Crowley?" Sam asked quietly.

Castiel grimaced, which was answer enough, and Sam shook his head. "Be careful, man," he said. "He's tricky."

"He's arrogant," Castiel said. "He believes I'm an infant, incapable of deception." He paused. "Almost as arrogant as I was. I could have spared you so much." He'd been tired, too. His first journey into Hell, he'd had the strength of a garrison with him. The second time had involved much more sneaking, and rather a lot of killing things frantically before they could escape to spread the alarm. By the time he'd reached Lucifer's cage, he had been too tired to examine anything closely.

"It's OK," Sam said, with one of his small smiles. "I know you didn't do it on purpose. I should've told you before. And hey, it's not like I remember." He shrugged in that diffident way he had that was so at odds with his height and bulk, and Castiel couldn't help but smile.

"You're a good man, Sam," he said. He would have to look into reinforcing the wall, once Raphael was dealt with. With Heaven's resources behind him, he could help Sam and ease Dean's mind.

"You too, Cas," Sam said. Castiel nodded, and followed the pull of Crowley's summons.

As Castiel materialized, the demon dropped the lit match he'd been holding. Castiel threw himself out of the circle just in time, the trailing edge of one wing singed as the holy fire sprang up behind him. It hurt, and he didn't bother to hide his anger when he rounded on Crowley.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded. His sword was in his hand, though he hadn't consciously willed it there.

"Trying to pin you down," Crowley bit out. "You've been with the Winchesters again. I thought I told you—"

"That. Is. Enough," Castiel said through gritted teeth. "I am your partner in this, Crowley, but do not presume to give me orders."

"Someone has to keep you on track!" Crowley threw his hands in the air as if overwhelmed. "You think there's time to run around with your sweetheart when we're down to the bloody wire on Purgatory. If I didn't know better, I'd think you didn't want to find it, and let me tell you, Cas, I—"

"Don't call me that," Castiel snapped. Crowley's face warped into an expression no one could have called a real smile and he sneered, "Your next line is 'Only my friends call me that'."

With a flicker of thought Castiel was next to him, the point of his sword resting under the demon's jaw. "That's right," he growled into Crowley's ear. "And I think you know that you are not my friend. Now, ask me what I've been doing, these past few hours."

Crowley jerked away; Castiel let him go. The demon still looked furious, but he spat, "Fine. What have you been doing?"

"I've been getting the ritual we need," Castiel said flatly, and made his sword vanish. He pulled out the jar and the paper on which he'd drawn the sigil, and slapped them both down on a nearby table. "The blood of a Purgatory native. It needs to be mixed with the blood of a virgin. We have to perform the ritual during a lunar eclipse. There will be a suitable one in five days."

Crowley's face slipped into incredulity as Castiel spoke, and Castiel was treated to the sight of the king of Hell speechless. It didn't last long, but it was thoroughly satisfying.

"Well, Thursday," Crowley said finally, "it appears I've misjudged you." He picked up the paper and studied it. Castiel had argued with Sam about this; Sam had wanted him to give Crowley an incorrect version. It had taken a while to convince him that Crowley would be able to tell. The demon knew a great deal about magic and, unlike a human, didn't have to depend on rote memorization. The real sigil just felt right, to Crowley's senses as to Castiel's. "How much virgin's blood?"

"My source didn't know," Castiel said.

"Mmmm, well. Just go with equal amounts, then." Crowley looked Castiel up and down. "I'd ask for a little donation, but you don't qualify anymore, do you?"

"I doubt my blood would be suitable," Castiel said, ignoring the demon's leer. "This vessel had a child, and I'm an angel."

"Oh, right, clearly that's the reason. Better safe than sorry, eh?" Crowley picked up the jar of blood and opened it, pouring a little on the tabletop. He dipped one finger into the puddle and licked it. "That's got a hell of a kick. Be interesting to find out what it's like with a little mixer."

"Whoever you find to provide the virgin blood, you'll release them afterwards. Unharmed," Castiel said grimly. Crowley looked as if he wanted to object, and Castiel continued, "I've found Purgatory, Crowley. So I'm placing some humans off limits—including Lisa Braeden and her son." He paused meaningfully. "I apologize if any of the demons you lost were particular favorites."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Full of surprises today, kitten. I'll write it off as cost of doing business. This is worth it." He tapped the jar with a finger.

It had better be,Castiel thought.

He spent the next days very busy. Raphael couldn't be allowed to realize anything unusual was happening, so there were battles to coordinate. Castiel ached for it to be over; he was tired of losing his own soldiers and tired of killing Raphael's. He kept getting reports of battles lost, or won at costs he couldn't afford, and every name of every one of his dead brothers and sisters seemed to be scribed into his Grace. He could almost sympathize with the impulse his superiors had felt to let the Apocalypse happen just so they could rest. The closer the end came, the harder it was to wait.

Every moment he could spare, he spent with Dean.

After the first night, Sam demanded help moving one of the beds from the spare room so that he didn't have to sleep on the couch. Other than that, Sam made no particular comment except to tease Dean whenever he caught him kissing Castiel. That seemed to happen often; Dean made no attempt to be subtle, and Bobby's house was not large. Castiel found he didn't care.

The days spun out, moving too fast and not nearly fast enough simultaneously. He tried not to think of Heaven when he was with Dean, or about Dean while he was in Heaven, and mostly succeeded. He discovered that the tedious process of taking off one's clothes by hand could be worthwhile; he reassured his lieutenants with speeches he didn't wholly believe and thought longingly of finally being able to challenge Raphael.

Finally, it was the last day. They had six hours before the eclipse was due, and they were making their last minute plans, the four of them in Bobby's shabby-comfortable living room. Dean insisted on sitting next to Castiel on the couch. "What happened to personal space, Dean?" Sam had asked him, and Dean shrugged and said easily, "Turns out I don't mind as much as I thought." Sam rolled his eyes.

But by now Dean wasn't easy at all. "What the hell, Cas, of course we're coming!" he insisted. "We've gotta be close enough to help if you need us." It was the third time he'd said essentially the same thing.

"Dean, you can't," Castiel tried again. Dean's jaw was set in a way that Castiel had learned to recognize a long time ago. "It will be too dangerous."

"We're hunters, Cas. Dangerous is kind of what we do!"

Castiel was opening his mouth when Sam said calmly, "Dean—he doesn't mean dangerous for us." The two of them (and Bobby, who'd been watching the proceedings with his usual solid concentration) turned to Sam, Dean belligerently and Castiel with relief. "Remember the thing about Raphael at the motel. He couldn't deal with her then because it would have killed us."

"So what?" Dean demanded. "I thought this was gonna be a swordfight, right?" He glanced at Castiel for an affirming nod. "No smiting to worry about."

Sam's expression was fondly exasperated. "Doesn't matter, man. You can't expect him to watch out for us while he's fighting an archangel. I don't know about you, but I'd rather hide than be the reason Cas gets killed."

Dean turned again to meet Castiel's eyes and said, "Is that it?" he asked, and Castiel reluctantly nodded.

"Just this once, please," he said. "I can't afford any distractions, Dean." Dean stared at him for several long seconds. Castiel felt as if he ought to hold his breath. Finally Dean sighed and said, "OK, Cas, but you have to swear to come back as soon as you win. I'm not sitting around like a freakin' princess any longer than I have to."

"I'll call as soon as it's over," Castiel said, "but you shouldn't stay here. The further you are from anywhere you're known to go, the better off you'll be." Even as he spoke he was calling.

"Only so far we can get in a few hours," Bobby said.

Balthazar landed in the kitchen arch right next to Sam, who jumped. "That's why you'll be coming with me," he said, and fixed Castiel with a glare that was only half faked. "Apparently the best possible use of my talents is as minder for a bunch of…never mind. We'll just have a jolly little holiday, shall we?" He looked around at the three humans, who made no move towards him, and rolled his eyes dramatically. "Come on, then."

"Right now?" Dean asked.

"Yes, we'll be wanting a head start," Balthazar said, his tone laden with obviously fake patience.

Bobby stood up from his chair and circled his desk; Sam straightened and ducked into the kitchen with a mutter about getting his computer. Dean just looked at Castiel. "You're sure you've got this," he said quietly.

"Yes," Castiel replied. "As long as I know you're safe, and Sam and Bobby."

Dean stood, so Castiel did too, and Dean put his hands on Castiel's shoulders. "Don't get killed," Dean said. "Promise me you're coming back."

Castiel squashed the urge to point out he couldn't promise anything and said instead, "I'm coming back."

"OK," Dean said, and leaned forward and kissed him. Castiel kissed him back, Dean's head cradled in his hands; they kissed like it was the last time, until they couldn't ignore Balthazar's pointed throat-clearing any longer. As Dean stepped away from him, Castiel said, "Don't tell me where you're going. I'll call after."

"Good luck, Cassy," Balthazar said, uncharacteristically grave. Sam echoed him; Bobby shrugged and said, "Don't do anything stupid."

"Seeya, Cas," Dean said, and then they were gone. Castiel stood alone in Bobby's living room and tried not to worry.

Crowley wasn't there when Castiel arrived, but he had only moments to fret before the demon appeared, trailing the stink of sulphur. Crowley held out the jar, now mostly full, with an absurd little half-bow and said, "Your Purgatory power-shake, Monsieur. Half monster, half virgin."

Castiel took it and turned it in his hands. "Thank you," he said. Crowley was staring at him, puzzled.

"You seem even more constipated than usual," the demon said after a moment. "Maybe get you some Colonblow?"

Castiel didn't think it would be useful to ask what that might be. "I'm renegotiating our terms," he said instead, and stood straight.

Crowley smiled easily, but Castiel had been dealing with him long enough to see the way he tensed. "Is that so? What terms do you propose?" Crowley asked, his tone pleasant.

"You get nothing," Castiel said, moving closer to the demon. "Not one single soul."

Crowley's eyes were narrowing now, and though his voice stayed light he'd gone still and wary. "Can't help but notice, seems a bit unfairly weighted." Castiel did not answer, and there was the first hint of outrage in the demon's voice when he protested, "Castiel, you wouldn't dare. I brought you this deal."

"You think I'm handing all that power to the king of Hell? I'm neither stupid nor wicked," Castiel said, making sure to emphasize the word power very slightly. He let the wrath of Heaven color his tone, and took no small satisfaction in watching the demon squirm under it. It had been too long, dealing with this creature.

"Unbelievable," Crowley said. He wasn't backing down, Castiel had to give him that much credit. "Have you forgotten that you're the bottom in this relationship?" the demon said. It had the feel of a rhetorical question, and one that was supposed to sting far more than it did. Castiel ignored it.

"Here are your options," he said bluntly, moving to stand in Crowley's space. He drew his power to himself and let his wings spread; Crowley could sense the threat. "You either flee, or you die."

"We made a pact. Even I don't break contracts like this," Crowley said, indignant and, yes, frightened, though he was still hiding it well.

"Flee, or die," Castiel repeated. It was heavy-handed, he supposed, but it had to be to overcome Crowley's natural reluctance to deal with Raphael.

Crowley straightened his suit, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment. "Boy, just can't trust anyone these days," he said, and vanished before Castiel could reply.

Castiel took a moment to check very carefully; Crowley could hide himself from angelic senses well enough to escape casual notice. When he was satisfied the demon was gone, he drew the jar of dog's blood from his coat to set on Crowley's rolling table and tucked away the real blood.

Then he waited.

The height of the eclipse was mere minutes away. Castiel was beginning to wonder if they'd miscalculated—if perhaps Crowley really had simply retreated to Hell—when he felt a sickening twinge on the edges of his consciousness. He turned from the paper with the ritual on it to look up at the window, and for a moment the moon was silhouetted before the windows blacked out under a surge of demon smoke. From behind him, Crowley said, "Never underestimate the king of Hell, darling. I know a whole lot of swell tricks." Castiel turned. The demon had his hands casually in his suit pockets, rocked back on his heels. Castiel did his best not to allow his elation to show on his face. It had worked after all; there was no way Crowley would be here unless he were absolutely sure of himself. And when Castiel stretched his senses, knowing what to look for, he could just sense the cloak Raphael had cast around herself. She still bore more raw power than he did, but needing to sense a hidden sibling in ambush heightened one's skills in a way simply wanting to be unseen did not.

Which meant Castiel had a role to play. He stepped into flight, just far enough to appear behind Crowley; as the demon turned Castiel put a palm to his forehead and let his Grace flow.

Nothing happened, of course. Castiel could feel the barrier on Crowley's essence. After a moment, Crowley chided, "Sweaty hands, mate."

"I don't understand," Castiel said, and let his eyes widen. He knew he wasn't good at lying, but Crowley thought he was even worse; the demon's surety that he knew everything about Castiel would make him sloppy, and his ally made him cocksure.

"You can palm me all you want. I'm safe and sound under the wing of my new partner," Crowley said, nodding his head to the side. Raphael became visible with a flourish that suggested she expected Castiel to be very surprised indeed.

"Hello, Castiel," she said, her vessel's pleasant voice melodic. She looked just a little disappointed when he didn't startle.

Castiel inclined his head in a gesture of respect that was not wholly feigned; Raphael was still an archangel, no matter how at odds with her he had found himself. "Raphael," he said, trying to sound afraid. It wasn't as difficult as he might have liked. "Consorting with demons. I thought that was beneath you."

"I heard you were doing it. Sounded like fun," Raphael replied. Castiel carefully did not roll his eyes at the feeble wit; he doubted it would fit his role.

Crowley had a smirk on his face that Castiel found most unpleasant. "You know, Castiel you've said all sorts of shameful, appalling, scatological things about Raphael," the demon said cheerfully. "I've found him, her, to be really quite reasonable."

"You fool," Castiel said. "Raphael will deceive and destroy you at the speed of thought." He intended to let Crowley survive, based on a principle Sam had referred to as "better the devil you know"; it was unlikely Raphael meant to extend the same courtesy.

Crowley sneered, "Right, right, 'cause you're such a straight shooter. She, he, has offered me protection against all comers."

"In exchange for what?" Castiel asked, his eyes on Raphael.

"The Purgatory blood," said Crowley, as if it weren't a foolish question.

Raphael made a chiding noise and said, "Castiel, you really think I would let you open that door? Take in that much power? If anyone is going to be the new God, it's me."

"She's going to bring the Apocalypse, and worse," Castiel said warningly, flicking his eyes to Crowley and then back to the archangel. If she pushed it now, he'd have to challenge her before the eclipse passed its totality.

"Hey, this is your doing, mate. I'm merely grabbing the best offer on the table. Now, you have two options." He cleared his throat and dropped his voice into a deeper register, a mockery of Castiel's own. "Flee, or die."

Castiel spread his wings; there was no feeling of restriction, so Raphael wasn't attempting to stop him. No doubt she thought she could simply find him and kill him later. He grabbed the jar from the table and tossed it to Crowley, a deliberately clumsy throw that the demon had to fumble for, and flew.

He didn't go far, just enough to be out of range of Raphael's senses. The building had been a farmhouse once, but now it was barely four walls and a ceiling. He pulled the real jar of blood from his coat and looked at it, opened it, drew the sigil quickly on the wall. There was time, yet; the period of sufficient totality was several minutes long. He could speak the words, take the souls in. The world would be safe, all of it; Bobby and Sam and Dean would be safe.

Castiel spoke the first word, the second, and amid the first stirrings of power he thought suddenly of the look on Dean's face if Castiel appeared with the might of the souls behind him; Dean would look angry, but worse he would look hurt. Betrayed. It would be worse than standing in the ring of fire; this time there would be no forgiveness. Castiel knew Dean cared for him, but he didn't fool himself that he was worthy of the unlimited tolerance Sam was afforded.

He put his hand in the center of the sigil and called the fire, concentrating to make it burn hotter than normal, until the wall was blackened and falling to bits. For good measure he charred the inside of the jar.

There were still a few moments of totality left, but without the blood the words of the ritual were useless.

As he materialized back in Crowley's lab, he heard the demon say, "Maybe I said it wrong."

Castiel set the sooty jar down on the lab table with a clink and said, "I'm sure you said it perfectly. But you needed this." For a long moment neither the demon nor the archangel spoke, and then Crowley sighed.

"I see. And we've been working with…" Crowley walked to the wall Raphael had drawn the sigil on, touched his fingers to it, and tasted them. "…dog's blood. Naturally." The look he gave Castiel was almost admiring.

Raphael said severely, "Enough of these games, Castiel. Give us the blood." Crowley rolled his eyes and said, "You…Game's over. His jar's empty." He spoke as if he couldn't believe Raphael's idiocy, and she gave him a level look he ignored in favor of asking, "So, Castiel, how'd your ritual go? Better than ours, I'll bet."

Castiel shrugged. For a moment he felt a wild urge to pretend, but he wouldn't be able to maintain the masquerade. "I destroyed the blood," he said, and had the satisfaction of seeing Crowley's eyes go wide in surprise. Raphael looked like she just didn't believe him.

"So what now?" Crowley asked, when the silence had stretched long enough that even Raphael seemed to find it uncomfortable. "I mean, clearly I'm buggered, but I'm a little interested to know if you two are gonna...what? Kiss and make up?"

"Now we fight," Castiel said, holding Raphael's gaze. She still looked wary, and more than a little taken aback. "Will you fight me, sister? Here, now; none of our soldiers. Just us." His sword came to his hand with a thought, though he didn't take a guard immediately, just stood straight, watching the play of thought over Raphael's face.

"Yes," she said at last, and produced her own sword. She smiled thinly, and Castiel thought that the expression was no more attractive on this face than it had been on her last one; it was still cruel, and full of confidence in its own righteousness.

"Ah. Well, you kids don't need me for this. Exit stage Crowley," the demon said, and vanished.

Castiel didn't give Raphael time to think, then; he attacked in a flat-out lunge that she barely avoided, turning the point of his sword aside just enough with her own. Startled, she didn't recover in time and he flipped his blade in his hand, stabbing backwards as he went past. But Raphael was fast; the dodge was awkward, but it got her out of his range. He spun on his heel to face her, Jimmy Novak's good leather shoes sliding on the concrete floor, and swung again even as she turned.

He could see she was rattled, the smile gone. This was his advantage; he'd spent most of two years fighting while Raphael had let others fight for her. He pressed in, binding her sword with his own for a brief moment, and said, "Sister. Raphael. Please don't make me do this." She shoved him away and he let her, falling back into guard.

"You went against the will of Heaven, Castiel, the will of God!" Raphael snarled, and whipped her sword across her body to slash at him, once, twice; he jumped back.

"If God is dead, how do you know His will?" he demanded. They circled each other, swords held ready. "Is it His will that the humans die? They're His children too."

"It could have been over," Raphael said, and Castiel could have felt sorry for the weariness in her voice. "Except for one little angel who would not do as he was told. Who thought that he knew better. Who chose the humans over the will of the Host." She feinted to her left. Castiel refused to be drawn out; it was the kind of thing he'd learned to expect from those who didn't fight their own kind often. His soldiers had it trained out of them.

"The humans are worth defending," Castiel said firmly. Raphael sneered at him and lunged, a real attack this time, and as she committed to it Castiel saw the opening in her form. None of the angels of the garrison would have been able to exploit it; he himself wouldn't have, when he was fighting through Hell to reach the Righteous Man. But Castiel had spent four years now learning the value of unconventional fighting—and Dean had been a great teacher.

He knocked Raphael's sword neatly out of line and swept her legs from under her in the same movement. She landed hard on her back and he went down with her, coming to rest with the point of his sword gently on her throat. "Sister," he said. "Yield. Please. Swear to me you won't attempt to restart the Apocalypse. Enough of us have died."

And Raphael laughed, harsh and bitter. Castiel felt his eyebrows raise; because it was the last thing he expected, her call escaped her before he had a chance of stifling it. He realized, too late, that he should never have let Crowley go. He didn't move his sword. No matter who she'd called, he could kill her before they could intervene, he was sure.

He didn't know if it was just happenstance, or if some part of him could feel what was coming; either way, when the other angels appeared, with their captives held between them, Castiel was looking straight into Dean's eyes.

Which widened, and Dean yelled, "Cas!" as Raphael's hand knocked his sword from his shock-loosened grip; it went ringing away across the dirty floor. He threw himself after it; his hand landed on the hilt and he rolled to come up into guard, but as he was completing the motion two more of Raphael's soldiers popped into being and grabbed him.

Prepared, he'd have made short work of them; they were good fighters, but conventional like Raphael. Off-balance as he was he only managed to inflict one long gash before one of the soldiers, whose vessel was an incongruously petite woman, wrested his sword from his hand. The other yanked his free hand behind him, and from there it was a losing battle. Castiel struggled, willing to let bones break to get free, but in the end there were simply more of them than he could handle without abandoning his body.

He was forced to his knees, and he looked up to meet Dean's eyes again. Sam seemed to have given up fighting the angels who held his arms; Dean was still twisting, to no effect whatsoever. Dean and Sam both had blood on their faces and clothes—Bobby's blood, and Balthazar's vessel's, mixed with his Grace. Castiel wondered distantly if Balthazar had killed any of the soldiers Raphael had sent before they killed him.

"I told you you would kneel, Castiel," Raphael said, her voice full of satisfaction. Castiel stared at her and said nothing. She crouched—careful, of course, to make sure he'd still have to look up—and took his chin in her hand. "Now. You've kept me from Purgatory, but I will find another way. I will bring Paradise. It's too bad you won't be there to see it." She smiled that thin, cruel smile again. "And neither will your pets."

"No," he said, the word forced from him. "Let them go, Raphael, please. They're only humans, they didn't know. I led them astray—"

"Cas, what're you doing?" Dean demanded, wrenching at the angels' hands on his biceps. The angels, of course, gave no sign that they noticed.

Raphael ignored Dean completely. "Well. Your associate was right—they are your weakness. But you are my brother, Castiel. I suppose I can grant you this much." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "You can pick one."

For a moment Castiel was sure he hadn't heard correctly. Raphael was just looking at him, the slightest of questioning tilts to her head. "Pick one," Castiel repeated, hoping against hope he was wrong.

He wasn't. "I'll allow one of your monkeys to live until I can bring the Apocalypse," she said patiently. "Which one?"

Castiel looked over her shoulder at Dean, who had gone still in his captors' hands. He was staring back, and though he wasn't making any sound Castiel could see the shape of his lips. Dean was saying Sam, Sam, Sam.

Of course.

Castiel lowered his gaze. He couldn't. He couldn't do it. But he had to do it; Dean would never forgive himself—or Castiel—if, once again, he lived while Sam died. He knew Sam would want him to choose Dean, but Castiel was prepared to have Sam hate him; he wasn't sure he could stand it from Dean. Not that he'd have to for long. "I'm waiting, Castiel," Raphael said, and at that moment he hated her, as he never had before.

"Sam," Castiel said, as clearly as he could. "Let Sam live." He looked up in time to see Dean slumping in relief. "Cas," Sam said, a stunned gasp. Castiel tried hard to hold on to the idea that he had only condemned Dean to Heaven, where at least he'd be happy until Sam eventually joined him.

Raphael rose with perfect grace and walked over to the younger Winchester. She put one hand to his forehead as if to send him away, and then paused. "Your mind is very interesting," she mused aloud. "What's that wall holding back, I wonder?"

Suddenly Sam's legs gave out and he went limp. The angels held him up, and Raphael looked at him consideringly, her palm still on his head. "Leave him alone, bitch!" Dean shouted. This time Raphael shot him a quick glance. "He isn't whole," she said, mock-innocent. Castiel felt his teeth grind. "There are things he can't remember. He'll put them together on his own, eventually, but I can make it easier for him." She looked back down at Sam. "I am the Healer, after all." And Sam's eyes snapped open; for a moment Castiel felt vast relief but then Sam focused—on something that wasn't there.

"You," he said, his voice tight with tension, maybe outright fear. "You aren't here, you can't be here."

Raphael leaned close to Sam like someone telling a secret and murmured, "It's all real", and then Sam was gone. Dean choked on his brother's name and glared at Raphael as she approached him. "What did you do with him?" he gritted out. "Where's my brother, you fucking bitch?"

"Do you really let them talk to you like this, Castiel?" Raphael asked over her shoulder. To Dean she said, "I sent him far enough away that he won't get back here in time. I haven't harmed him." She stopped in front of Dean and then half turned. "Castiel, if you have anything to say to your pet, say it now. I have little time to waste."

"Dean," Castiel said, and ground to a halt. He didn't have time to say everything he wanted, and he had no idea what was the most important. And Dean, astonishingly, smiled. "It's OK, Cas. Me too, OK? Even if I was too stupid to say it before." They might have been alone in the room; they might have been together on the narrow bed in Bobby's house. They might have been safe, and Castiel could have wept for all the time they'd lost, arguing over things that so clearly didn't matter. "I'm so sorry," Castiel said, trying to smile in return, and hoped Dean knew what he meant.

"So'm I," Dean said. "See you on the other side, Cas."

"Oh," Raphael said, "No. You won't." She touched Dean's forehead, and Castiel realized what she meant to do even as her Grace reached into Dean's soul and began to tear it apart.

He had wrenched one arm free before he understood what he was doing, and with that much advantage he could at least start moving—he had to move, had to get to Dean before the damage was irreversible. He could hear himself shouting, though he wasn't sure what; everything was drowned under the scream that ripped endlessly from Dean's throat.

He'd crossed perhaps half the distance separating him from Dean when the angels who'd been holding Sam joined the first two and dragged him to the floor again. There were hands on his shoulders, and a knee pressed hard into the small of his back. Castiel didn't know if it was calculation or coincidence that left him a line of sight to Dean, arched like a bow under Raphael's touch, but he couldn't look away; the power to heal is also the power to destroy, applied correctly, and Raphael was thorough.

Castiel struggled, but there were too many hands on him. The first strand of the soul floated free, twisting in the air, burning too bright, consuming itself; it took endless moments for it to vanish entirely, and Castiel wondered, in the tiny part of his mind that wasn't howling denial, what part of Dean was lost now. Was it a part he'd be able to replace? He'd healed Dean's soul once with strands of his own Grace; he might still manage to do it again if only he could stop what Raphael was doing. Father, Castiel thought, though he didn't know what to ask for beyond help him. He wished desperately for anything, anything to stop this; he'd have delivered himself into Lucifer's hands for eternity if only his brother would stop what was happening to Dean.

But there were no powers to help him, and Castiel couldn't stop watching.

Raphael's face wore a look of remote concentration. She teased the strands from Dean's soul with care and finesse and absolutely no compassion, slowly—far slower than she needed to, Castiel realized with a surge of loathing he could feel in every corner of his Grace. She was making torture of a process that should have taken moments. Castiel wasn't sure if she intended to punish Dean, or him, or both of them, and Dean was still screaming.

"No," Castiel said hopelessly, wretchedly. More strands separated under Raphael's delicate touch, and Castiel felt them burn as if they were part of him; his Grace had long since been transmuted into Dean, part of the healing that had allowed him to come back to sanity after Hell, but the bond remained and Castiel trembled under the pain. "Please let me stop her," he pleaded, almost unaware of speaking. The hands that held him didn't relax even a fraction. Of course not. These were Raphael's most trusted soldiers, and they wouldn't listen to the likes of him, who'd fallen from Heaven for a mortal man. He knew it was no use, but he couldn't stop; he begged them even as he fought to escape them. His own voice was almost drowned under Dean's. Raphael paid him no attention at all, and her soldiers' hands were implacable.

Another part of Dean flared and died. Castiel's Grace cried out in response.

Finally she paused. The reprieve was horror beyond bearing, as Raphael studied the shuddering wreck of Dean's soul like a wolf about to make the killing bite. Dean stared at her, panting, with nothing but pain in his eyes and the faintest, animal knowledge that Raphael was the source of it; he could have almost no self-awareness left, and what little remained must be buried under agony. Castiel tried one last time to escape the angels who held him, because if he didn't—if he let her destroy anything else—there would be no power in Creation that could reverse the process. But they gripped him tight, as tight as he'd held Dean's soul as they fled Hell; he tried to free himself from the bonds of his vessel, to at least grant Dean death rather than oblivion, and discovered that his flesh held him as surely as it itself was held.

Carefully Raphael reached for one more strand of the soul, the touch of her Grace almost caressing for a moment before she yanked it brutally free. One last time, Dean screamed as his soul dissolved in a blast of energy that lit the dirty lab for long moments.

"No," Castiel said, quiet and flat, as the light faded. He didn't fight anymore; there was nothing left to fight for.

The screaming stopped; Castiel almost didn't notice. He knew he'd hear it anyway for as long as he had left to live.

He closed his eyes and hoped dully that it wouldn't be long.

The heavy thud was probably Dean's empty body hitting the floor. Raphael's footsteps crossed the tile and she knelt again. "Look at me, brother," she said. There was command in her tone; Castiel ignored it. Free will was hollow comfort, but he had nothing else. "Defiant, even now," she sighed. "Very well."

"Kill me," Castiel said, hearing his own voice gone utterly empty. "Kill me now, or I swear, Raphael, I swear by our Father—"

"Our Father is dead," Raphael said coldly, "and so is your pet."

He heard her move, and there was a burst of pain.

He was on his knees, wet chill seeping through the fabric of his pants.

Castiel forced his eyes open, and they met the steady blue gaze of the thing that had interrupted his prayer—days ago, or was it only minutes? At first he couldn't tell, as disoriented in time as a human. He was back in his heaven, and the snow was cold beneath him.

"There, Castiel, do you see?" the thing asked him, still calm as the sky. "The humans, Dean, they will try to help you. But they aren't enough. Without the power of the souls, you can't save them. This is your sign." It extended a hand, and Castiel stared at it for a long moment before taking it and letting the thing pull him to his feet. When he touched its bare skin with his own, a shudder ran through him that felt familiar somehow, but it was gone before he could examine it.

"I know you," Castiel said anyway.

"You will soon," said the thing serenely. Between one moment and the next it was gone, and no sense Castiel possessed could follow its trail.

Castiel returned to the bench and sat. The vision seemed wavering and unreal; he could remember the events only in broad outlines. The details faded even as he examined them—except for two. He turned them over in his memory like coins in his hands: Dean, whispering his name as they rocked together in the spare room, and Dean's soul torn and destroyed and Castiel able to do nothing but bear witness.

He would have to give up the one to prevent the other. And he would. No matter how much Dean hated him for it, Castiel would save him. He would bear the hatred if it meant never seeing the death of Dean's soul.

After a few seconds more he stood, and brushed his coat smooth. The gesture was comforting in its familiarity. Castiel raised his chin and fell towards Earth, and Crowley, and his duty.

He sets the sword down gently. "I'm your new God. A better one," he says, and feels the smile curve his lips. "So you will bow down and profess your love unto me, your Lord. Or I shall destroy you."

For several seconds, the humans stare at him. He allows it; he knows they're shocked and their limited perspectives need some time to adjust. Finally, Bobby gets carefully to his knees. Castiel feels the smallest stab of disappointment that the older man is the first to understand, but Dean, surely, will come around soon enough.

"Well, all right then," Bobby says. "Is this good, or you want the whole 'forehead to the carpet' thing?" Castiel doesn't reply, waiting, and Bobby looks at Dean, then at Sam, and says carefully, "Guys?"

They begin to follow Bobby's lead, but Castiel can feel their fear, excluding all else, and it is profoundly unsatisfying. "Stop," he orders impatiently. At least they obey instantly. "What's the point if you don't mean it? You fear me. Not love, not respect, just fear."

"Cas," Sam begins, but Castiel doesn't care to listen. "Sam, you have nothing to say to me; you stabbed me in the back." Sam, wisely, falls silent. The sword wasn't a threat, but Sam didn't know that. Castiel speaks to Bobby and Dean. "Get up." They do, Dean a little more quickly, Dean saying, "Cas, come on, this isn't you." He's still so afraid, and Castiel is more than a little tempted to give him reason to be. But in the end he decides to simply explain.

"The Castiel you knew is gone," he agrees. Perhaps he should leave that name behind. Perhaps it's a needless reminder of his former existence. But he likes it, and after all it's the name Dean knows. He'll let these three use it, anyway; there's little harm in that.

Dean's eyes are wide and Castiel can hear the frantic beating of his heart, but his voice is steady when he says, "So what, then? Kill us?"

"What a brave little ant you are," Castiel says fondly. "You know you're powerless; you wouldn't dare move against me again. That would be pointless. So I have no need to kill you. Not now. Besides...once you were my favorite pets before you turned and bit me."

"Who are you?" Dean asks; this time his voice nearly breaks.

Castiel decides to put it into the simplest possible terms. Dean so often refuses to understand things unless they're spelled out for him, and Castiel doesn't want to be forced to smite him for a sin he doesn't realize he's committing—and if it comes to that, Castiel will have to destroy his soul; Sam and Dean have slipped the bonds of Heaven too many times to merely kill him. Unlike Raphael, of course, he'll do it quickly; there will be no need to make Dean suffer. It was…unpleasant to watch, certainly. "I'm God," he says. Dean blanches, and Bobby looks almost ill. "And if you stay in your place, you may live in my kingdom. If you rise up, I will strike you down." Sam makes a strained noise, and Castiel nearly smiles again for the well-timed example the young man is providing. "Not doing so well, are you Sam?" He idly checks to see if Sam has started hallucinating yet, but it seems he's still integrating his memories. Well, when the visions start they'll be a fit punishment for Dean's faithlessness.

"I'm fine. I'm...fine," Sam says thinly. Castiel doesn't need any of his new strength to feel the lie.

"You said you would fix him - you promised!" Dean exclaims. Castiel shakes his head.

"If you stood down, which you hardly did," he says. He keeps his promises, after all. "Be thankful for my mercy. I could have cast you back into the pit."

At that Dean freezes for a second; returning to Hell is his worst fear, naturally. But then he rallies and protests, "Cas, come on, this is nuts! You can turn this around, please!" Castiel pauses for the briefest of moments, wondering if it's worth further attempts to make Dean understand. But he thinks it best to leave. He has much to do, and Dean can't possibly grasp the sacrifice he's asking; all he sees is that his friend has changed. As if he'd ever really cared for Castiel as he was; he wants the Castiel who obeyed him, listened to him, cosseted him—wanted him. The thought brings a thin thread of anger, which Castiel represses. It's not Dean's fault; he's only human, and Castiel has always indulged him far more than he should have. Of course he's trying to take advantage of that again, when he has no other card to play.

"I hope for your sake this is the last you see me," Castiel says, and takes himself away.

He will have to cleanse Heaven of Raphael's supporters, but first he has a choice to intervene in. He'll watch, first, and see if that other Castiel comes to the right decision on his own.

The heaven is cold, snow on the ground, but Castiel doesn't feel the chill. Unseen, he listens to the story, to the rough voice saying "Let me tell you everything."

This moment balances on a knife's edge.