written by whit-merule for the 2012 Gabriel Big Bang

http://archiveofourown.org/users/whit_merule http://whit-merule.dreamwidth.org/ http://whit-merule.livejournal.com/

Art: xenoamorist Beta: mistalagan Pairings: Castiel/Dean, Gabriel/Sam. Rating: NC-17, occasionally. Warnings: Some gore, similar levels to the show. Some swearing, in dialogue and in Deans narrative voice. Use of real historical characters. Length: c. 152 000 words. Summary: Kali can breathe life back into a corpse, but what exactly is Gabriel now? Gabriel flits around various centuries trying to work that out, Dean has another powered-down angel and a little brother to look out for, Castiel has forgotten how to trust, and someone keeps sending Sam annoying little notes on his laptop. Oh, and Bobby would like to remind you all that theres an Apocalypse still going on. Covers season 5 from Gabriels death to the finale.
Disclaimer: I have no religious beliefs; but I find them, on the whole, to be fascinating, curious things, most particularly for the way they become vehicles for peoples ideas of self and of the world around them. Whatever my opinions on their details, the emotions behind them, particularly in moments of change and stress, are very real, and very powerful things. As such, when any character in this story talks about God, divinities, Heaven, etc., its only the character talking, making sense of their world and their experiences, not me. When Gabriel has his breakthrough about where he believes God has been all along, when Casanova makes curious observations about Muslims, when Gabriel and a dying archbishop discuss theology, when a woman receives divine revelation or a fourteenth-century knight laments the way Englands political system doesnt follow the natural order laid down by God or Dean thinks there might be someone up there who cares after all, that says nothing about any God whos real in terms of this fic, and everything about them. If you find any of the historical chapters offensively religious, try looking at it from that point of view: its really just a cultural shift, and the emotions underneath mean the same in any century.

Chapters.

1. Askes and Armes. In which an Indian goddess rebuilds something that used to be an archangel. Kali, Gabriel. 2. Beholden. In which Cathy Randolph is not mistaken about what she sees probably.

Cathy Randolph, Gabriel.

3. Cracking. In which Sam rethinks what really happened in the panic room after Famine and tells Dean; then makes a decision, and doesnt tell Dean. Sam, Dean, Gabriel

(flashback only).
4. Dungeons and Divinations. Venice, 1756. In which Giacomo Casanova has an unexpected and rather useful visitor. Casanova, Gabriel. 5. Elect. In which Sam seeks advice from someone Dean really wouldnt approve of.

Sam, Lucifer.
6. F(r)iction. In which Dean suspects words are not entirely reliable, and a town is mysteriously not destroyed. Dean, Sam. 7. Guess. In which Dean wins at the Internet, and Sam is not transparent. Dean, Sam. 8. Horae harenarum. Canterbury, 1349. In which a former archangel goes looking for answers, and talks to an almost-former archbishop. Thomas Bradwardine, Gabriel. 9. (In)finite. In which Castiel is confused, the nurse is suspicious, and Sam makes contact.

Castiel, Sam.
10. Jokerman. In which Sam tells Dean that Castiel is alive, they start out for Delacroix, Bobby gets an unexpected delivery, and somebody fesses up. Sam, Dean, Bobby,

Gabriel.
11. Kinsen ayen Kithinge. In which both not-quite-angels exist primarily inside Sam and Deans respective heads, until they dont; Crowley is impatient, and the nurse is even more suspicious. Dean, Sam, Castiel, Crowley, Bobby, Gabriel. 12. Legibility. In which a warehouse is raided and everyone is stuck in the car a lot. Sam,

Castiel, Dean, Gabriel.

13. Maesne. Surrey, 1323. In which Gabriel hides, and makes some unexpected acquaintances with opinions on family and civil war. Sir Thomas Engayne, Gabriel, Sir

Thomas Roscelyn.
14. Nadir. In which Castiel is not happy, Brady is probably less so, and Dean is very surprised. Dean, Castiel. 15. Orders. In which Sam takes on the zombie apocalypse, and Gabriel makes a phone call. Sam, Gabriel.

16. Possession. In which Dean and Castiel lose their prisoner, and almost their lives, and Dean makes an apology. Dean, Castiel. 17. Quickening. In which Dean foists himself on Gabriel, while Sam, Castiel, and Bobby hit the books. Dean, Sam, Castiel, Gabriel, Bobby. 18. Regroup. In which everyone relaxes a little at the end of the world. Dean, Sam, Castiel,

Gabriel, Bobby.
19. Sariel. In which Gabriel brings someone back with him, and Sam reaches a decision.

Sariel, Sam, Gabriel, Dean, Bobby, Castiel.

20. Tr(e/an)sfigurer. In which Castiel asks for something, and Dean gives it to him; and Gabriel asks for something, and Sam denies it. Dean, Castiel, Sam, Gabriel. 21. Unfurled. Surrey, 1406. In which Gabriel visits a woman for whom tears are not a bad thing, and makes a decision; and the last brother he would have expected calls for him.

Margery Kempe, Gabriel.

22. Volo. In which Stull Cemetery sees far more angels than expected. Sam, Lucifer,

Michael, Gabriel, Castiel.

23. Winging it. In which Dean, despite having his little brother back and the run of a villa in Tuscany, is a moody bastard, until he gets some messy work to do and some angels to boss around. Dean, Sam, Gabriel, Castiel. 24. eodrdene. In which Sam and Gabriel play a game, and Raphael comes to call. Sam,

Gabriel, Dean, Castiel, Raphael.

25. Yblissede. In which Castiel considers the human body. Castiel, Dean, Sam, Gabriel. 26. Zwitter. In which Gabriel finally gets the narrative voice. Gabriel, Sam, Castiel, Dean, Cathy Randolph.

Askes and armes.

askes [n] (Middle English): ashes. armes [n] (Middle English, also spelt harmes): arms; weapons, either physical or spiritual, or means of spiritual defence; Christes armes: representations of objects associated with the Crucifixion (cross, crown of thorns, scourges, etc.) as holy items or relics, with the implication that in wounding Christ they brought about his triumph and resurrection.

A burnt feather. A vial of blood. Two archangel blades, one made manifest by an the hand of an archangel and one by the hand of a trickster from a can of diet orange Slice. And, least important, the lifeless body of a small man with eyes that had held something of the sun. The relics of an archangel. Of course, Abrahams religions had always set great store by relics. It could work for her. She smoothed the tiger skin under her bare knees with two hands, and reached for the blood and the feather with the other two. A papal decree had been passed, back in the ninth century, stating that no Christian church could truly be a church unless there was a relic set in the altar. She had rarely left India in those days, but the trade routes to the West were long. She remembered the profits ingenious men had made of the sudden demand for fragments of their holy folk. Anyone who could spin a good story to a Westerner around a vial of dirty water (the tears of Saint Faux when he looked upon the godless shores of the Orient!), or a sliver of wood (from the wheel of Saint Catherine, brought here in missionary zeal by Saint Bogus before he was slaughtered by heathens!), could be a rich man for life. To her certain knowledge, Loki had set a few of those wild stories into circulation himself. Every relic, they insisted, contained the complete saint by holy mystery. Even the body and blood of their Christ-prophet, according to the religion of Rome, was supposed to be literally and completely present in their holy bread, impossibly and absolutely present in every wafer in every church in Christendom and simultaneously entire and corporeal in Heaven at their Gods right hand. Her skin glowed black. There was a good deal more of the archangel left in one feather than there had ever been of Saint Bartholomew in the jawbone of a pig. And he was bound to her by his blood. She might be a feeble shadow in this new world, but she had been Creator and Destroyer, ruler of time and death. They could bend for her a little today.

His blood was too hot as she tipped it into her mouth, more alive than the sun. It burned, too heavy, too great, past what she could be or encompass. But she was as she was, and she could endure the scourge and the boasts of Westerners blood-soaked religions. She took the feather in her mouth, crushed it to bitter dust between her teeth and her tongue, and let the ashes mingle with the blood. It prickled and stung and squirmed. Blood lit her eyes red. She would not choke. She took up the blades and danced. She could barely tell the difference between the blades herself, even now she knew. But if she concentrated, one felt more powerful, more deep, more weighty, in a way that had nothing to do with the rules of the physical world. That was the fake, naturally. The archangels sword was simply beyond her comprehension. That was the one that might help her survive the coming war. She had known before she called him to Elysian Fields. She had been watching the human vessels, and her curiosity had been piqued by a familiar elusive presence always flickering nearby. Toying with powerful men through the medival relic trade was one thing almost everything in Western culture had had some tie to religion until the last century or two, and the relic trade had been, at heart, pure commercialism. But Loki, so far as she knew, had always steered well clear of anything truly concerned with the religions centred on his father Islam, Christianity, Judaism, and all their strange multifarious offshoots and of the creatures at the heart of all of them. This showdown was the last thing she would have expected him to tamper with. She disliked debts. Her bare feet twisted and spun, pressing soft and weighted into pale blue tiles. Old, old magic, far beyond the reach of human memory, her body describing shapes and sigils in three dimensions. The quiet, perilous rhythm of her feet seized time by the throat and bound it in counterpoint. But the angel was older. She reached out with the hands that were not holding his swords and pulled his empty body onto the skin of the tiger, between her naked legs. One foot by either lifeless hip, looking down at a mouth that ought to curl into smug, untrustworthy warmth, and eyes that used to shine like nothing she knew. She bent her knees, knelt over his ribs, and pushed his mouth open with her scorched and shuddering lips. The jawbone, stiffening into hardened muscle with the slow advance of death, creaked and surrendered to the inexorable press of her thumb under his ear. Blood, his and a little of hers, trickled into the gaped mouth. A kiss to awaken a sleeping angel. She drew back, pulled in air, then pressed forward into his useless mouth again and blew air and dust of feathers down his throat.

His chest heaved. He hadnt needed air before. But she could not create such a being. His eyes, when they opened, were the dull colour of dirty old honey, and his voice was a rasp. Hello, sugar. Kali smiled, slow. No. Loki - the angel - shifted a little between her knees, a stiff roll of the shoulders against cold tiles, testing his physicality. The movement was aborted with a grimace that almost resembled a casual grin. Didnt - didnt expect to see you again. She studied him. His breathing was painful, a conscious drag of air into unfamiliar lungs. Blood was starting to move in his veins, sluggish at first. Hed be flooded with the sensation within a minute. An angel with pins and needles. Wasnt that something. Im sentimental. His mouth curved, properly this time, a faint echo of fond, familiar humour. Oh, you really arent, honeycakes. There were depths within his eyes that she didnt know. And now all these memories of the religions of his Creator as something outside, something foreign and queer, they were all to be re-considered, all different, even in those centuries before they took her people from her. Because of him. He had been there all the time. There had been no golden age before her world was touched by them. If there was anything she could not forgive, it would be that. He winced and squirmed again, as if his body was a strange thing. She stared down at him, remote and dark. Your God does not change. There was something strange and quiet in her own voice that she did not mean to put there. Kali, am I... in pain? An archangel between her knees, asking her. You dont know pain? Loki - he, it - gave her a martyred pout, almost playful. He was rebuilding his defences on the inside, becoming more familiar and less knowable. Its been a while. Doesnt happen very often in my line. She ran her eyes over his body, finding herself unwilling to move off him and therefore remaining where she was, because nobody had ever made her do anything she did not want to do. The aura of pain clung to every limb, throbbing around the joints and pulsing strong around his head. The pain of returning life, perhaps of new limitations.

Most beings would experience pain after being stabbed by your lamp-bearing brother. Most beings had, including some who were more hers than this one the Liesmith could ever be. The words came out bitter. Few gods ever truly died, but fewer still came back easily, or unchanged. He stilled, tilted his head like a curious hawk and studied her. His eyes, even drawn in pain, were too inscrutably normal, too human, for her to guess at. But there was something of curious wonder in his voice. You gave me back my blood. She had surprised him? Or he was letting her think it. I dont want anything of yours, archangel. Not your blood. Not your debt. Not your... magnanimity. She let the irony linger on her scalded tongue. From the Latin, the language dedicated to his god for longer than she had consciously existed. Greatness of soul. The one thing his father had denied his kind. And in its stead, grace that she could never restore, and he knew it. The rest of it what he chose to be, what he chose to become, what he chose to rebuild was entirely up to him. He would learn that for himself. In time. Something tightened at the corner of his mouth, though it curved ironic and fond. Sooo... hows that whole Apocalypse shebang coming on? She smiled sweetly and ran her fingers over his bare shoulder, stilling the pain for a moment, then letting it flare brighter than before. A promise, or a warning, of what she was. Men had cowered before her and begged. He just looked up at her expectantly, bright and immortally mortal. She aimed for contemptuous, and was not quite sure she managed it. Its your Apocalypse, my pet. You tell me. His eyes narrowed a little, although it might have been only another grimace - his voice was still light. More than half of me is missing, Kali. I dont even know where we are. She stood abruptly and stared down at him, sprawled on a tiger skin, barely in control of his own limbs. There was something very familiar about this - the powerful masculine being apparently helpless beneath her feet, her four arms curving without her intention into the familiar formal posture of victory in which she adorned so many temples. But in none of his forms was this being Shiva. This was one of the first sons of the Abrahamic father, all the more so because his face was now a perfect smug mask of Loki and she could see not a glimpse of the weight behind his eyes. He had not blown the horn, but neither had he stepped up against his brothers until it was too late, until he was compelled to it. It was his Apocalypse. And he dared rebuke her. She crossed her arms and stared back, cold as the souls locked outside Time. You think I can fashion one of your gods archangels?

Hey. His voice softened, rich and rough, and he made some attempt to push himself to sit up before giving up and just lifting a shaking arm toward her. I missed you. And - thanks.

I miss someone I never knew. Impulsive. Sentimental. Too much time spent around
humans. She inclined her head slightly, regal. He grinned at her, bright and shameless. He hadnt heard what she hadnt said. He couldnt, of course. Loki - the angel, who wasnt - grimaced, the showy expression of one resigning himself to something unpleasant, and turned on the roguish charm. Sooo... since Im guessing you and my little bro wouldnt get on, give the Winchesters a yell for me, would you? He was no part of her world, but he and his would destroy it. They already had. And of course he turned to the angels as soon as he was restored. Like father, like son, it seemed. It wasnt your father who brought you back, Gabriel. She walked out and left him lying on an old tiger skin by a pile of disintegrating buoys, in an abandoned swimming complex in the middle of Alberta. The swords of archangel and trickster she left on the chilly tiles behind her.

Beholden.
Cathy Randolph had never considered herself a particularly interesting woman. She had never considered herself much at all. Oh, sure, there were consider-yourselffirst advertisements everywhere these days. Sometimes her eyes ran over the self-help section in Borders with a kind of voyeuristic fascination: How To Be Happier: A Teach Yourself Guide; Become The Perfect Flapper; God Wants You Happy: A Spiritual Guide to Divine Contentment, with a photo of an ordinary grey pebble on the front; An EightStep Program for Learning to Like Your Looks, covered with pictures of supermodels; a self-help book on learning to live without relying on self-help books; a six-hundred-page tome on dealing with attention deficit disorder. But they all belonged to another world, of perfect bodies and choices and selfishness, and white sofas that never stained. Other people had Lifestyles. She had always been too busy to indulge in that sort of dream, if hedonism was a dream. There had been her father to care for as he died, then her two little sisters, who had both grown up until they didnt need her anymore. And then there had been Bill, and his closely guarded liquor cabinet, and his long, empty absences, and the hospital stays, and his furious sudden outbursts against their neighbours which had left her quietly patching things up and baking far too many batches of apology muffins. She had only ever said exactly what they expected her to say, so nobody remembered her. She hadnt had time to develop opinions of her own. There was plenty of money after his death, but not much to do with it. She travelled a little, just to see her sisters, and decided she rather liked it; but with no one to see to and no one to demand she could not think of where to go when she left her hotel room. It was difficult to know precisely why she should get out of bed at such and such an hour, or why she should eat a small meal in the morning and a larger one at night rather than the other way around. Her younger sister decided she was too quiet, blamed it on the trauma, and handed her a pamphlet for victim support sessions, with Your Struggle to Escape Domestic Violence Is Heroic emblazoned across it in energetic yellow. So she rang and joined. She was a little surprised to realise, after a few months, that she almost had an opinion about it. She wasnt particularly enjoying it. They were supportive. They talked about her terror and her crushed spirit, and how she was rescuing herself. They encouraged her to be the commander of her nightmare. They told her again and again that she was strong, while they fluttered their hands and spoke softly and told her without saying anything that she was fragile, that she felt wronged and broken. If she didnt know what she felt, she began to wonder, why did they know? Why should they decide? Cathy Randolph was, in fact, becoming tired of being told what she she felt. What she had seen. (It may not have been the Incredible Hulk, but it had looked more like Lou Ferrigno than any bear shed ever seen. She knew bears. She had chased black bears out of

the smokehouse weekly with a broom in her teens.) She knew that there was plenty in the world that she didnt know. Plenty she couldnt explain. Perhaps that made her ignorant everyone else seemed so sure they knew everything these days. Or perhaps it didnt. One day, she drove past one of so many flashing billboards telling her to be or discover Who She Really Was by purchasing the right bra. It niggled at the back of her mind all evening, for no good reason, until she realised, with a startling feeling of freshness, that she did not know what she was, so she concluded that she was blank. An empty page, that she could write on. It felt right. Three weeks later she realised that she was in a class for victims and decided that, even if she didnt know what she was, she knew one thing she was not, and walked out of the circle. She took up horse-riding instead. And bit by bit, question by question, she began to build herself a new Cathy Randolph. Ann rang after a while, to ask why she had dropped out, sympathy vibrating over the phone. I didnt want it. Wasnt it helping? Theyre all nice people. The TV murmured melodramatically in the background. You have to rebuild your hopes and dreams, Cathy. Domestic violence can extinguish them. Sometimes its alright to ask for help. There was a town on the TV. There had been two more in the last five minutes. One had been devastated by a vicious hailstorm that had suddenly turned to fire. In another, a thick black cloud had settled low over the town, smoky tendrils curling down into the streets, and about half the population had suddenly turned wild and cold, smashing windows and walls, killing others and (finally) themselves. In the third, an explosion of white light at the very centre of the city had killed everyone downtown, and burned out the eyes and the hearing of everyone else within two miles. For the first they said global warming; for the second a new strain of swine flu; for the third, terrorists. She stared at the television, losing track of Anns voice. All three dead towns looked the same to her. The same abandoned cars and bodies on perfect front lawns. The same wide, dull eyes of the survivors, as reporters jabbered at them about what a shock it must be, losing your town and house and family in a freak accident, and what did they think when they first saw the flames? the smoke? the explosion?

And there had been five other towns yesterday. You mustnt be shy about asking for help every step of the way, Cathy. I read a website that said your fear is probably still immobilising you. You have to be strong, Cathy. Cathy? Sorry, Ann. Pause, sigh. Believe me, Cathy. You need it. It will help, if you give it the chance.

Believe me.
Believe that the signs the experts pointed to meant what they said they meant and nothing more nor less. The barely recognisable traces of some kind of flu in the corpse of one of the killers in the second town, and the other bodies were so badly damaged we couldnt confirm that they werent infected. The sheer force of the explosion and the peculiar side effects nothing any of our scientists could recognise, so (logically) it must have been foreign science. Foreigners. Therefore, extremist Muslims. See only the clever web of evidence they strung together from a few strands and flung like a cloak over the whole mess. But what if I see something you dont? she thought of saying, but she didnt because Ann would not want to see. For a moment she thought she saw no, she saw the eyes of one of the reporters interviewing victims turn black, all black, before flickering back to pale hazel. Even though it was impossible, she saw it. She let Ann talk herself out, neither agreed or disagreed, thanked her and hung up. She thought about the black eyes for a moment, then went into the kitchen to finish the sweet potato quiche she had started earlier. She decided that was important enough, for now.

---

She dreamed that night. It was a familiar dream, lately: an empty hotel room, quite pleasant. She would sit there on the bed with her hands between her knees, or sometimes on the chair at the little grey wooden desk in one corner. Sometimes she had a shower in the tidy white and green bathroom, or stood by the window looking out, although she could never have said at what. There was always a slight movement of the air in the room, a gentle sighing back and forth that stirred warm and cotton-soft against her skin. She liked this dream. It was peaceful. Nothing much happened in it.

There were things of hers in this room. Her blue skirt and a pair of familiar old shoes in the wardrobe. Her hairbrush and her reading glasses on the shelf above the bed. Three little carved wooden angels that a friend of her father had made for her when she was six. The wing of one of them had broken off long ago, but he still looked serene. Every time she dreamed this dream there were a few more things of hers in it. Today, there was a pen made of blue glass that Bill had given her in apology for some fit of temper and some bruise that had faded after a few weeks, and an old exercise book like the ones she had used to fill with precisely correct accounts of her holidays or the Civil War in junior high. And, after a while, there was a man. This was new. He just appeared, sprawled on the bed like hed tripped and tried to make it look deliberate, wearing a shirt that was too big for him and mismatching socks without shoes. So she studied him, curious. He wasnt something of hers, but he did look faintly familiar. Or, she decided, he felt faintly familiar, because she was close to certain that she had never actually seen him before. His eyes were tired and honey-hazel, and he flickered like the picture on a television whose plug wasnt quite firm in the socket, but there was something in the curl of his lips that suggested they defaulted to a smirk. Cathy Randolph. Got a minute? His voice sounded, she decided, like someone had dressed a tiger in velvet - muscle and weight and wildness cloaked in decadence. But he hadnt even the substance to make the bedspread dip under him. Im only sleeping. Who are you? Oh, just some guy, you know. He grimaced, then grinned, deliberately distracting. Nice dream youve got here. Its been months since I dropped in on any that didnt involve Lucifer and the Apocalypse. Gets a bit depressing after a while. She found herself a little surprised to observe the fine hairs on his forearm, the corded muscles there, and the way they bunched when he twisted one hand in the sheets, shoulder tensing with discomfort while the other hand waved airily (and stiffly) in demonstration before flopping back down. This was a curious level of detail, for a dream. You dont belong here, she observed mildly. He flickered, sheepishly. See, heres the thing. Theres this whole big thing going on out there, and I thought I was out of it but apparently Im not, and someone I know patched me up a bit and stuck me way up in Canada. And Im - sort of weak right now, and stranded, and cant do anything for myself - except this, apparently, and who knew? but I cant find the dreamer I need, and I stumbled on your dream sort of accidentally and knew you just enough to get in, and, well, long and short of it is I kind of need you to make a call for me.

He flopped back on the pillows, semi-translucent, staring at her with hopeful selfdeprecation from underneath an artfully drifting forelock, and she was too old and far too married to fall for that kind of charm, even in a dream. And this didnt really feel like a dream. She checked surreptitiously to make sure that this wasnt one of those ones where she was inexplicably naked. Do you make a habit of visiting peoples dreams, then? His fingers twitched, as if he was one of those people who always talked with their hands but he just couldnt get up the energy to lift them. His voice was a little too light and casual. I wouldnt say habit. Been keeping out some nasty nightmares for a friend these last few months, but I havent actually dropped by. I like my face not punched in. He grinned. Im not actually stalking you, if that helps. So, if she was dreaming, she was dreaming about strange men who wore mis-matching socks and no boots in Canadian weather (didnt they have permasnow up there?), and said they could manipulate dreams. Not her usual thing. She was pretty sure her subconscious mind wasnt that obscure. You cant make the call yourself? He grimaced. Ive kind of fallen off the grid. And, yes, he was trying too hard, definitely too suave by half, like he was braced for rejection or hysterics. But his eyelids kept slumping downwards as if weighed with sand, and his hands and feet were almost transparent, and he looked so tired and only half-there, in a way that, oddly, reminded Cathy of her youngest sister, when she was thirteen and running a high fever, and her eyes had kept sliding away to something beyond the room, as if the real world was too much effort to cling to. She rose, and moved over sit on the edge of the bed. His eyes flickered wider, pale and startled clean of cynicism for a moment, searching her face as if waiting for the punch line. So you want me to call this friend of yours? The one whose dreams you cant get into anymore? He blinked, and his eyes slid away. Not him, no. Its not that kind of a call. She waited. He shifted nervously. Apparently he had less staying power than a six-year-old girl. He snapped his faint fingers, and a fainter Chupa Chup appeared between them. He glared at it disconsolately. So, you probably already think Im mad.

She folded her hands in her lap. For some reason, she was enjoying this. It felt known, and easy, and soothing, in a way that talking to a strange man in a hotel room in a dream really really shouldnt. Some paradoxical combination of the familiarity of being needed and the freedom of talking to a stranger, the security of her dream room and the refreshing honesty of not having to pretend that the world worked the way everyone always said and neither more nor less. She felt her mouth curling into a smile that she had forgotten she knew how to make. Passing judgement on people I meet in my dreams would be a little hypocritical, dont you think? He cocked an eyebrow at her quizzically. Well, theres that. Also, Im not very used to being honest. Sort of made a career of the opposite, actually. Tell me. He sighed the heavy, hissing sigh of one resigning himself to the inevitable, dropped his head back onto the pillows to stare at the ceiling, and sucked the ghostly lollipop into his mouth. Okay, heres the thing. You might have noticed the news has been a bit crazy lately. Rains of fire, way too many animal attacks in broad daylight in the middle of busy cities, ghost towns, unaccountable explosions, minor plagues, that kind of thing. Little stuff. She nodded, as he paused to run his tongue around the Chupa Chup, then stared at it mournfully. The thing is someone let Lucifer out. He addressed himself to the ephemeral sticky red thing in his hand, and talked quickly, as if expecting interruption. Yes, the devils real, hes just sort of been locked away for most of human history, so he hasnt been up to much beyond a bit of whispering and delegating. But hes really out now, and his lot are sort of running wild across most of the country. Demons, Cathy. And a few other nasties. The lollipop vanished as he darted a furtive glance at her. Not just America either. Not that youd know that from Americas journalists. She considered this. It was impossible, of course, but that was no argument nowadays. She thought of the reporters black eyes, and of the fire springing from drenched earth although the meteorologists had said the clouds had been all wrong for lightning.

And the Lord sent thunder and hail, and the fire ran along upon the ground; and the Lord rained hail upon the land of Egypt.
She thought of the cartoon-perfect Hulk-shaped hole around her front door. The plasterer had laughed, and talked about teenage pranks. Alright. He looked up from his determined examination of his fingernails, eyes narrowed. Alright? She shrugged. It makes sense.

He stared at her a moment, until his eyes softened into kind of curiosity, head bobbed to one side like a hawk, as if he had only just noticed she was actually there. Many people never noticed, of course, so she didnt mind if a dream hallucination took a little time because he was too busy with his own thoughts. Youre a strange solemn one, arent you? She shrugged. My little sister says its terrorists. It looks like more than that to me. He laughed, a brief startled bark from a hoarse throat. Oh, honey. Terrorists care whether you live or die. These guys just think youre handy ammo. He paused, mouth twisting oddly, as her stomach clenched. Then, suddenly practical: I need you to put in a call to the other side. To pray. Something jumped inside her, unsettling and cold, and she looked away to stare at the abstract colours outside the window. You mean the prayers of one woman could ever make a difference? God exists in this dream, so concrete and deliberate that you could compare prayer to a cell phone? I could ever You think God will hear me? Sweet Gytha Ogg, no, dont pray to him. Anyone might hear you. No, to an angel. Just one. Name of Castiel. She felt him push himself up onto one elbow next to her, felt his eyes on her face. Can you remember that? Castiel. Why? How? Our Father who art in no, that wouldnt work. Our Castiel, who art Angel Castiel, please listen to why didnt the Bible provide a handy style guide for prayers to angels? She blinked herself back into familiar practicality, and turned back to the strange man on her bed. Who should I say wants him? His gaze skittered away from hers. Trust me, we really dont want any of the others turning up. He took a breath, as if considering his words carefully, eyes fixed on her cupboard. Tell him I got over the whole Elysian Fields thing, but I - Im going to need a little grace before Im back in the game. He leaned forward, solemn and briefly sincere. Word for word, Cathy. Hell know who it is. She nodded. Got over Elysian Fields, need some time before youre back in the game. Grace, not time. Grace. And I pray to Castiel. Thats it. An angel. An actual angel. She stared at the crumpled bedspread by her hip. Apparently her dreams were deeply strange. She was almost sure that praying to individual angels would never have occurred to her waking mind. Not that she had done much praying lately. And when she had, she hadnt really thought of anyone hearing it. That was rather a stretch of the imagination, wasnt it? imagining the being receiving it, imagining them thinking about it and responding? Wasnt it rather presumptuous? Well, thoughts were free. Questions were powerful.

A hand, which looked like it should be brown and warm and strong if it had had colour and weight, crept into her vision. It hesitated for a moment, then moved to cover hers, which was pressed more tightly than she had realised into the faux-antique brocade counterpane. Softly, Gotta ask, Cathy. Why a hotel? Something special happen here? His skin was reassuringly rough and real, for a translucent hand. And there was something in that in the touch, in the question, in the faint uncertainty wavering beneath the casual tone something gentle, and it almost undid her. When was the last time someone had taken care for her feelings? No. She blinked it away, and trailed her finger along the frame of the window ledge. It was rough to the touch, and faintly dusty. I just like it. The soft breadth of his thumb pressed against her palm, human and solid. Whys that? She frowned absently at the grey fuzz on her fingertip, and thought of Miriam, travelling month by month from hotel to hotel, eating at a different place every night (and she was hopeless at choosing places that cooked food she liked), busy and successful and hating it. My sister once told me that she feels stifled in hotel rooms. Submerged. Because theyre all the same, and theyre all white and bare, and theres nothing of hers in them at all. She took a breath, stole a look at his face, pallid and curious and casually handsome on the pillow. I like them. I like that they start empty. You fill them up with all the little things you bring with you and you say, I am here. She touched the little wooden angel on the windowsill. You can see them all so clearly in here. The little pieces of your life. His eyes vanished for a moment under the curtain of sandy eyelashes, then reappeared, fixed on her, dark and distant and the colour of solidified honey, the steadiest thing about him. There was something guarded in there, and something fierce like envy. And what do you do with them then? Once you can see them? She laughed, and felt for no good reason as if the sun had come out. Does it matter? Brush your hair. She picked up the brush and tossed it to him. Or your teeth, I suppose. Or She looked over at the desk, at its new pen, and the exercise book waiting for her thoughts, now that she was free again to have some of her own. Or write. He released her hand and picked up the brush from where it had fallen on his thighs, eyeing it like a security guard might eye an abandoned bag in an airport, so casual that it was almost threatening. And how do you know what to write? She shook her head, still smiling, and reached out to touch his shoulder. It flickered out of reach for a moment, then back again, warmer under her fingers than it should have been. He looked up at her hand, wary and strangely distant.

You dont, she murmured to the defensive hunch of the muscle under her hand. Isnt that sort of the point of being human? You make it up. He went quite still. Under her gaze, his eyes froze over into something alien; under her hand, his shoulder turned to rock. His mouth stayed mobile enough to twist into something nasty, but he looked away before it did that. So she asked, for the third time. Who are you? His profile was Grecian, like marble and satire. That, my friend, is the sixty-four dollar question. She rose from the bed and turned to the desk. It was probably older than she was, but it hadnt seen half of what she had. She picked up her pen, and pressed it into his hand. If Im calling an angel on your behalf, I think I should know. Even if you are only some strange dream thing my brain has thrown out. He stared at her, then at his own fingers curling around the pen. He huffed, impatient and off his balance. I dont know, okay? I just dont know. Will I see this angel? His gaze slid away, away from the shy hope hidden behind her voice. He might drop by. Or he might just come straight to me. Im not exactly very well hidden right now. And he knows how to find me, once he knows Im - about. He flickered into nothingness. Well, it couldnt hurt to try. She knew of no one whod come by harm through praying.

---

The next night, his face looked like a pool after someone had thrown a rock into it, grey and broken and stormy. You must have paraphrased. Im sorry. I didnt. Castiel, got over Elysian Fields, need some grace before you join the fight again. He turned away, shoulders tight and hard as the black crag of rocks beyond him that were lashed by the rain of the worst storm she remembered. At least he was on his feet tonight, even if she could see the shadow of the storm clouds through his clenched fists.

No rain fell where they were, but the waves crashed on the sand, and the whales that she had seen that morning on the television rolled in the waves, and raised their tails to the sky, drove themselves along by blind magnetic instinct on old migratory routes that were archaic centuries ago, and beached themselves in the deadly shallows. She stepped forward after him, compelled to speak, to comfort. She felt the cool press of wet sand between her toes with the vivid clarity of some dreams. Ive prayed all my life, and no angel ever came. His laugh was like a growl. No. No angel. He swallowed. Sorry, kid, but its not the same. He stopped, knee-deep in breakers, staring out at the agonised rolling flank of the humpback whale in the surf before him. Imagine imagine you rang your little sister and told her you were hurt and bleeding in a ditch somewhere and you couldnt walk and had no money on you and you were hungry and cold and thirsty and didnt know what to do. The deep rumble of the waves rose behind his voice, angry and cold. And she hung up on you. He looked away, glowered at a distant crag as if he ought to be able to melt it into the sea with the power of his furious eyebrows, then the water scurried from about his feet and he stalked away to the place where the ebbing waves melted into the sand. She looked at the hard set of his shoulders and found herself reminded of the caramel tarts she had made that afternoon. They had always been Miriams favourites, when she was a teenager, after a day at school had gone to hell. Cathy thought of them until one appeared in her hand. She stood and moved over to where he was glaring at the water that whispered tentatively at the soles of his mysteriously sandless socks, and held it out to him. He looked up, startled, looked at it, looked at her. Then his mouth twisted into something wry and bitter. Imagining things out of the air. Must be nice. Its my dream. I think I can do what I like in it. Hope you have a sweet tooth. He stared at her, then at the tart, narrowly, as if he expected it to pipe up April Fool! It didnt. He bit it, warily. Thank you. She stood beside him and let him eat, listening to his breathing settle down beneath the grumbling of the sky. If one of her sisters had hung up on her she didnt know. She couldnt imagine it. Beside her, he brushed the shortcrust crumbs from his fingers, and watched them fall onto the sand as if they were the most fascinating thing in his life. It wasnt just disappointment in an unanswered prayer. It was betrayal, and denial, and disbelief. She could relate. She tucked one arm through his. Do you speak to angels often? His voice rumbled, deep and ironic against her shoulder. Used to. Not so much, these days. What are they like?

Honestly? Boring. No sense of fun. Show them a poker deck and they put their head on one side and look at you like youre a beetle theyd hoped was a bottle of vodka. His tone was derisive, but there was something tender in his eyes, though they were fixed on the distance. Not that theyd know what to do with vodka either. She smiled, ironic her loved ones had not been so ignorant and reached down to lace his fingers through hers. He let her do it, and even squeezed her hand. His was as warm as it had been in the hotel room the night before, not so cold as youd expect on an ocean beach with a stiff wind. They stood together for long minutes, watching the rolling waves and the stranding whales, who were vast and beautiful but who had no other thoughts than to follow what theyd known for thousands of years, and who were dying for it. After maybe an hour, or maybe a minute, he asked her how she was doing without Bill. It seemed perfectly natural that he should know about that. She considered the question. Its hard. She considered it a little more. Easier than with him. A mother whale sang, long and high and piteous, as her calf pushed its way up onto the beach, far beyond where her weight and girth and failing strength could reach. It would have to die alone. She looked at the strange being beside her. I prayed for him to die once, you know. His eyes darkened - not in mood but in colour. It made him look curiously richer. Like a dessert that you didnt know was heavy with brandy until it melted on your tongue. Yes. I know. And die he did. She paused, and he waited, stiff and steady. I guess Im beholden to someone for that. He huffed a little breath of startled air, almost amused, looked away at the sky for a moment, then back at her, incredulous. Beholden? Seriously? Yes. Its an old word I read once. It means to be obliged to someone. Or, to be watched over, or sustained, to keep you from falling. Yes. He looked at her curiously, sideways, a hint of depth and a hint of sweetness. Dont hear it much these days. She smiled back, honest and open. If she could not be true in her dreams, after all, there was nowhere else. I like it. It sounds... wondrous. She softened her voice, though it would be barely audible above the surf. Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy. Being held. Treasured. There was something soft and surprised about his mouth, and then a little twist of humour. Makes you think of Gabriel, does it?

Gabriel? Tipping off the shepherds about the Messiah. Oh, no - Gabriel was the one that told Mary. I think it only says an angel of the Lord for the shepherds. He smirked at her an honest, broad smirk. So it does. She found herself smiling back, almost grinning, conspiratorial as shed never been with anyone, before she realised. Wait. Are they real? All of them? Cathy Randolph, for shame. Arent you a good Christian? She gave him a level look. I have faith. That doesnt mean I take everything literally, without question. Some things can be true without being real. His eyes danced. Alright then. Richard III was real. And a nasty piece of work. That doesnt mean you should believe everything Shakespeare says about him. He paused. Or the Richard III society either, come to that. Seriously. Google them. Humans are nutters sometimes. He said it with a sort of fondness, and a sort of exasperation, but there was something dark and frustrated in the way his eyes were fixed on the breakers. She thought of devastated streets from one side of the country to another, of one young man without eyes who hadnt been able to believe his new wife was dead because he couldnt see her corpse, and of Anns voice over the phone, determined that victim counselling would solve everything.

These guys just think youre handy ammo.

What youre doing. Or she hesitated, looking sideways at the sudden stillness of his jaw. What youre meant to be doing. Will it help? He didnt answer for a long time. As if in reply to the keening of the stranded whales, a massive head loomed through the breakers. A bull, larger than was surely possible in real life, pushing himself high up the beach with long, powerful sweeps of his tail, his own thoughtless strength driving him to his death. The man watched him from under lowered eyelashes, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched. Finally: Well, the good news is, Heaven and Hell both think Im dead. The bull writhed, his fins gouging deep ravines in the sand, suffocating under his own weight, his muscles useless out of his watery element. The bad news? Stuck like this, they might as well be right. He shrugged, and kicked at the sand with the foot that wore a red sock. Looks like they dont want me. There was a plaintive note under the last few words that she was sure he hadnt meant her to hear, so she carefully didnt.

You know, Ive thought that I was useless. Sometimes. Her voice sounded inadequate. She thought of the months after her fathers death, her days formless without the rhythm of nursing. I think its just about finding a different use for yourself. Finding something you can do, and doing it. She shrugged, and added, lamely, Its better than doing nothing, even if it seems pointless for a while. He didnt answer. Standing in the sand, watching whales die, offering a shoulder to someone who felt abandoned by both sides of a celestial war, or possibly by his friends, wasnt the strangest dream shed ever had. Even if it was some kind of metaphor. It was a little dispiriting, though. I thought angels were... She trailed off, thinking of stained-glass images full of colour and light, faces lifted in fierce adoration and song, faces looking down the length of a bright sword in stern righteousness, certain and sure and beautiful. Joyous. He chuckled, harsh and short. So did I, once. Long ago. He tipped back his head to stare at the sky, clouds roiling slowly in bank upon bank of dark celestial mountains. When he spoke again, slow and cold, his voice sounded a little like they looked. Let them keep their Apocalypse. She found herself shivering, in a way that disconcerted her. She hadnt really noticed the weather before, but now the rain was falling on her, harsh and hard and chill. It fell right through him, running into his open eyes and sliding down his cheeks before losing its place on the tenuous reality of his body and dropping through to the sand below. He never blinked it away. After a few minutes, as the rain soaked through to her skin and the dying giant groaned, he closed his eyes, then looked at her, smirking faintly. Well, Cathy Randolph, I am beholden to you. She laughed a little at the wording, but there was an odd formality under it that sounded almost sincere. He turned to walk away along the beach, then paused and glanced back at her, eyes shaded. So. Being human. You make it up, right? So I hear. He tilted his head, quizzical, maybe a little hopeful, maybe even concerned. He looked small and rather alone against the vast sky and dark, hunched rocks. That working for you? She thought of Ann and Miriam and their own lives, of her kitchen and the recipe for meringues she had been gathering courage to try, of her own offer to Sarah at the horse club to keep her horse for her on Bills old property until Sarahs finances recovered. Of something that might be the Apocalypse, and of teaching herself to use Bills shotgun. Yes. Yes, I think it is.

---

The next day, she googled the Richard III society. They were nutters. It was something to think about.

Cracking.
[v]: orig. To make a dry sharp sound in breaking, to break with this characteristic sound; crack down upon: to repress, to take strong measures against; to joke; to puzzle out, discuss, solve; fig. to come to pieces, collapse, break down; to break without complete separation or displacement of parts, as when a fracture or fissure does not extend quite across. [n]: colloq. A sharp or cutting remark; a sudden sharp and loud noise as of something breaking or bursting, e.g. the crack of a rifle, bones, etc.; arch. crack of doom: the thunder-peal of the day of judgement, or perh. the blast of the archangel's trump.

February 2010.

This time was easier. At least Sam knew it wasnt real. Michael, wearing Dads face from the year Sam left, wielding a knife and smiling past him and telling him exactly how Dean was Gods perfect son and Sam was an abomination, carving words of terrible love into his entrails. Gabriel the Trickster, dressed in immaculate white robes that shifted treacherously into other colours at the corners of Sams vision, smirking and promising and dragging him through glass, always just about to save him and always savage. Castiel, turning away. Mom, loving and promising and telling him that it didnt matter how weak and useless he was, he was still her little boy, holding him close and seeming not to notice when her fingernails sawed jagged and slow through his spine. Lucifer, beautiful and cold, too close, reaching out to brush fingertips like spider silk against Sams cheek. Michael again. Mom. Castiel, weeping horribly because Sam had broken Dean. Unsubtle Zachariah. Over and over again, until time lost its meaning. It was impossible to scream, without lungs. Sam couldnt help but try anyway. Last time this had happened he had never ridden it out. Last time he had escaped, got what he wanted, then been cleaned up by God. Or whatever. They still didnt know where this ended. Zachariah, Sam? Really? The new voice reverberated in his bones and set his blood burning. It mocked and lilted, sliding sideways in his head, somehow deeper and hotter and more tangible than the glowing tyre iron that Zachariah was sliding between his ribs to see if he could find a yes in there because what else are you good for, Sam, what else are you for. Soft footsteps echoed around the walls, tapping from the far corner and curling insidiously around the room until they stopped behind his head. Hey, youre much shorter when youre strapped down. I think I like it.

Cruel, his body told him, cruel and old and terrible. His muscles locked, tugging him
against the restraints, trying to writhe down the table away from that scalpel-like gaze that he could hear stroking over his hair and face. Pushing into Zachariahs dripping hands. The hands vanished. Cool, blessed life rushed back into lungs that had suddenly always been there. Sam gulped it down, choking, grateful despite himself for a few seconds at least before they started in again. Just what he needed. Someone more creative than Zachariah. Or even than Michael. His voice scraped out, trying to sound bored and only managing sore. Not you again. You know one thing Ive never missed about upstairs is that joyless bastards smarmy voice. The voice was a tiny little buzz saw, hissing inside his skull, casual and far-away. Of course, there was that one time I took it off him for a year. Luke one, verse five and some change. Good times. A shift of cloth, and a foot scraping on the concrete floor, sliding just a little closer. Then the voice, a little sharper, almost wary. And what do you mean, me again? I havent stopped by... this room... before.

Shifty. Evasive. Trickster. Hovering, just out of sight. Just too close. Sam swallowed the
bile in his throat, clenched his fists against the straps and growled. Except five minutes ago. Or ten. Or an hour. Or weeks. Delight malice rippled through Gabriels voice. Aw, Sammy, youve been dreaming about little old me? Im... He was leaning forward, swaying lightly on his feet, Sam could feel the air moving, prickling the top of his scalp: actually kinda disturbed, I think. What did dream-me have to say? Go and ask him yourself. Sam could feel the smirk. Hes not my dream. The shadows shifted, raw and dark, flowing across the ceiling towards him like they always did just when the pain was about to start up again. A hellhound snarled at his feet. Fingers snapped, the sound echoing sharp and cold around the walls. The hellhound vanished. Sam waited, breathing slowly against the sensation of cold fingers stroking up his thighs. Pain and violation were only the dressing. It was the talking that was the worst. Trying to guess where they were steering him, where they were going to attack, especially the ones who started soft and kind. Apparently his hallucinations always knew just how to turn his head around. Made sense, really. If anyone knew how to screw Sam up, it was Sam. The voice wormed its way into him, seemed to bypass his ears and pierce straight into his veins. Deceptively gentle, under that soft and sweet that you knew would be rotten

with grubs but couldnt stop yourself from biting, burning sickly velvet under your tongue.
Gotta say, kid, Im a little impressed. As sheer bull-headed stubbornness goes, digging in your heels against Famine? Not bad. Oh, so thats where this one was going to go. The youre too weak to save anyone spiel. Or possibly, just how human are you, you freak? Sam grinned madly at the fan in the ceiling, refusing to play along with the script. Yeah, you know how it would have been easier? If wed had an archangel on-side. It purred like a tiger. Hey, power aint willpower. I may be awesome, but stubborn is a Winchester gig. You and Dean could out-glower me any day. A flicker of movement at the corner of Sams eye, purple and green and the corner of a curled lip. You have heard of Loki, right? Ive got my desires. Loki. Something niggled at Sams mind, something that didnt quite fit. He strained his head against the straps, trying to distract, to catch more than a mocking glimpse. I thought Castiel was only susceptible because hes getting kind of human. A hand circled in the air, careless and promising the world and illusion and betrayal. No, its because hes halfway to lost that it took the form of hunger for human sensations. Your brothers lucky he didnt try to jump him. The casually patronising tone turned to a leer. Unless he did and I missed that part. Yeah, well, unless he jumped him with a clue-by-four Dean would have missed it too. Silence, then a startled bubble of laughter behind him. Almost forgot why I liked you, kid. When youre not, oh, breaking the world. Sam yelped, muffled, as mocking invisible fingers danced over his hips and dug into his stomach, pushing sharp and insinuating into the flesh. Even as he writhed away from them, his mind skittered and sharpened. He could do this. Hed found out ten rounds ago (or fifty) that, if he could keep them talking about themselves instead of him, it sometimes lasted longer. They got distracted. Sometimes there were minutes at a time when he could breathe without anything raking into his skin. Only aspects of his own subconscious, of course, but that made sense too, if he was concentrating on logistical problems instead of on himself. Aspects of his subconscious. They couldnt tell him anything he didnt know. But if they could still surprise him, that meant his mind was piecing together things he didnt know he knew. He had assumed that Gabriel was Coyote or some other indigenous Trickster. But why not Loki? It wasnt as if geography counted for anything with angels. And it fit. He could play this game. What would yours be, then? With Famine? he threw out, as if he didnt care.

A shoe scraped against the floor. The sound jolted through his bones, orange and jagged white like wrath. The dream-Gabriel moved, circling around towards Sams left, and pain scurried through him as if everything in him was trying to tug free of his skin and run away to hide on the other side of his body, pointing the archangels direction like a compass. This is what passes for polite conversation with Winchesters, is it? Sitting around asking people about their deepest and dirtiest?

His voice was wrong. Wrong in a way that went beyond the writhing of Sams insides at his very presence, beyond the jagged black fire in his blood screaming enemy, enemy. It was too light, too mocking, almost inconsequential. Not what an angel should sound like. Not even the deep rumble of Castiels voice, which Sam swore he could feel in his bones.
And that wasnt logical. Gabriel, illusory or real, was every inch an angel, in the sense that Sam had learned, painfully, since Dean had come back from Hell. The idea of angel that Castiel had turned his back on, for them (for Dean). Not the kind of angel that Sam had believed in, trusted, as a child, and cherished some vague faith in for years beyond, even when he had seen what the world was like. And even when Castiel, beautiful and stern, had turned blank eyes on him and called him the boy with demon blood, even when Zachariah had given Dean stomach cancer and told him he belonged to an archangel, even when Lucifer had whispered in his ear that Sam only mattered for what he could contain, there had been a faint trace of that old angel left alive in Sams imagination. Not the Michael of church windows, steel-clad arm upraised in stern vengeance. Gabriel, the bearer of joy and salvation. Gabriel, the one angel left from his childhood in whom he could still place hope. Gabriel, surely the angel of white fluffy wings and goodness if any was. Gabriel, the coward of centuries. Scuffling around down here in the mud, playing sordid pranks on dicks. Sam thudded his head back against the bench, straining to see where the Trickster was. Always just out of sight. It wants you dead, demon. It wants you worse than dead.

Every minute youre not watching it, the angel is twisting you into nothingness. Lonely, alone and abandoned and worthless. Dean wont come when you call.
Sweat crept on slow feet down Sams side, tickling cold where it passed. I never know what youre trying to get me to do. He didnt mean to say it out loud. Perhaps he didnt. Gabriels head swayed forward into his vision, eyes intent and deep and old like amber that could trap you in time. And they did, just for a moment, just until Sam noticed his mouth, gaping and grinning with teeth like a boars curving up over his cheekbones and down under his chin. A long tongue, orange and scaled, twisted lithe and obscene around the tusks as the angel-thing purred, or murmured, or snarled, Your perceptions screwed to hell, kid. You know that, right? Sam stared, as dark bat-wings flared behind the Tricksters shoulders, shadowy against the ridiculous purple suede jacket he was wearing. It shouldnt have been scarier than Michaels knife or Mums claws, but this felt far too lucid. His breath wouldnt come out right. Why are you here?

The jacket hunched up in a too-casual shrug, and settled against the wall by the door. Castiel prayed. I heard. Cas? A little sweet shock, cool water and relief. Castiel, four days before, all crumpled and torn, tugging at that ridiculous tie like hed just started to notice that it wasnt part of his inherited body and lifting his soft little almost-smile to Sam over something Dean had said. Castiel, lifting his head from raw meat to stare at Sam with something that might have been admiration or might have been revulsion. Or fear. Even bitter and cut off from Heaven, he carried redemption or damnation in his eyes. Praying for Sam. Not giving up on him.

Angels, demon. Theyre angels. What good is your soul, this scattered, rotten thing in here?
Castiel, two months ago, fluttering in while Sam was reading up on sixteenth-century theories of the soul and body and their relation to the divine (it only made sense to brush up, given the state of their lives). Correcting the text, when Sam asked. Telling him that a soul was necessary for Sam gritted his teeth and stared at the ceiling. He should have known better than to listen, even for a moment. Angels cant pray. Hes not exactly sticking to the rules lately. Lazily sarcastic again, like a principal pointing out a very obvious fact to a particularly slow five-year-old and waiting for them to catch up. But there was a peculiar twist in there too, something like pride? envy? Deadly sins, both. You might have noticed. Hold on. Sams mind raced ahead of itself, stumbling in sudden worry. Angels cant pray, but if it was something like prayer, something other angels could hear what was his subconscious trying to tell him? And he didnt think hed heard anything from outside the room for hours. Peaceful? Or? If you heard, does that mean Whoa, calm down, cowboy. Gods Messenger, remember? And also? Sneaky. No one else is listening. His voice was smirking again. The table juddered as Gabriel propped one boot insouciantly up against its nearest leg. I only knew where you are because Im your own private stalker. Oh, well, that was reassuring. In the way that really wasnt. Sam scowled at the Trickster on reflex. The tusks were gone, and his mouth was twisting into something bitter as he added, And, hey, lets face it. Not like theres anyone else listening to him. It was muttered, low and rough, nothing like the spider-silk of the white Gabriels voice, or the slippery, bright satin-polyester of this one. It didnt fit the stupid smug face. Sam stared hard. Why do you care? Gabriels eyes flicked up, too bright (blinding, burning, Pamelas bleeding dead eyes), then narrowed. His mouth opened and shut again, like hed missed a step somewhere. I dont care.

Sams heart was beating too fast, too full, as if all the blood in him was swollen and overheated. He held the stare. The angel looked away.

Hey, bro. Hows the search for Daddy going? Let me guess: awful.
Pressed too close. Drawing back. Sam threw a challenge at him, to distract him. You promised Id be the death of you. Gabriels eyes snapped back and snared him again, steady and deep and cool and shocked-wide, and nothing like the solemn, robed creature that had made the rotten-sweet promise. You promised that together we would defeat Satan and dance on the pyramids as the world crumbled into syllables around us. Power and glory and horror and lust. And other things. He had promised everything. Sams eyes slid down to the curve of Gabriels mouth, supple and wicked and sweet. It looked blue like velvet, and deep as the night sky with nothing behind it. It stirred under his gaze, tugging slowly into cruel promise. Sam took a deep breath, and looked away. You promised that if I said yes to you, you and Lucifer would fight it out inside my head and leave the world untouched. Gabriel blinked. And that then, even if you lost, Lucifer would be trapped in a drooling husk of a vessel and would be defeated. The Trickster was actually silent for a minute. ... Wow. Dream-me is kind of a sadistic dick. Sam scoffed. Because that doesnt sound like real-you at all. The angels eyes narrowed. Then the bench jerked, harsh and loud and sudden, and he was leaning forward with his hands pressed into the bench on either side of Sams feet. Okay, kid, heres what were going to do. Im going to give you a pass because youre high on pain and adrenalin and that blood in you is screaming out that Im the enemy and youve got no idea whats real right now. And you? Youre going to hold still and trust me for just sixty seconds. The air went indigo and choking-heavy. Sams limbs jerked hard against the restraints, which were suddenly hot iron, bubbling his skin to ribbons. Trust me. Say yes. Say yes,

Winchester, and youll never need to think again.

Ruby whispered in his ear, warm and proud and as inevitable as his own weakness. It was you, and your choices. I just gave you the options, and you chose the right path every time. Distantly, he heard himself snarl, Trust you? Im strapped to a bench. That doesnt usually end well for me. The angel moved. He felt it, hot and terrible, moving around the

bench toward him. Even on days when I havent just had your brothers carving Enochian epics into my stomach.

Dont you want power? Power boiling unending inside your skin? And never to have to choose?
Yes, that sounds like Michael and the God squad

You know how well your choices end.

Not really my thing, though. Im more a dirty limerick kind of guy. A heavy hand landed on his hip, with the crushing weight of the sea behind it. Sams body arched up against it, or his mind, spitting and snarling and fighting with everything he could find in him without the need to think. Dont touch me. Sam. Trust me. Please. It vibrated through him like a copper bell. I dont need a pair of righteous Winchesters and Free Will in a trench coat on my tail crying rape, okay? Just let me Sam lashed out with all he had, grappling with the incomprehensible, something far more tangible than anything should be, like trying to blow out a bonfire when youre used to snuffing out illusory candle flames with your fingertips. Pressure tightened on his hipbone, and the voice deepened, shaking through him, soft with frustration. Kid, that isnt yours to play with. Not like that. And youre still doing what youve always done, playing into the hands of Heaven and Hell all at once. Screw them and get with the whole humanity thing, would you? Youre still dancing to their tune. You keep that up and youre uber-boned, no matter how often you yelp about free will. He knew he snarled a curse and something vehement, turning his head away as far as ever he could and hearing something growl No, no, no, no over and again like the world had been reduced to that, but there was a hand on his chin that turned his head back like a kittens and muffled the word under one curled finger. The thing hovered over him like the choking ash cloud over Pompeii, tickling his mouth and nose and throat and lungs with gritty heat. And it spoke once more, finally, exasperation and anger and deep, deep love, tenderness, impossibilities. Samuel Winchester. I promise. It reverberated rich and deep, like an angel, like the archangel who spoke for God. He couldnt have meant it. Sams body went still all over, inside and out, the seething of his blood surging to a stop just for a moment. The archangels lips seared against his. Sams chest burst into flame. He screamed aloud, muffled in the hot press of the demigods mouth, smothered in the soft curls falling forward over his cheek and eye and the relentless weight of the body arched over his. Fire raced along his stomach, down his thighs, dived into his veins and coiled deep into his toes and his lungs and his hair. His chest was cracking open, he could

feel it, great crevasses opening in it like the blackened crust on a lava flow. He writhed helplessly, unmoving, trying to yell against it but finding no words, trying to jerk away from the iron-hard hands clenched on his hip and in his hair. Thread-slim fractures began to cobweb out from each fingers press, and he could feel each one, see each one, a brilliant starburst of white pain against the scorching red. His body raged and fought uselessly, and the press of a mouth against his was soft and sweet and bright. There was something comforting and still moving out from that point, rippling through his twisting body like cool water. It tingled, white and silky, and for some reason it smelled like the leather of the Impala, Jess hair, Deans cheap aftershave, and peppermint. His perception really was screwed to hell, he noticed hazily. The fire on his chest crackled, flamed higher and hissed into nothing. It retreated down his stomach, curled fiercely for a moment across his groin and fled before the pale, cool touch like grace, bright and fierce and strong. The pain in his skull and hip faded sheepishly, like the yell in a dream that wakes you and turns into nothingness when the sound of the highway outside reminds your ear what real sound feels like. And how long was it since he had had lips on his, just gentle, that touch of contact and understanding without the demand for sex and blood? Cool air rushed into Sams lungs and he clung to it, opened to it in sheer relief, arching up into the soft press of lips above him. Pleading. The hands on him were gentle, and a thumb was rubbing soothing circles into the hollow of his hip. His skin felt fresh and soft and clean, like hed just had a cool shower after a long, sweaty hunt. Even his blood felt renewed, coursing calm and orderly under his skin. The mouth retreated, and he lifted his head a little, trying to press forward again into the cool relief, but the room swam around him. He thought he caught a glimpse of a smirk. Faint and distant, he might have heard, See? Sixty seconds. Told you Im awesome. Something brushed his forehead, a delicate and tentative touch that didnt seem to belong to the voice, as the world faded. Sam woke up.

---

Present day.

I figured it was just my subconscious making some sort of weird rationalisation of the demon blood fading. But after last night Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. You often rationalise away weird shit by making out with archangels, Sammy? That would be the part Dean fixated on. Or rather, it would have been three years ago, when he would have thought nothing about teasing his little brother for days over a single kiss. Even a few weeks back, maybe, before the empty bottles of Jack Daniels had started to pile up under the back seat of the Impala and Deans eyes had been redder every morning. Sam looked out of the window and huffed his irritation, because he was a good brother and if Dean wanted normal, Sam could give him this. Dean grinned at him sideways, a faint echo of the real thing, but there all the same. Because if the real reason Lucifers been a no-show in your head for months is that you two had some kind of dream-lovers tiff, you can tell me. Sam let habit colour his voice with exasperation, but he was fairly sure it ended up warmer than it should have been. It wasnt a kiss, Dean. It was some kind of weird angelic grace-cleansing thing. Right back through the Middle Ages, at least as early as the ninth century, the mouth was meant to be the gateway to the soul. Its why demons have to possess you through the mouth, and kiss you to seal a deal. Dean nodded curtly, the brief flicker of levity slipping away. So youre thinking, what that he was actually in the panic room with you? I guess. Or doing that angelic dream-walking thing. Does it really matter? What tipped you off? Sam shrugged and turned his face back to the window. Deans inert profile and shuttered eyes were already familiar enough. Looking at them too often made it hard to forget that Sam was still angry, and more than a little scared. You think youre the only one white-knuckling it, Dean? Just details, you know? The Loki thing too, though that could be coincidence. Mostly the way he was acting last night in the hotel. We hadnt really seen him being an angel before, but the way he talked, some of his expressions, they were familiar. And thinking it over just now, I worked out that I only recognised them from what I saw in the panic room. The way he looked when he told you he didnt care? Sam carefully kept his voice neutral. He looked exactly the same when he got all protective over Castiel for a moment. Huh. Even without looking, Sam could feel Dean covering up his flinch at the name. You think he meant you to notice? Sam cast his mind back. I think he was dropping hints in that porno. A couple of things he said Michael and the God squad, little turns of phrase like that not the kind of thing you drop by accident.

So he wanted you to know, if he died. Dean nodded. You didnt say yes to anything, did you? What? No! Not even when you were tripping out? Sam scowled. Im not an idiot, Dean. Good. Wouldnt put it past one of them to turn it around the wrong way and hold you to it. Angel, Dean. Not a crossroads demon. You willing to take a chance on that, if it came to it? Dean glanced at him sideways, his eyes dark and serious under his lashes. Look, Sammy, were not exactly playing with a full set of rules here. Its consent for angels, kissing for demons, sex for pagan gods. Im just saying, hes two out of three and we dont know what else. Sam shifted uncomfortably, because he had been sitting still for too long and not at all because that was actually a disturbing thought. Besides, it could hardly make a difference now. Was, Dean. Dean shrugged and turned his eyes back to the road as if he didnt care, though there was something too tight about the line of his jaw for a moment, the way he looked when he blamed himself. Then again, it was pretty much always like that lately. Sam vaguely considered making a crack about how messed up their lives were that non-consensual kissing was apparently the way to go, but he hadnt managed to make it stop sounding lame in his head before Dean said, carefully bland, Howd he find you anyway? I thought those bone tattoos were scrambling the signal.

Castiel prayed, I heard. No, too many questions and raw nerves. Your own private stalker. Definitely not. Whatever hed meant by that.
Well, if it was a dream it wouldnt matter, Sam pointed out carefully. Lucifer found me a couple of times after Cas did that. Yes, but not lately right? Deans voice sharpened a little, protective, his patented just checking on my little brother in case hes been stupid enough to forget to mention something like the devil in his head tone. Sam only rolled his eyes in answer. Lucifer-stalking was an effective distraction from Gabriel-stalking, apparently. And when had Sam become the guy who got stalked by multiple archangels and found it kind of normal? I thought youd be a bit more freaked out over this. Dean checked the mirrors and indicated, despite the empty highway behind them, before swinging left onto a narrower road. The sinking sun glanced in through the window across his lap and drew critical fingers through the two-day stubble on his throat. The guy

came through for us in the end. Took him long enough to pull his head out of his ass, but he did it. His voice was still too neutral. For all that Dean hated talking about his emotions, he had never been much good at hiding them. There was a sort of softness to his eyes and mouth that showed every flicker of desire or hurt. Everything came easily, amusement or fury, little bits of Deans life chasing each other over his face without stopping to fit together. It was only when he really wasnt dealing at all that he deliberately held up a wall in front of it. Sam stretched out in his chair and tipped his head back against the headrest. It wasnt as if Gabriel had actually owed them anything, or cared about them personally, even if he had apparently decided that it made sense to keep them in the game. And it wasnt as if Dean could have expected it, despite all the shouting. That wasnt for us, Dean. That was for the gods. Whatever, Dean muttered, staring the road into submission. Then he added, unexpectedly, I kind of liked the guy. Sam threw a look over at him, half incredulous and mostly curious. No, I get it. Deans fingers tightened on the steering wheel, his tone measured. Most angels have never had to make a choice for themselves, you know? And thats something youve got to learn, it doesnt come all at once. He smirked faintly, no amusement behind it. Hell, it took me long enough to stop just trying to do what Dad would do, and I only had twenty-seven years with the man. And angels Dean stumbled for a moment, swallowed, and continued, with only a little rumble of emotion audible. well, theyre kind of like kids, arent they? Great big super-powered sulky kids. Who never had to grow up. And sometimes sometimes youve got to yell at kids until they get their asses in gear. He locked his jaw and kept his eyes fixed on the road. Dean had barely cracked a smile since that kid Dylan had been killed on their watch by the Whores demons, since Michael had taken Adam. Or rather because Sam was not completely oblivious even if Dean was since Dean had seen Castiel listing bitter and drunk in their room in Blue Earth, since Castiel had chased Dean down after he had escaped from the panic room, then had vanished in Van Nuys. Sam didnt know what Castiel had said to Dean when he found him, but hed seen how Castiel had looked when Dean had ditched them in Blue Earth. He was pretty sure it wasnt any physical beating that had made his brother look so hunched and small in the panic room afterwards. They were both a broken mess. Cracking a little further apart every week, every week for years, and never stopping to put themselves back together. Even without the hopeless, looming inevitability of saying yes. Maybe habit and white-knuckled stubbornness were the only things that kept them going anyway.

Sam pretended he didnt know which angel Dean was talking about (or which two, to be honest, and apparently if Sam had a habit of picking up angelic dream stalkers, Dean was cultivating a fine collection of angels who looked to him for moral guidance and exchanged meaningful glowers with him). And Michaels decided to grow up in Dads image. Taking over the family business. Dean snorted, and agreed, heavy with irony, The perfect son. Sam chewed his lip. I dont know. I think itd be kind of depressing to have a perfect little clone for a kid. I mean, how do you actually grow up into a real person if youre just copying someone else all the time? Dad turned into Dad because of what he did and chose and saw, and if someone just tried to mimic what they saw of him in his mirror itd be only an image, right? Two-dimensional. It wouldnt mean anything. Which I guess is even more true if your father is, well, God. Perfect sons apparently didnt make very good brothers. Dean made a vague sound, and didnt answer. Sam found himself wondering, for some reason, just how it had gone down. What Gabriel had said to Lucifer before he died. What Lucifer had said back, in that voice that was always so quiet and gentle like the tender drag of teeth over skin, as if his face wasnt spattered with blood.

Oh.
Maybe Sam was completely oblivious after all. A fine collection of angels who looked to Dean for moral guidance, stood up and fought, then died. Castiels eyes, disillusioned and close to broken and furious with himself, as he opened his shirt and held out the pen knife to Sam. He hadnt met Deans eyes once. Dean. Sams voice scraped, and he cleared his throat, surprising himself when what came out was, Gabriel said he said he came because he heard Cas praying for me. Huh. Dean didnt say anything else for a long minute, but even out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see the little flickers running across his face, the painful flutters of his eyelashes and throat. Finally he settled on muttering, Poor bastard. Sam picked carefully at his sleeve, not sure whether this would make things better or worse. How do you mean? Deans voice was low, dragged out with difficulty and hard to make out over the growl of the Impalas engine. He thought no one was listening. Turns out someone was, but Sam had a sudden vivid memory of the hope dying in Castiels eyes. Maybe maybe

Joshua was lying.

Deans fingernails tapped out a little staccato rattle on the steering wheel. It was runaway big brother.

Its not like theres anybody else listening to him.

Sam blinked, as his mind caught up with what Dean had actually said. Hang on. Castiel told you hed been praying? Dean slid his eyes over to Sam for a minute, wary, like he wasnt sure whether this was going to be a stop-corrupting-the-angel-Dean conversation or a pour-out-your-heart one. Yeah. Dean Yes, alright, this actually was kind of personal. Sam hedged his words delicately. I dont know what Gabriel meant, but angels cant actually pray. Dean grunted, not letting anything go. Sure they can. Theyve probably got a direct line to the boss or something. No, I mean they literally cant pray. Cas said prayer is like communion between the soul and God. Angels dont have souls. And if Castiels eyes had been getting more and more soulful in the months before he sacrificed himself, well, that was only a figure of speech. And him learning to recognise and express emotions. Lucky Castiel. Dean shoved a hand through his hair, leaving it untidy, and looked suddenly too tired. He probably just meant the angel equivalent. Something was niggling at Sam. No itd be just like talking on angel radio, and we know Cas cant do that or theyd find him. Some kind of personal angel message, then. Secret interdepartmental memo or something. Whatever, Sam. Sam let it go. Vague possibilities, the forerunners of plans, nudged their way into his head. If they had enough holy oil It was Castiel. Sam thought he was probably too dead-tired inside for anything like affection, but that was nothing new for Winchesters. They were more than accustomed to getting by on dogged co-dependence and a fierce refusal to compromise where family was concerned. And Castiel was close enough. Besides, it only made sense. Even weakened and doubting he had been the strongest asset they had. If he wasnt already lost, Sam wasnt going to let him lose himself. Castiel was worth a gamble. --It was about half an hour later, the darkness creeping in over the scattered trees, that Sam murmured, mostly to himself, I think its like what you said before about learning to

make choices. Things without a soul cant grow or change or even really feel. Angels shouldnt be able to change. Dean let out a breath, soft and raw. Well, we both know thats a big steaming pile of crap. Yes. A crow lifted on heavy wings from the fence beside the road as the Impala hurtled past, messy blue-black feathers outstretched for a moment against the sunlight then lost behind them. I guess it is. Sam wasnt sure where that left them.

---

They were still about eight hours from Nevada and the mysterious outbreak of flu that Bobby had thought might herald Pestilence, and they were both beat, so when they rolled into a small town they booked in to the motel. Shabby and shades of brown and one hundred per cent not jazzed up by pissed-off gods. Half an hour after Deans breathing evened out into laboured dreams, Sam padded silently back out to the Impala in his socks, leaving a note tucked into his bag, where and why, just in case he didnt come back. Sam hadnt prayed since their little trip upstairs. He had tried, twice, and failed. The thought of opening up his soul and begging to a God with Joshuas face made him want to punch something. But that was supplication. This was strategy. Besides, it wasnt God he was after. Two miles back, outside the town, they had passed an abandoned shed. Sams luck was in, for once. It proved warm enough for him to fall asleep, and not so cluttered that the ring of holy fire (insurance) was likely to catch on anything when he did. Angels couldnt pray. But humans could. It took a while to find sleep, on a thin coat over wonky cement and surrounded by flame, but it came eventually. As he drifted off, Sam prayed.

Lucifer. I need your help.

Dungeons and Divinations.

Written in 1792, by the hand of Giacomo Casanova;* kept separate from those manuscripts intended for publication in his memoirs; subsequently lost and recycled for the lining of shelves and the pastedowns of other volumes.

I have always been a charlatan, I believe; and I have always been a philosopher. I make no apology for either. God gave us free will, curiosity, and reason: I use them to the full, and to use wisdoms fruits to gull a fool even such dubious fruits as numerology, necromancy, alchemy, or sorcery is an exploit worthy of the intelligent man. Fools are happier, after all, in their superstitions. Although most of my mercurial wealth from year to year has been earned through the deceit of other men (and what man who was ever rich can say otherwise, if he be honest?), this account, this trifling anecdote, is Gods honest truth or that of some other Power. I am a Catholic, and will aver it on my deathbed; a man of my experience, however, knows that there are other, darker things in the world, and that it is not always easy to tell the difference. After all, it is not every man who could say which was the Virgin and which the Devil, if both came to him dressed in white. What is the difference between a poor village girl who is possessed by a demon and one who receives divine revelation? Only the word of the local holy man that is to say, only what the girls father, or his enemies, can afford to pay. And in most cases, it is more than likely that the cause is scientific: that the child is only a prey to superstition and distress, unbalanced by an excess of melancholy, for which she is condemned (if she be lucky!) to a madhouse. The story of my escape in my youth from the most notorious prison of Venice, li Piombi, is known well enough. Europe knows it, and tells it for me. When I was welcomed back to Venice after eighteen years, even the Inquisitors were eager to ask me how I had done it, and my published account sells as well as does any work that hints at scandal or recklessness. It is, however, a lie; at least in part. In my old age, I have enough
* This chapter is heavily based on Casanovas own account of his escape from the Leads (i Piombi), the Venetian political prison at the top of the Doges palace on Piazza San Marco. The edition I have used (and whose style and choice of vocabulary I have, therefore, followed) is Arthur Machens English translation of 1894, which is well out of copyright everywhere. I have tried to write Casanovas thought process and narrative style as consistently with my source material as possible, but drunk-and-confrontational!Gabriel was at first disinclined to adjust his own style of speech back from the twenty-first century to the eighteenth beyond a superficial change of language, so his words are sometimes deliberately jarring. Fortunately, Casanova tends to find eccentric manners rather entertaining. And a disclaimer, should it be necessary: opinions on people of various nationalities/cultures/religions/genders/social classes/educational backgrounds are Casanovas, not mine, and are usually direct quotes or close paraphrases of something he himself wrote elsewhere. Including the line about Germans. Hes actually fairly open-minded, for his time being curious about and interested in everyone helps. And, of course, there was that one time he fell in love with and committed himself to a serious relationship with a castrato before he was quite sure that he was actually a she in disguise. Literally the Leads, named for the great slates of lead that tiled the roof, i Piombi (li Piombi in a common 18C spelling) was the prison in the attic of the Doges palace just off Piazza San Marco. I use li Piombi to refer to the prison, and the Leads to refer more specifically to the roof of the building. As it was mostly used for political prisoners, its a bit of a stretch to have Gabriel thrown in there on (essentially) a drunk and disorderly, but Venetians of standing often spent short amounts of time in there pending their trials at this point. Also, the concerns of heresy, and the fact that he appeared to be a Venetian noble but wasnt known to anyone, would seem serious enough that the arresting officer could well have chosen to err on the side of caution.

circumspection not to publish this truth, though I feel myself compelled now to write it down. It is true that, during the years 1755 and 1756, I passed weary months in digging a tunnel below the loose flag under my bed. The detestable tyranny that held me imprisoned had no intention of bringing me to trial, as the charges would not have stood open scrutiny. My cell was icy in the winter, sweltering in the summer and the gaoler Lorenzo was a tiresome scoundrel for whom nothing was sacred above money. I was fain to escape from that hell on earth. Indeed, I had become desperate, and driven not a little beyond reason with treading again and again the same path of thought, no respite at hand save what my own brain dinned back upon me. I thought only of forwarding this end, with the resolve to succeed, or at all events not to stop before I came to a difficulty that was insurmountable. A man who always thinks on one subject is in danger of becoming a monomaniac, a creature less than rational in pursuing his single end. I then was in this state of mind. Not knowing how to make use of the Bible to inform me of the moment in which I should recover my liberty, I determined to consult the divine Orlando Furioso, which I had read a hundred times, which I knew by heart, and which was my delight in li Piombi. I idolised the genius of Ariosto, and considered him a far better fortune-teller than Virgil. With this idea I wrote a question addressed to the supposed Intelligence, in which I asked in what canto of Ariosto I should find the day of my deliverance. I then made a reversed pyramid composed of the number formed from the words of the question, and by subtracting the number nine I obtained, finally, nine. This told me that I should find my fate in the ninth canto. I followed the same method to find out the exact stanza and verse, and got seven for the stanza and one for the verse. I took up the poem, and my heart beating as if I trusted wholly in the oracle, I opened it, turned down the leaf, and read:

Fra il fin dottobre, e il capo di novembre.*

The precision of the line and its appropriateness to my circumstances appeared so wonderful to me, that I will not confess that I placed my faith entirely in it; but the reader will pardon me if I say that I did all in my power to make the prediction a correct one. In important schemes action is the grand requisite, and the rest must be left to fortune. The most singular circumstance is that between the end of October and the beginning of November, there is only the instant midnight, and it was just as the clock was striking midnight on October 31 that I escaped, as the reader will soon see. That date, for which I fixed my escape, is of course the eve of All Hallows. I knew that the Grand Council assembled on that feast, and there would consequently be nobody near the Inquisitors Hall, which lay directly below my cell, and through which I must pass as I fled. As I related in my published account, however, it was a few short days before my intended flight that Lorenzo, anticipating my gratitude and gold, moved me from my accustomed cell to a far better and more comfortable on the opposite side of the palace. My trusty iron bar, with which I had performed so much secret labour, was happily stowed
* Between the tail of October and the head of November.

within the stuffing of my sofa, which was conveyed after me; but it was a hard blow indeed to be carried away on the eve of liberty from the toil of months. I sat in my new cell, lost in despair. There was no help for it but that Lorenzo must, in moving my furniture after me, discover the tunnel under my bed that would have cost him his life had I escaped. At last I heard hurried steps, and I soon saw him standing before me, transformed with rage, foaming at the mouth, and blaspheming God and His saints. He began by ordering me to give him the hatchet and the tools I had used to pierce the floor, and to tell him from which of the guards I had got the tools. Without moving, and quite calmly, I told him that I did not know what he was talking about. At this reply he gave orders that I should be searched, but rising with a determined air I shook my fist at the knaves, and having taken off my clothes I said to them, Do your duty, but let no one touch me. They searched my mattress, turned my bed inside out, felt the cushions of my armchair, and found nothing. You wont tell me, then, where are the instruments with which you made the hole. Its of no matter, as we shall find a way to make you speak. If it be true that I have made a hole at all, I shall say that you gave me the tools, and that I have returned them to you. At this threat, which made his followers smile with glee, probably because he had been abusing them, he stamped his feet, tore his hair, and went out like one possessed. The guards returned and brought me all my properties, my precious books excepted. After locking up my cell he shut the two windows which gave me a little air. I thus found myself confined in a narrow space without the possibility of receiving the least breath of air from any quarter, or of relieving my mind with literature. Nevertheless, my situation did not disturb me to any great extent, as I must confess I thought I had got off cheaply. In spite of his training, Lorenzo had not thought of turning the armchair over; and thus, finding myself still possessor of the iron bar, I thanked Providence, and thought myself still at liberty to regard the bar as means by which, sooner or later, I should make my escape. I passed a sleepless night, as much from the heat of my new cell as the change in my prospects. At daybreak Lorenzo came and brought some insufferable wine, and some water I should not have cared to drink. All the rest was of a piece; dry salad, putrid meat, and bread harder than English biscuit. He cleaned nothing, and when I asked him to open the windows he seemed not to hear me; but a guard armed with an iron bar began to sound all over my room, against the wall, on the floor, and above all under my bed. I looked on with an unmoved expression, but it did not escape my notice that the guard did not sound the ceiling. That way, said I to myself, will lead me out of this place of torments. But for any such project to succeed I should have to depend purely on chance, for all my operations would leave visible traces. The cell was quite new, and the least scratch would have attracted the notice of my keepers. I passed a terrible day, for the heat was like that of a furnace, and I was quite unable to make any use of the food with which I had been provided. The perspiration and the lack of nourishment made me so weak that I could neither walk nor think. Next day my dinner

was the same; the horrible smell of the veal the rascal brought me made me draw back from it instantly. Have you received orders, said I, to kill me with hunger and heat? He locked the door, and went out without a word. On the third day I was treated in the same manner, and again the walls and floor were sounded. I asked for a pencil and paper to write to the secretary. Still no answer. In despair, I ate my soup, and then soaking my bread in a little sour wine I resolved to get strength to avenge myself on Lorenzo by plunging my pike into his throat. My rage told me that I had no other course, but I grew calmer in the night, and in the morning, when the scoundrel appeared, I contented myself with saying that I would kill him as soon as I was at liberty. He only laughed at my threat, and again went out without opening his lips. I began to think that he was acting under orders from the secretary, to whom he must have told all. I knew not what to do. I strove between patience and despair, and felt as if I were dying for want of food. At last on the fifth day, with rage in my heart and in a voice of thunder, I bade him, under the name of hangman, and in the presence of the archers, give me an account of my money. He answered drily that I should have it the next day. Then as he was about to go I took my bucket, and made as if I would go and empty it in the passage. Foreseeing my design, he told a guard to take it, and during the disgusting operation opened a window, which he shut as soon as the affair was done, so that in spite of my remonstrances I was left in the plague-stricken atmosphere. A thousand times I commended myself to the mercy of God. Those Free-thinkers who say that praying is no good do not know what they are talking about; for I know by experience that, having prayed to God, I always felt myself grow stronger, which fact amply proves the usefulness of prayer, whether the renewal of strength come straight from God, or whether it comes only from the trust one has in Him. On the day prophesied by Ariosto, the day I had looked to for my deliverance, the sky had been dark barely half an hour when Lorenzo opened the door of my cell. Signor Casanova, you have a guest. I raised myself on my elbow to greet the newcomer (such are the niceties of imprisonment, and I felt myself too ill to stand and bow). On the one hand, I could hardly work towards escape with a cellmate; on the other, I had no immediate prospect of success in any case, and with another man in the cell Lorenzo could not leave me stifled and starved. The man was lighter in colour than an Italian, and curiously attired, but his language and accent were flawlessly Venetian, though his tongue was heavy with wine and his choice of expression unusual. Hells. Even for this century, this place is ripe. Dont you lads know how to crack a window? Lorenzo, displeased, ordered one of his followers to open a window and empty my bucket. Theyll give me orders and an allowance for you tomorrow, signore. Until then, youll have to share with this man here.

I greeted the stranger, and apologised for the state of my quarters, excusing myself with my weak health and adding with irony, Come vedete, mi mancano per hora li mezzi per noleggiar un servitio pi squisito.* I surmised that he had heard my name before, as he looked at me more sharply upon hearing it. His reply was in the same language, spoken in the tones of a man of learning and charm, though too familiar and sarcastic to be called courteous. Eh! e cotesto credevo un albergo di cinque stelle, pegli huomini di vera moda. Bisogna trovarti letto da laltro lato de la Piazza, signorino. His eccentricity pleased me. Lorenzo, who understood as little Tuscan as is possible for a Venetian of poor intelligence and poorer curiosity, only knew that he was mocked. He called all the gods to witness the lie that I had fed him to keep my tunnel undiscovered: that my health forbad him from sweeping the floor, that a hint of dust in my lungs would be the death of me. And besides, those who want good lodgings ought to know better than to make an unholy spectacle of themselves in their drink, signor. Pious as one who never took the name of the Lord and his Mother in vain, he told me: Shouting obscenities in the Piazza, they say at the Evangelist, no less. Although I never encouraged his gossip, which was not altogether appropriate for his office, I could not help but echo, Saint Mark? Mark? The stranger sprawled into my armchair. He was unsteady on his feet, but he held his head like one who has commanded armies, and looked on Lorenzo with the scorn he deserved. Mark was a sanctimonious dick with no imagination. I gave him all the good stuff. I concluded that he had drunk more than I had calculated, or that he was unaccustomed to wines effects, although both were unlikely for a Venetian. Drunkenness is a vice found, in my country, only among the lowest of people. To turn the conversation, I suggested that, in matters of the divine, too much imagination could be more injurious than too little as indeed we have daily proof, in the superstitions of the foolish and the wild delusions of many writers. Lorenzo, finding the hour late and the subject tiresome, withdrew.
* As you [formal] see, sir, I have not the means just now to hire better help. And here I thought these were five-star lodgings, for men of high fashion. You [familiar] should take a bed on the other side of the Piazza, kid. Strictly speaking, the Italian dialects arent dialects they are all independent languages, descended by their own paths from Latin (with a few other influences here and there). What we call Italian now is actually the Tuscan dialect, or was in the fourteenth century. It came to dominate the others from a literary (and thus an international) standpoint as a result of influence of Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio, who argued that it deserved to be a respected written language like Latin and Provenal French (which had a strong poetic tradition at the time). Casanova, like most Italians until the mid twentieth century, spoke Venetian at home and Tuscan/Italian (or, of course, French) to non-Venetians. When he is writing about his times in Venice or elsewhere in Italy he usually calls Italian Tuscan; when he is abroad, he usually calls it Italian. At this point, of course, there is no such country as Italy, so the name is one of convenience rather than national solidarity. Gabriel and Casanova are assumed to be speaking Venetian throughout wherever I have represented their dialogue in English. Like Casanova (who wrote his memoirs in French), I have only left the dialogue in the original language for literary quotes, proper names/titles, or where a character is deliberately using choice of language to make a social point in this case, excluding the monolingual gaoler from the conversation, or mocking the high-flown language of contemporary published dedications. The Italian is spelt as per average spelling for the second half of the eighteenth century; the one instance of Venetian is spelt as per modern Venetian (so far as I can deduce it from reading a few articles written in that language!) with a little influence from eighteenth-century Italian.

When he had gone, my new cellmate tipped back his head to regard the ceiling, as if he were tired. Giacomo Casanova. Nicely played, Dad. I enquired of him his own name; to which he replied that he had none, though he had once had many, among them brother and son. It was said with a bitterness that let me know my man, or so I thought: disowned by his family, perhaps turned over to the Inquisitors by his own father for the same theological misgivings that had him abusing the saints in his cups and distress. His brusqueness, then, was due to his circumstances rather than an intent to insult. To feel nothing, one would have to be as cold and impassive as a German. I am sorry, signore. I know how the betrayal of close friends can alter a man. You know what else alters a man? Being killed by someone who called you brother, and thrown over by another. But hey cant blame the kid. Hes probably too busy charging about saving the world and cuddling his Self-Righteous Man to spare precious time and grace patching up a half-assed latecomer like me. Not good enough for his special resurrected-by-the-grace-of-Dad club, even if I was the one who did it for him. No, I have to be grateful to my other family, who screwed me over and oh, by the way, stabbed me in the heart too, only brought me back to clear a debt, left me a puny little shell like this and couldnt even give me my wings back. Time travel? Really, Kali? I reach out for Wisconsin and end up in eighteenth-century Venice? With Casanova? Whose idea of a joke is that? Some know-thyself turn-about crap? Screw them. Screw the squabbling, bloody apes and the frigid flying monkeys in suits. Throughout this curious discourse his voice was rising, and his words addressed toward the ceiling. I would have dismissed it as the exaggerations of a man drunk and grieving, had it not been for the unexpectedly familiar expression that came over his face as he remembered my presence. It is the expression only another charlatan would know: that of a man who has let slip his carnival mask and revealed too much of what lies behind it. It was the expression of a man about to excuse his ranting with drink. Huh. Im actually drunk, arent I? Thats what this is? There is water on the table. I am afraid Ive no food to offer, as they have not fed me since morning. How very human. He smiled, though he did not seem amused, nor did he reach for the water. Few men show themselves to best advantage their first night under the Leads. Most are confounded by the charges brought against them, or indignant at the audacity of the Law. I had become accustomed to forgiving rough manners and distraction in my new companions, and guessing at their character despite them. This man puzzled me a little, but the set of his eyes and mouth and the habits of his speech were those of one wise enough to laugh at the world and himself. He had moreover a certain charm to his features and character that provoked interest and the desire for better acquaintance a charm that I possess myself, and which is an invaluable asset in the life of an adventurer. I reckoned that he would make at worst a tolerable companion if he were to be condemned to remain, and

certainly an interesting one. Moved to fellow feeling by his poorly concealed distress, I hazarded an offer of distraction on the guess that we shared a taste in wit. Then we must find you a new name, of sufficient quality and quantity for these dainty lodgings. Shall I call you Signor la Moda?* He looked at me, frowning as if he had not expected me to speak again, then down at his clothes. I dont think your Republic is ready for jeans and tennis shoes, kid. Signore Sussiegato Sprezzatutti, then? It was impertinent, but less so than his own speech. He almost smirked. If the boot fits. He fell silent for a minute, then unexpectedly offered, Governor of the Accademia degl Indifferenti Affettati. Of Castel Bizzarro. President of the Assemblea Generale degl Ovj. Director of the Accademia de Gusti. Academies weve covered. Capitanissimo of the Armata Navale de Capriccij. So we have. Secretary of the Chamber of the Signor Marchese Buon Gusto. Superintendent General of the Assemblea de le Priore Redicole. Publico Esibitore d Ogli, Balsami, e Cavedenti. Second drummer boy of the Alley Behind the Orfanotrofio degl Angioli Scorsi. The words were a little too serious, and gave me pause. Angel? He looked at me with the dazzling, jagged grin of a man who has just thrown his poor hand down on the table, and defies his opponent to produce a better, or to draw his sword. Expected someone prettier? Taller. Kid, in my own form I was larger than your citys lagoon. Also cleaner. I am convinced that most men die without ever having thought, in the proper sense of the word, not so much for want of wit or of good sense, but rather because the shock necessary to the reasoning faculty in its inception has never occurred to them to lift them out of their daily habits. These people will either believe anything they hear, if they hear it sufficient times; or call themselves rational men and protest that they believe nothing, even when offered logical proof; which amounts to the same as the first.
* Fashion. The epithets that follow are a parody of the overblown, flattering list of titles commonly given to patrons (or hoped-for patrons) in the dedications in published pamplets, plays, tracts, etc. In order: Seatedabove Disdainseveryone; Academy of the Impartially Pretentious; Castle Bizarre; General Assembly of Sheep; Academy of Pleasures/Tastes; Naval Armada of Caprice; Sir Marquis Good Taste; Assembly of Ridiculous Prioresses; Public Exhibitor of Oils, Balms, and Tooth-pullers/Dentists; Orphanage of Lost/Forgotten Angels.

I am not such a man. There are in Scripture several relations of apparitions of angels and departed souls: the truth of which is indisputable, being founded upon the divine authority of the Sacred Writings; but the manner in which God wrought these resurrections, or permitted these apparitions, is hid among the secrets of His Providence. I have heard no tales of their appearance in this age that bear the ring of truth or stand the scrutiny of reason, but that is no proof that such an appearance would be impossible. This man was an unlikely angel; but only the greatest of charlatans, in playing a role, would defy expectations rather than flattering them. Either he was out of his right mind (but I saw no signs of madness in his face); or he was as great a master of trickery as I (but I could figure no advantage to him from this lie, and it is a clever man indeed who can lie to me); or he told the truth (and the only objection to which was that it was unlikely). The best response, for all three cases, was at least to feign belief; and so I gave it him on loan. I stood, and poured him a mug of water. I had thought that you must be more foreign than you seem; your Tuscan and Venetian accents are both too good for you to be a native of either. Thats it? Not a twitch? He took the mug. His tone was dry, but his eyes were bright and a little mad, and they did not leave my face when I moved. Even setting logic aside, I am an obstinate man, and if he wished to provoke me in his grief then I would not be provoked. I confess I have never read that angels could be the worse for drink. Perk of this whole mortality thing. Not nearly as much fun as its billed. Everythings wobbly and I need to piss. Again. Hey, I wonder if I even have a liver. Its attraction, I think, is not only that it is itself an indulgence, but that it increases the delight of every other indulgence. Good company, a well-cooked meal, the breast of a beautiful woman. It makes a man a victim of his senses. He was occupied with scowling at his hands, and did not seem inclined to respond. At the thought of the comforts that I missed, I let the morbidity of his mood catch mine. The followers of Mohammed, you know, forbid wine. They have instead hydromel, which they drink with water, and which is very good. Yet some will offend against their own law, and will drink wine, I think, simply because wine is forbidden. Then some excuse it as medicine. I drank with a Turk once who told me that the Grand Turks physician has brought it into vogue as a medicine, and it has been the cause of his fortune. He has captivated the favour of his master who is in reality constantly ill, because he is always in a state of intoxication. I thought of the dry dust of the Holy Land, the sharp colours of Corfu and Cephallonia, the wide streets and quick tongues of Paris, and found myself suddenly close to weeping. In letting my mind wander, I had forgotten the weakness of my body and the impossibility of the stones around me. I am not a man to stay in one place. I realised suddenly how very close I had been to freedom, to the joy of adventuring, and how distant it was now: that here, after a week of disbelief and rage, I was farther from escape than I had ever been, and here I sat as so often before, welcoming yet another stranger who was likely to be my only companion for months, or years.

If ever I see the sky again, I said, and I was not ashamed to hear my voice tremble, I shall go first to Paris, where a man must say Pardon instead of Non or prepare himself for a duel, and drink of the wines of Burgundy and Gascony. He regarded me with a peculiar expression, then drained the mug and returned it to the table. Hey. Shouldnt you have escaped by now? His words followed so narrowly on my own thoughts that I could only look at him in confusion, before he continued, There was that whole tunnel thing. You had an iron bar and a tunnel. My first thought at this explanation was that Lorenzo had published the story of the tunnel that he had found; but of course, he knew nothing of the bar. My second, and more desperate, was that the Count Fenarolo, in whom alone of my cellmates I had confided, had not kept that confidence after his return to liberty, and that my attempts were now the gossip of the Republic. Seeing my confusion, and perhaps my anger, he protested, Hey, I read! which explained nothing at all. I allowed carefully that I had indeed burrowed through the floor of my cell by means of an iron bar, but that I had been moved days before my intended escape, and that I was now too weak and too closely watched to make another attempt. He drummed his fingers on the arm of my sofa, then said, Screw this. Whats the Republic of Venice to me or I to the Republic of Venice that I should weep for her? Paris it is. He rose and stood with his feet planted on the stone, steady and sturdy as if he had grown from it, defying the wine. Ceiling, wall, or floor? For what? For escape, of course. I was not sure yet that he was a man whose discretion I would trust with with my liberty, but as we had gone so far I saw no imprudence in replying, They sound the walls and floor every day. The roof would let us out onto the Leads. He looked at the great flags that formed the ceiling of my cell, and snapped his fingers. There was a wet squelch; one of their number disappeared; and a large red octopus fell at my feet. My companion grinned at me, bright and mad as before, but now with the look of a conspirator. Call me the Angel of Temporary Alchemy. Now, as I recounted in my memoirs, I had in the early days of my confinement read a book, approved and gifted me by the Inquisition, called The Mystical City of Sister Mary of Jesus, of Agrada. It told the wild conceptions of a Spanish nun regarding the life of our Saviours holy mother, received (as she seemed in good faith and full belief to think) in divine revelation. Among other grotesque and monstrous fantasies, she held that her heroine, at the age of three, had swept and cleansed the house with the assistance of nine hundred servants, all of whom were angels whom God had placed at her disposal, under

the command of the archangel San Michele, who came and went between God and herself to conduct their mutual correspondence. What must strike the judicious reader of this book is the evident belief of the more than fanatical writer that nothing is due to her invention; everything is told in good faith and with full belief. The work contains the dreams of a visionary, who, without vanity but inebriated with the idea of God, thinks to reveal only the inspirations of the Divine Spirit. The book was published with the permission of the very holy and very horrible Inquisition. I could not recover from my astonishment when I discovered this! Far from its stirring up in my breast a holy and simple zeal of religion, it inclined me to treat all the mystical dogmas of the Faith as fabulous. With all the trappings of the divine, it contained nothing of the substance; and in calling itself truth, it rather inclined the heart to see and regard only the trappings in every mystery, and never look to the power beyond. The fish writhed on the floor for perhaps five seconds, then it was a ceiling flag once more; but I know more than many men about professional quackery, and I know when to trust my senses. There was no solemn and superstitious cloak of religion here, nor the obfuscating hocus-pocus of the charlatans trade: only a simple act of power and the offer of freedom. If I had been inclined to disbelief, there lay before me the proof of a gaping hole in the ceiling, and a flag on the floor at my feet. I stared between them, then at my companion. You are an angel, or a powerful spirit. He glared at his fingers, but he seemed pleased. Was. Cant even hold that for more than a couple of seconds. I took the iron bar from its hiding place in the sofa, feeling my strength return to me in my excitement. It is enough. Help me to climb up.

---

Within an hour I had broken up the beams overhead, which luckily were half rotten, and the space was twice the size required. I got the plate of lead off in one piece. I could not do it by myself, because it was riveted. The angel came to my aid: though he complained of the weakness of his arms, he was stronger than most men, and in my weakened state I was glad for his help. By dint of driving the bar between the gutter and the lead I succeeded in loosening it, and then, heaving at it with our shoulders, we beat it up till the opening was wide enough. On putting my head out through the hole I was distressed to see the brilliant light of the crescent moon then entering in its first quarter. This was a piece of bad luck which must be borne patiently, and we should have to wait till midnight, when the moon would have gone to light up the Antipodes. On such a fine night as this everybody would be walking in the Piazza San Marco, and I dared not

shew myself on the roof as the moonlight would have thrown a huge shadow of me on the square, and have drawn towards me all eyes, especially those of Messer-Grande and his myrmidons, and our fine scheme would have been brought to nothing by their detestable activity. I immediately decided that we could not escape till after the moon set. I was at the mercy of Fortune, and I had to take care not to give her any advantages; and if my scheme ended in failure I should be consoled by the thought that I had not made a single mistake. The moon would set at eleven and sunrise was at six, so we had seven hours of perfect darkness at our service; and though we had a hard task, I considered that in seven hours it would be accomplished. In the mean time I prayed for the help of God, but did not ask Him to work any more miracles for me. He had sent me a great gift already, if in a rather peculiar shape, and the man who does not take action with what he is given is a fool and a sluggard. I returned to my cell, and for two hours employed myself in cutting up sheets, coverlets, and bedding, to make ropes. In great undertakings there are certain critical points which the leader who deserves to succeed trusts to no one but himself. I took care to make the knots myself and to be assured of their strength, for a single weak knot might cost my life at least I could not guess at what would happen if my new companion were to fall, and nor, when I asked, could he. The shared labour of removing the lead had conquered any awe I had felt, and loosened instead my customary curiosity. For those two hours I asked him question after question; and, though he was at first wary, and would never tell me his name or speak of our Father, he told me over that time of angels, of the history of men, of the movements of the stars, of the workings of the human body. Awe was, indeed, easy to forget. He was far more a man than a creature celestial in his manner and speech, and he had himself a curiosity and a wit that resembled my own, although they were slow to awaken. If I had ever contemplated talking with an angel, I would not have thought to find him sitting crosslegged with dust in his hair, interested in the latest mathematical thought on the duplication of the cube, or mocking the hypocrisy of Jesuits with fierce and precise sallies, or smirking at tales of my own trickery and deception. Once, I asked him what had happened to him. He was silent for a minute, and I thought he would not answer, but then he asked, You call yourself a philosopher, right? Well tell me, what is an angel without wings or grace? I considered this, then replied, When we speak of a woman as possessing the voice or face of an angel, the comparison is appropriate rather than literal: we mean that she has a beauty in her tone or her appearance that befits the perfection of the divine. If then one were to suppose there to be anything to an angel beyond the metaphysical and the will of the Most High (of which I have never heard proof before today), it would be as an embodiment of that beauty, in disposition and purity beyond mortal aspiration. No, no, and no.

The bitterness had returned to his voice. I enquired as to his meaning. For the third you can judge for yourself, for the second, He will not tell me what to do, and for the first, I have nothing metaphysical left. Pardon, monsieur, the reader will see that, in my excitement, I was already preparing myself for the customs of Paris but you do. You have shown me proof that your existence surpasses the material plane. Useless scraps. I cant even snap up cash or a meal. Its something. Its window dressing. Possum, not sum.* I suggested that he ought perhaps find a rich patron and study for a physician. Why a physician? Because you have already knowledge to rival that of many practitioners of medicine; because youve charm enough to win yourself many rich patients; and because you have an inclination towards creative dishonesty, and in that profession quackery is even more effective than it is in legal practice. He was startled and would, I think, have laughed, had his mood been lighter; but we spoke more easily after that. At last I had ready a hundred feet of rope, and the moon had set. A fog was coming in, which would make our climb over the roof more perilous, but which would hide us from sight. I made a parcel of my suit, my cloak, a few shirts, stockings, and handkerchiefs. Our time was come. I hung the half of the ropes by the angels neck on one side and my clothes on the other he insisted, while insulting my vigour and wit, that it was his part to carry the weight and hung the other ropes about my own neck. With our hats on and our coats off we went to the opening.

E quindi uscimmo a rimirar le stelle.

---

Our escape, of course, was far from complete. The incline of the roof was steep and covered with the lead plates for which the prison is named, so that it would have been impossible to walk or stand even had they not been so slippery as they were. There was nothing to which one might fasten a rope, and even if we had, a man descending from such
* I can, not I am. And so we emerged to behold the stars once more. The last line of the last canto of the first third of Dantes Commedia (Dante himself never used the adjective Divina in the title): i.e., the line in which Dante and his divine guide Virgil emerge from Hell. The choice of the line to express Casanovas feelings at this moment is Casanovas, not mine: it does appear in his memoirs, but it is, of course, even more appropriate with an actual angel at his side.

a height could hardly have reached the ground by himself. Besides this, no side was safe for such a descent. By the side towards the Piazza, we would surely have been seen; if we descended into the yard of the Palace we would have found ourselves still gated in; to get to the other side of the church towards the Canonica, we should have had to climb roofs so steep that I saw no prospect of success; to the court side, we would have fallen into the hands of the arsenalotti* who are always going their rounds there; on the canal side, we had no boat, and the water was too shallow to break our fall and yet deep enough to oblige us into a wretched and tiring swim towards St. Appollonia. I got out the first, and my companion followed me. He looked with dismay at the slope of the roof, and at his own arms, which he found so weak. A creature accustomed to wings and miracles, I guessed (and so it proved), was likely to be perplexed by the confines of human tools and human limbs in situations that called for ingenuity. I took it upon myself, therefore, to conquer the Leads. Keeping on my hands and knees, and grasping my pike firmly, I pushed it obliquely between the joining of the plates of lead, and then holding the side of the plate which I had lifted I attempted to draw myself up to the summit of the roof. My body, however, was too feeble; and so I showed the angel how to do it, and he drew me up after him to sit astride the peak. Our backs were towards the little island of San Giorgio Maggiore, and about two hundred paces in front of us were the numerous cupolas of the Basilica di San Marco, which forms part of the ducal palace; for the cathedral is really the Doges private chapel, and no monarch in the world can boast of having a finer. To our left was the courtyard of the Palazzo, and beyond that the Piazza, while to our right stretched the rooftops and canals of the most serene of cities, endless in the fog, that city who during thirteen centuries of existence had had many friends and allies but never one protector. I felt my bosom swell, so deeply is the love of fatherland graven on the heart of every good man, and ventured to express something of my feelings to my companion. His voice became amused and indulgent. You do remember they locked you up without trial? Most men kinda resent that. To deprive me of liberty in such a manner was certainly despotic, but that liberty I knowingly abused; and Venice is greater than one man. To that, he made no reply. We set out, my pike in my hand, sitting astride the roof for so long as we might, and climbing over the cupolas and parapets and cornices where we must. For nearly an hour we went to this side and that. Four or five times my companion over-reached himself and came close to falling, and twice he made the simple mistake of closing his hand on an edge of stone or metal too sharp to take his weight without tearing his flesh, so that he was soon tattered and grim. It was clear that, although he knew so much of great and marvellous things, he knew his own body and its capacities no better than does a child of six. You may be sure that as we went we kept a sharp look-out, but in vain; for we could see nothing to which the rope could be fastened, and I was in the greatest perplexity as to what was to be done. Nor could my companion think of how to make use of his powers to help: for he did not know what he could and could not do, and he could not change any object into another
* Shipwrights.

long enough to fasten a rope that would take our weight and not dash us to the cobbles below. The situation called for hardihood, but not the smallest piece of rashness. It was necessary, however, either to escape, or to re-enter the prison, perhaps never again to leave it, or to throw ourselves into the canal. In such a dilemma it was necessary to leave a good deal to chance, and to make a start of some kind. Impelled by these thoughts, I became, perhaps, less careful than I might have been, and almost brought about both our ruin. I was thoroughly perplexed, and was beginning to lose courage when, to surmount a cupola barring our way, I was obliged to raise myself on my knees. The effort I had to use made me slip; I heard my companions startled yell; in an instant I was over the parapet as far as my waist, sustained only by my elbows and his hand tight around my ankle. I shudder still when I think of this awful moment, which cannot be conceived in all its horror. The black canal lay far below me, at the bottom of a narrow ravine that promised shattered limbs at the least should I so much as tremble. The angel lay above me at an awkward angle between the gutter and the corner of a precipice, and could do no more than hold me steady without slipping and taking us both over the edge. My natural instinct made me almost unconsciously strain every nerve to regain the parapet, and I had nearly said miraculously I succeeded. Taking care not to let myself slip back an inch I struggled upwards with my hands and arms, while my belly was resting on the edge of the parapet. The parapet thus supporting my weight, my companion was able to scramble after me, set his heel against the angle of the cupola and take a grip on my belt, giving my limbs some relief. As soon as he could draw breath, he hissed in my ear, Youre not a cat or a Winchester, kid try not to turn yourself into a bloody smear. I had no liberty to reply. Finding myself resting on my groin on the parapet, I saw that I had only to lift up my right leg and to put up first one knee and then the other to be absolutely out of danger; but I had not yet got to the end of my trouble. My left hand had been torn against the stone, my knee was throbbing in such a way that I knew I would not walk comfortably for days, and both my calves were deeply wounded by the parapet. Moreover, the effort I had made gave me so severe a spasm that I became cramped and unable to use my limbs. However, I did not lose my head, but kept quiet till the pain had gone off, knowing by experience that keeping still is the best cure for the false cramp. It was a dreadful moment; but the grip on my belt never wavered, and I felt that I was in no further danger of falling. My companion obligingly passed that time in offering dire and elaborate warnings, with frequent scatological references, about the fates of Bellerophon, Icarus, and someone by the name of Gaston.* In two minutes I made another effort, and together we had the good fortune to get my two knees on to the parapet, where I leaned back against the roof by my companions side and took breath.
* In classical mythology, Bellerophon was the one who rode Pegasus too high, over-reaching his mortal capabilities, and fell to his death (Icarus is, of course, a variant on the same story, but with a different emotional and moral emphasis). In Casanovas time there was some confusion between the figures of Bellerophon and Perseus, and the riding of Pegasus was often attributed to the latter. As Perseus was famous for other things, however, the name of Bellerophon was more likely than that of Perseus to evoke memories of that flight and downfall, and Casanova would be familiar enough with both versions to follow the reference, especially in the context of Icarus and fatal falls. Gabriel, who remembers classical antiquity and who has been living most recently in the information-rich, source-critical twentyfirst century, would think of Bellerophon sooner than remember that Perseus was a little more commonly cast in that in that role in the century hes visiting. Of course, if being understood was really his priority here, he wouldnt reference a Disney movie in the same breath.

At this moment, an incident of the simplest and most natural kind came to my aid and fortified my resolution. Philosophic reader, if you will place yourself for a moment in my position, if you will share the sufferings which for fifteen months had been my lot, if you think of our danger on the top of a roof and the hopelessness of our plight, if you consider the few hours at our disposal to overcome difficulties which might spring up at any moment, the candid confession I am about to make will not lower me in your esteem; at any rate, if you do not forget that a man in an anxious and dangerous position is in reality only half himself. My companion, who was breathing almost as hard as I, let out an exclamation of triumph and amusement, and, after nudging his elbow into my side, raised his hand and pointed at the bulk of the church tower that loomed beyond us in the fog. Fra il fin dottobre, he said softly, e il capo di novembre. And as he did so, the clock of San Marco struck midnight. The clock reminded me that the day just beginning was All Saints Day. But I confess that what chiefly strengthened me, both bodily and mentally, was the profane oracle of my beloved Ariosto. It seemed natural, in that moment, that my angelic comrade should know of that verse and its significance. The brilliance of his grin matched my own and if we were, perhaps, both a little mad in that moment, it was the madness that wins battles in the face of hopelessness, and builds stairways to the very stars. The chime seemed to me a speaking talisman, commanding me to be up and doing, promising us the victory. It was in that propitious moment that my eye caught a window on the canal side, and two-thirds of the distance from the gutter to the summit of the roof. It was a good distance from the spot we had set out from, so we concluded that the garret lighted by it did not form part of the prison we had just broken. It could only light a loft, inhabited or uninhabited, above some rooms in the palace, the doors of which would probably be opened by daybreak. I was morally sure that if the palace servants saw us they would help us to escape, and not deliver us over to the Inquisitors, even if they recognized us as criminals of the deepest dye; so heartily was the State Inquisition hated by everyone. Letting himself slide softly down in a straight line, the angel laid himself astride on top of the dormer-roof. Then grasping the sides he stretched his head over, and reported to me that the window was covered with a small grate (which he quickly removed and dropped into the canal) and that the fall within the window to the floor below was a full fifty feet or more. This was too dangerous a jump to be risked; and so we had again to consider an object to which we might fasten our ropes. Not knowing what to do next, and waiting for some fortunate idea, I made my way back to the ridge of the roof, and from there spied out a corner near a cupola, which I had not visited. I went towards it and found a flat roof, with a large window closed with two shutters. At hand were a tubful of plaster, a trowel, and ladder of perhaps twelve feet in length, which I thought long enough for my purpose. This was enough, and tying my rope to the first round I dragged this troublesome burden after me to the window. I proposed that we should brace the ladder securely across the window, so that we might fasten the rope to it and let ourselves down into the loft without risk. My friend, however, would not trust my weakened and damaged limbs to the task of clambering down

into the window nor of descending a rope; and so I fastened the rope about my waist and under my elbows and allowed him to lower me by degrees into the loft. It was only when my feet touched the floor and I had untied the rope that I realised the ladder would have been left outside to shew Lawrence and the guards where to look for us, and possibly to find us in the morning. When he stepped down after me, I welcomed him and explained my oversight. He made light of it, and turned the ladder with another snap of his fingers into a long silk scarf. It folded under the weight of the ropes and fell through the window, clattering wooden as it landed at our feet in its old shape. This transmutation had lasted barely the space of two heartbeats, and I guessed that my friend was weakening. We proceeded to inspect the gloomy retreat in which we found ourselves, and judged it to be about thirty paces long by twenty wide. At one end were folding doors barred with iron. This looked bad, but putting my hand to the latch in the middle it yielded to the pressure, and the door opened. The first thing we did was to make the tour of the room, and crossing it we stumbled against a large table surrounded by stools and armchairs. Returning to the part where we had seen windows, we opened the shutters of one of them, and the light of the stars only shewed us the cupolas and the depths beneath them. I did not think for a moment of lowering myself down, as I wished to know where I was going, and I did not recognize our surroundings. I shut the window up, and we returned to the place where we had left our packages. Quite exhausted, I yielded to the demands of exhausted nature, and, placing a bundle of rope under my head, let myself fall on the floor and into a sweet sleep. I abandoned myself to it without resistance, and indeed, I believe if death were to have been the result, I should have slept all the same, and I still remember how I enjoyed that sleep. It lasted for three and a half hours, and I was awakened by the angels calling out and shaking me. He told me that it had just struck four. In my exhaustion there was nothing to wonder at, since I had neither eaten nor slept for two days, and the efforts I had made efforts almost beyond the limits of mortal endurance might well have exhausted any man. My miraculous friend had found, to my delight, a loaf of bread and a little Parmesan cheese, which I devoured without question. In my sleep my activity had come back to me, and I was delighted to see the fog disappearing, so that we should be able to proceed with more certainty and speed. We addressed ourselves to the end opposite to the folding-doors, and followed doorways and corridors down and about for perhaps ten minutes, emerging at last into a hall well known to me: we were in the ducal chancery. I opened a window and could have got down easily, but the result would have been that we should have been trapped in the maze of little courts around the church of San Marco. On opening a desk I saw the copy of a letter advising the Proveditore of Corfu of a grant of three thousand zecchini for the restoration of the old fortress. The money lay nearby, and I took possession of it gladly, as a gift from Heaven, regarding myself as its master by conquest. The angel, meanwhile, had tied his hair back, although it was a little too short for fashion, and had found in one corner a large cloak in which he wrapped himself to hide his strange clothing. He seemed pleased with the effect, although he made a ludicrous figure enough, and I laughed at him for it. Leaving that room, we descended two flights of stairs and opened without difficulty the door leading into the passage whence opens the chief door to the grand staircase. The door

was locked, and I saw at once that, failing a catapult or a mine of gunpowder, I could not possibly get through. Here, I turned to my companion. My work is done, I said, Abbia Chi regge il ciel cura del resto, o la Fortuna se non tocca a Lui:* the rest must be left to God and fortune. He gave me a sour look and stepped forward to the door. Dont hold your breath on that one. Unless asphyxiation is a kink of yours. As he ran his hands over the wood and the metal, I set about the task of changing my clothes; for, while my companion was by this time rather shabby, I was so blood-stained and tattered that my figure could only inspire pity or terror. I took off my stockings, and the blood gushed out of two wounds I had given myself on the parapet. It occurred to me to envy my friend his soft shoes and sturdy trousers, for the splinters of the beams and the rough stones of the parapets and walls had torn my waistcoat, shirt, breeches, legs, and thighs. I made bandages of handkerchiefs, and dressed my wounds as best I could, and then put on my fine suit, which on a winters day would look odd enough. Having tied up my hair, I put on white stockings, a laced shirt, failing any other, and two others over it, and then stowing away some stockings and handkerchiefs in my pockets, I threw everything else into a corner of the room. With my fine clothes, topped by my exquisite hat trimmed with Spanish lace and adorned with a white feather, I must have looked like a man who has been to a dance and has spent the rest of the night in a disorderly house, though the only foil to my reasonable elegance of attire was the bandages round my knees. The light began to creep in through the window, touching my friends solemn face with pale gold as he turned his attention to the hinges and the locks. Soon, he stood back and shook his head. I could see by his face, as he tilted it up to stare at the ceiling, that his black mood had returned. Its too solid, and Im tired. He stood there for a moment, unmoving; then he looked at me with empty eyes, and reached out empty hands, like one who cannot help himself, though he has reached out many times and has learned long and bitterly to expect his hands to be spurned, or burnt. Im sorry, kiddo. I pressed his hands in mine. Well, brother: if the fortalice be too solid to besiege, one attacks its weaker supply lines; or, to put it another way, if a mans head be too hard to convince by direct argument, one must take the roundabout way and change little things in the world around him until he thinks the idea was his to begin with. His eyes opened very wide and bright; then they narrowed in resolution. You know what? Im going to pretend that wasnt a metaphor. Youre a gambling man lets hazard a throw. He went to the nearest window, looked covertly out, then turned to me. Take off your hat, stand in the window, and wave to the first man you see. I followed his orders, and was immediately remarked by the doorkeeper, who was lounging in the palace court. He went for his keys and came towards us. I was sorry to have let myself be seen at the window. Much perplexed, I turned to my companion, who was looking smug.
* Lit. May He who rules Heaven take care of the rest, or Fortune, if it is not His part. Also from Ariostos Orlando Furioso, canto 22.

He thinks he saw a lady, finely dressed but of clearly negotiable virtue, beckoning him from the window. He supposes that he must have locked someone in last night, and doubtless expects at least a kiss for his pains. You made me appear as a woman? No: I made him think you did. Surely to change the human mind by force is a miracle far greater than a brief alchemical transmutation or a change of shape? Really changing it? Sure. But your eyes play tricks on you every day. I just helped. He listened intently, then pulled me back against the wall behind the door. As the doorkeepers key sounded in the latch, his mouth curved into mischief against my ear. First thing we need to do as soon as we get over the lagoon is find some scissors and cut your damn hair. The door opened; and the poor man as soon as he saw us seemed turned to a stone. Without an instants delay and in dead silence, we made haste to descend the stairs. Avoiding the appearance of fugitives, but walking fast, we went by the Giants Stairs. The church door was only about twenty paces from the stairs, but the churches were no longer sanctuaries in Venice; and no one ever took refuge in them. The safety I sought was beyond the borders of the Republic, and thitherward I began to bend my steps. Already there in spirit, I must needs be there in body also. We went straight towards the chief door of the palace, and looking at no one that might be tempted to look at us we got to the canal and entered the first gondola that we came across. There I shouted to the boatman on the poop, I want to go to Fusina; be quick, and call another gondolier. This was soon done, and while the gondola was being got off I sat down on the seat in the middle, and my companion at the side. His odd appearance, without a hat and with a fine cloak on his shoulders, with my unseasonable attire, was enough to make people take us for an astrologer and his man. As soon as we had passed the customhouse, the gondoliers began to row with a will along the Giudecca Canal, by which we must pass to go to Fusina or to Mestre, which latter place was really our destination. When we had traversed half the length of the canal I put my head out, and said to the waterman on the poop, When do you think we shall get to Mestre? But you told me to go to Fusina. You must be mad; I said Mestre. The other boatman said that I was mistaken, but the angel, protesting with solemn irony that he was a zealous churchman and friend of truth, took care to tell him that he was wrong. To that they answered nothing, but a minute after the master boatman said he was ready to take me to England if I liked.

Bravely spoken, said I, and now for Mestre, ho! We shall be there in three quarters of an hour, as the wind and tide are in our favour. Well pleased I looked at the canal behind us, and thought it had never seemed so fair, especially as there was not a single boat coming our way. It was a glorious morning, the air was clear and glowing with the first rays of the sun, and my two young watermen rowed easily and well; and as I thought over the night of sorrow, the dangers we had escaped, the abode where I had been fast bound the day before, all the chances which had been in my favour, the friend at my side, and the liberty of which I now began to taste the sweets, I was so moved in my heart and grateful to my God that, well nigh choked with emotion, I burst into tears.

---

In due course we reached Mestre. There were no horses to ride post, but I found men with coaches who did as well, and I agreed with one of them to take me to Trevisa quickly. The horses were put in in three minutes, and with the idea that my companion was behind me I turned round to say Get up, but he was not there. I told an ostler to go and look for him, with the intention of reprimanding him sharply, even if he had gone for a necessary occasion, for we had no time to waste, not even thus. In another moment, however, he was at my elbow; and when I saw him I could well believe him to be an angel, for he was holding two cheap clay cups which had been filled with steaming chocolate, well frothed, just as I like it, whence wafted an odour that seemed to me more delicious than any womans perfumes. After giving the signal to pull out, I thanked him from the heart. I could not help some misgivings, having witnessed his unique talents, until he assured me with triumphant eyes that it would neither vanish nor turn to lead in my stomach; that I owed this miracle only to the caf over the street, a little distraction, and a little sleight of hand. I drank ardently; and as I drank, he stared at me, forgetful of his own cup, as if my pleasure were a divine revelation. As it had been almost sixteen months since chocolate had passed my lips, I was inclined to agree, almost persuaded that I held ambrosia in my hands. In that moment, I was struck by the possibilities of freedom, and of companionship. I confess that I saw how useful a friend such as this might be; but more than that, I saw the joy he had taken even in so small a trickery; and I saw also the wondering delight as he took his own first sip of the rich chocolate, as of one who does not know or has forgotten the pleasures of the flesh, but who is at heart the truest of hedonists (I have taught too many virgins the wonders of their own bodies to mistake such a look). I judged that we would make a fine pair of adventurers; and I judged that, what was more, he needed occupation, and a friendship that would not forsake him.

Come with me to Paris. My offer startled him, and he was silent for a minute as he drank and watched the houses pass us by. His eyes were fixed on the distance when at last he replied, You dont want me with you, kid. Im not good companion material. Your blood is as hot as mine; your wit as keen; Paris would be to your tastes, I think; and you have nowhere else you must be. But I do. Even if they dont even if Im kind of useless. In the chill morning air, his grazed hands curled around the warm clay as if to protect it from the world. Venesia, a Finta Serensima, a Rexna Altir de lAdritigo,* city of Giacomo Casanova and Carlo Goldoni and far too much paperwork and really really unsound structural foundations half a millennium and she might sink into the sea, but hey if its a choice between that and my brothers kicking her over in a screaming tantrum, guess its time to stop whining that the Force has flown the coop and just buckle on the old light sabre instead. The pale sky seemed too calm above me for the past nights revelations of what lay behind it. Angels are fighting? Theyre always fighting. His eyes struck me, and I still remember them in my dreams: older than anything I had known, only for a moment, before he wrinkled up his face like a child. Nothing youll see down here for another two hundred years and more. Then sequamur deum. I offered the old Stoic precept lightly, meaning it almost entirely as I had always meant it: let us give ourselves over to whatever fate offers and chase it willingly, and with delight. By deum, in that moment, I meant the classical Fortunam, rather than Dominum nostrum; and perhaps I let myself think that I was speaking to a brother, and not to a creature who knew Deum verum, and what it meant to follow Him, in a way beyond human comprehension. It was foolish, perhaps, and it was far beyond impudent; but when he stared at me, incredulous and brittle, I smiled, and I did not look away. Giacomo Casanova. The last of the stars were fading in the west, and the horses smelled sweet. You take a joy in this. In trickery, in adventure, in life. You are something exceptional. I tossed my empty mug over my shoulder, heard it shatter on the cobbles behind us, and laughed. Then stay a little.

---

* Venice, the [Feigned] Most Serene, the [Proud/Arrogant] Queen of the Adriatic. Without the adjectives in square brackets, these are (and were) common epithets for Venice. Literally "let us follow god", in the context explained in the text. [The] true God.

He stayed with me for two weeks, long enough to pass the borders of the Republic, and never told me his name. Every day he protested that on the next I would tire of him, as soon as the flash and sparkles were gone. He spoke to me in languages I had only seen written, so that we chattered in ancient Greek, in Hebrew, and in the strange Germanic English they speak in the far north of that island, where the men wear skirts. I taught him the patter of conjury and astrology. That took barely an hour: words and persuasions came easily to him. On the fifth day, he laughed. On the eighth, he switched my fine feathered hat for a parrot, which flew away to perch above the nearest horse trough, and fell into it when it changed back. By the twelfth, he could hold an illusion for almost ten minutes long enough for us to buy a jug of a crooked merchants best wine when he thought he had sold us the worst, or for us to stroll past a guard in the guise of an old married couple. The next day, he could make a coin disappear from one end of a table and reappear at the other. On the final day, we passed Borgo Valsugano, and he turned on his heel in the middle of a dusty road, clapped his hands and smiled like the sun. Time for me to go, kiddo. I dont think Paris is ready for the both of us. He made me promise a self-fulfilling prediction that when, in my old age, I should come to write my memoirs, I should leave him out of it. So I have done, spinning in his place as intricate a tale as any I have used to ensnare a fool: a plate of heaped macaroni, a folio bible, a pompous and ungrateful monk, and an ingratiating spy. But in duping this fictional spy, I wrote something of the truth into a story within a story: in that story, I terrified him into obedience with the tale of an angel in the body of a man, tunnelling through the roof of our cell to set us free.

Elect.
[v] to make deliberate choice of (a course of action, an opinion, etc.) in preference to an alternative; to choose (a person) for an office or position of any kind. [adj] Picked out, chosen, also, chosen for excellence or by preference; Theol. Chosen by God, especially for salvation. Opposed to reprobate.

Present day.

Sam. Its good to see you. Sam raised his head. It was close to an hour since hed fallen asleep, so far as he could tell. Hed almost stopped waiting. The devil looked tired. His eyes were drawn and sad, older than imagination and showing the weight of years in a way no angel should. When he inclined his head the movement looked a little slower and less graceful than usual. Lucifer. Sam stood up, feeling unexpectedly clumsy and awkward. Hed had a speech planned, something angry and clever, but it suddenly seemed rather childish before the archangels quiet courtesy. This time Lucifer was a guest, not an intruder. What he found himself saying instead was, Dyou want to sit down? Lucifers eyebrows arched in something that looked like mild puzzlement. Smooth, Sam, smooth. Sam flapped a hand at him. Its just youre looking kind of beat there. Lucifer raised his left hand and trailed the tips of his fingers delicately over his forehead, his eyes, the shaggy stubble on his cheeks, with distant curiosity, as if hed forgotten his face was there. Sitting wont refresh me, Sam. Nicks skin was unblemished here. Sam wasnt sure exactly how the projection of angels that you could see in dreams related to their real selves, or to their vessels, but either Lucifer hadnt really noticed how Nick was breaking down, or he had just enough vanity to gloss it over. Which was interesting. Sam sank back down onto the green park bench, which was, for some reason, sitting at the side of a long winding dirt road on a steep wooded mountainside. Its just something we do. Humans. If someone looks tired you offer them rest, to show that you care. Damn, hed been spending too much time around Castiel. He was developing an explain-the-puzzling-ways-of-mortals reflex.

It was very difficult, when he was there, to think of Lucifer as the enemy. Especially when he was looking at Sam like that, all precisely focussed weight with just a hint of surprised warmth behind it, as if Sam was the centre and meaning of his world. Or, you know, his favourite tux. Sam hadnt expected him to pad barefoot over to the bench and actually sit down. One long leg folded under him, so that he could sit side on with Nicks soft hands folded in his lap and all his attention on Sam. You let the wall down. What wall? The wall keeping me out of your dreams. Lucifers voice was a low rumble, the drag and scrape of it more familiar and steadying than it ought to be. Considering what he had done and meant to do. I didnt expect you would call me. So Lucifer had not been keeping his distance on purpose, after all. Lucifer had been blocked by someone, or something. Not the Enochian sigils on their ribs, and probably not anything else Castiel had done. Sam had his suspicions that Castiel had been soothing the worst of Deans nightmares of Hell, but that was a different proposition altogether to barring a door against the brightest of archangels. And Castiel would probably have mentioned it, if hed done anything else after the sigils. Sam was better at poker than Dean. He let Lucifers inference stand without a flicker, as if he had dismantled this wall himself for the purpose of this conversation. I need your help. Will you give it, even if I dont promise you a yes for it? Of course. The immediate response, low and completely honest, almost threw Sam, almost diverted him into asking why. But he knew why, had counted on it, and that conversation wouldnt go anywhere helpful. So far as it went, when it came to Sam, Lucifer seemed to be entirely sincere. Okay. He breathed out, glanced out over the rough green carpet of pines falling away below them in muffled folds, and looked back. Okay. You can hear me when I pray to you, yes? Can any angel, if I pray just to them? Certainly. And you cant come to me when Im awake unless I tell you where I am, but you can visit my dreams. It wasnt really a question, and he didnt wait for Lucifers nod before he went on, How difficult is it for you guys? Entering peoples dreams? Lucifers head tipped lazily sideways. He still hadnt blinked. Almost effortless. And what about There really wasnt any way to ask this without showing his hand, but Lucifer almost certainly knew about Castiel anyway. Possibly more than they did. What about an angel who was weak, or hurt? Too weak to actually fly?

Lucifers eyes tightened a little, a glimpse just for a moment of something fragile and weary behind the grey steel. He would be a shadow of an angel if he couldnt hear a prayer. But I doubt my little brother has the strength to answer it himself, even in a dream. Sam had almost expected it, but he felt the kick of disappointment in his gut all the same. Okay. Is there any other way I could talk to him? If hes well, still around? Lucifers voice was quiet and flat. There is a simple summoning ritual that you could perhaps manage in your sleep, if youve the ingredients in the room. It has no more force to compel than a prayer, but if the angel decides to answer the power to do so comes from the ritual, not from the angel. Sam laughed softly, without amusement. Dont trust me with compulsion? Lucifer looked at him with distant grey eyes, old and resigned. Should I, Sam? Should I really? Sams eyes slid away, a strange regret flickering by. Because of course Lucifer shouldnt. If he and Dean had the means to compel him and kill him, it would be done without a second thought. This strange, delicate truce assumed that Lucifer wouldnt, and that Sam couldnt. Of all the things theyd ever hunted, this was the oldest, the deepest, the most powerful. This still, quiet creature with eyes like faded stars was, perhaps not the father, but certainly the centre, of everything theyd fought against all their lives. But he was also, in some strange way, the most beautiful, with an incomprehensible brightness that Sam could almost feel, just on the edge of perception. Less than thirty hours before Sam had seen him tear apart gods with his bare hands, barely bothering to snarl in his cold, absolute fury. But he didnt feel evil. There was something about Lucifer that was oddly pure. Not quite nave, though it felt like that sometimes. Just as if he didnt need all the viciousness and the corruption that everyone else needed to do terrible things. Knowing he was right. Not a zealot, but what comes before the zealot: the cause, maybe? People turned into monsters for causes. But then, causes never actually took a knife to people and worlds themselves. It should have disturbed Sam more than it did that he found Lucifer so easy to understand. You didnt have to kill those gods, he said to the distant blue mountains. Or Gabriel. If he had. But the chances that hed left Gabriel alive were slim to none, and Lucifers reaction to that name was too unguessable for Sam to risk while there was a chance for Castiel. Lucifers growl smouldered at the edges. They were holding you. As if that explained everything. Maybe it did.

A very important tux, then. I dont think they would have hurt us, Sam hedged, without conviction. No one can hurt you, Sam. Low and dangerous, and a very simple statement of the way the world would be. If they did, I would find them. And I would fix you. Sam couldnt help the shudder that scraped out of him. Everything with Lucifer was so big, so absolute and cosmic, devotion and fury and reality. Because Lucifer didnt lie. He just set reality aside for his own version. And Sam understood, he did, and it was seductive and overwhelming. But that wasnt the way humanity worked. For some reason, Sams own voice echoed in his head, something hed said over a year ago, babbling anything he could think of to keep the rugaru from ripping Deans throat out before Sam could jimmy the closet door. You dont have to be a monster. It

doesnt matter what you are, it only matters what you do. Its your choice.
Jack Montgomery had been past listening, at the time. So had Sam. He looked back at Lucifer, at the careful way he held his body as if he was always on the edge of burning the world down around him. At the stubble paused forever halfway to a beard, never to change again, every cell in Nicks body frozen and immortalised. At the faint, sideways shadow of arching wings that Sam could almost see dwarfing the trees behind him. Sam reached out and touched his knee, gentle and firm. The texture of the faded denim was oddly vivid under his fingers. You cant just fix us, Lucifer. That isnt how the world works. And we will fix that together. Immediate and quietly fierce, and not understanding. Perhaps incapable of it. Sam studied him, perhaps for the first time, this strange, ancient creature without a family, deity of demons, with his white-hot tenderness and his gentlemans manners, committing genocide because of love. He could feel him, he realised, feel a faint thread of what he was, a tenuous connection to the vast, impossible thing inside Nicks body. He could feel the sense in which he himself belonged to Lucifer, had done since he was born. It was a revelation. This was what Lucifer meant: this was why, to the angels, it was inevitable that Sam would agree. There was a faint tug, the possibility of fitting together and losing the rough edges between them. Sam prodded at it. To a part of him, to a part of Lucifer, it was meant to be. But that was only one part. It was an odd thing to actually feel that thread, that little piece of destiny, to feel it as a finite thing rather than a tunnel looming inevitably ahead on the road. In a sense he belonged to Lucifer. But there were other senses. He belonged to Dean, to Bobby. To Castiel, perhaps, if he was alive. He had chosen not to belong to his father.

He belonged to the job that hed assigned himself in the world. He definitely belonged to himself. And he belonged to anyone and anything else he chose, for as long as he chose. Huh. Try getting an angel to see that, of course. The angel in question was looking at him with a faint frown, questioning, as if Sam was the one thing in the universe not completely laid open to his understanding in every detail and he found it mildly exasperating. Sam grinned at the devil, grinned as his eyebrows rose and he murmured Sam, patient and faintly ironic. He could choose Lucifer, he realised. Hell, he could love him, all the world in him, he could lose himself in him and find it ecstatic. It wasnt honestly like he had any moral high ground over him. But humanity wasnt absolute, wasnt about choosing one thing for all time and then never choosing again. If angels, for all their rigidity, could change if Castiel could choose Earth over Heaven and Hell, and an archangel could choose to run and choose to return and take a stand Sam was not made of stone. And today was just one day. Sam leaned forward, shifting his weight onto the hand still on Lucifers knee, and raised the other to cradle the back of his skull, sliding through dirty blond hair. He tilted his head, slowly enough that the angel could move away, and he smiled. No. Lucifer blinked. Sam kissed an archangel in the moment between one breath and the next, caught his mouth and kept it. It was hot and startled and open, and Sam pressed in and caught his lower lip. Sam was completely unsurprised to find that their mouths fit perfectly. For a moment, Lucifer was very still, forgetting to remember to breathe, his knee like marble under Sams hand but his mouth soft, shockingly human. Then a large, warm hand wrapped itself around Sams hip, not tugging, just carefully pressing, and he growled low and hungry into Sams mouth. Sam swallowed the growl, and the little startled hitch in it that came when he rubbed his thumb over a rough cheek, as if Lucifer was surprised at the luscious slide of tongue and lips, the drag of stubble and skin. Sam could feel the depth of him, just there on the edge of comprehension, like looking out over the sea in summer and knowing in your marrow just how much water lay under the still blue surface. He cradled it, tender in his own way, not pushing, because this was where he was stronger. This was perhaps the only way he could hurt the devil, and the only way it wouldnt be fair. No promises, because there was more than one choice and more than one way to live, and time to change. Lucifers fingers flexed against his hip, carefully. It was the same hip Gabriel had held, but without the demon blood screaming inside him there was no burn, no illusory

fracturing against the angels touch. Sam could feel the brutal strength that trembled below the skin, but Lucifer didnt grip even hard enough to bruise. He pressed soft heat into the corner of Sams mouth and drew back, his eyes unreadable. Sam waited, his heart thudding deep and warm in his chest, counting the seconds of a finite life. I expected you to be smaller, the devil said slowly. Sam seriously doubted that was a crack about his height. Me, or humanity? Lucifers eyes narrowed, voice rough with scorn for a moment. Humanity is an anthill. You are He tilted his head, as if trying to find just the right angle to look into the deepest part of Sam. something different. And after five years of demon blood and Boy King and broken seals and treachery, face to the face with the fallen angel who might just be some kind of soul mate, it was suddenly that easy for Sam to laugh and say, Im really not. Lucifer raised his hand and touched the skin of Sams throat, gently. His thumb hovered over the fragile, functional curve of his collarbone with proprietary fascination, and with reverence. You will say yes, Sam. Not today. You want this. There was the faintest trace of a puzzlement in the deep rumble of his voice. You can feel it. Sam chuckled low, breath snagging under Lucifers fingers as they traced delicately up his throat. Humans can want more than one thing, Lucifer. We can choose. Lucifer caught Sams jaw and arched an eyebrow, looking singularly unimpressed. Sam raised his eyebrows back at him and shook his head a little, unable to stop the stupid smug grin that kept taking over his mouth, and Lucifer drew him slowly and purposefully back into a kiss. It went on a little longer this time, slower and lazier. No promises or demands, no particular direction, just a press of pleasure and challenge, shared. It did occur to Sam that Lucifer would be a very focussed lover, but there was no way in Heaven or Hell he was going that far. He drew two fingers curiously around inside the arch of one long bare foot that touched the inside of his own knee, and made an angel tremble. When Sam eventually drew back, Lucifer made a noise, just faint enough that it might not have been there at all. He had closed his eyes. There was a faint tracery of blue veins on Nicks eyelids. It looked tentative, fragile, and very human.

Sam tapped his knee. So, ritual. Enochian or Latin? Lucifers eyes opened slowly, and the illusion of vulnerability turned to pale marble. His voice was a little deeper and a little rougher than usual, but disdain still rolled in every syllable. Considerably older than the Roman Empire, Sam. In any of its incarnations. He held out a single leaf of paper between two fingers. It was covered in writing, Enochian ritual and English instructions, in stark black majuscules that were upright, elegant, and absolutely controlled. Sam folded it carefully, twice, and slipped it into his coat pocket. Then he looked up into clear, inhuman eyes. He got the impression that Lucifer would not appreciate effusiveness, or vague promises of conditional amity. Or, you know, requests that he stop trying to destroy the world. So he went for direct and honest, and limited. Thank you. Lucifer nodded, once. Ill see you in Detroit. Detroit. Yeah, I guess. The archangel unfolded his limbs from the bench and stood, grass curling reverently around his bare feet. He looked out over the dream valleys below, mile upon mile of pine forest with no touch of human civilisation save the road at their feet. Sam. Sam leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and made a questioning noise. Lucifer looked down at him. His face was impassive, but something about his eyes made Sam ache. If you do find him. Take care of him. There was a weight in his voice that made Sam think he wasnt talking about Castiel, or not entirely, but he couldnt quite place the significance. It wasnt as if Lucifer was short of little brothers, after all, and there wasnt really any reason why Castiel should be special to him. After a moment, he nodded. You too, if things go your way. I will. Solemn as a vow. Lucifers gaze slid away, weary and weighted, gathering himself to leave.

Grief. The word slipped into Sams head unexpectedly, obvious after the fact. He
wasnt sure why it hadnt occurred to him earlier, except that he still wasnt used to thinking of angels like that, in such simple, human terms. But then, in many ways angels were perfectly simple, far more so than the complexities of the human soul. Lucifer. Because he had to know.

The line of Nicks shoulders was coiled and alert, as if invisible wings were poised to catch the breeze. He didnt look back at Sam, but didnt move. Sam chanced it. Are there only three archangels left now? The world went suddenly very silent. Birds, insects, breeze, the sound of Sams heel on the stones underfoot, were smothered under a stifling silence. The harsh shape of Lucifers body against the sky did not move or change, but he felt vaster than the mountains, heavier, and millennia colder. Sam closed his hand over the precious paper in his coat, and waited. Seconds ticked by. When the angel finally spoke, his tone was soft, but the shrill, white edge of his true voice sawed at Nicks throat. Chamael and Yrihel are lost in humanity. Gabriel and Azrael are dead. Raphael is a broken toy. Just me and him, he didnt need to say. The end of a family. Sam exhaled, and looked down at his feet. Causes. Lucifer could honestly regret the death of the brother he had killed, the last of six not quite lost to him, because he believed it had to be done. That he had had no choice. Sam thought of Gabriel, all sharp edges and sharp tongue and bright eyes, facing down Lucifers cold grey steel and immovable truths, and he felt a sudden surge of hot anger. At both of them. He chose to swallow it. Im sorry. After a moment of stillness, Lucifer vanished, stirring the air faintly in his wake.

---

Sam was back in the motel by three in the morning. Dean was sound asleep, his fingers curled loose and soft next to the pillow, and the note Sam had left was undisturbed. Sam changed silently into sleep pants in the bathroom, then flushed the note before padding back to bed. He hid the paper from Lucifer in the CD drawer of his laptop.

F(r)iction.
Ready to go, Sammy? Sam was frowning at his laptop. Did you mess with my computer? Dean tossed the second fake CDC ID toward him, and Sam caught it without looking up. Havent touched it for days, why? Some kind of a virus, maybe. I dont know, though I usually have it locked down pretty good. Eating anything important? No, it looks like a joke program. Take a look at this. Sam turned the computer around and pushed it across the table toward him. The screen was covered with an image of some old manuscript in a handwriting that Dean couldnt have read even if it had been in English (Sam had said it was called Lucy Miniscule or something, but Dean thought it kind of looked like Maggi noodles). The only thing out of place was a bright yellow pop-up like a post-it note that had appeared in the very middle of the screen. The font of the note was even more obnoxious than the manuscript. bl useless, big donors too anglican for the hot stuff :P Weird. Dean slid the laptop back. Mean anything to you? Im guessing BL is the British Library. Thats where I downloaded this facsimile from last night. Maybe it just grabs your browser history and makes stupid comments about it. Sam sounded dubious, and he was probably right since when had anything in their life been simple and accidental as a joke virus? but as omens of impending doom went, it ranked fairly low on the scale. Far below, just for example, Pestilence and potential outbreaks of Croatoan. Worry about it later, dude. If this whole town goes zombie apocalypse on us theyll probably smash your computer anyway. Dean grabbed his jacket, as Sam made Pissy Bitchface #24 with a side order of Distracted Geek and got up to follow. Then stopped. Uh. Dean. There was an edge to his voice that had Dean crossing back across the room without thinking and leaning in over his shoulder to look. Another note had appeared over the first.

btw, u guys lucky angels fail @ internet: accessing all horsemen+rings sites out there + bustyasianbeauties = dead giveaway. Okay, so not just a virus. Really not. And not some weird messaging thing either. Sam pointed at the red x on the network icon in the taskbar. I disabled the wireless before that one popped up. Dean gave the laptop a dark look. It sat there, smugly continuing with its new lifestyle choice of displaying annoying yellow sticky notes. You think a demon could possess a computer? Never heard of it. Sam turned off the computer, unplugged it, then removed the battery. Although Im pretty sure it happened in Buffy. I am not related to you. Sam grinned at him, a bright, unexpected flash of teeth. Dean tossed Sams jacket over to him and dug out his keys. Lets go, champ.

---

The Impalas frame creaked welcomingly as Dean slid into the drivers seat, chasing away the sickly clean stench of hospital with warm leather and gun oil. The passenger door clicked snugly shut as Sam got in next to him, switching his phone to his other hand to buckle his seatbelt. Swine flu, huh? Ours too. Dean kept half an ear to the conversation as he pulled out, Sams familiar isnt-thisinsane-shit-fascinating tones and the faint grumble of Bobbys voice. Hospital car parks were always a weird maze of strident emergency signs and inconvenient corners, like each new wing or building had just sort of sprung up where a seed had fallen and the car parks had had to hunch back out of the way as they grew. I dont know, Bobby. I dont think they would make a mistake, not about that. Everyones so paranoid about swine flu just now, you know? Ask him if hes been sending us weird-ass messages about the British Library being Anglican. Sam made a face at Dean and shook his head, covering up the mouthpiece just long enough to hiss, Bobby calls us boys, not guys. At least having a definite plan seemed to be doing Sam good, even if it was sort of halfcocked and impossible. Hed actually smiled twice since morning, and he had gone from the tight, full-body hunch of the last few weeks to that sort of loose-limbed, eager quiver he got in the middle of a good job, a job he thought they had a decent chance of fixing. Shame Pestilence was such a slippery bastard.

And that Sam had apparently started the sneaking out at night thing again. Where? Hang on. Sam made grabby hands at the air, and Dean fished the glove boxs pen and notepad out of his pocket for him. Okay. Well swing by on our way through. Yeah, I know, Bobby. Well be careful. You too. He finished scribbling, then tucked his phone into his jeans. Dean glanced sideways at him. Checking out? Sam nodded, pulling out a map from the glove box and spreading it over his knees. Another outbreak a couple of hours northeast. Could be we can head Pestilence off there. From the corner of his eye, Dean could make out the movement of Sams hands, and didnt need to look to know that he was tracing over the roads with his right middle finger, same as always, not quite touching the paper, with his bottom lip sucked in and his hair falling over his cheek. Sam liked to have a visual of where they were going in his head, even though he didnt drive all that often, even though Dean never used a map unless he had to. After that, if we can, theres a small town and a few farms not that far east of Johnson Lake his finger tapped on the paper, satisfied as he found it that just dropped right off the grid three months back, after a swarm of demonic signs. Name of Repton. Bobby figures we might as well swing by and see if theres anything we can do, or anything useful we can pick up. Dean grunted. After three months? Poor bastards will be dust by now. Guess so. Cant hurt to take a look, though. Sam frowned distantly at the little spot on the paper that represented the lives of hundreds of people who had probably already died bloody. A few years ago there would have been a trembling lip and puppy-dog eyes; but they were months into the Apocalypse, and if you started cracking to pieces over the dead itd grind you into sand. No matter who they were. Or what parts of you they took with them. Dean concentrated on the road. After a minute Sam looked up. Hey, could you drop me off at that Starbucks on the corner up here while you grab our stuff? I want to check out the history of this place, and I dont want to use the motels internet if whoever that was this morning got a fix on the IP there. Dean was pulling over before Sam was done explaining himself and really, end of days, it wasnt as if he had to make up elaborate excuses to indulge his addiction to girly syrupy coffee drinks. He could do a hell of a lot worse. Amphetamines, for example. Dean ignored the sort of pissy look Sam threw at him as he got out of the car, because he didnt really have much to say.

It took him ten minutes to grab everything at the motel and check out, four of those spent waiting for the skinny kid at the desk to answer the bell. She was too made up, and looked kind of woebegone, in that my-life-is-the-ultimate-tragedy way teenagers got before they started noticing that everyone else was even more fucked up than they were. He stretched his face into a smile, and told her it wasnt the end of the world. She looked tempted to flip him off. In the coffee shop, Sam was hunched over one of those stupidly tiny tables that always made him look far too big. Between his computer, his hands, and the handles of the stroller belonging to the mother at the next table, there was barely any space for his actual coffee. He was giving the screen his you-have-perplexed-me-tiny-minion frown or rather, Dean saw as he edged his way between tables, not the screen, but the two new yellow notes that had popped up in one corner. One was a url, mostly a long list of letters and numbers, and the other said, dont summon anyone who wants your heads on a plate. or your asses. Hey, a stalker virus that gave good advice. Advice Winchesters were pretty much guaranteed not to follow. Chatting up your computer again, Sam? Sam started a little as Dean dropped into the chair beside him, then waved a hand at the screen. Dean, hey. Just checking a bit of local history to see when anyone last heard from our ghost town, and this popped up. He alt-tabbed into the browser, which was pointing to the url on the note: some kind of fancy-ass kitchenware website, specifically, the product-ordering page for an expensively plain-looking wooden spoon. Dean raised his eyebrows. Sinister. What does it summon? Japanese tentacle chefs? Sam took an unnecessarily long pull of his frilly coffee drink. Its made of aged rosemary wood. Theres a a ritual I stumbled across that might give us a hand against Pestilence if we can get it working, and one thing it needs is the warm ash of wood from a rosemary bush thats been dead at least ten years. Only no one ever lets a rosemary bush get that big. I was looking on ebay and all these occult websites this morning, but couldnt find anything. He pulled a wry face. Guess I should have tried thinking like a normal person. They deliver? Every state. Sam pulled up his email client and forwarded the link to Bobby, with a quick note. The thing was, Dean was starting to think he didnt actually know how to talk to Sam anymore. Which made no sense. They practically had a script for every possible conversation, everything from debating how likely it was that a suspect was their guy with a couple of quirks of their eyebrows, to the kind of banter called for by Sam asking Dean to pick him

up a particular kind of salad for lunch after Dean had spent most of the morning slacking off and only pretending to do research. Or whatever. The point was, he knew every twitch of the kids hands and every possible way he had of saying Deans name. Except he wasnt a kid now. Dean drummed his fingers on the table. So whoever this is, they want us to think theyre helpful. Sam shrugged. So far they are. If theyd linked me to some private supplier on email or something I would have thought it was a trap, but this is a big national chain. They cant exactly tamper with everything it sends out. He clicked send, and made to shut the computer. Dean leaned forward and reached for it. Gonna try something. Sam let him take the computer, and he clicked on the second of the yellow notes. A blinking cursor appeared. Dean narrowed his eyes at it and typed, our asses are delicious, pal. Sam snorted next to him. Dean hit return, in case it made a difference, and sat back to watch the screen. Nothing happened. So its a one-way thing, or it just doesnt want to talk to us, Sam decided. Looks like. Dean closed the laptop and shoved it into Sams bag. Why cant you ever pick up normal stalkers? Angels and demons and computer worms, man. You should try getting stalked by some nice, innocent chick like everyone else. Sam smirked at him as he wove his way out between tables and soccer moms. What, you mean like Becky? Dean made a pained noise. Dude, she writes stories about us. Even in our lives, thats not exactly poster-child normal. Perfectly ordinary Winchester conversation, nothing to see here. No thought required.

---

The second town was swine flu too. Pestilence was long gone. He was probably sniggering at them, wherever he was. Sam said he wasnt sure anthropomorphic personifications could snigger.

Dean pointed out that Famine had basically done nothing else, and also that Sam was a geek. Sam announced that when this whole Apocalypse thing was over he was going to get a Kindle or something and start using all these long car hours to read Dean actual books. Starting with Pratchett and Gaiman. Dean said he could do what he liked, because none of them were going to survive it anyway. Sam called him a jerk. Dean didnt respond.

---

Dean had spent years keeping a sharp eye out for all the bits that werent Sam, or might not be. The dreams and other psychic shit, the possibility that the crossroads demon had brought him back wrong, anything that might have hinted at Azazels plans, the collaborations with Ruby, the secretiveness, the demon blood, the path that C- that the angels had kept warning Dean about, the boy king of Hell, the vessel of Lucifer. The law student who didnt give a shit where Dad was. Years and hed been jumping at every hint of anything that didnt match up to the kid he remembered from hell, from before Stanford. Hed promised to try to find faith in Sam. Hed said he wasnt just some snot-nosed kid Dean had to take care of anymore, and hed meant it. There was a man there somewhere. Dean just didnt really know where to look to see him. He was too used to seeing all the other bits, and beating them down. If Sam was sneaking off at night again, and pretending not to be acting all jumpy and secretive about some ritual he was planning that he hadnt told Dean about until he was caught out well, Dean just had to try to trust him on it. Which would be easier if they could just hold a damn conversation.

---

Okay, heres a thought. What if its not just a demon in there? The lake fell away to their left as Dean turned onto the narrow road up towards the vanished town of Repton. The car had been silent for over an hour, leaving Deans thoughts skittering about in weirder and weirder directions in order to avoid any of the nasty pits it loved throwing itself into lately if he didnt distract it. What if the reason we cant find Pestilence is that hes gone modern, like that crazy wood god and Stepford Santa?

Sam made a non-committal noise. You mean like actual Pestilential computer viruses? Its what Id do. Kill off communication, then bring out the biological big guns. Plus, didnt you say the Black Death used to travel by trade routes? Thatd be the internet now, right? And how does linking me to rosemary wood cooking spoons help with that grand master plan, Dean? You dont watch enough zombie movies, dude. Tempting people into shady deals with smelly ladles is where it all starts. That got half a laugh out of Sam, a little huff of amused air. Then, Or its Crowley. The little curl of triumph in Deans chest vanished. Crowley? Think about it. If any demon knew how to use the internet itd be him. Whoever it is talks like they know us, not to mention thinks were morons. And pretending to help us find stuff then screwing us over? Sams voice slid down a few notes, bitter and dark. Kind of his M. O. Yeah, maybe. Although even Ca- well, Crowley hadnt been the only one whod been sure the Colt would work. Whatever it is doesnt seem like its vicious. So far its helped. And it obviously knows a lot, so either its really well placed or its sneaky as hell. Either way, could be a useful lead. Sam was staring at him like he had something weird on his face. So, what, you think we should just trust it? Whod suggested that? Dean hadnt suggested that, Jesus. Not trust it. Double-check everything it gives us, get Bobby to do any browsing thatd give the game away. Use it. Leaving aside the fact that their big secret game plan was getting the rings, and it already knew about that. Because it was sneaky. Huh. Sam wasnt impressed. You know Dean, I seem to remember having this conversation before. Only the other way around. Kid should really get that sarcasm gland looked at, it was acting up again. Hey, whatever works. Then Dean was slamming his foot on the brakes, pulling her down from a hundred and skewing her around onto the verge, throwing up a wall of dust and stones. Shit! Who the hell put that there? Sam was out and on his feet, gun in hand, almost before Dean had gentled the Impala to a stop. Roadblocks, generally not good news. Dean scrabbled for the Colt, dragged up the handbrake, palmed his regular pistol from his hip into his other hand on the off-chance that it was something normal and landed half-stumbling on asphalt, his back safe and solid against the sleek black metal of his baby. He could feel the press of every stone under the soles of his boots, every touch and scent of the air against his face, quick and vivid and

suddenly alive. Sam was already covering the trees on either side, looking for an ambush, because that would be the most immediate threat if whoever it was wanted to attack first. No shots fired yet. Dean looked to the front, where theyd be if they wanted to talk. Across the road, and stretching away to either side through the trees and undergrowth, was a heavy iron pipe, large enough to throw even a semi. Just far enough from the corner to stop in time, if you were actually doing the speed limit. Fifty metres or so down the road, another one. Too far to take out both with one explosion, his eyes immediately registered, unless you were working some serious ballistics. Deliberate. Barriers. Iron. Just beyond the second pipe was a low fence, up to his chest, corrugated iron, probably shored up with something more solid. There were symbols painted on it, warding against demons and spirits and something Enochian that he didnt recognise. Okay. So maybe not everyone was dead. And some people knew more than the average. Low and soft, he called, Blue Earth, Sammy, to make sure he didnt just shoot on sight. Sam grunted quiet acknowledgement, somewhere on the threshold of his hearing, and Dean edged forward toward the barrier. Foot raised, slid forward, dropped to the ground, solid footing on the far side of the first pipe. Nothing. Trees silent and still, nothing in front, only Sam behind, slipping around the Impala after him, covering him. Safe behind. He moved forward. Second pipe nothing. Birds and insects quieter than they should be, left and to the front. Dean slipped off the safety catch. Felt Sam follow his lead behind. He moved forward to the fence. Clever. There was a devils trap cut into the road, but the gashes in the ground were all at an angle pointing toward the fence, so you couldnt see them from the outside. There was someone in the trees about twenty metres past the fence. He knew this felt it, heard it, it didnt matter, because he had his pistol trained on her before she stepped out into the open. It didnt matter because she had an automatic trained on him. Which was kind of surreal, because she looked like a soccer mom. No. She looked like she used to be a soccer mom. Pert waist and perfect complexion gone practical and muscular, cherry-red bob growing out into dirty blonde and pulled back with a barrette that did the job and really didnt match her outfit, shoes once too bright for this job but with mud rubbed into them and trampled for hours, face closed and strong. She was at least a foot shorter than Dean. Also, holding an automatic. Whoa. He held up his hands. Easy there, lady. She jerked the gun briefly in the direction of a little niche set in the fence, just where it crossed the road. Hands in the water, boys, unless your careers counsellor recommended colander.

The fence was a double length of corrugated iron fastened hard into the earth about half a foot apart, the space between packed with hard earth and sandbags and big chunks of rock salt. There was no gate, but as it only came up to Deans chest, there didnt need to be, for any halfway fit human. He could have vaulted it. Or he could lean over it and stick his hand to the wrist into the bucket of (presumably holy) water on her side of the fence. Discretion was the better part, and all that. Sam covered him, then he covered Sam. Just to be sure. She watched them like a goddamn hawk that liked its steak seasoned with holy water. Then, as they shook their hands dry, So, you boys are human. Well done. Now piss off. And turned to go. What about silver? Sam piped up beside him. She stopped and turned halfway. Silver? Dean shoved his pistol into the back of his jeans, and offered, Sure, most of your problem right now is demons and things like that, but theres a whole host of other pluguglies out there being stirred up by this whole end of days shit that dont give a damn about salt and iron. The woman considered them, gun propped against her hip, comfortable as a pro with its weight. Dean wondered if she had a twelve-year-old son packing salt rounds back in the town. What kind? Dean shrugged. Shapeshifters, werewolves, skinwalkers, that sort. Some other things like zombies or wraiths, which arent so common. Silver, salt, holy water, and iron will give you a pretty good all-round human test. Chain a candlestick to the fence or something and make them pick it up and hold it for a minute. If it burns them, silver bullets or blades will take them down. Well bear that in mind. Sam smiled at her. Do you mind if we come over, maam? Her eyes narrowed. Sam racked up the whole wide-eyed and harmless act another notch. Its just we were surprised to find anyone still alive. There was a mess of demon omens around here a couple of months back, and then you dropped off the map. She shook her head just once, like someone used to not having to repeat herself. We dont let anyone in. Outside worlds going to hell and were going to ride it out as long as we can. See how many of those bastards we can take with us on the way. Dean looked over at Sam and quirked one eyebrow. Sam tightened his lips, nodded slightly, then asked earnestly, You dont happen to have anyone in town who talks to angels, by any chance?

She lifted her head, and her mouth twisted into something sardonic. Two years ago, Dean might have tried to hit that. Angels? Which apocalypse are you watching, boy? If there ever were angels, they arent coming to help us. Dean smirked back at her, darkly. Got that right. Sam gestured to the fence. So where did you learn all this? All human info, all human weapons. Someones got to stand up to the bastards. She leant the gun against her leg and lit a cigarette, nursing the little glow to life between her hands. Cancer, probably not a big concern right now. A man came by a few months back, just when things here were getting really bad. Told us what was going on, showed us a trick or two. Said those scribbles would keep out most things that were likely to come for our guts, and were looking after the rest ourselves. This man sounds like hes in our line of work. Sam tugged the collar of his shirt open just enough to let her see the anti-possession tattoo. He give you a name? Winchester. Sam Winchester. The hell? Dean gave Sam the something-you-want-to-tell-me? eyebrow, but Sam looked just as surprised. Okay. This Sam Winchester, he look anything like my brother here? The smoke curled out between her lips as she flicked her eyes briefly over Sam. Not a thing. Skinny black guy in his forties, red hair and cowboy boots. Dean racked his brains for a hunter matching that description, then raised his eyebrows at Sam. Sam shrugged. I got nothing. Me neither.

Guess.
[v]: to attempt to estimate conjecturally, on little or no evidence; to keep [a person] guessing: to keep in a state of uncertainty; [adj] dial. of a cow or ewe, barren.

They had a plan now, a clear mission. Gabriel had left them that, at least. It gave Dean something to keep his eyes on, to fight toward. A good clear road, none of the useless bush-bashing without any clue where they were going or whether they were headed in the right direction. Eyes to the front, like a good soldier. No distractions. All the hurting, doubting, screaming, praying, cursing, desperately wanting, all the tender spots, theyd all died away one by one, burnt themselves out. Cauterised. So long as he didnt poke them, he was focussed. He was good. Famine had had a point. Dean just hadnt noticed it until after Van Nuys.

---

Two days and two outbreaks of swine flu later, and they were no closer to Pestilence. All Bobby could suggest was that they just keep heading east, as if there was anywhere else for Pestilence to go from western Nevada. The whole fake-Sam thing had bothered the real one enough that hed nagged Bobby into looking into it. Once he had known where to look, Bobby had found more than forty small towns that had worked out how to start fighting back. A couple of them seemed to have locked themselves down like Repton there were reports of roadblocks nearby, or other hunters had dropped by and found them still fighting. Three towns, hundreds of miles apart, had banded together on the internet and put together an open message board and a Twitter feed to keep each other updated. Theyd even started a website detailing how to fight demons and hellhounds and sharing survival tips, with a headline on their front page about getting the message out and uniting against the Apocalypse. By the look of their message board, people from other states, and even from other countries, had started to respond. People were resisting, and teaching each other how. Dean felt weirdly proud about that. Humanity might have been late to join the game, but at least it wasnt going down without a fight. Of course, for every town that was still fighting, there were others that had been turned into a bloody smear. Worse, some seemed to have gone down Blue Earths road, even without the benefit of the Whores influence. Bobby had muttered something about the Crucible on fast forward. Apparently you could give people the tools to fight, but you couldnt force them not to be assholes when they were scared.

Given the information had been up on the internet for a couple of months now, Bobby said he couldnt be sure how many of the towns had had outside help in figuring it out. Eleven cases over the past five months fit pattern for sure: the town had been harassed by demons or similar, someone had turned up and told them how to defend themselves then left them to it. The thing was, none of the descriptions matched. Male, female, old, young, black or white or Asian or Hispanic. Could have just been different hunters, except for the names. Two Sam Winchesters (one of them a Samantha, to Deans delight). One Dean Smith. One Novak and two dAngelos, without first names. One Robert Harvelle (and that one really pissed Sam off). Enough of a pattern not to be coincidence. The list of things that could change their body or weave an illusion of it was too long to be helpful. The list of things that could know Enochian wards had been pretty damn short a year back, but demons like Crowley had caught on quickly once angels came on the scene, and who knew how far the knowledge had spread by now. The list of things unhealthily obsessed with Winchesters, of course, looked something like the telephone directory of a small city. The weird thing, to Dean, was that whoever it was seemed to be trying to protect humans from Hell and from Heaven. And honestly, he couldnt think of anything but a human whod want to do that. When Sam had starting asking Bobby to look more closely at the Twitter feed or something, Bobby had growled that hed already wasted four hours on this and that they had more important things to do like, oh yeah, chasing down horsemen of the damned Apocalypse, and told Sam to do his own poking about. And to weigh in with advice and corrections on that message board while he was at it, because Bobby was too busy to deal with idjits on the internet. When they had stopped, Sam had changed his wireless card, done a system restore, switched to a browser that allowed some kind of extra-secure surfing, and done a few other things Dean hadnt bothered to follow. Ten minutes after hed started looking for his impersonator, a yellow note had popped up to say that googling himself would make him go blind. Sam had made a squeaky noise of frustration and stomped off for coffee. Dean was kind of starting to like Mystery Computer Worm. He took Sams place at the rickety formica table and eyed the laptop. It eyed him back. One of the tabs was open to the message board Bobby had been talking about, so Dean cracked a beer and started poking about there. Most of the advice people had put up was fairly simple stuff salt and iron, blessing the town water supply, holy ground and holy water and easily defendable spaces, stockpiling essentials, boiling water and organising sewage systems, logistics of survival. A few people had added info on other things like werewolves and fangs and ghosts, but there was as much urban myth and vampire fangirling and hysteria there as good stuff. Plus some people had already started arguing and bitching and calling each other trolls. Because it was the internet, and apparently being right was more important than people dying.

Dean made an account, took another beer, and started responding. To the people swapping tips on establishing regular simple security checks on members of your own family, he suggested greeting each other with Christo simpler than outfitting everyone with iron bracelets that they had to keep touching, or whatever. Though kudos to the guy who suggested carving anti-possession symbols into the bracelets, if they had the tools to swing it. He posted the complete exorcism ritual, and recommended memorisation and tag-teaming with megaphones. Then he began the slow task of correcting every single freaking idiot on there. He even managed to do it politely for the first ten minutes or so. Mostly. Definitely not to the chick who kept calling vampires lonely waifs of the nite, though. After telling the third Buffy fan that no, vampires did not turn to dust when they died and they didnt give a shit if you shoved a piece of wood through their chest and did they think the breastbone was made of Jell-O anyway, another yellow note popped up. australian gold rush v. boring. Well, that was a change of pace. And also completely random. Then he got an inform. Someone hed corrected was arguing back. The hell? He hadnt even finished going through the werewolf posts yet. Didnt these people have anything better to do than argue on the internet? Didnt they know none of them had the upper-body strength to take a vamps head off in one go and they were all going to die nasty if they came up against any of these things anyway? And that throwing a hissy fit wouldnt help? Ten minutes later, what do you know? so was canadas. colder though. Dean took a slow pull of his beer. Then he pulled up a new tab, gave the computer an I-just-dare-you look, and entered a search query into Google: u just viisted 2 gold rushes? The clock over Sams bed ticked, rasping loud over the murmur of traffic, ten, twelve times. Then: slow day. nothing better to do. Huh. Take that, Sammy. Dean was a computer genius. Hed just about had his fill of correcting civilians on death row anyway. for a mystery worm posessing my brothers computer u sure get about a lot This time, the reply came almost at once. hey deano! long time no killing each other.

do i know u? nope you: puny human brain. me: ineffable Well, that just narrowed it down to every single cocky thing theyd ever run into. Sounded like angel-speak, especially with the time travel, but maybe thats what it wanted him to think. Not that he and Sam were more likely to trust an angel than anything else these days. mouthy for a wrom too you inspire me, tiger Dean snorted. Seriously? so, trime travel? just that awesome gonna tell mewho you r & y we shuld trust u? nope :) Of course not. Keep the humans guessing. Probably liked to play with its food. A url popped up, followed by, this ones not bad Dean took a look at it. Some quiet little blog or something, analysing and cataloguing references to Pestilence over about eight hundred years. Most of it was about the development of the personification and representation of pestilentia/Pestilentia as a concrete entity in a sociopsychological attempt to define and control the fundamental alterity of disease and epidemic (which Dean interpreted as people feel better when theyve got something to shoot), but there was one entry just on alleged sightings of a haggard man on a pale green horse. The author obviously thought these reports were some kind of sociopsychological allegorical phenomenon, or whatever, but she was fascinated by their similarity across a span of three hundred years and most of Eurasia. So was Dean. Though probably not for the same reasons. Dean poked about at it for about ten minutes, decided it would make more sense to Sam, and bookmarked it. not bad. As a cautious afterthought, he added, thakns.

There was a pause, almost a minute. Then, hey look, winchesters with manners. bring on the confetti. screwu more like it :P youre welcome. Hey look, monsters with manners. He stretched out in his chair and linked his hands over his belt. A minute ticked by, and nothing else. Deans stomach was starting to make demands, and that was about as much computer as he could care about for one day, so he went for his keys and jacket. Weirdly, the freaky little exchange had kind of soothed him. Felt like hed got something done, which they werent getting much of right now. As he went to leave, he glanced over at the screen. Two more notes. btw, y r u2 summoning an angel? & who? wont workon L unless he lets it no matter how cute u try 2 look what? were not summoning an angel? Except that Sam had already been gone longer than he needed to get a coffee. Deans stomach decided maybe it didnt want to be fed after all. rosemarywood+cassis+cypress+almond essence etc? stalking ur computer, remember :P

Dammit, Sammy.
And there, in the bottom of Sams bag: a suspicious-looking bronze bowl, almond essence, and something labelled poudre de feuille de cassis. --He found him coming out of some swanky-ass kitchen store, carrying a bag that Dean would have laid good money held one rosemary-wood stirring spoon with extra angel magnetism. He had his phone pressed between his ear and shoulder as he held the door for a teenager with a stroller, like an earnest distracted giraffe of good intentions. So theres nothing solid on any other archangels at all? Not even Chamael?

He tucked the little bag into his jacket and juggled his phone back into his hand as he came down the steps. I dont know, Bobby. The name just feels really familiar. And lost in humanity is better than dead, right? Then his eyes caught and snagged on Dean leaning against a pole by the kerb. His face flashed from getting-things-done-all-efficiently-behind-my-awesome-brothers-back to gangly-Sam-deer-caught-in-the-headlights. Uh, Bobby, I have to go. Yeah, thanks. He hung up. Stood there awkwardly with the stupid shiny phone dangling far too small in his stupidly enormous hand. Deans voice felt like it scraped his throat harsh on the way out. Archangels, huh Sammy? That what youre trying to summon? Sam made a little wounded noise. Look. Dean. I can explain. Not again. Not another half-assed explanation way after the fact. Dean tried to keep his voice low and even, tried not to accuse or scream, because he was trying to understand, he really was. You sure? Because youre looking really incredibly caught out there, man. Dean. Sam stepped closer, eyes widening, repeating Deans name like a lifeline. Like he was the one losing a brother here, slipping away in front of his eyes for years and fucking years. Dean, stop looking at me like that. Its okay. Its really not that bad. Youre going away in the nights again, arent you. Like last year. It wasnt a question. Dean flinched back without thinking when Sam reached out to him, and Sam stopped like hed taken a punch to the gut. No! Well, just that once, but there was a reason for that, Dean. He obviously heard how lame that sounded, because he added, uselessly, This isnt like with Ruby. Dean was so tired, bone deep, and he had no idea how to go forward. Theyd done all these steps before and never got out of it. A reason. Sam, theres always a reason. Theres a reason every freaking step of the way down, and you never tell me. It isnt like that. Sams voice was strangely gentle, always so earnest. Then what, Sam? What is it like? Because Im having a really hard time seeing how this is any different. He heard the pleading edge in his own voice, feel his perilous sharp calm falling apart around him, teetering on the edge of everything hed pushed away to get the job done. Look, Dean. I. Sams eyes skittered down for a moment, then back up, set and determined. Cas said something, alright? He ploughed on ruthlessly over Deans flinch at the name. Weeks ago. He mentioned other archangels, who were gone. Making seven in all, including the four we know. And I thought, well, what if they were only gone like Anna was? Or like Gabriel? What if we could find them? I mean, they obviously arent all gung-

ho with the Apocalypse plan if they havent pitched in yet, right? His eyes were wide and emphatic, urging Dean to share his enthusiasm. Could be they might lend a hand. Dean looked away, down the length of the street, bustling and peaceful. He could feel Sam hovering, a tall anxious shape in front of him, like he wanted to reach out. There was something Dean was missing, and he didnt know what it was, or who was actually there speaking to him in the big gangly body of his brother. Im trying to trust you, Sam. I am. Something to hit would be great. Im sorry, Dean. Really. I just didnt want to tell you until I was sure it would work. Something small and real and fierce under there. So, what, you were going to summon a freaking archangel and not let me know? It wouldnt be dangerous, Dean. Dean huffed a little breath of harsh, unamused air. No, really, this ritual lets me summon them into my dreams. Theyd never even know where I was, and they couldnt actually touch me. Because of course talking to angels in your sleep never hurt anybody. Except he couldnt tell Sam no. He wasnt allowed to decide whether or not Sam risked his own life if he wanted to. Because he was a goddamn adult. Sam got to make his own decisions about the important stuff now. Even if being an adult sucked. He blinked hard, too conscious of all the eyes around him. Dean Winchester, having a goddamn breakdown in the middle of main street. Nothing to see here. His voice felt like one of those shopping trolleys with a wobbly wheel that you couldnt trust to go in a straight line. Then whats the harm in telling me? Honestly? Sam reached out to touch his sleeve, so frank and so goddamned gentle, then pulled a face that said to hell with it and wrapped his hand strong and warm around the bones of Deans wrist. Youre looking so beaten-down lately, like the only reason youre still walking is you cant actually feel your feet anymore. I just I didnt want to get your hopes up for such a long shot. He shrugged, with a sheepish little attempt at a grin, the one that got Dean every time. Was kind of hoping I could just walk in one day and say, hey, look, I found you an angel. Maybe the problem had always been Dean, not Sam. Dean couldnt help but feel there was something ironic just now about Sam trying to take care of him rather than the other way around, but he wasnt really sure where that came from. Or how to get them out of this moment. He scrubbed one hand over his face. Always with the secrets, Sammy. I know, Dean. Just trust me, please. I know what Im doing.

I need you to be my rock here, Sammy. Im trying, he said again, not knowing how
to try. I promise.

--Sam insisted on taking them to a halfway-decent restaurant to eat, like he did sometimes when he was feeling guilty about something or throwing up his hands about Deans diet. They didnt say much. As they left, Dean looked at him and asked, Just leave it until were back at Bobbys, okay? Just in case something goes wrong. No calling archangels until we get to Bobbys. Check. Sams grin was broad and relieved, and all honesty. --That night, he dreamed that all of his body was scraped raw and jagged, and that he couldnt quite cover it up. He dreamed of a man who was his brother, forehead all crumpled and concerned under ridiculous hair, but when Dean reached out a hand it went right through him, because Dean wasnt really there, not as real as Sam. Sam changed, and kept changing, and Dean trailed around after him, all immaterial, unable to change himself or anything else in the world around him. He dreamed, achingly, of pale blue eyes taking him apart, holding him together, looking at him like he existed and mattered, like he was so earth-shakingly important. Eyes that were absolutely fucking terrifying, and the one constant thing in a broken world. He dreamed of those eyes hurt and clouded and still. He dreamed of deep, twisting loneliness, of being left behind. Honestly, his subconscious wasnt even making an effort. --you there mystry worm? sam says hi, also that its still creepy having somonen watching his computer evne if you talk back

---

just dont go get stuck in the dionsaurs or something okay

Horae harenarum.
horae [n] (Latin): nominative plural of hora, hour; therefore, hours. harenarum [n] (Latin, sometimes spelt without the initial h): genitive plural of harena, sand or grains of sand. Therefore of sand; or, functioning as an adjective, made of sand or like sand.

Anno incarnacionis Domini 1349; Edwardi regis Angliae tertii a Conquesto anno vicesimi secundo; domini papae Clementis VI anno septimo; archiepiscopi vero Cantuariensis Thomae Bradwardine primo, et ultimo. Anno primo primae pestilentiae.*
The Archbishop of Canterbury was dying. It was the second time that year. Here in the east of the land, in the foremost seat of God among the English, Pestilence had struck first and hardest. The mighty and proud among men were brought as low as the humble, and their bodies swelled and broke just the same. The new archbishop had been consecrated only two months, and already the same illness was taking him the way of his predecessor. The cloisters were quiet and still. Only a few grim-faced canons toiled away at their scriptoires there during the hours of the sun, immortalising in parchment and ink the words of the auctores, the giants among men long past. One was set on completing a spacious copy of the archbishops own tract reconciling free will with divine foreknowledge and future contingencies, setting his words to the skin of the humble sheep that would endure down the ages. Word made flesh. An ironic immortality, as flesh failed about them and those who spoke the Word were silent. Death might take any one of these men any day, and the only sign of it would be a change of hand in the manuscript, or a text never completed at all, a book never bound. These were not the men who would be remembered to future generations (if there were any still to come). They were only the messengers, their hands the tongues by which voices spoke for a thousand years or more. That was not a work to be stopped by the pressing imminence of their own mortality. The stench of death curled slow and heavy around the passageways of the abbey lingering even in the grass of the cloisters. The world had entered the church and was dragging her down into the depths with it, clerical limbs and secular indistinguishable in their desperate undignified thrashing. The cells were a place of muffled faces, hushed voices, and moans. Pilgrims far beyond the usual numbers for the season clustered
* Year of the incarnation of the Lord 1349; the 22nd of Edward the Third since the Conquest, king of the English; the 7th of Pope Clement VI; the first and last of Thomas Bradwardine, Archbishop of Canterbury. First year of the first pestilence. Literally authors or authorities: the great writers of the past whose words were considered canon on every subject from history to the physical structure of the universe.

desperately towards the shrine of the holy blissful martyr whose blood had once stained its steps, waiting for the vox judicis* and the horn of Gabriel to sound tomorrow, next week, next year. The chapter house was silent not with obedience but with fear and bewilderment. Even the great Cathedral of Canterbury, lofty and remote as it was possible for any earthly creation to be, stank of the strange, foreign corruption of the flesh. It was the Year of the Incarnation of Our Lord 1349, and the world was doomed. The archbishop lay on his bed, alone, waiting. His head was pushed awkwardly to one side by the weight of the bubo swelling on his neck, but his eyes, when they rested on the figure in the doorway, were clear and unafraid. Imperavi quod neminem ministrasset mihi. The man bowed his head, hands clasped formally over his robes. Reverentissimus Pater in Deo et dominus meus dilectus, penitentiarius tibi sum. His body and his face were those of Robert Hathbrand, prior of the abbey. The cuff of his left sleeve was frayed, where the prior always plucked at it with his stylus when he dictated letters of business. But where Hathbrands eyes were blue, this mans eyes were a strange gold, as if they held a memory of the sun. Archbishop Thomas Bradwardine of Canterbury, scholar, mathematician, philosopher, theologian, belated prelate of the English church, once confessor and advisor and diplomat for the third royal Edward since the Conquest, looked into those eyes, and saw something else behind them. Prior Robertus non es. Non sum.** Ergo spiritarum es qui possunt in figura hominis concarnare, corpore aere structo. Angelus, aut diabolus. The features that belonged to Prior Robert slid into a wry informality that did not. Scared? Corpore meo quod debeo timere? Aut anima si venisti ut me corrumpas, credo quod contradictorem dignum reperias in me. Aliter He broke off, drawing his breath
* Voice of the Judge / of Judgement. I commanded that no man should attend me. I.e., neither to take care of his physical needs, nor his spiritual. To die without confession was a very serious thing, and even the Archbishop of Canterbury (or the Pope) cannot confess himself. To forbid attendance to avoid infecting anyone else would be, therefore, a very solemn self-sacrifice on Bradwardine's part, deeper than anything physical. (Of course, given the limited understanding of infection at this point, he wouldn't think to say and burn the bedsheets so that the infected fleas dont bite you, and also boil any instruments the doctor used on me before using them on anyone else; but hey, it's a start.) Most reverend Father in God, my beloved lord, I am your confessor. You are not Prior Robert. ** I am not. Then you are one of those spirits that can take on the form of a man, making a body out of air. An angel, or a demon. What should I fear for my body? As for my soul - if you have come to tempt me, I believe you will find me a worthy opponent in debate. If not...

with pain, then followed the other man into the softer consonants of vernacular French,* without Latins rigorous logical structures and its memories of full-bodied university declamations. If not, then I will commend my soul into your hands and depart the way of the flesh. Dust motes danced out of the way as the man glided through the shaft of dusty sunlight that lay across the room, its pale fingers almost reaching the foot of the dying mans bed. What is that, here and now? The flesh is a strange and treacherous thing. Veritas veritatum. The archbishops sick-crusted eyes slid closed as he sighed, barely lifting the blanket covering his chest. The world is changing, and I can I can find nothing in the patterns of history to tell me into what. Perhaps it is coming to an end. Without the prelates eyes on him, the face of the other man changed: more gentle, more urgent, less like those of the bureaucrats who filled these halls. It is not the end. Not yet. But bi mi fei, it may be soon enough, as the Father measures time. Thomas Bradwardine, I need your help. Pestilence walks in the land. He was glimpsed two weeks ago striding through an apple orchard not four miles northwest of here. Everyone who saw him was dead within the turn of a day, because the sickness got into their blood, not their armpits and groins and necks. But there are rumours, Pater, rumours down the years, of men who learned to survive him. He leaned forward, hand tight and careful on the heavy sendal silk of the bedclothes. You are the centre of this, your mind is the quickest in England. I need to know how a human may stand in his presence. Something grey and old passed over the archbishops face. Allegories walk in the world of the living. Verbi spiritus literam occidit. I have been defeated by Pestilence. I am but homunculus humilis,** and my charges are dying about me. What could I tell you of standing against him? No stories? Strange survivals, encounters with a horseman? Bradwardine shook his head. The stranger tilted his head, lips twisting into honeyed persuasion in the half-light. Come on, youre a creative bunch. You cant tell me something like this hits and no one
* England at this point was trilingual Bradwardine would have used, according to the situation, both Latin and AngloNorman (the French spoken in England between the Norman invasion and approximately the end of the fourteenth century, when it began to merge back into continental French). (He would have used English sparingly, if at all.) Latin was more formal and powerful, and associated with the church and law and the higher levels of political correspondence; Anglo-Norman was the everyday language of the upper echelons of society, and was becoming increasingly spoken by the other inhabitants of (especially) larger towns, etc. English was just starting to filter its way upwards through the social ranks for common use, but since the start of this century most people, even at the highest ranks of society (eg, King Edward II, ruled 1307-1326), had some English. The ease with which people moved back and forth between languages in this century is in large part why English is such a flexible and bastardised language today. Truth of truths. By my faith, a casual mild oath. Pronounced approximately be me fey. The spirit of the word is killing the letter. ** A small and humble man.

does a bit of experimenting. Attempts to summon him or bind him, Hebrew or Greek mysticism, number charms, relics, unusual invocations? Nothing? Those are hardly stories to tell to the archbishop. The prelates faint voice was a little wry and a little reproachful. The other man lifted one sarcastic eyebrow. God isnt that picky. At that, the Most Reverend Father in Christ of England opened his eyes, and levelled a long, considering stare at his interlocutor, at the bitterness in his hard, short syllables. The illusion was imperfect: while he still wore Hathbrands body, the robes were gone, and in their place were strange snug trousers, boots and a belt of brown leather, and a shirt whose purple dye must have cost more than many a country priorys annual income. The priors tonsure was gone, grown over with hair that was longer and softer and fairer than it ought to have been. Under the prelates gaze, the other man pushed his hands into his pockets and grimaced, like a boy caught wasting precious ink. If I say anything you dont believe youre going to come down on the demon side of the question, arent you? An angel is a messenger, and has no will apart from the will of God. Bradwardine coughed, a dragging wet thing of pain and discomfort, and looked down at the ruin of his own body. So we read. The creature rocked back on his heels and smiled, ironic and too bright. Hey, Im not going to argue against Aquinas. That man could logic the floor he was standing on out out of existence. Forsitan minus scolastici scimus quam credebamus. Fines rationis humanae revelationisque divina certitudinem absolutam harum vetant.* I have not heard of a man standing against Pestilence; you must ask at York for those tales. Men of the north are quick to believe new miracles. But I have heard of an angel, two weeks ago, behaving as the scholars tell us no angel could. At the quiet concession, the strangers eyes lit up, and he seated himself with care on the side of the archbishops bed, unconcerned by the smell and the mess. Tell me. A strange woman, pale and tall and beautiful, had been seen standing on the roof of the village church in Hoddeston, halfway to the sea. She stood, weeping, on the roof below which the village gathered in fear, and where her tears fell, there no man ailed. To that town the pestilence did not come, although all around it perished. Of those who had glimpsed her, two said that they saw the shape of vast wings stretching soft and strong across the sky behind her, grey and silver and implacably green as the ocean. He who said this is a sober man, but these times have led many a sober man to believe too wildly.
* Perhaps we of the universities know less than we believed. The limitations of human reason and divine revelation prevent absolute certainty in these matters.

The stranger shook his head. Had the archbishop been watching him at that moment, he would have seen a curious mixture of pity and pride stealing across his face. Cokkardes bones,* Sariel. Arcaungele of ded, and of closynges. I thought she kept apart in her own lofty little nest for another three centuries of this. Thomas Bradwardine of Chicester and Canterbury drew breath into his tired lungs, and looked full upon the strange creature sent to him at the end of his mortal career, a career so full of careful arguments from generation upon generation of scholastic logic before him, so concerned with the matter and the functioning of the universe, and yet so devoid of genuine divine revelation in that regard. Men and women are dying unshriven across the land, but layfolk, even women, are taking their final confessions as my priests die with them, or flee as cowards. You who are shaped like a man and yet are not a man, who is material and yet incorporeal, tell me, if this be true how may an angel may feel sorrow, when all logic argues that to be impossible? The other mans mouth curled a little, something like an insult and something like a game. Your logic is built on generations of logic with nothing else underneath. Why should it be impossible? It was not true that there was no foundation to scholasticism. Everything that was argued ultimately derived from the Scriptures, whose deepest truth no man could dispute; and yet, men could differ. Not least over which verses ought to be read for their litera, and which for what lay behind and above and beyond that letter. Those angels who did not fall turned toward God and were confirmed forever in their glory, just as those who did were confirmed forever in their evil, incapable of being redeemed. The other mans mouth took on a strange shape, but he did not intervene. The prelate continued, As true angels are confirmed in their ceaseless love and delight in Gods presence, and cannot change, their essential joy cannot be decreased. There are only two ways in which this joy may change. Firstly, it is possible that an angel might come to enjoy the presence of God more deeply, increasing their essential joy; and secondly, as angels also take delight in our Fathers creation, their incidental joy may be increased or decreased as an angel might come to know and appreciate more objects in Creation. Bradwardine stopped, swallowing weakly, and gestured for the water beside his bed. The stranger in the priors form filled a cup with water and handed it to him. The silence was as heavy and cold as the silver goblet. The archbishop drank, slowly, then resumed, Now, can an angel cease to know God? Surely only if God Himself has withdrawn His presence, or His grace, from that angel; and that is a thing that is not to be imagined. Prior Roberts long, delicate fingers dug hard into the mattress, and he swallowed hard, as if to smother wayward words. Therefore no angel can feel sorrow, because nothing can lessen an angels essential joy, which Bonaventura argues is so full that it is impossible for an angel
* Lit. bones of an idiot, a (slyly) less blasphemous form of cokkes bones, Gods bones. Archangel of death, and of endings.

to experience any sadness whatsoever. Aquinas agrees in this matter, that they do not suffer, but attributes this to the perfect alignment of the will of the angels with Gods will: how ought an angel grieve over seeing his Fathers will carried out? even, we must suppose, such a will as this? Bradwardines fingers flickered in the gesture of the universities, in which a man invites his opponent in debate to respond to the argument as presented. Only the weakness of the gesture, and a faint, hungry gleam behind his eyelashes, betrayed how different this answer must be. And yet she wept. The spirit leaned forward, the same hunger gleaming in his own eyes, as if he also was tempted by the thought of answers beyond comprehension. What of your logic, then? What does it mean to be an angel, if that is not true? Not an answer at all, but a reassignment of the grounds for debate. If, then. With those principles shifted, other suppositions followed. If that were granted, we would have to suppose that angels may have will separate from the Divine will. We would have to suppose that they were created not with fiat lux,* before the Creation itself, as Aquinas holds, but as part of creavit coelum et terram, on the First Day, as Augustine suggests that they are part of Creation, bound by time, and its movements, and its changes. Golden eyes narrowed. You academics. You get a hell of a lot from very, very little. It follows, logically. God is eternal, standing outside of time, unmarked and unchanged by it, seeing all of His creation in a single moment. Sine principio, sine fine. Man is finite, held within time, defined by its movements, moving himself within it, his body and mind changing from moment to moment, only knowing a single instant at once. Principium finemque habet. Principium sine fine habent angeli: to what extent, then, are they bound by time? If their beginning lies before Creation and the commencement of time, then it is no true beginning and they are not creatures of time, therefore it cannot mark them; if on the First Day, then, even as inhabitants of Heaven, they might change their location, their bodies, their will. And if I tell you that your story of a seven-day creation is what youd call sententia or metaphora, not litera?** It changes nothing of the essential truth. What is an event but a locus of meaning, far more weighty than mere fact? If angels move within time, they may change; if they remain apart, dwelling in the glory of God, they do not.
* Let there be light. [He] created heaven and earth. Without beginning or end. He has a beginning and an end. Angels have a beginning without an end. ** sententia: Usually a metaphor or allegory: a meaning higher and more profound than the literal meaning of the text. Almost all texts at this time (and especially the Bible) were habitually read on several levels at once, the litera (letter) being only the most basic. To read the story of Adam and Eve as factual history would be to read it only as litera, and that was far less important than, eg, its function as a moral lesson, or what it tells of Gods relation to humanity, or how it mirrors the fall of the rebel angels and prefigures in reverse Jesus salvation of humanity.

The stranger laughed with a bitter mouth. Eternal infancy. It sounds idyllic. So long as the Father is there. He stood, and moved away from the bed, out of the archbishops sight. A man looking in through the window then might have seen his eyes, wide and wavering close to viciousness, the look of a man who had seen his world destroyed long ago and had been handed the temptation to destroy anothers with a very few words. Silence curled its way around the room, heavy and stifling. Somewhere, somehow, things had shifted. This was no longer the university scholar posing a question for debate to invite instruction from a more knowledgeable opponent. Somehow both men sought instruction, balancing each other precariously over the ditch of mud and doubt. It was more than a minute before the weak voice of the archbishop pushed against the quiet, drifting across the emptiness of the room. I think you know more of these matters than I do, moun sieur. You have reason, I think, to say that an angel might weep. The strangers head fell forward onto his chest, and his hand sketched something casual and sharp in the air. It has been many, many more years than you have lived since I knew what it meant to be an angel. Or a human. He looked down at his other hand, clenched on a chair back of hard old oak, unmarked by the strength of his grasp. You hold that angels have no free will? Not since the Fall? The bishop of Canterbury turned his head on the pillow and looked keenly at the tight shoulders outlined against the peaked arch of the window. It has been held that they cannot change again; but can it be in the nature of a thing to be subject to any form of time, to experience and remember, and yet never be able to change? If we say that men do change, and angels could, perhaps we sound nearer the mark. After all, an angel can undergo changes in location and in will; therefore an angel is not absolute and invariable, and may perhaps change in other ways as well, even if not so easily as a man must. He considered this stance for a moment, then nodded a little, satisfied. If an angel can weep, this follows. The spirit made a faint noise, considering and a little reluctant. Bradwardine closed his eyes for a moment under the too-slow drag of death. When he spoke again his voice was quiet, with a thread of desperation. But why do you ask these things of me, if you find our knowledge so poor? The nameless man turned back to him, his voice playful and light. Every human lacks knowledge. Your view of the world is no more strangely shaped than that of any other century; and you and yours have thought a he- an awful lot more about these things than I ever bothered to. Bradwardine shook his head weakly and fell back on a more absolute tenet, less speculative, less raw. Angels must once have possessed the capacity for free will, for one single act of it, to fall or to stay; otherwise we must suppose that God created Lucifer and the rebels evil, and God would create nothing evil.

The other man strolled back toward the bed, hips swaying casually, with a grin to match. See, problem, right there. His hands spread in an easy gesture, as if none of this mattered a whit. In your model theres nowhere to go but down. Choosing means falling. Some would say so. But a man can ascend by his choices. And if an angel can make more than one choice, then no single choice can be absolute and eternal. He must be able to change back and forth, to make one decision and follow it with another, to rise or fall a little from day to day as a human does. His hand crept over the bedspread and wrapped itself, finger by stiffened finger, around the hand of something more than human. If men can fall, it follows that angels can rise. The spirit looked at Bradwardines hand with a furrow between his eyebrows, like something unaccountable. But is he then an angel? If he learns to choose? His face was non-committal and almost insouciant, but his voice barely hid something eager and flinching underneath. Can he ever be an angel again? Or even a man? The archbishops voice snagged on a stifled cough, and on old regrets. We cannot reenter the Garden of Life, of Innocence. Nothing that partakes of time can return to childhood, or childhood would cease to exist and time itself would be negated. Sweatstreaked hair clung to the pillow beneath his head as he turned it to fix his eyes on the little wooden icon of Christs passion set above his bed. Just out of reach. But to become such a man as might attain to Paradise that is greater than innocence. Paradise is set higher than Eden. The strangers mouth curled into something soft and a little puzzled. You know, moun sieur, you remind me of a man I know. Never stops asking why and how. Never stops pushing, even when hes sweating his life out in bloody hallucinations, or the world is coming down around his ears. Had my work cut out keeping his ass out of trouble. He tipped his head to one side, regarding the bishops profile with a grudging half-smirk. Humans, I swear. Most unfathomable things in Creation. The archbishop smiled. He made us in His image, and he gave us free will. It is perhaps the most mysterious and strange of his gifts. Flat and straight-out: Do you think an angel could change? Perhaps he could learn to. But only, I think, with difficulty, and not not while he lives in Gods light. Bradwardine lifted his eyes, begging in his turn in the very little time left to him. Tell me, domine. Is this pestilence Gods work? Is it his will? The strangers eyes flinched and slid away from the directness of the plea, and his fingers skittered an erratic rhythm against his belt. I dont know. He doesnt tell us much of anything. He took in a breath, then let it out and took another one instead, softer. All we have is faith. Same as you. Angels who doubted. A Father as far from them as they were from humanity. The universe was far, far larger than it had been two hours before. Perhaps that was comforting.

Or perhaps it was terrifying. But a lifetime of delving into its secrets was not one embarked upon by a man who wanted only its easy reassurances. Strong fingers curled around Bradwardines hand, returning its feeble grip. The spirit the angel, the man looked at him with eyes that shone sharp, and honest, and a little scared. I cannot cure you. But I can take the pain for a while. Thomas Bradwardine laughed a little, though it caught in his throat and turned into something rotten and pained. A leper stinks, and he burns away his fellow creatures years in Purgatory through his suffering. Perhaps this will do the same. Certainly there is something more than natural in it. My time is nearly done. The angel leaned forward. The sunlight behind him danced and dappled through the dust motes in the air, spreading up over the walls like the light on the grass of an apple orchard, colouring his hair with the rich golden depths of honey. It grew rich and fuller than before, arching into the shifting, winking shape of wings, shaped to a sharp peak like the vaulted roof of the Cathedral, soft like a mothers voice at night, silhouetting him with the absence of shadows. An illusion, perhaps, but a comforting one. He spoke, not in the Latin of church and law, or the French of business and baronage, but in the language of Thomas childhood, a deep soft rumble like a reluctant memory. Shrive thiselve unto me.* Isidore of Seville says that angels are said to have wings only as a sign of the swiftness of their ministry. The angels mouth twitched. Yeah, well, Isidore of Seville also says that the donkey is called asinus because it likes to sit down all the time for no reason at all, so Ill pass. It was the strangest confession of Thomas life. Lying on his back in his own bed, his voice scraping and halting, speaking to a man whose voice had none of the formal cadences and intonations, whose words were nothing conventional and easily known, who was not (properly speaking) ordained, who peppered his Latin with irreverent French and English, and who seemed almost afraid of the role for which he had volunteered. And yet, there was something in it, and in the imminence of his own end, that made many things that had been so important three days before (before the fever had gripped his body) seem as if they were worth so little; and so many things, so many regrets and questions and raw, bone-deep fears, that the face and voice of this creature dragged into the light and laid open before him. And there was love, and a sharp, sarcastic warmth that he would never have expected from a creature of the Lord, but which, in the end, let him believe himself forgiven. Even as his bodily strength failed him and his voice faded, he felt his courage creeping back.
* Confess thyself unto me. According to Isidores Etymologies, this comes from a sedens (sedens = sitting) - despite the fact its not a likely change of consonants, and that there are cognates for asinus in many other ancient languages, including Greek and Hebrew. This is one of the many occasions on which Isidore is talking out of his... well, his donkey.

Dormi, fili mei.* The angel leaned forward, eyes gleaming soft and wondering in the deepening light of the days end, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. His voice was a whisper of breath against hot, damp skin. Slep wel faste, and dred thee nouth thy doutes. The aungeles douten also. He ys ful wis that couthe ben aknawen of them. Thomas Bradwardine slept.

* Sleep, my son. Sleep fast, and do not be afraid of your doubts. Angels have doubts too. He is very wise who knows how to admit to them.

(In)finite. Parts of Castiels thought processes in this chapter were, I think, inspired by Parallel Monsoons own beautiful season 5 fix-it, The Hawk Must Fly.

Present day.
there was a noise little Blips of mauve over and, over never stopping, which had always been there as soon as he noticed, it poking at the ears. the mouth tasted, of bile and Dead water something touching whisperingclinging to the body Mouthing soft and itchy at kneesbackPaintoeschest (words he remembered. concepts he knew but too familiarclose now to be understood meaning, something scratchy-different), The smell was noisy and lemonsharp too many people smothered in. deletion and hygiene, air that had been Breathed through too many lungs without seeing the sun but, he could not sense, the people, there was Nothing to touch or know When the. eyes opened the Light was. like a shout; white and white-green polite blue clamouring in sudden Pain to the back of the head, so he closed them again and did not reopen them for some time, he did not know, because he had Always known precisely when he was and now time was passing in a way that he could not feel, humans Sliced it into Seconds and minutes and years and learned to feel its passing in the beat. of their own bodies but The body clamoured too, shouted feelings at him, from all sides, signals he didnt know. tansharpredvermillionSicklyyellowbrown and, he could not see it clear. hospital. sluggishbrownugly pain in the chest, wrong and Nasty, but weak, yielding to human antiseptics. deeperthumpingaching Pain in the back, a lawnmower growling at him. a Voice, soft and pale bluesparked with surprise that smelt like Cinnamon, distantly Caring, asking him things in a modern human language. Jimmy was gone, hollow and cold where he had been warmBitterdoggedvast inside. and there was an aching Emptiness where his Wings should be unconsciousness dragged at him, terrifying, promising a cessation of thought.

---

Castiel knew the sins, the great and pure and deadly seven, absolute and powerful and uncomplicatedly monochrome. They were basic impulses, to which everything was prey, angels and demons and humans and monsters, even many of the more complex social animals. He found it harder to understand the more human feelings, complicated mixtures of impulses, desires, self-corrections, self-conceptions, physical sensations, socially imposed constraints, and resentments of any of the other elements. Drifting back and forth between

heavy black unconsciousness and the high-pitched inescapable whine of overconsciousness without choosing to do so, he tried to retreat into himself, to categorise these thoughts and feelings that were sudden and unavoidable and clamoured for his body and mind. Castiel had always been accomplished at study, and so he studied them, to keep them from becoming him.

Irritation, of the body and consequently of the mind. The feel of the sheets against
skin would not go away when he turned his attention from feeling it. It stayed there, wouldnt fade even if he wanted it to, reached out and reminded him of its presence at inappropriate moments. He had never before had to seek a comfortable position in which to stand or sit or lie (if youre going to hang around all night, Cas, at least get horizontal), and now he could not; and after a few minutes or a few hours some part of the body would begin complaining at him about being chafed, or squashed, or constricted, and he would have to move again. There was a very physical pain in the damaged lower back, and an illusory pain in the back and shoulders where he couldnt feel his wings. Which he was doing his best not to think about. When they removed some of the bags attached to the body, he had to compel himself to eat and learn to void its bowels and bladder like a human. It took him two minutes to understand the nurses explanation because his head was muzzy and she didnt use any of the terms he was accustomed to hearing from Dean for such activities. And the skin was strange, the peculiar push and give of it, different from one place to another. His skin. All his now. He would have to accustom himself to using possessive pronouns to think of the body (his body?). He disliked eating. It felt like compulsion. (Is there anyone we can call? No. Next of kin? Family? Friends? No. At the nurses patient impatience, he tried to explain further, his tongue sluggish and droning in his mouth: I left my family. Well, lets try calling them they might surprise you. My family would kill me. Oh, Im sure its not as bad as She looked at Castiel properly, and for some reason she faltered. Sir? Patiently, Castiel repeated, I have no family. Friends, then? He turned the face (his face) to look at the window. No.) They gave him drugs, which made the world shaggy and distant.

Boredom. The walls made his vision finite. He could see nothing that was not in the
room with him, or framed in the little sliver of daylight outside the window, and the

darkness of night restricted the eyes as well. He could not fly to another country, another city, to the depths of the Indian ocean, because he was crippled, maybe broken, and even had that not been true what was there for him to seek? He could not stand and move, because the doctors had told him not to do so, and the back hurt. He remembered that humans would read to pass the time, and asked for a book, but was told that he ought not read until they were sure there was no residual damage to the brain. He told them that there was not, but they only smiled and said that they could not be sure of it yet. Once, he begged a newspaper from somebody elses visitor, and read it with careful attention from front to back, then back to front; but it told him nothing of Michael or Lucifer, or whether Dean had said yes, or who was dead. There were only the same disasters and portents as had been seen since Lucifers rising; and then the nurse took the paper away. He had thought his patience great when he had had only the Winchesters for comparison (and they would have tried even the patience of Yrihel, before she had fallen); but after only four days of consciousness and constraint, he began to wish to do anything else, to move, to read, to see, to look into the soul of the nurse and lose himself in the thoughts of another living being, because his own ran around and around on the same paths and wore them deeper and rawer at every turn. He was not made for inaction; especially at the crisis. (Mr Novak, sir. How are you feeling today? I am not Mr Novak.

I am. What a strange combination of pronoun and finite verb; what an infinite
concept. Really? Because youre the spirit and image of the photographs on his MPB. Jimmy Novak is dead. Just as you like, sir; but youre fit to be discharged, and we are short on beds. Should I call your wife, or the police? When he looked into the nurses eyes he saw nothing but sclera, cornea, iris, pupil: the edges of frail, changing flesh. He could not look at her and know her, know through her a little of all the other patients on her round, her family, her friends, the woman whose elbow she might have jogged on the bus on the way to work, all the thousands of tiny droplets in the web humans spun about them. She looked like the shell of a person. It made it strangely difficult to keep patience with her persistence. No. Jimmy left Amelia for Dean. Alright, sir. The nurses voice became shorter, snipped off at the ends. Disapproval, for something Castiel could not recognise and was too tired to deduce. Can I call this Dean, then? I am useless to him.)

Gratitude. Not the thanksgiving or rejoicing of a son before an infinite Father; nor the
shared thanks of one strong warrior to a strong friend, with whom favours and gifts might

be freely exchanged and no tally kept (sometimes Dean had looked at him and thanked him and meant it); but the abject relief of helplessness before charity, thanking the nurse for a glass of water sincere and deep, tinged by just a thread of resentment at the creation of an unpayable debt, at the confirmation of dependence. It was disconcerting, to be reminded of his own diminished size. Trying to swallow the annoyance that came with it, which was also born of the body and the harshbright scratch of the sheets against the bug bite on the his ankle. (Did Dean hurt you? Turning and driving away from where Castiel lay hung over and damaged. Crude, hard words, designed to distance, to leech the meaning from every memory. Deans eyes, hard and hopeless, as his bloodied hand slammed into a sigil painted on cold iron. Torn away from him and from Earth, back into the arms of his startled and furious brethren. Fleeing. Raking tears in his wings, in his grace, grace already carved deep with wanhope and the names of the angels he had slaughtered. Castiel breathed deeply, with lungs that needed it. Yes. He hurt me. He made me his. He scored me and broke me. And yet, I am here.)

Shame. He had not felt the moment when Jimmy had departed. He should have
done. He should have held him and comforted him and soothed him into the light. He should have apologised, for not understanding. For failing. For being hurt, for allowing it, for causing it to happen. For the emptiness at Castiels shoulders. (The drugs dulled all the other things: the sensations, the thoughts, the feelings, the boredom. Castiel thought they could be seductive. He had never hidden from pain before. He wasnt sure whether he liked it or not.)

Loneliness. That was easier to recognise, because it was not new. It was only more absolute now, more grinding. And he felt it in different angles. The ache of staring at walls and knowing that no one would come. The hum of envy at the murmur of family voices down the corridor. The unexpected desire not only for companionship, but for the little human tokens of it: the clap of a hand on a shoulder, the echo of warm purple-red laughter and eyes sparkling as they crinkled, an off-hand insult or just drink the damn beer, Cas. And in it, the swirling edges of anger and deep, aching confusion: Dean had absented himself, had chosen that, as had his Father long ago, as had (he now began to realise) so many other angels, each in their own way. Michael, Remahil, Zachariah, Uriel, HanaelAnna, Beatrice, Gabriel-the-Trickster, Balthazar, Raphael, Chamael, Yrihel, burying themselves in pride or imagined orders or forgetfulness or bitterness or humanity or war, forgetting family. And self-doubt, that was very human: what did I do wrong, did I drive them all away or at least away from me. He recognised that, had seen it often enough in the Winchesters and other humans, knew it was not logical and yet found that he could not

dismiss it. It was perplexing. And frustration, that he could not call a halt to the vicious little scratchings of the same thoughts, over and over, and the bodys back hurt. (Wanting had been unfamiliar once, too, anything beyond the joyous drive to obey. Wanting for himself was newer again, and it was a thought that, in its terrifying magnitude, he did his best not to touch. But the things that Castiel wanted (burned for, cried out for), he was not entitled to want; save only for the face of his Father, but that desire he must burn out of himself now, for other reasons.) (Mr Novak, sir. Was it this Dean who cut your chest? No. His brother. The drugs were strong in his head, but he felt that he needed to reassure her somehow, because she had been kind. I asked him to do it.)

Dean. He still didnt know how to name whatever he felt there. Dean wove through
everything, came up in every other entry in his mental catalogue, tangled things together. Like trying to decide where the Mediterranean became the Atlantic when they were both stirred up by a tempest. He had patched him up with his own grace, could feel Dean drawing him in like the magnetic pole, longed to have and to hold in ways that he could not allow himself to think and barely understood. And even had he been free to do so he could not act on it, because he knew that Dean was drawn to him the same way, by the threads of grace that had held his soul together until it repaired itself. That was not human, and so it was not fair.

---

(Its natural and common to be anxious about unconsciousness after emerging from a coma, sir; but dont worry about it, its only sleep. He had realised quickly that he had no power anymore over which he might lose control when his mind ceased to be aware of itself, but he could not learn to like it.) Sleep was murky, a world of shifting reality and impressions and helplessness, of emotions that were stronger than the stimulus justified. He shed his first human tears without knowing it, waking up with damp cheeks from something he couldnt even remember. He heard voices in sleep, saw familiar faces, was tugged this way and that by things he could not control. So when he first heard his name whispered between the nebulous bluegold brushstrokes of grass, he thought it was only that. Castiel. It tugged him, turned him around gently and called, but it did not compel. He followed it, because it felt warm, and because it let him choose. The grass closed over his

head, or perhaps he was at the bottom of a dark pool looking up through ripples at the fractured light above. Cas? Castiel? It was a voice he knew, and it was puzzled. Are you there? Impressions folded over impressions, and he thought for a moment that he recognised another lost brother reaching for him, all strength and fierce protective love and dark fury and stubborn will and gentle sceptical humour, vanished some few human generations ago when their world had turned sour and violent. But, no: a more recent friend, who tasted almost the same but who lived a very different meaning to the word brother. Their names tangled under his stumbling tongue. Samuel. Cas, hey. Relief and laughter drifted past him, curled around his hand. I cant believe it worked. Castiel reached out through dark silver murmurings. Where are you? Eskdale, Utah. Can you get here? Are you okay? I cant actually see you. His voice was quick and warm and delighted, friendly, as if just to be talking to Castiel made him genuinely pleased, as if Castiel was not an invalid. Not a dream. Castiel tried to hear-taste the nature of this line of communication. The connection is tenuous. A huff of chagrin. I think thats my fault. I took too long getting to sleep the rosemary ash is probably cold by now. Ah. That ritual. Castiel cast about and felt where the weakness lay, harsh and applegreen in his throat. No, you have done nothing wrong. It is that the ritual only summons an angel. A moment, as Sam worked it out. Then, Shit, Cas, youre not , horror and sympathy like a lash. Are you okay? Something that was not the infected cuts ached in Castiels chest. He set it aside, because it served no purpose. No. I am in a hospital. Somewhere near Delacroix, I believe. Okay. A quick breath, then another, deliberately slower. Okay. So your body, then, youre physically hurt? I am told that the doctors thought me brain-dead until I woke, and that there is soft tissue damage and a minor hairline fracture in Ji- in my lower back. Something was nibbling, a feeling that he had categorised the previous day as ashamed, with a little of embarrassed, mixed with self-reflective chagrin at both. It made him want to lighten the rough worried orange in Sams voice. He let his voice deepen with the confusion that sometimes made them laugh. And I have a bug bite that itches no matter how much I scratch it.

There was no laughter, only a worried rumble of water around him, and Sams words coming out gentler than they should have been. Im guessing you cant snap yourself back into shape, then, or fly over here. Castiel thought of the tiny, immovable sliver of sky that he could see through the window in his room. He searched for a metaphor that would be comprehensible to the Winchesters, that would convey his inutility, without touching on points of which he was unsure. You could say my batteries are drained. Silence, for a moment, only breathing. Then, firm and strong, Its okay, Cas. Well work with it. We. Castiels eyes stung. Gratitude. Gratitude without the sour taste of abjection. Gratitude to Sam for provoking the gratitude of strength, not weakness, and human emotions were strange and self-reflective creatures. Thank you, Sam. It came out rougher than he meant. Youve got a phone in your room or something? I believe there is a telephone beside the bed, yes. You need anything before we get there, Cas, anything at all, then you pick that phone up and call, you hear me? Castiel recognised that tone. It was the one Sam used on Dean, when he had been driving for more than twenty hours without a break. Even if you just need to complain about that bug bite. The shadows shifted, lancing slowly down around him like old clouds, pensive and blue-grey and lumpy. Castiel watched them for a minute, silent, although he could feel the strength of the ritual fading. When his voice was his own to command, he used it to say something he had not expected to say, although it had been heavy in his mouth since he had heard Sams voice. He didnt say yes. Gentler, with a faint snag of exasperation. Maybe a little affection. No, Cas. No, he didnt. The muddy brown grass swayed in no particular direction. Sam had insisted on taking Dean to Van Nuys, with pain but no doubt in his eyes. You have great faith in him. I do. Sam cleared his throat, and spoke a bit of a smile, a shadow of awkwardness. Thought you did too, for a while there. That was not fair to him. He is only a man. But there was something wrong with that sentiment, something he couldnt quite tease out. The silence was weighted. He could taste

the flickering orange speed of Sams thoughts. There were many things he could say, should say. He settled on one, non-committal but laced with heavy velvet-purple regret. I believe I owe him an apology. Sam pushed, gentle but insistent, reaching out to draw him closer, straining the capacity of the shaky connection that the ritual could afford. How are you doing, man? Really? For a moment Castiel could feel him, the warm weight of fingers curling around his shoulder, solid and companionable. Castiel abruptly wished, something in him spilling over that had too many parts to it for him to name. The hand brushed over an aching absence behind his shoulder, just as Sam pushed too far and the dream dissolved into the brittle hues of coral.

---

Wanhope. For a few centuries, not so long ago as he had measured time once,
wanhope had been a sin more severely looked upon than any of the Seven. It had been the ultimate betrayal of God. A lack of hope, a final failure to believe that He could intervene: could, in his omnipotence, repair the world. Castiel remembered Gabriels joy and his delight, long ago, so old and so strong. He remembered the emptiness and the centuries of sorrow in the eyes that his brother had lifted to the artificial rain. He remembered Raphaels once-gentle hands tearing him apart, and his vessels deep voice declaring their father long dead. He even remembered the unquenchable ferocity with which Dean had argued for the world, once. Wanhope was not new to Castiel, only the confession of it in his own mind. Failure and abandonment and doubt had broken his faith to pale dust. And yet. There was an infinity inside humanity, inside every human. Heaven was strong and bright and simple. Earth, humans earth, was messy and full of the strangest impossible details. Castiel could not see beyond the flesh now, but he remembered looking, really looking, and seeing something deep and vast in a way so many of his brothers could never comprehend. Most angels, he knew, saw only the size and power of an angel and compared it to the tiny frame of the human body, not glimpsing the depths his Father had folded invisibly within it. Not the simplest of humans could be predicted in all things. They were and remained a mystery, even to themselves. Despite their unquenchable curiosity about themselves, humans spent so much time never glimpsing anything of the people about them. They had to reach out with words and hands and eyes, awkward and slow and often faulty in their communication. As did Castiel, now. And yet, and yet every connection made, every moment shared, seemed to mean more for its difficulty, coloured deep and mysterious with the weight of the human soul. Castiels faith was not worth the name anymore, but there was something hot like bronze burning there instead.

Jokerman.
Sam woke to a pounding headache and the sensation of being loomed over. The brazier had gone out. The only light was coming in through the window, and silhouetted against that was the silent shape of Dean. He was sitting on the only bed in the room, face invisible, hands between his knees.

Crap. Sam should have known hed see through that whole the motels only got two
single rooms left thing. So. Archangels huh, Sammy? Sam groaned and let his head fall back against the worn wooden floor. It hurt already, so what the hell. He already knew how well the I didnt want to tell you in case you got your hopes up talk was going to go. You heard that, then. Deans voice was oddly muted, without a trace of the accusation and hurt Sam was expecting. Dude, you were full-on sleep-talking. He paused, then swallowed audibly. He gonna be okay? Oh. Hed heard that. Sams sluggish brain caught up and he rolled to his feet in one movement, reaching for the lamp by the bed. Dean was sitting with his shoulders slumped, white-faced, his eyes wide and full and fixed on Sam. Sam hastily replayed the conversation with Castiel in his head, trying to work out what impression Dean would have got from hearing only Sams side. Not much detail, but probably nothing good, at least from the look on Deans face. He tried to pitch his voice to reassuring, but there wasnt really any way to soften it. Sounds like hes human, or as good as. And pretty knocked about. Dean closed his eyes, let out a hissed breath, and dragged a hand down over his face. Cas, you stupid stubborn bastard. There was something too raw and private in that for Sam to handle, something that echoed right back into the little catch and drag in Castiels quiet voice when he had spoken of Dean. So Sam opted for business, crossing over to where his laptop sat on the tiny table against one wall and calling it out of standby mode. He said he was in a hospital somewhere near Delacroix. Delacroix, Louisiana? Cant think of any other. The browser popped up under Sams fingers, and he clicked on his Google maps bookmark. The hells he doing there? The incredulous mutter was half-hearted, but there was an edge to it, as if Dean wasnt sure whether to go for accusation, relief, or panic. Sam reached for the comfort of the normal, as if Dean were just being an ass over any old case, and let exasperation and mild

sarcasm creep into his voice. I dont know, Dean. Guess that banishing sigil doesnt just throw them down the street. A road by the name of Delacroix somewhere in Nevada, three others of various colours in California, but the only town Yes. Louisiana. Another search term, and a satisfying cluster of red flags sprang up nearby. All the nearest hospitals are in New Orleans. Okay then. The bedsprings creaked as Dean stood up. Then he punched Sam lightly on the shoulder, all casual brotherly jerkhood that Sam was willing to pretend wasnt bravado. Beddie-byes, Sammykin. Were heading south tomorrow, and youre driving. Sam ducked and pulled a face at him, relieved and grateful, letting the implicit thanks for finding my lost not-really-a-boyfriend truce offer stand. Besides, the way Deans hands were trembling, he wasnt going to get to sleep any time soon. Youre such an ass. Dean waved a hand airily and pulled up the chair to settle in at the computer. Bitch, you love me. Sam snorted, and rubbed his forehead (seriously, it felt like he had pulled a muscle in his brain at the end there). But he hovered for a moment, as Dean started to pull up the websites of every hospital in the greater New Orleans area. He had asked Bobby to look into the archangels whose names Lucifer had mentioned, just in case. And since Dean had overheard the tail-end of that conversation, it had only made sense to incorporate them into his hasty cover story. But even as hed bullshitted, hed sort of convinced himself. With Castiel onside, they might even be able to swing it. Assuming any of them were still alive. Sam knocked his hip against Deans shoulder. I meant it about the archangels, though. Deans voice was still a little rough, but it sounded firm. Good. Because that was a freaking awesome idea. If we can get an archangel in our corner we might just be able to do this thing. Before Sam fell asleep, he whispered a few words of thanks to another archangel. It was pretty much a guarantee that he was listening, after all.

---

When Sam got up at five, Dean was slumped forward over the table with his head pillowed on his arms. Beside him, on motel paper, was a list of hospitals in New Orleans, all but three crossed out. By each of these, Dean had scrawled a date in the last three weeks and a single word: amnesia, semi-comatose, and brain-dead. Admissions with identity unknown. Sam circled the last one.

Then he touched the trackpad to dismiss the screensaver, and frowned. There were three yellow notes on the screen, in that obnoxiously cheerful and irritatingly familiar font: no dinosaurs in 5C mexico. you kids know that bad sleeping pattenrs stunt ur growth, right? Baby, im enormous where it counts. and, more worryingly, whats in new orleans? Sam alt-tabbed to check Deans last Google queries. Castiel was vulnerable just now. And both sides would be glad to get their hands on him. & yet still teh bigger man Then: just a case Okay. So Dean wasnt just trusting it, fine. Sam still didnt get how he didnt find it creepy as all hell. He went out to grab coffee and breakfast, sending Bobby a text on the way. SW: P a bust. Heading to louisiana think weve found C.

---

Dean was in a mood all day, alternating between wound up tight jiggling and fiddling, and dozing in a boneless sprawl in the passenger seat. It was the most hed slept in weeks. Sam let him choose the music, even though he wasnt driving. Some time in the mid afternoon, when the needle hovered a little above empty, they pulled over to refuel, and Sam managed to talk Dean into sitting down in a diner to eat instead of getting takeaway. Even though he hadnt been connected to the internet since that morning, a note had popped up in the interim. 1820 egypt, sum1 shd tell MA swapping ur own trained troops for conqured slaves = fail. ur species v. strange. Okay, now it wasnt even trying. It could have got that straight out of Wikipedia.

As they ate, Sam flicked through websites on Azrael. Bobby was right there was a hell of a lot on him, but most of it was pop-culture fantasy apocrypha. And that one passing reference in one of Pratchetts books hadnt helped. The angel of death epithet Sam mostly dismissed Lucifer had named him as an archangel, so he was hardly going to be a horseman as well. The few pages that looked potentially useful Sam left open, to read in the car. Dean had had long enough in the passenger seat. Dean was restless. He was barely noticing his burger, preferred shredding his napkin over flirting with the waitress, and, horror of horrors, didnt object when Sam stole one of his fries. After fifteen minutes Sam took pity on him and tossed his phone across the table with a Seriously, just ring the damn hospital already. Dean left without finishing his food. Sam eyed the browser challengingly. He had a feeling that there was something important he was missing, just on the brink of understanding. His fingers twitched. He opened a new tab. A new search term. azrael pestilence Yes, that felt right. Huh. Of course, it was right at that moment, before he could hit return, that another yellow note popped up with its ridiculously cheerful font. she preferred Sariel. just fyi. Sam glared at it as the moment of almost-comprehension scattered. He swallowed down the urge to snap back with what do you know about it?, or stay the hell away from my computer, I do very important and private thinking on it. Because, honestly, after all the things in his life that had wanted to get into his body, his blood stream, his mind, his soul, a little computer possession shouldnt even ding on the violation radar. It just felt creepy. But. If it could help He gritted his teeth and opened an umpteenth tab. preferred? is she dead? It worked, just like Dean had said. Only a few seconds, and another note popped up. word is she went down in 1666. 1666.

Sam blinked slowly. Annus mirabilis. The Year of Wonders. The Great Fire of London. The last great wave of the Black Death. The last of the sightings of Pestilence, according to the blog that this thing had linked Dean to. Also, his brain added, meticulous and unhelpful, one of the Anglo-Dutch wars, and Sir Isaac Newton splitting sunlight with a prism. Yeah, probably not so much with those ones. He stared at his Google query, the cursor still blinking, waiting for him to hit return. Hed known that. How had he known that? Another note popped up, with an obnoxious visual DING! effect (and where had Sam seen that font before?). come on, honeybuns. You do the math. Quick and curt, Sam rapped out, Why are you helping? cant i just be a sweet thoughtful guy? No. Really, no. Not in their lives. And not this thing. It was too seductive. It was too easy to fall into a familiar pattern of smart-assed replies. That was what made it suspicious, over and beyond the whole supernatural computer hitchhiking gig: whatever it was, it was way too good at mimicking the style of his and Deans habitual banter, provoking them to respond in kind. Like it was trying to set them at their ease. The door jangled. Dean came back in with a stupid little grin on his face. Hes there. Sam couldnt help the grin that spread over his face in return. Yeah? Did you speak to him? Dean shook his head, sliding smug and comfortable into the chair opposite Sam. But get this. My uncle, dark hair, blue eyes, five-eleven, last seen three weeks back wearing a beige trench coat and a ratty suit way too big for him? Brought in there unconscious same day, and matched up last week with the MPB for Jimmy Novak. He sat back in his chair, grinning a little too broadly. Guess your dreams are good for something, hey Sammy? Sam just raised his eyebrows, provokingly casual. Should have asked to be put through to his room. Then you could have told him wed be there tomorrow. Deans cocky expression froze for just a moment, then slid back into place with a shrug. Couldnt. They were asking for my name and number. I had to fake a dropped line. At Sams unimpressed face, he protested, Hey, if theyve got Jimmys name they can probably check out his nephews and blow my story. And then thered be talking to the police, and investigations into how he ended up in hospital, and where hed been, and why

I said hed been missing three weeks if Jimmys wife put out the MPB back when he said yes to Cas. Way better just to stroll in there tomorrow, grab him, and vanish before they figure it doesnt check out. Sure. And you worked all that out on the spur of the moment. Dean spread his hands wide with his old shit-eating grin. What can I say. Im a clever guy. He stole Sams ketchup packet and squeezed it over his fries. Sam smirked. Course you are, Dean. Then he picked up his cup, just so he could cough Coward behind it. Dean shot him a glare that promised surprise vengeance by superglue at some point in Sams future. Yeah, they were good. They werent perfect, but when were they ever?

---

Bobby rang, not long after theyd pulled off the road to catch a few hours rest somewhere past the New Mexico / Texas border. His greeting was, Either of you two chuckleheads know whod be sending Sam a delivery van full of mediaeval books, c/o yours truly? Sam blinked at the phone in his hand. Thats a new one. What are the books? He could hear Bobbys eyeroll. Theyre older than the printing press, genius. They dont have a title and publishers imprint stamped on their spines. And it wasnt exactly unusual to bind a whole bunch of manuscripts together in one volume, to save time and beefskin. Id have to go through and read them all cover to cover to find out, and Im hardly about to do that until I know who or what sent them. Okay, is there a note or something? Yeah, but it dont make a lick of sense. Sounds like a time-traveller. A time-traveller. Sending us info. Sam swivelled around in the passenger seat and met Deans sharp gaze as he lifted his head from the pillow of his folded coat in the back. He switched to speakerphone. Bobby, these books do they look genuine? I mean, looking at them, would you buy that this guy is for real? Bobby grunted. Bound about right for the period. All the periods some of these have to be from before the Normans hit England. And they look about five hundred years younger than Id expect, so yeah, Im going with genuine here. You thinking angel?

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel the headache coming back. Could you just read me the note? Bobby cleared his throat. So old Harry really did a number on Englands libraries. Also kind of a germ freak. You know, for the sixteenth century. Saw him yesterday having a hissy fit over hygiene standards in the palace kitchens. Seems to think kitchen boys should actually wear clothes, and only piss in the fireplaces that dont actually have food in them. Dean snorted. Oh, and, books. Guaranteed pre-Anglican. Told you post-Dissolution collectors useless. John ap Rhys very bribable. Singer, theyre delicate, please restrain your paranoia re. curses or traps or whatever. Call your pet trench coat if you must check. Go wild, guys! Sam breathed out through his nose, slow and deliberate, then tossed the phone onto the coin tray. Okay, thats it. Dean grabbed the laptop from Sams bag and passed it over the seat to him. Sam booted it up and jammed the charger into the cigarette lighter, leaving Dean to lean over on one elbow towards the phone and say, Think we know whats doing it, Bobby. Call you back, okay? Bobbys voice vibrated beside him. Sam? If this checks out, you better give me this angels number. Dean thanked Bobby and hung up, then leaned back on his elbows to watch between the seats. You wanna fill me in on the start of that? Sam glowered at the Windows-is-resuming screen. You heard it. That freaking computer monster just sent Bobby a truckload of books that he says are from preDissolution England. Yeah, Cliff notes for the ones who actually got laid in high school? The Dissolution, Dean. In the 1530s. Henry VIII was short on cash and pissed at the Pope, so he shut down all the monasteries and auctioned off everything they had to private owners. Which meant tons of books ended up lost or destroyed, especially the really superstitiously Catholic ones. Logon screen. Username, password. Or, you know, the ones that people decided were heretical for other reasons. Deans voice hardened as he zeroed in on the obvious. Occult lore and monsters. Exactly. The browser opened. No internet connection, but Sam suspected that didnt really matter at this point. whoever you are, give me a name before i just go and buy a new laptop and tell bobby to burn those books Sam hit return. I want to know what the hell this guys game is. Dean smirked. Knows Bobbys weak spot, whoever it is. Not just Bobby, Dean. Sams fingers drummed out an erratic rhythm on the dash. Nothing on the screen yet. It knows exactly how to bait us. Because we cant afford to pass this up if theres even a chance. That doesnt strike you as suspicious?

Before Dean could answer, Sams cell chirped. And Sam groaned. Because of course: it was synched to his computer. One new message. 1001101101: ur phone too? The number wasnt withheld, but it was far too long to be real, a string of a few dozen 0s and 1s that shifted and swapped places on the screen as if the phone wasnt quite sure what to do with them. Sam stared at it for a moment, then pressed the call button for the hell of it. The phone just made its are you kidding me? dial tone. Fine. Reply by text. 1001101101: Name. Apparently that got through. Ten seconds later, the phone beeped again. 1001101101: dont have one Sam narrowed his eyes at it. 1001101101: Bullshit. 1001101101: trufax. That one was followed by a cheery little smiley face that made Sam want to stab it with a stick. He saying anything interesting? Sam was too busy glowering and thumbing in a reply, so Dean sat up and draped himself over the back of Sams seat to stickybeak. 1001101101: texting b to make himself a book bonfire now. That was, apparently, the right leverage, because the phone beeped again almost immediately. Threaten the books. Duly noted. 1001101101: whoa. Fine. A long silence. Then: 1001101101: they called me Gabriel. :P For a moment, Sam wasnt sure that the four words and the stupid emoticon werent dancing on the screen just like the 0s and 1s. The air seemed to have been punched out of his stomach. 1001101101: happy, guys? Behind his ear, Dean just breathed, Son of a bitch.

Sam fought the temptation to bury his head in his hands. Because he suddenly knew where hed seen the font before. Nowhere special, just a list of fun fonts. But he remembered now what it was called. Jokerman. Well, shit. Dean cackled suddenly, the smug bastard. Guess we should all have seen that one coming.

Kinsen ayen Kithinge.

kinsen [v] (Middle English): to wince, shy away, kick. ayen [prep] (Middle English): against. kithinge [n] (Middle English): guidance; recognition; friends / acquaintances.

It was Dean who ended up ringing Bobby back, while Sam had indignant conniptions over the sanctity of his phone or something. It had been twenty minutes of arguing, and Sam using his extra-reasonable voice that meant he was extra-pissed, and telling Dean how he wasnt taking this seriously enough. Which was a lie. Dean was taking it perfectly seriously. He just also thought it was kind of hilarious the way all Sams carefully tactical texts had kept getting longer and longer and more elaborate and logical, and his hair was all over his face because he kept huffing and pushing at it, and he still hadnt got any reply after the three in the first two minutes: 1001101101: herpexia, sam. zachariah w/a tire iron. 30 rabid squirrles. 1001101101: oh come on, wasnt exactly being subtle and, 1001101101: the whole death shtick didnt take :) hey, you guys know whats awesome? ancient roman fast food. will spill some 4 u! Because, seriously. How could that be anyone but Gabriel? If it hadnt been for the whole being dead thing they would have worked it out on day one. And it wasnt exactly as if they held the monopoly on suddenly not being dead anymore. Dean was pretty sure Sam was just holding out so he could keep being pissed. (Come on, man, youve gotta admit, it kind of does sound like him. We dont even know that he really died. Yeah, actually Dean, we do. Since when? Maybe Lucifer only de-angeled him, or something. Hes just yanking our chains again, like always. So it is him, then? Dean! Would you focus? Hey, Im not the one swinging around six ways from Sunday, princess.) Sam wouldnt even explain about the tyre iron and the squirrels. Bobby grunted. Gabriel, huh? The Impala creaked welcomingly as Dean relaxed back against her bonnet. Going by the way hes pulling Sams pigtails, Id say yes. He smirked around the phone at the squawk from inside the car. So are we trusting him, or what? Seem to recall you werent so happy with him last year. Dean shrugged. Sam thinks hes just screwing with us again.

Yeah? There was a clink of glass and the sound of liquid being poured at Bobbys end. And what do you think? Dean hesitated. Bobby relying on his opinions was still kind of weird, although it had been happening more often over the last year or so. Made sense here, really Bobby had only caught a glimpse of the Trickster four years back, definitely wouldnt be able to make a call on Gabriel. And Dean was pretty sure he himself had Gabriels number. Zachariahs eyes got all hard and petty and self-righteous when he was angry, but Gabriels went bright and full and ridiculously expressive. He felt things deeply, in a way Dean could relate to, and he did a pretty crappy job of hiding it. So once hed made up his mind to be in, hed be in. He wouldnt be able to keep himself out. He met Sams eyes through the windshield, and spoke more seriously. Guys a dick, but hes on our side. Not gonna bet you wont wake up with pink hair or something, but I think hes in it too far to back out now. Sam pulled a face, and stared unhappily at his phone. Bobby sounded less than convinced. Yeah? So why the backseat driving? Why not just pop on over to Pestilence and grab the ring himself? Which was actually a good point. Hed already thrown down and declared himself, which had to have sent up a hey, Gabriels alive! flag the size of Chernobyl, so why the subtlety now? Maybe he just doesnt want to get stabbed again. I guess if were still going with the rings thing it makes sense not to tip the big guy off. Bobby made a dubious grumbling noise. Ill crack the books. Soon as you pick up Cas you boys are driving your asses right back up here to help me, yhear? Got it, Bobby. And if I wake up being probed by aliens Im blaming you, boy. Alien probing, my fault. Check. He closed the phone and looked up Sam, who was looking kind of small and pissed and hurt, for some reason. Dean grinned at him brightly. Clearly he needed someone to point out the pretty damn obvious silver lining here. Lucky he had an awesome brother. Well, I dont know about you, but I think this calls for a drink. He grabbed two beers from the cooler in the trunk, handed one over, then clinked them together. Sams face changed to that special kind of tolerant expression reserved for mad people. To friends suddenly not being dead anymore. Hardly a- Dean cut him off with a you-will-enjoy-yourself glare and pointed the neck of his bottle at him. Because tense muscles and a crumpled forehead really didnt suit his baby brother. Two in twenty-four hours. Drink the damn beer, Sam.

Sam huffed. Fine. Fine! He unfolded himself from the passenger seat and came to perch on the hood with Dean. Then he obeyed, head tipped back and all that ridiculous hair flopping out of the way over his shoulders. The muscles bobbed rhythmically in the long column of his throat as he gulped down half the bottle at a go. Not being dead anymore. He eyed the bottle for a moment, then his eyes slid sideways to Dean with a soft little half-smile that made Deans heart jump. Yeah, I guess. Dean leaned back and sipped, rolling the cool familiar liquid around in his mouth, taking a moment just to enjoy that look on Sams face and that hed put it there. And hey. A whole truck of old books full of history stuff, and an archangel who could just hop back to the years they came from any time he liked? If that wasnt geek heaven, he didnt know what was. Time-travelling archangel as a study buddy, Sammy. Almost makes you believe someones watching up there after all, right? It wasnt until Sam blinked at him, mouth half-open and eyes considering, that Dean realised the implications of that. He took a hasty swig to cover up, and looked down at where his boot was scuffing the mud. Just kidding, man. Sam just took another swig and said nothing, staring at the floor with his face closed off in thought, the bottle swinging loosely from thumb and forefinger between his knees. --It felt weird, falling asleep without being shit-faced. He blamed his restlessness and the jitters in his stomach on that. Of course, it also didnt help that the faint glow of Sams cell and the soft, almost inaudible press of thumbs on its keys kept dragging him back to hover on the edge of wakefulness. It was hours later that he was woken properly by the beep of a received message. Dean grumbled and rolled over to bury his face in his jacket. Dude, enough. Sext the archangel in the morning. Sam sighed, all loud and annoyed and breathy. Really not sexting, Dean. I asked him why he didnt just drop by if he had info for us, and he asked why hed want to tie himself down to you two yahoos when he can go anywhere. Dean made a sleepy rude noise into the warm, familiar leather. Guys got a point. I wouldnt either. Go to sleep. There was silence for a while, then: Dean? If there is someone upstairs I dont think its whatever Cas and Gabriel and the rest knew as their father. Dean waggled his fingers blindly in Sams direction. No theology after two AM. New car rule.

--When they started driving again, Sams voice and face were perfectly normal as he tried to work out the best angle and time to enter downtown New Orleans to avoid peak hour. And he was almost breaking the zip on his laptop bag, jerking it like that. Dean threw a sock at him. We already knew the guys a jerk whos allergic to full disclosure, Sam. Just play nice and thank him for the damn books already. Fourteen hours to New Orleans. --There were so many little, everyday things Dean didnt know about Castiel, because he had never stuck around that long. Things hed known about Sam as long as he could remember. Whether he turned the pages of books from the top corner or the bottom corner. How he slept (on his back or his side?), how he breathed when he was dreaming (did angels dream?). What music hed choose for the Impala, if Dean let him. Dean thought that he might. Well. So long as it wasnt some weird modern-classical shit. His little brother dozed in the passenger seat beside him, fumbling into awareness occasionally to murmur a few words or send a text message to an archangel. Dean drove on through the early hours of the morning, and the gradual Apocalypse. Hed closed his mind so thoroughly, over the last three weeks, to the word Castiel. The thrumming resonance of the name; the deep scrape of his voice; the little confused half-frown, the warmth of his hands and the way they touched all delicate and remote and reverent (except when he was angry, and that was a very different thought); the strange stillness and the precise weight he could bring to a stare and a silence Dean had scrubbed them all from his memory, thrown up roadblocks on each of the many, many winding ways in his head that wanted to pull him in there to lose himself. Hed done it well: there had been very few cracks. Now they were gone. Just that little toast before theyd gone to sleep, an acknowledgement and a breath drawn in a moment of shuddering relief, and the blocks had dissolved into the ground like theyd never been there. Maybe theyd been dams instead, because Deans mind was flooded now, tingling and oversensitive. Everything he saw and thought shone with that name.

Castiel.

God, he was such a teenage girl. --There was a nervous rattle in the back passenger-side door, probably from where a demon had thrown Sam into it three days back. Dean had meant to fix that, but theyd hared off so fast after Sam did his weird ritual dream thing that he hadnt had the chance. Hed have to do it as soon as they stopped. Couldnt have Cas trying to grab some shut-eye against a rattly door. Especially if he had a bad back. Hell. An angel with a bad back. --They drove through a national park, all gentle slopes and the sharp tang of pine on the air. If they came back this way, they should stop in here for the night. Castiel had said once that he liked the smell of pine, with a faint line between his eyebrows, as if it were a perplexing and slightly shameful confession to make. --Sam changed his shirt on a long stretch of road in the middle of nowhere, like he always did when theyd gone all night in the car, long limbs and muscle tangling with plaid in practised contortions. Theyd have to get him clothes. Hed need a few changes of jeans and things, some shirts, a tough jacket or two, shoes that wouldnt fall apart now that he couldnt use his angel mojo to freeze-dry everything on him, and shit, what kind of underwear did Jimmy wear? Boxers or briefs? Would Cas just want to stick with whatever Jimmy had? If hed been wearing the same shirt all this time it made sense he would have been wearing the same pair of underpants, which was kind of creepy, even though it shouldnt be. Now Dean was thinking about Castiels underpants. How had that happened? An image of Castiel wearing jeans and clothes that actually fit slid treacherously into Deans head and made itself at home. No tie, maybe a soft blue shirt open at the neck, weirdly decadent. The sharp angle of his hips under denim, emphasised by the strong dark line of a belt. Maybe boots, firm around his ankles, giving his footsteps weight and sound, anchoring him to the ground and reality and the rules of human life.

Dean shifted uncomfortably in his chair and glanced at the clock for the third time in twenty minutes. Ten hours to New Orleans. --A hawk balanced on the air above the road, wings tilting and sliding through the little tugs and flutters of the wind. Castiel wouldnt be able to fly away. That moment in every argument, every uncomfortable silence, every time the conversation got awkward, or when all the essential information had been imparted, Dean, there is no reason for me to remain, and anyone else would settle down for all those essential non-essentials of everyday life, of friendship, of taking a freaking break that moment that was always suddenly soft heavy wings on the edge of hearing and a modest Cas-shaped hole in the conversation and the room. That moment. That wouldnt happen anymore. Castiel would have to stay and shoulder his way through, raw and messy, like all of them. Get his hands grubby. Dean wasnt sure whether he liked that thought or not. Beside him, Sam let out a soft breath, considering and dubious. He was staring at his phone and whatever that latest beep had brought him. Dean made an absent questioning noise. It would be good for Cas, though. Teach him a bit more about the world, about his body, about the way people worked. Kali, Sam said. He was already thumbing in a reply sceptical, probably, given his voice. Gabriel says Kali brought him back. Huh. Guess that old blood magic was good for something, then. Sam cut him a disapproving sideways look. Thats it? Dean shrugged. Theyd have to go easy on him. Hell of a culture shock, even after two years down here.

Beep.
Sam snorted, his involuntary half-muffled noise that meant he hadnt expected to be amused and was going to pretend it had never happened. What? Sam smirked. Trust me, you dont want to know. He shot back an answer, then started keying in another, more slowly. Great, now his little brother was making private jokes with a trickster.

Sams thumb hovered over send, then pressed down. So, he says hes kind of reduced. Apparently an Indian god cant really remake an archangel. Which is why he isnt just flying around like before. Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Except over to Dark Ages England to steal books. Apparently, Sam agreed drily, and typed something else. And the sixteenth century is hardly the Dark Ages, Dean.

Beep.
Sams mouth tugged down at the corners, all impatient. Now hes just being sarcastic. Poor little Sammy. Screw you. Which bits would they have to teach him? Which bits of humanity, like languages and history, would Castiel already know, and which bits would be completely incomprehensible to him because they werent important enough for the angel tourist guidebook? --Hed have to teach Castiel to shoot. Deans fingers curled tighter around the wheel as that image spun slowly in his head. Castiel holding a gun, that little frown of absolute focus on his face as he loaded it, something so fucking gorgeous and powerful about the curve of his fingers on the barrel, the strong steady line from the barrel right back up into his shoulder, but sliding and slick and wrong too, like a loose bright sick grin and a rattle of a pill bottle. That rattle in the door made it sound like it had the uneasy jitters. (Seven hours.) ---

Beep.
Seriously? Sams voice curled between amusement, incredulity, and a hefty dose of pissed-off. He says he gets motion sickness, Dean. Deans mouth curved of its own accord. Sounds like just deserts to me.

Beep.

Beep.
The trouble was, every time he thought of trying to talk to Castiel, all reasonable and gentle, it turned into see, I didnt do it, I shoved it right back in their faces, you should have trusted me in his head. Or sometimes, what the hell did you think you were doing to yourself, you suicidal idiot?.

Beep.
Sam shoved a hand through his hair and huffed. Again. Then his fingers flew, jabbing down hard enough on the keys that Dean could hear them over the rumble of the Impala under his thighs. Sounded like someone who wasnt Dean was getting the full force of Sams patented I-am-disappointed-in-you ranting. Yeah, better hope Gabriel was telling the truth about being down on juice. Or that he wouldnt want to really smite his brothers vessel. No beeps followed. Shit, did Jimmy have any food allergies? Itd probably be a bit tactless to ring his wife and ask. --Was Castiel still angry? Worse. Had he just stopped caring? He hadnt tried to call. Castiel would probably be pleased when he heard that Dean had put down Zachariah. The thought of that smarmy dick wasnt as satisfying as it should have been. It wormed its way into the bright little image of Castiel in a casual button-down, opened the neck of the shirt a little further and exposed soured, weeping cuts. The tight ugly lump of guilt in Deans stomach curdled. Okay, so it had been Sammy holding the knife. Castiel standing there all distant and unflinching and telling him what to do. But it had been Dean whod let Cas down. Dean was less sure of what Castiel would think about having Gabriel onside. But if anyone could tell them how far to trust him, itd be Castiel. Theyd have to find him a good solid long knife. Hed be best with that, at least at first. Maybe a machete. Or hell, they could even find him a proper sword. All warrior of God and vengeance. Itd look good on him. But Jimmy Novak probably didnt have the right muscles for a heavy blade of any kind. How much of Castiels own strength would he have left? Would he have to eat? And well, digest?

Was a little remote cloud-hopping voyeurism enough to teach an angel how to use the toilet? How to listen to the bodys grumblings and know when to start looking for a restroom along the road? how to work all the right muscles just enough when you got there? And what was up with Sam and Gabriel anyway? Usually it was only Dean who could push Sammys buttons like that. Maybe that whole eternal time-looped Tuesday thing had left a sore spot. (Five hours.) This mental countdown was getting really freaking annoying. Maybe they could wheedle Gabriel into hopping back to the Crusades and lifting a sword off some knight. Or Dean could remember what hed carefully hidden away in the trunk after Van Nuys. --It was just after half three in the afternoon (three and a half hours to go) when Crowley invited himself into the back seat of Deans sulphur-free baby. Sam had good reflexes. Dean hadnt even known hed had that knife on him. Deans own reflexes were all caught up with stopping the Impala without crashing her. Crowleys, apparently, were busy making him vanish. Though not far enough for comfort. Did you get him? A knock on Deans window. Fancy a fag and a chat? Sam was out and stalking around the car after Crowley before Dean had unbuckled his seatbelt. Demons should really know better than to pop in on his little brother when hed had a cagey archangel winding him up all day. Crowley backed away, grinning his smoky salesmans grin, hands raised in an easy, big boy gesture. Youre upset. We should discuss it. Dean closed his door and leaned against it, letting Sam have at it. Hey, if he was in the mood to stab something, Dean was hardly going to get in his way. You want to talk? After what you did to us? Bastards shoes were scratched and his suit was rumpled, but he was smooth as cream in the face of Sams growl, like he still held every card in the pack and some you didnt know about. Yes, I hear the Colt didnt work. Sorry about that, by the way. Honest mistake. Should have asked your angel to get a second opinion first.

Sam lunged. The demon vanished and reappeared on the other side of Dean. Call off your dog, please. Dean just cocked the Colt and levelled it between Crowleys eyes. Give me one good reason. I can give you Pestilences gameplan. Okay then. That could be a good reason. What do you know about Pestilence? Crowley tipped his head to one side and smiled the smile of one to whom cruelty came easy, right up the barrel of the gun that hed handed them. I know what hes up to and how to get him. Something he must have seen in Deans face turned his drawl into smugness. Aah. Thats got your interest, hasnt it? Sam stopped just out of reach, an indignant tower of growl and fury. Are you actually listening to this? Sam Are you nuts? What is it with you and trusting everyone today? Dean didnt take his eyes or sights off the demon. Just shut up for a second, Sam. Shut up, the both of you! What did you know, that smart, civilised mask was worn thin. Dean interrupted him before he could get started. Yeah, I dont think you get to be calling the shots here, big boy. Were on a schedule. He gestured with the Colt at the scruff of Crowleys hair and clothes, sleek gone shabby. And you dont look like youre going to be rushing off to an important business meeting anytime soon. Crowley snarled, impatience and the taste of blood and claws underneath. They ate my tailor! Two months under a rock like a bloody salamander! Every demon on hell and earths got his eyes out for me, lads, and here I am wasting my precious hiding time on Sam and Dean bloody Winchester! Yeah. And why is that, exactly? Sam was a looming promise of scepticism and sudden death, but he was helping. Sort of. Your old pal Brady. Crowley drew out each word like taffy, slow and dark and kind of sticky. Remember him, Sam? Those sweet college years? Demon. Sorry. Not just any demon. Horsemens own tour manager. And currently VP of distribution, Niveus Pharmaceuticals. He slipped a newspaper from his pocket and held it out to Sam, as if he didnt really care either way whether Sam took it or the world turned into a pile of steaming crap. You might want to head that off at the pass. Sam hesitated for a moment, his jaw tight the way it went when he had decided not to think about something unpleasant. Then he took the newspaper and skimmed the article Crowley had pointed out. Niveus Pharmaceuticals is rushing delivery of its new swine-flu vaccine to stem the tide of the unprecedented outbreak. His eyes flickered down, and he

made that little noise of pieces slotting into place in his giant brain. Huh. Shipments leave in three days. Deans stomach was doing a slow, unpleasant roll. He lowered the gun. So, Pestilence Sam was all foreboding under the flop of his hair. Was spreading swine flu. And this vaccine Crowley finished for him, obscenely cheerful. Chock-full of grade A, farm-fresh Croatoan. Dean cut him a dirty look. Glaring at Crowley was better than paying attention to the post-Apocalyptic cityscapes and vicious hordes of former humans replaying themselves in his head. Sam shook his head. Simultaneous, countrywide distribution. Its quite a plan. So! Crowley clapped his hands brightly. I suggest you waltz into their warehouse for a little domestic terrorism. Chop chop. Now youve got your pet archangel back even you boys should be able to fumble your way through it. The Colt very nearly came up into Crowleys face again, but that would have been too strong a tell. What do you know about him? The curl of Crowleys smirk was downright filthy. So much more than your smug little heterosexual brain could swallow, Winchester. He shoved his hands in his tattered pockets, every inch the vicious little smartass hed been in his own house. I heard you two talking a few days ago never mind how for now, darlings and decided everyones favourite Trickster wasnt as dead as wed been led to believe. So I paid him a little visit. Gave him the smartphone hes using to chat with you. Dont bother thanking me. Interesting state hes in, by the way. Not a whiff of angel anywhere, the naughty little god bits taste all wrong, and someone needs to teach him what a razors all about. Sams face looked like the bastard child of a thunderstorm and a really annoyed cat. Crowley looked straight into it and smiled like a jaguar. Do get a move on, theres duckies, or this time next week well all be living in zombie land. And thats just hell on the wardrobe. Dean lifted an eyebrow that completely failed to be sympathetic. Literally, Crowley added. Toodle-oo! --Sam rang Bobby, who cursed them all out for being too far away to pick him up and promised to find the location of the warehouse. Then came about twenty minutes of indignant key-smashing on Sams part and occasional mocking beeps from his phone.

Dean kept an eye on him out of the corner of his eye, because going by the set of Sams jaw and the weight of his breathing, he was rounding the corner of annoyed and hurtling straight on toward really seriously angry. And Lucifer had hardly been the first to notice that Sam had anger issues that made the Hulk look like the kind of guy youd trust with your best bone china tea cups. If Castiels lower back was damaged, maybe a weapon that needed a hefty swing behind it wasnt such a hot plan, especially for a melee situation. Then again, it was going to be all-out fighting either way. They were all going to come out of it pretty damned messy. Less than three hours until New Orleans. Alright, tiger, take it easy. Has he said anything useful? Sam made a little noise like he had a cranky bear in his throat. Says theyre not working together. Just that Crowley helped him. I think. Cash and the phone. Why? Sam typed something brief and hit send, then rubbed his free hand over his forehead as if he was trying to smooth it out. Makes sense, if Crowleys really on the run. Even powered down, Gabriels got to be an important game piece. Dean hummed thoughtfully. So it comes down to, out of a couple of twisty bastards, whore probably both playing each other and us, are we going to trust any info they give us enough to get Lucifer back in the cage? Apocalypses. Hours of brain-twisting fun for the whole family.

Beep.
Sam glanced at the latest message, then set the phone aside. He was silent for a minute, then: See Dean, heres the thing. He sounds kind of defensive. Grouchy. Maybe even hurt. He sucked in his bottom lip and chewed it for a moment, quiet and tense like a disappointed gazelle. And I really dont think hes that good an actor. Dean looked at him for a minute, at the weird protective hunch of his shoulders and the stubborn twist of his mouth. There was something else going on here that Dean wasnt at all sure about, and sort of doubted Sam had even noticed. Something sharp and deep, like when Sam had been telling him about seeing Gabriel in the panic room. He took a breath, then let it out and turned back to the road. Okay then. This was him, trusting Sam to deal with his own shit. Like a grown-up. After a while, Sam slowly reached for his phone again. ---

The road arced high around the banks of a still lake, calm as a dream, circling around it like flying in slow motion. Did Castiel know how to swim? (One hour.) --Of course, because Dean was useless at this sort of being sensitive crap, what he actually found himself wanting to blurt out when he walked into the hospital room was, Jesus, youre tiny without that trench coat. It wasnt just that. Castiel looked like an invalid. The lights in the room made him look all washed-out and pale against the sheets, and his eyes looked way too big (shocked wide and flickering, then carefully illegible). Dean found his eyes caught on the peak of one knee drawn up under the blanket, the most incongruous little detail, like he hadnt ever realised that Castiel had knees before. It looked weird on him. Hey. He cleared his throat and tried again, going for a grin. Hey. Youre really rocking that whole consumptive Orphan Annie look, man. Suits you. Christ, what did he say that for? Smooth, Winchester, smooth. Dean. And there was that rasp of the voice, the head tilt, but they didnt feel as familiar as they should have. They felt more like they had a year ago, when it was still some ethereal, alien thing behind them, incomprehensible and uncomprehending. Flat acknowledgement. Deans grin withered and died a pathetic little death. He realised he was lounging in the door like an idiot. So, uh. He rubbed his hands on the thighs of his jeans. Good to see you, man. We thought you were dead. Whoops. Had that come out like an accusation? He hadnt meant it to. Mostly. So they said downstairs that youre good to go. I guess that means you can walk. It started as a joke and ended as a question. Castiel just nodded, and didnt take his eyes off him, all solemnity and that far-away little frown. The hard angles of the bones in his wrist and collar were pressing against the skin, stretching it out fragile and thin. The curl of his fingers on top of the bedclothes looked like brittle winter twigs. Dean cleared his throat again. What had he been about to say? Fuck. If they ever had a staring event in the Olympics, Cas would be winning hands down before he even got there.

Castiels hands closed slowly, as if they felt his gaze, and folded over each other into a careful little ball in his lap. Fucking angelic remoteness. He was going to make Dean work for it, wasnt he? Okay then. Dean moved forward, too abruptly, and dropped the thrift store bag on the bed. Castiels leg flinched away under the bedclothes like a reflex, a startled little jerk of motion that stopped Dean in his tracks. Shit, sorry did I hurt you? Castiel hesitated for a moment. You have not hurt me, Dean. There was a strange emphasis there, currents of disappointment and something else underneath that Dean didnt know how to begin understanding. And no. Castiels voice and eyes werent what theyd been a year ago. There had been a weight and a resonance in his voice and every movement back then, making the room buzz with the authority of millennia. Now there was just a small, fragile man lying in a bed. Dean focussed on the sharp jut of the bone in Castiels hip under the sheets, and tried to soften his voice. Right. Good. Okay, so. Sams getting us a motel for the night, because we have to go pretty damn early tomorrow but we could all do with getting horizontal first, (though Castiel was probably bored with it, if angels could get bored, and seeing him horizontal was still just weird), then we have to go blow up a warehouse. Another nod. Okay, so hed never been talkative, but seriously Castiels stare was a palpable weight, and Dean couldnt read him. Hed thought hed been getting pretty good at translating Castiels many silences and half-expressions into real-person speak, but now he wasnt getting a thing. Oh, and Crowleys back, by the way. He tried to grin with that one, to give the eyeroll of can you believe were going to have to deal with that douchebag again?, but all he got back was the patient, faintly disapproving stare. He cocked an eyebrow expectantly, a clear your turn now, buddy. Castiel just looked slightly puzzled. Dean groaned. Some heartfelt reunion this was. Come on, man. Would you just say something, please? Castiel broke the stare and looked down at his hands. His dry, pale lips parted for a moment, like they needed to hold a pow-wow with the air first about what words to let out. Then, quiet and rough, he murmured, You look smaller than I remember you. Okay. No, not okay. What? Smaller? Smaller how? My vision is limited. His eyes flickered up towards Dean then down, just a flash of blue under dark lashes without that strange little extra brilliance that should have been there. I find it disconcerting.

Shit. Yeah, okay, that was kind of big. Having the whole world looking suddenly different would throw anyone. And the stupid stubborn son of a bitch had decided to just hang around here among strangers rather than letting Dean help. Seriously, man, you couldnt even pick up the phone? It was meant to be gentle, but Deans throat was scratchy and it ended up as something gruff and hurt. Castiels mouth twitched a little, that thing he did sometimes when he was being all irritated at Deans blatant humanity, or finding something amusing that he thought he shouldnt, or just wasnt sure what he was meant to do in a particular situation. Dean hadnt a clue how to call it. Except that Castiel was also staring from under his lashes at Deans right hand, which was huh. Curled over that sharp-looking cut of the hipbone under the sheet, pressing gently, one thumb rubbing back and forth over it as if to hide it or soothe it back under the skin and soften the harsh edges. Dean froze. He hadnt even realised he was standing that close to the bed. The little half-confused furrow between Castiels eyebrows deepened. Well, it was a stupid-looking hip anyway. Castiel was too skinny. He needed feeding up. Dean shoved both hands deep into his pockets and backed toward the door. So if you want to just get dressed theres clothes in there. And a toothbrush and shit. If you need it. Castiels tongue darted out to lick his lips, a flicker of that odd little uncertainty, and he reached for the bag. Just yell if you need a hand, okay? Dean escaped out the door before Castiel could throw off the sheets, because, well, hospital gown. And knees. Didnt need to see it. He wasnt fretting. Even if Cas had looked kind of fragile. And wobbly. And probably didnt know how shoelaces worked. He made it five whole minutes before knocking. You good in there, dude? There was no reply, just a thud and a soft thump like a stumble. Dean was back inside before he thought about it, so it was lucky that Castiel had apparently figured out the jeans. More or less. Dean blamed the fact that he burst out laughing on the relief, and the really weird day. Also on the incongruity of a bare-footed angel with mussed-up hair, second-hand jeans that he apparently couldnt fasten, serious bedhead, a perplexed frown, and a shirt with two buttons done up in the wrong holes. Cas, you child. That got him a glare, a proper one, heavy and impatient. Whoa. He held up his hands, chuckling and coaxing, because after all they always teased Cas like that and he never minded, so he was just being snippish or something. Come on, man. Buttons?

And how long did it take you to master them, Dean? As a child? Castiel practically snapped, and okay, there was something else happening here that Dean hadnt a clue about. And was Castiel actually flushing? He reached out and tried a smile, awkwardly. Yeah, okay. Just come here, would you? Castiels shoulders stiffened defensively, and his hands went down to wrestle with the button on his jeans. His glare changed to I-am-a-creature-of-aeons-and-infinite-wisdom-andI-dont-have-to-put-up-with-your-Winchester-shit, which Dean so wasnt buying right now. He moved into Castiels space and raised his hands to the dishevelled shirt, murmuring cajolingly, Okay, so Im a dick, yeah? You already knew that. Why did Castiel feel so strange and unfamiliar now, like they hadnt spent almost two years prodding each other into new shapes? Maybe it was the change of clothes. Castiel didnt push him away. The shape of his collarbone against his throat was even sharper and more delicate up close. Dean fastened the top two buttons over it with careful fingers. His heart was thumping like it had forgotten the whole depowered thing and thought he was in imminent danger of a smiting. His heart could bite him. Yeah, there we go, he breathed, not sure why he was sort of whispering, but it wasnt as if he had to talk loudly for Castiel to hear him like this. He flicked the two misplaced buttons out of their holes and smoothed down the grey-green wings of the shirt front so that they fell properly over his chest. Christ, he was skinny under there. He could hear Castiel breathing, soft and careful. He wasnt sure hed ever heard that before. It was tickling his eyelashes, and the hair just over his forehead. Well, Cas had always been able to coax him into being all girly about this sort of thing. And it wasnt as if the guy knew anything about personal boundaries anyway. Might as well just go with it. One by one, he pushed the buttons into place, moving down Castiels chest from his throat. Just over his heart, Deans fingers fumbled. He was suddenly very glad that the undershirt had apparently not been too difficult to figure out. Because there was something written under there that he really didnt want to have to read right now. As he fastened the last button, he murmured, There, just like that, and gave it a soothing sort of a pat, as if they were comfortable, as if Deans stomach wasnt lurching. And, good, Castiel seemed to have managed to fumble the button of his jeans into place, because that would have been awkward. He raised his eyes. Castiel was looking at him like he was a new, illegible thing. Dean cleared his throat again, and gestured to Castiels chest. Hows

Castiels head tilted to one side, very slowly, as if he was trying to bring Dean into focus like one of those magic eye things. It is healing. Good. Good. Dean eyed the shirt balefully and tried to swallow down the hard ball of guilt and anger. Honestly, the first time hed seen the skin underneath it and it had to involve his little brother cutting it up into some kind of kamikaze angel-bomb? Just to make some stupid point about how Dean wasnt good enough for special angel-attention? Because seriously, Cas Mr Novak, sir? Dean was abruptly aware that he and Castiel were standing way too close. And wow, the nurse whod just appeared in the doorway had quite the impressive who the hell are you stinkeye. In a voice so neutral that it was really, really pointed, she observed, You have a visitor. Okay. Dean supposed that when a guy turned up in hospital with some strange cultish markings carved into his chest and no coherent story about who he was or how theyd got there it wasnt a huge leap of logic to work out that he had some pretty shady people in his past. Also, the way he had moved without thinking to stand between Castiel and the voice at the door probably looked weird to civilians. He put on his patented I am the good guy here friendly face, for use on mothers and cops. Gemma. Castiels voice behind Deans shoulder was distant and gentle, as if he were the nurse. This is Dean. I am leaving now. The nurse narrowed her eyes, and she repeated the name as if it confirmed all her darkest suspicions. Dean blinked at her perplexedly, but she spoke over him. Mr Novak, after everything thats happened, isnt there anything you think you should reconsider? I have already reconsidered. Her eyes flicked meaningfully from Dean back to Castiel. Dont you think it would be saf- better for you to go back to your wife now? Okay, weird emphasis there. Dean flashed her his most charming smile. Lady, believe me, his wife dont need her life screwed up any worse than it already is. The welfare of Mrs Novak is not my concern, sir. Ouch. Usually people only spoke to him with that kind of acidity after hed completely trashed their living room getting a poltergeist out of the walls. Yeah, there was definitely a whole other conversation going on here that no one had filled him in on. Castiel, unperturbed by glowers, moved past Dean to take the nurses hands in both of his. I appreciate your concern, Gemma. If Dean will have me back, I will go with him. If? Dean couldnt let that pass. He punched Castiel on the shoulder, gently, trying to look all supportive. Hey, we were hardly going to leave you here, were we? Youre one of

us, dude. That only earned him a confused look from Castiel, and an even harder one from the nurse. Oh. Right. One of us, and she was thinking twisted cult. Great. Would you excuse us, sir? If Mr Novak wants to be discharged, Ive a few things to go through with him first. What? Oh, fine. Dean was pretty sure most discharge procedures didnt require total privacy, but hey, if it made her feel better to give Cas the you know dangerous kinky cults are dangerous and kinky, right? speech, he could wait. It couldnt take more than a few minutes. He closed the door behind him and glared at it. And hey, it was only the Apocalypse. No rush. He leaned against the wall outside some more, and did not jiggle his foot impatiently, because if she was a demon shed had plenty of opportunities to take Castiel out and hadnt yet. And he was pretty sure Cas could hold her off long enough for Dean to hear a struggle and burst in on them. Just hypothetically speaking, of course. It was almost ten minutes before the door opened, just in time for him to hear, Please remember, Mr Novak: you dont deserve to be hurt. No one should make choices for you except you. The Ive got your number, big boy glare that the nurse shot at Dean as she emerged in front of Castiel said that shed totally meant him to hear that. Dean winked at her. Thank you, Gemma. Her stare of death was broken when Castiel took her hands and leaned in to kiss her cheek, a grave and solemn gesture that looked like some oldworld courtesy thing, and when the hell had he learned to do that? The nurse looked hardly less surprised than Dean felt, but the concern in her voice was tempered with warmth when she warned, I dont want to see you in here again. Castiel blinked at her, slow and alien. I dont expect you will. Dean cleared his throat and grabbed the trench coat and bag from the arm nearest him. Give me those, you big weakling. It fell flat, but hey, most jokes did around Castiel anyway. That was normal, more or less. Okay, so the silence after was usually comfortable rather than stiff and cool, but it wasnt as if Castiel needed to carry his own bag when Dean was right there and not just out of a hospital bed. Dean broke it when they got into the lift, nodding at the bulging pocket of Castiels shirt. What did she give you? Castiels elegant fingers drew two small pill bottles, and a card with a phone number on it. He turned the latter over between his fingertips, looking at it like something mildly

unexpected that had turned up in his breakfast cereal. She said to call this number if I ever felt unsafe or controlled. Oh, man. Dean grimaced and ran his hand down over his face, trying not to laugh openly. Okay, so it was kind of awkward, and brainwashing kidnapping cults probably werent all that funny, and he could see how it could have looked like that even if Castiel seemed to be completely oblivious. But hey, end of the world. You had to take your laughs where you could get them. Let me see the drugs? Castiel handed the bottles over silently as the lift doors opened. His fingers were cool where they brushed against Deans. Dean swallowed the urge to take his hand and warm it in his pocket or something, because that thing with the hip had been enough weird touchyfeely crap for one day, and peered at the label. It was hand-written, not issued formally by the hospital pharmacy. He whistled, and peered sideways at Castiels stiff gait. This is some pretty strong stuff theyve got you on. Are you sure youre okay walking? Castiel cut him a sharp look. Dean. I realise you consider me laughably incapable of performing the simplest of human tasks, but I did learn to walk many millennia before you. Jesus. Grumpy Macgrumpyson. And he hadnt even been teasing him that time. His cell rang, and he tossed the bottles back with unexpected relief at the interruption. Sam. Were just leaving. He listened for a moment, then turned to Castiel. You eating now, man? What do you like? Castiels mouth turned into a thin, unhappy line, and he nodded, but didnt say anything. Dean decided to interpret that as hospital food makes me doubt whether humanity was worth saving after all. Get him a nice juicy burger, Sammy. Whatever Sam said in response, Dean missed it, because Castiel was looking just a bit paler than before, and had turned his face ever so slightly away. Dean abruptly felt like a callous idiot. Second thoughts, Sammy, hold the burger. In fact, lets just steer well clear of red meat altogether, yeah? Sams incredulous exhale said my brother is such a jerk far more effectively than words. Ill be at the motel in ten. Youll beat us there, then. Dean hung up, and let the silence waver in the air as they made it out the side door and crossed the car park. He tossed Castiels bag and ubiquitous, now-patched trench coat into the back seat, then settled in to his seat. Castiel slid in more slowly, careful with his body, working out how to move his weight as he went. As he finally sank back into the welcoming leather seat, he gave a soft sigh that sounded almost like relief. Dean was struck for a moment by how right he looked there, riding shotgun beside him. Treating the Impala like home.

Which was wrong. Castiel was only there because he wasnt strong enough just now to zap himself from place to place. And that seat was Sammys anyway. As he pulled out he asked, soft and neutral because Castiel was being all unpredictable, That Famine thing stuck, huh? Castiel said nothing for a minute, and Dean stole a glance at him. He was doing the remote angelic face again, but the line of his jaw was too scruffy and there was a tired slump to his shoulders that made him look depressingly human. Castiel moistened his lips, hesitated a moment, then spoke. Everything sticks. His voice scraped low and harsh through Deans gut. Dean swallowed and turned his eyes back to front, wordless. --Because Sam always made everything look easy (the dick), the moment Castiel set foot into their motel room he was swept up into a big manly bear-hug, with Sams huge hand almost engulfing one of his shoulders. Cas! We missed you, man. Hows your back? I got you lentil and vegetable soup, I figure thats bland enough if your stomachs all wonky from hospital food or whatever. And Castiel actually relaxed into it, leaning against Sams bulk like he was almost dead on his feet and Sams touch kept him together. Dean closed the door, and didnt scowl. Anything that made Castiel happier had to be good. He didnt miss the quiet Thank you, Samuel, or the way Sams eyes lit up with relief. So he mussed up Sams hair on his way past, and threw in a cheeky Yeah, thanks Samuel of his own. Sam made a bitchface at him, but he got it. --Because Sam was also annoyingly observant, he noticed that Dean was sulking before Dean did. It wasnt like Dean had thought thered be some big hug-it-out reunion or anything, and it wasnt like his hilarious (no matter what Sam said) crash course in the proper uses of deodorant and toothbrushes had gone badly exactly, but he hadnt expected Castiel to shut himself in the bathroom to apply the lesson without so much as one of his reluctant little half-smiles. You want to talk sulking over angels all day, Sammy? You really want to go there?

Sam looked annoyingly triumphant, shuffled around on the floor with one foot until he found a sock, then bent down to pick it up. Then he threw it at Dean. Hey! He already knows youre a jerk whos allergic to emotions, man. Just play nice and give him a damn hug already. What? No! What? Sam just smirked.

Legibility.
SW (1:49 am): If you really are gabriel, why dont you just flap on over here and help properly? 0100111000 (2:35 am): sure, all of space & time ot choose from & u think im going to tie myself down to u2 yahoos? SW (2:35 am): Pulling your weight isnt getting tied down SW (2:36 am): If youre going to help we need to be able to know we can actually rely on you. SW (2:48 am): We could really use a hand. 0001001100 (3:59 am): sounds like what u want is an ear. :P SW (5:21 am): what do you mean? 1001011110 (5:22 am): not ur cheering squad. 0100000101 (5:22 am): though i look hot in the outfit. SW (7:45 am): you know, there are plenty of things that could have just pulled that info about herpexia and you killing dean with squirrels out of my head to make us trust them. SW (8:09 am): and whos john ap rhys? SW (9:12 am): so not dead then, huh? 1111001100 (9:14 am): sweet cthulhus balls, ur like a gigantic duracell bunny 1100010000 (9:16 am): rumours of my death may have been slightly exaggerated.

10011011010 (9:17 am): and why the hell would anyone think beign gabriel would make you guys fall into a trusting obedient little line. SW (9:18 am): only slightly? 0000100000 (9:29 am): he was a man who was a genius at combining work with hobby 1010111000 (9:30 am): one of henry viiis officials closing down monasteries. also avid book collector. so, guess what happened to most of the monasteries libraries. SW (9:39 am): So howd you get over it then? 1110001111 (9:43 am): kali SW (9:44 am): youre telling me a god from the indian pantheon can remake an archangel? 0000101000 (9:45 am): no :P why dyou think id be tapping the internet to talk to u if i could just snap myself right there and reupholster the impala in yellow daisies for kicks? SW (9:46 am): survival instnct? SW (9:46 am): So youre, what disembodied? SW (9:47 am): except you cant be, if youre bribing 16C royal officials. 0110100000 (9:47 am): give the kid a cookie SW (9:52 am): so? 1010100011 (12:32 pm): i cant, okay? i get motion sickness now. SW (12:33 pm): you? :P 1101001100 (12:35 pm): and greyhound buses smell like something colorful. SW (12:36 pm): no, you know what? not buying it. SW (12:36 pm): this whole weak as a human thing.

1110011001 (12:37 pm): aw kid, you wound me. 0100011000 (12:37 pm): and im wearing my trustworthy face 2. SW (12:39 pm): Cas just about killed himself taking us back to the 70s when he could still fly all over the globe. You want us to believe you can just hop between now and ancient rome but a little trip across a couple of state lines is too much for you? SW (12:52 pm): thats what i thought. SW (3:59 pm): so, you & crowley, huh? 1101011000 (4:08 pm): that thing with the goats & the chess board happened centuries ago. follies of youth. 0110011001 (4:09 pm): his, anyway. SW (4:09 pm): holy crap, i cannot actually tell you how much i really dont want to know SW (4:09 pm): r u working with crowley? 0111101101 (4:10 pm): im working with me, winchester. stunningly simple concept. SW (4:13 pm): he said he told you to help us. and gave you a smartphone so you could. SW (4:14 pm): youve been screwing us around for five days & never thought to mention it? way to stand against hell. 0001100111 (4:14 pm): aw, pumpkin, were we meant to be exclusive? i didnt realize u felt that way. SW (4:15 pm): yeah, were not quite so desperate that we need help from a pagan archangel working for a demon, thanks. 1010000101 (4:15 pm): oh, untwist ur virgin panties, winchester. & u ttly are. 0010010101 (4:18 pm): c showed up two days back, note timing you overgrown giraffe, tossed me phone and a

wad of cash, said to prod ur floundering asses into gear, left. 0100001001 (4:19 pm): beats internet cafes and hopping back some centuries just to scrounge a meal. SW (4:21 pm): crowleys helping you out? 0110100000 (4:21 pm): he owed me. & hes kind of screwed if we dont shove L back in. SW (4:39 pm): u have to eat now? 0110010111 (4:41 pm): i know, mighty have fallen, get ur gloat on SW (4:49 pm): anything you need? SW (4:51 pm): should we pick you up somewhere? 1011100111 (4:58 pm): go get ur hero freak somewhere else, cowboy. SW (5:20 pm): thanks for the books, gabriel. SW (5:22 pm): and for that thing with famine, i guess. 0110101110 (5:24 pm): dont strain urself. & told u, not gabriel anymore. SW (5:25 pm): fine. what do we call you, then? loki? 0101111001 (5:25 pm): screw that. SW (5:26 pm): little miss muffet? SW (6:03 pm): yellow daisies? seriously? 1010110100 (6:10 pm): think hed like it? SW (6:11 pm): i think hed test ur new mortality thing. creatively. 1110111000 (6:16 pm): kinky, winchester. SW (7:28 pm): what do angels who arent anymore like to eat?

1100010010 (7:28 pm): m&ms SW (7:29 pm): should have guessed. :P --Castiel and Dean had always been potent. Right from the beginning, there had been something hot and deep running between them, nestled in crackling stares and weighty moments of stillness and Deans take-no-shit mouthing off (so like the way he did it with Sam, less and less like he used on other supernatural dicks). As I understand it, then, even if we can find Pestilence, the difficulty will be closing with him sufficiently to take his ring, without succumbing to his influence. Castiel passed the back of his hand over his dark-rimmed eyes, then gave it a bemused look and refolded it neatly in his lap. Dean leaned forward, his own hands clenched on his knees. Yeah, or we need someone who isnt human and isnt about to keel over as soon as he gets near. Crowleys not gonna be up for putting his pasty white ass on the line, and we dont know any other demons who arent gunning for Lucifer. And youre a deadbeat, I guess. Thats Sams brother. Always the tactful one. Castiels drawn face stayed carefully blank, and he addressed his next summation to Sam. And this will be the more difficult after we take out the shipments of Croatoan, as Pestilence will have his eye on us in particular, while doubtless planning his next strategy, of which we will know nothing. Thats about the shape of it. Sam got up to fish three of the beers hed picked up that afternoon out of the motels tiny bar fridge. And weve got to assume that therell be more than a couple of humans working on the shipment too, so we cant just blow the warehouse up out of nowhere or something. Cas, you want one? A crease dug in between Castiels eyebrows, like it would never have occurred to him if Sam hadnt asked, and his eyes flickered over to Dean. Dean just twisted the cap off his bottle and took a swig, lifting his eyebrows at Castiel in some kind of question, or some kind of challenge. Castiels jaw set, and he glared back for a minute well, at least that hadnt changed, they could still carry on an entire argument without saying a word before he turned to Sam and took the offered bottle. I will. Thank you, Sam. Sam rolled his eyes, at both of them. Welcome. Theyd been like this all evening. Ever since theyd got back from the hospital. As if every glance might make or break the Apocalypse. Dean was too loud, too brash, like he was trying to prod Castiel into pretending everything was normal, and Castiel was prickly

with him, retreating or not reacting at all to every word and look. Had something weird gone down at the hospital? Sam had been tempted to ask when Castiel had locked himself in the bathroom to shower and tidy up (to a jocular come on, havent you had enough of being alone? from Dean, which drew a long impassive stare and a closed door from Castiel). But Dean had his determinedly cheerful Nothings Going Wrong face on, so hey, who was Sam to argue. Except for how it made every single conversation, even the (relatively) safe topic of catching Castiel up on the whole Apocalypse business, a little minefield of awkwardness and pointedly distant glances. Although Castiel was actually rather good, once you got him going. It hadnt ever really occurred to Sam to think of Castiel as a strategist: to date, theyd usually called him in when they needed some extra muscle or a professional angelic opinion, after theyd already worked out what they wanted to do, so he hadnt ever really been a part of these conversations. But now, Sam wasnt quite sure why they hadnt gotten into the habit of calling him to join in earlier. Quite apart from his millions of years of experience, his mind was quick and sharp, and he had a gift for summing up, getting to the essentials of a complicated situation. If thats true, Castiel dropped into the beer-busy silence, their first move, once their line is breached, should be to He stumbled for a moment over his words, tongue slurring, though the tiny sip of beer could hardly be taking effect, then continued, should be to infect their human workers. Deans face closed down. Ready-made attack dogs. And confusion while we try to work out which ones are still worth saving. So we have to get the jump on them. Sam balanced his bottle on one knee, loosely teetering between his thumb and forefinger. There has to be some sort of functional PA system in place, right? I mean, if theyre using human infrastructure and distribution systems, they can hardly have knocked out all the electronics like demons usually do. Mass exorcism? Dean barely spared him a glance before going back to watching Castiels barely touched beer. Sam shrugged. Worth a try. Might work, if were quick enough. The Enochian is briefer than the Latin, Castiel offered, apparently to his knee. Dean snorted. This isnt the mouth of a goat thing again, is it? Cos I gotta tell you, dude, Im pretty sure most of the demons weve met would be totally into that shit. Castiels head snapped around to Dean, like a magnet had just been dropped next to a compass. I am not in the habit of taking battle tips from the Whore of Babylon. Whoa! Dean held up his hands, half laughing, uncomfortably brazening it out, about to say something that was really really not going to help, so Sam threw in an Okay!, a little louder than he needed to, not that either of them noticed. So, Cas, if you could get into

the office or wherever and broadcast that, Dean and I will pull the fire alarm to get rid of the civilians then go in and deal with whatevers left. Ill get Bobby to find us a floor plan so we know where were going. And that should keep the invalid mostly out of the line of fire, he didnt say, because they didnt really have the luxury of considering that, and also because, unlike Dean, he could be tactful. It was another twenty minutes of discussing explosives and timing before Castiel started to sway perceptibly where he was sitting on the queen bed. After another minute, he trailed off in the middle of a sentence to stare at his hands as if they were betraying him and he wasnt sure how. Dean lifted an eyebrow at Sam, and stood up. Okay, hot shot, lets get you into bed. Castiel raised his head to look at Dean (just for something completely different), his eyes wide and blue and bemused, and Dean cleared his throat before offering his hand, sort of awkward and sort of tender. Sam half expected some curt retort, but Castiel just let out a breath and slid his eyes away from Dean. Then he took the offered hand, struggling to his feet with a muzzy, heavy look. Sam looked away, and busied himself with getting rid of the empties, then with checking out the beep from his phone that hed heard an hour or so back. 0110100010: Milton over-rated. Too busy being right and not-Catholic to have an original thought. Tempted to sic him on my big brother. Sam caught a glimpse of Dean out of the corner of his eye, all gentle hands and grim mouth, and Castiels stubble scraping against his shoulder when he stumbled. He carefully tuned out the murmurs of Just lose the button-down and the jeans, yeah? You can sleep in the boxers and tee, and Dude, youre wiped out you should have told us to shut the hell up so you could get some shut-eye. SW: which one? 0101110100: michael would be funnier, dont you think? Sam rather suspected it would end up with a small Milton-shaped smear on the carpet, but then, that did seem to be in keeping with Gabriels sense of humour. And yes, whatever weird namelessness thing the not-really-an-archangel-anymore had going on, he still sounded like Gabriel to Sam, so there was no reason not to call him that in his own head. Later, when he crawled into his side of the king bed, he whispered across to Deans stiff, pretending-to-be-asleep back, Hey. Hes tough. Dean huffed into the pillow. I know that. ---

Apparently Gabriel was on a literary greats of England spree, because Sam woke up to find two new messages on his cell: 0111101100: Jane Austen has SHARP sense of humour. No wonder she never married. Male egos very fragile this decade. 0100100001: afk pranking james i with will sh, brb James I and Will Sh..? Sam frowned at his phone. SW: come on, youre screwing with me. He really wasnt sure if he trusted Deans judgement here. Dean had adapted pretty damn quick to the news that Gabriel wasnt dead, and seemed remarkably ready to forgive him, too. Sam had expected Dean to take longer to get over the whole monster label on Gabriels forehead. Or at least the angel one, which wasnt much better. Although, of course, it hadnt been Dean whod had to see his brother killed over and over again by Gabriels alter ego in some screwed-up cryptic attempt to head off the Apocalypse. Instead of doing something sane and logical like, oh, say, tipping them off anytime before Lilith. Maybe it shouldnt have come as a surprise: Dean did tend to go with his gut about people. Hed make snap judgements and run with them, and it was a real bitch trying to change his mind. Although, hey, his track record with picking right in the first place was a hell of a lot better than Sams was. Which wasnt really fair, given how much effort Sam always put into approaching these things rationally and thinking them through. And Sam had meant what hed said the other day. It was just too tempting, too insidious the banter, sharp and halfway to warm at times, the promise of help. The promise, now, of Gabriel. Of an archangel, even if he was powered down, but of something else too: Gabriel himself, with his brash voice and screw-that grin and his inexpressible brightness, always just out of reach and now dangled tantalisingly, a promise or a tease. Sam wasnt sure what to do with that. His phone beeped again, when he was out getting breakfast and coffee (and orange juice for Castiel, because he probably didnt need a shiny new caffeine addiction to go with his shiny new body). It was a photo a photo that Sam took a minute to puzzle out, because that couldnt really be a hex bag sitting in a really fancy-looking chamber pot, could it? Then, 1011101001: that man is so paranoid about witches its too easy SW: are you srsly hexing the king of england?

1010011111: dont have the juice. but he doesnt know that. Sam took a moment to feel kind of off balance, which he felt was justified, what with one thing and another. SW: this is a really weird hobby. 0110010010: gotta work with what Ive got. This morning, Castiel was civil and reserved, and both he and Dean were sneakily avoiding each others eyes. If anything, it seemed to confuse Dean more than the painful touchiness of the night before. Even after they got into the Impala, he kept sort of fluttering back and forth between confused, trying-not-to-be-pissed, and downright mother-hennish. Sam was tempted to cheer Castiel on, just a bit, but Castiel looked sort of tight and uncomfortable about it too, like he was having to lock most of himself away and he didnt know what for. Sam rang Bobby while they drove, just to keep him updated, and was grumbled at for having the temerity to undertake a major act of domestic terrorism while Bobby was out of commission. He hung up thoughtful, with the vague glimmerings of an idea beginning to wink in his head.

--SW: so did sh write the plays? 1010111010: course. marlowe was just jealous that some country hack who wasnt one of the university boys crowd was better than him. 0001001001: though a lot of the one-liners are from shs gangs resident funny-man. & u should see the improv skills of these guys. Sam narrowed his eyes at his phone. SW: ok. what happened to amelia earhart? 1111010000: the obvious. should have fuelled up better. SW: and jack the ripper? 0101110110: i make a very pretty hooker. SW: interesting image. & not going to argue with him having a run-in with the trickster. Whom are you texting?

Gabriel, Sam replied absently. 0001010100: glad u approve, o mighty winchester It took him a minute to realise that the sleepy silence behind him had been replaced with a very careful, very still one. Gabriel? Sam looked up. Dean. You didnt tell him? It didnt come up. Dean. Dean cocked him an eyebrow. What? Hes your pet. Sam made a frustrated noise and shoved his hair off his face. Gabriel isnt my pet, Dean. It sure isnt my dreams and computer and cell hes stalking. Well, Im not the one who keeps calling him to heel. What? That wasnt the point. Which is so not the point here. And it was one dream. And it wasnt even really a dream. Dean smirked. Keep telling yourself that. Dude. Real life, pornos. Remember? Hey, if youre into that, no judging from this seat. How long has this been going on? Castiels voice cut through, steel-edged with that familiar I-am-impatient-with-your-mortal-nonsense tone that always made Sam feel like a kid. Dean sobered up, and shot the rear vision mirror a contrite look, the kind that always worked on Sam. About a week? Since a couple of days after Lucifer ganked him. Something shocked and quiet vibrated in Castiels voice. Gabriel died? Dean. Sam glared. Because, come on. Castiels brother really should have been the first thing on the agenda, no matter how distracted Dean had been. Dean blatantly ignored him in favour of giving Castiel a quick run-down on the Elysian Fields: the gods putting aside their differences (sort of) for long enough to grab Sam and Dean, Gabriel turning up as Loki to spring them out and getting caught by Kali. Only then Lucifer worked out where we were somehow and went all wrath of hell on their asses, and he and Gabriel ended up having a showdown while we Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat. we high-tailed it with Kali. Sam had to strain to make out Castiels voice, low and rough under the sound of the motor. I should have been there. Hey, not your fault, dude, Dean said, quick and firm, responding to something under those few words that Sam hadnt caught. You were busy being all comatose.

Yes no offence, Castiel, but even Gabriel was being careful around Kali, so making you face off against them all would have been kind of dickish. And hey, no harm no foul, Sam added dryly, since apparently we had Lucifer in our corner. Dean shot him an odd sideways look. Um, not really. Lucifer was just coming after you and having fun playing finger paint with the pagans. Sam shrugged, and didnt push the issue, since he wasnt really keen to tell Dean where hed heard Lucifers point of view on the whole thing. Well, he didnt want us dead. Speak for yourself, vessel boy. Gabriel revealed himself, to protect you. And Lucifer killed him, Castiel said, a slow murmur of something like curiosity. Dean glanced at Sam, a bit guilty, a bit concerned. I guess. And now Sam is texting him from the front seat. Sam answered the quiet, hopeful question under that. Not God, sorry. He said Kali brought him back. Only hes sort of human now. Or something. How human? Which was a question Sam would really like the answer to as well. Um. Hes been hopping back and forth between centuries like its nothing the sixteenth,* the nineteenth, and the seventeenth just this morning but he says he has to eat now, and he cant fly. And Crowley says hes shaving. Sam tipped his head back to regard Castiel in the rear-vision mirror. So, you tell me. Castiel made a quiet little noise of consideration, the sort of conversational filler noise that he was starting to pick up, like hed only just noticed recently that humans liked to pack all the little gaps in their lives and sentences with interesting stuffing. I believe that Kalis powers centre on the manipulation of time and death. Moving through time would be easier for her than it is for an angel, although perhaps less precise. Like throwing a ball, rather than walking over to place it somewhere. That would be in her power to bestow on a mortal, together with simple manipulations of reality such as illusions and tricks, while abilities more dependant upon the nature of the being in question, such as flight or teleportation, might not. Sam hummed thoughtfully. You mean hes too solid to fly? Something like that. Castiel canted his head slowly to one side, his gaze flickering briefly to Dean then back again. I would guess that he is in a body that is wholly human, but perhaps with a few particular powers. Which, given his history, he ought to be adept at manipulating.
* Sams either exaggerating slightly for effect or momentarily slipping up in his dates pranking James I with Shakespeare doesnt make sense before the first decade of the 1600s, so technically that incidents 17C too, with Milton.

Quite the change from phenomenal cosmic archangel/trickster powers. Deans fingers pattered their little thinking rhythm on the steering wheel. I still dont get how hopping back centuries is easier than flying. You didnt even bother opening doors sometimes, even when you were all impotent. Castiel ignored the jibe. It is easier for Kali, and therefore it would be easier for a creature of her construction. He fell quiet for a minute, then posed another question that Sam had already been asking himself. His voice was deep and a bit rough, the way he had that Sam was beginning to think meant the answer was important, not because of potential doom but to Castiel himself. Will he fight with us? Dean shrugged and settled back in the drivers seat, a long easy shift of muscle and faded cotton. This ones yours, Sam. I dont know, Cas. Hes been feeding us a few tips, and he brought us back a crapload of mediaeval books that he thought might help, but past that? Sam looked down at his fingers, curled tight around the silent phone. I dont know. ---

SW: how long have you been watching us? 0100100011: since the lightbearer did the light show. on and off. SW: could have done with a hand here and there. SW: like carthage. 1110110000: hundreds of reapers, only three hellhounds. and the colt turned up in your car two days later. didnt wonder why? SW: you were there? 1010110110: not by the time you turned up. cleared the pack out the day before. demons almost got my trail. 1011111111: thought you could handle a couple, with little bro there. 0110110001: sorry. SW: guess we should have been able to. SW: cocked it up pretty bad.

1000001100: yeah, we all keep doing that. --They stopped for lunch, because they had a couple of days to get there and long hours in the car without a stretch werent going to do anyones back good. When Dean went for a supply run, Sam stole Castiel for a walk in a nearby park, saying he should stretch his legs. Which he probably should. Just, that wasnt the only thing Sam was after. Cas, can I ask you something? Castiel looked up, a bit wary and resigned. Of course, Sam. Is Jimmy still in there? Apparently that hadnt been the question Castiel had expected. His eyes cleared in surprise, before flickering into something like shame. Or maybe grief. He turned his head away, back towards the little creek in the corner of the park. No. Damn. There went the one guy Sam could talk to whod have a human perspective on the whole vessel thing. He cleared his throat, and made a stab at the appropriate response. Sorry to hear that. He was a good man. He was. Apparently that was good enough, because Castiels voice softened a little, although it was still shot through with something dark and hurt. They walked in silence for a few minutes, Sam slouching along at Castiels careful pace. A flock of sparrows pecking over the grass in their path took off with a soft clatter of tiny wings, spiralling away towards the bushes. Castiels eyes drifted after them. Sam kicked up a stick from under his foot and caught it. The bark was rough and scattered, so he started peeling it away with his fingernails, to get at the smooth, tender skin underneath. Just how impossible would it be for a vessel to take over the steering wheel from an angel? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Castiels face go very still. Sam. What are you planning? Sam shrugged, aiming for casual. Not planning. Just wondering. He could feel a steely blue gaze boring into the side of his face. You know that Lucifer is vastly more powerful than anything you have ever encountered. Sam laughed a little. The last person who had turned that look on him, with eyes more grey than blue, had been Lucifer himself. And yes, vastly more powerful, and far

colder and more pure than the mess of complexities that always hid behind Castiels troubled eyes these days. And yet. I know, Im just not sure powers all there is to it. I think I know how to handle him. Which, when he put it like that, sounded like a recipe for hubristic disaster even to himself. He swallowed, and frowned at his stick, letting his hair fall forward to curtain his face. If we have to. Not like its my first choice, or anything. Go on, tell me Im crazy. There was a minute of ominous silence, which Sam used to swipe vindictively at the heads of a few dandelions. Then Castiel spoke, with a voice that wasnt really committed to angelic remoteness but sounded as if it would like to be. A year ago, I would have said it was impossible for any human to take back control from any angel. Even from myself, in such a state as I was until Van Nuys. Now His voice stumbled for a moment, then went on, careful and steady. You and Dean have a habit of exceeding my expectations. Huh. The last person hed expected a vote of confidence from. And okay, so there was still a part of him that looked at Castiel and saw an agent of God, as well as a friend whose opinion really mattered, though he wasnt sure which of them was responsible for the warmth in his chest and the little grin that he felt spreading over his face. You say the sweetest things, Cas. The sort-of-angel just gave him a stern look. Sam. Dont think it would be easy. Ah, Castiels doom voice, how we have missed you. Yeah, I kind of got that. They wandered on, in a vague rambling sort of a loop that curved back toward where Dean had parked. Castiel was surprisingly comfortable company, undemandingly quiet in a way Dean hardly ever managed, especially lately. They were almost back to the main street when Sam chanced the question that, for some reason, hed been sort of reluctant to ask. Cas? What do you think about Gabriel? In what sense? Sam brushed his fingers over his hip pocket and the cool, familiar shape of his cell. Do you think hes likely to be telling the truth? Is he really down with this, or just screwing us again? Castiel shook his head, just once, slow and heavy. My guess would be worth nothing: the angel I knew disappeared thirteen hundred years ago. Sam thought for a moment that he was done, but then Castiel offered, with less certainty, Gabriel is changed. Has changed himself, and that should not have been possible. Sam peered at him. Why not? Change is a property of the soul, of living things. We angels are supposed to be always exactly as we were created. An eternal instant. He paused. Or so I had always understood.

There was something about that in that seventeenth-century theology book you helped me with a few months back. That angels were meant to be not properly a part of time, or something. Castiel nodded, distracted but not cold. I believe that is one human theory. It attempts to account, somewhat allegorically, for the fact that time has no effect on us. So either the Apocalypse or the Winchesters were pushing the limits of what even angels knew about angels. Which was kind of freaky, really. Okay then. How do you account for Gabriel? And you? I dont. But we are not the only ones. Castiel caught a skeleton leaf out of the air and studied it, the intricacy of its fretwork, like it held the secrets of the universe. He looked sort of lost, scruffy and limping with his eyes crinkled at the corners, but not with the poisonous despair of when theyd told him about Joshua. More like he wasnt really sure what he was looking for, but was searching anyway. I am coming to realise that angels have changed before, without falling. And those that fell could not have chosen to fall without having changed, somewhere inside. I guess not. Sam was silent for a moment, then nudged Castiels arm. Hey, so I suppose this means you arent so much of a freak after all. Castiel raised an eyebrow at him, with what Sam could have sworn was halfway to sarcasm. Kudos to him. Thank you, Sam. When they got back to the car, Dean took one look at Castiels rare little half smile and demanded to know whether hed taken too many of his pain meds. Castiel threw him a heated look, then went expressionless again. Dean fidgeted for two hours straight. --1000001100: wow, r wagner has bigger ego than me SW: only fair, ur very small 1000010001: witty and original, Winchester. brb, composer kicking his furniture. Sam was struck suddenly, unexpectedly, by the sheer impossibility of this conversation. Which youd think hed be over by now, the way their lives went. But something about the casual phrasing, the careless punctuation, made it realer, brought the immediacy of it home with a crunch. Gabriel was actually there then right now, talking to Richard Wagner. Sam was actually swapping texts with an archangel.

Something childish and long-untouched unfurled cautiously inside him. Something very like wonder. SW: ur actually sending me texts from 19th cent? Hows reception? 0101000011: tried to give him a few helpful pointers re. norse gods. w climbed a tree and is now having tantrum 12 ft above ground. 1110111011: think hed explode if I told him dad doesnt actually hate jews? SW: dude. no exploding composers. Because if any angel were going to abuse the power of time travel to screw up the course of history, it would be Gabriel. What are you grinning about? Sam looked up to see Deans raised eyebrow, and a sort of irritated amusement around his mouth. Apparently Gabriel is lecturing Wagner about the Norse gods. Dean made the impatient sound of someone realising that hes going to have to deal with a whole lot of history crap if current trends keep up. Whos Wagner? A proud man with a soured mind, driven by visions of epic and empire. Castiels remote voice gave Sam pause. Huh. I guess angels really do see history differently. I was just going to say the guy who wrote the Ring cycle. You know, ride of the Valkyries, fall of Valhalla, the original fat lady with the horned helmet. Anyway, apparently he was a bit of an egomaniac. Liked to tell everyone what they were doing wrong even if he didnt know anything about it, and published lots of really nasty anti-Semitic stuff that Hitler used later on. So basically a massive dick? Dean looked mildly, reluctantly, alarmed. Hadnt you better get Gabriel out of there before he goes all Trickster on his ass? SW: D sends enquiries into ws continued health? 0111111100: w and liszt squabbling over the peas. 1110101000: suspect i could publish a few pamphlets under their names correcting each others music and theyd do my work for me SW: btw, u know anything about incubation time 4 croatoan? cas thinks a full syringe direct 2 vein could maybe take effect in < five minutes, but not sure cos

not used to modern medicine. if longer demons might not bother with infecting civilians in emergency...? There was a very long pause. Which was weird. Today Gabriel had been responding almost immediately, like he was more sure of himself or something. Or of Sam, perhaps. Maybe Wagner had started throwing punches. SW: you there? 0001101111: so the little wonders actually hanging around down there with you schmucks. however does he spare the time from his busy schedule? Hold on. SW: u do know hes human now, right? SW: eating, sleeping, itching, twisting his ankle, learning how to do up buttons, the works. No response. SW: he got knocked out of the game pretty badly going up against zachariah. Five minutes, and still nothing. SW: picked him up yesterday from hospital in new orleans. apparently he was braindead for a while. 0011000101: just figured he was getting too lofty 4 u2 clowns & had gone off to save world on his own 1000100011: since when? SW: about two weeks before we last saw you. figured you knew. 1001110101: huh. that explains some things. SW: like what? SW: you want me to hand him the phone? Gabriel didnt text back that day. Or overnight. --The next morning brought with it a kind of a grim determination that drove out all other considerations and emotions. Zombie D-day: if they didnt clear out the warehouse

before tonight, trucks would be shipping Croatoan all over the country as of the early hours of the next morning. At least, Sam was all grim determination. Dean and Castiel got into an argument over toothpaste. It obviously wasnt really about toothpaste, but Sam was doing his best not to listen to any subtext. It had started when Dean had tossed a razor to Castiel, who had spun around and snatched it out of the air before Dean had even finished his heads up!. Dean had admired Castiels reflexes, Castiel had pointed out with absolutely no inflection that he had spent most of the past year having people he had trusted sneak up behind him with sharp objects and asked why it surprised Dean that he was capable of taking care of himself, and things had all gone downhill from there. Sam would have been amused by it except that Castiel looked tight and determined and kind of fragile and Dean was really good at screwing up fragile emotional states. Especially when he tried to be funny. And they didnt really have time right now to just let them muddle it out. Dude, come on. Dean sounded sort of bewildered, and more than a bit angry, but he was still trying for jocular. Using half a tube isnt going to make your mouth stay clean for longer, itll just waste toothpaste. Didnt you say to me yesterday, Dean, that I should use all the toothpaste you want, its the end of the world anyway and you might as well be comfortable? Castiel was right up in Deans space, definitely rocking the sarcasm, and Dean wasnt giving an inch. Seriously, Cas, there are limits. Thats just ridiculous. Ah. I apologise. I am still learning how to know when a promise is a promise and when it is a vague offer that may later be revoked as ridiculous. The hell? Dean was practically vibrating, impatience and excitement and confusion and the need to do something bleeding out of his skin. Cas, your mouth just tastes funny because youve got morning breath. Happens to everyone. His voice dropped a little, firm and coaxing. Just trust me, yeah? Castiel flinched, and there was no way, close as they were, that Dean could have missed the tightening at the corner of his eyes, or the way his gaze slid away like hed been caught out. Trust. It hadnt even occurred to Sam that that might have fallen by the road. Dean winced like hed taken a punch to the gut instead, and a moment of awkward, spikey silence hung in the air. Then he drew in a breath like he needed it to rebuild his insides, and Sam decided that whatever he was about to say, it was really not going to help them get through today.

He stood up abruptly, letting his chair clatter loudly on the floor. Okay, you know what? You guys need to get over it. End of the world. Stop poking each other. He waved a hand vaguely between them and stomped off toward the door, ignoring the identical looks of wounded confusion from Dean and Castiel. It shut them up and got them on the road in five minutes, so Sam counted it as a win. --SW: hey. you still there? --The warehouse was eerily underguarded. Sam wasnt sure whether it was because they wanted to keep the number of human grunts to the minimum, or because, with fewer nondemons about, it was easier for Pestilences gang to viciously deal with any intruders. Either way, it worked for him. They set the C-4 and slipped in the back easily enough, and only met two people between there and the office. Castiels curt Demon when the first rounded the corner had Rubys knife through the guys throat before he could yell. When the second brought a quick Dont shoot, Dean lowered his gun and clapped his hand over the scared teenagers mouth instead, dragging him into the office with them. Handy, Cas. Dean grinned, broad and relieved. Castiel only returned a brief nod, but Sam thought he was pleased. Nice that something was working for them. A few dregs of angelic perception were hardly going to tip the scales on the Apocalypse, but they might save a few lives. And it was more than theyd thought theyd had five minutes ago. Hey. Heads up. The challenge lifted Castiels head, and his sword cut a silver arc through the air from Deans hand to his. Castiels fingers closed around it as if it was part of his body (and perhaps it was, in a way more basic than Jimmys fingers, and Sam would ask him later when they had time), but he stared at it like a starving man in a foreign land whod just been handed a loaf of his mothers bread. You kept it. Cas, you child. Think wed throw that away? Cue another intense eye conversation, which Castiel broke abruptly after a minute to slip the sword into his belt.

They left Castiel in there with a barricaded door, Deans cell phone, a hasty devils trap drawn on the ceiling in black marker, and the kid tied to a chair. As they went, Sam let himself slip into that weird sense-space where adrenalin and danger always took him: reflexes on a hair-trigger, every sound and flicker of the air amplified, like every hair on his skin was reaching out for signals beyond the obvious, until he could just feel everything around him, knew where everything was and what was happening without having to look. Precisely ninety seconds after they left him, Castiels voice echoed amplified down the corridors to either side, a dark bass accompaniment to the shriller hisses and screams of demons being forced from borrowed flesh. Then it was voices raised and sharp with questions, the high strident clamour of the fire alarm as Dean smashed the glass and yanked it loose, the breath of fresher air sweeping infinitesimally down the passage as someone opened an outer door away to their left, the creak-thud of heavy doors, the clatter of shoes echoing off iron walls. And then, screams, confused at first then climbing sharply towards terror and pain, the heavy thud of adrenalin inside him, his own boots thumping on damp concrete with Deans footfalls staccato and heavy beside him. Three civilians down, one still moving sluggishly with his throat half torn out. Two Croats (and it had been years but that more-than-bestial viciousness in the eyes was a onceseen, never-forgotten thing), struggling with five terrified workers. Dean shouted, two of the humans began running toward them, and Sam saw his chance and took it. The taller Croat dropped with Sams bullet through its skull, while Dean cursed and dodged to get a clear line on the second, just as it sank its teeth into a young womans throat. Deans shot took down the monster, and the woman scrambled away, chest heaving, thinking herself saved for just one moment. Sam gave her that, then put his second bullet between her eyes as she turned toward them, so that she wouldnt have to know, and Sam wouldnt have to explain. The civilians fled, and there was no one else. Sam rang Deans cell, and Castiel confirmed that no movement was showing on the CCTV. They combed through the main floor once more, to be safe, though a countdown was ticking loud and sonorous in Sams head. How long until the fire department and the police showed? how long until Pestilence cottoned on that his plan had failed and started something new? how long until Brady (and there was a thought Sam still wasnt going to look at too closely) worked out that they were coming for him, and went into hiding? It could be a matter of hours. And they couldnt be everywhere at once. This would all be a hell of a lot less freaking impossible if they had a functional angel onside. Or, hey, God. But that wasnt going to happen. Sam? Castiels voice rumbled through him, too close and with a warning growl in it that Sam was programmed to respond to by now. He spun around, curbing his fight instincts just enough to keep the muzzle pointing to the ground. Dammit, Cas. Dont sneak up on a guy with a loaded gun.

Castiel just gave him that determined little half-frown, and held out a sheaf of papers, some kind of record print-outs. There are twenty-seven trucks in the fleet, but only twenty-four in the parking bays. Shit. Shitshitshit. Sam grabbed for the print-outs, as if staring at them blindly could make Castiel more likely to be wrong about this. Look at the last page, Castiel intoned, grim and blank. Delivery schedules, with a little mark in Castiels neat hand by three of them. Departed today, barely an hour before theyd got here, for distribution centres in three different states. Sam looked up, and found Deans white, hard face, where he stood frozen at the end of one of the rows. Call Bobby and set off the explosives. Were splitting up.

Maesne.
[n] (Anglo-Norman, also spelt maign, metne, meyne, menci, etc.): family; but also, household/retinue, body of troops, or (occasionally) any crowd of strangers. Cf. Middle English meine/maignie/meneghe.

January, 1323.* In late 1321, many of the barons of England, tired of the increasingly onerous rule of King Edward II and his favourites, the Despensers, rose against him. The greatest of these barons was the kings uncle, the Earl of Lancaster. But that beginning is misleading. It implies direction and purpose and unity. It implies a leader. In one of the most politically canny periods of his kingship, Edward actually headed off most of the rebellion before it could become one, while Lancaster hung around up north and held meetings and never got around to helping his potential (or erstwhile) allies. By the time Lancaster was actually in armed opposition to him (or to the Despensers, as he insisted, because who would dare march against the king to whom hed sworn allegiance before God?), Edward had already dissuaded or terrified or imprisoned most of the lords who might otherwise have rebelled. In the end, most of the force that joined up with Lancaster were, in fact, fleeing the kings wrath rather than standing against it, hoping that the great Lancasters protection would save them. It didnt. In March of 1322, the kings army won a resounding victory at Burton-uponTrent, and the tattered remnants of the baronial opposition fled north across Lancasters lands. They were cut off at Boroughbridge, in York, and there all the remaining ringleaders were captured. Despite everyones belief in his immunity, Lancaster was beheaded as a traitor, together with many other barons and knights, and still more fled the country or were imprisoned. To cap it all, Edward redistributed their captured lands liberally. In a society where community and individual identity were deeply associated with family land ownership, this had a profoundly unsettling effect and on a country already divided and shaken by civil wars and shifting loyalties.
* The obscure Engayne family, on which this chapter is centred, was as hard hit by the civil wars of 1321-22 as any. Sir John Engayne, the head of the family, his brother Sir Nicholas, and possibly Nicholas son John, seem to have fought on the kings side; but the name of one Thomas Engayne appears in the list of the knights banished or fled after the final Battle of Boroughbridge (March 21-22 1322). Sir John the elder and Nicholas then died in September, in King Edwards disasterous victory campaign against the Scots, leaving the younger John to inherit (after a lengthy inquisition) in early 1323. The one point in which Ive departed from the verifiable historical facts is in making Thomas the brother of the younger John. He may have been its possible he was the son of some unknown third brother who left no trace on the records, or perhaps even a more distant relation (although this is less likely he seems to have had strong emotional connections with the central family lands). For obvious thematic reasons, I have decided on brother here. If you want citations for any of this, google the Engaynes: youll turn up, fairly high on the list, a blog post written by me, focussing on Thomas Engayne and Roscelyn. It also quotes the text of the warrants. No one else has published research on the family.

The rest of the year was devoted to a parliament, then a campaign against the Scots which should have gone well (according to the English) and really really didnt (unless you were a Scot). In early 1323, when the king had time to turn his attention back to domestic affairs and retribution, a warrant was issued from Newark for the arrest of several of the knights who had escaped after Boroughbridge and who were now at large in the land. Among them were two men who appear in very few official records and fewer chronicles: Thos. Rocelyn, knight, and Thos. de Engayne
It was the year of our Lord 1323, in the first month, and my brother-in-arms Sir Thomas Roscelyn and I found ourselves lodged secretly in the small Surrey priory of Bermondsey. A warrant had been issued for our arrest very lately from Newark, but containing no particulars. There were many knights fleeing the kings wrath across the land, and his sergeants obeyed him only sluggishly, as men will who are driven by fear, and not by love. We were not the only men at that time relying on the hospitality and discretion of Prior Walter de Lutz and his fellow canons. There was another knight there, a Sir Daniel de Wanderville from the north of England, who arrived in late January. In that wretched time, few men had the luxury to ask and carry letters of introduction (we ourselves had nothing but our names and our accidental friendship with the canon James Daryngton to recommend us). But the prior was a man of charity and conscience, and was content to introduce us because he thought his brother had known this mans father; and so, he had three guests to feed. With the Famine barely over, and the murrain of cattle, and every man distrusting his neighbour, it can hardly have been easy on him; but when times are harsh, every man either becomes a wolf, who turns on his neighbours with vice and rapine, or he becomes a hound, who defends them to the death. It was three days before we spoke more to this knight than the barest of courtesies dictated. In any other time, that might have seemed reticent or impolite; but times were strange, as I have mentioned, and men were wary and tired of grief. I had not expected to see the stranger here, in our quiet shaded corner in the elbowcurve of the brook. We had come down here together, to swim and to laze in what sun there might be as we dried; but I was not sorry for the distraction. I loved Thomas fiercely, close as any brother; but we had argued twice lately, and I knew that as soon as we were alone he would begin it again. He insisted that the wisest course was to flee England and join Sir Roger Mortimer of Wigmore (whom he knew well) on the continent, arguing that if we could get there we should be well placed to take back the lands and goods that were ours when the time came; and that, in any case, we were

doing ourselves no good by sitting here. I, on the other hand, had reasons to remain, hopeless as they appeared. Brothers ought not abandon brothers, even if they are themselves abandoned. In any case, the kings favourites, the Despensers, were now stronger than ever, the great Earl of Lancaster was dead, the rising against the Despensers crushed, and what man with all his faculties could hope that a disgraced Marcher baron could do better? My friend was dear to me, and he always spoke with passion and determination that did him credit; but the days of honour and chivalry were dead, and I feared he was merely seeking another great banner to which he might attach his blind and fading hopes. And besides, it is one thing to follow the kings cousin to put down malicious barons who hold too much sway over the king, and quite another to march openly against the king himself behind the banner of a knight of the Welsh marches. And yet, the country was diseased. The political state of it was unnatural, contrary to the laws of God and man, and we saw daily proof of it in the sickness of the land, in the hunger of dying men and beasts, in the bright flash of iron drawn by brother against brother. Perhaps God wanted us to set it right. My brother-in-arms hailed the stranger, and he replied, calling us Sir Roscelyn and Sir Engayne. Thomas denied the names, all irony: The king, in his majestic wisdom, has taken the lands and maesne of those names from us: we are now, moun cher sire, only Sirs Thomas and Thomas. If only Thomas would not joke like that. About that. (For my part, Sir Engayne was my uncle, until last September; and then it was my father for half an hour, I hear, as he guarded my uncles body from the axes of the Scots, as the kings glorious campaign dissolved into mayhem; and now it must be my brother John, who did not choose a side, not even the side he must have known was right.) At least no man could deny us our knighthood, or the names by which God had accepted us as His. Join us in the water, Thomas invited. No, the knight replied, drawing out the vowel so that the word sounded almost English, although of course we all three were speaking French. Im too old for naked ragerie and riotte* in January creeks. You kids go freeze your pert little bew-scheres off Ill wait. We did, and he did, with his face tipped up toward the light of the sky and the Heavenly King whose example the earthly one did not know how to follow.
* Gaiety/playfulness and revelry. Literally bough-shares, that is limb-joints i.e., buttocks.

When we were done, I lay on the muddy grass and Thomas in the crook of an oak to dry. We did not speak. Among men such as us, some words are unnecessary. We were all three of us at the lowest turn of Fortunes wheel, crushed under it. We did not have to speak of the war to know whose side he had fought on his presence here was enough. He had risen against the unjust favourites who dominated a doting king (contrary to custom and nature) and he had failed at Boroughbridge, or at Burton-upon-Trent, or earlier. Perhaps his lord had been cowed out of the fight before he had quite declared himself, and the king had issued warrants for some of his followers in revenge; or perhaps he was (had been) a Marcher lord, beaten into submission before he could join forces with the kings uncle of Lancaster (or flee to him for protection, the coward in my head tried to whisper). It didnt matter now. Whatever blows he (or we) had struck, or felt, he had lost friends and name and brothers and lord to death, and to betrayal. As had we all in that land, at that time. At last, I asked, Daniel. Not a common name. Something on your mothers side? Nah, the lions sweetmeat. The names all mine, Thomas son of Nicholas. My friend Thomas, whose father was named for Peter the rock, laughed without amusement. Thats right. Thomas father named his first son after his uncle, and his ancestors before him, and the Baptist, and the Evangelist. Then he named my brother here for the man who doubted. It was an old and bitter joke between us, old with a year of civil war and flight and dishonour, but my heart warmed as it always did when he claimed me with that word. Yeah, well. Guess my father was a little more creative. There was a curl of the lip there like a private joke, but my friend was preoccupied by something else in the strangers words. Was? The knight paused, as if he had taken himself by surprise with his admission, then confirmed, Was. Wont be seeing him again. What about you two fine young chevaliers? Whats the next stop on this little chevauchee*? A strategic retreat, mounsyre, Thomas replied in kind, circling back around the enemys position and retreating across the water to the main body of our maesne. (I said nothing, although he looked to me for objection.) And yourself? I? Nothing so fine. I came here to think. To stop for a while, before I get back to doing what I have to do. He spoke like a man telling a light story, but with a weariness in his eyes that I thought I understood.
* Calvalry sortie or raid.

There are no paths of honour left here, I agreed. Only a few of lesser dishonour. We were all silent a moment; but suddenly I felt words welling up inside me like blood in a slashed throat, like the babble and tears of the mystic I had seen once in Devonshire, whose words were said to come either from God or His Enemy. Silence, which had sat heavy on my tongue for months, was suddenly out of my reach. Brothers turn on brothers and men on their lords and lords on their men and friends against their vows. Men start fires in villages, kill, and rape, and forher ian*, and ur rennen. And their lords say nothing to stop them how should they, when their king does not? Are we the only men who remember the great tales of warfare and chivalry in the days of King Arthur? The times are degenerate there is no taking of prisoners, no honourable ransoms to win a young man prestige and gold. No honour to it, no glory here. Brother against brother, and knights slaughtered dishonourably on the field and off it. Even when the Round Table fell, when felawe turned against felawe and Gawain took up arms against his dearest friend Lancelot, it was for love of his brother. My words ran dry as abruptly as they had begun, and I was struck, too late, with dread. I was no politician, not like my uncle. Who was to say that this man was a victim of circumstances and not a sergeant of the king listening to my treachery, my blasphemy? But then, we were already dead men, if we were found, with all the justices in the land cowed by the kings victories I could say what I liked. It was only my soul in danger, after all. But the other knight only sighed, and looked up at the trees. Theres a shitload of amazing and develli uglich things done for that. Families, huh? Wander away for a year or two and the slam the door in your face; but soon as you dont deserve forgiving theyre suddenly there, no questions asked. Rubbing forgiveness in your cleppyng** face. Thomas made a scathing comment about his own father that I had heard many times before, then, in the silence that followed, he looked at me. I knew what he asked, and I considered it, then I nodded. Monsyre, come with us across the sea. Help us to set this right. The stranger looked surprised; then he laughed. No. The things that I have to set right cant be done with a sword. You dont wear one, I noted unusual in any knight, certainly in one fleeing the law.
* In modern notation, forherghian: to ravage/pillage. In modern notation, thurghrennen: literally to run/ride through (an area), but to pillage/plunder/overrun is implied. Comrade. Devilishly/hellishly horrific/loathsome/unsettling. ** Lit. embracing, but usually used in a coarse sexual sense; ie, fucking.

Yeah, well. He grimaced. Nothing takes the joie du fer out of you like drawing it against your own brother, then getting percid* on it. That was the last time. Never again not against my brothers, not against anything with a human soul. It was a fine resolution, and I admired it. And I felt pity John and I had used our fists often enough, but to draw cold iron was another affair entirely. You should go to him, I said at last. If you can. I cant, he confessed, like a man in grief. Not to him. But I have a younger brother, one I never really knew before I left my fathers house He looked at me, and then he smiled. Sir Roger Mortimer of Wigmore will invade, Sir Thomas. He will invade with the Queen and her son and the good will of the land on his side. When that happens, go find your brother, yeah? Little brothers grow up, and they can become wonderlich. Can put their older brothers to shame. Once more, there were no words in my mouth; but that was nothing unusual, in those months. I nodded instead. Just dont expect too much too quick, he added, with the lightness that reminded me of Thomas, who jokes when he is most serious. That can be pretty damn hard to forgive. --We spoke little more that afternoon, but sat in silence, watching the sun track slowly towards the west. He excused himself, before it disappeared behind the trees; and Thomas turned to me and kissed me like a brother. As John used to do, when we were young. When we returned to the priory, the stranger was gone, no leave taken of any man but his host. ---

According to a warrant, issued the following January, Sir Thomas Engayne and Sir Thomas Roscelyn spent December and January 132223 safely ensconced in the priory of Bermondsey, Surrey, at which a friend of theirs was a canon. The 1324 warrant is for the arrest of the prior and his fellow monk, together with both knights, their friend Darynton, and several others. According to the warrant, the canons received the said Jacominus [Darynton] and other persons adherents of the rebels, and especially of Thos. Rosselyn and Thos. Dengayne, knights, in the priory of Bermundsey, co. Surrey, and aided them
* Skewered. Extraordinary, marvellous, magnificent, miraculous.

from the feast of St Nicholas 16 Edward II [6 December 1322] until Shrovetide [8 February 1323], when they permitted them to go away at the expense and mounting of the said prior. As the warrant was issued almost a year after the event, there was little chance of catching the knights. Although there is no record of it, their hosts, presumably, were far easier to locate. For obvious reasons, there is no record of when and how two Sirs Thomas slipped across the Channel to the continent; but when the invasion came, they were part of it. Sir Roger Mortimer and Queen Isabella, with the mid-teen boy who was later to be King Edward III, invaded England in late 1326, when discontent with Edward II and the Despensers was at its height. They came with all the exiled and discontented knights from England, and a small force hired from Hainault. It took little to persuade England as a whole to abandon Edward II in favour of his son. Sir John Engayne of Northamptonshire was one of those who came over to hail the prince as Edward III in 1327, and to see the former king be renamed as merely Sir Edward of Caernarfon, father of the king. It didnt end there, though. In 1329, the younger brother of the former Earl of Lancaster, having assumed his brothers mantle and capitalised on his popularity as a martyr to royal oppression, emerged as leader of the baronial opposition to Isabella and Mortimer (who were now as despotic as Edward had ever been, or worse). In January of that year, Roscelyn and Thomas Engayne were among the new Earl of Lancasters armed forces when he marched into Bedford in open resistance as was the new Sir John, now united with Thomas in his opposition to the misuse of royal power. Roscelyn, being one of Lancasters four chief adherents, personally arrested and detained the sheriff for the duration of their occupation. This opposition was short-lived, and everyone concerned was heavily fined. Roscelyn, together with the other three chief supporters of Lancaster, was banished. In late 1330, Edward III, with the political acuteness and personal charisma that were to mark his reign, led a lightning-fast coup against Mortimer, and removed his mother from active political power. Rather than turn against adherents of the former regime with bloody vengeance, as Mortimer and Isabella had done, and Edward and the Despensers before them, Edward III worked to reunite a jaded and wary aristocracy: to offer them, within their lifetime, the promise of a renewal of the glory and honour of the stories of Arthurian Britain. It even worked, for a while. One more note. The young John who inherited the estate in 1323 lived until 1360. On his death, he was succeeded by his oldest surviving son: by name, Thomas.

Nadir.
[n]: the point on the celestial sphere diametrically opposite either the zenith or the sun; metaph. the lowest or worst point of something.

Present day.
They had been three hours on the road when they overtook the Niveus truck. The driver was a demon, which simplified matters. Dean immobilised her while Castiel exorcised her, then Dean destroyed the cargo of vaccine while Castiel helped the confused woman to safety. Following that, they continued along the same highway towards the Niveus headquarters, and Brady. They were half an hours fast driving further on when Dean worked out that Sam had deliberately taken the route with more chance of encountering those infected with the virus, on the chance that he was still immune, as he had been some years before. The realisation did not please Dean. Castiel had nothing to contribute, nothing that could change it and no extra information to offer, so he said nothing for some time. In the face of this powerful, incomprehensible thing between Sam and Dean, he could only be silent. It was nothing like what he had had with the creatures that he called brother, and whom he loved with such a very different kind of love than this. He only watched Dean, listened to him rant about Sams stupid self-sacrificing guilt thing, listened to the way he didnt mention the strange, brutal other future that Zachariah had shown him, or how Dean still blamed himself, deeply and harshly, for bringing his brother to the point where Lucifer had risen. When Dean stopped talking, the silence felt oddly heavy. Castiel was disconcerted to find that it made him want to speak, to try to smooth out the deep furrows beside Deans mouth after the human fashion, even if he had nothing to say. He cleared his throat. Sam will be alright. It was awkward and gruff, served no purpose, and was very likely rather inaccurate.

Irritation, and embarrassment, he categorised.

Dean looked surprised, then slanted him the ironic look he sometimes got that meant he was trying not to look too shaken. That some kind of a prophecy? If Castiel had not known it to be logically impossible, he could have sworn that he could feel the warmth of Deans body, the lazy beat of blood under his skin, radiating in one long inviting line across the car at him. I am not a prophet, Dean.

He thought of Dean railing against the words of the prophet Chuck, not for what they foretold, but for the fact of them. Against predestination. As if he could change the facts of the world with his righteous indignation. He added, carefully, Nor are you a man to take comfort in a prophets words. Damn straight. Castiel looked at the hands that belonged to him lying half-curled in his lap, settled there with no direct instruction from him. He was not, after all, very good at aping humanity. As Dean reminded him often, with hilarity. So instead, he just said, blunt and solid, Sam has the ability and the wit to counter anything he is likely to meet, on his own terms. With no reference to prophets or angels. Oddly enough, that seemed to be the right thing to say. Dean just mumbled a morose Yeah, I guess, and slumped back against the headrest, but he was a little more relaxed than he had been before. Castiel looked at the crook of Deans fingers on the wheel, the distracted lines of his mouth, and wanted. Unaccountably. With everything he had, except his own consent. He turned his face back to the window, and added quietly, As do you. --Castiel was not accustomed to weariness of the body. He was dismayed to find that it shortened his temper. It was much easier to understand humanity when you realised how many things clamoured for their attention every moment of the day. Three hours of fitful, occasional conversation and awkward silences later, Sam rang. Shotgun picks up. Castiel carefully turned down the volume of the music by rotating the appropriate dial, and opened Deans phone. Sam. Oh, hey Castiel. Hows things your end? We dealt with the truck. Dean says we will be at the Niveus headquarters a little after eight in the evening. Heard how Rufus and Billy are going with the other truck? Bobby says theyre close. Okay. Okay, thats good. Sams voice was threaded through with something worried and guilty. Sam?

A breathy gust of breath crackled over the line. Yeah, not so much at this end. I couldnt catch the truck before its first drop-off. I went into the town and tried flashing the CDC card to get in there, but the CDC was there already and I had to run. Looks like the drivers taking his time over coffee, though, and theres only one way in and out, so Im going to take out the bridge and go from there. You could not have overtaken the truck before it got there, Sam. We knew that. Dean muttered something about stupid bitches beating themselves up, which Castiel chose not to pass on. Im dealing with it, okay Cas? Itll get done. I have no doubt. Dont take unnecessary risks. Ill be good. Hey, Gabriel sent me a couple of texts for you. Ill forward them to Deans phone, okay? Castiel blinked. For me? Dont sound so shocked. Youre his only brother who isnt a dick, after all. And hey, ask Dean if I can give Gabriel his number too. Castiel relayed the question, to which Dean responded with a loud, Tell the little bitch to get himself a real number, which Sam apparently took as consent. Cas? Sam. Look after him, would you? Castiel slanted a look at Deans fingers, drumming on the steering wheel in time to his barely audible music. He thought of Deans arbitrary lines and ultimatums, and his promises that were not meant to be kept. The way he shied away from the weight of Castiels faith in him, yet tossed out orders as if it had never occurred to him that he might be disobeyed. Dean was not Castiels father, and could not be; and it was not fair of Castiel to believe it of him. He knew that now, and it was his duty to remember it. I will try. Thanks. Sam grinned suddenly, a brightness that Castiel could hear even through the small, tinny sound of the phone. Oh, and the texts? I think the zipper thing is because I said something about you having trouble with buttons that first day. The second one nothing to do with me. Castiel felt himself smile a little in response. Noted. He hung up, and Deans phone beeped twice almost immediately. Sam doing okay over there?

Castiel relayed the meat of Sams report in two terse sentences as he carefully figured his way around opening the messages. The first one says tell my little bro that zippers r the way 2 go.

Little bro. From an archangel.

He thought of Lucifer Hello, brother curious and indulgent because Castiel was too weak to matter, using brother to mean angel, something he had left behind long ago. Of Gabriel himself, savage and ironic Hey bro, hows the search for Daddy going? hailing fraternity only as a mockery, a shared bitterness. Both faces lit by the flickering deadly flames of confinement. This was something different. Possibly. He felt the heat of Deans regard on the side of his face, and pushed the pad of his thumb firmly against the button under the little Next displayed in one corner of the screen. The second & always 2 shake it off b4 tucking it back in. trust me on this 1. With an excess of homophonic numerals which are, I assume, intended ironically. He frowned at it, to the sound of Deans amused snort. Why am I to shake my zipper, Dean? Not your zipper, dude. He could feel Dean grinning. Sounds like someone was trying to cut corners with his shiny new bathroom habits and forgot that he couldnt just mojo wet spots in his underwear dry anymore. Ah. So Dean reached out, almost touched him, patted the gear stick instead like hed forgotten it was there. Youve finally got a brother trying to be helpful? If an excessive enthusiasm for bodily humour and advice about avoiding buttons is intended as helpful, then yes. Yes, I suppose so. Which was rather a strange and aweinspiring idea. Dean was quiet for a minute, and didnt turn the music back up. Then he tapped the seat just beside Castiels knee and offered, sort of casual, I prayed to the guy, you know. Well, more sort of tore him a new one in the middle of a motel parking lot. Castiel looked up. The night before Elysian Fields. Since he didnt turn up and turn me into a soccer mums mini van or something, figured he hadnt heard. He would have heard. Dean grunted. His eyes were scowling and earnest, and Castiel couldnt look away from him. Figured it was a hell of a coincidence him just showing up the next night. Castiel thought of Gabriel as he had last seen him, of the tired ferocity and despair burning in his eyes and grace. The tattered arches of gold and blood-red wings behind him, magnificent and neglected in the shadows of the warehouse, with artificial rain falling

through them as though they werent there. The second of the archangels to leave, but certainly not the last. Held captive by Deans words, as much as by the flames. None of them were made for solitude. What did you tear him a new one about? About how if Sam ended up saying yes forget the whole perfect angel clones crap, that shit was all on him. Castiel tilted his head, and Dean seemed to catch the question without taking his eyes from the road. Yeah, you missed his whole defeatist you guys are little baby carbon copies of Lucifer and Michael speech in that warehouse. I just sort of yelled at him for a while about how hes a hell of a lot more like Sam than Lucifer ever was, except that Sammy manned up and pulled his weight when his family needed him. Trying to hustle him back into the game before Sam gave up, you know? Archangels heard thousands more personal prayers every day than most angels simply because so few angels names were known to humanity, a constant background murmur of pleas and curses. Doubtless they found it even easier to restrain themselves from responding than Castiel had. Still, he was a little surprised that Gabriel had not shown himself, if only to rage in return, when provoked on that subject. He said mildly, I doubt if Lucifer and Michael have ever truly needed Gabriel. They have always been focussed. I didnt mean them, you shmuck. Dean tossed him a look with a warmth behind its exasperation that made Castiel look away. Dean went silent for a minute, then amended, more distantly, I meant you know, his family tearing up the planet over their little domestic. In general. Anyway, then I prayed to him two days later. Just in case he was still there. After Sam told me about hell, man, you probably dont know about that either, do you? That Gabriel got Sam through detox after Famine? That would account for his survival. I was not aware. Although it does go some way to explaining your new tolerance for him. Screw you, Im not that easy. Castiel just eyed him until he squirmed. He was far from the only one to know where the quickest way to make or break Dean Winchesters trust lay. Anyway, dude, he said you were the one who prayed for him, Dean retaliated. Sam thinks thats some important screwed-up angel thing you shouldnt be able to do. Nor ought he. Castiel had been aping the human solace of prayer, expecting only a little comfort at best. Not for anyone to hear. The only way Gabriel could possibly have heard would have been if

Which was impossible. Like so many things that had happened lately. And yet, he had heard. And he had answered. It is not conventionally possible. You sneaky bastard, Dean said, in the way he had that made it a compliment. So, if Gabriel had been attending and responding back then, perhaps this was not simply a sudden impulse that he might regret. What did you say to him when you prayed to him the second time? Dean cleared his throat. Just thanks, you know? And hoped he was okay, and Castiel watched him, the rough line of his jaw and the familiar, beautiful sweep of his eyelashes as they swept down to cover momentary embarrassment. and I hoped hed be back, because Sam could do with thinking someone might be in our corner. Shut up, dont give me that look, I was trying to be nice. And it worked, didnt it? Sort of. Gabriel would not have been able to hear you by that time, Dean. Yeah, well. Dean shifted uncomfortably. Maybe someone did. Castiel felt something bitter and raw twist inside him, so he stepped sideways around it. Kali would have no reason to listen to the prayers of an American Christian, even if she could. Again. Not what I meant, Cas. Castiel carefully centred his attention on the white lines on the tarmac, watched them speed toward them and vanish under the sleek black curve of the Impalas nose. After a few minutes consideration, he offered, I believe Gabriel may also have had a hand in bringing me back from 1978. Dean made a little noise of interrogation. It ought to have been impossible for me to make the leap at all, at least without killing myself. I had not even intended to try. And I did think, for a moment, that I felt him nearby. Dean looked over at him with a strange expression, as if he was trying to figure him out. You didnt mention that. Which of course he ought to have. Because Dean liked to tell him what to do. Because Deans way was always the only way. Castiel curbed the flare of resentment, and its accompanying flavour of sarcasm. It seemed unlikely. And I was experiencing a mild foretaste of what I felt in the hospital; confused. Huh. Guess hes been hanging around more than we thought. Sneaky bastard, Castiel put in, deadpan.

Dean grinned at him, that wide brilliant grin that promised so much and lit up the room. Yeah. Castiel sternly, wearily, reined in his heart. Because he knew better. --Im gonna rip your lungs out, Winchester, and play matchsticks with your ribs. The demon shoved Dean up against a wall with an elbow across his throat. Deans teeth flashed, white and red. Yeah? You need to get yourself some new lines, pal. What is it with demons and clichs? It snarled in his face, then went down in a tangle of limbs and sulphur as Deans rosary-entangled fist slammed into its gut. Dean kicked it aside and danced out of the way, turning with a charming smile to face the other two. Oh, you dont mess with the classics. The demon wearing a tired middle-aged secretary glided forward, too lithe for its vessels joints, as the first demon pulled itself to its feet. Your guts are going to make me the sweetest garters you ever saw. And trust me, youll live to see it. Dean laughed once, hoarse and irrepressible, and kept talking at them. Sweetheart, when were you last topside? Garters went out, like, before the telephone was big. I mean, come on. Are you just like stunt demon number three and they cant pay you enough for a decent script writer, or what? For a moment, Castiels vision blurred, a wave of pain and memory and the tight dare of Deans mouth. There were many different Deans, interlocking and shifting like loose rocks in a rushing river, and Castiel was lost in trying to figure which one he was. The righteous indignant adamantine Dean of the green room, with his hard bunched shoulders and his promise of a different salvation; the casually (desperately, reservedly) affectionate Dean of the days when he was separated from Sam (not the days when it was just Dean and Castiel because it was not about Castiels presence but Sams absence, of course); the suspicious, insistent, devoutly irreverent Dean of the park bench; the Dean with guarded wooden eyes who had called Castiel to help take down Lucifer at Carthage, and who would barely meet his gaze afterwards. The demon snarled and crooked its fist, trying to immobilise him and pin him to the wall, but the sigils that Castiel had carved deep into Deans bones kept its grip loose enough for Dean to punch it aside and scramble away, as it leered, Oh, pretty boy, you wish I was just a stunt. Yeah? Dean ducked a punch from one demon, lithe and cocky, and kicked out the knees of the third in the same motion. Ive got a friend whos an angel, meaning hes been

stuck up in Heaven with nothing but angels for, like, ten billion years, and since your boss busted out hes been too busy being awesome to really build up his vocabulary, and hes still a helluva better conversationalist than you. (Awesome?

You should show me some respect.

When had that changed?) You were human once whats your excuse? The third demon grinned like a rabid dog and started to circle Dean. Castiel waited, hidden, still and silent. His body wanted to move, wanted to urge him out to help, or at least to jiggle impatiently; but no, not until Dean gave the signal, or Castiel was sure that there were no other demons on this floor, so that no one could carry word that there were two intruders and that one was a downed angel. How about I break open your ribs one by one and pull out your shrivelled, incestuous little heart and force it down your throat before you die? Dean snickered, and the closest demon fell back howling with a face full of holy water. Okay, half a point for the Sam-and-Dean card, but come on kind of obvious, yeah? I mean, its been done before, by half the motel receptionists across the lower forty-eight. You might at least go the whole hog and try for a kinky angel threesome. His foot slammed into demons ribcage, which would have been ineffective had it not been for the crucifix carved into the sole, which sent the creature staggering back several metres. Dean followed up on his advantage, darting across the space it had occupied and back into his nice defensible position in the bay of a bookshelf, holy water at the ready. Or, hey, how about your boss? He and Mikey already want to jump each others bones, not to mention carve a piece of sweet Winchester ass each. His grin was all teeth, lips curling back against stubble-shadowed cheeks, and Castiel badly wanted to know what that texture felt like under his fingertips. Im just saying. Think of all the witty repartee and charming banter you guys could be doing with that kind of The second demon overturned a table against him. Dean jumped sideways, straight into the grasp of the third, who bit deep into his right arm and struck the rosary and the water out of reach. Then the first closed in, and just like that, Dean was fighting for his life. Pinned to a window over a four-floor drop, with one demon groping towards his heart, and another towards his groin. Castiel felt something hot and furious beat like balefire down all the way to the marrow of his bones his bones, not Jimmys right through where his grace would have been and where his wings might be still and into the blood and the guts that he shared now with his vessel, his body. And signals be damned. His fingers bit deep into warm living flesh before he registered that he had slammed across the room and pressed up close to the third demons ear to growl,

I think you ought to know that Deans confidence in my English invention is entirely misplaced. Then he twisted and flung on the same surge of fury and pain pain hot pain in his back and the demon went flying to crash hard into the far wall. He turned on the other two, Dean safe and sure and his behind him, towering and raging as if his wings were dwarfing the city with him, and spat the Enochian words of deliverance right into their cowering, startled faces. There were screams, then there was silence, broken only by the faint moans of the only human vessel whom its inhabitant had not killed. Then, behind him, Wow, Cas. Youre still kind of badass, you know. And just like that, Castiels actions, Castiels decisions, the first that had really felt like his for a long time, were rewritten. Deans terms. Castiel had been only following a script, after all. Deans badass angel. Castiel turned, accounting stiffly for the complaints of his damaged back, and hauled Dean to his feet, by his good arm. Im sorry if the dubious morality of my posterior bothers you. Dean burst out laughing for one too-brief moment and clapped Castiel on the shoulder, as if there was nothing wrong. Which of course there wasnt. Not through his eyes. Dont you change. Lets go. Castiel wasnt sure whether he was gratified or disappointed that Dean had, somewhere along the way, worked out what he sounded like when he was deliberately misunderstanding a reference to mess with Deans head. The thing that had been wearing a boy named Brady for years was on the eighth floor. It smiled at Dean. Made small talk about Sam, until Dean started dropping hints about War and Famines secret power rings. Then it made not-so-small talk about retribution, and ripping it out of Deans ass. When Dean was thrown out through the office door, Castiel was ready, and the besigilled and be-trapped hessian sack slipped over the creatures head as easy as anything. Then Castiel slammed his elbow hard into its back, and it doubled over, and sank to the ground. Dean lay sprawled against the wall of the corridor and just grinned at him, bloody and panting. His eyes were bright and triumphant, disarming and devastating as quicksand. You know, I think that guy has some deep-seated anger management issues he really should work out with some obscenely over-priced therapist. Castiel fastened the salted rope around the demons writhing wrists. You have sulphur on your collar.

All his new and carefully considered discoveries, all his possibilities of what an angel might be, choked in his throat whenever Dean looked at him. He had come to the conclusion, somewhere, without realising it, that he had to cease to consider what would Dean say in making every choice. To say no to Dean, as necessary. If he was to call himself his own man, human or angel or anything, he had to learn to stand alone, as a human would. Which would all be much easer if Dean didnt keep poking at him. Laughing, and promising, and disappearing again. He had transferred all his faith from God to Dean, somewhere, not realising it until he felt the shock of betrayal and shattered illusions all over again when Dean had tried to annul himself in opening to Michael. Dean, he thought, had never fully realised it, and did not like it. Certainly he did not deserve it. As they came almost to the exit, they met with three last demons; and here, with no secret to defend, only a retreat to make with their prize, Castiel and Dean both drew their weapons. Fighting alongside Dean was more natural than the breath in his lungs. More joyous and fierce and sure than anything hed felt since hed last drawn his sword at his siblings side, instead of at their backs and hearts. He found that he knew, easier than he knew his own body, where Dean would move and how, how long he would take to recover from the impetus of a parry, where his weak spots were, how to move counter to his actions to block them from the enemy, when he would flash Castiel that bright exhilarated grin that Castiel had to remember not to depend on. Castiel had forgiven him, but he couldnt allow himself to become close, or he would no longer belong to himself. He was beginning to think that he might just like being his own man. --Come on, Cas, drink up. I cant have a victory booze-up all by myself. Castiel found himself focussing, with sudden trembling clarity, on the perfect disarming curve of Deans mouth. I doubt the wisdom of inebriation with a powerful demon in the next room, Dean. Dean snorted, and knocked back another shot. Hes all tied up and safe, dude. You made sure of that yourself. Just like last time. Last time there was a demon with important information, whom Dean had helped him to capture. Whom he had been obliged to ask Dean to torture. Bile rose in the vessels in Castiels throat, a brutal physical reaction to messy emotion, which

he swallowed viciously. Nevertheless. A rescue attempt is far from unlikely, given his importance to Pestilence. Jesus, youre a barrel of laughs, arent you? Again that look, as if Castiel was a puzzle for Dean to solve. Castiel looked away. The alcohol was too warm in his stomach, and it made things in his thoughts more vivid, and less clear. Brady would not be like Alastair. Castiel would see to it himself, and avoid inflicting the double damage on Dean that he had caused last time. Tell you what. Dean leaned back beside Castiel, arms and legs sprawled, expansive and generous in a way that made Castiel ache for it because it never lasted, and he couldnt afford to believe that it would. After we get Pestilences address out of that son of a bitch in there, well go pick Gabriel up and kick back a bit at Bobbys while we try to figure how to take Pestilence out without going all oozy. Then you can bond over not being allpowerful anymore and how all your other brothers want you dead. Deans foot nudged Castiels bodys calf, as though he were inviting him to share in a good joke. Oddly enough, although Castiel knew the words he spoke ought to be callous and insensitive, he found himself warming to the tone in which they were uttered. And you can kick his ass for us when hes being a dick. Which, you know, hes probably due. Where did he stick you in TV-land anyway? Uh. Castiel frowned at his drink. I dont know. It resembled Los Angeles, but there were vampires, with deformed faces. One of them was very tall, and he brooded a lot. He took another sip, then tried to drain the glass, but it was more difficult now that he had to coordinate drinking with breathing, and he had to stop to splutter for a moment. His name was Angel. The fuzziness in his head was too much like blindness, like his incapacity to look into Deans eyes and see the tenor of his thoughts. Oh man. Dean chuckled at the ceiling, all loose and relaxed, tugging at something in Castiels chest, or lower. Not that show. At least he gave us Doctor Sexy. Was it the vampire dude who bloodied you? A trace of protectiveness. No. That was a girl with demon blood in her. She objected when I informed her that her colleague was evil, and would not believe that I could see the demon in her without being a demon myself. He tried to remember her name. Something as ironic as Angel, but his mind was slipping about like a fish in the water when he tried to grasp for it. She was very strong. Dean placed his free hand in the centre of Castiels shoulder blades and spread it there, warm and flat, just for a moment. You got beat up by a fictional chick. He smirked. Bet Gabriel loved that. Castiel thought that, if Dean found the idea amusing, it was very likely that Gabriel had. From what he had seen of Gabriel, even from some of his memories of him in

Heaven, their senses of humour had many points in common. Castiel didnt quite see the amusement in it: demons and creatures of evil were as likely to take female forms as male, and size bore little relation to power. But humans had peculiar obsessions with gender distinctions in so many spheres. Deans arm, resting light and loose and strong over his knee, seemed to be demanding the attention of Castiels eyes. Was that a body thing? It was all too complicated. And it was all on Deans terms, always Dean, who thought he knew best and who talked to Castiel as if he were a child and whose hands were warm and rough, and who was always one step ahead of Castiel. Who was tugging Castiel in toward him as if by his own gravitational pull, planting the urge in his body to push itself into Deans shoulder and burrow close. To claim his mouth and shock him. To finally do something that Dean didnt expect, that Dean hadnt been the one to decide on. To make everything simple, to make it only about one basic urge, not this too-human tangle. Castiel frowned at the impulse. Pride, he thought to himself. Stubborn pride, and resentment. you think, Cas? Castiel blinked at him slowly. Dean had been talking for almost five minutes, Castiel realised. And he hadnt heard it. Didnt remember it, hadnt been even peripherally aware enough to replay it for his own perusal. Even if his own attention had been elsewhere, that was inexcusable. Terrifying. An experience of his own, and he had missed it. The information simply wasnt there. Castiel felt the heart speed up. But instead of repeating himself, Dean just looked at him, slow and careful and so very there suddenly, like Castiel was the answer to a question hed only just considered asking. Whats going on in your head, Cas? Out of nowhere. Invasion and invitation and piercing gentleness. Castiel looked away, wrong-footed, grasping for balance. Nothing of import. Dean snorted, fond and insistent. Nothing of import my ass, angel. Youve been a moody son of a bitch ever since Joshua gave us the bird, which, fine, I get that. Only since we picked you up its been like youve pulled out all the stops on the misery train, and He scrubbed his hand over his face, grasping for words, and Castiel flinched from the look in his too-bright eyes when he started up again, determined and huge and a little bit terrified. Look, Im sorry about the Michael thing, I am, but I dont get why it was such a big deal. For you, I mean. And it isnt just that, is it? I mean, I think it isnt, but I dont know. I keep thinking that I get you, Cas, but the truth is I just I dont know whats going on in there. And I want to try.

Dean took a deep breath and made a face, the one he made when he knew he was not conforming to his conception of proper gender roles, familiar and disarming. I wanna get to know you, Cas. It was all Deans fault. Because Dean kept drawing him to himself and had set this tug inside his belly, this insistent clamour for his nod or his easy grin or his casual touch, and then would vaguely promise, so easy and light as if it were nothing, then take it all away again, or declare some arbitrary line that Castiel had just crossed without knowing it was there. Because Dean promised hope and redemption, and never meant it. Castiel viciously indulged the aching impulse hovering barely below the surface of his skin, and made it his own. He turned and pushed forward into Deans space, grabbed for the collar of his shirt and twisted it. Deans breath was hot and startled on his mouth, then huffing across his tongue. His other hand curved of its own accord around the back of Deans neck and skull, holding too tightly, so that the short hair there stopped prickling at his palm and lay flat under its grip. Dean made a short, stunned noise, which vibrated in his throat against Castiels knuckles. Castiel mouthed at his lips awkwardly, strange and dry, trying to understand. His thumb fumbled over stubble and pressed in hard at the corner of Deans jaw. This is what he wanted, surely. The simplicity, the looseness of limbs and the sensory indulgences of drunkenness and the eating and the limitations. This was the kind of man Dean wanted. Let him have it, then let him see what it did, whatever it did. Castiel didnt know. Castiel could shove it at him and make Dean see exactly what he was making of him, how he was breaking him, just what Dean wanted, and see how he liked it. Deans thigh was rigid beneath his knee. Castiel had no idea what his thoughts were doing anymore, or what choices he was making, or why. Not built for free will. That was for humanity. An angel would only Under his mouth, Dean tilted his head, just a little, moved his mouth just so; and suddenly everything slid into sweetness and heat, only for an instant, something enticing and beautiful and so very Dean that it had to vanish again, any moment now. Castiel felt some desperate animal noise rip through his throat and he scrabbled forward, so that his nose collided painfully with Deans. His mouth shoved in, harder, determined, hunting for some place where he could just stop and things would be simple, through the strange haze of alcohol. How did humans do these things for enjoyment? Why were his eyes stinging? Deans lips moved against his in words, not kissing and his voice hummed something indecipherable in his throat. Then there were hands were on Castiels shoulders and he was being eased back, inexorable and heartbreakingly gentle.

Whoa, whoa. Easy there, sweetheart, slipping out soothing and confused like he meant it. Castiel closed his eyes, but Dean stubbornly refused to vanish. The heart and the lungs inside him were working too hard, too fast, too angry. The endearment shook him to pieces, and it wasnt fair this was his, and Dean had taken it back and turned it on him, offering him the sweet and deep and endless again which he would take away in ten minutes. Cas Deans voice sounded like something had rattled it until it broken, and Castiel didnt know what to do with that. Deans hand slid around to cup the back of Castiels neck, gave him a little shake. Castiels eyes flew open without being told, feeling far too wide and vulnerable, then slid away off to one side where there was no bright, guilt-ridden green to confront. Castiel? Did I did I say something really wrong? The nervous chuckle vibrated through Castiels knee, where it was still burrowed up against Deans thigh. Or sort of right? I got nothing to work with here. Castiels words seemed all tangled up in his human body, in its movements and its impulses and the haze of its feelings. Only a few managed to stumble out, and he wasnt sure what they meant. What more do you want me to say, Dean. Tell me what to say, what to do, I dont know. I dont know what you want, Dean. I tried every combination and nothing works, you tell me that nothing works. Deans thumb rubbed a slow circle on the top of the bodys spine. Warm hands, large hands, rehearsing the movements he would make with any one-night girl he picked up at a bar, whose soul he couldnt glimpse. There was a faint note of bitterness under the gentle tone in which he said, Hey. End of the world, close enough to last night on earth. You wouldnt be the only one to try for something crazy. Crazy. Castiel pulled back. A memory: a bar, two months ago, and a table of young women whose attention had been riveted, for perhaps twelve minutes, on Sam and Dean, as they hustled pool. One of the girls to another, not intending to be cruel, Honey, dont even. Way out of your league. Youd be crazy to try. The second girls shame, resignation, acknowledgement. And Joanna Harvelle to Dean: Sweetheart, if this is our last night on Earth, then Im going to spend it with a little thing I call self-respect. Sweetheart. Such a course of action, such an aim, had not occurred to Castiel before that moment. It was not logical, then, for that word to sting. Cas. He felt a touch on his shoulder, hovering. Cas, dude, youre shaking. I thought. His voice scraped in the throat. I thought this was what you wanted me to be.

Jesus Christ. Deans voice stumbled over itself, and his hands vanished from Castiels body as if they had never been there. No, Cas. Not like - That isnt you, okay? How would you know, Castiel wanted to demand, you who were so sure two minutes ago that you didnt know me at all. He said nothing, because he had no idea what he would say if he spoke. Dean sighed behind him, worried and breathy. Look, Im sorry about the brothel last time. That was stupid. Just completely the wrong idea. Castiel had nothing to say to that either, because he thought Dean might be working with a very different set of referentialities, and the room was spinning. Come on, Cas. You gotta give me something to go on here. I need. Castiel tried to stand up, but the battered old couch slid sideways against his knees and knocked him back down, curving under him as he fell. He gave up, and stared at the ceiling. I need you to be a dick. Dean snorted, quick and perhaps unintended, and in the corner of Castiels eye he caught the movement of a headshake. Seriously, man. One and a half beers? Freaking lightweight. He got up and moved away, moved out of the room, leaving Castiel to stare blankly at nothing and categorise Deans voice. Jovial, he decided, though not the adjective pertaining to the Roman name for the Greek perception of his father (who was a dick, definitely a dick, and that was a good word, which he was going to keep for himself). Jovial in the modern English sense, but forced illfitting over discomfort, and maybe a little panicked. Except that didnt make sense, because there was nothing at stake for Dean here. Dean was safe. Although he might be killed, but Castiel wouldnt let that happen. Except that sort of thing didnt frighten Dean. Dean was frightened by emotions, and by people he loved by Sam falling apart. None of those could be true here. Castiel was vaguely aware that self-pity was meant to appear at some stage in the cycle of inebriation. He wondered if maybe this was it. Cas. There was a light touch to his hand, a note of exasperation. The eyes that Jimmy had left him were not cooperating with his attempts to focus them. Dean was standing over him, holding a glass of water in one hand and a small white bottle of the sort that contained pills. Just one this time, yeah? If youve gone from liquor store to beer over dinner, I think youre past downing the whole bottle. There was something tense and determined in Deans voice. Castiel stared at him, in case that would cause him to make more sense.

Dean misinterpreted the stare. They wont clash with your meds. I checked. Different active ingredients. This is just to stop you from getting a hangover on top of it all later. Castiel felt his eyes narrow, tugging against the throbbing skin at his temples. What is it that you want to say, Dean? Deans gaze flinched away from his, then back again, halfway to angry. Not the best time, Cas. And not like this. But so far as Im concerned, youre the closest thing Ive got to a friend, okay? So. He set the bottle and the glass down beside Castiel, careful and precise. I might kind of love you. I guess. But you dont have to you know. There. Castiels patience broke, or whatever poor remnants he had left in its place. Dont say stupid things. His own voice came out far too low and gruff, like it did when alcohol had his throat in its grip. I was made for service, Dean, and it was called love. You broke my world apart and then you left me to build up a new one alone. And sometimes it looks just the same as the old one. He didnt look to see the reaction maybe realised, as the words slipped out of his mouth, that he didnt really want to but he heard the little raw catch in Deans breath, and found to his surprise that he did not like it. Okay. Dean made it sound gentle and muted, almost distant. Okay, then. There had been a vulnerability there, Castiel realised belatedly. Giving himself up in a way Castiel would not have believed him capable of. Just for a moment. He felt the stinging in his eyes slide into dampness, and his throat ached. Why had he consumed the alcohol? Shit. Cas. The couch dipped beside him, and fingertips brushed brief and feather-light over the back of his hand, where it covered his eyes. Look, man - Im kind of going way out on a limb here, because youre giving off seriously mixed signals. So just poke me if Im way out of line, yeah? A heavy line of warmth that was probably an arm settled tentatively along the back of the chair, halfway onto Castiels shoulders. Then Deans hand wrapped around his shoulder, and tugged him gently against a solid chest. Castiel did his best not to think of anything at all, because he had no defences left. Im not going anywhere, okay? And you dont have to say anything. Unless, you know, you want to. Or maybe one. I should tell Sam you talk about feelings when youre drunk. There was a stunned moment of silence. Then Dean prodded him.

Bitch, please. Like hed believe that. He might. If he were informed of it by a messenger of the Lord. Deans snort was eloquent regarding his opinion of angelic revelation of divine truth, and Castiel was left to thoughts of Sam in the one moment he had known him receptive to Castiel in that capacity. As a messenger and warrior of the Lord, worthy of reverence and wonder. It had lasted barely five minutes beyond Sams first introduction to him and Uriel. Castiel sat up a little, and reached for the water and the little white bottle. Hey. Cas? The lid to the bottle required some concentration. Castiel made a non-committal noise to indicate his attention. Just so you know? Nothing wrong with being fucked up. Dean shuffled back out of Castiels space, into his own corner of the sofa. Hell, around here it pretty much qualifies you as family. Family. Castiel contemplated the refraction of light through a clear liquid in a clear vessel. Dean shrugged, a bit awkward. If you want. Castiel looked at that, circled it, and decided not to touch it, because he didnt trust his mind anymore. Dean reached across him to snag his own glass and pour himself a refill. Also, when I say fucked up I mean the whole Apocalypse, fallen angel, daddy issues thing. Not you know Dean wriggled his fingers vaguely. Castiel blinked at them, then at Deans face, which was faintly red. A disgruntled noise snuck out of Deans throat. Come on, man. Dont make me say it. Oh. The kiss, then. Castiel looked away, and emptied his glass carefully of water. You are not usually reticent on the subject. Yeah, well. The tips of Deans ears went a little red. Its not usually you, is it? Go to sleep, big shot, Ill keep an eye on the Man in the Hessian Mask over here. Castiel didnt know what to do with that either.

Orders.
order [n]: an authoritative command; the condition in which everything has its correct or appropriate place; a body of people living together by common consent under one rule, usually religious or moral, separated from society at large but bound by common interests and motivations; a fraternal society of knights; to take orders: to be ordained, to enter the ministry of the church.

He took out the bridge. Then he found out he was too late. So he took out the phone lines as well, and waited for the virus to incubate. As he stood by the bank of the river, watching the sun arch towards dusk, his cell rang. Hey bitch, we got him. And Cas is a scary-ass SOB when hes riled up. Shut up, you are. Just looking for a place to crash tonight half the houses around here are abandoned, so shouldnt take too long. Deans voice rippled with the lazy smugness of a job completed. Sam felt a moments compassion for Castiel, who probably wasnt really in the mood for dealing with the postadrenalin cockiness that always kept Dean up late and loud on these nights. Okay. Good luck getting him back to Bobbys tomorrow, then. You okay? Hows things your end? Call back in two hours. Ill know then. You sure? Dean. Okay, okay, Im going. Sam turned his phone to vibrate and tucked it in against his hip. Then he hoisted the pack of weapons and explosives at his feet and slipped away through the trees, to continue his preparations. --His phone vibrated. Hey. Hey. You okay? Fine. Cas? Sleeping like a big baby. There was an undercurrent of something there that Sam suspected he was missing. Brady?

Foul-mouthed and secure. Keeps trying to rile me up with nasty talk about you at college. Seriously, Sam, hows your ghost town? Going to be a zombie town. About half an hour, I think. Shit, Sammy. What else was I supposed to do, Dean? Go into town where the sheriffs still looking for me and tell the pregnant women and the kids under two and everyone else who was too weak for the vaccine to barricade themselves in against their husbands and sisters and children? Get myself arrested before anyone turns? No. No, Sam, of course not. Not your fault, man. Just shit. The whole town? Sam looked at the cheerful, dilapidated little sign next to him, with its little fluorescent light. Population 220. Ive got the ammo. Especially if some of them turn quicker, and take the others out first. Dean swore again, with the shake in his voice that only came when it was Sams life or humanity on the line. Look, Im going to take it slow. Pick them off a few at a time and not get drawn out. I scoped out the place already, worked out some boltholes, hid some weapons stashes here and there. Should have a couple of days before anyone else turns up to see whats going on. Sammy. He could hear Dean pinching the bridge of his nose. I should be there. We should be there. Well, you cant. You need to get Brady to Bobbys and work out what he knows. Look, ask Bobby if he knows anyone in the area who could swing on by, okay? But I can do this, Dean. I have to. Okay. Just keep me posted, yeah? The grim, efficient detachment of a major job was already settling into Sams bones and senses. He could hear it shortening his voice into something clipped and cool. Cant, gotta take down the cell towers. Ill let you know as soon as I get out of here, though. Id better see you at Bobbys on the weekend. Im not taking on those books by myself. Sam faked half a grin, enough for Dean to hear it. You wont have to, actually. I sort of browbeat Gabriel into heading there, with the promise of fake photo IDs and credit cards. Great. Because hes going to be a restful study buddy. I hear ya. Poor Cas and Bobby, with two of you to babysit.

Hey! Go, Im busy. Ive got a town to blow up. --SW: gabriel? 0000101011: if u insist SW: sure sound like him to me. SW: tell me about stonehenge. howd they manage it? 1001100011: you trying to make my thumbs drop off? SW: humor me? 0010010100: whats up, kiddo? SW: just a nasty job to do. nothing new. 0100010000: fine. 0010110101: you know that story about merlin roping in the giants? It took two days. The children were the first to turn. Sam tried, savagely, to be glad about that. The fact that the townspeople were reluctant to shoot even a psychopathically violent kid meant that a lot of adults were killed before they turned. And the fact that the kids were still kids, not supernaturally strong creatures in a childs body like a demon or something, meant that when the adults finally rallied round and did something about it they managed to overrule them. Lock them up, or gun them down. In the two hours it took for the town to turn completely, almost eighty people died. All in all, it thinned out the crowd. Sam watched it all, from a shadowed window in the churchs locked belltower, with three clear paths to escape across the roofs. He had to watch, because he needed to know. Theyd had very little chance to observe the Croats three years back, and they didnt know how far Pestilence had altered the brew. Random and brainless, he concluded. No ability to work together, no concern about their fellows, little advanced planning. Primarily reactionary. Cannibalistic, and preferring to kill than to bite to turn. Not inclined to bother about working around difficulties like a high fence unless there was an immediate incentive (a sobbing woman) on the other side. Senses a little sharper than human, but not great at distinguishing between sounds given

the choice between the sound of fleeing footsteps and a raven croaking, about half the milling Croats went for each one. No mass breakouts to head off, then. The number of Croats began to increase as the night wore on, drifting in from the woods where some people must have fled before their own bodies turned on them. So, drawn to the town, or at least its lights and noise. That was good. Less likely to wander off across the river. Sam waited for the voracious crowd in the churchyard to grow. Two women had tried to hide in the church, but found the doors locked because it was a Thursday night. Sam had put a merciful bullet through the skull of the closer woman as the Croats dragged the second down, and they hadnt even raised their heads at the shot, not with fresh struggling meat in front of them, so hed downed one of them too. Then hed seen the way the smell and the feeding acted as a magnet to the other Croats, and hed put down his shotgun, drawn out a grenade, and waited. He counted fifteen in the pack before he lobbed it, and picked off the three mutilated survivors carefully, by the light of the floodlamps illuminating Gods message on the front door. This wasnt a hunt. He settled back and watched, waiting for the sound and the corpses to draw in more. His phone vibrated against his hip. Which... was impossible. Sam slipped his hand into his pocket, flipped it open, and turned the illumination to its lowest level with a practised thumb before drawing it out, because he couldnt risk upsetting his night vision. 0111000100: hey. i should work out if i can time hop with passengers. dragging u along would confuse locals hilariously. So apparently Gabriel wasnt actually using the phone network, any more than he had been really using the internet. Just the ability of the phone or the computer to receive and transmit. SW: text dean, tell him u can still reach me even with towers down. The answering vibration managed to sound irritated. 000010110: what am i, ur local post boy? 0010011110: done. SW: thx

1000000000: nasty job cant be that bad if uv still got working thumbs & time 4 a coffee break. Oh look, another angel whod picked up on sarcasm. Sam felt a sudden savage impulse of two can play at that game. It was Gabriel and his brothers, after all, who had let (or made) things come to this pass. SW: in bell tower, watching 24 croats eat the bodies of 15 others. which i just killed. 1011000111: holy hell, kid. who signed you up for this life? 0110001111: ... dont answer that. rhetorical. And just like that, Gabriel slipped in under the cold walls that Sam always kept firm between himself and realisation while working a job. For some reason, it was almost a relief. Sam sagged back against the wall and watched the Croats the people, whom he would have to kill, because they were already worse than dead clustering bloodily below. 1011100101: winchester snr nagging me now. talk about co-dependent. 1001111001: telling him my version of the adventures of sam. needs more strippers. local color. SW: thx SW: hell appreciate that. SW: local color, i mean. 0000011110: simple tastes, i like that in a man. SW: dude. dont flirt with dean 1111101001: baby, dean & i have flirted since day 1, its our special thing. SW: ew. Sam took a moment, in the middle of a massacre, to stop and imagine his brother flirting with any of the other archangels. It was more than sort of inconceivable. Which led him to realise that, yes, in fact, Gabriel had flirted, and not only with Dean. Not so remarkable in itself Sam suspected Gabriel could probably flirt with a toaster without turning a hair, because it was kind of his default setting except that, well, to flirt you had to treat the other party as a person. Even if you insulted them all the time. Right from the start, Gabriel had talked to them like they were people, rather than insects or

game pieces, which was impossible to imagine in any of the other archangels. Almost any other angel. And yes, okay, his methods of explaining and persuading had left a hell of a lot to be desired, but Sam was pretty sure thered been a genuine attempt at communication there. Like it mattered not only what they did, but what they thought and chose. Like hed actually believed they could change the course of things to come. SW: btw. the passenger thing would be awesome. 0110011011: course it would, its my idea. 0000011001: hey. i have great stories about midimperial china? Also, when he couldnt just drop them into the middle of an action movie just because he was bored or something, he was surprisingly fun. A grey drizzle began to mist its way over the stark floodlit scene below. SW: raincheck? nearly enough here 4 grenade #2. In the early hours of the morning, Sam bunkered down in a granary just outside the town, after checking that its alarm systems were in order. He didnt sleep much, but it was enough to see him through at least the next thirty hours before his reactions began to slow. When the sun rose, he headed back into town by a roundabout route with plenty of cover. He took out two stray Croats along the way, after carefully checking the silencer on his pistol. They were a little overweight, and wore hideous purple spandex, like theyd been going for a nice evening jog when the switch flipped inside them. He set up a sniper nest on top of the post office. Not long before nine, he felt the discreet buzz against his thigh. 1101001101: hey. ring dean. SW: cant, i knocked out the cell towers yesterday, remember? 0010110110: ring dean. ;) What the hell. Hed been about to move anyway this street was quiet. Castiel picked up on the second ring. Samuel. There was something that could almost be a faintly questioning rise at the end. Cas! Huh. I didnt expect that to actually Sammy? Dude, you know its rude to snatch? Youve got reception? Where are you?

Sam kept his tone light. Still here. I think Gabriel patched the signal or something. Huh. Dean took a moment to process that. Hes pretty cluey, considering. Guess so. Youre still good over there? Same old. You? Sam thought of a teenage girl as two Croats closed in on her, screaming and begging them by name. Hed thought for a moment, as he took them down, that he might have saved someone; but then hed seen the bite marks on the kids forearms and hands, and shot her before she could start begging Sam too. Not pretty, but under control. Theyre not that bright, so as long as they dont see me, Im good. He could hear Deans frown; but it wasnt actually all that hard to keep things from Dean, especially over the phone. Okay, well, you let me know if you need bailing out or something. Yes mother. Ring if you have to its on vibrate, and I promise I wont pick up if theres a zombie chewing my neck. Dean made a rude noise, and Sam hung up. Still no movement on the street. SW: ok, maybe that idea was halfway to awesome. SW: what did u do? 1000101001: sneaky stuff. 1110111010: signals & radio waves r easy. tiny. just need a delicate hand. SW: delicate? you? like dropping a piano on deans head delicate? 1001011110: no, like twisting what u2 yahoos saw each other doing just enough to annoy u without cluing ur nasty suspicious little minds in delicate. :P SW: u still owe me a laptop for that. SW: but supercharged phone will do for now. --Sam would have liked to say that it was all a bit of a blur, taking out the town. The face of one dead teenager looking much like another after a while, or one grenade blast too like

another to bother with distinctions. Fuzzy around the edges, blurred over with necessity and the knowledge that they werent really people. It wouldnt have been true, but it would have been nice to be able to say that. For some reason, the town hall was a favoured Croatoan hang-out, but the supermarket was absolutely deserted. Which suited Sam, as he hadnt had time to stock up on much in the way of food. The school, though, was a warren of Croats. Rather than get trapped in there with them, Sam blew it up. Explosives, he had stocked up on. ---

0000100011: mission plant-weird-objects-in-pilgrimshrines-and-persuade-people-theyre-relics: accomplished. SW: will you focus? weve got a damn job to do here, gabriel. 0111000110: speak for yourself. :P --He picked over the ruins of the school for anything that wasnt properly dead, but it was a hot and dusty job, and a dangerous one. There was an inevitable creeping resentment every time he had to stop and climb out of a hole to make sure nothing was sneaking up on him, or had to take five minutes heaving at first one end of a beam then another to check what was underneath. Just one more pair of hands would have made a hell of a difference, but no, Sam Winchester couldnt get that lucky. And even with heavy gloves on, he had to be careful about every grip he took, everywhere he put his hands. He couldnt risk any nicks or scratches, any broken skin, just in case anything got too close. Banking on the old immunity as anything other than a desperate backup if things went badly wrong was not on the cards. One almost did, lying panting and broken behind a collapsed bank of lockers, but still powered by enough rage and hunger to scrabble into a lunge for Sam when he came around the corner almost on top of it. His first bullet went wide and only caught its arm, but it staggered it long enough for Sam to overturn half an aircon unit into its path, then put his second bullet home true.

Of course, maybe Lucifer wouldnt want a Croatoan vessel, but it would be just their luck for the virus remove the need for consent instead, so, not really an experiment he was in a hurry to make. Two hours and six dead Croats later (it was probably stupid to feel worse about gunning down little old ladies than middle-aged men), his phone buzzed. Real helpful of it. Hey. Sam. He thought that was Castiels grim and blunt voice, but it sounded pretty much like his mildly disapproving voice, his cautiously amused voice, and probably his dancing with glee voice if he had one of those, so it was hard to tell. Im afraid Brady is dead. Great. Just great. Well, there goes our one lead on Famine. Sam heard the snappish tone in his voice, and reined it in a little, because it was Castiel. What happened? Did you get anything useful out of him first? We didnt. I had thought it best to keep even cursory interrogations for a safer space, especially considering how difficult he was likely to be to persuade He broke off for a moment, and that was definitely frustration under there, maybe even some guilt. We were attacked, and your brother was trapped under the car. I let him be my priority, and they killed Brady before I could destroy them. Is he hurt? Are you?, Sam added, as he belatedly registered the hitch in Castiels breathing. Minimally. The car requires some minor repairs. Dean says that he will know soon how long it will take to make it roadworthy. Another delay. Another failure. It was probably a marker of the ridiculousness of their lives, if they needed another one, that feeling guilty over not achieving the impossible was becoming a regular thing. For Castiel too now, it seemed. Sam exhaled against the sudden stifling press of isolation and pointless rage - at the Croats, at the stupid townspeople they had been, at everyone pushing them around or just plain not helping. At Gabriel, flitting cheerfully back and forth between the centuries when the world was sliding down the drain. At Castiel, for punishing Deans attempted selfsacrifice with his own and leaving them almost one man down. At all the breaks that they never got, and the dead ends everywhere. Okay, well, nothing you could do. He heard his voice come out curt and clipped, and softening it didnt seem worth the effort. Ive got another day or two here, but Ill see you at Bobbys when you get there. Castiel just said Yes, and hung up.

--Inside the oiled leather gloves, Sams hands itched with sweat and dirt and phantom blood. And his head ached from squinting against the sun, where it glinted off the roofs and the windows of cars, parked incongruously neatly in their driveways. It would be so very easy to go mad like this. Not the madness of dark power and evil, or the madness of a mind left broken by something too strong to comprehend. Just oldfashioned human too-much-to-handle, tramping the same bloody ground over and over again, with nothing to set against the darkness. And he couldnt call Dean. Not when he was like this. Dean would realise, and that would lead nowhere good. Sams cell purred against his leg, a smug little twitch of warmth and promise. 1001111101: singer says to say hes sending rufus ur way. should be there tomorrow morning. 1001110000: & that if i get my dirty trickster paws on his kitchen hell stick them in the hot oil 1010100101: i feel abused :( It was like a glimpse into another world, lighter and distant, so faint it was almost illusory next to the scents of blood and dust that seemed to be permanently soaked into his skin. SW: thx Sam hesitated, then tried to play the same game, to reach out and touch that world. SW: dont tell me ur going to have to play nice for a bit? 0100110011: v v tempted to make baseball cap look like little old lady church hat SW: how close is his shotgun? :P 1101000101: just some fruit+flowers on it? Sam had a sudden flash of a vision of Bobbys kitchen, smelling warm and homelike and faintly boozy; Bobby glowering in his wheelchair with a shotgun over his lap; Gabriel with a chair tipped back and his feet on the table, smirking at Bobby with terrifying promise from behind his phone. It was sort of surreal, but a hell of a lot better than what was around him here. SW: dont blame me if you find yourself with future as a colander. 1110111010: racing stripes on the wheelchair? pls?

SW: do u even have houseguest manners? He wasnt smiling, but his headache had eased off a bit. --There werent so many of them anymore, and Sam was confident he would hear them coming, so that night he started slipping into houses, hunting for locked doors that might conceal survivors. He found a few who had been, but werent anymore. One of them almost brought up the protein bars and half a rockmelon hed had for lunch. And Sam wasnt exactly renowned for his weak stomach. In the morning Dean rang, with an estimate that they should be at Bobbys by the day after tomorrow and a promise to check back in around noon. There was something wary in his voice when he asked how Sam was doing, like he wasnt sure that Sam could stay Sam if Dean wasnt there to eye him off all the time. Sam said as little as possible, and assured Dean that he was doing his job just fine. --Sam looked down at the two corpses at his feet, then turned and melted away into the shrubs behind the shopping strip, hand sliding into his hip pocket. SW: not a colander yet? 1100111001: nope! or a fry. have been reduced to minion of the stairs, tho. seems wheel chairs not so good with ups & downs, who knew 0101001111: & also of the books. these r sum fine books, if i do say so, which i do. SW: hows that going? 0011110110: nothing yet. except that apparently the welsh think the irish like cows. i mean, really like them. also deer. how do humans sit still 4 hours? SW: we have this thing called patience. u might have heard of it. 0101110000: how about u, kiddo? hows who-let-thezombies-out going?

SW: just killed the last of the kids. SW: looked about six. SW: wearing a sesame street necklace. SW: had just torn out a pregnant womans throat when she tried to run for it. I wasnt in time. 0011101111: fuck. SW: pretty much. SW: but hey, bright side, liquor store not looted. apparently croats dont go on benders. 0111110101: drunk in zombietown sounds like a brilliant plan. :P SW: i know. :P hey, only 53 zombies to go! 1001110111: keeping count? SW: at least im a systematic mass murderer. --It turned out that the drug store roof was perfect for picking off anyone moving on any of the three surrounding streets. Sam passed most of the morning there. Sight, squeeze, release. All very mechanical. Most of the Croats were moving rather sluggishly now. But then, they did have full bellies. There was food all over the ground. ---

0111000011: this manuscript has a monkey crapping on a bishop in the margins.* v devout psalter. 1110101000: thought: time-travelling monkey symbolises evolution crapping on creationism? SW: youre making that up.
* No, seriously, this sort of thing happened all the time. Go google site:gotmedieval.com monkeys. Or just admire (to pick one random example) http://www.gotmedieval.com/2011/05/this-holiday-be-sure-to-remember-the-true-meaning-ofmonkeys-in-margins.html.

1011000010: hey, ur species is way freakier than i could ever be, honeybuns. SW: i guess. --He circled back out of town not long before noon, so that he wouldnt have to keep his voice down when Dean rang. The last of its deserted houses was just falling away behind him around the slow curve of the road when he felt the call. Dean. The voice that curled down the line was warm and honey-smooth, all brightness and smirk. Sorry to disappoint, kiddo. Um, Sam commented eloquently. There was an awkward sort of a pause, then Gabriel took off. So, you sounded like you could use a friendly voice. But Singers buried in some book binge, and your brother and mine are probably busy somewhere making mutual unrequited eyes of epic manpain at each other, and I hear theres a decent sheriff somewhere around here but Singer warned me off her like a lovesick Rottweiler Sam knew, logically, that that voice really should be reminding him of endless Tuesdays and taunts, but somehow, it managed to be too cheerfully brash for that association to stick. And he hadnt known Gabriel then. and I think Kalis hiding somewhere in Sudan and isnt really friendly by the standards of anyone more delicate than a cave troll, and youd probably stab Crowley on sight, and any of my other brothers would probably stab you on sight, so. You get me instead. Wow. Sam felt his mouth curve, and he seated himself against a fence-post, settling into it as if it were a sofa. You really know how to sell yourself. Five hot girls, two barrels of mead and a sacrificial goat, came the prompt reply. A goat, huh? Hey, dont knock it, sacrificial goats are a valuable commodity. Very flexible. And do you know how hard it is to get the gilding on all those little ridges of their horns when theyre kicking all over the place? Cant say Ive ever tried it. Gabriel made a sharp, amused noise. Youre missing out. Never know when they might come in handy.

And it was that easy to let the idea of Gabriel, the anonymous, intangible Gabriel of text on a little glowing screen, become cheerful and real against his ear. Almost as real as the brutal valley stretched out between him and the river. So, you just rang to talk about goats? Maybe? Thats really something my day was missing. Thanks. Oh yes, and get over yourself, Winchester. Sam opened his mouth to say something indignant and confused, but Gabriel leaped right over him. No more cracks about mass murderers. I mean, come on. I know evil, kid, believe me, and you dont even ping the radar. Sam sighed and pushed his sticky hair off his face, looking back at the scattered glint of afternoon sunlight off roofs between the trees. Two days ago, all this? Rural Stepford. Milkshakes and skateboards and roses. Now it stinks of rot and Im still pulling down bodies, and sure, Pestilence and Lucifer had their part, but a hell of a lot of its on no one but me. Yeah? Gabriel drawled, easy and maddening. Sos it on that lorry driver for not keeping to the speed limit so you could catch him earlier. Sos it on the janitor in the Niveus labs for not accidentally spilling a bucket of water over the test results. Youd be surprised how easy that is to do. Sam shook his head, unable to stop himself. Its a small town, but thats still over two hundred people. And I know I should be appalled every time I pull the trigger, but Im sometimes Im just kind of sick of it. Or annoyed at them. Which is a fucking awful thing to think. Sam. The mockery dropped away like straw and Gabriels voice was suddenly harsh and low, vibrating with something very, very old that knocked Sams breath from his chest. I cleared out Sodom and Gomorrah. At least these ones are past caring. And Sam had clear forgotten how this guy could turn on a freaking dime. There was the archangel all at once. There was the ancient, powerful creature who had lived through every year of human history, spoken to Mary and Mohammed and who knows how many others before and since that Sam couldnt even imagine. Spoken with God, whoever that was, and carried His wrath and joy to earth. This was the creature who had come to Sam in the panic room and burned the demon blood from his veins, and who was treating history like his own personal funfair ride, at least partly for Sams amusement. Sam swallowed past a sudden catch in his throat, and his voice came out weak and raspy. Yeah, well. He tried again. Just. Thanks for sticking around so far. I cant exactly

mention this to Dean, or hed be signing me up for the twelve-step Just Say No To Archangels Jumping Your Ass plan. Gabriel audibly perked up. Hey, I can help with that. I hear step one is Just Say No To Archangels Jumping Anything But Your Ass. And there was the flirting again. Sam stretched out his legs comfortably in the dust and draped one ankle over the other, smirking into the mouthpiece. Cute. No. See? Youre already past step two. Gotta go, I promised Singer crpes. Sam stopped to stare at his phone, just in case it had turned into a banana or something else that seemed more likely than Gabriel cooking for Bobby. It stayed small and black and plastic-looking. Just so were clear? If I get back there and Bobbys house is a smouldering ruin, Im holding you responsible. O ye of little faith! Adfer manum tuam et mitte in crpe meam, et noli esse incredulus sed fidelis.* The Latin rolled off his tongue like a filthy prayer, or possibly the Song of Songs. You know its kind of fundamentally disturbing to hear you quoting the Bible. Jesus. When was the last time hed heard anyone laugh, really laugh, like they meant it? Hows about the Quran, then? You had a hand in that, didnt you? Or was that after you left? Gabriel made a vaguely discontented noise. Not long before. I had a chat with the guy and he wrote what he wanted, same as all the others. Raincheck? Raincheck. He hung up, then looked at the screen more closely, in the instant before its call ended message vanished. Then he checked the recent call register, just to be sure. It was a real number now. Sam saved it under G. This time when he closed the phone, he was smiling. --There was no final dramatic showdown in the town square. Just Sam moving quietly through the convenience store attached to the gas station, and a middle-aged guy who might have had a kind face once, who shaved his right sideburn unevenly, who had J. D. tattooed on his right bicep and mud stains on his light cotton pyjama pants.
* Latin Vulgate John 20:27, Christ to Thomas of doubting fame. The Douay-Rheims translation of this line, minus one obvious difference, is bring hither thy hand and put it into my side [ie, into the spear wound], and be not faithless, but believing. The more often-quoted ye of little faith, btw, is not actually from here (Jesus says it a few times, but this isnt one of them), but its often popularly cited in connection with Thomas.

That was the last one. --Hey, where does a sasquatch learn to press all those little buttons? Youre hilarious, Gabriel. You know it. How has Bobby not killed you yet? Aw, dont say that. Were getting along just swimmingly, arent we, Bobster? Sam heard Bobby growl something in the background that was probably along the lines of call me that again and Ill be washing your damn fool mouth out with the garage soap. See? Best of friends, Gabriel chirped, disturbingly. Hows Operation Buzzkill? The sheer ludicrousness tore half a sick chuckle out of his throat. You do know how way beyond inappropriate all these nicknames are, right? Made you laugh though, didnt it? Youre ridiculous. I live to please. Well, not really. Well, not you. Just rang to say Im pretty sure I got the last of them. Ill do a final sweep in the morning before Rufus gets here, then get his help salting and burning all the corpses. Hey, Singer. Child wonder here says hes done. There was a pause, with Bobbys faint rumble behind it, then, Daddy dearest says how the heck are you still alive, kid? Lost my Grumpy Old Bugger dictionary somewhere under the fifth copy of Gerald of Wales, but I think that means hes impressed. Sam leaned back against the bonnet of the car hed appropriated and looked out over the curve of the valley and the rooftops spread out below him, too still and quiet for this time of day, except for the sound of birds. Crows. I dont know. Angels are watching over me? Gabriel made a rude noise. Better hope not. Creepy smarmy bastards, they are. It eased the bitter taste in his throat, just a little. Yeah, I might have heard something about that. He paused, swallowed down bile, and gave in to the impulse that had been itching to him all afternoon, the real impetus behind this call. Gabriel? Still here. Tell me about Sodom and Gomorrah?

There was a moments silence, then the sound of Gabriel swinging his feet to the ground, the scrape of his chair, and the solid creak-thump of Bobbys back door. What do you want to know? Just like that. It started sort of like any one of the history conversations theyd wandered through in text messages over the last few days Sam questioning, diving off on curious tangents, calling Gabriel on his more obvious bullshitting; Gabriel rambling, colourful and rapid-fire, jumping back and forth across his narrative to drop in sharp comments and sly digs about his characters or Sam. But this time there was more I, more times when Gabriels voice trailed off for a moment as if he had lost track of which millennium he was in, a darker bite to the flashes of sarcasm. It hadnt been about homosexuality. It had been a pattern of behaviour, the gang rape and mugging of anyone who passed through the town, male or female or far too young, over almost fifteen years. And Chamael had been sent to tempt them with his beautiful face, then Gabriel had been sent to enact judgement or to make an example. Those fuckers were past learning. There was a long pause, like Gabriel wasnt sure about committing himself to whatever was coming next. Or, so Dad said. Sam just made a soft noise, nothing with words in it, and waited to see if hed go on. Something about the story resonated inside him. He got the feeling that this was important, this memory: that it had set Gabriel thinking, either at the time, or in reflection centuries afterward. Gabriel jumped tracks abruptly to make a scathing comment about Lots mother-inlaw and just what shed said to one of Chamaels underlings, a fierce protectiveness running under the words that Sam hadnt expected of him. That woman, Sam was pretty sure, hadnt survived. Then it was something light and silly about a mishap that particular angel had gotten into in second-century Macedon, an observation on the many creative uses of one of the glazes theyd used for pottery around then (which was apparently mildly hallucinogenic before firing), and a sly comment about salt. It was about ten minutes before Gabriel fell silent for a moment, then started up in a very different register, low and quick with jagged edges. And they didnt understand, you know? Just random wrath. They looked at me, pleading for mercy, and they were scared. They werent learning to be better people or regretting what theyd done. They werent thinking about anything but how fucking terrified they were of what I was about to do to them. And sure, they were to your average petty little guy on the street what a rotting elephant corpse is to a chicken dinner, but Ill be a flying monkeys pet parrot if I know whether they were really past changing, every single one of them there, or just disobedient. Whether Dad had just got sick of them. You just end up thinking well, what if

Gabriel gulped off the end of his sentence and swore quietly, as if his mouth had been given an inch and had shoved a few miles in the back of a really fast getaway car. If the bites on that teenagers forearms had been a wild animal, not a Croat. If this one or that one hadnt been infected, had only attacked him in self-defence, because they thought he was a Croat. If the future that Zachariah had shown Dean had been wrong, and the virus did wear off after a while. What if I missed something? Sam put in quietly. The breath fell out of Gabriel in a sigh, crackling through the phone. Something like that. Out of all the world, what had Sam done to deserve something like Gabriel saying this to something like him? The lowest rim of the westering sun settled on the hilltop behind him, and liquid red light drew out the shadows below into long streaks like fingers across the land. So. He cracked the top of the beer hed liberated from the abandoned liquor store. Angel of judgement, huh? Yeah, well. Gabriels voice was still kind of muted, but it had a wry sort of inflection to it that sounded more natural than it had two minutes ago. At least Loki showed them what theyd done. Gave them a chance to change their minds. Sam drank to that.

Possession.
[n]: the action or fact of holding something as ones own; domination of a persons heart, mind, or soul by a person, idea, or other agent; domination or control by a demon or spirit; the act of seizing or laying claim to something, esp. a woman with sexual intent; mastery or control of oneself.

Dean Winchester was not, contrary to the opinions of many (often including himself), an idiot. He knew what love was, thanks. It was what kept him running back into fire, time and again, for Sam. For Bobby, sometimes, if he really needed him. For Dad, in the past. It was what made him pick up the phone in the middle of the night no matter what screwed-up shit theyd been up to or what crap had been said, drop everything to drive across the country from north to south if they needed him. It was what made him actually listen when someone tore him a new one over some brainless stunt hed just pulled (sure, hed yell back, but hed listen), or cup a hand around the back of someones neck when he laughed, just to feel them laugh too. There wasnt much of anything in there to do with sex. Never had been. So when he drove through the night just to rescue Castiel from the hardship of lying in a bed, just to have him back again, yeah, Dean knew what it meant. And when Castiel looked up and him and away with something like appeal and confusion gleaming under his eyelashes and said that there was nothing of goddamn import in his head and made everything inside Dean sort of squeeze up in sympathy, Dean knew that he was screwed. Except not like that. Which didnt really matter. It wasnt about being in love that was all rushes of hormones to his head and his dick, and it came and went quick enough. This was something slower and quieter and far deeper, which felt like it had been there for ages in one form or another, maybe ever since that park bench, maybe before, growing at its own pace and in its own time so Dean hadnt really noticed most of the way along. Dean refused to be happy that Castiel was grounded, because that felt far too like being happy that youd stuck a pin through a butterfly or something. But having him around all the time, it was heady. Like this constant little charge of adrenalin. Dean wasnt sure whether he liked it or not, but it sure as hell beat not knowing where Castiel was, or when he was coming back. He hadnt really got the depth of it until the morning in New Orleans after they picked him up. Sam had been out getting breakfast, and Dean had left off waking Castiel up as long as he could, because he hadnt slept too well during the night. It had seemed a shame to bother him now he was sleeping so deeply, lying on his stomach with his arms wrapped around the pillow. There had been nothing of his head to be seen except a tangled nest of dark hair over the vulnerable curve of his bare neck. So soft and touchable. Tangled in the sheets where hed kicked them as he slept, as if they were snaring him in this reality. Dean

hadnt been able to resist sinking down on the edge of the bed to touch his shoulder Cas? then sliding his hand over to curl large and warm around the nape. Cas. Come on, man. Time to get up. Except his voice had been all soft, like it wasnt really convinced that it wanted Castiel to move. Castiel had mumbled something and squirmed a bit, his breath stumbling for a moment, and Deans thumb had decided that the best thing to do would be to start rubbing warm, soothing little sweeps across the back of his neck, just under the hairline. It had been his chest, though, clenching on a kick and a stutter, that had finally gone the distance of forcing Dean into his little revelation. That he would do just about anything for this weird, sweet, moody, kick-ass guy, angel or not. That he wanted to wake up with Cas there as part of their mornings, not because Castiel couldnt fly away, but because Castiel wanted to be there too. Every day. That hed willingly make space in the Impala for him. Might even, one day, teach him to drive her. The little outpouring of Jesus-Im-such-a-sap had been interrupted by Castiel mumbling Deans name into the pillow, sleepy and warm and easy in a way that had kind of made Deans throat close up on him. Yeah, Cas, come on. You can sleep in the car if you need to. But at the sound of his voice the moment had broken Castiels shoulders had gone stiff under Deans hand, and his next Dean had been a flat, neutral statement of fact. So Dean had backed off, instead of flattening him to the bed and hugging him breathless, and advised him to put on some pants. Because pants were awesome. Just lately, though, Dean found himself watching Castiels hands more and more, even when they werent doing anything but resting on his knees, thinking about the way they moved, savouring the brush and the press of them. And he found himself touching back, wanting to touch. Castiel would raise his head from where hed been dozing against the window (because his sleep patterns were crap) and Dean would have to fight the urge to reach over and smooth away the crease in his cheek from the seatbelt, or to ruffle his hair up where it had gone sort of flat on that side. The line of his back, slim and strong and lithe except when it was stiff with hurt, just freaking begged to be stroked. And when his face got that particular hard set to it where his eyes were just a little too big and bright, and he fixed them on something too far away, that just made Dean want to slip an arm around his shoulders and draw him in against his chest and fix it. Hed only given in to that one once. But the thought of actually trying to kiss him, of touching him with intent? That just felt wrong. Hed never seen anything in Castiel to suggest that he was even capable of getting turned on, and he was pretty sure he didnt really want to, would find it confusing and sort of freaky. Castiel was still uncomfortable about sleep, for crying out loud sex was

a hell of a lot bigger in the whole letting-your-body-take-over stakes. Even fantasising about him felt like kind of a violation, and Deans mind flinched away from it. Except then Castiel had kissed him. And Dean had no idea what that had been about, because Castiel had sort of just shoved into him, all determined and not like he was having fun, except that what Castiel had muttered afterwards made it sound like he thought it was some kind of duty, which no. That was a whole new level of wrong. Even though it had been, just for a moment, sort of amazing. Which wasnt helping. Dean sat up all night. Even with the sigils of containment cut into Bradys chest, and his hands cuffed with salted iron to the support column between the living room and the kitchen area, Dean was hardly about to trust him. And Castiel needed the sleep, though he wasnt doing so good at it, judging by the pacing Dean kept hearing from upstairs. And Dean was jittery. Mostly because Sam was out there, taking down a whole town of Croats all by himself, and Dean couldnt even hope to hear from him for days. Mostly. In the morning, Dean had to wake Castiel up again, only this time it wasnt because of oversleeping. Apparently ex-angels, or reduced angels, or whatever he was, could get nightmares. At least, Dean really hoped that was what was making him groan and thrash and fight, because if one of his brothers had hijacked Castiels dreams Dean would have to find a way to hunt them down and get really creative with Castiels sword. And shit, he was strong, even if he wasnt angel-strong anymore. Dean had to struggle to pin his arms after one ringing blow to his head. Cas. Cas. Its me, its Dean. Wake up, man. Castiel gave one great shuddering gasp and went limp against him. One hand fastened around Deans wrist like a clamp, but hey, he could deal. I got you, Dean murmured into his hair, softer than he was used to hearing himself. He couldnt resist holding him, just for a moment, as Castiel brought his breathing back under control. Then he lifted his head, and Dean felt that familiar sliding sensation as the rest of the world just fell away into unimportance. The heady strangeness of being held in that gaze, of there being someone in the whole world who looked at him like that, someone who thought he was as important as the fucking sun. Abruptly, his arms were empty as Castiel sat up, the line of his shoulders straight and firm again and his back turned to Dean. Dean tried not to feel grouchy at the formality of his Thank you, at the sudden cool barrier that it jerked back into place. Poor guy had his pride, after all. Hey, no problem. Not like youve never woken me up out of something nasty.

With his back to Dean, and his shirt off, Castiel looked far too thin. Dean could see the knobs of his spine. And no, he wasnt going to touch. Dean looked away, and headed downstairs to scrounge up some breakfast. He had really no idea how he was meant to navigate this. Castiel had made it fairly clear since they picked him up that he wasnt happy with Dean at all. Wasnt comfortable with him like he used to be, didnt even really trust him. There was some weird undercurrent of resentment or confusion or wariness running through almost every look and word, and for some reason he was just as likely to get all closed-off and curt when Dean was being nice as when he was saying something Castiel could actually take offence at. Dean had been trying to tone it down, trying to stay off subjects that seemed to sting (like how for some reason he got all touchy if Dean called him a child, as if Dean meant it), but then hed just find something else to get fed up with. Hed flinch away sometimes when Dean reached out, and Dean shouldnt have been surprised at how much that stung. --They didnt talk much in the car. It had been awkward enough yesterday, before whatever that was that Castiel had come out with. At least now the demon in the back seat (gagged, after all his lip yesterday) gave them an excuse not to talk. Not to give him anything to use on them, when the time came to question him. Then Sam rang, and Dean lunged dangerously across the car to snatch the phone from Castiel. Apparently Gabriel had done the psychic-electronic equivalent of hotwiring it, or something. Which was handy, sure, but sort of weird. Says guess-who did something to his phone, he provided for Castiels benefit, as he hung up. Castiel took the tiny clear bottle that Dean hated out of the glove box and slanted half a look his way, a little flash of blue behind a defensive gate of eyelashes. Even without the power of his grace behind them, Dean still couldnt help but feel like that gaze went straight through him. You doubt that he can be trusted. Did he? Not really. Its just well, come on, when do we ever catch a break? I mean, really? He hesitated, acutely conscious of the demon listening behind him. I just keep waiting for the catch, you know? Castiel tossed two painkillers into his mouth, casual like an old hand, and dryswallowed. You said much the same thing when you first met me.

His tone gave nothing away, just made Deans blood thrum with nervous energy, with the feel of Castiels mouth against his, of the warmth of his skin, of choking down words that he wasnt going to say because hed already nagged him about those pills once today. Dean remembered the fake-future and the Castiel broken on pain and drugs and bitterness, following Dean even when he must have known Dean was deliberately sending him to his death, even when he didnt like him much anymore. And that wasnt happening again, not on his watch. There were a hell of a lot of things hed do over differently in his life if he could do them again, but one of them, seeing the little white discs cradled in Castiels palm, was choosing to take the angel to that stupid brothel. Because maybe that was where it started. And now here he was again, struggling because of Dean, popping pills because of Dean, and all things considered, he thought he was behaving pretty well, thanks. Dean forced a chuckle, without amusement. Yeah, and there was a catch to end all freaking catches. Congratulations, you got out of Hell free, except, oh wait! You and your brother get to have starring roles in the Apocalypse? Dean. And here, have this shiny new angel friend, whos actually a pretty cool guy, only all his brothers are manipulative dicks and if he wants to have anything to do with you hes gonna have to turn fugitive and start killing them, and hey, heres someone else you can screw over after theyve given fucking everything for you, just because you dont have the balls to stick it out. Dean. Castiels voice, quiet and inexorable, reached down deep inside him and grabbed something vital. I would give my life so that you could live just one more day. Jesus, Cas. The car swerved, and Deans eyes skidded to the mocking curve of the demons eyebrows in the rear-view mirror. Because what the hell? Where did that come from? And You cant just how is anyone meant to live with that? Wrong, wrong, wrong thing to say. Castiels face went cold and he turned to fix his gaze on the window. And Dean knew that set of his shoulders, the bunching of his hands, only this time Yknow, this is the part where you usually fly away. Only you cant do that now, flickered accusing and triumphant in the air between them. Because he kept leaving, he always left, whenever anything was just a little too hard, and Dean never knew when hed be back, and how could he rely on that? and if he never came back? because I would give my life wasnt I enjoy your company or even I would choose you because I wanted to and not because it is my duty. And nastier little thoughts - if he found God, what then? what need would he have of Dean and Sam? Wouldnt he just sort things out, and go? Duty done? After everything that everything Dean

Sometimes it looks just the same as the old one. I need you to be a dick.

And suddenly Dean was so fucking ashamed of himself. Because when had he ever asked Cas to even just stick around? Castiel didnt look at him. Stop the car, please. Dean bit back words, and pulled over. Castiel was out and striding away from the car before the handbrake was on, his feet fierce and sure on the ground. Dean wasnt far behind, everything in him urging him to yes, just have it out, take it head on. But not here, not now. Not like this. Dean caught his arm, a sudden light shock of a grip that spun Castiels whole body around to face him, though Dean hadnt actually grabbed him all that hard. Look, Cas. I get that youre pissed at me. I do. And youve got every right. Ive been kind of a dick to you. Maybe all the time. And Im sorry, really. But right now, we gotta work the job, man. Can we just call it a truce until weve got this? Or something? Castiel caught him and held him in his gaze like he was the only thing in the world, and the world wasnt really up to scratch. Do you have any idea what youre apologising for? Making him lose his family and everything he had believed in. Thinking he could do anything. Treating him like he could do anything. Never thanking him for it. Taking it all, then throwing it all away. Not realising until it was too late that, where it counted, Castiel was as vulnerable as any human.

I thought this was what you wanted me to be.

Castiel was very still, the way he always went when he was waiting for an answer to an important question. Dean had no idea what he wanted. Cas. He looked away, and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. I fucked up big time. I know. And I forgive you. And how the hell did Castiel manage to just keep throwing out these things that were just so impossibly big, and not even sound ruffled? Just like that? Dean made a frustrated sound, and ran his hand over his face. Castiels eyes were like a furnace. A blue furnace. Or whatever. How can that be enough? Castiels eyes narrowed dangerously, and his head tipped to one side in a this-hadbetter-be-good sort of a way. Enough for whom, Dean? Look, just

Give me a chance, he wanted to say. Just give me a chance and Ill try. For whatever its worth.

Except then Castiels eyes snapped up and past his shoulder, and that was the warrior, right there, and Dean was turning and drawing the Colt from his belt before he really saw the sharp, efficient movement of Castiels hand towards the silver blade at his own belt. Because, fuck, theyd left Brady in there, and if Dean hadnt secured him right A cloud, a black cloud, corkscrewing toward them out of the sky. Three demons at least. Car, Dean snapped, and ran. Castiel was already moving of course, even if he couldnt just see it anymore, hed have known the Impala was warded but they were too far away, just too far. Castiel pulled open the passenger seat and slid inside in one motion, but the demons were arrowing down toward him and there was no way Dean was getting around her nose in time. Castiels door slammed, Dean braced himself and fired in almost the same moment, a piercing screech shot through him, something slammed into his side like a train, and he went flying. Dean found himself on the ground and rolled, coughing out dirt, blind with it, keeping his fingers locked tight around the gun and its muzzle pointed into the dirt so far as he could. The world was on a weird angle. His legs werent working no, his legs were caught, and something was pushing down on him from above, pinning him under its body. Her body, his baby, hed know this belly anywhere, and yes, so she might be crushing him to death, but he couldnt help feeling irrationally safe, just for a moment. Except, snarls and the hot tang of blood in the air, boots hitting the ground by his head and the wrench of tortured metal. And there was no way Dean was dying in some shitty backwater road trapped under his own car, with a demon sitting all over his goddamn upholstery. He blinked viciously, scrubbed a hand over his eyes, and made an executive decision that up was that way and if it wasnt the world was just going to have to screw itself around until it was. He wrestled his elbows under him, twisting from the hips so he could brace against the ground, point the Colt out, pain spiking through his legs and knees and he wasnt thinking about that, his baby wasnt going to hurt him, first things first and that was taking these demons down and getting him and Cas the hell out of here. He fired at the first blurry shape he saw, got it in the thigh, and it went down with a snarl before Dean could see anything more of it than that. There was blood in his eyes as well as dirt, and he had to blink hard a few more times before he worked out that he was looking out between Castiels feet, that the angel was standing over him like a guard dog, wrestling viciously with something wearing football boots while something else was clambering into the back seat of his girl and making rabid-dog noises. There was a silvery glint catching the sun on the far side of the road, way out of reach Castiels sword. Great. Well, Brady would just have to take care of his own sorry ass. Dean slammed his fist into the back of Football Boots calf he couldnt quite reach the knee, not with any force behind it and it twisted and stumbled, just enough for Castiel

to do something violent Dean couldnt quite see and shove it into another of the demons. Castiels breath was painful and hitched-up, like he was struggling to keep it going. Dean aimed and fired, hitting one of them in the stomach and just missing Castiels ankle, drew a painful breath into a really cramped ribcage, and started to spit out as much of the Enochian exorcism as he could remember. Three syllables in and the demons fled in all directions, leaving the bodies behind. ... Huh. Well, that was... far too easy. Castiel shoved the nearest body away and dropped to one knee to brace the car against his shoulder. Can you move? Dean grinned at him, feeling kind of fuzzy in the head. Mlegs are caught. Brady? Dead. Dean swore, then again when Castiel shifted his weight and heaved. Cas, dont you dare, you cant lift a freaking car by yourself. Get the jack! Time is short. And the car moved. It actually moved, tipped and tilted sideways and up just enough for Dean to drag himself forward on his elbows. Castiel let her go with a grunt as soon as he was clear, and her tyre thudded back into place in the dust. Dean hauled himself to a sitting position and leaned back against that tyre, panting for breath. Legs, bruised and scraped up as hell, and he wasnt sure his ankle wasnt broken, but could have been worse. Castiel passed him his favourite pistol. Dean blinked at it, and almost missed Castiel reaching through the broken window behind him to take out a sawed-off. Then one of the abandoned bodies groaned. And it wasnt a human groan. Five bodies, two of them beat up, one with a bullet in its gut and another with one in its thigh, and that one had a gash across its chest too which must have come before Castiel lost his sword. Five bodies, and they were all stirring and raising their heads and looking at him like food. Possessing infected Croats? Well, that was just... unsanitary. It was possible Dean had hit his head at some point. He tipped it back and looked up at Castiel, haloed by the dusty sun and the gleam of chrome, and his stomach swooped sickeningly with dj vu. The dirty green semi-camo jacket Sam had found for him, the stubble, the curve of his neck as hed tossed the pills back in the car. The grim set of his jaw as he braced the gun against his shoulder. And for a dizzy moment, he thought, This is how it all starts the end. Except that there was a softness and a determination in Castiels eyes, when he looked down at Dean, that was so very far from broken.

Then the angels hand bunched in Deans jacket and dragged him bodily to his feet. His ankle screamed at him like a bitch, and he braced himself against the trustworthy black bulk behind him and fired. It was all kind of blurry, red mouths and nails and snarls and limbs and dont-let-theblood-near-you. But his body knew this, knew where the enemy was and how to take them down. Knew which of them to point at first, which one out of the closest one or the one lurching to its feet over there or the one eyeing off Castiel from a crouch was going to be the next to attack, and where a bullet would do the most work the quickest. Found he knew, too, just where Castiel was going to be, where he was going to shoot, how to work with him, without even looking at him, just keeping the smooth, deadly movements of him in the corner of his eye. Just like he did with Sam, except without all the knocking of heads and the competition. One down, two, three, then Castiel had an instant of confusion over his gun and the last two were on him all at once. And just, no. Hell no. Deans hand clamped around the back of the nearest ones neck, hard enough to crush it in. A snarl rumbled under his fingers, and he tugged back, looked over its (her) shoulder, saw Castiel reduced and basically defenceless and facing something horrid and impossible and still fighting, still not giving a damned inch, still his own. Dean braced against his babys side and flung the infected thing hard away from him, just as the butt of Castiels gun came up under the second ones chin and aborted its lunge for his throat. Dean put a shot through its brain as it staggered back, another through the one hed sent sprawling, then a second through the gut of the one Castiel had knocked down, just to be sure. Then he stood there, gun still ready, with five dead bodies in front of him and another in the back seat, and he didnt look at Castiel. Are you okay? Did they bleed on you? Because if they had Deans eyes caught on the pearly sheen of the handle under his fingertips. No. He wouldnt. He would damn well find a way. I am well. Castiels voice was quiet and sure, like he knew what Dean meant better than Dean did himself, and forgave him all the ragged bits. Dean nodded once, jaw tight, and slipped the pistol into his jeans with short, jerky movements. Then he grabbed Castiel and hauled him in too tight against his side, scruples be damned, like he was the most important thing in the world, and pressed his forehead into Castiels collar. It smelled of blood and aftershave and dust and too much toothpaste and angel. Dean? For someone whod been going all wrath-of-Heaven on Croat asses a minute ago, he sounded kind of rumpled and confused.

Youre not letting the fuckers get to you, Cas, you hear?, he gritted into the soft skin behind Castiels ear. Then, without really meaning to say it but it was the kind of thing that pleased Sam so maybe Castiel would like it too, and hell, why not confess from time to time Cant do this without you. Just for one minute, the world was as simple as Castiels hands settling hesitant and warm on the back of Deans head, and his heart beating strongly under his skin. He said nothing, cradled Deans silence like something young and fragile, but he didnt move away. Fighting or not, they were stuck with each other and that wasnt ever breaking, destiny or not. Then he had to pull back and pretend nothing had happened, mutter about first aid kits and ankle straps and checking the Impala for damage and getting her moving before anyone else came along. And, he realised when he turned to see the worst, no wonder Castiel had been able to lift her. She must have been flipped right over, the full 360, because shed landed precariously balanced halfway into the drain by the side of the road. Castiel had just needed the right adrenalin-fuelled pressure in the right spot, that was all, and her own weight had done the rest. Lucky. She was a bit battered, and one window was broken, but he was willing to bet it was only panel damage, nothing internal. Luckier still Dean had been nestled between her front wheel and the slope of the ground, the only place under her as she lay now where he wouldnt have been completely crushed. Let no one say his girl would just give it up for any demon. Or something. Dean patted her bonnet fondly. Thanks, babe. Knew youd take care of me. Castiel, leaning dishevelled and bloody against the door next to him, gave him one of his sort of disapproving looks that meant he was pretending not to be amused. Dean ruffled his hair, just to be annoying, and grinned. You too, I guess. Lets get her up. --The next thirty-six hours, between getting his baby back on the road and picking Sam up on their way back to Sioux Falls, felt like some weird choreographed silent movie, all careful skirting and thick layers of meaning in everything that you had to work out by yourself. There was some mutual agreement that they werent bringing up the kiss and certain other words at least, Dean thought there was, but he wasnt really sure it wasnt just a Dean agreement. Possibly Castiel just thought he was being a dick again. But then, hed told him to be a dick, so who knew. Every let-me-check-your-head or how-is-yourankle sounded like either a wartime ultimatum, a declaration of love, or a really uncomfortable trade negotiation. Dean didnt know which one. Maybe all of them? Dean could handle it. He could. He just needed some time to adjust.

Except how did you translate big dramatic life-saving gestures into just normal little everyday stuff? The trouble was, it was one thing to realise you were being a dick maybe, a bit, in general. Actually working out how to be not a dick in any one moment was a whole nother beast. Especially when the person in question kept giving you these wary, resigned sort of looks when you tried to be nice. And Castiel never made a move. Even when he did open his mouth and Dean would think he was about to say something, do something, push forward, hed back down and how could you take your cue from that? --Bobby opened the door to them. He was standing up. Dean stopped halfway up the step onto his porch, blinked, and looked again. Bobbys eyebrow just dared him to comment. Dean felt his face split into a wide grin, in defiance of any and all eyebrows. --So where is he? Dean dumped his bag on the table and looked around the archangel-free kitchen. Bobby grumbled under his hat. Took off just about half an hour back. Catching the bus from town, he said, or some such. Sams eyebrows drew together like a pair of worried fuzzy beetles having an emergency meeting on his forehead. There must have been something else. Buses make him sick, he wouldnt just leave. Said he dont play well with others, or some horsecrap like that. Bobby shrugged, like he didnt get it, and didnt really care. No, Bobby wouldnt get it. But Dean did. Dean looked at Castiel. Castiel looked at Dean. Castiel looked at the door. Dean had his marching orders. Cas? Dean said lightly. Yes, Dean? Your brothers a freaking coward. Bobby Dean tossed Sam the Impalas keys and grinned, nice and broad. Got any wheels I can borrow?

Quickening.
quicken [v]: to speed up; to come to life; to animate or give life to; to recover or revive; to stimulate or inspire; to grow bright; to make more potent.

Gabriel looked weak. Which just seemed wrong on some really basic level. He was skinny, with a patchy shaving job and a few small nicks under his right ear. And he wasnt even smiling. In fact, he was staring at Dean like well, like anyone who wasnt one of them would look if theyd seen a ghost. He also looked like he wasnt sleeping well, but hey, who was these days. Dean greeted him with, You look like shit, and limped past him into the motel room. Gabriels eyes narrowed from startled to combative, and there, that was more familiar. Says the guy with his head punched in. Dean shrugged, and tossed the brightly coloured little bag to Gabriel. These were in the glove box, he offered, with absolute technical truth. Gabriel unfroze, made a rabid sort of a noise, and dove for the Skittles with both hands. You are so my favourite. Entrance successfully negotiated, Dean grunted and appropriated the couch, because this weird little yellow Beetle Bobby had leant him released the clutch far too low and was heavy on his sore ankle. Sammyll get a complex. Gabriels eyes stayed hidden behind his eyelashes as he ripped into the bag that Dean had definitely not bought on purpose when hed stopped to fill up the tank, but his voice was all breezy. Yeah, well, he doesnt bring me candy. Dean dragged the other two bags out of his duffle and dropped his burden on the little bar fridge beside the couch. Takeaway, and beer. Well, it was only fair. There was no reason for Gabriel to look at him with that funny little half-curve at the corner of his mouth like it was some kind of trick. Those were in the glove box too? Dean shrugged, a bit uncomfortable, and started on his own burger. Yeah, well, youre paying for the couch Im going to crash on tonight, so. Something eased up in Gabriels eyes, into an almost-smirk. Oh, so youre not here to go all disgraced prodigal on my ass and drag me back to Singer? Screw that, were all in this together. And broken angels are really shitty at looking after themselves. Besides. Dean pointed at him and spoke with his mouth full. You, my friend, need to learn to drive. There. He might have known the son of a bitch wouldnt back down from a challenge.

--Gabriel really had brought back a hell of a lot of books. Which begged the question of just how this whole time-travel luggage business worked. How much carry-on were you allowed to take? Not all of them were, well, useful. Some were just interesting. One seemed to be one mans (or womans) collection of poetry that he liked, romances and epics and Arthurian stories and political satires, all written out in the same hand over what looked like years without theme or organisation. There were even some personal letters copied into it. Another one was a very long Arthurian romance that Sam was pretty sure didnt exist anywhere anymore. A third was a long, beautifully written meditation on the growth of the soul, which Sam was tempted by but reluctantly set aside for later when he realised it had nothing to do with actual souls, just people learning to be people. One book was only a series of dry annals, but the parchment that had been cannibalised for the pastedowns on the insides of the covers was a pair of love letters between a monk and a nun (or maybe two monks?) who seemed to like to woo in Latin hexameters and elliptical allusions to Boethius. Even setting those ones aside, though, there were still about fifty books of philosophy, theology, history, rumour, demonology, local folklore, personal record, letters, and who knew what else, often all in one volume, which could potentially contain something relevant to the current problem (but probably didnt, in most cases). Gabriel seemed to have done a pretty good job in a short time of only choosing the books that were most likely to be useful, but that didnt mean that all of them were. Or that all of them were reliable. Sam was going to need glasses in a few years, he just knew it. He almost wished Dean were here. Dean would bitch and ask Sam what he thought this smudged or faded word was every five minutes, and his Latin wasnt as good as Sams, but he had this weird instinct for sorting out reliable sources from what he called the oldendays equivalent of the Weekly World News. Sam had a habit of getting bogged down in allegory and metaphor. He also wished, sort of uncharitably, that Bobby would stop taking every possible excuse to go up and down the stairs. That one squeaky board was kind of getting on his nerves. It didnt help that Castiel was just sitting there looking kind of mute and frustrated, even without lifting his eyes from his dogged perusal of two books at once. Sam knew that, given a few hours, or maybe a day, hed be right into this. He was good at it, and he did enjoy it, and hell, it was a whole lot better than just about anything else useful he could be doing at the end of the world. But his body was still fizzling with adrenalin and the expectation of attack; his eyes kept flicking over Castiels and Bobbys

faces looking for the tics and crazed spark of aggression that would signal the virus about to take over; his feelings were keyed up for rage and guilt. And he had hoped selfishly, stupidly that Gabriel would be here. But hey, if there was one thing Gabriel was good at it was running away. Why should Sam have expected anything different, just because hed thought anything at all? Around eleven, Bobby plonked his laptop down in front of them and pointed to the screen without saying a word. It was a map covered with flags, each one marking one of the towns that fit the patterns of the demonic sieges theyd seen in Blue Earth and Repton and other places like it. There were five new ones. The nearest was northern Nebraska. Sam texted Dean to put him on the job. Castiel lifted an eyebrow at him. Sam huffed, and sent another text to tell Dean to try to drag Gabriel along. He got back: dean: on it dean: g says he liks me best bcos gve him chocolate SW: you know you can rot his teeth with that now? dean: good plan dean: also it hink hes cheating at poker G: whatever d just said is a filthy lie Sam thought of replying, but couldnt come up with anything that didnt sound snappish. And that was his problem, not Deans, not Gabriels. --Bobbys legs. Dean dealt. Gabriel, following the flicker of Deans fingers from card to card with deceptively lazy eyes, made a vague humming noise. When it became obvious he wasnt about to volunteer anything, Dean prodded some more. He says you didnt really know how youd done it. Gabriel smiled, too bright and evasive. His eyes still caught just a bit too much of the light to be human, caught it and held it and turned it into something deep and hidden and almost gold. Cagey arent they, men of that generation? Disgraceful, I call it. Somebody should write a letter.

Fine, if thats how you want it Dean stole half of Gabriels cards back before he could look at them. Hey! There were three aces in there! Dean smirked and pointed at him. Cheat. Gabriel made a disgusted noise. Oh, just because your memorys defective. I shuffled those. And I watched. Dean gave him an I Call Bullshit look, and Gabriel spread his hands and grinned, all bright wounded innocence. What? Quick eye. So Im not an archangel. Suck it. Oh, fine. Here. Gabriel dropped his hand in the middle of the table, palm up, and waggled his eyebrows invitingly. Which was obviously some kind of trick, and no way was Dean putting his hand in Gabriels because that wasnt going to end well. Okay, so maybe Dean was a sucker for a challenge too. Gabriels fingers were soft and sort of cool, like he had a desk job and really poor circulation, and they looped just shy of firm around Deans wrist. Dean was just gearing up for a witty and epic quip about hand-holding when something sort of quivered in his ankle. And in the back of his head. And then all down the bruises that spread dramatically along his thighs and knees, where hed taken some of the cars weight. It vibrated under his skin, then there was a hot thump of pain, like something was trying to wrench things back into shape. Dean flinched, but didnt let go, because that would be admitting defeat. He held on, as things sort of ground around weirdly inside him and Gabriels face went a bit pale and sweaty. Then his hand was free, and Gabriel slumped back panting into his chair and quirked an eyebrow at him. Dean moved cautiously, flexed his ankle, prodded at his thigh, rubbed at his head. The weird clouded feeling of mild concussion had vanished like the weakness in his ankle, and the angry tenderness of the bruising was gone, but there was a fading shakiness under his skin like his body was startled by the sudden changes. So, you tell me, Gabriel drawled. Dean shook out his leg gingerly. That didnt feel like an angel healing. Ythink, hot shot? Dean shrugged and re-shuffled, under the table this time. Gabriel tapped his fingers on the table, irregular and peevish, all restless energy and hair that wouldnt stop falling forward into his face. Four hands later, Gabriel said, without looking up, Look, all I know is things are coming back. Not all of them. And not exactly coming back, because they dont feel like they did before. Exhausting as all hell, for one thing. Like theyre actually using me for power, and not well my grace.

I thought your grace was a part of you. Gabriel shrugged, and grimaced at his cards. Yeah, well, go figure. --Sam wandered into the kitchen at half past seven, smearing the few hours sleep out of his eyes with one hand. Bobby was sitting at the table, spearing something unidentifiable with a fork and flicking through his various feeds and bulletins on Sams laptop. Something on the stove smelt vaguely like frying, and Castiel was standing over it with rumpled hair, a spoon, and a thoughtful frown. Hey, guys. Good morning, Sam. Bobby grunted. Domestic. Kind of surreal, kind of soothing. Sam played along, though he felt like he was the unreal thing in this room, hitched his hip up on the counter next to the stove and peered into Castiels pan. What happened to those eggs? Castiel eyed them dolefully. I think the potatoes disagree with them. Huh. Maybe the potatoes should be in another pan? Castiel shot a dark glance at the sink. It was sort of full. Which was apparently what happened when everyone in the house was too busy reading to wash up the night before. Or after Bobby got up to get some bacon at half eleven. Or after Sams craving for reheated casserole at two. Or the soup hed put on for Castiel half an hour later. So much for Bobbys tiny cache of cookware. Yeah, point. He leaned dangerously over Castiel to grab the coffee pot. So is this what happens in this kitchen now? You sit around and let angels cook for you? Bobby shoved another forkful of weird potato and egg and tomato and leeks into his mouth without looking up. Hey, my time of life, Ive earned it. Which, of course, didnt answer the most important question. Cas. Sam gestured vaguely at the angels chest with his coffee mug. Why are you wearing an apron? Castiel looked down at himself, as if hed forgotten it was there, and patted it. I believe its customary, to protect ones clothes from spitting oil. Uh-huh. Sam smirked around the rim of his mug. And why does Bobby have an orange frilly apron with Kiss the c- Youre not too old for a walloping, boy.

I didnt ask, Castiel murmured, far too blandly. Sam snorted, and Castiel shot him one of his sly little half-smiles that pretended to be anything but. Sam hitched down the last two clean plates from Bobbys secret clean plate stash in the top shelf. The servings were a bit small, but Sam didnt mention it. It wasnt that long since theyd eaten; and besides, quantities took a while for any cook to learn to judge, even those who did know at a glance how much of every food their stomach could take at a sitting. And it wasnt actually that bad. So. Sam shoved his last half-page of notes, the one hed dozed off in the middle of, into the middle of the table. What dyou guys think about this? Et pestilentiam aggredit et superauit, quiescens in manum benedictum arcangeli* some guy walked up to Pestilence and survived? Castiel reached out one long finger to slide the paper towards himself, and Bobby grumbled dubiously without looking up from Sams computer. Sounds like a metaphor to me. Yeah, but they write customs accounts like metaphors. And there was a figure of Pestilence in the margin, so I think they mean actual Pestilence, not just the plague in general. Castiel made a thoughtful little noise in his throat, and swallowed his mouthful. Was there an illustration of the archangel? Or any other reference to it? Nothing. But thats the third reference weve found to the hand of an archangel being linked to Pestilence. Could just be and he fought the plague and triumphed and now rests in the hand of the archangel. Triumph over death by heading upstairs. Bobby shrugged. Ya whole family dies, you gotta get your comfort where you can. Sams shoulders slumped a little. But aggredit means approached, not fought. A piece of egg on Castiels plate wobbled, and the angel gave it a doubtful look. It is usually used of armies. For an army, to approach is to oppose. But Sam is right it is an odd word to use here if the writer did not intend overtones of movement and confrontation. Okay. Chalk it up in the maybe column? Might be more use if it had more details. Or if we had an actual archangel about, Bobby pointed out dryly. Yeah, Ive got some ideas about that. Sam shoved his chair back and dumped his plate by the sink. Im going for a run before I turn into a pile of mush.

* And he approached/confronted Pestilence/the plague and survived/conquered, resting/safe in the hand of the blessed archangel.

--Dean was big enough to admit that Gabriel could actually be kind of handy. In a really annoying way. Whats with the body art? Gabriel kept on drawing weird Enochian things all over his own stomach in purple marker. Not really in the mood for being a demons shuttlecock today. Wait, wait. Dean glanced at the road to make sure it was still doing its thing, which it was, then stared at the design that was taking shape under Gabriels quick strokes. You know a mark that stops them from doing all that pick-me-up-and-fling-me-around shit? You dont? Incredulity flickered all over Gabriels face, and his shirt slipped down from where his chin had pinned it as he lifted his head and pointed at Dean accusingly with the purple nib. You mean you guys just waltz right in there and get beaten up and asphyxiated and shoved through walls voluntarily? Until Lady Luck herself just chooses to grimace at you for being wacky little heroes and sticks her finger in the pie? Well, when you put it like that Yeah, pretty much. Gabriel rolled his eyes dramatically heavenward for patience, which was probably ironic, and made some kind of elaborate see-what-I-have-to-put-up-with gesture with both hands that almost knocked Deans right arm away from the steering wheel. The worlds saviours, ladies and gentlemen. Pull over. What? Now? Why? Well, unless you want to wait for the next gas station for me to rip your shirt off and doodle all over you with purple marker. Truckies might raise eyebrows, is all Im saying. --Hey, moose. Gabriels voice was just light and airy enough not to be really light and airy. Sam went for professional. Gabriel, hey. Speakerphone me? There was a beep, then the background hum of the engine, and the sound of Deans music being turned down. Live from the tiny yellow rustbucket, baby. Whats up? Sam shuffled his notes on the table in front of him. Okay, so. Weve got four references in here to the hand of an archangel as the key to protect someone from Pestilence, three to nettle and may warding him off (though I think two of them were

copying from the same source), and eight to some kind of posset held in front of the nose to keep his influence from entering the body. Ring any bells to you two? Gabriel made a noncommittal noise, almost lost under the background noise. Everyone used to hold smelly herb bags in front of their nose to keep off infection. Figured it was the smell that did it, and if you couldnt smell it it couldnt get you. Doesnt mean someone couldnt have stumbled on the right combination. Dont mean it aint wishful thinking, kid, Gabriel countered. Hang on, Dean put in. Doesnt nettle keep out shtrigas? Sam jotted it down hed forgotten that, but Dean had a special grudge on for shtrigas. So you think someones just confusing it for the other, or that it works on both of them, like silver works on anything in the shifter family? Nah, too simple for Pestilence. Itd have to be blessed or stirred in some weird wooden bowl from a Buddhist nunnery or something. Never heard of it, Gabriel drawled like this was all far too boring for him and hed rather be discussing monocycles or something, but I always steered clear of him when he was about before. Plus, all I had to do was waltz in somewhere and put the whammy on the town water supply to tidy up his mess, so, you know, not a lot of reason to go scrounging about for a hard way to do things. Hand of an archangel? Sam met Castiels eyes across the table. You mean that could work? Curing a few families of something thats already in their bodies aint the same as shielding them from his direct presence. Not to say that I couldntve if Id tried, but if theres anything in those books that actually happened Im gonna lay money that it dont involve any of the God squad coming down to personally escort intrepid little conquerors in and out of Pestilences front door. Or you, Sam didnt say. Because hed already known that Gabriel hadnt exactly been humanitys champion all his life, and he already knew there were things he wasnt proud of. No point raking it over. Except maybe Sariel, he pointed out instead. Gabriel hummed vaguely, and there was a rustle of plastic. Could be. Whos Sariel? Dean interjected. Azrael. Okay, why the two names? Because shes got two aspects, Sam replied, with the promptness of one who has done his research. Shes the one responsible for death, for bringing it and for keeping it under control, and shes meant to make sure every soul goes to the right place after they

die. So, positive and negative aspects. Sariels meant to be the name for the benevolent one. That right, Gabriel? Itll do. Dean made a rude noise. Because the angels without split personalities arent insane enough. Screw you, Winchester, thats my sister, Gabriel snapped immediately, though with less heat than Sam would have expected. No paying out sisters, check. Can it, guys. Gabriel, tell me about Sariel? Gabriel was quiet for a minute, although that could have had more to do with the candy noises crunching in the background than thoughtfulness or anything like that. Slow temper, but pretty damn scary once she got there. Always a few steps ahead of everyone. Cute laugh, kind of private, got a real hard-on for keeping to the natural order of things. And, yeah, disappeared September 1666, in London. So did Pestilence. Outbreaks of plague after that were all just scattered pockets of infection, nothing pushing them. So you think she just what, had enough? Dean sounded deeply sceptical. Decided Pestilence had had his fun and it was time to pack him off home? Gabriel scoffed. Have you seen the mortality stats for the fourteenth century? First two waves of plague killed off half the population more than, in some places. Dont know what raised Pestilence in the first place back then, but he sure werent meant to be there. Been hearing murmurs lately well, lately for me, five or six hundred years ago for you that she was keeping tabs on him from the start. Took four centuries for Europe to get her figures back up to what they were in 1300, so yeah, thats probably enough to piss Sariel off. Waiting for God to step in and fix it, Sam thought. Even for someone immortal and removed, if they cared at all, that had to be a pretty long wait. And you think they went down together? Wasnt there. Gabriels voice dropped, went a little reluctant. But taking down a Horseman isnt easy, even for an archangel, specially not when hes all hopped up on choking souls and got his little army of monster followers trailing around after him. And there were rumours that some of that little London bonfire was more than just ordinary flame. Sam met Castiels eyes across the table. They were wide and dark with shock. Holy fire. Thatd do it, Gabriel confirmed grimly.

Hard luck, Sam offered uselessly, to both of them. Even if youd already known youd lost someone, that had to be a shitty way to hear theyd gone down. Castiel blinked and nodded, then dropped his gaze. You didnt go looking for her? Dean demanded. She was your sister, dude. Gabriels voice was a low growl. I looked. And I know a thing or two about hiding, Winchester. Pretty damn sure she aint on earth anymore. Which didnt leave many options, really. Sariel was probably a scratch-at-the-post, then. Okay. So, Chamael and Yrihel then. What happened to them? Gabriel bit down on something with an obnoxiously loud pop. Not a clue. Heard they left early last century, thats it. 1917. Castiel spoke up for the first time, his voice a low growl. They left Heaven for the world in 1917, because they couldnt bear to watch any longer and do nothing. There was a moment of stunned silence. It hadnt even occurred to Sam to ask Castiel but of course, he had been there at the time, and Gabriel had been kind of out of the celestial loop. Dean cleared his throat. Huh. Whaddaya know. Angels with a conscience. Shut up Dean, Sam responded automatically. We were forbidden to intervene, Castiel said, without inflection. We had been forbidden for centuries. Humanity was not righting itself. It seemed, if anything, to be getting worse. Hey. Deans voice took on that strange little gentle edge it had just for Castiel lately. Not your fault, dude. Were pretty good at screwing the pooch all by ourselves even without some heavenly grudge match going on down here. Not like you could have turned it all around even if you had been allowed to leave the ivory tower. Okay, so. Out of the seven, sounds like these are our go-to guys? I mean, if they actually already stepped up against Michael for humanity once? Not gonna do much good if theyre Fallen, is it? Dean pointed out unhelpfully. Its a start, Dean. If we could luck out on finding their grace did they actually Fall, Cas, or just leave? Chamael Fell, but if Yrihel did so she did it with some delicacy enough that we didnt see it. Which means that one or both of them may have kept their own memories, or some of their powers. Okay. Thats something. Sam chewed on his lip and scribbled down their names, the year, and a big FALLEN?.

Dont suppose either of you two featherheads heard anything about them after? No idea where they touched down, or where theyve been since? There was an odd emphasis in Deans voice, like he was trying to prod Castiel or Gabriel into something. Belgium, initially, or thereabouts. After that Im afraid not. Castiel sounded genuinely regretful, like it was his personal responsibility to keep tabs on runaway archangels who had hidden themselves from Heaven. Belgium makes sense, for 1917. Sam jotted that down too. Gabriel? Yes, that was definitely Deans pointed tone. There was a pause, then, Didnt hear anything. Gabriels voice was a little more stilted than it had been before, less casually rude. Didnt even know they were gone until the fifties. Sam got the impression that there was a whole other conversation flying over his head.

What?, he mouthed at Castiel. Castiel shook his head, his mouth a thin
uncomfortable line. Sam cocked an eyebrow at him. Okay then. Ill try that ritual I used to find Cas, see if I can feel either of them out at all. And Ill try Sariel. Worth a shot, at least. If you give me some time, I will try to adapt the ritual so that it doesnt depend on the existence of an angels grace. Sam blinked at Castiel. You can do that? Probably. There was no boast or hopefulness in it, just a calm statement of fact. Huh. Sam took a breath, then ventured, Gabriel if it comes to talking them into it, can I use your name? If I can say youre onside with this, its gotta help, right? There was a pause, then Gabriel admitted quietly, Dont know if itll do you any good, Sam. But sure spin it how you like. Sam swallowed, and nodded. Thanks. Hey. Castiel? Castiels head came up like it was attached to a string, and he eyed the cell as if he wasnt sure whether the rumours about them giving you cancer were true. Gabriel. Wattle root. Gabriels voice stumbled for a moment, then went on, all light and chirpy, Used it for locating spells to check if there were any angels about a few times. Doesnt go for their grace it latches onto the size and age of a things memories, and an angels gonna be a bigger fish than almost anything else there. Castiels head tipped very slowly to one side, and he looked a little lost. Thank you. I will bear that in mind. ---

Dean pressed the red button to end the call, and stole Gabriels phone. Because they were going to have this out now, before anything went wrong. Whats up with you and Cas? Gabriels eyes slid away into something unfathomable. Were planning to host a talk show together. With robots. And a hippopotamus in pink. Dont give me that crap, Dean growled. You run away when Sam tells you hes with us, you send him weird messages by proxy, you freeze over like some kind of startled popsicle when he pipes up on the line? You got something against rebel angels? Gabriel folded up the empty candy bag, threw it into the glove box with a petulant flick, and growled right back. Dont be more of an idiot than you can help, Winchester. Okay then. Dean eased off, just a little. Just let me know whether Im going to have to do some kind of intervention here, or what. Gabriel looked irritated, then impatient, then kind of embarrassed. He stood up to Heaven, okay? He turned around and told them they were wrong. And he didnt stick around to bitch about it, he just went and did what he had to, no matter what sucky crap came along with it. Plus, have you seen how sneaky that kid is? Gabriels hands made some massive complicated gesture that might have been meant to indicate intense sneakiness, possibly by demonstrating its opposite. I mean, forget losing his grace, even if I still had mine I wouldnt want to cross him. How many people do you think could just screw around with a ritual like that and make it do what they want? He gets creative. If Dean didnt know better, hed have said Gabriel had a crush. Gabriel took advantage of Dean going all soft on him to steal his phone back off Deans thigh and go back to his game of sudoku or porn or whatever hed been doing on there before Sam rang. Once his eyes were safely glued to the screen, he muttered, Just not used to having brothers who are worth the effort. Dean let out a breath, and turned the music back on. Yeah, I hear you. He let it sit there until they pulled up in the parking lot of an abandoned shopping strip, on the outskirts of their target town. Gabriel? The angel made a noise, vaguely interrogative, and didnt look up. Youre the only brother Cas has left who isnt actively trying to kill him. Dont screw him over. Gabriels eyebrows climbed his forehead like caterpillars on a ladder, in a way that strongly suggested he thought that was a bit rich coming from Dean. Dean gave him a dirty look and got out of the car.

--It was on the second night that Dean was woken by little broken-off whimpers and jerky movements. And not the fun kind, either. He was sort of programmed to respond to those noises by now, after decades of being a big brother in a nasty world, and he had stumbled off the couch and slouched down on the side of the bed before he remembered that it really, really wasnt Sammy in the room with him: that those distressingly mortal sounds came from a throat that shouldnt really know how to make them. And by that time, well, he wasnt enough of a dick to just go back to sleep. Just like Castiel, Gabriel lashed out when Dean touched his shoulder. Unlike Castiel, he checked the swing himself, mumbling frantic apologies that Dean suspected werent meant for him, and there was wetness where his face pressed into Deans wrist. Dean was so underqualified for this. Hey. Hey, easy, dude. There was a moment of stillness, and a faint gleam from under barely cracked eyelids. Then Gabriel mumbled an eloquent little Fuck, and pressed a shaking hand over his eyes. Dean just sort of squeezed his shoulder and looked away, blinking through the sleep heavy in his eyes. Sorry, Gabriel muttered eventually, and it sounded so small and so wrong coming from someone who should be all wicked and arrogant and amused that Dean abruptly decided to go with the whole not-really-awake thing. He yawned, jaw-crackingly, and slurred out, Hey, no problem Sammy. You know how often I sleep through the night. He felt the pause, then the little huff of breath, but he was already pushing back the blankets and climbing into the bed to spoon up behind Gabriel, like he hadnt done with Sam for over a year. Gabriel went very carefully still, but Dean really was sleepy, sleepy enough to just burrow his face into the nearest warm shoulder. And hey, better than the couch. Gabriel was the wrong shape and the wrong size in the bed, too worried, and his heart was still skipping from whatever hed conjured up for himself in his dreams, but it was only a minute or two before he started to relax. Then he turned his head away and grumbled quietly into the soft whush-whush of the aircon, Oh, this isnt at all patronising, is it. Suck it up, princess, Dean muttered comfortably into his hair. Which was almost as soft and ridiculous as Sams.

In the morning, Dean woke up to a fully-dressed Gabriel with his feet on the table and his chair tipped back outrageously. As soon as Dean opened his eyes and focussed squintily on him, he smirked, and pointed. Youre a cuddler. Dean grumbled and buried his face back into the pillow, because it was too early in the morning to defend his masculinity against a smart-ass not-archangel. Seriously, dude? Were going to go there? Golden rule of that crap is you never talk about it the next day. Gabriels smirk turned up a few more notches, like the cat whod got the canary and the archangel mojo all at once. You cuddle. I have photos. Why do I even care? The cat purred. Hah. You care. Dean rolled out of bed and flipped him off. Whatever. Your girlish sniffling was keeping me awake. Which maybe wasnt the the most sensitive thing to say, but Gabriel just grinned and tossed a Skittle into his mouth Aw, diddums, love you too so Dean figured his feelings couldnt be too hurt. --Angel mojo aside, Sam thought, there were definitely advantages to having an angel brain on the case. They were working with a bewildering array of scripts and scribal habits from across eight centuries, leaping back and forth between the eclectic code-like hands of individual pre-Carolingian monasteries and the grand magisterial Gothic bookhands which, while at least consistent, seemed to take pride in making every single stroke look like every single other stroke so you had to count every line and calculate the word from that. Sam usually had more time to adjust himself to a given script that he was working with. Jumping across centuries and localities like this, it was too easy to glance at a word and misread it: he didnt have time to internalise the fact that this strange squiggle in this hand was an e, that the teardrop shape in that one was an o and the thing that looked like o was actually a, that this scribe always did a little loop on top of his d so that right there couldnt be a d but had to be ol (unless the bowl belonged to the letter before it, of course it was very blurred and hard to say). The weird symbol here was meant to be a quick form of tia, and the little loop below the o indicated a following e, but over here this scribe always wrote t short and without a stem above the cap so that it looked like a stiff c and that the letter that looked like a t was actually l with a horizontal stroke through it, to indicate a preceding u or e, so that sometimes he almost wrote down ut where it should have been uel.

Castiel could just look at a page and compute all of that without a blink, like all those irregularities were nothing, and never get confused over the bits where a human eye would jump ahead of itself and put things together wrong. For some of the rarer scripts Sam still had to start from first principles and compile an alphabet list, with notes of all the variant punctuations and letter forms, especially for the scribes who didnt bother putting spaces between words or ending a line at a word break. And that was before the rise of the universities, and the freaking plague of abbreviations that scholasticism brought with it. It was all very well to deduce that the unclear letter in mi-ime must be n because there was no other word it could be, but what if three other letters in the word had been sacrificed to constrictions of space? Seriously, who thought it was a good idea to write a hundred-word note in tiny tiny letters in a four by five centimetre block in their margin, in which every single word was abbreviated beyond recognition? After hand-copying all their university texts? Sam, massaging his aching hand, had never been more glad of the modern ability to buy law texts and notebooks from the university bookshop in his life. This was where Castiel really came in handy. He stumbled the first few times he came across an abbreviation, because apparently knowing every human language ever didnt mean you automatically knew all the idiosyncrasies of the ways people wrote them down. But then Sam explained that a straight line over a word usually meant a missing m or n, that a hooked shape above any consonant but p meant -er or -ar while the same squiggle over p meant pr(a)e and per and par were indicated by a p with a stroke through the stem but a stroke through the stem of a final d meant either de or dum, depending on context. Castiel had gone all thoughtful and quietly curious and asked if there was a catalogue of these somewhere, Bobby had stomped up the stairs (just because he could, Sam suspected) to fetch down an old copy of Cappellis dictionary of Latin abbreviations for him, and Castiel had memorised it in half an hour. So now it was just quicker to say something like, Hey, Cas? Ive got these three letters, then four minims, then something thats either this letter or that one, a suspension stroke over the second, and something thats either an i or a hook over this letter what are my options? Hand? Late thirteenth century anglicana, not very formal, scribe tends to pull to the left. Can the fourth minim be the primary stroke of a c instead? Could be, I guess. Then this word, or that one. Got it; has to be that one because were missing the direct object - thanks! The thing was, Deans Latin wasnt nearly as bad as he thought it was, but this work? For this, you needed to be able to obsess over it, and Deans obsessions werent here.

--And then there was the question of weapons. Gabriel wasnt actually bad at handling a gun, better than Castiel: hed said something about the Old West needing a hell of a lot of Trickstering and guns being just a part of the outfit, which made Dean really tempted to suggest a day off and a little field trip through time. The trouble was, he refused point blank to risk killing any human, which Dean hadnt expected. Oh, now youre squeamish? Dont play stupider than you look, Winchester. Go ahead, tell me theres no difference between trapping an asshole in poetic justice so he can take himself down and treating a person like collateral damage. Hey, you think I dont care? Every time I have to put down some poor bastard whos being ridden? Gabriels eyes went all narrow and sharp. Seems to me youre getting pretty casual about it. Dean glared right back. Because, no way was he letting the Trickster-slash-cowardarchangel go all moral high ground on him. Its the Apocalypse, genius. If its that or the second demon tears Sam or Cas throat out, or an exorcism takes too long and we all die, or it gets out and goes off to take down another fifty people, or hell, we do exorcise it and it goes off for a weekend break downstairs which, by the way, is standing wide open right now so it can pop right back up whenever it likes yeah, Id say a bullet in the head is better than then end of the world. Gabriel just arched one eyebrow at him and settled back, arms crossed over his chest and feet propped all immovable on the table in front of him. I dont kill. Not unless I mean it. Which Dean could almost understand, because the kind of things they all saw and did when you lived this kind of life meant you had to have some lines for yourself, even if they got sort of bendy sometimes, but Really. Because your brothers dont seem that worried about collateral. Even Castiel. Not that he didnt care, he just thought like a warrior. If he had to, he would kill, and not look back. Yeah, well, Im not them. Gabriels shoulders did this complicated little rolling hitch against the chair back. They just figure, oh, sooner dead, sooner into Heaven. Death dont mean anything to them they dont see anything worth sticking around for down here, and they dont see what happens to the people left behind. Huh. That was actually a bit more honest than Dean had been expecting. Hed sort of forgotten how, if you pushed him, Gabriel would sort of fling these big emotional

truths like bludgeons. And, well, he had asked for someone who was on Earths side, not Heavens or Hells. He backed down, scooped up the Colt and tucked it into his belt like a challenge. Okay. Got a better plan? Gabriel just stared at him narrowly for another moment, eyes still doing that weird gold half-glowy thing they did when he got riled up. Then it broke and scattered like nothing into his deliberately maddening grin. Give me a minute. He vanished. Two minutes later, he reappeared, right behind Deans shoulder. So, fun fact, there were a lot of demons flitting about in late-eighteenth-century France. And he dropped an honest-to-God sword and dagger combo on the table, scabbards and all. Friend and I, thought wed do something about it, back in the day. Dean whistled softly and drew the sword. Straight steel blade (or something that looked like steel), brass hilt wrapped with black leather ordinary enough for its time, probably, but really pretty awesome right now. Well, ordinary except for the little symbols and whorls of writing running up and down the blade, Latin and Enochian and something he thought might be Arabic or Hebrew or one of those things. This kills demons? Gabriel nodded and tossed him the long dagger. I get the epe. Size queen, Dean shot back automatically, and pulled out the smaller blade. Same thing in miniature, but this was a size and style he was more used to, and he could feel the quality in the balance and the weight, the way itd just handle like a dream, slice through the air like part of his arm and Okay. Yes, so, they were pretty damn neat, but it had to be said: And how is stabbing people any better than shooting them? Gabriel took the sword back, tossed it into the air, caught it and held it up to the light, grinning at it like an old friend. Demons dont have bodies, right, genius? Its all kind of wafty. So why does it matter where you hit them? That clever little water pistol of yours just binds them to the mortality of the body then kills that body, which is why you have to hit them where it hurts the vessel. Okay. And with these? These kill the demon. All you have to do is break the skin. Thats the barrier between the demon and the world. Break that, touch them with this, and thats them dead. Which just wow. Kill a demon, and leave its host with a freaking bandaid? Maybe a couple of stitches? Dean ran his thumb along the edge of the eighteenth-century blade that

was as sharp as it had been two hundred and fifty years or ten minutes before, and felt a weight he hadnt even noticed slip away from his shoulders. You designed these? Gabriel shrugged, all breezy and casual and bouncing just a little on the balls of his feet, like a kid showing off his science project. Joint effort. He was a creative little son of a bitch. Dean felt his face break into a grin, and he reached over to mess up Gabriels stupid shiny hair. Awesome. Gabriel yelped and beat him off and called him a tentacle fetishist or something, but he looked kind of smug and eager at the same time. --It turned out that Gabriel was awesome with a sword. Or epe de cour, or whatever he called it. Dean wasnt really surprised.

Regroup.
Sam could never have said afterwards how long that time lasted, between settling down with half a library of ancient manuscripts and Pestilences endgame. The days and the time in them seemed to stretch out slowly, warm and languid like taffy, hovering on the edge of the world. He and Castiel went running together every morning gently at first, then more vigorously as Castiels body strengthened and healed, as he learned how to listen to it and to how it moved and how the muscles spoke to the skin and back again. Interestingly, Castiel took to cooking really well, once he had a few recipes to follow, but just couldnt get the hang of laundry. --Dean was taking a break at the end of the world to teach an archangel to drive a car. Their lives were weird. This bit was probably in the good-weird column, though. Gabriel was easy. It was no effort at all to tell how far to push and when to back off, when to deflect and attack from another angle. It was maybe the longest Dean had gone in ages without actually having an argument. Not that they didnt yell at each other Gabriel was still annoying, and he could sulk with the best of them, and he had the attention span of a little kid about almost everything, and got all waspish and short-tempered when he was tired or hungry or actually had to work at anything that he should have been able to snap up without a thought, and Dean sure wasnt above deliberately goading him or putting his feet up on the couch when he knew Gabriel wanted to sit down but thats all it was. Just yelling. Nothing serious or world-shattering under it, just working off steam. Over in five minutes. He was pretty sure Gabriel was as surprised by that as he was. Sometimes, now and then, hed catch a wary and kind of awed sort of sideways look, like Gabriel was waiting for the catch. It usually vanished as soon as it turned up, but Dean always knew it had been there because Gabriel was like a hyperactive toddler acting up afterwards, louder and funnier and more inappropriate, like he thought that was the only way he knew to get along with people. Dean got used to him disappearing for two minutes then popping back into existence after spending three days in fourth-century Madrid, or whatever. A guy had to have some me-time now and then, after all, especially if hes mostly used to operating solo, and this way it didnt actually take up any real time. He got used to Gabriel crashing onto his bed and passing out for hours at the weirdest times, because he kept forgetting to sleep when he was poking about in the past, or maybe just didnt want to get fleas off the bedding (Dean kept reminding him not to drink the water).

He also got used to Gabriel off-handedly tossing him random objects from the past that he thought Dean might like, or stashing them in the trunk for Sam or Bobby. The intricate little clockwork dragon from 17-something was, he had to admit, pretty cool. So was the nineteenth-century Romanian vampire-killing knife apparently theyd had a lot of trouble with vampires around then, and this thing almost made Dean wish they werent close to extinct now so he could try it out. There was a fascinating set of tiny lapis lazuli figures in the shape of different animals, which were apparently meant to invoke various properties of some of the old Egyptian gods to protect against different kinds of sickness or bad luck (Gabriel doubted they worked, he just thought they were neat). There was a pawn from the fancy ivory chess set of some Danish king, and a letter from Alexander the Great to some guy called Hephaestion, which Gabriel said smugly would blow some historians conservative little minds. There was really amazing food from all over Europe and Asia and Africa and the last three millennia. There were a few more books, these ones rescued from a fire that had almost consumed an apparently important collection of manuscripts stored in a house called Ashburnham (and really, Dean could have told them that was a bad idea). There was a strange jade pendant that looked like a contorted leg which was meant to be good against banshees, or possibly the Chinese equivalent, and a fancy swishy cane hed pinched from someones front hall in eighteenth-century Vienna because he thought it was fun. Gabriel was kind of a magpie, actually. And he cared about Sam. That did take Dean by surprise, and he had watched him closely for the first couple of days whenever Sam rang, or (as happened more and more often) when Gabriel rang Sam. Dean had already known that Gabriel was a really shitty actor when it came to anything involving emotions, and there was no way he could have hidden the casual gentleness that threaded through every word he spoke into the receiver, or the shocked sort of warmth that flickered into his face every time Sams number popped up on his cell. Every time, like he never expected it to happen again. So, yeah, Gabriel was on their side. Where it counted. After a while, Dean stopped waiting for him to slip up, and just enjoyed showing him the ropes. He was a terrible driver. Dean was completely and utterly unsurprised. They cleaned up town after town, spending only one or two days in each, a sort of whirl of pointy, besigilled efficiency. Most of the situations followed the same pattern, which helped: four to ten demons working like sharks, just sort of an opportunistic mob rather than anything really organised, cutting the town off from the world outside and picking them off at their leisure. In one town it wasnt a pack but a pair of ancient daevas, the shadow demons he and Sam had run into back when theyd been hunting Meg and found Dad into the bargain.

They fell to the blades just the same as regular demons, though, even if you couldnt feel the metal bite into them. Gabriel had the advantage there, with his longer blade and his ability to see them even if they were hiding in the shadows around them, so Dean fell back into the light and just let him have at them. The sight of a former archangel, former pagan god, fencing in and out of shadows and laughing at them with blood streaking his face and hair, was actually kind of awesome. Not that hed tell Gabriel that. When Gabriel leaped in front of the daeva that had been about to eviscerate Dean and snarled in its face, like he was so done with having to remind it that he was older and far more terrifying than it was, then slashed it to shrieking pieces with bright steel, Dean was actually a bit surprised. Though on reflection, he probably shouldnt have been. ---

Gratiam animamque in unum angelum. Soul and grace contained within one angel.
Sam thought it was a metaphor at first, or gratia in the sense of a personal quality rather than real grace, or anima in the sense of animating spirit or life rather than soul. But the more he read of this womans encounter with an angel an angel with both grace and soul the more convinced he became that this unnamed angel existed, had lived on earth for at least a while, wasnt lying to her. And if that were possible well, it would explain a lot of things, actually. Castiel didnt believe it, though he was intrigued by the notion. Gabriel just refused to go there at all, and finally Sam had to give in and drop it. Look. Gabriel. He changed tactics, went for another thing he had been wondering, even though it almost felt like the same question. Why the no-name thing? I mean, youve stopped biting our heads off every time we use it, but you never call yourself anything, and Dean says youre still making up a new name for every town you stop at. He could almost hear the lazy shrug over the phone, almost see Gabriel stretching himself like a cat, slow and deliberate and insouciant. Gabriel and Loki dont really fit anymore, do they? I dont know. I think theyre kind of what you make of them. Ones an angel, ones a god. Im not, kiddo. So pick your own. Gabriel made a rude noise and hung up on him. ---

Okay, Ill bite. Spill. Hm? Gabriel pointed a spoon at him. Either Ive got the latest centrefold of Busty Asian Beauties stuck to my face, or youve been checking me out for twenty-plus minutes. Only you go all blushy and soulful when little bro calls so Im pretty damn sure it aint the second, and your dicks still in your pants which rules out the first, so, spill. Whats so fascinating about little old me? Blushy and soulful? Dean blinked, and grabbed for a brilliant and witty rejoinder. I do not. Okay, so maybe he should look into the grab-bag before he grabbed. Gabriel put his chin on his fist and actually fluttered his eyebrows, the douchebag. Aw, humans. Its so cute when theyre all in denial. Screw you, Gabriel. Nah, dont wanna hurt the little sparrows chances. Once you go demigod you never go back. Dean cocked an eyebrow. Pretty full of yourself for someone whos probably got the staying power of a fourteen-year-old right now, arent you? Oh tiger, dont throw out challenges like that unless youre drunk enough to follow through. Gabriels eyes danced, all maddening brightness and warmth (which was, okay, a bit hot, but Dean so wasnt going there, and besides, pretty much everyone in Deans life was hot, because Dean was awesome like that). Sooo? Dean shrugged. Just trying to work out which bits of all the flashy and shiny stuff are the trickster and which bits are the archangel and which bits are just you know, you. Gabriels face froze over, then his eyebrows pulled together in a defensive little huddle. What is it with you two and the questions? Look, I was an archangel and a trickster and now Im neither, okay? Theres nothing left. Fine, touchy subject. Dean dropped it and went back to pinning demon omens on his map, looking for their next town. Whatever. You still sound like Gabriel to me. Gabriel didnt go back to his stupidly sugary cereal for almost ten minutes. --The long nights and long days started to merge into each other a few hours of sleep here, someone shoving coffee into Sams hands there a blur of meandering four-way conversations and the thoughts and handwriting of people who died long ago.

Nettle was mentioned a few more times, and there were hints of gold dust, crystallised honey, and a bowl made from the wood of some plant associated with the dark maybe yew? but may seemed to be a washout. Castiel discovered that he liked hot chocolate, and walking around the house and yard barefoot, experimenting with the different textures under his soles. His quiet, indefatigable curiosity seemed to be pulling him past his discomfort with sensation and the more corporeal aspects of being human Sam had walked into Bobbys bedroom the other day to find Castiel fingering all the clothes hung up in the wardrobe, playing with the feel of the different fabrics. Hed tried chicken one night, cautiously liked it (though hed seemed to have difficulty getting past the fact that he couldnt feel the whole life of the bird that it had been), and the next day experimented with eight different ways of seasoning it. One of them involved ice cream (yeah, Sam didnt even know). The day after that, in town for a supply run, he managed to sneak nine different kinds of chocolate into the basket, and proceeded to play around with those. Sam tried to contact Sariel with Castiels modifications to the summoning ritual, but there was no answer. It wasnt like it had been with Castiel, where he could feel the target there and just had to put in more mental muscle to drag him into range. It felt like there was nothing there at all. --Gabriel was good company. Apart from how he could still be irritating. Now they werent trying to kill each other, the competitive back-and-forth was actually kind of fun, and Dean could afford to laugh at his easy, completely inappropriate sense of humour. And Dean was laughing. That felt sort of weird. Almost like it should be a betrayal, though he wasnt sure what he was meant to be betraying. It was just easier, without the tension of being around Castiel and Sam all the time, all the weird little undercurrents going on there. It sort of reminded him of that time with Castiel, when Sam and he had split up and hed realised, like a slap to the face, just how much simpler things could actually be without Sam around. How much easier it was to have fun when you werent keeping an eye out for losing your family all the time. He felt guilty about that for a couple of hours when he worked it out, until he noticed, when Sam rang, that he was actually looking forward to speaking to him more than he had in a couple of years. And to Castiel, too. Which was interesting. ---

Gabriel was staring at Dean like he was some really intriguing new candy. It was sort of disturbing, especially since they were waiting for a demon to pop out of a sewer and try to eat their faces, and also Gabriel already had some ridiculously sweet purple and yellow sugar stick occupying his mouth. After about ten minutes of thought, which was the longest hed been quiet all day, Gabriel took the candy out of his mouth and used it to pinpoint Dean like a sniper of sticky doom. Do you actually like your little brother? Dean gaped. Gabriel jumped in front of his retort and derailed it like it was a train with the roadrunner in the second carriage and he was Wile E. Coyote. Yes, yes, I know, you love each other with a love that is eternal and epic and could fuel North Americas power grid. I sat through more than a hundred Tuesdays waiting for that to give, remember? I mean, do you actually enjoy his company? There was an indignant snap-back retort waiting to leap off the tip of Deans tongue and smack him in his stupid smug face, except well, it wasnt actually smug for once. It was sort of interested, and a bit thoughtful, and maybe a bit pitying or something like it. Serious, anyway, which was unusual enough to make Dean actually stop and think for a moment. Did he enjoy Sams company? Okay, so they had this whole neurotic-obsessive thing going on, which wasnt healthy by the standards of anyone in the world who didnt rely on that to stay not only healthy but alive. And okay, so they found it kind of tricky to actually tolerate each other, and well, Dean was having to admit lately that he and Sam werent actually friends. Hadnt been for quite a while, if they ever really had. Not as adults. They were family, of course, which counted for a hell of a lot more, but didnt do much when it came to relaxing at the end of the day in each others company and cracking a beer together and just talking about anything or nothing without dragging out years of accusations and suspicions. They werent friends. And that was sort of a relief to admit. To get the breathing space to be able to admit it. Dean dropped his head and ran the meat of his thumb slowly along the edge of his dagger, watching the sharp of the blade press, just press, promising but gentle, against the skin. They were happier and more relaxed when they werent together. For now. But Dean sort of thought that might change. That hed like to change it. That maybe Sam might actually be the kind of man hed like to be friends with. If they could just get something stable, something sure. If they could stop getting killed every other week and trust each other and the world around them if they werent all in all to each other, if Dean had someone else to talk to about the things Sam just wasnt interested in, another shoulder to

punch when Sams was all prickly and moody yes. Sam was a cool guy and Dean could really like hanging out with him, arguing and drinking and just being in each others space. They could be friends. And that was even better to admit. Yes, he said thoughtfully, to the tip of his dagger. I think I do. Gabriel made a small noise in his throat, amusement and satisfaction like thered been more hanging on that than hed let on, and leaned back against the wall to wait. --You know Sam pretty much looked like someone had just kicked his dead puppy when we got to Bobbys and found youd left, right? Dean tossed it out there, casual, in the middle of tracking down a demon whod gone to ground in an old grain silo. Hed expected to be flipped off. He hadnt expected the stunned, defensive anger that suddenly staged a hostile takeover of Gabriels face. Screw you, Winchester. Hey. Dean lifted his hands in an easy there, big boy kind of gesture. Im just saying. After that, he began watching Gabriel again. Only this time he wasnt quite sure what he was looking for. --Just so were clear, if you hurt my little brother again I will find a shotgun and come after you. Dean opened one eye and squinted bemusedly across the canyon between the beds. Says the guy who trapped him in some cult TV show with mutant vampires. Gabriel just grinned, lazy and sharp. Hey, that show is art. Hilarious art. Not my fault he pissed off the locals. --It was the spiel that tipped Dean off eventually. Gabriel was just too practised at this. Saying what people needed to hear, covering all the major points quick then going back over them again slower and in more detail, factoring in the kids and the old people and the sick or injured in ways that Dean had never

really had to think about, offering solutions unprompted to questions that Dean would never have thought of but which, yeah, now he came to think of it were exactly the questions that a bunch of civilians defending a whole freaking town would want to ask, and doing it all with a kind of charm and humour under the serious tone that kept people listening without challenging, made it real without being hopeless, heading off the belligerent heckling and the despairing pleas before they could even get started. Dean would have been floundering after five minutes, trying to work out which bits to highlight and what people needed to hear. And okay, so, archangel brain, Gabriel could probably do all those calculations a whole lot faster than Dean could, but still It felt rehearsed. Dean waited until they finished up and the local farmer who seemed to be shaping into a pretty good community leader adjourned the meeting. As they tromped out of the town hall into the afternoon sunlight, he turned to point smugly at the angel. Sam Winchester. Gabriel looked at him like he thought maybe that last demon had held him down, scrubbed off the purple marker, then bashed Deans head into the wall a few times for kicks. Samantha Winchester, Dean went on deliberately. Dean Smith. Robert Harvelle. DAngelo. Novak. Red hair and cowboy boots. Repton, Nevada. Pine Springs, Minnesota. Santa Ana Pueblo, New Mexico. Embarrassment crawled all over Gabriels face. Dean crowed and slapped his shoulder. Youre busted. ---

dean: hey smmy guess who was dressng himself up as lits of differnet peopel and going around tipping off those dmeon towns before elisina fields dean: hint , he keeps stealing my shampoo Yeah? You. Sam hurled it at him like the unexpected water balloon that declares waterballoon war. You were the one going around telling all those little towns the demons were picking on how to defend themselves. Gabriel groaned, and there was a muffled sound like hed just thumped his head into the pillow. Go on, laugh it up. Sam shook his head vigorously, couldnt stop his face splitting into this stupid excited grin. Dude, we were tracking you all over the internet.

There was a puzzled pause, like this wasnt the direction hed expected this conversation to take. The internet. Well, yeah. People put it all online. They were linking up, helping each other, swapping tips, sharing stories, letting each other know they were going to be okay Gabriel Sam took a deep breath to steady himself, to deal with just how important this was. You put the weapons out there. You gave humans the tools to fight for themselves. Shut up, Im blushing. He was obviously aiming for dry and snarky, but Sam suspected it was probably true. No, seriously Gabriel. You let people choose to be strong. No one else would have thought of that. Hell, he thumped his fist on the table in emphasis, we wouldnt have were too used to being all secretive and lying our way around saving people to tell them how to save themselves. Gabriel, this could change everything. If we live if the world comes out the other side Sam broke off and pushed a hand through his hair, blinking and blinking again at the enormity of it, like the world would be different each time he opened his eyes. Then he dropped his voice, and went on, And even if it doesnt, Gabriel. If the world starts to break down and we go all post-Apocalyptic like that future that Dean saw, Croats or whatever else they come up with next? If people know this stuff, if they know how to fight we might just maybe one day someone could rebuild. There was a stunned silence. Which was probably fair. Sam was a little stunned by his tirade himself. Then, cautiously, Dont make too much of it, yeah? I figured it was the most useful thing I could do, without you know. Picking a side. Showing myself. Sam snorted. You did pick a side, Gabriel. Not Heaven, not Hell. Thats what we were trying to do all along. Yeah, I kind of gathered that. Sam thought he heard a bit of a smile somewhere in there. Might have shoved it in Lucifers face, actually. Sam laughed, couldnt stop himself. All this time? Ever since we found out who you were? Gabriel groaned, and his voice came out all pillow-muffled. Yeah, pretty much. So sue me, youre all persuasive and puppy-dog eyes and shit. Wow. I just Sam laughed again, shaking his head. Sorry, Im just having to rethink about half the bad things I ever thought about you. A wounded noise reverberated down the line. Only half? Well, the rest were about your hair and your sense of humour, so, yeah, about half. There was another moment of stillness, then Gabriels voice curled into his ear, all innuendo and rich amusement. You think about my hair that much, Sammy-boy?

Which, yeah, point, but Sams thoughts were already running on ahead of themselves. So I was kind of a bitch to you in the panic room, but in my defence, I had just been hallucinating a much nastier version of you. Gabriel made a noise, a bit more amused than embarrassed. You mentioned. What about my dreams? Sam tapped his pencil on the table. Gabriel went suddenly cagey. What dreams? Apparently, Sam drew it out, grinned into the mouthpiece, knowing hed already won, something was keeping Lucifer out of my dreams, right up until around when you died. Fuck. The embarrassment was back. That little prophets going to be writing me down as some kind of an altruist, isnt he? Sam laughed, low and warm. Yeah, so much for your reputation, hardass. Gabriel grumbled at him, with a sort of tentative incredulity that made Sam wonder when someone had last teased him, and got his own back by hanging up. Sam snickered at the phone, then looked up. Castiels eyes were fixed on his book, but the inhabited initial at the top of the page he was looking at was the same one that had caught Sams eye just before hed made the call. Perhaps I ought to have done that too, Castiel said quietly. The warmth and triumph fled, and left worry in their place. Hey, Cas, no. You really thought God was out there. And besides (he didnt say), angel or not, handling a whole town full of folk who are already in a state of panic would take a hell of a lot of people skills, and those really werent Castiels strong point. Castiels pen resumed its scratchy, delicate dance over the pad of paper by his book. Thank you, Sam; but I believe I was wilfully ignoring the meaning of omniscient. Sam thumped his shoulder, and went to get him some more hot chocolate. --They sort of got into the habit of just leaving the phones on, linked up, while Dean and Gabriel drove and Sam and Castiel went through books. Wasnt like any of their cell phone companies noticed all the extra minutes when they were linked through Radio Gabriel, or whatever. It helped stop Gabriel from getting bored, which was important, and meant there were always four of them there to turn over any new weird thing the bookworms came up with. Of course, Dean and Gabriel still did most of the talking, unless they could get Sam riled up, but Dean was used to that. And it was sort of nice to have all of Sams little busy noises in the background, the kind he made when he was studying, his

little grunts of frustration and huffs of my-brother-is-so-annoying and stupid little yelps of discovery. And Castiels perfect silence (though you could still feel him there), broken by dry little comments when you least expected them, and just occasionally a little thoughtful noise hummed in his throat. It felt like they were there in the car with them, just a bit, the sort of background noise that Deans life was meant to have in it. Between Gabriels grumbling about the Winchester motel-based lifestyle, or Deans absolutely hilarious retelling of embarrassing Sam baby stories, they did actually get work done. Dean would get the stay-at-home wives to check the stats on the latest town they were seeing to if something occurred to him that theyd missed. Sam would ask Gabriel to jump back to this particular year when they stopped for the night to see if he could get a better version of this eye-witness account he was trying to disentangle. Castiel was getting close to working out this ritual or hex bag or whatever, he said, there was just one thing missing and he wasnt sure what. Gabriel wasnt actually that helpful he could toss back ideas about the properties of various herbs and metals and spices and dust and how humans had twisted them around into ingenious new things over the years, which made Sam geek out, but it was Castiel who was best at working out how theyd all fit together, at reshaping words and sigils into something that had real power. Bobby sometimes wandered through, but hed take himself off again soon enough, grumbling that no one could possibly get any work done with those muttonheads chattering on in the background. It was kind of difficult to keep on topic with Gabriel around, even if they actually had one. Somehow a serious conversation about how to get Lucifer to actually jump into the hole once they had the rings would turn into a complicated three-way attempt to explain to Castiel why humans kept dogs as pets. When Gabriel vigorously denied that any Winchester was qualified to comment on how a functional human being might relate to a poor defenceless little animal, Sam stuck his oar in, all tolerant indignation, to bring up that retriever hed had for, like, two freaking weeks that time hed run away. Dean had to shout that one down, of course, and Gabriel just made an amused noise and growled that no one as freakishly far away from the ground as Sam could know anything about animal husbandry. Castiel took the opportunity of Sam spluttering to put in, all smooth and helpful, You would be the expert on animal husbandry, naturally. And when everyone just stopped for a moment to work out what he meant, he finished, bland as if it was the weather, I trust that Crowley, the goat, and the chess board were impressed. Gabriel actually stuttered into speechlessness, a palpable moment of wait-did-he-just that had Dean cracking up, because whodve thought? He missed whatever Sam said, something smirk-laden about knowing better than to let a sneaky ninja angel near his phone, and only tuned in again for Gabriels stunned but sort of impressed You little minx. And then it was back to Lucifer and tricking him into the hole, and a few possibilities floated that probably wouldnt really work or relied on something they didnt have. Then

Sam wandered off to get something or do something, and Castiel was solemnly telling them about some little incident over the laundry that morning, something very deadpan about Bobby and Sam. Just telling Dean because he knew Dean would enjoy it, sketching for him in a few words the feeling of just being there, being part of that house with those people there, familial and domestic. And Dean was grinning along, saying Yeah?, fond and easy, and it was comfortable. All of them. It wasnt until Gabriel just sort of cocked an eyebrow at him and didnt say a thing that he realised hey, this was them, being a team. Team Free Will. It was actually working. Castiel had probably meant for this to happen, the sneaky-ass son of a bitch. ---

SW: call cas dean: why whats up SW: nothing, jerk. :P just call him. dean: ? SW: he misses you. 4 some reason. dean: ? talked to him 2 hours ago SW: no, you called me and cas ws in the room at the time. you always call me. dean: jesus hes an angel not preteen girl -- Dean could ring a friend if he wanted to. Any time. Dean. Dean felt all the tension just sliding out of his muscles, like the rumble of that voice was a Magic Fingers or something. Hey, Cas, hows it going? There was a slightly baffled pause. Dean liked to think that he was actually pretty good at reading Castiels pauses. They were an important part of the Language of Cas, and this was a baffled one. Much as it was going two and a half hours ago. Why have you called? Not irritated, just sort of bemused. Dean chuckled. Because Sams a giant girl, apparently. Hey, listen, you bookworms over there know theres a game on in two hours?

A game? Football. Dean tipped back his head on the seat, feeling all lazy and post-adrenalin in the warmth of the late afternoon sun striking through the window, the warmth of Castiels voice curling down through the phone to reach him. You guys should take a break. Put the phone in the middle of the room and well do the same this end. We can explain how it works to you, and you can tell us its pointless, and we can agree with you, and we can all throw stuff at the TV and yell at the umpire. Itll be great. This one was a Considering The Peculiar Habits Of Humans pause. Possibly with an ounce of How Did I Get Stuck With Dean Winchester. You think we should all watch football. Together. Castiel sort of sounded like he was poking at the idea with a stick to see if it was alive or possibly rabid, but sort of like he might be smiling too. Dean heard his voice go softer. You do know watching a games not really about the football, right? I had gathered, Dean. And there he was, Deans angel back again, warm and wry and fond in Deans ear. Good. Great. Dean cleared his throat, and definitely didnt grin stupidly. Tell the others the studyings off-limits after 6:30, yeah? I will, Dean. Dean snapped the phone shut, to find that Gabriel was looking provocatively dreamy at him. You know. If I ever get my powers back, first thing Im going to do is trap you two in a honeymoon suite in Vegas. Dean flipped him off, which only made Gabriels grin stretch into a thing of unholy glee. With a door that wont open until someone inside fesses up and goes down on one knee. Or, you know, both knees, if youre a direct kind of guy. And start a betting pool with Sammy. Bite me. My moneys on five weeks. If I write the instructions on the inside of the door. So help me, I will stop the car and make you walk. Gabriel smirked, and revved the engine terrifyingly. Oh yeah? Whos got the wheel, hot shot? Shut up. ---

Except that at 6:20, Castiel called back to say that Sam was trapped in his own mind. He had tried to contact Chamael, it seemed, but he had gone too deep or something had grabbed him and held him under, and they couldnt wake him. It took them two minutes to get in the car and on the road, Dean white-knuckled and grim at the wheel, because if there was any of them with a chance of burrowing into Sams subconscious and sorting this out it had to be Gabriel. Gabriel just looked kind of fiercely pale and didnt argue, which was good because if he had Dean would have had to punch him. Five hours later, and less than an hour from Sioux Falls, Castiel rang again, to say that Sam had managed to wake himself. He didnt know what had gone wrong, apparently, only that Chamael couldnt come. If there had been a question, by that stage, of their turning back and going off to find something else to gank, Castiel laid it to rest by mentioning quietly that he had figured the last ingredient for the possets, and that it had to be prepared then blessed in its entirety by the hand of the archangel of death. Sariel not being available, they would have to try what the hand of a powerless angel could do, and leave the rest to chance. They were as ready as they were going to be. So now they just had to find Pestilence. Dean let Gabriel take the wheel. --Dean was out of the car before Gabriel had touched the handbrake, leaping up the porch steps and in through Bobbys front door in a couple of strides. Sammy? Living room, Bobby yelled from the kitchen. And there he was, Deans floppy giant of a little brother, awake, just rising from the couch beside Castiel to meet Dean, all long sheepish limbs and too much hair and huffed annoyance at the fuss. Deans brother, who kept going out and risking all of himself over and over on the outside chance of saving the world, or even just a few people in it. Dean grabbed him into a rough hug and thumped his back, squeezed him tight to make sure he wasnt about to vanish or turn into something he shouldnt be. No more angel-summoning, he dictated firmly into that stupid hair. He felt the low rumble of amused irritation against his chest and under his arms like it was a part of himself. Yeah, okay Dean. Good. Good. Dean cleared his throat and stepped back, and his gaze skipped irresistibly sideways to the skinny hunched figure with the dark mussed-up hair and the warm, inescapable eyes sitting on the other side of the couch. Cause, hey, weve got all the best ones here already.

Hello, Dean. Wow. That gravelly weird purr-growl voice just didnt sound as bone-deep and strong over the phone as it did in person. And theyd been getting more relaxed talking on the cell and everything, without the constant physical presence hanging around, but where did they start now? Damn, but hed missed the way that little nerd angel looked at him. Dean reached over and sort of thumped him gently on the shoulder, only his hand wrapped around it on the way instead and stayed there all warm and close for a moment. Hey there, angel. Then the Beetles engine throbbed back into life outside, her gears crunched horribly in Gabriels special way, and she pulled away and grumbled off into the night. Sams forehead crumpled up like soggy paper. That little fucker, Dean sighed. Bobby was standing on the porch steps with his arms crossed in his youre-all-idjits way, glaring after the retreating tail lights, with Deans duffle and Gabriels collection of weird odds and ends at his feet. What happened, Bobby? Sam bit out, sort of curt like an annoyed kitten. Whered he go? He said, he aint a pet, Bobby said, with deeply unimpressed sarcasm. Dean snorted, and hauled his duffle up onto his shoulder. Yeah, just a cowardly son of a bitch. Grab that bag, Sammy? Most of its for you anyway. He stomped back onto the porch, to find that Castiel had done his silent ghostly wafting-about-the-place act that he seemed to manage to do even on human feet. He was framed in the open door, looking down the road in the direction that Gabriel had vanished with a faint pin-scratch frown between his eyes. Dean grimaced, and said softly, Sorry, Cas. I really thought hed stay this time. Castiel blinked, and turned the full force of his gaze on Dean, reached out and held him and anchored him steady in it. Then the corner of his mouth softened, just a bit, one of his little barely-there smiles that meant the world. Its good to see you, Dean. It felt like a promise. Dean cleared his throat and nodded, smiled back in a stupid shameless sort of way, and didnt break his gaze. Yeah. Yeah, you too, Cas. Stop blocking up my door, ya lunk-headed lovebirds, Bobby grumbled behind them. Was it weird that Dean was kind of getting used to cracks like that?

--The collection Gabriel had left was okay, fascinating and kind of amazing, but Sam kept getting frustrated by the fact that there were obviously some significance to each object and Gabriel had skipped out without telling them. Why this painted ceramic bowl, all oranges and reds and deep splashes of blue? Where was it from, and when, and was it mystical or something hed associated with Sam for some reason or just something he thought was pretty? Dean wasnt much help Gabriel hadnt even said where hed been half the time, apparently, and Deans mental timeline of history was fuzzy enough that he didnt really have anything to pin the few random facts that Gabriel had thrown at him onto. The difference between 540 and 901 to Dean was just a matter of numbers, not defined by any cultural shifts or major historical events. There were a couple of stories, which Dean could be relied on to retell vigorously, but Sam still felt like Gabriel should have been there doing it himself. The best he got for most of the objects was something like the vague Oh yeah, some Danish king I think with which Dean acknowledged the little ivory pawn. Was this what Gabriel always did? Do something stupid, let people down, then act out and play the fool to amuse (or irritate) you back into submission? Just to let you down again afterwards? There was just one thing for Castiel: a small bird, a dove, carved out of pale jade, all flowing lines and soft curves, just the right size to rest in the palm of his hand. It seemed to mesmerise Castiel: he went very quiet, concentration like steel, and just looked at it for a long time. Hey. Dean slid onto the couch beside him, and reached out to touch Castiels wrist, eager and almost reverent, like Castiel was made of glass and Dean didnt want to get his grubby fingerprints all over him. Whats that? For a minute it seemed that Castiel hadnt heard, but then he murmured, in a soft thrum deep enough to slide into something infinite and profound, A memory of a time when God turned his back. Sam blinked. A dove That really happened? All the world really flooded? Castiel turned the little bird over in his hands, ran the tip of one finger along the carven hollow of one wing. Not all the world; but all the world these people had ever known, so great a valley that when it flooded, they could not see the way through the grey and the rain to get to land. They had just enough warning to make great rafts, and to load their family and their livestock onto those; but they had food for only thirty days. Those who fought amongst themselves for the rations found it ran out faster, and the people on those rafts died; those who gave it first to the weakest among them found they had more than they had believed. And after forty days, the skies cleared, and God had Gabriel send a dove to show them the way to land.

Castiel paused. He looked like something ancient and remote, except for the rumpled shirt and the chocolate on the left cuff where hed got a bit too excited over the stove before lunch. I disobeyed there, for the first time. I was one of those deputed by Gabriel to see to the increase or depletion of each rafts food. To one man I gave more than I ought, because he was tired, and desperate, and feared for his wife, and I was not sure that I understood. I always suspected Gabriel knew, and said nothing. So the dove, then Even sitting down Dean was a bulky, hovering shape next to Castiels slim lines, like he wasnt sure if he should be trying to be useful or not. Castiels fingertip brushed over the top of the birds head, a gentle benediction. The closest our Father ever came to an apology.

Sariel. The second paragraph of this chapter is essentially a paraphrased translation of one stanza of Kurt Weils Au fond de la Seine.
Tuesday, 3 September 1666.
There were flames leaping in the Thames. Beneath the Thames, there was gold, broken boats and broken dreams, centuries of the dead. Tears and effluvia and aborted children who had never come to life. The water of drinking and dredging, the font and the fire-bucket. All the detritus of these peculiar creatures, the strange weak things that had inherited His earth. She had done her duty by them, as He would have wanted. Her fathers house was burning. The impenetrable stone of the Cathedral named for Paul the convert and not Peter the rock, stocked full with rescued goods and papers the humans deemed important, was engulfed by the flames, just like every other building north of the river. He wasnt there. She had heard the prayers of the mayor, the coward who had cried out, Lord, what can I do? I pull down houses, but the fire overtakes us faster than I can do it, who had fled the city and left the king and his brother to fight by the side of the people. She had heard the prayers of the bakers daughter of Pudding Lane, who had gone downstairs in the middle of the night and found no fire in the oven, so that she had to go elsewhere to light her candle; who had woken nevertheless two hours later with smoke thick in her throat and mouth, and on whom would fall the blame of a nation that knew nothing of angelic battles. She had heard the prayer of a lawyer as the flames engulfed him on a rooftop, looking out over the city as she did now and crying with Aeneas venit summa dies! fuimus Troes, fuit Ilium,* seeing the fall of Troy again in the city that had so often been hailed by her poets as Troy renewed. Pestilence was put down, and would be no more until he was next raised and bound. Her work was done, and she was almost spent. She had not answered the prayers she had heard, because the prayers that were her concern were those of the plague-ridden, sent her way for more than three centuries. Pestilence and his influence were gone, and the fire that had sprung up in their footsteps as they had leaped and battled their way across his greatest stronghold would cleanse it of his legacy. It would also destroy her.
* The last day is come. We are Trojans no more, Ilium [Troy] is no more. Aeneid II.324-25 London was often called New Troy in the later Middle Ages and the few centuries that followed there were deliberately classicising epics written to link Britains mythic history back to a descendent of Aeneas (they called him Brutus, no relation to et tu Brutus, and claimed the name Britain derived from his). In this tradition, London became the true inheritor of classical grandeur, rather than those degenerate Romans over there.

Her vessel had never seen the city, not until Sariel Azrael, perhaps, here and now had brought her here, three days before. Now she saw its ruin. Would feel it in her flesh, the bite of holy fire as the earthly flames fanned it toward her. Sariel was perplexed to find that she wished this had ended another way. Perhaps even an angel could fear the unknown. Her borrowed feet felt very cold against the heat of the roof slabs as she turned. The cathedral to her back, the Thames to her right with its burden of history and panic-filled barges, the Tower ahead of her in the fires path, laden with its deadly stores of gunpowder. Theyll rebuild it, you know. There was a man now, casually balanced on the edge of the roof, outlined against fire and water. He was watching her, hands in pockets. Crowded as ever, just a bit more fireproof. Different enough to make them feel better. Similar enough to make them feel better. Give em a week and theyll be blaming the Catholics or the Dutch or the French hells, some of them already are give them two and theyll be publishing pamphlets with touching stories about rescuing kittens from burning buildings, give them three and therell be slapstick satires about it all over Southwark. Good thing the theatres didnt catch, he added carelessly, looking over his shoulder, out across the Thames. If theres one thing humans are good at, its adapting. Changing, and keeping on. He wore an unfamiliar vessel, and there was no grace in him to recognise. But the mind, hidden within it all, the mind she knew. Gabriel. He lifted his chin and looked into her eyes like a challenge, a very human gesture. Is this what happens when we die? His mouth curved like mockery, and bitterness flashed bright and vivid inside him. Dont think theres any hard and fast rules there, cygnet. Behind him, a wine store on the bank of the Thames exploded, sending scraps of shredded city searing through the sky. He didnt flinch. She moved forward, toes curling into the slope of the roof, and reached out to touch his body. Through layers of human fabric, her fingers settled unerringly against the vicious spike of wrong and bright silver pain that the human skin remembered underneath. What happened to you? He smiled, crooked and sweet and burning inside with a fierce defensive loneliness at her touch. Lucifer. That isnt what I meant. She traced her fingers upward, over the strong beat of the heart inside the living flesh, of the spark within that had nothing to do with flesh at all, and less to do with grace. They settled on the throat, the seat of the voice and the passage of the breath that he drew in like he needed it, and wanted it. Inside, he felt like an incomplete quilt (the analogy filtered through from her vessels half-buried consciousness), each patch of his own devising and selection. Except he made no sense so many pieces were still

missing, and there was nothing to hold them together, no grace, no power, no centre. Unless it was those golden threads that strung between them, haphazard and fierce. Not human exactly, but something that tasted very like oh. Sweetheart. He swayed in toward her as if she was their Fathers light, pressed his forehead against her vessels, then brushed his mouth against her lips. It tingled in the dry, rushing air. I dont know what happens when we die. But we stay here? I know what will happen. Wont be pretty. She kissed him again, gentle and very tired. There is no way out. Yeah, well, Im not exactly an angel right now, am I? He held out his hand, fire leaping gold and deadly in his eyes. Will you come? ---

Present day.
Casanova. Seriously? You broke out of prison with Casanova. Gabriel cackled, like the best part about travelling back in time and doing stupidly amazing things was messing with Sams head afterward. Most fun you can have drunk in Venice in 1756. Trust me on this. Sam leaned back against the hull of an old silver Ford, and felt his mouth tugging reluctantly into the beginnings of a grin. Everywhere you go you manage to end up in the middle of things, dont you? Youre one to talk, Gabriel pointed out sweetly. So did you two Sam waggled his eyebrows, and let the implication skim its way silently along the line. Gabriel whistled between his teeth, sharp and amused. And here everyone thinks Deans the one with the filthy mind. Sam had been woken in the early hours by the soft buzz of his cell, and the message u awake? flashing up on the screen. Even mostly asleep (and more than mostly pissed at stupid inconsistent archangels), he couldnt deny the familiar slow burn of anticipation in the pit of his stomach. The way it made the world look immediately just a bit more interesting, a bit more fun, like Gabriel was reprogramming him to light up (and lighten up) at that one little promise. Wandering outside into the pre-dawn damp to ring him back wasnt even really a choice. So maybe Dean wasnt the only one kind of hung up on an angel.

Anyway, Sam was owed an explanation for that vanishing act. Which hed be demanding any minute now. Just as soon as Gabriel stopped being all charming, like he thought he could wheedle his way back into Sams good books. Dude. Sam was full-on grinning now. Im not the one who got myself locked up in high security with Casanova. Hey, hes not all about the sex. The guy also happens to be one of the best all-human practical jokers Ive ever seen. And how did Italy not spontaneously combust when they put the two of you in a room together? Sam enquired dryly, because it was never a good idea to encourage Gabriel. Sammy-Sam-Sam! Wheedling. Annoying. Not cute, at all. Its almost like you think Ive got no self-control. Yeah, cant think where I would have got that idea. Forgot to pack it before you left Heaven, did you? Left it at the back of your desk drawer? Gabriel made a lazy dismissive noise, like he was flicking a fly away. Never missed it. Cant have been that important. Hey, you should come back with me sometime and meet him. Kid would do you good. Lot of fun to be around. Which was a perfect opening to point out that all these fantastic expeditions Gabriel kept planning, with a sort of wistfulness under the boasting and the flash, would be a whole lot easier if Sam ever saw him. Except, except Yeah? Sam tipped his head back against the car and looked up at the pale light creeping across the sky, listened to his own voice sliding from teasing to indulgent. How so? Gabriel was quiet for a moment, the way he only went when he was actually thinking about answering a question seriously. So Sam listened properly, even when the answer that finally came was drawled-out and careless, begging to be taken as a joke. Just enjoys life, you know. Reminded me of some things Id managed to forget. Like what? Sam pressed, because he thought maybe he could. Gabriel made a grumbling sort of noise, then offered Chocolate? like a hopeful distraction. Then, to Sams incredulous snort, No, seriously, chocolate. Kind of forgotten how to enjoy it. Took Italys greatest sensualist to remind me. You, Sam returned flatly. You forgot you liked chocolate. Gabriel sighed, an impatient huff of breath that Sam could almost swear he felt, warm against his ear. Fine. Look. Joy, okay? He revels in life, in curiosity, in fun, in he reminded me why I liked it down here. Why I liked people. And that, right there, was why it was always worth pushing Gabriel, when he was in this sort of mood. Because he could be capering merrily along pretending not to give a rats ass

about anything, then hed turn around and hit you with something like this, something that reminded Sam just why well, just how different he really was from what Sam had thought a couple of months back. From the sickly sweet white-robed Gabriel hed seen in his withdrawal-induced hallucinations, or the vicious, disappointing coward hed thought him to be after the warehouse. Someone who could take his own existence in his hands and rewrite everything he was into something better, something with meaning, and could still laugh afterwards. Sam never did get around to yelling at him for running off. --Castiel was up, shirtless, and making hot chocolate, all of which meant that Dean was up. In fact, it meant that Dean was lounging about at the table watching Castiel like a lustful chocolate-craving hawk and bickering cheerfully with him over whether he should be using dark chocolate or something far more sickening and gooey. Which was new. Especially the bit where Castiel was bickering back. Maybe chocolate had some deeply hidden symbolism for angels? Sam manfully hid a smirk which felt like it wanted to be a smile anyway, resisted jokes about old married couples or domesticity, and took Castiels side on the grounds that you should never piss off the cook. So. Sam stretched out his legs under the table and threw an apple at Deans head, because he should eat fruit sometimes and throwing things at him was always a good way to make a point. Gabriel says we should have a guest dropping by soon. And that Bobbys not allowed to shoot her. Dean made a satisfyingly indignant squawk and ducked. The apple skimmed over his head and landed with a sad little thud on the table, just as Dean grabbed the damp washcloth and threw that in Sams face in retaliation. Does he, Castiel said in his patented inflection-free voice, and abandoned the chocolate for long enough to stalk off into the living room and fetch his sword. Bobby, coming down the stairs just in time to catch the last few words, stomped right past the stove and made for the coffee pot. Whos getting the business end of that at sixthirty in the morning? Dean tilted his chair back dangerously on its back legs to peer at Castiel as he calmly went back to stirring the pot, with his sword in easy reach on the counter. Some chick Gabriels sending over. Think youre gonna need that, Cas? Possibly. Gabriel trusts too easily.

Gabriel? Deans eyebrows climbed in a you-sure-were-talking-about-the-same-guyhere way; but Sam remembered Kali, and the eager vulnerability running under Gabriels voice sometimes like he still expected them to throw it all back in his face. He said nothing. He trusts us, doesnt he? Castiel pointed out mildly. What, you think he shouldnt? Dean sounded halfway between amused and insulted. Castiel switched off the heat, and turned around to catch and hold Deans eyes. I think weve not given him good reason for it. I think he wants to, and strongly enough to override his caution. And hey, kudos to Cas. It wasnt everyone who could talk their way around Deans stubborn we-are-always-the-good-guys glare and make him look thoughtful, with just a few careful words and a calm, inexorable voice. Bobby put his coffee mug down on the table with a pointed click that was as good as a throat-clear, neatly breaking up the little profound-bond staring moment Dean and Castiel had going on, and Sam should learn how to do that. Okay, so youre thinking mystery lady friend? Either she is very persuasive, or he wants badly to trust her. Castiel leaned over Dean to pour chocolate into the mug sitting prominent and hopeful on the table in front of him. Dean tapped Castiel casually on the arm, like it was necessary punctuation. Or, you have trust issues. And I have trust issues, Castiel agreed mildly. Robert? Get that damned sugar juice away from my coffee, angel. Okay. So, were not taking chances, then? Sam held out his mug. Thanks, Cas. Dean made orgasm face around the rim of his mug. Dude, youre a god. Has anyone ever told you youre a god? Youre a god. Thank you, Dean, I was not previously aware of my godhood, which was probably Cas-talk for youre welcome. But as he was passing Deans chair to get to his own, Castiel curved one long hand around the back of Deans neck, a fleeting unnecessary touch, and Sam wanted to take that look of startled happiness on Deans face and keep it in a bottle for when all of this went to hell. So Sam waited until Dean had just taken a disgustingly big mouthful to look meaningfully at the neglected apple and point out that someone had told him as a kid that he should always eat his fruit before he had dessert, and enjoyed the indignant chocolatey splutters that resulted. Also the hint of a twinkle in Castiels eyes. He decided then and there that if Dean and Gabriel kept teaming up to make Sam blush (and how they could

tell over speakerphone was beyond him), it was definitely fair play for him and Castiel to gang up on Dean. Sam got the feeling Bobby was secretly laughing at them all from under his hat. But then, he got that feeling a lot with Bobby. It felt sort of like home. Since Castiel was done with the stove, Sam got up to commandeer it for bacon purposes, hoarding his chocolate jealously in case it suffered any mysterious Dean-related disappearances. One of Gabriels pagan friends, maybe? --Thats no pagan, growled in Castiels deep alert voice, was the first notice they got of the new arrival. Then he was out of the door and striding across the yard in bare feet and soft sleep pants and nothing else, sword in hand but lowered, to stand between a slight middle-aged woman and the house. A slight middle-aged woman with a deeply lined face wearing what seriously looked like sackcloth with added ashes, Sam noted, as the human contingent scrambled to catch up with the angelic. Interesting. And then Sam looked at her, and he just knew, and he wondered just for a moment what they had done to Castiel, that he had to greet the sister he hadnt seen for three and a half hundred years as if she might be an enemy. Sam kept an eye on Bobby and Deans positions, just in case. She tilted her head to one side to stare at him. Catiell. Thou wast Catielle. I am Castiel, he replied, immediate and unshakeable, and Sam felt Dean bristle up defensively at his side. The strangers voice was clear and low, her words thick and close to incomprehensible, but with that strange ringing psychic burr behind the sound that Sam had come to associate with angels, and hey, could he call it or what? Also, and probably more important, how the hell had Gabriel managed to swing this? Thy vesel is broken. Why dost not mende it? And Gabriel might say that this one was more sympathetic than most, but Sam must have been just too used to angels who actually knew how to emote a bit, because to him Sariel sounded cool and distant as the stars. As you see. The car yard felt very still and quiet, like there was no sound in the world but Castiels gravelly monotone. I am cut off from the Host, and my wings are broken. Sam moved a little closer, fascinated. It wasnt sackcloth she wore, just rather coarsely woven linen or wool. But those were ashes. And she smelled of smoke, like it had woven itself through her vessels drifting red and grey hair too closely to be washed out.

The archangel reached out a scarred hand to touch Castiels cheek, then narrowed tired blue-grey eyes at him, around him, at something that wasnt quite there. Castiel flinched, and Dean moved forward immediately, bulky and protective and about twice Sariels size, to spread one of his hands in the small of Castiels back. Hey, lady. I dont know who you are, but we do a thing down here called personal space. Castiels back looked far too thin, stiffened and naked like that, pale against the hard, strong lines of Deans hand. Thy Wings are not broken, Sariel murmured, like shed never in all of existence had to raise her voice to make anyone listen. They are onlie out of reach. Then Castiel lost his balance and staggered, like someone had struck him across the shoulders with something heavier than him and he wasnt sure what his feet were doing about it. Sam started forward, but Dean already had his arm around him, holding him up. Whoa, Cas, whoa! What is it, man? What did she do? Castiel shook his head, snatching breaths into his chest, and pushed Deans arm gently away. Then he stood up slowly, rolled his shoulders gingerly like a test. This time, his balance and weight were subtly different, like he stood on the ground more squarely, held himself stronger. He stared at the archangel, long and hard, like she was the most perplexing thing he had encountered since humanity. Thank you. Why? Dean narrowed his eyes, with that expression that said he was jiggling to ask what had just gone on, but Sam thought he knew. He wasnt entirely sure that he hadnt seen something quiver like heat in the air around Castiels shoulders, just for a moment, arching out far bigger than he would have thought to span the little alley between rusting cars. But then, Sam was used to half-seeing things that Dean would never see. Because thou wast in payne, Sariel replied, simple and cool like rainwater. Castiel stared for another minute, then his eyes went wide, and he ducked his head, voice deep and rough. Forgive me. It has been some time since since Heaven was governed by that rule. Something that was almost an expression flickered across her face then, like the shadow of a cloud passing over a lake. So I understond. I am orry for that. Yes. Because of course if Sariel hadnt left (if Gabriel hadnt left, if Lucifer hadnt rebelled, if Chamael and Yrihel hadnt chosen humanity) it wouldnt just be Michael running his little power games upstairs with his faithful lieutenant Raphael. Jesus. Even without the whole absentee father thing, talk about family issues. So, Cas, you gonna introduce us to Little Miss Ren Fair here, or do we gotta guess?

Castiel came back to the here-and-now in order to raise a pissy eyebrow at Dean. Dean. Samuel, Robert. This is Sariel, whom I sincerely doubt to be familiar with the concept of a Ren Fair. Bobby cleared his throat, and then actually went down on one knee in the dust. Mlady. Sam was willing to bet he hadnt done that when Gabriel had turned up. Judging by Deans perfect what-the-flying-monkey? face, Sam wouldnt be getting good odds there. Shes talking English of the seventeenth century, yidjits, Bobby hissed. Gabriel brought her back from the fire. Treat her like a lady! English of the seventeenth century. Right. So angels knew all past and present languages, but maybe not future ones. And jumping ahead would screw that up. So maybe then the same was true for manners? Sam tried a bow. Er. Good morrow? Maam? Dean just snorted. Because Sams brother liked proving he was a mannerless ape. Sariel turned her gaze on Dean, who shoved his shoulder solidly up against Castiels and narrowed his eyes at her. Dean Wincheter. Thou art Michaeles veele, yet thy Herte ringgeth with thy brother and Catiel. Dean went bright red, but he didnt look away. Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does. Castiel blinked. And Samuel. Sam squared his chin and readied himself to be called an abomination again, or Lucifers child; but she only looked at him for a long, steady minute, then blinked faintly. I cannot ee thy fate. Thou art an enigma. Which was reassuring? Maybe? Or possibly scary. (Was he meant to kiss her hand? Was that the seventeenth century?) Uh thanks. Verily thank you? I guess. Dean facepalmed. Nice to know Sams embarrassment could always distract Dean from his own. Robert Singer, the loial father, who healeth euerie thing he touches. And something about that made Bobbys head jerk up and turned him paler than Sam had ever seen. Why did Gabryel send me to you? Dean blew out a short huff of irritation. He didnt explain? Great. I haue heared the Explanation of Gabriele. She blinked at them, slow and unimpressed. I want yours. Okay, well, Sam tried hopefully. You know how Michael and Lucifer have decided to jump-start the end of the world? Well, we werent down with that. Obviously. I mean. Uh. Forsooth, we thought that was a bad idea? Since it involved the whole planet dying,

and Dean and I being used as meatpuppets to do it. Only that means were trying to fight off Heaven and Hell, and Team Free Will is pretty much what you see in front of you well, and Gabriel, sometimes, I think and meanwhile Lucifers busy doing earthquakes in China and California and mudslides in Uganda and crazy storms in Australia and India and floods in Europe and tornadoes all across the South and what, Dean, dont you watch the news at all? and now hes got Pestilence on the whole turn-humans-into-zombies scheme, and er, that is, infecting them with some sickness that makes them feral and vicious and tells them to go and attack other humans and, well, the only way weve got to stop it is locking him back in his cage, but for that we need all the rings of the Horsemen, and weve got Famines and Wars, but we need the others, and we heard you um, my lady youve got it in for Pestilence and, well, youre basically the archangel of death, arent you, so What my idiot brothers trying to say is, Dean overrode, thankfully, we need to gank Pestilence and Death and lift their mojo-rings. Will you help? Which wasnt clearer than what Sam had been saying at all. Would it kill Dean to use plain English sometimes? Why hould I?, and she looked implacable and stately as a lady in some old court picture, for all she was wearing what had to be a peasant, with plague scars on her neck. Why should you?, Dean snapped. Arent you supposed to be the poster girl for a whole freaking planet full of people not dying when theyre not meant to? That got a reaction, something ice-sharp in her face and edging through into her voice. Fiue howrs and three hundred and fortye-three yeeres ago I battled the end of humanity into the ground, and no one came to my ayde. Now I heere three of my brothers haue tarted it agayn, two haue lot faith in the Hot and fled, and the lat howes his face after a Millennyum to drag me out of time to bee his weapon. I burnd down London around me to detroie Petilence and his new weaponn; and I regretted it. I am not the pure Creature that you suppose. She smiled, the edge of it brittle and sincere as Lucifers. Tell me. Why hould I not let it alle come to an end? Sam saw bright open eyes under artificial rain and heard, I just want it to be over. Castiel swayed forward, that hard blue look in his eyes that always made Sam feel like a sulky child who ought to be a warrior of the Lord. Because you care. You have chosen already: not the depredations of Hell, not the inertia of Heaven. You know this is not the worlds time. Sariels voice dropped back into something more like a human register, a flat monotone. I am too weak to face Petilence again; and you cannot towch Death. None of vs can. Sams breathing, and his hopes, stuttered to a stop. Bobby took a step forward, heavy and cautious. Gabriel seemed to think we could.

My brother is not such a fool as to think that one might kill a Horse man. She did that funny angelic head-tilt thing and stared narrowly at Sam, for some reason. But it is poible to bargayn with Death. Okay, Sam leaped in. Okay, good. Lets go with that. Which brought the full strength of Deans protective death-glare onto him, and Bobbys warning hand on his arm. Bargain, Bobby repeated flatly. Bargain how? My brother hath Death bownd unnaturalle. I mut unbind him before I ret. He may loane you his ryng in return. Youre feeling too woozy for Pestilence but youre happy to play the White Queen against Death? I am the creature in Creation bet equippd to negotiate with the final Horseman. Yeah, forgive me if I dont exactly find that reassuring, lady. She gave Dean a cool, puzzled look. Why wouldst thou? I did not speak to reaure thee. Sam jumped in. Okay, well, if you can deal with Death could you bless these possets we figured out so we can take on Pestilence without turning into goo? And maybe youve got some kind of global Horsemen-tracking thing, dont you? Can you tell us where he is? Dean cleared his throat pointedly. Yeah, or. Archangel. She could just stab Lucifer with her shiny little pen-knife of heavenly doom. Sariel bowed her head. It is not the Worldes time. But it was mine. I will do this thing for you, but I will not tand between my brothers. Hey. Dean ducked his head to catch her eye, wearing that soft kind of fierceness that seemed to always get a reaction from angels, for some weird Righteous-Man reason. Youre seriously playing the not-meant-to-be card? Now? Lady, screw that destiny shit. Youre still here. Make your own choices like the rest of us have to. Sariel just looked at him with something like pity. I haue onlie barely wretelld Petilence and all his creatures into nothingne. Vnbinding Death will use the late of my trength. Dean opened his mouth to say something probably obstreporous and obstructive, but Castiel just said Oh, very quietly, like a revelation, and Sariel looked at him and held him in her gaze like the angel on the newest headstone at a funeral, and said, This is my task, Castiel. And Sam was missing something here. The angels were looking at each other like there was a whole other conversation going on that no one else was privy to, something Sam could almost hear just under the edge of where you needed words to shape thoughts, and since when had he become so sensitive to angel radio? Come to that, when had Cas, since he wasnt meant to be able to hear that now? But no, that wasnt it this was

something more basic, more vital and subconscious, that had been niggling in the back of his brain since hed done all that digging around trying to find Chamael. This is a trange century. Sariels tired voice declared, and she reached out again to touch Castiels face, but this time as if she might be receiving strength as well as offering. Thou art the seccond angel I haue een here in an empty veel, and carrying some thing hot inside him where his grace howld be. Castiels hand slid slowly up to cup hers against his cheek. Then he leaned in to touch his lips to her forehead, soft, like a benediction. Something clicked into place in Sams brain. Because, grace burned cold. Gabriel? Gabriel has a soul? Click. Click. Hang on. Cas has a soul? Castiel froze. Bobbys eyebrows climbed, and Deans hand closed tight on Castiels elbow. Sariel just blinked at Sam, and reached out to touch Castiels wrist. Obuiouly. Catiel. Showe me these Poettes. Then they were minus two angels. Obviously, Dean muttered, and dragged the suddenly empty hand down over his face. Freaking angels. --In the end, Sam didnt even see Pestilence. It was kind of anticlimactic. The Horseman was holed up in a convalescence home in Davenport, Iowa, cooking up some new batch of nasties in his own personal lab full of geriatrics. The four of them went in quiet and easy, in the late-afternoon lull, armed with the Colt, Castiels sword, the swords of the two angels whod been sent to collect Adam, Gabriels French dagger, and tiny linen packages of herbs and bones under their shirts. Bobby peeled off to monitor the CCTV, and within a minute, stealth conveniently became unnecessary: patients and doctors began dropping around them, coughing up green muck which stank of rot. Second floor, ward three, Bobbys voice crackled over their walkie-talkies. He knows youre coming. You see any demons, you pretend to be sick. No point blowing the one bit of surprise we got. As they emerged out of the stairwell onto the second floor, You got three demons coming up the stairs behind you in a minute, two more down the corridor on your right. Theres only one in there with the big man. Dean and Castiel glanced at each other, one of those whole conversations in a flash, and Dean turned to Sam and handed over the Colt and said, Its okay, Sammy, weve got this one. You hold here, yeah?

And the thing was, they did have it. They worked together well, they took out the two demons behind him quicker than Sam would have thought possible, and they were in and out with Pestilences ring almost before Sam had shoved the last demon under the devils trap hed scraped hastily into the ceiling. Dean didnt actually need Sam, not to survive. He could get by without him. It was kind of liberating. As Dean, grinning and cocky with triumph, advanced on the trapped demons spinning his favourite new dagger on one finger, Sam had the strangest feeling of having come full circle. From rejecting destiny in Lucifers face to see, Sam was pretty sure now that it did exist. Just, the angels had it wrong. It wasnt a road you got dragged down, it was a road you chose. And it certainly didnt look anything like the angels roadmap. He knew what Sariel had meant by it was my time. What Gabriel meant, when he implied that going Trickster was actually more ethical than the whole Angel of Judgement thing, because he chose it and he let his victims choose. This road was Sams, and it fit, and it was fucking terrifying but it was his to decide, and it was right. And screw Lucifer, screw Michael, screw God Sam had always been meant to come here, if he possibly could. He reached out and caught Deans shoulder. Stop. Dont kill them. I think were going to need them. Three demons. If he was careful, he could get enough blood out of them without killing their hosts. --Sariel insisted on giving Deaths ring to Sam, and on receiving Sams word in exchange. Hold on. Dean started up from where hed been triumphantly sprawled on the sofa of the abandoned house in Davenport that theyd requisitioned for the night. Why Sam? Becawse he is the the wild Card. He is the one who can change euerye thing, She tilted her head, and fixed her eyes on Sam. I think thou knouuet what thou mut do. Sam swallowed. She knew. He knew. This was it, then. Im guessing whatever it takes. Yes. Her eyes were deep and distant as the bottom of a clear ocean, something refreshing and dangerous that you could wallow or drown in. I want this finihd. As does Deeth. Thow alone cant topp Lucyfer. It was a choice hed made long ago, without even noticing. Sam nodded. Yes. Of course.

She dropped the ring into his hand, smooth and cold and heavy. Then I hall go and vnbinde him. Sariel. Castiel spoke up, from the darkness in the corner of the room. Take Gabriel with you. Let him see to you afterwards. Something like regret hovered at the edges of Sariels voice. Gabryel wil do as him likes.* Then, of course, she vanished. Because apparently needing to get in the last word was a family trait. Dean glared at the empty spot, then snapped, sharp and brittle like he suspected, What did she mean? Sam stared down at the last ring in his hand. So, this was what they meant by the die is cast. Dean He had a moment of wishing, sudden and fierce, that it could have ended differently. But he knew, with everything he was, that this was their best choice. This was what he had to do, and he wouldnt trust it to anyone else but himself. She means how Ive got to get Lucifer into the hole.

* As he likes lit. as pleases him, the same construction as would be used in modern French, Italian, etc. Modern English has swapped the subject and object around.

Tr(e/an)sfigurer.
tresfigurer [v refl] (Anglo-Norman): to be transformed. transfigurer [v refl] (Anglo-Norman): to transform oneself.

He could feel Castiel coming, weaving his way between the old fig trees that lay behind the house they were squatting in. Didnt know how he felt it. Didnt really care right now. Dean took another swig of Jack, and stared up at the dark lattice of branches against the stars. Castiel sat down on the rock beside him, a warm shift of air in the dark. Dean wondered if the stars would keep on after this whole Apocalypse business, or if Lucifer was bent on snuffing them out too. It was the end of things. They werent going back to Sioux Falls: tomorrow they were pushing on to Detroit. East, not west. Dean was pretty sure that was a damned good reason to talk, to offer himself, to open and share and tell each other deep important weighty things, but a lifetime of shut-up-and-carry-on sat heavy on his tongue and wouldnt let him make the words. Hey, Cas. It came out muted and croaky and slurred, so he cleared his throat. Not good company right now. Then I shall be silent, Castiel said, easy as that. And he was. They sat quiet together for another hour, watching the stars drag themselves slowly along between the black silhouettes of leaves, long past the time when all good little heroes with a world to save tomorrow should be in bed. Of course, most good little heroes got a happy ending. I dont know how Im supposed to let this happen, Dean confessed at last. I dont really understand how any of us will. Castiels voice sounded almost like just another rustle in the night, not disturbing anything it touched. Almost. But he will. And we will. Because we must. Weird. The thought that he wouldnt be the only one to miss Sam. Course, there would always have been someone else who would have missed him Bobby, Dad, Jess, Pastor Jim, maybe Ellen and Jo for a while there but it had never felt like that mattered before. Like it wasnt just Sam and Dean at the centre of the world, and screw everybody else. Dean sighed, and rubbed his forehead. It felt too tight, and kind of fuzzy. Just it feels like Ive only just got you all back together, you know? Feels almost like family. Is that all I get? Just for one day, one freaking day, Cas, it felt like home. Yes, was all the angel said, but there was a hell of a lot in it.

Dean breathed out slowly, and moved his little finger just a smidgeon on the cool dimpled surface of the rock, so that it brushed against Castiels. You too, huh? Castiels hand moved. His little finger lifted, hesitated a moment, then traced a warm trail across the back of Deans knuckles, followed a little higher up by his ring finger. Then the patient weight of his palm settled itself hot and solid over the back of Deans hand, fingers nestling into the valleys between Deans fingers. Like it was made to fit there. Like hed rebuilt Deans hand to suit his, and how could Dean not want that? Dean swallowed, hard. It seemed to take some kind of geological age to turn his hand over under Castiels, to slide his fingers between Castiels fingers and curl around them like they mattered. To hold him back. I know I have to let him do it. His voice sounded like a strange and heavy thing to his own ears. I gotta trust him. Just I always knew thered be a catch, you know? It was too easy. Everything was ha, coming up roses. Or angels. You. Gabriel. Sariel. Working things out. Shit going right for once. Guess I should have seen it. All he could see of Castiel was the gentle, definite-as-fuck line of his mouth, and the faint gleam of one eye in the dark. He could feel him, though. Feel his heartbeat, strong and deep, just through that one line, palm to palm, heart to chest to arm to hand to hand to arm to chest to heart. Huh. He had a soul. Gotta remember that. Whatever that meant. After Van Nuys, after you were gone, I told him Deans eyes were stinging, but that was nothing new this evening, so he ignored it. The rims were damp enough that anything welling in there could just slip over and out. Was gonna do it anyway. I told him, if youre grown up enough to find faith in me, least I can do is return the favour. And Ive tried, Cas, I really have. I just dont know how. This is well, like Jo said. Last chance to treat him like a real boy. He laughed, a harsh soft little bark of nothing. Gotta let him choose. Castiels fingers tightened around his, just for a moment, the shift of muscle and bone under breakable skin. I think you do every day, Dean. His voice rubbed like velvet against Deans senses, soft and decadent and dangerously attractive. The sort of thing you wanted to roll yourself up in and stay there all day, and never get out of bed to face the real world. You trusted him to hold the line against Pestilences demons. You didnt turn back when you heard how bad the Croatoan situation was. You didnt stand in his way when he started to speak of Gabriel more fondly, and to devote more of his attention to him. You didnt rebuke him for keeping this possibility a secret. A dry vein of humour threaded its way delicately through his tone. You even let him drive the car. Sneaky feathery bastard. That little familiar kick of affection in Deans stomach. Wishing he could wake up with that half-smile and his peevish morning attitude not just in the same room, but pressed up against him, known and beloved and accessible and

never going to leave. There to be traced all over, every inch, with mouth and hands and all of Dean, to be protected and trusted and to know that he was allowed, that he made Castiel happy. Dean swayed in a little to test the solid push of Castiels shoulder, warm through light cotton. I guess. I dont know. Still feels like The words wandered away from him, uncomfortable and too much like exploring things he really didnt want to think about just now. Too much, rising up to stifle him. He disentangled his fingers from Castiels, and tapped him sort of gently on the inside of his wrist, so it wasnt like pushing him away. So, you. All souled up. Whend that happen? Castiel shifted restlessly against him, stretched out his legs in front, a long line of supple warmth and possibilities in the dark. I dont know. Gradually. I felt it there, but I didnt understand. Sometime between the first time you died and the last. After pulling Dean from Hell, when he was strong and righteous and sure with the whole Host behind him. Before Dean visited Heaven, and brought back news that made him look like someone had torn his faith out and slashed it to bloody little ribbons. A grow-your-own soul, huh, Dean said intelligently. Whoda thought. Castiel made a quiet little noise in his throat, something like agreement, something like puzzlement. So what does that mean? I dont know, Castiel said, low. It has always been thought that a soul is our fathers gift to humanity. His favourite children. Only it turns out that you guys can earn one too, if you start thinking for yourselves a bit. Optional upgrade. Dean prodded his knee. Hey. Gotta say, I think I like the big guy a bit better for that. The pale light of the moon snagged for a moment on the faint curl of a smile at the corner of Castiels mouth, and the dark burr of stubble over his lip. Just on that little detail, but it felt like all of him. So much in so little. They lapsed back into silence for a while. Dean listened to the sound of the air being dragged into Castiels body, falling out again, slow like thoughts in the morning, when nothing really mattered outside the cocoon of the blankets. Just one day. One day of his little brother grinning at him like everything was easy, like Sam was happy. Teasing him about Castiel, without ever actually mentioning it, little smirks and twitched eyebrows and comments that were definitely not about that at all. Of Castiel and Sam and Bobby, easy in each others space, moving around each other like a habit. Of Castiel reaching out to touch Dean, deliberately, repeatedly, rough little brushes of skin that meant something. Something full of weight and intent. Something Dean would have really liked to have had the time to explore.

Didnt Anna have a soul? Castiel was quiet for another moment, considering, the tilt of his head like a question. I believe perhaps she did, when she was human, or something very like one. But either the violent restoration of her grace, or or what was done to her in Heaven burned it out of her. When she came for Sam, she was pure angel. He sounded like he regretted that. As if hed liked her, once. Dean grunted, uncomfortable with that thought for reasons that he couldnt quite pin down, and Castiel turned his head to look at him as if hed only just remembered that Dean and Anna had been well, not friends really, but Castiel didnt know that. Im sorry, Dean. Dean shook his head, a bit curt, not wanting to think about more people lost, worse than dying, becoming not themselves. How about your wings? Lady Back-to-the-Future fixed them up, didnt she? Just that? Castiel stood up, a series of smooth movements all sliding into each other, leaving Deans side to the cool touch of night air. The sharp line of his shoulders cut black against the sky. Dean, looking up at him for once, was suddenly fiercely aware of the physicality of him, in a way that felt strange and almost blasphemous when it was Cas. The way he moved like he was comfortable, enjoyed the power of his own body. The tense and roll of his hips as he half-slid, half-stepped down the little slope in front of them, to where the creek chattered in silver and black at the bottom. Deans chest ached, viciously. It was getting harder to remember that he couldnt want that. That Castiel couldnt understand it, couldnt want it, would hate being taken so far out of himself. She healed my vessel, and restored me control of the physical manifestation of my wings, which is almost the same thing, Castiel said, soft and exact. Doing more recharging my batteries would have required her to make of herself a conduit for the power of Heaven. Which would have been inadvisable. Right. Dean found the edge of a chuckle caught somewhere in his throat. Something so familiar and right about that diplomatic little pause before the last word. Im guessing that means it would have sent up a homing beacon the size of Krakatoa, Mr Understatement? There was half a smile hidden under Castiels voice, under the sound of water. Something like that. Can I see? Something croaked in the distance, a bird or a bat or a frog or whatever, Dean wasnt into that whole wildlife shit unless it was trying to eat them. Castiel turned to look at him in the dark, only the faint liquid gleam of his eyes visible through the shadows.

I mean Deans voice stumbled on that half-glimpsed look, snagged on it like rough silk on rough hands. Because what if this was some violation of angel code, or something? Would it burn my eyes out? Seeing your wings? Not just the shadows? Castiels voice was as careful and flat as Dean had ever heard it, not giving away a thing about what was going on inside his head. Not as I am now. There is nothing to them but bone and muscle and feathers. Dean swallowed down the gruffness in his throat, put his head on one side and tried his best charming grin around the weird knot of sick misery and clinginess that had been sitting cold and heavy in his stomach ever since Sam had dropped his little bombshell. So can I? I mean, obviously, not if its some kind of private thing for you guys, like asking a chick to strip down just because youre curious, but if youre okay with it Castiel shifted, a long heavy shape in the dark, mottled with shifting glimpses of silver light that didnt tell you a thing. Dean couldnt make out whether that one step had been forward or backward. Why? The distance between them felt like something taut and stretched, almost ready to snap. Dean leaned forward into it, eased up on it a bit, revelled in the pull of it, even though he was pretty sure almost any answer here was going to be the wrong one. Because theyre part of you. And He squinted through the dark at the rumpled line of Castiels collar as it flickered in and out of moonlight, tried to work out why it seemed suddenly so important that he see this, before everything fell to pieces. Well, theyre kind of useless right now, yeah? I mean, you cant actually fly or anything. But it was still important, getting them back. Theyre important. Because theyre you, not because of what they can do. And I havent really seen them. He shrugged, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of that stare, but not letting go of it. Id kind of like to. Silhouetted against the broken pieces of starlight on the ripples of the stream, Castiels hand, which Dean hadnt even noticed was clenched, uncurled itself very slowly until it hung tense and empty against his thigh. Dean would really, really like to be able to see Castiels face just about now. Um. Cas? Dean, Castiel acknowledged quietly. Then there was that muffled, wet-paper-tearing sound, like the world refolding itself into something just a bit less (or a bit more) real, like feathers fading into distant thunder, and Castiels silhouette wasnt just shaped like a mans anymore. So, apparently he hadnt been exaggerating, back in that barn. Dean suspected there werent many rooms short of a freaking ballroom where Cas wouldnt be able to touch opposite walls without an effort, just by kind of rolling his shoulders. Useful life skill, that. Um, he contributed again.

Except it wasnt like back in the barn. These were real. Dean could feel the flutter and shift in the air as they moved as Castiel moved them up and back, to half-mantled, a shape that looked strangely defensive and vulnerable against the dark trees behind him. Flesh and muscle and feathers. Not just shadows. Not two-dimensional. Proof of how far Castiel had fallen, that Dean could look at them at all. Proof of what he still was, that they existed. Proof of something, something, that hed show them to Dean, let Dean see this. Have this. They are scarred and reduced, Castiel said gruffly. Like he thought he had to apologise. Like he thought they were anything less than miraculous. Like he thought scars were something to be ashamed of. Cos of what you did, Cas, Dean growled, low and fierce. Cos of what you chose. Dont you tell me you regret that, not now. He watched Castiel go still, all still except for the quiver in his wings, and the brief flash of the whites of his eyes in the moonlight. Then the wings folded forward and in, half around his shoulders so he looked like a chrysalis or something, and he came forward and knelt in front of Dean. He knelt. In front of Dean. Deans brain scrambled away out of reach of a whole host of really inappropriate thoughts. Then a lot of other really terrifying ones, like, angel. Cas-angel. Kneeling in front of me. And who the hell really, Hell, hed been there, done that, so who the Hell was he to have an angel on his knees for him? And looking like this? with his head tipped back and his throat all bare and clear in the moonlight, like Deans touch could absolve him of Shit. Shitshitshit. Deans hands suddenly slid forward from where theyd been clenched tight on his knees, bridged that little far-too-much distance between them and curled around Castiels shoulders (the sharp jut of his collarbone, the smooth shift of his shoulder blade, the little tickle just against the curve of one little finger where something warm and inhuman emerged incongruously right through the fabric of his shirt). Because suddenly Dean knew that Castiel didnt expect to make it through this. Didnt expect to be here this time tomorrow. Cas, he hissed, angry and desperate, and shoved one hand up into his hair to pull the angel in against him, to press his forehead into the tacky cooling sweat on Castiels forehead, too close, too strong. Long, hot hands landed on his knees, reactive, defensive, pressing tight. Castiel rumbled his name again, something sort of exasperated and tolerant and maybe just a bit breathless, and Dean huffed out a bit of a laugh despite himself, because honestly, didnt he get it? Idiot angels.

Castiel made a questioning abrupt sort of noise against his cheek, breath sliding hot over Deans jawbone and down his neck, and Dean gave in and slipped his other hand (the one not pressing Castiel into him, holding him where he was so he wouldnt vanish) down just a little so it could curl around where that powerful, velveted limb arched up from behind his shoulder, hold it tight and keep it there. Something warm, thudding softly with Castiels heartbeat. Something that had always been there, but that hed never been able to see, because Dean had always been so busy stubbornly trying to make Castiel into a human. Into his own image. The feathers were soft and quivering like a promise under Deans palm, and that first joint fit perfectly into the curl of his hand. Solid and real and alive. Castiels breath stuttered uncertainly against Deans neck, under Deans hand. Dean swallowed thickly, tilted his face just a little further, and murmured against the sharp ridge of Castiels cheekbone, Hey. Is this like, angelic bad touching? Castiel growled. No. Dean felt two-day stubble scrape against the corner of his lips as he smiled, and honestly, didnt Castiel remember about razors without him around, or what? Good. Then he was pulling back, gentle, because it wasnt fair. And his body was screaming hey, no, what? at him, because it wasnt fair, but screw that, no way was he pulling something like that on Cas. Castiels body stiffened against his shins, under his hands; then, as Dean reluctantly moved both hands back to the relatively neutral spot on his shoulders (hey, what, Cas hands were still on his knees, shoulders were fair game), the tension eased out of him in one long shuddering breath, and the wings folded away into the nothingness theyd come from. Dean, he rumbled, and then again Dean, like it was the most important word in the thousands of languages stored up in that enormous angelic hard drive of his, which just, wow. How could anything Dean had to offer ever compare with that? Do not think that Sams death would be meaningless. The power of a willing sacrifice- Dean closed his eyes against the gleam of stern conviction under those dark lashes. Cas. Dont. Just. Stop trying to help, yeah? He had to pause, to chase too-heavy air out of his lungs, to make sure he wasnt growling. No matter how you spin it, the best-case scenario here is my brother ending up in the highest-security cell in the downstairs block, with the fucking devil as his cellmate. Castiels eyes narrowed, and his voice Jesus, if he was going to keep doing that now that he was as good as mortal, angel or not, he was going to need to invest in lozenges, because Dean was pretty damned sure Jimmy Novak had never rattled around in his poor throat like that. I am not spinning anything, Dean. Did you never read the Bible? Or any other human work of semi-historical mythological significance, across the entire cultural history of your incredibly stubborn and infuriating race?

Dean looked at him, looked at the hot familiar irritated shadow of him pressing close in the dark and laughed, desperate and fond and, well, screw it, might as well try, nothing left to lose. Cas, promise me something. He inched one hand in closer against Castiels neck, pressed his fingers into the muscle under his collarbone. After this all goes down. Whatever way it goes. If were both still alive. Promise youll stick around? Not, you know, every day, if you dont want to, if youve got other stuff you gotta do. Just, dont vanish. I just look, Sams gonna be gone, either way. And doing this alone He stopped, tried to force a quip. Well, if youre not here Id have to ask Gabriel, if he doesnt dive back underground, and that just sounds like a disaster waiting to happen every day. I mean, can you imagine the prank wars? Castiels voice under his fingertips was something between a soothing purr and a growl of absolute possession that went straight to Deans gut. You and Gabriel could make a strong team, I believe. Given time. How the hell did he do that? Dean chuckled weakly, looked at the sliver of light illuminating his fingers and the strain of the tendon in Castiels neck right in front of him, so close. Cas. Stalling, dude. Dean. Castiels fingers pinched painfully tight into the joints of his knees, frustrated and hot and almost worried. I promise to do the best by you that I can. No matter what happens to us, or to the world. Jesus, Cas. He let out a breath, shaky and brittle and far too light. There were traces of cloud in the sky now Castiel was only a shape, with no silver in him at all. Dont sugarcoat it, will you? Dean, Castiel said quietly, and it was low and soft and so very, very close, shaking right through his bones. Dean. A tiny sound escaped from Deans throat, the sort of thing hed never acknowledge in the daylight. Pushed beyond anything he could name. Because how could Cas do this? push, and push, and just know what Dean needed, be what he needed, all the time, beyond challenge and terror? His voice shook, and his body. You keep being here for me. You fucking self-sacrificing idiotic son of a bitch. You never ask for anything, do you? One hand slid up from his knee, a slow hot push of possessive impatience. Castiels hand, always Castiel. It curled firm and just a little too tight around his upper thigh. Latched on there like he was laying a claim, and stayed. Dean. I am asking. Dean went very still. Cas.

Dean, he growled back, all that impatience and just a hint of that fondness and humour and everything in between, as the other hand left Deans knee and curled around the collar of his shirt to pull him in against Castiels hot mouth.

Again. Shit. And hed had to try so hard not to freak out or jump him last time. Keep
it chaste, keep it warm, keep it comforting, keep it what Castiel needed. Except he was having a hard time now, through the sort of clumsy slide of Castiels lips around his own bottom lip and the really not clumsy slide of Castiels insistent fingers around to the back of his neck, remembering why. A really hard time. Of something. Something that was not kissing, not opening his mouth against that sweet, fierce mouth as it pressed just there, not pressing back. Except for certain bits that werent hard, and that just werent going to be. Not tonight. Like that mattered. Dean growled into the stubble at the impatient corner of a mouth, and shoved his hand right back into the stupid beautiful mess of dark hair where it belonged. Let his mouth fall open, surrender, under the determined graceless push of his tongue. Castiel wanted this, needed this, or thought he did. Was asking for it. Hardly ever asked for anything. Not drunk now, not high, no painkillers, no desperate adrenalin. No excuses. Screw that, screw the rest of it, this was something he could do. He could look after Cas. If only just for one night, one hour. Hell, human or angel or angel-with-a-soulwithout-power-with-wings-trapped-in-a-human-shape or whatever the fuck that made him, he was Castiel. Hed earned the right to ask for stupid things, to make mistakes, to be indulged and forgiven and to recover. Not to always be the grown-up. To have his last night on earth, if that was what he wanted. Shit. And he wanted Dean. Castiel. Deans voice hitched against the demanding shove and slide of chapped wet lips, and fell away into something loose and desperate. Cas. He let his knees fall apart under the tug of Castiels hand and the push of his hips, let Castiel shove himself forward against Deans chest and belly and crotch, burrow into him, surround him in his arms and warmth and desire. And, well, hello, even if Dean junior wasnt anywhere near likely to come out and play today, apparently same couldnt be said for little Cas, because the desperate push of Deans tongue against the slick, generous crease of Castiels lips was mimicked by the hungry push of Castiels heat against Deans loins, and, okay, that felt like it had been there for a while actually, so apparently Dean hadnt been paying as much attention as he probably should have been. Idiot. Seriously. How often did he miss something like this? Apparently Castiel was distracting. Or, you know, Sam in the Pit tomorrow was distracting. Or something. Castiel tore his mouth away, just long enough to growl into Deans throat. And if libido had been on the cards for tonight, the shake and promise of that would have done it for him. But now..?

Cas, he murmured, soft into the taut, overheated ridge of tendon under his ear. Cas. Hey. Castiel froze. Like he doubted this. Like he thought Dean could possibly ever shove him away. Deans fingers clenched reflexively into the soft hair at the base of his skull, the gentle slope of his waist, not letting him pull back. You know I would if I could, right? And there, there was the break in the clouds and the pale starlight, just when he really needed it, giving him a glimpse and enough of the pale, frantic gleam in Castiels eyes, asking, confirming. Dean took a deep breath and leaned in; drew shaky fingers up over Castiels shoulder to nestle in the corner of his collarbone and throat; pressed his mouth for the first time in against Castiels and opened there, soft and definite. Castiels hip jerked hard against the inside of Deans left knee. Dean groaned and pressed in with his whole body, nuzzled his face and his mouth into the soft-rough of Castiels throat, stubble and far-too-young skin. Pulling him back in. Offering up the pale line of his throat, his neck, his breastbone, his mouth, for whatever Castiel wanted to do to them. Okay. So. Anything. Anything you want, yeah? Because it was that easy. There was nothing he hadnt given already to someone else, but if he hadnt, if there had been any virginity left, holy fuck yes Cas could have it, because anything he wanted from Dean was so far, far beyond Dean to deny. And okay, so Dean was probably a bit drunk by now, but he was used to thinking drunk and this wasnt it. These werent the usual blurry calculations of one or two too many and should-I-take-herback-to-the-motel, this was do-I-trust-him-to-write-this-chapter-for-me, and hell if that wasnt going to be yes, every time. Castiels breath came in short, hot puffs against the exposed skin of his throat, just under his chin. Once, twice, three times, too long. Hesitating. Cas, Dean growled, and tipped his head just far enough to bite, firm and unmistakeable, into the hard ridge of Castiels jaw. Dont you punk out on me now. Castiels hands clenched on the back of Deans neck and the jut of his hip, held onto him like he was already breaking a promise. When will you change your mind? the hell? Dean pulled back and blinked at him. Way to ruin the mood. No, wait, what? What?

Castiels eyes were narrow with the sort of furious wariness that was halfway to anger. You said I was crazy. What? When? Last time. Last time? I said? Crazy. You wouldnt be the only one to try for something crazy. And Castiel had backed down, shaking, with empty eyes. Dean had figured hed just worked out that he didnt really want to be doing this, that he wasnt enjoying it, but Shit. Deans hand knotted in Castiels hair, tugging his head firmly back so he couldnt help but look right at Dean, couldnt help but see. Cas, man, no. I said people do crazy shit at the end of the world. Not bad-crazy, just He bit his lip, leaned in to bump his nose gently against Castiels. Begging him to see. Just. Things they might be too scared to do other times. Things they never thought they could. Castiel tipped his head back, eyes boring into Deans stern as judgement, but his hand spread out over Deans ribs like he wanted to cover and keep all of him. For a man of so many glib words you are maddening, irreverent, stubborn, and bewilderingly uncommunicative. Dean smirked at him, a bit shaky. Sweet talker. He pushed back in, helplessly seeking out the heat throbbing just under his skin, the faint elusive scent of something like burnt spices, nosing along his jaw and back behind his ear, because he could. Because Castiel was tilting his head in a mute sort of plea, asking him to do it. Because just for this night Castiel was here, he wanted, and that was so far beyond reassuring it was kind of overwhelming. Trust me?, Dean murmured, begged, into the dark sweet hollow at the edge of his jaw. Castiels throat jumped under his lips as he swallowed. Dean caught his breath and held it, carefully stored up impressions hed probably never get to repeat. The taste of Castiels skin after a long day. The deep throb of the breath and the life of him between Deans thighs. The way he shuddered when Dean ran one hand gently down the inside of his arm, when his fingers brushed inside the crook of Castiels elbow. The beautiful weight of his body as he pressed in against Deans hips, crotch, stomach, chest, neck. The heat and tender demand in the breath huffing into the corner of his shoulder. The way that familiar, hopeful little half-smile of his curved slow and hesitant against Deans ear. The scrape of stubble against Deans neck, as he nodded. Good, Dean purred helplessly into his hair. God. Good. Come here. He tugged at the wiry brown mess under his fingers, black in the moonlight, slid down his other hand far enough over the flex and strength of ribs to pull at Castiels belt. Up.

Castiel resisted, growled a low gravelly protest into his neck that reverberated all the way down Deans breastbone into the pit of his stomach. Dean grinned into his neck, then licked it shamelessly. Here, here, sweetheart, come here. And hey, apparently the good thing about weakened angels was that you could manhandle them without them turning into a bloody statue. Haul them up between your thighs, shove your knee in between their legs, tug at their hips until you had them sitting across your lap, just where theyd be a hell of a lot more comfortable than kneeling on the bloody stones. And, hey, access. If, you know, Castiel wanted that. Which he probably didnt. But hell, who knew, five minutes ago Dean hadnt thought hed wanted Castiel hissed something annoyed and possessive into the Deans hair, and then he was moving with it, one long demanding shove from the foot braced against Deans ankle and the ground all up along Deans straining calves, thighs, legs flexing taut against-overaround Deans, surrounding and covering and engulfing him with one arm hard around the back of his shoulders and the other hand spanning his whole jaw to tip his head back for Castiels mouth to devour, to take, to claim. And it suddenly occurred to Dean that hed never actually had sex with someone stronger than he was. Also, never had sex where he wasnt actively trying to get off. Also never had sex where he didnt have to worry about physically damaging the other person if he let himself go. Also, never had sex where he really cared. Not like this. Dean let Castiel push him back into one long, loose, welcoming curve under the long slender line of angel heat, taking, just taking, letting him push anything into him and adoring it. Castiels left hand fumbled back down Deans side, scraped breathlessly over the curve of muscled ribs, and settled just next to the buckle of his belt. Deans breath suddenly went all stuttery and shallow, and his hips pushed themselves up hopefully into the hovering weight of Castiels hand, which went carefully still for just a moment. Then Dean moaned deep in his throat, Castiel growled into Deans collarbone, and Deans hand slid down from shoulder to rib to rib to heaving rib to hover over Castiels hip. Because apparently he did want, and that was enough to sort of blow Deans mind. This hip, this hip, Castiels untouchable body, pressing in against the flat of Deans palm like a demand, as Castiels hands suddenly went into a flurry of greedy motion. Zippers and buckles freed themselves next to Deans navel, and long, slender fingers tweaked them out of the way, traced their path down in a shivery ladder to where Dean would have really really liked to have been craving them, their warm quivering curiosity. Just a bit too sensitive, a bit too raw and unprepared and far too soft for that kind of touch. Castiels fingers hesitated, hovered just under the band of Deans boxers, where it was really embarrassingly obvious that Dean wasnt in the game. Castiels breath was suddenly too shallow, and Dean gulped and answered the unspoken worry in the patter of pulse

under his lips. Slid his own fingers down where his brain was still telling him was forbidden territory, down to linger in the hollow of Castiels hip. A question, a breathless suggestion. Then (when Castiels breath caught and his body shifted helplessly against the touch) inwards, over hot tented denim and the faux-silk underneath. Cas, Cas. Castiels breath groaned against Deans temple, but his breath stuttered uncertainly, and Dean wrapped his other arm tight and protective around Castiels hips, tugging him in safe against his thighs and his one audacious hand. Another time, its okay, he lied. Its okay. Ive got you. Castiel snarled, hot and demanding, against his ear, and Dean tipped his head out of the way to surrender his neck to Castiels mouth, to let him have at it, just like Castiels hips were angling in hard and instinctive against Deans hand as his thumb did one of its few clever tricks down there and slipped the button of his jeans. Skinsweathairheatwant. And, yes. The tiny desperate sound that he caught out of Castiels mouth. The wave of desire, the ripple of sensation, all up Castiels body and echoed with a shiver through Deans. The push of curved hot flesh into his hand, just familiar enough to be comprehensible, alien enough to be so very very Castiel, and the slick sharp scent of him as Castiels teeth shoved Deans mouth open in a wordless plea. The unfamiliar arch of a very familiar back under the splay of Deans other hand, as he tugged him in precious and forceful against his body. If thered been any doubt in him left, any at all, that would have done it for him. Dean, Castiel hummed into his ear, harsh and questioning. Dean mumbled something incomprehensible in return, stopped, backed off, started to draw his hand out all nice and soothing, and got fucking bitten for it. Ow. Fuck. Cas. Apparently Castiel had a mouth thing. And a possessive dominating kind of thing. Dean was so, so not surprised by this. Castiel hissed and just sort of relaxed all over him, a loose sort of drape of too-long limbs over Deans thighs and hips and shins, shivering in against his hand, and Dean sighed acquiescence and leaned in obediently to meet the hungry, hopeful curve of his mouth. Never done this before, huh, he whispered against it, and pushed his hand down once, twice, a loose circle, made a bit of a rhythm of it. Castiel shuffled in a bit closer against him and grunted something breathy and beautiful and noncommittal that Dean totally decided to take as a confession.

Cas, you stupid wonderful son of a bitch, Dean half-laughed into his throat, cradled it for a moment in his open mouth. Bobby gave you your own room. Youve got two hands of your own, you know. I like yours, was whispered hopelessly honest into his neck. Quiet, like Castiel couldnt really face saying it out loud. So Dean swallowed the bitter-sweet in his mouth, because how could he possibly argue against that? Yeah, okay, he mumbled soothingly, smiling into the crook of Castiels neck, letting him feel it as he stroked firm and gentle and easy. Nothing fancy, everything honest. Letting him get used to the slide and press of Deans palm. Castiels chest heaved against his, uneven and rickety, pressing bone against bone like there wasnt even a sliver of skin between them, and Deans hand burned like it was wrapped around a brand, something marking him as possessed, owned, belonging. Claimed. His breath stuttered into the curve of Castiels ear, making him shudder, making him belong in return, and he didnt let go. He let Castiel press in against and over him, a little harder, delighted in it as Castiels hand finally, finally took control and fastened in his hair just like hed done in Castiels earlier, tugged his head back in a burning mass of prickles of sensitivity, and Castiel licked a hot demanding stripe up his neck. There, and Deans body reacted on instinct, desire without arousal, tugging Castiel in against his hips as he surged up against him, making Castiel ride it out and take the reaction, shove harder between slippery fingers, just like that. Deans hand slid slick and persuasive down a little lower, abandoned the main thrust of it just long enough to tease, to cup the damp soft flesh behind into his palm and roll it gently, offer a promise that the judder of Castiels breath and the tense grip of his thighs said he was far beyond. Castiels nearest hand whipped away from where it had pressed hot and fierce between Deans ribs and closed painfully on his wrist, a warning and a plea, and Dean let out a little hiccupping gasp of a laugh and let Castiel take charge, let him think he did, persuaded his fingers to thread between Deans and answer the heavy demand of flesh with him. To revel in the slick rounded dome at the end, moulding it gently under the damp centre of Deans palm. To brush a thumb just under the nape as he retreated down from it, nice and slow, letting Castiel notice it and anticipate it on the next stroke. The next one and the next, and Deans lips slid greedily back along Castiels jaw to capture the little gasping sounds falling from his mouth, because if this was his only chance there was no way he was letting those be lost into the night air, no way he wasnt drinking them down and keeping them for himself. Kissing Castiel, at the end of the world. Loving him.

Stubble dragged over stubble for just one moment, one moment that stretched out like elastic in the shadows as Dean opened his mouth over the loose gasp of Castiels. Then everything pushed and fell into shudders and sudden wet heat, and Castiel was shaking and making tiny pained sounds and trying to pull away and push into Deans hand at the same time. Dean found himself tugging him close, making soft little soothing shushing noises into his ear. Whispering endearments he hadnt known he knew, easing him through this very vital human terrifying thing with one hand and keeping the other wrapped protective and possessive, firm around his back. Castiel gradually went limp and loose on top of him, breathing hot and wet and quick into his chest. Dean eased his messy hand out, wiped it a bit on the rock next to him, which was kind of doomed to failure, then chivalrously wiped the rest on his own shirt. Not that Castiel was likely to notice. Then he inched the slightly damp hand carefully around to the small of the angels back (oversensitised, going by the shudder) and just sort of cradled him. Trying to cling to something he thought he might be able to keep for himself, out of all this. Something solid. Which he couldnt, because Castiel would be the first to throw himself in harms way to get them all through tomorrow, even if Dean pleaded with him not to. Hed choose that, and Dean couldnt take that away, any more than he could from Sam. And if he didnt die tomorrow, there was the next day, and the one after that, and there was Heaven and there was Hell, and there were thousands of Castiels siblings with millions of years of prior claim, and And all of that meant nothing just now, not next to the warm, trembling weight of his angel, here, now, just for tonight, across his thighs and against his shoulder and sticky-damp against his stomach. Just for tonight. Dean ran his hand down the back of Castiels neck, traced the curve of his spine, cupped the blades of his shoulders where he knew the wings were hidden, dragged nails gently along the curves of his ribs. Made Castiel groan into his shoulder, breathy and low. There was something meaningful and large he needed to say here, wanted to say, if only he knew what it was. To do something with this moment, make it last for Castiel at least. To give Castiel a part of him that hed never thought was givable before. He opened his mouth to breath in the sweet, damp scent of Castiels neck, and tried, murmuring into the skin, Cas, I swear Please Castiel cut him off, a low thrum of voice that went right through him. Dont make promises to me, Dean. Not about this. There was something raw and brittle in there that was seriously messing with Deans second-hand happy vibes. Or would have been if, you know, thered been anything glowy and happy about tonight. Because, come on, Dean-promises always go to hell or something?

Dean whined, went for annoying-human-being rather than anything serious. Cas. Afterglow, man, youre harshing it. Castiels breath hushed its way over his neck for another moment, then, When I was in the hospital. I thought I might never be permitted to see you again, he said, annoyingly matter-of-fact given the circumstances. It was rather unpleasant. Dean grumbled vaguely at him. You didnt seem all that relieved when I showed up. Mostly you looked kind of pissed. Yes. There were many different emotions. He still sounded sort of nonplussed about that. Dean grinned into his shoulder, a tired grin, with teeth in it. Welcome to the club, soul boy. --Dont you do that, Samuel Winchester. Gabriels voice rattled harsh and low in Sams ear. Great. Thanks for the vote of confidence. Sams mood, already flimsy and halfway to desperate, darkened. He had hoped there might be at least a good luck here. Maybe even, if he was deluding himself, something snarky that secretly meant I believe in you. Not this flat, scared denial. Who was he kidding. Sorry you think Im such a write-off. He tried to sound wry, and came out low and poisonous. Sam, Gabriel snapped, sharp and brittle. I know my brother. You do not want Lucifer in there. Sam breathed out, slow, deliberately curbing the vicious flare of anger. Because of course he didnt want Lucifer in his head. He didnt want to jump into the Pit. He didnt want any of this (what he wanted was his family and his friends and to keep on fighting together), but he was choosing it anyway, and who the hell was Gabriel to go all high-andmighty on him now. Because, like Sam had said to Lucifer, no choice was ever final. If Sam deserved free will, he needed to prove it. Like this. Just him, and the first and most selfish proponent of free will, inside Sams head. Yeah, well, its either Lucifer or you, and guess what? Youre not showing. Gabriel growled, actually growled, a harsh-edged stutter of frustration and hurt. I cant fly, Sam. Im stuck. Useless. Remember? Theres not a damned thing I could do if I

tried. Then suddenly, his voice simultaneously intrigued and horrified, Wait, youd say yes to me? But you havent even tried, have you? Sam demanded. Tired of chatter and evasions and all that potential power that could be fixing things wasted on helping everywhere but where they needed it most. And I promised Sariel. Sariel? Sariel? Bitter incredulous laughter, like Sam hadnt heard it since the warehouse and you do not know my family. Thats great. Just wow. You really know how to go all out with the irony, dont you? Shit. I thought you liked her, Sam snarled back, riding the hot surging tide of red. What the hells that got to do with anything? Oh, this is rich. This is fucking beautiful. Mr Free Will starts the Apocalypse, drags me out of my comfortable little rat hole and tears me apart, then goes and gives himself up to Lucifer on the advice of an even more fatalistic archangel. Great. Fine. Go braid pony-tails with the devil, or whatever you two get up to when youre alone. And that was it. That was just it. Starting the Apocalypse? Were going there, Gabriel? Why not? Gabriel laughed, short and high and bitter. Got free will, got a soul, gotta face up to what you do with it. The tide swirled in and swallowed Sam up into fury. Sure. Sure, why not. Like not giving us a heads-up any time over the last three freaking years about what your brothers were up to? Just letting us run ourselves and the world off a cliff because you didnt feel like throwing us even one anonymous little bone? That the sort of thing people with free will and a soul are meant to face up to, Gabriel? Would you stop calling me that? Gabriel pleaded, thin and ready to break. Gabriel, Sam snapped. Gabriel. Your name is Gabriel. Own up to it, would you? Look, enough with the bitching about not being an all-powerful archangel anymore. Dean and Bobby and I dont have any superpowers. Hell, Cas is a mess and cant even point a gun straight, and hes still fighting. And its not like anything we point at Lucifer is going to hurt anyway. Short of, oh, I dont know, the blade of an archangel. Which you screwed up. I cant get you out of the cage, Sam. His voice was small and helpless and wrong. Not even at the top of my game, trickster and archangel together. Its beyond me. Yeah, well, guess what, big guy. If youd stepped up to the plate earlier, it wouldnt have come to this. There was a moment of nothing but shaky breathing on the far end; then the line went dead.

Sam stared at his phone for a long minute, then he groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Samuel. Sam lifted his head, feeling all tired and washed-out and uselessly furious. Castiel was standing in the door, a long lithe shadow in jeans and ruffled hair and a scruffy old shirt that Sam thought, in the half light, might have been one of Deans. Too big for Castiel, anyway. You were speaking to Gabriel. And despite the grubby evidence of humanity, there was a sort of eerie calm around Castiel that felt far more angelic than anything Sam had seen of him for months. Like hed made his peace with the world. Lucky bastard. Yeah. Hes, um. Sams voice rasped out through his throat like something unfamiliar. Hes not happy about it. He is afraid of losing you. And why did Castiel always have to be so damned direct? Like he saw fucking everything? Sam abruptly flung his phone across the room, violent and hard, and it shattered into six irreparable pieces. Were all afraid, Castiel. Hell He stopped and snatched his breath out of the air, held it and controlled it, and groaned. Sorry. Im sorry. Not Castiels fault. Not anyones fault that he could do anything about. Just Sam, expecting too much. I just wanted to let him know. Say goodbye, I guess. I mean, Id already figured he wasnt going to show tomorrow, but I thought He broke off again. No point going there, not now. Wherever there was. Castiel was very still and quiet in the doorway, waiting. Making him confess by not asking, making him call himself on his own douchebaggery instead of doing it for him. He had to go and bring up the whole who popped Lucifer out of the box thing again, Sam said at last, quiet and tired. I was not kind. Castiel made a small noise in his throat, one of those strange little half-human sounds that were all his. You are beautiful, Sam Winchester. In that simple, absolute way that meant everything. I have been honoured and proud to fight alongside you. To call you my friend. Huh.

Sam found himself almost laughing. Looked down at his hands, where they were trembling a bit against his knees. Because, wow, awkward, anyone else, anytime else. But here, now just Castiel. Just well, unavoidably goodbye. Castiel moved forward a step, held out his hand. A little soft, a little awkward, but certain. And Sam remembered that first time in the half-light of a dingy motel with Uriel looming in disapproval by the window, and an angel of the Lord looking at Sams offered hand like something perplexing and contaminated. And now here: shadowy and reduced and mussed up with day-to-day humanity, smelling faintly of sweat, but still upright. Still strong. Offering Sam his hand. Thanks, Cas. The boy with demon blood took the angels hand, and squeezed it. Youre not so bad yourself. --Hey. Can I come in? Sure. Wasnt going to sleep anyway. Cas send you up? I cant just want to talk to my little brother all by myself? Sure you can. Only you dont usually stand outside the door shuffling your feet around for five minutes before you knock unless you got something to say. Yeah, okay. So. Spill. Fuck. Dean. Im in, okay? In with..? The whole up with Satan thing. Im on board. Youre gonna let me say yes? No. See. Thats the thing. Its not on me to let you do anything. Any more than it is with Cas. Youre a grown well, overgrown man. If this is what you want, Ill Ill back your play. Thats ha. The last thing I thought youd ever say. Might be. Im not gonna lie. It goes against every fibre I got. I mean, watching out for you... its kinda been my job, you know? But more than that, its... its kinda who I am. But, like you said. You know. Youre not a kid anymore. Cant keep treating you like one. Look. This is screwed to hell. I dont know if we got a snowballs chance. But I do know

that if anybody can do it its you. If there was anyone Id trust with the weight of the fucking world, Sam you. Just so you know. Thank you. If this is what you want... Sammy. Sam. Is this really what you want? I let him out. I got to put him back in. Okay. Thats it, then. --Sam said yes in Detroit. Gabriel wasnt there.

Unfurled.
affective piety: a model of piety, particularly strong in the wake of the Black Death in the fourteenth and early fifteenth century, in which people identified themselves powerfully in emotional and physical terms with the suffering of Christ (and other saints) in martyrdom. This would often involve obsessive self-immersion in the idea of their blood, tears, wounds, and body, and in extreme cases was characterised by uncontrollable tears and outcries.

Lynn, Surrey, 1406.*

The Book of Margery Kempe is the earliest surviving autobiography to be written in English. Margery, who always speaks of herself in the third person, led a turbulent life, and opens her story with the madness and spiritual crisis that followed the difficult birth of her first child. A vision of Christ returns her to her senses, and from that day onwards she frequently sees or hears Christ and the music of Heaven in her mind, and devotes herself entirely to him. Then was pomp and pride laid down and cast aside. Those who before had respected her now very sharply reproved her; her kin and her former friends were now her greatest enemies. Then she, considering this astonishing change went and humbled herself to her confessor, accusing herself of her misdeeds, and then she did great bodily penance. And within a short time our merciful Lord visited this creature with abundant tears of contrition day by day She knew and understood many secret things that were later to happen, by the inspiration of the Holy Ghost. And often, while she was listening to these holy speeches and conversations, she would weep and sob so that men were astonished, for they little knew how the Lord nestled within her soul And ever after her being drawn towards God in this way, she kept in mind the joy and melody that she had heard in heaven, so much so that she could not very well restrain herself from speaking of it.

It so happened that one day, when she lay alone, great with her fourth child, this creature saw before her a light like the light in which the Lord our Saviour would show himself to her. And there appeared a figure of white and gold, bathed in that light, in the likeness of a man: the most seemly, the most beauteous, the most amiable that might ever
* The variety of Middle English used in this chapter follows that of the sole surviving manuscript of Margery Kempes Book (at least so long as Gabriel sticks to it and doesnt start using modern idiom and pronunciation), and is therefore quite different from that used briefly in chapters 8 (Horae harenarum) and 13 (Maesne). As a quick guide for the words that havent shifted that much: she (or her scribe) usually uses -is or ys for plural or possessive endings and -id/-yd for the past participle -ed, every sh- becomes sch-, are becomes arn, if becomes yyf (because hey, why not), and y/i, ei/ai, au/aw, ou/ow, etc, are usually interchangeable. As to whether Margery is actually in contact with God, or some benevolent supernatural being that she thinks is God? Well does it matter?

be seen with mans eyes, clad in a mantle of white silk, looking on her with so troubled a countenance that she was moved to charity. And she knew him for an angel. And she stretched out her hand to him, and she asked, Wher arn thi wengys?* Then the angel said, My wengys arn brokyn, Margery Kempe. Brent owt by the Mornyng Ster. And she was filled with wonder, and she said, Schewe hem onto me. Then the angel looked troubled, like a man who has lost his way, and said to her, Ther is nothyng to schewe. And she was moved to ask again, and so she said again, Schewe hem. The angel started to speak, but said nothing; and then he closed his eyes, and put forth all his strength to bring his wings into the world. And there were no wings. And she put her hands to his face, and wept for him as he would try again, until he was crouched as a beast with both hands and one knee on the ground like a man about to run or fly or weep. And blood ran from his nose, and light burned the air around him, into the shape of a memory. Wings she saw through her tears, and wondered; but they were only fractured shadows and light, barely true; and it seemed to her that they were tattered, eaten and gnawed on as the rat gnaws of the stockfish. An illusyon, said the angel, though he panted like a woman brought to childbed. A deceyt of lyte and eyr, no thyng mor.** The poor creature felt compassion and marvel, and she reached out to touch their memory, for she wanted to comfort him; and though she felt nothing, the angel shook. How suffryth God swech a thyng? The angel answered, I wote not he spekyth not onto me. Oh, my sone. And she wept for him. And it seemed to her that his wings were the colour of her tears, and that they grew stronger as the water flowed down her cheeks. But the angel did not see, and only said, like a man who has no other hope left to him, Late me be schrevyn onto the. I am but a smal and most unworthi creatur.
* Where are your wings? My wings are broken, Margery Kempe. Burnt out by the Morning Star. Show them to me. Codfish, cured and dried, apparently a commodity in Margerys town of Lynn at this time. Because everyone has to specialise in something. ** A deceit of light and air, nothing more. How does God allow such a thing? I dont know he does not speak to me. Let me confess myself to you.

And he took her hand, and he kissed it, and he begged her, Schryve me. And though she was a woman, and was in no orders, she consulted within herself, and understood that his soul was in need; and so she consented, for yyf I may wepe for yow, I hope to han grace for yow.* I fled, and I fled agayn, he said. I am not a gode man, and I was nevyr a gode awngel. I was aferd I am aferde. I was so long in terrowr of seeing my brethyres eythyr rendyn the othyr asunder that I have lost any chawnce I evyr had to hyndryn it. I was too besy feyning miself that I reked not, for that I wolde not be hurt. And now eythyr of hem wyl slee the othyr, and and thei will take the world with hem. Why rekist thu? Its the world, Margery. And that was truth; but it seemed to her that there was another deeper beneath it. Why rekist thu? Its its the yonglinges, okay? Two men. Thei stonden for to die, and it wyl be not cownted at a monkys culyones. Morthryd as by-mater. Develych by-mater. Why rekist thu? Impatiently, he spoke. Oh, wend devel-wey. Thei lykyn me. Thei arn thei arn muchel. Frendys.** Why rekist thu? And for a moment he was silent, and then he said, Brothyres. Theirn brothyres. And they schewe me worthy of schame. And I thouwt this tym, maybe yyf they cowd make it to werken we never cowde, but theyve made it thorw, every cleppyng tyme, theive goven the fynger to destin and to every wyght who tryeth to dryvyn hem asunder, and And his eyes shone gold with wrath and with wanhope. But no, of cowrs not. Alwey the same story at the end. Thowt we myght scape it, because Im develych blynd, because of alle pepil how cowd I ever forget? It alwey snarys you. No last-mynute save. He reketh nowt.
* If I may weep for you, I hope to get grace for you. I am not a good man, and I was never a good angel. I was afraid, I am afraid. I spent so long terrified of seeing my brothers tear each other apart that I have lost any chance I ever had to stop it. I was too busy pretending not to care, trying not to be hurt. And now they will kill each other, and and they will take the world with them. Why do you care? Its the kids, okay? Two men. Theyre going to die, and its not going to matter a monks balls. Murdered as by-play. ** Oh, screw you [lit. go to the devil]. I like them. Theyre theyre important. Friends. Brothers. Theyre brothers. And they put me to shame. And I thought this time, if they could make it work we never could, but theyve made it through, every fucking time, theyve given the finger to destiny and to everyone/everything who tries to drive them apart, and But no, course not. Always the same story in the end. Thought we might escape it, just for a bit, because Im fucking blind, because of all people how could I ever forget? It always catches you. No last-minute save. He doesnt care.

There in him, in that moment, she saw the deepest and most insidious sickness of the soul: to despair of hope. And I kan in no wyse let it. Neyther armes ne force me remeyneth for to fyten therwith, and I hate it. Partys of me are tryckling back, but too slow, and there nys no tyme. I kan nowt evyn fly. Gangen in dremmys expownded whil I sowt Sam, to avyse hym that I lyvid.* Illusyons, wyth a tregetowre in Venyce. Brething lyf into thyngis that arent complicated by a sowle, gras and trees and so on, syker and simple family in Russya who fed me the last of their mete and I revyved theyr ferme in the nyght. Confessid a dying archbusshop a whil back, worked out how to tap back into listening and speking to well, awngelys, and othir things that dont talk with voyces your eares would hear. Healing, yes, great, handy one, kid in Germany who got himself gutted by a cockatryce on my watch and I had to kill the little fucker and shove the kids guts back into his body and patch them together before he coughed his life out, which I couldnt do, but I did it. Then he recollected himself and his voice, which had become strange and sharp and almost foreign, returned to the more familiar cadences of Surrey. But it ys all perlowr tryckis, Margery illusyones and smal myracles. Im not an awngel. Not even of man-kin, sekyr not a god. I nam but clowtys of a man. And the the creatur who made me hale and hole agayn aftir Lucifer slayid me, I wote not what sche put in me: if every thyng ys there and just takyng its swete cleppyng time or how to get it agayn if it is lost. I cant fynd her, and I wote not what I am, and now is overlate. Sammis gon.** And as he spoke, she held him close, and her tears fell on his face and hands, and the quiver of light behind and around him became more solid with every word and every droplet. And although he spoke what she could not understand, she felt no fear; for Jesus Christ himself had promised her that he would help and protect her, so that no devil in hell should ever part her from him, nor angel in heaven, nor man on earth. And suddenly the gift of understanding was given to her, and she lifted his face to hers, and spoke, and said, This creatur. Sche gafe the nothyng but only brethe and mendys: al aftyr thow hast rebylt thiself. Then, as he looked on her with wonder, she told him, Thes aren the partys of thiself that thow hast chosyn, remakyng thiself in the ymage of the
* And Ive got no way of stopping it. Ive got nothing left to fight with, and I hate it. Bits of me are trickling back, but too slow, and theres no time. I cant even fly. Dreamwalking worked that out when I was looking for Sam, to let him know I was alive. Charlatan. sure food ** But its all parlour tricks [very anachronistic concept], Margery. Im not an angel. Not even a human, sure not a god. Im just patches of a man. And the the creature who put me back together after Lucifer killed me, I dont know what she put in me, if everythings there and just taking its sweet time or what I have to do to get it back if it is. I cant find her, and I dont know what I am, and now its too late. Sams gone. This creature she gave you nothing but breath and memories: all the rest you rebuilt yourself.

man thow chosyst. Hast the mind of an archawngyl and the sowle of a man swych powyr is yn hem!* And he looked at her, and touched her cheek, and said, Why wepist so, Margery? So she replied, My sone, for thes teerys are giftys to me of ower gracyows Savyowr, and I wepe in sorwe at Hys wowndys, and the worldis wowndys. And I wepe in joye that He is savyd, and attendith us in Hevyn. And he bowed his head and would not speak; and then he lifted his head and spoke to her, and said, Thy feyth is grettyr than the feyth of awngelys, dowtyr. And this poor creature marvelled greatly, to see that an angel of the Lord felt in himself the same trials and despair that she did herself; and she stretched out her hands and wept, and said to him, What is thi name? I wote not.** How clepyst thow thiself? Then at last he said, Gabriel. I clepe miself Gabriel. What schal ye now make therof? And they were both silent. Then she heard, as from within her heart, a high cold voice calling, and it said, Gabriel, Gabriel, brother. Thy brethyr the Torch-beryr callyth to the. Heryst thu hym? And he looked up, as if he could see the sky through the wood and the plaster, and said with wonder, I here.* He stood, and his wings unfolded around him, strong and whole and real and shaped from tears, with the feathers slipping over each other like drops of water. And it was only then that he saw them, and he touched them with hands as soft as a young childs, amazed as a woman who emerges from her confinement to see the sun, after believing herself and her child sick and dead. Then he looked down upon her and spoke, raw and honest. I wote not what I am. And the poor creature closed her eyes and asked counsel in meditation of our Lord, and he replied in her mind. And she said to the angel, Than chese. It is govyn to the to chesyn.
* These are the pieces of yourself that you have chosen, remaking yourself in the image of the man you chose. You have the mind of an archangel and the soul of a man what power is in those! Why do you weep so? Because these tears are gifted to me by our gracious Saviour, and I weep in sorrow at His wounds, and the wounds of the world. And I weep in joy that He is saved, and awaits us in Heaven. Thy faith is greater than the faith of angels, daughter. ** I dont know. What do you call yourself? What will you do with it now? Your brother the Torchbearer calls to you. Do you hear him?

And the angel spread his wings, and flew.

* I hear. Then choose. It is given to you to choose.

Volo.
[v] (Latin): The first-person singular present active indicative of either of the verbs velle (to want/prefer/choose) and volare (to fly); i.e., I choose, or I fly.

Present day. Lucifer. The bringer of light. Light harsh and pure as solid steel, searing into every
part of him, everything that had ever been Sam, and freezing him like a black and white snapshot. Not chained to a comet. Chained to a star. Chained within a star. There were glimpses, here and there. A few things he saw of the world, when Lucifer let him, or turned his attention away, or if Sam shoved really hard. A glimpse of asphalt underfoot (and had his feet always been that far away?). A demon, cowering, its true face distorted in terrified adoration. An angel Sam didnt know and Lucifer didnt care about, all brightness and desperate glory for a moment before Lucifer spun it away into nothingness. Trees in the distance. The arch of a great bridge, falling. But mostly, it was a blur. Mostly, Sam fought, vicious and dogged, not knowing whether it had been five minutes or a century. Sometimes Lucifer spoke to him. He would pin Sam under the full weight of his attention and puzzlement, trying to win him over by showing him how the world had betrayed him and how he was no different from Lucifer. Like there was nothing else to Sam than that, like he was trying to absorb Sam into his bloodstream and make him part of himself. As if Lucifer did not understand, really couldnt understand, how, having won Sam, the only thing in the human world that hed thought worth winning, with every little piece of him starkly visible inside, Sam was still so unknowable. Why he was still fighting. If only he could remember how to use his limbs. Like that struggle inside a dream where you insist that youre in control here, you can choose to wake up, and any minute now you will do it, you will move your hand just so. And the creatures around you look on with faint bored sneers, and say nothing. Like pushing against a fog. And then, Michael. Burning fierce and self-righteous and red, and all of Lucifers joy and love and fury and pleading was turned on him, and it felt so very terrifyingly familiar. It was almost a shock to peer out and see Adams face in the midst of that brilliance, the little brother that Sam could have liked (though Adam wasnt there, no soul in the vessel, only ferocious grace), where every instinct thrilling through him from Lucifer was screaming that this

should be Dean, DeanDeanDean, who had built Sam up and clung to him and could tear him apart like no one else. The other half of Sams heaven. Then, distraction. And then, fury. Incandescent betrayed protective fury, and No one dicks with Michael but me.
No, no, please no, not Castiel.

Lucifer clicked his fingers. Castiel died like a footnote. Sam roared for him.
(You promised. You promised to look out for him.)

he hurt my brother.
Dean said nothing, blank like hed expected it. He had known. Castiel had expected to die, and Dean had known. Castiel had come in anticipating this, knowing this, planning to die to give Dean a chance. Planning to die to win him five minutes.
(Michael will put himself together in five minutes. Castiel is dead. That what your promises are worth?)

Sammy, can you hear me? Five minutes. Thats what Castiel thought he was worth?

my brother is worth more than my word. as are you. i had no choice.

Lucifers fury was hard as ice, inevitable and implacable as when he had said the same thing about Sam. When Sam had come to him asking for help to find Castiel. When Sam had made him promise.
(Dammit, Lucifer, you always have a choice.)

You know, I tried to be nice. For Sammys sake Sam felt Lucifer reach treacle-slow for Bobbys frail vertebrae.
( No. No, hell no, what do you want from me?)

he made promises to you that he could not keep.

(He kept them, you bastard. He kept them, every one. He gave us everything a father should dont you dare touch him.)

But you are such a pain in my ass.

oh, he made you think that, Sam. i will wipe the world clean for you.
Bobbys neck twisted and shattered. Down, and down, and down. One by one by one, until there was nobody left but only Sam.

Sammy, are you in there? And Dean. Stubborn and firm and stupidly beautiful, not backing away from Lucifers fist (Sams fist, dammit, just as soon as he remembered how that worked). Oh, hes in here alright. And hes going to feel the snap of your bones. Bobbys voice. You fight him tooth and nail, you understand? Keep swingin. Dont

give an inch.
He raged against Lucifer. Every single one. Castiel had died for five minutes. Five minutes of Sams stupid, stupid, beautiful brother dying slow on Lucifers fists and I can hear you Dean, stop shouting to me, stop

trying to reach me, I know youre there you dear stubborn idiot Dean, go away, I know, live.
I will hold the world safe for you.

Sam. they made me do it.

(No one makes you do anything!)

Lucifer stilled for a moment. Shocked. Sam didnt know why, but caught the moment in his teeth and tore at it, until Lucifer gently pushed him down like he was a cute little puppy trying to climb out of its basket.

i know it hurts, Sam. but he didnt believe in you. not like he should have. he would have turned on you.
(Yeah, well, guess who gets to dick with my brother?)

i love my brother. yours betrayed him. betrayed you.

Sam felt the snap of Deans bones. Just as Lucifer had promised.
(You dont know what love is. You never chose it, you never fought for it.)

A low growl, a warning.

dont you dare. Michael is mine.

(Yours to kill, Lucifer.)

and I will mourn him.

Deans head cracked back hard against the Impala.
(Like you mourned Gabriel? Making yourself out to be some big tragic hero like youre the only one who suffered, like there was never a moment you could have dropped the blade?)

Sam felt something hit there, like pushing a stick into dark water and touching something deep inside it, not knowing what it is.

Gabriel should have been mine.

Dean spoke through a broken jaw. Sam, its okay. Sam raged helplessly.
(No, you killed him because he didnt want to hurt his family. Well, guess what, big guy, he survived. Even being killed didnt stop him. He came back, and hes been fighting with us, even though hes not an angel anymore, because he chose it, because he decided that was right.)

Its okay, Im here.

Gabriel?
There, something, something. Sam grinned viciously without a mouth. Gabriel was the key. Brother against brother, only not the one Lucifer had expected. Wasnt in the script. Im here. Im not gonna leave you. Dean, sprawled and broken against the Impala, home, every one of Sams memories of safety and family and love and fighting for what had to be done. Dean, about to die and staring at him and so very very far from broken. Im not gonna leave you. Lucifer drew his arm back for the final blow. And hell no you dont get to do that. Not to him. Not Dean. Sam threw every fierce and good memory he had of Gabriel, of Dean, at the inside of Lucifers consciousness. Gabriel upright and believing and fighting for humanity. Dean, Dean, Dean, every moment of home and love and laughter and bitching and ragging, everything inside that sleek black loyal beloved car. Because whatever Gabriel had said to Lucifer in that moment before he had died, something had stung, something had stuck. And Michael, and Dean, they were his grief and his rage and his hope. My brother. Your brother. Sam reached out, and grabbed Lucifers fist.
(He told you, didnt he? Herald of God, his last message, he died for that. Did you hear him, Lucifer?)

And just that one moment of shock, of doubt, of love or fear or regret, shook the Morningstar enough for one tiny human called Sam Winchester to take over, even as Lucifer roared in his turn, feeling Sam surge forward, trying to shake him back. Subsiding. Its okay, Dean. Its gonna be okay. Ive got him. Sam opened the Pit, and fell. He took Michael with him. It felt more like sinking than falling. Wind and pain rushed around him thick like water, a torrent that buffeted him back and forth, tearing him loose from Michaels rage and desperate protection. There were lights, flashing and dizzying, or something that his brain interpreted as lights, and twisting agony that wasnt Sams, spreading vaster and vaster around them as they went deeper, helpless against the pull. Michaels wings stretched out, filling Sams senses, trying to pull himself to a stop, trying to fly up, reaching for Sam (no,

for Lucifer) to pull him back too; but of course, this spell, this passage, this tunnel, this route, was made for an archangel, and an angels wings were useless against it. A human, of course, stood no chance. But then, Sam wasnt fighting. Lucifer screamed, twisted inside Sams mind, reached out with both arms for his brother no, upwards, back up to where theyd come from, and it wasnt this brother he called for.

Gabriel. Gabriel, brother.

And then Lucifer left him no, flung him away, threw him upwards, past Michael, and without the angel inside him everything was a blur, too much, too dazzling and hot and harsh and airless and cold and he was dying, would die. Except that suddenly there was a hand closing on his hip and another grasping the back of his neck, bright and strong. He was surrounded and held and carried, not by the brilliant deadly purity of Lucifer or Michael, but by something far richer and messier and warmer, and just as fierce. Maybe more so, because there were so many other complicated emotions and impulses in there, all feeding back into this. And he knew that feeling, and remembered the pressure of that crushing hand on his hip, the same hip, back when the touch had felt like an enemys. Only now he could feel, really feel, the strain of sinews behind it, the thud of a heart against his breastbone, the struggling muscles in the back under his hands, the brush of very physical feathers against the back of his fingers, as he wrapped his arms around and clung by sheer desperate instinct. Then everything else was retreating, the rush and the burn and the screaming in the back of his mind, leaving the slide of sweat-slick cotton under his hands, the smell of burning, the puff of afternoon air, and then, finally, finally, the brush of warm sun on his skin. And Sam was stumbling, legs like sodden rope, and falling again except this time only as far as the ground, the solid real dusty earth, with a hot gasping weight on top of him. Gabriel, he choked out. Gabriel. He barely caught a flash of bright golden eyes and exhilaration before he was being kissed, devoured, all nerves and adrenalin and old, old joy. There were teeth clacking clumsily against his, and a stone digging painfully into his left shoulder, and Sam wrapped his arms (his arms, obeying him) around determined, shaking shoulders and held on. Gabriel was sprawled uncomfortably across him, hot weight and sharp angles, and Sam bit into his mouth in return, sheer relief and incredulity and the bitten-back gut-thumping terror of the past two days swelling up and choking him. Gabriel dug in his nails like a cat, snarled and laughed all in one shared breath, all messy and wet and beautiful and here, alive, bright and joyous. Sam buried one hand in soft silky vigorous hair and cradled his skull in it, hooked one leg up over his hips and shoved against him, making him real, making him gloriously solid. Not a dream, not a trick. There was barely any breath in him and Gabriel was stealing it, laughing it back into his mouth, so Sam didnt say You fucking bastard where the hell have you been, or Nice

timing, or I didnt think youd come, or even Hey, wings, flying, how did that happen. He just grabbed, grasped, gripped, held, and wasted his breath on laughing right back. Gabriel made a noise that sounded like pain, and collapsed too heavily on top of Sam, laughing and shaking all over. Fuck. Fuck, that was insane. Were insane, Sam. Sam buried his face blindly in what had to be the curve of Gabriels neck and just clung, held on tight to this promise of reality and salvation and life. Only it would be really embarrassing if Gabriel had suddenly regained the ability to mindread and heard that, so he mumbled into his skin instead, Insane? Hey. Im not the one who just volunteered for a swan dive into Lucifers cage. Gabriel smelled like sweat and ash and blood and warm skin and honey (Lucifer had smelled like frost and eternity). No, yours was more of a penguin dive. Sam blinked very slowly, relishing the details of sensation, the push of his eyelashes against the tendon in Gabriels neck. A penguin. Something without wings, Gabriel explained helpfully into his hair. Which was a something. A gross slander against nature. Possibly. Because. Penguins have wings. It was a very important point. Gabriels right shoulder jerked, like his hand was making one of those far too extravagantly detailed gestures that Sam was sure he remembered seeing, that he could hear in his voice over the phone, that every text message had implied. No, they have those funny little flapping things. Yeah. Wings, Gabriel. Sam felt his mouth curving into a wide, maybe possibly slightly hysterical grin, and he let himself flop back uselessly onto the ground, squinting up with eyes that still hadnt caught on to this whole back-in-reality business at the blurry figure outlined against the sky. It drew back enough to stare at him, eyes kind of narrowed and glaring, then something funny happened to its face and Gabriel was hauling him up by the collar and shaking. You stupidsmugridiculouslylucky sunflower of a man, if you ever, ever jump in a hole again, Samuel Winchester, Ill What? Pull me out? Damn right I will, Gabriel growled into his cheek. So I can kill you myself, over and over again. Just you wait. There will be infinite Tuesdays. The squirrels will be nothing to it. Sam blinked slowly at the curve of gold against the sun hair, his brain supplied helpfully, ordinary human hair quivering in his vision as one of them, or both of them, trembled all over.

Sunflower? Tall. Made sense before I said it. Shut up. This was Gabriel. Gabriel was here. Talking to him. Being here. Pulling him out of literally out of Hell. Sam blinked his bleary, confused eyes, fumbled his slow hands onto sweat-damp shoulders, and pushed Gabriel back to stare at him.

Skinny. Far skinnier than he had been when Sam had last seen him, and the assured
smirk Sam remembered had morphed into something determined and exhausted and delightedly astonished, and he had too much ragged beard to look smooth, and his eyes were boring into Sam like the sun, and out behind his shoulders arched two great ragged wings, translucent as carved glass, trembling and torn and burnt, broken at the edges, obviously useless. Sam blinked again, and levered himself carefully up on one elbow, forcing Gabriel to shift himself back to sit on Sams knees. The wings didnt disappear, just sort of quivered, like water when something moved under the surface.

Wings. An angels wings. And Sam, Sam of all people, was seeing them. Only they
werent, they couldnt be, because Gabriel wasnt an angel and if he had been theyd all four of them be in the Cage right now. Gabriel. Sams finger dug into the meat of his shoulder. Wings, Gabriel. Your wings. Whered these come from? Gabriel smirked, his mouth curling (in a way that made Sam want to taste it because apparently his body was confusing the possessive burn in his neck and hip and the return of life and blood tingling all over in every extremity with other kinds of life and blood and extremity-tingling) in a way that had to precede that tone of voice that meant he was being helpfully unhelpful. And sure enough: Surrey, 1406. Huh. Sam grinned at him, the almost-reluctant grin that was always called up by that tone of voice, only now Gabriel saw it rather than just hearing it in Sams voice, and his eyes lit up with it, and it was sort of breathtaking. Theres a story there, isnt there. Gabriel half smiled, then sort of collapsed in a slow sideways slide. Hey, hey hey. I gotcha. Sam caught him without even thinking about it, gathered him in against the broad steady wall of his own chest. Gabriel just sort of went with it, falling against Sam like hed never expected someone else to be there and didnt quite know what to do about it. They stayed there like that for a while, just breathing, hearts thumping gradually back towards something like normal, Sams eyes adjusting to the real world and the sun and the shadows.

Then Gabriel offered carefully, I should probably get off you at some point, shouldnt I. Because of course. Sam was a prude who couldnt take random bouts of adrenalinfuelled making out without having a gay freak-out. He snorted, and closed one hand around Gabriels hip in deliberate mocking suggestion. Why, you uncomfortable? Gabriel went very still, like that was unexpected too. Then he shifted a little, fingers trailing thoughtfully up Sams side, and turned his face into Sams neck. Nestling. Really. Nestling. And his voice was a sort of a thoughtful hum: Nope. Im good. And hello, euphoria-induced life-affirming erection. Dammit. Trust Gabriel to raise the stakes. Sam shifted carefully. The world rippled through the feathered screen in front of his nose. Not what I thought an angels wings would be like, he offered carefully. Not an angels wings, kiddo, Gabriel slurred, all loose and cocky like Dean got sometimes when he was on the verge of passing out. 100% made in humanity. And maybe it was the Dean similarities that made Sams voice come out sort of fond and tender, but if it wasnt he couldnt really find that he cared. Yeah, dont know if youve noticed, but humans dont actually have wings. Gabriel made a faintly condescending noise into his neck, like that was a completely irrelevant detail and he was a ridiculous puny human for even bothering with it. Then he made another tiny pained one. And never mind the supernatural translucence what Sam should have been paying attention to was the smell of the burnt feathers, the blood and the torn flesh, the unnatural droop of broken wing-bones. His hand curled itself protectively around Gabriels shoulder, and it was weirdly reassuring that, whatever Gabriel was, Sams hand was large enough to cover the whole of it. Youre actually in a pretty bad way, arent you? he asked softly, now that he was looking. Now that reality was actually reality, with all its responsibility and its consequences. Wouldnt know, Gabriel grumbled, and then flinched again. Swear they didnt hurt like this two minutes ago. Thats what happens when adrenalin starts to wear off, genius, Sam informed him, smug and superior in his entire decades of experience wearing a human body. We should get you to He trailed off, and looked around for the first time. Stull Cemetery, just where he had been before. Lawrence, Kansas, and what did one do with a not-angel with broken wings? A basic first-aid kit, get him under cover, get him washed and patched up and rested and get him somewhere. Move him. A car.

Sam looked around again, matching up the landscape with what hed glimpsed when his eyes hadnt been his, and tried to bite down the rising flood of panic. Gabriel. How long is it since I jumped? Did something screwy happen with time? Did you do something? The slow slur of a voice, adrenalin and pain and maybe even a bit of human shock, reverberated against Sams throat. About half an hour. Whats up? Sam swallowed carefully. I beat Dean up pretty bad. Theres no way he was driving away in that condition. And wheres Bobbys truck? And wheres Bobby? Gabriel mumbled something rude and planted his hand in the middle of Sams chest, shoving back to take his own weight on his heels. Then he tipped his head back thoughtfully, the same abstract expression on his face that Castiel got when he was looking something up in what Sam thought of as his mental library. Looks like Singers heading back to Sioux Falls. And Dean He fumbled with one pocket and pulled out a smartphone, which for some arcane terrifying smartphone reason apparently hadnt minded falling halfway into Hell, and weighed it in his hand thoughtfully without opening it. If hes where his phone is, heading east. Somewhere south of Kansas City already. A faint tired smirk played around the corner of his mouth. And he calls me a reckless driver. Should tell him youre topside and kicking lower the states road rage stats by one. Theyre alive? Gabriel quirked an eyebrow at Sam pointedly. Youre alive. Sam drew in a shaky breath. I felt Bobbys neck break. And Dean was halfway dead, too. Guess the little angel that could must be feeling a bit more like his old self, then. If Singer hadnt gone with the reaper yet, fixing him up and popping him back ins a piece of angelfood cake. Sam winced and closed his eyes. Re-opened them to an interrogative youre-harshing-my-buzz scowl. What? Cas didnt make it, Gabriel. And there, suddenly, all the exhaustion and the smug contentment and the joking dropped away, and the creature crouched in front of him was very old and almost terrifying, with eyes that burned. Say that again. Im sorry. I couldnt stop him fast enough. Lucifer killed him. For a moment, Gabriel was very still. Then he was on his feet and whirling away, half stumbling under the drag of lopsided wings, and there was a dull crack as he slammed his fist into a granite headstone.

You stupid, sorry sons of bitches. He choked out half a laugh. You know, youve really got to stop facing down angry archangels now Im not around to snatch you out of the way or stick you back together again. Sam tried to lever himself to his feet, but his legs were too shaky to move properly and there was a broken wing lying heavy across his thighs. He settled for touching that, carefully, laying one hand on the strong curve of the leading edge like he might on someones hunched shoulder. Well, the only time you did that you ended up dead, Gabriel. Not exactly something I was planning to make a habit of. Because sometimes Im here, I care was the only useful thing you could say. Gabriel growled something impatient and raw. Oh, come on, you worked out the rest and you didnt pin that one on me? Hold on. Because there was only one thing that fit that outline. You. Are you trying to say you brought Castiel back after Raphael killed him, and put us on that airplane? I stuck Yosemite Sam and the devil on the planes entertainment system, for crying out loud. He leaned on the headstone with his bloodied hand like he was suddenly very tired, the line of his shoulders tight and thin, and mumbled, Not that I was going to dance the hornpipe in front of my little brother or anything, but I was hardly being subtle. Sam pressed his fingers into the cool weight of translucent feathers, just a little, and kept his voice gentle. Okay because, according to Joshua, God did that. Gabriel froze. Then the wing was ripped out of Sams hand as Gabriel spun around to stare at him just for a moment, mouth opening around words that ground to a halt on the way out before he wheeled again, wings scraping over tombstones, and he strode away, footsteps jarring against the ground with a shudder that Sam swore he could feel in his bones. Sam bit down words, the instinct to reassure, and waited. No, like a question. No. I did it. But His voice and his footsteps slowed, like he was fending off realisation, or grabbing for it. I shouldnt have been able to do it. I wasnt watching Castiel when he died, I just suddenly knew, and I tried to fix it and I shouldnt have been able to but I could, it worked. With a sudden violent euphoria, Gabriel whirled around and struck a tree with his fist (the same bloody fist, the idiot), then slammed his palm into it. Dad, you sneaky fucking bastard. Sam grabbed the nearest headstone, the one Gabriel had punched, and tried to pull himself up by it. Because Gabriels face was shining far too bright, and his breath was coming ragged and fast, and angel or god or human or hybrid, that couldnt be healthy. But the granite crumbled like gravel under his hand, and Sam staggered back to his knees.

Gabriel, he started instead, that stern whipcrack of a voice that could pull Dean up short in the middle of a rant. But Gabriel overrode it, carried on a wave of wide-eyed revelation. Dont you see, Sam, dear stupid Sam? None of us should have been able to do any of it. In the panic room, Sam, I couldnt just snap it out of you, I had to concentrate, it took time and thought and contact, but when I put you on that plane I fixed you up with a thought. And you, fighting off Famine and Lucifer, Sam, Michael couldnt have won going head to head with Lucifer for sheer bloody willpower, and you tried and you could and it shouldnt have been possible but you made it possible. And getting through to Dean in the green room, and Dean getting himself out of that funk because he had to, because he wanted to, because of you, and killing Zachariah and not getting his eyes burnt out. And Castiel, again and again and he should have been dead twenty times over. Gabriel drew in a delirious breath. Pointed at Sam, like he was just daring contradiction to show its head. He was helping, Sam. He wasnt doing things, he was helping us do things. Letting us make the script. Letting you decide. Giving us strength to do it when we really needed it. Sam, Sam, he hasnt abandoned us, hes letting us grow the fuck up. And that was a nice thought, Sam supposed, at least from the angels perspective, but it all came down to the same thing for him, thanks. Except that it didnt, not really, because Gabriel was positively radiant a picture of joy, dirty, dishevelled, trailing broken feathers, one shoe lost, head thrown back and burnt wings and arms thrown out to embrace the world. Shouting to the sky. Castiel, get your pert little ass down here, stat! And the air squeezed tight and shifted and, wonder of wonders, there was Castiel, with his ridiculous trench coat and that familiar defiant set to his shoulders underneath it, like he expected anything in the world to come up behind him and drive a dagger between his shoulders. Like he was ready to fight and die for whatever was in front of him. And Gabriels eyes went wide and he threw himself at the stiff, awkward figure and embraced him, fierce and joyous, with everything he had. You featherbrain. You were looking for Dad in all the wrong places. In places, you hopelessly literal shmuck. Should have been looking in his image. Castiel stood and took it, with that stoic frozen set to his spine that Sam had come to categorise as too many emotions, must cut some corners, and Sam just collapsed back against the half-crumbled headstone and laughed, silent and happy, carried on the tide of whatever it was that Gabriel was working through, the sheer unabashed hope. The miraculous shape of one of his best friends there again, in the world, when Sam had believed hed delivered him to oblivion. And Gabriel laughed with him, open and beautiful and joyous, pushed further into Castiels space, and cupped his hands around the angels cheeks. In them, you prize idiot. In people. Its where you always came closest.

Gabriel. Castiels voice was like a shock of cool water, grieving and resigned, gentle, and a little reproachful with it. He put his hand up to his cheek to cover Gabriels, or maybe to contain it. Why are you here, now? Gabriel snickered, eyes crinkling easily around the edges as if Castiels rebuke was all hed ever wanted from life. He stepped back, taking Castiels hand with him, and spread his injured wings like a picture, like a trophy, unangelic and iridescent in the sunlight, smelling of sulphur and ash. Because I stole your thunder, little bro. Castiel blinked, slow and cautious, and Gabriel went very still for a moment. Then he narrowed his eyes, and glared. Dont pretend you werent going to try a heroic little kamikaze flight of your own. Castiels head tilted very slowly over to one side, like he couldnt quite believe what he was making out until he saw it from every possible angle. Then suddenly he was all movement, spinning on one heel, staring, searching, until his eyes locked on Sam, where Sam was grinning helplessly at him and feeling the weight of his gaze like a hot iron. Samuel. Disbelief, and joy, and maybe even a little love. And okay, so normally anyone using his full name made his spine itch, but when it was Castiel, when Castiel forgot to trivialise the last three letters, it felt different. Like he was seeing all of him, not just his everyday faade. Hey Castiel, Sam croaked, unintelligently. Castiel crossed the space between them in a few curt strides and went down on one knee by Sams side, cradling his face in hands that were cool and angelic and didnt sweat or tremble anymore, but looking at him with eyes that spoke disbelieving volumes. Sam hooked an arm around his neck and gave him a rough, firm hug. Im so sorry, Cas. I tried to stop him. Samuel Winchester, you are magnificent, Castiel growled, low and harsh, and pressed his lips to Sams forehead, because he was weird and non-human like that sometimes. Grace flooded through Sams veins like ice-melt, healing him, strengthening his shaky limbs. Feeling him out through and through not glaringly harsh like Lucifer, but eager and careful, almost ticklish. Sam laughed, and shoved at Castiel half-heartedly. Enough with the touchy-feely, Cas, its all me. Im fine. Castiel pulled back, and his mouth pulled up just a little at the corners. Yes. Yes, you are.

Then he bowed his head, and Sam felt his voice booming through the air and the earth and his blood, though Castiels mouth didnt move. Proclaiming the news fierce and joyous to all the hosts of Heaven.

Samuel Winchester is saved. Samuel Winchester is saved.

Sam slid his gaze up over Castiels mussed dark head to where Gabriel had drifted closer, and was leaning with one hand on a headstone. He had heard Castiel too his eyes glittered, sparking up bright amber with mischief and delight and completely smug triumph, which, hey, to be fair, Sam could hardly call undeserved just now. Sam grinned at him and shook his head in a youre incorrigible sort of way, which earned him a decent attempt at a leer, before Castiel raised his head. He was wearing that characteristic look, that weird mixture of diffidence and unyielding determination that Sam had once thought was angelic and was now sure was just Castiel, just him, which hed thought hed never get to see again. And if you werent allowed to be sentimental about your friends when youd just saved the world and been pulled out of an eternity in the bottom of Hell at the last minute then when were you. Hey, Dean knows youre okay, right? Castiel nodded briefly. I was with him when Gabriel called. And Bobby is well, he pre-empted helpfully. Then he cocked his head, precise and quick like a bird, as if he was reconsidering the basic makeup of the universe as evidenced by Sam. How did you get Lucifer out of him so quickly? Gabriel, leaning against the headstone in a nonchalant I-can-totally-stand-up-on-myown-if-I-want-to way, made an elaborate feathery shrug. I didnt. Lucifer gave him to me. That brought Castiels gaze up and onto him. Gabriel ducked his head under it, then covered everything with a rueful grin. Lucys a vindictive bastard with a chip on his shoulder the size of Norway when it comes to humans. But he cares about Sam. Castiel looked closely at him, through him, eyes narrowing like Gabriel was a jigsaw and Castiel was trying to see how all the little pieces fit together. You are something extraordinary. Gabriel chuckled, self-conscious and fond, and rested his hand on Castiels head. Like you arent, little sparrow. And Sam shamelessly used the just-saved-the-world excuse again to sprawl back comfortably in the grass and enjoy the sight of two beautiful angels, practically in his lap, trying to remember how to be friends and brothers. The strong, tentative curl of Gabriels fingers in the dark waves of Castiels hair; the way Castiels eyes crinkled enquiringly at the corners even in the midst of his inscrutably intense stare; the helpless, hopeful delight Gabriel took in it all, and the way it lit him up, made his mouth crook around a sort of a smile.

Then Gabriel had to break the weighted moment with an obnoxious wink. So, have you and Dean worked out your epic silent love affair yet, or do I have to turn somebody into an ostrich? Sam carefully did not roll his eyes, because if anyone knew just how easy this wasnt (after a lifetime with Dean, after a day in Lucifers head), it was Sam. Castiel just gave Gabriel a flat stare that looked like it might be his version of the I-cant-believe-Im-relatedto-you glower Sam had had years to perfect. Gabriel grinned back, waggling his eyebrows unrepentantly, and Sam would find it kind of creepy except that, if he thought about it, he and Dean probably were their best models of how to be brothers. For a given and terrifying value of best, anyway. He cleared his throat pointedly. Cas, can you heal him? I can. The question is, would he rather do it himself? For some reason, there was an undercurrent to the quiet question that made all the irreverence and the awkwardness slip away. Gabriels eyes went dark and solemn, like there was a whole other conversation under there that Sam knew nothing about. Castiel stood up with a soft rustle of polyester and invisible feathers, and Sam unfolded his legs and got to his feet himself. Gabriel, slouching against the headstone with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyebrows sharp raised lines of wary sarcasm, should have looked small between them. Instead, he looked tightly drawn in, carefully controlled, vastly and quietly unfathomable. It will be chaos up there, Gabriel. And you are still beloved, Castiel went on inexorably, and oh, thats what this was about. I wont become Michael, Gabriel said, warning and soft. Sam couldnt keep back the soft noise of amused protest, which brought Gabriels eyes flickering over to him for one little startled moment. Sam quirked an eyebrow back at him, because, seriously, Michael? Sam had met Michael, had felt him, and that was well, Gabriel trying to turn himself into Michael would be like all the oceans, with their variety and their motion and warmth and salt-spice and everything, trying to turn into a single icicle of pure water. Gabriel blinked. Heaven does not need another Michael, Castiel growled back at him. Heaven needs you. The corner of Gabriels mouth curved up, small and genuine. Not half so much as it needs you. Which threw Castiel in his turn, or at least made his mouth do that strange confused twist it did whenever Bobbys washing machine got the better of him and he wasnt sure why. Gabriel sighed, loud and messy like he wanted the world to know just what a

virtuously long-suffering big brother he was. Then he pushed himself to his feet, and made little grabby hand motions. Okay, come on. Lay it on me. Castiel gave him a deeply dubious look, like he suspected lay it on me of being the mysterious phrase that automatically invalidated the solemn and ancient ritual of reangelification. Then Gabriel smiled, a faint lopsided little smile like a promise, and Castiel swayed forward into his space and slid his hands tight and possessive into his hair. Sam. Be ready to close your eyes if it gets too bright. Gabriel let his eyes drift shut, let Castiel tug his head back to bend over his mouth, exposing the long vulnerable curve of his throat. Wont this bring down the Host? Sam asked softly, half mesmerised. Let it, Castiel growled low into the corner of his brothers mouth. Were done hiding. Honey, I love it when you go all caveman like that, Gabriel drawled. Castiel shut him up. It lasted less than a minute, all told. Time seemed to stretch itself out far longer than that, though, syrup-slow in air that crackled lazy and hot. Castiels body lit up radiant, making Sams skin crawl with little shivers of electricity; pale light arched like slow lightning between him and the sky; and everything centred on the brilliant white glare of power bleeding out between the slow press and slide of the angels mouths. Sam suspected Gabriel of deliberately making it filthier than it had to be, for Sams benefit. Then Gabriel made a tiny noise into Castiels mouth, startlingly unsteady and human in the midst of the ethereal light display, and bunched his hand in the collar of Castiels jacket. Little glowing shocks rippled over his face, his hand, the little slice of skin just above his belt where his shirt had ridden up, then he exploded. Gold and fierce white rushed out of him like the breaking of a dam, sharp and indiscriminate and full of life. Sam staggered under the pressure, clung to reality, set his feet firm and square on the ground, and looked into the heart of it with open eyes. Saw the tattered wings shake out and fill with golden light, with the joyous strength not of Heavens grace, but of Gabriels soul. As the impossible glare ebbed, the archangel turned his head. Looked at Sam with eyes like the heat of the sun. Sam took a deep, careful breath, narrowed his eyes in a pointed glare, and prayed. Gabriel. Hi there. This doesnt change anything. You run away again, I will hunt you down and make you sorry. You know I can. Gabriel tossed back his head and laughed, warm and possessive and absolutely filthy, the little bitch. Then he pressed his forehead against Castiels, too tight not to hurt, and

folded them both firm and safe in half-human wings that now shimmered through with gold. Sam didnt catch what Gabriel whispered fierce and sweet and repentant against his brothers cheek, but he heard the soft vow in Castiels murmured reply. I would have come to find you, Gabriel. If Id known. I know. Gabriel stepped back, grinning at him, and the Host began to descend. Stiffshouldered individuals balanced precariously all around the cemetery, blinking wonder and hope and confusion, wearing suits and jeans and saris and whatever else their vessels had dragged on the morning before their lives had been put on pause. Then, the shrill vibrating whine of a voice, another voice, and the burgeoning gleam of angels in their true forms. Sam clapped his hands over his ears and, when Gabriel quirked an eyebrow in his direction, shook his head with a grimace. Gabriel spun on his heel and flicked his wings open, command falling onto him like a cloak, and brought his hands together in a ringing clap. Okay, folks, heres how this is going to go. He didnt shout he didnt need to. His voice was just louder, rich and resonant, rolling out over the headstones and trees and through the assembled angels, and down the hills and valleys until Sam swore they could hear him in Missouri. There are humans down here, remember? Anyone who aint in a vessel can shift their pretty little metaphysical ass right back up to the royal box. Promise well take this show on tour. Scouts honour. Shoo. The sharp pressure on Sams eyes and ears fled like it had tucked its tail between its legs. He cautiously lowered his hands. Scout? Gabriel tipped him a wink. Back in the seventies, sure. Should have seen those cookies. Castiel moved then, striding forward upright and sure into the centre of the cemetery. And Gabriel may have glowed, Gabriel may have shone with the greater heavenly power, but to anyone with the basic wit to see it, Castiel carried himself like a visionary, like a general, like someone you sure as hell did not want to fuck with. Like Dean, Sam thought, very quietly. Only, not quite. A little like Dean, but with all of Castiels faith, and all of his crafty and bloody-minded persistence. The angels eyes followed him, a little puzzled, some questioning, some hopeful, some openly hostile. Sam took note of those. Michael and Lucifer have both chosen the Pit, Castiel pronounced, crisp and clear. The Apocalypse was not Gods will. More importantly, it was not the will of those He created in His own image, and who belong in this world more truly than we ever have. There was a pause, like half of the crowd wasnt sure whether this was rebellion or blasphemy or madness, and the other half was waiting to see what the long-lost archangel would do.

Then Gabriels wing brushed lightly against Sams arm, like a tease, and the archangel stepped forward, and went down on one knee in front of Castiel. A soft rustling breath passed around the cemetery, like a murmur of surprise would feel if it had no words and no casual voices to express itself. Then one angel followed, sank to her knee, pressed dust into the precise crease of her formal black slacks. Then another, and another, folding down onto the grass and the soil and the sleek dark slabs of the graves, a wave of promise and devotion. Until finally the last angels standing obeyed the mass of their companions, and knelt. Sam was watching Castiels face too closely to miss the soft intake of breath, the rapid flicker of surprise, then gratification, then dismay. And okay, so free will chez Winchester didnt tend to involve much kneeling. But Sam suspected Gabriel kind of had a sneaky point here. How did you explain freedom to angels, to creatures who had only ever served a hierarchy? If you wanted them to listen, they had to obey first. They had to know it was alright to obey, and who was in charge if they did. Stand up, Castiel said, gentler now and quietly passionate. As if he was remembering his family, speaking to each one there, and not to a mass of semi-hostile strangers. We were built to be soldiers, when our Father had need of soldiers. We were built to follow, when he gave us clear orders to be followed, and we learned that we need never answer for anything that we did. He took a careful breath, a breath that he didnt need for his body, but that Sam thought he might now, for the assurance of habit and humanity. But times have changed. Our Father has changed. So must we.

Winging it.
Dean was halfway across Missouri when an obnoxious archangel materialised on the previously unremarkable road in front of him. Deans reflexes werent really at their best, what with everything, so it was probably a good thing that the mocking illusion vanished just before Dean ploughed right through where hed been standing, to the protesting sound of his babys brakes. Unfortunately, the sudden hard swerve, the effects of exhaustion and hours of carefully blanked despair, followed by a shock of adrenalin, had her wheels spinning off the side of the road. Not just off the road. Right into the path of the little spinney of maples that was really inconveniently placed right where Dean needed to swing her poor nose back around into the safety of the roads shoulder.

Cmon baby, work with me here.

Prayers to his car always worked a hell of a lot better than any others Dean had ever tried. He pulled her around, firm and coaxing, and she responded with a throbbing purr that let him know they were fine, hed just swing her right headlamp around the side of this closest trunk, when Dean took his feet off the suddenly inert pedals and sighed. Then he waited for her wheels to stop spinning out in mid-air, two inches off the ground. There was a far-too-cheerful rap against the passenger window. So, remind me again why I let you teach me how to handle one of these things? Dean gritted his teeth, and didnt turn his head. I had it. Thanks. There was a familiar squeak-thump of the door, then the Impala settled comfortably under the weight of a second body right where there really really should not be a second body, not today. Not now. Traitorous car. So, Winchester the elder. Mind telling me why youre haring off like the Coyote with the Roadrunner on his tail in completely the wrong direction? Dean rolled his head sideways and glared flatly at Gabriel. Gabriel quirked one eyebrow at him like the world was fine, like Dean was being an unreasonably moody bastard, like Shit. Like he hadnt heard. Well, screw that. Cicero, Indiana, Dean replied flatly. Got a friend there wholl take me in, give me a shot at a normal life. Let Gabriel figure out the rest himself if he didnt know.

Gabriel was staring at the side of his face. Dean didnt look at him. Waited for him to ask. Should have been there himself, if hed wanted to see how it played out. Might have made a fraction of a difference. Might even have managed to distract Lucifer for thirty seconds longer than Castiel had, or something useless like that. Then Gabriel smacked him around the back of the head. Ow! What the hell, angel? Back at you, Winchester. I look away for five minutes and you turn into the selfish martyr type? Who do you think you are, Harry bloody Potter with his trophy girl for the end of the war? Dean glared a hazy warning glare. Look, screw you, okay? Sammy wanted this. Yeah, and what about the lady in question? She volunteer to be a consolation prize? Christ. Dean dug his knuckles painfully into his eyes. Gabriel, could you just not? Just for once? Hey, Gabriel said, very helpfully. The warmth of his fingers flickered down the nape of Deans neck, never quite touching. Youre kind of a mess, arent you? Didnt you get my message? You mean the message that said dont run away, interesting things happening here? Dean asked, running on his backup sarcasm batteries. Yeah, that was real helpful. Thanks. Gabriel whistled softly through his teeth. Okay, could have been a bit clearer there. Was kind of busy trying to convince Heavens hosts that your little boytoy wasnt a pink bunny target in a shooting range. Shut up, Gabriel. Dean could hear the smirk. Ooh, something happened there, did it? Im fine, okay? he growled. Yeah, sure. Gabriel sounded just as sincere as Sam would, saying exactly the same thing in exactly the same situation. Fine, meaning? Meaning, my brother just fell into the freaking Cage with two of your big brothers, and Cas is off taking on all of his douchebag relatives by himself, but hey, Sammy wants me to keep on going, so thats what Im doing. Im going. And thanks, by the way, he added bitterly. Gabriel made a carefully sardonic noise. Thanks? Dean waved a hand generally in his direction, without looking, because that was too much. Because Sam had wanted For being there for them. Really. Very big of you to remember how to use angel air just in time to miss out on the important shit.

Gabriel hummed, thoughtfully, annoyingly. Dean felt it reverberate through him, drag him out of the screaming blankness inside his own head and into fucking irritated. And of course, who but Gabriel could manage that? So youre going the Harry Potter martyr route because Sam wanted you to do it? Fuck off, Dean muttered originally, and rested his head on the steering wheel. What if I said, Gabriel offered, slow and obscenely gleeful, that Sammy had changed his mind since last you saw him? Dean opened his eyes, very slowly, to stare at the familiar close-up of the Impalas dash under his nose. Oh, and also, if Sammy thought it was a good idea to go jump into a great big hole in the ground with the devil, would you wait, dont answer that. Dean turned his head to stare. Gabriels eyebrows were waggling invitingly, and Dean would have let fly at him for daring to mock him over this, this of all things when hed thought he cared about Sam, except except for the twinkle in his eye, not quite cruel and almost happy? And hang on, what the hell was going on here? Gabriel tipped his head to one side and grinned, positively grinned, full and light and strong, eyes sparkling like amber in front of a warm hearth. And what about my little brother? You think your lady friend would thank you for going all googly-eyed at an angel every time he decided to flutter by? Hardly seems fair on the girl. Gabriel. Deans voice came out choked and dry, pleading. Gabriel just smirked, slow and suggestive and fucking joyful. Want a lift there, Winchester? And Dean should know better, he should so know better, because this could be a shifter or an illusionist or any number of other things and do you want to go to where Sam is was a loaded question if ever he heard one now, but fuck it all if the answer wasnt still, wasnt always Yes. Dammit, Gabriel, yes. Gabriels smirk went soft around the edges, and he leaned forward to press two fingers ever so gently to the centre of Deans forehead. Dean squeezed his eyes shut. You know, tiger, the same familiar voice commented dryly, after a moment, my taste in real estate aint that bad. Dean opened one eye cautiously. He was still in the Impala.

Only instead of the bland highway in central Missouri, he was sitting in a landscape of pale terracotta earth and deep green. All ridged velvety lines of vineyards running in this direction then another, up and down hills, like soft patches of corduroy. I mean, sure, Gabriel went on blithely, a little hot pink all over the dining room walls, faux leopard print instead of tiles on the roof, mandatory hot tubs in every room including the library, sure, I get that. But call me mad, I usually steer away from the sulphur and brimstone theme. Yeah, that was Gabriel alright. Also there was a sprawling cream-coloured villa. With a real terracotta roof. With freaking pencil pines around it. You have a villa. In Tuscany, Dean pointed out carefully, in case Gabriel had missed it. Or this was all some complicated trick. Dont sound so surprised, Winchester. All bought and legally paid for decades ago. Funds of some crooked abusive bastard who spent eighteen years driving his wife and daughter to their deaths and swindling them out of their millions. Now, must be off, thousands of your species in need of clean water and shelter after my big bros delightful little shenanigans. Also there are two tsunamis still converging on the South American and Australian coasts that I should whisper away before they make landfall. Have fun! And Dean was alone in the car. Somewhere in that sprawling Mediterranean-bright house bracketed between the Impalas indicators, his brother was waiting. Apparently. He stared at the scene in front of him, until it blurred into a watercolour of olive-green and grey and terracotta and vineyard verdance and smooth creamy plaster. Oh, and hey, Gabriels voice purred in his ear. Your brother hopped up on postApocalyptic triumph? Fucking hot. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, then glared at the seat beside him. Still empty. Apparently that wasnt worth a manifestation, or whatever the hell they did. Gabriels laughter sounded inside his head. Mine too, by the way. You should ask him about all this. More his kind of deal, the whole rescuing-righteous-men-from-perdition gig. Screw you, angel, Dean put in helplessly, and slammed his way out of the Impala. --Sam was in there. He was busily enthralled in a dictionary of the local dialect. Not a glamour, then.

Dean was sorely tempted to hit something, except that the delighted brilliance of Sams smile, and the honest strength with which he swept Dean up into a hug, and the enthusiasm with which he started going on about Castiel talking round the angels of Heaven, talking for hours, soft and fervent, as Gabriel slid cheerfully into the gaps, slinging his arm around the shoulders of this angel or that, the familiarity and attention of an archangel, and all the time turning his eyes back to Castiel glowing with pride and devotion yeah, okay, so Dean could maybe go with collapsing in a lounge chair by the pool (the freaking Olympic-sized pool, honestly) with a glass of cold wine that Sam had recommended (crinkly-browed and earnest) and that Dean knew nothing about but that tasted like something the Heaven hed believed in as a kid might have made, and watching his little brother real and happy and ridiculously long-limbed like always, telling his story. Just this once. And of course Gabriel hadnt magically provided any swimsuits, so when Sam decided he needed to go for a swim, he had to do it naked. Not that Dean cared, but he was pretty sure Gabriel was watching somewhere. The pervert. Speaking of naked Dude, stop staring at my junk, Sam ordered cheerfully after a moment. Dean blinked, then scowled up at his brother. Not your junk, Sammy. Sam followed his gaze down to the raised red welts on his right hip, then went a bit pink. Oh yeah. From when Gabriel pulled me out. Gabriel? Well, obviously. Huh. Dean went for a swim too. There was a matching handprint on the back of Sams neck. Lucky he had all that stupid hair, because apparently someone hadnt bothered to be discreet when he got grabby. --By the time night came around, nothing had happened. That is, nothing had attacked them. Dean wasnt sure what to make of this. Sam rolled his eyes in that stupidly exaggerated way he had and told him that no angel or human or demon or monster had access to this house and grounds unless Gabriel let them in.

 Which didnt exclude gods, Dean noticed suspiciously. Sam told him to stop being a paranoid bastard and go to bed. Each bedroom had its own wing. Dean was sure the house hadnt looked this big from the outside. Except, well, it had been the home (or a home) of a sneaky archangel/god for at least sixty years, so. Okay. Dean still insisted on sharing a room with Sam. Sam grinned and didnt object. The couch was a hell of a lot more comfortable than most motel beds, anyway. Sam still snored a bit, when he flopped over after the first hour to sleep on his face. It was definitely him. Dean didnt sleep much. Didnt really need to. --There was complete radio silence from anything angelic all the next day. It was confusing, then it was restful, then it was boring, then it was kind of disturbing. Like, well done, you stopped Lucifer and Michael, now go and play in the nice safe dolls house while the adults go off to work. That said, it was a very nice dolls house. Gabriel apparently had expensive tastes and no shame, especially when it came to bedclothes. No wonder shitty motel rooms had made him grouchy. He was also an indiscriminate magpie again, colour Dean completely unshocked. The house was crowded with the oddest assortment of the weird and fascinating. One sideboard in one room, just for a random example, had a ridiculously elegant sculpture of coloured glass, a little Japanese painting of a winged horse, a single white feather, and a giant seashell around which some tree root had grown like an embrace, all ripples and whorls of muscular grey wood. And that was before you even saw the bar. As cages went, the place was pretty gilded. Castiel had promised. Or Dean thought he had. Pressed to the point, something like evasion or desperation. Mouth cracking open, dry and stuttering but so lush inside, pressing forward into Dean all demand and anticipation of grief. Only, where was he now? Important angel business, probably. He lost Sam not long after breakfast to the nefarious and seductive clutches of the library. Which was, by the way, definitely not physically present inside this building. Huge as something youd expect in a university, vaulted like something youd expect in a castle, with those sliding ladders reaching up way over Deans head, it made Sam vibrate between

flaily orgasm noises and little squeaks of distress over how completely and utterly uncatalogued it was. Dean left him to it, and made his own discovery. The little lean-to shelter where hed left the Impala the previous afternoon was now decked out like some restoration workshop for vintage cars, complete with all the right parts. It was about time he gave his baby a good thorough pampering, so Dean decided to let the implied run along and play with your little toys thing slide. What were those angels up to, anyway? Dean wasnt sulking. He wasnt. Hed let his little brother jump into Hell and be rescued and come back magnificent and happy and relaxed and less guilty-looking than Dean had seen him look for three years, and that was all good. Dean was all wise and mature and shit. They went out for dinner. Sam worked out where they were on his laptop and decided that he needed to practise his Italian, so they drove to the nearest town and Dean let Sam stumble earnestly through talking to locals in search of un buon ristorante. Dean just sat down next to some old guy outside a bar and bought him a drink, then they both watched Sams increasingly confused progress with a mutual lazy glee. Manly shrugs, grimacing over embarrassing younger brothers, and basking in the evening sun were apparently an international tongue. Of course, thats my little brother, yesterday morning he was carrying the devil inside him and now hes leaping around goofily trying to explain to some underage Italian chick about traffic lights probably wasnt quite so universal, but Dean was cradling that particular sentiment pretty close anyway. Just in case it broke if he tried to look at it too close. --Gabriel turned up the next morning, with five bottles of lethal-looking mead and a stack of pancakes. Dean punched him in the face, and Gabriel gave him an aggrieved pout and didnt break his hand. Thats for not telling me right the fuck away, Dean informed him. Gabriel kissed him lewd and cheerful on the cheek. So next time dont run off in a sulk before the actions over. Hey Sammyboy, look, I found actual fruit. Sam, sprawled louche and shirtless over some cane outdoor furniture thing, smirked back at him like it was some private joke over the rim of his glass of orange juice, freshly squeezed in the elaborately top-of-the-TV-range kitchen. (Because Sam got private jokes with his angel, and all Dean got was the memory of the soft stubbled skin of Castiels

throat, the way his breath went ragged when Deans fingers brushed almost by accident over the inside of his elbow, the taste and shudder of his breath.) Gabriel stole half the pancakes, draped himself over another sofa like a colourful dramatic rug, and kicked off his boots. So, hey, disaster reliefs fucking exhausting, he observed, like the world had personally offended him with this fact. Really. Sam sounded deadpan and sort of fond, but it was probably hard not to when you were making yourself a stack of delicious pancakes. Dean should test that theory. Gabriel made a face of woe. People are so boring when theyre in shock and all their kids just got blown up. Its depressing. And a few months ago, Dean might have smacked him down for saying something like that, but he thought he might be getting a handle on Gabriel now. After all, if Dean had spent more than forty hours straight seeing to the aftermath of all those earthquakes and mudslides and cyclones Lucifer had kicked off after he jumped Sam, hed probably want to be all irreverent and inappropriate too. Also, never let it be said that Dean could not be bribed with pancakes. Whereve you been? he conceded, sinking back into his own chair with a heaped plate of deliciousness and syrup. Gabriels fingers made a lazy circle in the air over his head, like clicking was too much effort, and the (enormous, flat-screen) television taking up half one wall flicked smoothly on. Dean propped his feet shamelessly up on the arm of Gabriels sofa to watch. di Etna. La nube di ceneri sopra il vulcano s dispersa, e leruzione inaspettata prevista ieri di vulcanologi sembra dessersi calmata, una cosa impossibile secondo i conoscenti. Lerrore si attribuisce a problemi meccanici. Il terremoto di marted scorso vicino a Napoli Dude. English? Dean prompted, around a mouthful of pancake, since Sam was apparently too busy frowning studiously at the television to ask. Heathen, Gabriel mumbled, without heat, and the announcers voice switched smoothly into English. Earthquakes, floods, mudslides, fires, across most of the world. Death tolls expected in six figures. But that was yesterdays news. Today, injured and dying were stabilising or recovering in larger numbers than expected, here and there, scattered across the globe. People believed missing under mud and rubble in China were being found, confused but healthy, a few miles from where theyd last been seen. Mdicins Sans Frontires was cautiously reporting that the shortages expected due to the massive scale of global disaster were not as bad as anticipated they had more resources, more medical supplies and, weirdly, more personnel than their

records had shown. The out-of-season bushfires ravaging south-eastern Australia had all turned back into their own paths, and burned themselves out in the space of a few hours. In two of the places worst hit by earthquakes, the scattered corpses (hundreds of them or more) had been piled up overnight well away from where anyone was living and burned in one great pyre, with a record of their names and ages carved into the rock beside the ashes. And there were many camps of disaster victims across the world who had refused aid because aid had already arrived, though in the confusion no one was quite sure where the water tanks and trucks full of other supplies had arrived from. Someone had mentioned anonymous donors, which seemed as good an explanation as any, and of course people had more important things to think about just now. It wasnt everywhere, not yet. There was a hell of a long way to go. But it was a start. It was a pretty damned good start. Dean didnt notice his hands were shaking until the slice of pancake wobbled off his motionless fork and fell back onto the plate with a sorry little plop. Sam was white and grim. All by yourself? Dean asked quietly. The soft purple cotton of Gabriels shirt hitched and wrinkled against the arm of the sofa as he shrugged. I have minions. About a dozen. Clueless little brats, but they mostly leave me free to do the heavy lifting. Sam nodded tightly at the television. Etna? Yeah, like Etna. Bit above your average seraphs paygrade, plugging that up. You okay there, Sasquatch? Sam tore his eyes away from the screen with an obvious effort, and shot a hunted sort of a look in Gabriel and Deans general direction. Mostly. Guess I just thought it was over, you know? Hey. Gabriel tossed a strawberry at Sam. It landed neatly in the centre of his plate. It is over. Its done. Lucys in timeout. Just left us all his smashed toys to tidy up after him, because he always was a little bitch like that. His voice was light in a dont-you-dare-argue-with-me sort of way, and Dean could have kissed him for the way he could just scoop up all Sams guilt and dump it without even a question right where it belonged. Sam took in a little breath, then let it out, less shaky. Okay. So, um. Someones going to notice, arent they? I mean, all this is way, way beyond Yeah, well. Gabriels teeth flashed in the flicker of the television screen, bright and set and dangerous. I figure were kind of past subtlety at this point, dont you? Uh, guys? Dean waved his fork at the television. Speaking of subtlety.

 potential biological attack, calling himself an angel of the lord. Refugees in the camp say that he promised them the barrel would, quote, never run dry, and that the water would always be pure and untainted. Those refugees who did drink from the barrel before authorities could confiscated it claimed that the water was clean and fresh, and preliminary tests on site suggested that it was free of any known water-borne diseases, but police attempts to locate the man for further questioning have been unsuccessful. The barrel has been removed for thorough analysis. Fuck. Gabriels head fell back hard against the arm of the chair, knocking into Deans boot. Raniyel. And these, ladies and gentlemen, are Heavens most canny when it comes to mingling down here in the cheap seats. Guys, Ive got to go. Dean looked at the slump of Gabriels shoulders just tired now, not dramatic at all and at the fretful knot of Sams hands between his knees. So much for Sam having a rest. Okay. He put his fork back on his plate with a deliberate clink, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. How can we help? Which is how Dean came to find himself teaching another earnest young angel not to hold his Red Cross badge upside down. --But we are performing miracles, in the name of our Father. Haliel was intense and stoic, in a way that Dean suspected actually meant he was thrilled and terrified to be helping on earth for the first time in a few millennia. It was kind of painful, but there were definitely angels out there with worse attitudes. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. Okay, first? Probably best to leave the big guy out of it, yeah? We still dont know what hes up to or what he cares about, if anything. Do your miracles in the name of the people you save. Or, hell, Cas, if that rocks your boat. Secondly dude, its not a miracle if theres some guy standing there telling you he did a miracle. Thats just an argument. You gotta let people find out for themselves and get all worked up about it so they can decide its a miracle on their own because theres no other explanation. Sorry, but thats how humans work. The angels big dark eyes went wide and soft, like a wounded deer. But you know we exist. You tell stories about us. Yeah. Were great at stories. Heres another: you, me, sewerage workers. Lets go. ---

The next week flitted by in a blur of third-world scenes and a babble of different languages. Gabriel had them working with different angels every day, and Deans crash course in look-normal-and-let-people-fill-in-the-blanks got polished to a T. They all meant so well, but seriously had Castiel ever been that nave? Or was it just that Castiel had always had conviction, in one thing or another, and these angels had no idea where the script had gone? It turned out that Raniyel had a sly little sense of humour that made Dean ache for someone elses. Rachel had a stern idea of justice and habit of speaking out to ask questions that made Dean suspect she would, eventually, take to this whole thinking-foryourself idea in a kind of terrifying way. Sarafael found facial expressions fascinating, kept tripping over his own feet unless he was distracted because he was confused by his vessels legs, and was surprisingly good with kids. The days stretched out longer than they probably should have, because they were jumping about in and out of different time zones and neither of them wanted to go to bed until they were stumbling on their feet, until they were completely useless and consented to be zapped back to Gabriels house to crash. And, yeah, it was exhausting, it was draining, it was confronting and terrifying, but they were helping. It was working. Finally, after a lifetime of not being able to fix things after the damage was done, Dean always had a pointand-shoot angel at his side: a powerful, earnestly benevolent creature who would listen to Dean telling him (or her) what people needed, how it could be fixed, how they could make things better. They saw Gabriel, now and then, fluttering by to check in for a minute or two, always grinning and casually bossy when the other angels were around. Hed turn up for longer, though, when they were alone at the house, sometimes for as long as half an hour; and there, hed be sharp and sarcastic, or warm, or grouchy, or genuinely amused, like he was comfortable. Like he needed the break from being a leader. Castiel never showed, though. Sam was getting quietly impatient with having Dean on his couch when they had a whole house to themselves, probably because he was hoping to get up to athletic naked things with grinning short archangels. Dean eventually, cautiously, chose another bedroom, though not having Sam close by meant he woke up sweating and strangled in thousandthread-count sheets more often than not. But that was his own problem, and he wasnt about to go knocking on Sams door in the middle of the night like a kid who thought there were monsters in the cupboard. A non-Winchester kid, anyway. Also Dean was getting some serious blue balls here. Because whenever he wasnt dreaming about bad crap he was dreaming about really good crap, and this time he had the visuals and the sounds and the feel of him to remember, and no boner-killing horror getting in the way.

And Dean wasnt blind, so he couldnt really miss the way Sam would light up when Gabriel appeared, all broad grins and happiness, or the way his eyes always flicked over in Gabriels direction as soon as the angel spoke, or moved, or smiled, or just if he hadnt looked that way for a while. It was also pretty near impossible to miss the way Gabriel did the same thing. Sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, his eyes would follow Sam with this soft, wondering sort of expression, like he couldnt really believe he was allowed to be here, like this. It was all sort of ridiculously gooey, but Dean was a good brother, and didnt say anything. And so here they were, with Gabriel and Sam doubled over laughing at something completely ridiculous, with Dean trying his hardest to keep his scowl straight and tell the archangel that he was so not funny. Sweetcheeks, Im hilarious and you love me. And the wink and the leer were so over-the-top, and Dean was so exhausted, that he just had to crack up, which of course sent Sam into renewed gales of laughter. Sam, not in a hole, alive and leaning back in his chair, one bare foot kicked forward against the table, ridiculous hair falling over his hand as he covered his face and laughed with a freedom he hadnt had for years. And yes, okay, Dean could give Gabriel that. --Of course, when Castiel did eventually show his face, it wasnt to talk to Dean. It was, apparently, to yell at Gabriel. Dean padded quietly through the darkened villa, managing to avoid all Gabriels weird clutter even though he seemed to like leaving big decorative things around all the doors, following the low pissed-off growl of Castiels voice. agreed, Gabriel. They deserve rest. Gabriels voice was quick and determined, like hed already planned his arguments. Like he thought Castiel was worth convincing. Ythink I wouldnt rather be doing this alone? Dont get me wrong, I love the guys upstairs well, some of them but kind of clingy, yeah? Theres too much for just me right now, little sparrow. I need them we need them and that means we need Sam and Dean. Gabriel, Castiel murmured, tired and warning. You want them learning humanity off me? From the outside? You wanna do this right, sweetheart, they gotta learn humans from humans, and you know it. Sam and Dean are exhausted, to the depths of their souls. I cant ask them

Have you tried? Gabriel raised his voice. Hey, Dean, has he tried? Sneaky demanding little bitch. Like he didnt know the answer. Dean moved forward the last couple of steps, to lean in the frame of the kitchen door where the light from the lamp fell low and yellow. Not a word. Castiel turned his aggrieved expression on Dean instead. He was looming pointedly over the chair of a completely unconcerned Gabriel, and his trench coat (incongruous over jeans and a dark green tee) was thick with sea muck. Dean lifted his eyebrows sarcastically. Hi, honey. Rough day at the office? Castiel glanced down at his clothes like hed forgotten about them, then frowned them clean. There was a pair of hydras in the Caspian Sea. Of course there was. Gabriel graciously took one foot off the table long enough to kick out a chair. Hey there tiger. Sit down. Tell little bro here its the polite thing to do among human-shaped objects. Sure. Why not. The chair legs scraped loud over stone in the quiet air. You gonna join us, Cas? Castiel blinked and took a soft, deliberate step backwards. And now he was doing that thing where he tried to avoid Deans eyes again. What the hell? I should Yeah. Busy, right? Even though Castiel had promised Dean not to just disappear. Bobby will probably want me to Dean sat forward. Hold on, Bobby? Gabriel snapped himself up a bright blue cocktail. Hate to shoot you in the foot if youre looking for a handy exit line, kitten, but when Singer wants you youll know about it. Whats Bobby got to do with anything? Dean demanded again. Castiel turned his exasperated frown of everyone-around-me-is-a-disappointment on Gabriel. The angle of his jaw stood out dark and rough against the smooth pale skin of his collarbone. You didnt tell them? Gabriel arched one eyebrow delicately. Not exactly been flush with free time over here. Id say that particular snippet rates somewhere below, oh, the collapse of all the tunnels in the London tube network on the priority list. Also? I might have sort of supposed that you would have mentioned it. Up until the point where someone else, and I believe hes even sitting right in this room, mentioned that you havent dropped by for so much as tea and biscuits.

And hadnt that been an awkward conversation to accidentally provoke. Although, that explained what had woken Dean up just now. Hed thought hed smelt candy. Meddling sneaky bitch. Castiels hands closed careful and tight over the back of the chair in front of him, warm and deeply shadowed in the lamplight. Dean. Bobby has kindly expanded and refined his usual nation-wide searches to cover the globe. Your methods of communication and information-gathering are, for some purposes, far more efficient than ours; so I, and a small contingent of other trustworthy soldiers, have been chasing down his leads to quell all the unusual supernatural activity stirred up, deliberately or otherwise, by recent events. Wow. Dean had to chuckle a bit at that. Because, Bobby coordinating a crack team of angel hunters? Thatd keep him happy. Castiel ducked his head, and a tiny smile played at the corner of his mouth. He does seem to be enjoying himself, yes. So, gotta ask, Cas. Why Bobby and not us? Bobby can fight from the safety of his kitchen. Castiels gaze was steady and bright and far too sincere for that to be the whole story. Yeah, sure. And? Dean. Castiel sighed, let the name escape his mouth like a mistake. As you no doubt heard. I was reluctant to ask you or your brother to put your lives on the line again, so soon, for something that I and my angels should be able to handle ourselves. (My angels. Wow. So, okay, Dean had already known that Castiel was more or less running the place, but the brusque sort of way he said that, and the sharp powerful line of his shoulders against the black gleam of the window behind him yeah, definitely hot.) Dean shifted surreptitiously, and sternly lectured certain parts of his body on appropriate reactions at appropriate moments. Help me out here, Gabriel put in, poking curiously at something orange and squashy in his glass. Im pretty sure there was this whole Apocalypse thing not so long ago that got fought out over the whole question of getting to make your own choices. Just trying to remember which side of it these two crazy kids came down on. And wow, Castiel really had been hanging around Sam too much, because that was one epic bitchface. Gabriel. I know these boys. They are incapable of saying no to such a request, regardless of personal cost. To ask would be unfair. Dean leaned forward, lowered his head until Castiel had no choice but to raise his and meet Deans eyes. You know us. Okay. Just how restful do you think it is for us, sitting around doing nothing? Castiels eyes narrowed, like he was confused and intrigued all at once, and it was a good look on him, Dean thought, helplessly besotted. He overrode the

response he could see building behind Castiels eyes, and laid down, warm and firm, You know whats a rest for me now, Cas? Not having Michael and Lucifer hanging over us. Knowing that Sam will still be Sam at the end of every day. Fixing things I can fix. This, what were doing with Gabriel and his gang? Its good. Really good. Okay? Castiel was staring at him with dark eyes like he was willing him to lie down, be soothed, be inert, which, screw that. You should not have to keep giving of yourselves in this way. Yeah, well. I aint dead yet, angel. Dean leaned back and grinned at broad and happy into intent blue eyes, because this was his life, and this was good. And for the first time in he couldnt remember how long he wasnt just living from day to day, wasnt just hoping to survive another minute, another hour, keep his little brother together for another week. It almost felt like he might be able, just for a little, to keep it. Apparently not, Castiel murmured, and smiled, just a tiny thing, private and awkward, but it lit Dean up inside like eggnog at Christmas, or something poetic like that. Then he stepped back, and his shoulders resettled in that subtle way that always meant he was just about to take off. Cas. Stop. Dean leaned forward over the table and grabbed his wrist. Castiel looked down at the fingers wrapping around his skin like a strange and inexplicable thing. Seriously, Cas. Dean squeezed, just gently, felt the tips of his fingers pressing against muscle and unbreakable bone. Why the radio silence? I mean, busy, sure, I get that, but that doesnt mean you cant stop by here and there, just to check in. I could ask you the same question. Castiels eyes slid up to his, dark and inexorable, sweet and potent as honey. Deans eyes flickered sideways to the chair where Gabriel had been, and when had he vanished without even one last quip? You have Sam back, Castiel pushed, gentle and almost curious in his detachment. You have no further need of me. And you have not called. Not once, though your brother prays to Gabriel hourly or more. What should I make of that, Dean? The last few words dropped, stark and unaccusing, onto the table between them. Okay, you know what? Screw this. Dean shoved his chair back and was around the table in three steps, pushing right into Castiels space. Look. If youre trying to let me down gentle or something, fuck that. Just tell me. I get it, man, I do, end of the world, going out with a bang, wanting to grab at something before you lose it. Been there, you know? But if youre done Castiels hand closed over Deans mouth, too soft to be ignored. And his eyes, his face, were right there, warm and powerful inches away from Deans body.

Why must you always assume, Castiel purred, impatient and way way too close and hell yes come closer, that the eve of an apparently hopeless battle is a new experience for me? Dean huffed half-heartedly, busy mapping and memorising the pattern of long lashes, which ones knotted with their neighbours and which ones stood soft and dark and free. Well, excuse me for not taking advantage of a guy when hes The tips of long, elegant fingers pressed cautiously against the swell of Deans lower lip. I am not a child, Dean. I know my own mind, and I stand by my choices. Fuck, Cas. He sighed out on a shudder, felt the bruising heat of fingertips slide just over into the moistness in front of his teeth. Why do we always end up in an argument here? The fingers quivered, and vanished. Dean pressed forward after them, itching to touch, rubbed his nose against the rough, breathlessly amused velvet of Castiels cheek, relished the heat of his thigh sliding carefully against the outside of his angels, and what the hell was he doing? Dean, Castiel rumbled, stern and tolerant, like he still had questions and accusations but all the urgency had gone out of them. You have never once given a sign that you wanted me to stay. I made you promise to stay! Castiels other hand slid up over the waist of his sleep pants, spanned his naked back broad and hot and strong, making questions irrelevant. Yes, when you thought you would lose your brother. Forgive me if Id rather be something more than a crutch. Dean gave in, just a little lifted his hand and touched, heat of skin under cotton, drew three fingers down over the corrugation of ribs to rest in the hollow of Castiels hip. Cas. Deans lips murmured the silent sound of skin on skin under Castiels ear, all independent of his deliberate voice. This is me. You think if a guy kisses me and I dont like it, Im just going to sit there all meek and mild and not tell him to back the hell off? Castiels breath hitched. Then he went very still. Bobby is praying to me. Deans fingers bit in warm and tight just above a bony elbow. Oh, no, Cas, dont you dare. If you want me, Dean, you know how to call me. The air was empty and cool. Fuck.

--Slipped out, did he? Dean looked up. Gabriel was a grey and purple shadow between the pines. Hey. Arent there lives you should be saving? Could be. But, hey, youre not the only guy who gets to care about his family. Right. Dean caught the cold beer that Gabriel held out, and took a swig. He cant be serious, can he? Dont think little bro ever leaned to joke about things like that, kiddo. You either, Im guessing. After a minute, the toe of his boot bumped sort of gently against the arch of Deans bare foot. You gonna call him? Dean balanced the bottle carefully on his knee. So you and Sammy? I dont know. Up to him. You ever ask him? The corner of Gabriels mouth curled, sharp and rueful in the shadows. Touch, Winchester. --After a couple of hours of pacing the vineyards and thinking, Dean prayed. It was kind of long and rambling, and really embarrassing, but there were some things that were easier to get out when the person in question wasnt right there in front of you, staring at you with sharp blue eyes that never missed a thing. Also, it offered the sort of cowardly option of pretending the other person was too busy to hear you. Castiel didnt come. But when Dean woke up in the morning, there was a soft black feather, longer than his forearm and rimmed with deep gold, lying on the pillow beside his head.

eodrdene.
[n] (Middle English, also spelt thedreden): fellowship. From Old English od (a body of persons forming some kind of group, or a group/order of angels) + rden (in this context, a settled order or direction).

Sam wasnt presuming. Just because a guy pulls you out of the Pit, just because he kisses you afterwards while still human enough to be affected by things like adrenalin and endorphins, didnt mean he wanted to pursue anything serious or balanced or long-term. Especially when said guy had a habit of flirting with everything that moved, and a history of running away when things (family things) got hairy. Anyway. Sam was pretty sure Gabriel didnt actually know what he wanted, or if he was even really welcome. He knew he himself had been getting into the habit of overlooking those parts of Gabriel that he wasnt really comfortable with, that didnt seem to fit. The bits that made him run away when things got too close, or the way he got all sharp and dangerous when the world didnt conform to his sense of justice. Sam had been using the excuse that he didnt have time, what with the whole Apocalypse business, but it wasnt working: every time he thought hed managed to ignore them, theyd show up again, and hed end up angrier than before. And if this was going to work, on whatever level, he needed to look them in the face, even if he didnt much like what he saw. When he thought about them though, really thought, those bits probably made sense. Sam thought he might be able to learn to understand them. So, yeah, that kiss in the cemetery hadnt meant anything. Well, it had meant a lot, but nothing like a promise or anything. Nothing that said this is what I want, this is where we should go. That bit was up to Sam. So, yeah, I cant actually ditch you now. 1800 angel speed dial I could lose the phone, but youd always be able to pray me up whenever you wanted. Sam gave him a very sceptical look from under his hair. You want to ditch us? Nah, youre kind of like Winchester mould. Long tendrils. Or maybe icebergs. If icebergs could grow on people. Actually, they probably could grow on me, if I let them. That might be an interesting experiment. You know, if I ever felt like going undercover again. I just mean, dont be too quick to braid forever bracelets or whatever, because you dont actually need me hanging around in order to get hold of me if youre in a tight spot, or something.

Sam blinked at him in what he felt was a very patient way. Gabriel was sitting crosslegged in the middle of a supply tent, glowing faintly, while Sam guarded the door. There were too many seriously wounded in this city for the usual individual angelic touch, so theyd called Gabriel in to do some area-effect mass healing thing, which apparently took a lot of concentration and power and left him pretty drained for a few hours. Seemed like that didnt mean he couldnt chatter complete bullshit while he was doing it, though. Gabriel. We want you around, okay? Gabriel flapped one hand cheerfully. Oh, for now, sure. But you know, youve got this whole tight little band of brothers thing going on, and Ive got this sexy mysterious lone wolf vibe. Gabriel Plus, you might not have noticed yet but Im kind of loud and obnoxious, and thats when Im in a good mood. Youre impossible, Sam sighed. Exactly! Gabriel beamed at him, like Sam had just brought home an A on his report card. So Sam kissed him. Covered the space between them in a couple of steps, sank down across his lap, and slid his mouth gentle and insistent over Gabriels. It was brief, and close, and all slippery-sticky from the candy that Gabriel had been eating earlier, and when he pulled back Sams breath was hitching tight and sweet in his chest, and Gabriel was looking at him with this weird stunned attention. Sam glared at him, a so there sort of glare, and Gabriels mouth twitched a bit, candyred and promising. Then he cocked his head on one side, and just said, Huh. And that was it, for then. They didnt discuss it. But that afternoon, when they ran into each other again in Dubai, Gabriel winked, and called him sugar. Sam rolled his eyes, grinned back past a bemused Rachel, and called him honeypie. Gabriels eyebrows climbed, like he hadnt expected Sam to rise to a challenge, and it was so on. Gabriel called Sam sugarnipples. Sam called Gabriel munchkin. Gabriel called Sam a delicate little passionfruit flower. Sam called Gabriel dreamboat. Gabriel called Sam eye candy. Sam started using all the most ludicrous pick-up lines hed ever heard across hundreds of skeezy bars. Gabriel capped them all with replies that ranged from lewd to corny. Sam retorted with the mediaeval pick-up lines* hed stumbled across when he was trying to teach himself Middle English. Gabriel grabbed his ass. Sam trailed his fingers softly over the nape of Gabriels neck when he got up from the table. Gabriel did it back,
* http://houseoffame.blogspot.com/2006/05/to-kalamazoo-wyth-love.html

only it still counted as oneupmanship because apparently the handprint hed left there was really, really sensitive to Gabriels touch. So next time he passed him, Sam dropped a kiss on the back of his neck. Then Gabriel licked his collarbone, which should probably have been gross or silly and definitely not hot at all, and if Sam was ever asked he was putting the undignified yelp down to that. Gabriel ate maple taffy in a really really explicit way in the middle of a job in Hawaii. Sam dove into the sea off Fiji to cool down, while wearing a thin cotton shirt which he kept wearing afterwards. In Sichuan, Gabriel kept casually putting his hand on Sams thigh to demonstrate a point, only it was ever so slightly higher each time. Sam dropped completely innocent double entendres into every single sentence throughout three whole hours in burnt-out Gippsland. Deans smirk became a semi-permanent fixture whenever he was around them. It was actually, the most sheer fun Sam had had in a long time. Definitely the most fun flirting had ever been. --Becky was terrifying. Apparently the energy and sheer rabid organisational skill needed to do whatever she did on the internet (which Sam did not need to know about) translated really well into Getting Things Done when there was actually something worth doing, using exactly the same channels. Sam did start up a feed with the activities of all the official disaster relief organisations out there to route to Gabriels phone, so they could get a feel for where human efforts were concentrated, which areas were the worst hit, which were the hardest for humans to get to, and so on. It took him five hours, and was still fairly clunky, especially with all the big blank patches that were all over the internet now. And Sam was good at this sort of thing. But Becky had rung him three days after Stull, babbling about the appearance of Chucks final manuscript on her desk or something, and also about epic love and OTPs and pulling people out of Hell and was there anything she could do to help because the next town over was a giant crater and more than half her friends across the world had vanished from the internet and also most of the internet had vanished from the internet but she knew people, and She made Gabriel a better feed in half an hour. She harnessed the terrifying power of Twitter (which was apparently unkillable) to start a network of terrifying efficiency containing volunteers across the globe with a bewildering array of skills. Sam, cautiously, at Gabriels delighted insistence, gave her the names of two of the more self-possessed angels to call on and well, order about. To take those human skills where they were needed, and lend extra juice where that was needed.

Which meant that, when they worked out that the reason so many lines of communication were down across the world was that every single satellite that had been over the southern hemisphere approximately two hours after Sam had said yes had spontaneously decided to spin out of orbit, Becky knew people with the equipment and expertise to spot most of them. And she knew angels to fetch them back. And other people to repair them, or tell the angels how the irreparable bits needed to work so they could mojo them back into shape, and then other people to say where and how to get them into the sky again. (Becky saved the internet. Sam still wasnt sure her motives were entirely pure, but she did it.) People were working with angels. Only on a tiny scale, and when most of them were still too grim-faced and stunned to actually stop and question the whole fabric of the universe or anything, but it was working. --So, Gabriel was cheerfully comfortable with dirty, but he was more than a bit awkward with sweet. He had a kimono-style robe which he liked to wear when he was draping himself loudly all over the house. It was a beautiful thing, rich reds and soft browns and golds, all abstract swirls and little tiny creatures hidden in the corners, and to Sam it was a thing of distant, exotic wonder, too soft and delicate, not the sort of thing anyone in his life ever actually wore. The day after Sam caught himself sending it slightly awed sideways glances, he found another one draped over his bed in the morning longer and broader, obviously, a slightly different style, blues and browns and greens with faint threads of emerald running through their depths. It was far and away the most luxurious item of clothing Sam had ever owned, and it felt odd on him, like he was something graceful and elegant, rather than a hard-edged gawky Kansas kid who was going to die bloody and young (and in fact already had, several times). When he tried to thank Gabriel, though, the angel snickered and made a lewd comment about silk and certain parts of Sams anatomy, then took to wearing his own around the place without anything underneath. Even on jobs. Which, given there were slits up the sides as high as his upper thighs, was very distracting, and more than a bit tempting. Gabriel had really good thighs. ---

You know that whole language of flowers thing? Dean slurred vaguely, from behind his mug of Gabriels experimental mead. Sam raised his head, very slowly. Because this sounded potentially terrifying. Dyou think for angels theres, like a language of feathers? Sam stared. And carefully, very carefully, didnt ask. Dude ask an angel. Dean made a small disgruntled noise into his cup. About half an hour later, when they were both more than a little bit drunk, Dean leaned over and said conspiratorially, So, come on, you totally should. The guy told me back in Nebraska he hasnt been laid in thirty-four years, and, dude, I dont even want to think about how long its been for you, but youve had totally-need-to-get-laid face for months. Seriously? The way you two keep staring at each other? Im talking exploding balls, any day now. Dean was a complete girl when he drank, honestly. Also a hypocrite. And that idea definitely did not keep coming back to Sam at inappropriate moments. (Thirty-four years? Really? That was longer than Dean had existed.) --It turned out that, because Gabriel was a spoiled brat, he wasnt above abusing awesome cosmic powers to be a cocktease. Gabriel. There was a soft puff of amused air against the back of Sams neck. Why do you always blame me? Gabriel asked with interest. Sam turned around, moving carefully in the confined space, and tried to get a convincing glare going. It was kind of har- difficult, with Gabriels face beaming up at him all open and happy and filthily suggestive. Still. Stuck in a revolving door. A glass revolving door. With the rest of the world mysteriously frozen outside. And an archangel who had just mysteriously turned up right behind him, in a very small space that was all corners. Because Im not stupid, Sam pointed out reasonably. Gabriel made a small thoughtful noise, like that was a fair point, and slid a little bit closer. Also, Sam felt obliged to say, there are some things I should be doing here. Like fast-tracking this definitely completely legal paperwork. Because we cant sneakily speed up

the construction of a pipeline to get clean water back into Arizona unless people actually start, you know, the construction of a pipeline to get clean water back into Arizona. Mm. Gabriels hands curled smoothly over Sams hips. Knew there was a reason I dumped all that human infrastructure mess on that big throbbing Stanford brain. By which I mean, Sam elaborated helpfully, skimming his hand lightly down Gabriels side while being backed into a handily available corner, that this could be, technically, considered to be kind of wasting time. Technically, Gabriel purred just under his ear, sliding his foot along the outside of Sams, times only a-wasting while the clocks still ticking. Oh. Hence the frozen street outside. Well, that made sense. In a Gabriel kind of way. Brat, Sam breathed hot into his throat. Then he curled his hand warm and broad around the side of Gabriels neck, tilted his jaw to one side with his thumb, and nipped a deliberate line up from his collarbone to the stubbled corner under his ear. Because hed already worked out that Gabriel had a throat thing, and was so not above abusing that knowledge. Gabriels breath went loose and shaky. Like hed only just worked out that, when you were in a small triangular space, it wasnt actually very tricky for the other person to shove you into a corner in return. Sam did it, one brief messy tumble, bracketing him in between Sams arms and pinning his legs behind his, leaning forward over him so the whole of his smaller frame was surrounded by two cool panes of glass, and Sam. And, judging by the way his body went all shocked-pliant and his eyes were all wide and hungry with it, Gabriel really didnt mind being manhandled. Interesting. Sam smiled, dark and intent, as Gabriels hands traced up his chest, exploring, like he couldnt stay still for a moment. Then he lowered his own head slowly, so Gabriel could see it coming, and touched his lips very gently to the corner of his eye; to the ridge of his cheekbone; to the edge of his mouth. Gabriels head moved, just slightly, just enough, and Sams mouth slipped into place, warm and sweet. He felt the sigh against his lips as Gabriels mouth opened, easy and hopeful; felt the tips of his fingers trail up to rest on Sams collarbone; felt for a moment the hot flicker of his tongue. Then there was the curve of a familiar smirk against his mouth, and he knew, even before Gabriel melted away through the glass like it was nothing. The world started moving again. So apparently they were upping the ante.

--Castiel dropped by, fleeting as ever, when Sam and Gabriel and Haliel were in Syria, to warn Gabriel of a faint lead on Raphaels whereabouts. Gabriel just tipped his head back and looked at Castiel for a minute, like he was trying to work out what he wanted, then shook his head. If he doesnt show in the next two weeks Ill go a-hunting, but not before. Im not going to hound him if he dont want to be found. Castiel frowned at that. Raphael is bitter, he pronounced delicately, in a way that managed to sound like insane and dangerous. Gabriel flashed him a grin, bright and stubborn. Then he needs me too. --The next day, in Boston, wasnt encouraging, and Sam was pretty sure it set back Sarafaels faith in humanity by miles. Sam was humiliated on his species (and countrys) behalf, sickened that his time was being wasted on injuries and distress caused deliberately by humans to other humans at a time like this, and really fucking annoyed. Under the harsh shadows of floodlights, Sam looked around at the variety of belligerent, uncertain, and curious faces scattered between the makeshift tents, at the eleven stubborn and self-righteous bastards in front of him, at the two kids bleeding in Sarafaels lap and gasping air back into lungs that had been punctured by their own ribs just a few moments before, at the devastated incomprehension on the angels face. Then he pressed his hands together, bowed his head, and prayed visibly and loudly. There was a journalist over there, beckoning frantically to her cameraman. Sam didnt give a shit. Oh Gabriel, Archangel of the Lord, Herald of the Father, Bearer of Justice, Seneschal of the Heavenly Plane, I beseech you to grant us five minutes of your time. And please, make an entrance, he added silently. Judging by the expressions of the small crowd staring over his shoulder, Gabriel caught it. Hey, kiddo. Whats going on? Gabriel. Sam spun on his heel, slid his hand warmly around to claim the back of Gabriels neck, and bent his head. It was firm and deliberate, an insistent slide of mouth against mouth in a way that couldnt be mistaken for chaste, nor for casual. Especially not

with the way Gabriels body followed his lead and swayed into it, into Sam, burrowing familiar and hungry against his chest. This is me, it said. This is us, and this is what we do. When Sam pulled back, he spoke loud and clear, a few inches from Gabriels faintly questioning expression. Would you mind explaining to Richard and Jesse and Daniel and their friends here just what Heavens position is on taking a tyre iron to a couple of kids, on the grounds that God brought this down on us because weve been too soft on faggots like you? Gabriels eyes went narrow and dangerous; and, as he turned slowly to take centre stage, the heavy gold illusion of wings filled the night sky around them. After that, Sarafaels idolisation of Gabriel went from devoted to adorably terrifying. Sam supposed that seeing a long-lost archangel get his personal smite on after more than a thousand years of cold delegation was probably pretty impressive. Especially when Gabriel did it, not by clicking his fingers and turning people into explosion, but with words, and words only. Well, words, and looking absolutely fucking terrifying. It was kind of hot. Also, they were definitely starting up rumours all over the globe, some of them with documentary evidence. Becky told him there was an #angelicfixit hashtag on Twitter, and he got her to keep an eye on it. Rumours like that could come in handy sometime; and if not, well, there was documentary evidence for the Loch Ness monster. Anyway, Sam chalked that one up in his own favour, because he got to feel Gabriel up in front of a crowd and Gabriel hadnt got to respond. Apparently, Gabriel agreed, because when Sam woke up the next morning he found a book on the bedside table. It was written in Arabic, was from probably around the eleventh century judging by the binding, and was mostly full of very detailed and erotic illustrations of acts of gay sex. Some of them were very creative. Some Sam doubted were physically possible even with an archangels mojo in play. Not that he was thinking about huh. Archangel powers, in play. Interesting possibilities there. And that thing on page 36 If he hadnt had important business in Uganda, Sam would have been very late out of bed. So, fine. If Gabriel was just going to sneak into his room while he slept Sam smiled at him every time he saw him that day, innocent and sweet, watching his expression go from lascivious to amused to suspicious. When he finally got too tired to go on and asked Dameyal to take him back, Sam went to bed naked, with the sheets deliberately pooled low around his waist. Which, in retrospect, was totally asking for it.

He hadnt been expecting, though, to drift slowly awake long after midnight with an insolent weight warm on his back, and hands sliding slick and hot and clever over the jut of his shoulder blades. Probably he should have. Sam shivered, one long delicious full-body reaction of flesh and daring. All of his senses drew in sluggishly to cling to the press of a single thumb as it arced slowly back in towards his spine, rich like half a dream. There was a dark ripple of laughter against his skin. Gabriel, he breathed, like it was more of a prayer here alone in the dark than any floodlit demand for justice. The mouth opened at the top of his spine, full and sweet, and pressed silent desire into his nerves and blood. Warm breath skated over the skin, teasing the edge of the handprint there. One hand slipped down a little way to curve around his side, stopped just short of sliding onto his chest; and the pecs on that side tightened, defensive, hopeful. Sam groaned, dropped his head between his arms, and shoved back into the touch, shoulders and spine and hips arching under Gabriels hot weight. Enjoying. There was a soft hiss of breath against him, like Gabriel had been given something unexpected and beautiful. The kiss pressed in just under his shoulder blade a moment later was gentle, almost reverent, and the lone finger drawn down the side of his ribs made Sam shiver with its promise. He made a sound of greedy, sleep-addled approval when the other hand moved, one long slippery curve of temptation, down to nestle in the hollow of Sams waist. Gabriel murmured laughter again, warm and sort of filthy, then his mouth vanished as he slid back to sit on Sams thighs. The sheet dragged with him. The night air felt unexpectedly cool where it had been. Sam lay, eyes half-closed, forehead pressing into his wrist, feeling every beat and pulse of blood slow and steady through him. Throat, chest, stomach, thickening in his groin. Thighs, where it was answered with the faint thud of another body, trapping the top of his legs between its knees. He could almost feel the prickle of Gabriels eyes sliding over him in the dark, tracing his skin, mapping it out. The one hand still pressed into his waist shifted slightly, like it was thinking about moving down and around? Down and in? Under? Up? Sam wasnt really sure where this was going to go, where he wanted it to go, but that didnt really seem important just now. He lay there, languid and tingling under the expectation of touch, and waited. Then Gabriel leaned forward (and there, just for a moment against the base of Sams spine, the curve of dampened satin and solid heat) and laced his fingers through the fingers

of Sams free hand. Squeezed once, warm and fierce, then let their hands together take his weight as he leaned down to press his lips into the middle of Sams back. Sam sighed hot, and closed his teeth around the bone of his own wrist. Gabriels mouth travelled down almost to the base of his spine, little nibbles and licks and presses and promises, then back up as far as his shoulders. Down and up again, then down and up, one side then another of the long muscled ridge, until the skin felt warm and bruised and temptingly oversensitive, and Sams breath was coming in short wet gasps around his wrist. Then Gabriel stopped, right at the bottom of his sweep, hovered there hot and thoughtful. The steadying hand at Sams waist moved at last, shifted, spread out over the centre of Sams back, like if he pressed hard enough Gabriel could feel the thump of Sams heart inside, hard and still honey-slow with the last wispy edges of sleep. Sam waited for the damp, clever heat of Gabriels mouth to keep going, to move back up, but it didnt. It moved down. Just a fraction. Just enough for his chin to scratch rough against the first swell of flesh. Sams heart skipped in its rhythm. He wanted. Gabriels mouth curved against his skin, like he heard and approved. Then there was the faint, powerful beat of wings in the dark, and Sam was alone in the bed. If Sam hadnt been so completely exhausted, he might have been seriously annoyed. --Which was no reason to let Gabriel get away with it. So when Gabriel breezed in for breakfast, he had about two seconds to look gleeful and casually shirtless at them before Sam had him shoved up against the wall and was licking soft and brutal into his mouth. He took the stunned sort of grunt as consent, smirked triumphantly through the kiss, and went for Gabriels belt with his free hand. Gabriels head thumped back painfully hard against the wall and he stared at Sam from an inch away, eyes dark and startled and kindling with something fiery and old. Sam raised one eyebrow at him in challenge, then slid to his knees. The sound Gabriel made when Sam opened his mouth on the skin just over his open buckle was drowned by the clatter of crockery, an exclamation of Whoa, whoa, make out all you like but Im not sticking around for that, and Deans hastily retreating footsteps.

Sam laughed quietly into the soft, quivering skin, and pressed the heel of his hand in quellingly between his own thighs. Gabriels hand slid into his hair, almost rough except for the way it just held him there, didnt push, didnt contain. There was a moment of stillness, except for Sam mouthing delicately at the curve just below the navel. Then, Youre not gonna deliver, are you? Sam grinned up at him shamelessly, stood in one easy movement, and bent to drop a kiss to the end of his nose. You know it. You realise youre shooting yourself in the foot, Gabriel said plaintively. Then he hooked two fingers around behind Sams neck and drew him in carefully for a proper kiss, all soft edges and hope. --Three days after that, Raphael came for Dean and Castiel. The first time, it had been Gabriel who had brought Castiel back to life. Gabriel had explained that hed been given no explicit instruction, just a sudden painful awareness of his death and the certainty that he could fix it if he wanted to; and, when he tried, discovering the capacity within himself which he hadnt known was there. Joshua had said it was God who had brought him back, so Gabriel figured that God had let him know about it and let him choose where to go from there, given him the strength and grace to mend it. The second time, there had only been one archangel available. And Sam couldnt say he hadnt thought about it, but seriously, Raphael? Just suddenly knowing Castiel was dead was going to move Raphael to fix things, the one whod killed him the first time? Well, apparently it hadnt. Apparently it had taken more than that. Castiel was frowning with them at an unexpected crater in the middle of Namibia, his little finger curled light as breath just against the side of Deans hand, when Sam suddenly felt the weight and the pressure of angryangel on the back of his skull. And he was turning around, and Castiel was whirling tight and efficient with his sword in his hand, even before they heard the slow, rich voice behind them. It was too late for them. They already hoped. Raphael, Castiel acknowledged, flat and low, but Sam hadnt needed to hear the name to know. He could feel the power crackling off him, violent and raw as he had felt it in Stull Cemetery before the ground opened up, like he sometimes felt just the edges of from Gabriel now if he was really pissed. Only this wasnt focussed like that had been it was fractured, jagged in the centre, wheeling off all over the place like it didnt know what it was trying to be.

And sure, Castiel was stronger than ever now he was back, a hell of a lot stronger than most angels, but he wasnt going to be a match for a riled-up archangel with sanity issues. My father, Raphael rumbled, voice and eyes dark like velvet. My father chose to be dead. He took a step forward, jarring the ground under him, and little crackles of blue electricity scattered into the grass. Sam moved without a thought to stand in front of Castiel. Raphael just looked right through him. Mine, and we waited for centuries, and he came back only for you. What are you? Castiels hand closed firm on Sams elbow, and pushed him aside. The angel stepped forward beside him tall and straight, like hed always known this was going to have to happen. I am what God and I have made of me. Raphael laughed, something sharp and wild and deep. My little bitch, he said, twisting the words in his mouth like something that he couldnt account for. No, Castiel said calmly. Only mine. And I choose humanity, as our Father did. Dean moved forward, shoved his shoulder in on Castiels other side, solid and sure. What he said. Raphaels face contorted into fury and betrayal, and the rocks around him began to shimmer with silver heat. Do you think for a moment, you insignificant rebellious little maggot, that Then the dry ground between them flared with light, and now there were two angry archangels on the scene, only one of them was theirs. And Sam could feel Gabriels wings, though they werent there to see, spreading out furious and strong like invisible fire between them and Raphael. I dare you, brother, to lay a hand on my family. And that was the first time hed said anything like that the first time any of them had and wow. Sam hadnt been expecting it. Although, hey, plausible deniability, because apparently it was a really good diversionary tactic. The ground shook. Gabriel. You turned your back on your family. Gabriels grin was all teeth. So sue me, I got more than one. And this ones more fun. Then he moved forward without a weapon into Raphaels fractured silence, raised a hand to touch his cheek, and said, in a very different voice, Oh, little brother. What have they done to you? Dean raised his eyebrows silently at Sam, over the intensity of Castiels stare, but Sam was too distracted to respond. There was too much of Gabriel here that suddenly made more sense than it ever had before. Sam had known, but he hadnt felt, not like now with his sparkly new angel-sensitivity or whatever, and Gabriel and Raphael leaking all over the place, and the little bits of himself that Gabriel had been cautiously and gradually revealing for weeks slotting softly into place around them. Love, deep and terrible and immovable, and really badly hidden now Sam thought about it, threaded right through the centre of

him and informing well, pretty much everything. The way he looked at Sam, laughed with Dean, reached out to touch Castiel, grieved for Lucifer and Michael, hid most of himself from his family, promised that his father hadnt abandoned them, railed against him anyway, lashed those guys in Boston savagely with his tongue and left them to learn, refused to pick up a weapon against anything that might possibly be saved, hid his uncertainty under jokes or flirting or obnoxiousness, stood fierce and sure in front of them, cupped his hands around Raphaels face Raphael dropped his head, and let Gabriel cradle him. He has spoken to you, hasnt he? Gabriel asked, all banked anger and gentleness. He spoke my name, Raphael said, low, and it was like the first quiet crack that signals the dam wall beginning to break, to flood the valley below. One time, Gabriel, once in all of Creation I heard his voice, and it was for this. Dean whistled softly, then laid his hand gently against the back of Castiels stiffened shoulder. Sam reached out without moving, grasped with that part of himself that he used for prayer toward the hot whorls of awe and fury and old hurt in front of him, and did his best to soften it. He felt Gabriel go still and shocked; then he felt him reach back, powerful and vast, twining around Sams offer. Leaning on him. And okay, so there wasnt a guarantee Gabriel would stick around this new family either if things got bad, but Sam was willing to take it on faith. When Raphael left, quiet and still swirling with confused bitterness, Gabriel turned on his heel, grabbed Sams shirt with both hands, and kissed him gratefully and thoroughly. Over the thudding of Gabriels heart in the tight circle of his own arms, Sam heard Dean clear his throat and slip on his wry lets not talk about what really happened just there voice. Hey. I thought we were the ones in danger here. Gabriel pulled back, all damp mouth and hot breath and bright mischief, and Dean must have seen it coming because he was backing away a second before Gabriel got an arm hooked around his neck and kissed his way messily and enthusiastically into Deans mouth. Sam leaned against Castiels shoulder, and laughed and laughed. Dean stumbled, spluttered a curse against Gabriels insistent onslaught, then, rather to Sams surprise, gave as good as he got until Gabriel pulled back and fluttered his eyelashes evilly. Because apparently Dean couldnt resist a challenge either. Dean grinned, a bit red-faced, and drawled, Sorry, honey, Sam doesnt get jealous that easy. Gabriel waggled his eyebrows. What about Castiel? Deans eyes slid up over his head to check in on the angel Sam was currently sort of draped over, a little flicker of barely there uncertainty that vanished the moment he settled

on the small amused curve of Castiels mouth against Sams hair. Yeah, I dont think we want to try that. Hes kinda scary. Dean informs me, Castiel said, in that deep gravelly tone of bland disapproval that he never really meant, that he is perfectly capable of fending off unwelcome sexual advances should he wish to. Gabriels mouth curved, wicked and sweet, and he advanced on Dean again. Oh, so this is welcome? Whoa, whoa whoa, uncle, Dean laughed, backing away with his hands up in front of him. Sam made a lazy, amused noise into Castiels shoulder. It was nearly the end of the day anyway. You gonna rescue him? Are you? Castiel returned easily, and for some reason pressed a soft kiss to the side of Sams head. Sam stood up and stretched, to the soundtrack of Dean protesting that only little brothers were allowed to be noogied. Nah. We should probably work out whether this was a troll or some mythic giant snake thing sometime before dark. Family. Yeah. Sam thought he could do that.

Yblissede.
[adj, ppl] (Middle English, also spelt blessed, blist, iblest etc.): Consecrated, hallowed, holy; being the object of adoring reverence; happy, fortunate; bringing or accompanied by blessing or happiness.

This was Deans prayer. Okay, so. Castiel. Hi. Hope Im not distracting you in the middle of taking down some Biblical old nasty, or something. If youre even hearing this. Not really sure how this works. So, Ive been doing some thinking, and apparently there were some things I missed. But come on you? Me? How likely was that? I mean, youre you, and I dont just mean youre an angel and pure and all that shit but just you. Youre really something, you know that? And Im well, you know what I am, Cas. Hell, you stuck me back together, you saw all the bits. But if you were saying anything at all like what it sounded like you were saying well look. I know what I want too, okay? Ive known that for a while. Even though, hey, getting off with someone is one thing but most guys wouldnt be worth the bother of more than that, of the way people look when they see two men holding hands, or whatever. But you, yeah. I want you. As much of you and as long as I can. And probably a hell of a lot more than I can. Just dont dont freak out? Cos Ill back off, if you want. Or if we try it and it doesnt work for you. Or if all you want in the end is just I dont know, dropping by once a month to say youre still kicking, well, thatll suck, but thats good too. Just dont vanish on me, yeah? Castiel replied as best he could. --The next two weeks were strange. Strange, for many reasons. Castiel was not unaccustomed to leadership, but this this was far above anything he had ever known. Angels of Zachariahs station and higher were looking to him for direction, or looking to him to see if he would fail. Even the archangels: Gabriel insisted loudly that Castiel was the big man, not he; Raphael, after his dramatic reappearance, was silent and incapable of decision; and only Castiel and Gabriel were aware that Sariel was alive, quietly rebuilding her strength, slumbering in the subconscious mind of her vessel while that particular seventeenth-century matron adjusted herself to her new surroundings in the house and company of a woman named Cathy Randolph. The strangest thing, however, was Dean. Or rather, Deans companionship. Hey Cas. Wish you were here. Im imagining you making snarky understatements at this guy. Stops me from punching him in the face. Id do it too, except for the impressionable little angel on my shoulder. I swear these brothers of yours are like million-year-old kids sometimes. Gabriel even got Raniyel hooked on candy yesterday. Hope youve got good dental in your new regime up there.

Hey Cas. You are okay, arent you? I mean, sure, Gabriel would let us know if anything actually happened to you, but just take care of yourself, yeah? Yknow, I gotta get Gabriel to drop me and my baby back home. Never thought Id say this, but this is just too much pie. Feel like a kept man. Or the kept mans brother. Speaking of which, if those two dont get around to manning up soon, somethings gonna explode around here. And Im not talking sex eyes here, Im talking Betty Crocker levels of sweet. Hey Cas. Youd like these kids theyre kind of little monkeys, but theyd go with your weird sense of humour. Not that theres anything wrong with your sense of humour. I like all your weirdness. Cas? I dont change my mind about family, okay? He saw Dean (and Sam, and Gabriel) occasionally, in passing, in business, with no time for pleasantries beyond the brush of a hand, the quirk of a lip, a look shared that he thought meant something more than it ever had before. But this it was unfamiliar. The idea that he could keep someone around, have someone around, even when they werent there. Even when there was nothing urgent to communicate. Castiel was accustomed to focussing only and wholly on one task at a time weeks dedicated to one thing, before turning to another and, while he had come to realise over the past year that Dean found his silent absences disconcerting at best, he had never been quite sure what it was that Dean would have preferred in their place. Apparently it was this reaching out just to say something that wasnt anything much, just to share a thought. I saw this and thought of you. This would make you laugh. How are you going, what are you doing, howre the newbies holding up, I care, Im thinking of you, I like having you around. Strange, but pleasant. Somewhat more than pleasant. Deans voice, thrumming with sincerity and achingly easy humour, became a familiar thing inside his head. This was the Dean that hed only ever glimpsed in passing before, between tension and urgency and anger and almost-deaths: the Dean hed grasped for, the Dean hed come to believe would never stick around. And here he was, daily, far more than daily, reaching out to Castiel. Actually going to Dean to talk would inevitably take longer than Castiel had to spare, so he didnt. Instead, he found other ways to reply a blurry photo sent to Deans phone of the dragon that had been ravaging the seashores of Denmark in the process of charging right at him, then another of its corpse; a low-sugar Betty Crocker cupcake dropped on Deans bedside table; the sensation of a kiss brushed against his cheek. Hey Cas. So, just got into bed. And its kind of hot over here, so, not wearing anything. Can probably guess what youve got on, though. Is it a sin to use prayer like phone sex? Guess its kind of weird if you have to listen to it even if youre not in the mood. Could just talk you through it, and youd have to keep a straight face to whatever vampires ass youre kicking, or

whatever angel youre talking to. Be better if you were here, though. Soon as you can youre gonna turn up, right? And there was an uncertainty there, in the middle of the lazy sensuality of it, that Dean could hide face to face but not in prayer. So Castiel paused in the middle of hunting for the last of the pack of hellhounds loosed indiscriminately in central Poland, and concentrated, just enough for Dean to feel the soft brush of lips across his cheek, then his neck, then his hip. There was a breathless pause, like Dean was waiting for a punch line, then a groan of frustration and relief. Cas, you sly little son of a bitch, you better deliver when I see you. When, not if. Castiel pressed phantom lips as hard as he could like this, which was barely a whisper of weight, to the skin over Deans heart. Promising. The next day, because he might be an angel but he wasnt innocent, he stole five minutes to retaliate with his own unavoidable, unanswerable teasing. Dean cursed him roundly afterwards for distracting him while he had been attempting to negotiate with an important person in some significant human aid organisation, but Castiel decided the delight and desire thrilling through his every word made the experiment a success. Castiel went to Gabriel. Once Gabriel stopped laughing at him, he reached into Castiels pocket, pulled out his phone, then closed his hand and Castiels around it and showed him how to send a text message with a thought, without needing to actually touch the keys and poke around in those strange submenus that always led to Castiel accidentally setting his phone to think he was in Sweden or Jamaica. Two hours later: Hey, man. Hellhounds, huh? I hear those sons of bitches bite. Castiel touched his phone, concentrated carefully through its bewildering binary circuits, and made of them a message to Dean. Dealt with. Sirens, now. There was a pause, then Deans voice again, a lazy drawl like he was trying not to sound ridiculously pleased at getting a response. Respecting the classics, man. Hey, try not to have sex with them, okay? I shall do my best not to be tempted by the puddle of snakeskin and fish scales and human-like hair underfoot. Only you could sound prim and badass at the same time. The affection radiating from Deans every utterance like this was more than a little intoxicating. It was almost tempting to keep this distance, to preserve the illusion of longing it offered. The stability of an existence far away from the minor irritants of daily life. But that would be dishonest. And, if Castiel were frank with himself, dissatisfying.

--A few days after that, and the tide was definitely beginning to turn in their favour. Castiel left a small garrison to monitor the demon situation in the Middle East, another to watch for any more giant snakes in central Australia, two combing the depths of the Mediterranean for the unspecified sea monster theyd heard word of, and three to liaise with Bobby Singer, and daringly did something very human. He took a half-day off. It was late evening in Tuscany, and all three of those whose company he desired were safe in Gabriels villa. Sam and Dean were arguing vehemently over something dirty socks and laundry baskets, by the sound of it in a way that Castiel recognised as habit rather than conflict, mutual irritation and the resolution of stifled tension after a bad day. Gabriel, though, who hadnt seen them like this nearly so often Castiel stopped in the long shadows of the pencil pines and watched for a minute. Dean and Sam were by the pool, voices too loud and gestures too broad and loose to be really angry. Gabriel was sprawled in a deck chair with his back to Castiel, looking for all the world the most relaxed of any of them; except that this was Gabriel, and Castiel had never seen him look small and quiet like that before. Not in a vessel, at any rate. And not since Castiel slid carefully between molecules to reach his side, put a hand on his back and leaned down to kiss him, a firm press of flesh and grace and promise. Though he must have felt Castiel coming, Gabriels eyes were startled, deep amber in the last of the sunset. Give them twenty minutes, Gabriel, Castiel growled against the side of his mouth. They wont break. I promise it. Gabriel blinked, a slow brush of pale lashes like a quiet revolution. Castiel pulled back enough to let Gabriel focus on him with all his senses, including his human sight; but most particularly conspectus fidei, his perception (for lack of a better human word) of belief, of faith. Opened himself to his older brother and let him bask, wonder, revel in Castiels absolute bull-headed certainty that this, this family could last; that this argument was a passing thing; that the war was over. Uh, guys? Sam commented intelligently. Both Winchesters were staring. Deans face had a hint of that particular slack-jawed interest that Castiel was pleased to be able to classify as arousal, even if Dean didnt know it. Castiel blinked at him, innocently bland. Gabriel slipped his arm around Castiels waist and leered horribly back at the humans. What? Its a brother thing.

Dude, Dean said, very carefully, I dont kiss Sam like that. Yeah? Gabriel deliberately, showily, fondled the curve of flesh at the top of Castiels hip. Maybe youd argue less if you did. Dean gave Sam a look of slow, pleading horror. Gabriel burrowed his face into Castiels shoulder and laughed. Castiel felt a strange, desperate well of affection in his chest, so he bent to kiss him again. After all, they had changed and bent more than halfway to meet human (American) cultural ideals. Sam and Dean could learn to take the angelic equivalent, the closest physical translation of that moment of press and brush and warmth amongst those who were particularly close. It had been centuries since there had been any angel Castiel had trusted enough for this. Far longer for Gabriel. Gabriel opened under his mouth with a sound like a contented cat. Dinner stretched out over three hours, until the stars had come out and wheeled in a small arc over their heads. Until the wind picked up over the vines, and they retired indoors. They talked about almost nothing, and it was good. Castiel pretended he didnt know about Gabriels foot creeping up the inside of Sams leg under the table; that the soft heat in Deans eyes whenever they fell on him didnt make the breath snag heavy and promising in the flesh of his throat, as if his body was making its own plans for this half-day, independent of him. He suspected he was somewhat less successful at the second pretence. Dean insisted he take off his coat, that it was somehow the incorrect attire for the occasion (although hed never objected to it before). Castiel let him remove it, because it seemed to amuse him, and because of the easy light in his eyes and the warm sweet breath against Castiels cheek as Dean leaned in close and slid his hands under the edges of the coat, brushing over Castiels hips, pulling it open, pushing it off. Gabriel and Sam were loud and enthusiastic and easy all night, calling each other strange names that seemed to be intended as suggestive. Castiel wasnt sure wherein lay the sexual appeal of being called a butter muffin, but, to judge by Deans expression, neither was he. Dean was grinning at them all, comfortable and happy and hopeful, and Castiel thought simply, Yes. Finally, Gabriel swung one leg over from the coffee table to tickle Sam in the ribs with his toes, lazily provocative. Hey there, Little Miss American Pie. You, me, pre-Revolution France what dyou say? Sam stretched in a luxurious and probably deliberate display, hands tucked behind his head, one leg crossed over his knee in front of him, his long sleek body flexing with casual strength. I say its about time you delivered, big talker.

Gabriel bounced to his feet, his beam making a poor attempt at smug before bypassing it completely in favour of besotted and thrilled. You coming? he tossed out casually to Castiel and Dean, in a way that said a yes would be acceptable, but a no would be better. Dean waved a breezy hand at him from where he was leaning in the door to the terrace. Nope, were good. You two go geek out. Gabriel smirked at him, and his eyebrows did a dance of ridiculous suggestion. Dont wait up. Hardly likely, Castiel returned dryly, while his stomach did strange warm somersaults on the inside. Because he was almost certain that Gabriel could return to any point within the next few hours that pleased him, regardless of how long he and Sam spent elsewhen minutes, or weeks. And therefore, if they did not return within the next two minutes, it could only be because Gabriel was deliberately leaving the house to him and to Dean for the remainder of the night. And the only reason Castiel could think of for Gabriel to try to do that Gabriel and Sam vanished, with that disconcerting little rush of non-angelic power that characterised more than half of Gabriels abilities since his death. A curious, weighty silence crept in to fill the spaces left behind in the room; and Castiel found himself wishing intensely that he could know what Dean was thinking. He ran one finger carefully around the rim of his wine glass. Butter muffin? Dean snorted, a messy exhale of fondness and sympathy that made the room feel somehow warmer. I dont even know, man. You just gotta go with it. Castiel rose, and crossed the room towards him. Deans eyes never left him, tracing every careful turn and sidestep he took to navigate Gabriels strange accretion of objects. In the doorway, he halted, and faced Dean squarely. Deans shoulders were braced firm and broad against the stone of the wall and the wood of the frame; light from the table lamp pooled warm and yellow in the curves of his neck and throat; and the soft curve of his mouth was halfway between smug and uncharacteristically hesitant. The desire to touch was no longer unfamiliar. It was welcome, a thing to indulge and savour all evening, a promise of future pleasure. But here, now, confronted with the rich textures and planes of Deans body and the illegible living gleam under his eyelashes, Castiel found he was unsure where to begin: how to cross that final barrier. Castiel felt his forehead crinkle. I dont have Gabriels lexicon. Good to know, Dean said blithely. That shit sounds contagious. Dean. Castiel turned the nascent frown on him, and Dean grinned sudden and bright and unrepentant in a way that said he knew perfectly well what the word meant and was just messing was the word, messing with Castiel.

It was also unexpectedly arousing. Many things about Dean seemed to be, particularly this evening. You look happier, Cas. Castiel made a small noise of enquiry, shifted his feet just a little closer. The stubbled corner of Deans jaw caught the shadows in interesting way as he spoke. Suggested soft and sensitive skin just behind it, just under it. Tonight. Just, you know. Sitting around. Nowhere to be. With a brother you can trust. Castiel wasnt sure what he wanted to do to that spot, but it was certainly appealing. It invited touch. Perhaps the mouth. The mouth had so far proved the most sensuous and sensitive method of exploring human sensations, with its plethora of nerve endings, its taste buds, its direct route to the inner nose. And he remembered, with perfect and stunning clarity, the feel of Deans mouth on his neck: it could feel very good from the other side. There was a hint of a question there, in what Dean had said. Castiel dutifully (belatedly) concentrated on it. Yes. Yes, I suppose I can. Even to himself, his voice sounded deep, rougher than the situation called for. Deans mouth crooked up at the corners, lush and full, demanding attention. Cas. He reached out, hooked two fingers around Castiels wrist. Come here? Castiel looked down at the two insignificant, fragile, mechanical creations of skin and bone and muscle and sinew, so much stronger than their strength because it was impossible for Castiel to hurt them; because they meant so much more than their total substance. Castiel wasnt sure how this worked, but he was willing (more than) to devote long careful hours to finding out. He came there. Slipped in against the languid curve of Deans body, watched as Dean turned his hand over between both of his own and pressed his beloved desired lips to the centre of Castiels palm. The sensation was dryer than Castiel had expected (he remembered the lush taste of the inside of Deans mouth, clearer and more tempting every second), and somehow hotter (or promising more heat). And for some reason that had nothing to do with any physical sensation he could quantify it sent a little frisson of shock through his hand and up his arm, like tiny fire butterflies under the skin. Dean watched him under his eyelashes, drank in every quiver and drawn breath as he drew his lips slowly from the centre of Castiels palm to the heel; kissed his way gentle and deliberate down to the jut of the wrist bone under skin; then back around to the sensitive blue-traced flesh of the inner wrist. The fingers curled up slowly in his wake, quite of their own accord, closing over the chill of the night air where Deans mouth had been; until Castiels fist nestled in close against the side of Deans jaw. Deans eyes glittered, a warning or a tease or both. Then there was a sudden access to heat and tongue as his lips parted for a moment on delicate skin, and he was forging a slow, warm path up the inside of Castiels forearm. Castiel watched him with all his senses,

revelled in him, in the heat rising inside his body and the pleasure singing through his veins, in all the weight of his attention focussed right back at Castiel. It was almost a surprise when Deans mouth opened against the inside of his elbow, lightly then more firmly; then he felt a scrape of teeth. Something that felt like electricity shot through Castiels arm, crackled straight up the back of his neck. He jolted back with a noise that sounded fierce and inhuman even to his own ears (a hungry hybrid of his true voice and the vibration of his bodys vocal folds), and the fingers of his free hand clenched too tight in the fabric of Deans shirt. Half of Deans grin was hidden against Castiels arm. Yeah, thought so. Castiel caught the scruff of Deans neck, dragged him up forcibly and kissed the smug, delighted shape of his mouth. He drank in the startled grunt, the huff of hasty laughter lost under the breathy noises caught against Castiels teeth. And in that, he forgot to calculate and quantify forgot the individuality of each atom in his skin in favour of knowing the taste and give of Deans flesh under his mouth. This man, whom he had no need to command or to be commanded by, opening willingly under his touch and delighting in it. Smiling into it, and returning it. Deans hand slid around to cradle the back of Castiels head, to hold him firm and steady as if he were somehow precious (and did Dean even know that it was that same tenderness that conquered him, every time?) so that Dean could nudge his mouth just a little wider, slide in deep and easy, take a little more of him. Castiel gave it to him, locked one hand around Deans belt and pinned him there so that he could press in closer, crush Deans body between his own and the lintel. The heat pounding between his legs flared sweetly as Deans hips (and only his hips) pushed back against him, as if to resist. Castiels breath scattered, and he found his hips canting forward sharply, moving of their own accord as they had done last time by the creek that night, to trap Deans weight in place. Then again, and once more, three sharp jabs in obedience to that impractical rhythm that Castiel had seen drive men to their ruin in every century and every land. Dean groaned, ragged and deep, dragged both his hands down to dig in just above Castiels belt and pull him in closer. And there, solid evidence under the shove of Castiels thigh that Dean did want, as he had not last time not only with his heart and mind, not as an offer of unreciprocated pleasure, but with his body too. With the hot beat of his blood. Then the wet demand of the mouth on his eased back, went gentle and considerate, until they were only snatching breaths from mouth to slippery mouth. As if Dean had startled himself, and needed to remind himself that he was not allowed to want or to have. Castiel tamped down the urge to push back in, to shove and to take and give, and pulled back (from the shoulders up) just far enough to glare into Deans gaze. Heat, and light. Eyes that could change the world just by looking at it, by seeing it as it was and seeing how it could be better and glaring at it until those two visions became one. Fixed on Castiel.

Castiel saw the long throb of pain up Deans back where the edge of the lintel dug into his flesh; saw the bright faith that lit him up from the inside, faith not in an unseen father but in Sam and (incredibly) in Castiel himself; saw the fire catching every hormone and every vein and every one of Deans insecurities and devotions and making him lean forward helplessly, just once more, to catch Castiels lips for a moment. Castiel let him pull back again, reluctant, because there was something under there that Dean wanted to say. Dean pressed their foreheads together, his breath puffing erratically over Castiels mouth and chin, and closed his eyes. One hand crept up Castiels back, away from where it had been almost edging down south of his belt, and settled large and warm between the jut of his shoulder blades. Holding back. Being careful. Being reverent. Cas. Are you sure you want to Which was all Castiel needed to hear to make him narrow his eyes, shove his hand between them, and haul Deans belt free of its buckle. Be quiet, Dean. Deans eyes went very wide. Shutting up, right now. Because Castiel knew every inch of Dean, inside and out, knew how he was made and how he fit together, but he didnt know what he felt like. And he had wanted to last time, his hands had ached for it, but it had been a haze of pain and fear and desperate snatching and Deans insistence on giving, only giving, but now, here The belt dragged free of its loops, one long dry slither then the clink of the buckle hitting the paved floor as Castiel abandoned it to slide his hands up under Deans shirt. Spanning his waist; fitting the curves and the planes of his back and his sides and his shoulder blades and his stomach to the curl and reach of Castiels own hands; methodically mapping the paths of the blood racing underneath and the way his ribs expanded and fell at each gulp of breath. Deans hands got in his way, and he knocked them imperiously aside because this landscape was his to explore, until Dean laughed at him all breath and warmth and haste and he realised what those hands were trying to do. He graciously allowed Dean just enough space to remove his own shirt. Then, to flick the button on his jeans and drag down the zipper. Then to push the jeans down over his hips at which point Castiel decided that the mechanics of boot removal would involve far too much in the way of patience, so he banished all of Deans clothes to his bedroom with a thought. Dean cursed, startled and soft, then reached for Castiels arms to drag him back in. Not up for the strip show today, huh? Castiel knew what Deans body looked like that was one sense to which it was familiar so why was it so good to see it now? Why did it give the impression of having so much skin, so much that hed never be able to encompass it all? I want to touch you, Castiel explained curtly, and his voice felt like it scraped his throat on the way out.

 Okay. Deans throat bobbed, and his fingers dug hard into the muscles of Castiels arms, rough and coaxing all at once. Okay. Not exactly gonna argue with that. Castiel let Dean pull him in slower, until his mouth rested against the curl of Castiels ear and Castiel was nuzzling into his cheek. Deans hands stayed tight where they were, as if they didnt trust themselves to wander; but Castiel let one of his travel in a long questing sweep down Deans side, from the top of his ribcage to his knee, that smooth powerful line that was usually bisected by waistbands and belts. Dean moved under his hand, shuddered, and his legs crept wider as his thigh nudged in against Castiels touch. Cas, Dean groaned, like a prayer and an oath. Castiel nosed up under his chin, took joy in the flutter and taste of Deans pulse under his mouth. Perhaps he could become addicted to that to chasing it, to learning its rhythms, to teaching it new ones. Dean. It came out gentle into the fragile circle of his collar bone. Because he had hardly realised, not realised as a real thing, Deans bone-deep need for physical touch, aching and visceral in its comfort. Something he had never been able to bring himself to ask of Sam, not at least in the harsh light of day. This, this was something Castiel could give him wanted to give him, viciously wanted, and Dean even seemed to want to give it back, to want it of Castiel. To wrap him up, envelope him, and keep him safe and coveted and beloved. Castiel turned his hand, drew the backs of the nails carefully up, to where the muscle of the thigh stretched out and around towards the base of the spine. Deans nose tickled the soft angle behind his ear, sending an increasingly familiar thrill to the pit of his stomach. I can hear you thinking, he breathed. Thats bad? Castiel growled into the thrumming velvet softness of Deans jugular. Deans thighs inched wider, welcoming. No. Shit. No. I like your thoughts. Then Dean nudged at the edge of his jaw, teased his head back and up, and kissed him, full and dark and sweet. Castiel surged forward into it, into the hungry promise of teeth and tongue and the darker places of Deans mouth behind them, and Dean shuddered and flinched at the same time. Bed, he suggested firmly and incoherently into it. And dude, mind the junk. Castiel frowned down at where the fastenings of his jeans and belt were pressing, decided that it did look rather uncomfortable for Dean, and rectified the situation by sending all of his own clothes after Deans. Better? he enquired slyly, and then almost forgot himself in the smooth shock of skin on skin. He heard the hiss of Deans breath and felt the hasty slide of hands hot and

possessive over his back and down over one hip, as Dean forgot, for a moment, to be a gentleman. Then they stalled, and Dean growled out an almost audible Hell yes which suggested he was recalling his self-control, so Castiel obeyed the demanding beat of his own body, stretched his wings, slid fifteen yards through four internal walls, and tumbled Dean backwards onto his bed. And this if the push of Deans naked hips against his own was good when they were standing, it was far better when he had Dean sprawled gasping and grinning beneath him. When Deans thighs were spread around his own, and Dean was pinned immobile under him, everything focussed on the prickle and tangle of hair, the dig of bone, and the urgent slide of hot slick skin in the centre of it, and Dean was reaching for him with a hopeless tender quirk to his mouth to pull Castiel down again to meet him here, here at least was the surrender of the flesh, so far from angelic. Far from being the most important thing hed learned from his foray into mortality, but perhaps the most wholeheartedly luscious. He heard his own voice, as Deans hand dragged too slow down his side, Dean, could you just, sounding so polite while his body demanded all on its own. And Castiel had planned this. He had thought about it all very carefully and clearly. He had strategised. He had a list. So many things he wanted to taste, so much skin left still to touch, so many little hitches and colours of sounds from Deans throat to categorise. But there were hours left tonight, years and maybe eternity later, and now, for now, he was lost deliciously in a rush of feeling, of being. Of existing right here, in this moment, in this mans arms. And it wasnt only a thing of the flesh, as he had anticipated. Not only desire. It belonged to every other sense, overwhelmed them: all the senses that he had lost and missed savagely when he was bound to his human body (daily, in fighting, in stubbing his toe, in kissing Dean); all the parts of himself that had never felt the touch of another being. Closer than he had been to any living creature before. Almost too much, impatiently too much, too many sensations and too many emotions to savour any of them. Moments. Impressions. Dean spreading his hand familiar and solid over Castiels back, over his pounding heart. The same hand running wonderingly down his spine, as if Castiels uncovered skin was a strange secret thing; Deans fingers finally, finally crossing the invisible line delineated by his absent belt, and tracing over the soft curves below. Deans breath, intimate and sweet in his mouth, and the aching promises contained voicelessly within it. The cool push of Deans ring through his hair. The rhythm of his heart and body moving against Castiel, underneath him, and Castiels own body matching him in every wave and shove and surrender. Too much, absolutely; but he didnt know how to stop. He gasped Deans name, pleading, and Dean caught it and breathed his own back stuttered into his mouth, wet with feeling.

He did the only thing he could, and let himself go. Let Dean roll him over in the sheets and hold him close and take control. Let him work one spit-slick hand between them and turn it into something quick and insistent and terrifying; let him give himself up, gasping and vulnerable and overwhelmed; let him murmur, I got you, sweetheart, I got you, over and again like a litany. And Dean Dean let him drag at his hair and dig nails into his shoulders; let him gasp and sob and growl and laugh; let him fall apart, here, safe, where there was no one depending on his choices or his impossible quests; let him shake himself to pieces; let him have that. --The air was cool and sharp this far above the level of the sea. It sliced and tugged at his skin pulled the thin air out of his lungs, if he let it. There wasnt quite enough oxygen up here to sustain a human; and Castiel indulged his body, spent a tiny trickle of grace to concentrate the oxygen in each breath to the level these lungs preferred, even though its absence could do him no harm. Castiel had thought that he knew the human body because he knew every organ and function within it, and every moment in its evolution. Then he had thought he knew it because he had lived in one, not merely as a vessel but bound within it, grudging the loss of his senses and feeling muffled and dim and strangely hypersensitive despite that. Now, he felt he knew very little, because finally the body was not something foreign but completely a part of him: something he had chosen and kept and taken joy of. And it was not a thing of atoms and rules, not pieces scattered and independent in their meanings. It was an entire creature, more than its total, each part arguing and interlocking and overlapping with the others. The sensations evoked by one powerful, beloved body moving full-length against another were a good deal more than the simple presence or absence of contact on each individual nerve ending. Castiel thought that that was, perhaps, an appropriate metaphor for humanity; or, perhaps, for the soul. He still had very little idea where one began and the other ended, what a soul meant without being human; but there were years before him for calculating that as well. Not only desire but intimacy; not only part of him, but the whole. Parts of him hed never known existed. Perhaps they hadnt. He rested his chin on his interlocked hands, looked out over the jagged white and black slopes of the Himalayas, and waited for the slow choking smoke that he had set in the tunnels far below him to drive the barmanous out into the open. The air shifted and scattered behind him.

Hey there, hot stuff. Whatcha doing? Gabriel was certainly no basis for comparison. Castiel was an angel with a soul, Dean was a human with a soul, and Gabriel was a strange creature of many elements who also possessed the grace of an archangel, and a soul. I was sitting quietly by myself and thinking, Castiel replied dryly. Overrated. Scoot up. And his older brother (and one-time commander) was sliding over to sit on the rock beside him, with one half-manifest wing settling comfortably around Castiels shoulders. You are strange and exasperating, Castiel informed him. And youre one to talk, Gabriel retorted amiably. Gabriel was radiating awed contentment, singing through his mind and deeper emotions; but subtler, on a level that most angels would have forgotten to notice, his body thrilled with the half-remembered aftermath of pleasure, the same heady tickle that Castiel was refusing to allow to fade within his own veins. Your boys glowing like a rabbit with jellyfish proteins, Gabriel tossed to him, unreadable and casual as if it didnt matter. Good, Castiel took him at the face value of his words. He deserves happiness. He could feel Gabriels sideways gaze like a curious weight on the side of his face; but what Gabriel finally asked was rather far from what Castiel had been expecting. Show me your wings? Castiel felt his eyebrows quirk a fraction without his explicit decision, a habit of the body that he was willing to encourage. You can see my wings, Gabriel. Gabriel scoffed. Sure, if you want to get technical about it. Come on I wanna see how they manifest now. Physically. The physical manifestation of his grace and, now, of his soul. Insofar as anything about any angel was private or individual, it was that. And now now, that must be even more true, for Castiel. Castiel only hesitated for a moment before unfolding them. Gabriel whistled softly through his teeth, and Castiel flinched. But it wasnt condemnation, nor was it pity: his Shit, kid, youve been through the wringer was almost matter-of-fact. You mind? Gabriels hand hovered just shy of the secondary coverts on the wing nearest him. A perfunctory and (by angelic standards) belated courtesy; by the standards of those accustomed to bodies and restricted to physical touch, perfectly natural.

Castiel said nothing; only tilted that wing forward into the touch, and closed his eyes against the wash of pleasant sensation as Gabriels fingers began to comb familiar and strong through the feathers. This, too, had been unfamiliar for a long time. Dean had barely touched his wings, that one night in the dark; and now, Castiel was too strong for him to see or to touch in such a fashion. But to have a brother who would touch him, a brother he almost trusted Not just me, then. There was half a smile under Gabriels words, and there was a gentle tug on one of the feathers. He opened his eyes, tipped a questioning look in Gabriels direction, and Gabriel traced the tip of one finger around the edge of a median covert. Around the border of gold, rich and deep against velvety black, which had grown in on each feather almost too slowly to notice sometime over the past year. Got soul, kiddo, Gabriel purred, deep and sweet; and yes, Castiel remembered (although he had been too distracted by Sams survival and Gabriels revival to compute its significance at the time) the clear glassy cut of Gabriels damaged wings in the cemetery before Castiel had re-opened his connection to the Garden of Heaven, and the deep burnished gold that had outlined each feather afterwards. Grace, and soul: each burning white on its own, but mix them together and Gabriel tugged lightly, curiously, at the gold edges; stroked through the pale grey scars left by Hells freezing whips at the centre of the wing; smoothed over the livid little splashes of bone-white from each brother Castiel had slain, since he had rebelled for Deans sake. The battered traces of harsh reality, and life lived. Castiel turned his face away, non-committal. They are not so sleek as you would remember. Gabriels hand stilled, deep in the feathers at the crook of that wing; and when he turned his face back toward Castiels the pale slanted moonlight struck deep and pale off the light of his eyes. Nolite me considerare quod fuscus sim, he murmured, fiercely quiet, quia decoloravit me sol. Filii matris mei pugnaverunt contra me. Posuerunt me custodem in vineis, et vineam meam custodio.* Custodio. I keep. Castiel blinked back the unexpected and very human response threatening to spill down his cheeks, and searched through that poem (one of the relatively few pieces of human literature stored in the lexicons of his mind, due to its frequent dedication to his Father) for a suitable response.
* A deliberate misquoting of the Latin Vulgate of the Song of Songs 1:5, which translates to do not think that I am dark/ugly because the sun has stained me. The sons of my mother have fought against me. They have made me keeper(/guardian/nurse) of the vines, and my vines I keep. It should conventionally be my vines I have not kept; and the speaker (and therefore the adjectives with which she refers to herself) is female, which Gabriel changes here.

Through a swollen throat he replied, hoping that it was what Gabriel needed to hear, Ecce vos pulchri estis, dilecti mei, et decori. Lectulus noster floridus, tigna domorum nostrorum cedrina, laquearia nostra cypressina.* Gabriels rich chuckle told him that he had not only guessed right, but provided his brother with an entertaining double entendre. Just the one bed? Cheeky boy. Castiel gave him a patient look. The bed is a metaphor, Gabriel. All the best metaphors work on both levels, Gabriel responded, blithe and lewd. Then Castiel felt the ripple of malevolent life on the slopes below him; and together, they destroyed the barmanous, the ice-dwelling monsters of rape and devouring. When they stood together over five enormous befurred corpses and a still dark pool of ice-melt water, Gabriel licked his lips, cocked his head, and spoke. You know what I remember about you? Your curiosity. It was such a non sequitur that Castiel looked over at him in surprise, and well curiosity. Oh, not recently. Gabriel drawled. Not since humans started moving out of their valleys, making empires, changing the world around them. Not since we had to notice them as more than, you know, a pretty little point on the chain. A sort of a theory. You know. A painting Dad had done and we could all stand around and admire it together and say, oh yes, that corner has some fucking gorgeous brushwork, or whatever. Except then the painting started to come to life and have opinions, and change the rest of the paintings, and talk to us, and Dad well. Since that changed youve been dutiful and obedient and unimaginative as the rest of us had to be, cos we were all second best. Or we thought we were. Gabriel was standing with his hands in his pockets and his face tilted up to the stars, a slight shadowed figure limned with silver and touched about with impossibilities. He worried with his teeth at his lower lip for a moment, then tipped his head sideways to grin at Castiel, something whimsical and raw in his voice. Do you remember that fish, Castiel? The one I told you not to step on? You looked at the fish, and you were excited. How often have you felt that these last four thousand or so? His voice dropped. I miss that. Why did we stop doing that? Dad stepped back to let us play all of us, upstairs and down on the ground and instead we broke out the army fatigues. The stars were spinning overhead, too slowly for the human eye to track. For the first time, Castiel felt it on a level more than factual, felt the earth under him wheeling, dizzy and different, as Gabriel reached into him with words alone and rewrote history.
The punctuation is also usually given differently, but punctuation has moved enough over the centuries that its all editorial custom nowadays anyway. * Ibid., verses 15-16. Behold, you are beautiful, my beloveds, and comely, and our bed flourishes. The beams of our house are made of cedar, and the roof of cypress trees. Beloved (and the accompanying adjectives) should be singular. The metaphor lies in the perception of cedar and cypress as woods that are strong, sweet, durable, and would never rot.

You remember more clearly than I do, what came before. Gabriels eyes were as joyful and deep as millennia. No, little bro, I really dont. You just told yourselves they were irrelevant memories, and I had time to dwell on them. Gabriel Come on, little sparrow. Stop looking at me like Im some kind of revelation. Youve got better places to look for that now. No. Only. Castiel stopped, looked at him sideways, and laughed, with something more full and bright than amusement. We missed you. I missed you. Yeah? Gabriel looked needlessly pleased, then smug. Not so bad yourself, kid. He tossed an age-worn pebble, and it fell almost silently into the dark water. The ripples spread out in a series of concentric circles, a perfect calculation, effortlessly symmetrical. They intersected with others smaller circles, breaking and splashing against the marks of the drops thrown up by their brothers, against the returning swell of where the first circle had reached the waters edge. A complex pattern, difficult for the eye to follow, but all logical. All following the strange, intricate laws laid down for the world to run on. Wrinkling the reflection of the stars. Look at that. Isnt it beautiful? Castiel looked, and it was. It would not be the first time that Castiel had put all of his heart and hope into believing in someone. If it failed, it would not be the first time that he had broken not even the first time he had broken for Dean. But Castiel thought he was willing to face that risk. Now he had work to do, important work that was all his own. He would rebuild his family, and he would teach them to walk on earth. Dean and Sam and Gabriel were helping him with that, even as they worked to repair a damaged world they gave the other angels purpose, work, guidance, strange new experiences to provoke strange new thoughts, new revelation. New influences. And he had other brothers to help him, to walk with him, human and angelic, some of whom he might in time learn to love. He was not Deans servant, except in the metaphorical sense in which he was a servant to all of humanity, because if he was Deans servant he could not properly be his friend. This time, he thought, he could come to trust Dean, and let Dean trust him back. That was new. They could work on it.

Zwitter.
[adj] (German) hybrid.

June, 1784.
There was next to no light in this room. The rafters werent quite snug against each other, and a few small-hours-of-themorning stars peeked through between the cracks. One little skylight nestled under the eaves, looking out over the fields, and there was a faint flickering glow just above it from a lantern down below. Not that Gabriel needed the light to see. In a couple of hours, when she came to offer breakfast, the innkeeper would find her guests vanished, payment and then some on the table by the bed, the old bed sheets replaced with fine blue linen, the mattress and pillows twice as thick and deep, and everything in the room a hell of a lot cleaner than shed ever managed to get it to look before. The place wasnt bad, for what and where and when it was, but twenty-first century standards were kind of demanding. Besides, international disaster-relief volunteers needed a decent mattress to sleep on. Well-known fact. Especially when theyd just had a full days work, hopped back to ten AM in June 1784, and spent another whole day running around enthusiastically poking everything and failing hilariously at French before crashing into an exhausted stupor at six in the evening. This whole juiced-up re-angelified thing had its perks. Like, no pins and needles. Gabriel had been propped up on one elbow for almost three hours straight, just watching, barely breathing. Tracing the lines of Sams features with his eyes. It was, impossibly, over. Lucifer and Michael had been stopped, locked away where they couldnt kill each other and couldnt drive the rest of Heaven and Hell into eternal war around them. This man, this man sleeping loose and comfortable against him, had stopped them. Sam, with his self-built faith. Sam, who had looked without flinching when Castiel had re-ignited Gabriels grace, but who had winced at the approach of his purer brothers and sisters in their naked forms. Sam wasnt the only one whod lived through seeing a beloved older brother dragged to Hell, who had lost himself a bit after it. So yes, okay, Gabriel could admit he might be a little bit in awe. Of the monster Sam had elected to make of himself, because he had believed the world needed it, and because he loved his brother too much. Of the way hed chosen to turn his back on the monster, once he saw it, once he didnt need it. So very similar to, and so very far from, what Gabriel had made of himself, in the same circumstances.

And yet, impossibly, here. Happy. Wanting Gabriel. Even liking him, apparently. Well, he had always said that these boys were a couple of cylinders short of a twocylinder engine. The slack corner of Sams mouth twitched a bit. Then, without opening his eyes, he mumbled, Youre watching me sleep, arent you? Gabriel leaned down just a little, until his breath stirred the long strands lying across Sams throat. Reluctant to break the sleepy stillness, he murmured into Sams cheek, Yeah, well, its been a while since I played angel. Gotta brush up on my inappropriate creeping skills. Sams eyes drifted open, and he dragged his mouth into a languid, contented grin. Morning. Why am I here? The question slipped out, curious and soft, a bit more than Gabriel had meant to give away. Is that philosophy or a line? Sam drawled, voice thick with sleep. Cos Im not awake enough for philosophy. Gabriel slid his hand up easily over Sams side, slid his mouth down, and grinned into his chest. Line it is, then. Long bed-warm fingers crept into his hair and rubbed at the back of his scalp. Bout time. Youve been drilling a hole in my thigh past couple hours. Which was an arrant lie. Mostly. Kind of self-fulfilling, though, with the slow deep burn that started to stir in Gabriels belly at the touch, at the lazy intent in Sams eyes. What can I say? He dropped into his low suggestive purr, the one that always seemed to make Sam snort and look kind of indulgent (which counted as a win in Gabriels book, when it was Sam). You sleep sexy, babe. Mm. Sams hand crept around to cup Gabriels cheek, tracing the shape of him in the dark. He let his thumb drag softly over Gabriels lower lip - catching on the swell of it, pressing just a little inside. Gabriel flicked it with the tip of his tongue, then turned his face to nuzzle into the centre of the palm (so many filthy things that Gabriel could think of to do with those enormous, beautiful hands). Cant even see me in here, in this light, Sam murmured; then he stretched, one long shift and slide of sleepy warmth between the sheets. Against Gabriels belly and thighs. Gabriel suddenly, intensely, regretted the impulse of gallantry that had prompted him to wear pants to bed. His knee, which had been leaning against Sams, nudged up and in on a sudden throb of greed; and Sam made a sound, pleased and lazy, and moved obligingly with it. Gabriels leg ended up hooked loosely around Sams, like it had decided it belonged there, though, hey, Gabriel wasnt about to argue with it.

He leaned in, rubbed his nose into the scratchy warmth of Sams cheek, and hummed the opening bars of You are my sunshine. Sams laugh rumbled deep in his chest, like it couldnt be bothered really waking up. You are so corny. Keep sweet-talking me like that and I might even get you some light. Sam yawned, a wide jaw-cracking yawn, closed his fingers around Gabriels wrist and tugged. Yeah, do it. Which was how Gabriel ended up looking down at Sams lazily suggestive grin, with one long naked thigh lodged snug between his and a soft glow-light of his own hasty conjuring bumping around in the rafters. Never let it be said that Gabriel couldnt grab a hint with both hands. Sams mouth was sour-sweet with sleep and wine and last nights soup, and he kissed with all the casual arrogance of some magnate taking his time to explore his new lands, or something. Gabriel was totally okay with that. They sparred indolently, Gabriels hand braced against the pillow by Sams shoulder, Sams hands sliding up and down his back like they were trying to distract him. Gabriel took delighted advantage of his position to let his other hand wander, relishing the dips and firm curves of his chest, the warm sleepy feel of him between his legs, the slight shift and roll of his hips against the top of Gabriels thigh. This, this was good: moving as it pleased him, all of Sams long, sleek shape spread out below him for the tasting and the ogling, half-muffled in the sheets. But what was better was the promise of muted impatience in the nip of his teeth, the hot press of his fingers against Gabriels waist. Sam was letting him lead; but only for now. Sams eyes went dark, as if he could see the blood pounding hotter and stronger inside Gabriels hybrid body, and liked it. Gabriel smirked down at him, all challenge and glee, and slung a leg right over Sams thighs, sliding into place on top of him. Sams hands spread warm and tight over his hips, holding him in place; and Gabriel happily admired the flex of muscles in his stomach as he leaned up to resume the kiss. And, yes this was better, laziness blurring at the corners and draining away from the dark beat of blood rising deep inside. Also, the roll and shift of muscle between his thighs helpfully conjured the image of being pinned under Sam in his own turn, held down and shoved into the mattress by the hot weight of that powerful body. Which, now he thought of it, went straight onto the agenda. Meanwhile

Gabriel rolled his hips forward, just enough to push one long heated line against another for a moment, cotton tugging and slipping promisingly over skin, then he rode out the wave when Sams hips bucked up against it. Tease, Sam purred into the kiss. Gabriel grinned back against the bright press of his teeth, and gleefully got his hands everywhere. Sams tongue bullied its way into Gabriels mouth to an utter lack of resistance, turning it into a supple and deep and messy counterpoint to the flaring spots of pleasure-pain his fingers were digging into Gabriels hips. His heart was thudding strong and fast under Gabriels hand when he slid it over that seriously gorgeous chest, teased the edge of the tattoo with his nails, dragged it up to curl loose and possessive around Sams throat with his thumb just nestling in the hollow. Sam was gasping, little muffled curses and growls creeping out between their mouths, even before Gabriel bit cheerfully at his lip and slipped his hand the rest of the way, around between the damp skin of his spine and the mess of his hair, to curl tight over the mark hed left there. Sams whole body went stiff between Gabriels thighs, under the heat of his hands, struggling back from the precarious edge with his head flung back, pressed into the pillow, and the muscles straining exquisitely in his throat. Gabriel buried his face in the side of Sams neck and laughed and laughed, feeling like his heart was trying to skip out of his chest. Oversized sweaty hands loosened their death grip on his hips and moved in breathless curves up his back. They lingered on his ribs, dipped into the hollow between his shoulder blades, scratched almost too hard over the back of his neck. You little shit, Sam breathed into his ear, amused and sort of tender. You knew that would happen. Guessed, Gabriel allowed happily, and bit his neck. Sam made this gorgeous little noise somewhere between a groan and a sob that thrummed pearlescent and velvety over Gabriels senses, and the slide of Sams hands went static-sharp and hungry over his skin. Gabriel mouthed at his neck in breathless little laps, sucking in air cold over the wet skin between gasps, pressing his body into the feel of Sams heart thumping passionate and alive beneath him. And, he had no clue how all those other supernatural types, the ones that could trace the beat of human blood inside the body, the thud and flow of hormones and life, could stand having sex with people who were unwilling or scared, or even just bored. Because this, the feel of all of Sam arching under him, inside and out, demanding his touch, all of him revved up for it, wanting him, joying in him this, this was such a holy fucking turn-on. One of Sams fingertips slipped under the waistband of Gabriels pants, and Gabriel forgot to breathe.

He could taste the self-satisfaction in the rasp of Sams breath. Yeah? The finger dragged sideways, slid around the inside of the waistband until it was resting against one side of his tailbone. Damn, kid, Gabriel hissed. Then he had Sams mouth under his again, hot and greedy, and he was devouring it and pushing into it and into Sam, in what had to be the most enthusiastic consent an angel had ever given a human. Sam obviously got it, because his next words came through something that felt like a smirk, curving wide and happy against Gabriels mouth. If, you know, youre feeling up to it. Gabriel pulled back far enough to glower. Not exactly a virgin here, yknow. Yes - smirk. Fucking arch. Dean said itd been a while for you. Id understand if you were feeling skittish. And under that Gabriel heard the silent offer: if you want to run again. If you arent ready to stop teasing yet. Gabriel pushed forward, knocked Sams head up and back with a forceful nudge to his chin, and opened his mouth hot and dark and really not-skittish against Sams throat. Fucking Winchesters. Get a man drunk and worm all his mystique out of him. Dean? Sams hands slid right past that barrier of cotton and anachronistic elastic, shoved in without apology and curled possessive and tender over the warm expectant flesh below. Dean got you drunk? Alcohol tolerance, not exactly something I ever needed before. Gabriel considered for a moment indulging in the sensual human tease of undressing, but the logistics of that right now would take too much wriggling, and also, moving off Sam. He took the intelligent course of action, because he was all old and brilliant with cunning, and banished his pants to some local paper merchants wine cellar. And, there not only the hot clench of Sams hands on his ass, but the scrape and tangle of hair and the heave and throb of skin far hotter and slicker. Sam growled again, one long deep shudder, and arched up hard against him, setting every nerve racing. Then one hand loosened, ran down the back of his right thigh and up again with a shiver of nails, and where it ended up wasnt quite where it had started. It slid further in, two fingers pausing just either side of oh holy hell yes, if Sam was up for that, yes. Gabriel heard a low whine claw its way out of his throat and he shoved back, quick and shameless, into the questing touch. Except. He was pretty sure Sam had only ever slept with women before, and with human taboos about certain functions of the body

Yknow, he purred, feeling his own voice rumble low and hoarse through his chest, I can do that bit myself. If its too weird. Sam snorted against his cheek, a sound that might have been meant for you piss me off, but which bypassed it and went straight for youre adorable when you worry instead. Okay, first? One finger skidded teasingly around the edge, and Gabriel groaned shamelessly and reached out with his mind to find something that would be really useful right about now. you know you can do this with girls, right? And second Sams voice faltered for a moment as he found the skin under his touch suddenly slick with oil. Then he laughed, a rough hitch of breath into the corner of Gabriels mouth, and brought his second finger into the game. why the hell should you get all the fun? His teeth flicked over Gabriels lip on the last dark-edged word, then he was pushing in, opening Gabriels flesh and body up for himself. Gabriel snarled wordlessly and shoved back onto him with all his weight (one deeper, two there, just the edge, just catching). Because Sam couldnt hurt him, not like this. And the sting and the stretch, the promise of it Gabriel was damned (hah) if he was going to miss out on feeling any second of it due to some Winchester chivalry bullshit. Sam took the hint. One became two, in a deep sharp ache of satisfaction. His eyes were dark and heady as wine framed in dark tangled hair and pale linen, his fingers were broad and roughened and cunning, it had been more than eighty years since Gabriel had done this (let anyone do this), and it felt good. A third impossibly large finger coaxed and shoved its way in, and Gabriel tossed his head back and groaned, long and deep, rocked back onto the hard stretch of knuckles. Sam laughed, happy and breathless and maybe just a bit awed, like he couldnt quite believe he was here like this, alive and safe and free, and with this person. Gabriel knew the feeling. And then, thank fuck, Sam was apparently done teasing. He was suddenly empty, and Sam was shifting under him, twisting and surging until the mattress thudded into Gabriels back and six-foot-hells-yes of horny Winchester was pressing him down into the bed. Gabriel heard a strangled little yelp from his own throat and tangled his hands in Sams hair. Almost of their own delighted accord, his hips canted up into Sams body, begging with the arch of his back, as he spread his legs wide and then wider again when huge hands caught under his knees and tugged. Sam was hanging over him, one long line of deliciousness and unyielding muscle, breathing damp and sharp into his shoulder. The heat of him tingled on Gabriels belly, the insides of his thighs, heavy and potent and gorgeously inescapable. So he did the only thing he could do: rolled his hips against Sam in little pleading circles, rocking himself up into the heady illusion of powerlessness. Sam made a noise, low and rough, and ran one hand up his side where the skin was so sensitised it felt like it was about to strike off sparks at the touch. Gabriel turned blindly

into the sweet rasp of the tongue under his ear, seeking it out greedily for himself, as the first blunt nudge turned into a blazing hot pressure. The shivers raced ahead of it, chasing each other up his spine, spiking out to the tips of his fingers. So much of it, heavy and strong, forcing him deliciously open, pushing in smooth as silk through the burn. Gabriel writhed under it, pushed up against him greedily, stole Sams tongue into his own mouth and sucked at it in hungry demand, until finally Sam was all the way in and Gabriel was full, full to overflowing; and he had to draw his nails down the sweat-slick valley of Sams spine and clamp down hard on the print at his hip to make him just move already. And move he could. A few tantalising shoves, grinding slow and deep, working for room; then he drew out a little, and just went for it. The world narrowed abruptly to that: the snap and drag of Sams hips, the tense and flex of his back, all warmth and demand and joyful strength. The smells of sex and sweat and Sams loose damp breath, the heat of skin over and around and between and deep deep inside. The wonder and the fierce, feral pleasure, thrumming all the way through him. And then the brush of Sams panting lips against his forehead, over his eye, an almost incongruously gentle touch that turned everything else into a very different picture. Sam wasnt just fucking. He was loving. He was making Gabriel beloved. Gabriels breath caught on something sharp and strange, stumbling in his lungs. And he was shaking under Sams strokes, shaking with the vulnerability and the awe of it. Because, forget thirty-four years since hed had sex, forget eighty-six years since hed been fucked how long was it, how many centuries, since hed dared let someone in far enough to break his heart? since hed chosen to give himself up? Gabriel? Sams voice rasped its way across his nerves, jarred his stomach. Gabriel felt very proud of the vaguely interrogative noise he managed in response. If you go and vanish on me now, Sam panted, impressively comprehensible, I swear I will hunt you down and end you. Gabriel lost all his breath in one huff, something that might have been laughter before it was jolted out of place by the jab of Sams hips. Incredulous, because how could he possibly Nah, he managed. Im done running. Good, Sam seared into his neck, vehement and fucking terrifying in its promise. Gabriel wrapped himself around him, around this magnificent, broken, rebuilt, stubborn, incomprehensible, utterly human man, clung to him, and hoped like hell that they were both telling the truth. Sams eyelashes swept against his cheek as he lifted himself up just high enough to devour Gabriel with his eyes. Gabriel bit down hard on his own lip and forced himself to

hold his gaze steady through the burn in his lungs, in his blood. Sam was rapt, like the sight of Gabriel was something captivating and endless; and the expression in his widening eyes had Gabriel clenching around him, all want and no finesse, rocking faster, making Sam pick up the pace. He moved fluid and beautiful, and the light glowing overhead picked up the faintly golden sheen of sweat glistening on every inch of him, outlining every roll of every muscle, every flicker and strain and sucked-in breath. He felt like relief, and safety, and strength. Like the impossible finish of a war that had never been meant to end. Sam shifted his weight, leant it onto his left hand, freeing his right to push deep into Gabriels hair and claim his mouth again; only this time it wasnt just sex, or affection, or teasing, or friendship, or any other words that Gabriel wasnt daring to think about. Wasnt just his body, either, even while breaths grew short and rapid between their mouths and muscles drew tight in anticipation. Sam poured his soul into it, almost as surely as Gabriel had wrapped Sam in his own instead of his missing grace when hed pulled him back and anchored him to the world. Oath, and consent, and command, and the promise of years. To Gabriel, of all creatures in creation. And what the hell else could Gabriel do but return it, as Sams rhythm broke and scattered into slick, gasping fragments, pushing Gabriel over the brink into white-hot absolution. Five minutes later, five minutes of thundering hearts gradually slowing and deep breaths sucked in against hot, damp skin Gabriel opened one eye, and peeked at Sam over the lazy blue swell of the pillow. Between his own sluggish lashes and the way Sams face was half smushed into the soft fabric he could only glimpse impressions, lines: the soft curve of his mouth, the quirk of his eyebrow, the utter shameless mess that was his hair. Then he groaned, and flopped an arm down over his face. If I had a masculinity. It would be feeling very threatened. Yeah? Whys that? Sams voice was a lazy, sated drag of I-know-better-than-to-takeyou-seriously, and it was also really hot. Because right now, Gabriel grumbled blindly, I am seriously considering composing odes to your eyebrows. There was a soft huff of laughter against his throat; then lips; then the slow, tingling drag of teeth. You know, Sam murmured into his pulse, innocent as an oversized incubus, if you took us back now, thered be hours of night left. And Id still have time for sleep before the sun came up. Sam could make persuasive points.

---

Were making it up as we go along.

That had been the moment Gabriel had really started paying attention. Before that, it had been an inevitable march towards Michael-versus-Lucifer, to the Winchesters as their vessels since the lunkheads had screwed up and made sure of Lucifers rise. And that final moment of betrayal had been imminent: of brother against brother, that moment that neither would have been able to come back from, that would have fit them both for the roles and emptied them out inside for persuasion and consent. Locked them into Michael and Lucifers stories. Those had been the players: Michael and Lucifer; Zachariah and Lilith as stage managers; Sam and Dean as props. Gabriel had been too wary and too bitter to watch any of them closely, and hadnt seen the point in watching anyone else. Then, were making it up as we go along. Castiel had thrown away the script. One angel, making a choice for the first time. Castiel had made himself an actor, one without a known role, driving all the others into different corners. He had become the wild card. And Gabriel had really started watching. Of course, five minutes later hed got himself exploded, but hey. Gabriel had fixed that for him.

Nolite me considerare quod fuscus sim quia decoloravit me sol. Castiel had exposed
himself to the worlds sun, and had become something new, new and fiercely beautiful. Castiel, with his centuries of patience, which Gabriel had never really needed to develop (and hadnt that come back to bite him in the ass when he suddenly wasnt allpowerful anymore). Rumpled and confused, and the way he didnt speak so much as intone seriously, especially when he was at his least serious. Castiel, for whom family and brother had never meant what they had for Gabriel had meant orders, and duty, and impersonal ties. Who must have spent so much of the last two years being so very fucking lonely, and Gabriel should have reached out to him earlier, before it all went south, if hed only had the courage. Hed had this fiercely suppressed thought niggling at the back of his mind, when hed started darting from town to town showing them how to defend themselves against the Apocalypse, that Castiel might have been proud of him. One little seraph, and the disappointment burning in his eyes in an abandoned warehouse more of a motivation than Gabriel had ever cared to admit. Hadnt all been Castiel, of course. Or all Sam, come to that. There was Dean as well.

First, Dean the inexorable force the one whod made Gabriel look at the whole bloody mess from the human perspective, not just as a family argument. Not as an angel, not as a human. Just as a person. Then, Dean the immovable object, the rock you could build on, with Castiel and Sam in erratic double orbit around him. The nightmares had been a regular thing ever since Gabriel had been remade, mortal enough to need to sleep. (Being spitted by his brothers. Dying slow and frozen while they tore each other apart wearing the Winchesters faces. Reaching out to heal the breach and tearing through them with hands that were too strong. Justice, turned on itself and on him, for deserting them in the first place.) Only then, there had been Dean, fighting at his side, a solid physical strength that wouldnt back down and leave him. And Dean climbing into bed with him in that weird little motel, big and strong and warm and unquestioning. One soft press of protective warmth under the sheets, and it had been far too tempting just to trust, to give in, only it had set Gabriels heart skipping because it had felt too big. Too much like forgiveness. Dean, graceless and fiercely, messily human, raw and beautiful, all easy amusement and jagged edges and fire. Dean, whose greatest strength and weakness was Sam (as Gabriel had tried to hammer through their thick skulls right back when). Who really, really needed to invest in someone else too. Who might just manage it now. And then well, yeah. Sam. Where would you even start? So, okay, Gabriel totally had a crush on the lot of them. From time to time, week to week, each of them had taken on the weight of the world in his turn and shoved it in a new direction. Carrying on when one or both of the others was too defeated to keep on; learning to get up and carry on in his turn. Redefining the whole team thing like whoa. Strange and unfamiliar and wonderful. And now, weirdly, it seemed like they wanted him around. Well, no accounting for tastes. --It took three hours to exhaust Sam back into sleep. Gabriel promised to be back in the morning and left him to it, left Dean glowing audibly with incredulous contentment even in his dreams half a house away, while Gabriel went to make sure the world was still holding itself together. Considering its track record, it was doing surprisingly well. He made a quick round of all the angels he had busy on the ground, cuffed Senyel around the head and explained the complex mechanism of doors to her, checked out a report of seismic disturbances around Indonesia, then dropped in on his little brother and helped him take out a family of barmanous.

Castiel felt as bemusedly contented as Dean had. It was a good look on him. Gabriel approved. (He cradled the memory of Sams sheepish So, this is going to sound really stupid and kind of corny, but I hadnt really known sex could be happy like that close and secret.) --He had one more stop to make, before the night pulled over Missouri: to one other person whod once told him make it up. Cathy Randolphs new house was one of the best protected in the state, even without factoring in the slumbering archangel hidden inside one of its inhabitants. Joane Trundle was mourning her husband, mother, three sons, and half her village, dead four months ago (or, you know, three and a half hundred years). Cathy Randolph was mourning her younger sister, killed in a hurricane far more recently by any reckoning. Both women were bonding over baking, horses, and surviving the end of their world. Gabriel thought theyd probably manage. Humans were seriously awesome sometimes. Sariel was peaceful in her unconsciousness inside Joane, slowly rebuilding her tired mind, but it would be at least eight years before she was strong enough to wake up. Yeah, sooner or later he and Castiel were going to have to work out something regarding that whole vessel issue. Jimmy Novak wasnt the only decent man whod been shafted by that. Joane had outed him to Cathy, apparently. Wasnt like hed had much time to hang around between Sariel taking him there, Sariel unbinding Death, Sariel collapsing in on herself, the confusion of Joane waking up, and Gabriel well, okay, fleeing like a coward, but he had had things to do. (Helped that hed managed to persuade Sariel to bring that little yellow car with them. He was getting fond of that thing.) Seemed like Joane had been awake most of the time Sariel had been riding her anyway, so she already knew when and where she was, what had gone down, and that she didnt want to go back home or abandon Sariel. Also she remembered who Gabriel was. Apparently. Which was embarrassing. Gabriel was mildly surprised that Cathy didnt seem to want to hit him, all things considered. She did have quite the knack for taking things in her stride. She gave him cupcakes instead. Gabriel.

He turned, with his hand on the doorknob. Cathy was looking at him with that selfpossessed, solemn humour that had caught his attention as soon as hed gotten his head out of his ass the look that had made him remember her, and brought him back. What are you really? Angel wasnt right, not anymore, though it wasnt wrong either. It was less fundamental now not a species, maybe a job description. Human was cultural, which probably meant more in some ways only you couldnt really put it on a census form. And there was still a lot in him of the god, power drawn from the earth and from his desires rather than from upstairs, except he was more bound to his body than any god. He grinned at her, and gave her the only answer he was sure of. Im a mongrel. It was an answer that he thought he liked. Then he flew back to Tuscany, and to Sam. --Gabriel had been sort of looking forward to seeing Deans face when he saw Sam wander in for breakfast and sit down at the table, all sex-languorous and yawning, with satiation written into every line and a chain of bites trailing down from under his jaw all the way down his chest, clad in nothing but soft sleep pants riding low on his hips. Unfortunately, Castiel had turned up ten minutes ago and was now sitting all quiet and shirtless and softly smug at the table with a book. This meant Dean was sprawled out contentedly beside him with hot chocolate and blueberry pie and coffee, and that his only reaction to seeing Sam was to quirk an eyebrow and offer a deadpan Someone get hungry during the night, Sammy? (Yep. If it hadnt been for Sam and, well, Castiel, Gabriel could totally have set his sights on that ass, and the easy curve of that grin. The righteous fury, and willingness to forgive. Hed fallen for a hell of a lot less, in his time.) Gabriel wiggled his eyebrows helpfully, slipped an arm around Sams shoulder and leaned into him, nuzzling at his hair. What can I say? I like a midnight feast. Good morning, Sam, Gabriel, Castiel put in blandly, and Sams Morning, Cas sounded far too innocent and honestly chirpy, so Gabriel had to kiss him. Sam gave a happy little murmuring sort of sigh and stretched out in the chair, temptingly long legs crossing under the table and giving Gabriel a delicious view of all the way down that reddened trail and just where it led. At which point it was a logical course of action to slide a thigh over to perch across his lap (with complete disregard for the way his

kimono splayed out around their legs) and nuzzle possessively at the top bite. Then to nibble it. Then to start retracing them, nice and gentle. After a while, he commented against Sams left nipple, to Sam, You know, I was expecting just a bit more protest from him. Dont sully my innocent eyes, dont ruin my poor little brothers honour, oh no two guys kissing in front of me. Something like that. Still sitting right here, you know, Dean retaliated mildly, and Gabriel felt the deep vibration of Sams chuckle under his mouth. Im thinking, Gabriel murmured, spreading the consonants out slow and deliberate over Sams skin as he edged back up again, that our Dean got laid last night too. Are you?, came Castiels tolerant rumble from somewhere behind him, then Dean, sort of grudgingly amused, Doesnt he ever stop talking? Sam let his head fall lazily to one side so that Gabriel could pay close attention to his neck. Mmm. Not much. Gabriel stole the end of his words and kissed him, all unhurried and morning-slow and just a bit like worship, cupping his hands around his face and pushing them reverently into his hair, thighs sliding easily over his through silk and cotton. To his delight, Sam not only opened under it but slid his own hands, completely without compunction, up onto Gabriels thighs under the kimono. It was all easy and open-mouthed, gradually heating up, no hurry, no goal, and hells, Gabriel had forgotten, entirely forgotten, how nice this could be with someone you really cared about (so sue him, it had been centuries). One of his hands slipped down to trace over the line of awakening interest in Sams pyjamas. It earned him a groan of breathy encouragement, so Gabriel cupped it possessively, pressed in gently. You guys know youre still in the kitchen, right? Gabriel flipped Dean off with the hand that wasnt busy with more important things. Whatever. You get jizz on the floor, you clean it up, sall Im saying. Sam made a petulant sort of muffled squeak around Gabriels tongue, which made Gabriel break off to laugh, quiet helpless puffs into Sams cheek, while Sam dropped his head back and groaned. You guys are never gonna let up, are you? Not much, Gabriel parroted cheerfully back at him. Sam huffed messy laughter against his hair. Then his fingers dug sharp into Gabriels ribs. Off, Im hungry. Feed me, wife. Oh, I see how its going to be. Gabriel slid off to sprawl all over the long contiguous sofa into which hed just turned all the chairs around the table, settling his head on Sams thigh and his feet across Castiels lap. I get fucked, I get breakfast. Barefoot, he added thoughtfully, and snapped his fingers.

Solid illusions were all very well for sitting on, but not for eating. Hunger had been seriously lacking in fun. It was still a gleeful novelty to be able to reach out with his mind halfway around to world to fetch real food again. Pancakes, fruit, cream, pain au chocolat, croissants, crispy bacon, muffins, eggs, more chocolate. Also, some of those chocolatecoated coffee beans that Castiel had discovered yesterday (rather to his surprise) that he liked, only Gabriel sneakily put them just out of Castiels reach, so that Dean would have to fetch them for him. And also, because he was feeling well fucked and magnanimous, an apple pie for Dean. He so wasnt above bribing his way in here with food. And judging by the sounds both humans were making, and also the way Sams hand kept slipping down to run through Gabriels hair between forkfuls, they werent above being bribed. Castiel just picked at it, of course. Gluttony was never going to be one of his indulgences. Curiosity, on the other hand So where do you want us today, hot shot? Dean prodded Gabriel in the foot, because he had zero respect for warriors of God. With me. Castiels voice did that cute little under-socialised thing where it sort of growled its way into the middle of the conversation. Gabriels crews are gaining momentum, and the most immediate of large-scale physical disasters are over. The hostile supernatural forces stirred up by Lucifers activities, however, will not simply ebb away. While I and the angels under my direct command have dealt with the more blatant incursions on the world, (which was a nice way of saying the mother of all five-headed elephant-sized dogs rampaging on the le de Paris and things like that,) there remain many whose effects are subtler and less distinctive. Our difficulty now is in identifying and locating threats. Dean made a thoughtful noise around pancake. Less Godzilla is stomping downtown Tokyo and needs to be smote with all your nukes and more weird shit is happening and we cant work out where to start? Something like that, Castiel allowed, with a faint edge of determinedly-not-puzzled that meant Gabriel would be lining up cheap classic monster movies in the near future. They needed that humanity, the other angels. Needed to remember what it was to want, to think, to help, to live. It was doing them good confused they might be, but most of them had never looked brighter in millennia. Certainly not in the last couple thousand years. Still, the point of the whole thing was giving them a frame of reference then getting them to use their own judgement. Within reason. And Sam and Dean were hunters they were going to want to go back to that sooner, not later. Could be time to lose the training wheels, Gabriel said lightly, and stole a slice of peach from Sams plate without opening his eyes. See if they wobble off the rails. Sam slapped his hand away a moment too late. Hey. This is freaking awesome peach. Get your own.

Also he beats me, Gabriel opined to the room at large, which made a variety of amused and unsympathetic noises at him because his was a cruel lot. Dean gave a non-committal grunt. I dunno, dude. Sarafaels still trying to find his feet. Literally. And Raniyel and I were rocking the whole its-not-creepy-that-two-foreigndudes-want-to-touch-all-your-kids routine. And what about the next lot of newbies? Gabriel opened his eyes and blinked at him for a moment. He actually looked like he meant it, with that little scratch of a frown between his eyebrows and his mouth all deliberately casual. Huh. Dean the big brother. To angels. Few days a week, or between hunts maybe? he suggested. Dean shrugged in a dont-give-a-damn way that Gabriel was getting to be pretty sure he could see right through. Sure, if you like. So you want us to be your sniffer dogs. Sams voice curled up at the end into a thoughtful sort of a question, but he didnt sound bothered by the idea. Which was interesting. Or for us to be your attack dogs, yes. One of Castiels long, clever hands trailed over Deans knee, a soft path of consideration and interest. (The other stayed where it was, curled loose against Gabriels ankle.) There are many creatures small and local enough not to catch our attention unless already noted by more human means. Have you ever tried asking an angel to scan a newspaper for reports that might constitute a freaky death? Rocking the sarcasm, Cas, Dean put in, looking far too pleased with himself. So does this mean we get to move back home? Sam made one of his patented my brother is such a disgrace faces, which Gabriel suspected Castiel of secretly studying for later reference. Youre in such a hurry to get back to crappy motels and junk food? America, Sam, Dean pointed out, like someone who wasnt American might have said the centre of the world. Gabriel wondered idly whether he should mention the three houses and various small apartments he had set up across the lower forty-eight. Maybe later. Castiels hand wrapped around the bridge of Gabriels foot, one deliberate warm finger at a time; then his thumb pressed into the arch, stroking. Calling Gabriel to account. Gabriel closed his eyes, tilted his head into the slow press of Sams fingers, and let the voices drift over him. Hunting with angels at our backs whenever we need them, Sam mused somewhere over his head. Almost sounds like cheating. Cheating? To keep our asses alive? Dean spoke though one final mouthful of bacon. Look. Hunting, even when it isnt all post-Apocalypse? Its a death sentence. Family curse, whatever. People just keep getting hurt and you cant stop it. No one quits

this life, because they all die first. The odds are stacked against us, man, always were, and this? This could halfway square them. Hey, not arguing, Sam returned mildly. Then, all brotherly reproach, Dean. Are you trying to get Castiel addicted to chocolate-coated coffee beans? There was a sharp motion of a hand that felt like Castiels in the air, a bewildered indignant grumble from Sam, and a burst of fond pride from Dean, possibly aimed at both of the other two. Gabriel concluded, to his glee, that Castiel had just flipped Sam off. Gabriel was a brilliant influence on him. Gabriel twisted his neck around to bite Sam lightly on the calf. Sam yelped. Dean reached over and flicked Gabriels toe. Hey. No molesting my brother at the breakfast table. Gabriel fluttered his eyelashes at him sweetly. Youve all done eating. That makes it the conference table. Dean eyed him. I just got signed up for a lifetime of this, didnt I? Sam was smirking ridiculously over Gabriels head, and Castiels mouth was almost soft at the edges with that weird little half-smile of his that somehow meant more than the whole thing, and Gabriel cackled. Promise to go easy on you one day a week, tiger. Dean managed to look pissy for all of two seconds before he caught Castiels eye and slid into a helpless grin. Seriously. How is this my life? It started rhetorical and ended up kind of wondering, the sort of question Gabriel didnt really know the answer to either. That after everything, they should maybe be able to come to this. Even if it was only for a few months, a year or two, a human lifetime. Sam tugged at Gabriels hair until Gabriel grumbled and let him move his legs. Then he stood up, all ready to save the world again, every day. Because he was ridiculous and amazing like that. Okay then. Lets go.