Archive of Our Own

They saved the world on a Thursday and went to get some pie. Later, Dean would swear it had been the best damn pie in all his life, and it wouldn't be the first lie he'd told. At that particular moment, Dean thought the pie tasted like horse shit and Sam, judging by a slight wince he couldn't hide as he took the first bite, was of the same opinion. They both grinned and hmmmed appreciatively none the less. Then they ate shitty pie that was probably older than the waitress who’d served it, and made stupid jokes about bitch-slapping Lucifer all the way to Hell. It was fun. It was probably the best fun Dean had in six years. Then Dean had to go to the bathroom to puke the pie up, but well – no party could ever be perfect.

 

It was a week before Sam could walk without a crutch and Dean wasn’t doped up to his eyeballs all the time. A week spent holed up in a motel that didn’t feel any different, eating the food that tasted just the same, wearing their old familiar clothes. All in all, Dean had to say the whole thing was pretty anticlimactic. The hunt was over.

 

Castiel paid a visit about ten days after the final battle, and since that last time Dean had seen him cut through Lucifer’s demon entourage the angel must have regressed into his fresh-out-of-Heaven state, because they were back to creepy staring now. When Dean woke up in the middle of the night - for once it was just from the pain, not from the dreams – he saw the angel standing over the bed doing his stalker routine, his arms crossed over his chest and his head titled to the side so that the little light that was flowing into the room from the street never reached his face.

 

“The last of Lucifer’s army has been banished to Hell today.” Castiel said quietly even before Dean could form any words about personal space, angels that never learned, and calling first, popping in later.

 

“Huh. Go team Team Free Will.” Dean grunted as he slowly pushed away the covers and tried to sit up. It was probably the trick of the light, but he could swear he could see Castiel roll his eyes at that.

 

“You're the one who defeated Lucifer, Dean. This victory is your doing.”

 

Dean didn’t really know how to take that. Castiel didn't sound extremely thrilled, but he was never known for being exceptionally cheery. And the acknowledgement was good to hear, but seriously? Dean would have appreciated a night of uninterrupted sleep more. He grunted again as he finally sat up in bed and reached for his sling.

 

“I kinda got the memo, Cas. It’s not big news here.”

 

Castiel stepped closer, helped him to put the sling on, and the pain curling in Dean’s chest quieted down when the angel put his hand above the healing fracture. Cas must have got his angelic mojo back and Dean was grateful despite the lingering awkwardness. It didn't last long; Castiel stepped away a second later, shoving his hands into the pockets of his rumpled coat. Scratch that, angels could learn after all.

 

“I just thought you should know that the war has ended.” Castiel said after a long silence.

 

“Yeah.”

 

They stayed like that for a while, Dean sitting awkwardly on his bed, not quite sure what he was doing up at three in the morning, and Castiel, hunched over and staring at his feet. It took a while for Dean to wake up fully, but when he did he was all too aware of the fact that they’d been making noise for a while now and Sam hadn't even stirred.

 

“Are you dreamwalking in my head again?” he looked up at Castiel, not quite managing to frown. Some things just stopped being a problem after a while, and Dean got tired of acting pissed about them. Among other things, he didn't mind Cas popping into his head anymore, even though it felt like he should.

 

The angel shook his head, his eyes never leaving the floor.

 

“Your brother isn't glamoured. Just tired. We all are.”

 

Dean grunted again. Castiel looked tired too, and very, very old; for one demented moment Dean even had an urge to stand up, put a hand on his shoulder and tell him something stupid, like 'everything is going to be alright'. It was a good thing moving was so painful; otherwise Dean would have done it, probably. As it was, he just sat there, eyes trained on Castiel’s black tie. It didn't look any different than three years ago when Dean had first seen him, still as pristinely ordinary as ever.

 

“So, it means you’re leaving now? All’s forgiven, you’re all full of angel dust again?” Dean finally croaked out, because the question had been hanging in the air for several months and it had to stop right the fuck now or Dean would start hitting something, probably re-breaking a few of his still healing bones in the process.

 

“I don’t know.” Castiel's voice sounded even quieter now, but less forced. Resigned. “I don’t think I’d be welcome. I’ve transgressed too far.”

 

Dean wasn't sure if Castiel felt good or bad about that, and he was too tired to do their usual song and dance where he played shrink to the almost-fallen angel of the Lord, so he just grunted again. Apparently, it was the right response, because Castiel tilted his head towards the light and smiled.

 

“You should think about what you’re going to ask,” he said out of the blue.

 

“Huh?”

 

“The reward, Dean. For saving the world.”

 

“Huh?” God, Dean really hoped he didn't sound as brainless as he felt.

 

Castiel’s gaze was very reminiscent of a way parents looked at their teenage kids who got stupid drunk for the first time in their lives and passed out with their legs in the air and their tongues hanging out. Dean blinked.

 

 “You mean, we’re actually getting paid this time?”

 

“You have the gratitude of Heaven, Dean. There are few things in this world more powerful.”

 

Dean doubted very much anyone in Heaven felt particularly grateful for anything they’d done but hey, they iced the fucking Devil and he guessed the Winged Assholes had to somehow acknowledge that. He chuckled. The idea of actually getting anything except scars and nightmares from the last three years seemed especially ridiculous when delivered by Castiel. Dean had no idea what to do with it, or with the knot in his stomach he felt tightening. It was... over. The war has ended. They were getting a reward for being good fucking soldiers.

What the hell were they going to do?

 

***

 

If Dean woke up from nightmares and couldn't bring himself to close his eyelids for more than fifteen seconds, Sam collapsed into sleep like a corpse, hardly budging through the night. It meant seven hours later, when his younger brother was only beginning to stir, Dean had already been out for food (the result of it was a burger than had been trying to come up from Dean’s stomach for the last four hours and a stale salmon sandwich for Sam sitting on the table), checked the car and the papers, and had his morning fix of Jack. Sam grunted his way through getting up and limped towards the bathroom after mumbling something close to ‘good morning’ in the general direction of Dean. The sounds of running water made Dean cringe; he didn’t know why.

 

When he was finished with his shower Sam plopped down in front of the table and eyed the package that was supposed to be his breakfast suspiciously.

 

“Dude. You couldn’t find a more disgusting sandwich, could you?” Sam finally asked, picking it up and examining it with an exaggerated frown. Dean grinned a well-rehearsed, familiar grin, and snorted.

 

“Everything you eat is disgusting. Don’t see the problem there.”

 

Sam turned to the trash can and tossed the sandwich there with a grimace. He must have noticed the burger wrapper bunched up there because next he rolled his eyes.

 

“Everything you eat will kill you.”

 

That was an old argument. Dean was supposed to now say something like ‘then I’ll die a happy man’, or ‘better burgers than demons’, and Sam was supposed to sigh and frown and tell him that it wasn’t a joke. Dean never got that. Honestly, with their lives – if you couldn’t laugh about death what could you laugh about? He shrugged his shoulders instead – one shoulder, to be exact, because he still wasn't quite sure his other arm wouldn't fall off if he moved it too much.

 

“Cas came by.” He said finally, already wondering whether Sam would be unnaturally cheerful or carefully blank about it this time. Today seemed like 'unnaturally cheerful' day.

 

“Yeah?” Sam beamed, then stood up and limped over to the bags. Dean had no idea what he was looking for. “A shame I was out of it. How is he?”

 

“Looks worse than a reaper.” Dean's words made the smile slip slightly as Sam looked up, a bright green shirt in his hand, the one he wore when he wanted to appear normal, goofy and non-threatening. Dean held his brother's slightly confused gaze. “No Sam, I don't mean Tessa.”

 

“Well, I guess we're all pretty beat.” Sam smiled again, sitting down on the bed and wincing as he put on his sneakers.”

 

“Yeah no shit, Sparky.” Watching Sam pull on the ties made him wince too, but telling to a Winchester that he should rest up was as useful as trying to persuade an archangel. “Where you going?”

 

“Food.” Sam shrugged. “Since you're obviously too blind and senile to get me breakfast I can actually eat.”

 

Dean knew he felt the same mixture of amusement and pain at hearing the words as Sam probably felt saying them but it didn't really change anything.

 

“It's over.” He finally said, after Sam had already put on his jacket. His brother's head snapped up instantly and Dean could feel guilt burning in his lungs as he hurried to clarify.

 

“The war with the demons. Cas said they kicked the rest of their asses back to Hell.”

 

Sam's forehead scrunched up and he finally turned all the way to face Dean. He was probably having the same 'oh shit' reaction as Dean did at night but he did a worse job at hiding that. Shifting from one leg to another, he tilted his head.

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Seriously, Sam.” Dean rolled his eyes and sighed when Sam’s disbelieving expression didn’t change. “Seriously. No more demon hordes, no more tornados in a box, no Armageddon. And we even get to make a wish.”

 

“Make a wish?” If it was possible Sam’s expression grew even more incredulous.

 

“You betcha. Not sure we can wish a ginormous stick into their collective asses for all eternity, but other than that – it seems that Heaven’s prepared to pay up.”

 

“And you believe them?” Sam asked, frowning. Dean shrugged. It was Cas who delivered the news, so they didn't have much choice in the matter. If there was any doubt in Heaven's desire or ability to pay up, Cas would have told him.

 

“Okay.” Sam nodded. “That's great, I suppose.” He turned  around again and limped toward the door. Dean opened his mouth to call after him but changed his mind as he heard Sam's “I'm going out to eat.” and saw the door slam shut behind his brother.

 

Sam was back three hours later, and by that time Dean was on the bed in front of the TV, where he pretended to be asleep for four hours while his brother clicked away on his notebook.

 

 

 

 

Castiel came again almost a week later, still looking about ten thousand years old, and still at night. This time Dean was awake, watching the static on TV - the only thing that didn’t make him startle and wish for a flashlight he could shine into corners. They watched the static together for a while, Dean pressing his back into the headboard and Castiel with his hands hanging limply by his sides.

 

"Have you decided?" The angel asked finally, his eyes never leaving the screen.

 

"I... is there a time limit on the offer?" Dean tried to lighten up the mood and Castiel let him, smiling softly - an expression that still seemed odd to anyone who’d seen it, especially to Dean. The angel shook his head no, his eyes momentarily leaving the screen they were both still staring at.

 

"I'll tell you if it's in any danger of expiring, though I doubt it will be necessary."

 

"I... I don't know, Cas.” Dean finally said after a long silence. “I just don't know. It's pretty big." He forced a smile as he looked up at the angel. He knew that Castiel of all people would see through it, but old habits died hard and appearances still mattered.

 

"You have time, Dean. I will come back." Castiel’s words were soft, a tone he’d only begun learning in the last six months or so. He made a half-decent job of it, but this time the lack of intensity in the angel’s voice reminded Dean of the voices of ghosts.

 

"Cas? You alright?"

 

"Yes. Thank you, Dean. I'm alright." Dean didn't believe it, not really. None of them were alright right now. But him and Sammy, Dean knew they would be, eventually. Humans were in general a very stubborn breed, and despite a few fits of useless introspective angst Dean didn’t doubt they’d function again. On the emotional resilience of angels he was no expert. He nodded, allowing Cas to get away with his angelic bullshit, and looked up at the tie again.

 

“Look, Cas...” Dean started in a whisper, his eyes darting to the other bed in the room to make sure Sam was still asleep. They'd been taking turns between fighting about the heaven's reward and ignoring the subject all week, and he really didn't need his brother to wake up now. “I know you angelic guys are all cooler than Batman but... is there anything...” Dean didn't know how to ask but he should have known he wouldn't have to.

 

“They won't change the past or bring back the dead.” Castiel's voice sounded like he was apologizing and Dean wished the angel would just stop.

 

“It's okay Cas.” Dean said very quietly as he stretched out his good hand and held on to the angel's tie. Castiel didn't move. “It's not like I actually expected...” He didn't finish, because yes he did – even if for little more than fifteen seconds, and it still hurt to realize his crazy stupid dream of bringing back his family and living happily ever after wouldn't come true. “They're still upstairs, right? All of them?”

 

“They are.” Castiel answered quietly. He stood still for a while, then his palm covered Dean's hand still holding onto his tie and pushed it slowly away. “Take care, Dean.”

 

As much as Dean felt grateful when Castiel worked his angel mojo to help him fall asleep, at the moment he really wished he could fight it and kick the man in his ass for pulling this shit. As it was, he barely managed a frown and let out a protesting grunt before his eyes slid shut.

 

When Sam's leg stopped buckling under him on a steady schedule of twice a day and Dean could finally keep his hand out of the sling for more than an hour without popping pills like a fucking junkie, the sleepless nights actually came in handy. Going through the papers and the web looking for a hunt was calming, time-consuming, and kept Dean's thoughts occupied. Perfect.

 

Not that there was a lot to find. It seemed that with the demons' departure all the nasties still left on earth decided not to tempt their luck. It was a welcome reprieve when they were recovering, but now it slowly became annoying. Dean sighed and rubbed his eyes before looking at the screen again, willing the search engine to find at least some semblance of a hunt. He's spent the better part of the night going through every news site, forum and blog he knew and he still had nothing. It was morning already, and Sam stirred on the bed. He still slept like a log, and Dean was grateful at least for that.

 

“What, still no leads?” Sam croaked, rubbing at his eyes as he sat up on the bed. Dean grunted in reply. “Well, something will come up.”

 

That was supposed to be a reassurance, and Dean felt a smirk tug on his lips at the thought.

 

“Sam?” Dean’s voice stopped his brother right in front of the bathroom door and he half-turned his head, still not completely awake. “Do you ever think of… not looking for another lead?”

 

“Yeah right.” Sam snickered. “Like that’s ever going to happen.”

 

He disappeared into the bathroom after that, and when he returned Dean was already in bed, pretending to be fast asleep after a night of research. He heard Sam go out, then come in – and then he must have fallen asleep for real because the next time he opened his eyes it was well into the afternoon and Sam had found them a case.

 

 

Dean had to say, you had to be pretty dedicated to find that particular pattern through two states – or be Sam Winchester getting cabin fever. Three disappearances in the last two weeks – all young women that only had two things in common: they were all achingly pretty and their boyfriends or husbands had brothers. Sam winced as he explained the connection, and Dean just barely managed not to. Any mention of brothers struck a bit close to home with them, even now, when they should be supposedly getting over it.

 

Dean sighed as he made the turn to the motel. It didn’t look much different from the one they left six hours before, a little more blue in the color scheme maybe, not that it even remotely mattered. Sam was already in the police station, bound for the library afterwards. Dean was on legwork duty – mostly because he had two working legs and could drive. He dropped off the bags and changed into his FBI mook uniform, grateful for pre-tied ties. Of course, Dean still looked extra stupid strolling around in the monkey-suit, barely containing a wince every time his shoes hit the pavement. They were new (his last pair he left in a burning office building about six days before the big standoff) and were probably giving him blisters the size of Texas with every step. He parked the car in front of the convenience store the missing girl had been seen last and caught his reflection in the glass door as he walked in; no 'new shoes' face – that was good, at least.

 

Four days since the disappearance there wasn't one chance of finding evidence on the scene, but it was still something to get them started. Dean wandered around the small store, his suit jacket tucked under his elbow and his sleeves rolled up to appear more casual. He picked up some beer and chocolate, then thought about it and added a box of band-aids to the mix before he headed for the register. The clerk seemed like the talkative type, one of those people who enjoy the sound of their own voice. He made sure the punk-looking guy buying beer knew all his views about losers drinking their lives away, and the woman that came in with an over-excited five-year-old got an earful of parenting advice. Dean considered putting the beer back on the shelf but decided, fuck it. Hopefully his sunny smile and wonderful complexion would be enough to win the man over.

 

“Hey there.” Dean tried to sound friendly as he put his purchases on the counter. The clerk looked over him, his lips still down-turned with irritation. Dean looked around, his best impression of a simple friendly moron firmly in place. As he'd noticed earlier, the missing flyers for the girl – Heather Bishop, 26, smiling from her picture so fucking brightly Dean found it painful – were by the cash register. He picked one up and pretended to read.

 

“Horrible thing.” He said solemnly, searching his pockets for money. The clerk nodded.

 

“Yeah, sure it is. Nasty stuff.” Dean could see the man was more irritated now, and prepared to hear him vent. “Only would it kill her to go missing after she'd been seen somewhere else? Her damn fiance keeps showing up and asking all those questions.”

 

Dean nodded, glancing at the flyer again.

 

“Ah, she was last seen here, right? That must suck, all those people poking around.”

 

“Like you wouldn't believe. As if it's my fault she bought candles here.” Dean nodded as he paid, and leaned on the counter, all his posture the picture of compassion. The clerk continued. “If you ask me, she was preparing a little something-something for that fiance of hers. They should be looking at him. Seems a bit too heartbroken for my taste, if you know what I mean.”

 

“Yeah, it's always the husband, right? Or fiance.” Dean grinned, almost but not quite wincing as he jostled his arm.

 

“So I've been telling them! It's either that Richard boy or his brother, who else?”

 

“His brother?” Dean leaned closer, a conspiratorial smile on his face. “Now that sure wasn't in the papers. Was there something going on?”

 

“Well, sure looked like it from where I was standing. He was there that day, picking out candles with her, making googly eyes.” The clerk scratched at his nose and peered over Dean's shoulder to give a couple that had just walked in a suspicious look. “But do the cops harass him? No, they keep coming back here.”

 

“Seriously?” Dean hoped he seemed as indignant as the other man. “They what, don't have anything better to do? Like follow leads, do detective work, what have you?”

 

“No!” The clerk threw up his hands in defeat. “Haven't been a single lead besides my shop. Not that they would tell me.” The clerk seemed heartbroken and it didn't take Dean a lot of effort to seem pissed at the cops too.

 

“Cops, man.” He sighed, grabbing the bag with his purchases. “Like they know anything.” That was his cue to leave. Next stop – weirding out the family members.

 

***

 

It turned out the only family Heather had was her grandmother, and it wasn't her phone number on the missing posters. Dean straightened out his tie, rolled his sleeves down and put his suit jacket back on – god that hurt like a mother – and prepared to spend a useless half hour nodding to useless babble. The grandmother was a nice small lady with a high old-fashioned hairdo and absolutely no interest in her granddaughter. Dean looked at the cup of tea Mrs. Swatch had put in front of him, then at the woman's warm hazel eyes as she talked.

 

"I stopped knowing where that girl would be a long time ago, Agent Plant. She always had her own ideas." The woman didn't elaborate, and Dean had to raise his eyebrows in question to let her know he is oh so interested in her family drama. "She lived with that - that man, for starters. It was completely inappropriate, but she never listened, even when her parents were alive. Always told me she had a mind of her own - I wouldn't be surprised if she just up and left. You could never tell." The woman heaved a huge sigh, and Dean wished he could do the same. Ms Swatch was one of those extremely proper women that managed to talk about embarrassing family facts without giving out any particulars.

 

"Why exactly were you opposed to Heather dating... Mr. Teller?"

 

"Dating?” The woman's well-groomed eyebrows shot up. “Agent Plant, they weren't dating. They were living together. I understand things are different these days, but if you ask me, they shouldn't be. They weren't even engaged, and it's been three years. I told her she should get on with it, and guess what she answered? She didn't want to marry - at all. The girl had no sense in that head of hears."

 

"So, you didn't know Mr. Teller very well? His family?" Dean thanked the god for giving him an opening to ask the question.

 

"Oh I know them well enough. I knew their father, and he was a useless, useless man - and his sons are exactly the same. I told Heather she shouldn't bring them here. But of course she wouldn't listen – she just stopped coming at all. She haven't been to visit for a year."

 

"Alright, Mrs Swatch, thank you for your time." Dean smiled as he stood up. He wondered what would the old woman say if they were too late and her granddaughter would turn up dead somewhere, or go missing for good? Would she continue that self-righteous preacherfest or feel guilty for not keeping in touch with her only family? Dean still got nightmares of waking up in a motel room and finding Sam gone, or dead, or snarling at him with a disgusted expression, kicking the shit out of him. And this old hag just said so easily she hadn't seen her only granddaughter in a year – what was wrong with people? Dean pushed his bad hand into the jacket pocket and used his good one to dial Sam.

 

"Hey agent Osbourne, you finished at the precinct?"

"Yeah, I'm finished. Guess what I found out?" Sam sounded extremely annoyed on the phone and it made Dean chuckle.

 

"Nothing?"

 

"Precisely. You too?"

 

"Well, small things. Do you have the boyfriend's address?"

 

“I do, actually. Want me to question him?”

“You go to the library and find us something that isn't useless. I'll handle the grieving family.”

 

It was just Dean's luck that the boyfriend – Richard Teller, 31 – lived on the other side of town. Before he finally found the place he was tired, in an ungodly amount of pain, and pissed at the world in general. The boyfriend didn't make it any easier.

 

"Look agent, I honestly don't understand how it relates to anything, but no, she wasn't behaving strangely. Did you come all the way from FBI just to suggest my girlfriend wanted to leave me?”

 

Dean gritted his teeth. The more he thought about it the less options they really had. Most of the creepy-crawlies they caught were territorial kinda guys, with seasonal or permanent hunting grounds. That was mostly how they ever found them, after all: too many suspicious deaths or disappearances in one place. They rarely tracked a pattern over state lines, and now only found this because Sam was desperate for a distraction. And that meant more than half the bestiary was out – ghosts, nature spirits, probably cursed objects too, unless there were some serious forces of fate or some-such at play. It could also be a very human serial killer – a possibility Dean could only see because he spent the last two weeks avoiding cop shows on TV – and it could be a demon. Which was, honestly, a thought that made Dean wish that Heather Bishop indeed had gone on a bender and skipped town. That was unlikely though, so he made as compassionate a face he could and looked at the man again.

 

“I'm here to find her, Mr Teller. Now could you please show me to Heather's room?”

 

After that he was treated to another argument about being sick and tired of all the insinuations and suspicions, and inevitable capitulation when Dean used his Serious Business voice. Dean, for one, was sick and tired of speaking to useless relations of the victim, but he kept his mouth shut as he inspected the room. It was clean, meticulously so, and Dean gave the boyfriend a suspicious stare. It was met with defiance – of course, they couldn't expect him not to clean the house for four days, could they? Dean slid his hand over the wooden tabletop and felt a waxy residue between the threads of wood. The fingers that touched it now smelled ridiculously fruity.

 

“Were there candles here?” he asked Richard, frowning. Something strawberry-smelling probably wouldn't be used in a demonic ritual, but still.

 

“Yeah.” Richard's defiant face fell, and he smiled, leaning onto the door frame. “It was my birthday, and she wanted to surprise me. Candles burning, music playing, table set for two, whole nine yards, you know? I came home to all of that, and she just... wasn't there.” His voice sounded so broken Dean couldn't really be pissed at him. He bit on his lip, looking around the bedroom. Heather had bought candles at the store – probably the same ones. Which probably meant she made it home.

 

“She was seen with your brother earlier, before she disappeared, right? Did he walk her home after that?”

 

“No, no, he didn't.” Richard shook his head vehemently. “They didn't really like each other. He'd run into her at the store, but that was it. Nobody saw her come home.”

 

“You said things were set for your birthday. I'm guessing she did.” Richard shrugged, and however annoying it was Dean had to agree. The store was probably a five-minute drive, and no one said the candles that she burned were the ones she'd bought that night. He asked the guy another question, mostly just to keep him talking. “She probably cooked too, right?” Maybe they'd get lucky and there was some weird witch stuff around the kitchen. Richard snorted.

 

“Cooking, Heather? No way. She didn't cook.” He smiled again – probably found it endearing, the poor bastard. Dean frowned.

“Well, what was the table set for then?”

 

“I don't know.” Richard blinked several times, like he was thinking about it for the first time. “She was probably going to buy something. She did that.”

 

Well, 'happy birthday' food was probably not something you'd buy in a convenience store — Dean had seen their sandwiches, there was no way even the most love-struck guy in the world would tolerate something like that as their birthday meal. And he hadn't seen any diners in the immediate reach, not if you counted McDonald's for fine dining. That didn't sound right.

 

“Why did she light the candles then?” Dean asked, the nagging feeling he'd missed something scratching against his throat.

 

“What?”

 

“You said the candles were lit when you came home.” Richard nodded, and Dean continued. “Would she leave the candles burning while she was out of the house?”

 

“No, no... Heather was careful with things like that. And her favorite place is, like, twenty minutes away – she wouldn't.” Richard paced around the bedroom, then stopped and looked at Dean hopefully. “Does it mean something?”

 

“Well, does her favorite place deliver?” He wished the man would stop looking at him like he was Sherlock-fucking-Holmes. Richard shook his head. “Then that means we have a lead, Mr Teller. Thank you for your cooperation. Can I have your number, in case I need to know something else?”

 

Richard Teller was far friendlier when Dean was leaving: gave him all his contacts and shook his hand a bit harder and longer than altogether polite, babbling about how the local cops wouldn't look for her hard enough and how he was grateful for Dean's – Agent Plant's – work. Dean smiled and choked on his 'we'll do everything we can' when he accidentally met the man's eyes. He felt them burrow into his back all the way to the Impala, trail every stilted, too-careful movement. God, he wished this was a simple salt-and-burn. Or a vampire pack. A vampire pack would be nice.

 

It still didn’t look like anything undeniably supernatural, but, given their record, what else could it be? There was no such thing as a coincidence, and any human serial killer would have taken much longer than two weeks to pick out three victims with only this one particular thing in common. Dean kept hoping for another explanation but nothing except demon activity seemed likely. The Legions of Hell might have been banished, but a few stragglers, deserters or simply loners could have remained. And anything to do with brothers was a charged subject these days.

 

The restaurant that Heather liked - “Olive's”- was warm, welcoming, and a tad too expensive and fancy-looking for Dean, even in his FBI best. The servers were friendly though, and he managed, by flashing his badge and flirting in equal measure, to find out who was working the night Heather disappeared. It turned out the woman hadn't been there, but a man came by ordering exactly what she usually did, to go. By the time he got the physical description of him, Dean was ready to throttle himself for feeling paranoid and jumpy. The mysterious take-out guy matched the description of Richard's brother to a t. Dean showed a photo for a good measure, and - sure enough – one more nail in the coffin. God, he really wished Sam hadn't found this case.

 

The younger Teller brother, Dennis, lived in a sleek-looking apartment building and looked positively bored when Dean introduced himself and explained why he was there. There was no tea this time, and no hostile glances. It seemed that the only reason Dennis wasn't talking to Dean right at the door was so the man could sprawl on his living room couch.

 

“You don't seem too concerned about Ms. Bishop's disappearance.” Dean finally said, carefully neutral, after a couple of intro questions. Dennis only shrugged his shoulders.

 

“She wasn't exactly known for her strong commitment. They were getting serious, Rick was getting impatient... She probably found the engagement ring somewhere and just skipped town.”

 

“Your brother was going to propose?”

 

“Well, it sure looked that way. Knowing her, she'd say no. It took her more than two years to move in with him, for fuck's sake.”

 

“So, you didn't like her very much?”

“I didn't like the way she treated my brother. I wasn't harboring homicidal urges, and I was already questioned by the police, so you can drop it.” Dennis wasn't as much righteously outraged (like his brother had been) as mildly annoyed as he said that. That was what worried Dean. Innocent people didn't look this nonchalant when accused of murder, no matter how much faith they had in the system and their own strong alibis. Dean gave the guy a grin. It pulled on his face, made the corner of his mouth ache. God, Dean hated grinning.

 

“I'm just trying to understand, Mr. Teller. You say you didn't like her, but you still helped her.” Dennis looked confused, so Dean elaborated. “The candles, the food.”

 

“It was my brother's birthday, Agent.”

 

“So you did pick up food for her at Olive's?”

 

“Yes. Is that a crime?”

 

“And you didn't mention it to the police because?” He asked in a tight voice, leaning forward. The armchair he was sitting in was damn uncomfortable and the pressure it put on his chest echoed all the way through his shoulder and to his fingers. Dennis shrugged.

 

“No one asked me.”

 

“Well pal, now I'm asking.” 

 

“Look, it wasn't that big of a deal.” Dennis finally looked sufficiently frazzled, his fingers running through his hair. “She didn't have that much time before he was going to come home, so I agreed to pick up food for her. When I came to drop it off no one answered the door.”

 

“You didn't go in?”

 

“Didn't have the key.”

 

Now that was just insulting.

 

“You didn't have the key to your brother's place?” Dean's eyes narrowed. “And didn't know where he kept a spare?”

 

“His car was in the driveway. I thought he came home early and they were already doing it on the dinner table.” The flustered expression had disappeared from the guy's expression, and now he just looked smug again.  “Do you wanna  walk in on your brother doing the celebratory nasty in his living room? So, I took the dinner home and ate it myself.”

 

Dean sighed. The guy was either a douche – and as much as Dean sometimes wished otherwise, those weren't under their jurisdiction – or a supernatural nasty that had too much practice at lying. He was betting on the supernatural nasty, but hoped it was just his paranoia talking.

 

“And you haven't seen her since?” He asked without much bite. He had holy water with him in a flask, and the knife, but what he didn’t have was the certainty in his own survival if he confronted a demon in his current state. Dennis got a pass this time.

 

“No, I haven't. Now can we wrap this up?”

 

Dean gritted his teeth but couldn't do anything besides standing up and heading for the door. His back tensed immediately after he turned away from Dennis, his muscles twitched, sending new pain through him like he was a fascinating neurological demonstration on some divine science fair. It was getting tiring, how this sort of thing made him feel like a prey. He suspicious he got. How any hint of unusual behavior was now a sign of possession, or a dark spell, or a demonic virus. How he and Sam had an elaborate set of questions all worked out just for figuring out if they were really them. Dean willed his good hand not to shake as he slid inside his jacket and held onto the handle of the knife. To hell with all of this shit. He wasn't going to  run off like some kind of pussy, he was going to find out right now if Dennis Teller was possessed or not.

 

“Actually,” He turned around. “Cristo.”

He even had a good save in case Dennis wasn't possessed. When ‘Cristo’ is your version of ‘hello’ for two years, you learn to cover it up. He’d explain it away in two seconds if the younger Teller kid was just a jerk with a grudge against his brother’s girl.

 

Dean didn’t get to use the excuse. Dennis Teller’s lips opened in a wide grin just as his eyes shifted to black. Dean lunged but there was no one there – the demon was now slamming into his middle. His back hit the floor and his vision swam as Dennis rested his knee languidly on Dean’s chest. Fuck, that hurt – and was that his bones fucking crunching, again? Dean's breath caught in his chest at the pain, too tight, filling now with anger, fear, and the so familiar twin feelings of not again, please not again and how stupid can you be, you moron?

 

“No matter how paranoid you are, you’re not paranoid enough, huh, Dean?” Dennis closed his fingers over Dean’s throat, the other hand twisting the knife out of Dean’s grip. He leaned forward, his breath close enough to feel. “You can't do anything. I hope you know that. You can't do anything to stop me.” The next thing Dean knew, the back of his head was slamming into the floor again and his vision went dark.

 

 

 

Dean’s phone was ringing. Of course it was, because the only way to wake up after having your head bashed in by a supernaturally strong being was an annoying jingle. Well, at least he was waking up. He had no idea why, but that was definitely a plus.

 

“Hey,” he barked into his cell when he finally managed to claw it out of his pocket.

 

“Dean, where the hell are you?” The question sounded rhetorical. Besides, ‘lying on the floor’ wasn't a very good answer. Sam continued without listening for an answer anyway. “I checked in on the Missouri disappearance, and we gotta speed this up, man. Linda Krauss was found dead. Her husband, too - suicide. His brother’s missing. I have Will looking into things in Georgia, maybe it didn’t make the papers but there’s definitely something there. Dean?”

 

Dean grunted into the phone as he sat up on the floor. Oh yeah, just fine over here. Nothing to worry about. He was just going to collect his arm and scrape his brains off the floor, then he’d be ready to go.

 

“No shit we gotta speed things up.” He finally said. “Dennis Teller is a fucking demon.”

 

“Oh. You alright?”

 

“Finish your research. I’ll be there in ten.”

 

“Dean, what the…”

 

“Maybe fifteen. Or twenty. Pack up anyway and wait for me outside.”

 

He snapped the telephone shut and climbed to his knees, then stood up, leaning on the couch’s armrest. The room looked a little blurry around the edges and too clean for a bachelor pad. A quick sweep (as quick as he could manage) revealed a hot steaming pile of nothing, if you didn't count some sulfur on the window, and that was kinda redundant at this point. Dean washed his face (the tap, unused for god knows how long, creaked and spluttered before the water finally came) and wiped his fingerprints from everything. There were all the chances of Dennis turning up later, and there was no reason to get the cops any clues.

 

It wasn't ten, and it wasn't even twenty, so by the time Dean pulled the Impala over by the library Sam was bitchy, concerned, and in pain from pacing. He threw the research on the back seat (the disparate photocopied pages scattered with a soft noise, and Dean felt an irrational urge to snap at Sam for being so careless) and hissed as he got inside and closed the door.

 

“What the hell happened to you, man?” Sam asked with an exasperated sigh that told volumes on his opinion on his brother's self-preservation tactics.

 

“Are you deaf? I told you, the younger Teller guy is a demon.”

 

“And you what, found no other option but go hand-to-hand with him?”

 

“Well he wasn't exactly very friendly once I busted him, was he?”

 

Sam did this mouth-hanging-open he usually saved for the days Dean was especially obtuse, and Dean could hear it all, all the things that were wrong with him just walking up to a demon and saying Cristo. He winced. He didn't want to hear it. Sam, he was pretty sure, was tired of saying it.

 

“Alright, what does it want?” Sam finally asked. Concentrating on the problem at hand. Way to go Sammy.

 

“No idea.” Dean answered in a rough voice. “Screw with us? Screw with Rick?”

 

“You think he's the one that got Heather?”

 

“Who else? I told you I smelled demon on this one.” Dean actually hadn't, but that was unimportant: they both thought about it and they both wanted to be wrong. No such luck though, and wasn't it exceptionally stupid of them to try relying on luck at this point? They should know better. And now they spooked their mark because of Dean's stupid inability to keep his mouth from blurting out the demon-detection word whenever he got suspicious. They had no idea where the bastard was going, no idea whether Heather was alive or dead, no idea what the demon even wanted with three random girls. Was there some spell it was brewing or was it just having fun? How the fuck do they find it now?

 

Dean pulled up to Rick's house and they got out, each armed with his own anti-demon arsenal. Even before they opened the door (who the fuck in their right mind kept their doors unlocked anywhere these days?) he knew no one would be there – and the absence of a pimped-out car in the driveway wasn't his only clue. He could have sworn in the last two years he and Sam and had both developed some kind of sixth sense about demons.

 

The house was empty, but just recently – the puddle of tea on the floor hadn't yet dried out, and the pieces of the glass cup lying in it glistened wetly. There were other signs of struggle across the living room - an overturned chair, papers scattered all over the couch and an abandoned plate with a sandwich on the floor. Dean ran (okay, maybe 'ran' was an optimistic way of saying it but he refused to think about himself as shuffling anywhere) up the stairs as Sam checked out the kitchen, but both of them returned to the living room with the same grim expression on their faces. Whatever happened, happened here.

 

There was no blood, or sulfur, but at this point everything was a bad sign.

 

“Dean.” Sam nodded to the DVD player. The numbers were still flashing on the black panel, but the TV was off, so Dean pressed the button. And – holy fuck, why did it need to be a bigass fucking TV, bright colors and crisp lines, right in his face?

 

It took Dean a while to really see behind the blood and realize that yes, it was Heather Bishop on the screen, light brown hair hanging in wet strands around her face, sticking to her forehead as Dennis Teller stripped the skin off her stomach, slice by slice. She was shivering, and even though you could see that she'd been crying before, her face was blank now, slack-jawed, her eyes staring off somewhere behind the camera, pupils blown wide. Dean knew that her eyes were gray but he couldn't really see it on-screen, especially when Dennis leaned in and kissed her. Sam made a strange, strangled sound behind Dean's back and turned the TV off. Dean blinked and turned around. His brother was sitting on the couch, his face hidden in his palms, shaking, and Dean knew that he should feel the same. He should feel horrified and sick; he hated that all he could feel was exhaustion.

 

“Where... where was it?” He finally asked. The papers on the floor and the broken cup now had another meaning, and Dean was pretty sure that unless they could figure out where Richard went after seeing the – the film that the demon made they would have one more dead body on their hands. It had to be somewhere Richard would know, would have an idea where to look. Dean opened the player and pocketed the disk. “Come on Sam. Did you see all that hunter shit on the wall? Do any of them have a cabin in the woods or something?”

 

Sam jerked up, green and still shaking, his eyes searching the room frantically. Demons and girlfriends was another sore subject with them.

 

“Yeah, a cabin. I remember. Richard – Richard inherited this – this hunting house from his father. It was...” Sam turned around, walked out of the house (the door nearly slammed Dean in the face but he caught it; Sam ignored the glare Dean sent to his retreating back) and grabbed for the pile of papers in the back of the car.

 

It was almost an hour later when they finally made the right turn, and even Sam's fidgeting turned into stony silence. Their only hope to find Richard alive hinged on the demon's arrogance and cruelty; if it just killed the guy outright and blew town they'd need another case to get it. They pulled up in front of the cabin, right next to two other cars, and Dean felt for the knife under his jacket. Sam cocked the gun. They were as ready as they could be.

 

There was no use being quiet – they'd made enough noise driving – so Dean just kicked the door open. The first thing he saw was the barrel of a gun Dennis Teller (the demon possessing Dennis Teller, you dimwit) was aiming at him.

 

“Hey there, boys.” The demon smiled. Of course the demon smiled, they were all psychopathic smartasses with a taste for torture. “How nice of you to come so quickly. Sam, come in, why don't you. Only remember I'll shoot your brother right between the eyes before you even think of going for your gun.”

 

It was strange that Dean didn't feel scared at all. So many demons got them into so many traps he'd become numb to the dramatic effect. Even if the demon was sitting on the top of a staircase and there was a body at the bottom of it, bruised, bloody and unconscious. Dean's eyes slid down the unrecognizable, swollen face and to the stupid dark red tie, bright blue stripes running diagonally, turning dark brown where they were stained with blood.

 

“Didn't even fight me, that one,” The demon said with mild distaste. He stood up now, still holding his gun  at Dean, and slowly sauntered down the stairs. “You'd think after what his precious little Dennis done to his girlfriend he'd at least bring a gun. But he just whined and whined and whined.” Richard's body jerked as the demon kicked it. Dean told himself it was a good thing, because he could hear the groan and it meant they still had a chance of saving the guy. Just – just another step and the demon would be close enough, just another... Here you go. The demon opened its mouth for another round of monologuing but Dean rushed him, straight-up tackle the thing didn't have the time or the space to evade, and crashed onto the floor. The impact made every bone in his body resonate with pain, and his fingers grabbing for the knife missed the mark by two crucial seconds. The demon grabbed his good hand, squeezed the wrist with inhuman strength, and now instead of sticking out of Dennis Teller's chest the knife was pointed at Dean's throat. Sam jerked to a stop behind him.

 

“Do you really think there's anything you can do now? Anything?” The whisper almost made Dean gag and he tried rolling off, letting Sam take a shot, but he couldn't move. Then Dennis' mouth opened and black smoke rushed in, choking Dean and flying around Sam and out of the door. The body under Dean went slack. He rolled off, flinched away from Sam's hands trying to help him stand. He couldn't feel half his torso. It was a strange feeling. He sat on the floor, looking from one body to another. Richard, beaten to a bloody pulp and wheezing through his swollen lips, and Dennis, pale but – also breathing. He grabbed for the stairs' railing and stood up, slowly, then went up the stairs without a word said to Sam.  Heather's body was on the bed, caked with blood and already getting ripe. The smell didn't make Dean even slightly nauseated. Was there anything they could do now? Was there, really?

 

 

 

Dennis woke up halfway to the hospital, shivering and crying on the back seat, cradling his brother's limp body against his chest, and Dean wanted to yell at him to shut up already but he only clenched his jaw harder. Next to him Sam stared on the road with wet, red-rimmed eyes, and Dean could see now what that fucked-up shit of a demon tried to do – succeeded, actually, not tried. Another ten minutes after that and they were handing Richard over to the medics. The local police would be there soon, and as Sam coached Dennis on his answers while Dean went outside to get a word out. Bobby, then Will, then Shane and Hope – and wow did saving the world make you a lot of contacts or not? The point was, people were on the lookout now. He wasn't sure they were going to catch the bastard unless it slipped up, but they were going to give him a hell of a run.

 

Dean finished the call and looked around. There was a woman chain-smoking at the exit, dressed in black dress pants and a large oversized sweater. Dean watched her finish one cigarette and start another before he headed back up. There weren't any good news to be had, so might as well stop stalling. Sam met him upstairs with a grim expression.

 

“He's in surgery. Massive head trauma, internal injuries.” That, Dean could have guessed. He pressed his good shoulder into the hospital wall, felt the tension is his back ease up for a moment before his eyes landed on Dennis. The man's shortly cropped hair looked greasy and there were beads of sweat on his neck. Sometimes Dennis would hunch his shoulders and clasp his hands in front of him, riding out shudders that wracked his body. When it happened, the sweat from his neck slid down. There was a damp-grey circle around the collar of Dennis' white t-shirt. Dean felt his own neck ache.

 

“We should go,” Sam said quietly, looking around. He'd changed his jacket before going into the hospital because of all the blood, and was jamming his hands into its pockets now like he was cold. Dean winced as he lifted his bad arm and stuffed it into his pocket too, just not to have it flop around like a piece of meat. Sam was right, they probably should go, but he wasn't going anywhere. He peeled himself off the wall, made three steps to the nearest chair and sat down, gritting his teeth. It was a bad position, open from three sides, but you took what you could get. Sam hovered next to him, still edgy, waiting for Dean to catch his breath, probably, and then go. Sometimes Dean wondered if he really was as old and off his game as Sam made him feel. They weren't going to find out tonight, though, because Dean was going to do the stubborn thing regardless, and Sam was going to let him.

"Not going yet," he informed Sam with an almost satisfied smile. Sam frowned and straightened his shoulders, like he needed to look taller even now, with Dean sitting down.

"Why?"

“He might come back.”

“Why would he?” Sam didn't sound convinced - didn't want to be convinced, more likely.

“Might happen.” Dean would have shrugged had he the energy. It was personal for the son of a bitch, he knew it. They must have crossed it somehow, killed its favorite hellhound puppy or sanctified his favorite bar, but the thing was now out to make a statement, and it wasn't finished.

Dean heard it when Sam gave up: his brother let out a sigh and shifted on his feet. His leg had to be killing him too, but he hadn't been thrown every which way recently so he had one on Dean when it came to standing.

"I'll go do damage control."

Dean knew what Sam meant. Sam meant he was going to go and repeat to Dennis what exactly to say to the cops, just to make sure the guy wouldn’t go and do something stupid, like tell the truth. The central point of this briefing was going to be not getting Dean or Sam locked up in prison for the rest of their lives; Dennis too, but he was not the biggest priority.

Damage control. What was there to control? All the damage was already done. Dean watched Sam sit down next to Dennis and start talking to him. He could almost hear the soft tones. Dennis listened and nodded along, then glanced up with a startled, confused expression - that was Sam getting over the condolences and supportive bullshit and getting straight to business. Dean clenched his teeth, grunted as he pushed himself off the chair and up, away from having to look at Dennis Teller's face. Of course the whole thing might have been a little more dramatic if he actually had a lot of choices. He ended up at the other side of the corridor, near the door that made him tense up every time in opened.

Sam showed too, eventually, and sat down next to Dean with a sigh.

"I don't enjoy it either, you know." His voice was quiet, and Dean's only response to that could be a silent nod. They'd done this song and dance countless times; it never really got pleasant. And the apocalypse... let it just be said that they got a lot of practice coaching people on how to explain away and cover up demonic possession. Not everyone managed to, of course, and Dean still wasn't sure the Dennis kid wouldn't confess to everything in time. Hopefully, when they were done with the case and out of  the town. State, preferably.

Dean was so fucking tired of this bullshit.

His head thudded against the wall as he leaned back and he winced; not a good move, that, after you'd been knocked out against the floor earlier in the day.

"Do you ever want to stop?" Dean didn't look at Sam, because that was also a conversation they'd had, a long time ago, and he didn't want to see Sam's face if his answer was the same as then.

"It’s not like we can, Dean." Sam sighed. He sounded tired, probably as tired as Dean felt.

"Well, what if we could?"

"Dean, where is this coming from?" It had been a long time since they had a similar conversation, and thinks had not been looking up since. "Can't be just the case."

Sam was right. As awful as it sounded they’d seen worse things done to people, a lot of those things just to spite them. They weren’t exactly popular with Heaven or Hell, and it wasn’t the first demon who’d tried to drive home the point of them being the worst kind of scum. A few angels had tried too, no matter what they said now when the Apocalypse was over. Dean sighed and ran his good hand through his hair. It was getting long again; a haircut hadn’t really been that high on the list of his priorities lately.

“Nowhere… Nowhere.” Dean chuckled, almost, but it stuck halfway in his throat and came out an awkward, artificial cough. “Just tired, I guess.” He wasn't sure because he wasn't looking but he thought he felt Sam nod.

It was a long time before Sam let out a deep, long sigh. That was his 'preparing to reason with my big brother' sigh, and Dean prepared himself, too. What Sam was going to say was going to be perfectly reasonable and very unpleasant.

"I think about that sometimes." Sam admitted, but Dean knew his brother far too well to celebrate their agreeing for once. "It’s just… We’re basically nobody now. Maybe credit card scams and fake IDs can tide us over when we’re on the road, but actually living somewhere? I don’t have any idea how we’d manage that."

And that was just that. The reason they couldn't afford staying in one place for too long, settling down. Even if they both got jobs, identities had a tendency to wear thin with time. It was possible to roll into town for a few days, even a week, flash fake documents and get by. The longer you stayed, the bigger the chance someone might do some digging, check online or even with the authorities, verify with the insurance company - and blow your cover. Except that the situation was a little different now.

"Look, if it's just that - Heaven is giving us this free-for-all..."

"Yeah, right," Sam scoffed.

"What?"

"Nothing. It’s your reward, you can do what you want with it."

"It’s our reward, Sam - our reward." If they hadn't been at a hospital Dean would have been shouting by now, as it was he just squeezed out the words through his teeth. "It means we have to come up with the thing we both want."

"I don’t want a normal life." Sam shrugged, looking straight at Dean. His eyes were empty now. There would be no talking to him anymore, not when he was like that.  "Can’t you just, I don't know, ask for a million dollars and a couple of hot girls with really bad judgment?"

"Right." Dean nodded. He wasn't looking at his brother anymore. "Because that's what I want the most out of my life."

Sam stood up so quickly Dean's chair shuddered.

"I'll go clean up the car and the house. Try not to fight any more demons while I'm away."

 

Dean nodded even though Sam already wasn't there to see it. Good escape, that. Couldn't have done it better himself.

 

Sitting there forever, or at least until Sam returned, seemed, like a legitimate option for a while but in the end the hunter in Dean demanded he stand up and go find Dennis. The man was still sitting in the same chair and Dean met his eyes briefly before taking up the post as far down the hall as he could manage while still maintaining line of sight. He was there to watch the guy, not talk to him.

 

Sitting and waiting was never Dean’s strong point, especially in hospitals, and especially with his back locked up, his head splitting and one of his arms useless, all that while trying to keep an eye out for a vicious bastard of a demon. Probably nothing like what Dennis was feeling, granted. The guy sometimes turned to Dean, like he wanted to go up and ask something, and Dean even met his eyes on occasion, but he never worked up the nerve. In the end Dean decided not to waste the energy for the eye movement, just stared at the gray and blue floor in front of him.

 

That was probably why he missed it. The feeling of something-wrong-ness jerked Dean alert when the doctor was already speaking to Dennis, all concern and quiet professionalism, and so, so not what he appeared to be. Three years ago Dean would have never guessed; now it was unacceptable for him to only have felt it when the demon was so close to their mark. He’d seen the bastard before, in a different body, and he could see the resemblance now. The very flow of air around the thing that pretended to be Richard Teller’s doctor was wrong, different. Dean schooled his face back into the mask of vacant indifference as his ears caught the words the demon was saying. It was relating to the brother of the patient the full extent of the injuries – in painstaking, excruciating detail, listing all possible consequences and complications. Dennis looked like he was going to barf, cry, or faint – possibly all three, but the doctor just kept going and going, and Dean kept sitting, careful not to start thumbing his knife through the jacket so as to not tip the monster off.

 

When it was finally finished, Dennis sagged into his plastic seat, shaking slightly and unable to look anywhere but onto the floor. If he had managed to miss anything on what he’d done to his brother (Dean doubted it, but one could always hope) he had the full picture now, and then some. Dean tried not to look at him.

 

He followed the doctor’s path down the hall with his eyes. The man was excruciatingly slow: he stopped to talk  with nurses, read over charts, to ask questions… Dean watched him, trying to convince himself that maybe he was wrong this time, but – who was he kidding? He almost welcomed the pain of standing up when the guy finally opened the stairs door and disappeared. Dean’s vision swam as he followed the man. He had his devil-trap markers with him; maybe he’d be able to trap the bastard and exorcize it; maybe he’d find the doctor unconscious and demon-free under the stairs. He sighed as his fingers dug painfully into his neck.

 

“Cas?” He asked under his breath. “I know you’re probably busy, but I’m about to do something really stupid and I’d really appreciate some back-up.” He waited a few seconds, but nothing came. “Alright. But just so you know, me getting filleted just after the Apocalypse – doesn’t look good for your guardian angel resume.”

Dean thought he was being quiet. Discreet. Expert hunter, he. He hoped he’d fooled the thing, pretending to be too hurt and thrown to notice anything, but turned out the demon wasn’t fooled. It met him two flights up, the nice doctor’s coat stark white and crispy.

 

“You never learn, do you?” It smiled as it stepped closer, and Dean felt an invisible force press into his stomach and back, keeping him in place. It slid higher, making him arch his back as his breath caught in his throat. “What did you think you were going to do? Kill me, and this nice doctor I’m wearing? He’s still alive, you know. He has two sweetest little girls at home. I think it will be a fitting ending to this story when I get this guy home and make him rape and kill them.”

 

“You demons,” Dean grinned. “Never do anything new.”

 

“Oh this will be new. I will cut through all of the continental US, specially for you boys. Show you just how many new ways I can think of to kill in your name.

 

“You ruined everything. Now – now I will ruin your life. You will never catch me. You’ll be eating my dust for the rest of your life, trying to get me to stop killing all those precious innocent people. And you will know that it is all your fault.”

 

Grandstanding. Dean met only two demons in his life that didn’t do that and went straight for killing, and he really missed those times. He had just enough time to consider the options (not that many of those) and the outcomes (he was almost certain he wasn’t going to be killed, just because he’d need to be alive to provide the demon with his delicious suffering and guilt, but everything else was fair game) when he felt the familiar displacement of the air behind the thing and grinned.

 

“You talk too much,” he informed the demon. “Really should get that evil mastermind bullshit checked.”

 

Castiel’s hand landed on the back of the thing’s head and its eyes snapped open, glowing pale blue. Its hold on Dean broke and he swiveled on his feet, barely caught himself on the railing in time to avoid ending up in a broken heap ten flights lower. By the time his vision stopped swimming Castiel was lowering the barely conscious doctor on the floor.

 

“Have to say, Cas,” Dean breathed out, still holding onto the railing, “You’re cutting it a bit too close with the dramatic entrances.” Castiel looked down at Dean, unamused, no doubt already taking in all the new ways he managed to fuck himself up. Dean caught him staring intently at his chest, as if he could actually see the crack in Dean’s collarbone (he couldn’t; Dean had asked before) and rolled his eyes. “Tell me that bitch is not coming back.”

 

Another unamused stare was Dean’s answer.

 

“Alright.” He sighed, staring at the doctor, now sitting on the floor and looking blearily around. Dean would have probably crouched in front of him any other day but now he just clicked his fingers in front of the man’s face. “You there. Doc. You understood what just happened?”

 

“What? I…” The man’s eyes focused on Dean, and that was evidence enough for Dean to consider the guy fit to perform some brain activity.

 

“Yeah, right,” he interrupted. “The cops won’t understand either. So whatever weird shit came up with the Teller case, you keep it to yourself. Got it?”

 

The doctor’s face scrunched up in confusion but he nodded, numbly, after a few seconds. Dean nodded back, satisfied, then turned around, half-expecting Castiel to be gone. He wasn’t. His eyes followed Dean with his usual quiet intensity.

 

“You’ll never get a hang of that relaxing thing, will you?” Dean sighed as he climbed the last three steps up. He thought he’d take an elevator down, like a normal person, then get into the car and drive off into the sunset with the best of them. Then he realized Sam was still on the clean-up duty, most likely elbow-deep in blood. He turned to Castiel with a sigh. He felt far too shitty for heroics and gritting his teeth through

 

“So, you gonna angel express me to the motel or not?”

 

“Of course.” Castiel extended a hand in the direction of Dean’s shoulder but the man raised his finger in warning.

 

“You make me toss my breakfast on your coat again I’m not paying for cleaners.” Castiel’s lips quirked up just a bit as he brushed aside Dean’s concern and finished the motion. His fingers gripped tight, his palm warm even through the shirt Dean was wearing. Castiel had a way of touching,

 

“Celestial cleaning services are included in the insurance plan,” he said, so serious Dean wondered if the doctor would just write them off as a bad trip from some accidental anesthesia or something; the chances were high as it were but he and Cas were making it extra easy.

 

The world shifted around Dean before he could finish the thought, and he was standing in the motel again. His stomach lurched, but he managed to push it down as Castiel carefully lowered him onto the nearest bed.

 

“So,” he raised his eyes at the angel after a while, when he felt like he would be able to get the words out without groaning, “you hip to all this vendetta thing the demon was up to?”

 

“You are universally hated among hell’s armies.”

 

“Yeah, that’s real encouraging.” Dean chuckled, shifting on the bed. Castiel wouldn’t mind him getting comfortable, would he? Dean punched the pillow a couple of times and then leaned back. Not ideal, but at least he didn’t need to think about sitting up straight again.

 

“At the moment more demons are concerned with their own survival than with revenge,” Castiel offered. “I don’t believe any more will appear anytime soon.”

 

“I suppose that’ll have to do.” Dean sighed and closed his eyes. This whole case – god it sucked, big time. He just wanted to get out of town and forget Dennis Teller, his girlfriend, his brother, everything. Maybe he should ask heaven for a memory wipe as a reward. That would be nice.

 

“You gonna stay for a beer?” Dean asked. He’d start there and then move up to Jack; the painkillers were wearing off anyway, and it wasn’t like he was in danger of dying with an angel in the room. Castiel shook his head, and Dean sighed. Maybe he’d stand up and get the beer a bit later.

 

“I have to go, Dean.”

 

Castiel really had the worst timing with his bursts of politeness. Most of the times he just flew off whenever he wanted, but sometimes he decided Dean needed to know in advance the angel had better things to do than stick around the worn-out, cracking-at-the-seams human.

 

“Right.” Dean nodded. “Mopping up the Apocalypse.”

 

“It is quite… messy,” Castiel agreed, and Dean chuckled. His fingers felt numb as he dug inside his pocket for the phone to tell Sam the hunt was done and they needed to blow town. When he raised his eyes Castiel wasn’t there.

 

 

 

Waking up to nightmares you couldn't remember stopped being a novelty a long time ago for Dean Winchester. He snapped awake without a sound. For a moment he thought he saw a still figure in a trench coat standing beside his bed but there was no one there, just Sam's breath, too loud not to make Dean cringe and feel like scratching off his skin. He gulped down his gasps and groans as he sat up in bed, slowly, carefully, and reached under it with his foot to kick out his shoes. He wasn’t going to sleep again this night; he could feel it with his bones. If he'd woken up to Castiel, then maybe the angel would have been able to mojo Dean back to dreamland, but it didn't look like it would be that easy this time. It was four in the morning anyway. He'd been asleep for almost five hours – too long already. Time to wake up.

 

Dean skipped tying his shoes and just tucked the laces sloppily into his boots, then reached for his jacket. Was not getting cold worth the pain of putting it on? Not now, anyway. Maybe not today.

 

Sam's breath had changed, Dean could hear it now. He was awake, probably had been since Dean even started to get out of bed. Dean pretended he didn't notice and quietly closed the door behind himself on his way out.  He started the car and leaned back into the seat, closing his eyes for a moment. Breakfast now, just so Sam wouldn’t get on his case for not eating later. He could drive with one hand, no problem. Learned to do it a long time ago.

 

The diner was, as he’d hoped, almost empty, but the silence made every sound seem even louder, and Dean wished he could stop breathing because he was making so much noise with his chest he was surprised people weren't shushing him.

 

He ate. The waitress didn't smile at him (must be losing his touch); the two people in the diner didn't even look his way. He probably looked forty, with all the shit that had been going on. Not enough sleep, and his zombie look was not really that attractive. Dean swallowed the bitterness in his mouth and pushed the thoughts away. It wasn't like he was up to anything right now. He'd be lucky not to rattle apart from one touch.

 

It was already getting light outside when he paid and left; the cold wasn't getting any better. Soon it would be winter, and snow sopping his shoes wet and cold, and the dirt getting in the car that would be either too cold or too hot and never comfortable. Life from a hot shower to a hot shower. Maybe they'd be lucky and get a hunt somewhere in Texas.

 

Dean looked down the street, as if he could still see the motel sign despite being on the other side of town. No, not there. Not yet. He unfolded his jacket and put it on: the bad arm first, then, after he got his breath back, the other one. God it hurt like a bitch. Really should have taken a sling with him, screw the badass image. No one cared anyway. He tried straightening up (really, really bad idea) then gave it up and trudged along the street. Why was he killing himself over this bullshit anyway? He still had some whiskey in his bag at the motel. It stopped helping a while ago but it was familiar; something from the far away world where his father had lived, where alcohol made you forget unpleasant things and turned every girl into a potential lover. Dean stopped, looked back at the car again. No. Not this morning. Not yet.

 

It was funny how things worked. He turned and there was a park to his left, and Castiel was standing at the gates, staring right at Dean. The angel's hands were stuffed into his pockets, and he looked like he was cold even though Dean had seen the guy stand for hours in the snow and not twitch a muscle.

 

“What, couldn't call?”

 

“I wasn't sure you were awake,” Castiel answered quietly, and Dean wanted to scoff but didn't.

 

“So you just happen to hang around in this part of the Earth?”

 

“I was waiting for you.”

 

Dean rolled his eyes. Castiel sometimes just couldn't stop being cryptic; it was probably an angel thing.

 

“So, now I'm here. We going to hang around playgrounds, like good old days? Because I'm telling you, if we get arrested I'm blaming you.”

 

Castiel didn't reply – just touched the gate, and the lock on it clanged open. Trespassing, not that much of a crime, really, after impersonating a federal agent, breaking and entering, and murder. Dean followed the angel into the park and down the side alley. Castiel didn't go far, sat down at the first bench they came to. Dean did the same; grit his teeth through the pain of his shoulder blade digging into the hard wooden planks behind him and stretched his legs out. Goodie. Now he had something to stare at: his scuffed toe caps were fascinating.

 

“So, what's up in Heaven?” Dean tried not to sound bitter, but it still came through, even if he knew that Cas had enough on his plate as it was without babysitting them.

 

“I'm sorry for what happened in Norwalk.” Castiel said, quietly, and Dean cursed the time the angel learned to recognize social cues and read the subtext.

 

“Don't want to talk about it, Cas.”

 

A sign. Castiel leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his fingers buried in his hair. Dean envied him the range of movement; he picked at the tail of his jacket instead. It was a long time before the angel spoke up, so quietly Dean could barely hear him on the other side of the bench.

 

“It is almost done.”

 

“The clean-up? Well, that's good, right?”

 

“It is. I find the war... very tiring.”

 

Dean snorted.

 

“Tell me about it.”

 

“I'd rather not.”

 

That was that. Dean shut up, listening to Castiel breathe. It sounded slow, even, and he timed his breaths to fit, strained wheezing almost drowning out the soft sounds.

 

“The fighting,” Castiel said, suddenly turning to Dean. “It used to make you happy.”

 

Dean would have shrugged, but any movement in his upper body hurt, so he just inclined his head.

 

“Not anymore.” Castiel continued, and wasn't he just the most perceptive angel in all heaven. What gave it away? The black pit of despair Dean seemed to circle in the last three years, or maybe the fact that he was pounding the pavement at five in the morning because he didn't trust himself to go back to the motel and not get smashed before the day had yet begun? Dean said none of it, just inclined his head once again.

 

“Like you said. I'm just tired.”

 

“The Apocalypse is over now, Dean. You can rest.”

 

That was a nice joke. One that Dean used to tell to himself when going got tough in the last three years, and that was pretty often. End the Apocalypse and we'll rest. Just do this one thing, because you should always finish what you start, especially if lives of billions are at stake. It got him through the days, but it was so obviously a scam that he didn't have it in him to laugh at it anymore.

 

“No, not really. Gotta keep hunting, Cas.”

 

“Dean...”

 

He shouldn't have looked the guy in the eyes, and now that he had he felt his throat sting. Castiel’s eyes were clear and blue, just like the first time they met, just like they always were, looking straight through the layers of lies and tricks and bullshit to where he was alone, exhausted and broken. The angel knew everything, Dean realized. Everything. That had to be the worst. As long as things stayed hidden they were safe, harmless. Now his stupid dreams were staring him in the face, reflected in Castiel's eyes, and it hurt.

 

“I won’t leave him just so I can cash in on Heaven’s reward and go live some bullshit happy life,” Dean growled through his teeth. “I won’t do it, Cas. You can’t tell me that it’s right.”

 

“I want you to have peace. You deserve it.”

 

Castiel's voice was so soft, so sad, so goddamn caring – Dean didn't want to hear it. He winced.

 

“Yeah, the jury's still out on that one… Besides, wouldn't know what to do with it anyway, right? Made for the hunt.”

 

The argument sounded nice, solid. Dean almost believed in it himself, and it felt good to have something so plausible to lean on when you needed to argue against your own happiness.

 

“You're wrong.”

 

Dean waited for Castiel to say something else, but that was it. 

 

Dean closed his eyes for a moment. If he tried really hard he could imagine he could feel Castiel’s body heat, even through the layers of clothing, warmth touching his elbow and the side of his thigh. Nice story, that. Almost as nice as the one about rest.

“Cas?”

“Yes.”

“Will you come with us?” Dean wasn’t sure he could look at Castiel now. The angel wouldn’t be the first person in Dean’s life to leave, but for some reason this felt different. The thought of him going back to his angelic duties tasted almost as bitter as the memory about Sam running off to college. “If you won’t go upstairs with the rest of angel crew?”

“I won’t be returning to Heaven, Dean,” that was the place for a relieved sigh but Dean felt the second part of the sentence coming on, “but I can’t come with you either.”

“Why? You going back to Amelia?”

 

Dean couldn’t hold back the nervous chuckle. The thought seemed bizarre but what the hell else Castiel was going to do? He didn’t have anyone but Dean and Sam. Castiel sighed and shook his head before standing up and taking several steps in the direction of the park exit. Dean felt scared for a second – there was no way he was going to catch up to Cas, even if angel didn’t cheat and do his teleportation trick. He was just going to be left there, sitting on a bench like a moron. Castiel stopped halfway, turned around again and stared down at Dean with his annoyingly blue eyes.

 

“I need you to understand.” The words felt heavy as they came out of Castiel’s mouth, like he had to push them out. “You have become very important. To me.” Dean snorted, and Castiel gave him a sharp look. “Don't. You know it's the truth.”

 

Of course Dean knew it was the truth. The guy died for them, for god's sake, rebelled against heaven, risked his life countless times and on one truly spectacular occasion shielded Dean from an explosion strong enough to blow a 3 block hole in Seattle. Dean was, apparently, very important – but not important enough for Castiel to stay. The angel sighed next to him again.

 

“I don't know what I'm going to do. When they leave. I know... I know I'll lose my powers, what's left of them. Most likely lose my immortality too.”

 

“So, will you just become Jimmy again?” It seemed wrong, unfair to have Castiel just... slip away. Thankfully, the angel shook his head in reply.

 

“Jimmy's soul was burned out of this body by Raphael two years ago. He doesn't exist anymore. There's only me.”

 

“Well, why can't you stay?” Dean was fully aware he sounded like a petulant child but he just couldn't understand – refused to understand his only friend leaving him after all they'd been through.

 

“I... need to find something.”

 

“What, a precious holy artifact?” Yes, he was being unfair, and yes, the sadness on Castiel's face made Dean feel like a first-class asshole. But his alternative was begging, and that he was not prepared to do..

 

“A purpose.”

 

“What, not enough purpose here? There's monster hunting to do, you know you won't be able to stay away from it now.”

 

“Probably.”

 

“Then what's the problem? Stay, hunt monsters with us; we'll have enough of them lining up to take our heads off soon enough. We could really use an extra pair of hands. Besides...”

 

“Dean.”

 

It wasn't going to work. Castiel was leaving, and Dean wasn't going to talk him out of it. It figured. Suddenly, having Castiel standing in front of him seemed like something unacceptable and Dean gritted his teeth as he put his almost-good hand on the back of the bench and pushed himself up. He wasn't sure what he was going to do – poke Castiel in the chest or walk dramatically away or just meet his eyes standing up so he could at least appear taller – but halfway through his back muscles spasmed and he gasped as his body rushed to the ground. Castiel's hands held him up, carefully, and set him on his feet with an effortless strength that set Dean's teeth on edge. Personal space, you dumb feathery motherfucker. You don't get to be all strong and caring when you're just going to drop me the next moment.

 

Dean swayed on his feet, slightly, and gasped when Castiel caught him again, not so careful this time, jostling his bad arm. Angel sucked the air in through his teeth and put his hand on Dean's collarbone, his brows knitted together in concentration. Dean's anger slowly dissipated on the sight and he put his own hand on Castiel's wrist.

 

“You can't do that anymore, remember?” Castiel's healing powers were gone for good, and time-travel; he was getting slower and weaker too, even though he was still a superhero by anyone's standards but his own. He still tried, sometimes, to heal their injuries; it never worked, only made him grit his teeth and, on one occasion, revived a dead motel plant in its pot.

 

Castiel sighed, his head now so low all Dean could see was his dark messy hair.

 

“I truly am sorry, Dean.”

 

“Yeah. Aren't we all.” It came out far more bitter than Dean meant it, and Castiel pulled away, turned away, his shoulders tense.

 

“I'm not...” He started in a low, angry voice, but then sighed and started again, with less poison. “I have a right to leave if I want to.”

 

Dean could have said something argumentative to that but he couldn't hold on to the anger and resentment for long enough. He was just tired, and if Castiel decided to go Dean certainly didn't want him to go angry and never come back.

 

“You call, you hear me?” he said finally. Castiel turned back around, still not looking, but not completely turned away. “You call so we know you’re not lying in a ditch somewhere with a pitchfork in your ass or doing the angel tango with your best bud Zachariah.”

 

This time Castiel gave him a sideways look of irritation, but Dean was grateful for that much.

 

“I’m serious, Cas. You can do whatever your feathery heart wants, just… promise me you won’t disappear.”

 

“Alright, Dean. I promise.” Castiel’s hand landed on Dean’s shoulder, the good one, and before he could be surprised about that the ground shifted and threatened to hit him on the face. Strong, careful hands kept him standing upright, and after Dean could see past Castiel tan-colored shoulder he realized they were in the motel parking lot.

 

“Cas, how many times did I ask you...” He started to grouse, but the sound of wings clapping cut him off. “Dick.” He said and pinched his nose. Standing on his own was hard, and he stumbled to the door of their room.

 

 

Sam was awake, staring at his laptop at the table in front of him. They needed to nick him a new one, or even buy one. Something cool and high-tech to please his little geek heart and help him get geek-loving girls. Get at least a particle of their old lives back, even if neither of them fit into their roles anymore. Dean closed the door behind him and sat down on the bed, trying and desperately failing to suppress a wince. Something kicked him in the chest – a pill bottle, he saw a  moment later. Dean decided not to pretend to be Batman this time and opened it awkwardly with one hand, dry swallowed two.

 

“Cas?”

 

The question almost made Dean suspect Sam's demonic powers of premonition were back but it wasn't the first time his brother read his mind without any supernatural help. He might have seen them arrive at the parking lot. Might have just assumed, seeing that Impala wasn't there (needed to get it from the diner, by the way) and Dean being actually conscious was a proof he didn't walk. Time was, Dean wasn't sure he liked that lizard sense Sam had for sniffing out what was on his mind, but now it was... reassuring. He shrugged with one shoulder.

 

“Gone.”

 

It didn't hurt to say it – not any more than it already did – but it did make the weight in Dean's chest heavier. “Says he wants to do his own thing. Learn to live for himself.”

 

“He's not returning upstairs?” Dean shook his head, and Sam rolled his lips inside his mouth, averting his eyes. “I don't know Dean, maybe that's what's best for him.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Dean slowly peeled the jacket off his bad shoulder, lifted his hand out of the sleeve, then shook his good one so the jacket slid off to the floor. He'd pick it up later, or maybe Sam would, if he felt particularly charitable. For now maybe he should take the angel's advice for once and lie down before he split in two. Sam shifted on his seat, and even though Dean wasn't looking at him he knew something was happening, something that he was afraid to turn and see. If Sam said he was going to split too he wouldn't have even been particularly surprised. Of course, Sam was never the predictable one.

 

“You know, I thought about it… Let’s do it.” He said, finally, after Dean was almost ready to blow up from anticipation.

 

“Do what?” The question fell flat, emotionless; he'd had more than his fill of freaking out for the morning and it looked like the day wasn't getting any less crazy.

 

“The retirement thing.”

 

“Are you serious?” After all the bitching and posturing Sam busted out at the topic now was the time he decided to 'try it'? “What happened to Sam the destroyer of all evil?”

 

“Look, I'm not saying we'll quit.” Sam's reasonable tone sounded extra reasonable. “We'll just... find a home base. You think I don't have calluses on my ass from driving around too much?”

 

Dean chuckled. Any other time he would bristle at any minor hint at Sam disrespecting the Impala but even he had to admit that driving around the country and spending three nights a week sleeping in a car was taking its toll. Ever since that demon nest in Dallas his back had been bothering him something fierce too, and having a good mattress wouldn't go amiss on the not making him feel like an old geezer front.

 

“Besides,” Sam continued, pressing on when he felt an opening, “I’m getting really sick of Led Zeppelin.”

 

Alright, that was just mean. Dean glared; Sam raised his eyebrows in response.

 

“All I'm saying is, there might be something to your settling down idea. So let’s do it.”

 

“Okay, Sammy.” Dean sighed and finally lay back on the thin lumpy pillows. “Let's do it.”