Episode 14: Through the Fire (Part 2)

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____

His stomach rumbling in protest from only getting to eat half a cheeseburger, Dean hovered in an alleyway with Cas, watching as Sam posed as a journalist to sweet-talk the crime scene photographer. Ruthlessly effective as Sam without a soul had been as a hunter, Dean rarely went a day without thinking how much he liked having his actual whole brother back, annoying and brainy and emo and almost as intact as ever. People responded to him not so much because he was such a brilliant smooth talker, but because when Sam smooth-talked, when he turned on the gentle voice and sad, persuasive smile, it was backed by the full force of how much Sam wanted to help people.

Those lies they told in the course of their job, pretending to be what they weren't, the act Dean put on to hustle people out of their money across a pool table, those passed right over and through him, nearly weightless. It was the big shit that crushed him, not just lies but information withheld. Stuff he'd kept from others until it seemed like it would eat away his esophagus, stuff others had kept from him, the sick plunge of his stomach watching Sam use his powers after he'd sworn not to, all those years back, and then the moment of Castiel's wry joke about Superman that about pulled Dean's guts inside out on the spot.

He glanced over at Cas, the way the red and blue lights of the police cars and emergency vehicles, and the white light of the streetlamp, all etched shadows over him in the winter night. His shoulders were hunched, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the tip of his nose and his earlobes gone too red from the cold. Dean had bought him a pair of gloves months back, before the Dakota blizzards, but Cas kept forgetting about them - habit, Dean guessed, because he wasn't used to feeling the cold.

Castiel moved closer to Dean, a barely perceptible shift but his arm was suddenly against Dean's. His expression gave nothing away - he watched the activity across the street with his face still and a somber expression in his eyes, analytical - until he turned his head to face Dean.

It was a really cold night, and underneath the seemingly impassive surface, Cas was broadcasting, whether he meant to or not, wanting the comfort of contact and body heat as much as Dean did. All Dean had to do was lower his head a few inches, and his lips brushed Castiel's, softly touching the tip of his tongue to Cas's, taking in the heat of his mouth. Dean lifted a gloved hand to cradle the back of Castiel's head, pulling him in closer, less out of demanding hunger than just needing to touch.

"A-hem." Sam's voice was loud and very close all of a sudden.

They jumped apart, like two eighth-graders caught making out behind the gym for crying out loud. Dean felt heat rising to his face while Castiel's expression went to a strict, flat blank, eyes widening as if he couldn't even imagine the existence of the things his mouth had been doing to Dean these past few months, let alone making out with Dean in an alleyway while they were working a job.

Sam bit his lower lip, and Dean swore if he laughed, he would punch Sammy right in the nose. "So, what'd you get?" Dean asked.

"The witness is one Rebecca Fischer," Sam said. "They took her to Rhode Island hospital with second degree burns on her neck and arm. She's the only reason the police already think they know who the victim is, because his body's completely charred. His name's Henry Vaughan. That's all I could get."

Acid swirled in Dean's stomach. That's what he got for not eating a full meal.

"We'd better get ourselves over to Providence to talk to Rebecca Fischer, then," Dean said. "Oh, and we're stopping for dinner on the way, case or no case. I'm still starving."

They returned to the motel and put on their FBI get-ups again. After grabbing a fresh batch of cheeseburgers and fries from the nearest Wendy's, they continued on to the hospital, Cas in the back seat, Sam riding shotgun and tapping into his smartphone as Dean drove. When Dean glanced into the rearview mirror to see what Cas was up to, he was staring out the window intently, watching the streets go by, seemingly shut away into his own thoughts. However, as if he sensed Dean's eyes on him, he turned and met Dean's gaze before Dean turned his attention back to the road. For a second, Dean had seen right into him, at the mix of calm reassurance layered over unease and the weight of guilt.

"It was three of them." Rebecca Fischer was a curvy brunette with large brown eyes about the same shade as Lisa Braeden's and as warm, a memory Dean abruptly pushed out of his brain. Rebecca's voice shook slightly, and Sam handed her a cup of water. She drank before continuing, pale against the white sheets of the hospital bed, an IV drip running out of her arm. Bandages covered the burns on her neck and arm. "We'd gone out for drinks the way we sometimes do on Thursdays, to celebrate getting close to the end of the work week and all."

"So what happened?" Sam stood nearest her bed, holding his pencil poised over his little notebook.

Cas stood at the foot of her bed as if he weren't sure where to put himself, with Dean on the other side.

"Henry and I had parked our cars pretty close together, so he was walking me to mine. The others had all headed off home already in their own direction. And we were just talking and laughing and stuff when this guy stepped out in front of us. It was pretty dark, we were on a side street, and he just loomed. Then a woman joined him, and another guy…"

"Can you describe them?" Castiel asked.

"First guy was really tall, and bald, the other one was sort of pointy-chinned with spiky hair and the woman had short dark hair, really pretty, like a forties movie star almost." Rebecca took a deep breath, her hands twisted together on the blanket, before she went on. "The bald guy called Henry by name, said they'd been waiting for him, looking for someone like him for a while. They…crowded around us, I swear I thought we were going to get mugged, like they would pull a gun or a knife - but they didn't look like muggers. They were all dressed in these expensive-looking business clothes. It was weird. They didn't seem all that interested in me, just Henry…but when I took out my phone to call 911, the one with the spiky hair, he…he reached out, and I felt this heat. He shoved me, and I stumbled and then…and then all three of them were around Henry, reaching their hands out to him and he started screaming…" She closed her eyes tightly.

"Easy," Sam said. "Take your time."

The room seemed way too small and too stuffy. Dean had always hated hospitals, the scents of sterility and blood and illness, too many hours spent in ER waiting rooms wishing he had something to pray to, the iron grip of panic around his throat, the fear of losing Sammy, or Dad, or both.

"I saw him burn. It was kind of hard to see because I was on the ground at that point and they were around him but I saw the…I saw flames. It made no sense."

"Ms. Fischer," Sam said softly, adding, "Can I ask what you and Henry did for a living?"

"Security," she said. "Henry founded the firm. We all did a lot of the figuring out how to implement - I'm kind of the IT person - but Henry was the real genius with codes and the innovations. He had two patent applications out last year; he can break into anywhere. He lands us accounts by proving it. He's…he was really brilliant at it." Rebecca turned her head away against the pillow.

"I think that's plenty for now," Sam said. "Thank you. We'll let you know if we have any more questions."

They started to walk out of the room, trying to tread as quietly as possible. Julie Ames' tears, now Rebecca Fischer - this was the part that really sucked, facing the survivors who'd watched people they cared about get devoured by a darkness they didn't understand. It sucked, and yet it was the reason they kept doing it, him and Sam and Bobby and now Cas - because they could get the freaky bastards and keep this from happening to anyone else.

Castiel lingered, backing away slowly from the hospital bed while Dean and Sam were already at the door. Maybe Cas was hunting now because he felt like he had something to make up for - that was something Dean knew was part of it for himself, and for Sam. Or maybe he did it because he thought he had nowhere else to go or - and Dean had trouble believing it - because Dean did it.

But it seemed like there was nothing he could do to lessen that weight that seemed to sit on Castiel, a nearly visible presence. All they could do was work the job, catch these monsters.

Dean reached out and put his fingers around Castiel's wrist, tugging, and Castiel twitched his shoulders like he'd been asleep, then turned and followed Dean out of the room.

____

The air offered a soft, warm brush against his face and his bare arms, breeze tickling through his fingers. Castiel's toes sank into dry white sand, bleached even further by the glare of the sun, the water a vivid turquoise that seemed too bright to be natural, and so of course it was a color that could only be found in nature and never replicated.

Castiel was in the sweats and t-shirt he'd been wearing when he'd fallen asleep. Yes, he was dreaming, fully aware that his body was in fact still somewhere in a chilly motel room in Rhode Island, with Dean lying next to him. Yet, the sand itched against the soles of his feet, sweat began to trickle down the back of his neck, and he tasted salt in the scent of the air. It was real and yet a dream. He still wasn't quite used to dreaming himself. It was nothing at all like invading Dean's dreamscape, creating a block to keep out any other angels that might overhear. Before he'd allowed the Purgatory souls to take over his body, he'd merely visited the spaces Dean's mind had already created. After, he'd given Dean images, mixed with Dean's actual dreams, or created the dreams himself in order to reach him more fully. It had been necessary, and it had worked, but Castiel thought that maybe in trying to get Dean to understand certain things, he'd only caused him more pain.

Dreaming the way most humans did involved a loss of control, even though he was entirely the creator rather than an intruder into someone else's creation. Caught with a weight of foreboding, Castiel attempted to force himself awake, or alter the dream - there was one in particular he'd had a few times recently that he'd found very pleasant, involving Dean and the cabin where they'd taken shelter a few days before Christmas. He hoped they would go back there for real. Unfortunately, the island landscape didn't change.

"Water again." Balthazar appeared beside him. "Always water lately, isn't it?" He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "You've noticed it of course."

"Yes."

As Balthazar turned to look across the ocean to another island that lay like a small green and white scrap of cloth against the field of blue, the sun struck full on his face. Castiel's throat felt as if it were too full, remembering the push of his sword through Balthazar's body, the flare of white light.

Balthazar's gaze slid over to him. "Oh, look at the expression on your face. Still sorry, eh? How sweet. Well, spilt milk, Cassy. There's an even bigger problem and you know it."

A crab crawled out of the surf, waving its pincers, followed by another. A line of crabs, swiftly leaving the water and headed towards the trees.

A moment later a cloud moved over the sun, covering the sea with a murky, uneven area of shadow, and despite the sweat tickling the back of his neck, Castiel shivered. The sound of the palm fronds behind them rustling in the breeze was like the whisper of many voices, their meaning as maddeningly just out of reach as the ones he'd been hearing in his head.

"I have the answer, and yet I don't."

"The dreamer is no longer sleeping." A shadow-tendril broke free of the shape the clouds cast, sliding up the beach towards them. Balthazar smiled, corners of his eyes crinkling, bitterly amused. "Cassy, Cassy, you earnest, tunnel-visioned, precious thing. All that you did to try and stop it, and it hasn't stopped." He turned and pressed his hand against Castiel's chest. "The one who started it, is the only one who can end it."

"You told me this before, yet you refused to tell me what you meant. What does it mean?"

"You already know what it means, but you don't know you know yet. This is your dream, Castiel. I'm dead, remember? Gone." His hand remained on Castiel's chest as another tendril of darkness touched the white beach, and another. It was as if the shadows were trying to crawl from the water.

Dropping his hand away, Balthazar stepped back as the tendrils drew closer.

"Wait," Castiel said. "Please, wait."

"You're running out of time." Balthazar's eyes widened, locking his gaze with Castiel's.

The shadows circled the sand around Balthazar's shoes and curled around Castiel's ankles. They licked at his skin, rough, reminding him almost of the tongue of the cat he'd petted, a stray that frequently lingered outside Bobby's because Bobby kept leaving it scraps. The shadows left Balthazar and arched around towards Castiel, circling on the white sand, ink staining paper, the brightness of the water tainted.

"Balthazar…" Castiel reached out towards his brother as his form flickered in and out, grew transparent. The shadows spilled wider around Castiel's feet, forming pools in the sand that rose around his ankles, pulling Castiel down a slow inch at a time. "Balthazar, wait."

____

"Wait!" Castiel sat up in bed, his hand reaching out into the darkness.

Beside him, Dean startled awake, blinked in confusion a moment, and then his muscles tensed, entire body snapping to alertness. His hand paused halfway to reaching under the mattress, where Castiel knew Dean kept his handgun near at hand.

"Geez, Cas." Dean slumped, pressing his face down into the pillow a moment, then raised his head again. He propped himself up on his elbows, giving Castiel a steady, concerned stare. "Way to scare a guy."

Castiel hadn't realized he'd been shouting out loud. "I startled you."

"A little." Dean rolled onto his side and slid his arm across Castiel's waist, urging Castiel to lie back down, nearer to him. "What's going on with you?"

Lying on his side facing Dean, Castiel curled his fingers into a fist, ashamed of the way his hands shook. "I don't know. I had a dream about Balthazar."

Dean closed his hand around Castiel's fist, opened it and twined their fingers together, rubbing his thumb against Castiel's skin, slow and firm. Whether Dean intended it or not, the gesture made the reality of the dream move farther back in Castiel's mind, grounding him in the solidity of the motel bed, the washed-out colors instead of the vivid brightness of the island. The reality of Dean, so close to him until every nerve seemed awake and aware, diminished the horror of the shadow on the water that had reached out to him. He knew better than to reduce it to only a dream even in his own mind, but he'd given reassurance to Dean that Dean was no longer in Hell, offering his own body as proof. Castiel realized this was no different.

"Balthazar told me the dreamer is no longer sleeping. Or rather, my own consciousness is trying to tell me something because Balthazar is gone. He definitely wasn't a dreamwalker, much as I wish…" Castiel closed his eyes and put away the things he couldn't take back. He opened his eyes and shifted closer to Dean. "The mass disappearances and the recent cases of spontaneous combustion, it's all connected. And the answer is somewhere in my head. I just don't know how or why - but I can feel it, Dean. Under my skin. The answer is inside me."

The mattress dipped as Dean moved, then muttered, "Turn around." Wondering why, Castiel did as he asked.

He felt the press of Dean's mouth to the knobs of his spine through his t-shirt, then to the base of his neck, feather-light touches, before Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel, pulling him into the curve of his body. Castiel's impulse to sit up, to stay alert with muscles taut and ready for battle or flight, folded into the ripple of muscle beneath skin, the warmth that engulfed and soothed him.

"I'd like to tell you it's going to be okay." Dean's hands found Castiel's, and he linked their fingers again. "But we both know that's a load of crap. We've all done stupid shit, and it always comes back to bite us in the ass, and likely will this time too, but you know what? First of all, we'll figure this out." His voice was low, his mouth so close to Castiel's ear he felt the movement of Dean's jaw as he spoke. "Secondly, we'll all do it together, because." There was a long pause while Castiel became conscious of the beating of Dean's heart, his chest against Castiel's back, and his own heart rate gradually calming. "Just 'cause," Dean added, voice gone very quiet and thick as if Dean was having trouble talking. "You mean more to me than I know how to say, and you're not alone. Remember that. We'll figure this out."

Quiet fell between them, the slowing of heartbeats. After a while Castiel could tell from the steadiness of Dean's breaths that he'd fallen asleep.

Sleep eluded Castiel, but that was all right.

____

In the parking lot outside Honey Dew Donuts, Sam faced his brother trying to decide if he should let Dean win this or not. He had no real preference whether they went to Walmart or Home Depot to get a bunch of small fire extinguishers, but Dean loose in a place with a lot of power tools seemed like a bad idea. Not because he had no idea what to do with them, but because he did. And Home Depot likely had a lot more of them than Walmart, and Dean might get lost for hours looking at table saws and power drills he was never going to buy.

Standing between them, Castiel watched their hands intently as if he intended to referee this round of rock-paper-scissors or was worried they might start throwing punches at each other.

Sam threw rock, Dean threw scissors, and Sam tapped his fist over the back of Dean's hand as Dean let out a deep sigh.

"Fine. Walmart," he said with a mournful glance in the direction of the Home Depot.

It had been Dean's idea to get the fire extinguishers. "Fire-based creatures, whatever these things are, right?" Dean had said over breakfast in the diner. "We don't know if bullets can hurt them or not. So…" He'd grinned. "Why don't we get some of those small fire extinguishers? We can stick them in our pockets, and then we get close enough, spray the suckers with some sodium bicarbonate."

"I've always rather liked Walmart," Castiel said. Sam remembered taking him there right before Christmas, following the angel up and down the aisles as he tried to puzzle out what to buy for Dean. He had seemed to enjoy it, especially the aisle with the notebooks, pens, and art supplies. Sam smiled, remembering the fuzzy green socks Cas picked out for Dean.

"We need more rock salt too." Sam held out his hand for the bag of donuts, and Dean handed it over. "The one we've got is getting low."

"Been a while since we dealt with anything that could be solved with salt," Dean said.

"Those were the days."

This case, with all its research and its surface appearance of just another monster hunt, offered the comfort of routine. The trips to hardware stores or Walmarts to buy rock salt and supplies were familiar ground; in the long string of family memories related to hunting, it was one of the few things Sam hadn't associated with fear, endless waiting, wounds to stitch, anxiety. He and Dean messing around with a shopping cart with Dad telling them to behave, all of them working together to load up the car afterwards, and then a trip to a pizza place or even a movie if Dad had enough money in his pockets. Just another family visiting the mall, sure, and yet it had felt like more at times.

Inside the Walmart, Castiel grabbed a shopping cart, and while Sam had never once seen him handle one, he maneuvered it with assurance. It seemed more and more natural to have him around, less and less strange seeing him in jeans and t-shirts instead of that same old suit, tie, and trenchcoat.

Castiel stopped at the edge of the music section, caught by the sounds of classical music drifting out of a speaker, and Sam watched as Dean circled his arm around Castiel's waist from behind, nudging him to keep moving. It wasn't often that Sam saw Dean this relaxed, though Dean would work overtime to hide what was in his face when he looked at Castiel if he realized anyone else could see it.

The unease Castiel had mentioned nudged at Sam's mind, but he decided they'd talk about that again later, all three of them, after they were done buying rock salt and fire extinguishers. Cas had clued Sam in about his dream over breakfast, the phrase Balthazar had used, the dreamer is no longer sleeping tickling a memory at the back of Sam's mind, but he couldn't place it yet. They'd check in with Bobby that night, see if his research had dug up anything new.

It was after they were through the checkout line, carrying their packages to the Impala that Castiel's cell went off. Unknown number, Sam noted, looking over Cas's shoulder.

"Who'd be calling you if it's not us or Bobby?" Dean frowned, steadying his grip on the bag of rock salt.

"Hello?" Castiel answered. "Y-yes, this is Agent Mullen…I see. Stay where you are, we'll be right over." He hung up. "That was Julie Ames," Castiel said grimly. "She's in her house and says she's spotted the three people who were hanging around before her husband's death across the street."

Dean swore. "They're going after her."

"We have to hurry," Castiel snapped and started jogging towards the car.

Without anyone discussing it, Sam gave Castiel the shotgun seat. When they reached the house, Lonsdale Street appeared to be quiet and ordinary as it had during their first visit, bare branches of the trees hovering over the rooftops, the skeletal line of the woods behind. However, a few houses over, a dog was barking, straining the length of its chain to the limit, usually a sign of something that had broken routine, and it wasn't the Impala's arrival.

"Stop," Castiel said.

"What? Why?" Dean pulled the Impala over. The Ames house was visible down the street.

"These beings won't take action if they know we're here."

"You want to use this guy's widow as bait?" Dean's fingers tightened around the wheel of the Impala.

"No," Castiel said, his voice flat and hard. "I want to stop these creatures. We'll go into the woods from here and approach the house from behind, then get as close as possible."

Sam grabbed a fire extinguisher and tucked it into his pocket, then handed one to Dean and one to Castiel. They all had handguns tucked inside their coats, on the off chance bullets might actually work against whatever these monsters were - Castiel had become a good shot pretty quickly, although he hadn't done much shooting outside of aluminum can targets.

With Castiel in the lead, they snuck along a neighbor's driveway into their back yard, keeping low until they reached the woods. Dry fallen twigs cracked under their feet as they moved closer to the Ames' house. Castiel kept turning his head as if listening with senses other than his eyes, something more than scent or hearing, the movement of his body giving Sam a sense of restrained power, like a bird of prey. The authoritative, dark bite was in his voice, the one Sam remembered him using often when they'd first known him, and that still surfaced plenty. Cas had been a soldier, Sam reminded himself, even if some things about him defied Sam's definitions of how soldiers behaved. He had
very few theories of what a full-out angel battle might be like, if it was anything resembling the images in things like old Gustav Dore prints, or something else, and Sam shook off the flicker of memory of Lucifer and Michael in the cage, their voices in his head, the flashes of light, heat, and indescribable sounds.

Castiel's voice in his head had been the first true relief, the first shot of hope - and then the destruction of it as the angel had pulled his body free while Sam's soul shouted after him, the sound of Lucifer and Michael's rage drowning him out. The initial sear of resentment and hurt Sam had felt when he first found out what had happened took a while to fade, but now he felt only the conviction that Castiel had tried. He'd failed, or rather, he'd been halfway successful, but he'd tried. He'd risked annihilating himself in the attempt.

At Castiel's hand-signal, Sam dropped into a crouch, joining Dean. Side by side, the three of them peered through the tree trunks towards the back of the Ames' house. Dean hissed out a breath - the three figures from the traffic camera image were standing near the picnic table. The three faced the back door, their backs straight, all in dark, neat clothes.

The tall bald man raised his hand and jerked his fingers. The other two nodded, then moved off in opposite directions around the house, stepping carefully on the dry grass and dead leaves in their nice shoes. The bald guy walked up towards the back door.

A crow startled in the branches overhead, and Sam and Dean and Castiel all ducked, muscles going tense, as it fluttered away. The bald guy stopped and glanced over his shoulder towards the woods, then turned back to the door. He pulled out a slim wallet from his pocket - a lock-pick kit. With one thin sharp tool and a quick flick of his wrist, faster than Sam had ever seen Dean pick a lock, he had the door unlocked and was heading inside.

It was Dean who gestured with a hand-signal this time. Sam and Castiel nodded, and then each of them took off in a different direction, Castiel towards the back door, which the man had left ajar, Sam towards the west side of the house, Dean to the east. The small fire extinguisher knocked against Sam's ribs where he'd holstered it under his jacket, and the weight of his handgun in his pocket was reassuring - if all else failed, bullets might at least show these things down.

Sam found a window open, most likely the one the woman had used to enter the house. He wriggled through and lowered himself to the floor of Julie Ames' living room.

Crouched next to an end table, Sam listened.

"Get the hell out of my house!" Julie's voice snapped, sharp and clear from the direction of the kitchen. She sounded supremely pissed off rather than scared but Sam knew what fear sounded like: this was someone cornered, invaded, fighting down panic.

"Hey, Snap, Crackle, and Pop," Dean's voice drawled out.

There was a crash like someone had knocked a chair over, the sound of glass breaking. Sam pulled out his fire extinguisher, sprang up from his crouch, and ran for the kitchen as Castiel bellowed "run!", and Julie darted away towards the laundry room, a flash of dark hair and a bright-red sweater.

The three figures in dark suits surrounded Dean and Castiel, who were back to back, holding the fire extinguishers like guns. Dean opened fire at the woman, who leapt to the side out of range with a speed and grace that spoke to advanced training. It was something beyond the techniques Sam and Dean had learned growing up, reminding Sam a little of Castiel, swift and feral. Castiel fired his extinguisher towards the bald man who side-stepped with swiftness equal to the woman's. The other guy was behind Castiel, grinning as if he found this entertaining.

With a few steps, the three were around Castiel. The woman stepped closer to look him full in the face, then froze and tilted her head, staring. Her eyes widened and a slow smile spread over her face. She lifted her hand towards his chest while the other two drew in closer.

Sam fired his extinguisher as a heat ripple formed in the air inches from Castiel's chest and Castiel, who kept staring the woman down, back straight and stoic, took a hesitant step back.

"Cas!" Dean yelled and leapt towards the group.

The bald guy flung out his arm, catching Dean across the chest and shoulder, throwing him back. Dean crashed against a bank of kitchen cabinets as Sam shouted his name. A faint wisp of smoke rose from his shirt and dispersed.

As Sam jerked forward, not sure if he should go try to help Dean or try to get the three attackers away from Cas, Julie ran back into the kitchen.

She held a full-sized fire extinguisher. Julie aimed the hose and sprayed a blast of foam at the two men and the woman who surrounded Castiel.

"I said get the hell out of my house!"

Sam had expected their skin to start smoking, for them to scream in pain, something. Instead they only sighed and lowered their hands.

"Damn," the woman said and glanced at the other two.

Before Sam could make another move, they fled out the back door, gone in a swift blur of movement.

"Dean, are you-" Sam froze.

Dean was lying on his side, chest hitching with unsteady movements, his eyes wide open but staring, fixed on something Sam couldn't see. Kneeling, Sam carefully touched his brother's shoulder. "Hey," Sam said. "Hey. Dean?" He leaned down closer. "Dean!"

Next to Sam, Castiel sank to his knees, jaw gone tight and color draining from his face. Chemicals from the fire extinguisher stained the sleeves of his jacket.

"Cas," Sam said, hearing his own voice shake. "What's wrong with him?" He was barely aware of Julie Ames putting the fire extinguisher down on the table. She took out her cell, presumably to call 911.

"No," Cas said sharply, and she stopped. He stared hard down at Dean.

"What's wrong with him?" Sam demanded, louder, with a flash of rage and irritation at Castiel - Castiel, who once had answers and powers beyond his comprehension, and still could do things no one else could.

"He thinks he's in Hell," Castiel said.

____

Most of the time, he used blades, with the fires all around him and Alastair standing too close, mouth near Dean's ear. His fingers around Dean's wrist, showing him the angle to use to cut, how much pressure to use, the way to turn the blade to cause the most amount of pain and make a soul scream in agony.

You were made for this.

This is who you really are.

Alastair put a burning brand in Dean's hands. In the wavering light of its flames, the human form Alastair wore shimmered, and Dean saw his true form, but only for a moment.

Use the fire. It's part of who you are, who you've always been, always been your tool, hasn't it? Use it now.

Dean lowered the flame to the torso of the soul tied to the rack and it screamed.

"Dean!"

The voice was so familiar it was a part of himself, tight with desperation and pleading, as instinctive as his own heartbeat. It wasn't real. Dean had imagined a lot of things down here. The scent of burning flesh, that was real, a soul sobbing and pleading, struggling against the restraints. The simplicity of what he did, the clean control of it, no more questions or worry for anyone else or fear or hollow ache of loss.

That's my boy, Alastair murmured, a hand sliding over Dean's shoulders in approval.

"Dean!"

This voice held a note of command in it. It sounded annoyed, insistent. He knew this voice too, yet shouldn't have, not yet. Heat flared in his shoulder, pulsing under his skin, more an awareness than actual pain. Then he became aware of pain elsewhere, his chest and his arm.

"C'mon Dean, snap out it, you have to. Please. Dean."

The pain grew more intense and the smell of burning flesh began to fade along with the pressure of Alastair's hands on his shoulders.

"Dean, please."

It was the annoyed, sharp voice again, only now there was a crack in it, brittle with fear and about to shatter.

They were both shouting now, the more pleading voice and the sharp one, and suddenly Dean was aware of his body lying against a hard surface, the sulfur smell that was always around, in his nostrils, against his skin, so that he hardly noticed it any more unless he tried, gone.

He inhaled deeply and coughed, aware of lying on the clean linoleum floor of a kitchen and hands on his shoulder, his side, his leg, guiding him to sit up. Dean had to inhale and exhale a few times until it grew easier to breathe.

Crouched beside him, Sam also let out a long, shaky breath and helped Dean sit up with his back against the kitchen cabinet. Sam blinked, eyes a little wet. "Holy crap," Sam said.

There was a hand on his leg, as if making sure Dean would stay right where he was, and Dean glanced up to meet Castiel's stare. Castiel's eyes were wide, gaze fixed on Dean's face, and his mouth was pressed closed. He looked pissed as all get out, yet with his body tensed in a way Dean had grown to recognize, those rare moments when Cas was genuinely terrified. It would be easier to look away but Dean couldn't seem to, while Castiel's fingers curled around Dean's calf, warm through the denim, as if he'd never let go.

"Wow, are you…are you okay?" There was a tentative footstep from nearby.

Julie Ames. Right. It was her kitchen, and they'd just driven off the creatures who'd come to consume her. Dean remembered now the way one of them had struck him across the chest, and the pulse of oven-like heat before he had crashed against the cabinet and everything had been gone, replaced with that chamber in Hell.

"Yeah, I'm good." Dean let Sam help him to his feet, Dean holding onto his shoulder for support. Castiel withdrew his hand but stayed close, relaxing his muscles only a little. A stinging pain throbbed in Dean's chest and arm, and Dean bit his tongue to keep from making a noise.

"You don't seem good," Julie said.

"We'll deal with it," Castiel said shortly. "They will likely come back and try again. If you have somewhere to go, you should go there. Don't wait."

Julie stared at each of them a moment, then nodded. "Thank you," she said, putting her hand on Castiel's arm.

"Again, I'm very sorry about your husband," Castiel said. Something in the way he spoke gave Dean the impression this was intended as a specific apology, rather than the general platitudes people offered to grieving survivors. Castiel wasn't one for platitudes.

As they walked along the street to the Impala, trees thick around the houses on either side, Dean tried to move normally. There was nothing wrong with his legs except he felt a little shaky, no big deal, but with every step pain stung in his chest and his upper arm.

"Maybe you need the ER." Sam put out a hand to stop Dean as he headed for the driver's side of the Impala, careful not to touch the burns.

"No hospital. It's not bad enough for a hospital." He actually felt Castiel glaring at him without having to turn and see it. "What? It's minor burns."

"We'll take a look at them back at the motel and then decide," Sam said and held out his hand. "Keys."

"No, I-"

Castiel made a noise in his throat that Dean swore was almost a snarl, and Dean handed the keys to Sam.

Truthfully, it was a relief. His hands didn't feel steady. Dean sat as still as possible on the drive back to the motel. In the back seat, Castiel was quiet even allowing for Castiel's own freaky brand of being quiet, staring out the window, although Dean kept catching Cas looking over at him instead.

In Castiel's room, Dean sat at the foot of the bed and pulled off his jacket and shirt while Sam opened the first-aid kit. Despite going slowly and carefully, Dean couldn't help let out a hiss of pain as the fabric of his t-shirt skimmed over a burned area.

While Castiel stood by, Sam studied the injuries on Dean's chest and arm.

"Yikes," Sam said. "But it could've been worse. The skin's red, but it's not broken so that's a plus, and you've got a little swelling."

Castiel stepped forward and held his hand out towards Dean's forehead.

"What're you doing?" Dean drew away.

"Healing your burns. They look painful."

"No. You're not using your mojo on this."

"But-"

"I said no. Every time you do one of your magic tricks it drains you, and we need to save that for real emergencies."

Returning to the first-aid kit on the table, Sam opened his mouth like he wanted to say something but bit his lower lip and stayed silent.

"I'm not sure how you would classify this," Castiel snapped.

"A minor injury."

"You're in pain."

"Must be a day ending in Y, Cas." His hands still felt shaky. Damn. The memory flash of Alastair's true form in the light of the flames, the sound of screaming, hit him. Dean drew in a deep breath. "Comes with the job."

"You shouldn't have taken that risk to-"

"People who live in glass houses, Cas."

"Burns like this are easy to treat," Sam said. "You need to run cool water - not too cold - over them or put wet compresses on it. Then cover them with gauze. The other stuff…that's not as easy."

"What other stuff?" Dean thought the motel room was too stuffy, after being too cold, too small, and too close. "Let's get me patched up and get on with the job, okay? Skip the water, just put on some bandages and-"

"You know exactly what other stuff." Castiel nodded briskly at Sam, like they were in the medic tent in the middle of a battle. "I'll take care of this."

Before Dean could protest, Castiel had taken hold of his uninjured arm with a strength that was beyond human and was pulling him into the bathroom.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean turned to face Cas as Castiel let go and shut the bathroom door.

"You are an unbelievably infuriating person," Cas told him as he shrugged out of his jacket and turned on the shower, keeping the water pressure low. He tested the water with his fingers. "Take off your jeans and get in."

"I can look after myself."

Castiel's jaw tightened. Then he swallowed, and the hard glare transformed into something else. "Get in the shower," he said quietly.

It seemed like a lot less trouble to go along with whatever Castiel had in mind, and his burns did hurt. Dean toed off his boots, removed his socks, then tugged off his jeans and boxers and stepped under the stream of cool water. He leaned his hands against the tiles with their dull, cracked grout, clenching his jaw against the sting of pain when the water first struck his skin. After a moment the water began to soothe the burns.

"What're you doing?" Dean asked, as Castiel took off his t-shirt and started pulling down his jeans.

But Cas wouldn't answer him, just stripped down and got into the shower behind Dean. His hands found Dean's waist, sliding over the wet skin. He pulled, indicating he wanted Dean to sit down. They settled into the tub with Dean sitting between Castiel's legs, his back against his chest, Cas's arms around him from behind with the water falling over them both.

He felt the nudge of Castiel's nose against the back of his neck, but otherwise Cas barely moved while they both started to shiver under the water, the pain in Dean's arm and chest diminishing, although the skin was still red and swollen.

Castiel's hand slid up to fit over the hand-print scar on Dean's shoulder, well above the fresh burn on his arm.

"Remember what I told you," Castiel said, his chin resting at the base of Dean's neck. "You aren't Alastair's."

A tremor went through Dean, uncontrollable, as he started to shiver hard. He leaned back against Castiel, aware of the warmth of him, every contact point between their skin, Cas's fingers perfectly covering the scar on his shoulder. Eventually the tremors calmed. Cas pulled Dean to his feet and turned off the water. They stepped out of the tub, dripping water onto the floor as Castiel reached for two towels that were thin and rough, as most motel-issue towels were, but somehow managed to feel soft as Castiel dried Dean's skin, careful to avoid the burns.

Dean draped a towel over Castiel's head and rubbed vigorously, then pulled it away to reveal Cas's hair in complete chaos. The horrible cold in the center of his chest and the horror of the memory of Alastair pushed back into the box where it belonged, Dean kissed him, a light brush of his mouth, before they started to get dressed.

Episode 14: Through the Fire (Continued)