Beneath Every Layer of Skin - III

[weareallpuppets]

The thick smell of blood and smoke wakes Sam, closely followed by throbbing pain making itself known across his face. Letting loose a moan, Sam begins to struggle. There are hands on him, hands about to tear him open and climb inside as they had again and again for the last two centuries. His eyes shoot open, and in the moment before his eyes can focus, Lucifer swims before him, looming with Adam's blood on his hands. Sam claws at the hands on his chest, but Lucifer only laughs, sounding distant, and the tone is wrong.

“Sam, wake up,” Dean is saying, worry in his voice, shaking him none too gently. Sam dazedly releases Dean's hands.

Sam blinks, but can barely see at all in the utter darkness. His front is soaking, warm and sticky with blood oozing from his more than likely broken nose. He touches it gingerly and winces. It is definitely broken, and if he doesn't set the bone soon, it will never heal and never look right again. He's not sure whether he has a concussion or not, but his head pounds heavily. “Dean, my nose is broken.”

Dean laughs half-heartedly. “Well, you're alive.” He removes his hands from Sam, rubbing them, and then gingerly holding his own chest. Sam's eyes are adjusting to the night, and he can just see that Dean's seat belt is cinched painfully under his ribs. Very real blood shines on his face, but Sam can't tell where it's coming from, though he can see glass from the windshield glittering around them. “What the hell did we hit?”

“I don't know,” Sam says. “I think it was part of the road. I swear I saw something, but- I can't remember.”

“Awesome,” Dean sighs sarcastically. He carefully unhooks his seat belt and moans with relief as it leaves his chest. “Hey, Cas.” The rain patters on the roof. “Castiel, can you hear me?”

Cas doesn't answer.

“Fuck. Let me...” He tries to open his door, but it won't budge. “...Try to get the door open. I'll get a flashlight. See if Cas is...” Dean trails off, putting all his weight into his door in an attempt to wrench it open.

“Castiel,” Sam says, turning in his seat. He bumps his knees on the dashboard and yelps, and Dean pauses to look at him. “Hurt my legs, shut up.” Dean half-chuckles and resumes trying to get his door open, finally succeeding with a fabulous crunch and tinkle of glass. Sam reaches in the backseat, flapping his hand around and trying to find Castiel while a groaning Dean limps towards the trunk of the Impala. Sam's fingertips brush flesh. “Cas?”

Castiel lets out a pained wheeze, as though he's crying. “I'm injured,” he manages, voice thick with pain. As far as Sam can feel, he's wedged tightly between the front and back seats, trapped.

Sam smiles, but stops because it's too dark to see. “I bet you're fine. Don't worry, we'll get you out of there in just a minute, okay?” Castiel doesn't answer, his breathe coming in weak little gasps.

“Got it,” Dean says, reemerging on the driver's side, flashlight in hand and pointed upwards towards his own face. The cuts on his face look superficial, no important parts hurt by the glass, but he's soaking from the torrent of rain outside. Despite the broken windows, it's dry in the car cabin and Sam does not envy his brother. Dean shines the beam of light towards the front of the Impala. "Son of a bitch. How does a road get like that?"

"An earthquake, maybe? And being really abandoned."

Dean frowns and climbs back inside the car, shining his flashlight in Sam's face. “Ooh, you got messed up, bro. But, on the bright side, it can only improve your looks.”

“Haha,” Sam rolls his eyes. “Say that to yourself.”

“Battle scars, man,” Dean says, stroking the cuts on his face and grinning. “How about you, Cas? Awake now?” He turns the flashlight towards Castiel, and his smile falls. He was not as lucky as they were. His eyes are blown wide like a child who has hurt themselves for the first time - which isn't too far from the truth - and he's clutching his arm tightly near the elbow, breath coming in shallow gasps. The skin of his forearm is already turning a nasty dark purple, and there's a wrong angle to it, arm curved in a way human arms are simply not meant to curve. Sam cringes.

Cas blinks and turns his wide, pale eyes from the offending limb to Sam. “I told you. I'm injured.” He attempts to wiggle free from the seats, a deep grunt of pain echoing in the cabin of the car, but he barely moves.

Sam's face twitches and he almost laughs, but manages to stop himself - panic is bubbling just beneath the surface of Castiel's expression. “Yeah, I can see that. Don't freak out, okay? We'll fix you up.” He does laugh, in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. “That's not even close to the worst break I've seen.”

Castiel's eyes bore into Sam, as though trying to tear into him, before he finally nods and closes his eyes. Clutching his injured arm, he breathes deep, teeth gritting. He manages, with much effort, to wiggle and wrench himself free of the clutching embrace of the Impala's seats, emitting a thick moan as he finally lies flat on her back seat.

“Son of a BITCH!” Dean yells, breaking the relative quiet and startling Sam and Cas. He beats his hands on the wet steering wheel, the full extent of the damage to his beloved car washing over his face. “I just- I just fixed her, man.” He breathes deep, though it catches in his chest- a few ribs bruised, at least- and runs his palms over the Impala's dash, as though to apologize. “Sorry, baby, I'm not mad at you,” he whispers to the dashboard.

“You've fixed her from worse,” Sam says, reassuringly. He covers his mouth as he lets loose a choking cough. The blood from his nose, running down the back of his throat, is making him nauseous.

Dean slips him a look. “Can you get out on your side, Sammy? How 'bout you Cas?”

“My arm is broken,” Cas says by way of answer, annoyance clear in his tone.

Sam spits blood onto the floor and jiggles his door handle. “I think so.” He pushes all his weight against it and tumbles out of the car, swearing as he lands hard on his bruised knees on the wet asphalt. Dean laughs and crawls back out of the cabin, crossing behind the car and offering Sam a hand. Sam takes it, frowning at the nails marks bleeding lightly on his wrists. “Sorry,” he mutters.

Dean shrugs. “Now I got a full set,” he says lightly, gesturing at the mostly healed nail marks Castiel had left on his arms and neck. He pats Sam on the back, frowning deep when he turns and surveys the outside damage to the Impala with his flashlight. “Dammit.”

Sam stretches and stiffly walks to the back door, trying out his strength on the handle while Castiel watches him from behind the cracked back window, unamused. Sam's already getting soaked in the rain, and his wet hands slip a few times before he finally gets a good grip on it. Not that it matters. For all he tugs, it doesn't budge open in the slightest, though he does manage to pull the handle clean off. He holds it limply in hand, eyes wide and looking pointedly away from Dean. “Uh- Sorry.”

Lips pursed, Dean snatches the handle from Sam's hand and tosses it on to his seat. “Can you roll down the window at least? Open the other door?” he asks Castiel. When all he gets in return is a frown, he sighs and walks around the car, swearing when the other door proves to be as unmovable as the the first. He swears loudly and trudges to the back of the Impala, tucking the flashlight against his collarbone and opening the undamaged trunk. He roots around in the multitude of weapons, pulling out an axe, shaking his head and looking again. Finally, he removes a pair of brass knuckles from the hood that they rarely get to use, looking them over and donning them, then removing his flannel shirt and wrapping it around his fist and arm. “Move,” he tells Sam, thrusting the light at him, who obliges quickly, his free arm raised in a peaceable gesture. “Keep your eyes closed, Cas.”

Cas covers his head, and with a whispered 'sorry, baby' Dean smashes in the cracked window, grimacing the whole while but taking care to break out every last bit of glass so that the hole is clean. When he finishes, he shakes out his shirt, shoves it back on, and stuffs the brass knuckles in his jeans pocket.

Without being prompted, Sam comes back to Dean's side, reaching in with his brother and looping their arms around Castiel's shoulders as best they can. Sam's got the injured arm and Castiel cries out in pain as they attempt to tug him out.

But they forgot about the rain. The second it touches Castiel's skin he shouts and wrenches his arms away, the unpleasant grinding of his broken bones sounding through the air. He curls in on himself and sobs with pain.

Sam looks on helplessly, though Dean's face only hardens. "The rain isn't gonna stop," he says, placing his hands on his hips. "We can't stay here all night," Castiel looks at him with reproachful eyes, red rimmed with his pained tears.

"Here, let me… look for a coat for you, okay?" Sam says.

Castiel's eyes seem no less reproachful when they land on Sam, so he turns away, digging through the trunk until he finds Castiel's over coat. Dean grimaces at it, still covered in blood and ichor, though Castiel looks at it with no recognition.

"How am I supposed to put this on?" Castiel asks, frowning. Sam merely drapes it over him, and the Winchesters try again. Castiel slides bonelessly to the wet ground, panting and pale, and even though he recoils from the water making its way through the knees of his jeans, it's several moments before he can make his way to his woozy feet, coat held over his head with his one good arm.

“See, you're alright,” Sam says, putting a hand reassuringly between Castiel's shoulder blades. A physical ache courses through Sam's chest that has nothing to do with being injured when Castiel just looks at him, searchingly. He could almost be Castiel again, but for the growing beard.

Sam turns to see another pair of eyes on him. Dean's eyebrows are raised, his mouth in a slight shrug, as if he's considering something. Sam shoots him a glare, but drops his hand, embarrassed.

“Our legs all work, right?” Dean says, still with a thoughtful look on his face. “Then let's get walking. Get the stuff, Sam. I'm gonna try Bobby and Jody."

Castiel tries to cover himself better with the coat and Sam goes back to the trunk, grabbing their closest duffle bag and an arm full of guns. There are shotguns and clothes in the bags already, as well as a canister of salt and other such essentials, so Sam, being the only one with an uninjured torso, lugs it over his shoulder. Dean already has the demon-killing knife tucked into his belt, so he keeps the colt for himself, shoving a gun for Dean and a few extra clips in whatever spare spaces in the bag he can find. He grabs two more flashlights, but shoves one in his back pocket and lights the other.

Dean swears. "I can't get through. Sam, try yours."

Sam pulls out every cell phone they have, but a few are dead and not a single one will go through until he tries the one that still has the long dead John Winchester's number. It rings four times and goes to voicemail. "Uh… Bobby. It's Sam. Please call us back- we crashed the car, but we're alive and…" He glances at Castiel's broken arm. Cas looks increasingly distressed by the rain. "…Alive. Not sure where we are yet, but we'll call you back when we can. Last town we passed through was…"

"Outside Bloomsburg," Dean offers.

"Outside Bloomsburg," Sam repeats. "The Impala's in bad shape. So we'll need the truck. Call us back." Sam closes the phone with a flick of his wrist.

“Fan-freakin'-tastic, we all ready now?” Dean asks, his breath puffing out before him in a white cloud. “My important bits are freezing off, so let's get going.”

Without any fanfare, they take off down the road, climbing over the broken section with some difficulty. The rain ebbs and flows, and Sam and Dean's twin light beams dance off the rain drenched asphalt. Dean attempts to call Bobby several times, but to no avail. Not a single bar can be found and though John's phone rings every time, it continuously goes to voicemail. Sam leaves a short, repeated message each time. There's not a building or light in sight and it's getting colder.

Castiel's pace is weak to begin with, but after twenty minutes and the rain becoming sleet, he's breathing hard to keep up with their longer legs and shivering piteously, partially from the cold and partially from the water that he can't quite avoid getting covered in. Sam and Dean share an unspoken look and each sling an arm under him, practically carrying him as the night wears on.

Eventually, the back wood road seems to level out, becoming much more like an average highway, though there's still nothing in sight but a lot of trees and, strangely, fog. A street sign hangs awkwardly over an empty intersection.

“Locust Street. Really? Who the hell names a street Locust Street?” Dean stops and says, though they turn at Locust Street anyway, as things seem a bit clearer going that way.

“You know what,” Sam says, glancing at an empty plot of of land. A rickety wooden set of doors lead down into the ground, into a basement. “I think we're in an abandoned town.”

Dean grunts, clearly uninterested.

“See, there's a bunch of places where it looks like buildings used to be. And we're on a street, right? Not a highway?” Sam gestures to a broken streetlight, leaning awkwardly and emitting no light.

“Fascinating, and very helpful,” Dean says in reply. Castiel lets out a weak snort.

Sam frowns at them both and pokes Dean in the ribs with the hand slung behind Castiel's back. “I'm just saying. And if I'm right, we should look for somewhere dry to sleep for the night, cause we're not gonna get help here.”

Dean sighs. “Okay, well, stop us when you see some shelter.”

Silence falls for a short time, until Castiel stumbles and almost falls as they round the corner of North Street. Both brothers nearly go down in the effort to catch him, and Dean just barely catches Castiel muttering feverishly beneath his breath.

“ - aperietur, est nimis tarde, est nimis tarde - ”

“Whoa, dude, what's up with you?” Dean asks, giving Cas a little shake. "What were you sayin'?"

Castiel blinks, staring at nothing, and does not reply for several seconds. “No, it was nothing.” Sam and Dean look at each other over Castiel's shoulders. "I am in a lot of pain."

“Yeah, okay, just try to get back up, yeah?”

He takes a moment to compose himself, sweating and clutching the coat over his head. The rain drips onto his exposed knuckles and he cringes.

“Hey - Both of you. Look!” Sam says, gesturing to a hill overlooking the rest of the empty town. Light cuts through the dark rain and fog, the only sign of life for miles.

“It's a church,” Castiel says quietly. Dean and Sam share another heavy look. Sam shakes his head disapprovingly, but Dean just shrugs at him.

“I don't like it,” Dean says, eyes narrowed at the light peering over the edge of the trees. “But we might as well try it. It's better than freezing to death out here.”

“I guess you're right,” Sam sighs, readjusting the duffle bag on his shoulder and rearranging his grip on Castiel.

“At least it will not be wet,” Castiel says.

The trek up the hill takes longer than expected, hindered greatly by their aching and broken bones, but they eventually reach the stairs of an unassuming looking church made of mostly grey brick, but positively shining against its dark surroundings. The only colour is in a stained glass likeness of Jesus, hanging out over the edge of the hill and looking rather judgmentally down on them. They slowly crawl their way up the stairs.

“Cheerful,” Dean says weakly towards the window. Jesus looks no less judgmental from closer up, and there are nails through his hands.

Sam and Dean squabble silently over who has to knock, but a quick round of rock, paper, scissors later, and Dean is tapping hesitantly at the door.

“I can walk, I think,” Castiel says, brushing Sam's arm off him and wrapping his coat tighter around his torso and head. Sam awkwardly reaches for him, but he leans on the railing instead.

There's a scraping noise from within, before the doors swing wide open, flooding light out into the night. A man in full priest garb stands before them, achingly handsome in a familiar way. Sam squints at his features, but Dean just turns on his charm. “Sorry to bother you so late, Father,” he says, putting his hands on his hips and casting his eyes over the black clad figure. The priest's smile is wide enough to have been cut by a knife. “Our car broke down.”

“Broke down?” the priest asks, eying the blood on their clothes and faces. The rain has washed some of it away, but the cuts are still visible, and leaking.

“Crashed,” Sam admits, still looking curiously at the priest. “We're not entirely sure where we are. Do you have a phone? Or, or a map, or something?”

The priest shakes his head, still smiling. “There aren't any working phone lines in this area, son. Haven't been since the seventies.”

Dean swears. “I don't suppose you have a mechanic wherever this is then?”

The priest shakes his head once more. “This town only boasts a handful of people, unfortunately. But where are my manners! Come inside, come in out of the rain. It's like the deluge out there.” They filter inside one by one. Dean averts his eyes towards the inner church and away from the priest's gaze, hand tightening over the gun in his pocket.

“I can help you. Give you wine for those injuries.” Sam squirms when he enters, as the gaze falls to him. The priest is looking him up and down, but he's unable to tell if the look is lust, curiosity, or hunger. “If you need, you can sleep here, for the night.

Castiel comes last. He hasn't said a thing for the entire exchange, standing stock still behind Dean's shoulder. Unbeknownst to Sam or Dean, he stays in the rain for several seconds after they have gone inside, clutching his broken wrist and staring uncomprehendingly up into the priest's face, eyes blown wide. The coat slips off from over his head. He takes a shuddering step backwards, towards the stairs, but the priest only raises a single finger over his thin, smiling mouth. Castiel comes quietly inside.

“This used to be such a nice little town," the priest laments when he catches up to them. "But the few of us still here are good, Christian people.” He struts, like a king in his castle, hands gesturing here and there to unimpressive pews, a dusty organ, candle stands in bad need of a polish. “We still have mass every Sunday, even after the fire.”

"The fire?" Sam enquires.

“The mine fire a few decades ago,” the priest says. “Still burning today. Perhaps you noticed the steam?”

“And you still live here?” Dean asks.

The priest shrugs as they reach the front of the church. “Some places are hard to leave. They're home.”

“So... Where is here?” Dean asks, moving to stand as far away from the father as he can.

"Oh," The priest looks at him, gaze flickering to the gun in Dean's pocket, though his smile is ever present. “I thought perhaps you were tourists. Centralia. It was a nice little town,” the priest repeats. The eucharist sits on the pew, half empty. There's a lipstick mark on the rim of the goblet. “I'm no doctor, but that arm looks like it needs to be set, correct?” He takes a hold of Castiel's broken arm just beneath the break. Castiel winces, but says nothing, even as a bit of water drips from his wet coat onto his neck.

“Drink,” the Father commands, grabbing the goblet and putting it to Castiel's lips. Castiel obliges slowly, tilting his head and pouring the deep red wine into his mouth. It runs sinfully over his chapped lips, sliding down his stretched throat and staining the neckline of his borrowed shirt. Sam and Dean both swallow, but also tighten the grip on their concealed weapons. “When you feel warm,” the priest says, “when Christ had imbued you with strength, we'll fix your arm.”

“If you don't mind, Father...” Dean begins.

“Richard.” His wide smile crinkles the edges of his eyes. Castiel keeps drinking.

“Father Richard. We have some experience with broken bones, so we'll take care of it. If you'll just show us a place we can sleep, we'll be outta your hair. There a motel nearby?”

“Nothing of the sort. My nearest patron lives a mile down the road. As I said, you can sleep here.”

“Thank you, Father,” Sam says, hands clenching near his belt. “We're very grateful. But we'd like to go to bed now, then. We can fix his arm.”

“Oh, it's no trouble,” Father Richard says, still holding Castiel's arm. No one moves. The last of the eucharist wine disappears behind Castiel's lips, and he takes a small gasp for air. Sam fingers the trigger of the colt in his jeans, Dean does the same with his pistol. “But if you insist!” The priest lets Castiel go and leads them off to the staircase behind the pews, as friendly as can be. Dean follows in front, hesitantly, and Sam returns to Castiel's side, helping him up climb the stairs. They are lead to an attic, even dustier than the rest of the church, with several small, dusty mattresses strewn around the floor and one cot. “If you're up at dawn, I'll eat breakfast with you boys before mass." Father Richard lets them pass him into the room and then swings himself back into the doorway, blocking it. "Are you sure you have everything you need?"

"We're good," Dean says, matching Richard's pose and gaze.

"Good. I'll leave you to it, yes? Please do try to keep the noise down, and sleep tight.”

“So,” Dean says when Father Richard's footsteps have faded from the stairwell. “That was the creepiest priest we've ever met.”

Sam nods in agreement. “There is literally no way this isn't something fishy.”

“Pretty much. But what are we going to do about it, until we know what we're dealing with? My baby is all messed up, and so are we. We'll take it as it comes. All I know is I am sleeping with my gun in case it gets all Texas Chainsaw Massacre up in here.”

“Alright, I'll keep watch first. I got the most sleep.”

“Actually,” Cas says, making both brothers jump. “That was me.” He looks a bit pink in the face, and dazed, as though he has just woken up. The rain has washed away most of the stench of whiskey, but it is replaced with the tang of church wine.

Dean shakes his head firmly. “Dude, your arm's broken. You won't be much use at defending yourself if something does happen. Speaking of which, do you feel imbued with Christ's strength yet?”

“I'm not sure...” Cas says.

“Give it another minute. I need to fix your nose first,” he says, rounding on Sam and gesturing to the only cot. “Come here, don't want to ruin your face anymore.” Sam frowns, but approaches, sitting down. Dean considers Sam's nose. “Blow your nose. Use your shirt. There's too much blood and that thing was ruined even before you got blood all over it.”

“It was your shirt,” Sam says. It's several years old, and worn, but he still frowns before shrugging off his jacket and removing it, left with only his blood stained undershirt. He morosely blows his nose, grimaces at the contents, and throws the shirt into a dusty corner, where it stays.

Dean kneels before him, scooting himself slowly between Sam's legs. He lays his palms on Sam's knees, though his hands then shoot back up and make their way to Sam's face, placing his thumbs as gingerly on either side of Sam's nose as he can. “Say cheese, Sammy.”

“Ow! Shit!” Sam's nose makes a less than pleasant noise, but seems to be back on straight. Dean grins at him and pats him on the thigh, quickly standing and ripping open the duffle bag. He digs through it, reaching some first aid supplies on the bottom. He hands Sam some gauze, with which he stuffs his bloody nose. Sam looks at him sullenly.

“Now!" Dean says, clapping his hands together, frowning, and then scrubbing his hands on his jeans to rid them of some of Sam's blood. "Are you ready, Cas?”

“I feel a little warm.”

“Then you're as ready as you're gonna get. Sam, I'm gonna need your help. Move your big butt and let him lie down.” The three of them shuffle around, until Cas is lying down, with Sam sitting next to him and holding his uninjured arm tightly, bracing him. Dean frowns at Castiel's purple arm. “There's no way around it, buddy. This is gonna hurt like a bitch. Think of the sexiest babe you can, okay?”

Castiel stares blankly into his eyes. Dean clears his throat.

“Ready? On three... One, two... three!” Castiel's scream sounds surprised, far more pain than he'd shown even when it had been freshly broken screwing up his features. Both brothers grimace, because Castiel jerked, and the bone is not quite straight. “One more time, Cas, I'm sorry,” Dean grits out, sweating. Sam leans his full weight on Castiel's torso, despite Castiel's gasping for breath. Another swift crack. Castiel sobs, brokenly, but his arm is fixed.

“You handled that better than the first time Dean or I broke an arm,” Sam says. He prepares a simple splint and wraps it in place, while Castiel buries his face into his unbroken arm, curling tightly into himself.

“That was the worst thing I have ever experienced, and that includes throwing up for three days.” Castiel's nails are digging into Sam's arm, leaving fresh marks next to the old ones, but Sam just pats him reassuringly as they all sit quietly for several minutes, Castiel's pained breathing the only sound.

“Hey, at least you weren't blown up, yeah?” Dean jokes, though his smile doesn't reach anywhere near his eyes, and Sam really doesn't find it funny. Castiel doesn't get it.

“I think I want to sleep some more,” Castiel says, rolling over weakly and tucking his head into the crook of Sam's arm.

“You're still all dressed, dude,” Dean says, but Castiel just grunts weakly at him. Sam looks wide eyed at Dean, but shrugs his mouth. They stay quiet until Castiel's breathing evens out, into sleep.

“What a perfect couple,” Dean mocks, half-grin on his face. “Gonna park there all night, Sammy?”

“Not if you would like the space, Dean,” Sam replies, though his tone sound less joking than he'd meant it to. He quietly and carefully extracts himself from Castiel's side, avoiding Dean's eyes.

Sam turns away and, grabbing a pair of sleep pants, begins to change out of what's left of his blood and rain soaked clothes. Dean's eyes linger on Sam's back, catching in the dips astride his spine, just above his waistline. Sam's brown belt clinks as he opens it, as he slides his long, blood-dirty jeans to the floor. Dean eyes dart away at the last second as Sam's face turns. “You gonna stay in your wet clothes too?”

“Nah, I'm just waiting for you to cover your ugly ass,” Dean retorts. Sam tosses another pair of pants at Dean's face.

Once all dry and warm, Dean takes the mattress by the window and Sam takes the one nearest to the door, vigilantly sitting rigid before it with the colt in hand. Dean drifts off without much trouble. Not long after him, Sam falls asleep.




Waking the next morning is slow, reluctant. It's as though Dean is emerging from a fog, his mind hazy and dull, almost hung over. When a semblance of consciousness finally does come, it hits him like a brick, his aching ribs reminding him of their pain, unforgiving. He gasps and rolls to his side, clutching them desperately. It's not the first time he's broken ribs, far, far from it, but it's something that never gets less painful.

When he manages to unscrew his eyes, Dean notices that he's not the first to wake. He sits up shamefaced, and gives Castiel a small nod.

“Hey, man, you're up.” The dawn is grey beyond the single window hanging above Castiel's head. The rain will probably be back.

“I did not sleep long,” Cas whispers. “My arm made it impossible. And my clothes were ... damp. I couldn't stand it.” He gestures sluggishly with the offending arm, eyes not quite meeting Dean's. Dean shrugs in apology.

Dean groans and sits up. “Sorry buddy. That's what broken bones are like. Welcome to the glorious land of the living. The clothes though, that's your fault.”

Cas frowns at him, but doesn't retort. Thoughtfulness plays over his features.

Dean glances at Sam, who is still sleeping. His face is tucked carefully into the crook of his arm, hair falling haphazardly over his face. “Lazy bum. Good thing we didn't get attacked or something.” Sam looks peaceful, so Dean doesn't move to wake him, instead looking back to Castiel. “C'mere and let me look at it.”

“That won't be necessary.”

Dean's eyebrows furrow. “Dude, I have to check the splint, unless you want to have a screwed up arm forever.”

“I won't.” Castiel gestures with the broken arm again, makes a fist and unwraps the splint, Dean gaping as he does. The purple skin has faded, the bones all perfectly straight and aligned without even a hint of swelling.

“Whoa,” Dean says, scooting over on his hands and knees. “How the hell'd you do that?”

“I simply.... willed it.” A short pause. Dean watches Castiel closely. “I feel like I can do the same for others as well. Let me...?”

Dean scoots just a little bit closer and lifts his shirt to expose the purple skin of his chest. Castiel meets his eyes and outstretches his hands hesitantly, cupping the skin tenderly. His palms are warm. Dean watches, entranced, as Castiel's eyes flutter closed and his eyebrows draw tight. Something passes out from him and into Dean. It's nothing like when Castiel had healed him before, where it had been an instantaneous, sterile absence of pain. It's more like the feeling of the best hot pack in the world, slowly easing away the ache of his ribs until he can finally breathe easily again, the pain a dull, unrecognizable ache.

“That's pretty impressive,” Dean croaks out, finally. His tongue feels like sand in his mouth.

“But not surprising.” Castiel's gaze is even, unnerving. Familiar.

Dean swallows. “Do you remember-”

“No.” Dean breaks the gaze, casting his eyes downward, breath catching in his chest. “But I remember... the feeling, like I was... more, once. I didn't want to believe that... angel.” Castiel edges a few inches away. “I still don't.”

Dean smiles, small. “Well, that's a start.”




Sam wakes to the pleasant tones of his brother's voice. He winces - his nose had been crushed into the cradle of his arms while he slept and he wasn't supposed to have been asleep at all. He reluctantly opens his eyes, peering in secret at Dean and Cas, their heads bowed together where they sit across the room. The space between them is companionable, bordering on intimate. Sam's stomach drops. Dean says something and Castiel laughs, the age deep rumble of his voice cutting through Sam's bones.

Sam lays quietly, torn between making a show of waking and pretending to sleep a while longer. He can't help the hitch in his breath when Dean leans forward, cups Castiel's face in his hands and kisses him. They fit together perfectly, Dean's nose slating against Castiel's hollowed cheekbones, their plush lips curved together like pieces of a puzzle. Sam closes his eyes, squeezing them shut, but the noise of his brother's tongue in Castiel's mouth is loud enough to drown out his thoughts, wet and stretching through the minutes. Sam wills himself to go back to sleep. A loud, wet slap echoes through the room and Sam opens his eyes.

Castiel's head is twisted horribly, his skin paling and utterly still but for his large and twitching eyes that bore straight into Sam's. Dean plays with the knife in his hand as he coils red ropes from Castiel's belly around his fingers. He regards him coldly with blood dotting amongst his freckles. Sam makes a strangled noise, propelling himself backwards and falling off the mattress. One of his nails catches in the old wood of the floorboards and breaks painfully, but Sam scrambles to his feet.

“Good morning, Sammy,” Dean says, green eyes impassive.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut, breathing as evenly and deeply as he can, but he still sees blood when he opens his eyes.

“Look at you,” Dean says, gesturing wide with his arms in the mocking air of a proud brother. He stands slowly, teeth glinting sharply in his mouth. “So messed up. Both of you.” Dean drops the knife and steps over the grey figure of Castiel bleeding out over the floorboards. He motions towards him with a single hand, beaming as though he was a piece of art Dean had created. “They taught me that down below, you know. Kiss 'em and cut 'em. Fools them every time. What did you learn down there, Sam?”

Sam clutches his head, failing to keep his lungs in control any longer. “What the fuck is going on?”

Dean closes the distance between them, pressing his sticky body against Sam's front. “Nothing that we haven't been heading to for this whole time. Nothing that hasn't been written into the ending since the beginning.” Dean's eyes swim with black. “Tell me, what did you learn, Sammy? You didn't learn to be a monster, did you, because you had that magic feather from the very beginning.” Dean smiles and wraps his arms around Sam's shoulders, like Ruby used to, tacky fingers smearing through his long hair. “We were both monsters, but we've learned how to be kings.”

“This isn't real,” Sam whispers to himself. “You're just my broken head and you're not my brother.”

“Oh, but I am.” Dean laughs. “I will always be inside of him. Bubbling just beneath the surface, waiting for you,” He takes hold of a shiny .45 from his jeans. “My king.” He leans forward, kisses Sam mockingly on the lips, and shoves the gun into his own mouth, black eyes smiling inches from Sam's own. Sam can't hear the shot over the raw scream that bubbles out of his throat.

“Sam! Sammy!”

Dean is within inches of him, but there's no black in his eyes and no blood to be seen. Castiel and Dean are very alive and mostly whole, both staring at him with concern on their faces. Dean is gripping his wrists tightly, his cheek looking puffy and red like recently hit.

“Oh,” Sam manages to gasp. “Sorry.”

“What the hell happened?” Dean asks, leaning in close and searching his eyes, nearly over balancing when Sam pushes him away while covering his mouth. “Dude, were you hallucinating again?”

Sam heaves in breaths, his heart racing in his chest. He manages a heavy nod, leaning against the wall. The nails of his right hand are snapped and a few are bleeding.

“I thought you had it under control.” Dean frowns, crossing his arms.

“I did. I do, most of the time.” Sam eyes Castiel, who is approaching cautiously.

“Here, let me...” Castiel bites his lips, tentatively pressing his palms over Sam's broad chest. Sam's heart slows. A warm sensation envelops his face, and the pain of his nose and fingers fade somewhat.

“Whoa.” Sam stares into Castiel's wide eyes, and Castiel stares back with a small smile.

“Yeah,” Dean says, sounding almost proud. “Cas got some of his mojo back.”

Castiel pats Sam's chest awkwardly. “I don't remember anything,” he says, his tone slightly bitter, before Sam can ask.

“Well, are you okay now, Sam?” Dean asks, eying him up and down. They both know the answer, but Sam fakes a nod anyway. “Good. We should head out. I would rather avoid handsome, devout, and creepy on the way out, know what I mean?” Dean flings some clothes at them, a too small shirt at Sam and a too large one at Cas. They dress quickly, packing away everything but Sam's ruined shirt and Castiel's coat into the duffle. Castiel holds onto the over coat, really looking at it for the first time, tracing his fingers over the stains, and he slips it on as they sneak down the stairwell.

There's no sign of Father Richard. The main body of the church lays empty, pews as dusty as they had been the night before.

“What time is it?” Dean asks.

Sam frowns and checks his watch. “Says nine a.m. Why?”

“Today is Sunday,” Castiel answers for Dean.

Sam pulls the colt out of his jeans, shuffling towards the front doors. “Maybe, they had Mass last night?”

“Yes, and creepy priest? Just went for a walk?”

Castiel moves past them both, standing before the altar and meeting gazes with stained glass Jesus. “Something feels different.”

Dean's eyebrows raise and Sam tilts his head.

Cas frowns. “I don't know what it means.”

Dean shrugs. “Let's just get going, so we can get as far away from this place as possible, alright?”

Sam opens the front doors, but nothing is visible past the first steps of the stairs, drowned in a thick, grey fog. “Whoa.”

“Joyful weather,” Dean remarks.

Sam takes a tentative step outside, hoisting the duffle a little higher on his shoulder. “It's freezing out here.” He squints at the grey around them. “Hey, is it snowing?”

Dean trumps out into the open, holding a hand out to the air. A falling flake catches on his fingertips, but collapses between them as soon as he rubs them together, leaving a dark smear in its wake. “Dude, it's ash.”

“The fire.” Cas says, absently. He tracks the falling flakes with his eyes, standing perfectly straight just inside the doors of the church.

“Yeah, I'm sure...” Dean says. Hesitantly, he walks back, taking Castiel by the shoulder. Castiel jumps, but nods slowly, allowing himself to be steered outside.

Thick rolling sheets of fog envelop the streets around them, making it impossible to see further than a few feet in any direction. The smell of smoke hangs in the air.

“What was the street we turned on?” Dean asks.

“North, then Locust,” Sam supplies.

“Okay, so. Where is it?”

Sam frowns. “Probably just a bit further.” They've come across no crossroads that they can see. “Maybe we took off in the wrong direction, is all.”

As if on cue, a lamp post looms out of the smoke. It looks rusted, leaning crooked where it juts out of a broken sidewalk, and the street sign hangs limply, the name nearly scratched off.

“Locust. Whaddya know.”

“But we didn't-” Sam frowns. They keep walking. “Are those buildings?” Sam eventually asks, squinting off into the fog.

Dean shrugs, jogging a bit faster. “C'mon Sammy, you're just seeing th-” He pauses. “Let's just get back to the car. Maybe I can get her to at least run till we're far enough away from here that we can get a phone. Try Bobby again.”

Sam does, and it goes to the voicemail. Sam flips the phone shut, swearing. “He's still not answering.”

“He and Jody are probably just distracted,” Dean counters, trying to smile.

“And if they are not?” Castiel wraps the dirty trench coat tightly around his shoulders, shivering violently.

“Then we'll deal with it when we get there.”

They walk in silence for several minutes more. “Dean, there are buildings, come look.” They've kept to the center of the road, mostly, but Sam wanders off the beaten path.

“So what? It was probably one we missed last night.”

“It just looks-” Sam frowns. There's a small collection of shacks, drifting in and out of his vision in the distance. “It looks familiar, s'all,” he finishes his sentence with a whisper, shaking his head.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing.” They're quiet for many minutes more, until they reach a painfully familiar break in the road. Dean's face lights up. “Oh baby, I know you're messed up, but I missed you,” he says, climbing over the four foot drop and jogging ahead. He stops. “Baby?”

There's no sign of the Impala.

“Where the hell is my car?” Dean growls, fists clenching.

Sam frowns and searches the immediate area. “Are you sure it was here? I swear we took a different route last night.”

“Don't look at me. I wasn't exactly paying attention.” Castiel moans suddenly, rubbing his temples. “My head. It's killing me.”

Sam reaches over and pats him in the small of the back. “It's okay, you're alright. Dean, let's just walk a little further.”

“The car should be here!” Dean shouts. Castiel twinges.

“Dean, calm down! It was dark, it was late, I'm sure it's just down the road. We might have turned the wrong way.”

“No,” Dean cuts out, angrily gesturing at the unmistakable chunk of ruined road. “This is the road we hit. Look at it Sam, this is where it was. Where the hell is the car?!” He looks around once, twice more, and then takes off running, disappearing into the fog.

“Dean, stop!” Sam calls as he runs after him. He comes to a halt some feet ahead, when he realizes that Castiel isn't following. “Cas, come on!” Castiel is a bent, dark shadow in the fog and he doesn't move. “Damnit- I'll be right back, don't go anywhere.” Sam growls and takes off running after his brother again, though the oppressive fog quickly erases his sense of direction. “Dean!” he calls out. “Come back, we're going to get lost.”

But Sam seems alone. His pace slows to a hesitant walk, shaky hands gripping the handle of Ruby's knife. “Poor little Sammy, all by his lonesome,” mocks a voice from his right- Sam is never truly alone. Adam falls in step beside him, though the voice that issues forth is Lucifer's. “You done fucked up, kid.”

Sam steels his brow and clenches his fists. “Dean!”

Adam's fluffy golden hair is plastered against his scalp with dirt and sweat, but his eyes shine bright blue out of their grey surroundings. “Always chasing after Dean. Always searching for Dean. How long were we brothers down there, Sam?” Adam's voice slowly melts into his own higher pitch, making Sam tremble. “What were the last words you said to me... I'll save you? What a load of crap.”

Adam swings himself in front of Sam, shoving him back hard enough that he stumbles, falling back and scraping his palms. He stares at the hallucination with terror in his eyes- He's felt them touch him, the sensation easily passed off as a figment of his own mind, but Adam's rage feels horrifyingly real.

“Listen to me!” Adam barks out. “How can you ignore me?” Sam scrambles to his feet and takes off running again, but Adam calls after him. “I'll drag you back to hell myself, Brother!”

Sam runs without stopping, aching legs painful as they carry him faster and faster, until he almost runs into his brother face first, only managing to halt himself just in time. He gasps for breath and plants his hands on Dean's shoulders, shaking him. “Dean, what did you think you were doing?”

Dean looks at him strangely. “I only went like a few hundred feet, dude. Don't you see this?” Dean looks before them with his green eyes opened wide and his jaw weak. Sam follows his gaze and takes a few steps backward.

Before them, cutting unnaturally across the road, lies a thick and rusted metal fence, at least fifteen feet high and covered in barbed wire, stretching out of view in both directions. When Sam looks closer, he can see shapes moving beyond the fence, hulking things with hunched backs and heavy limbs. Something howls in the distance. And above them, the biggest shape of them all, like a great tower with greater wings, traveling miles upwards into the falling ash sky.

“What the hell...” Sam chokes out, wrapping his arms around himself. A shape nearby sniffs the air and wanders nearer. Seven feet tall and emaciated, it looks like the corpse of a man half-beast, with the flesh of its lower face hanging in gored ribbons to expose its yellowed and rotting teeth.

Sam steps back. “Is that a- Dean, is that a Wendigo?” It looks less human than any wendigo they've ever encountered.

“I don't know. Fuck. I don't know,” Dean replies, short of breath. The Wendigo turns its milky eyes towards them, fleshy face splitting open as it lets out a scream and jumps on the fence. Sam and Dean back-pedal, but there's a flash of blinding white light in the instant it touches the barrier, the Wendigo's vicious screams turning to those of pain. It falls back to the broken ground beyond the fence, the corpse grey skin of its naked clawed hands and feet seared black, as though burnt, and oozing thick blood from the holes the barbs have made. It screams once more and scrabbles back off into the fog.

Sam lets go of Dean's sleeve, which he had unconsciously grabbed. “What the hell is going on?”

“Oh, he doesn't know. Should we tell him?”

Sam and Dean whip around, startled. Castiel has a wide smile etched across his face, but his eyes are so dilated, so empty that the blue is barely a sliver around the edge of huge pupils. “No, let him tell them,” Castiel answers himself. “I like watching them squirm.” The smile goes slack and Castiel looks at them, confused. He begins to clutch his head. “No, no, no, get out.” Castiel's hands claw at his face, and he bends at the middle, face to the ground. “Get out, get out of me!” He begins to laugh. “This place - haha - was so hollow,” Castiel says, sounding like each word is grinding out, forced, between his teeth. “It makes it so easy to- no, no, no- to open a door. But now it is closed - Get out! G-uhaha. There is no way back.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean asks, hand slipping towards the handle of the colt in his belt.

Castiel doesn't look up. There's blood like tar beginning to drip beneath his fingers and onto the road, where it bubbles like acid. “They've come back!” Castiel shouts, and for the first time in a long time, he sounds like himself. Two great shadows fan out behind Castiel's bent back, no longer invisible shadows as they had always appeared, but fully formed in huge black feathers, badly crooked and falling out in clumps. The same tar drips off the tips in waves and scorches the earth below his feet. Twitching, Castiel stands up slowly, black blood oozing over his lips and from the corners of his eyes. He laughs again, stonger. “The Leviathans have broken open Purgatory. And they've come for yoooou.”

Sam's back is practically against the corrugated fence and his breathing is shallow and fast. “Purgatory?” He gasps. “That's impossible.”

“You bastards,” Dean groans pulling the colt out of his belt and aiming it level at Castiel's forehead. “You sons of bitches. How long have you been -” Dean grits his teeth, eyes narrowed with agony. “Get out of him right now.”

Castiel's only reaction is to tilt his head, ever so slightly, teeth bared. “Are you going to shoot him? Kill your sweet little piece?”

“The colt won't kill angels.” Dean fakes a smile, desperately fingers the trigger.

“After all the nibbling we've done, how much of an angel do you think is left? Enough to survive?” The thing wearing Castiel's skin shrugs. “Worth it just to test if it will kill us?”

Dean grimaces, and doesn't lower the gun, though his fingers go slack. “Why don't you just kill us then?” he demands, voice thick.

Castiel smiles. “You needed to be punished first. Your little friend tried so hard to hold us back, but it's all worked out in the end, hasn't it now? Remember our mother when you die, Winchesters.” A gust of wind causes the thing's wings to shudder, flinging black blood to the ground and his expression darkens as he looks at the great winged tower before them in the fog. “You dare to interfere?” The wind grows strong enough that it nearly knocks the brothers off their feet, though Castiel barely budges. “No matter! You won't last forever, little one.” He turns his eyes to Sam, then Dean. “And neither will they.”

In total silence, Castiel disappears, leaving nothing but bubbling pavement behind him.

Part Four