Fic: No Stranger in Your Dreams

[aramleys_words]

Title: No Stranger in Your Dreams
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Wordcount: ~11,000
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine, never were.
Notes: Many thanks to the lovely last_panda and roonerspism for the beta.
Summary: "What would you dream about, Castiel, I wonder?"

The lake is familiar from Dean's dreams - the placid water gold-tinged with late afternoon light; the quiet; the fishing gear left carelessly at the end of the pier, as though Dean has only stepped away for a moment. Castiel stoops and lifts up the discarded fishing pole, winds the reel curiously. The line slips easily through the still water.

"Catch anything?"

Castiel turns. Lucifer stands at the end of the small pier where the boards meet the land, blocking Castiel's escape. "Lucifer."

"I guess you forgot to dream the fish," he says, shrugging, shoving his hands into the pockets of his worn denims. He rocks back on his heels, the father of demons in muddied work-boots and a button-down shirt. Nick's skin is unblemished.

"I don't dream," says Castiel. He's still holding the fishing pole, and he sets it down lightly.

Lucifer shrugs. "Look around you."

"This was Dean Winchester's dream, not mine."

"You don't know how to dream for yourself yet. You borrowed this one from him." Lucifer cocks his head. "What would you dream about, Castiel, I wonder?"

"Angels don't dream."

Lucifer only laughs, and shrugs. "I said that you were a peculiar thing, brother."

-

"Castiel. Hey, Cas."

Castiel opens his eyes to a close view of the Impala's side door. The window glass is cold against his forehead, and when he moves, the muscles of his neck protest. He blinks once, twice, focuses on Sam Winchester leaning around from the front seat. Dean is gone.

"What happened?"

"We're at Bobby's," says Sam. "You slept almost the whole way back."

"I don't sleep," says Castiel.

Sam smirks. "Well," he says, "you sure looked asleep to me."

-

Castiel keeps his distance from the house while the Winchesters and Bobby Singer go through the first harsh stages of their grief. He doesn't want to intrude, and besides, the strength of the emotion is exhausting. Instead, he wanders the perimeter of the yard, tracing sigils on the fence posts at intervals, watching as his blood soaks into the old, weathered wood. The knife stings as he draws it through the pale flesh of his forearm, and the wounds bleed freely. They don't heal as quickly as he would like.

"Jesus, what the hell," Dean says, when Castiel lets himself quietly back into the house. He grabs Castiel's arm, where the sleeve of the trench coat is stained bloody.

"They will heal," Castiel says, as Dean rolls back the coat and the jacket and the shirt underneath, exposing the wounds on the pale flesh. Some of them have stopped bleeding, others not.

"You freak," says Dean. "You can't just - okay, look, sit down, I'm gonna go get some bandages."

"Dean," Castiel protests, but Dean just steers him into a chair at the kitchen table. Ellen Harvelle had lined up the little gleaming shot-glasses with their amber-coloured liquor here just the night before. Now she and her daughter are both dead.

After a moment, Dean comes back into the room, his heavy boots making the floorboards creak. He settles into the chair opposite Castiel, laying out bandages and antiseptic and, amongst other things, a bottle of whisky, half-empty.

"Okay," he says. "Take your coat off, we'll wash that later. Give me your arm."

Castiel shrugs out of the trench coat and drapes it over the back of the chair. He rolls up the suit jacket and the shirt underneath and lays his arm out on the table for Dean to see.

Dean huffs a breath of laughter as he sets to work. "You did a number on this, emo kid."

"I was laying protection spells," Castiel says, watching Dean's fingers move with quick, practiced movements to clean the long, red-raw wounds with cotton wool and harsh-smelling antiseptic. He doesn't tell Dean not to bother, that he can feel the flesh healing already, though more sluggish than usual, and that by morning the arm will be whole and unblemished. Dean is focused and attentive, his fingers firm where they press against Castiel's arm. Here is something he can mend with butterfly stitches and linen bandages and his own hands, and Castiel hasn't the heart to deny him that.

"This place is spelled every damn way," Dean says, head bent low over his work.

"I put down fresh angel wards," says Cas. "Lucifer will not be able to penetrate them."

"Like your Devil's Trap?"

"No."

"I was kidding," Dean says, winding the last of the bandage around Castiel's arm tightly. Underneath the clean bandage the wounds sting where Dean's fingers press against them, and he grimaces a little in spite of himself. "Sorry," Dean says, absently, "almost through. There."

"Thank you," Castiel says, looking at his arm in its neat bandage.

"Yeah, well," Dean says. He gathers together the stained cotton wool and off-cuts of bandage and gets up, taking them over to the trash can. "How about you don't go slicing yourself into ribbons for a while?"

Castiel doesn't answer. Instead he watches as Dean moves around the kitchen, opening a cupboard to retrieve two tumblers, which he brings back over to the table.

"Here's your medicine," Dean says, uncapping the whisky and pouring them a measure each.

Castiel lifts the little glass lightly. He remembers from last night the smoky burn of it, the warmth trailing down his throat, and Ellen Harvelle's hoarse laughter. There's a human custom, he remembers. "For the Harvelles," he says, inclining his glass towards Dean.

Dean swallows, and there's a rough edge to his voice as he leans forward to clink his own glass against Castiel's, saying, "Ellen and Jo."

They toss the liquor back in matching smooth motions. The taste isn't unpleasant.

"I don't know what to do now," Dean says, after a long moment. "I don't know where we go from here. The Colt doesn't work."

"I'm sorry," says Castiel. He sets his glass down lightly on the table, next to Dean's. "I should have known about the Colt."

Dean shrugs, pours them both another measure. "It's not your fault. Seems to me we were screwed from the start in all this. Me and Sam; you. Those boys upstairs," he says, tipping his head upwards with a wry smile, "they know how to run an apocalypse, I'll give them that. Doesn't seem like there's a damn thing we can do except sit and watch, one way or the other. Sit here and let the world go to Hell, or roll over and let Michael ride my ass into battle."

Castiel regards Dean carefully, watching as he raises his glass and takes a short sip of his drink, eyes closed. "You won't accept Michael's offer," he says.

"Yeah?" Dean lets out a low breath, half-sigh, half humourless laugh. "Well then, I'm all out of options, Cas. I don't know what to do."

He is so tired, Castiel thinks. He sits at the table half-slumped as though his shoulders are bowed low under a heavy weight - and they are, Castiel knows, under the weight of a destiny greater than any human should have to bear. Castiel thinks about that brief time in Hell, about gathering up the tattered shreds of Dean Winchester's soul and raising them up in his two hands. He'd pieced them together with his Grace and his love, and this is the man that he restored. He reaches over and takes Dean's hand in his, gripping tighter when Dean flinches to keep him from pulling away.

"Let me," he says, softly. He gathers up all the Grace he can spare in the tips of his fingers and lets it flow through him, out and into Dean Winchester. The symbol he traces against the back of Dean's hand is old, old.

When he looks up, Dean is watching him warily. "Cas?"

"For peace," Castiel says, by way of an explanation.

"You put a spell on me?"

"Not a spell," he says. "A word, from my language. You might call it a prayer."

"Huh," says Dean. He looks down to where Castiel is still holding his hand, but he doesn't pull away. Castiel's fingers are slimmer where they lie against Dean's, and his skin is paler. After a moment, Dean lets out a low sound like a sigh and tosses back the last dregs of his drink with his free hand. "Well, between this or that maybe I'll sleep tonight after all," he says, setting the glass down heavily and shoving the chair back from the table with a shriek of wood-on-wood, pulling out of Castiel's grasp.

"Bobby made up a spare room for you," Dean says, getting up. His tone is carefully light, as though putting away the conversation. "It's just down the hall from me and Sam."

"I don't sleep," says Castiel, looking up at Dean.

Dean crooks a smile. "I don't know, man," he says. "You were passed out pretty good back there in the car."

-

The water of the lake is cool against Castiel's bare feet, delicious contrast to the sun-warmed wood of the pier under his hands as he leans back on outstretched palms. Tilting his head back, the late-afternoon sun turns the darkness behind his eyelids warm red, but there's a pleasant crispness to the air that suggests encroaching autumn.

"Look at you, so relaxed," says Lucifer. Castiel opens his eyes to find Lucifer smiling down at him. "Oh, don't mind me. Go ahead, enjoy yourself. It's good to see you without that stick up your ass."

Castiel pulls his feet out of the water and struggles to his feet, wordlessly declining the hand that Lucifer offers him. He feels bare and exposed, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow and his trousers to the knee. When he glances back along the pier, he sees Jimmy Novak's socks and shoes, his trench coat and jacket, all piled neatly on the grass at the lake's edge. Lucifer doesn't seem to notice - he just stares out over the water.

"I have to say, though, I'm just a little disappointed," Lucifer says. He opens the palm of his hand and a smooth, flat rock appears in it. He leans back and skims it out over the glassy surface of the lake, shattering the mirror-smoothness. Castiel watches the ripples spread out and fade. When the last one dies away, Lucifer skims another one out after it. "I'd expected more from you. Don't you have anything better than this to dream about?"

"You're welcome to leave," says Castiel.

Lucifer laughs. "Snappy. I think I'll stick around, though. I'm interested in you, brother; I'd like to get to know you better. I wasn't lying, you know, when I said we had a lot in common."

He offers Castiel the third stone, and when Castiel doesn't respond he just shrugs and heaves it high up into the air over the lake, and Castiel watches the slow, dreamy arc it makes against the pale gold sky before it crashes down into the water. They watch the ripples fade and die in silence, shoulder-to-shoulder, and when the water is placid again Lucifer turns back to Castiel, his head tipped curiously.

"Show me something fun," he says, and before Castiel can move to stop him he reaches out with two fingers, pressing them lightly to Castiel's forehead, and they're -

- in the bar, the place where Dean had brought him the night before they summoned Raphael. Everything is dark - black leather booths and lights down low, casting Lucifer all in shadow and brightness across the shiny black tabletop.

"Oh, this," Lucifer says, looking around and laughing freely, "this is much better, brother."

"You would feel more at home here," Castiel says. He has his clothes back, and the tie and the coat and the shoes make him feel more secure, somehow, in his body, as though armoured.

"In a den of iniquity? You wound me, brother. Is there a single one of God's creatures that has less use for pleasures of the flesh?" Lucifer wrinkles his nose, affecting revulsion. "So human. No, I meant how fascinating that you should bring me here. Castiel the innocent."

"Not so innocent," says Castiel.

"No," Lucifer agrees, leaning back, regarding Castiel carefully. "Not so much."

A girl walks past, all black lace and bare flesh. Lucifer leans over. "Excuse me," he says, smiling. "Two beers, please?"

"Coming right up, sugar," the girl says. She tosses a wink back over her shoulder as she turns away, and Lucifer turns to Castiel with a sharp-edged smile, saying, "Your dream is so obliging, Castiel."

Castiel sits very still, hands palm down on the glossy tabletop. "What do you hope to achieve by this?"

"So hostile, brother," says Lucifer. He tips his head slightly, watching Castiel. The girl returns, sets the two glasses of beer down gently, pulls back just slightly, smiling coyly. Lucifer ignores her, and she withdraws, disappointed. "We are family, after all."

"You've forfeited your right to claim kinship with your brothers," says Castiel.

"You see, I remember a time when you daren't even look at me directly," says Lucifer, iron-edged under the affected pleasantness. "Little Castiel, God's good soldier. Unquestioning devotion, loyalty. Where did it all go wrong, Castiel?"

"But let's not argue," he continues, crooking a smile that might once have been charming on the unpossessed vessel. He lifts his beer up to the light so that the pale liquid glows, and stares at it curiously before taking a sip. "I've never had a beer before. Is this what it really tastes like, or am I tasting what you tasted when you drank it?"

Castiel ignores the question. "Angels don't dream. What did you do to me in the holy fire?"

"Nothing," Lucifer says, simply, shrugging. "It's not me. You've been far from Heaven; you're tired, and your powers are weakening. It isn't Falling, exactly. It's Changing. If you returned to Heaven - bam, all juiced-up. Or if you joined me, of course."

"You are the father of lies," says Castiel.

"You know as well as I do that there's more pain in a single truth than a thousand lies," Lucifer says. "And if you thought that all you'd get from me was lies, you wouldn't have asked. Castiel, consider, what are you without your powers? What use are you to your precious Winchesters? If you join me, I could make you as powerful as Raphael. You could be an archangel of the new order."

"I've been to Hell," says Castiel, resolute. "I didn't care for it."

Lucifer sighs, shrugging as if to concede Castiel's point. "You're right. We've outgrown it, somewhat. Although I admit that I'm going to miss the old place. You spend countless millennia in a place, what can I say, you get used to it. But oh, Castiel," he continues, shaking his head slowly, his face alight with the anticipation of triumph, "I'm looking forward to the day when I tear down the gates of Heaven and walk again in my true home. Our true home, brother, the home from which they cast us out."

Castiel frowns. "Heaven will never be home to you."

"And you, brother?" Lucifer's smile turns sharp-edged, mocking. "If you manage to defeat me, do you really think they're going to welcome you back into the divine flock? Let me tell you something, Castiel," he says, leaning forwards over the table, his eyes very bright and very clear. "If I fall to my brother's sword, they're going to dig a new pit of fire just especially to cast you down into. Don't you think for a moment that our dear Father's all-encompassing forgiveness extends to His disobedient angelic children."

"You are not fit to speak of Him," says Castiel. Beneath his shirt, he feels the small, cool weight of the amulet against his chest.

Lucifer leans back, teeth bared for an instant in an animal snarl of anger, and Castiel is suddenly aware of Lucifer's true form behind the fragile veil of the human body he wears: vast, searingly bright, awesome and terrible in its power. Castiel is a speck of dust before the force of that being, who was God's most beloved before he ruled in Hell - as small and powerless before it as human beings are before his own true self, and for a second he trembles down to his very core with terror before he remembers that however powerful Lucifer might be, in dreams there's nothing he can do.

"Our Father," Lucifer sneers, veiling himself again behind the physical form of the vessel. "Our Father, who art not in Heaven. The Father who would not even deign to show you his face. I know you've been looking for him. But do you want to know the truth, Castiel?" He jabs a finger at Castiel, as if he can drive the words into him with the force of the gesture. "The truth is, He wouldn't let you find Him even if He was there to be found. Do you think He cares about you lesser angels? How many of your garrison died to pull one stinking human soul from the Pit?"

Lucifer takes another sip of his beer, the movement deliberate and calculated - as all his movements are, Castiel thinks, as though he isn't fully accustomed yet to being enclosed in the confines of a human body. His disarmingly human gestures are all affectation. Castiel remembers Raphael's vessel, burned clean and hollow inside by the force of the possession, with none of the shreds of humanity lingering inside like Jimmy Novak. He thinks about Sam Winchester, and about Dean, the intended of Michael, who is the only equal of Lucifer.

Lucifer's eyes narrow, as if trying to puzzle out the riddle of Castiel. "What are you thinking about?"

"About your vessel," Castiel tells him, and Lucifer laughs shallowly and says, "Oh, Nick?" spreading his arms to show off the body he wears as though displaying a piece of clothing. "Or do you mean my true vessel?" he goes on, and then sitting across the table is not Nick at all, but Sam Winchester.

Castiel tries very hard not to recoil, but his jaw tightens, and his hands press down into the table like claws. "Stop that."

Lucifer cocks his head and it's awful, somehow, seeing the echo of Lucifer behind Sam Winchester's familiar features. "Stop what, Cas?" he says, sounding at once horribly like and unlike Sam Winchester.

"You will never take Sam Winchester," Castiel says, grinding the words out through a jaw clenched with anger. "I will never let you."

"You care for these Winchesters," says Lucifer, and in a shifting second it's Nick again who sits across the table, smiling and regarding Castiel coolly. He cocks his head, slightly, eyes narrowed. He presses, oh-so slightly, at the edges of Castiel's mind, and Castiel hardens himself quickly. Lucifer withdraws, but his smile turns hard-edged. "No," he says. "It's the elder. Dean Winchester. Our beloved righteous man."

"Don't speak of them," Castiel says, anger spiking in spite of himself. He presses his hands down against the tabletop to keep himself from curling them into fists.

"I'm right," Lucifer says, laughing. "Castiel, you really are the most fascinating creature. Do you know," he says, cocking his head, "I don't think I even recall the last time an angel Fell for love of a mortal."

-

The light is pale and grey-toned when Castiel wakes. Mid-morning, he calculates. A human sleep cycle. He lies still for a few moments, curled on his side under the thin sheets, feeling the strangeness of his body as it comes fully awake.

He could move himself downstairs from the bedroom with just a thought - his wings are there, tucked away safely in the realm beyond - but he doesn't. The incident with the demon Meg confirms what he's been afraid of: he is, by increments, losing his power. And so he pushes the sheets back and swings himself across to the side of the bed, the old floorboards rough under his bare feet, the morning air chilly. Dean had taken the stained shirt and suit, despite Castiel's protestations, saying that he and Sam had so much laundry that Castiel's one set of clothes wouldn't make a difference, and since Cas had been wearing the same set of clothes since he'd pulled Dean out of hell maybe it was about damn time he got a change of clothes. So here is Castiel, renegade angel, in Dean Winchester's t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, his forearm well wrapped in white bandage. This is Castiel of the heavenly host. Uriel would have laughed. You've been down in the mud too long, Castiel. You've gone native.

On a chair across the room there are more clothes: jeans that hang too loose on Castiel's narrower hips, and have to be cinched in with a belt almost to the last hole; a shirt too broad across the shoulders and baggy at the wrists. The slightness of his physical body comes almost as a shock. He hasn't ever before had occasion to see himself undressed, but this is what he is, now: pale, narrow at shoulder and hip, bony at the wrist, soft where he knows Dean is muscled. Jimmy Novak died in the attack of the archangels, and Castiel now inhabits all the space there is inside this fragile body, folding up the vastness of his true self to fit. At first it had seemed such an impossible thing, but it gets easier all the time, as though Castiel is reshaping himself to fit the confines of his human form. Maybe that's all the Change is after all, he thinks: we just forget what it was to be our true selves.

When he ventures downstairs, he finds the house quiet. A tension in the air suggests that Castiel has missed something - an argument, maybe. Sam Winchester is bent over a stack of books in Bobby's study, and doesn't look up even as Castiel pauses briefly at the door. The books are thick-spined, old, and their titles have to do with the very old kinds of demon lore.

Bobby Singer is cleaning a shotgun at the kitchen table, and as Castiel enters he looks up and mutters something that might be good morning and then again might not before going back to his work. "Dean's out back, washing the car," he says, before Castiel can ask, and Castiel is not even close to being an expert at the subtleties of human communication but the implication is clear: go away, leave me alone.

Castiel pauses a moment at the door. "If I had had the power to heal you, I would have done it in an instant," he says.

Bobby clears his throat, but his voice is still thick and raw when he says, "All that angel power, and it don't make you a bit a use."

Castiel tips his head, feeling the jagged edges of Bobby's grief brush sharp against him. "You think I should have been able to save the Harvelles."

"All I know is the only good things I ever seen you do suited your own God damn interests," says Bobby, still looking down closely at the gun in his hands..

"You're grieving," says Castiel.

"Yeah," Bobby says, without looking up. "Well, I don't suppose you'd know much about that."

-

Once, Dean had been a fixed point in the world, a pin stuck into a map that Castiel knew by heart. That was before he'd carved sigils of protection and concealment into Dean's very bones, shielding him from the gaze of all angels and making him a blank space in Castiel's awareness. For some time afterwards, he'd found that he missed the constancy of Dean's presence in his thoughts - it was almost as if he'd been cut adrift. He'd kept reaching out incessantly, the way a human might prod at a wound that itched and stung, but he'd found only blankness, that ought to have been comforting because it meant that Dean was safe, and yet wasn't.

Finding Dean by human means hasn't always been easy. Fortunately, now, Bobby's yard is a maze of rusted-out junks, and the Impala stands out easily amongst them.

"Hey," Dean calls, looking up as Castiel approaches. He smirks as he takes in Castiel in his new clothes. "How was your sleep?"

Your sleep, Castiel thinks, as though it were a thing that belonged to him. My sleep. "It was...disturbed," he says. He knows that he ought to tell Dean about his dreams, about Lucifer, and yet he doesn't.

"Well," Dean says. "Since you're up, why don't you help out?"

"Perhaps I should help Sam with his research," says Castiel, eyeing the soapy wet car.

"Uh uh," says Dean. He tosses a wet sponge at Castiel, and Castiel squeezes too tight on the catch, getting water all down the borrowed shirt. Dean laughs. "If you're gonna be riding around in this thing, you're gonna help clean it, dude."

Castiel can't exactly explain just what it is about Dean's assumption that Castiel will be riding in the Impala with the Winchesters that warms him. Maybe it's the casual way Dean says it, as though it's a matter of plain fact that Castiel ranks with the Winchesters now.

"Don't just stand there," says Dean, already busy soaping up the Impala's nose, and when Castiel hesitates he sighs, "C'mon, man, what, angels can't do a little manual labour once in a while?"

"I've never cleaned a car before," says Castiel.

"Think of it as part of a crash course in humanity," Dean says.

"Cleaning your car?"

"My teaching methods are unorthodox," says Dean, with a grin. "Now stop stalling and get to work."

-

They work together mostly in silence, Castiel taking one side of the car and Dean the other. It's repetitive, mindless work, which Castiel supposes is rather the point, and he finds it strangely soothing. It's a purely physical task, unlike so much of the work Castiel has had to accomplish, and for the time it takes to wash and polish the Impala to a gloss that satisfies Dean, he manages to think hardly at all about the search for God. The amulet he still wears slung around his neck hasn't so much as warmed to the touch of his own skin, let alone burned to signify the presence of his Father, and he knows that he should be continuing his search but the prospect of returning to the exhausting, often futile-seeming task is a daunting one. He wants - and it's so strange, to want things - to stay here, wearing human clothes, taking Dean's crash course in humanity

"Alright," Dean says at last, stepping back to admire their joint handiwork. "Look at her. Isn't she beautiful?"

"I don't understand why you assign a gender to your car, Dean," Castiel says, truthfully, looking at the Impala.

Dean snorts and says, "Don't listen to him, baby," to the car, smoothing the flat of his hand over its glossy black hood. "You're the girl for me."

"But -"

"No buts, Cas," Dean says, tossing the soiled cleaning rags into the empty bucket and wiping his hands clean on the thighs of his jeans. "Lunch. Come on, we've earned it."

-

Lunch is sandwiches, the basic components of which turn out to be pretty much the only food left in the house. Bobby grumbles that Sam and Dean have eaten him out of his goddamn house and home - though Castiel suspects he's not at all as gruffly annoyed as he tries to appear, except perhaps with Castiel.

"Sammy, lunch!" Dean calls. "Get your geek ass in here."

"Hey, Castiel," Sam says as he wanders into the kitchen, looking briefly confused as he takes in Castiel in his strange clothes. "I, uh. I could use your help this afternoon with some research."

"Of course," Castiel says, trying not to think of his dream, and Lucifer smiling with Sam Winchester's mouth. The red-black edging to Sam's presence has faded as the demon blood works out of his system, and he no longer sets Castiel's nerves quite so on edge. Sam pulls up a chair and starts talking about the Enochian magic he's been working through, the gaps in the lore that Castiel might be able to help fill in.

"No talking shop at the table," Dean protests. "Eat your sandwiches."

"Does he eat?" Sam asks, and then, turning to Castiel, "Do you eat?"

"I don't know," says Castiel. Maybe he does eat. He sleeps and dreams now, maybe he eats, too. "Perhaps I should try."

"Hey," Sam says. "I mean, if you don't know, and you don't feel hungry -"

"Jimmy ate," Dean says, muffled through a mouthful of his own sandwich. "He's got a human body. Maybe he oughta learn to actually take care of it." He shoots a meaningful glance down at the bandage still wrapped around Castiel's forearm. Underneath the wrapping, Castiel knows, the skin is whole and freshly healed, but he doesn't mention that. Instead he picks up the sandwich on his plate, hesitating for a moment - he notes the texture of the bread, the smell of the meat between the slices and the sharpness of whatever else is inside. "Maybe I should," he says, and takes a bite.

"Atta boy," Dean says, with a smile. "How's it taste?"

Castiel chews, considering. The tastes and textures are entirely alien. "I don't know," he says, swallowing.

"Well, do you like it, at least?" Dean presses.

Castiel thinks. "It is not unpleasant?"

"Dean's just a shitty cook, Cas," Sam says, then yelps as Dean kicks him underneath the table. "God! You're such a douchebag, Dean."

Castiel has never really understood the way that the brothers express affection through verbal and physical attacks. Then again, with the fate of the world riding on the ability of one of his own brothers to kill another, he doesn't suppose he's in the best position to understand brotherly affection.

"We should have started him on pie," Dean says, with a decisive nod. "I'm telling you, Cas, if there's no pie in heaven, then I don't want to know."

-

He spends the afternoon working through the books of Enochian magic with Sam, filling in the gaps where the lore has been patched together imperfectly by human scholars. By the time the light is low enough that Sam leans over and flips on the desk lamp they've worked up a passable angel-repelling spell that the Winchesters will be able to work without blood. It won't send the angels back to heaven, but it will hold them for long enough to allow the Winchesters time to escape.

"Cas," Sam says, leaning back in his chair and rubbing wearily at his eyes. "About - about what happened to you, back there in the town. You met Lucifer, right?"

Castiel nods, slowly. "He and the demon Meg trapped me in a circle of holy fire. It was - foolish of me, to allow myself to be captured."

"I don't care about that. I want to know - was that the first time you'd ever met him? I mean," Sam says, "before he Fell. In Heaven."

Castiel pauses for a moment, considering his answer. "I do not rank highly in the hierarchy of angels," he says, at last. "There is a very great distance between one such as myself, and one such as Lucifer. I never met him, as you mean it. I saw him, once, before he Fell."

Sam's voice is low, rough almost, as he asks, "What was he like?"

"He was -" It's hard, almost impossible, Castiel thinks, to render an archangel in this faltering human tongue. "- beautiful, and terrible. We trembled before him. We loved him."

Sam nods, slowly, watching Castiel with interest. "Do you - do you remember when he Fell?"

Castiel remembers how it had ripped through Heaven like a comet, the awful wrongness of it, the shock and the anger and the wash of grief afterwards as the Host mourned its brightest, and all the lost brothers who had fallen with him into perdition. "I was not present in Heaven when he Fell," he says, "but I remember the shock. It - tore through all creation. Lucifer was the highest, the most beloved. To have something so beloved by our Father turn away from Him...it was a terrible shock," he says, simply, inadequately.

Sam is quiet for a moment. He looks down at the books and papers, covered with signs and symbols in Sam's expansive handwriting, footnoted here and there with the small, neat script that Castiel recognises as his own writing.

Sam clears his throat softly. "Do you think - do you really think we can beat him, Cas?"

Castiel looks at him, and sees for a terrible moment his dream of the previous night - Lucifer looking out from Sam Winchester's eyes. He blinks, swallows, banishes the stray images. "I don't know," he says, truthfully, and Sam bows his head, fisting his hands on top of the books of angel lore. "But," Castiel adds, "I think that if anyone a chance of stopping him, it is you and your brother."

The corner of Sam's mouth crooks upwards slightly, and he glances up at Castiel. "I guess that's a compliment?"

"I promise you that I will do my utmost to stop Lucifer from using you as he wishes," Castiel says. "I would die to prevent that from happening."

Sam frowns, looking almost disbelieving. "You'd - die for me?"

Castiel is almost as surprised as Sam Winchester to find that he means it, and not only because to allow Lucifer to possess Sam Winchester would mean almost certain defeat. "I would."

There's a small noise from the doorway, and Castiel looks up to find Dean slouching against the doorframe, watching Castiel and Sam. "Hate to interrupt the beautiful moment you girls are having," he says, "but dinner's on the table, and Bobby's fixing to shoot something if you don't get your asses in here."

-

The evening passes quietly and quickly enough, Castiel on the fringes of the conversation as Dean and Sam and Bobby share stories and memories. Occasionally Sam will lean close to Castiel and sketch out some piece of history or a private joke, but for the most part Castiel lets the talk wash over and around him. Sometimes the stories are about the dead - John Winchester, who Castiel knows only through Dean's memories, or Ellen and Jo Harvelle, and he listens to these intently, and afterwards watches Dean's expression turn distant as he lapses into pensive silence.

It's late when the talk winds down at last, and Bobby retires to his bed and the Winchester boys stand and stretch themselves out lazily, yawning.

"You going to bed, Cas?" Sam asks.

"I don't know," says Castiel. "If I remain awake I can continue our research."

"Oh, for - get up, you're going to bed," Dean says, reaching down to grab Castiel by the wrist and pull him up, and Castiel lets him. "You gotta learn to take your rest where you can get it," Dean says, putting a hand on Castiel's shoulder and shoving him towards the doorway. He steers Castiel out and up the stairs with a palm steady between Castiel's shoulder blades, warm and insistent, and Sam laughing somewhere behind.

-

Lucifer sits cross-legged on the edge of the pier, sighing out at the water.

"I'm disappointed in your little dreams, Castiel," Lucifer says. "I don't know. I'd just expected more vision from you, somehow." He twists around, looks up at Castiel. "You need to learn how to dream big dreams, brother. That's something you could learn from me."

Castiel turns away, looking out at the lake's familiar calm surface. "I have no wish to learn anything from you."

Lucifer huffs out a breath of humourless laughter. "So deliciously hostile."

He stands up and brushes imaginary dust from his clothes, takes in a deep breath and lets it out again before he turns to Castiel.

"Let me show you a dream of mine, Castiel," he says, and the lake is gone, and the pier, and they're in the air. Castiel unfurls his wings quickly, reveling in the familiar tense and flex of muscle and spirit. Flight is a clear, pure joy. Beside him, Lucifer's wings unfold from the other realm - vast, vast constructions of bone and feather, ragged-edged and flame-blackened but still fiercely, achingly beautiful. In these wings Castiel sees the echo of the archangel who was the brightest star of heaven.

Lucifer sees Castiel watching, and he crooks a smile but doesn't mention it. Instead he says, "Have you ever been to New York City, brother?"

"No," says Castiel.

"Concrete, steel; grey and black. Filth and squalor, and humans pressed so tight in together you couldn't breathe for the stink of it. And if you haven't seen that city, you've seen others. You've seen what human beings do to this world. Do you think this is what our father intended for what He created? Look at this," Lucifer says, gesturing out over the lushness of the landscape below. "This is where that city stands. This is what it looked like before ever a human being set foot on this world. Don't you think it's beautiful, Castiel? Doesn't it make you want to sing His praises?"

Down below is tangled forest, lushly green and marked here and there with the bright clear blue of streams and rivers. The air moving across Castiel's wings is cool, clean-smelling - pure in a way that Castiel has never breathed it during his time on Earth.

"I'm going to purify this world, Castiel," Lucifer says, his voice is alight with righteous glory. "I'm going to wipe out every reeking human soul on this planet. I'm going to polish it shining clean, like a marble."

Castiel looks down at the earth below, and it's beautiful, yes, but empty. "And then what? When the last human soul has been destroyed, what will you do then?"

"Oh," says Lucifer, with a quick movement of his massive wings almost like a shrug. "There are always things to be done."

"You will eliminate the demons, too?"

"My beloved children," Lucifer says, half-smiling. "My own works of art. Like our Father's human experiments - and just as expendable, in the end."

"Do they know?"

"Castiel," says Lucifer, tipping his head curiously. He wings closer, curving them slowly so that they almost envelop Castiel, nearly blocking out the sky. "Doesn't every child wish to believe that their father would never abandon them?"

-

It's still fully dark when Castiel wakes. He lies very still, feeling his body - the too-quick beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest as he drags air into his lungs. He's sweating lightly, and he shoves the blankets back from his body to let the cool air swirl around him. His throat is dry - thirst, he thinks. He's thirsty.

He gets up and eases a pair of jeans on over the boxers he'd been sleeping in. Bobby's house is old, and the floorboards creak underneath his feet and the door hinges complain as he eases it open. He pads down the hallway and down the stairs as lightly as he can. He's in the kitchen, filling a clean glass with water from the faucet when he hears the soft, cautious tread on the boards just outside the kitchen doorway.

Castiel turns sharply to find Dean framed in the doorway, a gun raised in his two hands. "Dean-"

"Cas, Jesus," Dean breathes, lowering the gun quickly. He passes a hand across his eyes, wearily, and lets out a low huff of laughter. "I thought - I don't even know."

"I was thirsty," Castiel says. He raises the glass in his hand, showing Dean the clear liquid inside.

"Thirsty," Dean says. "Right."

Awkwardly, Castiel takes a long draught of the water. The cold, clear liquid soothes his parched throat. Dean watches him as he drinks, eyes flickering over his throat before he looks down and away. He sets the gun down on the countertop and leans over it, bracing himself with both hands against the edge.

"You're tired," Castiel says, when he's finished drinking.

"It's three o'clock in the freaking morning," says Dean, turning to him. "Yeah I'm tired."

"I apologise for having woken you." Castiel sets the empty glass carefully next to the sink, upturned.

"It's okay," Dean sighs. "I wasn't sleeping anyway." He lets his head drop again, and Castiel looks at the long line of his back, the shirt stretched over muscled shoulders and the broad, blunted wings of his shoulder blades. Castiel curls his hands into his t-shirt, because they itch to reach out - he wants to flatten his palm to the place between Dean's shoulders, and to follow the fine line of Dean's back down where it curves to his waist. He wants to impart comfort with his touch, but it's not an entirely unselfish impulse. Desire unfurls dark wings in his belly, shivery and unexpected. He wants to press his mouth at the place where the neck of Dean's t-shirt falls, to close his teeth at the join of shoulder and neck, and he turns away quickly. He pours himself another glass of water and drinks it very slowly.

"Come on," Dean says, when Castiel is finished. "We can still grab another couple of hours if we hit the sack now."

Castiel nods, slowly, and doesn't ask what 'hitting the sack' means the way he might have done to watch how Dean rolls his eyes and laughs, exasperated but amused, and affectionate these days, too. He doesn't want to make Dean laugh. He wants to make him gasp, shiver, moan. The thought of Dean's body under his hands makes him catch his breath, too shallow, and he follows Dean through the dark, quiet house and back upstairs in a kind of daze.

"Well, sleep well, I guess," Dean says, pausing at the door of Castiel's room as they reach it. The corner of his mouth quirks upwards and in a quick unconscious movement Castiel reaches out, grabs him by the sleeve of his shirt at the elbow as he turns to leave.

Dean turns back halfway, and he glances down at Castiel's grip on his shirt and then up at Castiel, eyebrow half raised in confusion. "Cas -?"

Castiel's heart is pounding, that strange human muscle pulsing a doubled beat, but the electric feeling goes down deeper than his physical body and shivers all the way through his true self, from wingtip to wingtip, wanting. He looks at Dean's mouth and at Dean's eyes, and there's confusion there but something else as well, something that sparks enough bravery in Castiel to tighten his grip on Dean's arm and pull him forward with a fraction of his true force, so that they stumble closer together and Castiel leans upwards the short space it takes to cover Dean's mouth with his own. It's a short kiss, Castiel's first, just a shocked brush of mouths before Dean leans back, swallowing hard. "What's going on, Cas?"

Castiel looks at him, close-up, the day's growth of beard on his chin and his dry lips. Human and imperfect and beautiful. "I - want," Castiel says. He lets go of Dean's sleeve and brings his hand up to brush his fingertips gently over Dean's throat, the line of his jaw, communicating with touch what he can't yet with words. Dean's eyelashes flutter slightly. He grasps Castiel's wrist, firm but gentle, pressing down against the delicate bones.

"Listen," he says. "You don't - you don't know. You're an angel. And I'm -"

"You don't -" says Castiel, meaning want this.

"No. I mean - God damn it, Cas," Dean breathes, leaning forwards so that their foreheads touch and their mouths are close together. He lets go of Castiel's wrist and slides the hand around to cup the back of Castiel's neck, holding him in place, his fingertips brushing warm through the short hair at the nape of Castiel's neck. "I do. Want this, I mean. But it's complicated, you know that better than anybody. It's the end of the freakin' world, Cas."

"Do you think that you aren't allowed -" he catches himself before he can say happiness, substitutes instead, "- release?"

"I don't know," Dean says, low and rough. "I don't know anything."

Dean might not know but Castiel does. Castiel is learning to want, he's learning bravery, and he puts his barely-trembling hands on Dean's waist to feel the warmth and solidity of his body through the thin t-shirt and thrills as Dean shudders out a low breath against his cheek and tightens his hold on Castiel, and when their mouths meet again this time it's mutual: a rough, push-and-shove kiss, hot and greedy. Cas slips his hands down to dip searching fingers against the place where Dean's shirt rides up to reveal a tempting strip of bare skin, and Dean leans closer into Castiel's body. It's far more intoxicating than alcohol. Castiel wants Dean with all the staggering force of his human body - a fiery demand that burns in every part of him, sparks through his blood, makes his hands tremble with it as he shoves at Dean's clothing. He aches to touch and be touched.

"Son of a bitch," Dean murmurs, pushing Castiel backwards towards the bed. Castiel doesn't correct him, only lets himself fall backwards onto the thin mattress, welcoming the press of Dean's weight settling on top of him. Dean's stubble burns across his cheeks, his throat, down lower across his bare chest and belly when Dean strips his shirt and tosses it away carelessly, and Castiel gasps and arches into the rasping grind of it against his untouched skin, his fingers clawing at Dean's shoulders. Dean lifts his head and flashes him a bright, predatory grin, teeth and eyes flashing in the darkness.

"You know, for an angel, you're pretty fucking shameless," he says, his fingers working at the buckle of Castiel's belt.

"Please," Castiel gasps, with all the breath he can draw. "Please, Dean."

"Shh, I got you," Dean says, biting a kiss to Castiel's hipbone as he eases his jeans and underwear down. He leans back then, looking down at Castiel spread out entirely naked beneath him. Castiel wonders just what it is exactly that he sees that makes him look that way: dark-eyed, flushed and wanting. Dean lifts himself up while he strips off his t-shirt, shucks off his boxers quickly. When he lowers himself down again, the hot press of skin-to-skin is almost too much. Castiel reaches out and puts his hand carefully to the raised pink scar on Dean's shoulder, covering it fingertip by slow fingertip until Dean's eyes flutter shut and he moans low in his chest.

"I want -" Dean says, slipping a hand up the smooth inside of Castiel's thigh. "God, Cas?"

Castiel reaches up and pulls Dean down towards him, lets Dean cover him with his body and fill up all the hollowing spaces inside him, breathes blasphemy into his human skin.

-

Castiel opens his eyes to find Lucifer standing over the bed, one coarse, long-fingered hand closed on Dean's throat. Dean's eyes are wide, and he makes a small, strangled sound as Lucifer tightens his hold. "There's a human superstition," Lucifer says, watching with offhand curiosity as Dean chokes, "that if they die in dreams, they die in the waking world."

He looks over at Castiel, smiles. "Shall we put it to the test?"

-

Castiel gasps awake to the sound of snapped bone. "Dean!"

The bed shifts as Dean rolls towards him, throwing an arm across Castiel's chest, warm and solid. He huffs against Castiel's shoulder, eyes still shut, murmuring, "Go back to sleep," even though the light coming through the window is yellowing with the rising sun.

"Dean," Castiel breathes. His heart is racing wildly in his chest, and he reaches out to brush clumsy fingertips against Dean's shoulder and the arc of his throat, touching the place where the pulse beats hot and strong beneath the smooth skin. Dean shifts at the touch, frowns, and opens his eyes slowly.

"Hey," he says, blinking. His fingers press Castiel's side firmly, a rough gesture of reassurance. "Whatever it was, it was just a dream, okay?"

"A dream," Castiel murmurs, thinking of Lucifer's fingers closing on Dean's throat.

"Yeah," says Dean. "It's okay. I'm here. Go back to sleep."

"I dreamt of Lucifer," says Castiel, suddenly. He doesn't know why, exactly, maybe the afterimages still burning behind his eyes. Dean's hand tightens almost painfully against Castiel's hip, and he pushes himself up over Castiel on the other elbow, wide awake now; Castiel doesn't need to be able to read him to know that he's furious.

"Lucifer," Dean spits. "What, just now?"

"Since we came to Bobby's," says Castiel. "Since I began to sleep."

"For -" Dean lets go of Castiel altogether to shove himself up. "The devil comes to visit you in your dreams, and you didn't think it was important?"

Castiel props himself up on his elbows. "He has no power in dreams. He can't find us. The wards I laid down -"

"Because your wards have been so effective before, right," Dean says, and Castiel shuts up, stung. "I'm so fucking - I can't believe this. You just keep doing this, Cas. You keep - lying, keeping shit from us. From me." He swings his legs over the side of the bed, setting his back to Castiel like a barrier while he reaches down to the floor for his discarded clothes.

"Dean," Castiel says. He clutches the sheets up around his waist, feeling strangely vulnerable, so naked when Dean is so angry with him. He reaches out and brushes tentative fingertips against the line of Dean's shoulderblade, and Dean shrugs him away.

"I just -" he says, standing up. He pulls his boxers and t-shirt on in quick, furious movements. When he's done, he tosses Castiel's discarded clothes at the foot of the bed. "C'mon, get up," he growls. "There's no fucking way you're going back to sleep. Get up. I'm gonna go get Sam."

"Dean," Castiel says, pulling his clothes on slowly.

"Get up," Dean grits out, relentless, implacable.

-

Castiel lets himself out of the house quietly while Dean explains the situation to Sam and Bobby. He wanders through the junkyard, amongst the rusted-out hulks of cars and trucks no use to anyone. He doesn't know why Bobby keeps them around.

It's a bright day, clear and cloudless, chilly enough that Castiel feels the lack of his coat, which is still undergoing the mysterious process of being laundered, like the rest of the clothes Castiel has come to think of as his own, but which really belong to Jimmy Novak, he supposes, even if Jimmy has gone. The t-shirt he wears smells a little like Dean.

He reaches the perimeter of Bobby's yard, where the blood sigils still glow with strength on the wooden posts. He passes his hand over the outline of one, and it hums under his touch with the echo of his own power.

"Don't start slicing into yourself just yet." Dean's voice sounds out from behind, and Castiel turns, startled - he hadn't heard Dean coming, or felt him.

"The wards are holding," he calls back, defiant, and Dean nods.

"Good," he says, which might be an attempt at an apology, except that Dean clearly does not do contriteness well. He goes on, "So, Sam found this sigil thing, in one of Bobby's books. He says that it might modify the spell you guys were working on to keep Lucifer away from you, or something, he can explain it to you better than I can."

Castiel nods, slowly. "Sam and I were working on a bloodless spell. But Enochian magic is more potent if it's worked in something physical - blood, or flesh." Or bone, he doesn't add.

"Yeah," Dean says, and this time he does look almost apologetic. "The spell has to be carved onto you."

"And when the scar heals?"

Dean shrugs, and glances away from Castiel, somewhere out past the fence. "I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Dean," says Castiel, drawing Dean's gaze back to him. "Do you know what it means if I scar permanently?"

Dean nods, slowly. "I have an idea," he says.

"Angels don't sleep," says Castiel. "And we don't dream. When I was trapped in the holy fire I tried to exorcise the demon Meg, and my Grace failed. I've been far from heaven a long time, Dean."

"Listen," Dean says. He steps closer, close enough that he can reach out to bridge the space between them, and after a moment's hesitation, he does. He brushes his fingers against Castiel's wrist lightly. "I know this is rough for you, okay. I know you lost everything for us."

"For you," Castiel amends, quietly. He turns his hand over so that their palms brush. If they were different people, he might have risked tangling their fingers together. "If I continue to lose my power I won't be of any use to you."

Dean huffs a soft, half-breath of laughter. He doesn't move his hand from Castiel's. "I'm sure we can think of some uses for you," he says. "Come on. Come back to the house."

-

"Okay," Sam says, spreading out the books of magic across the desk, covered with the sheets of scrawled-over paper containing the spell he and Castiel had worked on. "So, while you were out there I did a little more research, and, I mean, it's just an idea, but what I think is that if you go into your dream and trace the sigil there, you should be able to keep Lucifer away from your dreams and, you know, sleep normally. I mean," he adds, shrugging, "as normally as angels can sleep."

"It's gotta be better than carving it into him, anyway," Dean says. He's a warm presence at Castiel's side, standing just a fraction closer than normal so that their arms press together. "What do you think?" he asks, turning to Castiel. Their hands brush. Dimly, Castiel notes Sam's expression as he glances between his brother and Castiel, the way the corner of his mouth curls up, knowing.

Castiel looks over the assemblage of symbols and sigils, his own and the additions Sam has made, and feels oddly touched. "This is an ingenious addition to the spell," he says, tracing over the sigil for sleep, cleverly worked between the layers of location and protection.

Sam tips his head, looking pleased. "Thanks. You think it'll work?"

"I believe it will," Castiel says. "I - thank you. Thank you, Sam."

"You're welcome," Sam says, his smile broadening into a grin.

-

Sleep is nearly impossible, Castiel finds, when it's an imperative. He's aware suddenly of every thought that passes even briefly through his mind, of every spring in the thin mattress pressing into his skin, every short breath of cold air from the drafty window, every creaking floorboard. He frowns, slightly, at the creaking floorboards - rhythmic, growing steadily louder. He lies very still as the footsteps stop just outside the bedroom door, and opens his eyes to watch as the door swings just slightly open and Dean appears in the narrow gap.

"Dean?" Castiel murmurs, raising himself on one elbow.

"Hey," says Dean, softly, edging the door open a little more. "Don't get up. I was just - I guess you're not asleep, then."

"Not yet," Castiel says. "It's proving...difficult."

"Okay," Dean says. He comes into the room, closing the door behind him, and puts out a hand to stop Castiel from getting up when he shifts to push himself up.

"Dean -?"

"Just - stay there, okay?" Dean says, as he shrugs off his overshirt, stepping closer. He toes his boots off at the foot of the bed, then eases out of his worn jeans, dumps the discarded clothes onto a chair near the window.

"Dean," says Castiel, watching as Dean moves around the bed before sliding in between the sheets. "What -?"

"Yeah, well," Dean says, his voice low and soft and his breath warm on Castiel's skin as he shifts closer, pressing solid all along Castiel's back. His arm drapes loosely over Castiel's waist, fingertips skating lightly across his belly where his shirt has ridden up. "I figure this might go easier if you've got someone to back you up."

Dean's hand is a comforting point of heat where it lies against his stomach, and he covers it with his own. Their fingers tangle together, Dean's warm and dry, rougher-skinned than Castiel's. "Thank you, Dean."

"Shut up and go to sleep," Dean whispers.

-

"Well," Lucifer says, laughing. He cocks his head, his eyes flicking from Castiel to a point over his shoulder, where Castiel supposes Dean is standing. "I see we have a visitor this time, Castiel. How delightful!"

"Wish I could say the same," Dean says, from somewhere behind Castiel. Castiel doesn't dare turn. "Cas?"

Watching Lucifer, Castiel thinks, knife, and feels the cool weight materialise in his hand. Lucifer's eyes flicker to it, and when Castiel follows his eyes down he sees the sharp curved blade gleaming. He is, he has to admit, somewhat impressed with his own imagination.

Lucifer shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. He is the very picture of unconcern. "And just what do you think that's going to accomplish? You know you can't hurt me here, Castiel."

"I don't intend to waste time trying," Castiel says. He flashes Lucifer the briefest of smiles, then crouches down. He brushes the tips of his fingers over the wood of the pier before he sets the wicked blade-edge to it. The first sigil slices easily into the wood.

Lucifer takes a step forward, bringing the muddied toes of his boots into view as he stands above Castiel, watching as he carves the sigils of the spell into the pier. He makes no move to stop Castiel, only stands there, watching.

"An interesting modification to the spell," he says, a note of amusement in his voice. "Such creativity - surely beyond you, Castiel, from what I know of your mind. No," he says, leaning down in a pretense of closer investigation. "Do I detect the hand of the younger Winchester here?"

"You just shut the fuck up," Dean warns, and Castiel hears him step forwards. He pauses in his work to glance up, first at Lucifer, then behind at Dean, whose fists are clenched tightly at his sides.

"Dean," he warns. "A confrontation here will do no good."

"Yeah, but kicking his dream ass might make me feel a whole lot better," Dean growls, not looking at Castiel at all, still fixing his gaze on Lucifer, who only laughs, too bright and too loud: a sound intended entirely to provoke.

"Hey," Lucifer says, and Cas glances up to see him spread his hands, palms out in mock-surrender. "I'll even give you this round, if you'd like. Just to make up for all the heartache you've got coming to you. Come on," he goads, tipping his head amiably to one side, "take a shot, if it'll make you feel good. Because I'm thinking it won't feel so good when it's your brother's pretty face I'm wearing."

"Don't listen to him," Castiel warns, slicing another sigil into the wood to complete the circle of location, and starting on the lines of the Solomonic star. Above him, he hears Lucifer's amused snort.

"You'd better listen to my brother, righteous man," Lucifer says, and Castiel can't see him but he can hear the smirk. "I know how much you like...instruction. Taking orders. Alastair was always quite specific on that point. How much you loved it."

In a flash of red Castiel surges upwards, angelic reflexes married to human anger in the smooth motion of his arm that slashes the knife across Lucifer's throat and rips it wide open. He feels the hot surge of gore spattering across his face and feels only a sick, thrilling sort of satisfaction as he watches Lucifer stagger backwards, clutching at the gaping wound with both hands, before he missteps and falls backwards into the lake. He flails once, twice, before the water closes over his head. A small cascade of bubbles rises, and fades.

"Whoa," Dean says, stepping past Castiel to the edge of the pier, looking down at the water where Lucifer had fallen. "I don't suppose that -?"

"No. He can't be killed in dreams." Castiel wipes at the sticky blood-spatter on his face with the wrist of his coat, and regards the stained knife with distaste. It's just blood, not ichor. He kneels back down onto the pier and incises the last of the sigils that will banish Lucifer from his dreams. The sigil needs angel blood to activate it, and luckily, he thinks, the knife just happens to be slick with the blood of a fallen archangel. The sigil will hold.

"Well, I gotta say," says Dean, "that was pretty bad-ass, Cas."

"I'm a warrior of God," Castiel says. He brushes little splinters of wood away from the finished spell and then stands, regarding Dean. He might even be smiling, just a little. He feels - triumphant. "I have been what you might call a bad-ass motherfucker."

-

"You boys check in every once in a while, now," Bobby warns, watching from the porch as Dean loads up his and Sam's gear into the Impala's trunk. "I'm warning ya. I may be stuck in this thing, but I'll still beat your ass, Dean Winchester."

"Yeah, sure, old man," Dean calls over, happily, tossing a wink over his shoulder at Bobby.

"You look over them," Bobby says, in a lower voice not intended for Dean's ears. Castiel turns and finds Bobby looking at him - rather, at a point somewhere in the region of Castiel's shoulder, as if it pains him to say what he's saying. "I don't see that you're worth it myself, but that boy likes you. So you look over him, and Sam, too."

"I have given my life for Dean once before," Castiel says, turning away to watch Dean as he and Sam check over their hunting gear. Dean catches his eye, offers a quick smile that twists in Castiel's stomach briefly. He turns back to Bobby. "I would do it again. For Sam, too."

Bobby makes a sort of grumbling sound that might be grudging acceptance of Castiel's devotion, but as Dean and Sam head towards the porch he adds, low, "Boy never did have no taste."

"I guess we're just about ready to hit the road," Sam says, sighing the words out as he takes the porch steps two at a time to arrive at Bobby's side. Dean follows, slower. Castiel withdraws with a thought, shifting to the Impala. It's a small test of his power, but the short flex of his wings feels instinctive and easy, and it's reassuring.

He leans gently against the Impala and watches the Winchesters take their leave of Bobby at a distance. Bobby is the only family they have left. The grey-black roll of grief still washes over and around all of them, swirling in the empty spaces where the Harvelles should stand. He watches as Sam and Dean bend in turn to hug Bobby, then step back, turning away resolutely.

"Alright," Dean says, forcefully, as they near the Impala, punctuating the word with a hard clap to Sam's shoulder. "Let's go find a way to avert the apocalypse."

"Sounds like fun," Sam says, too-bright the same way that Dean is too-firm, but he swallows hard and Castiel knows that they are strong men, both. He has faith in them.

Sam pauses with the passenger-side door open. "Cas, you riding with us?"

"I must return to my search," says Castiel.

"C'mon, Cas," Dean says. Castiel turns, and over the roof of the car Dean offers him a wink and the brief curl of a smile that's meant only for Castiel, that sparks something warm in his chest. "You can take it easy for a couple of miles, right?"

Castiel looks from one Winchester to the other. He relents. "A short while only."

"Awesome," Dean says, tapping the Impala's roof triumphantly before he slides into the driver seat, calling back, "Forget your fancy wings, this is the only way to travel, my friend."

"Just snap out when he starts blasting his crappy music," Sam says, in a mock-whisper, leaning close.

"Shut your face," snaps Dean. "Driver picks the music."

"Hey," says Sam, as he folds his tall frame into the passenger seat, "since there's three of us, maybe we should make it a democracy in here."

"My car, my kingdom," says Dean, adding, "Besides, you'd totally lose. You know the angel likes me best. Right, Cas? Hey, are you gonna get in, or am I just gonna have to leave you there?"

Resolute, Castiel opens the car door and slides in, his coat rustling underneath, sending up the human smells of laundry powder and the sun-warmed leather seats. Car travel is indeed confining, he thinks, snapping the door shut behind him, and no matter what Dean says he's not convinced of its superiority to the freedom of winged flight. But, as Dean revs the engine gleefully and glances up to meet Castiel's eyes in the rear view mirror, his own eyes crinkling at the corners with a smile as he steadfastly ignores Sam's loud complaining about the radio, Castiel thinks it certainly has its compensations.