FIC: Remaining Grace, Chapter 12: One Down [12/20]
Title: Remaining Grace, Chapter 12: One Down
Author: todisturbtheuni
Rating: NC-17.
Genre and/or Pairing: Angst; Hurt/Comfort; Romance; Castiel/Dean Winchester
Spoilers: Through the end of season 5, but some minor for season 6.
Warnings: Explicit sex; graphic torture scenes, which I'll warn for at applicable chapters; minor/side character death (neither Dean nor Castiel).
Word Count: 110K (total)
Summary: Sam's missing his soul, Castiel has a pissy archangelic nemesis, and Dean wonders if he'll be spending the rest of his life making sure the Apocalypse doesn't go ahead as scheduled. Still, though. He's happy to see Cas. Indiana wasn't really working out. Unabashed six-fix, in a universe where Castiel made a different choice, and things snowball from that point forward.
Masterpost!
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“We don’t even know if he’ll come,” Sam said, exasperated, as they gathered in the basement around the supplies. Meg had been let out of the Devil’s Trap, considering her impending trip abroad, but Dean still watched her and got the feeling that Cas was doing the same, his hand never far from the blade in his belt.
“Of course he’ll come,” Meg said smoothly, ignoring the sets of eyes on her in favor of watching Bobby draw out lines between the candles. “He doesn’t know you have anything to use against him, and he’s probably just hankering to catch up since you stiffed him on the Purgatory deal.”
“Tell me again how you even know about that,” Dean said, running a hand over his jaw and cracking his neck to the side. The night on the couch had been uncomfortable at best; neither he nor Cas had slept particularly well. Cas lifted a hand, touched the back of Dean’s neck, and frowned apologetically; he’d forgotten he couldn’t heal with a simple gesture anymore.
“S’okay,” Dean said, lowering his voice, because Cas looked half-disappointed and it made Dean’s stomach twist.
Meg had turned to watch the display, curiosity lighting her dark eyes. Dean glared, and she merely stared back, impassive. “Word gets out when a king gets overthrown,” she said finally, her voice deceptively mild.
“Yeah, I’m just wonderin’ how that word got to you,” Dean muttered.
“Ear to the ground,” Meg said idly, her eyes flicking to Castiel now. Dean shuffled just enough to draw her gaze back to him, away from her scrutinization of the angel. “I pick things up.”
“Showtime,” Bobby barked, interrupting the staring match. “Everybody back up and hope he walks into one of these damn things.”
There were Devil’s Traps, spray-painted in glow-in-the-dark ink, overlapping every surface of the basement; they were invisible now, when the lights were on. Dean didn’t see how Crowley couldn’t walk into any of them, but if any demon could weasel out of a Devil’s Trap, it was the King of the Crossroads.
“I’ll be upstairs,” Meg said, side-stepping to the staircase. “Better not to rub his nose in my being here.”
“You’ll be stoppin’ right at the top,” Bobby said casually as she started up.
Meg made a face. “I would expect nothing else,” she muttered, turning to traipse up to the door.
“Devil’s Trap?” Sam asked, watching her go.
“Don’t want her making a break for it,” Bobby grunted. “But she’s right-if he already knows she’s been here, better to make it look like it was a short visit.”
Bobby ran through the chant, struck a match, and dropped the flame in a bowl of herbs. Dean kept his hand tight on Ruby’s old knife. Maybe Meg was right, and it would be impossible to get close enough to kill Crowley with it, but they needed a contingency plan, and this was it. It wasn’t a good one, and he knew it, but then, they’d also had worse.
Crowley didn’t wait long. His eyes flashed briefly red as he appeared in the basement; his features were creased with irritation, his hair unusually ruffled, his clothes marked with smudges and dirt, and Dean just hoped he wasn’t going to complain about demons eating his tailor again.
“Boys,” he said, eyes scanning the lot of them, and then, zooming in on Cas, “Castiel. My condolences. Should’ve taken the deal.”
“He’s fine with his choices,” Bobby said flatly. Cas didn’t react, just went on staring at Crowley with narrowed eyes. “We’re not here to talk about that. You’ve got somethin’ that belongs to me.”
Crowley finally looked away from Cas, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “And you really think I’m in a position to give that back to you now?” he complained. “If your boys had just taken the deal, I might’ve been able to help. But I know little Meg has been tattling to you, so I know that you know that I’m not the big man downstairs anymore.”
“You still hold his contract,” Dean said sharply.
“You’re missing the point, Dean.” Crowley shuffled, a frown twisting his features. “I need every little bit of insurance I can get, these days. Having Bobby Singer in the bag is one of the very few points I have left in my favor.”
“That’s not the point,” Sam interjected. “You got what you wanted. No Apocalypse. Raphael fried good and crispy. We held up our end of the bargain. Release him.”
Crowley raised his eyebrows. “That wasn’t the deal, moose.” He stretched out a hand, raised his palm, and Bobby cringed, holding out his arms to reveal the red carved into his skin-the contract, Dean thought, stomach sinking. “I swore to make every effort to return his soul, but I can’t.”
“Bullshit,” Dean snapped. “You just won’t.”
“God, you’re an imbecile. Of course I won’t.” Crowley nodded at the writing scrawled on Bobby’s forearms. “There’s nothing in it for me. Now, if we get another opportunity to do business, and you numpties don’t bugger it up, I could be convinced.”
“This is the opportunity,” Dean replied, folding his arms over his chest. “Your only opportunity.”
Crowley smirked. “What will you do to me, grasshopper? It’s a pretty knife, but I don’t think you know how to use it. My condolences, Castiel,” the demon added, “but your boyfriend’s all bark.”
Wordless, Bobby reached over and flicked off the lights, leaving them in the pale glow of candles and the faint outline of a dozen Devil’s Traps. Crowley was standing right on top of one, but he just sighed and shook his head.
“I hope that isn’t urine,” he muttered distastefully.
At that moment, Dean felt Cas go suddenly tense beside him, and he received the vague impression of something he didn’t actually see: a monstrous dog, materializing right next to the King of the Crossroads. His chest tightened, but he fought the instinct to fall back; instead, he took a half-step forward, partially shielding Cas from the line of attack.
“You couldn’t have thought I’d come alone,” Crowley said idly, and Dean flinched when he heard the growl. Sam stiffened, too, raising his shotgun-loaded with salt-to his shoulder. Cas was still behind Dean, frozen in place. “Funny thing, me being overthrown, the dogs still love me best. Maybe it’s my long tenure as a crossroads demon that makes them so trusting. I always give them a good meal.” His eyes went back to Castiel, a taunt on his face. “Your angel’s no use to you, boys. Couldn’t smite a hellhound even if he closed his eyes and clicked his heels. So.”
He reached out beside him and patted the dog standing at his shoulder; it was nearly as tall as he was, lips locked in a slobbering snarl, and Dean remembered the dogs that had ripped him to shreds, the claws that had torn him wide open. Cas shuddered behind him, but it was a reaction born of anger rather than fear.
“Let me out, or I’ll make you doggy kibble.” When they hesitated, when no one made a move to scratch out a line, he added, warningly, “Now.”
“No,” Cas said sharply, his voice unexpected in the silence, when Sam made to step forward. “We won’t.”
Crowley grinned. “Oh, good,” he said. “I was so put out that I didn’t get to see your wings burn, angel. I’ll settle for watching my favorite pet gnaw you to death.”
They hadn’t expected this, but Dean didn’t see any other way; they had to let Crowley out. He could see the hellhound through borrowed eyes, but they had no chance of killing the damn thing, and if Crowley had more, they were fucked-but when he shifted forward, Cas’s grip closed like iron around his arm and yanked him back.
“Cas, what the Hell,” Dean demanded, but Cas’s blade was already in his hand, their positions reversed. Crowley barked a laugh.
“Think you can still use that, Cas? Cute, but you’re out of your league.” Crowley whistled sharply, and it was a blur of motion as the hellhound surged forward, Dean’s alarmed shout echoing just as Sam took a wild shot and missed by a few feet, the salt spraying the wall behind Crowley.
Cas, whose hand had still been lightly on Dean’s arm, now pushed him to the side, hard enough to throw his balance; as Dean stumbled, Cas ducked beneath the hellhound’s lunge and came up behind it. It turned, following its quarry, and Cas slashed out. The dog yelped as his blade cut across its snout, but only faltered for a second. Cas stepped to the side again, the dog crashed past him, and he caught it with a long swipe of the knife down a haunch, staying a few feet outside Crowley’s Devil’s Trap with every movement. Dean was staggering back to his feet, his grip hard on Ruby’s knife, as the hellhound turned and dragged claws across Cas’s chest, and they only missed cutting deep by a quick slide backwards, but the movement unbalanced Cas and the hellhound saw its opening, leapt forward-
And the thing was blurry, his vision unsure, but its massive paws landed heavily on Cas’s shoulders and pushed him down to his back; Dean saw red, was running forward to sink Ruby’s blade into the thing’s spine, but then it whimpered, twitched, and fell still, slumping down. It collapsed into Cas, who grimaced and pushed it off of him, yanking his blade from where it had been buried in the hellhound’s chest. The faintest of sparks fizzled from the wound as blood dripped to the concrete.
Cas pushed to his feet, breathing hard, red spattered across his cheek, the narrow scratches in his chest welling up with his own, his shirt damp with the hellhound’s gore and slobber, but he stared Crowley down, coming close to the Devil’s Trap.
“We won’t let you out,” he said; Dean saw a haze of bloodlust in the angel’s eyes that had never been there before, felt the adrenaline racing in him as though it was his own, and stood stock-still, watching Cas face the demon on his own. “You may stay here until we reach an agreement that we approve of.”
Crowley was seething, furious, his toes right at the edge of the trap. “How will you ensure that, angel?” he spat. “Will you string me up, have Dean torture me the way you made him torture Alastair?”
Cas’s eyes flicked up, met Dean’s, and maybe he was just human now, juiced on the afterglow of putting down an evil son of a bitch, but something ancient still lived behind those eyes. “I have no doubt it would be effective,” Cas said, his tone serene. “Such drastic measures, however, will not be necessary.”
They left Sam to watch Crowley while Bobby quietly freed Meg from her Devil’s Trap and headed to the airport, and Dean took Cas to the bathroom to clean up his wounds. He was half-angry, half-impressed, wanted to congratulate Cas as much as chastise him as the former angel pulled off his newly ruined shirt and examined his wounds in the mirror. Cas had still looked like a soldier, straightening up with gore splattered over him and a hard glint in his eyes and blood dripping from his blade, but he couldn’t just poof better anymore, and Dean didn’t want him to forget that.
“I believe I could fix this,” Cas said, examining the shirt and pointedly ignoring Dean’s turmoil. “It will not look as it did, but I don’t think it would matter.”
“If you’re just gonna get in more bar fights with hellhounds, it probably wouldn’t,” Dean snapped, turning on the faucet.
“Did you want to let Crowley go?” Cas asked, his tone hard with annoyance.
“No,” Dean bit out, wetting a towel beneath the stream of water, “of course not, but-”
“I was the only one who could see the hellhound,” Cas said, imploring.
“I could see it, too,” Dean said irritably.
“Not clearly enough to fight it,” Cas argued. “Dean, I am still much more skilled with blades than you are. I was renowned for it in Heaven.” He paused, then added, quieter, his eyes dark, “I did not become useless when I Fell.”
Dean faltered, his anger deflating at the hurt edge in Cas’s tone. “Course you didn’t,” he said gruffly, swiping away the blood splattered across Cas’s cheekbone. “I didn’t mean that, Cas.”
“Then I don’t understand,” Cas said, and he was suddenly more helpless and confused than angry as he looked up at Dean. “You said you would teach me to hunt. You swore it to me. Are you going back on your word?”
“No!” Dean said, too sharply, and let the towel fall to the sink to grip Cas’s shoulders instead. “Of course not. You were great down there, Cas. Really.” A perplexed swirl of pride stirred up in his angel, so he went on. “I just don’t want you rushing into it too fast. You’re new to this, and you can get hurt a lot easier now. And it’s harder to fix up, when you do.”
“You do this every day, Dean,” Cas said, frustrated.
“Yeah, well,” Dean muttered, picking up the towel again. “It’s always easier to worry about everybody else instead of me. And I’ve been doing it my whole life.”
Cas didn’t say anything to that, just looked at him with a kind of fond sadness in his eyes while Dean cleaned the shallow cuts. When he was finished, the scratches taped tight with bandages, Cas reached out and touched his cheek. “I’ll get used to it,” Dean said to the unasked question, trying to be reassuring. “Give me some time.”
“Good,” Cas said, his hand falling to slot over the scar on Dean’s shoulder. “I am still a warrior, Dean, with or without my Grace. This is what I want.”
“You want constant danger,” Dean said shortly. “A really uncomfortable life with shitty food and bad beds and no gratitude for what you do.”
“I’ve never had gratitude,” Cas replied stiffly. “I don’t require it. As for the daily discomforts, I have experienced my share.” When Dean huffed, doubtful, Cas’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “I want to help people,” he said, earnest, sincere. “I want to help you.”
“Okay,” Dean said, relenting, “okay. Just...do me a favor.”
Cas tilted his head, quizzical. “What?”
“Stick to the knife for now. You’re good with that. When we get a few seconds to breathe around here I’ll show you how to shoot.”
Cas beamed, a small smile that spread into a grin and warmed his eyes, creased the crow’s feet at the corners, deepened the smile lines around his mouth. A quick flash-that was all; brief and sudden, gone again in an instant and leaving surprise in its wake. It was so easy to make him happy, to praise him and let him take pride in it, to promise him that he would be included and have him warm to the idea, and Dean wished he’d done it more often in the past, had given it more effort. But he was bad at it, and he knew it: bad at words, better at actions, because his mouth usually just got him in trouble, all that rage inside spilling out when he least expected it and least needed it.
Cas gripped into his hair and pulled him down, kissed him hard, and he thought that meant that Cas probably got it, probably understood.
The night was long, and Castiel didn’t sleep well.
He remembered the way the hellhound looked, the way it still looked, dead and crumpled on the basement floor. He’d seen hellhounds before, had fought them in Hell easily enough, but they didn’t fit in his head quite right anymore, and every time he closed his eyes he could see it, snarling, eyes glowing, coming for him. He warmed to Dean’s praise, and killing it-killing it had felt-it had felt like killing had never felt before. He had felt half-crazed with it, heart pounding, breath rushing, a bodily reaction not dissimilar to sex, but his mind had been so clear, so calm, so ordered, and that wasn’t like sex at all.
Dean shook him awake. The time on the hunter’s watch was ten past two. “Cas. Cas. Wake up, buddy.” His voice was scratchy, like he’d just woken up.
Castiel stared up at him, blank, exhausted, confused. Only a moment before they had been downstairs, a monster had been at his feet, and Crowley’s true face had been screaming at his back, reaching for him with hands like claws.
Dean smoothed down the hair on the back of Castiel’s head, fingers ghosting down to his skin. “You were dreaming,” he said, his voice gentle. “Was it a nightmare?”
The hellhound’s face-mangled, slobbering, dark-reared up in his mind.
“I...” Castiel didn’t know what to say; he felt lost, confused, adrift, shaky and scared, coupled with the hot prickle of shame, and it was too much all at once, but Dean just stroked his palm down Castiel’s hair again, soothing him. A callous caught against his skin, a little rough patch, strangely comforting.
“It’s okay. The hellhound, right?”
Dean was so gentle in moments like these, so tender that it was hard to remember that Dean was a warrior; the callouses on his hands were wrought out of killing things, were created to destroy and not to soothe, but he felt the little catch like a mark of Dean’s reassuring presence anyway. He wondered if Dean was so good at this because he’d once had to reassure Sam the same way, comfort his little brother in the early days of learning about monsters.
Finally, wordless, Castiel nodded, trying to push away the image, the one that was too grotesque to bear.
“It’s still in the basement. Think it being there is bugging you?” Dean said it like it wasn’t surprising or shameful at all, factual, succinct.
“I don’t know.” Castiel’s voice was small, and Dean’s eyes were sympathetic. “Do you think that’s what it is? I don’t understand why-I’ve seen hellhounds before. Legions of them, in Hell.”
“Not like this,” Dean said quietly. “Not human. Not when they can really hurt you.”
He thought of saying, They could hurt me then, but it was true, in its own way; a single hellhound would never have posed a threat to him before.
“Can we burn it?” he said finally. He felt terrible-guilty-for asking, because Dean looked so tired, but the hunter just nodded and got up from the couch, holding out a hand to Castiel to pull him up. Dean yanked on his boots and Castiel followed suit. They were already dressed; with Crowley just downstairs, Dean had automatically fallen back on sleeping-in-clothes rather than sleeping half-undressed, and Castiel had followed his lead. They needed to be ready.
It was uncomfortable. He’d never been so aware of minor discomforts like these before.
Sam didn’t sleep, so he was awake and watching the demon with a shotgun across his lap and a book in his hands when Castiel and Dean went down to the basement. He glanced up at them; clearly he’d been ignoring Crowley’s monologuing for some time now.
“You guys don’t need to be up,” he pointed out. “I’m okay.”
“Me and Cas wanted to get rid of the hellhound,” Dean said, rubbing a hand over his eyes.
“You will not,” Crowley squawked.
“Relax. We’ll salt and burn your favorite pet. Not planning on mutilating it or anything.” Dean flinched when Castiel glanced at the body and he unintentionally passed on the image. These beasts had once ripped Dean to shreds; Castiel remembered the body he’d found, cleaned to the best of Sam’s ability but with raw, open wounds, and shuddered.
“What are you planning on, you incompetent monkey?” Crowley snapped. “Letting me rot here?”
“Great idea,” Dean grunted, stomping toward the hellhound. “Might have to soundproof the basement, though.”
Crowley glared as Dean and Castiel lifted the dead beast. It was rank, stinking of smoke and brimstone, its patchy fur matted with blood. “Try not to look at it too closely,” Dean said, his voice low. He backed toward the stairs, leaving Castiel to follow, trying to avoid the sight of the haunches in his arms.
“Not handling humanity too well, are we, Castiel?” Crowley gibed. Castiel’s eyes flicked up to meet the demon’s; a sneer curled his lip. “All those big bad memories, doesn’t fit too well in a soul, does it?”
“Shut up,” Sam groaned, looking up from his book. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Do you ever stop complaining, jolly green?” Crowley shot back, and Dean rolled his eyes at Castiel, beginning to back up the stairs.
“Leave ‘em to it.”
Castiel held up his end of the hellhound as he followed Dean up the stairs and out of the house. Sam’s voice and Crowley’s melded together in a distant shouting match, formless. In a far corner of the junkyard, Dean tossed lighter fluid and salt over the remains and dropped a match. The hellhound went up in flames as they stood by, watching. Dean’s shoulder brushed against his, solid and reassuring.
“Bobby’ll call soon,” the hunter murmured. “Then he’ll be out of our hair.”
Castiel ducked his head, avoiding the sight of the burning hellhound. The heat of the fire radiated toward him, pressing a perverse warmth into his skin, and he shivered in spite of it.
“Is he right?” Dean asked, and the dread in his voice was enough to tell Castiel what he meant.
“It’s difficult,” he admitted, and Dean’s shoulder pressed to his again, a bulk at his side. “I didn’t expect it to be simple, or easy. I never did.”
“Anna didn’t seem...”
“She sacrificed her memories, forgot her history as an angel. I always planned to keep mine.” Castiel breathed out, slow; even trying to parse some of his most ancient memories now was a challenge. “I believe I will adjust. I am unaccustomed to these…memories, experiences…provoking emotions.”
“Like anger,” Dean said. “You were…”
Castiel bowed his head; if he closed his eyes he could still see the dark earth, the grave, the body. Dean’s steady breath paused beside him, hitched at the memory.
“Hellhounds inspire a…strong reaction,” Castiel agreed.
He heard Dean’s half-formed thoughts, the gratitude and pleasure sparked by the force of Castiel’s protectiveness, but knew Dean couldn’t articulate them. He pressed back at the bond, the memory of Dean’s soul curling tighter into his Grace just before slipping away into a body made new, and Dean cleared his throat, awe briefly overwhelming him.
But when Castiel finally looked sideways at him, he was staring into the flames, agony shadowing his features.
“Cas,” he said quietly. “Won’t hunting just make it worse?”
Castiel lifted his shoulders in a loose shrug. “I don’t know. But I can’t ignore all the things still roaming the Earth, damaging humanity. I want to help, Dean. This is the only way I know how.”
Dean didn’t try to talk him out of it, and Castiel thought it was because he understood: Castiel had fought long and hard for his own freedom, and Dean wouldn’t impose any real limitations on that, not when it had come at such a price. Dean had stopped trying to regulate the people he loved when he let Sam jump into that cage. They had sacrificed too much for this to give it up now.
“It’s not going to be...” Dean trailed off, but Castiel felt the impression of what he meant to convey all the same: the sleepless nights and endlessly healing wounds, the nightmares and the force of the anxiety that plagued him every moment of every day, the guilt, the exhaustion. Giving so much, everything, and feeling as if it was never enough.
Castiel lifted a hand to rest on Dean’s shoulder. “I know it’s not much consolation,” he said quietly. “But God seemed to think we were doing well enough.”
Dean chuckled, the sound bitter. “That’s the thing, man. The approval of a deadbeat dad doesn’t feel much like approval at all. Shitty consolation prize. Congratulations on fucking up less than me.”
“Still,” Castiel said. “If the Creator believes we’re good enough, it must mean something.”
Dean glanced sideways at him, a smile briefly tipping up the corner of his mouth. “Still a little faith in you somewhere, Cas.”
Castiel shrugged, letting his hand fall. “I’ll admit that it’s hard to shake. I spent most of my existence without any shred of disbelief, and the Crown...”
Dean twitched beside him, instantly on edge. “That was a trip,” he said darkly.
“It’s not like before, but it did at least...reaffirm...that He had good intentions. Hopeful ones. I have a hard time faulting him for that.”
Dean ducked his head. “Guess I always did, too,” he said, and Castiel knew he wasn’t talking about God.
They were silent for a long few moments, watching the hellhound burn down to ash. “It won’t be easy,” Castiel said finally. “But I believe it’s worthwhile.”
“Yeah,” Dean said roughly. “Guess it is.”
Bobby called near dusk the next day.
“Phone call for you, princess,” Dean announced as they came down the stairs, tossing one of Bobby’s many landlines to Crowley. Castiel watched the arc of the landline-this one labeled FBI, from the phone bank on Bobby’s kitchen wall-as Crowley lifted a hand to catch it, automatic. “Showtime,” Dean added in an undertone, lifting his own phone to his ear; he had Bobby on a three-way call with the demon.
“Bobby,” Crowley guessed, lip curling into a sneer, phone now at his ear, too. “You ran off just as things were getting interesting.”
“Just decided to take a little vacation,” Bobby’s voice echoed, tinny, from Dean’s phone. Castiel shuffled closer, both to hear better and to press a reassuring shoulder into Dean’s. He pushed back, the roll of his stomach quieting. “Your part of the world, Crowley. Real nice over here. The boys been treatin’ you well?”
“Dandy,” Crowley replied, but there was a new wariness in his face beneath the current of irritation now. “Not a whiff of manhandling. You’d be proud, Dad,” and his eyes went to Dean’s with a smirk, “Dean hasn’t even bothered getting out the sharp and pointies. It bears wondering, though, how you’re going to get out of your contract by going to Europe.”
“Like you don’t know,” Dean said, derisive.
“Should’ve hidden your bones better, your majesty,” Bobby said. The flick of a lighter crackled through the line.
Crowley’s expression paused now, hitched; Castiel saw the confidence and charisma leave his eyes, now curiously blank, and saw his true face shudder. Dean flinched beside him as the image radiated, and Castiel tried not to focus on the creature inside the man. Sam smiled at Crowley’s sudden discomfort, the expression cold, and it somehow chilled Castiel more than the demon ten feet away.
“That won’t help,” Crowley said, the words a reflex, vaguely imploring. “The contract isn’t absolved when I burn, children.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Bobby replied, and Castiel heard the distant hiss of flame.
“Stop,” Crowley said, too sharp, and sighed, an edge of defeat in the lines of his eyes. “Bugger,” he muttered, and then, tilting the phone back toward his mouth, “let’s do business.”
“Glad you see it our way,” Bobby said, a note of cheer in his voice. “Release my contract-but keep in the part about my legs-and we’ll let you walk.”
“With my bones,” Crowley retaliated.
“No,” Dean replied, a smirk on his lips now. “Time for us to have some insurance, for once.”
Crowley glanced between the three of them. Bobby flicked his lighter again, thousands of miles away, and the demon grimaced.
“Don’t take to threatening me every time you scrape your knees,” he growled. “I’m not an angel, boys.”
“No one would suggest that,” Sam commented. “We’ll leave you alone, you leave us alone, and we won’t use your bones as kindling.”
“Because mutually-assured destruction has historically worked so well in negotiations,” Crowley returned, but he raised a hand and snapped his fingers.
“Bobby?” Dean asked, waiting for confirmation.
“Let him out,” the hunter replied, his breath caught with momentary discomfort. Castiel imagined the words fading from his skin, etching themselves out. “It’s done.”
Sam stepped forward and scratched a line through the Devil’s Trap holding Crowley prisoner. The demon’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be seeing you, sasquatch,” Crowley said, squinting up at Sam, and with a disgusted glance at Dean and Castiel, he vanished.
“You couldn’t have worked me into that deal?” Meg hissed from the other end of the line.
“Relax, kid,” Bobby retorted. “He’s going to be too busy working these bones out of us to worry about a pipsqueak like you. Get gone.”
“Done,” Meg said, voice sour.
“Come on home, Bobby,” Dean said, scrubbing a hand over his eyes in relief.
“Thanks, Dean,” Bobby replied, and Castiel suddenly felt as if he was intruding on a very old bond; he stepped slightly away, looking toward Sam and the broken Devil’s Trap instead of at Dean. Sam was looking at the line he’d scratched, a faint frown creating a crease between his eyebrows as Castiel watched.
“Don’t mention it,” Dean said gruffly. “You’ve saved our asses enough times-’bout time we returned the favor.”
Bobby snorted on the other end. “You think this wipes the slate clean, boy, you’ve got another thing comin’.”
Castiel felt, rather than saw, Dean’s smile, the warm relief of it spreading out. “Whatever, old man,” he shot back. “We saved the world once. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Not a damn,” Bobby replied. “See you in a few days.”
“Keep the bones close,” Dean warned.
“Was I born yesterday, idgit?” Bobby snapped, and there was a faint click as he hung up.
“One down,” Dean muttered, ending the call.
Sam looked up; his lips twitched toward a quick smile. “Probably won’t be that easy for me,” he said regretfully.
“No,” Dean allowed, but he stepped forward to clap Sam’s shoulder, anyway. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll hit the books, Cas’s got his angels on the case, and maybe I’ll have a genius idea.”
Sam snorted. “Sure, Dean.”
There was something about the way Sam’s eyes shifted that made Castiel uneasy, but images of Crowley were still turning his stomach, the hellhound still haunting his mind; he pushed it aside and followed Dean upstairs to help with dinner, taking advantage of the contagious nature of Dean’s good mood.
Go on... Chapter 13: Lullaby.