Named {PART FOUR}

[mclachland]

There is a carnival. A ferris wheel. Popcorn on the ground. Laughter and the bells of music.

He's waiting in line; he's seventh and standing behind a woman who does not need to be buying any kind of junk food. He supposes that no one can resist the sweet charms of a candy apple.

He's so hungry.

A whole year passes -- Fall, Winter, Spring, and finally Summer again -- before he gets to the counter and asks for a candy apple. The man asks him if he wants the candy coating to be caramel or cinnamon sugar, then he asks in a British accent if he might want toffee instead. Or, he says in Italian, choose it yourself. He points to a list of flavors nailed to the side of the window.

Candy Apple Flavors
Caramel
Toffee
Taffy
Cinnamon-Sugar
Incan Gold
Bird's Wing
Grecian Sceptre
Sky
Ringing Telephone in Empty House
Papyrus Scroll
Ouse River Water

He picks sky and the man rolls the apple in it before handing it over. He reaches into his jeans for money, but the man tells him in Swahili that it's all taken care of.

He asks by whom. The man, now speaking in Mandarin, says that anything he wants is on the house. The whole staff knows and will get him anything he wants.

He hands the man $2.00 for the apple and says that he wants to pay. The man takes the money, displeased but unable to deny him.

Biting into his apple, which tastes like ozone and sunlight, he asks the man which ride is the best. The man says the ferris wheel.

He can't ride the ferris wheel, he tells the man. He has a fear of heights.

The man laughs.

"Well, that won't do. We'll have to work on that."

He rides the tea cups instead.



It's less like a two-hour nap and more like actually sleeping until the next morning. Dean can't remember the last time he slept so long or uninterruptedly. There'd been no dreams, no revisiting Hell and the Rack. Just, nothing. Sweet, sweet nothing. Best sleep ever.

He wakes up with hair in his nose and his mouth buried against soft skin hidden behind a delicate ear, his arm thrown over Castiel like it belongs there, and for the first four or five minutes he doesn't panic about his erection. He presses his lips against warm skin and inhales sweat and the mustiness from the pillow, languid and heavy with too much sleep. He tries to remember the last time he felt so calm. Must've been years and years ago, because nothing comes to mind. Maybe when he was a kid.

But then the panic starts settling in, kicking up its feet and making itself at home in Dean's chest. He rolls away from Castiel, taking his arm with him, and gets out of bed as fast as he can. Castiel doesn't stir.

It's one thing to think things about an angel, but it's another thing entirely to actually press your erection into the small of his back while he's sleeping. Time to make a strategic retreat.

Swallowing, Dean backs away from the bed and makes his way to the bathroom, where he takes care of his problem with quick, ruthless strokes. As he watches his come drip down the tiles of the shower wall, he decides to forget that he had any problem to take care of in the first place.

When he gets back to the room, clad only in a towel and jeans in hand, he finds Castiel sitting up in bed, awake. Great. He'd been banking on Castiel still being asleep.

"Hey, Cas," he says instead of 'please close your eyes and don't look at me when I change'. "Slept a little longer than we planned."

Castiel looks down at his lap where the trench coat is draped, wrinkled from sleeping in it. How hadn't Castiel shrugged that off during the night? Dean could never have slept in that bulky-ass thing. "I'm finding it… somewhat disconcerting that I am starting to require sleep."

Dean makes a bee-line for his duffle bag, which he'd thrown across the room the night before, and starts digging in it for some clean underwear and a shirt that doesn't smell like seawater. "Dude, don't be so hard on yourself. It's been a long week."

"No angel needs sleep, Dean," Castiel says, eyes wide.

He ignores Castiel and drops his towel, immediately stepping into a clean pair of tightie whities. He once dated a girl who hated them and said it was like making love to a mutant four-year old, but women just don't understand. Dean's a big fan of the TWs. He can feel Castiel's eyes on him, watching him, almost a palpable touch that traces the red and blue racing stripe encircling his waist. He shivers and shoves his head into a shirt.

"You're cooler than your run-of-the-mill angel," Dean says, muffled by the shirt. He pops his head through and works on getting his arms through the sleeves. It feels a lot smaller than it should. It probably went into the dryer when it should've air-dried.

"I think I… What if I am Falling?"

Dean snorts. "Dude, you were just welcomed back into Heaven with open arms and, in the Metatron's case, with a fuck-ton of smiles. I don't think you're Falling. And if you were, it'd be the shittiest timing ever and your timing isn't shitty."

Castiel acknowledges this simple truth with a blink.

"Do you feel an overwhelming need to eat pancakes?"

"No," Castiel says, obviously confused.

Dean nods. "Good. More for me. What about taking a shit? Need to go to the bathroom?"'

"No."

"Then I think you're okay," he says, smoothing down the shirt and absently scratching his stomach as he pulls on his jeans, relaxing as he zips them up. Although his clothes can't do a damn thing against Castiel's penetrating stare, he feels a little less jittery in them. Armor.

Castiel looks down at the sheets puddle over his shins, then slides out of bed and stands awkwardly, staring.

Dean jerks his thumb toward the door. "Fun as this has been, Bobby and Sam are probably chomping at the bit downstairs. Ready to face the music?"

Castiel's head tilts. "What music?"

"Figure of speech. C'mon," he says, already turning for the door, away from the sheets that smell like them. "I want breakfast."

The Winchester-Singer tribunal is already in session by the time Dean walks into the kitchen, Castiel trailing after him like a shadow Dean stuck to his feet with soap. Sam immediately looks up from his mug of coffee -- his fourth cup, probably -- and fixes Dean with a look that says, naptime's over, brother mine, and we're gonna party like it's 1999. And by 'party', I mean 'plan'.

"Dude, can I have some food before you go all tactical response unit on me? I just came down," Dean whines and makes a bee-line for the fridge. If Bobby doesn't have eggs, he won't have to wait a week, because he'll kill himself.

"Did I say anything?" Sam's mouth flattens into a thin, unhappy line. Didn't get much sleep by the looks of it.

Bobby has seven eggs left. And bacon. Score.

"If you idgits are gonna turn this into a 'who can become a whiny bitch first' contest, you can take it outside," Bobby growls over the rim of his own mug. Knowing Bobby, it's coffee mixed with whiskey. Irish coffee with emphasis on the Irish.

"Not necessary, Bobby." Dean brings his spoils over to the stove and tosses an unwashed pan onto the front right burner, turned up to medium heat. You want a good, artery-clogging breakfast around here, you gotta make it yourself. His life is beyond unfair. "Sam's going stir-crazy and Cas has the solution."

Even with his back turned, Dean feels Sam perk up at that. He smiles and tosses the whole package of bacon into the pan, relishing the almost deafening sizzle that sounds the minute it touches the metal. There isn't a more beautiful sound in the world.

"Cas?" Sam inquires, hope coloring the name sunshine yellow.

"I have asked for Dean's help in finding Lucifer."

Dean snorts, turning the bacon. Nice sell, Cas. Who wouldn't go for that?

"That's your solution?" Bobby demands.

"It is not a solution," Castiel says, "but necessity. Lucifer needs to be found and brought to justice for his crime."

Extra burnt. Dean turns up the heat on the stove. Extra burnt bacon is the best.

Sam sighs, obviously frustrated with that answer. Dean can't see him, but he'd bet Sam's raking his hands through his hair, something he only does when he's really and truly at his wit's end. He's impatient, for a college drop-out. "Look, Cas, I'm sorry for your loss; I really am. I can't even imagine what you're going through. But going after Lucifer wasn't the kind of plan I had in mind." There's a pause. Dean feels a glare burning a hole through his back. "And what made you even agree to this?"

Dean forks the bacon from the pan and dumps it onto a paper towel to soak up the grease. "He was pretty convincing."

"… Can I have some of that?"

He cracks three eggs into the pan; the grease is perfect for frying eggs. "Like you made me coffee? Make your own, bitch."

"Jerk," Sam pouts. "So, what's the plan? Go after Lucifer. Assuming we even find him, then what?"

"Bring him to --"

"No, I got that part. How is my question. Jesus Christ couldn't stop him, Cas. What makes you think that we'll do any better?"

"We are not alone. I am Gabriel's informant." Castiel says it like he has no idea what it actually makes him. "There are many things that can be done with the aid of an archangel."

"An archangel who killed Dean a hundred times just to prove a point."

Dean grabs a paper plate from a cabinet and tosses his bacon onto it, followed by his three eggs. Thoughtfully, he nudges his eggs on top of his incredibly burnt bacon. Breakfast of champions. His left arm is already going numb just by looking at it. Being a hunter is a fucking waste of his obviously brilliant culinary skills. He needs his own show.

Though Sam does have a point about the Trickster. Gabriel. Whatever he's calling himself these days.

"His…" Castiel's face twists and he tries again. "His methods are --"

"Twisted? Sadistic? Truculent?" Dean's convinced Sam ate a thesaurus sometime between the ages of six and eight. It would explain a lot. He leans back against the sink, plate in hand, to watch the show.

"Unorthodox," Castiel says with feeling, and the kitchen trembles briefly before subsiding with a whisper. "He may be uncouth, but he is the only one of high ranking who would mourn the demise of your race. Heaven is going after the orchestra instead of the conductor. If there is any chance of saving this world, it's by getting to Lucifer before the morning of battle."

Sam's shoulders drop and he looks heaven-ward, as if he's forgotten that he won't be getting any help from upstairs.

"If we manage to find and… subdue Lucifer before the seventh day, it may be enough to stop the war from happening," Castiel finishes, eyes wide, so damn earnest, so desperate for Sam to understand and join his merry little campaign.

Dean stabs at the yolks until they bleed yellow all over his bacon, and wonders how Sam's going to bounce back from that one.

"You really think…?" Sam's not actually asking, but thinking out loud. He usually does it when it's 2am and he's knee-deep in research and Dean is trying to get some goddamn sleep.

Dean shovels bacon dripping with yolk into his mouth and chews. Oh. Right there. If there were any reason to find Lucifer, it would be for breakfasts like this.

"Say you wanted to go through with this cockamamie plan. How would you find him?" Bobby's looking at Castiel, who's starting to look a little less hunted, a little more relaxed now that they're starting to listen to him. Dean recognizes Bobby's expression. It's the one he gets when he's putting the puzzle pieces of some demon lore together and the whole picture just needs one more to be complete.

"During the first war, Lucifer was not the only angel cast out," Castiel says quietly, sounding for all the world as if the memories are still too raw to talk about in casual conversation, like they're relics from a former era. "There were others. Many of his followers were thrown down with him, his acolytes. They were all locked in the Pit, but around the year 1400, some of Lucifer's generals escaped."

Bobby barks an ugly laugh. "And the angels didn't do a damn thing about it."

Castiel looks hurt at the accusation. "There was nothing to be done. They were not wreaking havoc, nor were they hurting anyone, so we had no reason to interfere. But tabs were kept on them for years."

The room thickens with the force of Sam's growing excitement, going straight to Dean's heart in a way his eggy bacon never could. The tap of Sam's impatient fingers against the handle of his coffee mug, itching to bust out the laptop and get down to business, a tell-tale sign that Sam's on board for whatever it is they're going to do. Dean grins around his mouthful of heart attack.

"Do you know where they are now?"

Castiel tilts his head thoughtfully. "One is in the United States, but I do not know where. The locations of the other three were not privy to one of my rank."

"Below your pay grade," Bobby snorts, gulping the rest of his coffee. "Ain't that convenient."

"It is not convenient, Robert. It just is." Castiel doesn't look like he minds being at the bottom of the totem pole with no chance of moving up through the ranks. Dean would be pissed.

"Can you find the one in the states?" Dean asks, chewing.

Bobby smirks at him. "Nice of you to join the conversation, boy."

"You know me; I just like to listen."

"Since when?" Sam laughs and balls up a napkin, throwing it at him. Dean leans to his right, dodging it.

"Mad skills there, Ty Cobb."

"Bite me."

Dean turns his attention to Castiel, who's already staring at him. His heart thumps once, hard. "How about it, Cas? Can you find him?"

Castiel nods, all that divine intensity on him, his gaze unwavering and absolute. It's moments like this that remind Dean that Castiel isn't human, is about as far away from human as one can get. For some stupid reason, this non-human has thrown in with Dean. The mind boggles.

He stuffs his mouth with the last of his breakfast before he does something dumb, like bursting into tears and thanking Castiel profusely.

"Yes," Castiel says. "But I will need to gather some supplies. In order to locate him --"

"Locater spell?" Sam suggests, like it's an episode of fucking Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

"In a way, yes, but locating one like Moloch will require more layers than the basic ritual has."

There's a resounding crack that causes the conversation to stop dead in its tracks as Bobby's mug hits the table. Bobby fixes Castiel with a hard glare that Dean recognizes from being on the wrong side of it one too many times, so whatever Castiel wants to do must be especially stupid. It's almost fascinating to watch those eyes disappear into the shadow cast by the trucker cap visor, that mouth practically rolling back and getting lost in that jungle of a beard. Bobby will have no problem telling Castiel exactly how he feels.

True to form, Bobby doesn't disappoint. "Moloch."

Castiel nods, serious as ever. "Yes."

"I'Molech." Angry red infuses Bobby's cheeks; he's either extremely pissed off, or there was no coffee in that Irish coffee. "All the texts say that --"

"The texts are not incorrect," Castiel agrees with another nod.

"And you want to send these boys after him?"

"Sam and Dean are not under the age of ten years; they have no reason to fear the fire of Moloch. The purpose of finding him would be to interrogate him, not get into an altercation with him. As far as I know, he has not had contact with Hell in some time."

"As far as you know," Sam echoes pointedly, sounding a lot more put out now that Bobby's playing the role of screen door to their submarine. "That could also be above your pay grade. He might still be Lucifer's number one fan. He could be hiding Lucifer in his basement for all we know! The point is, we don't and neither do you."

Poor Cas. If it were Dean gunning to take out Lucifer, Sam and Bobby would be behind him 100%, logic be damned. If he asked them for help in taking on the whole of Heaven or Hell, they'd ask him for weapons and to be pointed in the right direction. It comes of years of history, of familial ties, of trust and kinship. Excepting Dean, Castiel doesn't have any of that, and it's the saddest thing ever. Even with a bajillion brothers and sisters, Castiel has no one but himself. And Dean.

That's not gonna work. Not anymore.

"Okay, Sammy," Dean jumps in, tossing his plate into the trash and moseying over to the table. He kicks out a chair noisily and drops into it. "What better idea do you have? Did anyone have anything to bring to the table, or did you spend the whole night braiding each other's hair while Cas did all the thinking for you? Far as I see it, we've got ourselves a decent place to start."

Bobby doesn't look nearly as convinced as Dean wishes he would. "Do you know a damn thing about Moloch, Dean? Do you know the things he did?"

Dean shrugs, tossing a quick glance Castiel's way. "Don't need to. He's one of Lucifer's generals; I'm pretty sure he's not working the counter at Build-A-Bear, Bobby. Of course he's going to be a hard-ass."

"Dean," Sam says, infusing the word with all the disappointment he possibly can, and Dean's pretty much done with this conversation.

"Dude, it's scary. I know." Dean doesn't know all the shit Moloch used to get up to back in the day, but he's got a pretty vivid imagination. As much as it pains him to acknowledge, he knows that there are creatures out there a million times worse than Alistair, and he would place good money on Moloch being one of them. The crap the guy must have done to win the title of Lucifer's top man… Scary doesn't even begin to cover it. "But Lilith was scary. Hell was scary. Yellow Eyes was scary. No matter who or what we go up against, it's going to suck. But if there's a chance we can head a Heaven-Hell celebrity death match off at the pass? Then we've got to cowboy up."

He lets that sink in, then caps it off with, "We're going to take out Lucifer? This is how we do it. Just like any case -- start with witnesses and accomplices, then work our way up. We've only got a week, Sam. I'm with Cas on this one."

Sam stares, as if he's seeing Dean for the first time, as if he'd forgotten that Dean isn't completely stupid and has the rare flash of logical thinking every once in a great while.

And boom goes the dynamite.

He smirks at his brother, and then softens and regifts it as a smile for Castiel. "You going to need a lot of stuff to find this guy?"

Castiel's eyes are warm, the kind of blue found after the last snow of the season clears and leaves nothing but endless skies, the sun surging up in triumph. "I believe Robert has sufficient materials for the ritual."

"Then get to it. Clock's ticking." He gets to his feet and stretches, flushed with the victory of a damn good breakfast and a half-decent plan of action, not to mention an almost entire day's nap. All signs are pointing toward a good day. It's been too long since he's had one of those.

Bobby stands with a grunt and beckons Castiel to follow him out of the kitchen. "Well, let's see what I've got."

"Thank you," Castiel rumbles politely, trench coat swirling around his ankles as he makes a quiet exit.

Sam watches Castiel leave, head tilted in an almost exact replica of Castiel's shtick, and then turns a curious stare on Dean.

"What's going on with you two?"

It's not accusatory, just quizzical, but Dean really needs to be elsewhere.

"What do you mean?"

"You and Cas," Sam clarifies, just… curious. Innocent. It makes Dean clam up in fear, like the lid's been blown off something that even Dean doesn't know. Somewhere inside himself that little old man from every movie is saying, "Ah, looks like a storm's a-comin'."

"Going on? What are you talking about? There's nothing going on!" That doesn't sound defensive at all.

Sam shakes his head, squinting at Dean like he's an equation that Sam just can't wrap his Stanford-enhanced mind around. "No, there's something. Something happened before you showed up to stop… Lilith. You were worried about Cas."

"He was going to die for us," Dean snaps, shifting unhappily, legs coiling with the need to leave the kitchen, STAT. "The dude gave up everything for me. Of course I was worried."

"It's more than that," Sam pushes, like he always does. A grin suddenly curls his mouth and he's wearing his 'Dean's gone and done something hilariously awful and I'm never gonna let him forget it' face. Dean hates that face. "Dude, do you --"

Nope. Not happening. "Whatever it is, the answer's no."

"Oh my god, you --"

"Don't even think about finishing that sentence, Sam, I mean it." He points at Sam, ready to shove his finger in Sam's eye if it comes down to it, but Sam subsides with a peculiar smile.

"You know that if you ever needed to tell me anything…"

Dean groans, because really? "Dude, there's nothing to tell!"

"Well, excuse me for jumping to conclusions!" Sam says with an eye roll, that weird smile still plastered on his face. "But when someone is willing to die for you, then invites you to Jesus Christ's funeral to meet the family? I think I'm entitled to a little speculation."

He's done with this conversation. He was done with it before it even started. There's nothing to have a conversation about; there's absolutely no reason for him to be on the stand in Judge Winchester's courtroom with one hand on the Bible. Whatever… issues he might have had were taken care of this morning. Except he's forgotten all about that. "So, you coming with us to see Moloch?"

Sam, for once in his life, lets it go, and there is nothing in the entire universe to measure against Dean's gratitude. "I can if you want me to, but I feel like I should be laying down some new wards around here."

Dean stiffens. "You think someone might…?"

"You don't?"

Dean would be more concerned if someone didn't come around looking to pick a fight. Their lives are an endless rumble -- there's always someone knocking at the door, ready to take it to the parking lot. Before, they had the tentative help of the angel brigade, which would come to aid them only as a last resort, lest their Righteous Man die and be unable to fight their battles for them. Now, with the attention of the angels on other things -- other stupid things, like war with Hell -- it's just them. And Castiel, but he hasn't been part of the angel brigade for a while.

"Bobby and I were going over some things we found in an old text he had lying around," Sam continues, sliding the book in question out from beneath his elbow. Dean hadn't noticed it. "We found symbols. Sigils. Older than anything I've ever seen. I think one or two of them are, like, incredibly beefed up protection wards."

Sam's flushed with the triumph of discovery. It's a small pleasure in an otherwise unpleasant time, and if Dean were anyone else he'd let Sam have it. But, he's not.

"Might want to have Cas check those out before you blow up your head, or call down an archangel," he says brightly, but there's a modicum of truth to it. Sam's a fucking genius, but if he's not entirely sure what ancient sigils mean? No sense tempting fate. There's been enough of that lately and there will certainly be more.

Sam makes a face. "You think I wouldn't thoroughly research something before using it? Oh ye of little faith."

"Faith?" Dean snorts. "Dude, faith has nothing to do with it. I'm just being practical."

"Since when?"

Good question.

There's a rustle behind him, an explosion of displaced air hitting the back of his neck to announce a grand arrival. "Robert has all the required components needed to successfully complete the ritual. I will begin immediately."

"Cas, c'mere for a sec." He crooks his fingers, stepping aside to give Castiel some room; he's still close enough to get a whiff of sharp, mountain air. He shivers. "Sam's looking to put up some wards."

Sam opens the book to a marked page and points. "Bobby and I were thinking about this one, or maybe this one. It resembles the sigil for 'protect', but there are parts of it that we couldn't recognize."

Castiel peers over Sam's shoulder, then steps away abruptly like he's remembering every personal bubble lesson Dean's ever taught him. "Human wards are… diluted. The symbols have evolved over time as those who invented them were forgotten. In their purest form, your wards are names."

"Whose names?" The interested glint is back in Sam's eyes, only now it's more like an explosion. "Is it someone you know? Is it yours? Are all the angels' names sigils?"

Moving closer to the book, Castiel places two reverent fingers on top of one of the sigils, running the pads of them over it with all the care he doesn't show anything or anyone else. Except maybe Dean. "The wards I have personally seen you use were given to Humankind by Gadiel."

Dean blinks at the name. He doesn't recognize it at all. "Is that a good or bad thing?"

It wins him a not-quite-but-almost-a-smile. "It's good, Dean. His name will not lead you to harm."

Dean's got to hand it to old Gadiel; he hasn't failed them yet.

"May I have that?"

At first, Dean has no idea what Castiel is asking for, then starts in surprise as Sam hands him a butter knife from the table, streaks of spread marring the silver, bits of what might be muffin or bread stuck to it. Were there muffins this morning? Why didn't he know about the muffins?

Castiel nods in thanks at Sam and then turns his attention to his wrist, dragging the serrated edge of the knife across it. It would take a lot to cut skin with a butter knife, but Castiel's flesh parts easily beneath the dull edge of the blade, spilling red onto his coat sleeve and the table.

"Cas, hey --" Dean starts, lifting a hand to do something, because they've been here before and are revisiting it way too soon, but it's done. Castiel hands him the blade, eyes gentle, and then moves to the wall closest to the table.

There's so much blood, just like back in the Green Room, practically pouring out in gallons all over the floor. Castiel pays it no heed -- he's an angel; why would he need to worry about severing an artery? -- and fingerpaints all over the dirty white of the kitchen wall, dragging his fingers up, down, over, and back around until the sigil in Sam's book begins to take form.

"Holy…" Sam trails off, eyes wide, completely rapt on Castiel as the guy continues to merrily draw with his own blood.

Castiel finishes off the sigil with a flourish at the top, not unlike his Angel Begone spell, but instead of a triangle it looks more like a 'P' with an 'X' through it.

Air blows out through Sam's teeth. "Chi ro."

"Yes," Castiel says softly, reverently, pleased that Sam recognizes whatever it is. "This is the name of Raguel, eldest of the archangels, older than even Michael. Closest to God."

The blood is drying on Castiel's hand, odd shapes that flake off when he brings his fingers up to touch the giant sigil, and Dean can't help but stare at it as Castiel begins murmuring something too low for Dean to hear, or even understand. It's gibberish, but it's probably important gibberish.

"Aldon od noar v'nazps od coraxo oln micalzo," Castiel intones gravely, the fun P-X thing flashing with bright light once before disappearing, leaving Dean to blink away the dots he gets when he looks at the sun for too long. "You are under the greatest protection that can be afforded a human."

There's something in the way Castiel says it that tells Dean this isn't just the most kick-ass protection ward ever, but much more. He can't place the inflection in the word 'afforded', but it settles deep in his gut like the few minutes that follow being punched. He can breathe again, but it hurts like a bitch and he'll feel it twice as much in the morning.

Castiel fixes Dean with a calm look, but Dean's eyes are on the sluggishly-bleeding wound in the soft skin of Castiel's wrist. One last wave of blood pumps out before the flesh begins to knit back together, sealing up like a Ziploc bag without so much as a mark or scar. All that's left is smooth skin and crusting blood.

"Are you ready?" Castiel inquires and purposely rolls his wrist.

Dean jerks in surprise. "What? No, I -- Let me get my stuff." He beats a hasty retreat, quickly getting the hell out of there before he loses his shit.

This is new. He's never cared when someone hurts themselves in the name of the hunt; he and Sam have been cutting their own skin to use their blood for years. It's never been an issue. It's necessity. Blood is life; it's the essential part of anything and everything. It's fact. It sucks that someone's got to feel the sting in order to get some of it, but that's the way it is.

Watching Castiel use his own blood in order to protect them, after all he's given so far, is just fucking unfair. Wrong.

Rubbing a hand roughly over his lips, he glances to his right and catches sight of movement in the living room, a shadow skittering across the wall.

It's Bobby, walking slowly around the perimeter of what must be the ritual set-up. Flame leaps up from the twenty-odd votive candles scattered randomly inside the ring of congealing blood stretched across the floor. Dean's lip curls at the sight of it. Not too hard to guess who drew it and how.

"Hey," Dean says, carefully drawing closer, minding the blood circle. One little smudge and the whole thing's kaput. No need to ruin Castiel's painstakingly perfect work. No need to call him back in and have him tap another vein to fix a mistake.

Bobby looks tired, but then Bobby always looks tired. Dean never met Bobby's wife and knows nothing about her other than that she was a looker, a fact gleaned from old photos hidden around the house, but he'd bet that the dark circles under Bobby's eyes weren't there when she'd been alive. The same for his dad; he remembers when Dad's face was free of frown lines, of exhausted shadows.

He knows that if he lives through the week, through the upcoming battle, he'll have those lines and shadows, too.

"You sure about this?" Bobby asks gruffly, scratching at his beard, and Dean watches the movement with a fascination he's never been able to shake. When Dean was little and Dad started leaving him and Sam with Bobby so he could continue the hunt, Dean had believed that Bobby had a cache of weapons in his beard. He couldn't wait to grow up so he could have a hidden arsenal of his own. Dean was obviously borderline retarded as a kid.

"I have to be."

"Don't have to be anything," Bobby says pointedly, in that way he has that makes Dean feel like his dumbass kid self. "Don't think you know what you're getting into, frankly."

Dean shrugs. "And I was gonna do what for the week? Sit around with my thumb up my ass?"

"Your leisurely activities are none of my business, boy."

"Ha ha."

Bobby stops his pacing, feet near a perfectly-rendered symbol that looks like the bastard lovechild of a cow and a spatula, and fixes Dean with a grave stare. "Dean, I know you've been through some mighty terrifying shit --"

"Bobby, don't."

But Bobby's going to say his piece, because his lips roll into his beard and Dean recognizes that look for what it is. That look is the reason Dean doesn't leave sacred tomes next to the toilet anymore.

"I know Alistair was worse than anything I can think of --"

He can't hear this. He can't think about this, or agree with Bobby, because yes, Alistair was literally the worst thing Dean's ever come up against and he's been trying his damnedest to forget that. To forget the shit Alistair used to say, sing, make him do. Did to him. Bobby has no idea; even the worst thing Bobby can think of is nowhere near the reality of it.

He swallows thickly, struggling to breathe properly. "Bobby, seriously, shut it."

"Moloch is worse," Bobby growls, pushing past Dean's strangled protest. "Alistair was damn awful, but he wasn't anywhere near as bad as Moloch. Do you know what you have to do, what you've gotta be, in order to be the Devil's right-hand man? He used to do things to kids, Dean."

He hasn't allowed himself to imagine it. Worse than Alistair? He'd rather remain blissfully unaware until the actual face-to-face introduction.

It's shit like this that makes Dean want to just give up, because what's the point? Does he really want to fight for a god who allows things like Azazel and Alistair and Moloch to roam free? It's obvious God doesn't care that what makes little kids afraid of the dark is actually crawling around in the shadows at night.

He rakes his hands through his hair, gripping hard, and rests his forehead against the skin of the inside of his arms.

"Robert is right."

Dropping his hands, Dean turns to see Castiel and Sam standing in the doorway, both of their expressions drawn. Sam tries to muster up a smile for him, but it ends up being another one of his unintentionally hilarious faces, a cross somewhere between a grimace, a grin, and a yawn. Dean barely manages to bite back a hysterical giggle, his heart still pounding to beat the band from Bobby's pep talk.

Castiel steps into the room, the light from the candles bathing his pale skin in fluid orange. He stops right at the edge of the blood circle, the toe of his left shoe hovering just over the line. "I would recount for you Moloch's many transgressions, but we do not have the luxury of time. His reputation is not an exaggeration; in fact, it's understated. Alistair's crimes pale in comparison to Moloch's."

That's exactly the reason that Castiel needs to learn how to lie.

Licking his lips, Castiel looks as if he's going to walk right over to where Dean stands on the other side of the circle, but stays right where he is, looking as guilty as anything. "I was not… thinking clearly last night, Dean, when I asked this of you. When I asked you this morning. I think it would be best if I went alone."

Bobby grunts in approval, which is funny, because if it were Bobby being asked he'd jump on it in a second.

"What? Cas, c'mon!" A small part of him is relieved, but most of him is just plain offended. So, what, Castiel doesn't think he can handle this because of Alistair? Fuck that noise. "Dude, I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to help."

"Did you?" Castiel asks, knowing very well that Dean's mental state yesterday was tenuous at best, head full of everything that had happened, that's going to happen. "It was wrong of me to ask for your help when your exhaustion, confusion and rage would have you answer differently than you normally would. I will go to see Moloch alone, and when I get back we'll discuss our next move."

For the longest time, no one says anything. Sam's not going to say anything to refute Castiel and Bobby sure as hell isn't, and Dean's heart is stuck in his throat.

"No."

With the utmost care, Dean lifts his foot and steps into the circle, picking his way through the littering of candles to get to the other side, mindful of the sigils drawn.

"Dean!" Sam groans. "You're going to ruin it!"

"Shut up and go draw some wards," Dean snaps, lifting his gaze from the floor to meet Castiel's. If he needs to do stupid stunts, like stepping into a blood circle full of Enochian sigils, to prove a point, then he damn well will.

He comes to a stop at the very edge of the circle, bare inches away from where Castiel's standing, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. Holding Castiel's gaze and trying to find some kind of chink in that already battered armor, he remembers Jimmy's little slip about what it was like to be a vessel, about it feeling like he was chained to a comet. Staring at Castiel now, feeling that searing heat, Dean can't help but wonder if maybe Jimmy had it all wrong. That maybe it wasn't like being chained to the comet, but having swallowed it and trying to deal with all that fire and speed and light boiling inside.

"I'm coming with you, Cas," Dean says through gritted teeth, staring into those ridiculously blue eyes, watching them flash with the light from a comet's tail. "You asked me for help, and I told you that we'd find that sonuvabitch before day seven. If meeting with his number one fan is how it starts, then fine. You want to do all the talking? Knock yourself out. But I'm coming with you. And if you feed me any more bullshit about it being too dangerous for my poor nerves to handle, I will punch you in the face. You won't feel it, and I'll break my hand again, but you'll get the sentiment behind it."

Castiel says nothing for the longest time and Dean thinks for a second that Castiel's going to punch him in the face for being such a whiny brat. Instead of putting Dean through a wall, Castiel blinks, losing the staring contest with a heavy sigh, mouth imperceptibly curling in what might be reluctant humor. Or maybe affection.

"You are the most cumbersome creature I've ever met."

Dean's grinning so hard that it feels like his face is going to rip right in half. "I'm just keeping you on your toes, Cas. Wouldn't want you to get bored."

"I assure you, Dean, you could never bore me," Castiel says, all gloom and doom serious, but his eyes sparkle with good humor. It makes Dean grin more, if that's even physically possible. His cheeks ache something fierce.

A throat clears pointedly, and Dean turns to look at Bobby, who clearly isn't happy about the plan still being a go. "If you assholes are about done?"

Heat explodes across his skin, his face, and Dean mumbles his agreement, stepping carefully out of the blood circle just as Castiel steps in, brushing gently against Dean as he goes. The sigils crackle and smoke as Castiel's foot touches down, as loud as a dog welcoming home its master.

He takes a few more steps back to watch the proceedings, ignoring Sam's blatantly obvious grin -- the one from five minutes ago in the kitchen, except now it's about seventeen times more obnoxious -- and keeping his eyes on Castiel, who lifts his hands, palms parallel to the floor, and closes his eyes.

"Apila a-ai-om ef I'Molech. Ia-ial od insi oroch li othil ol nor-molap. Zod a-ma ra na ii esla girosab-e."

If Sam had been the one to find the words, to write them down and say them aloud, Dean would have laughed and laughed. Made fun of the way they sound, the way Sam stumbled over the unfamiliar syllables. Sam is, without a doubt, the smartest motherfucker to ever walk the planet, but when it comes to pronunciation? Guy's back in the third grade.

With Castiel, it's like that breeze on the first day of spring. Which sounds fucking corny as hell, but he looks forward to it every year. It always seems to fall on either a Thursday or Saturday, an unrepentantly sunny day without a cloud in the sky, and there's always the softest of breezes that starts in the morning, warm and soothing, and builds in the afternoon. On these days, Sam usually sleeps in while Dean goes out and sits on the hood of the Impala, just taking it in, alone in the parking lot of some motel.

He has no idea what Castiel's saying. For all Dean knows, it could be angelic for "I'm a porn star", but it sounds beautiful. It sounds like that breeze.

The sigils on the floor hiss in response to Castiel's invocation, the looped shapes taking up a bright blue glow, washing Castiel's skin out and casting half of his face into shadow. It pushes outward, the light spreading like water in the air, filling up everything and shoving up against Dean's chest, forcing him back a step. Dean watches, breathless, as the blue of Castiel's eyes lightens until its cyan, pastel, and finally white, before it all comes crashing back into Castiel, who stumbles backward. The light disappears, sucked back into the sigils, which are now the color of ash.

"Dude," Dean whistles. Now that's a show. He turns to Sam. "That was a million times better than that shitty Lord of the Rings movie you made me watch. Better effects, too."

Sam ignores him, because Sam's a giant nerd who'd rather fuck Frodo Baggins than a hot-blooded woman. "Cas, are you okay?"

Castiel shakes it off and opens his eyes, which are still that freaky powder-white. His pupils are gone. Dean's never going to sleep again. "I am… tracking him."

"Never seen a spell like that," Bobby grunts at Castiel, grudgingly impressed, eyeing the ashes on the floor like they'll never come out of the old wood.

"It is Enochian," Castiel says absently, head tilting, ear toward the ceiling, like he can hear something the rest of them can't. He probably can. "I have found him."

Dean tenses, ready. "Where?"

Castiel's neck straightens, and he blinks, turning eyes a familiar shade of blue his way. "Cheyenne, Wyoming."

Humming to himself under his beard, Bobby sits on the arm of a chair that has been part of the Singer Living Room Set since Dean first stepped into the house as a kid. "'Bout a ten-hour drive."

"Only ten hours?" Sam asks, incredulous. "Isn't that kind of convenient? Almost too convenient?"

"Dude, it makes perfect sense," Dean says, because it does. "It's the biggest state with the smallest population. Besides, no one in the history of the world has ever said, 'I have a vacation coming up; I need two weeks in Wyoming.' No tourism, practically no one around, and a million places to hide. Perfect sense."

Sam gives him a look. "Only you would think so."

"You just don't understand my logic," Dean says and makes a kissy noise. "It's bulletproof."

Castiel steps out of the circle and as he does all the ash on the floor disappears, leaving not so much as a hint that it was there in the first place. It more than likely has nothing to do with Castiel wanting to be tidy as much as Bobby was probably thinking 'clean that shit up' at Castiel for the last ten minutes.

"If you are still set on coming --"

"I am."

A hand drops onto his shoulder, the palm heavy and the fingers spread wide, and he'd know that bear paw anywhere. He peers up into Sam's ugly mug, unable to help the grin that curls his face at the fear he sees in Sam's squinty eyes. "Don't worry, Samantha. You can come next time."

Bobby silently shoves a small bag at him and Dean can hear the clink and swish of canisters full of holy water. "Be careful. Your angel'd better be watching you at all times."

"You make it sound like he's a friggin' dog," Dean mutters, slipping his arm through the strap and hefting it securely onto his shoulder. Worse comes to worse, he can throw it at Moloch, like a holy hand grenade. He clenches his fingers around it, feeling the waxed edges bite into his palm. "We'll be fine."

Castiel stands at his shoulder, steadfast. "I will let nothing happen to him."

"Better not." Bobby steps back, arms crossing, glaring at the both of them from under his hat. "I'll be calling some people, letting them know what's going on."

"Maybe you ought to wait on that," Dean suggests. "Don't want to get everyone all up in arms before we know what the hell's going on. Wait until we get back."

"You have six hours before the phone's in my hand."

Sam snorts and claps his hand over Bobby's shoulder, nodding at Dean. "The wards will all be up by the time you make your triumphant return."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean spies Castiel's index and middle fingers in their double whammy position, heading for his face, and he manages to eke the last word into the conversation, which must frustrate Sam to no end.

"Don't wait up."

five

Comments

[sycophantastic.livejournal.com]

Castiel trailing after him like a shadow Dean stuck to his feet with soap

Peter Pan reference!! \o/

Also, I feel kind of bad for laughing so hard at this part - Dean was obviously borderline retarded as a kid - but still, it was damn funny.

Will be reading the rest of the story tomorrow. Gotta pass out now. Definitely loving it thus far!

[laura-trekkie.livejournal.com]

Gah, you're making me late for work!!!!

Ahem. Anyway, great chapter. I was glad to see the snuggling and that Dean managed not to panic about it for five whole minutes :). I was also amused to see Sam starting to catch on about it.

Dean's inner thoughts were great, especially when Sam was making his insinuations.

And let's not forget the awesomeness that is Bobby and every word he utters! \o/

Cas' ritual was impressive. They've got a lead and the action's about to start. What will they find in Cheyenne?

Laura.

[cotymundi.livejournal.com]

I also loved the snuggling. I found myself able to visualise all the sigils and the circle really well; I totally adore Bobby's obsession with keeping the place tidy and can imagine him beaming "clean up your shit" at Cas; that was so in character, and hilarious.

[reticent-lass.livejournal.com]

Sam ignores him, because Sam's a giant nerd who'd rather fuck Frodo Baggins than a hot-blooded woman. "Cas, are you okay?"

THIS LINE. THIS FUCKING LINE.

If Freddy Mercury rose from the grave, called up Adam Lambert, and told him his music was decent but dude, tone that fruity shit down, the truckloads of denial and hypocrisy would almost equal that of this line.

[mclachlan.livejournal.com]

First: Er... is this a good thing? I mean, it was coming from Dean so it was designed to make you laugh...

Second: KKBB ICON! \o/

[reticent-lass.livejournal.com]

XD Yes, it is a very good thing--sorry, I forget sometimes how hard it is to convey the appropriate suppressing-serious-giggles tone when I'm commenting. I very much approved of this line. It's SO Dean, and Dean's relationship with Sam. (I wish Sam would zing back more often, he's more than earned the right to smack Dean a good one.)

Second: I AM SO HAPPY YOU RECOGNIZE KKBB ON SIGHT. It's such a fun, fabulous buddy movie and it makes me sad that damn near no one knows it. I have secret thoughts about KKBB & SPN. For your amusement (or despair, since this got a bit long), because I'll never write this fic:

Once, a few years back, Sam & Dean and Perry, Harry, and Harmony all wound up on some giant fucking weird case involving ghosts, drugs, and some really bloodthirsty animatronics, for which the good detectives seriously owe the Winchesters for saving their asses. On the rare occasions the boys wind up back in Hollywood area (Sam has this Thing about SoCal), they have a standing invitation to crash at Perry's. Even better, every now and then Sam and Dean will get a referral from them (Harry, really, Perry just protests a lot and then pays them anyway) that actually pays cash money (minus commission, because Perry's valuable time is not free). Sometimes Perry &/or Harry and sometimes Harmony get involved, mostly they don't, there is generally at least one narrow escape from the cops during the post-hunt festivities, and good times are had by all even though Sam still owes Perry a new coffee table because Harry is the one person on Earth who can compete with Dean in the pushing-all-his-buttons department. The last time they got into a huge fistfight, Dean and Perry gave up, moved all the furniture out of the way, and made popcorn.

And that's my thoughts on why Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and Supernatural are perfect for each other: fights, sex, liquor, and investigations of questionable legality.

[mclachlan.livejournal.com]

I FUCKING LOVE KKBB. IT'S MY FAVORITE COMEDY EVER.

Also, you really need to write that fic. Like, yesterday. I needed this yesterday. I THINK YOU SHOULD START ON IT IMMEDIATELY.

[eg06.livejournal.com]

Can I just quick mention how much I adore this story for not only the awesomeness of the plot and the Dean/Cas dynamic, but for the Titus references? "Mutant four-year old" FTW! XD

[mabbly.livejournal.com]

Love love LOVE Sam's smirky face- such a refreshing change from his usual angst and concern. I can totally imagine what's going on in his head while he's talking with Dean in the kitchen: half his brain stunned with his revelation, the other half gleefully singing "I know something that yooouuu don't know".

[koffe-chan.livejournal.com]

Awww Dean <3 I really want to hug him now.

dfgsfdgsdbcbv

[mes-t.livejournal.com]

Okay, can I just say... I know it's been ages since you've written this story, but I've only just stumbled upon it. And... THANK YOU, for all of it thus far, and in particular for progressing Dean's character THE WAY IT SHOULD HAVE in the show. Look slash or no slash, in my mind YOUR Dean is the one we tragically lost somewhere between season 6 and now, and god damn it I want him back. The way he's treated Cas in the show has been... abhorrent, to say the least. The Dean in this story seems to me like the Dean I fell in love with in seasons 1 - 3. If only they could fire the jokers who currently write for that show and hire you instead! xxxxxx

[4getmenots.livejournal.com]

Oh lord, this was such a DEAN chapter. They're all talking about how to prevent a war between Heaven and Hell and Dean's having a breakfast foodgasm? Awesome. Sheer awesome. You've got a spot on characterization of Dean here, and I LOVE it.

I know this was a chapter (or two?) ago, but what the HELL was Gabriel smirking at them for when Dean told him Cas got him out of hell? I was so confused, I had to read over it a few times and I still don't get it. Maybe I'm slow....

[destielfan06.livejournal.com]

Dean and His Bacon and Sunny- side up eggs Lol
I really enjoyed Dean's Dream at the Beginning of the Chapter. an Obvious Foreshadowing To an upcoming Scene that i love .
2nd time Reading it and Falling in love all over again<3

[kellyanne77.livejournal.com]

I am so loving this story, I know I got it off someone's rec list but I can't remember whose as it's been sitting in a tab open for ages waiting for me to read it and I am so glad I finally got around to doing so.

First off, that prologue was epically awesome! That was some seriously good writing. The kind of writing that puts a smile on my face because I know all is right with the world when someone can so effortlessly blend words together into something so perfect.

Hmm, really? Really, really? Lucifer killed JC, even though Lucy didn't show for his big reveal? Either he did waltz out the front door whilst the boys were being distracted by the pretty lights or Metatron got JC killed somehow just to keep the war on track. My money's on the latter.

What did Cas say no to? And, yeah, what's up with Gabe's surprise re. Cas rescuing Dean from Hell? What have you got concocted there? Enquiring minds wanna know.

Wasn't there a Moloch in Buffy once?

Also, was that a Bill and Ted reference?

[chrysler11.livejournal.com]

"Dean had believed that Bobby had a cache of weapons in his beard. He couldn't wait to grow up so he could have a hidden arsenal of his own. Dean was obviously borderline retarded as a kid. "

I DIED! Omg, so hilarious!!

[dom pereira (from livejournal.com)]

-omg!! peter pan reference!! i love you so much rn!!
-i freaking HATE bacon, i reckon its the grossest, even the smell puts me off. but you make me want to re-evaluate my opinion of it, like perhaps i'm missing something
-has nothing to do with Castiel wanting to be tidy as much as Bobby was probably thinking 'clean that shit up' at Castiel for the last ten minutes= THE BEST!!
seriously though, this is so well written!! it's like how they'd actually behave in between episodes (LOL whut?) and the insights of what dean is thinking are just amazing, because it IS what he'd be thinking, they ARE his opinions. i don't know how you've managed to do it but it is spot on, PERFECT!

[lucianwolf.livejournal.com]

Your writing is incredible. I am loving this.