New story: The principle (of silver lining), SPN, Dean/Cas, NC-17

[eretria]

So, here it is, finally. To say that I'm nervous about posting this would be the understatement of the century.

Title: The principle (of silver lining)
Author: eretria
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas
Rating: NC-17
Size: ~20,100
Warnings/Spoilers: Set in the few days between 5.21 and 5.22, which means that Cas is basically human.
Notes: This took forever to finish, I think I may have started in May or June already. But it just kept growing and growing and I didn't have the heart to cut it short. Most heartfelt gratitude goes to auburnnothenna and murron for beta-reading (both have gone over one scene in particular at least five times with angelic patience, for which they have my eternal admiration) and tireless hand-holding, as well as thegrrrl2002 for helpful notes on several scenes.
Yes, the title is shamelessly stolen from a brilliant Larkin Poe song which can be found on the soundtrack to this story, once it's posted.
Summary: "It was a beautiful thing to watch, even from afar.
Meg bounced, rocking from her heels to the balls of her feet and back again. She couldn't wait for the moment Sam got it, realised just what their little Judas had done. She wondered, belatedly, if she should have given Castiel a handful of coins. But then, drama was more her father's metier." A madcap plan, a meeting, an encounter, a last supper and a desperate night before the last.

If you prefer to read the story in one file, it's up here on AO3, too.



The principle (of silver lining)

for murron

I.

"Well, well, look at you," Meg dragged out the words, feeling them glide over her tongue like honey. She cocked her head, looking at the creature in front of her with amusement and not a small portion of curiosity. An occupied vessel, but without the usual glimmer of barely contained energy around it. She had already felt it back in Carthage, but it was even more pronounced now. The angel - slouched against the graffiti-covered brick wall with his arms crossed over his chest in a gesture that was more protective than assertive - was out of juice. Completely. She whistled quietly as she took in the dirty trenchcoat over washed out jeans and a wrinkled cotton t-shirt.

"Clarence, Clarence," she chided. "My father was disappointed about the way you treated me." Meg let her hand glide to her stomach, felt his gaze follow her fingers. The scar was still there, she hadn't been able to heal the meatsuit after it had been burned by the holy oil. "Something about first dates and wanting to kill you."

Castiel raised his eyes to meet hers, blue a shock under the cool halogen street light. "Are you sure that he wasn't disappointed in you for letting me escape?"

It was hard to withstand the urge to flinch as his words hit far, far too close to the mark for her liking. The fallout of that day had been beyond her darkest nightmares. She still felt the scars where she'd been punished for her negligence, not just on this body but on her very essence. "Don't give yourself too much credit," she huffed instead, derision masking her rattled state. "You're not that important."

"Then why are you here?" he asked.

"Why are you?" she shot back. She was honestly still wondering about that. Wondering why she'd come, too, when he'd conjured her. Apart from rampant curiosity and maybe a small taste of revenge. Just a small one.

Castiel uncrossed his arms, placed his hands flat against the brick. She saw his fingertips digging into the cracks. He dropped the back of his head against the wall with a dull thud, his eyes closing, exposing the sharp jut of his chin, the Adam's apple bobbing when he swallowed several times as though readying his vocal chords for the answer to her question.

It came in one word. One low, gravelly disclosure. "Revenge."

She was torn between delighted laughter and incredulity. "Come again?"

He opened his eyes again, staring at her with no trace of the earlier weakness left. There was a fire in them, burning bright and all-encompassing and Meg had seen this before. So many delicious times, on so many souls she had dragged to hell as payment for this one emotion: Hatred.

It was better - and frighteningly worse - seeing it radiate from an angel. His soul would be a glorious one to drag to the pit, but seeing it went against everything she'd learned, against everything she'd been taught and experienced. Cosmic dissonance. She'd only ever seen one angel with the same amount of hatred in his eyes: Her father.

"What happened to you?" she asked, honest curiosity getting the better of her for a moment and making her forget the mocking. She stepped closer to him, smelling coffee and fresh sweat and the dust of the road on his skin.

"Life?" A parody of a smile crossed his features when he looked away from her to where a car was just passing outside the alley. Somewhere in the same direction, a rat scurried into the trash lying on the ground.

Meg narrowed her eyes and stepped even closer, grabbing his chin and turning him back to face her. Stubble scratched against her fingertips. This close, his breath reflected off her face as it had done in Carthage. Only this time, it not in strained puffs, but in a long, slow glide across her skin that made something in her sing of victory. "What happened?" she repeated her question in a low whisper, letting her breath deflect from his mouth, gliding her index finger over his dry lower lip. The feel of him shuddering against the touch of a demon was as addictive as Mexican hot chocolate - rich, dark and spicy. He held her gaze long enough for her to guess at the answers, but he pushed her away and turned before she could fully read him.

"You fell," she stated.

"I jumped," he corrected her.

"Semantics," she said on an amused huff. "You're out of mojo, however it happened."

Rebellious angel. Cast out. Cut off. The parallels were striking, even though she refused to think that Castiel would ever be ready to take the route her father had. Considering the unadulterated hatred in his eyes, though, she wondered if maybe he had potential. Wondered what she could do with that potential...

"I came here to offer you a deal, not talk about my state of disgrace," he said over his shoulder. "I can give you Sam Winchester."

Meg didn't even try to fight the laugh that bubbled up. "Try to fuck with someone who isn't quite as experienced in it as I am," she said.

He continued as though she'd never spoken up. "He won't come willingly, but you can possess him. Take him to Lucifer." He rolled his shoulders, tipping his head back to look at the stars above them. The coat rustled around him. "I'm sure you father will be very grateful."

She'd done it before, wondered if the angel knew about it. Meg remembered the week she'd spent riding around in Sam's skin - damn that had been a nice meatsuit. The idea was bold. She liked bold. However… "Why exactly should I trust a word you say?"

"Because you want to be the one," he said, slowly bringing his head back up and turning until he faced her. Stared at her in a way that made her feel uncomfortably naked despite the layers of clothing. "You want to be the first in line. The one daddy's prouder of than all the others."

She gave a snort, crossed her arms in front of her. "I don't have the same daddy issues you do, big boy."

He quirked a small, humourless smile. "Oh, yes, you do. Besides, you love nothing more than to corrupt a soul for hell. As long as it's not yours." He spread both arms wide, an open invitation that scared the shit out of her for reasons she couldn't put her finger on. "So, here I am. Offering you both."

"Why?"

"I told you," he said, sounding impatient.

"Yeah, revenge. Revenge for what, though? You conveniently omitted that part."

"Have you ever been ready to risk everything? To give up everything for someone-"

"If you talk about love, I'll projectile vomit."

"Everything, demon. Everything. The very essence of your being. For just one soul. Because you believed." His voice carried in the narrow confines of the alley, the words rising into the night sky by the sheer power not of how they were spoken but that they were spoken at all. "And then had that belief thrown into your face, twisted. Betrayed. Belittled. While you could do nothing but watch it happen because you didn't have the strength to fight it any longer. Because you had already given everything." He expelled the air from his lungs explosively, then whispered again: "Everything." The bitterness was like a second skin around him. "So ask me again why I want to settle the score."

***

Settle the score.

What a nice and innocent term for what the angel was about to do. The more Meg thought about it, the more glee she felt - and anger because the idea hadn't been her own.

She popped a few Jelly Bellies in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully to identify the flavours. It was getting dark and she was unable to get anywhere near Bobby Singer's house, thanks to his damn devil's traps. So she waited in the junkyard, propped against a rusting truck with the night's cold creeping over the South Dakota prairie and into her boots.

A demon waiting for an angel. It was all pretty damn hilarious.

Of course, like it or not, she needed Castiel for this whole thing to work. Sam wore a protective tattoo these days, it wouldn't be as easy to possess him as it had been three years ago, but once she had him alone, the rest would be a piece of cake. Sam had enough chinks in his armour to let in legions, it would be so easy to slip in the cracks and fill the empty spaces inside. Maybe she'd mess with Dean some more before taking sweet Sammy to Lucifer. Dean had killed one of her favourite hellhounds, after all.

Meg peered around the truck, her hands resting against the flaking paint on the truck when she heard boots crunching over dry sand. Too light to be Sam or Dean or Singer. She relaxed. Cocked her hip. Twined a strand of hair around her index finger while she waited for him to approach.

"I was getting lonely, Clarence," she said, giving him a full on pout. "What took you so long?"

He didn't dignify that with an answer, merely glared at her. "I've set the groundwork."

Meg let her eyebrows meet her hairline. "Care to tell me about your ingenious plan?"

"The less you know, the more authentic you'll come across later."

"You're betraying him. Them. Don't you think it would be rather unauthentic if I didn't gloat?" She let go of the strand of hair, blew against it when it came to rest on her nose: "Which, for the record, I already am. Ooooh, yes. The Winchesters, stabbed in the back by their own angel."

"I'm not-"

"Blah, blah." She raised her right hand, letting thumb, index and middle finger meet in a talking gesture. "As I said, semantics. Don't bore me, Clarence, you were just getting interesting."

She expected him to come back with some kind of retort, but he just leaned against the truck himself, rust trickling from it as his weight shifted it, the frame groaning. He bent his left knee, foot coming to rest against rim of the flat tyre. Close enough to her so he was in touching distance. Which -

"I forgot to do something last night," Meg said, turning to face him.

He didn't meet her eyes when she searched his face. "What?" The question was weary. He'd turned his head to look at the sky again, the stars a steady, cold glimmer above them. It gave her time to look at the man in front of her more closely than last night, when surprise had overshadowed everything.

"You're pretty for an angel," she said, meaning it. She'd already noticed in Carthage, when they'd been pressed together in the ring of holy oil.

"It's the vessel. You wouldn't survive beholding my true visage."

Derision. Nice. She reached up and patted his cheek, a patented look of mock-sadness on her face. "Don't have to worry about that anymore now, do I?"

Her hand was pried off his cheek so fast she didn't even have time to blink. "Keep your mocking tongue to yourself."

Meg threw her head back and laughed. Oh, but he was delicious when he got angry. She was having way too much fun here. "I know better things I could do with that tongue," she husked, breaking his grip on her hand and letting it return to him, drawing a circle on his chest. There were welts underneath the soft cotton, scars, maybe, and he hissed under his breath, then shifted away from her.

"Come on, Clarence," she sing-songed, bringing her hand to his hip and pulling him forward, jutting her own hip out so she bumped into him, deliberately. "You know we'll have to seal our deal."

"Naturally." It sounded like a word he'd picked up and hadn't used very often before. "How much do you require?"

A frown crossed her features. "What?"

"How much blood?" he asked slowly, as though speaking to a very small child, raising his arm and pushing his sleeve back.

She stared at the offered piece of skin for a few seconds before she barked a short laugh. "Much as I like the idea of drinking some angelic blood, I don't think yours'd do me much good now. I might as well go and drink human blood. And that never appealed to me much. What I want… " She let her hand trail up his exposed underarm, swirling her hand through the fine dark hair at the top before moving higher, up his arm and to his neck, her fingernails digging lightly into the skin next to the carotid. Felt the unsteady, thrumming pulse under her fingertips.

Humans. So fragile. Just a little more force, her fingernails just a little lower and adding a little more pressure, and she'd end him, here and now. She'd have killed an angel. She'd have - But no. No. Much as the idea pleased her, she still needed him. There was also another idea which was even more pleasing. She let her hand creep higher, returning to his face, to the stubble rasping against her fingers. "What I want is a proper seal. The old-fashioned way."

She was almost too close now to gauge his reaction. He tensed under her hands, his breath came faster. She smelled his skin, warm and alive. Human males. Or angels in human male meatsuits. Who really cared when it boiled down to the same thing? Hard lines, musky smell, body heat and, damn, those human bodies had a few rather nice perks.

"Now, come on," she whispered. "You've got to take the first step or it won't seal the deal."

For an instant, he hesitated, his eyes not meeting hers, a line furrowed between dark eyebrows.

This was taking too long. "If you show the same resolve betraying the Winchesters, then maybe I should go - "

Her arms were abruptly trapped in a vice-like grip. Meg bent backward, he followed, his body aligned with hers. Chapped lips crushed against hers with no gentleness, no finesse. Just the bruising pressure, teeth nipping at her lower lip, taking and demanding in way that no angel - fallen or not - should have known about. Her nipples scraped against his coat when she pressed closer. It was over before she could feel the lack of oxygen in her lungs; he pushed her away by her shoulders, a look of mild disgust on his face.

"Not bad for a cloud-hopping pansy," Meg admired before licking her lips. They felt swollen, abused by the angel's onslaught. "Nice. I might want to come back for more."

"Not in this life," he growled, before he added: "Not yours and not mine," and strangely enough, she believed him.

"So, exactly how do you plan on getting me a ride in Sam Winchester's hide again?" she asked, while stepping away from him a little. "Because last I knew, he had a pentagram tattooed on his equally pretty chest. Which, in case you forgot, prevents me from getting under his skin."

A feral grin crossed his features for a moment, fierce enough to make her mouth go dry and something in her clench with what felt suspiciously like fear. "I'm good with a boxcutter," was his cryptic answer.

My, my. All new layers, all the time. Who would have thought an angel could be quite so creative? Or blunt. Meg clucked her tongue in appreciation. "I like the way you think."

The grin faded from his features when he said, under his breath, so quietly she barely heard it, "I don't."

***

It was a beautiful thing to watch, even from afar.

Witness the angel. Meg bounced, rocking from her heels to the balls of her feet and back again. She couldn't wait for the moment Sam got it, realised just what their little Judas had done. She wondered, belatedly, if she should have given Castiel a handful of coins. But then, drama was more her father's metier.

Their voices were getting closer now, they boots crunching over dry leaves and sand; Sam's steps heavy, Castiel's lighter. They dragged to a stop a mere ten feet away from her. She pressed close against a blue Chevy, watching both men through the jagged, broken window.

"Cas, Cas, hey, wait. What is it?"

"I couldn't stay in there."

"Why not?"

A pause had Meg peering around the car's frame to see Castiel better, find out the reason for the delay in answering.

She saw the angel shaking his head.

"Talk to me," Sam said, voice gone low and imploring. "What's wrong?"

Meg curled her nose at the sudden gentleness in Sam's voice.

Castiel huffed, shoved his hands in the pocket of his jeans. "The list would be shorter if I told you what's right."

Sam snorted. "You really do have a problem with straight answers, don't you?"

"What do you wish me to say?"

"Cas, you just stormed out with a look on your face that I've never seen on you before. We have the apocalypse to avert here, so you're no good to us fracturing. If you need help dealing with this new situation, you need to tell us. We can't read your mind." Sam reached out to rest his hand on Castiel's shoulder and the angel flinched away.

Meg wondered if she should get him to Hollywood. This was seriously good stuff.

"Cas?" Sam tried again, a safe step away from the angel. "Tell me. What is it?"

"Do you want me to tell you that I hear everything at twice the volume now that my grace is gone? That every touch I don't expect and can't prepare myself for feels like I'm being electrocuted? That every emotion is so raw it takes everything out of me to just handle it?" Castiel whirled around. "Is it easier now that you know? Tell me, how am I supposed to fight like this?"

Meg held her breath. The energy seemed to seep from Castiel, his shoulders slumped, he dropped his head to his chest, inspecting his boots.

"I can't do this, Sam," Castiel was saying, his voice sounding gravelly and broken. "It's worse than just being cut off. I'm powerless. The apocalypse is upon us and all I can think about is how I'm locked in this body and can't do anything."

Meg admired Castiel more and more by the minute. He sounded so damn authentic even she had trouble not believing him.

"I'm useless, Sam. To Dean. To you. To Bobby. I can't go back to what I was and I can't be what you need in this limited form, and - "

The angel was doing a fantastic job. He was winning the big oaf's heart over easily.

"Hey, Cas, look," she heard Sam interrupt, "we need you around no matter what happened. Mojo or no mojo, you're part of the team."

Heartbreaking. Sweet. Meg fought the urge to press her hand against her chest and give a dramatic sigh. She would have enough time to mock Sam later. When he had no chance to run.

Castiel lowered his head and expelled a breath. "Thank you," was his answer. "In that case, you won't mind if I do this."

A thump and a crash, followed by the sound of fabric ripping and a blade being released from the boxcutter's confines.

These Winchesters and their soft spots. Meg shook her head. Sometimes she wondered why her father was so worried about the whole thing. Those two brothers were pathetic, riddled with self-doubt and self-hate, and not nearly as clever as they thought they were. Slow. Always so slow.

Meg smelled the blood before she rounded the car, taking her time, and saw it running off Sam Winchester's chest. Painting the angel's fingertips.

She grinned wide when he looked up at her from where he knelt next to Sam. Castiel's blue eyes were shadowed in a delectable darkness. "I didn't think you'd have the guts, Clarence," she said, admiringly. "We'll make a demon of you yet." She patted his hair.

"Stop talking. Just do it." His voice was clipped. Urgent. He looked toward the house and rose, a look of pain crossing his features. "Before Dean notices something."

A delighted tingling spread through her essence and settled into her meatsuit's bones. "Deano will be pissed," she sing-songed. "You might wanna start running."

"As soon as you have possession of his brother," Castiel replied, his eyes flickering nervously down the path to the house.

"In a hurry, angel? Afraid what the big bad Winchester will do when he finds out?"

"You talk too much." He surprised her by grabbing her arm, hard enough to leave a bruise and pushing her to her knees next to Sam Winchester's unconscious body. "Do it."

"No kiss goodbye, Clarence? For old times' sakes?" Another put-upon pout for the angel's benefit. When the expected reaction didn't come, she shrugged. "All right, then. It was a pleasure working with you, angel. I'll give my father your regards."

Tipping her head back, she let her essence untangle, coiled it tight and moved it from the current meatsuit to the next, one long, slow exhalation in utter silence. Bodiless, she hovered for a moment, then moved over Sam's mouth, gliding in between half-opened lips, sliding into him, fusing with flesh and bone and thought and -

"Hello, Meg."

This shouldn't be happening. He shouldn't expect her. Be able to interact with her. Much less speak to her. Panic began to rise, a slow, cold wave of dread spreading through her essence.

"Miss me?"

Looking up through Sam Winchester's eyes, she saw the angel standing over her, head cocked to the side, a small smile playing around his lips that was even more terrifying than the one he had given her earlier. He crouched next to her meatsuit, patting Sam Winchester's cheek before saying, "I believe the correct term is busted."

Inside his body, inside his mind, Sam Winchester attacked.

II

"No kiss goodbye, Clarence? For old times' sakes?"

Dean heard Meg's mocking words with a frown, wondering what the hell Cas had been doing to warrant them. Then again, what the hell were any of them doing? The whole plan was insane. He itched to bust in there and stop it… but it had been his plan. His idea. His stupid idea.

"This isn't up for negotiation, Sam."

"Since when do you decide what I - "

"Since I'm the one who's going to have to watch you walk into hell, you stupid son of a bitch. So you damn well better give me this." Dean realised that his voice had turned from angry to pleading. "Please. It's just precaution. I just - " Dean trailed off, not daring to say what was in the room already. 'I just want to see if you're ready. If you're strong enough already.

"So, what, you want to make me go through a driver's test for a demon vessel?"

"No!" Dean protested. "Yes. No!"

Sam cocked his head, giving him the look that said clearly, Bullshit.

Why the hell was Cas not helping? They had talked about it earlier. Not that he had actively supported Dean's idea, but now? Now he was just sitting next to the library door, elbow resting on the sideboard, head supported against his hand, eyes a million miles away. Present but not there. It drove Dean insane.

"It's actually not a bad idea, kid," Bobby chimed in, and whoa, if Dean had been expecting anything from Bobby, it surely wouldn't have been agreement.

"What?" Bobby asked, shrugging. "It's insane, but it makes sense. In a really idiotic, Winchester way."

"You want me to do a test run with a demon in me to see if I can fight it by myself," Sam stated in a level voice that did nothing to hide the strain of keeping it that way. "Now, what about that makes any damned sense?" He leaned forward to glare first at Dean, then at Bobby. Dean knew that glare. He had come to fear it.

Dean stepped out from under it, angling his body toward Cas instead. "Cas, a little help, here?"

Cas reacted maddeningly slowly, coming back from what appeared to be miles away. It wasn't the first time Dean wondered what was going on in Cas' head since he returned. "The plan is insane," Cas stated, deadpan.

"Well, thanks a lot, you - "

"Insane, but all the better for it."

Dean let his mouth snap closed. He breathed. Blinked at Cas. Then blurted, "What?"

On any other day, it would have amused him to hear Sam ask the same question in unison with him. Not today.

"If Sam can't fight off even a simple demon, he will be unable to take on Lucifer. We can't risk him failing." Cas looked at Sam. Just looked. No glare, no stare. Just a level look.

Sam wilted under it.

Sam crossed his arms over his chest, cocking his hip against Bobby's desk. His shoulders were tense, Dean saw the itch to roll them, such a Sammy thing to do toward the end of a fight, a reaction as familiar to Dean as breathing. Sam was reconsidering. "How are we going to find a demon to possess me, though? They'll know they're being used as guinea pigs."

Cas' answer was short. "We lie."

Dean turned to him slowly, eyebrows raised in Sam's best 'Bitch, please' expression. "That simple?"

"That simple," Cas answered, the shrug that accompanied the words still dissonant with Dean's picture of Cas. "It's how you become president, isn't it?" He quirked one corner of his mouth up. It fell again when Dean didn't acknowledge the memory quickly enough, his mind still stuck on the fact that Cas had remembered that particular day.

"Demons are arrogant," Cas continued. "Some more so than others. If they get a chance to get on Lucifer's good side and view themselves as his commander-in-chief, they'll take it. So if they get the offer to possess Sam in order to bring his body to Lucifer… " Cas trailed off, gliding his palm over the sideboard.

"One of them'll take it," Dean finished.

Bobby threw Cas a look. "That's real sneaky, kid," he grudgingly admitted.

"A lack of intelligence has never been my problem," Cas informed him and Dean couldn't quite fight a wince when the stress of Cas' words was clearly on 'intelligence'.

Bobby rolled his eyes. Sam did finally shrug the tension out of his shoulders. Argument won.

"So how are we going to convince a mystery demon to try and possess Sam?" he asked.

"Not we," Cas raised his gaze from the desk to Dean's face. "I will convince her."

"Her?" Dean asked, the question like a gunshot in the room. He didn't like where this was going. Most of all, he didn't like the idea of Cas being involved in this plan. He was clearly still shell-shocked over the whole drained batteries thing, and Dean wasn't going to lose him to another suicide mission. "Cas what-"

Cas raised a hand to stop Dean's tirade before Dean could even draw a breath. "Who's going to be more convincing than a de-powered angel who gave up everything for you and was betrayed in return?"

A fresh wave of nausea over those words brought Dean back from the memory.

"Dean!" Cas' voice was urgent and Dean ducked out from the barn door he'd been hiding behind, shaking the memory. It was done, then. Cas had managed. Meg was riding around in Sam's skin. The very thought of it made Dean's stomach revolt. He skidded to a halt next to Cas, carefully concentrating on Cas rather than Sam. He'd seen Sam possessed by Meg once and didn't really care for a face-to-face replay.

"It's on?"

Cas nodded. "If we want to get him inside, we need to do it while we still have the element of surprise on our sides."

"Right, right." Dean crouched next to Sam, trying to ignore the blood still drizzling from a clean cut across the tattoo on his chest. "Remind me to never give you a boxcutter again in your life."

They lifted Sam off the ground with some difficulty. Cas seemed to sway under the weight, a look of pain crossing his face when he slipped under Sam's arm and slung his arm around Sam's waist to steady him.

"You okay?" Dean asked as they dragged Sam with them.

Cas squeezed out the answer from between clenched teeth, "We don't have time for my well-being right now. Move."

Accepting Cas' still functioning spidey sense, Dean gripped Sam's arm tighter when he felt Sam's muscles tense. Sam's eyelids began to flutter and what Dean saw peeking through there wasn't his brother. He'd hoped that the initial shock would render the demon incapable of fighting back immediately and that Sam would be able to walk inside by himself, but he seemed to have underestimated Meg. Sam began to wake up and got heavier in the progress. Heavier and a lot less pliant. Damn it. Damn it. Maybe this hadn't been the best plan after all.

"Have the holy water ready, Bobby!" Dean shouted as Sam began to struggle against the hands holding and dragging him. "We're coming in hot."

***

Dean finished pouring the line of salt in front of the door with a lot more vigour than would have been necessary. He would have been a lot happier to lock Sam in the panic room, but that wouldn't work for obvious reasons - Sam needed to fight Meg himself, not with the aid of salt and iron and the devil's traps in there. The salt was for outside protection only. Just like him and Cas. Just in case.

Behind the door, Sam was screaming in anger - or rather, Meg was screaming with Sam's voice and the damn thing just wouldn't shut up. It was getting under Dean's skin more than he had expected when he'd thought this plan up. In his mind, it had been any demon. Any demon but the one that already had a history with Sam and him.

The door rattled on its hinges under the blows Meg rained against it. Sam's voice came through; Sam's voice, and yet not his, howling, harsh, screeching and cursing the way Sam never would. Dean pressed his eyes shut , balled his hands into fists at his sides, fighting the relentless energy coursing through his veins, his every instinct that wanted to make him do something. He'd stopped believing this was a good plan the moment Sam had opened his eyes, but Dean couldn't go back to stop it now. He needed a distraction from this or he'd burst into the damn room within the next two minutes.

Cas. He would think about Cas and whatever was going on in his head now the halo was history.

"Nice work there, Cas," he said, louder than necessary. Loud enough to drown out Sam's voice.

Cas just raised an eyebrow.

Dean fished for something, anything to say. Settled on the next best thing. "Meg isn't stupid. Wanna tell me how you managed to get her to play along?"

"I offered her what she wanted to hear." Cas didn't look at him but toed his shoes off instead.

Dean was distracted for a moment, gaze ensnared by Cas' sock-clad feet being released from the shoes' confines. Why the hell would he - ? Dean shook his head. The bastard was deliberately distracting him. No other reason for it. "And what was that?"

"It's not of import," Cas muttered.

"Not of - " Dean took a deep breath. "You son of a bitch. Would it really kill you to just answer a question with a straight answer?"

"No."

"So?"

"You wanted a straight answer. I answered your question. No, it would not kill me." Such a damn smug tone.

Frustration bubbling over, Dean hit his palm against the wall next to him. "Damn it, Cas!"

Cas seemed to slump, the spark going out of him. He looked at his bare feet on the dusty floorboards, curling his toes. "What do you want to know?"

Everything, Dean wanted to shout, but that wouldn't get him very far either. He didn't need a blow-by-blow recap of what happened. Just a few questions answered.

"Why did she believe you?"

"I told you," Cas said, his voice low and quiet. "I told her what she wanted to hear."

Pulling a tooth from a dog with rabies would have been easier than this. "Okay." Change of tactics, then. "What did she mean when she said 'a kiss for old times' sakes'?"

Cas shifted his weight from one foot to the other, still refusing to look at Dean. His hand went to his neck, scratching and, whoa, Dean had seen this gesture before. "Cas?"

Cas raised his eyes to look at Dean, defensiveness written plain on his face. "I had to make a deal."

"So you…" Dean trailed off.

"Yes."

"You actually kissed a demon." Dean knew he should have grinned, but the cosmic wrongness of Cas' admission sent him reeling so badly that the only thing he could default to was Smart-mouth 101. "I'm kind of surprised there wasn't a major lightning strike or something."

"Not funny, Dean." Cas mouth turn down unhappily. "I merely did what was necessary for her to accept my part. I made her believe I was ready to betray you."

Dean shook his head. "Gotta tell you, Cas," he said, letting grudging admiration colour his words. "I wouldn't have pegged you for an actor."

Cas met his gaze head-on. "I'm not."

Dean fought the urge to hold on to the door's handle as those words yanked the floor from underneath him in one smooth haul. Damn it.

***

It was too quiet. Apart from the occasional crash of furniture being pushed over and gut-wrenching groans, it was suddenly too damn quiet in the spare bedroom they'd locked Sam in.

Dean had been pacing hallway in front of the room for half an hour now under Cas' watchful eyes, getting steadily more antsy. This was taking too long. If Sam really could fight the devil inside his own mind and body, he should have dealt with a demon like Meg in a matter of seconds. This wasn't going the way it was supposed to.

Except there were no other demons like Meg. No other demon had ever possessed Sam. Who knew what she'd learned from him before? Damn, it wasn't a fair test. Of course, Lucifer wasn't going to fight fair, either. It all came back to, if Sam couldn't beat Meg, how could he beat the devil?

He needed to check on Sam. If anything had happened, anything unexpected, he needed to be in there, with his brother. On the other side of that damn door. Not in the hallway, waiting.

Cas caught Dean's look and shook his head slightly, crossing his arms in front of his chest and taking a backwards step, closer to one of the many devil's traps Bobby had painted around the room before he'd left to take the woman Meg had possessed to the nearest hospital.

A new crash came from inside the room, glass shattering, wood groaning. Every muscle in Dean's body seemed to tense up at the same time, sending a piercing headache straight into his brain. A jumbled sound of pain, a groan, a yell and this was the panic room all over again, this was Dean waiting for Sam to fight something he ultimately couldn't, not without it killing him.

"Let me go in there," Dean demanded, taking a step toward Cas.

Cas shifted his weight from one sock-clad foot to the other, rolling his shoulders. "No."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Cas."

Cas uncrossed his arms, letting them sink to his sides. "No, Dean." The gesture of his hands balling into fists at his sides was unmistakeable.

"Cas, for fuck's sake, I can't stay out here while that bitch is tearing him apart from the inside out!"

"You wanted him to do this without drinking demon blood. This was your demand. Your idea. Your condition." Cas' words were relentless. No sympathy. No empathy.

"I know that, you bastard." The reply was supposed to be shouted, but his voice just gave, refused to stay raised. I didn't know it would be like this.

Cas cocked his head, seemingly oblivious to the new sounds coming from the room behind him, to the door rattling on its hinges. Dean's skin crawled.

"What do you really want, Dean?" Cas asked, curiosity written all over his features: eyebrows drawn together, mouth pinched, lines fanning out from his eyes. "Do you want him to win or would you rather see him fail so you have a reason to make him stay?"

A beat of silence. Another. Cas' words trickled into Dean's mind slowly, registering after what felt like a small eternity. They created a small nova that obliterated everything in white-hot rage. The swing was short, powerful; his fist connected with Cas's cheekbone with a resounding crash that had the other man's head flinging to the side, knocking against the wall. Dean flashed back to another punch, to meeting steel and his fingers almost breaking when he'd hit Cas. This time, he met nothing but skin and bone and flesh, and the knowledge that the punch hurt was darkly satisfying. "Don't you dare assume what I want," he hissed, his hands shooting to Cas shoulders and pressing him against the wall. It was almost too easy.

It took Cas a few blinks to shake his head against the initial shock of the blow. He kept his temple where it had connected with the wall, breathing shallow. Dean saw Cas probing his tongue against the inside of his mouth where his teeth must have broken skin. When he finally raised his eyes to look at Dean, they were filled with something so alien Dean instinctively loosened his grip on Cas' shoulders.

"I'll let this one go," Cas said, his voice even lower than usual, breath deflecting off Dean's face in a warm puff of air. "But don't you ever do that again."

Dean's heart stopped beating for a few seconds. This felt too much like déjà vu, Cas had the same relentless, terrifyingly cold stare that he'd had when he'd demanded more respect two years ago. Only this time… Dean's heart began beating again, twice as forceful, sudden rage singing out from every bone in his body. "What are you going to do, huh? Throw me back in the pit?" He inclined his head, letting a parody of a smile cross his face, pressed closer to Cas, their chests touching enough he could feel Cas' heartbeat. Strong. Rapid. "Ain't gonna work anymore without that angel mojo, huh, Cas?"

A small, disconnected part of Dean's brain tried desperately to make him back off and stop talking. What the fuck was he doing? He had Cas pressed against the wall, his arm propped over Cas' throat. Dean saw the bruise on Cas' cheekbone already purpling under the stubble that was on the best way to turn into a scruffy beard.

Yet, Cas' eyes were calm, unfazed. He inclined his head, meeting Dean's gaze squarely. "Try me."

The pulse at Cas' neck jumped. This close, Dean smelled bitter sweat and dust on Cas' skin, mingling with the stink of Dean's own fear.

Cas was right. Dean didn't want Sam to win this fight. Wanted to drag Meg out of Sam screaming and kicking, wanted to do it himself and not have Sam fight and win. The thought of Sam winning this fight scared the living daylights out of him. It meant letting Sam go, sealing the deal Death had made.

Dean wasn't ready for it. Couldn't ever be. The desperate rage flooding his system over this decision had his muscles tensing, his jaw clenching. It was easier, so much easier to direct this anger at Cas. Because, angel or human, Cas could take it. Could take it and throw it back in his face and make him remember why he'd wanted this whole test. Plus, maybe Cas could throw him back to hell.

For a moment of blinding clarity, Dean wasn't sure if he didn't want Cas to do it. If hell wouldn't be easier to take for Sam with Dean being there.

As though reading his mind, Cas suddenly moved, a lightning-quick whirl of arms and clever technique - a warrior, this shouldn't come as a surprise, "I'm a soldier, Dean." - breaking the hold Dean had on Cas. In a dizzying moment that had the blood rushing in his ears, Dean was twisted around and thrown against the wall, even felt the drywall give a little under the impact. His bones protested against abuse that was too damn reminiscent of the beating Dean had taken in the alley. Cas' fingers curled into the front of Dean's shirt, bunching and pulling it tight over Dean's shoulders. Hot breath stirred against Dean's skin. There was nothing angelic about Cas anymore, nothing remained but feral anger. If Dean parted his lips now, he'd be able to taste Cas' breath.

Back to square one, then.

"Tell me you haven't thought about it," Dean said, seeing how his own breath stirred the sweaty hair at Cas' temple. Hair that had always been immaculate before. Hair that was tainted now, like the rest of Cas.

"I won't," Cas growled. His mouth turned into a tight line. He pushed even farther into Dean's body, sealing their bodies against one another as he gripped Dean by the throat. "I won't."

Dean tried to swallow against the pressure applied to his Adam's apple, relaxed all his muscles at once, forcing Cas to all but support him and hold Dean's body up with his own.

"You should," Dean rasped, meeting Cas' gaze head-on.

Something unreadable flickered through Cas' eyes, gone too quickly to identify it. The pressure against his throat eased. "I'm not going to repeat the alley, Dean," Cas said, weariness creeping into his voice.

"Then what are you gonna do? There's no option, Cas."

Instead of an answer, Cas let go of him without warning, making Dean slip against the wall and grapple for purchase before Cas' hands were back, jerking, pulling Dean against him, Cas' lips sealing cruelly against Dean's.

Something numb and shocky flooded Dean's veins. Suddenly, he couldn't hear anything besides the rushing of his blood in his ears, the sound of Cas' breathing, a quiet cacophony that was too close to Cas' real voice for his comfort. It wasn't a kiss, just bruising pressure and then there were teeth closing on his lower lip for a split second and Dean's head cracked against the wall as he jerked it away from the sudden sharp pain.

Dean felt Cas' body against his, half-shocked to realise that Cas was hard against him, his erection urgent and grinding into Dean. This wasn't who he'd always thought he was and what, before knowing Cas, he'd ever thought he wanted, but, sucking in a gulping breath of air and reaching for Cas' shoulder to reel him in impossibly closer, this was what he needed. He needed Cas' mouth on him, Cas' skin under his fingers, Cas' dick against his own. Dean was hard in a matter of seconds when he tunnelled his hands underneath Cas' shirt to feel hot, smooth skin, slicked by a strip of sweat down the spine. He found Cas' mouth blindly, licking past anger and confusion and guilt to meet Cas' tongue in a struggle for oblivion.

Cas' hands were on Dean's pants by now, fiddling, tearing. Finally, with a frustrated growl, Cas bypassed Dean's belt and just unzipped Dean's jeans, reaching inside roughly, tangling fingers in fabric before shoving past his boxer shorts straight to Dean's dick.

Jesus, Cas' hand was cold.

Dean hissed and swallowed an expletive, sucked Cas' lower lip into his mouth, pulling a groan from Cas that reverberated back through Dean to his spine. His heart pounded in his ears, faster by the second. Cas shouldn't know this, shouldn't know any of this, but, most of all, he shouldn't know that this was exactly what Dean needed.

His thought process derailed entirely when Cas closed his hand roughly around his oversensitized dick just as his lips reached Dean's ear, and he sank his teeth into Dean's earlobe.

Dean bucked into Cas' hand, unable to stay quiet any longer. "Fuck."

Skin and touch and musk and sweat and need and pain. Dean's base instincts took over, need sang out into every nerve ending in his body. He dug his fingers into Cas' back, not caring that he would leave bruises, moved his hands lower, under the waistband of Cas' too loose jeans - Dean's jeans, too fucking big on him - finding a firm ass and grabbing it, no finesse, no gentleness, just more. Cas' erection was an insistent pressure against Dean's thigh, but he didn't care, not about reciprocating, not when Cas teeth were back, grazing against his jaw, sharp pain shooting straight to Dean's dick. He gulped in air, smelling musk and sex, and dug his hands even tighter into Cas' ass, felt more than heard Cas groan and lose his rhythm in response.

Cas' grip was too tight, the skin of his rough palm too dry as it moved over Dean's dick, friction and pressure to the point of hurting. Nothing mattered but the pressure building inside Dean, the implosion that would white out everything in him for just a few glorious seconds, higher and higher until -

Cas' hand stilled. His entire body stilled. His heavy breathing gusted down Dean's neck, crept under the collar of his shirt.

An inarticulate noise of protest wrung itself from Dean's throat and he pushed his hips forward, frantically searching for that last bit of pressure to send him over the edge - but it never came. Cas untangled himself from Dean, struggling against Dean's hands as Dean tried to hold on to Cas' ass, pulling him back against Dean in a desperate attempt to finish, to fall over that final edge.

"Dean." Cas' voice was so low and breathless it barely registered over the howl of frustration that was filling Dean's mind. Cas grabbed Dean's wrists and pulled them out of the jeans, pressing Dean's hands flat against the wall. He didn't look at Dean, just breathed. Heavy, laboured breaths through his nose, as though trying to suppress more sounds from escaping.

When the rushing in his ears eased a little, Dean realised why Cas had stopped.

Behind the door was silence. No more crashing. No more pacing. A sound like a storm flaring up and ebbing down. Then, one word, spoken quietly just behind the door, "Dean?"

Ice flooded Dean's veins. He pushed at Cas, who stumbled back and out of Dean's focus. Ignoring the sweat on his body and the sparking sensation along his spine, he tucked himself in, zipped up with difficulty and put his hands against the door. "Sammy?"

"Dean, I - "

Without thinking, Dean unlocked the door, stumbling into the room to find Sam on his knees, hands on the ground to support him, his hair hanging in his face, shadowing his features.

"Sam?" Dean asked, stretching out a hand but not venturing closer just yet. "That you in there?"

Sam raised his head just a little, answering with a shaky, "Ding-dong, the witch is dead."

"You son of a bitch." Dean pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to keep in a sound of mingled victory and despair. Smelled Cas on his hand and closed his eyes, guilt churning in his stomach.

He opened his eyes again, watching Sam scramble to his feet and stumble toward the bed with a groan. Bedsprings squeaked as he dropped on it, face-first.

"Sam, are you - "

"Can we talk later?" Sam mumbled from where his face was pressed into the pillow. "I'm just tired."

Dean swallowed against the flood of questions on the tip of his tongue, pushed the clawing concern aside and nodded. Grabbed a blanket, covered Sam and walked toward the door. He thought he heard a mumbled: "It's okay, Dean. It'll be okay," before he reached the door. Turning back with his hand on the doorknob, he listened to Sam's breath hitch and grow laboured before, after long minutes, it finally evened out and turned into the deep calm of sleep.

Dean slipped out and closed the door behind him as quietly as possible.

In front of it, he sank into a crouch, head resting against the wall.

Sam had made it.

Cas was gone.

The hallway still smelled like sex.

Fuck.

III

Bobby had been back for about an hour now, busying himself in the kitchen to fix dinner with the groceries he'd brought back with him. Dean smelled meatloaf and the unmistakeable whiff of boiling potatoes.

Dean almost missed the sound of Sam's feet on the staircase over the sound of pots clanking.

"Hey," Sam announced as he stumbled into the kitchen, heading straight for the coffee-maker. Bobby sat down the pot he was holding

Dean's head snapped up, searching Sam's face, not entirely sure for what. He only saw fatigue and that was oddly comforting.

"How you feelin'?" Bobby asked, looking at Sam as though ready to dissect him.

Sam shrugged. "Fine."

"Really?"

"Surprisingly, yeah." Sam rubbed a hand over his forehead before reaching for a mug and filling it with coffee. "You should have heard her screaming bloody murder at Cas, though." He cocked his hip against the counter, twitching a grin.

"Speaking of which - " Bobby started, looking at Dean. "Where is he, anyway?"

Dean's shoulders knotted almost instantly. Defensiveness crept up. "How would I know?"

Bobby gave him The Look and Dean threw up his hands. "I was a little preoccupied with Sam at the time. Haven't seen him since."

Stepping away from the coffee maker, Bobby twisted the blind a little, then groaned. "Could you get that idjit in before he kills himself?" Bobby said, not taking his eyes off whatever he saw outside the window.

"What is it, Bobby?" Sam still looked rumpled from sleep, sipped his coffee slowly, trying to wake up.

"Your angel. He's doing his Karate Kid routine again."

"So?" Sam asked, confusion written all over his face.

Bobby crossed his arms, giving both Sam and Dean a glare. "It's thirty degrees outside and the idjit is wearing a t-shirt."

"He's a grown up," Dean huffed, unwilling to disclose the jolt of worry Bobby's words gave him. "Doesn't need a babysitter."

Bobby's eyebrows shot up in a way that made it clear Dean was in trouble. "He's been human for a week now. Ever considered that maybe he doesn't know what he's in for?" The 'get out there now and do something before the idjit gets frostbite' wasn't even implied. Bobby might as well have shouted it.

"He's an angel, Bobby. I think he can handle it." Really, Dean needed him to. He also desperately needed to not talk to Cas right now. Because, what could he say? 'Hey, thanks for distracting me by jerking me off and then leaving me with the blue balls of the century, sorry there was no time to return the favour?'

"Get out there, Dean. Now. Before I slap some sense into that brick head of yours."

Dean looked at Sam, but the traitor just shrugged. "He's right."

Great. Dean flicked the bottle cap he was holding at Sam's face, then scraped the chair he was sitting on over the wooden floor. "Fine."

Without thinking, he stopped to grab his sweatshirt off the armchair before heading out.

***

"So," Dean said as he halted his steps next to Cas. "What are you doing?" His words turned into white puffs that moved in Cas' direction. Fuck, but it was cold. Dean gripped the sweatshirt he was holding tighter, winding it around his hand.

Cas shot him a quick look but resumed going through the fluid motions Dean had been watching from the window for a while now.

"Problem: attitude, Daniel-san."

Cas stopped in mid-movement, eyebrows knitting. "You realise that that reference means nothing to me, Dean, right?"

"Right," Dean answered. He switched on a grin. "Got you to stop, though, didn't it?"

Cas relaxed, guiding his leg back to the ground and standing with his arms hanging loosely at his sides. "It did."

"So, what's with the Tai Chi crap?" Of course, Dean had recognised what Cas was doing. Techniques like that were part of hunter training, getting in touch with your body was an important part of the trade. Ellen had refined the basic training he'd had. If you weren't familiar with your body's reactions, she'd said, didn't know how to give it what it needed, you were dead.

"Do I really need to explain?"

"Actually, yeah. Since you kinda suck at the whole elaborating thing."

"Dean." The single word held enough exasperation for a lifetime. Cas rolled his shoulders, working out a kink there and wincing at the sound of bones and ligaments crunching.

"That's not an answer."

Cas shot him a dirty look and Dean wondered when Cas had picked up Sam's "No shit, Sherlock" glare.

With a gusty sigh, Cas answered, "Physical exercise helps to quiet my mind. Since I woke up in that hospital bed, everything has been too loud. My grace is no longer there to shield me. Every emotion, every sensation, is raw and real and too close."

Dean shoved his hands underneath his armpits, taking the sweatshirt with them, one sleeve dangling toward the ground and brushing the frost-glittered dirt.

"Every sensation, huh?" Dean said, his tongue heavy in his mouth. If he lifted his hands to his face now, he'd still be able to smell Cas on his fingers. If he didn't ignore it, his earlobe throbbed in the exact places Cas' teeth had left marks. He was surprised to hear a huff of laughter from Cas.

"Dean, what happened earlier is the least of my problems."

Still torn between the shame burning in his cheeks and the need to run far, far away from this conversation, Cas' words slowly trickled in. Dean's head snapped up, and he was looking at Cas, really looking at him for what seemed like the first time since Cas got back.

Cas looked, for the lack of a better word, frail. Dean had never seen so much skin on Cas before, and so little clothing, so few layers to shield him from the human world. But now here he was, in a pair of Dean's jeans and one of Dean's old shirts, soft with many washings and now dark with sweat, clinging to Cas' wiry frame. Human. But still enough of an angel underneath that Dean didn't doubt for a moment that Cas would pull through. He was a soldier and he made do. It would take time, and it would hurt like hell, but it was what Cas did, what he'd always done, since the day he'd pulled Dean out of hell. No matter what life threw at him, Cas either dodged it or accepted the blow and rolled with it, riding out the pain and coming out stronger on the other side of it. Dean just didn't know how much it would take out of Cas to roll with this one.

Cas had started to shiver as the late autumn chill cooled the sweat.

Dean snapped himself out of his contemplation, trying for levity. "We'll both have even more problems if I don't get you inside soon." He threw the sweatshirt at Cas, deliberately aiming at Cas' face. "Put this on before you freeze to death. Then come inside and take a shower. You stink."

Cas caught the sweatshirt one-handed before it hit him. He held it up, looking at the size. "Yours?" he asked.

Dean shrugged a yes. Of course it was. Cas would have drowned in Sam's clothes. Even Dean's stuff was too loose on him. Dean'd have to take him to a couple of his favourite burger joints after the damn apocalypse was averted, to get some meat on Cas' bones.

Looking at the sweatshirt for a long moment, Cas bunched it in his hands, brought it to his face and… inhaled. Uninhibited. In that fucking matter-of-fact way of his that saw absolutely no problem with inhaling the scent of Dean's sweatshirt.

Dean stared, unblinking. His heart stuttered to a stop, his mouth suddenly too dry to even swallow.

Cas let his hands sink down, quirked a small smile in Dean's direction. "I'll wear it after the shower, then."

***

"First Karate Kid and now a hobbit, too? It's getting a bit much, kid," Bobby said and Dean flinched when he suddenly saw Cas beside him, sliding the chair back and sitting down in front of the empty plate. Dean hadn't heard him come down the stairs at all.

Cas shot Bobby a confused frown, prompting Bobby to elaborate, "Normal people wear shoes."

"I'm not a normal person," Cas stated, matter-of-factly, while running his hand along the rim of the plate.

Bobby snorted. "Gee, thanks for the reminder."

Cas looked better, Dean thought. Skin slightly red and hair still wet from the shower like a kid. He definitely smelled better than before. Dean's sweatshirt was loose on him, but at least he looked a warmer. The no-shoes thing was a puzzle, though, one he'd have to ask about sooner or later. The purpling bruise on Cas' cheek was barely visible under the stubble, but the mere shadow of it had Dean's guilt-metre pegging out. Damn it. Damn it all.

"Stop staring, boy," Bobby snapped good-naturedly. "Make yourself useful and get the meatloaf from the oven."

"Yes, mother," Dean answered.

Bobby threw an oven mitt at him. "Idjit."

From the corner of his eye, just as he caught the mitt, he saw Sam smile at their exchange. Dean concentrated on the meatloaf instead, pulling the sizzling pan out of the oven.

The smell was an instant trip down the memory lane and Dean wondered if Bobby had remembered that his meatloaf was one of Sam's and his favourite dishes. No one made it quite the way Bobby did. Something about using dark beer and tomato paste, Bobby had explained once. Neither Dean nor Sam had really cared, all that mattered was that it tasted awesome. It smelled and looked extra-good tonight, too, as though Bobby had put particular effort into it. Like one would for someone's last meal…

Dean's hand slipped and his fingertips touched the hot metal. He dropped the pan back on the rack, cursing, and shoved his burnt fingers into his mouth.

"You all right?" he heard Sam ask.

"Fine," he answered automatically around his fingers. "Fine." Just peachy.

"Don't you dare drop it," Bobby groused. "I made an effort with this."

Damn it, Bobby, don't confirm it, don't, just don't.

"All good. Nothing happened," Dean said as he grabbed the oven mitts again to carry the pan to the table. The smile he plastered on his face was so fake it hurt.

Of course, Bobby noticed. Of course, he had to look fucking guilty about it, too. But Dean couldn't berate him for it, not when Bobby meant well, not when cooking Sam's favourite dish was the only thing he could still do to make this even remotely bearable.

Dean fought the urge to fling the meatloaf pan half way across the room. Instead, he set it down gingerly, tipping it on the plate right in front of Bobby. "Do the honours, chef."

Sam moved his chair closer to the table, his eyes brightening. Cas was still busy running his finger along the rim of his plate, so lost in thought Dean doubted Cas noticed anything around him. The sight alone made Dean want to take the plate and smash it just to bring Cas back to the here and now.

He didn't. It was the unspoken rule at this table, in this kitchen, for the night. No fuss. No drama. Just pretend everything was fine.

Bobby took the knife, set the tip against the meatloaf, then stopped, a smile spreading over his face. "Hey, did I ever tell you how I learned to make this?"

"Not really," Sam said. He, too, was making an effort, though Dean could tell that he didn't really care.

"I was down in Memphis for a hunt, helping this elderly southern lady who claimed she had a Barghest problem before her husband passed away. She was hearing it again and was afraid something was going to happen to her kids or grandkids."

"Barghest?" Dean echoed.

"You might know it as Black Shuck," Bobby explained.

Sam straightened a little, interest piqued. "Monstrous black dog, huge teeth and claws, glowing red eyes, all that jazz, portent of death of close relatives?"

"That's our friend," Bobby confirmed. "Now, she'd insisted on making me dinner while I was there helping her out, and she'd made this awesome meatloaf when suddenly, we heard barking and howling outside. She starts shaking, saying that it's there and it's come to get her. So I go outside, all armed and ready for a fight and she insists on following me, saying she won't feel safe in the house. We search for an hour, no signs of the Barghest, just a trail of paw-prints leading back to the house."

Bobby pressed the knife against the meatloaf, cutting the first, generous slice. He placed it on Sam's plate, who immediately started shoveling buttermilk mashed potatoes next to it without taking his eyes off Bobby.

"And?" Dean asked, curious despite the obvious distraction.

"We come back to the house and there's this giant dog in the kitchen, snoring next to the stove. I get ready to shoot it when it wakes up and blinks at us, yawning so huge you'd think it wants to swallow us whole."

Sam stopped shoveling. "And?"

"Well, turns out all it swallowed was the meatloaf."

"No Barghest?" Sam's plate clanked against the table as he set it down.

Bobby shook his head, grinned, and sliced more of the meatloaf. "A black Mastino. His name was Pinocchio. Belonged to the neighbours a few houses down the road."

"Pinocchio?"

"Yup," Bobby answered. "Had a problem with his nose, too."

Sam laughed. A good, infectious sound Dean hadn't heard in way too long. For a moment, it made him forget everything around him, even Bobby serving Cas and Cas starting to tuck in without waiting.

"These black dogs are easily confused with normal dogs, it seems," Dean said. "Something similar happened to Sam and me once in Ohio. Remember that, Sammy?"

Sam stopped chewing with the fork half-way en route to his mouth. He let it fall back into the mashed potatoes and swallowed. "You mean the poodle incident?" His eyebrows knitted in displeasure. "I thought we'd decided to never talk about that again. Ever."

"Aww, come on, Sammy, those were good times," Dean said, chuckling around a bit of meatloaf. He made the mistake of looking at Sam, of catching his brother's damn lost puppy look and the smile slipped from his lips. Good times. Good times that would never come back because this was it. Sammy was going to hell with Lucifer. This was one of the last dinners they'd have together.

It was suddenly hard to swallow.

"Can I have the mashed potatoes, please?" Cas' softly spoken question was too loud in the sudden deathly silence of the kitchen. It managed to shake them all from their stupor, though. Bobby reacted automatically, reaching for Cas' plate and spooning a giant portion of mashed potatoes on it without even really looking at the plate.

"Thank you." Cas started eating with a healthy appetite, slow and methodical, apparently oblivious to the heavy tension in the room. Everything seemed to come easy to him, Dean noticed with a sudden burst of irritation toward Cas. Becoming human, gay sex, this… It had to be nice, being able to feel so little.

He'd barely allowed the thought to surface when he already kicked himself for thinking it. None of this was easy for Cas. He'd let a glimpse of that show outside, but that barely scratched the surface. Cas did a damn good job of hiding it. Too good of a job.

"I sometimes wonder if Black Shucks and Hellhounds are related somehow," Sam suddenly said. The need to pick up the conversation to say anything at all to break the silence sang from his every pore. "I mean, they're both portents of death, both vicious with giant teeth and claws. Only, one is visible and the other one can only be seen by the person who…" He trailed off, looking at Dean with something akin to horror. His dinner lay forgotten on the plate. Dean saw fork marks in the mashed potatoes, spiral patterns that only a nerd like Sam would draw. Sammy had done that since he was four.

Any other day, Dean would have laughed at the look on Sam's face. Today, all he managed to say was, "Shut up, Sammy. Just… shut up."

Sam dropped his gaze back to his plate. Started drawing more patterns in the mashed potatoes. Stopped when he noticed Dean watching. Pushed the plate away from him.

"You're not going to finish?" Bobby asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Sam swallowed thickly, rubbed his left hand over his forehead. "Guess I'm not as hungry as I thought I was."

"Sam," Dean said, too close to pleading for his own liking. Not for himself. For Bobby and the wounded look he tried to hide. Were they all trying to kill him tonight?

"You should eat, Sam," Cas suddenly piped up, words muffled around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "It really is very good." He appeared to be looking at his plate but Dean saw the glances he shot Sam. Not quite as far away as Dean had thought, then.

Sam expelled air from his lungs explosively, a blend between a huff and a laugh. "It is." He pulled the plate toward him again. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby waved a hand. "Eh." Dean heard the smile behind the syllable. "There's plenty more if you like. Just don't let it get cold."

They spent the rest of the meal in silence, stealing glances at each other.

continued here, thanks to LJ's limitations