Episode 10: In the Midnight Hour (Part 2)

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Dean's being doing this job for longer than he sometimes cares to think about, and during that time he's been subject to a myriad of unpleasant things, but one of his least favorite sensations will always and forever be that of regaining consciousness to find himself tied to some kind of stationary object.

A chair, in this instance, his wrists secured to the armrests with thick lengths of rope; just simple hemp, but wound tight enough to bite into his flesh and seriously hinder his circulation. Oh, he's sure he could wriggle free given an hour or so, but given the circumstances, he suspects that time is not currently on his side.

His head still aches dully thanks to the blow from his unseen attacker, but not in a way that screams concussion, so that's probably not his biggest priority right now. Pushing the pain to the back of his mind, he focuses on his surroundings: he's definitely not at the golf club anymore, but the faint salt-tang of sea air suggests that he probably hasn't been moved too far. The room he's in looks like it might have functioned as a kitchen in a past life, though it's obviously long since been abandoned, grime encrusting the floor tiles and mildew streaking up the walls.

Castiel is seated maybe ten feet from him, similarly bound; though on closer inspection Dean suspects that the rope bondage is purely for aesthetic purposes in his case, and his current state of immobility has a hell of a lot more to do with the Enochian sigils daubed on the floor around his chair in what looks disturbingly like blood. Crap. Dean gets a flash of their similarly bound positions in Purgatory and swallows against the panic filling his chest.

"Cas, you okay?" he whispers.

"I'm fine," Castiel replies tightly, sounding the very definition of not fine. Dean knows that Castiel would never voluntarily admit to or display any kind of weakness, but he also remembers his own state of mind in the months immediately following his return from Hell well enough to see straight through the angel's stoicism. Even now, the sensation of being held captive and powerless at the mercy of some unknown adversary is enough to send Dean back to the months-years-decades spent in Alastair's tender care. Bound and helpless. But he doesn't let his mind go back there. He no longer belongs to Alastair.

But Dean still understands Castiel's resurgent fear. Dean's been there, and he recognizes the signs. The minute twitch of Castiel's jaw and the repeated clench-unclench of his hands against the armrests of his chair are a dead giveaway. Dean has another flashback to that awful moment back in Purgatory when he'd first seen Castiel tethered to a stake, forced to manifest against his will, and feels a violent surge of anger on his friend's behalf.

"Just take it easy," Dean murmurs in what he hopes is something approaching a soothing tone. Castiel - ungrateful bastard that he is - merely shoots him a glare in response. Dean snorts inelegantly, but whatever he might say next is interrupted by the clatter of high-heeled boots on the tiled floor and a rasping female voice that sends his heart plummeting all the way down to his shoes.

"Now this is what I like to see," Meg chirps smugly, looking every inch like the cat who got the cream. Dean wouldn't be overly surprised if she started rubbing her hands together in villainous glee. "You boys sure look pretty when you're all tied up and helpless. Kinky."

She's flanked on either side by two massive, burly demons at least three times her size, but Dean isn't fooled; he knows who holds the real power here. I apprenticed under Alastair in Hell, she'd said the last time they met, and that doesn't just make her dangerous - it makes her lethal.

More than that, though, Meg is a loose cannon. At least Crowley's goals are always somewhat predictable, but Dean and Sam have been playing this game of cat-and-mouse with Meg for approaching seven years now, and it's still impossible to know what her ever-changing agenda will be from one appearance to the next.

"I was wondering when you'd show your face again," he sneers at her by way of greeting.

Meg tsks, tipping her head to the side in amusement. "Must be your lucky day, Deano." She moves toward him and Dean realizes that, for all her swagger, her appearance has fallen into a noticeable state of disrepair since the last time they crossed paths. Demons are an insufferably vain bunch by their very nature, he knows, and Meg is no exception when it comes to picking only the most attractive hosts to possess; but from this close Dean can tell that her dark hair is matted and tangled, her boots scuffed. There's a large tear above the left knee of her jeans, and her eyes have a wild, hunted look about them that he really doesn't like.

Still on the run from King Crowley, Dean guesses, though he keeps the observation to himself. He's so engrossed in this revelation that he doesn't notice how close Meg has gotten until she tugs his jacket open, reaches into the inside pocket and pulls out Ruby‘s knife. She studies it for a moment, turning the blade over under the dim light, before handing it off to one of her lackeys.

"So where's the third Musketeer, huh?" she asks pointedly, her gaze flicking back and forth between Dean and Castiel.

"Sam isn't here." The lie slips out automatically, even though Dean knows there's no way in hell she's ever going to believe it. Sure enough, the look she gives him in response is one of pure, scathing disbelief.

"How stupid do you think I am?" she snaps.

Dean grins. "Do you really want me to answer that?"

Meg narrows her eyes, and that's all the warning Dean gets before she slaps him hard across the face, hard enough to send his head snapping violently to the side. He thinks he hears Castiel make a muted noise of protest, but it's difficult to be sure with the ringing in his ears.

Meg crouches down in front of him, grabs a fistful of his t-shirt and yanks him forwards so that his wrists strain painfully against their bonds.

"You mind your tongue if you want to keep it in your head," she snarls. Her breath hits Dean's face as she speaks, and he tries not to gag at the fetid reek of sulfur. How Castiel could ever have kissed her is beyond him. And that's something he's definitely not thinking about right now.

Unfortunately, Meg makes it ten times more difficult for him not to think about it when she releases his shirt and rises to her feet, tossing him a suggestive wink before sauntering over to her second captive. From this angle, Dean can just about make out Meg smiling pleasantly at Castiel before dropping herself into his lap, straddling his waist and leaning in so that the distance between their faces would be measurable by centimeters.

Dean has to give the angel credit for not flinching away from her, but all the same, he finds himself suddenly seeing red. It's not quite the same indignant rage he'd felt earlier; rather, it's something a good deal more proprietary, something that has him wanting to run Meg through with the knife just for touching Castiel. He's reminded forcibly of their assault on Crowley's monster prison, and the fact that Castiel was a more than willing participant in that kiss, even if Meg was the one to initiate it; for a second, all he can see is Castiel shoving her up against the wall, his fingers twisting and tangling in her hair as he showed her exactly how educational some good old pizza-delivery porn could be.

Pushing the image away, Dean blinks and takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down because, seriously? First off, really not the time or place, and secondly, what the hell?

"Hey, baby," Meg croons, scraping her thumbnail across Castiel's cheek. "Did you miss me?"

"Not particularly," Castiel tells her flatly. Meg laughs, seemingly unfazed, before trailing her hand - deceptively delicate-looking - down the side of his face and wrapping it around the base of his throat; a warning. Dean gets that ugly, possessive feeling rising up within him again, and he finds himself wanting to tell her hands off, skank. This time, however, he decides to use it to his advantage, channeling all that adrenaline into working on loosening his restraints while Meg is distracted. He flexes his muscles against the rope, testing the give.



"What the hell happened to you, anyway?" Meg asks, studying Castiel like he's some interesting specimen under a microscope. "'Cause I'm willing to bet I wouldn't even need all these angel scratchings to hold you here. Did you fall, baby?"

Castiel doesn't answer; instead, he stares her down silently in a manner that Dean suspects would be highly unnerving to anybody who wasn't a raging sociopath. Since this is Meg, she just smirks that little bit wider, flattens her free hand against Castiel's sternum and tilts her head towards his chest, reminding Dean of a doctor monitoring a patient's heart rate.

"No," she concludes eventually, after what feels like hours. "There's still some angel in there, but it's buried under all that nasty trauma. Might as well be human for all the use you are right now, huh, Clarence?"

"Why don't you let me go and put that theory to the test?" Castiel suggests evenly, and Dean has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from grinning at that. Let it never be said that Cas can't still be one terrifying motherfucker when he wants to be, powers or no.

"Them's fighting words…I like!" Meg enthuses. "But you can just sit tight, big boy, because first you're going to answer a few questions for me. Now, I don't suppose you know where your business associate is?"

Suddenly she's all business, the flirtatious demeanor gone like the flipping of a switch, and it makes Dean nervous.

"You know, your little partner in crime?" she adds when Castiel doesn't answer right away. "That was a real neat trick the two of you pulled, faking his death like that. It would have almost had me convinced, if not for the fact I've been fighting off his minions for the last fucking year."

The last part of that sentence is hissed right into Castiel's face, and it becomes apparent to Dean just from her tone of voice that Meg is angrier than he's ever seen her. More than that, she's getting desperate. He waits for the inevitable stab of betrayal at the reminder of Castiel's duplicity, but it's somewhat dulled around the edges when it comes, and less painful by far than he had expected. Maybe it's because he's witnessed firsthand just how horrifically Castiel has paid for his crimes, or maybe it's just because Dean himself has done enough mending over the last few months that he's finally arrived at a place where forgiveness doesn't seem so desperately out of reach. Either way, he takes it as a positive sign; the only one to come out of this whole clusterfuck of a situation.

"I haven't seen Crowley for months," Castiel informs Meg in that same flat tone of voice.

"That's too bad," Meg tells him right before her face twists into an ugly sneer and she tightens her hand around his throat, squeezing hard enough that her knuckles turn white and watching Cas choke in apparent fascination.

"Hey!" Dean snaps, hoping to distract her. It's a stupid move, and he knows the first rule of any hostage situation is to never give your captor any kind of leverage, never let them know what your fellow hostages mean to you. He remembers vividly how those emotional ties can be exploited from Zachariah's repeated and spirited attempts to persuade him to bend over for Michael.

Stupid or not, it works. Meg relaxes her hold, the anger seeming to evaporate as that easy-going, free-spirited persona settles back over her like a glamour. That's all it is, though: an illusion, a façade. Dean knows only too well that the demon inside is nothing more than a swirling mass of rage and hatred, cultured over centuries spent being flayed alive at Alastair's loving hand.

It occurs to him - not for the first time - that this could have been him.

"I think your boyfriend's worried about you," Meg remarks, patting Castiel's cheek as he gasps and wheezes. "Don't worry, Dean, I'm not gonna kill him. Well, not yet. I'm not really here for Crowley, anyway."

"Then why are you here?" Dean demands, partly out of genuine curiosity and partly in an effort to keep her talking. "Don't tell me it's just for the weather."

Meg smiles at him. "I heard you boys were in the area, and it's been so long since we last saw each other, I thought it was about time we were due for a catch-up."

Dean rolls his eyes. "You're all heart. Now what's the real reason?" An awful suspicion hits him then. "Wait a minute. All those people are missing… was that you?"

The demon lets out a much put-upon sigh and dismounts from Castiel's lap, standing in front of them both with a distinctly self-satisfied look on her face. Dean braces himself for the punchline while trying to surreptitiously check his restraints again. He thinks there's a little more slack in them than there was before, but there's still no way he's getting free anytime soon.

"Please. Massacring fat tourists isn't really my style. Besides, this isn't just Galveston; it's a worldwide phenomenon, genius. Hawaii, Indonesia, freaking Greenland; everywhere that has a coastline. People are disappearing like the big man in the sky is pulling them up for the Rapture. So we're here to do a little investigating of our own."

Dean frowns, unsettled by Meg's revelations. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Meg throws back her head and laughs, the sound of it like nails on a chalkboard. "You really don't know what's going on do you?"

"But you know something," he accuses, a warming siren building in the back of his head. Fuck.

"I have my suspicions," Meg confirms with a toss of her hair.

"Care to share with the class exactly what those are?" Dean asks, hoping for something.

"Nope nope nope," Meg says, voice all sing-song.

"Come on Meg. Give us a little hint. We go way back you know," Dean mock pleads.

Meg seems to think on it for a long moment, and her grin widens. "It's something big, Deano," she teases. "I can tell you that. Something so big and so powerful. It's coming, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. And I can tell you that it's unlike anything you've seen before." She sounds like she's happy to share the news with someone, finally, but her teeth glint savage. "Crowley has something that I want, and anything that can cause destruction on this kind of scale has the power to help me get it. I want in on what's going down."

"So what you're telling me is that you're still an apocalyptic gold-digging bitch?" Dean mutters. "Hitching your ties to whatever Big Bad offers you a ride."

"A girl's gotta eat, Dean," Meg smiles. "But this time I'll be the one left in the power seat. I want to be on top. I want-"

"Hell," Castiel interrupts, staring at Meg with a newfound intensity, like she's just revealed something absolutely fascinating. "You want to overthrow Crowley and take control of Hell for yourself."

Meg smiles in a way that makes Dean think of knives and sharp teeth tearing into flesh. "Cookie for you."

"But…you hate Hell," Dean points out, because he can remember her talking about it in Sam's voice, as clear as if it was yesterday. A prison made of bone and flesh and blood and fear, she'd called it, with the kind of pain, the kind of anger, that couldn't be faked. Dean had sold his soul just a few months later, and it had been her words that rang in his ears as he'd kissed the crossroads demon and sealed his fate.

Meg sneers and paces around to the back of his chair, leaning over his shoulder so that her hair is pressed against his cheek as she speaks directly into his ear.

"Everyone hates Hell, Dean, that's why it's Hell. Doesn't make it any less my home, though, does it? There's nothing on earth like the smell of sulfur in the morning, that look in somebody's eyes right before you eviscerate them. You can't tell me you don't miss it because we're the same, you and me…it's the only place we've ever really belonged."

Dean sucks in a sharp breath, Meg's words hitting too close for comfort. He glances over to Castiel, though he's not really sure what he's looking for. Maybe some kind of reassurance that it's not true, that she's lying because that's what demons do. The angel looks like he wants to rip her apart with his bare hands, which is undeniably gratifying; but much more importantly, Dean notices that he's managed to undo the rope around both his wrists, though the flesh looks raw and bloody as a result. Castiel catches Dean's eye, giving him a significant look, and Dean trusts him enough to realize that he's waiting for the right moment.

"Face it, Dean," Meg tells him, and her voice is a low snarl in his ear. "If the God Squad hadn't come swooping in to get you out of there, you'd be exactly the same as me."

Dean doesn't say anything, because he really can't disagree.

Fortunately Castiel starts talking. "You're chasing after things that are too big for you to handle," the angel warns. "That kind of power…it'll consume you."

"Thanks for the concern, but don't assume the same rules apply to everybody," Meg bites out acidly, straightening and digging her nails into Dean's shoulder before walking back to Castiel. "You see, the thing about power is that it feeds off your insecurities. You have to be sure that you can control it, rather than letting it control you. But then, I guess you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? What was the final death toll at the end of your little killing spree, anyway?"

It's no worse than some of the thoughts Dean himself has had towards Castiel in his less charitable moments over the last few months, but somehow it all sounds horribly unfair coming from Meg. He sucks in a breath, and there's maybe a second or two where the entire room seems to freeze, time crawling to a standstill as they teeter on a precipice. Then the world rushes back in, and several things happen all at once.

Firstly, the second Meg gets within striking distance, Castiel leaps out of his chair and punches her across the face with a mean right-hook that has Dean wincing as he remembers how it feels to be on the receiving end.

Almost at the same time, a gunshot rings through the room. Dean ducks on instinct, but not before he sees one of Meg's demon lackeys light up gold inside and fall to the floor, an empty shell. He half-turns in the direction of the noise, and there, silhouetted in the doorway, is Sam, the Colt held out in front of him and his expression caught somewhere between bewildered and enraged.

Dean has maybe five seconds to reflect that he's rarely been so glad to see his brother, before the second hench-demon is barreling into Sam, disarming him in an instant.

And then all hell breaks loose.



The initial satisfaction Castiel gleans from punching Meg rapidly dissipates when he realizes just how little effect it's actually had. The sigils on the floor worked to drain what minimal amount of strength he had left, and the blow does nothing more than send the demon staggering back a few paces. Still, it provides a brief distraction, and though the timing was pure coincidence, it works out well enough when Sam chooses that moment to make his entrance, felling the largest of Meg's accomplices with a well-aimed bullet from Samuel Colt's gun.

Meg spits blood onto the floor as she regains her composure, looking positively murderous as her gaze moves between all three of them. She waves a hand, and Castiel finds himself flying across the room, his back and shoulder slamming into the opposite wall. He hears something crunch on impact, and hopes it was tile rather than bone.

"You're late to the party, Sammy," Meg simpers as her remaining comrade subdues the youngest Winchester with ease. "We already got started without you."

"Meg." Sam spits her name like a curse, and Castiel is forcibly reminded that this is the demon whose hounds killed Ellen and Jo Harvelle, who once possessed Sam himself. He's almost surprised by the depth of the anger he feels, and he reminds himself that attacking her again would be pointless in his current condition. Instead, he takes advantage of the fact that her attention seems to be focused on Sam for the moment, and makes his way over to the empty body of the demon Sam killed, searching the man's pockets for the knife.

"Cas," Dean whispers furiously, still struggling in vain to escape his bonds. Castiel ignores him.

"How's my father doing?" Meg goads from above him, presumably still talking to Sam. "I heard he's been dropping in to visit you quite regularly."

Giving up on the pockets, Castiel moves on to the dead man's boots, offering up a silent prayer of thanks as his hand closes around the hilt. He pulls it out, the Samuel Colt-forged weapon that once belonged to Ruby; the very same weapon he used to ensure his and Dean's escape from the Green Room in Van Nuys, what seems like so long ago now.

"Hate to break it to you, but your daddy's rotting in the Cage," Sam tells Meg coldly. "And the best part? It's maximum life imprisonment."

Meg lets out a snarl of fury, drawing her own blade and launching herself at Sam. There's no time for Castiel to do anything but react; he snaps his wings out as best he can and flings himself across the room, shoving Sam roughly out of the way as he thrusts Ruby's knife into the gut of the demon holding him. Unfortunately, the maneuver puts him right in the path of Meg's attack, and a second later he feels the sharp edge of her own knife slice through the soft flesh of his upper chest.

It's only a glancing blow, and even in his current weakened state his grace protects him from feeling the full force of the injury. But it's still enough to force him back a step, the wound searing hot as blood begins to flow.

Meg clucks her tongue at him, still superior even though she's breathing heavily. "That's one hell of a hero complex you got there, Clarence. I'll see you around, boys."

Castiel raises the demon-killing knife, but a second later he's left staring at mid-air as Meg disappears from right in front of him.

"Son of a bitch," Dean curses. Castiel glances in his direction and sees that he's still tied to his chair, tugging fruitlessly against the rope. Castiel suspects the picture he makes might even be comical in different circumstances.

"Hey, uh, thanks Cas," Sam mutters, picking himself up gingerly and dusting down his clothes. "I owe you one."

Castiel looks up at him, at the earnest expression on his face and remembers the way he had convulsed on the floor of Bobby's library. He remembers reaching up to touch Sam's head, aiming to disable, to bring it all tumbling down. Anything to keep Dean out of his way, and damn the consequences.

Castiel shakes his head. "You don't owe me anything."

The air in the room seems thicker, somehow, as Castiel limps over to Dean, ignoring the stinging in his chest as his injury makes itself known. His back aches too, from where he was thrown into the wall, and he winces as he imagines the spectacular bruises that must be blossoming there even now.

"Punching her in the face?" Dean asks incredulously as Castiel uses the knife to cut him free. "That was your plan?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Castiel snaps, discomfort making him irritable.

Dean rolls his wrists as the ropes fall away, breathing a sigh of relief. The delicate skin there is raw and painful-looking, and even though he knows the damage is utterly insignificant compared to what Dean has suffered before, Castiel still finds himself wishing that he were strong enough to heal the abrasions, to make Dean whole and perfect again. Meg's words echo through his mind: you might as well be human for all the use you are right now.

"Hey," Dean's voice breaks through his reverie, and Castiel feels his face heat up as he realizes he's still kneeling in front of the other man. He looks up, and sees that Dean's forehead is scrunched in a tiny frown.

"You're bleeding." Dean reaches out to gently press his fingers to Castiel's chest. They come away stained bright red with blood, and Castiel stares at it, mesmerized. The color is incongruously cheerful, almost offensive in its garishness. He's spilled so much of his vessel's blood since coming down to earth, splitting open veins to paint sigils, taking hits from angels and demons alike when he hasn't been fast enough to outmaneuver them. But seeing it now, losing it now, is almost overwhelming.

Castiel takes a breath, collecting himself. "I'm fine." He thinks he means it to be reassuring, but it comes out flat and staid.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, sure you are. Cas-"

"It's just a flesh wound," he insists, something he's heard Dean and Sam say to one another multiple times. "I'm fine, Dean."

Castiel passes the knife back to Dean and stands. Adds, "We should go."



Outside, the Impala gleams in the sun, waiting for them like a reliable old friend. Sam is used to Dean's easy tread beside him, and Castiel's fleet-footed stride, as though the intangible thing that makes him more than human also makes him several pounds lighter, but there has been something new and forming between the two that Sam can't help but notice. It's in the way that Dean's steps will fall into time with Castiel's, and Sam doesn't think Dean even recognizes it. Nor does Dean notice when Castiel's breath, always shallow and near-nonexistent, will speed up to match the rhythm of Dean's, as though even down to their atoms they are struggling to form a magic of osmosis - to become one another, to make up for all that the other one loses with time.

Sam waits as they sink into the car, their combined heavy slump rocking the vehicle back and forth, before he starts the engine with a flick of his wrist, a press of metal. It's the sound of Dean's seatbelt clicking into place that catches Sam's attention, the rough tick of metal that suggests a deeper heat festering beneath Dean's surface.

Sam glances across, sees his brother is glowering into the rearview mirror, watching Castiel. Sam steals his own look, sees that the angel is leaning against the window with his hands folded in his lap. There is fresh blood seeping into the wrinkles of his knuckles, staining them rusty. Cas is probably learning that throwing punches is nothing like watching it happen during Dean's reruns of Dr. Sexy, where eye sockets and cheekbones don't swell and bruise and punches don't break fingers when thrown on another person's jaw.

"Count to ten," Sam blurts as he eyes his brother again.

Dean visibly startles, snaps, "What?"

Sam says it again, "Count to ten. If you're angry about something. It helps with the stress."

Dean sighs, running a hand over his face. "Is that what Sheriff Mills says?"

"No," Sam says, and pulls out Post Traumatic Stress Disorder: How to Survive the Aftermath in a Destroyed Psyche. The bent pages catch on his pocket as he tosses it onto Dean's lap, where it sits as though Sam had just thrown a pie face first into his crotch. "Dr. Nock says."

"Oh. Well, Dr. Winchester thinks cocky angels should think twice before throwing themselves in the path of danger. That might help with my stress."

Dean enunciates the words with extra care, and Sam experiences a sensation he can only describe as a desire to become one with the scarred leather of the driver's seat. It's what he imagines watching his parents fighting would feel like. He cringes as he glances at the back seat. Castiel has perked up from where he was staring out the window at the scenery, his face having gone from placid to attention-sharp in a fraction of a second. Sam can almost hear the sizzle in the atmosphere as Dean and Castiel's eyes meet through the rearview mirror.

"I should think you would be grateful-" Castiel begins, his tone cool, but Dean's voice interjects, and Sam can hear the exhaustion that makes him ragged, eats at his senses, turning his brother hard and unforgiving.

"Grateful? And how grateful do you think I'll be if you get yourself shot, or…shit. You know, people die from bar brawls, Cas. Judges call it one-punch homicide. A fist can kill you. After everything we've gone through, everything we did to get you back. You're not what you used to be and there's a thousand ways for you to bite the dust-"

"I apologize," Castiel's voice breaks through Dean's tirade, and the note is frigid now, lowering the temperature even in the cloying humidity of the Crystal Beach air. "Next time, I'll provide more wood for you to nail yourself to while I'm busy saving your brother's life. I understand that of the many ways I could meet my untimely demise, crucifixion is a Winchester favorite."

The rustle of feathers is unmistakable and sharp, like a plastic garbage bag unfolded and then snapped in the wind. Dean's jaw clenches as he glares at the empty seat, and as he turns back, his eyes fall to the book in his lap. He picks it up, stares at it for a second before wedging it in under Sam's thigh as he drives. Sam notes that Dean's hand trembles as he does so.

"You have to admit, that was a good burn," Sam says with pure admiration as he turns down an avenue, tire popping an abandoned soda bottle on the side of the road.

Dean lets loose a big exhale. "Freaking angels," he gripes, still eyeballing the now-empty backseat in the rearview mirror. "I swear, Sam, they're like children. Big, winged children with hair-trigger tempers and zero social skills."

Sam suppresses a smile at that and resists the urge to point out that, ignoring the winged part, Dean could have just described himself. "He'll be fine, Dean; he'll meet us back at the motel. He probably just needs some time to cool off."

"Whatever," Dean shrugs noncommittally, and unless Sam's very much mistaken, it looks as though there's a faint tinge of pink creeping into his neck. Huh. "Hey, thanks for the rescue, by the way. How did you even know where to find us?"

Sam lifts a shoulder because in all truth, he doesn't really know. "Honestly, it was a pure fluke. One of the locals I talked to when I got back to Crystal Beach mentioned that people had been acting strangely around this old abandoned house on the edge of town, so I figured I'd go check it out. The last thing I expected to find there was you guys." He gives a wry smile, which fades quickly as he contemplates the day's unexpected turn. "So…Meg, huh?"

"Yeah. Fucking Meg." Dean runs a hand over his face, and suddenly he looks tired. Older, even; there are lines on his brother's face that Sam doesn't remember seeing there before, and not for the first time he finds himself wondering when they're ever going to catch a break. Over the past three years or so it seems as though they've just been lurching drunkenly from one world-ending catastrophe to the next, and suddenly he longs for the days when their biggest challenge was finding the right bones to salt and burn.

"So what did she want?" Sam prompts, familiar enough with his brother's moods to know that getting him to talk when he's like this makes drawing blood from a stone seem easy by comparison.

"To take over Hell, apparently. And she thinks that whatever it is that's causing all this is going to help her do that."

There's silence for a few moments while Sam lets that sink in. "What, you mean like an alliance?"

Dean blows out a stream of frustrated air. "I don't know. I don't care. I just know that I'm sick and tired of having to deal with this crap." He pauses, and the look on his face suggests that he's seriously debating whether or not to say whatever he's currently turning over in his mind.

"Dean, what is it?" Sam prods as he guides the Impala around a bend in the road.

Dean glances sideways at him, biting his lip. The silence drags on until Sam is almost sure that Dean isn't going to say anything; and of course, that's when he finally speaks. "Meg seems to think whatever this is, it's really powerful," he sighs. "Unlike anything we've seen before."

"She was probably just messing with your head," Sam mutters, although he doubts it. Through his research, he's found that all the omens point to something as dire as the end of the world. So whatever's causing global havoc can't be just some run-of-the-mill baddie.

"Maybe she was," Dean sighs reluctantly. "But, Sammy, it took losing you to stop Lucifer, and losing Cas to stop Raphael second-time round. I don't think…what will another Apocalypse cost us?"

Dean makes a passable attempt at covering over the little break in his voice there, so Sam figures the least he can do is have the decency to pretend he didn't hear it. But Sam knows what Dean is thinking. He's got more to lose now. Not just Sam and Bobby, but Cas too. The little patchwork family that Dean's struggling to hold together.

"We'll get through this Dean," Sam says, voice gone soft. "And hey, it's not as if we've never stopped an apocalypse before."

Dean snorts at that, and some of the tension seems to leave his shoulders.

"Wait a minute," Sam says, holding the wheel tighter as a thought occurs to him. "That hellhound that came after us weeks ago; you don't think Meg had anything to do with that? I mean, she's used them before, in Carthage…"

He leaves that there, because his brother is full-on glowering at him now, and Carthage is still one of those things they emphatically Do Not Talk About. After a moment or two, Dean relents, shoulders slumping visibly, the aggression seeming to drain away from him as though he simply can't be bothered with it anymore.

Dean shakes his head. "We did think about that back when it first happened. Bobby mentioned it as a possibility, but I still reckon Crowley's our best bet for it. Meg's a fugitive, remember; I can't really see the boss man letting his opposition get their hands on his attack dogs. She's basically in exile."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Sam concedes. They lapse into silence, but it's a comfortable one; more comfortable than things have been for a long time, in fact, and isn't it funny how that works out? Sam stifles a yawn, rubbing tiredly at his eyes and longing for his bed back at the motel, even though the springs dig into his back and his feet hang off the end. It's been a long day.

"Hey, so how are you holding up now, anyway? After going off 'by yourself' to do your thing?" Dean asks finally, smiling slightly.

Sam finds that he doesn't mind Dean's constant mother-henning. Dean wouldn't be Dean if he didn't worry about these things.

"I'm good, Dean. Really," he adds, not missing his brother's disbelieving look. "Putting aside the possibility that we're headed for Apocalypse: The Sequel. Today was tough, I admit. It's hard having to talk to people who've lost someone. But I needed to be out there, doing something. It felt good."

Dean still doesn't look like he totally buys it, but he doesn't push any further, and after a long moment he nods slowly. Like maybe it's what he needs to hear. "You sure you're okay with Cas riding with us?"

Sam frowns. "Why wouldn't I be?"

The look Dean gives him in response is one of pure incredulity. "Jesus, Sam, do you really need me to spell this out for you? He put you in a fucking coma, okay? He broke your wall, man."

Ah. That. Yeah, okay, maybe they do need to talk about this; make it clear once and for all where they all stand.

"Look, Dean…" Sam sighs, not entirely sure where to begin. "When I was with Ruby, just before we went after Lilith…I almost strangled you to death. Dean, I hurt you. My own brother, the guy who raised me and cleaned up my snotty nose when I was sick. I hurt you, bad. Man, there was a second there where I actually wanted to kill you, just for getting in my way. I put vengeance and the need to prove how powerful I was, how I could handle it all on my own, before everything, even you. It was like…I was so caught up in this obsession with killing Lilith that I forgot what I started fighting for in the first place, you know? And…" He doesn't get any further than that because his brother's sucked-in, distraught breath stops him.

He twists his head, sees that Dean has visibly tensed even tighter, that a muscle is jumping in his cheek and he's pale.

"Sam, I can't go back there," Dean chokes out, wide-eyed. His knuckles go white as he fists his hand tight. "I don't need to hear this. I don't need to remember it. And the situation with Cas, it's different. He hurt you."

The reaction is alarming even if it isn't really surprising, Sam thinks. They've never talked about this, Dean opting for his usual repress-deny strategy, and he himself burying it beneath unvoiced regret and apologies. "It's not that different, Dean," he continues hesitantly. "Cas hurt me. But I hurt you. And swap Ruby for Crowley, Lilith for Raphael, and it's pretty much the exact same situation. We sold our souls for the chance to defeat our enemy. And dude, I know Cas did some awful, awful things. I'm not denying that. But if I can't forgive him, how can I forgive myself for trying to strangle you? For the nurse I bled dry just so I could get hopped up on demon blood?"

At that Sam stops, voice cracking, the memories too much for him to think about. He closes his eyes, takes a steadying breath. He needs to say this to Dean, he's been needing to say it for a long time. "Nothing I do can make up for what I did. I live with it every day. And Cas has to live with the awful shit he's done. And I'm not even saying we should forgive him. But he was in over his head, and…he was in a shitty situation, and he made some even shittier choices. Which is something we both know a little about, right? So I guess if anyone can relate to him, we can. And for what it's worth, I do believe he always meant to fix me."

Dean's voice is rough as he says, "That doesn't make it okay."

Sam smiles sadly. "No, of course not. And I get that this is more difficult for you; if our positions were reversed, if he ever did anything to hurt you, I don't think I'd be able to just forgive and forget, either. But I figure: the wall was probably going to come down eventually anyway. Death said as much himself. Maybe it already was coming down…I was remembering stuff, right? When he was hopped up on souls, Cas even offered to fix me. But I said no because I wanted to get through this on my own. I needed to remember. And like I said, I'm doing better."

Dean breathes out a tired huff. "Sam…"

"Cas saved my life today, Dean," Sam points out, quietly but firmly. An end to the discussion. "You can't say he isn't trying."

"Yeah, I know," Dean admits quietly, and Sam thinks there's maybe a touch of fondness in his tone now. For the nth time in recent months - years, really, if he's being honest - he finds himself wondering just what exactly is going on between his brother and the angel, wonders when they're finally going to stop dancing around each other and admit that there's something there. Probably never, given that they're the two most emotionally-constipated people he's ever met, and Sam speculates whether he ought to give them a little push. He scratches idly at his forearm, debating the best way to broach the subject.

"It seems like you and Cas have been working through things though," is what finally tumbles out of his mouth, without him having expected it. He thinks about seeing them mid-spar in the attic and smiles to himself. Working through things. "You've been sleeping in his room all month, Dean."

Dean sucks in a breath, and now he actually looks flustered. "He has bad nightmares, man. I just. He needed someone there."

"It's good of you to be there for him," Sam says, pulling into the motel parking lot. "And I think he'd be there for you too. If you let him."

Dean makes a sound deep in his throat and nods jerkily. "He has. A lot."

Sam smiles to himself, shutting off the engine. He turns to look at his brother, cataloguing the unsure expression on his face. "Look, you're my brother, and I love you, but there's room in our world for more than us, you know? It doesn't have to be just you and me. You can let someone else into your life, and I will never begrudge you that. I want you to have more people in your life, Dean. And Cas…Cas is good for you, and I think you're good for him. I mean, you can both be absolute dicks when you want to be, especially to each other, but somehow you just…work together."

"What are you saying, Sam?" Dean asks. He seems to have gone very still, body taut again. His hand is on the door handle like he's ready to bolt. And Sam knows Dean wants to run, to hide, to pretend all this isn't happening.

"I guess," Sam begins slowly, choosing his words with great care, "what I'm saying is that if anything were to…happen there, you should know that I'd be okay with it. More than okay."

"For crying out loud, Sam, are you giving me your friggin' blessing?" Dean scoffs, his stillness turned to heightened awareness. The question's obnoxious as fuck, but Sam lets it slide because he knows that this is just how Dean deals with things that scare him, things over which he has no control.

Sam sighs tiredly. "I'm just saying. I'm not blind, Dean. I know what I saw when I walked in on you guys in Bobby's attic the other week."

"That's wasn't-" Dean stutters weakly, and he's definitely blushing now. "Sam, we're not…"

"Dean," Sam says quietly. "I know you better than anyone."

"Then please just drop it," Dean says, and his voice is low and hard.

"Okay," Sam says evenly, turning to stare at the garishly-colored motel. Castiel is likely waiting for them in there somewhere, and Sam wonders distractedly whether he's managed to sulk himself out yet.

Sam thinks the conversation is over, but Dean makes no move to get out of the car; instead, he sits rigid in his seat, jaw clenching furiously. Sam doesn't push, some lifelong instinct telling him that his brother is working up to something.

"I just - he's such a mess," Dean blurts eventually. "And I'm not much better. Truth is, some days I'm a fucking headcase, Sam."

"Okay, maybe you're both messes," Sam agrees slowly, so shocked that Dean is actually talking about this - willingly, even - that he doesn't quite know how else to respond. "But maybe that's why you both need each other."

Dean stares at him for a moment like he's just revealed some great undiscovered truth, before visibly collecting himself and snapping into motion, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the car door.

"I think maybe I'll go for a drive, clear my head," Sam announces when Dean is halfway out of the car. It's subtle as a brick to the head and he knows it, but he thinks that maybe Dean and Castiel could do with some time alone together in order to work through all of their various shit.

Dean pauses, twisting awkwardly in his seat to look back at Sam. For a second, it looks as though he's going to protest, but then his expression clears. "Yeah, okay. Just be careful."

Sam smirks. "Come on, Dean. Aren't I always?"

Dean rolls his eyes, and it's that half-affectionate, half-exasperated big-brother look that Sam's come to resent and love in equal measure.

"And Sam?" Dean says, looking back. "Thanks."

Episode 10: In the Midnight Hour (Continued)