Episode 16: Mad World (Part I Continued)

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Previous Part

- - -

It's late afternoon by the time Sam wakes up the following day. They'd spent most of the previous night checking out the area, traveling to all the hot spots where people disappeared and the epicenters of the quakes and other weird phenomenon in the region.

Sam still feels sore from all the hiking. Last night, the mosquitoes had decided they enjoyed feasting on Sam the most, so much so that in between slapping and scratching he wondered dementedly if they just enjoyed demon blood more than the other kind. He yawns and stretches as he steps out of bed, glancing through his window at the sun high in the sky, before he heads into the bathroom. His business done, he tugs on a clean-looking pair of jeans and t-shirt before stepping from the bedroom to the living room.

He finds Cas sitting in the middle of the couch, surrounded by old books and newspaper clippings. He's scowling as he stares down at a huge tome opened across his lap, sipping carefully at his coffee and munching on a piece of burnt-looking bagel as he reads.

"Anything interesting?" Sam asks.

"Good afternoon, Sam," Castiel says, looking up from his book. "This book has the history of ancient Sumer completely wrong."

Sam yawns, stretches out his arms wide and scratches at a bug bite. "Not surprised by that, dude. Where's Dean?"

Castiel scribbles something down on a notepad, frowning. "Getting more books out of the car."

Sam plops down on the empty sofa, still feeling a little tired even though he slept in. "Why didn't you guys wake me?"

"Because you needed to sleep," Castiel says matter-of-factly. "There's a plate of lunch for you on the stove if you're hungry."

Sam smiles and wanders into the kitchen, rummaging around in the cabinets for a bowl of cereal before heating up and digging into the plate of spaghetti that Dean had set aside for him. He snatches an apple and a glass of milk for desert, all of which he inhales in the span of several minutes. Castiel is still focused on his research when Sam walks back into the main room, so Sam decides to look around the old house.

Not much has changed in the way of furnishings. The style is still old and rustic, hand-carved chairs and tables, most of it made by Dean and John that year they all lived here. He remembers that summer well, chasing Dean through the woods when not practicing shooting Coke cans with a shotgun or getting use to the sound of Latin curling around his young tongue. There had been angry spirits and poltergeists aplenty to hunt that summer, but mostly they stayed close to home, working on the house and on their training.

Sam wanders from room to room, recollecting the scenes of a lost childhood. Dean and Cas are sharing the master bedroom John once slept in, while Sam took the room he used to share with Dean. Last night he found the place where Dean carved their names into the molding of the wall behind the bed, a crooked Sam and Dean Rule scrawled in large block letters.

The pine floors feel rough and worn under his feet, having lost much of their shine, but they're cool despite the heat of the afternoon. There's a radio playing by the time he makes it back to the living room, The Rolling Stones' Wild Horses filling the house, the bass rumbling low through Sam's belly. He stops and pauses by the kitchen door, smiling at the sight he's greeted with. Cas is refilling his coffee by the sink as Dean slides up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing his face to Castiel's neck. They stand like that for a long moment, and Sam really doesn't have the heart to interrupt them. Rarely has Dean looked that peaceful…if ever.

Sam remembers how he used to do the same thing with Jess. Curl up behind her in the mornings, rest his head against her shoulder as she stirred something on the stove.

wild horses couldn't drag me away

Sam leaves them to this moment, simply enjoying the quiet feeling that comes with just having them both here and alive, and the sense of safety that comes from his big brother and his friend. He stares at the living room, at the sunlight flooding in through the wide curtains. There's dust on the few pieces of furniture they have, but their books and papers have been piled neatly in the corner by Cas. Outside, beyond the frame of the window, he sees nothing but blue sky and fresh, crisp air.

He thinks about Mira, her dark hair and sad smile, and the words she said to him yesterday. Our whole life is war.

He thinks about Dean's face when he embraced Cas, the way he held on to him like he was holding on to something he could lose at any moment. At moments like this, Sam remembers what they're fighting for.

- - -

The sun is setting by the time Sam heads out to the university library two towns over. The coming night is warm enough that Sam rolls up his sleeves, leaves the windows down so the breeze can rush in. The highway is empty, a straight black line smooth to the horizon. The sun is melting into the Cypress forest lining the road, and there's something rioting hotly inside Sam's chest. Expectation. Nerves. A little of everything. It's like the feeling he used to get just before solving a really hard equation.

Sam heads for Landover, the small college town nestled along the Sonee River. It's a seasonal town catering to vacationers and college students looking to study amongst the natural beauty of the region. Mangroves line the riverfront, hiding the moored boats and fishing trawlers. Downtown is clean and idyllic, filled with coffee shops, art galleries, seafood restaurants, and a visitors' center. Banners run up and down the main street advertising the local spring seafood festival. The library itself is larger than he expected, and its neoclassical design is made more impressive by the fact that it's surrounded by towering royal palms.

Sam finds Mira in the back of the library, sitting at a long oak table hidden in one of the far-off Classics sections that students rarely traverse. She's surrounded on all sides by books and papers, but she has her laptop open in front of her, and the screen's dim glow illuminates the sharp features of her face.

Mira's long hair is pulled up behind her head with a clip, and it's a style Sam used to see Jess wearing a lot when they studied together during those late nights at the library. The familiarity of the image stills him for a moment. He doesn't know why he's been thinking of Jess so much lately.

Mira doesn't look up as he approaches, too busy typing furiously on her keypad. Sam sits at the table, in one of the hard plastic chairs that seem to groan under the weight of him. "Hey," he says when she still doesn't look up after another long moment. He squirms to get comfortable in his seat, bending down to take his own laptop from his messenger bag.

"Hey there, Sam," she says after a beat, her voice distant, and her long fingers still clacking away on her keyboard as she tips her head up to look at him. "I didn't think you'd make it."

"I got caught up helping Dean clean out the old house we're staying at," he says, and his throat feels suddenly too dry. They'd agreed to meet up to do some research today, and Dean had teased him relentlessly about "study dates with hot lady hunters."

Mira grunts, but continues to type without further comment. Sam clears his throat, asks, "Where's Tamara?"

"She actually headed out to Colorado early," Mira says. "Don't worry. She left copies of her notes and all her research. I got it at the motel. I'm going to meet her in Boulder when we're done with this investigation."

"Why didn't you head out early too?" Sam says, arching a brow.

Mira meets his eyes, lips curling slightly as she says, "I have some unfinished business."

In the silence that falls between them, Sam tries to pay attention to the news story he pulled up on his computer screen, but he's too busy noticing the way loose locks of Mira's hair look russet-colored in the dim light of the library, the way they fall halfway down her back, the curled ends brushing against the white cotton of her shirt. Her shirt has sleeves today, but he can still picture the tattoos that cover both her arms, the designs complicated, the rich black ink standing out against the tan of her skin.

Christ. It's been a while since Sam's let himself look this hard.

Mira's head shifts up suddenly, and her gaze meets Sam's own. She smirks like she knows what Sam's been thinking, her sea-foam eyes flickering with mirth. She stops typing and squints to look Sam over. "Tell me something, Sam," she says. "Am I really that fascinating to you?"

Sam's face goes hot, the guilty burn spreading all the way down his body. "No, I. Um. Yes," he stutters out, and goddammit he hasn't been this tongue-tied since junior high. He clears his throat and starts over. "Sorry, I didn't mean to stare."

"Yes, you did," she says easily, her lips curving into a knowing smile, before she closes her laptop with a final click and puts it away.

Sam's mouth gapes open for a moment, but he has enough sense to close it and nod. "Okay, yeah, I did."

Mira laughs and shakes her head before pulling a book in front of her. In that moment her laugh reminds Sam of the first girl he ever had sex with - Caitlin Peters, from Ann Arbor, Michigan. An artist with purple hair and cupid's bow lips, a sly grin, and an intense love of The Smiths. At the time Sam was seventeen and full of righteous anger, having spent most of the year locked away in his own head, convinced both John and Dean would never understand him. Caitlin had been a kindred spirit, angry and passionate, and Sam remembers the first time she let his hand slip under her white sundress, how his fingers got lost in the wetness between her legs.

"Sam?"

Sam feels his cheeks heating up again as he shakes away the memory. He clears his throat and catches Mira's gaze.

She's still laughing at him when she asks, "So, what do you know of sea lore?"

"Like ghost ships and mermen?" Sam says, scratching behind his neck as his cheeks continue to flame.

Mira nods, motioning for him to take the seat right beside her so that he can share the books she has been looking through. Sam moves quickly, and Mira's breath is warm on his face when he leans in for a closer look.

"I'm searching for any history on the Everglades surrounding that kind of lore," she explains. Sam moves closer, their elbows and arms brushing as he pulls another book out and begins to page through it. Mira smells of honeysuckle and gunpowder, and Sam really needs to get his mind back on the case.



A few minutes pass, with nothing but the sound of turning pages to break the quiet. Sam can feel Mira's eyes on him, and when he looks at her there's a perceptiveness to her gaze that he wasn't expecting.

"Bobby says you had a rough couple of years," she says lowly.

Sam clears his throat, and she must see something in his face, because she turns away, apologizing. "Didn't mean to bring it up."

"No, it's okay," he says, but his voice stutters, and he blinks, looking away from her, eyes gone back to tracking across the text in his book. "I'm dealing."

"I'm glad," she says. "That you're dealing."

Sam shrugs with one shoulder and licks his lips. "Did Bobby tell you about that selkie he was tracking out by Point Reyes?" he asks, changing the subject awkwardly.

"Yep," Mira smiles, wide and bright. "I killed it last year."

- - -

They get kicked out of the library a little after midnight, and they end up loading books into Mira's beaten-up pickup by moonlight.

"I passed a 24-hour diner on the way into town," Sam says when the last book is loaded, and he's watching Mira climb into the cab of her truck. The door shuts before she winds her arm out of the window, hitting her palm against the side of the track with a loud thump.

She looks at him for a long, considering moment, her eyes heavy and thoughtful. "A diner?"

"Yeah," Sam says, watching her carefully, trying to get a read on her. "Let me buy you a milkshake."

She stares at him for another long moment, before she turns her head to face the endless stretch of dark road ahead of them. "I've heard many things about you, Sam Winchester," she says quietly.

Sam sucks in a deep breath, says, "Oh."

"Sam Winchester is the Anti-Christ," she says as if repeating a message she'd heard repeated countless times before.

Sam's whole chest aches with the sharp sort of pain he thought only Lucifer could bring. Fucking Gordon, he thinks. But in the silence that follows, Sam can only laugh hollowly and shake his head. "No, that's this kid named Jesse. You got the wrong demon-spawn."

Sam expects to hear her start up the truck, but instead he hears the door groaning open as she steps down, her boots hitting the hard gravel of the parking lot. She drops her duffle to the ground beside her. She then pulls on a worn coat that probably belonged to a brother or father, two sizes too big and falling across her slender hips.

"I like strawberry milkshakes," she says before picking up her bag, circling around him, and heading toward the Impala. Sam watches her climb into the passenger-seat, long legs folding up against the dash. She looks back at him expectantly, brows arched. "Coming or what?" she calls.

Sam hurries to the car, sliding down into the driver's seat before throwing a curious look her way. She's busy looking out the window, so Sam starts up the car and peels out of the parking lot and onto the long highway back toward Toklan without question.

A few minutes pass before he asks. "Why'd you decide to come?" The wheel is slipping under his wet palms, and there's something stuck in his throat again.

Mira turns from where she's contemplating the passing trees. She shrugs her shoulders. "Maybe I wanted to hear your story." The seat squeaks as she shifts her body, bending her legs at awkward angles.

Sam nods, eyes back on the road. "It'll take a while to tell," he admits quietly.

"The best always do," she says, her fingers tapping on the door handle. She turns her head back toward the window, the passing shadows reflecting in her eyes.

"Ask me again some other time," Sam says softly. "About my story."

"I'll hold you to that," Mira says, voice low with promise.

Sam smiles at that. He has a feeling she will. In front of him, the night is pitch black, and the headlights spill across an empty highway, a road that seems to go on forever.

- - -

"Hey. Check this out."

Sam glances up as his brother inscribes a careless circle around an article in the newspaper he's poring over, before sliding it across the table towards him.

Dean's voice is low and confidential as he continues. "Just - don't know what to make of it," he says as he taps the headline. "Buried in the international section. Could be a coincidence, I guess." He frowns, nods almost imperceptibly in Castiel's direction as he does. "Keep it down, okay? I don't want to worry him."

Sam glances over at the angel, who's sitting cross-legged on the couch, engrossed in one of the antiquated leather-bound books they took from Bobby's. This one is on Greek legends, he'd murmured at Sam placidly when asked, before frowning thoughtfully and adding, Homer always tended toward exaggeration. Sam huffs, turns his attention back to the newspaper, scans the print, finds he's reading about an army platoon vanished off-the-beaten track in central Asia. He looks up, tenting his brows in question at the expectant look on his brother's face. "Disappearances," he offers. "Okay, well. We knew that."

Dean raises his own eyebrow meaningfully. "Look at the other one too, bottom left."

Sam does, skims through more of the same, different country, people going missing, local authorities baffled. They have a growing file of similar newspaper cuttings, thickened by Tamara and Mira's additional intel, and he shrugs helplessly. "I'm not seeing anything new, Dean. Same thing we've been finding for months."

After a quick, annoyed glance at the couch, Dean leans in towards him, keeping his reply as quiet as he can. "Look at where," he hisses. "The locations. Barsakelmes Nature Reserve is on the Aral Sea. So, when a whole platoon of the Uzbek army goes missing while they're on maneuvers in a nature reserve on the banks of the Aral Sea, you don't think it might be significant?"

Sam does the math every which way, and he's still none the wiser. He knows Dean must see it in his face when he gives an exasperated eyeroll.

"Look at the other ones, Sam," he persists. "Kiunga, Kaambooni, Kismayo. People going missing…it adds up to one hundred sixteen, according to those reports."

Sam feels like he's still five or ten steps behind, and he turns up puzzled hands. "I see that, and it fits the pattern, but-"

"They're places where Cas worked miracles, aren't they?" Dean cuts him off, and he makes his eyes wide, nods in emphasis. "Remember?" he continues. "When you were out of it, right after he swallowed the souls. He refilled the Aral Sea, ended the drought in the horn of Africa. And there were floods afterwards. Water. Maybe water full of whatever spawned those fish-guy mutants."

Dean drifts his eyes over to where their friend is sitting, and Sam tracks his gaze, sees that Castiel still seems oblivious. He studies Castiel's expression, and it's peaceful as he reads. When he switches back to Dean, his brother seems to be miles away too. It seems as if Dean is absorbing Castiel, his eyes gone soft and gentle, so that Sam almost doesn't want to intrude on whatever memory he might be seeing in his head.

"Cas said something…" Dean murmurs eventually, before he finally pulls his attention back to Sam. "When we were down in Galveston. He said he was worried something he did when he was souled up might be causing the disappearances." He bites his lip. "We need to get online, find out if any of these regions have local news websites, find out if anyone's reporting those fish-guys anywhere Castiel's miracles happened…other way round too, maybe he pulled some shit where the disappearances we've been tracking Stateside took place."

Sam thinks on it, looks over at the couch where Castiel is still and tranquil, his only movement the occasional turn of a page. And he doesn't like himself for asking, but he has to. "Do you think he might know anything? That he's not telling us something?"

It's loaded, and Sam knows Dean is well aware of that - it's clear from the way his brother's jaw twitches.

"There is no way, Sam," he answers, soft but firm. "No way. You know his memory is spotty, the souls kept him on lockdown. And he can't even remember his dreams clearly, so if there is something buried, he sure can't reach it."

Sam considers it. "Maybe." But he has heard the angel's muffled cries in the dark, has roused Castiel from enough nightmares himself to have listened to his jumbled, confused rambling in the moments before shaking him awake, words Sam doesn't understand and hasn't been able to make out clearly enough to translate. "But, uh…he dreams in Enochian sometimes. And in other languages we don't understand," he observes carefully.

His brother shifts uncomfortably as the subtext sinks in. "Sometimes," he concedes reluctantly. "But I asked him once before about it…I even said some of it back to him, what I could remember of it. He said it was Balthazar's name. He was dreaming about Balthazar and all that crap that went down with them."

Sam runs his hands through his hair and inhales deeply. "Maybe he is starting to remember and just hasn't mentioned it? Remember what Bobby said about that hunt back in Rhode Island? Those mutant fish-guys targeted Cas and said something that spooked him. Have you tried talking to him about it?"

"He says he doesn't remember what they said," Dean says, frowning before he continues, a defensive note creeping into his voice "Said he thought it might be a spell, Bobby thought so too."

Sam sighs and tries his best to keep his tone neutral. "It wouldn't be the first time he's lied to you, Dean," he says quietly. The second he finishes speaking the pressure suddenly shoots up in the room, so much so that Sam can feel the air pressing down on him and wonders abstractedly if he might get an attack of the bends if he were to get up and go outside.

Dean's reply is a quiet, insistent growl squeezed out through tight lips. "He isn't lying to me this time, Sam."

Sam meets his brother's stare for a long moment of silence, sees that Dean's eyes look hurt and anxious, and there's a line between his brows. He looks vulnerable suddenly, and Sam sighs again, moves it along. "I guess we should do that research then. Should we talk to Tamara and Mira about this? We promised to be up front with them," he adds.

Dean frowns, shaking his head. "Let's keep this between us for now. Until we know what's what."

"Alright, then," Sam nods, running a hand through his hair.

Dean visibly relaxes, his shoulders dropping before he lifts his pen to his mouth and chews on the tip speculatively. "One of those nuclear power plants was in New Mexico," he recalls. "And Bobby said Jody has a cousin or something at the Department of Energy who gave her some intel right after Cas vaporized it. We should see if she'll fish for more."

Sam makes a face at him. "New Mexico's landlocked though. And it seems like most of these mass disappearances have been coastal or on large bodies of water, so-"

Dean raises a finger. "Nuclear reactors need water to cool them, the plant will be on a river…Rio Grande, probably. We should check for unexplained disappearances all along the watershed."

His look is already drifting back to the couch, his expression unguarded. "He isn't lying to me, Sam," he reiterates under his breath, so soft that Sam isn't sure he even meant to say it out loud or that he knows he did. "Not any more."

- - -

In the evening Dean finds Castiel out on the porch. He's sitting in the old wooden rocking chair, facing the dusk-heavy sky. The sun has started its slow descent, and a violet-red haze falls across the yard, outlining Castiel's features, and throwing the world into softer, richer colors. Castiel is writing in the journal Dean gave him at Christmas, something that Dean catches him doing more and more often of late.

Dean hovers in the doorway watching the angel for a long moment, not wanting to disturb him. It's warm out, a spring that feels more like summer. After a while, he settles against the doorframe, his fingers picking the peeling paint at the hinges. His gaze is thrown toward the yard. It's still a wide sea of green, dotted by lightning bugs, and Dean remembers the hours he spent adventuring through it as a kid. The woods have grown wilder than they used to be, and they nearly obscure the distant fields.

Dean wishes he could give Cas a piece of that memory, of that long-ago innocence. He wishes they could run around like the kids neither of them ever had a chance to be. Maybe they would have climbed the tallest tree, wrestled in the overlong grass together, gotten covered in dirt and soil, rolled around until they could feel the deep roots of the trees underneath their hands, or laid on their back in the grass looking up at the sky, watching the changing colors of the sunset. He thinks Cas would have been one of those weird kids - the kind who pretended they were birds, spreading their wings across the saw-grass prairies, mimicking the motions of the egrets and herons flying low overhead. Flying.

Dean turns back to watching Castiel write in his journal, mapping the precise movements of his hands. Even in writing, Castiel carries the same kind of quiet elegance that the angel carries in most of his motions. It's like watching him spar almost, how his wrist flicks in just the right way, how the tip of one long finger curls up to follow the line of text across the page. Every stroke of pen on paper, every line and curve created, every word written, it's like watching Castiel swing a sword: lunge, shift, arch. A dance of motion and power.



Dean thinks of the few times Castiel has written across the span of his body, spelling out blessings and protections into Dean's warm skin. He is always so slow and methodical in his work, his long fingers like paint brushes, and Dean's skin his canvas. It always happens in the middle of the night, when they are curled together, alone. Dean thinks of the way Cas whispers words against his skin in those moments, how he confesses the kind of stuff that leaves Dean sobbing and gasping into his pillow. It's a ritual they've created for themselves, carved into the practice of being together, when the nights are bad and the darkness too close to bear alone.

Dean never asks Castiel what he writes in his journal though, and he would never read anything without the angel's permission. Everyone needs to have something that's just for them. He's seen pages of the journal now and then, when he gets into bed and Cas is still writing, but much of it is foreign to him. There are languages that span the globe in the course of a single paragraph. Mostly angelic script, elegantly-shaped Enochian runes inked into paper with a black Bic ballpoint pen. Dean can recognize the Greek, Latin, and Hebrew, but even between the words and the sigils he sees, the spaces on the page seem thick with meaning. One line splitting into two, curving into a circle that turns into a spiral and then into nothing. Words and symbols that look more like paths to something else. Algebraic equations that have meaning only to Castiel, and how he sees and understands the world.

Dean hopes that one day Cas will trust him enough to read something to him. Truth is, there are still pieces of Castiel that Dean is trying to figure out, so many layers he's trying to peel back and dissect. But how can anyone truly know something so unknowable? How can he truly fathom a billion-year-old warrior of Heaven? Castiel's words said to him in anger and sadness last year still linger with bitter truth: You can't, Dean. You're just a man. I'm an angel.

The light is dimming, and Castiel is lit by the lingering western glow. Dean clears his throat and says, "You alright there, Cas?" while still hovering in the doorway.

Castiel looks up from his journal, offers a tiny half smile that could mean anything or everything. I'm great. I'm miserable. He motions with his eyes for Dean to come closer, and Dean does, his bare feet shuffling against the warm wood of the porch as he makes his way to Castiel.

Dean sits against the porch railing in front of Castiel, his feet pressing alongside Castiel's shoes where their legs tangle together in front of them. He looks at Castiel's hands, watches how he presses his palm into the thick leather cover of his journal, how he thumbs through the filled pages, his words creating an elegant print. Dean wonders if any of the things he writes about are the same thoughts he shares with Dean over breakfast, the same fears he confesses in the dim light of their bedroom.

Ever since the souls, they've been able to feel each other in ways they weren't tuned into before. Cas is in his head more than ever, and Dean feels the tingle along their bond when they're close, like an itch just under his skin, something heavy settled against his mind. He knows something's up with Cas, knows that he's upset about something. Dean can feel it. But he just doesn't know how to get him to talk about it. Dean thinks about what Sam told him earlier, about Cas keeping secrets again. He clenches his fist tight, nails digging into his palm.

When Dean speaks, his voice cracks with the tension he can't hide. "We need to talk, Cas."

Castiel stares up at him for a long moment, eyes dark and knowing, says, "I know."

Dean blinks, cuts his eyes to the side and turns to watch the darkening sky. "So. Yeah."

They're not so good with this part. They can fight like motherfuckers, handle guns and knives and pissed-off demons with expertise. But having the hard conversations? It doesn't come natural to either of them. When Dean speaks again he's still staring at the sky, avoiding Castiel's eyes. "You're telling me everything, right? About what you know?"

When Castiel doesn't answer, Dean turns to look at him. The angel is looking down at the journal in his lap. His knuckles are chapped and dry, weathered-red from working on the roof with Dean earlier. There are deep shadows beneath his eyes, a reminder of sleepless nights past and those to come.

"Cas," Dean says, and there's a tightness in his stomach. "What the hell, man?"

Cas looks troubled now, and there's a quiet and soft intensity reflected in his eyes as they lock on Dean's own. "I don't deserve your trust. But I ask for it, Dean. Trust me when I tell you that I don't know what's happening. Please."

Dean swallows, running a hand over his face. He exhales heavily, relief pumping through his veins. "Okay, Cas. I believe you. It's just…" He shrugs uncomfortably, standing up and pacing the length of the porch. When he stops back in front of Castiel again, the angel reaches up and catches his hand, stilling his movements.

Castiel squeezes Dean's hand, hard enough to hurt. The angel says, words tired, "It's just that we both know that this may have something to do with me."

Dean's eyes squeeze shut painfully, then blink back open. "We don't know anything for sure," he says, tangling his hand with Castiel's as he kneels down in front of the rocker so that he and Castiel are at eye level. It's darker now, and in the distance he hears a hoot owl circling the moss-draped trees.

"I heard you speaking with Sam, earlier. I know your concerns. They're the same as my own," Castiel says quietly, and Dean can see the restlessness in his eyes. The fear.

Dean shakes his head, sighing. "Shit, Cas."

Castiel curls his palm over Dean's cheek, his fingers lingering over an old bruise on his cheekbone. He's quiet for a moment, and in the silence they just watch each other. "I know I told you that bad dreams are nothing to fear," Castiel says softly after a time, his nails scratching at the stubble on Dean's chin. "But sometimes they are. Sometimes dreams have meaning. Sometimes they're trying to tell us something."

Castiel pauses, and the silence grows heavy between them. Dean places his hands over Castiel's lap, and Castiel runs his fingers through the hair on the top of Dean's head, mussing it. "And sometimes dreams are connections to other worlds, other planes of existence. They are places in between," the angel continues. "Sometimes these dream worlds are pathways between other worlds and other dimensions, much like the crevice where we were trapped in the forests of California."

"Paths between worlds?" Dean says, frowning. "Like the will-'o'-the-wisps?"

"Yes," Castiel nods. "Those were rips…Cracks. Tears between dimensions where the chaos could slip through, where worlds could bleed into each other. Crowley implied that cracks are happening all over. Everywhere."

Dean nods, feeling a certain kind of quiet desperation take up residency in his chest, an ache around his heart. "And you think your dreams are paths to these worlds?"

"No, but I think something is reaching out to me through my dreams," Castiel says. "Using that path to reach me. I'm more open than most humans."

"Something is reaching out to you?" Dean repeats, and the words taste bitter on his tongue. "You think the souls are trying to come back through again? From Purgatory? That they're causing this?"

"I released that darkness into this world, Dean," Castiel says gravely. "Who knows what I left behind. Or what still calls me master."

"We stopped them. Together. Remember?" Dean hisses, fingers tightening their grip around Castiel's thighs.

Castiel is staring down at him, eyes lit with an old fire Dean hasn't seen there in a very long time. "Listen to me, Dean. These things know me. Those fish-guy mutants know me. The other world Claire and I fell into…it knew me. It called to me."

"Screw that," Dean grits out, angry for reasons he can't understand.

"We must be ready to face this," Castiel says, hands resting along Dean's neck, massaging gently.

Dean growls and pulls away from the touch, rubbing his hand across his face and breathing deep. He's angry, and he tries counting to three. But a moment later, he deflates. He sinks forward into Castiel's lap. He rests his head down on Castiel's thighs, and he's shivering despite the heat. Dean feels Castiel rest a hesitant hand against the back of his head, his long fingers running through his hair, stroking circles along the nape of his neck.

They don't say anything else. Dean doesn't know how long they stay that way. He feels like he doesn't know anything anymore.

- - -

The motel is called Pink Flamingos, and it's only about a mile off the stretch of the main highway outside of town. It has a giant pool shaped in the shape of said flamingos, and garishly bright pink doors that clash with the garishly bright fluorescents of the neon sign advertising vacancies and special rates.

Sam shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, clearing his throat as he approaches Room 14. By the nature of how these things work, he's gotten assigned the task of making nice with Mira, working a specific angle of the case with her while Dean and Castiel follow another lead.

Mira answers the door in sweats and a faded Sleater-Kinney t-shirt. Fresh henna body art wraps up and around her arms and across the back of her hands, a dark maroon swirl of pattered ink that Sam maps with his eyes.

"I didn't think you'd make it," she says, squinting up at Sam and motioning him in when Sam doesn't do anything but stand there and stare. A beat passes, and then Sam coughs with a little embarrassment and enters the small motel room, closing the door behind him. There are two beds, matching queens with tapioca-toned bedspreads. The walls are coral pink and that in and of itself is enough to make Sam question the motel owner's life choices.

"I talked to Bobby earlier," Mira says as they walk further into the room. She pauses at her desk and uncaps a bottle of Maker's Mark, pouring them both an inch into the paper cups she already had set out.

"Really?" Sam says, taking the cup she hands to him. He settles down on one of the doubles and glances around the room. Books are spread out on the desktop, Mira's hand written notes scattered on loose-leaf paper across the other bed.

"I told him we met," Mira says, her soft lips quirking. "And that you were a perfect gentleman when you took me out for a milkshake."

Sam snorts and sips at the bourbon. The burn feels good going down his dry throat. It helps to clear his head. "What did he say?"

"Well," Mira laughs a little as she turns to face him. Her t-shirt pulls up tight against her full breasts as she leans against the wall. Sam tries not to notice the curved line of her figure. She's still smiling when she continues talking. "He assured me you were no kind of gentleman, and then he offered to pop one in you if you get too handsy."

Sam nearly chokes on the liquor, but he manages to croak out something that sounds like a mangled cat yelp in reply. He feels himself going red as he puts the now-empty cup down on the dresser. He clears his throat and says, "Well, that settles that then."

Mira turns around, laughing as she walks to the wall of horror that has defined every hunter motel room Sam has ever come across. Newspaper clipping are spread along the farthest wall, and pictures of the missing cover the adjacent wall.

Sam's eyes track over the headlines. Mysterious Cults. Swamp monsters. The 2012 Mayan Apocalypse, a year late.

He sighs and returns to his own research. He's been tracking down the local urban legends and folk tales in the area. The area is rich in Native American folklore, but there's also been a lot of ghost and creature sightings in the swamps over the years.

When Sam looks up after reading for a while, Mira is loading weapons into her duffle. She holds a revolver like a pro, weighing it in her hands. It's an antique that looks at home in her grip when her fingers wrap around the handle, cradling it. She places it down in her bag along with the sawed-off she picks up from the floor.

"How long have you…been doing this?" Sam asks, watching the line of her throat as she downs more of the bourbon. She tenses, a long line of strong muscle stretching from her neck to her shoulders. The henna starts there at her neck, and it winds down below the collar of her t-shirt to where Sam can't see. It probably covers her entire body, and Sam has to stamp down a sudden urge to find out if it does.

She turns to consider him thoughtfully before replying, "Too long. You?"

"My entire life," Sam shrugs.

She's watching him again, and this time her eyes are warm like the sea. "I'm sorry for that."

"Yeah," Sam says quietly. "Me too."

Mira sits down on the bed beside him, curling her arms around her folded legs. "I don't regret my decision to do this," she says evenly. "I want to help people." Her words are thick with conviction, and the lights from the parking lot splash patterns across her smooth cheek.

Sam nods; he doesn't disagree. He fought against this life for so long, but now he knows that it's the only thing he could ever do. He watches her, eyes tracing the long line of tension still present in her shoulders. Beneath the henna, there are bruises on her arms, scrapes and cuts on her jaw. But nothing about her screams victim. Survivor, definitely. Like Sam. Maybe that's why Sam finds himself looking longer than he should. At her soft lips and tanned skin, at those long, slender curves. This is a desire he let die a long time ago. His mind is too full of the Cage to fit something like her into it.

Mira shuffles next to him, legs dangling off the bed, and their thighs touch. She looks sideways at him and says, "Bobby's had me check in on Lisa Braeden a few times."

Sam starts at that. It's not what he had been expecting her to say next. He squirms and clears his throat. "You're the hunter he sent to look after her?" he asks, eyes widening, and then he adds quietly, "I don't agree with what my brother did."

Mira runs her fingers over her thighs. "Oh, I don't know. He was trying to protect them, right? Bobby said Dean thought they would be better off never knowing he existed." She stops on a thoughtful frown. "Does your brother really have that low an opinion of himself?"

Sam huffs out a sad laugh. "Understatement of the year. He doesn't see how much good he does, how much the people around him need him, care about him. I mean, we'd all fall apart without him. Me, Cas, and Bobby would all be a mess. But Dean…he takes care of people. Looks after us. It's what he does. He's the glue, you know? It was the same way growing up. He was the glue that held me and my dad together. He took care of us, made sure we ate. Made sure we didn't kill each other."

Mira smiles softly. "You really look up to him."

"He's my big brother," Sam replies, shrugging. "My hero. He went to Hell for me. He practically raised me."

"From where I sit, it looks like he did a good job in the raising department," Mira says, voice low, teasing. Flirtatious.

Sam looks at her for a long moment, at the way her eyes hold off the encroaching shadows. He memorizes the soft shape of her nose, her mouth. "Thanks," he says, smiling.

She smirks, then turns so that they're even closer, arms brushing. "What are you thinking right now?" she says.

"That I suck at this," Sam admits. He rubs a palm against the back of his neck and flashes her a soft smile. "Sorry."

"Really, am I any better at this?" Mira laughs, shrugging. "My usual modus operandi is just to get shitfaced, followed by a quick hookup in the alley behind the local dive bar. Hunter dating etiquette 101."

Sam laughs, shaking his head. "Yeah." He stares at her for a moment, and the corner of his mouth lifts up as the words sink in. "So this is a date?"

Mira deflects the question with a shrug. "Bobby told me to take it easy on you. You've had a rough year."

Sam sighs, hands between his legs, clasped together. "Bobby should mind his own," he offers quietly. "And…you wouldn't believe me if I told you the kind of year I've had."

"I can believe a lot of things," Mira says, lips titling upward. "I'm a hunter after all."

"Think of the scariest thing you've ever faced," Sam says, his tone serious. "I mean the absolute scariest thing and multiply that by a hundred, a thousand." He stops talking, his heart racing to get out of his chest. "That was my past year."

Mira's hands come to land on his own fisted ones. She squeezes, a gentle comfort. "You don't have to tell me then."

Sam exhales, shakes his head. "I promised you I would, didn't I?"

"You've been pretty good with avoiding it so far," Mira says on a quiet laugh. "I'm good at avoidance myself, Sam. Most hunters are. Our stories are usually tragic, and we don't like talking about them."

"It's just-" Sam swallows the words down again and shakes his head. "Later, maybe."

"If the bad hurts too much, you can tell me something good," Mira says, fingers pressing against Sam's arm.

Sam frowns, biting at his bottom lip. Something good. Mira's hands are soft, but there are patches of rough and calloused skin that speak to the fact she uses a gun regularly. "We spent a summer in this area when I was a kid," he says wistfully. "It's one of the only memories I have of my dad just being a dad. He took Dean and me fishing all the time. When I caught my first fish, I was so sad about killing it, that I threw it back in the lake. Dean just ruffled my hair and said it was okay as long as I didn't join PETA, and my dad just looked at me and patted me on the shoulders. Said, 'I'm glad killing doesn't come so easy to you,' and let it be."

Mira smiles, soft and kind. Looks up at him. "I like that memory a lot."

"I don't have a lot of those kinds…you know the good ones," Sam says, his words a little more bitter than he'd like to admit. He watches as Mira runs her fingers up and down his arm before settling her hand along his wrist.

She says into the silence, "You never asked me about how I came to be in the States."

Sam turns to look at her, but her face is lowered, her long hair falling across it. She removes her hand from his wrist and sits back in the bed. She looks at Sam and sighs, so Sam says, "Do you want me to ask?"

"No, but I want to tell you," Mira says, voice even.

"Why?" Sam asks, running a hand through his hair. He leans back in bed and watches her, the way she unfolds her long legs and sprawls them across the bed.

She shakes her head softly, and her hair falls over the slope of her right shoulder, lingers in the pattern of henna that Sam wishes he could see winding across the rest of her body. "Sometimes it helps to talk."

"I read that somewhere," Sam says, huffing out a tired breath. "In one of my self-help books."

Mira doesn't reply, only tangles her hand in her shirt. "During the war, my father…he was killed in a massacre that wiped out most of my town. I saw him murdered before my eyes. I then witnessed soldiers raping and torturing my mother and my aunt. Before they got their hands on me. I was thirteen years old."

Sam chokes back a breath, something hard and painful pressing down on his stomach. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, Mira. I'm so sorry."

Mira exhales deeply, pushing her hair back from her face as she looks at him. "PTSD is my life, Sam. I can tell that you struggle with it. I can see it in you, in your brother, and in your friend. Tragedy leaves its marks on a person."

Sam swallows, and it's almost painful to speak. "Yeah, it does."

Mira slides her arms across her chest and moves forward. "My mother and I, and two of my cousins, made it out alive. We became war refugees. We came here to America to build a new life."

She stands up then, walking slowly across the room and refreshing both their cups. She hands one to Sam and says, "I became a doctor to help people. Same reason I became a hunter."

Sam's eyes widen. "You're a doctor?"

"Yes, I was," Mira nods. "I worked with Médecins Sans Frontières for two years. I spent a year working in a refugee camp in Eastern Congo before getting transferred to a small clinic in the middle of the rainforest. One night I saw a shaman exorcising a mbwiri from the body of a sick child I'd been unable to treat. I saw the demon rise from the lifeless body of the little girl with my own eyes. I knew then that there were some things in the world science did not have the answers for. That there were things in the world people needed protecting from, beside the horror and greed of men."

Sam nods in understanding, and the room feels too hot to move. He inhales a deep breath. Says, "I guess, we're all a bunch of messed-up war survivors of one kind or another."

"Survivor being the operative word," Mira says quietly before swallowing the rest of the bourbon from her cup and leaning back against her desk.

"Don't you think it's too much sometimes? Never feeling safe? Always having to be the one to risk everything?" Sam asks, standing up and walking over to examine the scattered papers on the desk, the empty coffee cups and greasy bags of fast food. The notes from Mira's hunts cover the desktop, listing monsters most people will never know exist. He can just picture Mira in the middle of a fight, swinging her shotgun wide as she takes one out, then another and another.



"I know war zones, Sam," she whispers, stepping closer to him. "I know what it's like to fear the things in your own head. Who better to do this job than us?"

Sam nods, and this time he thinks there really is something lodged tight in his throat. He watches as Mira takes the empty cup from his hands and places it back on the desk. He watches as she stands back and peels off her t-shirt, tosses it to the floor. He watches her unclasp her bra, letting her breasts spring free, full, and heavy, and pale. When she pulls off her sweats, he watches the worn material slide over the rise of her ass.

"Wait," Sam says, stalling her just as her fingers work down the elastic of her underwear. "Are you sure…you don't even know me, Mira."

She moves closer and stands in front of him, bare breasts rubbing warmly against his chest. Her hands curl around his cheeks. She asks, voice soft, "Are you a demon?"

Sam sighs, letting his own hands rest on the gentle curve of her bare hipbones, his fingers rubbing against the waistband of her panties. He presses his forehead against her own. "No, but I've done things…" Demonic going unsaid.

"We've all done things Sam," she finishes quietly, and then she leans up and kisses him, her nose bumping against his, her lips soft and wet, searching his out. Sam's mouth opens, and his eyes close, and then he's tightening his hold on her, and he's kissing her back, hard and demanding, his hands digging into the smooth skin of her back as she presses against him. Her hands are tangling in his hair, her mouth moving open and hot across his cheek, warm breath falling against his skin.

He tries not to think of the hundreds of women he slept with when he was soulless: the waitresses, the hookers, and the coeds from the college bars. He tries not to think about the two years of near-normal he tried to create with Jess, and that one year of addiction and power-rush he spent losing himself in Ruby.

Sam picks Mira up and presses her against the wall, and she wraps her legs around his waist and takes his hand and guides it between her legs, past the cotton of her panties, into the warm wet offering of her cunt. For once, Sam stops thinking about his past. Just stops thinking.

"The last time I did this, I didn't have a soul," Sam murmurs against her shoulder, his fingers moving inside of her, sliding in and out to the beat of her body.

"That's too bad," she murmurs against his neck, fingers clawing into his back.

"I'm serious," Sam breathes, hooking his forefinger deeper inside of her and making her gasp, buck up, and whimper. She laughs then, a movement that sends her entire body shivering in his arms and tightening around his fingers. He buries his nose in her neck, smells the faint scent of lavender shampoo, tastes the salty sweat cooling around her neck. He relishes the soft heat of her for a long moment, his cock filling and rising in the confines of his jeans.

"God, Sam," she breathes, bucking up again as he thrusts another finger inside of her. He places her down on the mattress then, his eyes tracing the long shape of her as he takes off his shirt and pulls down his jeans and boxers.

"I really like having a soul for this part," Sam says, climbing up over her and kissing across her belly before placing his head between her legs, his lips grazing the supple curve of her upper leg, the soft flesh of her inner thigh.

Mira whimpers as his fingers take root inside of her again. It feels good to hear the sound, and it almost drowns out the screeching noise of the Cage that follows him everywhere like an old friend. For a moment, his cheek presses against the soft flesh of her belly and he breathes her in.

When she's finally completely naked underneath him, he takes a moment to really look at her: pale against the dark sheets, her body is a long curve that he follows with his eyes and then his hands and then his tongue. He runs his lips over the silver lines of old scars, the soft, complex swirls of her tattoos, and the dark maroon patterns of her henna body art. She's covered everywhere by some mark or scar or inked-in symbol, and Sam wonders if this is her body armor, something that protects her from the damage of the world.

Sam nudges her thighs further apart and presses a thumb against her swollen flesh. He opens his mouth over her, sucking and dragging his teeth along the lips of her cunt, lapping at her clit. Her fingers drag through his hair, her nails catching on his scalp, and her gasps and cries fill his head, and for a time, Sam lets himself drown in her desperate sounds, in her wet heat. This is a different kind of death.

He picks her up, his hands cupping her ass when he finally slams into her. He's yelling as he fucks her, grunting loud and needy, asking for far too much even though she's taking just the same. He bites down into the skin of her collarbone, leaving his own marks on her with every thrust. Mira is tight and hot and so damn perfect around his cock, and Sam can't get enough. She wraps her legs tighter around his waist, holds his head between her palms, and touches his face softly as he moves inside her. His breath catches in his throat when he looks up at her, her eyes alight with a soft humanity that Sam has missed so damn much. She lifts her hips for him, changing the angle, making it tighter, sweeter, perfect. She takes him in so far, he's spilling shamefully fast inside of her, her tight muscles clamping down on his cock as he roots himself deep, filling her with his come.

It's quiet afterwards. Sam watches as the light from the window falls across Mira's naked back, the lines of her shoulder blades and the curve of her spine. He fingers along the designs carved into her skin, his thumb lingering over a scar that looks like an old gunshot wound, another that resembles claw marks. He wants to ask her about them, to learn her story through this shared language of war.

She shivers under his touch, but moves into his hand, not away. "If you're not the Antichrist, then who are you, Sam Winchester?" she whispers after a time.

Sam sucks in a breath, leaving his hand in the dip of her spine, above the curve of her ass. "Do you want to know?"

"You don't have to tell me," she says, her fingers curling around his arm.

Sam swallows and turns to run his knuckles along her spine. The memory of her taste lingers on his tongue, and it makes him feel scared and alive, real. Into the silence he says, "My mom died when I was six months old, killed by a demon with yellow eyes. But that's not where the story begins. Not really."

- - -

Sometime after daybreak, Mira's wrapped herself in the bedsheets, and her back is pressed against the headboard. Her laptop is resting on her thighs, and there's a frown on her face.

Sam steps out of the steamy bathroom, tightening the towel around his waist as he sits on the edge of the bed.

"Something new?" he asks, watching Mira's eyes squint at the computer screen.

"I think-" she pauses for a moment, her fingers tapping at the keypad, her gaze widening. "Oh my God, they found a body. And…they found a survivor," she whispers.

Sam's eyes widen, and he moves closer to look at the computer screen she's turning his way. "Damn," he whispers, scanning the article quickly. "You get dressed. I'll call Dean and Cas."

Go to Episode 16: Mad World (Part 2)