Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean was driving.

The road was narrow; the way utterly dark. The asphalt was cracked with faded yellow paint a soft split down its middle. Old, tall trees on either side stretched into the shadows that pressed in against the Impala’s headlights. Between and above the trees ran a mirror road of endless stars, a thousand million pricks of light that nevertheless failed to penetrate the surrounding darkness.

Dean tightened his grip on the wheel, skin pulling tight over raw knuckles. He was so tired.

He’d just come off a tough hunt, a haunting up in Ely, Minnesota. It had taken him nearly two weeks and as many bodies before he’d tracked the spirit into an abandoned taconite mine. Images of their clash flashed in the corner of his eyes, the shadows cast by the Impala’s headlights flickering like the fire that licked at the old miner’s body, skin crackling away from the skull as the heat curled and pulled and blackened it. The palpable rage of the ghost, a permanent snarl like a slash across his face. He’d easily tossed Dean from one wall to the next, sending black dust and dirt into the air and ringing Dean’s ears so that it took him almost a moment too long to realize that part of the tunnel was about to collapse. He’d run, then, and hadn’t stopped since; he couldn’t risk going back to a local motel, not when someone was bound to notice what had happened to the mine.

At least he’d finished the job.

Aside from ghosts and shadows, Dean was the only one on the road. He kept one hand on the wheel and rubbed his eyes with the other. They were dry and heavy from the smoke of the fire, the dust in the mine, and near sleepless nights on a crappy bed in a shitty motel on the edge of the vast wilderness of the Northwoods. It didn’t help. He blinked several times, determined each time the lids would lift back up all the way, but the length of time between each blink was longer, and longer, the road was dark and endless…

A shape darted across the road, large and bounding—

There was no thought, just pure instinct as Dean slammed on the brakes, a shot of adrenaline leaving him wide-eyed and shaking.

A deer. Just a deer, and long gone.

Dean sat there a moment longer, taking in his surroundings. The inky nothingness past Baby’s lights. No signs, no mile markers. But…through the trees on the left…was that a cliff? But that would put him on 61, the state highway that snaked up and down the Minnesota North Shore. That meant he’d driven east from Ely through miles of winding trails before he’d somehow, without knowing it, reached Lake Superior. He’d planned to go west. His sense of direction, honed after a lifetime spent on the road, had somehow failed him. Caught between the mountainous woods on one side and the cold endless lake on the other, Dean might as well have been the only person in the entire world. Small. Insignificant.

“Get it the fuck together,” he muttered to himself.

Cautiously he eased off the brakes and started forward again. Dean was used to powering through. He should power through. He’s been mostly hunting on his own for a couple years now; Dad hadn’t much stuck around after Sam ran off to college. So, no one to take driving shifts with. Not that that had much mattered to John Winchester when Sam and Dean were kids. Dean could swear that John was able to drive from Baja to Maine without stopping for more than gas.

Then again, who was he trying to impress? Was his dad going to come out of a drunken stupor halfway across the country and know that Dean was pussying out? If nothing else, Dean had to protect Baby, right? That deer was like a warning shot across the bow—if Dean wrapped the Impala around a tree, John Winchester would kill him. Then salt and burn his body to make damn sure his sorry spirit didn’t stick around.

That settled it. The next motel he’d stop, Dean promised himself. It might be awhile, depending where on the coast he was, but there were still plenty of motels tucked into the Northwoods kept alive by locals and working families that couldn’t afford the resorts for rich folks coming up from the Cities. Pretty rundown and decades past their heyday, but still there.

He’d barely brought the car back up to speed when a sign flashed in the headlights, yellow text on dark wood: PARADISE COVE. Underneath, swinging from metal links, was a smaller sign that read VACANCY. Good enough for Dean.

He flicked his turn signal on, habit more than anything. The night was dark enough he could actually see it; the light blinked steadily against the trees and the road where it peeled off the highway and curved into the woods. The drive soon dipped down into an old, cracked parking lot. Dean could just make out a couple of small buildings beyond it that proved this motel to be a series of cabins. Good. That always worked in a hunter’s favor, as there was more privacy.

The main building which stretched the length of the parking lot was a large wooden lodge, dark and imposing. It didn’t look like anyone was keeping the office up and running in the middle of the night. What time was it anyway? Dean maneuvered Baby to a spot by the front door, white lines so faded they were barely visible. When he shut off the engine a sudden quiet fell. His eyes drooped. Did it matter that he couldn’t get a cabin? This was as safe a place to park the car as any, and really, he slept in her all the time. It wouldn’t be so bad…

A light turned on, blinding in the darkness. A round bulb hung like a beacon above the lodge’s front doors—two moths and a cloud of mosquitoes descended on it in the blink of an eye. Large windows burst into bright yellow squares, all underlined by flowerboxes overflowing with white geraniums. A man’s silhouette drifted across the frames.

Looked like someone was awake after all.

Dean hesitated. It was hard to gather the energy to move, but the thought of a hot shower was enough to give him the will to try. The car door creaked open and Dean stepped out into the cool night, biting back a grown of his own. After a couple hours in the car his whole damn body was a bruise. He patted his pocket for his wallet, and finding it there he shut the car and headed for the building. Ducking under the cloud of insects he quickly grabbed one of the large wooden handles attached the the double doors. With a sigh of old hinges, the door swung open and he slipped inside.

Now Dean was able to form a lot of impressions from walking into a motel’s front office. How old it was, how clean the room would be, how much the owner or manager gave a shit, how hard he’d look for bedbugs, how guilty he may or may not feel committing credit card fraud there. Tired as he was, Dean could tell immediately that if he could afford it, he would not be D. Hasselhoff here.

This lodge was the real deal. It was old Northwoods aesthetic to a T; everything was built with wood, the surprisingly large wide open space held up by columns made of enormous logs, entire tree trunks smoothed down and sturdy. There were woven rugs in front of the check-in desk to the right and the huge fireplace on the far wall. The fireplace was made of dark irregular stones clearly picked out from the surrounding area, stacked one on top of another all the way to the ceiling. No fired burned in it now, but there was still a cozy effect with the wooden furniture with dark, comfy-looking cushions. Art and tchotchkes and tools and all sorts of things dotted the space, only half visible in the shadows the clung in the far reaches of the room. It was still clear that the place was very old, and very taken care of. Though empty of people, it echoed with the memories of busy days long past, but there was no dust or decay. Everything Dean could see showed the touch of a careful and thoughtful hand. Maybe because of the man behind the desk?

The guy was in his early thirties at most, with dark hair and bright blue eyes, a bit undermined by the desk lamp’s thick yellow light that washed warm over everything. Dean’s heart spiked. He felt almost nervous, hackles raising, though he didn’t know why. The guy’s body language was soft, completely non-threatening, and he was giving Dean a small and seemingly genuine smile.

“You look like you’ve had a long drive,” the man said, which was a nice way of saying Dean looked like roadkill. Probably smelled like it too, come to think of it. The thought made Dean wary of coming closer, that and the strange feeling that lingered, fluttering like the moths outside. But then the guy nudged a platter with a clear glass dome on top of it. “Peanut butter cookies?”

Dean’s stomach growled.

The man smiled like he could hear it—hell, maybe he could. “Made them myself this morning,” he said. His voice was pleasantly deep. “They should still be good.” He lifted the dome, and sure enough, the scent of peanut butter wafted over and draped Dean like a blanket.

In two long strides Dean was at the counter and had a large cookie stuffed into his mouth. It was just the right amount of thick and chewy, made rich by the peanut butter, neither too salty nor too sweet. “ ’Sgood,” he said, crumbs clinging to his lips.

The man was pleased, chest puffing up a bit under his blue sweater. “Have as many as you like,” he said. Then he shuffled some papers behind the desk in readiness and looked back up. “Welcome to Paradise Cove. My name is Castiel. Would you like to reserve a cabin?”

Dean used the time it took to chew up the last of his cookie to think. If it was anything over 80 bucks, he really should just pay with a credit card. He didn’t want to swindle the place, but…Dean didn’t know exactly how far the next place would be, and now that he was done driving the thought of getting back in the car to be swallowed up by the night when he was warm with a plate of peanut butter cookies in front of him…well. He’d committed other crimes in his life, and far worse. His conscience could take it. “How much for a single?”

“Just forty dollars a night for a single room cabin,” said Castiel. “Breakfast is included.”

“Breakfast?” Dean asked, a second cookie paused by his mouth.

“Breakfast,” he confirmed with a slight nod. “Made to order from a limited menu right in here, from six a.m. to eleven.”

“Well fuck me,” Dean mumbled around his next bite. If it was $40 a night, breakfast included, then really, what better deal was he going to find? Not to mention that he had the cash. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet to hand over a couple of twenties, made in his last pool game. “I’ll take it.”

Castiel smiled his small smile again and took the money. From the sound of it he put it in a regular drawer—no till, no computer. He then lifted a large, leather-bound ledger onto the counter between them. “Your name, please.”

Without thinking Dean scribbled Dean Page on the indicated line. Not his best alias, but oh well. He was tired, there didn’t seem to be any digital records here, and most people wouldn’t even notice the turn-off to reach this place if they were looking for him. He had plenty of other things to worry about. Taking a shower, to start with. Then getting some peace and quiet, if only for a short while.

Castiel glanced down at the ledger as he took it back. “Thank you, Mr. Page.”

“Just Dean.”

“Then thank you, Dean.” Castiel marked something next to the name and turned to pluck a key from the hanging board behind his desk. It had a large green plastic doodad hanging from the keyring with #12 in white lettering. “Follow the drive to the right and all the way down to the end. Number 12 is the most secluded of our single bed cabins, plenty of peace and quiet.”

“Uh, thanks,” said Dean. Had he said something out loud before? He must be more tired than he thought. Better get a move on before he started in on the haunted cabin in the woods jokes. He twirled the keyring around his finger until the doodad fell perfectly in his palm.

“Take another cookie,” Castiel suggested. Who was Dean to argue? He grabbed one and saluted the man with it. Castiel placed the dome back onto the plate and called “Good night” as Dean walked out the door.

Energized by the sugar rush, Dean slid back into his car a little less wearily than he’d left it—though with no less pain. He shoved the third cookie into his mouth all at once and put his car key in the ignition. Baby’s engine was very loud in the isolated bubble the motel had carved for itself. He pulled out of the parking spot and slowly drove to where it split to either side and ran parallel to the land’s edge. He turned to the right as instructed, putting the lake on his left. It was probably quite the view when there was enough light to see it by. He kept one eye on the road and the other on the deep, dark emptiness where Superior met Minnesota. Periodically cabins popped up between the drive and the lake, some bigger than others, though Baby’s headlights only flashed against parked cars a couple of times. The road kept running parallel to the cliff’s edge until its end, where there was enough space for a car to turn around, if need be. The small cabin near there had 12 in large black numbers screwed to the wood next to the front door. There was a gravel patch to its right, and that’s where Dean pulled in the Impala and parked.

He allowed himself a moment to adjust to the complete darkness, though he had no desire to linger. With both car and room keys in his hand, he painfully unfolded himself from the driver’s seat one last time. He stopped at the trunk only long enough to grab his regular duffel and, from underneath the trunk’s floor, his hunting duffel full of weapons and salt. His boots crunched through the gravel to the grass and then the walk leading up to the cabin.

The path was made of large rocks spaced as evenly as their shapes allowed, buried in the dirt. No doubt they’d been taken from the lakeshore and smoothed by decades of use. It dropped off at two small wooden steps leading up to the porch. The porch itself was taken up mostly by a nook with an overhang under which sat a large pile of firewood, stacked to halfway up Dean’s chest. Though the overhang must have kept the wood dry enough, it smelled fresh and pungent. The cabin had a real fireplace, then. Not that Dean was planning to use it. Except the poker, maybe, if a ghost stopped by.

The cabin key fit and turned easily, no rust or cleaning needed for the lock. The wooden door stuck just the slightest bit, but that was only to be expected with how old these cabins probably were. Dean fumbled next to the door for a light and slipped inside before flipping it on to avoid tempting the mosquitoes. A bulb above the entryway flickered to life, casting a low warm glow over the room.

The floor was split unevenly in two. The smaller portion nearer the door had off-white linoleum tile that led to a closet and the open bathroom door on the right, and a small kitchenette with table and chairs to the left. The rest had an old, thin blue carpet that spread under the queen-sized bed with nightstands attending it either side. In the far corner there was also a comfy chair with a standing lamp nearby right next to the expected fireplace, smaller but still made of the same stone as the one in the lodge. But the far wall was all window; not quite floor-to-ceiling. Three of them plus a patio door in the corner with no wood to break up the glass. Presumably the windows provided an excellent outlook over the lake, but in the night the panes merely reflected the room back at him, his own sorry self standing framed in the middle one, both duffels slung over the same shoulder.

The cabin was pretty nice, all told, and Dean would know. No smell of mildew or mothballs, and even in the dim light Dean was willing to bet the comforter on the bed was clean. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to take that bet and fall on it face first.

But John Winchester didn’t even need to be in an adjacent state to effortlessly breathe down his son’s neck. There was still too much to do before he could relax, and it almost took less energy if he didn’t think about it too hard. He dropped his bags on the small kitchen table and dug out his salt supply and started by lining the door, whose lock he double checked. Then the window in that same wall above the table, and the smaller one above the sink in the kitchenette. A twinge of guilt delayed his hand before pouring it out in a long line on the low sills of the large back windows.

Sighing, Dean capped the salt and set it heavily on the closest nightstand. Almost in the same motion he let his leather jacket and open button-up shirt fall to the ground at his feet. With a groan he sat on the bed and leaned down to unlace his boots, kicking them away where they thumped against the wall one by one.

He heaved himself then from the bed and wandered into the bathroom, turning on the light. It was modest but clean, everything in shades of white and ivory, plus a silver tap with two cross knobs either side of it. There was another switch on the wall and Dean flicked that, too, looking up and around to see what it did. On the ceiling next to the regular light bulb was a red bulb that intensified as he watched, accompanied by a low buzzing. Heat lamp. Despite Dean’s exhaustion he found himself kind of pleased, quirking his lips into a half smile. He loved motels with old school stuff like this. Too bad the bed didn’t have any magic fingers.

Dean sighed and stripped where he stood, kicking his dirty clothes into a corner. He wondered whether this place was too northwoodsy to have somewhere for guests to wash their clothes.

The shower curtain was off-white and thin, and the plastic rings clacked together as Dean shoved it open. He stepped into the tub, which was too small for a man of his size to have a soak. Just as well. He was liable to fall asleep, and no hunter worth his salt wanted to be found dead in a bathtub. He pulled out the water knob and flipped the shower lever without testing the temperature. Dean jumped a bit, the cold water waking him up just enough to remember to paw the curtain closed.

The water was slow to warm but Dean didn’t care. It was just nice to stand under the running water. Dean sluiced off the worst of the grime from his face, his hands, everywhere, darkening the tub with dirt and blood and ash and who knew what else. When he was ready for soap he twitched the curtain back open a bit and looked around. The towel rack had a washcloth within easy reach, and lined up like little soldiers next to the sink were two small bottles and a thin wrapped bar of soap. He tugged the washcloth off the rack and tossed it onto his shoulder, grabbed the bottles, and ripped the soap open, dropping the wrapper onto the toilet lid to be dealt with later.

He lathered up the cloth with soap and scrubbed himself. He hissed when he finally noticed the state of his right side, from just below his armpit to a bit past his ribcage. A deep, nasty bruise was quickly darkening there. Lucky he hadn’t broken a fucking rib. That done, then he washed his hair, picked up the soap and scrubbed himself again. He did it thinking about nothing more than wanting to feel clean, but hell. He’d been hunting his whole life. When did he ever feel truly clean? He washed and he washed, everything down the drain.

The water grew colder in barely perceptible increments. When Dean came back to himself he was leaning against the shower wall, struggling to keep his eyes open. The white washcloth, slightly stained, sat soaking in a crumpled pile at his feet. He slapped the shower lever down and then kicked the bath spout off with his foot.

The sudden silence was loud.

The last drips of water plunked off the showerhead. The heat lamp buzzed; the curtain’s plastic rings clacked as Dean stepped onto the small bath mat. He pulled the nearest towel off the rack and gave his hair a quick rub as he walked out of the bathroom, flicking both switches off as he went.

It was much colder back in the cabin’s open area. He paused in the middle of it, towel half-pressed to his chest. He considered unpacking, rifling through his duffel for a set of clothes, but…for once his father’s voice was muted in his head, the one that harangued him about preparedness and instant reactions and following  training…the mere thought of putting on a set of dirty clothes after his long shower disgusted him. And it’s not like he had anywhere to be tomorrow. Besides, he couldn’t shoot a gun just as accurately naked as clothed, if he had to.

He hitched the towel around his waist, turned on the bedside lamp, and peeled the comforter and sheets back. No suspicious stains, good sign. Dean lifted the mattress a bit and examined the frame, eyed the tight space between the headboard and the wall. Looked clear of bedbugs. Another place he might have looked harder, but this was probably clean enough. He stopped back in the kitchenette to turn off the light, and grab a couple weapons to sleep with.

These he secreted near the bed, then he rolled on top of it himself. Covers on, bedside lamp off, he lay there in near impenetrable darkness. No headlights or fluorescent strips gleaming in from under the windows and doors, no thumps or yelling or drunken laughter from inconsiderate neighbors. Just the faintest sound of Lake Superior rolling to meet the cliff, muffled through the cabin walls, soft and steady as breath. Dean’s heart rate slowed to meet it. He thought of the miner’s ghost, its victims, the fire—feared the nightmares he knew would come with the closing of his eyelids. He turned onto his stomach, sighed, and knew no more.

Chapter Text

The cry of a seagull, loud then falling as it flew by.

Dean blinked his eyes open, and immediately squeezed them shut again. It was all red behind his eyelids. “The fuck,” he mumbled, splitting them back open a crack and squinting through the light. When he could finally make sense of what he was seeing, he drew a sharp breath. The three windows along the eastern wall were no longer the muted mirrors of last night; they were now a thin barrier between the cabin and the blazing morning sun. The sky was open, rivers of clouds streaking toward the horizon. But more than that there was the water of Lake Superior, moving restlessly below. The cabin had been placed in such away that you couldn’t see the thin strip of land between the cabin and the cliff, so that there was the illusion of floating in space, nothing but a couple panes of glass between Dean and the water. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything quite like it.

He stared long enough something pricked behind his eyes. The sun was really bright, was all.

Slowly he sat up, groaning at the throbbing ache in his side. He stopped to catch his breath and took in the rest of the room. He was relieved to notice the cleanliness hadn’t just been wishful thinking in the dark. Aside from the salt he’d laid down the night before, everything was neat and in its place: the small bundle of firewood tucked out of the way by the fireplace, the paintings of Minnesota landscapes hung sparingly but evenly on the walls, the kitchen chairs pushed in against the table, and barely a speck of dust to be seen.

Dean yawned and scooted back in the bed, untangling the towel he’d accidentally fallen asleep in. He fumbled for his cell phone on the nightstand, but paused with his hand wrapped around it. The cheap motel alarm clock read 9:56 a.m. He contemplated that for a moment before flipping open his cell, which agreed with the clock’s assessment. That meant he’d gotten about seven hours of sleep. Holy shit.

At least he hadn’t missed any messages on his phone—or he was still outside any service area, which was just as likely. Maybe the lodge would have a business computer where he could poke at his email.

Speaking of the lodge—only one hour left for that free breakfast. His stomach growled at the thought of it, practically gnawing his insides. He was definitely ready for something besides beef jerky and candy bars.

Dean hauled himself up, the stiffness in his joints a throbbing counterpoint to his giant bruise. It looked even darker in the morning light, a sickly, purplish-black. He poked it with a finger and winced. This was going to be a bitch to hunt with.

Walking across the cabin, his nakedness didn’t bother him despite all the uncovered windows. Everything felt as peaceful and quiet as Castiel had promised. He dug through his duffel for his last clean pair of socks and underwear, and pulled on his least disgusting shirt and jeans. He situated his gun and a couple of knives, then pulled on an open blue flannel and then his—his dad’s—old leather jacket to hide those shapes.

Boots on, he stepped easily over the salt line by the front door and locked the cabin behind him. It was summer but he was met with cool air, the scent of trees reaching up on the other side of the drive, a wall of gray clouds hanging low to the west. The Impala looked a little worse for wear, dirt dulling all her shine. He gave a quick pat to her hood, a promise to clean her up at the next opportunity.

The motel drive that had seemed so long in the dark had clearly been lengthened by the shadows. There was still a respectable distance between the cabins, but his walk along the old asphalt only took a few minutes until the parking lot and lodge loomed into view beyond the trees. It was at least two stories tall with windows all across the east side to give uninterrupted access to the stunning panorama just beyond it. The ground floor windows had flowerboxes with those same white geraniums that the front had, vibrant against the dark wood of the building. Above the double wooden doors hung a sign reading PARADISE COVE. The wood looked old and weatherbeaten, but the letters had been painstakingly repainted in a thick yellow. Dean grabbed a handle in each hand and tugged the doors open.

Immediately he was hit with the smell of all sorts of breakfast foods and he bit back a groan. A place like this, he bet it tasted every bit as good as it smelled.

The lodge was much more interesting in the daylight, so he didn’t follow his nose to the food quite as quickly as he otherwise might. The check-in desk on his right stood empty; he could see next to the board with all the unused keys hanging from it there was a door leading to some back area, currently closed. The empty space between that and the rest of the building to the left was basically a small store, full of postcards, maps, brochures, snacks, some stuffed animals, and books of all sizes. Best of all there were even a couple regional newspapers, which he made a note to grab later.

Once past the desk and the store, the ceiling opened up into great wooden vaults, taking up all two stories. Considering this the fireplace was even more impressive, not just tall but wide enough for Dean to fit inside if he crouched. The various chairs and couches were empty of people, but the art and everything else he’d notice on the walls before were many and colorful and varied. But what really caught his eye was the far northwest corner, where there were three large bookcases filled with records upon records, and the player to match.

Dean’s eyes bugged out. His jaw dropped. This must be heaven, or something like it.

Hunger forgotten, he beelined to the shelves and eagerly began tugging out random records, just enough to see the covers before slipping them back in place. There was everything, from Rachmaninoff to rock’n’roll, and all the genres in-between. Dean barely knew what to do with himself; where to start? Like, the lodge owners wouldn’t leave all this out here if people weren’t allowed to use the player, right? He half turned around, wondering if there were anyone nearby who could answer this very important question—or if not, at least no one who would stop him.

The fireplace lounge area, he saw, with its great wooden beam ceilings extended out into the dining room all the way to the far wall. There were several wooden tables of various sizes neatly organized in the space, many set up against the large windows that either looked north to the woods, or east to the lake. Each one was set up and ready for customers with blue cups upturned in their saucers in front of each chair. A small cluster of condiments and the like sat like islands in the middle of them or against the wall depending: salt and pepper shakers, small bowls of sugar and butter, and little racks of Smuckers jelly, ready and waiting.

Only one table was occupied, however. It was a family made up of a little girl, her parents, and her grandmother, presumably. Dean  couldn’t really pinpoint it but they had an air of vacation about them, the younger three wearing shorts and t-shirts and the grandma in a floral summer dress. Their plates were half empty. Even as Dean watched, the girl hopped down from her seat and came running toward him. He stilled, but it was quickly apparent she hadn’t noticed him at all; she knelt down before even reaching the fireplace or the stack of logs beside it, next to a little stand full of picturebooks.

“Patience!” the dad called after her, sounding like he was reaching the end of his.

“I want a book!” she called back.

“Finish your breakfast first,” said the mom. Patience ignored them and kept picking through the books. The dad looked about to get up, but the grandmother put a hand on his arm, and leaned in to say something Dean couldn’t quite catch. The dad subsided, but kept his eyes on his daughter.

The grandmother looked familiar somehow, though Dean didn’t know why. As if sensing his curiosity she met his gaze from across the room. Caught, Dean gave her a quick, polite nod and re-busied himself with the records.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Patience pop up on her feet, waving a worn paperback picturebook in one of her hands. “Cas! Cas, look!” she said.

Dean glanced up to see the man from last night—Castiel—coming into the dining room from an unobtrusive door in the corner. He was still wearing the same blue sweater, his dark hair sticking up in a bit of a mess, but truly not a tired edge about him. Though it must have been nearing the end of his shift given what time it was. He’d been there when Dean had arrived, after all. Regardless Castiel seemed genuinely interested when he crouched down to take a look at her find. “That’s a very good one,” he said seriously.

She grinned and gripped the book in both hands, staring down at the title. “Nan…Nana…”

“Nanabozho the Trickster,” Castiel provided. “And Other Ojibwe Heroes.”

“Na-na-bo-ZHO!” she said happily, and rushed to show her grandmother, who pulled Patience onto her lap and settled in to read. Castiel smiled after her, wide enough to show a line of straight white teeth.

When he finally turned to face Dean, his smile grew smaller but no less sweet. “Good morning, Dean.”

Dean snatched the hand he still had resting on the shelves back to his side, just in case. “Heh, yeah. Good night for you though, I guess.”

Castiel cocked his head, confusion writ on his face.

“Er,” said Dean, feeling a slight warmth seep into his cheeks. “Long shift?”

“Oh,” said Castiel. “Yes. But I don’t mind. Please, come and sit wherever you like,” he added, sweeping his arm in a gesture that encompassed the dining area. “I’ll bring you a menu.”

At the word menu Dean’s stomach made its hunger known again with vengeance. Leaving the records for now, he walked past the table with Patience’s family, and Castiel who was refilling their coffee cups. He wandered over to a two-person table against the north wall near the far corner. He pulled out the east-facing seat and plopped down. The lake shone through the windows when he looked straight ahead, but he leaned an arm on the windowsill next to him and looked out at the trees. He could see the edge of the drive that presumably led to more cabins opposite the direction of Dean’s, but he was surprised to see, instead of maybe more windowboxes with flowers, a long wooden platform flush with the window and filled with birdseed. A couple sparrows pecked at it as he watched.

“A menu,” said Castiel, sliding a half-sheet of thick, worn white paper in front of Dean. “I’ll get you water in a moment. Coffee?”

Dean had just come off one of the best sleeps of his life, but “Hell yes, coffee.”

Castiel turned the small blue cup over in its matching saucer and poured from a carafe. “Do you need milk? Sugar’s on the table.”

“Nah,” said Dean. Castiel had barely finished pouring when Dean snatched up the cup, the heat soaking into this hands, steam curling up into his nostrils. Smelled fresh.

“Let me know when you’re ready to order,” Castiel said, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Dean sipped his coffee. It definitely wasn’t gourmet, but it was a long sight better than the instant dishwater they had at most motels, perfectly hot and bitter and wakeful.

After taking a leisurely sip, Dean eyed the menu. It was foxed at the corners, covered in old-fashion black type. Might have even been done on a real typewriter, not that it mattered as along as he could read what was on offer, and boy could he read it: bagels with cream cheese, eggs done to order, various breads and muffins, sausage or bacon sides, french toast, homemade waffles with maple syrup and whipped cream. The only real question was how much of this could he order without paying extra, because he could probably devour everything on the menu right that second. It might even be worth the extra money.

Boots on hardwood caught Dean’s attention. He casually glanced over his shoulder to see a woman, maybe up to a few years younger than him, in a uniform that screamed county sheriff’s office. He tensed, shifting slightly to make certain his weapons were well hidden under his clothes. She couldn’t be looking for him, could she? How could anyone from Ely known where he’d gone, if he hadn’t even known himself?

To his relief, after her small pause to take in the lay of the land, she walked with purpose toward a table on the east wall. She gave him a slight nod and a faint smile when their eyes met, but otherwise settled herself in a chair and ignoring Dean. She sighed and leaned her right elbow on the tabletop, resting her chin on her hand and gazing out onto the lake. That more than anything relaxed Dean. This was not on the job behavior, and the way her white-blonde hair was wisping out of her low ponytail told the tale of a long day at work.

He took another gulp of coffee and looked out his own window. To his surprise the birds were gone, but a chipmunk was poking its head over the side of the ledge, little nose twitching. Then it pulled itself onto the tray, sat right in the middle of all the seeds, and began stuffing them in his mouth one by one. Dean watched in fascination as the chipmunk’s cheeks grew and grew, bulging with its spoils.  “Now you’ve got the right idea,” he chuckled under his breath.

The kitchen door swung open to reveal Castiel holding a glass of ice water. Dean sat up in anticipation, but Castiel saw the not-sheriff—deputy?—and stopped to talk to her first. “Hello, Donna.”

“Hey there, Cas,” she said and hooboy, if Dean hadn’t already known what state he was in, those three words would have told him. “How’s it going?”

“Very well,” he answered in that earnest way of his. “Do you need a menu?”

“Well I know it’s getting late, I really don’t want to put you out, but…”

“Even if I weren’t still serving guests,” he indicated Dean with the water glass, “I’d hardly let you starve after driving all the way here.”

“If you’re sure,” said Donna. “Then I could really go for the biggest stack of waffles you can muster and a side of crispy bacon so tall even Paul Bunyan wouldn’t sneeze at it.”

Shit, that sounded good. Dean officially no longer cared about extra cost.

“You’ve got it,” said Castiel, giving her a cheesy thumbs up with his free hand. He walked the few extra steps over to Dean and set the water down in front of him. “Have you decided what you’d like?”

Dean flicked the menu between his middle and pointer fingers and held it out to Castiel. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

Castiel took the offered menu. “A big batch of waffles and plenty of crispy bacon, coming up.” Then he drifted off behind Dean to ask Patience’s family if they needed anything else, to which they demurred. “There’s supposed to be a big storm later,” he advised, “so if you want to go swimming in the pool, I’d get that time in now.” Shit, this place even had a pool?

“Do you mind if we take the book back to the room with us?” asked the mother. “My daughter hasn’t finished it yet.”

“Of course, borrow as many as you would like…”

Dean let the conversation fall from his attention. He looked out the window hopefully for the chipmunk, but it had already made good its escape. Nothing but the trees swaying softly in the wind. A motel with a pool…the sort of thing that would have had Sam and Dean grinning at each other and saying “Jackpot!” Life got long and boring on the road but a pool was one of life’s greatest pleasures, even small and littered with leaves and dead bugs as they sometimes were. Dean felt too old for that now—didn’t even own a pair of trunks anymore—and Sam, well. He could take a trip to the beach any time he wanted, probably. He’d mentioned going, once or twice, not long after he’d settled in at Stanford and was still answering Dean’s calls. Even initiated them himself once in a while. But it’d been almost two years since Sam had last talked to him, had cast him off like so much baggage, along with Dad and hunting and everything else Sam apparently hated about his life as a Winchester. Replaced them with his new bestie Brady and genius professors and the California sun.

Without thinking Dean slipped his phone out of his pocket, flipped it open to again find no messages. He flipped it back shut and twirled it idly on the table, its dull silver shell staring blankly up at him.

Donna shifted, and Dean glanced up from under his eyelashes, watching as she reached for the window locks, then the handle, opening the window up a bit. Immediately the room filled with the sound of birds, ruffling leaves, and the ever present susurration of the waves. After a few seconds delay Dean was rewarded with the cool breeze to match. The deputy sighed again, and didn’t move until Castiel dropped back by her table with a glass of water and the coffee carafe. “Fill ‘er up, Cas,” she said. “It’s been a long night.”

“Nothing too serious, I hope,” said Cas, filling her mug to the brim.

“Didn’t you hear?” she said. “We’ve been canvassing for a missing person all week.”

“Another one?” Castiel was watching her instead of the coffee, so that the cup began to overflow onto the saucer.

“Whoopsie!” said Donna.

Castiel jerked the carafe up and away. “Apologies,” he said, abashed. He took the dish towel hanging on his shoulder and wiped up the drops that had gotten onto the table.

“Oh, you’re okay,” she assured him. “Yes, another one. But we haven’t found a darn thing, and half the town was in the search parties. So after another night of bupkis, this morning the sheriff called it off.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Castiel. Somehow he made it sound like more than the usual platitude. “Though why did you drive all the way out here instead of getting some rest at home?”

“Oh, I dunno,” she said, glancing out the window. “Needed a change of scenery, I guess.”

“I understand.” Castiel touched her lightly on the arm. “I’ll have your breakfast right up.”

Donna nodded in thanks. After he left she settled further into her chair, eyes closed and taking deep breaths of the steam curling up from her coffee. Plates clinked as Castiel started cleaning the table the family had left behind. Dean was left wondering what it meant, that there was ‘another one,’ another missing person, and missing from where? He spun his phone again and again while he waited. Cell service was sparse enough up here that it was easy to get lost even without the supernatural being involved.

Castiel disappeared back into the kitchen. Donna finished off her coffee with a decisive slurp. Dean tugged the Smuckers rack over and dumped out all the jelly packets, then restacked them sorted by flavor.

Thankfully it wasn’t too long until Castiel returned with a tray balanced in one hand, propping up two heaping mounds of bacon, two giant stacks of waffles, and two little pitchers of maple syrup to match. He stopped at Donna’s table first and then set down Dean’s. “Please enjoy,” he said.

“Oh, I will,” Dean assured him.

A generous portion of butter was already melting atop the waffles, begging to be spread around before disappearing completely, but Dean was ravenous. He picked up a piece of bacon first and bit into it: so greasy and crispy and perfect. He shut his eyes and moaned.

When that moan came out in stereo, Dean blinked his eyes open to see Donna looking back at him, jaw paused mid-chew. Then they burst out laughing, half-eaten bacon slices waving in the air. He coughed a little and swallowed. “I’m Dean,” he said.

“Deputy Donna Hanscum,” she replied with a grin. “Grab a seat, if you want.” With the bacon she pointed to the empty place across from her. Dean shrugged, figuring he had nothing to lose (though made very sure his jacket was covering his gun properly when he moved).

At first they just dug into their meals, catching each other’s eyes and grunting in agreement whenever one or the other pointed at something—the waffles, the bacon, the coffee—because this shit was amazing. There was no way a single thing was freezer-packed and shipped from across the country. He’d bet anything the maple syrup was local, too.

After the initial rush they each slowed down, though, and that left room for talking. “So what brings you to Paradise, then?” Donna asked.

The question was ripe for a flirty reply but Dean was enjoying his food too damn much to bother. “Just a summer road trip, you know.”

“Oh, for fun,” she smiled. “Is this your first time on the North Shore?”

“Nah,” he said. “It’s been a long time, though. And you’re…” He gestured to her uniform with a forkful of waffle. “Visiting from the local office, huh?”

“Actually I’m from over in St. Louis County,” she said, which put Paradise Cove in either Lake or Cook. He should really find out. “I’m based outta Hibbing.”

Dean took a second to consider how to play this. Ely was in St. Louis too, but pretty far from Hibbing. It was likely she had no idea of anything local going on up there, especially if she’d been out searching all night. He wondered, then, if the missing persons might be worth looking into. It was risky hanging out close to somewhere you’d just finished a hunt, but if people were in trouble…he’d better keep the conversation focused there. “Hibbing!” he grinned. “Bob Dylan’s from there.”

“Oh ya,” she snorted. “Not that you’d catch him admitting it.” Donna ripped into another piece of bacon and chewed philosophically. “If you like living somewhere else that’s fine, but there’s no reason to be ashamed of where you come from, ya know? Wherever I find myself the rest of my life, I’m still going to be the person this place made me.” She looked out the window again and sighed.

“I get it,” said Dean. There was no way he could ever claim to be anything other than a man who grew from a four-year-old boy standing on the front lawn of a burning house in Kansas, baby brother clutched to his chest. But the memory felt faint in that moment, sun above shining warm on the wooden table, waves below washing the thought away, away, away. “I’ve seen a lot of the country, and everywhere has something cool about it. Even if it’s the second biggest ball of twine.”

Donna chuckled. Dean got the sense she didn’t stay down for long. “We’ve got a lot more to offer than that.”

Their surroundings were proof enough. “No argument there.”

Castiel came to refill their waters and coffees. When they didn’t need anything else he drifted back into the kitchen. Dean let the silence sit comfortably as they continued eat, then chose his moment carefully. “Sorry to pry but, I thought I heard something about another missing person?”

Donna grimaced. “You caught that, huh?” She set down her coffee and shook her head. “It’s not too much for someone like you to worry about, as long as you stay smart. Make sure your loved ones know where you are and where you’re going while you’re traveling. You’re doing that, right?” She looked him directly in the eyes, and for the first time she came across as more than a sweet small town girl. There was a toughness lurking underneath that told Dean she took her job very seriously.

“Course,” he said, lump in his throat. He washed it down with hot coffee. “But why shouldn’t I be worried?”

Donna hesitated, but then: “Let’s just enjoy our breakfast.”

“But is there somewhere I shouldn’t go?” Dean pushed. “I mean, I am traveling alone.”

Donna bit her lip, conflicted. “Oh, well. None of it this isn’t on public record if you know to look, but—just to be clear, none of these reports have been from around Paradise Cove, so you don’t have to be worried, okay?”

Dean lifted his hands palm out. “Okay.”

“Okay then.” She let her fork clatter onto her plate and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “So St. Louis is a big county, but it’s population is small and spread out. Still we have the highest rate of missing persons per capita than anywhere else in the state.”

“That’s weird.” Maybe even his kind of weird.

“Yeah, it is. But the weirder part is that you might expect most of the reports to be down by Duluth, right, since that’s where most of the people are. Kathleen—one of my colleagues—did her research though, and a big percentage of them happened either in Hibbing, or around it. Like people driving through but never making it to their destination.”

“She sounds pretty dedicated.”

“She is,” Donna agreed sadly. “Her brother went missing a couple years ago.”

Dean curled his fist around the outside of his pocket, over his phone. The only reason Dean even knew Sam was still alive after all this radio silence was because he took a trip to Palo Alto now and then to make sure, with Sam none the wiser. But it’s been months. Something could have happened to him in the meantime, he could be in trouble right now, and Dean would never know.

“I’ve upset you,” said Donna, brow creased.

“Nah, I’m good,” said Dean, taking a big bite of waffle to prove it.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” she said. She fiddled with her napkin, folding and stretching it. “I swear this is a pretty safe area, as long as you don’t go wandering out in the woods or out on the lake without someone who knows what they’re doing, okay? That’s probably all it is, you know. Lots of wilderness up round these parts.”

“Seriously, I’m good,” said Dean once he swallowed. Time to lay the groundwork. “I was actually planning to head toward Hibbing, see more of the Iron Range.”

“Oh, please do,” she said. “It’s a great place. Just. Remember what I said about talking to your loved ones about where you are, ya?”

He smiled so big it hurt. “I’ll remember.” That was probably good enough, for if he took on the case and happened to run into her. He poked at his last couple pieces of bacon. “Why did you come all the way to Paradise Cove for breakfast?”

“Are you kidding?” she said, brightening up in an instant. “How far would you travel for this breakfast?”

“Touché.”

As they each finished up, she launched into a couple stories about the motel. Her family had been coming there every summer and winter since she was a little girl and she had a lot of fun memories about skiing or swimming or roasting marshmallows on an open fire. Castiel was the spitting image of his dad, apparently, though when Dean idly asked for stories of Castiel himself as a kid, she came up blank.

At length the bacon was gone and the last bit of syrup had been wiped up from their plates. Donna leaned back in her chair, absently patting her stomach, and looked out the window again.

“You really do love it here,” said Dean.

“Oh, the food is good,” she answered, “but the view really doesn’t hurt.”

She only lingered a little bit longer before pulling money from her wallet and making noises about leaving. Dean offered to join her to the parking lot since he was done too, and she agreed.

When they stepped outside, the day was noticeably duller than an hour ago. The clouds had arrived. The previously empty parking lot was now lorded over by a big black pickup which, Dean noted with some amusement, had a Minnesota license plate that read D TRAIN.

“Well, this is me,” Donna said, turning to face him with her hands in her pockets. Dean was helpless not to smile back down at her. She was actually really cute, and if her smile were any less tired at the edges, if he himself weren’t so much of a walking bruise, well, in any other circumstance there was no way he wouldn’t shoot his shot with a woman who could not only handle a gun, but could match him waffle for waffle. Her smile turned a little smaller, a little more knowing as if she could tell what he was thinking. “Good to meet you, Dean,” she said. “Stay outta trouble.”

Dean grinned and winked. It was just as well, because that alone proved she was too good at her job by half and Dean? He was a hunter who’d had his first real arrest around fifteen. “Drive safe.”

“You betcha,” she said, and hopped up into her truck. The engine was loud but in decent condition, another point in her favor. He kept his distance as she reversed the hulking thing, then waved when she honked before driving away.

Dean rocked on his heels and looked around.

Though the sky was now overcast, there was still a strip of blue over the water where they hadn’t reached. He considered that Castiel had warned the other guests that there was a storm coming soon, and weighed that against what he’d just learned about Hibbing. His eyes fell on the firepit that sat near the low rope fence that lines the cliff, then the little cabin not too far from it. He thought of his own cabin, clean and cozy and quiet.

He huffed a short sigh and rubbed his face. The motion pulled at his bruise. Between hunting monsters and his own comfort, there was no contest. He needed to be in a town somewhere so that he could make gas money and find his next case. On the other hand, if he headed toward Hibbing now he’d be heading directly into a storm for something he wasn’t even sure was his to care about.

He stood there another second, then circled back into the lodge.

It was warmer and still a bit darker inside. His boots sounded loud on the wooden floors. The place felt empty, though he knew Castiel at least had to be around.

He meandered over to the books and brochures. Idly he spun the postcard rack, full of local sites like Gooseberry Falls and Split Rock Lighthouse. He vaguely remembered stopping at both when he and Sam were still kids, but more recently if they ever stopped over in Minnesota they hunkered down with Pastor Jim well to the south of here. Gunflint Trail, Grand Marais, Artist’s Point, Grand Portage…and then the silly ones in bright fonts, “Mosquito: Minnesota State Bird” and “The Woods at Night,” a black postcard with various sets of eyes labeled with creatures—some supernatural, some not. Dean snorted and fingered the one in front with a vague idea of sending it to Sam but what would he even say? Would Sam even bother reading it, if he never answered his phone?

He let his hand trail away. His eyes skimmed over the brochures for Lutsen and Nanaboujou and canoe trips and settled on the books. Lower to the ground were picturebooks—new copies of what were in the small rack in the lounge, he was sure. But there were also small chapterbooks, including those sepia-colored regional history ones you could find all over the States. And to the delight of his inner hunter, several books about local ghost stories, or shipwrecks, and all sort of things up and down the coast. One with The Congdon Murders in big letters on the front caught his attention. He picked it up and read the back: something about a rich family in Duluth and a gruesome murder with the haunted mansion to go with it…Now why did that sound familiar?

“Back so soon?”

Dean startled. How the hell had Castiel snuck up on him? The man was standing where the open area met the lobby. He held a rag in his hand from cleaning tables, presumably, head slightly cocked in question.

“Yeah, uh.” Dean scratched the back of his head. “This storm you mentioned. Do they think it’s going to be pretty bad?”

“It’s a big one, yes.” He set the rag back over his shoulder and walked closer. “It might be dangerous to travel.”

Maybe this was a sign. Not that he believed in signs. But he was full of good food and it was getting harder to ignore his side and he did have enough money for another night, really. “I bet you say that to all the guests you want to stay longer,” he teased.

His eyes grew wide. They really were blue. “No, I wouldn’t!” It was kind of adorable.

“Relax,” said Dean. “I can keep my cabin for another night?”

“Of course,” Castiel answered, a little warily, like he couldn’t tell if Dean was still joking. He stepped around back of the check-in desk. “It will be the same rate.”

“Sure,” said Dean, and quickly scanned the books again. Since he was staying another night, he’d need something to do. So he picked up The Congdon Murders, though true crime was more Sammy’s thing, and a small one about shipwrecks on Lake Superior. Then he slid over to the newspaper rack and grabbed one of each: the Hibbing Daily Tribune, of course, but also the Duluth News, Cook County, the Ely Echo, and for good measure, the Star Trib out of the Cities. If the motel was charging an arm and a leg he’d have to leave the books behind, but oh well. “What about all this?”

“Five dollars for the books,” said Castiel. “The newspapers are free.”

That gave Dean pause. It was a damn bargain. Subscribing to all these newspapers cost money, first of all, and he’d already clocked that the publisher’s price on the Congdon book was $12. How the hell could this place afford to sell things at prices that low? “Five dollars…for both books?”

“Yes, five dollars.” He folded his hands on top of the desk primly. “That includes tax.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, but decided not to argue. He was already spending another night, and he didn’t want to cut too much into the cash he had left. He set his spoils on the desk and opened his wallet. He slid the bills across, and Castiel slid them the rest of the way with his long fingers. Then Dean tucked the newspapers under his arm and waggled the books in farewell. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Castiel replied. “Dinner is served from five to eight, if you’re interested. Enjoy your day.”

“Sure,” said Dean. “And a good night to you,” he added, backing up toward the door.

There was a slight softening to the set of Castiel’s shoulders, and his nose crinkled in another one of those small smiles. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean was so busy staring his back bumped into the doors. “Yeah, I’ll just—” He threw a thumb over his shoulder and pushed his weight against them; they gave way and released him outside. He huffed at himself and headed to the edge of the parking lot. He’d intended to walk on the asphalt drive back to his cabin, but now that he was looking he noticed a dirt path on the other side of the firepit.  Curious, he went to check it out.

Past the log benches inviting people to sit there was a grassy area before the rocky edge of the cliff, lined with a low rope fence. Lake Superior spread out before him, seemingly endless, a slate blue under the cloudy sky with periodic curls of white where the wind was beginning to stir it. To the left Minnesota’s arrowhead continued curving in the distance to the northeast, dark green with trees. To the right the land was less dramatic, but still green and distant. The water crashed a steady beat against the shore.

The path ran along the fence in both directions. Tapping the books against his palm, Dean followed the path to the right. He spent a bit of time watching his feet, where the stray rock was still buried in the dirt, but mostly he watched the lake. It was no ocean, though you wouldn’t know it just by looking. Of course, Dean could usually tell what state he was in by the atmosphere alone—a lifetime on the road would do that to you—and he would never mistake this for an ocean though the waves could be immense. It had its own tides, its own pull nevertheless. There was a coldness to Lake Superior, a depth all its own, and every hunter worth his salt knew it was one of if not the deadliest body of water in the world. They say she never gave up her dead, sailors lost to the deep, but ghosts have never much been bothered by physics.

Still, the view was pretty.

The path took him along behind all the cabins until he reached his own at the very end. Except where the asphalt drive in front ended just beyond it, the path did not. The trees closed in again on the property and the path wound itself between them, still just a few feet from the edge of the cliff. A small wooden sign with a faded yellow arrow sat in front of the first tree, pointing further down the path.

“Huh,” Dean said.

He stepped onto the patio behind his cabin, complete with two small deck chairs and a tiny deck table, and tried his key in the patio door. The lock was just as clean and easy as the one in the front, so in no time he dropped off the newspapers and was back out the door.

He took the sign’s suggestion and continued on the path. The trees were dense to the one side, but on the other they gave way periodically to bushes and flowers and underbrush, still offering a decent view of the lake. After a few yards the path began angling down, and soon after that a short run of steps appeared, simple wooden planks buried in the dirt. An old metal railing had been pounded into the ground next to it, and was slightly crooked but sturdy. He descended several more of these mini staircases as he continued walking, until the path petered off at the bottom against some large rocks. They were either naturally there and that’s why the path had sprung up, or else someone had helped them along a little, but they were even enough that he could hop from one to the other until at last the vegetation fell away to reveal a beach.

No sand, of course, not too many of those beaches along this lake, but a gazillion small rocks stretching out in a curve, before it ended again on the large ones against the cliff face a couple hundred yards ahead. This must be the ‘cove’ in Paradise Cove. His boots made little work of the rocks, which clacked under his soles. Most of them were in various shades of dull reds and blues and blacks. He walked toward where the water met the beach, slapping and foaming against the rocks. Close up the water had a brownish, reddish hue from natural iron, but closer still it was crystal clear where it covered the small rocks.

The water made the rocks smoother and more colorful, a jumble of deep reds and blues. Almost immediately a pattern caught his eye, and he reached into the water with his free hand, sucking in a breath at the surprising chill. It was reddish orange with ivory swirls, small enough to fit easily in the palm of his hand. An agate. He rubbed a drop of clinging water away with his thumb, remembering through a distance how he and Sam had looked for these on beaches not dissimilar to this one. Must have been really young then, before John Winchester had fallen out with Bobby Singer. Dean was pretty sure Bobby had been the one to tell them what an agate was.

He curled his fist over the rock, arm tensed to lift and chuck as far as he could. But slowly the urge faded, the tension released. “Whatever,” he muttered, and slipped it into his pocket.

Just out of reach of the water, he clacked and clomped across the beach, kicking now and then. It was kind of ridiculous, now that he was looking, how many agates he saw. He remembered them being a lot more difficult to find than that. Here, though, they were hidden under every footstep, shining beneath every wave.

When he got to the other side it was pretty clear this was a dead end; the cliff-face was steep to the point of being sheer. No path that he could see led away from it. The whole beach was a private little paradise, for those who knew about it. Again he was hit with that same sense he’d felt the night before, of being so weak and small in a relentless world, another pebble on the beach to be worn down by water and time.

Looking back the way he’d come, past the jumble of large rocks and boulders, he noticed there was a half-sunken concrete dock. Intrigued, he walked back along the beach, then hopped onto the rocks and steadily made his way over to where a rope hung between two wooden posts, warning people away. Everything was covered in an orange lichen and smatters of bird shit. A few feet past the rope the dock had cracked and split, the far end pitching forward into the lake. Beyond that was a third piece almost completely submerged. He could see how it would be dangerous for a kid, but it looked sturdy enough to him.

Dean stepped over the rope and took an easy leap to the second piece of concrete. Because of its angle he sat on its apex, legs angled down toward the water, but not quite far enough to reach it despite the steady waves. He squinted off into the greyish distance. A few Canadian geese were bobbing up and down on the surface of the lake, unbothered by its choppiness. Other than that Dean was alone.

He pulled out one of the books and decided to read. He chose the true crime one, since it has seemed familiar before. It didn’t ping for him until he flipped to the glossy pages in the middle full of pictures and portraits. The first was of Glensheen Mansion, a large red brick manor overlooking Lake Superior. Dean caught his breath. He’d been there before, right? He flipped through a couple more pictures, saw the sprawling lawns and garden with a fountain and flowers, the inside with stained glass and lacquered tables and imported Italian ceilings, bathrooms with state of the art showers a century old, bedrooms with short beds and buttons to call the butler and a creepy-ass doll in a small chair. It was familiar, all of it. He remembered now, going on a tour of this place with Dad and Bobby and...another hunter, what was his name? The three had taken turns watching Sam and Dean as they researched, and the third guy, Rudy—no, Rufus—Rufus had taken them on the train that chugged along the coast of Duluth, the boys plastered to the windows while he kept to himself reading research in the mostly empty car. The memory was only in snapshots, but it was there.

Funny what you forgot, when you left places behind.

A couple hours later, entrenched in the book, he thought he heard someone calling. Dean craned his neck to see a short white guy in an old hoodie waving at him from the shore. “Oo-kay,” Dean said to himself, and waved back.

That should have been the end of it, but no such luck. “Whatcha doin’?” the guy called over the wind and the waves.

Dean lifted his book. “Reading!” Take the damn hint.

“I’m—I’m a writer!” said the guy excitedly, pointing at himself with both hands. Great.

To match the turning of Dean’s mood, it began to drizzle. The storm was on its way.

Dean tucked the book back in his pocket and heaved himself onto his feet. It was another easy leap back to the shore end of the dock. As he stepped over the rope the guy, who was still waiting there, spoke again. “You staying up at the motel?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Nah, I live nearby.” He scratched his short beard a bit then crossed his arms, hunching in on himself against the wind. “I’m Chuck.”

“Dean.”

“Here on vacation?”

“Sure am.” Dean started picking his away over the big jumbled rocks toward the dirt path.

Chuck paced him from down on the beach. “It’s a great place, huh? I get a lot of writing done here.”

“You don’t say,” said Dean. “What sorta stuff do you write?”

“Oh anything,” he said, shrugging. “What I see.”

Dean shot him a pair of finger guns. “Write what you know.”

“Exactly.”

By then Dean had finally reached the beginnings of the path back up the cliff. “Well, nice to meet you, Chuck.”

“Hey, yeah, you too.” Dean thought he was off free, but then Chuck added, “You’d better get going now if you want to beat the storm before you leave.”

Dean stopped. He had definitely not said anything about leaving, so…was Chuck implying he should? If so, why? Unfortunately staring down at the guy didn’t reveal a thing; he just looked up at Dean with a guileless expression on his face. What a weird little dude.  “Thanks, I’ll be alright,” he decided on saying. None of this guy’s business what he did or didn’t do. “Bye.”

The guy nodded and waved.

Dean shook his head and started the hike back up to his cabin, rubbing at an itch just under his necklace. The trees protected him from some of the wind but the drizzle collected on the leaves, which released them in big fat drops on Dean’s head. Halfway back up his side began to pinch something fierce. Sitting in one place for so long probably hadn’t been a good idea. At least he had a nice clean bed waiting for him, he could read there until it was time for dinner.

Chapter Text

Dean awoke to a clap of thunder.

He bolted upright in bed, clutching his knife. Lightning flashed through the window, followed by a another thunderous rumble.

The storm had come. Dean sighed and tucked the knife back into its sheath, which he’d wedged under the mattress. He clutched his side belatedly, bruise complaining loudly about the sudden movement. It was dark in the cabin, but he couldn’t tell if it was because of the storm or the hour. He blinked a couple of times, trying to spot the glowing red numbers of the alarm clock, but another flash of lightning proved that the clock was there, but blank. He reached over and turned the switch on the lamp: nothing.

Power outage. It wouldn’t really matter except, he realized with a shiver, it was cold. His skin rippled into goosebumps. He’d fallen asleep reading like a fucking idiot, and except for where he sat on top of the comforter the sheets were cool to the touch. Grabbing his phone revealed it to be just after 10—he’d been asleep for what—five, six hours? “Fuck me,” Dean muttered. He hadn’t meant to nap, hadn’t he already gotten enough sleep the night before? And now he’d missed dinner.

More lightning and thunder. Dean slipped out of bed and drifted to the windows to watch the spectacle. The lake had heavy whitecaps, and through the one he’d cracked open earlier he could hear them crashing angrily against the rocks. Shutting the window only muted the noise; rain still pounded heavily on the cabin. It ran almost like a waterfall down the panes.

Another shiver had him eyeing the fireplace warily. He could always start up a fire in the fireplace, everything he needed was there, but…all he could see tonight was graves, last night’s mine, the hundreds of bodies he’d burned to ash and the angry spirits that belonged to them. He thought of the other monsters that could be hiding in the woods, could almost see the ghosts of the shipwrecks bobbing on the lake in the distance.

The fear grew in him like a poison. He stared back out the window, wanting to close his eyes to the storm and fearing the ignorance of it equally. Years of hunting had honed his instincts, let him know the difference between imagined and real danger, but cold and hungry and alone he suddenly wasn’t so sure. That’s what he got for sleeping instead of eating.

Maybe there were still some peanut butter cookies left.

Dean didn’t know where the thought came from, but now that he’d had it he couldn’t get it out of his head. The dim warmth of the lodge, the smell of balsam and cedar, the echoes of camaraderie and family. Someone at the desk—maybe even Castiel, again. Maybe even a fresh batch of cookies.

The cabin felt cold and empty in comparison, the bed uninviting, the fireplace a gaping black maw. Every time the lightning flashed white in the blue-black darkness shadows danced in grotesque shapes along the walls.

What was the worse that could happen if he went to check? He got wet and had to take a shower in the dark to warm up? Dean decided not to overthink it. Making sure his keys were still in his jeans pockets he then grabbed his jacket and tossed it on. He stepped his bare feet into his boots and tucked the laces in without tying them. Then he popped his collar, hunched his shoulders to protect his neck, and opened the door.

The wind pushed back immediately when he stepped outside. He considered taking Baby for a moment, but the drive was hardly worth it when it’d take less than a minute. The rain pelted him in earnest when he left the shelter of the cabin porch and out into the open of road. Small puddles were forming here and there where the asphalt was uneven, and his boots splashed through them as he took up a light jog. The water soaked his cuffs and trickled in to wet his bare feet. Despite his collar being tight against the back of his neck the rain slid its cold fingers down his nape. Dean picked up the pace.

To his relief when he rounded the last bend, there was a light on at the lodge. They must have a backup generator or something. Ignoring the growing ache in his side, he sped up a little more and practically tore the doors open to get inside.

“Whew,” he said, stamping his feet on the rug and flapping his jacket to get the excess rain off. He swiped a hand over his forehead and back to get the wet hair off his face. Glancing around, he noticed that while it had looked bright on the outside, the lights weren’t actually all on, just a lamp at the empty registration desk, glowing orange-yellow. That made it pretty clear the glass dome was sadly empty of any cookies. Once he caught his breath he heard a record playing over the storm, a slow jazzy number. Its thudding rhythm and wailing brass overlaid with a delicate but knowing clarinet. There was a strange undercurrent to it that highlighted the emptiness of the lodge. But there had to be someone around, right?

He walked further into the building, trying to see if maybe someone was sitting on a chair or couch. He realized then that there must have been another light on around the corner in the dining room because there was a large shadow cast across the lounge. It dashed over the furniture to climb up the record shelves and the west wall. Dean stopped and blinked, trying to make sense of it. Something long like a pillar with a thinner thing in front of it and a mass atop or behind it—

Lightning flashed—

A bright flare for a single second, sharpening the shape into focus—

The thunderous rumble hot on its heels shook Dean to the core, because it was no pillar. It was the silhouette of a man in profile, a monster in profile, staring down, holding a spear-like weapon and from its back sprouted…wings? Appendages of some kind. They seemed to gently flare before settling back again—or was that just the next flash of lightning pressing and pulling the shadows?

Dean breathed through the adrenaline and put his hand on his gun, though he stopped short of drawing it. The rain and thunder masked his steps across the hardwood; he passed the check-in desk and crept up to the corner where lounge met dining room. He pressed himself against the wall, turned his head, cautiously peeked around the corner…and felt like a fucking idiot.

There was no strange creature. It was just Castiel, paused in the middle of mopping, head bowed. As for the wings, all the chairs in the dining room were upturned and on top of the tables. The large mass of shadows must have been them, growing bigger and smaller as the lightning allowed.

Dean eased his hand off his gun and crossed his arms as he fully turned the corner, its sharp edge digging into the meat of his shoulder. Castiel wasn’t moving: lost in thought, or praying maybe. He considered whether to interrupt and make his presence known, but just a moment later Castiel’s head lifted and whipped over his shoulder. “Dean,” he said in surprise.

“Hey,” he answered. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Not at all.” Castiel put the mop in the bucket—like an actual metal bucket, not those modern yellow ones everyone uses—and leaned the handle against the nearest table. “Is everything alright? It’s very late.”

“The storm,” Dean said, tossing a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his cabin. “Power’s out. Must have a generator in here, huh?”

“Oh,” said Castiel. “Generator, yes. Would you like me to accompany you back to your cabin and see what I can do to help?”

Yeah, invite the motel guy to come see how he’d spilled salt everywhere and kept a bag full of weapons on the kitchen table. “Actually, I didn’t mean to sleep through dinner. Maybe you have some more cookies floating around?” A stray drop of rain slipped from his hair, leaving a cold trail down his neck. Dean shivered and rubbed it away.

“I’m so sorry, Dean, I’ve been remiss in my hosting duties. Come sit and I’ll build you a fire.” He stepped around the tables between them and cupped Dean’s elbow, leading him back to the lounge area.

“You don’t have to do that,” protested Dean, “I interrupted your chores and like, I can just grab something and go—”

“The floor will keep,” said Castiel firmly. He parked Dean in front of the chair closest to the fireplace and turned on the table lamp next to it. Immediately after he knelt to start fussing with the kindling.

Still a bit groggy from his unexpected nap and admittedly cold, Dean let himself be out-stubborned and sat down. “If you’re sure,” he mumbled. He watched as Castiel coaxed a small flame to life, blue and barely there. Dean waited for memories and images to come, the ones that had chased him from the cabin, but somehow they held less power when the fire was in Castiel’s hands. Which was good, because he needed to think about his job, not fear it. “Hey, uh, while I got you here, you guys have a computer around somewhere?”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he said, standing and brushing off his knees. “I don’t own a computer.” He went to the tall stack of wood next to the fireplace and handpicked a couple logs.

“It’s alright,” said Dean. “Just thinking about getting ahold of someone. Is there any cell service at all?” He slipped his phone from his pocket to double-check, still no messages and barely a bar in the upper corner of the little screen.

“There is. Though I think it depends on your provider.” The logs now strategically placed on top of the fire, Castiel stood and stared down at Dean. His sweater, maroon this time, hung just past his wrists, brushing the heels of his hands. “As for dinner, I’ll see what I can scrounge up in the pantry. Is that alright?”

Dean flipped his phone back shut and grinned up at him. “Gimme whatever you got, I’m easy.” He winked.

To Dean’s surprise Castiel blushed, though that might have been the warm light of the growing fire. He ducked his head, anyway, breaking eye contact before determinedly reestablishing it. “I won’t be long,” he said, and hurried back across the dining area to disappear into the kitchen.

Dean was alone again.

It wasn’t so bad this time, though, not with the promise of food and company on the horizon. The record had moved along from the previous song to something upbeat and swingy; Dean tipped his head back onto the chair to relax. Then a waft of warmth reached him from the fire and, at once reminded how cold he was, a massive shiver wracked his body. He stood and shrugged out of his jacket and spread it out to dry. His shirt and jeans stuck to his skin in damp patches. He really needed to find out the laundry situation around here. Rubbing his arms, he went to stand directly in front of the fire, now large and crackling merrily. It actually smelled good, just wood and smoke. Like a real campfire instead of a salty grave.

It wasn’t long before Dean felt warmed up, but Castiel still hadn’t returned. Inevitably he wandered over to the record player. The sleeve of the record currently playing sat propped up face-out on the shelf nearest to it. Artie Shaw. Dean picked it up and scanned the back; if his years poking around used music stores for cassettes had taught him anything, it was that this was an original from the thirties or forties. Which meant that the record was probably made of shellac instead of vinyl. So cool.

The rest of the lodge, now that he had a chance to really pay attention to it, was pretty cool, too. There was the usual stuff from the region, small wood-carved animals, old rusting tools hanging on beams, framed art. He walked the walls, pausing at whatever caught his eye. He particularly liked a painting of a moose drawn with thick black lines, filled with shapes and swirls of reds and yellows and oranges. A painstakingly written card posted next to it named a local artist and shortly discussed his perspective. Sammy would’ve loved it.

Soon enough he circled back to the fireplace. Above the mantel, affixed to the stone in pride of place, was a very old-looking map in an ornate wooden frame. Lake Superior was centered in the map like it was the point around which the rest of the world revolved. For a moment Dean tried to look at it as a sailor might, to not see the land with roads and highways stretched across like veins carrying the lifeblood of the country’s wanderers. Instead the water was its own highway. Dots and names both large and small in gentle cursive signifying the best ports and places for lakeside living, all in a jumble of Ojibwe and French and English. Dean traced its edge with finger just barely above the glass: the graceful arch propping up Ontario to the north, the bumps of Michigan’s upper peninsula and the sharp jut of the Keewenaw, skimming along the top of Wisconsin, until he again reached the strip of western coast that was the North Shore of Minnesota. The water was vast but not empty; what number of ships and boats were out there right now, riders on the storm?

Another flash of lightning glinted off of something just to the right, almost hidden in the corner made between the stone fireplace and wooden wall. It was an old black and white photograph in an unassuming frame. A wide shot of the Paradise Cove Lodge. The woods seemed very close in the picture, or maybe the building was smaller. More interesting was the figure standing just in front of it. There was a young woman in a long skirt and neat jacket buttoned over a blouse, all in light colors stark against the backdrop of the dark wooden building. A small cap was tilted artfully on her upswept hair. Her face sat in stony, solemn lines, her eyes large and piercing. Something about her seemed familiar, though he couldn’t quite say what. There was no title or label to the photo for the curious, only a small metal plate screwed into the bottom edge of the frame, on which was etched “1901.” Another spike of lightning lit up the room, streaking white across her eyes. The resultant crack of thunder was so close it made everything shake.

“Dean?”

He whirled around and swallowed a yelp. It was just Cas, of course. In one hand he held out a pb&j encased in a napkin, and in the other an enormous mug dotted with little lighthouses and nearly overflowing with whipped cream.

He had Dean’s interest. “What’s that?”

“For you,” said Cas, stating the obvious. He pressed the items into Dean’s hands, which were cold enough that the brush of the other man’s fingers was noticeably warm, and the mug almost hot to burning. “A sandwich and hot chocolate. It’s just the sort of night for hot chocolate.” He paused. “Right?”

“No—yeah,” said Dean, grinning. “This is perfect.” He grinned harder when Cas smiled in return, his entire face transforming into something bright. Hungry as he was, Dean still brought the mug to his lips first to take a sip and holy shit, was this hot chocolate. Dean didn’t know for sure since he didn’t think he’d ever drunk anything besides instant Swiss Miss, but this was made with real chocolate, dark and thick, laced with whole milk and cinnamon and maybe a couple other things and there, bumping against his lips, mini-fucking-marshmallows! It was utter perfection. Dean surfaced from the hot chocolate, groaning his pleasure. He had—real!—whipped cream all over his mouth and the tip of his nose, but he didn’t care. “Fucking wow, Cas.”

“Good?”

“So good.” Dean used the napkin around the sandwich to wipe his face a bit, resulting in a glob of jelly hitting his shirt. “Definitely going to need to do laundry ASAP, though.”

Castiel whipped the towel from his shoulder and dabbed at the jelly, which of course left a stain. “There’s a utility building out by the pool where you can do laundry, whenever you like.”

Dean hummed, ripping a big chunk out of his sandwich. That answered that, then. When Cas finally stopped fussing he held the towel in both hands against his chest, watching Dean carefully as he enjoyed the fruits of his labors. He didn’t seem to want to go back to his chores anymore than Dean wanted him to, so he jerked his head in the direction of the photo. “Who’s that?”

Cas watched him a moment longer, then turned so they were standing shoulder to shoulder. Dean thought he sighed, but that may have been the wind howling on the other side of the wall. “Her name was Klara Nováková,” he said, his voice taking on a deeper timbre. “Though she shortened it to Novak after settling in New England.”

“New England? What brought her to Minnesota?”

Dean watched in interest as Castiel opened his mouth slightly to answer, then closed it, his brows bending slowly in consternation. “I don’t know,” he rumbled. The guy stared at the picture of Klara intensely, eyes wide and penetrating.

Aha. That’s what was familiar about her. “She must be your great grandma or something,” said Dean. When Cas side-eyed him, barely turning his head, Dean lifted a hand to encompass the room. “Family business? You own this place, don’t you?”

“Yes,” confirmed Cas, whatever shadow had fallen over him fading. “A family business, you could say that.” Putting his hands in his pockets, he refocused on the photograph. “She was here a long time. We—our family did their best. But in the end she couldn’t stay forever. It wouldn’t have been fair.”

“What do you mean?”

“She had a life to live, and she deserved to live it.” There was a longing in Castiel’s voice, something deep the words only hinted at.

Goosebumps resurfaced on Dean’s skin. He shoved the last of the sandwich into his mouth, wrapped the napkin along with both hands around the still warm mug. “You talk like you knew her.”

A corner of Cas’s mouth quirked up. “Very well.”

“She musta lived to be a ripe old age, then."

“Older than most, I should say,” Cas murmured. When he resurfaced from his memories he must have seen the goosebumps, because he pressed his hand against Dean’s arm again, guiding him back in front of the fire. Then he inclined his head toward the hot chocolate. “Drink up.”

Dean washed down the last bit of sticky peanut butter in his mouth. The drink was just as good, though the whipped cream was melting steadily. “What about the rest of your family?” he asked. “Who’s here when you’re not on shift?”

“It’s just me.”

Those three small words hit Dean with a pang. “They didn’t—they aren’t—”

Cas shook his head. “It’s okay, Dean, they’re alive and well.”

“Oh.” He drank some more chocolate and smacked his lips. “Did they just…” He allowed the question to trail off, stared into the fire instead.

“Did they what?”

The flames shimmered over the blackening logs. “Leave you?”

A long pause followed, in which Dean was too chickenshit to face him. Just when he was about to bring up another subject, though, Cas answered. “Yes,” he said.

Dean lifted his head back up, and they looked at each other. He had the strange feeling that Cas had never said that truth aloud before. Dean imagined Castiel alone now, caught between the mountains and the lake, lost in the wilderness, insignificant and forgotten. It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t right.

“Come on,” he said. Since his jacket was still drying out on the chair, Dean sat on a small nearby couch. Hesitantly Cas followed him. When he sat he kept his back ramrod straight, hands folded neatly in his lap. “Tell me about them.”

“Who?”

“Your family.”

Cas tipped his head back, staring through the ceiling. “My father is…wonderful,” he began. “He made…all of this what it is.” When he looked at him for confirmation, Dean nodded. “It’s part of his plan, his wish that out of all my siblings, it’s me who’s here.”

Dean settled into the corner of the couch, bringing one of his knees up to rest on the cushion. “Why you?”

He shrugged. The motion looked a little awkward with his shoulders. “Everyone else has their own work to do.”

“Yeah but, you’ve been the only one I’ve seen working since I got here. What about employees?” When Cas shook his head, Dean held back a growl. “What’s more important than helping out? When’s the last time you slept? I don’t get it.”

“I have rooms above the office here; I can take time for myself whenever I like. It’s alright, Dean.”

He smacked a hand on the back of the couch. “No it fucking isn’t!”

Castiel blinked in surprise, though he looked more confused than offended, thankfully.

Dean huffed and mentally berated himself for the outburst. He took a fortifying gulp of chocolate and marshmallow. “I just mean,” he said when he was calmer, “I get it.”

“Get what?”

“I work in my own family business,” said Dean. “And my dad, he’s…awesome. He’s the fucking best at what he does, and he taught me everything I know. But he’s gone off on his own now, which is fine, right? Always expected it on some level, but my little brother…well, Sam has his own life to live, I guess. And I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve to! But…our business is important. It’s really important and I can’t understand why he doesn’t see that, and why he blames me for keeping it up and doing what Dad taught us.”

“If it’s that important,” said Cas, “he’ll come around.”

“Yeah right,” scoffed Dean. “He won’t even talk to me anymore. Won’t respond to calls or texts or emails or nothing.”

They sat in silence after that, stewing in their own thoughts. The hot chocolate cooled down eventually, and Dean tossed the rest down the hatch before it got congealed and nasty. He plonked the empty mug on the table under the lamp. The rain continued drumming steadily, the wind whistling through every gap it could find.

“My brother Gabriel,” Cas began in his deep voice, “he hasn’t spoken to me since his last visit.”

“That sucks, Cas.”

“Sometimes,” he agreed. “But because I think he understands me better than the rest of all my siblings, I still talk to him. I don’t know why he doesn’t respond.” He unclasped his hands so that they rested palm up on his knees. “Am I no longer interesting to him? Am I not good enough? Those thoughts make me stop talking for a while. But then I try again.”

“Why?” asked Dean quietly. “What’s the point?”

“The point is that once I no longer expected a response, it changed how I spoke to him. I don’t have to start a conversation, I simply say what I want him to hear and that is enough.”

“Not sure that I get it.”

Cas placed a hand on the cushion between them and leaned forward a little. “What is it that you really want to say to Sam? Is there anything you want him to know that doesn’t change whether he responds or not? Can it be enough for you to know that he hears you? Maybe it’s enough for him just to know you’re thinking about him.” Dean shook his head, but Cas kept talking. “But there’s a more pressing question I think you’re missing, Dean.”

Dean glanced up briefly from his lap, where he was picking at his wet cuff. “What’s that?”

“Are you living the life you want?”

“Hell yeah,” he said with a smile, because there wasn’t any other answer. There couldn’t be. “Traveling all over the country in a cool car, discovering new places like this, meeting new people like you, nothing to hold me down. Kicking ass and being awesome. What’s not to like?”

“I see.” Cas seemed to shrink in on himself, which was kind of a feat for a guy as wide and about as tall as Dean. And not at all the reaction Dean had been going for.

So he tried again. “Come on, Cas, your family business is pretty awesome, too. Must be something you like about it if you’ve stuck with it this long, right?”

“Well—”

“Like all these records!” Dean jumped up from the couch, grabbing a piece of Castiel’s sweater along the way, tugging him up and over to the shelves. “Some of these are really old. Your great grams started this collection then, huh? Or maybe one of her kids.”

This had the desired affect. Cas picked up the sleeve for the Artie Shaw record with a small smile. “Klara did, yes. This was one of the first records in the collection. You enjoy music?”

“Fuck yeah, dude,” said Dean. “Though, er, maybe not this stuff so much.” The big band warbled from the player, underlining his point. “I love the classics but this is a little too classic, if you know what I mean.”

“And what do you consider ‘classic,’ Dean?” Castiel snarked, using air quotes, even.

“Rock’n’roll, baby,” he answered, miming a little air guitar.

Cas raised an eyebrow. “And where would rock be without blues and jazz and all that came before?”

Dean raised his free hand palm out. “Hey, no disrespect. American music’s the best music full stop. You’re into swing then?”

“We—the family, Klara enjoyed it very much. The motel’s growing collection came to be a draw for the region. When swing was popular they used to push the furniture against the walls to leave room for the lindyhoppers.”

Dean couldn’t help it—the word was just so funny dropping so seriously from Cas’s mouth that he threw his head back and laughed. He wrapped an arm around Castiel’s shoulders to keep from falling over. When was the last time he’d even laughed this hard? “Lin-lindyhoppers?”

Cas tilted his head, looking adorably befuddled. “That…is what they called themselves. I thought.”

“Fuck if I know,” said Dean, catching his breath.

“It was actually fun. Um. So I was told.”

Like that wasn’t suspicious. “Did somebody teach you how to lindyhop, Cas?” Dean teased.

“Why, would you like to learn?” Castiel shot back.

Maybe it was the hot chocolate, or his full belly, the warmth of the fire, the coziness of the lodge—or maybe all those hours of sleep were messing with his brain. Whatever it was, the filter to Dean’s mouth went on the fritz, his voice lower and more suggestive than he would’ve liked when he said, “I’m a little too big for you to swing me around, buddy.”

Castiel’s eyes flashed. Or, no, that must have been the lightning, judging by the thunder that rolled overhead. Dean held his breath, maybe for the disgust, or for Cas to laugh it off and joke back, but the last thing he was expecting was an even, “Is that what you think?”

Dean gulped.

After holding Dean’s eyes for a few moments, Cas blinked and lifted the needle from the record. The rain pounded harder against the windows in the sudden silence. “Why don’t you pick something more to your taste while I make you another hot chocolate?”

“You don’t, you don’t have—”

“Dean. Do you want another one?”

“…Yes.”

“Then pick a record.” Cas gave him a firm nod and turned to leave. Dean watched him stride all the way across the lodge and into the swinging door that led to the kitchen.

The records were far enough from the fire that the heat in Dean’s face faded quickly. Shoving all thoughts about swinging from his mind he carefully lifted the old record from the turntable and slid it back into its sleeve. Gently he set down for Cas to put in the right spot and began scanning the shelves. Right away he realized that the records were in order of time released, more or less, and he skipped from one shelf to the next in search of the 70s. The truly awesome thing about the collection wasn’t just that it was enormous, but it was almost every genre all the way through the early 90s when they’d pretty much stopped pressing them. Forget the motel, Castiel had a hell of an inheritance right the fuck here. Especially so since Dean found exactly the album he was looking for.

By the time Castiel was done with the next round of hot chocolate, Dean was sprawled in the corner of the couch again, the haunting sounds of a violin bow against Jimmy Page’s guitar soaring over their heads. Cas returned to him the mug with the little lighthouses, refilled and overflowing with whipped cream. Dean took it from his hands greedily and shivered as the heat raced from his fingers and to the rest of his body. Castiel reclaimed his spot on the other side of the couch. “No hot chocolate for you?” Dean asked, blowing on his own. The whipped cream billowed a bit under the force of his breath.

“No,” said Cas. Without expanding, he added, “Led Zeppelin. Physical Graffiti, 1975.”

Dean grinned. “Song?”

“Side three, song one. In the Light.” Cas ducked his head, almost shy. “A good choice.”

“You are some kinda alright, Cas.”

“I know all the records in the collection.”

Stuck inside the lodge 24/7 without much else to do? No surprise there. “Yeah, I bet.” Dean smiled and took a cautious sip of his hot chocolate. He hummed and licked the cream from his lips. It was just as good as last time. “You have got to tell me how you make this.”

“Another time, perhaps.”

Dean peered at him, half-hiding his scrutiny behind the mug. Cas was staring to the right of the fireplace, at the picture of his great grandmother if Dean had to guess. His eyes were big and sad, and it was kind of funny—Dean was coming at this from the completely opposite perspective, but he knew just what Castiel was thinking. ‘Another time’ was a thing that rarely came for Cas, living in a motel with people constantly passing in and out of his life. ‘Another time’ rarely came for Dean, either; hunters did not make a habit of passing the same way twice. It wasn’t really a no. It was a never.

Come morning, they’d part ways unlikely to ever set eyes on each other again.

Robert Plant’s plaintive singing stretched between them; the fire cracked and raged against the storm that surrounded them. Dean let his eyes rove around the room, though Castiel’s barely blinked.

“What else do you like about the motel?” Dean asked.

Cas tilted his head, considering. “The people,” he decided after a moment. “The people are the best part. So many different kinds, all of them interesting. Each one important.”

“Now I know that ain’t true,” said Dean.

“Isn’t it?”

Of course it wasn’t, how could it be? After Dean left tomorrow Castiel might remember him for a couple days, even a week. Then he’d blend in with all the others who’ve passed through, a long never-ending line of them. If he made any impact at all. “Not everyone’s important. Otherwise you’d remember them all.”

“But I do,” said Cas.

“Yeah right,” said Dean. “No one could do that.”

Castiel set his jaw and glared. “I can.”

And then he told Dean stories.

Some of them were his own, but the rest must have been passed down from parents and grandparents. They must have, because Cas didn’t just talk about people that came while he ran the place; he talked about families rolling up in VW vans or Model Ts, children with their faces stuck in gameboys or people gathered round the wireless for a baseball game, the flappers and the hippies, hikers and skiers, the weddings, the wakes, the secret trysts of lovers who found refuge in the hidden lodge. Interracial couples for whom it used to be illegal; gay couples for whom it still was.

Castiel added so many details, whether they’d been passed down to him or he embellished like any good storyteller would, too strange and specific Dean couldn’t help but believe they were true. The color of one person’s eyes, another their hair, the irregular pearls in a precious necklace, the unique hitch of his laugh, the sad droop of her mouth, the name of their dog, their cat, their damn horse. The rough, cracked hands of a miner, the weathered face of a sailor. People who were regulars, friends, or strangers from in and out of Minnesota, Star of the North. People who stayed for weeks or months. People who stayed a single night, never to return.

Ghost stories, in the end. Of a different sort than Dean was used to. But there was no malevolent spirit, no cold breath. Just the ever increasing warmth of fire and good company.

By the time Cas stopped talking, Dean’s mug was long since empty. The record was over, staticky and skipping. Cas was smiling, the traces of his last story still on his face, of the lodge full to overflowing with people eating and drinking, laughing and dancing, and fuck it, Dean believed him. Dean believed that when he left here that Castiel would remember him. Maybe the album he chose, or the stain on his shirt, or how much he loved his homemade hot chocolate. Seen through Castiel’s eyes he felt real, solid in way he hadn’t felt since who knew when. Hunting was important, what Dean did mattered. He knew that. He saved people, or at least he tried. But here, he wasn’t going to be remembered for any of that. He was just going to be remembered for being Dean.

He didn’t want Castiel to stop seeing him.

“You tired yet?” he asked.

“Not in the least,” Cas said.

Dean examined his face for any hint of a lie, but he stared back, anticipating, almost challenging. What next? he seemed to say.

Slamming his empty mug on the small end table, Dean clapped his hands once and stood. “C’mere, Cas, you gotta choose the music.” Dean busied himself by tucking Physical Graffiti back in its sleeve and then on the shelf in its proper spot.

“Somehow I feel like this is a trick,” Castiel teased as he came up behind him. “You’re sure to have strong opinions no matter what I choose.”

“Maybe,” said Dean. “But I’ll let it slide in this case, because you’re going to know what’s best.”

“Best for what?”

“Teaching me to lindyhop,” he answered, with a bravado he didn’t quite feel.

Cas blinked at him owlishly. “You do want to dance?”

“I’ll try anything once,” Dean winked. When Cas just squinted at him, he relented. A little. “Look. You spend your whole life in this place taking care of other people. When’s the last time you went out and did something fun, huh?” Cas’s face softened, though he didn’t respond. Dean patted the spines of the records. “You think dancing’s fun, right? So pick.”

“It has been a long time since I last tried dancing,” admitted Cas. He ran a finger along the records, scanning their titles. “Do you have any dancing experience?”

“You mean outside of grinding at skeevy bars?” Castiel gave him the side eye; Dean just gave him a shit-eating grin and began shoving the furniture back to give them more space. “We had to square dance in middle school gym class once. Can’t say it was a great time.”

“Hmm,” said Cas. “Let’s start with something simple.” Cas’s finger stopped and tapped a record, then reached to pull it from the shelf. A Glenn Miller album of some kind. Expertly Cas drew the record from the sleeve and placed it on the turntable, adjusting the needle to a track in the middle. The opening horns announced the song just as the lightning flashed, the following thunder a low counterpoint to the brass.

Castiel met Dean in the middle of the space he’d cleared in front of the fire. He grabbed Dean’s hand and tugged him closer. Dean gulped, but had a grin ready for when Cas met his gaze. Cas smiled back and adjusted their grip a little, then curling his other hand around Dean’s shoulder. Dean relaxed, glad they didn’t have to have a discussion about that. This was weird enough without him having to take up the dude’s position. He very lightly put his free hand on Cas’s back.

“Okay, now on the correct count, we step this way,” said Cas, “then this—” The song wasn’t some wild number, not as slow as a ballad or anything but still kind of relaxed. The basic steps were simple, and once Dean got the gist, on the next count Cas coached him to open up so that they faced the fireplace, joined only by their hands, and then brought them back together. That was easy enough, too, but it was all still kind of awkward until Dean realized: Cas knew every step perfectly, but—

“This is swing,” said Dean. “Why aren’t we swinging?”

“What do you mean?”

“Loosen up a little, hoss.”

Castiel frowned down at his feet, still in time, but so damn stiff. It was more like he was playacting than actually dancing. “I am loose,” he grumped.

“No,” Dean laughed, “like this—” and actually took the lead. He initiated the next swing out, pulling on Cas’s arm, who was solid enough not to be jerked in Dean’s direction, and then using the momentum Dean reeled them back together. Several more bars and Cas was still stiff, spine ramrod straight, but smiling as he relinquished control to Dean who, now that he’d gotten the hang of it, started moving them around instead of staying in place. The steps didn’t really matter so much, Dean figured, if you bounced along to the rhythm; without any prompting he lifted their joined hands and Cas turned beneath them, still kind of stiff but without missing a beat.

Then, when the next song came on and Miller’s orchestra struck up the kind of tune that earned the name big band, Dean started going faster and wilder. Castiel let him swing them around the space, only pulling or tugging when they were about to tumble into furniture, or when he swung them back together too hard. When the almost stumbled into the fireplace Cas stopped them, pushed Dean back a little so he could demonstrate different steps. Dean tried to pay attention, really he did, but watching Cas kicking his heels back in a fast rhythm only made Dean laugh. It looked ridiculous, this whole damn thing was ridiculous. Dean was high on too much sugar and far too much sleep; Cas was somehow a terrible dancer even though he never missed a step; and neither of them could stop looking at each other, holding gazes even when their bodies swung apart, a couple of idiots having the time of their fucking lives. They lasted one more song until finally, finally a ballad came up and Dean leaned over, slapping his hands on his knees, wheezing from dancing and laughing and the long bruise on his side telling him he’d pushed things right up to the limit.

But Cas, it seemed, wasn’t done. Gently but inexorably he brought both Dean’s arms back up and in place. He tried to take the lead again, nudging Dean forward and back with steps, but Dean didn’t look down at his feet. Instead he took a deep breath and lifted their joined hands, pulling Cas’s toward his shoulder and placing it there. Ignoring Cas’s questioning look, Dean swallowed and wrapped his around Castiel’s back and stepped closer into his space. Cas tilted his head a little but didn’t resist, allowing his arms to slide further back along Dean’s shoulders, one hand landing on the nape of his neck, the other just beneath. Cas blinked languidly, the rain lashed the windows, a piece of wood crumbled apart in the fire and fell, sending up sparks. They swayed. Dean leaned in and kissed him.

Cas let out a small noise that Dean felt more than heard. His lips were soft, a little chapped, and after a moment he returned the kiss. Dean forced himself to pull back sooner than he wanted to make sure he wasn’t misreading anything; he shouldn’t have worried. Dean was barely able to take a breath before Cas’s fingers pressed into the top of his spine, guiding their mouths back together. Their kisses were soft, tentative at first, then just lingering. The soft huffs of air that fell from Cas’s lips were surprisingly cool across Dean’s own, like he’d just had a mint or something. Dean pushed his tongue forward to taste it and Cas opened up, welcoming. Whatever it was, the sharp coolness of it contrasted with the rich dark chocolate and sugar he’d just drunk for a heady combination. Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a kiss that didn’t taste of beer or whiskey or over-salted bar peanuts. A kiss that was just a short stop on the highway to the bedroom. This was something else: something fresh, something sweet, with someone like Castiel who was kind but lonely, gentle but still boldly sweeping his tongue into Dean’s mouth now as they kissed, and kissed, and kissed, still swaying, slow dancing, like every school dance that Dean never attended. Like the high school sweethearts he never had. The girls he never really dated. The boys he definitely never let himself look at more than once.

It was too much. Dean broke the kiss quickly and the dance ground to a halt. But before Cas had a chance to react Dean tugged him in so they were pressed together, chest to chest, and buried his face where his neck met his shoulder. Cas’s hands were hesitant where they rested and almost lifted away, but after a moment their weight fell back, reassuring. Cas gently led them into swaying again, his thumb moving back and forth over the knob of Dean’s spine. Dean squeezed tighter around Cas’s waist and shifted so his cheek was resting on his shoulder, facing out into the room. Castiel’s sweater was surprisingly soft against his skin.

It was no doubt that what Dean was feeling was fear, or something like it. All his life was a string of fear punctuated by moments of fleeting bliss: a hug from Sam, a smile from his dad, a forkful of freshmade pie. What was so frustrating was that this shouldn’t scare him, right? It’s just that Castiel felt so steady and solid pressed against Dean, giving the impression that Dean could fall, just a little, and still be caught. That he was happy to let Dean take the lead but could easily take it back any moment. That, given how he’d told his stories, he was the least likely person to ever judge him for wanting something he’d never let himself have.

He’d had his fair share of drunk handjobs with other guys inside bar bathrooms, even a blowjob or two, but never kisses. Certainly never dances. Cassie Robinson was about the only person he’d ever imagined himself having a future with, however briefly before she’d kicked him to the curb for being a hunter. Though he did sometimes wonder about Lee Webb…what might have happened if not for that last, disastrous hunt…if the way they’d grown closer and closer hadn’t all been in Dean’s head, if there’d been another month, or even just another day, would they have gotten over themselves and their respective shitty issues? Would it have been anything like this?

Maybe. Probably not. Hunters were not the tender type. Hunters had no room for weakness. There were monsters in this world and Dean had to fill in every chink in his armor to keep them out. He had to pass unnoticed from town to town, have no ties or attachments anywhere outside hunting allies, outside his hunting family. Sammy had found an out at Stanford, maybe, but he was only allowed it because people like Dean were there to stand between him and danger. He had to be that shield for Castiel too, and everyone like him. What might have happened to this quaint lodge in the middle of nowhere if people like him weren’t keeping an eye on the Northwoods? And yet…

Everything felt so cut off here, hidden. Like Cas presided over his own little pocket world where storms could rage and monsters could prowl and he would be as steadfast as he was right in this moment. Strong as a foundation. If ever there could be a time for Dean to let himself go it was now. Because Dean wasn’t scared of Cas. Not even scared he wouldn’t like what they could do together. But scared he would like it too much, so much that to leave would be painful.

And Castiel deserved better than him, a good-for-nothing drifter with a couple bucks to his name. Cas was different. He didn’t have a life outside of the motel. Cas was stuck in his little time capsule, firefly in a jar, and Dean couldn’t stay. When Dean drove off, what would Castiel be left with? What would Dean take with him?

Who the fuck was Dean kidding? It was already too late. He was always going to have regrets left over from this night, however it went; it just remained to choose the flavor. Would he rather be plagued with the what ifs, wondering what it might be like to let himself pretend with someone, just this once? Or would he rather jump in and live with the consequences, whatever they might be? It would be so easy to choose the former. He knew what that would be like. Dangerous to choose the latter—it could turn out to be nothing. It could turn out to be everything.

The song ended. The record turned, but the needle skipped on nothing. Cas stilled their movements and slowly withdrew, leaving Dean standing alone, staring out across the dining area and into the deep, dark night, low thunderheads blocking every bit of sky. The fire crackled like static in his head; its shadows danced tauntingly around the room. He knew what he wanted. He knew it. Would it be so bad if he let himself have it? No one would know, not Dad, not anyone. He could have this. Just for tonight, right?

He turned in time to see Cas slide the album back in place on its shelf. That done he glanced at Dean, opened his mouth—

Suddenly the fear of the night’s ending surpassed his fear of tomorrow. In that moment his decision was made. “Take me to bed,” said Dean.

Cas’s mouth snapped shut. He stared Dean down, the full force of his penetrating gaze looking for what, Dean didn’t know. But he must have liked what he saw because there was no more hesitation after that. Confidently he strode back to Dean, reclaimed his hand, and pulled him away from the lounge area. They left behind the furniture, the fire, the empty mug. He led Dean behind the large front desk and in through the door behind it. Dean followed him up a steep wooden staircase that led to a small landing. There was an open door to a room that sat above the kitchen, and that’s where they went.

Castiel didn’t bother turning on a lamp or anything, so between flashes of lightning Dean couldn’t make out much more than the bed, headboard pushed against the north wall, and done up with a patchwork quilt neat as a pin. It was a lot colder up here without the fire, but all Cas had to do was draw him into another kiss to make Dean forget about that.

Confident now that he was all in, Dean slid his hands under Cas’s shirts to find the smooth skin of his back; a sudden sting sparked across his fingers. Static electricity from the sweater? As good a time as any to get rid of it, then. He bunched the shirt and sweater up under his arms in a wordless request. Cas held onto one more piercing kiss before he relinquished Dean’s mouth, but only long enough to get the clothes up and off. It made his thick dark hair even more wild and messy. Dean ran his fingers through it, tangled them in the soft strands, pulling back just a touch to lift Cas’s chin. His other hand he ran down Cas’s neck, his broad shoulders, the flat chest that led to a solid core, the muscles hidden but easy to feel just underneath. If he ever had any doubts that he was attracted to men, they were gone now. Cas was fucking hot, and even hotter was the way he looked completely at ease in his nakedness, not an ounce of shyness or submissiveness in the way he let Dean look and touch his fill. Only when Dean gave in, plastering himself back against Cas’s chest, nipping and kissing his neck did Castiel move again.

He took his own turn pushing under Dean’s shirt, more static sparked, but he didn’t grab or grope. The tips of his fingers circled lightly on his skin, tracing his spine, his ribs, the dip in his back just above his jeans, his fingertips trailing goosebumps in their wake. He nipped Dean’s earlobe once before pushing Dean back by the waist, impatient to get rid of Dean’s shirt. Dean was very onboard with that, lifting his arms and tearing it off himself—too fast, it turned out, because he couldn’t help but hiss at the pull in his side.

“Dean,” Cas whispered, running fingers down the nasty fucking bruise, feather-light.

“I’m okay,” Dean said. To prove it he pressed their lips together again, immediately diving into Castiel’s mouth, preventing any questions he might have had. It would ruin the mood when he couldn’t come up with a good answer.

Dean pushed at Cas’s waist now, and Cas allowed it. Dean guided him backwards to the bed. His intention had been to shove him onto it and join him, but Castiel sat on its edge and would be pushed no further. With a hand on the small of Dean’s back and the other under his thigh, he used Dean’s weight against him to draw him down onto his lap. A small noise of surprise escaped into the kiss, and Dean pulled away to blink down at him. Cas just raised an eyebrow. It was clear that having sex with a guy was not as new to him as it was to Dean, but sue him, alright, Dean was a big fucking guy and yet his knees were on the bed, legs on either side of Cas’s, Dean’s full weight on his thighs and the dude didn’t seem bothered at all. Dean found it arousing despite himself. He must have had some dumb kind of shocked look on his face, too, because Cas gave him a little smirk before cupping the back of his head and drawing him into another kiss.

They stayed like that for a bit, storm flickering beyond their eyelids, until suddenly it just wasn’t enough anymore. Dean lifted his head up and back, eyes still closed, breathing hard. Cas took the opportunity to press tiny kisses onto his throat. “Jeans?” Dean asked. He felt Cas’s hum of assent rumbling against his Adam’s apple. Dean stood and shucked his boots, shoving his pants down unceremoniously after them. Cas shimmied out of his own jeans and moved himself up at the same time, until he was in nothing but plain white boxers laid out along the bed. Dean wasted no more time in joining him. He climbed on top of Cas, who held out his arms to help draw him in. Looking dead into each other’s eyes Dean lowered his hips while Cas raised his to meet them. Their half-hard cocks rubbed against each other with the thin fabric of their boxers between them, and “Fuck,” Dean groaned. It didn’t take long for them to find a leisurely rhythm, tongues in counterpoint to their hips, rocking, rocking. Soon enough they were both filled out, breathing, pushing, and completely lost in it Dean rolled hard and pulled his side again, the pain so sharp he couldn’t help a small whimper, the stutter of his movements.

“Dean,” said Cas, exasperation tinged with worry.

“I’m fine, I said,” Dean grumbled, trying to move again.

Cas didn’t let it go this time. In the blink of an eye he had them rolling—turning the direction of Dean’s good side—and put himself on top. Which, one, was fucking hot Cas had the strength and speed to that before Dean could countermeasure and B, did he mention it was fucking hot? Dean couldn’t find it within himself to put up a protest when instead of getting back with the program, Cas slowly started kissing his way down his neck, then his chest. Dean would be hard-pressed to say there was anything particularly sensual about it; Cas seemed supremely unconcerned about making anything look sexy. It was obvious that he wasn’t intent on devouring Dean for his own benefit—which was hot in its own right, Dean loved when girls couldn’t get enough of him—but this was its own kind of hot, its own kind of sexy, the way that when Cas got any kind of reaction from him, he would lick, or kiss, or nip, press harder here or lighter there, to see if he could get a repeat of the reaction, or a better one. Found that licking then blowing on his nipples made Dean squirm, that a light touch here tickled, that a light touch there did nothing but instead a light pinch there made him squeak. Aside from the large bruise and the other smaller ones scattered across his body, Cas left nothing unexplored, and was well on his way to conducting Dean like a damn orchestra by the time he was rubbing his nose along the soft skin of his abdomen, right where his treasure trail began.

“May I?” asked Cas, the cool rush of his breath skating around Dean’s bellybutton.

“Yeah, Cas,” said Dean. “Do it.” He lifted his hips and Cas peeled his boxers away.

Castiel did not waste time. Dean’s boxers were still up in the air from Cas’s careless toss and already his dick was in Cas’s hand, running up it slowly as if examining its length, its color. Cas nudged his legs a little further apart to better fit his shoulders between them and applied the same curiosity and concentration he’d spent on the rest of Dean’s body. He used just his hands, at first, clever fingers exploring his sac, too, and pressing up against his taint. Dean already felt half crazy by the time Cas even bothered using lips and tongue, sucking and licking and staring up at Dean’s face the whole time. There was none of the theatre that Dean was used to in this either, the coy looks from under eyelashes, the are you watching me, look at me, isn’t this hot, aren’t I sexy, don’t you love this, baby? Just Cas watching him like a hawk for every tiny twitch of Dean’s muscles, every hitched breath, on a mission to exploit every fucking nerve until Dean found himself choking back noises and digging his fingers into the quilt, dragging the ends out from under the mattress.

It was the moisture building in the corners of his eyes that did it. He needed to move, do something, anything. “Fuck,” he gasped. “Stop.”

Cas let him go immediately, which was its own torture, sitting back on his haunches. “Are you al—”

“Shut. Up,” Dean growled, surging forward to pull Cas back up the bed. He kissed him wildly, fiercely, shoving Cas’s boxers down in the scramble, and as they settled on their sides Dean snuck a hand between them to find Cas’s cock. Castiel gasped and his eyelids fluttered, but instead of making Dean feel more in control it just made him more desperate. He must have made some kind of noise because Cas’s eyes snapped open and he darted forward for a short, biting kiss. Then, eyes locked with Dean’s, he brought up his hand and licked his own fucking palm. Holy fuck. When he was satisfied with how wet it was he reached down to thread it under Dean’s. Taking their entwined fingers he pulled Dean’s dick against his own in the circle and Dean moaned at how incredible it was, the hot, silken feel of their cocks sliding together, their hands' rough callouses, the sloppiness of Cas’s spit all over everything.

But there was no sinking or relaxing into it. Cas had an arm snaked underneath him, curling up and around onto his shoulder to keep Dean close; Dean’s hand was threaded into Cas’s hair because he had to hold on to fucking something, because the way he was reacting had to be more than just having a kind of sex he’d never had before. It was Cas himself prickling at all his skin like a livewire, not static electricity after all, just this dorky, hot fucking dude, their breaths tangling warm and cool in the small space between their mouths, chests brushing together with every deep sigh and groan, and Cas’s eyes watching, always watching, piercing, digging and Dean utterly unable to look away. He came like that, the storm flashing and flickering around them as Dean drowned in unending blue.

“Dean,” Cas rumbled, more wrecked than he’d sounded the whole time. Still in the throes of orgasm, Dean let himself be pushed onto his back while Cas kissed his slack mouth fiercely, finishing himself off. With a final shudder Cas lifted away and collapsed on his back, the mattress bouncing a little underneath them.

They both lay there for a while, panting in sync until their hearts slowed and the adrenaline faded away. Cas was the first to recover. He sat up most of the way, leaning back on his hands and staring out the windows that lined the east wall. Dean stared, taking his turn to watch Cas for a change. Idly he slid a hand over to reach the closest part of him, lightly running a finger along the inside of Cas’s wrist and up to the crease of his elbow, then back down.

Castiel took a deep breath like he was surfacing from a trance. He turned his head to look down at Dean, giving him a smile so small it was mostly something that lingered around his eyes. Then he scooted himself back to sit against the headboard and—ever mindful of Dean’s injury—he pulled Dean up just enough to tuck him under his arm and lay Dean’s head on his chest. Once he was content with Dean’s position he dropped a small kiss on Dean’s forehead, then looked back out the window.

Dean stared at his jawline a moment before following his gaze. Now that he could see past him he understood what was so enthralling: the storm had finally left the shore. The roiling mass of dark clouds now tumbled east across Lake Superior and lightning spidered great sticky webs between clouds and down into the water. Thunder trailed seconds behind. “Awesome,” said Dean.

Cas hummed in agreement, soft vibration under Dean’s ear.

Not long after, the rain stopped. The lake was still churning, crashing against the cliff below, lulling Dean into a doze. The handing card through his hair probably helped. The fingers tracing his bruise and leaving tingles that somehow dulled the ache helped even more. But even Cas’s body didn’t stop him from shivering from the night’s cold.

“Here,” said Cas, helping him to sit up. “Let’s get under the covers.”

“No, I should, I should go,” said Dean, reluctantly dragging himself out of Cas’s arms and to the other side of the bed. “Should check on my cabin and stuff.” Cas kept his hand on him until the last moment, fingertips falling away. Dean let his legs drop off the bed, the wooden floor cold and smooth under his feet. He felt the mattress bounce as Cas stood, saw him go through a side door in his periphery, flicking the light on in a small bathroom. The faucet ran for a moment before he reappeared with a damp washcloth. Dean took it gratefully, still not daring to look up as he wiped himself off. Cas grabbed it when he was done, disappearing with it back into the bathroom.

Dean stood quickly, pushing himself up all at once. He hunted for his boxers, then his jeans, tugging on each layer of clothing in a rush. Cas came back into the room while he was in the middle of it and quietly sat on the edge of his bed. Watching. Dean ignored it, avoiding it until he couldn’t any more, standing at the threshold to the stairwell, sinking down into the shadows. Dean bit his lip, fingers digging into the doorframe. He forced on a smile and looked over his shoulder. “Another time, Cas.”

“No,” said Cas. Dean ducked his head, taking the blow of the reproach. He was right; Cas deserved better than for Dean to pretend, but what else was he supposed to do? He peeked back at the other man, still naked, blue eyes wide and bright under the rectangle of yellow light that spilled in from the bathroom. The storm roiled behind him. “We don’t have to say goodbye yet,” he said lowly.

“Come on,” said Dean, looking away.

“Stay one more night in Paradise Cove. Just one more.”

“I can’t. I’ve gotta go to Hibbing, I think.”

“You think?”

Dean dropped his forehead onto the doorframe just above his hand. He’d already stayed longer than he meant to, whether there was really a case in Hibbing or not. Even if he did decide to stay longer, how would he pay for it? That was the real bottom line here. The thought of screwing Cas out of money now made Dean sick. “I can’t afford it,” he grit out.

“I’m not looking for your money, Dean. I have plenty of vacancies so you wouldn’t be taking the spot of a paying customer. Stay as my personal guest.”

That forced Dean up. It was easier to look at Cas when he wanted to glare. “I don’t want your fucking charity.”

“This isn’t charity,” Cas retorted, glaring back. “If it were truly a burden I wouldn’t ask. I swear it.”

Dean scoffed.

“Just think about it,” said Cas. Then, in a softer tone, “Please.”

And what else could Dean do, seeing Cas so vulnerable, lonely, a big guy somehow looking so small and defeated but still so damn hopeful in his sad little bedroom? The man so completely the same yet so completely opposite, who stayed to please his father while Dean left to please his.

In moments like this it had never felt less worth it.

“You deserve better, Cas,” he said. Then he clomped down the stairs and away.

***

Castiel lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He listened carefully to the sound of Dean leaving the lodge, then splashing through water as he walked away. Only when he heard Dean make it safely back to his cabin did he let his attention fall slack.

Dean was not the first hunter to have stumbled upon Paradise Cove; Castiel had known immediately what he was the moment he stepped into the lodge, covered in a cloud of exhaustion and fear, smelling of blood and salt and bone. Most hunters were good people trying their best in a too harsh world. Castiel respected them for protecting others while he, stuck in his sphere, could not. But Dean was different.

Why was Dean different?

The thought of his going to Hibbing left Castiel cold. Even before he’d overheard Donna talking to Dean about the pattern Kathleen had found, he had long ago discerned it for himself. No culprit sprang to mind immediately, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. If it hadn’t been so far way, Castiel would have investigated it himself, brought the wrath of Heaven down on whoever was causing such grief and pain.

All humans deserved a good chance at life. Why did Castiel know, with every atom of his grace, that Dean deserved even more? Why did he feel it?

“Gabriel,” he prayed. As he murmured he spoke in Enochian with a mishmash of English and Ojibwe and French, the languages he heard the most since being stationed here. When Gabriel had visited he’d spoken in a mix of human languages all his own, dead and still living, eschewing the tongue of angels completely.

“When I let Klara go, and you helped build me a new body in secret, I thought she’d taken all human emotion with her. But now I’m not so sure because this is all very familiar. I’m feeling, but not like we do. It’s too deep and wild and uncontrollable. I’m feeling things like they do. I know that now.

“Horrible events have happened nearby since I first came here, so many terrible things that were well within my ability to ameliorate without straying too far. There were people I could have saved if I’d chosen to leave my post, even a little, yet I did not waver from my duty. I did not doubt. But things continue happening, people still need help; I have doubts and yet I stay because that is what I have been told.

“Is this my penance? Is this my punishment? I still don’t know what wrong I committed to be stationed here, but I cannot help what I feel.

“Every day the truth becomes clearer. They deserve better from us, brother. And maybe that means we deserve better, too.

“Gabriel,” he sighed. “I am considering disobedience.”

Chapter Text

Sunrise found Dean already wide awake, sitting out on the patio with the same clothes he’d both worn and slept in the night before. All the clouds from the storm had disappeared and the sky was fading into bright, unaltered blue. He wished he had a beer.

Having only about four hours of sleep felt like back to normal, but at the same time just wrong. It’s like now that he remembered what being well rested felt like, everything about lack of sleep—the slight headache, the grittiness to his eyes—all of it sapped whatever will he had to get up and go. He shifted in the chair. There was barely a twinge to his muscles, so that was something, at least. Experimentally he poked himself in the side where his massive bruise was. The pain ached instead of spiking sharp. Dean lifted his shirt up to look. For something that had been black just yesterday, it was well on its way to yellow.

Well. There goes that excuse to stay.

He grunted and stood from the chair. He swept one last look over the view and headed inside. Though his stomach and tastebuds put in a revolt, as well as the large chunk of his brain that was always running numbers, Dean decided to skip free breakfast and wolfed down a Snickers bar he had in his duffel. Leaning against the kitchen table he chewed and considered his room. Should he clean up before or after taking a shower?

After, he decided. He walked over to the nightstand to pick up his phone and check for new messages. None. Sighing he ruffled to empty his pockets before shucking his jeans. Car keys, cabin key. A rock?

He turned the agate in his hand. Guess he’d forgotten about it after his nap. He dropped it on the nightstand next to his books, and that gave him pause. The agate next to The Congdon Murders…that should be on Sam’s nightstand, not Dean’s. He wanted to call his brother so badly in that moment, demand and accuse and beg and…

What was it he really wanted to say? Is there anything worth saying, even if it meant Sam never replied?

Okay. I can do this. The book: Sammy was so smart he was reading adult level books when he was still a kid. He’d gotten into the psychological part of hunting, reading true crime and taking a fascination in the disturbing. Actually a pretty healthy hobby for a hunter, trying to make sense of violence that go be so random and unrelenting. The rock: Sam had gone through a nerdy rock-collecting phase as a kid, until he had so many he couldn’t lift his duffel anymore. But he’d kept at until long after their dad had thought he’d give up. Dean smiled.

His little brother was so smart and stubborn. Dean hated how that drove a wedge between them. But he was so proud of him for it too.

He picked up his phone and took a picture of the book with the agate. It looked kind of stupid on the little screen, but he put it in a message to Sam anyway. He tried typing something under it, but nothing sounded right. He didn’t have anything to say that wasn’t what had been building up over the two years of radio silence. Whatever. He sent the picture by itself.

Sending. Sending. Sent.

Dean stood there looking at the screen, waiting for a response, before remembering he wasn’t supposed to. He flipped it shut and threw it onto the bed. He felt weird, still sad and angry but also kind of okay too. But more than anything he really didn’t want to think about it. He stared at the phone accusingly. What had he been doing again?

Shower, right. Then maybe, he thought, catching sight of the still unopened newspapers he’d snagged yesterday, he could do laundry and research at the same time.

***

After a quick shower Dean was out the door with his duffel full of clothes. It was a really nice day outside, like the storm had swept everything clean. Not a single cloud in the sky, a rich blue, and the lake so calm as to be still. A single seagull swung a circle overhead, and then back out over the water. Only the very barest of breezes stirred the trees, but it was enough to send fresh woodsy scents all around. Birds were chirping like crazy, and without any care for Dean at all two squirrels raced each other across the drive. As nice as it was, he didn’t see evidence of a single other person. That suited Dean fine.

When he reached the parking lot and the lodge, his heart thumped a little harder. The sun reflected bright white light off the panes so that Dean couldn’t see inside. What was Cas doing? Was he asleep, or was he already making breakfast? Was he expecting Dean to come?

He ducked his head and stopped looking. What did it matter? He’d hung out with the guy for a few hours, so what?

You know what, said a stupid voice in Dean’s head. A few hours in the thick of night was different from a few hours during the day. In the dark time stretched and molded itself around those left awake in it; thoughts and conversations felt richer and burrowed deeper. Last night had been an eternity of Castiel’s company, and right now Dean was living the regrets he knew he would.

He kept walking. Since the pool definitely wasn’t near Dean’s cabin, it had to be north of the lodge. Just past the firepit the drive started curving inward toward the land while the dirt path kept heading straight along the cliff. Maybe that would be something worth exploring while his clothes were in the machine.

It was only another minute along the drive when the pool showed up, a modest concrete square that only went six feet deep. It was surrounded by a handful of lounge chairs and behind it sat a small building. It had a small overhang under which a towel rack and drinking fountain were provided. Above those was a sign on the wall in the same dark wood and yellow lettering style as everything else. It pointed to bathrooms on one side, and laundry on the other. Yahtzee.

The laundry half of the building had two washing machines and dryers each. Dean had change jangling around in his pocket, but surprisingly there was nowhere to pay. How the hell did this place keep afloat? Whatever. Two machines and no money? He actually got to separate his lights and darks for once. Stashing his stuff in the washers took no time at all, which left him free to finally dig into those newspapers. He grabbed them and went back outside.

The water in the pool was a pleasant light blue that sparkled under the morning sun. He considered for a minute stripping down to his boxers and throwing the clothes he was wearing in the machines with the rest of them, but there was work to do. Instead he chose a nearby lounge chair with an old umbrella hanging over it for shade, and got reading.

It was not a surprise that the paper out of Hibbing had the most information on the most recent missing person, some dude who’d last been seen drinking at a local bar. The other more regional papers had a bit, but the guy had been missing long enough that it hadn’t made this edition of the Duluth News. It had probably never been in the Trib. Still, Dean combed them all carefully for clues on this case or any other potentials.

His clothes had barely begun their cycle in the dryers when he heard talking and the unmistakable flap of people walking in sandals. The family from breakfast the day before was coming to use the pool. Patience was more hopping than walking, excited and already wearing orange floaties on her arms. Her mom already had her swimsuit on too with a pair of shorts over it, and her dad was wearing trunks with an old t-shirt and a pair of goggles perched on his bald head. Grandma was wearing a purple summer dress today. All the adults were carrying beach bags, looking well prepared for whatever a five-or-so-year-old might throw at them. They gave Dean smiles and nods, which he returned.

What had been a quiet morning soon became filled with splashing and shrieking with Patience’s delight, though both parents got in the pool, too, and were enjoying some splashing of their own. Dean didn’t mind, though. The sunshine, a nice family having a good time without any cares: this is the sort of thing that made his life worth it. That reminded him what he hunted for. Not just to save people, but also to preserve moments like this. It wasn’t too often he got to enjoy seeing it.

By the time he’d finished combing through every last section of the Trib his clothes were done. He took his time folding and rolling all his stuff neatly back into his duffel, which had at least aired out for a couple hours. The newspapers hadn’t really illuminated anything for him. Donna and her buddy Kathleen seemed competent enough to handle what was going on in Hibbing…but as long as he hadn’t mapped out the pattern himself, there’s always a chance they could happen to fall on the full moon or something and that’s an avenue the deputies wouldn’t know to explore. The hunter in him said he’d better keeping checking it out.

The brother in him said, your loved ones should know where you are. It’d been too long since he’d been to California to check on Sam. (Still no new messages on his phone.)

When he was done he zipped up his duffel, slung it over his shoulder, and tossed the newspapers in the recycle bin. Outside the family was still horsing around in the pool while grandma was reading under an umbrella on the far side. Dean smiled to himself and kept walking past the ache that was building in his chest.

“Dean?”

Confused, he looked over his shoulder. The grandma had put down her book and was staring right at him. She waved him over.

Cautiously he obeyed, standing awkwardly a couple feet from her chair. “That’s me,” he said. “And you’re Patience’s grandma.”

“Most people just call me Missouri,” she said wryly, and held out her hand to shake. “Missouri Moseley.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, taking it.

She put her other hand on top of his for a warm shake, then heaved a soft sigh. “Ah, so it’s true. You are John Winchester’s boy. I thought I recognized you, but you were a really goofy-looking kid back then so I couldn’t be sure.”

Dean snatched his hand away and took a step back. “Who are you?”

“Missouri Moseley, as I said.” She was unperturbed. “I’m a psychic.”

“What?”

“You don’t remember me?”

“Should I?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You put your dirty shoes up on my couch enough times,” she said. Her voice was censorious, but there was a twinkle in her warm brown eyes. “Why don’t you sit?” She patted the lounge chair next to her to indicate where he should park his butt.

Dean hesitated. Dean wasn’t inclined to trust psychics on instinct; most of them were hucksters, and the real ones were even more dangerous. Dad had mentioned that a couple times. They weren’t monsters, technically, nor witches. So it wasn’t black magic but it was undeniably supernatural and he could think of nothing good that would come of talking to one. But then he thought of her reading Patience that picturebook yesterday morning.

Besides, if she was actually real and not some sort of thing stalking him or his dad, she might have some insight into what was going on west of here.

He dropped his duffel to the concrete and sat down on the long part of the seat, facing Missouri. Seeing this she took off her sunglass and set them on top of her book. Her family swam on, oblivious. “Your father visited me a lot after the housefire, looking for answers. No one believed him about what he saw.” When she glanced over at him, she flinched, slightly, but enough for Dean to notice. “What you both saw. I’m so sorry, Dean.”

Had she seen the memory flash in his head, the last time he ever saw his mother, pinned to the ceiling and burning? If she wasn’t real, she was damn good at faking it. “And?” he said gruffly.

“And you’d sit there on my couch, holding your baby brother in your lap. How is Sam anyway?”

“What, you don’t know? Thought you were psychic.”

“I know your daddy didn’t raise you with the best manners but you can still watch your tone,” she said, and waited until Dean had mumbled out a “yes ma’am.” “I’m psychic, not omniscient. He weighs heavily on your mind.”

Dean worked his jaw. Cleared his throat. “He’s at Stanford. Graduating next year.”

“Not hunting, then?”

Dean looked up. That, more than anything, convinced him that Missouri was for real. “No. He stopped.”

Missouri nodded in understanding. “My son James doesn’t hunt either. He won’t even tell his wife the things that we know.”

Dean boggled at that. How could anyone know what was out there, and just not do anything? And not even tell your damn wife how to protect herself? “Why don’t you tell her?”

She looked at him sharply. “I might not agree with my son, but I understand him. He thinks it’s the best way to protect them, just like John thought jumping in headfirst was the best way to protect you. For better or worse.” She shook her head. “Tess will find out sooner or later. The gift,” she waggled a hand vaguely near her head, “runs in the family.”

“Your son’s psychic, too?”

“For all the good it does him. If Patience develops it, there won’t be room to hide anymore.”

They lapsed back into silence. Missouri closed her eyes and lifted her face a little into the sunshine. Dean picked at his jeans where they were growing weak in the knee. After a while he said, “Hell of a coincidence, huh?”

“Mm?”

“You knew me and my dad way back when, and then I roll up in this out of the way place when I wasn’t even planning on it.”

“It might be. I’m not so sure.” She sighed again, heavier this time. “I found Paradise Cove a long time ago while my son and I were on a road trip. And I’ve brought him, and now his family back here every year since because there’s something different about this place. A positive energy. Something…healing.”

Dean rubbed his side, on the yellowing bruise.

“But between yesterday and today, something’s changed.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

Missouri considered him. Her brow was crinkled in concern, and her mouth was tense at the edges. “Think of it like an eggshell,” she said. “Evil or monstrous things could come at it from all sides and make no difference because the shield, though thin, is strong. But all it takes is one swift push from a single direction, and” —she chopped the side of one hand into the palm of the other— “it cracks.”

Dean thought about it. “You figure a monster could do that?”

“Lord knows, honey,” she said.

“Do you think it could have anything to do with the rash of disappearances over in Hibbing?”

“I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “I haven’t sensed anything about that. I did hear about a couple deaths up in Ely, though.”

“No. That’s—that’s taken care of.” A cascade of images, the ghost’s dying screech, the smell, the smell, the smell.

Missouri sucked in a breath and shot out her hand to hold his, squeezing as he worked through the memories. It was strange; usually this sort of thing would be stalking his nightmares but it’s almost like he forgot about it until reminded, then it came rushing in. One swift push.

“That was a tough one,” Missouri said, after he shoved it all back under.

“That’s the job.”

She scooched a bit on the chair to angle herself toward him, only eased the squeeze on his hand slightly. “My family and I are leaving in a couple days, and it’s just as well.  Paradise Cove is still safe at the moment, but if you’re planning on staying here longer—be careful.”

“Nah,” said Dean. “I was actually planning on leaving today.”

At that Missouri chuckled, the mood lightening considerably. She withdrew her hand and gave the back of his a parting pat. “You keep telling yourself that, Dean. I can see Castiel swirling around in that thick skull of yours.” She resettled in her chair and grabbed her book and sunglasses, signaling the end of the conversation.

“Oh, yeah?” Dean scoffed, crossing his arms. “And what’s ‘swirling around’ in his?”

“Hm, now he is an interesting one,” she said. “Most of what I get from him, even after all this time, is…colors.”

It was the conspiratorial smile she gave him as she turned back to her book that did it. The warmth of Paradise Cove, the peace of his cabin bed at night, the blood leeching away from the surface of his skin. The old memories were like that, but opposite, swimming fuzzily to the surface. “Missouri?”

She looked up in question. Dean leaned forward, clasping his hands and settling his elbows on his knees. Like imparting a secret. “You always served us lemonade. And you’d slip me brownies whenever my dad wasn’t looking.”

Missouri smiled indulgently. “And you always knew never to say anything, because you really wanted those brownies.”

Dean huffed half chuckle and looked down. “Yeah. Had to learn to make ‘em myself, after that.”

He heard her rummaging around in her beach bag, but didn’t look up until a business card appeared in front of him, declaring Missouri Moseley as an authentic psychic based in Lawrence, Kansas. His mouth quirked into a smile. He took the card. “What, you got bead curtains and crystal balls, too?”

She cuffed him lightly on the back of the head. “It’s a living. But right now I’m on vacation, and it’s time for me to go back to enjoying it.” She pointed at the card. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t,” he promised.

***

By lunchtime, Dean still hadn’t left Paradise Cove. He spent it waffling in his cabin, reading bits and pieces about old shipwrecks, and generally avoiding making a decision because if he left for California he’d be ignoring two potential cases, if he left for Hibbing he’d be ignoring what Missouri told him for something that might not need a hunter, and if he stayed here he’d be staying for—

If he stayed, he’d have to deal with…things.

And now he was hungry.

“Fuck it,” he muttered. He tossed the book aside and shoved a bag of popcorn into the microwave. When it was done he pulled it out and juggled the hot bag in his hands while searching for his keys, then locking the cabin behind him. He skirted around Baby and followed the little sign again that pointed down to the cove.

The woods were different than the day before. The sunlight streamed through the openings in the trees, creating distinct golden beams that highlighted the greens and browns, little red and white flowers, small berries and dry underbrush. The dirt was already dry under his boots despite the storm, the roots that grew across the path no longer slippery. After descending down the hill the trees opened up and Dean found himself back in the direct sunlight. The rocks he had to climb over were warm under his hands as he hopped down from one to the next, and then he was back on the beach.

The beach was different today, too. The lake no longer rushed up the edge of it, foaming and snarling, but sloshed gently like water in a tub. A huge ass fucking tub, but still. He ambled along the edge of it until he’d reached the far side and the boulders that abutted the cliff. Weighing the pros and cons, he chose one to sit on. Perching the unopened popcorn safely on another rock nearby, he took off his boots and socks and dipped his toes into the water. He hissed.

Yup, still cold.

It was still a nice contrast to the sun beating directly overhead. It would probably get pretty cool again tonight, but for now it was all summer. Dean sat for a while, toes poking at the smooth stones under his feet. Then he pulled out his phone. No new messages, still. Not that he’d really been expecting anything from Sam, but he hadn’t heard from John in a while either. He must be really busy on some hunt. Dean didn’t want to bother him, but he had to do his due diligence. He opened a new message and typed, thumbs flying over the numbers,

Ran into missouri moseley today

He sent it off and tried to relax. A large flock of geese was marching out of the water onto the beach far enough away they weren’t bothered by his presence; he could hear them honking conversationally in the distance. A seagull or two swung by, high overhead. A ship appeared, far on the horizon, long and low in the water. It must have been making good speed on the calm lake despite its heavy cargo, because it didn’t feel like much time had passed before it slipped out of view.

Just when he reached to open up the popcorn, his phone buzzed in his pocket. His heart jumped and he snatched the phone out, flipping it open. A text from Dad. The usual mix of relief and apprehension raced through him, but he didn’t wallow in it, clicking the button to open it right away.

You in kansas? it read.

“Typical,” Dean muttered. She’s legit then? Minnesota

The phone was halfway back in his pocket before it buzzed again, startling Dean. That was some kind of record for John; he usually took his sweet time. Real deal. Where? the new message read. Dean rolled his eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me anything.”

North shore, he replied.

When no new message was immediately forthcoming, Dean put his phone away and finally dug into the the popcorn. Surprisingly, he only got to shove a couple handfuls in his mouth before it buzzed again. Roy’s got something brewing down in cairo, you should join up

Dean’s appetite faded. He was not fooled by the ‘should.’ This was an order, more or less, the sort of thing that should have Dean standing up right now, running up to his cabin and packing his car for a long day’s drive south. So why wasn’t he?

Dean thought of Donna driving hours just to find comfort in this place. Of running into a ‘real deal’ psychic. His bruise healing faster than it should. Klara staring out of the picture on the lodge wall, eyes sharp and knowing.

Cas.

God, what if there really was something hinky going on here and he just left the poor guy behind, none the wiser?

Viciously Dean sucked the salt and butter from his fingers as these things swirled around his head, instincts screaming at him that they all had something to do with each other, his brain struggling to pick out what. His phone vibrated, nearly slipping off his leg before he caught it. A new message.

Dean?

“God fucking forbid,” said Dean. Can’t, he typed. “See how you fucking like it.”

Ten seconds later, his phone was ringing. “Great.” He set his popcorn to the side for good and flipped open the phone. “Yeah.”

A pause. Dean berated himself for not watching his tone better. “We have a problem, Dean?”

He deliberately misinterpreted the question. “No, sir,” he said with false brightness. “Think I mighta found a case, is all.”

“With Missouri?”

Dean thought fast. Missouri said she wasn’t staying, but she definitely said something was happening. Would Dad be more or less likely to pull him off the case if she was helping out? If he didn’t trust her John would’ve outright said so, but he didn’t sound particularly warm toward her, either. He settled for bare truth. “She says something’s happening, not sure what.”

“That why she’s there?”

“Don’t think so.”

Dean could hear his Dad breathing on the line, though he didn’t speak. But he was under no illusions that the conversation was over. “You need any help, you call Pastor Jim.”

“Will do,” said Dean. He covered the mouthpiece and let out a long breath. Then he said, “How’s your hunt?”

“Might have a big fish on the line,” he answered. Dean’s dad was not the type to get excited about a hunt, but he sounded particularly grim which for him amounted to the same thing.

“How big?”

“Big,” John said. “I might be out of touch for a while.”

What the fuck else was new. Didn’t mean Dean had to like it. Hadn’t he already proved himself a hundred times over? He’d been brought up in the life, for fuck’s sake. He squeezed the phone in his hand. “Why don’t I come help?”

“No.” The short word clipped the end of Dean’s question neatly. “It’s not safe.” Not safe?! Dean wanted to yell. I almost died alone in a mine two days ago! John kept talking, oblivious to his son’s seething on the other end of the line. “I’ve got a plan already,” he continued. “You’d only get in the way. Stick around, take care of whatever it is, and call Pastor Jim if you need to. Understood?”

Dean pounded his fist on his leg, his jeans absorbing the blow with a dull thump that wouldn’t reach the phone. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” said John, and the line went dead.

Dean dropped the phone next to his popcorn and buried his head in his hands. You’d only get in the way. “Tell me what you really think,” he spat toward his knees. He watched the water as it steadily lapped at his toes, cooling the maelstrom that threatened to shake him apart.

Seagulls circled over the lake in the distance.

The sound of a shout on the breeze cut through his dark thoughts. Dean scanned the cove, shading his eyes. It seemed while he was stewing Patience and her parents had come down to the beach as well. He couldn’t catch what they were saying given how far off they were, but whatever it was about Patience shouted back until she finally let loose a big wail. The sound carried in a way that only children’s screams could, echoing off the cliff walls around them. Dean had heard Sam screaming at that age enough to know the difference between a tantrum and something more serious, and this was definitely a tantrum. Four or five was a tough age, all those emotions getting so big for their tiny growing brains. He tried to ignore it; her parents weren’t yelling back at her, at least, which meant they were probably doing the best they could. It was a shitty situation for all three of them.

Just then one of the seagulls that had periodically been circling the cove landed not ten feet away from Dean. And if there was one, there had to be more…

Without taking his eye off the bird, he reached for the popcorn bag and shoved a hand in. Picking one kernel, he flicked it in the gull’s direction. It landed a few inches away, but didn’t seem to catch the bird’s attention. Aiming carefully, he tried again. This one got a reaction. The gull pounced on the popcorn and after gulping it down, found the first kernel almost immediately. Then it aimed its beak straight up toward the sky and gave a piercing shriek, tossing its head two, three times, after which it discovered more kernels waiting, courtesy Dean.

That’s all it took. First a couple more gulls turned up. A blink, and then five more. Dean chucked a whole handful of popcorn this time, which tumbled down lightly between the varied stones of the agate beach, and within a minute dozens and dozens of seagulls were circling overhead, crying out for a feast. Dean chose his moments carefully, being as sparing as possible. The gulls landed, pecking between the rocks, stealing from each other, and then—

Patience came running, shrieking in delight, hands outstretched. She was practically on top of the birds before they decided it was time to move, spiraling up and away in a single fluid mass, parting around her before landing again. The girl laughed and turned, running back through them, reaching for feathers she could never quite reach. Dean threw more popcorn to keep them interested. There had to have been more than a hundred gulls by now, vying for the treat. Even the flock of geese were trying to get in on the action now.

Though they kept an eye on their daughter, the parents walked around the chaos to reach him, sunglasses perched on their faces. “Dean, right?” asked the mom. They had changed out of their swimwear, she in a light blouse and he in a button-up shirt open over a white tank, both of them in khaki shorts.

“That’s me.”

She held out her hand. “My mother-in-law mentioned you were old friends. I’m Tess, and this is James.”

Dean shook their hands—James more reluctant than his wife—so Dean handed the popcorn bag to Tess. “Here, maybe Patience wants to throw some.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

She smiled brightly and took the bag, catching Patience on her next pass through the gulls. The kid jumped up and down in excitement. Once they were out of earshot, James shoved his hands in his pockets. Without looking at Dean, he said, “She didn’t say where you old friends from.”

No use beating around the bush. “I’m a hunter.”

James barely gave an outward sign that he was displeased, just the slight cording of his forearms where his hands were bunching into fists out of sight. “My wife and daughter don’t know about these things. This had better not be a problem.”

Dean’s kneejerk reaction to Missouri telling him James’s attitude had been disgust, but seeing Patience now, laughing and carefree, and then thinking of her dad dragging her around the country to hunt monsters…he got it. He did. Hadn’t he tried to shield it from Sammy for as long as he could too? “Course not,” he said aloud. “But listen, I…”

James turned to look down at him, eyebrows rising above his sunglasses.

“My brother and I used to do this all the time, when we were kids. Is it okay if I…?” He waved his phone a little. There were no pictures of those times, before hunting pushed them further and further apart. Dean had a vague memory of an old polaroid, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what happened to it. He wanted a picture to remember those far away days, not this one.

James hesitated but must have sensed the why of it, because he gave a short nod.

Dean held up his little flip phone and waited for the next burst of seagulls rising up in a swirling white column and snapped a picture. Patience’s back was toward the camera, hands stretching up toward the birds who were just out of reach.

What would you say to Sam if you knew there would be no reply …

Seagulls: I tried to shield you and I tried to let you go and neither feels right and I don’t know anything anymore. I tried, I tried, I tried.

Dean sent the photo, where it popped up silently right beneath the previous one. He slipped the phone back into his pocket.

He cleared his throat. “So,” he said. “Your mom mentioned something changed around here overnight. You know what she’s talking about?”

James pursed his lips. Just when Dean thought he wouldn’t answer, he gave a slow nod.

“You think it’s serious?”

The other man lifted his gaze from his family, took in the rest of the cove, the woods, the pristine glassy surface of the lake. “All I know,” he said at last, “is that I’ve come here every summer for most of my life. And once I leave it this year, I’m never going to return. That’s what I saw last night.” He looked down at Dean. “If you go poking around, try not stirring up any hornets’ nests until we leave.”

“Gotta figure out what it is first.” As soon as the words came out, he knew for sure: he was staying. And if he was staying, well. Then he had to deal with things. He shoved his socks in his pocket and slipped his boots on, not bothering to tie them. “See ya around,” said Dean.

“Sure,” said James.

Dean had fun walking through the seagulls himself, waving at Tess and Patience on the way. He looked back only once before fully taking his leave of the beach. He was a little up the side of the cliff, right before the trees closed back in around him. James had rejoined his family, and as Dean watched Patience overturned the bag of popcorn to shake out the last few kernels. The seagulls cried, cried, cried for the final frenzy; the sound followed him all the way up to his cabin.

But his feet, sweaty and sore in the boots, didn’t leave the path. He kept walking along the cliff past all the cabins, the lake glittering bright blue below. When he reached the firepit he noticed that the path continued on north for quite a ways. Now that he was planning on staying, that would be a good idea to explore. For now, though, he ambled onto the grass and into the parking lot, toward the lodge. When he swung the doors open it was so dark compared to the outside, he had to blink a couple times for a large shape in front of the desk to coalesce into a tall, balding man in a business suit.

“Any old chucklehead can do this job, Castiel,” said the man. His tone was smarmy and condescending and Dean disliked him immediately. “There are big things happening out there, big things! You don’t have to stay a glorified babysitter.”

“I’m fine where I am,” said Castiel shortly. “This place was given to me—”

“Let us worry about this place,” the man replied, undeterred. “Plans are already in motion.”

“Zachariah, if what you say is true my work here is more important than ever,” said Cas. “I won’t abandon my post.”

When this Zachariah guy opened his fat mouth again, Dean obnoxiously cleared his throat. The man plastered a cheap smile on his face. “Can I help you?”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “Just got some very important business to discuss with Cas, that’s all.”

“Well in that case,” Zach said. He made a show of eyeing Dean up and down, from the sweat soaking into his shirt to his dirty, unlaced boots. “I’ll let you and Cas have your chat.” He slapped a palm on the desk. “Until next time, Castiel.” He gave Dean a wide berth when he left.

Dean sauntered up to the front desk and leaned an elbow on it, watching the doors swing shut.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean shifted around to face Cas fully, and wowza. No sweater today, but a gray t-shirt for some local outfitting company. It really showed off his arms. How the hell had he forgotten how gorgeous Cas was so quickly? Even if he looked a bit upset. “What was that all about? Guy into real estate or something? Bet he wants to get at that agate beach.”

“I don’t think he knows about it,” said Cas thoughtfully.

“Make sure it stays that way, or you’ll never get him off your back,” Dean advised.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” His voice sounded serious, but his lips betrayed him.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What are you smiling at?”

At that he let the smile break free over straight white teeth. “You.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean ducked his head and picked up a stray pen off the desk. He fiddled with the cap. “Listen, I uh. Thought I might stick around awhile. If that’s alright with you.” He looked up at Cas from under his eyelashes for a reaction. The poor guy was torn. Waiting so long for Dean to make a decision today must have really done a number on him. God, Dean was such a dick. He dropped the pen and pushed away from the desk.

“I’d like that,” Castiel said quickly.

“…You sure?”

“Yes,” he said, placing his hand on Dean’s. “I didn’t mean to make you doubt it. An issue just came up…”

Dean relaxed. “Don’t let that asshole get you down, Cas. If he starts harassing you give me a call and I’ll come running, okay?”

His expression turned impossibly fond. “You’re a good man, Dean Page.”

Dean didn’t dare look him in the eyes, not when he could feel a blush burning his cheeks. “Oh yeah, I’m adorable,” he said. He slipped his hand out from under Cas’s and rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyway, since I’m sticking around you gotta tell me all there is to do around here.”

“Of course,” said Castiel, squaring his shoulders a little, settling back into motel owner mode. “What would you like to know?”

“Wanna know where the sights are nearby,” Dean answered. “Especially old things with cool stories behind them. Haunted houses, local legends, you know.” Dean propped his chin on his hand and smiled up at him. “You could show me yourself.”

“Dean,” said Cas. “You know I can’t leave the motel unattended.”

“C’mon,” Dean wheedled. “We don’t have to go too far. Let’s go see something and have a bite to eat after.” He swallowed and pushed through. “Like a date.” There. He said it. Was it nerves or giddiness doing the lambada in his chest?

Castiel’s shoulders slumped. “I wish I could.”

Dean tried to tell himself this wasn’t rejection. “You can’t even leave for a couple hours? I’ll get you home before curfew.”

“I really can’t. How about a compromise? Please?”

It was disappointing, but the research had to get done whether he had any company or not. Besides, how could he say no to those big blues? “What did you have in mind?”

“You go out, visit something interesting. Then when you come back I’ll make whatever you want for dinner, and you can tell me so much about it that it’ll be like I was right there with you. Deal?”

Dean crossed his arms on the desk and leaned in. Cas leaned forward a bit in response. Licking his lips, Dean said, “Cheeseburger. Extra onions. Fries.”

“I can make that,” said Cas earnestly.

“Then you,” whispered Dean, leaning in even more. When Cas again followed suit he covered the remaining inches to grab a quick kiss. “…got a deal.”

He started backing away but fast as a viper he shot a hand out and curled his fist into Dean’s shirt, holding him in place for a few more kisses. Damn but did he like Cas’s lips.

When they parted Dean cleared his throat and smoothed down his shirt. “So. Where do you think I should go first?”

“Split Rock Lighthouse,” said Cas.

“O-kay,” Dean drawled. “Don’t think about it or nothin'.”

“But it’s what you described,” said Castiel, unabashed. “An interesting place with lots of stories.”

Somehow Dean doubted the lighthouse had anything to do with what was going on at Paradise Cove, but no stone unturned and all of that. It would also let him know exactly where on the North Shore this place was. “The lighthouse is how far?” he asked.

“A little less than an hour south of here…if you go the speed limit,” Cas added wryly.

“Wow, Cas,” Dean winked, “you know me already.”

***

Dean didn’t go to the lighthouse right away. It was great to get the Impala back out on the road where she belonged, windows rolled down and rock blasting. But she needed fuel, and Dean needed money. So he took a quick detour in Silver Bay to fill her up with what he had and look for a way to earn more. Thankfully it didn’t take too long to find a bar with decent traffic in the afternoon, and an hour later he was back on the road a couple hundred bucks richer.

Split Rock was just a little further down 61 and a huge sign told him right where to turn off. The winding road spit him out in a large parking lot full of cars and RVs with plates from all over the US and Canada. He circled it twice to find a spot next to vehicles that were less liable to scratch his Baby when they backed out.

Once out of the car the parking lot funneled people down toward the visitors’ center with a couple sets of glass double doors. Inside Dean had to wait in line at the long desk, behind families and retirees and people picking out what they wanted from the big gift shop. The noise of the crowd echoed around the room.

But finally he paid the entrance fee, and some extra for a tour that would get you into the houses where the keepers and their families lived. He got the neon orange band to prove it, which the clerk wrapped around his wrist next to his bracelets. Then he waited in a hallway with the other tour hopefuls, trying not to fiddle too much with his EMF reader, hidden in his pocket.

Their tour guide turned out to be a cheerful middle-aged woman who was very excited to tell them all about the lighthouse. She led them outside, back into the summer sunshine, and led them on a path through the trees. When they turned a corner into a large open area, there it was: Split Rock Lighthouse. A soft ripple of awe swept through the tourists.

It wasn’t the biggest lighthouse out there, but it was impressive. The iconic yellow brick tower with a squat building nestled beside it stood guard right at the edge of the cliff. It sat on a hill, reachable by a long concrete staircase, with the fog signal building to its left. It looked damn imposing from this perspective, looking up at something that had been presiding over the lake for almost a century. Tour guide said it was decommissioned, though. Kind of a bummer.

The group drifted toward the staircase across the way, eager to get up close with the tower, the guide herded them like ducklings to the right where three identical brick houses sat. The families’ homes were pretty cool, as far as these types of museums went, each room set up like it was back in the day. But the lack of any action on his EMF had Dean losing interest.

Of course, he figured if anything was haunted on this property it was definitely going to be the tower itself.

When the tour was back outside and it was clear they were going to get to see the lighthouse next, kids started racing ahead and the group thinned out. Dean let himself fall back and took his time. He was the last to reach the staircase, and as he climbed he looked up the entire way, watching the lighthouse loom bigger the closer he got. The door to the building was open. A man dressed up in uniform as a keeper stood in front of it, discussing history with people as others ran in and still more poured out.

Dean left it for now. At the top of the staircase he kept walking straight ahead between the buildings toward the cliff. He put his hands on the metal fence below the barbed wire and looked out. Lake Superior was a rich blue; only a couple small puffs of cloud marred the wide open sky. To either side the Minnesota coast stretched long and green; some forty miles to the north, he knew, his own little cabin sat on the edge of it. Nearby everyone was holding cameras up to their faces, click click click.

Whether it was mob mentality or what, Dean couldn’t help but draw out his cheap flip phone and go for a couple photos himself. Even took one of the tower, despite the people all around it. As tourist traps went, this top tier. Definitely better than the twine.

When the crowd was a bit thinner he felt ready to chance the lighthouse. The squat part of it with the old desk and log books was a bit of a shuffle, but it was really a tight squeeze for a man of his size to get up the black spiral staircase while others were still trying to come down. It was worth it when he finally got up there, though. The lens was huge, fold after precise fold of glass that bent the beam so that it could reach, the guide had said, about 25 miles into the darkness. He took another picture.

Still no EMF readings.

Getting back down the stairs took plastering himself against the wall, but he got it done. He chatted with the “lighthouse keeper” for a few minutes once he was free to breathe to see what kind of stories the old guy had, but nothing seemed to really scream supernatural. Just choppy waters, shipwrecks, and the brave folks who did their best to stop them. Good stories, but not hunting stories.

The trip was a bust, just as he’d suspected it would be. But since he was already here he may as well go whole hog and check one last place the guide mentioned at the beginning of the tour: the lookout point. There was a trail that led down in to the woods and spit you out somewhere with a good photo opportunity. So he wandered through the trees on the short hike and eventually found himself on a beach.

It was nothing like the beach at Paradise Cove with small rocks and hidden agates. This was all big boulders that required you to climb and scramble over them to the shelves of relatively smooth dark rock at the waters edge. Some people splashed in the shallows but most were turned to the north, taking pictures of the cliff.

Dean had to admit that they hadn’t oversold the view. Though up close the lighthouse was crawling with people in shorts and fannypacks and kept up as nothing more than a museum, from this distance you couldn’t see that at all. The tower stood solid and imposing on its perch, like it still hadn’t forgotten what it was actually for. Like it was waiting for the sun to dip behind the mountains so that it could fulfill the purpose for which it’d been built. It was beautiful but it was sad, too, because at night the beacon would not be lit. It had outlived its own usefulness.

Dean took a picture for Sam.

The lighthouse: You’ve outgrown me but I don’t want to lose you. When you're ready to come home, you’ll always know how to find me. I’ll keep the fires burning.

***

By the time Dean returned to Paradise Cove—which he’d almost missed the turn-off for even though he already knew where it was—he was ready for dinner. He parked in the Impala in the lot instead of taking it all the way back to the cabin. Surprisingly there were a couple cars there, too. Opening the doors revealed the lodge with all the lights up bright, though the sun had yet to set, and full of chatter. Cas must have his hands full tonight.

To his delight the dome at the check-in desk was full of cookies again, chocolate chip this time. After only a candy bar and a few handfuls of popcorn, he was so hungry he stuff one in his mouth without fear of ruining whatever Cas had made for him. Dean wandered into the open area as he chewed. The fireplace was going tonight, and there were a couple folks sitting on the couch—Dean blushed when he realized that Castiel hadn’t put anything back from when they’d cleared the space to dance. Though it probably didn’t mean anything.

In the dining room about a third of the tables were full. When he passed Missouri and her family, Patience paused her crayoning and waved. He waved back, then took up the table he’d sat at with Donna the day before. He didn’t have to wait long before Cas appeared to set a glass of water before him, towel again slung over his shoulder. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, handsome,” he grinned.

And there it was—that cute little smile. “Did you enjoy the lighthouse?”

“I did. I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Then I suppose I owe you a burger.”

“I suppose you do.”

“I won’t be long,” Cas promised, setting a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

Before he dragged it away Dean reached up to grab his wrist. “Hey,” he said. “You’re really busy, so don’t worry about me if you gotta take care of some of these other people first, okay?”

Cas squeezed down a little. “Thank you.”

While he waited, he watched Cas flit back and forth between the kitchen and the tables, always with a smile ready. The funny thing was, people always had a smile ready for him, too. Whether he was totally happy running the place or not, Castiel had created something good here, really good, and all the guests could feel it. He just hoped that Cas could feel it too.

“Mr. Dean?”

He blinked. He’d been so busy watching Cas he hadn’t noticed Patience come up to his table. She was clutching a paper in her hands. “Miss Patience,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Thank you for the popcorn,” she said, with the air of recitation.

Dean glanced up at her family’s table to find Tess watching avidly. He nodded so she knew he got the message; she smiled back. Then he grinned down at the little girl in front of him. “You’re welcome. Seagulls are pretty awesome, huh?”

“They were the BEST,” she said. “I drew them for you!” She held the paper out to him excitedly.

It was a masterpiece of kid crayon: misshapen figures that represented herself, her parents, and Dean, blue scribbles for the lake, obligatory yellow sun in the corner, a square of red to represent the popcorn bag, a couple dozen humped gray lines like elongated Ms to represent the seagulls flying around. “Dude,” he said, “this is the coolest drawing ever. Thank you!”

“You’re welcome!” she said, then twirled on her sandals to run back to her table.

He huffed a laugh and looked at the picture again. The crayon was bumpy under his fingers as he traced himself sitting on the right side of the page. The seagull-lines were everywhere, all over the beach and the lake and the sky…except for one part, just left of center. The blank space was glaring now that he’d noticed it. But when he brushed his fingers over the spot, he could feel the crayon. Dean shifted in his seat and brought the paper closer to the wall sconce near his head. He tilted it at this angle and that until the light hit it just perfectly.

A fifth figure in the space, shaped with white crayon that matched the paper. She hadn’t drawn it on the beach with everyone else, either: it was higher up on the paper, above all the blue scribbles.

Standing on the water was an invisible man.

Chapter Text

Dean settled into his cabin for the long haul.

Working the case had him taking on a strange double life the next few days. In one of them he was a hunter: he visited the towns up and down the coast, visited the nearest libraries to browse their books and poke at their computers, spoke to a college professor in Duluth and an Elder up in Grand Portage. He even kept an eye on news out of Hibbing, though it was all quiet on that front. The bitch of it was that Dean’s evidence wall was made up of little more than Patience’s drawing and a couple wild guesses. He had no idea what he was even supposed to be looking for. It’s almost like what Missouri and James had claimed to feel hadn’t even happened yet and Dean was left waiting for some other sign. The longer it took, the less sure he was that he needed to be there at all.

But there was the other life: the one where he was just another dude on a summer road trip who happened to have a guy who was sweet on him. The trips he took along the North Shore easily mixed pleasure with hunter business. Everywhere he went offered yet another spectacular view, from loading docks filling enormous cargo ships to a couple small otters playing in the shallows. He had to eat, too, and whenever he stopped he found another treasure. Grandma’s. World’s Best Donuts. He practically burned rubber turning off the highway when he saw the sign for Betty’s Pies—he ate four slices of different flavors there in one sitting. And everywhere, everything, reminded him of Sam.

So he took pictures.

A funky looking old boat that reminded him of a pirate ship in Grand Marais. Naturally glow-in-the-dark rocks in a museum. A drawing of Mishipashoo out of a library book. The return of Dean’s chipmunk buddy, stuffing his fuzzy little face. Look at all the fun you’re missing. No one would blame you if you started another rock collection with these. You’re such a fucking nerd I bet you know who this is. You miss me chewing with my mouth open, don’t you? And the more he took, the more fun he got out of sending them. The long string of pictures without a word from either of them was less depressing than it was a piece of proof that Sam hadn’t blocked his number against the deluge, and most of the time that was enough. Just like Castiel said it would be.

As for Cas…Cas always looked so damn happy to see him. Every time his eyes would grow wide, like he wasn’t sure whether Dean had left without saying goodbye. And fair enough. It had crossed his mind a couple times, especially since he kept hitting dead ends. Still, he’d taken to showing Cas the shitty pictures he took on his phone too, since he insisted on hearing every detail of Dean’s exploits as if he hadn’t spent his entire life living in the area, and seen everything a hundred times. Sometime this led to more stories from Cas. Other times, after the last guest had darkened the doorstep for the night, Cas pulled Dean upstairs and they passed what little free time the poor guy had without talking at all.

Not everything was turning up peaches and cream, though. While Cas continued his highly focused one-man mission of exploring every single inch of Dean’s body and how it responded to various ‘stimuli’ (holy shit), he was increasingly distracted outside of bed. Dean annoyed Zachariah off the premises a couple times, but Cas insisted that wasn’t the issue. Sometimes Dean wouldn’t even find him in the lodge; later he’d inform Dean that he’d been walking around the edge of the property, making sure nothing was amiss.

“What sort of thing are you looking for?” Dean asked him once.

“Nothing of import,” Cas dismissed.

Dean rolled his eyes and plucked a leaf out of Cas’s messy hair. “You’re doing perimeter checks three times a day but it’s ‘nothing of import’?”

Cas refused to say anything more on the subject. Maybe he was scared that old Zach was looking to vandalize the place, or something, so he could force Cas to sell cheap. It made Dean feel worse since he was effectively mooching off of him for half his meals and a place to stay. They struck up this strange routine where Dean would try to bus tables and Cas chased him from the kitchen, or where he’d slip a few extra bucks into his shitty regular-turned-cash drawer at the front desk…which would always mysteriously show up again in Dean’s pocket later.

About the only time Cas didn’t refuse Dean’s help was after dinner when all the guests were gone. Then they’d take turns choosing records as they swept, mopped, and dusted the whole lodge. If sometimes rolling up the rug to sweep underneath became cutting a rug instead, well, that was their business.

***

The last night Patience and her family were staying at the motel, Castiel decided to hold a bonfire. With the promise of s’mores on the horizon, Dean made sure to leave the Two Harbors Public Library with plenty of time to spare. Happily Cas took little convincing to accept help this time, and soon enough the two of them were lugging bags of marshmallows and boxes of graham crackers out to the firepit. “You got a table or something?” he asked.

“Why?” said Cas, squinting suspiciously.

“Chill,” Dean chuckled. “We’ve just gotta set up an assembly line. There’ll be less confusion about where everything is once it gets dark. You don’t want to lose the chocolate, do you?”

Cas heaved a whole body sigh and stalked back to the lodge. “I don’t lose chocolate,” he muttered.

Dean grinned. While Cas did that he set up some extra chairs along with the log benches, then stood back to admire his work with hands on his hips. One of the chairs was practically on the dirt path, which reminded Dean…he still hadn’t taken it all the way north. Taking out his phone he started a new text addressed to no one and typed WALK NORTH.

Then Cas returned with a table, and he forgot all about it.

By the time people started showing up the fire was blazing and a s’mores assembly line was up and ready to go. There were three families all told, one retired couple, and Cas and Dean. They squeezed onto the log benches and sat in the chairs, talking and laughing as the sun set behind the mountains. Lines of pink and red and yellow sat over the water to the east as darkness crept over the sky. It began to get chilly, but the fire was warm and the marshmallows the perfect combo of crisp and gooey. Dean took a picture for Sam of a monstrous s’more he made with double the marshmallows and chocolate, which oozed awesomely when he squeezed on the crackers. Do you remember the good times along with all the bad?

Dean encouraged a little light ghost storytelling just in case he could learn anything of interest, but everything was kept pretty standard for the kids in the audience. Still, it was fun. Cas sat close enough their knees knocked together, and every time Dean looked straight up there were more stars winking bright in the firmament above.

It was pitch black and way past the kids’ bedtime, but eventually the guests left one group at a time. Cas and Dean stayed. They watched as the fire shivered and tossed up sparks which danced and floated above their heads, winking out just above the treeline. Dean blinked sleepily upward. For whatever reason Dean never got tired of the night sky in the wilderness, how it was more diamond than velvet black, like there was more light in the universe than he could even imagine. It reminded him, too, of nights with Sam, huddled together on top of the Impala under a blanket, making up constellations until their eyes drooped shut.

There were almost no stars in Palo Alto. Dean sighed.

Castiel shifted, then leaned in to press a kiss to the bolt of Dean’s jaw. “You’re beautiful,” he said.

“Shut up,” said Dean, nudging him with his elbow.

“But it’s true.”

Dean ripped his gaze from the sky and gave Cas a long look. The guy was completely unrepentant, staring back at him like he in any way competed with the view. It was kind of overwhelming if Dean thought about it too hard. Though, he had to admit that staring at the hottest guy he’d ever met in his life was good, too. “You’re—you’re not so bad yourself.”

Cas gave him a lopsided smile then looked back ahead, like he could still see the lake in the darkness instead of just hearing the waves sloshing beneath the crackling of the fire. “Did you know,” he said at length, “that some of the oldest exposed rock on earth can be found along this shore?”

“Nope,” said Dean. He shivered, and Cas immediately raised his arm for Dean to duck under. Fuck it, thought Dean, and accepted the offer. Cas was wearing another sweater today, in a black and white knit pattern. It was soft. His sweaters were always soft.

“So many things have changed over the course of this world, but still there’s a constancy unspoiled for many millennia. Sometimes I fear a greater change. Other times I wonder whether I’m letting my fear mislead me.”

Dean rubbed his cheek against the sweater and thought about it. “What kind of change?”

“Leaving.”

Dean held his breath, then let it out in one long exhale. “You giving up the motel, Cas?”

“I thought that was what I wanted,” he admitted. “But now that the opportunity is there, it feels wrong.”

A log split in the fire, sending a cascade of sparks into the air. “What would you do,” asked Dean, “if you left here?”

“I want to help people.”

At that Dean sat up so he could see Cas’s face. He looked so damn sad. “But you do help people, Cas. They love it here.” He swallowed. “I love it here.”

Cas brought the back of his hand to Dean’s face and caressed it with his knuckles. “I know I can do more to help. I know I must. But something is telling me this isn’t the way to do it.”

“Then don’t,” said Dean. “Fuck Zachariah, man.”

Cas let out a low chuckle, rolling like distant thunder. “Only you, Dean,” he said, and kissed him.

***

Dean joined Castiel in bed that night and for the first time, he stayed through ‘til morning. The sun spread its rays through the east windows, pushing pink and orange and gold across the bedspread. When he blinked his eyes open he found Castiel already awake, lying on his side and watching him sleep.

“That’s kinda creepy you know,” he mumbled.

Cas’s nose crinkled in a smile. “Good morning, Dean,” he said.

Dean grunted and pouted his lips, pushing Cas onto his back and snuggling into his body heat. He was becoming such a fucking hedonist, but who could blame him? For Cas’s part he trailed his fingers up and down Dean’s right side like he usually did, as if soothing the nasty bruise he got in Ely. But it’d been healing fast; it was almost gone now.

“Dean?” said Cas after a while.

“Hm? Gottgetupnmbrkfs?”

“No, I don’t need to make breakfast yet. I was wondering…will you show me again? The lighthouse?”

Dean looked up at him and squinted. “Dude, there are a lot better pictures on the postcards downstairs than on my phone.”

“Please?”

Grumbling goodnaturedly, Dean pulled himself away from Cas and rolled himself to the edge of the bed. Leaning as far as he could without falling off, he tugged his jeans over, fishing for his phone. He heaved himself back up and tossed it at Cas. He caught it and immediately pulled Dean closer, curling up against him with his head on his shoulder. The waves whispered through the open windows. The phone beeped softly every time Cas clicked to the next picture. Dean gradually woke up and noticed the decor around the room.

“Dude.”

“Yes?”

“You have three different paintings of Split Rock in this room and an old-timey photo of them building it or something.”

“It’s my favorite,” said Cas amiably.

“I get that, but like, why do you need the pictures I took on my phone?”

“Because I like seeing it through your eyes,” he said.

Dean let him be while he pondered this. Finally he said, “Why do you like it so much? You find lighthouses romantic or what?”

“Romantic? No.” Cas flipped the phone shut and set it down on Dean’s other side. “They don’t need to be romanticized to be called lights in the darkness. That is what they are. But more than that, there are the keepers. Every night, without fail, they must keep the light burning. They don’t know if anyone needs them. There could be no ships out on the dark sea, or there could be one passing every moment. They must have faith that what they do matters; they must work at their post each and every day believing that what they do is important. And in return…sailors have faith that the lighthouse will always be there, guiding them through the night. There is great power in this reciprocal faith,” Castiel concluded. “Don’t you think?”

Dean thought of so many nights digging up graves, all the ghosts and monsters, the bruises and broken bones. Each time getting back up to face it all over again. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess.”

“I wish I could see it,” Cas murmured.

“You haven’t?” asked Dean.

“Never.”

“Fucking locals, man,” Dean laughed.

“Mmm?”

“No matter where you go, people never bother looking at what’s in their own backyard.” He ran his fingers through Cas’s hair to soften the teasing. “Why don’t we go tomorrow?”

“You know I can’t,” Cas sighed.

“Come on, close up shop for a few hours, it’ll be fine.”

Cas shook his head. “I really can’t.”

“Cas,” said Dean, sitting up and forcing him to do the same. Cas was staring at the sheets pooled in their laps, and that wouldn’t do. Dean ducked his head and caught his eyes, forcing his gaze upward. “You can’t stay cooped up here forever, man. It ain’t healthy.”

“Dean,” Cas breathed, a weak protest.

“Why don’t you at least tell me where you can go?”

Cas searched his face, then slowly nodded. “There is one place I like to go...it’s not too far. Most tourists don’t find it.”

“Great. Let’s go.” Dean hopped out of bed.

“What, now?”

“There’s an hour before people start coming in for breakfast, right?” He tossed Castiel his shirt, hitting him in the face. Dean chuckled at his disgruntled glare. “Up an’ at ‘em, come on.”

A few minutes later found them clomping down the stairs and into the lobby. Dean went first, but Cas pushed ahead of him. Then, like Dean was some kind of debutante from the 1950s, he came around and opened the lodge door, and gestured for Dean to proceed him outside. “Really?” Dean asked.

“This is a date,” said Cas firmly.

Dean lifted his hands. “Fine, fine.” Though he did as he was bid, Dean was not about to be outdone. Once they reached Dean’s cabin, he circled to the passenger side of the Impala and opened the door for Castiel. After a moment of surprise, Cas smiled and walked over. He put his hand on Dean’s where it was resting on the car door. “Thank you, Dean,” he said, more quietly this time.

“Never let it be said I ain’t a gentleman,” said Dean.

“Never,” Castiel agreed, a hint of laughter in his voice.

Once he’d folded himself inside, Dean rounded the car and got into the driver’s seat. “Where to?”

“Head north and I’ll tell you where to turn.”

“You got it.”

Dean started the car and Baby’s engine rumbled into life. Castiel ran his fingers along the leather seats, the door handle, the dash. Dean reversed the car, and when he looked back Cas’s fingers were tugging the glove compartment open.

He shot a hand out and slammed it shut. “Let a man have his secrets, Cas.”

Castiel side-eyed him, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve found that people usually say things like that when hiding sex paraphernalia.”

Dean spluttered, half-slamming on the brakes. It was more like five burner phones, a small handgun, and a slew of fake IDs, but the danger of their discovery shattered at the words sex paraphernalia. He mustered up a retort. “Let a man have his needs, Cas.”

“Very well,” said Cas, with phony magnanimity. “I won’t look at your condoms.”

Dean laughed; couldn’t help it. “Shut the fuck up, dude.” Then Cas started laughing too, and they set each other off the rest of the way out of Paradise Cove and onto the highway.

A few miles down 61 Cas pointed to where there were several parking spots on either side of the highway. Dean swung the Impala in a curve and parked her neatly. They got out of the car, and Cas came to stand next to him while he made sure his Baby was good and locked. There couldn’t have been too many people around, but his girl was a siren beauty and you never knew.

Castiel allowed him the ritual, then said, “Come on.” He took Dean’s hand and led the way.

Eyes bulging, Dean almost felt weightless as Cas dragged him along. Dean was not, was not, a dude to be seen in public holding hands with other dudes, okay? This was completely different than staying within the cozy little bubble of Paradise Cove. That wasn’t real life. This was out in the open, where anyone could see! Even if it felt nice, and the grip was strong, and Castiel looked so damn pleased to be on a real date. What if someone saw them? He remembered a time when he’d been walking down a street in some no-name town with his dad, and two men had gone past holding hands just like this. “Damn fools,” John had said. “Like painting a target on your back.”

Dean examined the old memory as best he could. Had that couple looked scared? Castiel clearly wasn’t.

Lost in thought, Dean followed him docilely to a long set of wooden stairs leading up. A family of four was making its way back down, the kids chattering away with each other, the parents following watchfully behind. A spike of fear shot through Dean, but somehow instead of snatching his hand away, he squeezed Cas’s hard. Castiel showed no sign of it bothering him, just kept pulling Dean inexorably up and up until the family was right in front of them, then slipping past them, then behind. The parents each glanced at their hands, but said nothing. The kids hadn’t noticed at all.

The tension in Dean’s shoulders eased by increments. When they reached the top of the stairs Cas looked over his shoulder at him, as if he could feel how Dean was freaking the fuck out, and brought Dean’s hand to his lips. Lightly he kissed the knuckles.

Dean forgot to breathe. A blush swept across his face.

“Almost there,” said Cas, then led him down the wooden stairs on the other side.

Dean clunked down the stairs after him, hand tingling where it was still cradled in Cas’s. He was so distracted he didn’t notice the impending view, barely registered the crashing of water as it cascaded down to Lake Superior. The steps emptied them out onto a boardwalk stretching across jumbled rocks until it spread out into a wide observation deck. Mostly, Dean was contemplating the slight curl of Castiel’s hair where it reached his neck as there wasn’t brain power left for much else, but then Cas tugged Dean out from behind him, pushing him forward toward the railing. “Look,” he said.

Dean looked. A tall but thin waterfall was tumbling down from the mountains and into a small bay, current strong and swift. It carried the deep blue water out through a thin opening between two cliffs, which embraced the bay like two great wings. “Awesome,” said Dean.

Dean could feel Cas’s attention on him, his expression melting into something soft. “Yes it is,” he said, but it wasn’t the river’s mouth he was looking at.

“Hey,” said Dean, blush back in full force, “you can’t just like, say that while staring at my face.”

“It’s a very handsome face,” said Cas matter-of-factly.

“Shut it,” said Dean. He stared determinedly in the distance, but made no effort to move away when Castiel pressed the lines of their arms together.

They stood in companionable silence. He considered taking a picture for Sam but then…this was different than all the other places he went to alone. Here, the waterfall, Castiel’s steady presence…someone to share an experience with…everything else was lackluster in comparison. Dark thoughts intruded, ones that reminded him that this moment wasn’t forever, and before he knew it he’d be back on the road, alone, Castiel far behind him in the rearview, nothing ahead but the adios, always the adios.

Like an eggshell, Dean heard Missouri saying and the dam inside him cracked.

“Cas?” he asked tremulously.

“Yes?”

Dean looked into his eyes. Missouri might see all sorts of colors but all Dean could see was blue. “I miss my brother.”

“Dean,” Cas breathed, and finally let go of his hand, instead pulling Dean in by the waist. His raised his other hand to brush a tear from Dean’s cheek.

“I miss him so fucking much,” Dean whimpered.

Cas embraced him then, gently guiding his head into the crook of his neck, where Dean could cry freely.

It was frightening. Dean was in freefall without a parachute, but Cas was there, strong. After a month of knowing Cassie Robinson he’d confessed to her about hunting, what he’d thought was his darkest secret. She’d dismissed him out of hand—and out of her life. But now here he was, knowing Castiel for a little over a week and confessing to him the ugly, monstrous secret that lurked in the deep recesses of his heart. “He used to love me,” he confessed. “I don’t think he loves me anymore.”

“That’s not true,” said Cas softly, calmly.

“My family doesn’t give a flying fuck about me.”

“How could they know you and not love you?”

“Then why don’t they answer my calls?” asked Dean, muffling the shout in Cas’s shoulder. “Why don’t they need me?”

Dean sobbed, and Castiel held him tighter, closer, hand rubbing soothingly up and down his spine. After a while Dean quietened down, nothing but the rushing of the waterfall in his ears. When the crick in his neck was getting too loud to ignore, he pulled back from the embrace, and Castiel let him.

“There you are,” said Cas. He reached up toward Dean’s face again, but Dean shrugged him off, wiping his running nose with his sleeve. Still, Cas put a hand on his shoulder and exerted gentle pressure until he gave in and turned. “You’re so beautiful, Dean,” he said, and Dean knew this time he wasn’t talking about his face. If only he could see what Castiel saw.

***

Castiel stood in front of the lodge where Dean had dropped him off, and watched as he immediately reversed and peeled back out onto the highway. So many, many people he was failing to help. “Gabriel,” he prayed.

But then found, for the first time in a long time, that he had nothing to say.

***

Dean found his way back to Paradise Cove by mid-afternoon. He hadn’t gone anywhere in particular; just drove until the guilt of wasting gas got the better of him. After parking her in the gravel next to his cabin he wandered straight around to the back to stand at the fence. He stared at the water, fist opening and clenching before he finally gave in and checked his phone. No messages from Sam. Radio silence from Dad.

Fuck, most of the people in his contacts never spoke to him at all unless they needed something for a hunt.

When he scrolled back to the top of his messages something caught his eye—a draft. He clicked it open.

WALK NORTH

Oh.

Dean was standing on the path right now. So why not just go? He started walking.

Within a few minutes he was past the cabins and then the firepit. A couple minutes more was the swimming pool with utility building; one person was doing laps in the late sunlight. Then the asphalt drive curved off into the woods, the path stayed along the edge of the cliff, and the trees cut him off from everything else.

The breeze rolled through the treetops, ruffling the leaves. The waves beat their steady rhythm below. It was almost half an hour before he realized that that was all he was hearing. No birds, no squirrels skittering up tree trunks. Maybe a storm was coming? He should go ask Cas, he was usually up to date on that sort of thing.

Dean turned around, and walked south.

He scratched his jaw. He wondered what Cas was planning for dinner tonight in the lodge. He hoped that maybe if he checked his phone again he’d find a message from Sammy that he missed. He took it out and flipped it open.

WALK NORTH

Dean stopped. He was walking north, wasn’t he? No, he’d turned around. What the fuck?

Suddenly he remembered all the times over the past few days when he’d made a mental note again and again and again to walk this path to the bitter end. Had he been running all up and down the North Shore searching for clues when there was one right here in front of him?

Wait. Was he the clue?

“I don’t wanna be a clue,” he grumbled.

He started walking. Then looked down at his phone, which was still open.

WALK NORTH

“Ugh, turn around, dumbass,” he berated himself.

This time he made very sure the lake was on his right before he started walking again. He did not shut his phone.

After awhile, the trees strated to thin out and the path reconverged with the drive. He let the twin ways carry him forward until they opened up on a large clearing. The dirt path faded into the grass, and the drive curled into a loop in front of an enormous house. It was the sort of thing Dean had seen called a cabin by rich people on shitty cable television, but the house was a cabin the same way a yacht was a rowboat. Huge, multistory, a long balcony that stretched across the second floor with an unfettered view over the lake. This had to be private; there was nothing lively and homey about it like with Paradise Cove. No windowboxes with flowers, no firepit or log benches inviting people to sit and stay.

More than that, there was something dark about it, despite the way the sun’s rays bounced off the myriad windows bright and blinding. Nothing sudden, more like a culmination of a feeling Dean hadn’t realized was growing inside him the further he walked from the motel. It exuded that same aura haunted houses did, empty-yet-not-empty. Otherworldly ill intent.

Absently Dean scratched at his chest under his necklace. He must really need to get back in the game, if a few days of good sleep and better food was having him jump at shadows. Then again, when had his gut steered him wrong before? Warring with himself, Dean shifted his feet, pulled in both directions.

Then the front door opened. Dean froze. He was out in the open, having drifted closer to the house than he’d thought. To his surprise it was Chuck that came barreling out of the house, in an old shirt and boxers and a ratty-looking robe untied and billowing as he strode down the steps. Two tall men walked more sedately after him, one white and one black, both a strong contrast to Chuck in sharp dark suits. One of these men said something Dean couldn’t catch while Chuck yelled over his shoulder to leave him alone. Then they all saw Dean, and they froze too.

“Wait here,” Chuck said.

“But as prophet—” said the black man. His voice was deep, though not like Cas who spoke deep from his chest; this man’s voice sounded low and resonant as if it were a large bell ringing from some great depth. But that shiver down his spine—no, Dean must have imagined that.

“Raph, I said wait,” Chuck repeated. He’d looked harried before, but now he straightened his spine and set his shoulders. “Nothing from you either, Mikey.” The white man’s face might have been carved in stone, for all he was moved by Chuck’s words.

Chuck didn’t seem to care about not getting a response. He turned on his heel, robe whipping behind him, and neither man moved to follow. “Dean,” he said, when he got closer. “What are you doing here?”

“Just, uh,” Dean threw a thumb over his shoulder, “following the path, seeing the sights, you know how it is. Some place you got here.”

“Heh, yeah, well you know,” said Chuck, the steel melting away from him. “It works for my writing. But they,” he continued, looking back at the men, whose gazes didn’t stray from his and Dean’s tête-à-tête, “are not. Publishers, you know? Good stories take time, take a lot of drafts, but some people get impatient! Want to start production now! They want to rush things that can’t be rushed!” This last he aimed at them.

Raph and Mikey at last moved, if barely; they swiveled their heads slightly toward each other, glancing at their companion out the side of their eyes. For some reason, the movement didn’t look quite natural to Dean.

Dean cleared his throat. “You okay here, Chuck?” he asked quietly.

Chuck’s face unfolded from its glare into one of distracted surprise. “Me? I’m fine. They’re just annoying.” He gave Dean a considering look, eyes darting back and forth as if he were searching for something. Dean had to work to not shy away from the scrutiny. For the first time he saw a guy who might see enough around himself to write something worthy about it. “You should go, Dean. And you really shouldn’t come back.”

The words stung. Dean didn’t even really know why; he barely knew Chuck, and none of these clowns were a part of his circus. But there was something about those words made manifest, aimed at him, that hit a soft spot he didn’t know he had. Like he could almost hear it in John Winchester’s voice…the echo of what their father had said to Sam when he ran off to college. Dean clenched his jaw, but held his hands up, palms out, and started backing away. “Private property. I hear you,” he said.

Chuck gave him a sharp nod and walked back toward his publishers. Dean walked the opposite direction, and good riddance. When he found the end—or beginning—of the dirt path at the edge of the clearing, he took one last glance at the house and the men in front of it. Raph and Chuck had reengaged in conversation, the latter gesturing wildly, but Mikey was instead staring directly at Dean.

Dean flipped him the finger, because he could.

***

That night at dinner, he asked Cas what he knew about Chuck. Cas looked surprised that Dean even knew about him. “He’s very reclusive,” he said. But he couldn’t tell Dean any more than that, except for that he’d been living in the area for a long time.

With regret Dean left Castiel alone in the lodge to go back to his cabin. (Cas could have stood to look a little more torn up about it, though, instead of muttering about another perimeter check.) He tore down everything from his evidence wall except for Patience’s drawing. Then he dug through his duffel for a notebook, the small kind he liked to use when pretending to be an FBI agent, and wrote Chuck. He ripped it out and slapped it on the wall with some tape.

Then another page: Raph

And another: Mikey

But no matter how hard he stared, it illuminated nothing.

He sat on his bed and glared at the wall, trying to remember everything he’d done—or been convinced not to do—since he arrived. But there was so little and none of it seemed connected and he kept going round and round in circles…the sun set…his eyes shuttered closed…

Dean’s phone rang.

Dean was up like a shot. Was Dad in trouble? He snatched the phone from where it was charging and flipped it open. “Hello?”

There was a pause, but not the heavy presence of John’s. Then who…?

“Hey, Dean,” came a subdued voice.

“Sam,” said Dean, and crumpled in on himself.

***

For almost a minute, neither of them said a word. They hadn’t spoken for almost two years, what were a few moments more? Dean held the phone close to his face and dropped onto his back, staring at the dark ceiling. The night was cool but not cold; the windows were open so the ever-present tumbling of the waves against the cliff pressed into his other ear.

“So, Minnesota?” said Sam at length.

“Recognized the lighthouse, huh?” said Dean, smiling. Fuck, it was so good to hear his brother’s voice.

“Yeah.” Sam fell quiet, but again, Dean was determined not to break the silence. He wanted to yell, he wanted to cry, he wanted to beg. His free hand twisted in the sheets; he wanted Cas here, next to him, holding his hand, as he tried to give Sam his space, tried not to demand a reply when he’d never wanted anything more. Yet again, he was rewarded. “If I tell you something,” his brother asked slowly, “do you promise not to tell Dad?”

Dean’s breath caught. He tried to steady it. “Is it bad?”

“I don’t know. Might be nothing.”

“A hunt?”

“No,” he said sharply.

Dean wanted to reach through the phone and shake him. Smother him with questions, recriminations about what the fuck kind of trouble he was in. Instead he closed his eyes and wondered, what would Cas say? How could Dean not fuck this up? And then of course he knew. “Tell me.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

“Fine. Okay.” Sam took a deep, shaky breath. “I’ve been having these...recurring dreams. Every night now, for almost two weeks. The dream’s exactly the same every time.”

“What is it?”

“Jessica.”

“Who?”

“My girlfriend. I never know that it’s a dream at first. I come home after a long day, walk up the stairs, lie in bed. But when I look up, Jess is on the ceiling. She’s wearing a white nightgown and there’s all this blood soaking into it from her stomach and her mouth is moving like she’s trying to tell me something, or warn me, and then all the sudden she’s on fire, and I can’t, I can’t help—” Sam cut himself off, trying to stifle the noises but Dean could tell. He was crying. Scared.

Dean was scared too. He sat up, digging his hand into his thigh to keep calm. “Sam, that’s how Mom died. That’s exactly how Mom died.”

“I know, I know.”

“Are you sure it’s Jessica?”

“I know who my fucking girlfriend is, Dean,” he snapped. “It’s our apartment, our bed. It’s Jess. Every time.”

Dean bit back his sarcasm, forced himself to think. “Nothing else has changed?”

“Nothing,” said Sam, calmer this time. “And before you ask, no, no cold spots or lights flickering or EMF or any signs. I checked.”

“Okay. I believe you.” Sam was good at hunting, knew what he was about, but still it was a struggle not to leap out of bed and start tearing his way across the country to reach him. God, he’d been living the high life here while his brother needed him—

Sam cut off his train of thought. “Have you ever heard of anything like this?”

“No,” Dean admitted. “We could try Bobby?”

“We haven’t spoken to him in years, remember how he tried to shoot Dad?”

Dean wracked his brains for another idea. “Actually...you know I met a psychic like, just recently.”

“Like, a psychic psychic? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I confirmed it with Dad—and before you say anything I don’t think they’re the type to send Christmas cards to each other. Look, why don’t I give you her number, and then I’ll get in the car and start heading to you, okay? You can give her a call tomorrow while I’m still driving.” Dean held his breath, waiting.

“...I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Dean.”

“I’m not coming to drag you back into the life, Sammy,” said Dean, losing his patience at last. “I get it, okay? You want nothing to do with me. But if something from the life has found you, it’s good to have backup.” He paused. Tried a smile for size, enough so that Sam could hear it. “And then you can introduce Jess to your hotter brother.”

Sam huffed a pathetic half laugh, but it was something. “Fuck off, jerk,” he said.

“Bitch.” Dean reveled in the exchange for a minute. Then, “Well?”

Heaving a gusty sigh, Sam capitulated. “Fine, gimme her number.” Dean pumped his fist in triumph, but almost like Sam had seen it he added, “Don’t you dare start driving right now, I know what time it is there.”

“I night drive all the time.”

“Dean, the last thing I need is for you to hit a deer and run off the road, alright? Wait ‘til morning. Please. My nightmares are bad enough.”

Dean had been fully prepared to ignore the advice, but this small evidence of care was enough to give him pause. Then he thought about Cas come morning, looking up every time the lodge doors opened, expecting Dean…but then never seeing him again. “Shit,” he muttered. “Fine. Morning.”

“Good. Now what’s this lady’s number?”

Chapter Text

For the second time since arriving at Paradise Cove, Dean didn’t fall into a deep sleep. He tossed and turned with the waves, dozing on and off. When dawn began creeping along the horizon, he hauled himself out of bed and into the shower. After that he grabbed the broom and dustpan from inside the little closet and began sweeping up all the salt he’d laid down his first night here. Then, thinking of Cas who had to take care of everything all by himself, Dean cleaned as best he could, stripping the sheets from the bed and putting his towels in an easy pile. He was trying to decide which of the books and trinkets he’d accumulated over the past couple weeks were worth keeping when he heard raised voices just outside his cabin, one of which sounded annoyingly familiar. He peeked through the kitchenette window to see Zachariah in a heated discussion with some other dude. “What the fuck?” he said to himself. Could this guy not take no for a fucking answer? Seems like Cas had a right to worry after all.

They were closer to the cliffside path than the road, so Dean slammed out the back door of his cabin to confront them. “You know I’m this close to calling the police for trespassing and harassing the property owner,” he announced.

“Ah, well if it isn’t our good friend Dean!” said Zachariah.

Dean wanted to punch his smarmy face. “You and I ain’t friends.”

“Not that this isn’t entertaining,” sneered the other man, “but get done with it. Our bosses both want the same thing, and they want it now.”

Zachariah glared down at him. “Don’t think you can give me orders, you little twerp.”

Now that the initial wave of anger had passed, Dean ripped his eyes from Zach to watch the other guy smile the self-satisfied smirk of the rich and powerful. He was young, blond, and suddenly very familiar…but it made no damn sense. “Brady?”

“Oo, not exactly,” he said. He ran a hand through the stylish wave in his hair and then examined his nails. “This was Brady.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Dean’s hand curled around the handle of his gun tucked into the back of his jeans. “Why aren’t you in Palo Alto?”

Brady made a show of fiddling with his cufflinks, like Dean wasn’t quite worth his attention. “Because you couldn’t leave well enough alone, that’s why.”

“You’re messing with things you don’t understand, boy,” said Zach.

“We’re so close,” Brady growled, eyes flashing to black—irises, whites, and all. Dean took an involuntary step back. “Sam was completely isolated. How did you get through to him?”

Black eyes only meant one thing. “Demons,” said Dean. He wasn’t a praying man, but he found himself praying that Castiel was somewhere safe. Demons here, of all fucking places. But why?

“Nuh-uh,” said Zach, wagging a patronizing finger. “Demon, singular. He’s the demon.”

“Yeah?” said Dean. “Then what are you?”

“I, Dean-o, am the guy who’s going to get this show on the road. You see,” he said, “the plan was supposed to be you making your own choice. Damn yourself of your own free will, make a deal, blah blah blah. But I am good at what I do. I found a loophole!”

Dean had been around the block enough to know an evil monologue when he heard one, so he bided his time, waiting for the right moment to make a move. Slowly he drew his gun a little higher from his waistband.

“All this time I was trying to get Castiel away from his post until I realized…he’d broken our number one rule. He broke our number one rule” —he held his arms out toward Dean— “with you.”

“What are you even talking about? What rules?” asked Dean.

Zach opened his mouth to smarm around some more but, “ENOUGH,” said Brady.

The two glared at each other. This was the moment.

Dean drew his gun and aimed for Brady, but Zachariah was faster. He waved his hand and the pistol went flying off the cliff. The man sighed. “This is getting tiresome,” he agreed.

“Finally,” said Brady.

Zachariah lifted his hand again. “See you later, Dean-o.”

Dean stumbled back. “Wait—”

His forefinger curled in toward his thumb, which he brought level with Dean’s face. Then he flicked.

And now Dean was flying.

Ass over teakettle, the air whooshed from his lungs as he shot up high into the air, then tumbled back and back and back, the shore receding every time he spun around to see it, and when the momentum finally petered out…

He fell.

The only falls Dean had ever had before were quick ones, never higher than the second story, hardly enough time to think “Oh, shit!” before hitting the ground. This was nothing like that. This was a suspended moment in time, an endless few seconds, a startling, sharp clarity that rendered his entire life visible. Not flashing like some highlights reel, but visible, a vista, a topography whose hills and valleys he could effortlessly survey and understand.

In the first second he understood: I’m about to die. Either from impact, or from drowning—the lake does not give up her dead.

In the second he understood: My mother’s death has led to this. It was not random. My brother will be next.

In the third: I love him so fucking much.

In the fourth: So many people I’ve loved, and who’ve shown me love in return. Not just Mom and Dad and Sam. But Bobby, even Rufus. Missouri. Sonny and Robin. Cassie. Castiel. Oh, Cas, Cas, Cas.

In the fifth: If anyone’s got their ears on, please protect them from this, whatever it is.

In the sixth: It’s time now.

And in the seventh: But I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die, I don’t wanttodieIdontwanttodieIdontwant—

Whether miracle or fate or fluke, he hit the water feet first. The impact snapped some of bones in his legs and he screamed, water splashing up into his mouth, then pouring in when the cold water enveloped him overhead. He thrashed, already deprived of air from the sudden fall, his legs in agony, his lungs in agony, he always knew his death would be messy but why did it have to be like this? Everything was cold, so cold, his clothing so heavy it felt like hands were crawling up his legs to drag him down faster

    and faster

        and faster

and then he felt a tight band squeezing around his chest like a vise as he sank

and a searing pain in his left shoulder

and the band pulled and lifted and the hands fell away

and suddenly he wasn’t sinking anymore, he was rising, faster

        and faster

    and faster

until he breached, coughing violently, gasping for air.

After the initial burst of warm air upon the lake releasing him, the wind bit and pierced and tugged at his heavy limbs. Then the wind was gone, rough and jumbled rocks pressed into his back; he wheezed in pain as his broken legs flopped against terra firma. His throat burned. He couldn’t stop coughing, eyes squeezed shut.

Someone draped a warm, thick blanket over him. It tingled wherever it touched his skin; it was soft and almost moving. The coughs eased, the shivers ceased. The throbbing mass of pain that was his lower limbs, pulsing with every tired thump of his heart, grew quiet and faded away. Dimly he became aware of someone talking, deep, soft murmurs in a language he couldn’t understand. He blinked his eyes open. “Cas?”

“Yes, Dean. I’m here.”

For one blissful moment Dean relaxed, until— “What? How?” He pushed the blanket away, struggled to rise, but his arms were still shaky. Cas was there at once supporting his back, helping him to sit up. Dean let himself lean against his solid chest and took a breather. After a few breaths he opened his eyes again, and realized there was no blanket. Had there ever been a blanket? He pressed against Cas’s chest to push himself fully upright, and though his shirt’s buttons were askew, Castiel wasn’t wet at all.

Dean wasn’t either.

With a jolt of energy he scuttled back, then he realized that he even could without being in horrendous, excruciating pain. His boots and socks had somehow been lost, but Dean pulled up his dry pant leg to find a strong, healthy calf and shin.

“I—” He coughed. “I fell. I was drowning.”

Castiel drooped, his face in a grimace of pain and fear. “I’m afraid it was more than that.”

Dean coughed half a laugh. “What, that wasn’t enough already?”

“No, of course,” he reached out a hand, but dropped it when Dean flinched. “I meant—they were sending you to hell. But you’re not marked for hell, Dean, why would they do that? Did they say? Was it—was it because of me? I’ve been with others before and no one ever—”

“I don’t know who they are!” Dean shouted. The effort had him collapsing onto the rough, lichen-strewn rock he’d been laid out on.

“Shh,” Cas hushed, hands still half-raised to help him. “They think they’ve succeeded. They didn’t bother making sure. But we have to wait until they leave—”

“You’re part of it,” said Dean. He panted; it was taking all of his energy to prop himself up with an elbow. “You’re a part of it all. I can see it now.”

Castiel shook his head. “A part of what?”

“Everything,” he growled. “My mother dying. Demons befriending my brother. Killing me.”

“But I know less than you. I don’t even know what happened to your mother!” said Cas. Dean could almost believe he was actually desperate.

“Oh yeah?” Dean challenged. “How did I survive, huh? How am I not hurt?”

“I gripped you tight,” said Castiel firmly. When he reached out this time, Dean didn’t have the strength to pull away. His hand landed on Dean’s left shoulder and a frisson, like a spark, passed between them. “I raised you up—spared you from perdition.”

Somewhere inside, in that stubborn place that never allowed him to give up, Dean found the strength to struggle upright of his own accord and brushed Cas’s hand away. “And my legs? My damn lungs?”

“I healed you.”

“Ain’t nothing got that kinda juice.”

Tears welled up in Castiel’s eyes, drawing out sparkles in the blue like the sun on the lake. “Some of us do.”

Dean shook. “So what are you?”

“Dean—”

“What. Are. You.” A tear dropped from one of his own eyes and dribbled down his cheek. Dean ignored it.

“Why does it matter so much what I am,” Castiel asked, “if you care at all about who I am?”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. He didn’t look, but he could feel Cas’s eyes boring into him. He supposed it didn’t matter exactly what Castiel was. He was a monster, and monsters were evil son o’ bitches. Every last one.

It could have been a long time, or mere moments, but after a long impenetrable silence shored up by the insistent crashing of the waves, Cas cleared his throat. Funny—Dean didn’t think he’d ever heard him do that before. Never seen him eat, either. Or need a wink of sleep.

“They’re gone,” he said. “Let me help you up to your cabin. Please.”

Even without trying, Dean knew he wouldn’t be able to get there on his own steam. Wherever here was. He gave a short nod.

Castiel stood, then leaned down to lift Dean up under his shoulders. When Dean was swaying on his feet, he slung Dean’s arm around his neck and led him away from the water. The cliffs were actually climbable in this area, if very steep. Almost every other step Castiel supported his weight, effortlessly keeping him from tumbling back down into the water. When they finally reached the top and started walking along the edge, Dean realized that they’d been hiding behind the south side of the cove, of Paradise Cove.

Some paradise.

Dean traced the curve of the rocky, agate-filled beach below them, and was expecting it the moment when their journey met up with the familiar dirt path. When the trees cleared to reveal Baby parked right where Dean had left her, it felt surreal as a dream. Dean’s entire world had just been flipped on its head and yet she was there waiting for him, just the same.

“I think it’s best,” began Cas. He licked his chapped lips. “I—you had better pack up. Find somewhere to lie low.”

Dean worked his jaw. “Coulda figured that out for myself, thanks.”

“I’m serious, Dean. Is there anyone you know who can teach you to protect yourself from demons?”

“I’m a hunter, Cas,” he said. “I can do the damn research. You know what that means? It means I hunt down and kill monsters.” He stared him down, sneering. “Like you.”

Finally, finally Cas drew himself up, body in angry lines, showing himself for what he truly was. Not the man who talked about his family, or danced the lindyhop, or cooked breakfast fresh everyday, or held Dean’s hand. He was whatever this was, this thing exuding power and rage and any moment now, any moment he was going to grow fangs or breathe fire and rip Dean to shreds. “We shared our bodies,” growled Cas, “we bared truths to each other, I save your life, and the only word you have for me is monster?”

There were no fangs, no claws, but every word was a sharpened blade.

“I know you’re scared, Dean, so am I! I have no idea why you’ve been attacked, or how demons got past my defenses! But I do know one thing. There are suddenly so many things I don’t understand but this I know. What we have is real. What I’m feeling is real.”

Castiel’s eyes burned, but they were blue. The very heart of flame. Dean looked away; he had to. He shuffled over to the small cabin steps, and lifted his leaden legs up them one by one.

“So this is it,” said Cas from behind him, voice thick with tears. “This is goodbye.”

Dean pressed his forehead to the cabin door. He curled his right hand into a fist and punched the wood once, twice. But he couldn’t leave it. “Demon, singular,” he said roughly.

“What?”

“Just one demon. Zachariah wouldn’t tell me what he was.”

“Zacha—?! Are you sure? You have to tell me every—”

“Another time, Cas,” Dean interrupted, and hauled himself through the cabin door.

***

Castiel stood inhumanly still.

There was hardly any great barrier between himself and Dean, but the gulf between them felt wide. He’d become so attuned to his presence over the last two weeks that it pressed against him like a force, full of longing and disgust in equal measure. But Castiel couldn’t worry about whether the bond they’d been building could be repaired now.

Zachariah, send Dean to hell? Why? It couldn’t just be because they’d lain together; he’d had a handful of sexual partners since he’d been gifted his own body and no one in Heaven had ever cared. And then, Zachariah with a demon? Dean must have been confused—Dean was a hunter and trained to recognize the smallest details in even the most stressful situations. The only person who could truly answer his questions was Zachariah, but he could hardly summon him to ask without tipping his hand.

Castiel didn’t understand but worse than that there was no time. Any second could be bringing danger closer to Dean. Or to his charge.

Castiel flew.

In a blink, he was in Chuck’s living room. The prophet jerked up from where he’d been supine on his couch, an empty beer bottle clutched in his arm. “Hm, wha, what? Oh, hey Castiel. What are you—”

“What do you know?” Castiel asked.

“Um,” said Chuck, with a nervous titter. “Well. That’s a loaded question. Like, is this an existential thing, or?”

There was just no time. Castiel got right in the little man’s face, curling both fists in his shirt and hauling him up off the couch. “What have you seen?” he growled. “Have you had visions?”

“What, no! I mean, one, I mean, can you put me down?” He smiled in a manner he probably thought was winning. It was not.

Regardless Castiel disentangled his hands from his shirt and dropped him back onto the couch. He began to pace. “What did you mean by ‘one?’ Did you see Zachariah?”

“Well—”

“Is he working with demons?”

“Actu—”

“What big plans did he need my help for? Who keeps breaking the defenses around Paradise Cove?”

“Look!” said Chuck, disgruntled. “Like, I’m not a pez dispenser, okay? I’m kinda new to this whole vision thing. It was my first one!”

That gave Castiel pause. He halted and turned on his heel to glared down at Chuck. The prophet glowered down at a bottle of whiskey he was unscrewing. “How long have you been here, Chuck?”

He scoffed, looking at Castiel like he’d gone mad. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve been here for over a century,” said Castiel. “My mission is to protect the prophet. Who was prophet before you? I should know…every angel was created knowing…”

The prophet chuckled nervously. “Um, you guys kidnapped and brought me here about ten years ago, I guess. I don’t know who the prophet was before me.”

“Why don’t I remember that?” Castiel asked. A terrifying new feeling was growing inside him, something that burned hot and squeezed his organs. Panic. “I don’t remember.”

“Hey, whoa, big guy,” said Chuck. He hopped up from the couch and guided Castiel into a nearby chair. “I didn’t know angels had panic attacks. Have a drink.”

Castiel swiped the bottle before he was even done talking, and chugged the whiskey down.

“Uh,” said Chuck, watching the liquid disappear with wide eyes. “Okay. Well. The vision was just about these two guys in a big black car.”

Castiel threw the empty bottle at the wall, where it smashed. “What else?” he grit out.

“Not much, just heard them calling each other Sam and Dean.”

Quick as lightning, Castiel grabbed Chuck’s shirt with one hand and pulled him close again. “The car. Was it a Chevrolet Impala manufactured in 1967?”

“I-I-I think so?”

“Why would you have visions of Dean Page? What does he have to do with cosmic plans?”

Chuck tapped at his hand until Castiel released him. Sulkily he tugged his robe shut and tied it. “His name wasn’t Dean Page. It was Dean Winchester.”

“Winchester?” The panic was gone, all that was left was a nauseating numbness. Shock. Castiel didn’t want to believe it, but it was the only explanation that made sense. Why else would Zachariah damn an older brother to hell? “You’re the one destined to write the Winchester gospels.”

“Gospels? I mean, I sorta consider myself a horror writer—”

“It is the End Times, Chuck Shurley,” said Castiel, rising from his chair. “And you will tell me everything you know.”

“Now come on,” said Chuck, stumbling away and running to put the couch between them. “I already did!”

“Did you already write it down?” Castiel began rummaging around, tossing papers in the air, picking up the computer monitor and shaking it. “Where is it?” He tossed it aside and picked up the computer tower.

“Hey, stop!” Chuck ran toward him, this time, and tried to tug the computer from his hands. “That’s a top of the line desktop!”

“DEAN WINCHESTER MUST BE SAVED!” Castiel roared.

Chuck fell back in fright.

The room began to shake, white light piercing through all the windows.

The archangels were coming. The sworn shield had become a threat to the prophet, to the Plan.

Castiel was disobedient.

***

Once inside the cabin, Dean threw himself at the kitchen table to find another cell phone; the one that had been in his pocket was fish food now. “Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered, fumbling one out from a side pocket. He dialed Sam’s number from memory. It rang. And rang.

“You’ve reached Sam Winchester—”

Dean hung up and called again, and three more times before his brother picked up. “About fucking time, Sammy,” Dean growled.

“What the fuck, Dean?” Sam sounded groggy and pissed.

“Brady’s a demon!”

“…What? Dean—”

“You heard. He was just in Minnesota, I saw him!” With his free hand he repacked the duffel he’d just torn apart, punching the clothes so they’d stay below the zipper.

“That’s impossible,” said Sam. “I hung out with him last night, there’s no way.”

“What part about ‘demon’ did you miss?” He tucked the phone into his shoulder to use both hands on the duffel. Damn zipper still wouldn’t go.

“Are you…” Sam sighed. “Are you having a bad trip, Dean?”

“Damnit, Sam!” He slammed his duffel on the table hard enough to make the table rattle. “Your best friend Brady was here, this morning, with two big black eyes. And then he tried to kill me.”

“But—”

“He tried to kill me, Sammy,” Dean repeated, but this time the anger was melting into tears. “My god, do you even care?”

The pause after his question was long enough he wasn’t sure of a reply.

But then, quietly: “Of course I care. What do we do?”

“They’re gonna come for you,” said Dean, sniffling. He gave up on the duffel and slung it, still open, onto his shoulder. Then he slung the strap of the weapons bag over it, tossed the cabin key on the table, and was out the door. “Get out of there, right now. Grab Jess and split.”

“Jess doesn’t know—”

“You were dreaming about her, weren’t you?” Dean threw the bags unceremoniously into the Impala’s trunk and rounded the car to the driver’s side. “She’s a part of it now, too.”

“Okay, okay. Okay.” Sam let out a short breath. Dean could practically hear the gears turning in that big brain of his from halfway across the country. “We’ll leave together. Demons are repelled by holy water and salt. We’ve got salt. I can bless some water.”

Dean started up the car, and she roared into life. One-handed, he reversed her out of the gravel and onto the asphalt. “Don’t take too long, Sammy. Head toward me and I’ll head toward you. Alright?”

“What about Dad?”

“I’ll try him next. You just do what you gotta do, okay?”

“I’ve got it,” said Sam, and hung up.

Dean jerked to a stop where Paradise Cove met the highway, looked both ways, then put the pedal to the metal.

***

The living room was small, but nicely appointed. The carpet was a pleasant cream color, the furniture an old-fashioned dusky pink. The television was old and in a dark wooden cabinet, pictures adorned the fireplace mantel, and a stately old grandfather clock counted the seconds tick, tick, tick.

A woman in her fifties walked into the room from the kitchen carrying a glass of ice water. Her brown hair, just starting to thread with gray, was worn neatly up in a bun. Her clothing was fine, if a bit out of mode, a high-waisted pair of slacks with a silk blouse buttoned all the way to the top. When she crossed threshold to find the room was already occupied, she dropped her glass. The water seeped into the carpet.

“To jsi ty,” said Klara.

“Ano,” said Castiel. “Jsem já.”

***

Castiel fled the prophet’s house.

He could just feel the barest tendrils of Raphael’s grace on his wings when he flew out of reach. There was now only one place in the world he could go, only one person in the world who might have the barest detail who could help him.

Though it had been some thirty years since she’d been his vessel, he had spent a long time sheltering her soul within their shared body and he would always know where to find her, if he cared to look. It was a mere nanosecond to travel from the North Shore to Pontiac, Illinois. And there she was: older, certainly, but still his old friend.

Her face contorted into a mask of rage. “Get out of my son!” she yelled. She threw herself at him, shaking him. He didn’t budge. “Get out, get out, GET OUT!”

“You misunderstand,” said Castiel, pushing her back as gently as he knew how. “This body is not your son’s. I swear it.”

“How could it not be?” she asked, tears spilling from her eyes.

“My brother Gabriel came to me after I released you,” he explained. “I had no vessel and had to hide in the lake so as not to harm anyone. I hid there for a couple of years until he brought me the building blocks of your newly born son.”

She stepped back and wiped at her eyes. Clearing her throat she lifted her chin in an effort to regain her composure. “The archangel Gabriel stole my son’s DNA to build you a vessel,” she said slowly.

Castiel smiled. “Then you understand.”

Klara pursed her lips. “And why would he do that?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel admitted. “He hasn’t returned since. He told me before he left that the local trickster didn’t like him hanging around.”

Bowing her head, she shook it once. Then she crossed her arms and wandered to the mantel where a large family portrait stood in pride of place. There was a woman, a small blonde girl, and a man who looked just like Castiel. “What’s his name?” he asked.

“James. But now everyone calls him Jimmy. So very American.” She sniffed and turned back around. “Why are you here?”

“Because I need to know. What happened after you said yes to me? How did we get to Paradise Cove?”

She tilted her head. A habit, Castiel realized, she’d picked up from him. “You don’t remember?”

“Nothing.”

“How can that be?”

“Please, Klara. I need to know.”

“Well,” she said after a moment. “I suppose you’d better sit down.” She gestured to the couch, and Castiel sat. Klara settled herself on the opposite side and smoothed the wrinkles from her slacks. “I remember only patches at first,” she said. “It takes some getting used to, joining with an angel. The first moment of clarity I had after saying yes we were standing in a house. There was a woman there, her name was Lily. All your focus was on her, and I believe that is why you forgot to keep me pushed away.”

Castiel thought hard, his brow furrowed. He almost felt something, just out of reach…

“There was a man, also. He had hold of her daughter. He spoke of broken hearts and powerlessness. I remember your righteous anger that he had lied to you. Ishim, you called him.”

“Ishim,” Castiel repeated softly. Ishim was one of his brothers.

“It was clear he intended to kill the innocent child; his blade was drawn. Then you—with my hand—drew your own blade and killed him first. I felt it pierce his flesh. Who was his vessel, I wonder?”

“I killed my brother?” The moment he spoke the words aloud, Castiel could see it: the white flash of Ishim’s grace, the burn of his wings across the floor and up onto the wall. Benjamin flying inside, appearing next to their fallen brother. Castiel, what have you done? he’d asked.

“I could feel your mind,” said Klara. “I was just beginning to understand it. It moves swiftly, in strange shapes. Your only thought was to protect, but you were unused to actions not of your own will. You could think of no sanctuary that was not Heaven.”

A sharp pain, direct in both temples. A ringing in his ears like the high-pitched whine of a drill. Castiel gasped and leaned over, clutching his head.

“Castiel?”

He heard Klara as if from a distance. After a moment the pain eased. He sat back up slowly. “Continue. Please.”

Klara wiped the edge of her mouth with her thumb. A trace amount of lipstick remained on the digit, and she rubbed it away. “Your only question was where, and so I answered you. The safest place I could think of. I was still devout then.”

“Praha,” Castiel breathed, remembering it all at long last. It made sense now why he had sought her now in his hour of need. “The cathedral.”

She nodded shortly. “It was night there. The candles were lit. The great vaults of St. Vitus high above us in the dark. A single mother with her daughter and we, an angel.”

Castiel wept.

“You feel sorrow,” Klara said wonderingly.

“I saved their lives,” he said. “I loved humanity as we were bid, and for that I was punished.”

She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and scooted next to him on the couch. Gently she dabbed at the tears on the copy of her son’s face. “Do you regret it, Castiel? Would you have done differently, now that you know?”

“No,” he said. “But now there is another I would save, and I don’t know how.”

“You must,” she said sharply. Castiel lifted his head at her tone. Klara cupped his face in both hands. “I may not have the faith I had in my youth, but that is because I learned that angels were unfeeling, unloving, willing to cast us aside to get whatever they want. What I do have faith in,” she said, “is an angel who learned to listen. Who didn’t understand why I loved food, or music, but who tried to anyway. An angel who gradually opened up to me when I spoke with him. An angel who did not just save the lives of a mother and her daughter, but by letting me go, my life too. Even at the risk of another punishment.” She smiled then, for the first time since he’d arrived in her home. “You will save this person because that is who you are. I have faith in you, Castiel. I know your mind. Use it! Think! See all the angles with your strange shapes and you will have your answer.”

“My answer…” echoed Castiel. Then his eyes widened. “No. An answer.” He stood, holding both of Klara’s hands in his own. “Thank you.”

“Go, Castiel,” she said.

He went.

***

Dean was driving way over the speed limit, one-handed. He’d been calling his dad non-stop, leaving voicemail after voicemail, until he flipped his phone shut and tossed it aside in disgust. Instead of a soft thump onto the leather, though, he heard it smack into someone’s palm. Dean glanced to his right, then did a double-take. “What the—?!”

“Hello, Dean.”

He accidentally jerked the wheel, then swerved back into his lane just barely avoiding a head-on collision. Ignoring the angry horns blaring as they sped past him, Dean guided the Impala over the rumble strip and slammed on the brakes.

“What the actual fuck!”

“You have to turn around.”

“Get out of my car, Cas!”

“Dean, please. You’re in grave danger.”

“Yeah, from you!”

“Not from me!” he growled.

Dean dared to look, really look at him. Castiel was wearing the stupid trenchcoat he kept on the clothes rack in the lodge lobby over his soft blue sweater. His dark hair was wild, but his eyes wilder. Dean hated that his instinct was to reach out. “From what, then?”

“I don’t have enough time to explain,” he said urgently. “Nor do you. It’s a miracle they haven’t found you yet. We have one chance at this. I have only one strategy right now, do you understand, and that requires you to turn around.”

Dean let out a breath that was scarily close to a sob. He knocked his forehead on Baby’s steering wheel. And that was it, wasn’t it? As a hunter his every instinct should be to keep his eyes trained on the danger. Castiel was a monster. Monsters were evil. But Cas…not Cas. Never Cas. “Turn around and what?”

“The lighthouse. You passed it a few miles ago.”

Dean sat up then, throwing his hands in the air. “Oh, now you wanna go see the lighthouse?” he snarked.

“Dean,” said Cas. He pulled at Dean’s right hand.

“Don’t—”

Reluctantly Cas let it go. “You don’t have to fend for yourself alone in this fight,” he said. “Let me help.”

“Why don’t you just zap over there like you did to get in my car?”

“It was risky enough the once. We must keep those who wish to harm you in the dark, as long as we can.”

 “Shit,” Dean said, wiping tears from his face. His fucking boyfriend was a monster, but he was going to do what he said anyway. “I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this.” He revved the gas and swung the car back onto the highway, executing a hair-raising three point turn to get the Impala to head back north. “I hope you’re right about this.”

Baby ate the miles up quickly, Dean driving in stony, stubborn silence. When the sign for Split Rock Lighthouse loomed before them, Dean took a hard right. The tires squealed at the abuse, but for once Dean didn’t care. He sped along the drive and across the empty parking lot. He steered straight across the open space to drive up the courtyard to the entrance. He’d barely turned off the car before he was already slamming the door shut behind him, Cas right on his heels.

Dean tugged at the doors to the visitor’s center, but they were locked. “We’re too early, should I…?”

“No need,” said Cas. He touched his own hand to the doors and the locks clicked open.

Dean didn’t waste time asking questions, just slipped inside after him. There was a girl behind the long desk, probably one of the people in charge of opening the place up. Her eyes bulged when she saw them run in. “Hey, you can’t—”

But Castiel was already upon her. Before Dean could even shout to stop him, he raised two fingers to her forehead and she dropped like a stone. “What did you do?!”

“She’s just asleep. Which way through the building?”

Sparing one last glance at the front desk, Dean led the way to the left, through the hallway and outside. He ran along the path, Castiel keeping pace, and soon enough the iconic brick tower loomed into view. They raced to the stairs; Dean took them two at a time until he reached the top of the concrete platform with the lighthouse on one side, the squat foghorn building on the other. “Now what?” he panted. When Cas didn’t respond, Dean turned to look. Castiel was standing completely still, not even breathing, staring up into the sky. Dean followed his gaze, and where once the morning had been bright and clear, clouds were quickly gathering. “What’s coming?” he asked. “Cas?”

Cas set his jaw, his entire face made of stone. Lowering his chin he said, “No time. Up.” He pointed to the tower.

“Of course,” Dean muttered, but he ran. The black door opened wide before he even reached it, so he didn’t pause when he threw himself into the base of the building, then swung himself onto the wrought iron spiral staircase. It clanged and shook as they both stomped up. Dean hopped aside when he reached the platform so Cas could pop up right after.

Castiel didn’t hesitate. He went right beneath the giant lens and climbed the ladder to a small opening just beneath it. As he climbed, the lens slowly began to rotate. With one hand he reached up to touch it, and the other he reached back down to Dean. “Hurry.”

“How the hell am I supposed get up there with you?”

“Dean.”

“Alright, alright.” Dean picked a rung and slung himself upward, his face about level with Cas’s chest.

Cas wrapped his arm around his shoulders to keep him steady. “You must think of Gabriel.”

“Your brother?”

“With your entire soul, Dean. Call out for Gabriel!” Thunder rumbled. Not quite above their heads though, not yet. “Now!”

Dean had no idea what it meant to use his entire soul, but he gave it a go. He closed his eyes, burying his face in Cas’s sweater, and thought Gabriel. Gabriel, Gabriel, GABRIEL!

“Gabriel!” Cas called over the rising wind. “I know you came to me for a reason. After all these years of exile, out of all our brothers and sisters, you chose me. Because we’re both outcasts. The difference is, I was cast out for choosing a side. But you, you cast yourself out because you refused to make a choice!”

Sparks of electricity began licking at metal all over the platform. The lens kept moving.

“All these years, I’ve never asked for an answer. But you don’t get to ignore me now. Not about this! Make your stand, Gabriel! ANSWER ME!”

An immense thunderclap shook the tower. Cas’s hand came up to cradle Dean’s skull, keeping it in place to shield his eyes a split second before a frisson of electricity crackled around the tower, racing upward toward the lens.

Then, a great burst of light.

“It’s done, Dean,” Cas said after a moment.

Since his grip lessened a bit on his head, Dean risked a peek. Light flashed, and dimmed, and flashed again. “You just turned on the lighthouse.”

“I know,” said Cas, with an actual hint of a smile. “Let’s go down now—it’s time to wait.”

“Hurry up and wait, huh?” But Dean hopped off the ladder, and led the way down the stairs and back outside.

The sky was noticeably darker, the wind palpably stronger. Dean watched the roiling clouds pouring down from the mountains until a crash came from behind and he turned, startled. Another crash sounded and this time he saw it happen: the waves on the lake had become tremendous, the foamy spray as they hit the cliff reaching over the guard rail. He sought Cas out for reassurance, a fellow witness, anything. Castiel was turning in a slow circle, the wind whipping at his hair, his coat, but not buffetted about himself at all. The tower stood tall behind him, the light flashing round and round overhead. As the clouds grew closer, blacker, it quickly became the easiest thing to see.

Though there was no rain, the air was ripe with the taste of a coming storm. “Is the cavalry coming or not?” Dean joked weakly.

“I don’t know.” He walked closer to Dean, but stopped short of touching him. The waves crashed, the wind howled. “Dean, I wish—”

An incredible clap of thunder, a light flashing brighter than the great lens in the tower. He saw it flicker in Castiel’s eyes as he stared over his shoulder. Dean turned to look himself, and saw that the lightning must have struck the fog signal building because it sizzled around the place, along the guard rail near the cliff, and between the two giant horns themselves. There was a great whirring, as of a machine coming to life, and then—Dean jumped, covering his ears. The deep bellow of the foghorn, except constant, unabating.

Cas whirled around, searching, searching, and the fog signal kept sounding, except the pitch was slowly getting higher...and higher...then faster and faster, and Dean was covering his ears for a different reason, the high frequency feeling like a blade pierced straight through the canals into his brain. Until, just when he thought his eardrums would burst, it stopped.

Shoulders still hunched, Dean cautiously lifted his hands from his ears and looked around. Cas was still next to him, facing back the way they’d come. Dean followed his gaze. Standing there, just at the edge of the concrete steps, were two very familiar men. “Not publishers, right. Got it. Lemme guess, Thing 1 and Thing 2. Am I close?”

Cas closed his eyes in exasperation. “Dean.”

The two guys—were they guys?—who’d been harassing Chuck ignored Dean. “Castiel,” said Raph in his deep bell voice, “why do you not guard the prophet?”

“That is not what matters most,” said Mikey, his own voice tolling in the same chorus. “The Plan has begun earlier than expected, yes, but begun it has. Relinquish my Sword, Castiel.”

Cas held an arm out in front of Dean and tried to push him behind. “No.”

“What’s going on?” Dean hissed in his ear.

“Your love of Father’s Creation is admirable,” Mikey continued. “Know that I have no desire to harm him. You may visit him all you like, when he reaches his reward.”

“His reward?” spat Cas. “What reward is torment and damnation? The twisting of an innocent soul?”

“Do not disobey, Castiel,” Raph warned. “It is a testament to our mercy that you yet live.”

“Paradise is coming,” added Mikey. “Don’t you want Paradise?”

“There can be no true Paradise,” said Castiel, “if it comes at the expense of someone like Dean.”

Dean shook his head. “What?”

Castiel snapped his arm to the side and a shiny silver blade appeared. For a moment Dean figured that must have been this sword they were talking about, until the others held out their hands and identical swords appeared. The light from the tower glanced off them every time it flashed by. Cas pushed harder against Dean’s chest, walking him backward toward the guard rail, close enough droplets of foam rained down on their heads with every roaring wave.

The other two stalked closer. “You won’t win,” said Raph. “You can’t truly mean to fight.”

“Yes,” said Cas. “I do.” He shrugged his shoulders, and thunder cracked again. The lens turned in the lighthouse, lightning flickered to life, and stretched behind them over the lake, from one end of the horizon to the other it seemed, seventy some stories tall, were two identical shadows: wings. Giant, huge, spread-wide fuck-off wings. Both lighthouse and lightning caused the shadows to pulse, darkening and fading over the background of clouds and churning water.

Dean’s breath came in short puffs. His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest, and his knees were jumping in their sockets. Oh, he thought dumbly. So the cartoons didn’t make that up. Then he thought of the power to pull someone up from the depths of Lake Superior, the power to heal. To zap into someone’s car. Wings. Some guy named Gabriel.

Castiel.

Not Raph and Mikey—Raphael. Michael.

Not monsters. Not even demons.

Angels.

Nearly buckling under his fear, Dean forced himself to look back toward the two—the two men. But they didn’t have wings. At least, that’s what Dean thought at first. Then he realized that theirs didn't make shadows. They were big, so big, that all he could see were the impressions of the very tips of their longest, lowest feathers, in great swoops over the distant trees and mountains in the distance. Behind Raphael, lightning that flickered in a continuous dance. Behind Michael, wisps of cloud like living fog breathing on the mountaintops. Dean grabbed at Cas’s sleeve before he lost his shit completely.

“Last chance, Castiel,” said Michael. “You were a good soldier. You can be again.”

“They don’t belong to us, none of them do,” said Cas. “They’re not our tools!”

Michael closed his eyes, then turned his head to his partner. “Raphael?”

A coldly righteous smile spread over Raphael’s face. Slowly he raised his arm, fingers curling inward. Cas leapt to stop him, sword thrust forward and aiming. Raphael touched the pad of his thumb to his fingers as if to snap, and then—

The wind stopped. The water in the lake sloshed as it fell suddenly back into its bed, momentum gone. The lighthouse kept flashing.

Raphael lowered his arm, and all three of the—the dudes looked around in confusion.

Next to Dean’s ear, someone popped bubblegum.

Dean jumped about a mile and stumbled away. A short dude was standing next to him, chomping obnoxiously on his gum. He had longish hair and when he turned to grin at Dean, he winked one of his strikingly golden eyes. “This,” he said, almost jovially, “is the part where you run.”

“Gabriel,” Cas breathed. “You came.”

“Probably wouldn’t have if I’d known just what kind of trouble you’d gotten into,” he said. His eyes went past Castiel to the other two, who were now stalking closer, swords raised. “Scram, kiddo.”

“NO—” thundered Michael, but it was too late. Gabe reached a palm to each of their foreheads and in the next blink,

Bright sun. Clear skies. The soft sound of the radio and the Impala’s wheel in his hands.

Dean was sitting in his car, and next to him on the bench seat sat Castiel. Cautiously Cas reached a hand out to Dean’s chest. “May I ward you?”

Dean had to swallow twice before he could respond. “Against what?”

“Angels,” he answered, matter-of-fact.

“Oh,” said Dean. “Right. Sure.” There was a moment of searing pain across his chest, but it faded immediately. “What’d you do?”

“Carved sigils into your ribs.”

“Great. Why not.”

“Not even I could find you, if we were parted.”

Dean licked his lips and looked over at Cas. His head hung low, hands clasped solemnly in his lap. “What if, um. What if I don’t want to be parted?”

Cas lifted his head then, and smiled. “Then I would gladly stay by your side.”

Dean blushed and turned away. He squinted out his windshield to see where they were parked along the side of the road. No mountains, no crashing waves. Not even any trees. Just endless, flat fields as far as the eye could see under an unforgiving hot sun. “Where are we?”

“I believe they call it Nebraska now,” said Cas.

Dean sniffed and got that unmistakable cloying whiff of cow shit endemic to big ranches everywhere. “Sounds about right.”

They sat there for another minute; Cas’s head cocked to the side as if he were trying to listen to something. Then Dean’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Still kind of out of it, he pawed it out of his jeans and flipped it open without looking at the little window on top. “Yeah?” he said hoarsely.

“So Jess and I finally made it on the road,” said Sam.

Dean knuckled the bridge between his eyes, trying to stave off a headache. “You and Jess both? That’s good.”

“Yeah. You don’t sound so hot. Have another run-in?”

“Could say that,” said Dean faintly. “You have any trouble?”

“Um, a little trouble.”

Little?! Dean could hear a woman’s voice in the background. They were fucking demons!

Dean chuckled despite himself. “Jess found out the hard way, huh?”

“Yeah. But we’re both in one piece, so. What now?”

“You drive east and we’ll drive west. Meet somewhere in the middle. Make sure I always know where you guys are, okay?”

“We’re already out of city limits headed east on I-80. What about you?”

“Well what do you know,” said Dean. He looked around at the prairie and smiled. “We’re in Nebraska and we’re gonna hop on 80 real soon.”

“Who’s ‘we?’ And how’d you get to Nebraska if this morning—”

“One thing at a time, Sammy. Drive and I’ll see you soon.”

He shut his phone and put it back in his pocket. Looking for his keys, he patted all his other pockets until he realized they were already in the ignition. “Nice,” he said. He turned the keys and Baby roared to life. With a full tank of gas, no less. “Sweet. Now,” he said, leaning to reach under the passenger seat and pulling out a box, “you’re going to tell me since when the fuck there are angels, how you’re an angel, and why other angels are after us. Start from the very beginning.”

“That…might take a while,” said Cas hesitantly.

Dean just shrugged and plopped the box in Cas’s lap. “There’s a long drive ahead of us. We’ve got time.” He tugged the angel closer by the trenchcoat and gave him a kiss. A firm one at first, then a few softer ones until the last of his fear faded away. “It’s your turn,” he said, shaking the box so all the cassettes rattled. “Pick an album, Cas.”

With a delighted smile he started rummaging though the box. “Do you have swing?”

“In your dreams,” Dean said, and pulled the car out onto the road.