Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A/N - This was my mid-season hiatus fic for the middle of S10. Just to remind you where the show was then, Dean still had the Mark of Cain, and Cas had just met Claire again. The fic, however, takes place several months later.

This is a flipped version of one of my other fics. You'll see what I mean. 

The most important thing was to make sure Claire was happy.

This was the guiding principle of Jimmy Novak's life, and it was never far from his thoughts. Even right now, exhausted at the end of his long work day, trudging through the parking lot of the supermarket while he tried to plan dinner, it was still the primary thought in his mind: Jimmy had to make sure that Claire was happy.

She'd had such a horrible time, the last six years. She'd always been such a good kid, such a sweet daughter... the light of his life. And then her world had been utterly destroyed.

When Jimmy had abandoned her.

Not intentionally, of course. It'd been the accident. Jimmy had ended up in a coma, and Claire's mother Amelia had died.

Or so Jimmy'd been told. He remembered nothing of Amelia's death, actually, and nothing of those six years in the coma. It all seemed just a stretch of quiet blackness in his mind, punctuated by vague memories of a few faint blurry dreams— dreams of wings and flying, usually. In fact, at first Jimmy had been convinced the accident must have involved flying somehow, so strong was his impression that he'd fallen in some way, fallen to earth, during those dark years. He'd even assumed at first that the accident must have been an airplane crash. But Claire had explained it had been a car crash.

Nonetheless, coma or not, he had abandoned Claire, was what it came down to. She'd been left on her own. Claire had had a horrific time afterwards— she'd stayed with her grandmother at first, but Gran had died, and after that Claire had bounced from group home to group home, and then, unthinkably, had apparently ended up on the street. His precious daughter, abandoned and lost and terrified and alone on the street— the thought of it still made his blood run cold. Claire would never talk about the details, and Jimmy knew that was a bad sign.

Jimmy felt nearly desperate to be a good father to her again. And being a good father meant making sure his daughter was happy.

Claire was still "troubled," as the school guidance counselor put it. "She needs stability," the counselor had said, "and she needs to know you won't leave her again." So Jimmy had tried his best to recreate some kind of a stable home life for Claire. He'd managed to find a little rental house here in Missoula that seemed to make her reasonably happy. He had several part-time jobs now, and had been able, so far, to pay the rent on the house, and even to buy some new furniture for her room. That seemed to make her happy too. (Money was tight, but he'd made it work. In his own room he just had a mattress on the floor, but Claire now had a full bedroom set.) She'd been the one who wanted to go back to high school; that had rather surprised him, but it seemed it would make her happy, so he'd arranged that too, and had somehow found the money for the textbooks and her little fold-up computer. The clothes she wore, the movie tickets he got for for her and her friends on weekends, the tv he'd bought for the little living room, the "father-daughter nights" they had together watching old tv shows, all of it, all, was aimed at making Claire happy.

It had been several months now, and things were actually going reasonably well.

Meaning, sometimes she seemed almost happy. For a moment or two. She'd fallen apart again at Christmas— something about the family memories and all the Christmas-angel decorations seemed to set her off— but now, in February, she'd somewhat settled down. But Jimmy was worried; she still seemed a little fragile. Unhappy, that is.

So dinner tonight should be something that would definitely make Claire happy.

But what kind of dinner should that be?

By now Jimmy had reached to the supermarket's sliding doors, and, as usual, he found himself at a loss the moment he got inside. He trailed to a halt in the vegetable section, looking around uncertainly. What kind of dinner would make Claire happy? There were all too many choices here; too many edible things and too many ways to prepare them.

A moment later Jimmy realized he was tilting his head as he looked around at everything. Tilting his head and frowning. It was a habit he had that Claire detested, and one he was trying to break.

He sighed, un-tilted his head (this felt awkward), and pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. It was his shopping list, which he'd been pulling out of his pocket off and on all day, while working at the warehouse, trying to think of more things he could write on it. It still just had the same two things it had had this morning, which were:

Pizza? Chicken?

It wasn't much of a list, but he hadn't been able to think of anything else. Jimmy frowned down at it, his head unconsciously tilting a little again. 

The dinners had become a pressing issue. Preparing a meal that would make Claire happy was turning out to be nowhere near as easy as Jimmy'd first assumed. Last fall, when she'd began her long-delayed senior year at the Missoula high school, Claire had actually done almost all of the cooking. This was partly because Jimmy turned out to be utterly useless in the kitchen— somehow, presumably because of the accident, he seemed to have completely forgotten how to cook— and partly because he'd also been scrambling for extra night shifts at his job, determined to earn enough money to try to buy the furniture, and clothes, and books, and computer, and phone, and everything, for Claire.

So Claire had cooked for them both.

Oddly enough, it actually seemed to make her happy.

But slowly Jimmy had realized that it might Claire happier if she felt like she fit in more at school.

This was another thing she would never admit openly: despite her gruff-rebel act, she was clearly desperate to fit in. Jimmy had first deduced this from the way Claire had become so embarrassed about Jimmy himself, whenever he came to pick her up at school. It was around then that she'd started pleading that he get a different car (she hated the old Continental, though Jimmy loved it). She introduced him to her friends only as "Jimmy", never as "my dad." She'd insisted he raise the pitch of his voice, and stop tilting his head "like a doof", and wear his tie straight, and even made him change out of his habitual tan coat.

After a few months, she'd also started making him pick her up two blocks away from school, rather than right in front of the school. It had taken Jimmy a surprisingly long time to realize that this was so that her friends wouldn't see him.

It had also been surprising how much that had hurt.

But in a way it had been good, for it had been Jimmy's first clue about how badly she wanted to fit in. She wants a typical father, with a typical car, he'd realized. A typical mother in a typical house. She wants a normal life.

Perhaps, he'd thought then, if she does some normal things, some typical school activities, she'll be happy?

So he pushed her to try out for the high school's spring play, and try out for band, and join a sports team. She agreed only very grudgingly, insisting she "didn't care."

But she did.

Jimmy could tell.

It made her happy when she got into band, and it made her happy when she got onto the hockey team, and it made her incredibly happy when she got into the school play. It was the happiest he'd ever seen her, actually; she'd gotten the email with the news on her phone one night, on "father-daughter night" when she was sitting on the sofa watching a TV show with Jimmy. She'd had been totally unable to hide her bright, huge smile.

Jimmy had felt his heart would burst, just to see her looking so happy again. Even if it was just for a moment.

"Move it, bud!" snapped a loud voice behind him. Jimmy jumped and moved aside; he'd still been standing in the vegetable section, lost in thought.

He sighed, and checked the scrap of paper again. Pizza? Chicken?

What had happened was, now that Claire was doing the play, Jimmy had to cook dinner on play practice nights. This ought to have been easy, but the problem was that Jimmy simply couldn't remember how to make any of the meals that he vaguely recalled making in the past.

Before the accident, that is.

Amelia had done most of the cooking, before. But Jimmy was certain that he had cooked occasionally too, and he knew he had once been able to make a decent repertoire of things that Claire had liked to eat. For example, he was pretty sure he'd made home-made pizza with some regularity. He even had one clear memory (well, as clear as his memories ever got) of helping Claire choose her pizza toppings. Though the memory had that odd distant quality that most of his memories did: flat and two-dimensional. (Almost like a movie that he'd seen once, or something he'd read in a book, rather than a real memory.) But the image was pretty clear: Adorable little Claire, with her adorable little blonde braids, about seven years old, helping put the toppings on the pizza.

As he recalled, she'd liked pepperoni and those little sliced-up green peppers.

But try as he might, Jimmy couldn't seem to remember how he'd actually made the pizza— the dough, or the sauce, or how to cook it, or anything really. He just had that one vague, flickering image of Claire putting the toppings on, like a scene on a stage. It seemed almost like something that had happened to someone else. He could recall no more details. Another consequence of his accident, he supposed.

For the first two weeks of the school play activities, Jimmy had relied on take-out meals - hamburgers from the local diner, mostly, and frozen burritos, the only two meals he seemed to have much confidence about. Claire had finally said, "Dad. Burgers and frozen burritos once in a while are fine. Burgers and frozen burritos every single night do not make me happy. Got it?"

He'd gotten it.

Jimmy spent a while now wandering through the supermarket aisles trying to remember how to make pizza. Weren't tomatoes required? Perhaps in some kind of paste form? Would ketchup do? Were mushrooms involved? Flour, maybe?

He found himself, at last, in the frozen-food aisle once more. Frozen burritos were out this time, of course; but there were frozen pizzas, too! He glanced at the time on his phone and realized he was running out of time anyway. It would have to be a frozen pizza. Maybe later Jimmy would remember, or could re-learn, how to make a pizza from scratch again.

After some more thought, Jimmy got some Cheerios for breakfast (Claire liked Cheerios), some more coffee (Claire liked coffee), and cream (Claire liked cream) and, finally, he picked out a large frozen pizza. He couldn't find one that had quite the right combination of pepperoni-and-green-pepper that he remembered, but he did finally find one that at least had the pepperoni and lots of other vegetables as well. Then he found a fresh green pepper in the vegetable section of the store. Perhaps I can cut it up and put it on the pizza myself, he thought, weighing the green pepper in his hand.

Maybe that will make her happy.

Claire texted Jimmy when play practice was almost over ("Hey dad, almost done"). Tonight she would be delivered home by a friend's mother, and Jimmy knew he had about twenty minutes' lead time. Just enough time for him to bake the pizza, and set the table.

He cut up the green pepper, arranged the slices on the pizza and followed the instructions on the box to preheat the oven, slide the pizza in and set the timer. Then he had about eighteen more minutes to kill.

It didn't take long to set the table. It wasn't as nice a table setting as they'd once had, of course. Before. No more lovely hardwood furniture. No more nice table china, no more cloth napkins.

No more lovely big house in Pontiac, Illinois.

No more Amelia.

It was just two table settings now. Two mismatched plates that they'd picked out at the Salvation Army together, two mismatched glasses, and paper towels for napkins. And the table was a little rickety and scarred, from the Salvation Army's furniture warehouse. But at least it was plates, and glasses, and a table. 

Then Jimmy wandered through the house straightening things up, making sure everything was ready for Claire. He made her bed, and put away a batch of clean laundry for her.

He went into his own room to tidy up too. He didn't have much in that room; just the little mattress on the floor, and the blankets and bedding. The mattress was already neatly made up. He put away his own laundry, in a rickety plastic bookshelf that was stuck in the closet. As always, as soon as he got into his closet he couldn't resist reaching out and touching the hanger at the back. The one with the dark suit and the tan-colored coat, all hanging together on the same hanger.

Claire hated those clothes, so Jimmy never wore them. But he still kept them, in the back of his closet. He couldn't even remember where they'd come from, or why he had them; but he kept them, and he looked at them now and then. Today, as he often did, he gazed at them for a good part of a minute, running his fingers over the lapels of the coat.

He had to make himself turn away and head back to the kitchen.

Claire came in just as he was cutting up the pizza with the only sharp knife he owned, a slightly-too-long silver knife that he couldn't quite recall the origin of, and that he kept in the lowest kitchen drawer. (For some reason Claire didn't like this knife, and she'd tried to get rid of it several times, but Jimmy had managed to rescue it each time. At last she'd given up.)

She burst into the house like a little tornado, flinging coat and mittens and hat and backpack everywhere, flopping instantly down on the couch with her nose in her little phone to keep texting some friends.

"Hi, Claire-Bear," Jimmy called, from the kitchen nook. He set the pizza and the too-long knife aside for a moment in order to walk over, lean over her on the couch and give her a kiss on the top of the head. She flinched; she always did, a slight cringing away. It always brought a memory to mind (again one of those oddly flat, two-dimensional memories) of how Claire used to come pelting to greet him at the door when she was very young. How he'd always said "Claire-Bear!" to her, and how she used to answer "Daddy!", dashing over to him as quick as she could, a bright beaming smile on her face.

Now she always flinched.

Jimmy had a parenting book called "Reaching Out To Your Teen" that he'd found at the Salvation Army in the used-book section. He'd bought it (to Claire's considerable scorn) and had hidden it away in his room, consulting it now and then. The book said that this cringing-away behavior was typical of teenagers, this sort of sullenness when greeted with affection, but that it was important to show them affection anyway. "Even when they act like they don't want your love, they really do," said the book. "Deep down, though they may not admit it, it makes them happy to know that you love them."

So he always kissed on her on the head when she came home. And she always cringed away.

And he always pretended it didn't hurt.

"I've got dinner ready," Jimmy asked, gesturing over to the table. "Would you like some?"

"Okay, sure," said Claire. She got up, barely looking up from her phone, headed to the table and sat down. Jimmy headed over to the kitchen counter to get the pizza.

Jimmy asked, "How was play practice?"

"It's called rehearsal," said Claire, rolling her eyes. She kept tapping away at her phone.

"Was it fun?"

"Sure. I guess." She kept tapping.

She had her I-don't-really-want-to-talk-to-you look. Jimmy knew that look pretty well by now.

"Did it make you happy?" Jimmy had to ask.

He knew as soon as the words left his mouth that it was a mistake. Claire hated that question. But he could never help asking.

Sure enough the wary look came over her face, as it always did whenever he asked if she were "happy." She clicked off her phone and put it down.

"What do you care," she said gruffly, fiddling with her hair now. She wasn't looking at him.

"I want you to be happy," Jimmy said. "I'm responsible for you. I'm your father and I want you to be happy, sweetie, is that so strange?"

Claire's hands stilled. She let go of her hair and put her hands down in her lap, staring down at her plate, very still. She sometimes got this way. Usually whenever Jimmy made the mistake of saying that he loved her, or of reminding her that he was her father.

"What's for dinner," she said, still staring at her plate.

Jimmy had finished cutting up the slices. He set the too-long knife down, and tilted the cutting board a little bit toward her, showing her the pizza. "I remembered I used to make you pizza," he said. "Before."

She stared at the pizza for a moment, and then looked at him.

It was such a delicate dance, trying to assess whether to mention the past. Anything about "Before." Before the accident. Before everything had fallen apart. Sometimes when he described something from "Before" to her, some long-ago memory, one of those strange flat gauzy memories that surfaced in his mind now and then, sometimes it seemed like a good thing; a soft, sweet smile would creep over her face and she would say "I remember that too," gazing off into space.

But other times she got so sad and quiet she would go to bed early.

Or she ended up staring up at Jimmy with a dark, thoughtful look in her eyes. As she was doing now.

"You remember that?" she said. "Making pizza?"

"We put on toppings together. Um... didn't we?" Jimmy felt unsure for a moment— had he remembered it wrong?— but Claire nodded, so Jimmy said, feeling a little more hopeful now, "I thought I'd try again."

He slid two slices onto her plate, and two onto his own. But when he looked back at her he knew immediately that something was wrong. Just from the way she was looking down at the plate, and the way her face had stiffened.

"Olives," Claire said. She didn't make a move to pick up the pizza. She just sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap now, sitting as primly as she used to do back when she was a little girl. Sit up straight, Claire, Jimmy remembered saying, sometime very long ago. Don't lean on your elbows. Don't eat with your hands, Claire. Wait till we say grace, Claire...

(They never said grace anymore. They'd never even discussed it.)

"There's olives," Claire said.

"What?"

"The pizza has olives."

Jimmy looked at the pizza slices that he'd just put on his own plate. There were indeed olives. "Oh. I suppose it does. It was the only one that had both pepperoni and green pepper. I added extra green pepper— I thought you liked pepperoni and green pepper?"

"I do. But I hate olives."

"Oh, sweetie, I..." He hesitated, looking at her face. Dammit. She wasn't happy. This was bad. "I didn't remember that, Claire. I'm sorry."

"I've always hated olives," said Claire.

It was sort of coming back to him now. A muddy, uncertain memory, surfacing slowly: Claire and olives... something about Claire not liking olives, something about teasing her about how she'd grow out of that some day. "I was trying to get something you liked, and—"

"It's my number one most hated food," said Claire. "Even the smell makes me sick."

"I could pick them off—"

"You've known my entire life that I hate olives. We used to joke about it. You used to say, whenever there was something else I didn't like, you'd say, 'at least it's not as bad as olives, Claire.' We had a whole joke about the olive scale of badness. It was, like, this running joke we had. But you don't remember that. Do you."

Jimmy could hear the little kitchen clock ticking in the stillness.

"No," he said at last.

"Also you used to make the pizza from scratch. You made the crust and the sauce."

"I know. I couldn't remember how."

"You really suck as a father, you know that?" she said. Her voice was ice cold.

Teenagers often act disrespectful. It is important to remember that this a normal part of their development; they must develop an identity of their own, and to accomplish that they will challenge their parents now and then. 

That's what the book said, anyway.

"I'm trying my best, Claire." It was awfully hard sometimes to keep his voice calm, when she got like this.

"I know," she said, her voice flat. "That's what makes it so damn pitiful. You're trying your best and you still suck. A fucking warehouse job? Frozen pizza for dinner? Plates from goddam Salvation Army? You were supposed to be, like, important or something. Special or something. I thought if I had you around you were going to take care of me."

You must not take it personally, the book had said. 

"I am taking care of you, Claire, as best I can. I know it's been hard, with your mother gone—"

"Don't you fucking talk about my mother. You abandoned her."

"Claire, I was in a coma—"

"You don't even know what happened," Claire spat out. "You're just a, a, a, you're like a fucking puppet! This whole thing was such a fucking mistake. I miss my mom. And I miss my dad. My real dad." With that, she pushed her chair back from the table, stormed away into her room, and slammed the door.

She got like this sometimes.

She had these little outbursts, of grief and rage, and several times she'd said that strange thing about Jimmy not being her "real" dad. The school counselor said she was trying to "work through it all," trying to accept the fact that Jimmy had had a head injury, and was no longer the same as he'd been before the accident. Don't take it personally, the counselor had said. The counselor, and the book, both made it sound so easy.

The you're-not-my-father thing was nonsensical, of course. Jimmy remembered the day Claire had been born. He remembered holding her in his arms for the very first time. He remembered the overwhelming rush of love, and responsibility, and near-terror, that had overcome him at that moment. The knowledge, My life has changed forever. It's no longer about me. It's about her.

But even those memories, as sweet as they were, all had that flat distant feel to them.

Still, Jimmy knew one thing for sure: Regardless of whatever head injury he'd suffered, regardless of the problems he had, he did love Claire.

He did.

There were complications to it all, to be sure. But he did love her.

And he dearly wanted her to be happy.

The clock ticked its way through a long, slow minute.

Jimmy sat at the little table as the pizza cooled, looking down at the olives.

He started to pick the olives off of Claire's pizza slices.

He picked them all off. It took a while. He put them in a heap on his own plate and waited for Claire to come out of her room. But she didn't come out, and at last he pushed his own plate away and put his head in his hands.

Why were his memories all so fuzzy? Why couldn't he even make a pizza right? What was wrong? The doctor at the clinic said it was to be expected, with his sort of traumatic brain injury. The lost skills, the missing memories, the strange distant quality of the few memories he did retain. The oddest thing, though, was that the most vivid memories that he had weren't even the memories from before the accident at all, but were, rather, the memories of the dreams he'd had during the coma, during that long empty six years. He only remembered the tiniest scraps, just an image or two really... But those were vivid. Those seemed real. But they were bizarre and confusing. They made no sense at all. Images of blood and thunder. Flames and fighting. Silver blades flashing... rings of fire... blazes of bright, bright light... a long journey through a trackless wilderness. A black car roaring in the night.

And dreams of wings. Dreams of flying. He still had those dreams now, actually.

Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. The pizza was totally cold now. Jimmy still sat there, head in his hands.

His shoulders were aching again. They hurt like this occasionally, sore and tender; especially whenever he'd been sad, whenever Claire was mad at him, whenever he'd been thinking about the flying dreams. The ache got terrible sometimes, a strange nauseating feeling that seemed to extend right across his back, right across both shoulder blades. Almost as if something had been ripped away. His heart, maybe... his soul... or something else.

A soft touch on his shoulder made him jump. Claire was standing beside him.

"Sorry," she whispered. 

"Hey, Claire-Bear," he tried to say. His voice came out very hoarse, in that low gruff tone that she hated. He knew he should try to pitch it higher, and opened his mouth to try again, but all he seemed able to do was let out a long sigh. He glanced up at her.

Her eyes widened a little. She said, "Have you been— are you... crying?"

Jimmy blinked, surprised. He wiped his eyes and looked at his hand. It was wet, sure enough. How odd. He felt fairly sure that it was shameful to cry. It was probably something embarrassing. Something Claire wouldn't like, like the low voice and the head-tilting.

He wiped his hand on his paper-towel napkin, and risked another glance up at her. But she didn't look annoyed. She just looked sad.

Jimmy had to swallow, past a lump in his throat, before he could speak. "I wanted to make you pizza. It's the only thing I remember making for you."

She sank down on the chair next to his, her hands balled up in her lap. She seemed on the verge of tears.

Jimmy said, "I'm sorry I didn't know about the olives, Claire."

"It's okay," she whispered.

"There's a lot of things I don't remember."

"I know," she whispered. She hunkered down a little further, arms wrapping around herself. "It's okay. I shouldn't expect you to. I just... sometimes I forget, you know? Sometimes I believe it... I forget and I believe it... and then when I remember..." She trailed off.

"Believe what?"

She gave a stiff little shrug. "Nothing."

Jimmy leaned closer and took her hand. "I want to be sure you know that I love you, Claire-Bear."

She was quiet for a moment.

"You don't," she said at last, in a very tiny voice, her head down. "You just think you do."

What could a father do when his daughter said that?

"But I picked all your olives off," Jimmy found himself saying. "Isn't that a sign of love?"

He'd been bewildered by why she'd seemed about to cry, and he was bewildered again now by why she started laughing. And how was it that laughter could sound so sad?

Claire did eat the pizza, at last— she even reheated it, and watched a tv show together with Jimmy. She barely cringed away at all when he gave her a goodnight kiss on the head, at bedtime. Peace seemed to have returned. Claire was relatively happy, and at last Jimmy felt he could go to bed.

But at night, as he lay curled up on his little mattress, under his Salvation Army comforter, the dreams returned.

He dreamed, once again, of the gleaming black car rushing through the night. The dream had no plot; nothing really happened. It was just the car roaring along down an endless road.

In the dream Jimmy was in the back seat. Two dimly seen figures in the front seat were his only companions. Jimmy felt a great sense of relief, joy even, to see them there: one a little taller, on the right, and a shorter one on the left. They said nothing, just two silhouettes in the dark, but Jimmy felt indescribably happy that they were there.

The one on the left, the shorter one, shifted gears and the car went smoothly airborne. It sailed up into the night sky, engine growling, till stars were all around. It seemed Jimmy could feel wings spread around him then. Great black wings, and thunder; the shining black car, growling; and the speed and the wind all around. It was exhilarating. As they soared up into the starry sky, the driver angled his head a little and Jimmy knew he was smiling at Jimmy in the mirror, and Jimmy thought, If I look in the mirror I'll be able to see his face again— If I look in the rearview mirror— please— if I could just see his eyes— if I could see his smile—

But when he looked in the mirror, he could see nothing but blackness.

He woke to feel the stabbing ache across in his shoulders again, and, as always, the miserable ache in his heart.

A/N - If you like this please let me know! I am so super-behind on my comment replies that I'm about to die of guilt, but please know I read and cherish every single one.

I will try to post the next chapter next Tuesday, but I'm flying that day so it's a bit dependent on airport wi-fi. Here's hoping. :)  

Chapter Text

 A/N - Sorry for posting so late! Two flights were cancelled and two delayed...been a long travel day. Here's the next chapter. Hope you enjoy!  There might be another short one this weekend, and then one for sure next Tues.

Something was calling in the distance.

Something needed attention.

Something needed help.

It was gentle. Quiet, and subtle. But it was incessant. Like a small child tugging endlessly on one's sleeve. Or a soft tap on the shoulder, over and over. Or a puff of wind on one's cheek.

Or a whisper of a name from very far away.

But the name that was being whispered was not the one he was used to. It was not "Jimmy". It was...

It stopped. It was gone.

He could not remember the name he'd just heard.

And then, as he surfaced from his dream, halfway between sleep and waking, he could not recall the name he was used to, either. Or where he was. Or who he was. Or anything, really. He seemed just a speck of consciousness wedged into an unfamiliar body; he could feel sheets under his body, a comforter on top, a pillow under his head, but it all seemed bizarrely alien. Even his sense of direction, normally so impeccable, was adrift. Was he inside or outside? Where was the door? What was around him? Where was north, where was the sky, where was anything?

Where am I? What is my name?

He was just a scrap of driftwood bobbing in an unfamiliar sea. Nameless. Lost.

Something close to terror closed around him.

A phrase floated up in his mind: The most important thing is to make sure Claire is happy. He seized at it, latching on almost in desperation, hanging all his thoughts on it like an anchor. It repeated in his mind, like a mantra:

The most important thing is to make sure Claire is happy.

The most important thing is to make sure Claire is happy.

The most important thing is to make sure Claire is happy.

Claire needed to be kept happy. Because... oh, yes, because he was Claire's father. And his name was.... (a hesitancy here, his mind stumbling over a weirdly bumpy obstacle)... Jimmy, that was it, his name was Jimmy. And he was lying on his bed in his little bedroom.

The house, and the whole world, seemed to click into focus around him. He knew now that when he opened his eyes he would find the door of the room on his right, and the hallway would be just outside, and Claire's room would be just down the hall. Outside the house would be a street, and parked on the street would be his car, and beyond the street would be the rest of the town of Missoula, Montana, where he lived now with his daughter Claire. It was February. It was Tuesday. It was morning. And Claire needed to go to school. 

Jimmy Novak opened his eyes.

That was worse than usual, he thought. He sat up slowly, rubbed his temples for a moment. He rolled his shoulders too, twisting his head from side to side, trying to  work the ache out of his shoulderblades.

Jimmy often woke disoriented like this. He'd never told Claire, for fear of worrying her, but it happened at least once a week. This had been a bad one, though. Fortunately, for some reason he always had the same sentence running through his head when he awoke— "The most important thing is to make sure Claire is happy"— and it always helped. It was like a little repeating loop in his mind, starting up every morning without fail, almost like his own personal internal alarm clock. It always helped him pull himself together and remember who he was, and what he was supposed to be doing.

Jimmy had wondered, sometimes, if it were normal to wake with this sort of thought running repeatedly through his mind, or if it was some consequence of the accident. He'd tried, a few months ago, to ask the school counselor about it. He'd said, a bit hesitantly, "Do people usually wake up feeling sort of... lost? But there's a sentence repeating in your mind to remind you what to do?"

He'd gotten only a puzzled look in return, and had dropped the topic.

But surely it must be normal?

Not that it bothered him, or anything. It was helpful, actually. It helped him pull himself together. And of course he did want Claire to be happy.

But sometimes it felt... unfamiliar.

Wrong.

Jimmy sighed. That's quite enough existential crisis for today, he thought at last, forcing himself to his feet. He pulled on his bathroom robe and padded to the bathroom, shivering in the chill.

A hot shower helped him wake up, and then some coffee helped him wake up more. By the time he set out Claire's cereal and milk, and her bowl and spoon, he'd almost forgotten the sensation that had originally awoken him: that dream of a faint and distant voice, calling an unfamiliar name.

Jimmy was slicing up an orange for his own breakfast with his silver kitchen knife when he realized Claire was late coming out of her room. She hadn't even taken her shower yet. He glanced at the clock; it was seven-forty-five. Claire was usually up by seven-forty or so.

Jimmy paused with the kitchen knife in his hand, about to put it down to go wake her up, when he started to hear her voice. She was up; she was talking on the phone. Presumably to one of her school friends.

He returned his attention to the orange and sliced it in half and then into neat quarters, using the tip of the long silver knife to flick a few seeds into the sink. And then he paused.

Jimmy never wanted to eavesdrop; he truly didn't. But sometimes he couldn't help it. It was a very little house, and it was very quiet, and there was also the odd fact that Jimmy's hearing seemed to have gotten preternaturally sharp, somehow, while he'd been in the coma. He'd noticed several times that he seemed able to hear clear across the house with no effort at all. And right now, he simply couldn't help overhearing Claire's voice, all the way across the kitchen nook and the living room and through her door. Even though she was whispering.

"No, you can't come over. I told you not to call," she was saying.

Some would-be boyfriend, perhaps? (Though Claire had been very skittish around boys all year, to an extent that often worried Jimmy.) But she went on with, "You swore you wouldn't bother us. You agreed. You said you wouldn't even come anywhere near us— No, I don't trust you, and I really don't care if your fucking mark of whatever is gone—"

Jimmy frowned. He knew that tight, rough whisper. She's trying to act tough, he thought, but really she's scared.

"—What? Wait, what?" she was saying.

A pause.

"Fuck," she spat out, her voice cracking out of its whisper for a moment. She dropped back into the whisper to say, "Where?... Shit. No, we haven't seen anything. No, nobody's noticed us.... Well, okay, if you have to. But just deal with it and then go."

This was sounding serious. Jimmy frowned and left the kitchen, padding over to her door in his stockinged feet.

"NO, you can't see him," she was saying as Jimmy drew closer to the door. Her voice was getting a little wavery. "At all. Look, you don't understand, he's... he's fragile."

"Claire?" Jimmy asked at last, knocking on her door. "Is everything all right?"

He heard one last quick worried whisper, "I gotta go. Just stay away." There was a scurry of activity inside, and then Claire was cracking the door open, peering out at him. She was still in her flannel pajamas, her long blond hair still uncombed and tangled around her shoulders. Her phone was nowhere in sight.

As soon as she got the door open, her eyes widened and she flinched back a little. "Dad? What are you doing?"

Jimmy glanced down and realized he had forgotten to put down the long silver kitchen knife. He'd carried it with him, for some reason, all the way to Claire's door, without even noticing that he had it. He was even holding it up a little, as if hearing her worried voice and somehow gotten him prepared to fight.

"What are you doing with that knife?" Claire said. "Dad?"

"Nothing..." said Jimmy, frowning at the knife. It still had an orange seed stuck to the tip. He made himself lower it. "I was... I was just cutting up an orange. Claire, who were you talking to?"

A very blank look slid over Claire's face. "Nobody."

"You were talking to someone. You sounded upset."

She hesitated only a split second before saying, "I was just rehearsing some lines for the play." Before Jimmy could ask about it further, she'd picked up a towel and was shoving past him (he had to jerk the knife away), muttering "I'm gonna be late for school," as she hurried to the bathroom.

--

Claire was very quiet as they got into the car. She was never at her best in the mornings, but usually she was either yawning, or grumpy. Today, though, she was both wide awake and weirdly quiet. Jimmy had to scrape a little ice off the windshield before they got going, and she sat very still the whole time, staring out the side of the car, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Jimmy began to feel concerned.

The most important thing is to make sure Claire is happy.

"Claire, are you all right?" he said at last, once he got back into the car. "Is something worrying you?"

"I'm fine," she said.

"If there's ever anything worrying you, you can tell me. You know that, don't you?"

"I'm fine," she said. "Nothing's wrong. Can we go? I'm gonna be late."

Jimmy knew something was wrong, but sometimes when she was upset— well, most times, really— she just wouldn't tell him what was bothering her. He'd have to let it go for now.

But when he was about to put the car into gear, he realized she hadn't buckled in. An image flitted through his mind: A girl hurtling through the windshield, her body shattered.

"You'd better put your seatbelt on," he said. "Before I start driving."

She gave a little snort. "What if I don't want to? What if that wouldn't make me happy... Dad?" she said, glancing over at him, a twisted little smile on her face. She was teasing him, he knew, but there was an edge to her teasing sometimes.

"If we get in a crash and you're badly injured and end up in pain, you'd definitely be unhappy then," Jimmy pointed out. "You'd be extremely unhappy. And, given that the average human lifespan is over seventy years, sooner or later you probably will get into some kind of car crash, sometime in your life. So your lifetime average happiness will be higher if you get in the habit of putting your seatbelt on."

Claire rolled her eyes. "I should have known," she muttered, twisting around to grab for the seatbelt. "Short term versus long term happiness calculations.... "

"What's that?"

"Nothing. Nothing. It's just...." She glanced at him, one hand on the seatbelt. "You're, like... trying to think it through. I mean... you really are trying."

Jimmy frowned. What was she talking about? "If you mean I'm trying to do the right thing for you, then that's a yes," he said. "That's what dads do, right?"

A faint smile flickered over her face. "Yeah," she said. "That's what dads do." She clicked her seatbelt on.

When they pulled up at the school Claire didn't get out immediately.

"Hey Dad," she said, looking down at her coat zipper now, pulling the metal tab up and down a few times. Zip, zip. "I was thinking. Maybe we could hang out tonight?" Zip, zip. "Like father-daughter night again? I could make dinner. We could watch another movie. We could rent something from Redbox? You'd like that, huh?" (They couldn't afford Netflix. Her phone bill took every penny of the extra income.)

Jimmy looked at her, a little startled. It was unlike her to ask to do a father-daughter night. Usually he was the one forcing it on her. The movies were really more his thing.

It was awfully appealing. It was sweet of her to ask. But—

"Don't you have band practice tonight?" he asked.

Zip.... zzzzip. Claire's hand had slowed on the zipper. "I could skip it," she said brightly, looking up. "I don't really need to go every week. And... hey, what if I make that baked pasta? The one with the cheese on top? You like that one, don't you?"

That did sound good. 

But— the most important thing....

... was to make sure Claire was happy.

Jimmy said, "Wouldn't you be happier at band practice? With your friends?"

She gave a tiny huff that was almost a laugh. "Sometimes it actually makes me happy to hang out with you," she said. "Believe it or not. So sue me."

Jimmy couldn't even hide his smile. "I wasn't going to sue you," said Jimmy. She did laugh then, and Jimmy said, "That would be very nice. Thank you, Claire. If you're sure you don't want to go to practice."

"I'm sure," she said, nodding rapidly. "So I'll do the pasta, then. Maybe after school, if you pick me up, we can go and get the pasta fixings and pick out a movie?"

Jimmy nodded. "And we better get lots of olives, too," he said. "Since you love them so much."

It was a risk: an attempt at a joke. It was a style of joke he'd learned over the past few months, after studying Claire's way of joking. The pattern seem to be: Say something opposite to what the person you were talking to was probably expecting, and exaggerate it.

It still always felt a little unfamiliar when he tried it, as if he were an anthropologist copying a peculiar ritual of an unfamiliar tribe. But he took some pleasure in trying to make Claire laugh. Half the time she laughed because he was apparently still bad at it ("such a doof" in her words), but even so, Jimmy counted it a success if he could get any kind of a laugh out of her at all. Even if the laugh was at his expense.

The olive joke worked. She laughed, and it seemed a genuine laugh, her face fully relaxing for the first time all morning. "You're such a doof," she said, predictably, but her tone wasn't unkind, and she even gave him a spontaneous goodbye hug. A quick, rushed hug, and safely out of view of her friends, but a hug nonetheless.

"See ya," she said, as she clambered out, slammed the door and walked away.

Claire seemed happy now; so Jimmy was happy.

---

During the morning, though, things began to feel a little odd again. Jimmy gradually became convinced he'd been missing calls on his phone.

At first he found himself checking his phone over and over. All during his morning shift at work (a shipping-and-receiving warehouse for an online retailer) he kept pulling his phone out and looking at it, convinced that the phone had just rung and that he hadn't picked it up in time.

Yet nobody had called.

The feeling persisted: a feeling that somebody was trying to call him; that he'd just missed a call. Perhaps the ringer was turned off? Or the battery had gone dead? He kept flicking the mute button off and on, to check that the ringer was working; he checked the battery, and charged the phone up a bit more, and even rebooted it a few times to be sure it was working right.

But nobody called.

Had he missed a meeting at work? Had his boss being trying to contact him? Had some mail been lost? He started checking his text messages, too. And his voicemail. And even his little slot in the office mailroom. He walked around and checked all the offices and meeting rooms, and even went to the front of the warehouse and looked around, wondering if someone had come to the front door asking for him.

There was nobody.

The sensation faded, eventually, but he felt unsettled for hours.

It seemed almost like there was a faint emotion floating through the air. Jimmy couldn't find quite the right word to describe it. Loneliness, perhaps? Regret? Sorrow?

All of those, yes, and something else as well.

"Longing," maybe, was a good word for it.

--

He only worked a half day on Tuesdays. When his shift ended and he went to pick up Claire from school, the nagging missed-call sensation began to eat at him again. As soon as he'd pulled up at the correct corner where he was supposed to pick up Claire (two blocks away from school, around a corner, safely out of view of her friends), he pulled out his phone, rechecked it for the twentieth time, and he checked his email, and his text messages.

Still nothing.

He set his phone down with a sigh.

"Dad?" It was Claire's voice. "Are you okay?" Jimmy jerked his head up. He'd been sitting hunched over in the driver's seat, pinching the bridge of his nose of one hand, trying to focus on that faint "longing" sensation.

"I'm fine," he said. He tried to give her a reassuring smile. She was leaning over to peer at him through the passenger window. After one more sharp look at him, she pulled her door open and climbed into the passenger seat, still looking at him.

"What's wrong?" she said.

"Nothing. I just.... " Jimmy glanced toward to the north. There was something to the north that kept drawing his attention. "Just... kept thinking I heard something. It's nothing."

He turned to Claire to find that she was looking at him with a very worried frown.

"Must just be the weather," she said. "Rain coming. Or something. We should go home."

"It feels stronger now and then," Jimmy said, peering outside. "It's..."

It was gone.

"It's stopped," said Jimmy, looking around.

"It's the weather," announced Claire firmly. "A lot of people were feeling that today. It's, like, the barometric pressure or something. It's the way the wind's blowing. Can we go home? Just grab the cheese and the pasta and a movie and we'll go home? "

Jimmy looked at her for a moment.

The most important thing...

... is to make sure Claire is happy.

Jimmy started the car.

Jimmy turned the gold-colored Continental toward one of Missoula's grocery stores, one that had a Redbox where they could pick up a movie for a dollar, and get the ingredients for Claire's pasta dish as well.

But as soon as they got going, Jimmy stiffened. That sensation of being "called" was much stronger now. And it seemed to be coming from a certain direction: the north again. Almost as if there were a spotlight over at that side of town, or an aurora glowing in the sky.

There was something over there. Something he had to check out.

He was supposed to turn left here to head to the grocery store. But he went straight, as if drawn along by an invisible magnetic field. He had to go straight.

Claire was tapping something out on her phone to a friend; she didn't notice.

And then Jimmy saw the black car.

Just like the one in his dreams. Long and low and shining.

It was in the parking lot of one of Missoula's many little parks, the ones that had hiking trails that headed up into the trees. Jimmy took a turn into the parking lot and pulled up to an empty spot, thinking only, I'll just see if they need any help.

They might need my help.

"Dad, where are we?" Claire said, looking up from her phone and peering out the windows. "This isn't the supermarket. Is there a Redbox around here?"

"Just— a moment—, " said Jimmy, unable to even verbalize why he was stopping the car. He cut the motor, and Claire turned to stare at him, as he swung the door open and stepped slowly out. Looking at the black car.

He heard her hiss "Fuck," behind him, and heard her scramble out of her door. She darted around the hood, looking up at him, whispering, "Dad? Dad?". But he couldn't even look at her.

He could only look at the two men.

The black car was parked about thirty feet away, and there were two men standing by it, facing away from them, talking to a woman. They were both wearing formal suits. One of the men was quite tall, with brown hair that was unusually long, almost shoulder length, tucked behind his ears. He seemed to be interviewing a woman, nodding and taking notes as she gestured up into the hills animatedly.

The other man was a bit shorter, his hair lighter-colored and short and a little spiky in front. Jimmy couldn't see his face; the man was facing away. He wasn't assisting his companion, but instead was leaning on the roof of the car, gazing out at the town of Missoula, his fingers tapping a little on the roof of the car.

"Oh, shit," Claire breathed, by his side. She inched around the hood to grab Jimmy's elbow. "Shit, they didn't tell me it was this park. Dad, c'mon, we gotta go, c'mon, please?" She started pulling at his arm, trying to drag Jimmy back to the driver's door. But Jimmy could not move; he felt his feet rooted in place, felt the ache across his shoulders burning, as he watched the two men. The tall man's gentle voice carried across the parking lot. 

But it was the shorter man that Jimmy couldn't take his eyes off of.

The angle of the head. The breadth of the shoulders. The curve of the ear. The line of the jaw. The way his head was tipped down, as if he didn't quite have the energy to watch what his companion was doing; the way he turned his head now and then to gaze out over the town.

As if he'd felt Jimmy's gaze on the back of his neck, the man froze, and slowly turned, and his eyes met Jimmy's. The whole world stopped.

The most important thing... thought Jimmy.

His mind stuttered and stalled. And restarted.

The most important thing...

... is to make sure he's okay.

A/N - Hope you liked this! More soon!  (apologies for not having responded to your comments yet - I was trying to wrap up my other fic. I'll catch up soon, I promise!)   I hope to have a short (but critical) scene up this weekend, and another one Tuesday.

If you had a favorite part or a bit of dialogue or an idea that you liked, please let me know. I love to hear from you. :)

Chapter Text

A/N - This was a rough week. It was a pleasure today to have some time to dive into the Supernatural world and do some writing, for though the Supernatural world is brutal and sad and full of misery, it always has that glimmer of hope - the possibility, though it may be faint, of friendship, of family, and of love. In real life these things can often seem impossible. But in Supernatural, everything is possible!

The taller man seemed to notice some change in his companion's posture, for he turned too. Turned, and froze, and stared.

Now both men were staring at Jimmy.

And at Claire.

They all stood there for a long, still moment, the two men by the black car looking at Jimmy and Claire, Jimmy and Claire looking back.

Both men seemed quite startled; the shorter man had gone a little pale, in fact.

As if there were something unusual about a perfectly ordinary father and daughter showing up in a perfectly ordinary park in Missoula.

Claire's arms tightened on Jimmy's arm. She whispered, "We should go."

Jimmy didn't hear what she had said. All he seemed able to do was look at the shorter man. Jimmy studied his face in fascination. Analyzing the handsome planes of his cheeks and brow, the shocked expression that had swept over his face; noting how one of his fists had clenched, how his breathing sped slightly; and how his gaze faltered and dropped to the ground.

Claire was saying something again,  hissing in Jimmy's ear, but all Jimmy could think was:

The most important thing is to make sure he's okay.

Is he okay?

He doesn't look okay.

A wave of worry and concern flooded through him.

They'd all been ignoring the woman, the interviewee, who had been standing off to the side looking increasingly puzzled. She finally said, peering over at the shorter man, "Um, Agent Bailey, is there some problem? Do you know these people?"

Agent Bailey didn't even seem to hear her.

It was the tall man who spoke up. "No, no problem," he said, tearing his eyes away from Jimmy and Claire with an effort, and turning back to the woman. "Thanks for your time. I think we have all the information we need. And— if I were you I wouldn't stay in this park alone after dark. Till we figure out what happened here."

She nodded. The tall man gave her a business card and bid her goodbye, and she walked away, after giving them all one more curious glance.

Jimmy took a step closer. The shorter man— Agent Bailey, apparently— had been staring at the ground, but he looked up at Jimmy again as soon as Jimmy moved.

He doesn't look okay.

He looks sad.

"Are you all right?" Jimmy said, as he took another step toward Agent Bailey. And another. Claire's hands tightened on his sleeve, but Jimmy kept walking, tugging her along with him.

Claire suddenly darted in front, blocking Jimmy's path so effectively that he at last had to stop moving. "Hi I'm Claire," she announced rapidly to the two men. "And this is my dad. So, you guys federal agents, or what? And what's your names?" She looked at the shorter man. "Agent Bailey, was it?"

"Um," said the shorter man. He and the tall man exchanged an uncertain glance. "Uh. George..." said the shorter man. "....George Bailey. State Fish and, Fish and Wildlife." He fumbled an id out of his pocket, moving a little stiffly. "And, this is, uh, my brother... Harry."

"Give me a fucking break," said Claire, rolling her eyes. "George Bailey? And his brother Harry?"

"Claire!" said Jimmy, shocked out of his semi-trance by her rudeness. She twisted to look back at him and muttered under her breath, "Voice, Dad."

Jimmy frowned. The voice thing sometimes bothered Claire quite a lot, for some reason Jimmy hadn't been able to figure out. But given all that she had been through, Jimmy didn't really mind making an effort to change it.

Pitching his voice a little higher, he said to her, "Don't be rude. We just met these two gentlemen."

"I've seen these guys before," she said. "And they're not gentlemen." She spread her feet a little and folded her arms, now planted firmly in front of Jimmy like a barricade, and she announced, "Well, George Bailey. And Harry. My name's Claire. This is my dad. My dad and I live here. We moved here a few months ago. We're all settled in. I go to school here. He's got a couple jobs. We got a place and everything. Things are going great. So, you're just gonna check out the animal attacks or whatever's been going on and then you'll leave, right? There's not gonna be any trouble, right?"

"No trouble," said the tall one, "Harry," apparently. Harry had quite a gentle voice. "We'll take care of it, whatever it is."

"Wolf?" said Claire. "Coyote? Mountain lion?"

Agent George Bailey, and his tall brother Harry, glanced at each other.

"Something else," said Harry, in that same quiet voice. "But we'll take care of it. We're just going to clean it up and then we'll get out of town. Right... George?"

"Actually," said George, darting a quick, pained glance at Jimmy. "Could I ask you a few questions, Mr., um. Mr....?

"I'm—" Jimmy started to say, stepping around Claire with his hand out.

"NO you can't ask any questions!" burst in Claire, shoving her way in front of Jimmy again. She grabbed his extended hand and forced it down. "Because we gotta go. And you better—"

She didn't get a chance to finish her sentence. Someone—or something— was striding out of the trees off to Jimmy's left. It was the woman who'd left before. She was about thirty feet away, walking in a casual stroll toward the hood of the car; toward both men, and closer to the shorter one, Agent Bailey. Jimmy stared at her— but no, it wasn't her at all anymore. It was a creature that seemed to have her body, but there was only a hideous gaping maw where her face should have been.

Demon, he knew instinctively. Demon. It's a demon. Claire flinched beside him and said, "Her eyes— no—" She shrank back against Jimmy with a choked gasp. Jimmy grabbed her by both arms and shoved her around behind him. She cowered down as Jimmy glanced over at George and Harry. They'd shifted into action with professional smoothness, whisking weapons and tools out of various pockets and holsters. A silver flask, an ivory-handled gun, a jagged knife. But none of it looked like it would be much help.

The demon-thing looked over at Jimmy and laughed, saying, "Just checking on our investment! Held back for a bit just to see the tearful reunion. So touching. I was originally supposed to just check in and leave, you know, just to be sure you were really staying off the chessboard, but, well, when people come bumbling through the park all unattended like yesterday, the temptation's really pretty severe. And if I get a couple hunters bumbling around too, well, who's to know if a few extra hunters vanish too?"

He turned toward the two men. He began to lift one hand.

The most important thing is to keep him safe.

In one quick move Jimmy tore Claire free of him, shoved her down behind the corner of the car, and sprinted over to block the demon-thing's approach to Agent Bailey. Agent Bailey shouted, "No!" but the demon-thing hesitated. Jimmy found himself shaking his right arm and opening his hand, as if he'd been expecting some useful weapon to slide from his coat sleeve into his hand. Nothing happened, of course, for there was nothing at all in his coat sleeve, and his hand remained empty. In another absurdly misguided instinct, Jimmy put his hand up, palm outward toward the demon-thing, thinking somehow to hurl it back in the air with just a gesture of his hand. But again nothing happened.

What am I thinking? What am I doing? he thought, staring at his hand in total confusion.

It cost him precious seconds. When he looked up again the demon-thing was laughing merrily. Jimmy just had time to think, I can't help Agent Bailey— I can't help either of them— as the demon flicked a hand toward him. A powerful surge of burning air hit him, as hot as a blast from the gates of Hell itself, and it hurtled Jimmy through the air.

Gleaming ebony and chrome flew at him. There was a crash, and everything went dark.

Ebony and chrome. Blood and feathers.

The black car soared up into the sky....

A faint smile in the mirror, in the night.

The black wings spread.

Just as had happened in the morning, Jimmy couldn't seem to move, or think, or remember who he even was. He could feel icy-cold gravel against his cheek, but it seemed quite unimportant. There were sounds around him, too, but they were all uninteresting—just meaningless noises that flowed past him as he dozed. He heard the the howl of a vortex of wind rushing away; then the sobs of a terrified woman crying, "It was smoke, it was black smoke"; he heard a girl's voice, tense and anxious and shaky, yelling at somebody, "You see what you did?" There were sirens wailing in the distance now, too, getting closer.

None of it seemed real. All of it was distant and irrelevant. Just a play on a radio station, dimly heard through the static, as he rode along at night in the back seat of the black car.

The most important thing...

The thought stalled, and didn't finish.

The most important thing...

The most important thing...

It could not resolve; it did not complete. And Jimmy could not awaken.

There was a gentle touch of roughened hands on his face. It seemed unreal. The radio-play continued:

"You see what you did?" the girl's voice repeated, from very close by. "Get off him!" A short scuffling sound, and the roughened hands disappeared, replaced by a smaller, softer, more feminine hand that was nervously touching Jimmy's forehead. The girl's voice went on, "You set one fucking foot in this town, you're in town for five fucking minutes, and you see what you did to him? The second he sees you he nearly dies all over again? You get away from us."

"I didn't want him to get hurt," said a gruff voice that seemed faintly familiar. "He just ran in front— I couldn't move, the demon was—"

Another man's voice, further away near the sobbing woman, said, "It was the demon that did this, Claire. Not us. We got wind there might be a demon hanging out in Missoula and we just wanted to be sure you guys were okay."

"We were okay before you got here," said the girl.

"We just wanted to help—" The gruff voice.

"You're not helping," snapped the girl. "Does this look like helping? You're not helping. Get OFF him, I already called 911 anyway, and I would rather a real paramedic look at him. He's my dad now, he's my dad, and you just get the fuck away. "

The sirens were getting closer.

"Claire... are you..." The gruff voice again. "I gotta ask. Are you sure it's just your dad in there?"

"I'm sure."

"But the way he ran in front," said the gruff voice. A hint of hope: "The way he was acting... it just seemed like... " And now a hint of desperation: "Are you positive?"

"I AM ONE THOUSAND PERCENT POSITIVE," said the girl's voice. "Don't you think I'd fucking know? I knew both of them. I knew both of them. I was a fucking vessel, remember? And... didn't you hear his voice? And... he, he remembers when I was a little girl... last night he said he remembers making me pizza when I was seven. He made me pizza again ...."

The small hand tightened on his shoulder.

"You know what you did." The girl's voice lowered into a whisper. "The angel's dead. He died. And this is my dad. So you just get the hell away from us."

A long pause.

The gruff voice did not speak again.

The girl finally said, "I mean, thanks for saving that lady. Score one for the good side, I guess. But get the hell out of town and don't come back."

The sirens were getting much louder, and the other man said, "She's right. We should go."

"Daddy? This is Claire, can you hear me? Daddy?"

The most important thing is...

is...

...is to make sure Claire is happy.

Jimmy blinked awake. There was an ambulance parked next to him, and a paramedic shining a light into his eyes, talking about taking him to a hospital.  Another paramedic was crouching next to a very confused-looking woman nearby— the woman who had been interviewed earlier and then had come striding back with a hideous demon face. She looked like herself again, but she was weeping now, babbling incoherently about "it just took me over, it was this black smoke thing, it went right INTO me!"

"Daddy?" Claire said again. She was crouching at his side. She looked very nervous. "Daddy? Are you okay? Daddy, look at me, do you remember me? "

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, Claire," Jimmy said. The rush of relief that passed over her face was almost painful to see. He managed to sit up, waving the paramedic off, and he patted Claire's hand. "Just got stunned, I think. Claire, where are those men?" He tottered to his feet, ignoring the paramedic's protests. "Where are they? What were their names? George and Harry? I need to talk to them."

Claire said nothing; she just clung to his hand. Jimmy looked all around, but the black car, and the two men, were gone.

As Jimmy limped to his car, he realized he had quite a few nasty bruises from being thrown against the black car. Walking was more painful than he'd expected, and he had to stop and catch his breath. Claire was instantly at his side, saying something again about how he should go to the hospital, but Jimmy soon realized he had no major injuries. It was just bruises. Whatever had kept him unconscious for so long, it seemed to have resolved.

After a long argument with Claire, and the paramedics too, Jimmy managed to convince them all that he really didn't need to go to the hospital, and that the weeping woman was much higher priority. (The poor thing seemed to be near hysterics.) He couldn't afford a hospital visit anyway. But he did promise to Claire that he'd take the day off of work tomorrow to go to Missoula's little community clinic, for a checkup.

They left the paramedics dealing with the sobbing woman. Claire insisted that Jimmy let her drive— she had a learner's permit and was actually a pretty good driver— and Jimmy felt battered enough that he agreed. She fussed over him like a mother hen, making sure he was settled comfortably in the passenger seat.

They headed straight home. (The Redbox movie was long forgotten.)

The most important thing is to make sure Claire is happy, Jimmy thought. Now that he'd woken up, the mantra was clear in his mind again. And as much as he wanted to find George Bailey again, and talk to him, it was Claire, once more, who seemed to be dominating his thoughts.

Claire needed to be kept happy. That was what mattered.

Unfortunately Claire had just seen something very traumatizing: a demon. It had been an actual demon; Jimmy felt absolutely certain about that. Had Claire realized what it was? I'm going to have to break the news to her that demons are real, Jimmy realized. It'll be a shock. She'll require comforting.

For most of the drive Jimmy worried over how to broach this topic in the most comforting way.

There was no way around it. He was just going to have to tell her.

He waited till they were at a red light to say, "Claire... I'm afraid demons are real."

"Yup," said Claire. The light turned green; Claire accelerated smoothly, and then flipped on the turn signal to turn onto a side road.

"I'll get the cheese later," said Claire.

"Uh," said Jimmy. "Okay."

"Oh, any other news for me?"

"Um, no," said Jimmy. "That was it."

"Okay, Dad," she said, her eyes fixed on the road. "Got it."

"And you're... okay with that?" Jimmy asked. "Demons being real? You're... happy?"

"Not happy," said Claire, "But I'll survive." He heard her mutter under her breath, "Whether I want to or not."

Jimmy watched her for a moment as she drove.

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you better, Claire—" he began.

"You fucking threw yourself in its path," snapped Claire, a thinly-buried anger abruptly bursting to the surface. "Just to try to protect those guys. Just for those guys!"

"I couldn't abandon them," protested Jimmy. "They were in danger."

"You don't even know them," said Claire. "You could've been killed!" Her voice wobbled as she said this, and she snapped her mouth shut, and swallowed, and let out a short little sigh.

I'm not going to be able to make her happy, Jimmy thought.

It was a horrible thought.

The car rolled on. She took the corner toward their street.

The men... were they okay? The thought surfaced slowly in his mind. Were they okay? Were both men okay? Was Agent Bailey okay? Somehow he'd briefly forgotten about this, but the second he remembered about them, it was clear that he should have been thinking about them all along. The most important thing....

It was no longer clear what the most important thing was. The sensation was extremely disquieting.

"Those two men—" Jimmy began.

"They left," Claire interrupted him.

"But they're okay?"

"I guess."

"Both of them?"

A shrug. "Guess so. Dunno."

"Where'd they go?"

"Dunno."

"I think I need to talk to Agent Bai—"

"They left and they're gone and they're not coming back and they don't matter and you should forget about them."

"But—"

"Why can't you just forget about them?" Claire burst out, her voice a little shaky now. "Please?"

Jimmy wanted to pursue the topic further, but that shaky "Please" made him hesitate. He decided to drop the topic for now, thinking, I'll look up their names later. Maybe I can find them on the internet. (Claire had taught him, last fall, how to use Google.)

"What happened to the demon?" Jimmy finally asked.

Claire shrugged. "The guys drove it away somehow. Some chant or something. Holy water. I dunno. It zoomed away."

"I hope that woman will be all right."

Claire said, quite casually, as she pulled up in front of their house, "Probably she'll end up going nuts and abandoning her kid and then dying. And the kid'll end up on the street alone and she'll pray for years to some useless angel who never answers, till she finally learns there really isn't a single fucking soul in the universe who gives a damn."

Jimmy felt deeply shocked. "Claire, that's... that's horrible."

Another shrug. "It happens." She didn't meet his eyes.

She's scared, Jimmy thought later, watching Claire bustle around him all that night. She must have gotten scared from seeing me unconscious.

First she'd actually steered him from the car to the house with a hand on his arm, holding his elbow all the way to the door. Then she'd walked him to the shower, and even brought him a stack of towels and his warmest set of flannel pajamas. Once he was out, she fussed over his scrapes and bruises, and quizzed him about how he was feeling. "I'm okay," he kept telling her, but she still looked worried.

At last she seemed able to believe she might be able to leave her father alone for ten minutes, just long enough for a quick dash to the store to get the cheese. Jimmy had a full ten minutes to himself; the silence seemed luxurious. But the second Claire got back with the cheese, she was hovering all over him again.

Their roles seemed to have flipped somehow; now Claire was acting as the parent. Her next plan turned out to be to get Jimmy settled and comfortable on the sofa, tucking a comforter around him, and even bringing him his favorite little pillow from his bedroom. It was a little hand-sewn pillow that had been a gift from Claire long ago, and Jimmy thought it was a nice gesture that she actually went and fetched it from his room for him now. Jimmy was quite fond of this little pillow; it had been nestled under his head back when he'd first woken up last year, at the clinic, back when he'd surfaced from those six years of blackness.

It was sweet to know that Claire had made it for him, back then, even before he'd awoken.

But watching her fuss with the pillow now, he thought again, She's scared. He studied her face: the worried lines on her brow, the tight mouth, the steely look in her eyes that turned almost watery whenever she thought he wasn't looking.

Jimmy knew that look. She's scared and worried and doesn't know what to do.

The little pillow, in particular, seemed to be causing her trouble: she fretted over the position, first placing it right under Jimmy's ear and then changing her mind and then taking it away entirely and putting it on the other side of the room— but then looking so undecided and dismayed about it that Jimmy finally asked her to bring it back.

This all must have reminded her of when I was in a coma, Jimmy thought.

After the accident.

Claire hovered close to him all night. She made him the baked-pasta dish for dinner (which was, indeed, delicious), and did all the laundry, and washed all the dishes, and did her homework. Once she'd meticulously finished all her chores, Jimmy suggested that they could watch a late-night tv show together. Claire nodded eagerly at the suggestion. Then she burst into tears the second she sat down on the sofa.

"Claire? What's wrong?" he said.

"You swear you're okay?" she said, snuffling.

"Claire, I'm fine, I promise. I just got knocked out for a moment. I'm fine."

"You wouldn't..." She managed to stem the sudden little tide of tears, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "You wouldn't leave me? Would you? You wouldn't leave me?"

"Oh, Claire-Bear—" Jimmy began. She was perched far on the opposite side of the couch, as far away from him as she could get.

"I like living here," she mumbled, wiping her nose again. "I like this house. I like this town. You like it too, don't you? Don't you? It's not... bad, is it? It's not bad living with me?" Her voice had faltered almost to a squeak.

Teenagers need affection, Jimmy remembered, even when they pretend they don't. So he shifted a little closer to her. But the little pillow was in the way, and he set it temporarily on the floor. Claire stiffened as he did this, and she turned to him with a woeful, desperate look.

"I love living here with you, and I'm not going to leave you," Jimmy said, putting an arm around her shoulders to give her a fatherly hug. "I promise." He was expecting the usual cringing-away, and was taken by surprise when she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, buried her face on his shoulder, and burst into tears again.

Claire at last settled down, and near midnight she finally went to bed.

Alone in his room, curled up in his bed, Jimmy finally had the chance to do something he'd been waiting for all night: Look up "Agent George Bailey", and his brother Harry.

It took a while. Jimmy hadn't been able to save up enough money to get any sort of computer for himself (all the money had gone toward Claire's phone, laptop and books). But he did have a smartphone— or rather, a "not-completely-dumb phone," according to Claire. It wasn't much, according to her, but he could do some slow, clumsy internet research with it, tapping out one letter at a time on the tiny screen. Navigating the internet at all still seemed a little unfamiliar (Jimmy chalked this up to the years he'd been in a coma) but Claire had showed him how to use Google and how to look things up.

He soon found the website of the Montana "Fish, Wildlife and Parks" department. Close enough to "Fish and Wildlife."

But there was no George Bailey listed in their website.

Puzzled, Jimmy finally thought of googling "Agent Bailey." There were no hits for any fish and wildlife agents. He tried "George Bailey." Again nothing for fish and wildlife agents, but now the hit at the top was some information about a movie called "It's a Wonderful Life."

It came back to him all at once. Jimmy had an oddly good memory for movies (he felt sometimes that he could almost remember details of movies he'd never even seen). Jimmy read the movie summary anyway, already knowing what he'd find: George Bailey was the lead character in It's a Wonderful Life.

George Bailey was the character who'd saved his brother Harry's life years ago, but, in his later years, had become convinced his life was worthless. He'd been close to suicide when he'd met an angel who had changed his mind. An angel who had convinced him that maybe it was a wonderful life after all.

Jimmy puzzled over the movie entry for a long time. Had Agent Bailey, and his brother, been using false names? It certainly seemed likely.

Yet somehow the movie's story seemed to fit.

Jimmy clicked the phone off and set it down in the dark room, still confused. He couldn't seem to concentrate, though; the bruises were hurting. And the bed sometimes seemed particularly cold and empty, on certain nights, and this was definitely one of those nights. He curled up in his blanket, wincing a little from the bruises. The comforter, and the little pillow too, were still out on the sofa, but he was too tired now to go fetch them, so he hunkered down under just the blanket, and tried to fall asleep.

But he couldn't. The "longing" was back.

The yearning sensation that he'd felt yesterday, the sensation of being called, began eating at him. It seemed much sharper than last night. It waxed and waned as the long night hours went by, but it never fully lifted. And all through the night, every time Jimmy closed his eyes, he saw the black car, and the two men. "Not-George" and "Not-Harry," as Jimmy was now thinking of them.

He kept remembering the look on the face of the shorter man (Not-George) as his eyes had met Jimmy's. How his gaze had dropped to the ground. How uncomfortable and sad he'd looked, as he'd stood there, his hands closing restlessly into fists, the shining black car behind him.

That was the car from my dreams, Jimmy knew. He wasn't sure how this was possible, or what it meant, but he knew it was true.

And those were the men from my dreams.

And Not-George is the one who smiles at me in the mirror.

I have to make sure he's okay.

It seemed like a very important thing.

A/N - ooo, what's going to happen tomorrow? We will find out  on Tuesday if my job allows. (I have a terrible print deadline on Tuesday that is destroying my life, but I will get a chapter up on Tues night if it's at all possible. Please forgive me if it's late.)

If you liked this please let me know! And if there's any particular scene or idea or bit of dialogue you liked, let me know that too!

PS - Yes, that was a Stare of Inchoate Longing at the beginning (apologies to tikistitch). I love Stares of Inchoate Longing! I almost got an eyebrow-quirk in there too but couldn't quite manage it.

Chapter Text

A/N - WHEEEEE that paper I was so stressed over was SUBMITTED TODAY, and I had time this evening to polish up the next chapter. Here it is, just in time for Supernatural's old Tuesday night time slot. Hope you like it.

The dark night slowly bled away, and the grey dawn came at last. Jimmy jumped when the alarm on his phone began beeping. He reached up to the window and twitched the plastic blinds aside to peer out at the snow-covered trees outside.

I wonder if those two men are still in town, was his first thought.

He felt like he hadn't slept at all. He slowly sat up, yawning in exhaustion, and spent a moment leaning against the wall with his blanket pulled tight around his shoulders. It had been a chilly night, without his usual pillow and comforter.

Oddly, though, he felt a little clearer-headed than usual, despite the exhaustion.

He finally managed to make himself stagger up and stumble to the shower.

Claire was already up (she looked like she hadn't slept much either) and she seemed to still be in mother-hen mode, for she'd already started the coffee. By the time Jimmy finished his shower and shaving and got dressed, she was even making some scrambled eggs for both of them.

She was stirring the eggs with a little spatula when Jimmy came around the corner of the kitchen nook.

"Hey, Dad, you sure you're ok—" Claire started to say, turning toward him.

Then she froze, spatula still in the frying pan, eggs in mid-stir.

"Something wrong, Claire?" said Jimmy, leaning close to give her the customary peck on the head. The response this time was neither the usual cringe-away, nor a sudden burst of tears like last night, but something new: Claire as a totally frozen statue.

"Daddy?" she said, her voice very soft.

Jimmy took a step back to look at her. She was staring at him with her eyes wide. Her gaze traveled down his body, and back up, and she didn't say another word.

The eggs were nearly burning; Claire had totally stopped stirring them. Jimmy had to reach out and turn the fire off.

"Claire, are you all right?" he asked.

She relaxed a tiny bit as soon as he called her by her name, but she said, "What... are... you... wearing?"

Jimmy glanced down to find that he'd put on the clothes from the back of his closet.

The ones Claire didn't like. The ones he'd agreed not to wear.

The dark suit. A blue tie he'd found at the Walmart recently. And the old tan coat.

"Oh," he said, fingering the coat uneasily. When he'd put it on a few minutes ago, somehow he'd forgotten all about Claire's near-legendary dislike of this outfit. He'd been thinking, rather, about the two men, and whether they might still be in town, and whether he could possibly arrange to go see them, and somehow he had chosen this oddly formal suit, and the tan coat that Claire didn't like.

It had just seemed like an appropriate sort of outfit to wear, if he were to happen to meet two men in a black car again.

"You don't like these clothes, do you?" said Jimmy, looking back up at Claire. "I'm sorry. I have to admit I forgot. I just put them on because...I'm..."

He hesitated. It would sound ridiculous if he mentioned the two men. The idea of even finding them again was preposterous.

"Because I'm going to the clinic," he finished, knowing that didn't really make much sense. "Remember I'm not going to the warehouse today? I promised you I'd go to the doctor."

"Since when do you get dressed up in a suit and tie to go to the doctor?" said Claire, her eyes narrowed now, something of her more usual exasperated tone returning to her voice.

"Since... I don't know," said Jimmy. Why had he put these clothes on?

Something's different today, he realized.

Something about his entire train of thought was different.

Jimmy finally managed to say,"I supposed I wanted to look my best?"

Claire seemed to accept that, though she kept darting him odd worried looks for the rest of the morning.

Jimmy spent most of breakfast reassuring Claire over and over that he felt fine, while also trying to figure out what it was that felt so different. He'd felt different since he'd woken up, he realized.

It wasn't until they were out in the car, and Jimmy almost started the car off before Claire had fully buckled in, that he realized what it was: for the first time in many months, his first thought when he'd awoken had not been about making Claire happy. 

No less than three times on the drive to school, Claire offered to stay home to take care of Jimmy. Three times over, Jimmy had to assure her once again that he felt fine, and he had to promise anew each time that he would go to the clinic for a checkup, just to make sure.

Claire still seemed worried. She even re-tied his tie for him before she got out of the car at school. He'd done it backwards again, and it was too loose. Claire fixed it carefully.

"Keep the tie tight, Dad," she said, her expression somber. "Don't loosen it. Or else people might... not think well of you. And remember about your voice, and don't tilt your head, ok? You want to make a good impression."

Sometimes she was just full of strange advice like that. Jimmy usually tried to humor her.

She made him promise one more time to go to the clinic, and at last she left the car and headed off to school, still throwing worried looks over her shoulder at him as she walked away.

Jimmy had every intention of keeping the promise. As soon as he dropped Claire off, he headed right for the clinic, even though it wouldn't even open for another half hour. He steered the car all the way north through town, toward the little "CostCare" clinic by the winding Clark Fork River that ran through central Missoula. This was the clinic where he had taken Claire last fall when she'd gotten the flu.

But as he crossed the long bridge over the frozen river, Jimmy thought he heard his phone ring. He must have missed a call from Claire, perhaps? So just after the river he pulled the Continental over to check his phone.

No missed phone calls. No voicemails.

No texts, either. No emails.

Jimmy set his phone down slowly on the car's cool golden upholstery, gazing out at the thin dark branches of the cottonwoods by the river, and at the snowy drifts by the river footpaths. Why had he felt so certain that someone had called him?

But he'd promised Claire he'd go to the clinic; so he put the car in gear, and set out again. He was close to the clinic now and soon he had to take a right to turn east, to follow the old river road.

Instantly he knew he was going the wrong direction. He'd been going the right way, when he'd been going north; but now that he'd turned east he was going the wrong way. It seemed very clear.

That tug on his heart was pulling at him again. Just like yesterday. And it was powerful. And it was not from the east; it was from the north.

Jimmy pulled the Continental into the nearest parking lot, to maneuver it around to head back west, back to the main road, until finally he could turn north again. It felt like homing in on a faint voice, following the distant call. Jimmy could almost hear it now. A half-heard voice in the distance...

And then, he actually did hear it. He heard words. Actual words. That seemed to be echoing very close to him, practically inside his head. The first part was lost in a strange static, but the second part was suddenly clear:

"....Sam's out grabbing breakfast and I just wanted to try."

Jimmy jumped, badly startled. The Continental veered wildly into the next lane. Two other cars had to swerve aside, horns blaring, before Jimmy got back under control and managed to pull the car over again. He threw the gearshift into Park, his heart hammering. The voice was still talking.

"I know you're not hearing any of this," the voice said. "Guess I just wanted to say... that... I miss you. I really do."

Jimmy looked all around, trying to catch his breath. There was nobody in the passenger seat. There was nobody in the back seat. He even twisted around and got up on his knees to peer down into the footwell in back, just to be completely certain there was nobody hiding down there to play a trick on him.

The car was empty.

The voice had stopped.

Did I imagine it? he thought, slumping back down in the driver's seat. His heart was still pounding. Am I going crazy? I'm hearing voices, that's crazy, isn't it?

But the "longing" feeling was still there. That pull from the north.

At last Jimmy started driving again. He continued north.

This feels better, Jimmy thought, driving along. Whatever's going on, whether I'm going crazy or not, it feels better if I go north. Soon he felt he could almost see the magnetic field lines that were guiding him along; that half-seen glow in the northern sky... Like a beacon, or a lighthouse far in the distance... or a kite, he thought. Like a kite that had been up in the air, high up in the wind, flying free... till at last the person at the other end of the string had started reeling him in. And Jimmy couldn't help but follow the string, wherever it led.

The road took him straight north. To vast I-90, which cut across the landscape from east to west, clear across North America in fact. The entire town of Missoula was nestled in the hills just south of I-90, such that a driver going north out of Missoula inevitably came to the intersection with I-90, where there was, of course, a strip of motels.

The relentless tugging pull steered Jimmy directly to the strip of motels. Here it seemed to get vague, wavering and weakening, and Jimmy lost his sense of the direction of the pull. He slowed, driving very carefully now, his hands clamped so tight on the steering wheel that his knuckles had gone white. He scrutinized each motel carefully as he passed it, finding that he had opinions about them that he didn't know he'd had. A Motel 6? Econo-lodge? No... those look too generic, thought Jimmy. Too modern.

A Best Western? A Hilton? No, those are too fancy. None of these seemed right.

"Ruby's Inn," maybe? That's an absolutely horrible name for an inn, thought Jimmy, driving past it with a shudder. The name "Ruby" seemed a very unlucky name.

And then on the right side of the road was a cheap-looking, retro-style motel, with the nondescript name of "Traveler's Motel," and there in the parking lot of the Traveler's Motel was the sleek black car.

Jimmy pulled into the Traveler's Motel parking lot and found a spot clear at the the other end of the lot. He cut the motor and sat there, looking across the lot at the shining black car.

It was gleaming and beautiful. Just like yesterday.

Just like in his dreams.

Why did I find this car two days in a row? What's going on?

Even if I find them, what will I say to them? Why am I even here?

As Jimmy sat there puzzling over the whole situation, a motel room door quite near the black car swung open and a man stepped out carrying a duffel bag. It was the tall man with the long hair; "Not-Harry," as Jimmy had come to think of him.

Jimmy felt a twist in his gut to see the tall man. He looks so nice, Jimmy thought.

He looks like a friend.

Not-Harry paused with one hand still on the open motel room door, turning back a little hesitantly toward someone inside, his duffel swinging in his other hand. Finally he said something. Jimmy rolled down his window just in time to hear "Hey...I get it. If you want one more try or something... You take your time. I'll check us out and I'll wait in the car, okay?"

Then Not-Harry closed the motel room door, opened the black car's trunk and tossed his duffel bag inside. He closed the trunk and walked away, toward the motel office.

Jimmy waited a few more moments, hoping the other man (Not-George, presumably) would also emerge, but the room door remained closed.

At last Jimmy got out of his car and approached the door. He stood there a moment in the chilly air. It was a dry, bright winter morning; crows were calling overhead as they flew out on their morning journeys, and traffic was starting to rush by. It was near nine o'clock now, and the roads were full of people moving to and fro, on their way to their jobs. But all Jimmy could see was that one motel door in front of him.

His mouth was dry; his shoulderblades were aching again. When he raised one hand to knock at the door, he was surprised to find that his hand was shaking.

He took a breath, let it out slowly, willed his hand to stop shaking, and he knocked.

At first nobody answered. But a twitch at the curtain in the window told him he'd been spotted.

Jimmy waited. He touched his tie lightly; it had gotten uncomfortable (ties always did) and he was suddenly yearning to loosen it. Why on earth had he thought it was a good idea to wear his old suit and tie today? And the tan coat? The coat wasn't nearly warm enough for the weather, the suit was too formal, and the tie was far too tight and very uncomfortable. He even started to slide a finger under the tie, to loosen it just a tiny bit, but then he remembered Claire had made such a point about how he should have it snugged up tight. So he left it as it was.

Nobody came to the door.

Jimmy knocked again.

At last the door opened.

Very slowly; just a few inches at first, and then more, and more, till it was halfway open, and Agent George Bailey (or rather, "Not-George") stood there framed in the door.

He had a fierce scowl on his face as he opened the door, but the moment he saw Jimmy the scowl was wiped away, replaced with a rather lost confused look, with a tiny hint of hope. Jimmy found himself simply studying the man's face, just as he had yesterday.

Jimmy was unsurprised to note that the man's eyes were a hazel-green; this color somehow seemed inevitable. His hair, a sandy light brown, was brushed up in some slightly spiky style. Jimmy examined his face, his worried eyes, the way his mouth was parting slightly in something like shock, and then he couldn't help scanning Not-George's whole body up and down. Not-George was wearing plain working-man's clothes; a white t-shirt that looked like it was a bit torn up from yesterday's adventures; worn jeans; a respectably broken-in pair of plain leather boots. Jimmy kept studying him, slowly becoming aware that he was looking for something— or, worried about something, rather. Something he could not even define to himself. Then his eyes landed on the man's bare right arm, and Jimmy relaxed at once.

Whatever he'd been worried about, it wasn't there. 

Jimmy finally looked back up at the man's eyes. Not-George was watching Jimmy carefully.

Jimmy reminded himself, once again, to pitch his voice high, and not tilt his head, and all the other things that Claire always recommended. She'd said that these habits would give a bad impression, and Jimmy did not want to give a bad impression. So Jimmy pitched his voice higher than he wanted to, and he said the only thing that came to mind, which was just:

"I found you."

The moment he spoke, Not-George's expression shuttered slightly; the slight shine of hope in his eyes disappeared.

"You... found... me?" George repeated slowly.

Jimmy cleared his throat.

"I feared you both might have left town already," said Jimmy, almost choking on the uncomfortably high speaking pitch. "I was driving around looking for your car. I wanted to talk to you. My name is Jimmy Novak—"

"I know who you are," said George, cutting him off.

There was a little silence. Stiff, but not unpleasant.

"May I come in?" ventured Jimmy at last, still trying to keep his voice high.

A strange pause. Then Not-George nodded, muttering, "Yeah. Yeah, sure. Sorry, I'm... I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today."

"Beds have a wrong side?" said Jimmy, frowning. This seemed like new information.

Not-George gave him an odd look. He didn't reply, but finally he swung the door a little wider and gestured for Jimmy to step inside. Jimmy walked in a little way and looked around; the motel room was decorated in a rustic mountain theme, with a rather garish sunset wallpaper, and a room divider that was made of elk antlers.

There was a duffel bag on the bed, half-packed. Not-George was packing to leave. This seemed bad.

"You're... George Bailey?" Jimmy said, turning back to Not-George. "Agent George Bailey?"

Not-George gave a curt nod. He turned, a little stiffly, to the duffel bag on the bed, where he'd apparently been packing up the last of his clothes, which lay crumpled in a heap on the bedspread. A dark blue jacket lay on a nearby chair.

"Sorry you got in the middle of all that yesterday," Not-George said, wadding up a flannel shirt and shoving it haphazardly into the bag. "Hope you're okay?"

"I'm fine," said Jimmy. "My daughter Claire was a little rattled, but she's all right too. She took me home and made me dinner."

Not-George hesitated a moment in his packing.

"She seems like a good daughter," said Not-George at last.

"She is," said Jimmy. "She's my whole world. All I really care about is making her happy."

Not-George gave an uncertain nod, gazing vacantly down into the duffel. "That's, uh." He swallowed. "That's nice." He cleared his throat. "Really. It is. You know what, I was just on my way out of—"

"It's funny," said Jimmy, "you and your brother being George and Harry Bailey. Funny names."

"That so," said Not-George, not even glancing up from the duffel now. He stuffed another flannel shirt into the duffel. "Funny how?"

"Well, those are the names of two characters from a movie," Jimmy said. "An old Christmas movie called It's A Wonderful Life. Have you seen it?"

Not-George's hands slowed to a stop. He paused, looking down at the duffel, holding a pair of socks in his hands.

Jimmy went on, "It's about a man who thinks his life isn't worth anything, even though he saved his brother's life. He doesn't even want to live any more. And then he meets an angel named Clarence—"

"I know what it's about," interrupted Not-George, in a decidedly gruff tone of voice. He shoved the socks into the duffel, grabbed his shaving kit and threw that in too.

Jimmy had to remind himself not to tilt his head. "I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?"

Not-George stopped moving. "Sorry, man...." he said, one hand playing with the duffel strap now. His eyes at last slid over to Jimmy. Just for a moment, and then he returned his attention to the duffel, picking up his last pair of socks from the bed. "Truth is," he said, "I've got about the world's worst case of deja-vu right now."

Jimmy frowned. "What do you mean?"

Not-George dropped the socks and swung toward Jimmy suddenly, his eyes bright and intent. It seemed as if a mask had dropped from his face, and he said, "Listen, um, Jimmy, this may be a weird question, but.... do you ever feel like... you're... um. Like you've got a.... a companion?" He waved his hands at Jimmy a little vaguely. "In there with you? You don't ever hear a... voice or anything, do you? Like someone else in your head?"

Jimmy found that the urge to tilt his head was becoming almost overwhelming, but he managed to fight it off. "That's quite an odd question," Jimmy said.

"Look, just humor me. Do you ever feel like there's someone in there with you?"

Jimmy shook his head. "I've never felt anything like that."

Not-George's shoulders dropped a little. "You're certain?"

Jimmy nodded.

"And... you... don't remember anything of the past six years? And... you remember your daughter from when she was little?"

Jimmy nodded.

"Okay... sorry, man," Not-George said. "I know I must seem... nuts." He seemed flustered now as he turned back to the duffel, staring at it as if he'd completely forgotten what he was doing. He picked up the last pair of socks again and stared at them blankly. "Just had to ask. Sorry."

"Is there something wrong?"

Not-George shook his head. He set the last pair of socks in the duffel, and zipped it up.

But there was a glint of tears in his eyes.

The most important thing...

... is to make sure he's okay.

Jimmy took a step closer, reached out one hand and set it lightly on George's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

The man said nothing. Just like Claire this morning, he seemed frozen still.

Finally Not-George muttered, "You should go." He took Jimmy's hand by the wrist, and gently eased it off his own shoulder. "Or I should go. We should both go. Look, it's been nice meeting you, but I've gotta get going."

"You can't leave yet," said Jimmy, who felt certain about this.

"Why not?" said Not-George, quirking an eyebrow at him.

"I'm not done talking to you," said Jimmy. "What's your name, anyway? It's not George Bailey, is it?" He took a step closer, and a flicker of confusion passed over George's face as he registered how close Jimmy was standing.

Claire says I should keep a minimum of two-and-one-half feet of distance when speaking to other adults, remembered Jimmy. Claire says I should pitch my voice higher. Claire says I shouldn't loosen my tie...

Claire says, Claire says...

It was getting hard to remember what Claire had said.

"You know what?" Not-George said, picking up his duffel and trying to inch past Jimmy. "Your daughter said we need to leave you two alone in peace, and I am gonna friggin' respect that for once in my sorry life. If the two of you have come out of all this alive, then that's probably the only two so far, and I am not gonna mess that up."

"Come out of what alive?" said Jimmy. George had somehow managed to edge a little farther away, so Jimmy took another step closer, crowding him up against the edge of the bed. He knew he was only a foot away now, but he found that this sort of distance felt much more natural than the two-and-a-half-foot rule. He could study Not-George's expression much more easily from this distance. "What are you talking about?" said Jimmy.

"Look, man, it's not that I don't want to talk to you, but—" George was looking rather distressed now. "The deja-vu in this room is turned up to, like, eleven, man, and I gotta get out of here."

"What are you talking about?" said Jimmy. But Not-George had grabbed his duffel now, darted around Jimmy's other side and was now walking away toward the door.

At that moment Jimmy knew, with absolute clarity, that if Not-George walked out and left now, Jimmy would never see him again.

"Don't leave," blurted out Jimmy, reaching out and grabbing him by one shoulder again, half-turning him around. "What's your name? Why did Claire seem to know you?" This time Not-George set a hand on Jimmy's shoulder and tried (rather half-heartedly) to actually push him away, but Jimmy wouldn't let go. Jimmy couldn't let go. It turned into a strange slow grappling, Not-George backing up toward the door as he tried to pull free and Jimmy following right along with him, hanging onto Not-George's t-shirt.

"I gotta go," Not-George said. "You don't know what you're dealing with—"

"Then tell me," snapped Jimmy.

"I can't tell you anything," he snapped back.

A burst of near-anger hit Jimmy and suddenly he was shoving Not-George backwards against the wall right by the door, Jimmy's hand knotted tightly now in his clothes. Not-George seemed to give in suddenly, sinking down a little on the edge of the little radiator by the wall, till his head was a few inches below Jimmy's, one hand still clamped onto Jimmy's coat. But he'd ceased to push Jimmy away, and almost seemed to be pulling him closer. His face was tilted down, though; he wouldn't look Jimmy in the eyes.

"She said you're fragile—" said Not-George, in a hoarse voice. "She said you're fragile. I don't want to mess you up—" He still wouldn't meet Jimmy's eyes.

"Look at me," said Jimmy, overwhelmed now by the sensation of something terrifically important hovering right at the fringes of his vision. Not-George knew what it was, he knew, and he wouldn't tell Jimmy— he wouldn't even meet Jimmy's eyes— "Look at me," demanded Jimmy again, and, amazed at his own forcefulness, he gripped Not-George's hair with his right hand and gently pulled back, to tilt Not-George's face up. "What are you talking about?" Jimmy said. His shoulders were aching powerfully; for a confused moment he almost thought he heard wings.

Then he realized, somewhat to his shock, that there was a tear trickling down Not-George's cheek.

"Something happened to you," Not-George whispered, "While you were asleep. Something bad. You were... with a friend of mine. But... my friend... "

He paused.

"My friend died," said George, finally looking up at Jimmy. "And it was my fault. And I don't want to hurt you too. Go back to your daughter. Live your life."

But there was an expression of such grief and loss on his face now that all Jimmy could think was:

The most important thing is to make sure he's okay.

"It's okay," said Jimmy. "It's all right," and Jimmy leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.

He hadn't planned it, he hadn't thought it through; it had simply seemed a... necessary thing to do, the right thing to do, so Jimmy simply did it. They were still half-grappling, George practically pinned against the wall now with his fists knotted in Jimmy's coat,  Jimmy hanging onto his sleeve and his hair.  The position was far more like a fighting stance than any sort of embrace. Yet Jimmy kissed him anyway: and again now, on the forehead. And then, on the temple.

"It's okay," said Jimmy, over and over. "It's all right."

Not-George sat frozen, his face still tilted up. Another tear was trickling down his cheek.

Jimmy gritted his teeth, to see that tear. That wasn't right. That just wasn't right.

The most important thing...

... is to let him know he's loved.

Jimmy leaned down again, and kissed the tear away, and kissed his rough cheek, and then, almost in a trance, he kissed Not-George's lips. A long, soft kiss, tasting his lips, biting his upper lip lightly, running his tongue along George's teeth. Jimmy felt he was almost standing back in disbelief, watching himself do this from a long distance away. An odd thought floated through his mind: We should have done this long ago.

Not-George did not kiss back, but Jimmy felt his breath hitch, and felt his hot, gasping breaths go ragged with something like a sob.

The kiss slowly broke, their heads still close together.

Not-George said, in a very shaky whisper, "C-Cas?"

The name seemed to crack through the air like a rifle shot. Jimmy froze, pulling back a little farther.

"What did you say?" said Jimmy.

Not-George took a breath. A sternness came into his eyes, like a door closing. With one hand he pulled Jimmy's hand off his shirt-sleeve.

"What did you just call me?" repeated Jimmy.

Not-George pushed him away again. Gently, but very firmly. And this time Jimmy fell back a few steps.

"Whoever you are," said Not-George, standing up, grabbing his duffel, wiping the tears roughly from his face. "I am not gonna ruin your life again. If I have learned one thing... every time you step off this, this, this, chessboard, every time you step out of the game, and it's been like a dozen times now, you step off and every damn time I pull you back on. And every damn time you end up more fucked up than before and you get hurt all over again. I ruin your life all over again. I ruin your life. You stepped off the board again and this time... even if this is you... I have learned my fucking lesson, and I am gonna leave you be."

He turned and yanked the door open.

"Wait—"

"Live your life," said Not-George over his shoulder. "Be happy. Go watch the bees, or whatever it is you do. Be happy. Cause I am done with hurting you, I am so done with that, and I just want off this friggin' merry-go-round. I am NOT going to let it happen to you again. You got off and you should stay off." In one long stride he was out the door.

"Wait!" called Jimmy, too startled to stop him. "I don't even know your name!" But Not-George was already out in the parking lot, and he already had the door of the black car open, slinging his bag in the back seat while Jimmy was still scrambling out of the room. In moments Not-George was in the driver's seat. The car door was already closing, the engine firing up.

"Wait!" Jimmy ran to the car, stretching one hand out toward it. The tall man, Not-Harry, was sitting in the passenger seat and he flinched in surprise, twisting around to look at Jimmy, saying something urgently to Not-George. Jimmy caught one look at Not-Harry's eyes— shocked, sad, worried.

The black car pulled away, right from under Jimmy's hand. The gleaming polish slid away from under his fingertips.

The car shot out of the lot. Jimmy ran a few steps after it, but it was hopeless; the car was already turning onto the main road, and all he could do was stand panting at the roadside and watch the red taillights disappear down the road. It shot onto the ramp to I-90. Jimmy heard it roar away, headed eastward into the cold winter sun.

Jimmy stood staring down the road. The black car did not return.

Other cars came past, one by one. The chill winter air picked up, and Jimmy began to shiver.

Eventually he turned to the motel room. The door still hung open. Jimmy walked back to the room, not knowing what else to do. He felt at his lips with one hand as he walked. Why had he practically attacked Not-George? What on earth had possessed him to kiss Not-George?

No wonder he pushed me away. I was acting insane. What sort of man kisses another man that he's only just met?

But we hadn't just met, Jimmy knew. Yesterday was not the first time we've met. He knew me. He knew me, and he called me Cas.

Cas.

It seemed an immensely significant name.

It seemed a better name than "Jimmy," as a matter of fact. A more fitting name.

But Jimmy could remember nothing about it.

He wandered back into the motel room in a daze, and found that Not-George had forgotten his blue jacket. He'd been in such a hurry that he'd left without it. A dark blue jacket.

Maybe he'll come back for it, thought Jimmy. So he picked up the jacket and sat on the bed, waiting.

It grew cold. Jimmy left the door cracked open as long as he could, so that Not-George could get in easily, but soon the winter wind that snuck around the doorjamb had him shivering again. He considered putting on the coat, but that seemed like it might be rude. He would have to shut the door; but then Not-George wouldn't be able to get back inside. Jimmy (or Cas? The new name kept echoing in his mind) worried a while over this and finally he wrote a little note ("I'm here, just knock") and taped it to the door and swung it shut.

He waited a long time more.

Hours later, at one o'clock, the motel maid came to change the bedding for the next guest, and she found Jimmy curled up on the bed staring at the wall, with the jacket wrapped tight in his arms.

A/N - First off - just to clarify - no, this is not the end! More chapters coming.

But I did want to say something about THIS chapter. This whole fic was inspired by three or four different things that came together at once (thinking about Claire, rewatching The Born-Again Identity, reconsidering Forgotten) and one of those elements was actually a piece of fanart that was reposted to fandomnatural last month, euclase's tremendously powerful piece "Fragile." I hadn't seen it before ('cause I live under a rock) and it blew me away, and instantly I wanted to know how Cas and Dean had ended up in that position, in a pose that is such a striking mix of aggression and frustration and tenderness; I wanted to know why Dean was crying, and why Cas looked so frustrated and grim. The piece seems set up for us to think that it is Dean who is the fragile one, but it occurred to me, looking at it, that maybe Dean is crying because he knows that it's actually Cas who is fragile. So anyway, I had been toying with the idea of another amnesia fic and with a Claire fic, and it all fell into place in my mind when I saw Fragile. The kiss scene in this chapter was written with that piece of fanart in mind (the "Fragile moment" - that pose - occurs just when Dean is about to say "Something happened to you", if you want to know the exact moment, lol). 

Anyway - poor Dean, he's suddenly thinking maybe it IS Cas - but he's not sure! And he's also realizing that every single time that he's "pulled Cas back on the chessboard", things have not gone well for Cas. By leaving, he's trying to force himself to do what he thinks is the right thing. But is he right, or is he wrong?

Hope you enjoyed this! If there was a particular bit that you liked, do let me know. :)

PS - next chapter up by next Tuesday, possibly sooner, so keep checking in. 

Chapter Text

 A/N - I'll be late to work tomorrow but I got this done! Just before the show starts up again tomorrow. I fully expect the canon show to obliterate this little fic's plotline somehow, but I don't mind, I'm so enjoying writing it, and I hope you're enjoying reading it too.

We pick up right after the last chapter ended. And if you haven't noticed already, the title of each chapter represents the most important thing in "Jimmy's" mind during that chapter. :)

Jimmy stood outside his car, gazing around at the horizon.

He let out a tight sigh of frustration, tapping his fingers on the cold hood of the gold Continental.  The tan trenchcoat was not warm enough, the dark pants were not warm enough, his black shoes were not warm enough, and though he'd finally loosened the tie long ago it still felt uncomfortable. He was beginning to shiver again, too. But he remained where he was, turning in a slow circle to study the horizon in all directions. Or as much of the horizon as he could see, from here in the Wendy's parking lot next to the motel.

He'd had to retreat here, to the Wendy's parking lot, after the motel owners had asked him to leave. They hadn't been unkind, actually; when Jimmy had told them about the "friend" who had forgotten his jacket, they'd understood why Jimmy had still been in the room, and they'd even taken his name and number in case Not-George came back. Jimmy had written a little note, too, for them to show to Not-George. (After multiple failed drafts, it had read: "I sincerely apologize for what I did. It was inappropriate and I assure you I won't do it again. Please call. I have questions and there is nobody else I can ask. - Jimmy Novak.") He'd added his phone number at the bottom, and he'd folded it up and given it to them, and they'd smiled and said they'd pass it along. If "George Bailey," as they kept calling him, ever showed.

But they'd clearly expected Jimmy to leave then, so after a little awkward standing around in the lobby, Jimmy had finally gotten in his car and driven away.

Only, of course, to pull in to the very next establishment, the Wendy's next door. After all, there was still a small chance that Not-George (and Not-Harry) might return, and there was a good view of the motel's parking lot from the Wendy's.

Jimmy had been here for an hour.

He did one more little circle, studying the sky, as he'd done at least a dozen times in the last hour. The horizon to the east showed clear blue sky soaring above residental roof-tops; to the north rose Missoula's high rolling hills, white now with winter snows; to the south, the sky was feathered with wispy cirrus clouds; and in the west the pale winter sun was beginning to sink toward the treetops.

Nothing...

Wait— there— Jimmy thought, spinning back to face east. There! The beacon; the longing; the kite-string. It had flared up, very faintly. But even as he turned around it disappeared again.

He gritted his teeth, folding his arms across his chest against the cold as he scowled at the eastern horizon. He'd been trying for an hour now to get a clear read on where the "longing" might be coming from. He had a theory that it had been coming (somehow, impossibly) from either Not-George or from the black car, and that perhaps he might be able to use it to locate Not-George again.

But the moment Not-George had fled, the kite-string sensation had disappeared. Sometimes Jimmy caught a brief whiff of it, as he had just now, but always for only a tantalizing moment.

It was rather like a hot coal that now and then put out one dancing flame, only for the flame to flicker out again as soon as he tried to look at it.

Jimmy was beginning to fear that he'd only been imagining it all along.

The voice had not recurred either.

Jimmy was shivering harder now, and he pulled open the car door at last and got inside. As soon as the door was closed he let out a sigh, slumping down in the driver's seat as he turned the ignition key to let the car warm him up for a bit.

As he had a dozen times in the past hour.

He let his head sink back on the seat as warm air from the car's ancient heater finally began to blow over his feet. He felt very tired, and it should have been tempting to fall asleep, but he still felt such a gnawing sense of loss and sorrow about Not-George's departure that he could not relax. Instead he turned his head a little so that he could keep an eye on the motel parking lot. In case the black car returned.

Why did I kiss him? I drove him away. He ran away.

Why did I do that?

And what was he talking about? What happened to me during the coma? Who is "Cas?" Does Claire know anything about this? Might Claire have his phone number?

Is he okay?  Is Not-Harry ok too?

So many questions. And no answers.

Finding him again had clearly become the most important thing.

After five minutes of warming up, Jimmy turned the key off and cracked the door open, planning to haul himself outside to do another scan. But before he'd even stepped out, his phone buzzed on the seat next to him. It was a text from Claire: "What'd the doc say? Everything ok?"

Oh. The clinic! He'd promised! Jimmy had promised Claire that he'd go to the walk-in health clinic. And he never broke a promise to Claire; it had long been a rule he'd held to (well, since he'd woken out of the coma, anyway). So many people had let her down, over the last few years, including Jimmy himself, that it seemed essential to keep his promises to her.

Yet somehow he'd completely forgotten.

He texted back, "I'm waiting to see somebody."

Well, it wasn't entirely untrue.

After a few more worried texts from Claire, Jimmy finally gave up on the motel.

Not-George was not coming back.

Jimmy had known this since the moment he'd watched the black car race away. Not-George must be a hundred miles away by now, and getting farther away every second.

Jimmy felt sure, as well, that Not-George simply wasn't the kind of guy who would come back.

But still it ached, to turn the Continental back onto the road, and drive away.

Jimmy had to wait over an hour to see a doctor. (Fortunately, Claire had play-practice again tonight and wouldn't need her usual afternoon ride home.) He'd ended up carrying Not-George's jacket into the waiting room with him, for it had seemed wrong to leave it unattended out in the car. As he took a seat in the waiting room he folded it to set it on his lap, and he felt something square and hard inside.

It had something in a pocket! Why on earth hadn't he thought of checking the pockets till now? Eagerly Jimmy held the jacket up, flipping it around to check all its pockets. Perhaps there would be a clue! A handy address written on a slip of paper, or a driver's license, or... or a shirt tag, like at camp, he thought.

A shirt tag at camp. Though he wasn't even sure what "a shirt tag at camp" even meant.

He found no "shirt tag at camp", whatever that was. But he did find a couple things. The first was a Montana Fish & Wildlife badge, very obviously fake now that Jimmy got a close look at it. It had the name "George Bailey" and a blurry picture of Not-George. Jimmy studied the photo for several long moments.

He found himself entranced by Not-George's eyes. Then by his mouth, then by his whole expression.

In the photo Not-George looked serious and professional. But Jimmy thought, I bet he has a lovely smile.

If I could ever get him to smile again.

He could only make himself put the badge down by reminding himself, I can look at it some more later. He tucked it carefully in the pocket of his trenchcoat, and returned to going through Not-George's other pockets, and then he found a cell phone.

Jimmy's heart sank. Clearly this was Not-George's phone, and this was not a good thing. He'd hoped he might be able to figure out Not-George's phone number (maybe the motel had it? or Claire might?) and perhaps give him a call. To apologize for the kiss, of course, and to ask if they could talk some more.

(And to hear his voice again...)

But, of course, finding Not-George's phone number wasn't going to help at all if Jimmy had Not-George's phone.

Surely now Not-George would have to return to the motel? Now that Jimmy had not just the jacket, but also the phone?

No. He won't, Jimmy knew. He won't come back. He'll just abandon the phone. He's the kind of guy who'll just switch to a new phone number.

He's the kind of guy who just travels on, and never looks back.

The phone seemed a very grim discovery, and Jimmy's hand tightened around it as he studied it. He couldn't even seem to turn it on; it had an unlock code that he didn't know, and while he was fiddling with it, trying to guess the code, the battery died.

Jimmy had to give up and put it away in his pocket. Where his hand encountered the badge again; then he was pulling out the badge, to allow himself one more look at it, and this time his eyes were drawn to Not-George's lips.

The memory of the kiss suddenly seemed to burn in his memory now. Kisses, actually; it had been not just one kiss but several. Kisses on the forehead, the temple, the cheek... and the lips. Why did I do that? he thought again, baffled. It had been inappropriate, hadn't it? It must have been, because Not-George hadn't liked it. This was obvious, because Not-George had fled.

And yet...

It had felt appropriate.

It had felt entirely appropriate, in fact. It had felt right.

That brief moment of having Not-George under his hands like that, tasting his lips, feeling his warm breath, had felt... virtually perfect, really.

It had felt like coming home.

After a very long time of staring at the Fish & Wildlife badge, Jimmy finally was called into a small office for a rushed five minutes with a rather bored-looking doctor. She did a perfunctory check of Jimmy's bruises and scrapes from yesterday, briskly checked a few reflexes, and said, while tapping some notes into a little monitor that was mounted on the wall, "Looks like just a few scrapes. Any other symptoms? Are you sleeping all right?"

"Well... I've been..." Jimmy began.

He paused. How could he explain it all? He started again: "I've been..."

The doctor looked up.

I've been lying awake all night and I can't get any sleep, and if I ever do sleep I keep dreaming about huge black wings and a black car and two men, and sometimes fire and fighting and terrible things; and of flying, and of falling, always I'm flying or I'm falling; and then I wake up totally confused and feel utterly lost, and the only thing that pulls me back together is a sentence that repeats over and over about my daughter. And then when I finally manage to understand where I am and I get up, I think someone's calling me but they're not, and today I felt pulled toward a certain direction, like a beacon in the sky, and I thought heard a man's voice in my car but there was nobody there. And I think I found the man. But I scared him away. I grabbed him and I kissed him and I scared him away. All I have is his jacket and a phone that won't turn on and a fake badge in the name of a fictional man who met an angel.

I don't know what to do.

Jimmy said, "I've... been.... having some difficulty sleeping."

She nodded, wrote him a prescription for some sleeping pills, and sent him on his way.

Because of Claire's play-practice tonight, once again Jimmy was responsible for dinner. After texting her to assure her he'd gotten a clean bill of health (he even added a smiley face to the text), he headed to the supermarket.

It was a relief, actually, to have the familiar dinner issue to focus on, after spending nearly the entire day fixated on all the Not-George-related questions. (What is his name? How can I find him? Is he okay? What was he talking about, "something happened to you"? Who is Cas? Why did I kiss him? And a tantalizing follow-up question that had recently surfaced while staring at the badge: What would it feel like to kiss him again?)

Amidst all that mental cacophony, the old question "What kind of dinner would Claire like?" felt comfortably routine. And, Jimmy reminded himself, in addition to the familiar mission of taking care of Claire, it was also possible that maybe Claire might know something about Not-George. Maybe she might know his real name? He'd make her a nice dinner, and that would cheer her up, and then Jimmy could delicately inquire about Not-George's name.

Dinner, then.

What kind of dinner would make Claire happy?

Pizza obviously was out. Too risky; too many old memories. That left his only other idea, "chicken".

Jimmy wasn't sure exactly what to do with chicken, but was fairly confident that it could be roasted somehow. He eventually found the meat section, where he spotted some whole chickens, and he was about to pick one up when he noticed its stubby little wings.

They were grotesquely bare. Stubby and short and completely bare.

All the flight feathers had been stripped away.

Every last one.

A wave of nausea hit him. Jimmy had to bolt for the restroom in the back of the store. He only just made it in time.

No chicken for dinner, then, he thought, a few minutes later, as he rinsed his mouth and spat into the sink in the restroom. He found he couldn't bear to even walk past the meat section now. His shoulderblades were aching ferociously, too.

He tried to shove all the Not-George thoughts and the chicken incident firmly to the back of his mind as he wandered around the store, trying to refocus on finding something else for dinner. The fruit and vegetable section seemed perhaps a somewhat safer place to be, so Jimmy made his way there and stood forlornly gazing at all the mysterious plant parts — acorn squash and cantaloupes and celery-root and dozens of other things that he didn't know how to prepare. It all looked bewildering. What would Claire like? Jimmy had no idea.

And then he noticed that there were little stacks of free recipe cards propped in front of certain vegetables. After a little looking around he picked up one that was in front of the potatoes. It was titled: "Twice-Baked Potatoes - Kids Love 'Em!"

"Kids Love 'Em" sounded promising. Would Claire "love 'em" too? Baking potatoes twice seemed a little like overkill, but Jimmy studied the card dutifully, his brow furrowed in concentration. It began to make sense: the first baking was for the potato, the second for the filling, which consisted of butter, sour cream, cheese, and green onions.

A roasted tuber that has been eviscerated and re-filled with three different cow mammary-gland products and a noxious grass, Jimmy thought. That sounds good. And, better still, it sounded like something he could do. He re-read the recipe. It didn't seem too difficult, and it ended with a cheery sentence: "Pair with a vegetable as a healthy side dish!"

Jimmy folded the card carefully and tucked it in his wallet, and he found all the necessary ingredients. The "vegetable" suggestion caused him some puzzlement, but after a moment's thought he added a bottle of ketchup to his shopping basket.

I do hope this makes Claire happy, he found himself thinking as he stood in the checkout line. A corner of his mouth twitched up as he realized that this had been the first "make Claire happy" thought he'd had all day. It was nice, actually, to have the thought resurface after all the Not-George drama.

In a way, in fact, it even felt more real now, to have it resurface naturally like this. It felt more like a normal thought... a thought of his very own. Less like something that just repeated over and over in his brain automatically, like a broken record stuck in an endless loop.

Claire stomped in the door just after seven-thirty. The potatoes weren't quite done (it turned out that cooking things twice took a while) and Claire flopped down on the couch in a sullen mood. She looked worried and tense.

Jimmy finally wormed out of her that play-practice ("It's called REHEARSAL, Dad") had not gone well. Apparently Claire had forgotten most of her lines.

"I tried to learn them, I just didn't have time!" she said, yanking some script-pages out of her bag and scowling at them. She then upended the entire bag on the floor; books, three-ring binders, scribbled pages, and a messy stack of teacher's handouts all slithered out in a heap. "And I've got so much homework."

Jimmy had been intending to ask her about Not-George's name, but it was clear she wouldn't be able to concentrate on that just now.

She was going on, "And I've got to get better grades, I really do— I'm just fucking up so bad. I thought I could just jump back in but my grades suck."

"Do grades actually matter?" said Jimmy, who found he didn't know.

"Let me tell you something," said Claire, whipping her head up to glare at him. "I used to think life on the road is all romantic. You think, oh, road trip, how cool, I'll get by, I can get a waitressing job or something, I can hitchhike, it'll be an adventure, I'll be fine. Then you find out you can barely afford a square foot of floor in a rundown stinking apartment, and then you get a taste of what life is like when you can only carry one damn backpack with you with one damn t-shirt and maybe a change of underwear and you can't even buy friggin' TAMPONS, and the, the, the creepy fuckers who try to pick you up on the road, don't even get me started, and then you start to see what life is really gonna be like, what it's really gonna be like long-term, if you're a minimum-wage waitress or a Walmart greeter all your life. And you look at the street hookers and the meth-heads and you remember, back when I was eleven, my dad asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I said, Daddy, I'm gonna be a pediatrician or veterinarian. Remember?"

Jimmy didn't remember. But he kept quiet.

She went on, "And now the only dream I have is, maybe if I'm really lucky I won't have to turn tricks just to make rent."

She took a long breath.

"Turn tricks?" Jimmy said, a little lost.

"That means being a prostitute, Dad," she snapped.

"Oh..." Jimmy said, a little confused. "Okay. So... that means... grades... matter?"

"I don't even know!" she burst out. "I guess, sorta? I don't know! I just know, I thought finishing high school would be a fucking BRILLIANT idea, because I knew I needed a high school degree, and I guess I still had this stupid idea that if I could ever get to college I could... do... something? I mean... I know I won't ever be a doctor or a vet, I know that was just a little kid's dream. Just a dumb dream... "

The fire had gone out of her voice now. She was still sitting on the couch staring down at her stack of notes, and she shoved them a little with one foot. Jimmy moved over and sat next to her. She was quiet, and Jimmy put an arm around her shoulder.

"I know it was just a dumb little kid's dream," she said softly, letting her head sink back against his arm. "But I used to get good grades, remember?" (Jimmy didn't remember that either. Again he said nothing.) "I'm not dumb.... I used to always be the smart girl, remember? Teacher's pet... I could've gone to college... Now I can't even remember my stupid lines in my stupid play. I'm totally bombing World History. Forget about Pre-Calc, it's a disaster. I guess I had this stupid idea in my head, this whole year, this stupid plan, that maybe I could qualify for one of the in-state scholarships. UM has these scholarships for local high school kids...."

She trailed to a stop.

Jimmy knew that "UM" referred to the local university. University of Montana; it had a big campus right here in Missoula.

"The university has scholarships?" he asked.

He felt Claire nod against his shoulder. "Tuition discounts, and sometimes full exemptions," she said quietly.

"And then you wouldn't have to be a prostitute?" asked Jimmy, still trying to understand. Claire gave a choked laugh, and she nodded again.

"Yeah, basically," she said. She straightened up and shifted a little, inching away so that Jimmy had to remove his arm from her shoulder. She turned to give him a level look and she said, "And I'm kind of thinking I might be running out of time here."

"Running out of time?" said Jimmy. "What do you mean?"

Her shoulders dropped a little. "Nothing," she said, her gaze sliding to the floor. "Never mind."

But Jimmy thought he had grasped the main point. He said, "Claire, I don't want you to be a prostitute. You'd be unhappy."

"Yeah..." she said. "You got that right."

"Also you'd go to Hell and you'd be tortured forever."

For some reason this made her laugh. "You know something, Dad?" she said. "Your little pep talks are the best." She gave a tired chuckle and rubbed her forehead. "I sorta forgot about the whole Hell thing. Hell being real and all that."

"What I meant was, if you end up in Hell then you won't be happy at all."

Another rough little laugh. "Can't argue with that logic."

"You've been spending too much time taking care of me," said Jimmy, remembering how she'd taken care of him last night, and how she'd worried over him. "It's been distracting you from your studies. Claire, I've got an idea. What if I help you learn your lines for play-practice?"

"Rehearsal..." she corrected him automatically, but Jimmy barely heard. He was thinking.

"And maybe I could help with the math and the history, too. Who knows, maybe you can get your, um, your discount thing."

"Tuition exemption, Dad."

"That, yes. A tuition exemption and not being a prostitute. Both of them."

For some reason she was giggling again now— confused, sad giggles, it seemed, but at least it was laughter rather than tears.

Just then the stove-top timer for the potatoes went off, and Jimmy patted her hand, saying, "I have to do things to the potatoes now. But, Claire, I'll help you." He leaned toward her a little bit, to look her in the eyes, and when she finally glanced at him, he said, "I promise."

Though the truth was, Jimmy knew, as he walked to the kitchen, that throughout the entire conversation his thoughts had been divided. He'd meant the promise, of course, and he intended to keep it, but part of his mind had kept thinking: Where was Not-George? How could he be found again?

Was helping Claire find her path the most important thing in life? The very most important?

Jimmy was no longer sure.

But it still felt quite important nonetheless. In its own way.

The twice-baked potatoes smelled surprisingly good, thought Jimmy a half-hour later, as he pulled the baking sheet out of the oven. The potatoes turned out to be too hot to touch, though, so he used his silver kitchen knife to slide them, one at a time, off the baking sheet and onto the plates.

Claire had actually managed to get some homework done (Jimmy had resolved to help her start out on the not-becoming-a-prostitute plan right away. The Not-George questions could wait till later in the evening.) She'd even taken a quick shower, and she came over now and sank down into her chair, clad in a t-shirt and sweatpants, rubbing a towel through her damp blonde hair. "Potatoes, huh?" she said.

"They've been baked multiple times and filled with cow derivatives," said Jimmy, sliding one onto her plate.

She snorted, wiped her hands on a paper-towel napkin, picked up a potato and took a bite. "Hey," she said, chewing a moment and swallowing it down. "Hey Dad. This is really good."

"You like it?"

She nodded, already in the middle of another bite. "I do. I'm impressed."

Jimmy felt pleased. At least one thing has gone right today, he thought."There's also a vegetable," he said, nodding toward the bottle of ketchup, which he'd placed in the exact center of the table, next to the silver kitchen knife.

Claire paused in the middle of her bite and gave him a slightly odd look. Then she looked at the ketchup for a moment, and the knife.

"So... you think ketchup is a vegetable?" she said.

"Of course," said Jimmy, for he felt certain that somebody had told him this at some point. Claire still had a rather bemused look on her face, so Jimmy reached out and opened the ketchup bottle for her, using the knife to pry out a bit of the thick ketchup onto her plate. "It's easier to get out if you use the knife," he explained.

"Ri-ight," she said, a little hesitantly. "Thanks. You... don't mind... if I use your knife?"

"Of course not," Jimmy assured her. "We can share it. We're family."

"Right," she said again, and she fell silent for a while.

But she did seem to like the potatoes (and, it turned out, the ketchup). They ate a while in peace.

"No pizza this time, huh?" she said a minute later.

"I could probably learn again how to make it, if you like," said Jimmy. "But I thought..." He glanced over at her. "I thought maybe I could learn to make something new. I mean, make something for you that I didn't used to make before. Instead of trying to repeat the past."

That earned him a rare smile. "I like that idea," she said, a little softly. "New stuff. Just for me and you, sorta?"

"That was the idea," said Jimmy.

"Well, this meal's a winner," she declared, taking another bite. "You could add a few more dishes for the complete meal. A salad or something. Or, no, better, some dessert. Ice cream, or brownies or—"

"Pie," said Jimmy. Not-George would like a pie. "Pie," he repeated firmly. But Not-Harry would like a salad, he thought a moment later. I should make both.

"Pie and salad," he said.

And suddenly all the Not-George thoughts, which he'd been trying to keep at bay, were fresh in his mind again.

"Dad?" Claire said. "You okay?" Jimmy realized he'd started looking at the walls, turning his head a little. Searching for that longing feeling...

"I'm fine," he said. "Just was... thinking."

"The doc really said you're fine?" she said. "No more passing out or anything?"

"The doctor said I'm okay," he confirmed. "Just gave me some sleeping pills."

That seemed to startle her; she paused in mid-bite. "You've been having trouble sleeping?" she said.

"Sometimes, yes," he said, hoping to downplay it.

"Wait. Just last night, you mean? Or more often?"

"Um... occasionally?" said Jimmy. "Last night, yes, but, ah... fairly often, I suppose." She was looking a little worried now, so Jimmy added, "It's not a big deal, Claire. It's just that sometimes I have strange dreams and I wake up confused and I don't know where I am or who I am."

Whoops. He hadn't quite meant for that to slip out that way.

Claire set her potato down.

"What are the dreams about?" she asked.

"Oh, just... Just strange images. Fighting. Flying," Jimmy paused, thinking about the vividness of the dreams. They were always so much more colorful and intense and, well, real, than any of his memories from the past. He added, "Sometimes there seem to be wings. Sometimes I dream I'm flying... Sometimes when I wake up, I'm so... it seems very sad to find that I can't fly after all."

Jimmy's voice caught a little, and he knew immediately that he'd sounded far more distressed than he'd meant to let on. So he tried to cover it up by adding a little laugh and saying, "Isn't that funny?"

He glanced over at her, forcing a smile, but Claire was gazing at him now with big round eyes. And she wasn't smiling at all.

Jimmy reached out and patted her hand. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Last night I didn't sleep very well, I suppose. But I've got the sleeping pills now."

"You didn't have your pillow last night," said Claire, getting up out of her chair. "Or your comforter. I should have thought. You probably were cold." And she insisted on leaving the table right then, just to make Jimmy's bed for him, with the little pillow and the comforter, so that he would sleep better tonight. Even though she was worried about her play-practice, and had wanted to learn her lines better, and had homework, and was worried about her grades and her tuition exemption and not being a prostitute, and even though she'd been right in the middle of dinner, she insisted on making Jimmy's bed.

It was sweet, really. She was such a good daughter.

She even helped him wash up. They had no dishwasher, so Jimmy washed while Claire dried. And at last Jimmy decided the time was right to bring up the main topic that had been in the back of his mind all night. 

"Claire...," he began, "Do you have any idea how to reach George Bailey?"

Claire's hands slowed in the middle of drying a glass. "Why?" she asked.

"I spoke to him again this morning, and—"

The glass slipped out of Claire's hands and shattered on the floor.

"Oh, sweetie," said Jimmy. For Claire looked nearly panicked. Jimmy assured her, "Don't worry about the glass. It was an accident. We can get another one." He crouched down to pick up the pieces. After a moment, Claire knelt down to help him.

"How did you speak to him?" she said, fumbling the glass pieces so badly that Jimmy said, "Let me get them."

"How?" she repeated, still crouching by his side. "How did you find him? Where? Did he come here?"

"No. I saw their car again at a motel. I stopped and knocked on the door." Jimmy kept his eyes down, picking up glass pieces carefully; he found there were some things he didn't want to describe to Claire. Perhaps there was no need to mention how mysteriously he'd been drawn to the motel.

"And?" she prompted him after a moment. "What did he say?"

"Not much," said Jimmy, glancing up at her. "He was quite... cryptic. He and his brother left very quickly." He stood, holding the glass pieces, Claire scrambling up next to him.

Jimmy said, "He wouldn't... he wouldn't say much to me. He left. Um... I don't think he wants to talk to me."

Then he flinched; he'd been gripping the glass pieces too tightly, and had cut his hand.

"Oh, crap," said Claire. "Crap, crap. Dad, put the glass in the trash— here—" She fetched the trash can, and Jimmy dropped the glass pieces in. There was a surprising amount of blood. "—now, sit down, sit, sit, hold this paper towel on it, I'll bandage it, the band-aids are right here in the drawer. You're so fragile sometimes, it's amazing."

Jimmy sat, letting her fuss over the cut on his hand, thinking, Fragile. She said I'm fragile.

When she said she was practicing her play lines in her room, she said, "He's fragile."

And Not-George said, "She says you're fragile."

"Claire, you've spoken to him before, haven't you?" Jimmy said, the clues coming togeher. "The other morning, on the phone? You said it was your play you were practicing. But it wasn't, was it?" Another detail came clear: "You didn't practice your play at all. That's why play-practice went badly tonight, didn't it? It was George Bailey you were talking to all along, wasn't it?"

"Crap," muttered Claire, as she sat on a chair next to him, carefully mopping the blood off Jimmy's hand and not looking up at him at all. "Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap." Jimmy wasn't sure whether she was talking about the blood or something else.

"I"m not mad that you lied to me," said Jimmy. "But I need to know how to reach him. Claire— Claire, look at me." She looked up reluctantly. Jimmy said, "I must find him, Claire, I have to. Do you know his real name? It's not George Bailey, is it? I looked it up; George Bailey's a name from a movie. His real name is something else, isn't it?"

"I don't know," said Claire, sounding a little desperate now. She looked down again as she fastened a big band-aid over his cut. "I don't remember. I hardly know him at all. I only met him a couple times. He's always using fake names. I can never remember them."

Jimmy looked at her closely. She was carefully not meeting his eyes, focusing just on his hand.

Did she know Not-George's name?

Maybe she'd known it and had forgotten, somehow?

If Jimmy came up with a similar name, maybe she would remember?

Jimmy tried to think of some possibilities. Some typical male names. "Is it something like... Adam?" he tried. It was the first name that came to mind. Claire glanced up at him with a startled look. Jimmy listed a few other random names: "Cain? Gabriel? Michael? Raphael? Emmanuel?"

There Jimmy stopped, for the names he was reciting seemed to be rousing faint auras around him, almost like fuzzy impressions of personalities and faces. A man with a mane of hair and a bushy beard; a laughing short man; a ferocious adversary... and then, that last name, Emmanuel...

Jimmy completely lost his train of thought for a moment.

He blinked, and came back to himself. "What was I just saying?" he said.

"Dad, maybe you should get some rest—" Claire whispered, looking up at him.

"Noah? David?" Jimmy went on. Neither of those names were right, but the "D" of David caught his attention. That sounded right. "Douglas? Damon?" No, those were wrong. "Donald? Danny?" No. But getting closer. Jimmy thought, frowning down at the silver knife on the table. The gleam of its blade caught his eye; he picked it up in his unhurt hand; lifted it, felt the balance of it. Danny. Danny. Not quite."Don?" he muttered to himself, watching the light glint off the blade. Such a familiar sight. "Dan?" Such a familiar sound. So close. So close!

Jimmy paused again. The air seemed to have gone thick. His shoulders were hurting again; it had become difficult to breathe, and extremely difficult to think. "Dan? Dan?" he repeated, almost tasting the D and the N on his tongue, trying to wrap his mind around it. It felt like jamming a piece into a jigsaw puzzle, a piece he was certain would fit, only to discover that it wasn't quite the right shape after all. "Or is it— wait—"

Almost there....

"It's Daniel," Claire broke in, nodding vigorously. "Dan, short for Daniel. His name is Daniel." She gently took the knife out of his hand and set it back on the table. "I only met him a couple times. The year you... the year you disappeared, and, then again a few months ago... and that's it. That's the only times I've met him. I don't really know him. I don't know who he is really."

"When was that?"

"It was... when... I... didn't know where you were. The first time was... right before Mom disappeared. I didn't know where... you... were. I didn't know if you were alive... I didn't know if you would ever come back..." Claire's voice was getting choked, and Jimmy refocused on her, realizing she was getting lost in some mental quagmire of her own. "I didn't know where you were..." she repeated, "And I didn't know what had happened to you. I was just praying you were still alive. I was praying you would come back to me. I prayed every night, but—"

She stopped short and hid her face in her hands.

Something about what she was saying seemed familiar.

Something she'd said the other day, about how an abandoned child might pray to an angel that wouldn't answer prayers....

On a hunch Jimmy asked, "Did you pray to an angel?"

One slow nod. Her face was still hidden.

"And the angel never answered?"

Claire said, her voice muffled behind her hands. "Nobody ever answered."

"Oh, Claire," said Jimmy. "I'm so sorry."

That seemed to trip some wire in her head, for she lowered her hands abruptly to reveal a look that was somehow both tortured and icy. "You're not sorry," she began, her voice shockingly cold. "You're just—"

"I am," Jimmy interrupted her. He was beginning to feel rather like Not-George: the deja-vu was indeed "turned up to eleven." He repeated, "I am sorry." 

She looked at him a moment. "Why should I believe that?"

"Because... " Jimmy was at a loss for words momentarily, but then he knew what to say. "Because I love you."

"No you don't," she said automatically. "You just think—"

"I do love you," Jimmy interrupted again, putting his bandaged hand on her shoulder. "I do. Maybe you don't believe it. But I do." And he knew, as he said it, that it was true.

Late that night Jimmy couldn't get to sleep.

He'd taken a sleeping pill but it seemed to have had almost no effect. And now that Jimmy finally had a moment to himself, lying alone in the dark, in his little bed, his mind was full of the memory of Not-George again.

Dan, his name was.

"Dan," Jimmy whispered aloud, into his little pillow. "Dan." There still seemed to be something not entirely right there, but it sounded much, much better than "George."

The memory of the kiss came flooding back once again.

Dan had hated the kiss. He had been panicked by it.

He'd actually run away.

Yet now Jimmy couldn't stop reliving the memory of that kiss, over and over; the way Dan's hair had felt under Jimmy's fingers, the warmth of his body, the way he'd sunk down against the wall, looking up at Jimmy. And that wide-open expression he'd had, his eyes so forlorn and pleading and... hopeful? Jimmy had, for a moment, thought he'd seen hope there. Yearning. Desire, even? Had he been wrong?

The softness of his hair, under Jimmy's hand... 

The taste of his lips. The cologne that he used, the mixed scents coming off of him; engine oil, and a strange mix of gunpowder and ashes and salt and blood. And coffee, and a slight whiff of whiskey... 

Something happened to you, he'd said.

Cas? he'd said.

It had been a question: "Cas?"

Cas.

Who was Cas?

Two hours later Jimmy checked the time on his phone. 2:15 a.m. He was never going to be able to get to sleep.

At last he rose and padded his way over to his closet, and opened the door. He didn't even need to turn on the light; he knew what he was reaching for. Way in the back, on the last hanger, was the tan trenchcoat. Jimmy felt his way to that familiar coat, and ran his hands down to the pocket, and pulled out the badge with the picture of Dan.

And under the trenchcoat was Dan's jacket. Jimmy had hidden it there. 

Hidden it from Claire. Somehow he was certain that Claire wouldn't like knowing that he had it.

He slipped the jacket out from under the trenchcoat, and padded back to his mattress on the floor, and he got back into bed with Dan's jacket gathered up in one arm and Dan's fake Montana Fish & Wildlife badge in the other. There he turned on his phone for a little bit of light, and studied the picture.

That face....

He buried his nose in the jacket as he looked at the blurry little picture. The jacket had a faint scent; that same wonderful mixture that he'd remembered from the kiss. Cologne, motor oil, whiskey, coffee, gunpowder, salt, blood, ashes... and something else, too, a faint masculine scent. An entrancingly familiar scent.

Jimmy lay there a long time, looking at the little picture while he kept his nose buried in the jacket.

Eventually he turned the phone's light off, and tucked the badge under the little pillow that Claire had brought back to his bed. I just want to find you, he thought, as he wedged the badge tightly under the pillow.

He curled up then around the jacket and held it close. At last he fell asleep.

As Jimmy slid asleep he seemed to float directly into a dream. It was so like where he'd just been that for a moment he thought he was still awake, for it seemed he was still right there in his bed, in his room, holding the jacket. But it wasn't just an empty jacket anymore; it was Dan himself, wearing the jacket, lying there in the bed just inches away from Jimmy.

"Cas?" whispered Dan in the dream, just as he had in real life. "Cas?" When he said it a third time it was no longer a question. "Cas... oh, jeez. Cas." Dan slid an arm around Jimmy, pulling him close, and said, "This is a dream. I know it's a dream. But what the hell..." He wriggled closer.

Tentatively Jimmy slid an arm under Dan's shoulders, and put his other arm over him, gripping him tight. At once Dan shifted closer still, burying his face in Jimmy's neck and sliding one leg between Jimmy's. "Cas," Dan kept saying, over and over. "I know this isn't real, but..." He let out a long, exhausted sigh.

"Dan?" murmured Jimmy, in disbelief.

Dan laughed. "You moron," he said. "Trust you to forget my friggin' name." But he didn't seem to mind; he only pulled Jimmy tighter still, his breath hot on Jimmy's neck now, his hands roaming down Jimmy's back. Dan said into Jimmy's ear, "Cas, I gotta confess, I really would rather not wake up."

"Me too," said Jimmy. "But my name's Jimmy."

"Your name's Cas," said Dan, turning his head to kiss him on the cheek. He wrapped one arm around Jimmy's — Cas's— head and whispered into his ear, "And my name's Dean. Get it straight, knucklehead."

Cas snapped awake.

He tried at once to recapture the wonderful dream and slide back into it. He tried imagining the kiss on the cheek; he tried envisioning the wonderful feel of Dean's strong warm body against him, and the fantastically addictive feeling of Dean's leg pressed between his. He tried, and tried, to somehow climb back into the dream. But it was gone. 

All he could do was hold the empty jacket close, thinking. My name's Cas. His name's Dean. Get it straight, knucklehead.

A/N - Our hero has never been Jimmy at all, of course; he has always been Castiel, and only Castiel, right from the start of chapter 1. He just didn't know that. 

Hope you liked this! It's midnight now and I have to get to bed, so I'm sorry about the typos - advance thanks to MoniJune who I know will catch everything - these Tuesday updates turn out to be hard to do with a work schedule and I can't always do the usual last proofread.  I even skipped dinner to get this updated (been writing 6 hours straight, that's why I wrote about a dinner, I'm STARVING here, lol, and I was going to make potatoes and I didn't have time! So Cas and Claire got yummy potatoes instead!)

Now that the show is running again I'm going to switch back my update day back to my usual Fri/Sat. This week it will be Sat to give me a chance to get some more stuff written. (And yeah, maybe there'll be just one or two more chapters than I'd planned... but I swear not 45...  I think there are just 2 more chapters but we'll see.)  My deadline for finishing up the whole fic is March 31 because on April 1 I'm heading back out on the boats for fieldwork. Just a couple more weeks! :D  I hope you enjoyed this. Please let me know if you did.

Chapter Text

A/N - A day late. Sorry, I had to work till 11pm on Wed and Thurs and had little writing time. After this we return to the Friday schedule.

Warning, explicit Destiel ahead. :)

A week later the envelopes started arriving.

Usually the mail that arrived at the little rental house consisted only of utility bills, an astonishing amount of catalogs and junk mail (almost all of it addressed to previous tenants), and coupons for the local grocery store. But one day, a week after the dream, there was an unusual envelope in the afternoon mail delivery. It looked like it had originally been a postage-paid envelope for some credit-card offer, but someone had crossed out the credit card company's address and had written:

Jimmy Novak

8514 SW 34th St

Missoula MT 59801

Cas's first thought, as he stood in the living room studying the envelope while Claire put away the groceries, was simply, That name doesn't look right anymore.

Ever since the dream he'd been thinking of himself, privately, as "Cas" and not as "Jimmy." Which didn't really make sense at all. For his legal name was indeed Jimmy Novak. He was definitely Claire Novak's father, for one thing; and also, "Jimmy Novak" was the name on his driver's license, on his medical bills, and on all his other paperwork.

Yet, even so, the name "Cas" just seemed so much better.

Maybe it was a nickname Dean had used for him once? Maybe Dean and his brother had visited the long-term-rehab clinic, back where Cas had been cared for during his six-year coma after the accident, and had called him by that nickname? And somehow Cas had heard the nickname, and it had stuck in his memory? Along with Dean's real name, presumably.

And somehow it had bubbled up in the form of a dream?

Cas wasn't sure; he only knew that the name "Cas" felt right.

The envelope seemed to have no return address. Cas flipped it over, but the back only had a large circular stain on it, as if someone had set a beer-glass on it briefly. No return address, and no other clues.

Nonetheless, Cas was certain that it was from Dean.

It had to be from Dean. Nobody ever sent letters to this house, and Dean and his brother were the only new people Cas had met recently.

Besides, Cas thought, flipping it back over and studying the front again, the handwriting looked...

Familiar.

Just then Claire called from the kitchen, "Okay, Dad, the stuff for dinner's set out on the counter here and everything else is put away." Cas tucked the envelope under the junk mail, finding that he wanted to study it on his own without Claire watching. She came around the corner from the kitchen only a moment later, saying, "You sure you're okay with dinner tonight? "

Cas tried to pull his thoughts away from the envelope mystery. A few nights ago, emboldened by the success of the twice-baked potatoes, Cas had proposed a new dinner plan: he would now make dinner almost every night (except Sunday nights, when he worked at a nearby Gas-n-Sip), so that Claire could focus on studying. For her Not-A-Prostitute plan.

"I'll be fine," Cas said.

"Lasagna's kind of complicated, though, you know that?"

"I think I can handle it," said Cas, pulling a supermarket recipe card out of a pocket. He'd found another one today that looked promising, called "Easy Lasagna," and they'd picked up all the ingredients for it. He waved it at her. "See, I've got the card. The protocol seems quite clear."

She rolled her eyes, but with a grin. "Recipe, Dad. Okay, go to it then. I'll start the studying."

"Anything I can help with?" Cas asked, for he had also been trying to help her with her studying, where he could. On the very first day that they'd tried this, last week, it had instantly become clear that Cas actually seemed to know a remarkable amount of detail about ancient history. Along with a fair bit of useful information about physics and math.

"Physics later, maybe," Claire said, grabbing her pack from the sofa and starting to head to her room. She called over her shoulder, "I got that physics test next week. But I also got an English paper to work on first. I'll call you later when I hit the physics."

"Sounds good," said Cas, and she disappeared into her room.

Cas waited till he heard the usual faint tinny music start up from her room. This was always a sure sign she'd turned her laptop on, and, increasingly, it was actually a sign that she'd started studying as well. Only then did he pull the mysterious envelope back out from under all the junk mail.

He went to the kitchen to get the silver kitchen knife, carefully sliced one end of the envelope open, and drew out a large napkin wrapped around something. The napkin had a logo from some place called "The Buckaroo Bar & Grill." Cas unfolded it to find a little stack of money. Twenties and a few ones. He counted it: One hundred and twenty-three dollars.

Cas was stunned. "A hundred and twenty-three dollars?" he muttered to himself. This was a huge amount.

He studied the napkin, turning it over several times. There seemed to be no note. Cas held it to his nose, and then sniffed the money too: it all smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, and stale beer and French fries.

Cas took another whiff.

There was another scent there too, very faint. A scent of a certain cologne... and a tinge of gunpowder, and the faint aura of whiskey and coffee and motor oil and blood and salt. And the slightest, most tantalizing hint of a certain masculine scent.

I know that smell, thought Cas, breathing it in reverently.

He'd smelled it a week ago.

Tasted it, actually.

The money was definitely from Dean. But why? Cas flipped through all the bills again to make sure he hadn't missed anything. He studied the napkin again (unfolding it all the way this time, into a gigantic flimsy square), and even peered into the empty envelope, searching again for some kind of note.

There was no note at all.

Well, whatever the reason Dean had sent it, one hundred twenty-three dollars would be a huge help, of course. Cas's part-time jobs— the warehouse morning shift, the Gas-n-Sip job he had on Sundays (this job was oddly relaxing; all the tasks seemed quite familiar), and the occasional late-night dishwashing shift at a local bar— were actually bringing in enough. But only barely enough. Really just enough to cover rent, utilities and the food. Cas had been feeling fairly proud that he could at least provide some kind of home and steady meals for Claire, but there were always so many extra expenses that seemed to keep popping up, and money was, in fact, a constant worry. Claire had needed a dental visit, and then she'd lost her only winter scarf and Cas had given her his, and she'd worn holes in all of her winter socks by now, and then she'd lost a mitten. She'd need some spring clothes when warmer weather came. She needed clarinet reeds for the school band; she was required to pay some kind of fee for the play-practice script copies; and there were dozens of other little things she wanted too.

She had a birthday coming up in April, as well. Cas had recently become aware, when mentioning this to one of the warehouse workers, that parents were expected to give their children gifts on every anniversary of the child's birth.

But Cas's major financial worry now was actually to ensure she succeeded with her Not-A-Prostitute plan.

For, even if she did get to the university with the "tuition exemption," how would she pay for her books and her food?

It occurred to him, then, as he stood there looking at the hundred-and-twenty-three dollars, that maybe he could save it for her university studies.

Cas suspected that one hundred twenty-three dollars really wouldn't go very far. But it was something. Maybe it would make Claire happy?

And maybe, just maybe, it might make Dean happy too?

After that, the strange envelopes arrived almost every week. The next week it was a red Christmas-card envelope (still tagged with a CVS drugstore's "discount holiday cards" price tag), which bore a postmark from Mobile, Alabama, and contained just a crumpled ten dollar bill. The week after, a cream-colored envelope emblazoned with "Greetings from the Red Lion Inn!" arrived from Augusta, Maine, with a whopping two hundred forty dollars, all in fresh crisp twenties, wrapped up neatly in a brown paper towel. Nine days after that, it was a white business envelope from Eugene, Oregon, containing fifty-four dollars all in rumpled one-dollar-bills, folded into a sheet of motel stationery that said "Riverside Motel" at the top.

There was never a note.

Cas soon settled on a routine. He used the first ten or twenty dollars to buy Claire something nice. First a few necessary things, like the much-needed socks; and, in later weeks, some splurges, like a pint of fancy ice cream, or a couple of movie tickets for herself and one of her school friends.

Then he took the remainder of it to the bank, always walking to the local bank branch during the lunch hour of his next work day.

On the first visit he explained to the bank teller "My daughter doesn't want to be a prostitute. We have a plan for her to not be a prostitute and she'd like to go to UM instead, and I have some money that I think might help her buy some textbooks. Do you have any suggestions for a safe place to put it?"

The bank teller gave him a bit of an odd look at first. But after some more discussion, she recommended that Cas open a special kind of savings account for Claire, and deposit all the money there.

Which he did.

The freezing winter weeks of February slid by.  The strange envelopes continued arriving, one after another, and Cas kept putting the money in the little savings account. Claire never noticed; she had always ignored the mail, since before it had only ever had the bills, really, and it was Cas who paid all the bills.

Claire didn't even know that Cas had learned Dean's real name. Claire nimbly dodged Cas's few attempts to ask about it, and it rapidly became clear that it distressed her quite a bit even just to talk about those times. She didn't seem to know much anyway; she held to her story that she didn't know much about Dean, and that he'd always used fake names. Also, her studying was going so well now that Cas hated to distract her from her schoolwork.

Reluctantly Cas decided he had to drop the topic for now. He tried searching a little online, but without a last name he couldn't get very far.

Claire seemed to cheer up over the next several weeks, and Cas knew she'd assumed that the "George Bailey" incident had faded away.

But what Claire didn't know was that every night, every single night, Cas held Dean's jacket as he fell asleep.

It was the only way he could get to sleep.

And every night he hoped against hope that the wonderful dream would recur. The one where Dean had been lying next to him. Or a dream like it, at least.

But the dream did not recur. Many other confusing dreams came instead. The familiar one of the black car, with the great black wings spreading, was the most common. And then there were the more disturbing dreams, the ones about fire and fighting. And a new, terrible one. One in which Cas was pinned helplessly to the ground by a black-eyed demon who was driving a knife right into Cas's heart.

This dream was always very short and confusing, like a brief few frames from a movie that had been filmed out of focus. He could never even get a clear look at the demon's face. Cas always woke from it gasping with panic, his heart pounding.

The nightmares came more and more. And Cas could never again recapture the sensation of that first magical dream about Dean.

And then he found he couldn't even get to sleep at all without the jacket. It was odd, really, for Cas was always very tired at bedtime. He usually spent most of the day working, and then there was planning dinner for Claire, and making dinner for Claire, and helping her study, and helping her practice the lines for her play, and then washing the dishes so that she could get in a bit more studying. He put in extra shifts at the Gas-n-Sip and the bar, too, late at night and on the weekends, to earn a few more dollars for the tiny college fund.

Rarely did he get to bed before midnight, and always he felt exhausted. Yet every night, no matter how exhausted he was, he found himself lying wide awake in the dark for an hour or two. Always, of course, thinking about the mysterious Dean.... and his lovely eyes... and his entrancing face... and the taste of his lips.

Now and then Cas puzzled over Dean's equally mysterious brother, too. It had occurred to him that the brother might be called "Sam"— this was the name Cas had heard when the voice (Dean's voice?) had spoken in the car. But even having the two names in place, "Dean" and "Sam," still didn't solve any of the major questions. He still didn't know their last names, or how to reach them, or why they were turning up in his dreams, or what his connection with them had been during the long six-year coma.

He still couldn't figure out how the "longing" feeling was happening, either. (It still recurred now and then. Faint, distant and brief.)

For hours every night the puzzling questions kept him awake, and the sleeping pills didn't help in the least.

So every night, without fail, Cas rose at last, padded to his closet in the dark, and took Dean's jacket from the hanger it shared with the tan trenchcoat. Then he'd return to bed and curl up with the jacket in his arms, burying his nose in it. Imagining Dean lying there next to him. Putting an arm around him... saying, "Your name is Cas."

Kissing Cas on the cheek.

Only then could Cas finally fall asleep.

Every morning when he rose, he was careful to put the jacket away first thing, hiding it under the trenchcoat.

It seemed like the jacket wouldn't make Claire happy. So he kept it hidden.

In the second week of this routine, Cas began to worry a little about the addictive jacket-hugging habit that he'd fallen into. Especially when the mental image of Dean lying next to him began to change. At first Cas had limited himself to recalling the kisses that had actually happened. The ones he'd given Dean; forehead, temple, cheek...lips. And the one Dean had given him, on the cheek, in that strange dream.

For the first week he just relived those memories, running them over and over through his mind, like a little movie.

But then Cas started imagining other things.

I want more, thought Cas one night. I want more kisses.

He lay there, and he imagined more.

He imagined more kisses. He imagined more touches. He imagined Dean running his hands down Cas's back. He imagined Dean pressing his leg more firmly against Cas's groin.

He imagined Dean kissing him back. He imagined what it might feel like, if Dean were to cradle his face. If Dean were begin to move against him...

The fantasies grew ever more detailed and ever more elaborate. 

He soon had to limit the more extreme fantasizing to the shower. It was easier to clean up there.

Soon he was taking a midnight shower almost every night before bed. At least the jacket's still clean, he thought ruefully, as he climbed into bed each night.

But as pleasant as the shower interludes were, they did not dull the sense of grief and bewilderment and loss that, increasingly, came upon him later in the night, in the early hours before dawn, even despite the presence of the jacket. Cas soon found he needed to arrange the jacket's empty sleeves so that it would drape over his shoulders just so. (As if someone were there embracing him.) It never helped much. For the hollow hunger was growing ever greater, the nightmares ever more frequent, the old memories of young Claire and Amelia ever flimsier, and the sensation of unreality ever worse. Some nights the only thing that felt right or real was the image of Dean's face, and the memory of that kiss in the motel.

And no matter how carefully Cas arranged the jacket's empty sleeves around him in the cold night, it did not truly keep him warm, and it really was not like a real embrace at all.

One Wednesday in early March Cas returned home with Claire from grocery-shopping. Cas was laden down with groceries, so Claire got the door. It was early in the afternoon— school let out early on Wednesdays— and Cas thought there was no danger in letting Claire open the door. But it turned out the mail had arrived earlier than usual, and Cas's heart sank when he saw Claire crouch down at the mail pile just inside the door. A bright pink envelope had caught her eye. Dean must have moved on from old discounted Christmas cards to old discounted Valentine's Day cards.

"What's this?" Claire asked, chuckling. She stood up with the pink envelope in her hand. "Someone send you a late Valentine's card?"

"Oh, that's... nothing..." Cas said, setting down the grocery bag and reaching out a hand for the pink envelope, but she had already flipped it over to read the address, and her face froze. She looked up at him.

Cas took the card from her hands. Same handwriting as ever, but it was no longer addressed to Jimmy Novak. This time the address read:

Cas

c/o Novak family

8514 SW 34th St

Missoula MT 59801

Cas was startled. Dean had switched names. Why?

After a moment Cas looked back at Claire. She was staring at him.

"It's a name that..." began Cas. How could he explain? That's the name that my imaginary friend Dean calls me in my dreams— that wasn't going to make much sense, was it? He tried: "It seems to be... a nickname of mine, I think. That George Bailey uses. I think his name is really Dean, by the way. Not Dan. Uh... Claire, I think I may have known him before. I think he might have visited me—"

"Did he tell you that was your name?" said Claire sharply. "Did he talk to you? He's been calling you?"

"No," said Cas. "No. I've never talked to him since he left, actually." Suddenly he felt frustrated by the whole situation. "I don't know how to reach him," said Cas, turning the envelope over and over in his hands as he looked down at it. "I don't even know his last name. He's never even given me a phone number. I wish he would. I really wish he would. I really— I wish I knew how to reach him."

"Wait, what?" Claire looked confused. "What's this card then? You haven't talked to him?"

"He started sending these on his own. There's never a return address, see?" Cas showed the envelope to her again. "Just these postmarks, and they're always from different states— look, this one's from Arizona." Claire leaned over to study the postmark, frowning.

"But what does he say in the letters?" said Claire, looking back up.

"There's never any letters," Cas said. "There's never even a note. See—" He tore open one side of the envelope and slid out a paper towel wrapped around something. He handed it to Claire, and she unrolled it carefully.

Inside were several twenties and a couple of ones.

"He's been sending money?" she said, looking back at Cas with her eyebrows raised.

"I don't know why," said Cas. "It's always some random amount. Usually it smells of cigarette smoke and beer."

"Pool winnings," Claire said, flipping through the twenties. "I bet. Darts. Poker. Something like that. And... he just keeps sending them? How often?"

"Every week or so," said Cas. "It's erratic."

"Every week?" she said, looking up sharply. She counted the twenties, more slowly this time. "There's... jeez, dad, there's over a hundred bucks here!" Her face changed, and she looked at him. "Where've you been stashing the money? You never mentioned this... You, uh, planning to, uh..." She paused. "...skip out or something?"

It seemed to be a joke, for she added a stiff little laugh, but she looked rather tense.

"I don't usually skip anywhere," said Cas, puzzled by the phrase. 

"Seriously, I mean, are you... gonna blow town... or something?" she said, now in quite a small voice.

"What? No, I'm not... skipping or blowing. I'm not leaving."

"Then... what're you doing with all the money?" she said, sounding only slightly reassured. "I mean, it's your money, obviously..." She held it back out to him (a bit reluctantly), and he took it. "But, why the big secret?"

Cas sighed. "It was going to be a surprise for your birthday." Claire blinked at him, and he explained, "Your ice cream and movie tickets have been coming from this money, and I've been putting all the rest in a savings account. I also added in some from the extra hours I've been working. It's got almost a thousand dollars already." He knew, even as he said it, that this must be an absolutely trivial amount for the university. He'd gathered, from his warehouse colleagues, that saving money for university was something required not months but decades of hard work. So Cas added, "I know it won't go very far, but—" He shrugged, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. "It's something, at least. I was hoping it might help."

Claire said slowly, "A savings account for..."

"College expenses," said Cas. "That's what the bank person advised. Apparently it'll only gain a little tiny bit of interest before you have to use it, but I figured, even a few dollars more might help."

She looked up at him for a long moment.

At last she said, "Seriously? That's where you've been putting Dean's money?"

"Yes."

She seemed to need a moment to take that in, blinking a few times and glancing away for a moment. Finally she said, "And Dean's cool with that?"

"I don't know if he's cool or hot," said Cas, tucking the money back in the pink envelope. "I don't know why he's sending it in the first place, so I assume I can spend it however I want, and that's how I choose to spend it."

This became one of those odd moments when Claire suddenly gave him a hug, right out of the blue. A long, tight hug. It always startled Cas when this happened; it seemed so strange not to have her cringing away.

Only rarely did he let himself look at the Fish & Wildlife badge, for it always aroused such a feeling of yearning that it seemed to keep him awake more than it helped him sleep.

But one night, when he'd done the inevitable one-in-the-morning trek to the closet to fetch the jacket, Cas couldn't resist. He got back up, went back to the closet, and slipped the badge out of the trenchcoat pocket. He brought it back to his bed, and let himself study Dean's fuzzy photo once more, in the faint light of his phone.

As had happened the other time, he ended up staring at the photograph for so long that he eventually got too sleepy to feel like getting up and walking back to the closet to put it away. So, as he had done once before, he simply wedged the badge under the little pillow. He fell asleep with it right there under the pillow, thinking, I wish I could find him again.

And once again, when at last he fell asleep, he slid directly into a dream.

Cas was in a country bar.

It all seemed a bit vague and fuzzy. There was a smoky cloudiness all around, as if the whole bar were full of a dark fog. There was a hazy impression of neon lights through the fog, and a thumping of distant, muddily amplified country music. Dozens of chattering people were drinking and moving around, some of them swirling around on a dance floor, doing something that Cas surmised might be a two-step. But everybody seemed a little out of focus.

And then Dean walked by, looking as vivid and crisp as if he'd been outlined by a laser. He was the only person who seemed in focus. Next to his vivid three-dimensional presence, everybody else in the bar looked like blurrily drawn, two-dimensional paper dolls. He seemed almost to be glowing, too, as if a spotlight were following him around the room. Cas was transfixed just watching him cross the room.

A few of the blurry paper-doll women asked spotlit-Dean to dance. "Nope," Dean replied to the blurry women. "I gotta work."

Dean brushed past all the blurry people to a back room that had a few pool tables. Cas followed, and he saw Dean (still magnificently spotlit) putting some quarters in a video game. Soon Dean was deeply engrossed in the game.

Cas inched closer till he was standing just behind Dean's shoulder to peer at the video game's screen. It was the sort of game where Dean held a little plastic gun that fired a tiny beam of light at the screen, so that the screen could detect where the gun was aimed. The screen showed a first-person view of Dean's gun, and just to the side was a tall cartoon figure labeled, in capital letters, "SAM." A bewildering variety of realistic animated enemies were leaping around on the screen, coming at Dean: vampires, werewolves, demons, ghosts, and all sorts of other monsters, all springing out from around corners and from behind trees.

Dean picked them off one by one, his plastic pistol moving efficiently. Almost every shot he fired seemed to strike true, and his score was soon increasing rapidly by hundreds of points.

Cas moved slightly to the side so that he could study Dean's face. Dean was frowning at the screen in deep concentration, braced with his feet slightly wide and both hands firmly on the plastic pistol. He had one eye squinted shut to aim better, as he dropped enemies one after another with casual precision.

Occasionally a monster leapt at the "SAM" figure. Dean's mouth always twitched when this happened, but each time he felled the monster instantly.

He got bonus points for the monsters that attacked the "SAM" figure.

Cas soon realized that Dean was incredibly good at the game— his score had soon climbed into the thousands, and phrases like "TOP SCORE!" and "YOU JUST SAVED THE WORLD!" kept appearing on the screen, accompanied by little digital cheering sounds. A few times he got shot, but each time the words "YOU'VE GOT ANOTHER LIFE" appeared on the screen, accompanied again by a little cheering soundtrack and a burst of digital confetti on the screen. Dean just kept shooting, the same grim expression on his face.

Then Cas saw Dean bite his lip, and Cas looked at the screen to see that angels had started appearing in the game, their great shining wings spreading around them as they teleported here and there. Dean picked them off anyway. One popped up labeled "LUCIFER" and when Dean shot him, there was a soundtrack of a cheering crowd and a little brass band, a burst of confetti filled the screen, and his score jumped by ten thousand points. Dean muttered, "Don't I get a break now?" and another message popped up that said, "NO, YOU CAN'T TAKE A BREAK." The screen refreshed to show a vampire leaping at the "SAM" figure.

Dean's mouth twitched, and he felled the vampire, and got back to work.

Soon Cas realized that no matter how well Dean did at the game, more enemies would always appear.

Then Dean gave a little gasp and froze. Cas glanced back at the screen, and was startled to see his own face.

There was an angel on the screen with Cas's own face, black wings spreading behind him.

"Dammit," Dean hissed. "Get outta the way." He was trying to shoot around the Cas-figure, felling other angels and vampires behind him, but the Cas-on-the-screen kept inching closer, taking up more and more of the screen.

"Cas," muttered Dean. "Don't get so close— don't get so close to me— I can't stop—"

In the next moment the Cas-on-the-screen had loomed much closer, his face almost filling the screen. Dean couldn't seem to stop firing, and though he gasped, "No," Dean's little plastic pistol shot the Cas-figure right in the chest.

The Cas-figure dropped silently to the ground, ashy black wing-marks spreading around him. The video game soundtrack made a sorrowful "aww" noise, and Dean's score plummeted to zero. The "SAM" figure broke formation for the first time in the evening, rushing forward to kneel at the Cas-figure's side, animated tears streaming down "SAM"'s face.

"No," breathed Dean, dropping the plastic pistol. It clattered to the floor. "No, I didn't meant to— I didn't mean to— Cas? CAS!" He reached out both hands to touch the screen, but the screen flickered with static and died.

"CAS?!" cried Dean, shaking the whole machine. "No, no— no, please— CAS!"

"Maybe you can unplug it and plug it back in to start over," suggested Cas, from just behind him.

Dean spun to stare at him, his eyes wide.

"I bet you could get another high score," said Cas. "You're quite good. You just have to not attack when I get close."

Dean took one long step to him and wrapped both arms very tightly around Cas's shoulders, tucking his chin over Cas's shoulder. It was quite astonishing to have him so close so suddenly. Dean turned his head to bury his face in Cas's shoulder. He was breathing in long uneven gasps. He held on for a surprisingly long time, and Cas said "Dean, I'm fine. I'm fine. Don't worry. It was just part of the game."

"You need to stop playing the game," mumbled Dean, into Cas's shoulder. "It's too dangerous. I keep killing you. Or you keep killing you. Or other things keep killing you. You keep dying. Stuff just keeps going wrong."

"That's not your fault," said Cas, gasping a little from the pressure of his arms.

Dean pulled back to look at him, both hands still on Cas's shoulders. "You know, I can't even tell for sure if it's Jimmy or if it's you," said Dean. "I couldn't even tell. Damn, I want it to be you. I want it so bad.  Sam thinks I've lost my mind, cause, he keeps saying, you weren't talking like yourself. You had Jimmy's voice, and Claire says it's not you. But, damn, the way you kissed me..." He squeezed Cas's shoulders. "It has to be you. Or part of you, at least." He was silent for a long moment, looking at Cas.

Then he finally let go of Cas and dropped his hands slowly to his sides, adding, "Wish there was something I could do, buddy. I wish I knew what to do."

"You don't have to help—" Cas started to say, utterly bewildered by now. "I'm okay. The money's helping, but I don't know why you—"

"Oh, right, jeez, I almost forgot, I got some more here—" said Dean, and he began rummaging through his pockets. He came up with a huge fistful of dollar bills in each hand. "Here," he said, shoving them at Cas.  There were so many dream-dollar-bills that Cas couldn't even hold them all. Most of them went spilling to the floor.

"I want to help," Dean said, his voice tight. "I gotta help at least a bit. Whether it's all the way you or partly you or not you at all... You're trying to take care of her, I could see that. You were shivering, your clothes weren't warm enough. Sam looked up her school records; she's getting the low-income lunch meals so I know you're not making much. Dammit, here—"  Dean emptied his pockets out, shoved another pile of singles at Cas, and looked around. It suddenly turned out that there were dollar bills lying all over the pool tables nearby, and Dean dashed over to them, shoving a number of rather fuzzy pool players out of the way. The pool players just said "Hey..." half-heartedly and drifted away, evaporating into the surrounding fog, as Dean began scooping up all the money off a pool table. "If it'll help," he said, running back to Cas and stuffing more crumpled handfuls of money into Cas's hands. "Here. Here, take this." He grabbed another fistful of ones. "And this. Here, take this too."

"Dean, wait. Stop," said Cas. He had to grab Dean by the shoulder to make him stop running around collecting dollar bills.

"It's the only way I can help," said Dean. His voice was getting rougher. "It's the only thing I can do. You need to stay out of the game."

"What if I'd rather—"

"Every time you get back in the game," interrupted Dean, "You get hurt."

"But what I'd like to do is—"

"You gotta stay safe. "

"What if I—"

"Jimmy or Cas or whoever you are. You gotta stay safe. It's the most important thing."

"You're not listening to me," pointed out Cas, starting to get annoyed. "What if I'd rather be with you? What if that's the most important thing?"

Dean looked at him. 

"Oh," said Dean. "Is this that kinda dream? Can I go there?"

Suddenly Dean was right in Cas's face, kissing him right on the lips, pushing him back against the pool table. "Always wanted to do this," said Dean, as he shoved Cas relentlessly back on the table. Cas let it happen (or rather, he found he wanted it to happen), and moments later he was lying right back on the pool table, billiard balls rolling slowly around him, and, quite impossibly, Dean was climbing on top of him.

The green fuzzy surface of the pool table expanded out around them, as wide as a swath of green grass. The bar seemed to fade away entirely. The billiard balls were little rocks now, the grass stretching out around them, and they were on a grassy dune now, at night, with fog drifting around them and the sound of ocean waves crashing nearby, and the dim light bulb above the pool tables had turned into the moon. Dean was sprawled fully on top of him now, kissing Cas hungrily, his tongue exploring Cas's mouth. Cas was so surprised he couldn't even get his breath at first. Dean broke off the kiss to push the trenchcoast aside and focus for a moment on getting Cas's suitjacket unbuttoned, and then he started tugging up on Cas's shirt. Cas grabbed back at him, so overwhelmed that he could barely breathe.

"This is an el primo Jack Daniels dream," muttered Dean. "Finished off that bottle tonight. That's one good thing about drinking to forget you, I gotta say— I do sometimes get some good dreams out of it. Wait... " He paused for a moment, his hands stilling on Cas's shirt. "This can't be one of those weird dreams, can it? Dreamwalking?"

"I've got no idea," said Cas, who had no clue what "dreamwalking" was."Does it matter?" He took advantage of Dean's brief moment of stillness to shove Dean's own t-shirt up and start running one hand along Dean's back, knotting his other hand into Dean's hair and pulling Dean's head back down for another kiss.

"I wondered about that other dream too, but it can't be," said Dean, in between kisses. "Cause you'd never go for any of this. And besides, even if it's really you out there in Missoula—" He gave Cas another kiss. "You obviously don't have—" Another kiss. "Any power." Another kiss. "Which means no dreamwalking. So..." Another kiss. "This can't be real. This is just a dream." Then he'd gotten Cas's belt undone (he added, "But a really good dream"), and then Cas's shirt had been shoved up farther. Dean rearranged himself a little, sliding about halfway off of Cas so that he could run his hand all over Cas's chest. As he did so he propped himself up a little on his right elbow and leaned over Cas's face, kissing Cas very gently, stroking Cas's hair with his right hand.

Cas had many things he wanted to say ("What's your last name" and "What's dreamwalking" and "Why did I have wings in that game" and "When did we meet" and many, many more), all sorts of questions crowding into his mind at once, but the kissing became such an engrossing activity that Cas found he could not break it off to speak. He still had one hand knotted in Dean's hair, and was astonished to find that his other hand had roamed down and had somehow ended up on Dean's ass. Cas tightened his hold and Dean muttered, "Jesus. Best whiskey dream in years."

Dean began sliding his left hand slowly up Cas's chest. Cas groaned, and groaned again as Dean's hand changed direction and began to move back down.

Dean started talking, between an endless series of kisses. "Cas, Cas. Shoulda done this. Shoulda done this with you. Shoulda did it. Why didn't I. Why didn't I..." Dean's hand traversed a long and exquisitely slow path down Cas's stomach and then headed right down into Cas's pants, as Dean kept murmuring, "Why didn't we. Why didn't we ever..." And now Dean had reached right into Cas's underwear, and was taking hold of Cas's cock. Calmly and firmly, Dean took hold of him, and began stroking, while Cas groaned "Yessss..."

"Why didn't we ever do this," said Dean. "We never did this."

"That was stupid," gasped Cas, pressing into Dean's hand. It felt absolutely sublime. "We were stupid."

"I wanted it," Dean whispered, in between the endless kisses. His hand tightened; Cas's gasps grew shorter and rougher. Dean went on, "I wanted to be the one. Shoulda been me. Instead of that bitch reaper chick. Shoulda been me. Shoulda been your first. I missed my chance, Cas.... I lost my chance...." His hand kept moving. The air seemed feverishly hot now, and a wash of incredibly delicious prickles ran over Cas's skin, the fog swirling around them. All that mattered was Dean, and Dean's voice, and Dean's kisses, and the weight of Dean's body sprawled half across Cas's, and Dean's wonderful sweaty scent, and Dean's throaty voice and his soft hair in Cas's hand, and most of all Dean's hand, the way it was right on Cas's cock. Impossibly bold, impossibly forbidden: right on Cas's cock. Stroking him, faster, faster.

"That good?" Dean whispered.

"It's... wonderful," Cas grunted, and soon he was simply rutting up into Dean's hand, pushing up at him in short, sharp strokes. The heat was building impossibly. Cas felt it seizing him. He clutched desperately at Dean.

"Ah, yeah, angel," muttered Dean, his hand accelerating. "Yeah, like that. Yeah... Yeah..."

The heat rose and rose, blossoming within him, and then Cas was coming, coming hard, right under Dean's hand. He shuddered with it, spasming against Dean, while Dean kept jerking Cas's cock. Dean's touch was fast, firm, incomparably wonderful, all the way through it.

"Yeah. Yeah. Just like that. Just like that," whispered Dean, as Cas's spasms finally began to wind down. While Cas was getting his breath back, Dean wiped his hand on the grass, and wrapped his arm around Cas's waist, and all the while he kept stroking Cas's hair with his other hand, and kissing him over and over, with exceptional tenderness now. Delicate, soft kisses, on Cas's nose, on his forehead, on his cheek. Between the kisses Dean began whispering little phrases: "Shoulda been just like that. That woulda been just the start. Just the start of the night. It shoulda been like that. Shoulda been just like that."

Cas still remembered nothing of what Dean was talking about, but he slowly realized that Dean was starting to cry.

"Shoulda been just like that," Dean, still kissing him over and over, grief clear in his voice now. "Shouldn't've just been a dream. Shoulda been just like that... it shoulda been just like that..."

Cas finally caught his breath enough to say, "Dean, it is just like that."

Dean broke the string of kisses and pulled back a few inches to look at him. The wind stilled. The dream-clouds parted overhead, and the dream-moon shone down, and Cas saw Dean studying him.

"Cas?" Dean said, just as he had in the first dream. There was disbelief in his eyes.

"It's me," said Cas, tightening his hold on Dean's hair. He kissed Dean on the mouth.

Dean was frozen in shock. The dream ended in mid-kiss.

A/N - ahhhh, there's no sex dream like a dreamwalking-sex dream. :)

Next up: Claire comes to a decision. I am aiming to get it done for Friday.

If you liked anything in particular please let me know. I always love to hear from you!

Chapter Text

 A/N - almost had to split this chapter... but I didn't!  Again I skipped dinner for you guys and it's nearly 2am and I'm having to skip the last proofread, so please forgive me the typos. Racing now to get this fic done before the next Claire episode obliterates this fic totally! 

Warning: Two movies are discussed in this chapter. If you don't want spoilers for either of those movies, once you see the title of the movie, skip the rest of that section. 

Cas woke covered with sweat.

He lay there in the dark staring up at the ceiling, wondering what had just happened.

Could that have been... real? he thought.

Is such a thing even possible?

And then, as if on cue, the longing feeling roared to life again.

It was very clear. But it had an ineffable feeling of remoteness to it. Rather like echoes of distant music, Cas thought. Distant music echoing down a very long canyon. He knew, without being able to say how he knew, that the source was very far away - thousands of miles, probably.

Yet despite its remoteness, it lasted longer than usual. Instead of being snuffed out right away, as had been happening in recent days, it continued. For several minutes.

Cas kept his eyes closed, lying so still he was barely breathing, hoping to get a clear sense of direction.

But it was just too far away. Gradually the longing feeling faded. It didn't completely stop; but it faded, to just a dim tugging feeling in the background. At last, reluctantly, Cas opened his eyes, realizing he probably wasn't going to figure out where it was coming from.

It wasn't till he finally sighed and shifted position, moving his legs a little, that he realized there was a distinct damp patch in the crotch of his pajamas. Oh. Right, he thought. A little inspection verified that he did indeed need a quick change of pajamas. Fortunately it turned out the jacket was still clean (it had apparently been wedged up by his head, on the pillow, and had been safely out of the way). The top sheet, however, would also need a change.

Well, if ever any dream was worth cleaning up for, that one was, Cas thought, smiling to himself a little as he clambered out of bed.

I only wish I could have returned the favor. If he'd had just a few more minutes with Dean....

So many possibilities came to mind, it was difficult even to pick one.

The longing-feeling was almost imperceptible now. Cas was still haunted by the sensation, but he finally managed to get to work: he stripped the top sheet off, grabbed a change of pajamas and tiptoed to the bathroom, where he locked the door and wiped himself fastidiously clean with a damp washcloth. He had never been embarrassed about bodily functions, of course, but it was good to keep clean anyway. It's all just part of how the vessel functions, he thought, as he rinsed out the washcloth and put on the new pajamas. It takes a certain amount of maintenance. And it's just always seemed the respectful thing to do, to keep the vessel tidy for the owner—

Body, he reminded himself, his hands slowing on the pajama buttons.

"Body," was the term. Not "vessel."

"Vessel?" Where had that word come from? What were these thoughts about "vessel maintenance?"

And, "owner?"

For a moment it seemed almost as if there was a whole different set of concepts tucked away in his mind. He could almost sense them all there; different ways of thinking about bodies, different ways of thinking about everything, a whole other encyclopedic set of thoughts and information. A different set of vocabulary, even....almost as if there were an entire other language tucked away in his mind somewhere. All locked up in closed books sitting on a dark shelf, waiting to be used.

He stood very still, looking in the mirror now, and was suddenly overwhelmed with the sensation that the face in the mirror was not really his own true face.

The sensation faded eventually. Cas finally managed to finish buttoning his pajamas, now feeling a little rattled. He carefully avoided looking in the mirror again.

When he returned to his room, he sat down on the edge of the bed for a while, knowing he should just try to go to sleep again.

But... that dream!

It couldn't have been real. Could it?

He couldn't help but pick up Dean's jacket and set it in his lap. And then his eye fell on the pillow, and he remembered something else:

The badge.

The badge under the pillow. The wonderful (incredible!) dream had happened when Cas had had both the badge and the jacket with him when he fell asleep. In fact, the previous dream had involved the same two things! The badge and the jacket. Could there possibly be... something... magical about them? Otherworldly?

Something supernatural?

Cas picked up Claire's little hand-sewn pillow to look under it, and there, sure enough, was the badge. There was Dean's face, clearly visible now that he had his room light on. And then, as he was looking at the badge, holding the pillow in one hand, with the jacket in his lap, he heard a voice.

At first it sounded like the blood rushing in his ears, but then it came clear. It was definitely a voice. But it was just fragments of sentences:

 "...me? Cas, can you hear me at all? Are you there? If you can h...."

Dean's voice.

Cas dropped the pillow and snatched up the badge.

But the voice had stopped. It faded into fuzzy static again, and into silence.

Cas couldn't sit still. He rose from his bed, still clutching the jacket and the badge hopefully, and went to the darkened living room, where there was a large picture window with a view of the street. He stood by the picture window for a long time, looking out at the world outside. At the lone streetlight, and the skeletal trees; at the bright winter stars.

He looked at the southern horizon. Had the voice been coming... from the south, maybe? From the east?

Cas waited a long time by the window. He even went outside for a few minutes, standing on the stoop shivering in the icy March night, hoping maybe he might pick up something— anything. Maybe if he were outside, under the open sky, without the four walls surrounding him? He tried closing his eyes and thinking of Dean, trying to project his own thoughts back.

Nothing happened.

When the shivering got too strong, he came back inside and tried staring at the little badge again, sitting on the sofa staring at it in the moonlight. He tried curling up on the sofa while he clutched the badge to his chest; he tried stuffing the badge under one of the sofa-pillows and holding the jacket close, trying to replicate what had happened in his bedroom.

But the magical dream did not recur.

A new thought came to mind as Cas lay there.

He thought, Should I be ashamed?

Of what had happened in the dream, that is.

For there was somewhere, he knew, a list of prohibitions. Rules that were not supposed to be broken. And, in that dream, he'd broken one. Or two.

Or several, actually.

He searched his conscience, but (rather to his surprise) he found no sense of shame.

There was no shame at all.

For what shame could there be in experiencing such a joyful physical pleasure with a willing friend? (For Dean was a friend. And a dear one. Of that, Cas was sure.)

What harm could there be, in this strange short lonely human life, in this vanishingly brief life of pain and powerlessness, in sharing some affection?

Or more, he dared to think to himself. More than just the physical pleasure; more than just "affection." The tenderness of those kisses, afterwards....

The list of prohibitions (prohibitions he only faintly remembered) had to be wrong. Perhaps it had always been wrong. A relic of a lost era; restrictions imposed by powerful beings who, Cas knew somehow, had never had humanity's best interests at heart.

What had happened in the dream, however it had happened, had not been wrong. It had been right.

It had been very, very right.

The pale light of dawn woke him. Cas blinked awake to find he'd curled up right there on the couch, the badge right under his head. He'd been sleeping on it, actually, and it had made an imprint on his cheek. The jacket was still in his hands. But it hadn't worked. No more magical dreams had happened, and the voice had not returned, and the sense of longing was only the thinnest, most tenuous of threads now.

Whatever strange magic had brought that marvelous dream, just having the badge and jacket was not enough to make it happen again.

Cas was distracted all day. He tried to hide it from Claire, but of course she noticed. On the drive to school, she asked if he were feeling all right. Later when Cas picked her up again, after a long and tiring warehouse shift, she asked again if he were all right. And later that evening, when she came out of her bedroom from studying and found Cas standing at the picture window, staring out at the sunset, she started to sound worried.

"Dad?" she said. "What's going on?" She glanced toward the kitchen. "Did you even start dinner?"

"I'm sorry, Claire," Cas said, coming to himself. He turned to look at her. "I was going to. I forgot. I'm so sorry. I'll start it right now."

"You really okay, Dad?"

"I'm fine," said Cas, heading for the kitchen. He patted her on the shoulder as he passed her. "How's your studying?"

"Okay," she said, watching him walk past. "Dad, you look a little... " She hesitated. "Distracted."

"I'm fine," he repeated.

But she didn't seem convinced.

Cas did manage to get a meal on the table for her. He had to resort to canned food (because he had forgotten about dinner till pretty late) and ended up making a combination of food that Claire had shown him last fall: cheese toast and tomato soup. But it tasted surprisingly good for such a simple meal. Claire was full of praise.

Yet Cas found he had little appetite. He took a few bites of his cheese toast and then spent most of dinnertime pushing the soup around with his spoon, watching the little ripples that formed on the surface of the soup. Claire was chattering on about her school day— trying to entertain him, he suspected— and he nodded vacantly now and then, but all Cas was thinking was: Dean seemed so sad.

"... so you want me to get you one?" Claire was saying. She paused; the silence snapped Cas out of his reverie.

Cas blinked, looking up at her. "Excuse me?"

Her shoulders slumped a little. "You weren't even listening, were you."

"I'm sorry, Claire," he said, reaching out to pat her hand. The most important thing is to make sure Claire is happy, he reminded himself, reciting it mentally like a litany. He had to keep deliberately reminding himself of it, these days. "I'm just a little distracted tonight. What did you say?"

She gave a little sigh, and said, tucking her hair back behind her ear with one finger. "I said, rehearsal went really well. Play-practice. And I said, do you want me to get you a ticket? I mean, a ticket for the play." She paused and added, a little uncertainly, "The other kids..." She rubbed her nose. "The other kids' parents are all coming and the director asked me if I needed a ticket for you. But it's not a big deal. I'm just asking because, he asked me to ask you, is all. It doesn't matter."

"Oh," said Cas, sitting up a little. Was this one of those things parents were expected to do for their children? Witness the results of their play-practices? Their ability to memorize strings of words?

"It's in two weeks," said Claire. "Friday and Saturday. It's not a big deal though. Just thought I'd let you know." She ducked her head down, returning her attention to her soup. But Cas could tell, from the way Claire was now avoiding all eye contact, that this was important to her.

"Of course I'd like a ticket," said Cas. "I'd very much like to see it."

She shrugged at her soup. "It's not a big deal actually. It doesn't really matter."

"I'd like to come," said Cas.

"You don't have to see it. It'll probably suck."

"I want to see it."

"You sure?" she said, glancing up quickly. 

"Positive. Please get me a ticket."

She looked up again, and this time a lopsided smile crept onto her mouth.

"I'm sorry I didn't hear you before," explained Cas. "I was just distracted."

"You sure you're okay?" she asked. Her gaze flicked down to his still-full soup bowl. "You've hardly eaten. Everything's really fine?"

"Everything's fine," said Cas, nodding. "Nothing's wrong. It's just... Just a bit of an odd day. I keep feeling like..." He hesitated. "Like I've lost something. Like I can't find something I've forgotten."

Claire looked at him for a moment.

After that Claire insisted on spending the evening with him. He helped her with a bit of homework, and helped her practice her play-lines once more, and then they sat and watched tv together.

Or rather, they turned the TV on. But neither of them really watched it much. Cas spent most of his time staring out the window, and he became aware, now and then, that Claire was spending most of her time watching Cas.

When at last Claire headed to bed, Cas roused himself. "Claire," he called, as she was almost disappearing into her room. She paused and looked back from her doorway as he got up to walk over to her.

"I've been thinking," said Cas, stopping a few feet away from her.

"About?"

"About that angel."

Claire looked at him.

"What... angel?" she said slowly.

"The angel that didn't answer you," said Cas. "I don't know why I was thinking about it, but it was on my mind tonight. I guess I've been thinking, it's hard to be..." He paused, and took a breath. "It's hard to be trying to contact someone and to get no answer. To not have a way to reach them. I was wondering, did you ever forgive him? That angel? Or do you..." He faltered. "You don't hate him, or anything, do you?" This thought made his stomach clench, for some reason.

Claire looked at him for a long moment.

"I don't hate him," she said. "Not anymore."

Cas felt only slightly reassured. "Okay," he said. "I was just wondering. Good night, sweetheart." He started to turn away, only to realize she was not going into her room. She was still looking at him.

She said, "But I still wish I knew why he didn't answer."

"Well..." said Cas. "Sometimes communication is difficult."

"You mean... maybe his cell phone died?" said Claire, with an almost gentle smile.

Cas considered that. His gaze slid up to the ceiling as he tried to think of why an angel wouldn't answer a brokenhearted little girl's prayers. "A cell phone wouldn't explain it," said Cas, "Who knows. Maybe he was too busy."

Claire actually laughed. "Right," she said. "Busy. With what?"

"Oh, I don't know. Could have been anything," said Cas, still staring up at the ceiling as he pondered the question. It was an interesting question. It was a very interesting question. It suddenly seemed to be all he could think about. Though Cas was also a little distracted now by a curious mental sliding sensation, as if he were skidding around on a sheet of ice, unable to get his footing. He said, "Maybe he... couldn't?"

Claire nodded slowly, and had started to turn away, saying, "Never mind—" just as a flash of inspiration hit Cas, and he said, "He could have been busy trying to find God."

Claire turned back to look at him.

Cas went on, "He could have been trying to find God to... to..."

He paused. It had been just on the tip of his tongue.

Why would an angel be looking for God?

He tried again. "He could have been trying to find God... because.... because..." said Cas. An idea came to him suddenly: "... because the angel wanted to convince God to stop Lucifer from destroying the world."

Claire didn't say a word. She had one arm wrapped around herself now, the other clutching a piece of her blonde hair, as she looked at him.

Another explanation popped to mind, and Cas added, "He could have been planning to answer, but before he could, he was tortured for the crime of wanting to help people. He might've heard your prayers from the torture chamber, I mean, the correction room, the correction room is what I meant, but couldn't answer 'cause he was shackled down. He might've wanted to answer and thought maybe he could later. But then later suppose he that he had to do some task like... "

Another pause, as Cas considered the possibilities. Another idea floated to mind: ".... like, stopping the four horsemen of the Apocalypse, just for example. And that would have taken some time, I suppose." The more Cas thought about it, the more ideas he had. He added, "He could've got stuck commanding the armies of Heaven in a terrible civil war. He might've gone crazy for a while and made some awful mistakes. Maybe he tried to step in as God and messed up so badly he knew he could never make it up. He could have gotten stuck in Purgatory for a year or something and was hoping he would die there."

The ideas kept coming: maybe the angel had gone insane. Or had lost his powers. Or lost... his...

...lost his memory...

The thought flitted away, erased instantly and replaced by a new one: "And he might've been ashamed, too. Suppose he'd tried his best but then he realized his best was pretty terrible and he'd actually failed you. Failed everybody. He did help save the world, maybe, but it was his first time acting on his own, he messed up in so many other ways, and he was ashamed."

Cas concluded, still staring up at the ceiling, "All kinds of possibilities, really."

He finally looked back at Claire.

Claire was absolutely still.

"It could have been something like that," said Cas. He reached out and patted her on the shoulder again. "Right?"

"Right... Dad," Claire said, in a slightly odd tone of voice. "Okay.... uh. So...."

"So don't you worry about it," Cas said. He took a step closer to give her his usual goodnight kiss-on-the-top-of-the-head. Claire stood extremely still while he did so, and when Cas stepped back she was still staring at him.

"You... uh," said Claire. She cleared her throat. "You need any help with... the... dishes? Or anything?"

"No, thanks," said Cas, smiling at her. "I've got it covered. The soup was okay, wasn't it? It wasn't too bad?"

"Yeah..." she said. "No. I mean no. I mean yeah. I mean, yes, the soup was great. Um, thanks for the, uh, the dinner."

"You're welcome, sweetie. You sleep well now." Cas turned away to do the dishes: the plates and bowls, the forks and spoons, the soup pot, and of course the long silver kitchen knife that he'd used to cut up the cheese.

Later that night Cas set the Fish & Wildlife badge under his pillow once more, and held the jacket in his arms. He thought, as he clicked off the light on his phone and let his head sink down on the little pillow, I wonder where he is right now.

And this time, again, he slid directly into a dream.

But it wasn't the same sort of dream. It was... stuttering. Shaking. As if something was wrong with the connection. (Assuming there really was some kind of "connection.") At first Cas saw brief flickers of images that wouldn't properly connect into a dream. Then it resolved: a long black road stretching ahead. Street lights, flickering by. Red taillights gleaming ahead in the night. The dark landscape rushing by. Music playing on a car stereo.

I'm in the black car, thought Cas. But it wasn't the usual black-car dream.  The car wasn't lifting up into the stars; there were no wings spreading. Instead it was acting like a perfectly normal car. It was staying right down on the road, tires firmly in touch with the asphalt, and everything seemed much more...physical than usual.

Dean was driving. His eyes were fixed on the road. The brother— "Sam," was that his name?— was slumped against the door, dozing.

Cas said, "Dean?"

The car gave a wild swerve. The brother came awake, yelling, "Dean, DEAN! Wake up!"

"Sorry, Sam," said Dean, straightening out the car. "Sorry."

The dream began to fade away. Cas tried to hold onto it, but the images faded. But for a few moments longer he could still hear their voices. Sam was saying: "Crap, you trying to kill us both? C'mon, man, I know something's going on. You gotta tell me what's up."

"I'm fine."

"Dean, I know it's Cas, I know you're thinking about him. It's okay to talk about him—"

"I can't."

"Dean.... " Sam took a breath. "You know it wasn't your fault. The Mark was—"

"Sam, I seriously cannot talk about it."

"Well... Look, could you at least try not to drive us off the road. We gotta stop somewhere. Hey, there's a motel—"

The dream was gone.

It was because of the wish! Cas thought, as soon as he awoke.

I have to make a wish!

It wasn't just the badge and the jacket: there was a third thing he'd been doing, a third thing that he'd done without even thinking about it, each time he'd had one of the strange dreams. Each time, he'd had the badge, and the jacket, AND, he'd also done one last thing before he'd fallen asleep: he'd made a wish. Sometimes he'd spoken it aloud: "I wish I could find him." Sometimes he'd just thought it: "I wonder where he is right now." Maybe not a formal wish, exactly, maybe not always using the word "wish," but he'd had a certain goal in mind. And each time it had been the last thing he'd thought as he'd fallen asleep.

Cas was itching to test the theory right away. But he had a strong impression he shouldn't try to contact Dean again just now (that car-swerve, if it had been real, had been all too alarming). But could he test his theory some other way?

And he got an idea.

I'd like to relive our first kiss, thought Cas, as he set Dean's badge under the little hand-sewn pillow, and curled up again with his nose buried in the jacket. I'd like to relive the first time I tasted this scent.

He kept the thought in his mind a long time. It seemed to take a long time to fall asleep this time, and his head began to ache, and his shoulderblades began to hurt. But he kept the thought firmly in mind: I want to relive our first kiss.

And at last he fell asleep, and slid directly into a dream.

But this time it was a nightmare.

It was the nightmare with the demon.

It was the nightmare with the demon who always attacked Cas. Before tonight, the nightmare had always been blurry; it had always been impossible to make out the demon's face clearly. But this time, for the first time, the nightmare was sharp and clear, and Cas could see the demon's face clearly, and the demon was Dean.

Dean had somehow become a demon. An actual demon, with shining black eyes. There was a vivid red mark on his right forearm, too, and Cas knew, glancing at it, that this was the source of all that had gone wrong. This was the source of the demonic power in Dean's eyes. It's taken him over again, Cas knew. The demon-power was still within him all along, just hidden; we did not eradicate it at all.

Dean advanced another step, and Cas limped backwards, looking around. They were in some kind of roundish room. There was a glass table nearby that bore a big painted map on its surface, and a long room stretched out behind Dean.  Cas caught a quick glimpse of a telescope at the far end, and bookshelves along the sides. Some sort of a library, perhaps. But he couldn't spend any more time looking around, for Dean was walking slowly toward Cas, driving him slowly backwards, expressionless, his black eyes shining, and Dean was holding a silver knife exactly like Cas's kitchen knife.

No, wait. That WAS Cas's silver kitchen knife. Cas was certain.

Cas knew then that he'd arrived in the middle of the scene. For it turned out he had a dim memory of how it had all begun; how the Mark had begun eating at Dean again, until one night Dean had taken him by surprise. Cas had set the kitchen knife down, thinking he was in a safe place, and Dean had quietly picked it up and gone on the attack before Cas had realized what was happening. Dean had tried to strike a lethal blow right off the bat; it had been a stroke of luck that Cas had sensed what was coming, a split second before the blow would have landed, and had only been injured.

They'd been fighting for a while now, Dean moving with demonic speed with the knife, backing Cas down the library aisle while Cas had struggled to dodge the barrage of knife strikes, unarmed and wounded and weakened.

At this point in the battle, as Dean advanced toward him in the map-room, Dean's face was only a bit bruised, but Cas was truly hurt. It was hard to straighten up, and there were a lot of little stabbing pains. Cas didn't need to look down to know that he was bleeding silver light from several small wounds.

My borrowed grace was very weak before and weaker now, he thought, not even quite remembering what a "borrowed grace" was. And I'm injured. And his demon power is very strong.

He is stronger than me now.

I have to end this for good, or he will end me. And if he ends me, with the Mark intact, he will go on to destroy Sam, and then himself.

I have to rid him of the Mark. I must.

"What's the matter, angel?" said Dean softly, taking another step forward. "You look a little wobbly there. Lost some of your power, maybe? How's that grace sitting in you? Eating you alive again, like the other one?"

"This isn't you, Dean," said Cas, backing up another step. He realized there was a wall close behind him; Dean had him cornered now. Cas repeated, "This isn't you. That's the Mark talking."

A little smile came onto Dean's face. "Maybe that's all there is left of me."

"No," said Cas, shaking his head. "You're still in there. I know you are. The Mark does not have to define you— we can get rid of it, I know there's a way—"

"You know, maybe I'm doing you a favor, you ever thought of that?" said Dean. "You'd just die a slow miserable death anyway, with that borrowed grace eating you away inside. A quick death in battle is much better, don't you think?"

There was no more talking; Dean just charged.

Dean charged, Cas dodged; Dean charged again, Cas dodged again. Cas knew he was moving much more slowly than usual, and he felt a flash of pain along his side as Dean caught him once more with the edge of the blade. If I weren't so slow I could have dodged that, thought Cas. If I weren't so weak I could have turned the blade against him. His moves are predictable. Blades are not his specialty. If I weren't hurt— if I weren't weakened—If he hadn't taken me by surprise —

But Cas had been taken by surprise (he was quite lucky, in fact, that he'd managed to half-dodge Dean's initial killing blow). And he was hurt, and he was weakened.

They circled around each other. Cas was panting now, and he felt exhaustion dragging at his feet. He knew he had only one, maybe two, moves left in him. As Dean began to charge at him again Cas thought, Now or never.

If I am to make a move it must be now.

It was perhaps Cas's ten-thousandth knife-battle, and he saw, with perfect clarity, exactly how Dean was turning: the arc of Dean's motion, where his momentum was, which foot his weight was on, the way the length of his arm was affecting his balance, the way he'd extended his leg and transferred his weight to it, the next step he was about to take. As if it were a dance in slow motion Cas saw all the possibilities spread out around him. There were twelve different ways Dean might take the next step; twelve different ways he might turn. Cas saw them all. He'll do the side-step, thought Cas, and sure enough Dean began the side-step.

As he had done with every blow Dean had struck, Cas was evaluating all the options even while Dean was still only halfway through delivering the blow. Cas saw two ways to turn the knife against Dean and stab him. Both would likely be fatal; Cas discarded those options. He saw another opportunity to wound Dean, by grabbing the blade and, if he were lucky, if his injured arm could still hold the blade, swiveling to cut across the tendons in Dean's knee. Cas nearly took that option, but then realized it might cripple Dean permanently, and he let that one go too. He saw not one, not two, but four different ways to disarm Dean; but Cas knew he didn't have the strength or breath left in him to do the first three successfully, and the fourth involved the blade flying across the floor, and Dean would be the first to reach the blade afterwards, and he would win in the end.

All the possible feints, dodges and counter-attacks played out with Dean regaining control of the battle and Cas just more exhausted than before.

Now or never, thought Cas again.

Then Cas saw a solution.

There was one other thing he could do.

It wouldn't save Cas.

But there was a chance it might save Dean.

Dean completed the side-step, swiveling toward him with a long circular sweep of the blade, and Cas deliberately stepped forward, right into the path of the blade. Dean flinched at the last second, a flicker of uncertainty running across his face, as if he had suddenly realized what was really happening. The blade jerked a few inches to the side. But it struck home nonetheless. Cas saw the flash of silver just as it ripped into him.

It felt like a hot punch, like a red-hot hammer. A spear of fire. It plunged deeply into his chest. There was a weird, twisted sensation of terrific wrongness, and then Cas felt the blinding, dizzying pain of his borrowed grace splintering into pieces.

This was what killed angels, of course; when a grace was pierced like this, it shattered into pieces, and then the pieces exploded, and it was the explosion that actually tore the angel's self apart. Cas knew that; he'd always known it; and he'd known it would happen when he stepped forward into the path of the blade. He'd known he would die. He felt the grace shatter, and then he was hanging onto Dean's forearms with both hands, the blade still buried to the hilt, feeling the pieces of shattered grace vibrating deep with in him, as the grace began to splinter apart.

A calm thought drifted through his mind: The average delay between piercing of the grace and explosion of the grace, for a seraph of my tier, is eight seconds.

There was always a delay. Cas had gambled everything on that brief pause.

The eight seconds began counting down.

Eight...

He needed to raise his hands, or one hand at least, to accomplish his last act. But he'd underestimated the dizzying vertigo, and the way the shocking pain was transfixing him. He wasted the first second just hanging there on the blade, gasping with the nauseating shock of it, barely able to keep his feet. Dean was right in front of him, inches away, his lips parted now in a triumphant snarl, the alien black demon-eyes fixed on Cas's face.

Seven...

The shattered grace began to fray, pieces falling loose at the edges, loosening into tendrils that lashed out and swirled through his vessel. Cas thought, in increasing desperation, I have to lift my hands. But it was taking everything he had just to stay on his feet.

Six...

The black flickered away from Dean's eyes, and there was Dean, himself again for a moment, staring at Cas from just a few inches away, one hand still on the haft of the blade, now with an expression of sheer horror on his face.

Five...

Dean said, "Cas," and Cas wanted to reply, but could not. He still could not lift his hand. At last Cas commanded himself, as if he were a soldier in the garrison, Soldier, lift your hand! But he could not lift his hand, and his knees buckled, and he collapsed, slumping down against the wall behind him, Dean crying out and going to his knees with him.

Four....

SOLDIER, LIFT YOUR HAND! At last Cas managed to lift one hand. He could not see Dean any more, for his vision was swirling now with blue, but he felt Dean trying to support him, and he grabbed at where he thought Dean's head was.

Three....

Cas pulled Dean's face to his own. Dean hadn't been expecting this move at all and it took him off balance. Dean's teeth knocked hard against Cas's lips.

Two....

Cas's mouth filled with blood. Dean was gasping against Cas's lips, making little jerky movements— Dean was fumbling at the blade now, scrambling a little sideways to try to pull it out, groaning into Cas's mouth—and Cas thought, This is our first kiss.

One...

Cas held Dean's head to his own and kept on kissing him; and inside he felt the shattered piece of grace suddenly ballooning, boiling up in his throat. Distantly he felt his feathers start to char, and he thought, I didn't even know I still had my wings.

Zero.

The destroyed grace roared through him in a million burning pieces, shredding everything in its path. Every feather ignited at once, burning to ash. Dean struggled to get free, but Cas held him close with the last ounce of his strength, and as the raw Heavenly power flooded out of Cas's mouth and eyes and hands, a part of the destroyed grace poured directly into Dean's mouth. A galvanic jolt went through Dean's body as the Heavenly power met the demonic power and scoured through him like a burning whirlwind, annihilating all the evil in its path, burning it away. The last thing Cas heard was Dean screaming, and the last thing Cas thought was: Please live. I love you.

"DAD! Dad! Wake up! Wake up!"

Cas flailed around, trying to fling Dean away, for the exploding grace was too powerful— it was too risky— he had to throw Dean clear— he shoved Dean away and then groped at his own chest, in a desperate attempt to pull out the knife— his very own kitchen knife— Dean had stabbed Cas in the chest with Cas's very own kitchen knife!

"DAD!"

Cas looked around, gasping, and realized the person he'd just shoved away was Claire, not Dean, and that Claire was sprawled on the floor. Then he heard sobbing and he thought it was her. But Claire bounced up, apparently unhurt. She wasn't sobbing at all (though she looked very shocked and scared). Yet the sobbing sounds continued, and Cas realized that the sounds were coming from him.

Claire scrambled over to him again on her hands and knees, knelt by the edge of the mattress, and shook him by the shoulders.

"Dad, Dad, wake up, you're okay, you're okay! Wake up!" she said. Cas couldn't seem to stop sobbing. Claire pulled the comforter up and around him, and wrapped him in a hug. Once again, as after the parking lot incident, their roles had flipped: Claire was the parent, Cas the little child.

Cas clung to her, utterly overwhelmed. The sobs were fading now but he was still gasping for breath, shaking and stunned and still half-blinded by the memory of the exploding grace. "Shh, shh, you're okay," Claire whispered, patting his head.

"Where's Dean?" gasped Cas at last. "Where's Dean? Where is he? Is he dead?"

"Shh, everything's okay."

"But is he dead?"

"No, he's fine," said Claire. "As far as I know. He's been sending you his frickin' pool winnings. Remember?"

Cas pulled back a few inches and stared at her. He felt at his chest again. Claire disengaged from his uncoordinated hug and went over to the wall to turn on the room light, and Cas looked around in confusion.

Oh. The little bedroom. He was in the little bedroom. In the house in Missoula. On the little mattress. Right. And outside was the street, and on the street was the car, and...

And the most important thing was....

...make sure Claire is happy...

Well, not quite. That was an important thing, but it had not always been the most important thing. Not till very recently.

The most important thing....

... is to free Dean of the Mark of Cain, and save his life, and save his soul.

That was the most important thing.

It was, in fact, more important than Cas's own life.

"I got.. stabbed," Cas said, barely able to speak, feeling at his chest. "In the chest."

"You were dreaming," said Claire, coming back over and crouching next to him.

"I got stabbed," said Cas again. "My... feathers... burned?" How is it possible that he had feathers? Angel, he thought. Angel. He called me "angel."

"You had a wound last summer," said Claire, ignoring the "feathers" comment. "On your chest. But it healed up. You're fine, Dad."

Cas ripped at his pajama-top so roughly he tore a button off. He looked down at his chest. He saw only skin, and his usual sparse scattering of chest hair; there was no wound. There wasn't even a scar.

Cas said vacantly, staring down at his chest, "But there's no scar."

"You heal, um, really fast," said Claire. "Like the way your hand healed, remember?" Cas glanced at his hand. He'd entirely forgotten about the cut from the broken glass; it had healed completely in one day. As his cuts always did.

"It took a day to heal," said Cas, confused. "Isn't that... normal?"

"A day is really fast, Dad," Claire said gently.

"It... is?" Cas stared at her.

Claire went on, "You always heal really fast and there's never any scars. You healed up from the chest wound the same way."

Cas took that in for a moment, touching his chest gently, and looking at his hand. No scar on the hand either, just as Claire had said. Slowly he folded the pajama-top closed, as Claire pulled the comforter tighter around his shoulders.

"Did... Dean... stab me?" said Cas, looking up at her.

She hesitated a long moment.

"I need to know," said Cas.

It had not been Dean's fault at all, of course. He had been under the control of a demonic power. But had it truly happened? That was what Cas needed to know.

At last Claire nodded, and she sank down on the edge of the mattress next to him. She was quiet a moment, looking at her hands.

"There was some kind of fight," she said. "Last year. I don't know the details. I got a call. I came and you were in the hospital. They said you were brain-dead actually. Stab wound through the lung... it grazed your heart... and Dean called me, for... "

She hesitated a long moment and then said slowly. "He called me so I could claim my dad's body. So I could bury you." Her eyes drifted over to Cas for a moment. She added, "But then, you, uh..."

Another long pause.

Claire cleared her throat. "You didn't die. They pulled the plug, and they... left me alone with you... cause... when the doctors found out I was your daughter... they made Sam and Dean leave so I could say goodbye. Sam had to, um, he had to, he had to walk Dean out of the room. But...." She glanced up at him.

"You didn't die," she said. "And then a few days later... "

Her gaze slid away.

To the little hand-sewn pillow. The one that had been under Cas's head when he'd awoken, back in that clinic. It was sitting on the floor now.

Claire swallowed, and said, "A few days later you woke up." She glanced back down at her hands. "And it was you. First thing you said was my name.... and you asked where Mom was.... and I... I knew then that.... I had my dad back. And the stab wound healed up just fine. The doctors were pretty amazed. Sam and Dean came back later, and tried to see you but, um..."

Another long pause.

Claire said, "They realized they should leave you alone. Leave you with me. They watched for a while. Heard me asking questions about when I was a kid... heard you answering. I... I kind of told them to leave. Anyway, you're fine now." She stood and turned her back, muttering, "I'll get you a glass of water."

Cas stared at her walking away, trying to take this in. The dream had been a memory? But... why had he been out walking around with Dean? Hadn't Cas been in a coma from the accident? The original accident? The six-years-ago accident?

What exactly had happened, in that six years?

Who was Dean, actually? Who was Sam?

Why had the dream involved burning wings?

It was all whirling around in his head too fast to keep track of. Claire came back with the glass of water. She knelt and handed it to Cas, and he sipped at it dutifully, too confused to think straight. Claire started looking around the room.

"Look, you knocked your pillow off the bed," Claire said, pointing at the little hand-sewn pillow. It was several feet away, as if Cas had flung it there in his sleep. "That's the problem. No wonder you're having nightmares." Claire fetched it, and set it back in place on the bed, as Cas sat cross-legged at the edge of the bed clutching the glass of water. Claire rearranged all the pillows, with the little one right in the middle. Then she started shaking out the bedding.

"What's this?" she said, pausing. Cas twisted around to look at her, and realized that Claire had found the jacket. Dean's jacket.

"Oh... nothing," said Cas, even as an image from the dream floated up. Dean had been wearing that jacket in the dream. He set the glass down, and reached out and took the jacket from her. "Nothing."

"That's... wait. Dean was wearing that. When he was here." Claire looked at him. "You're sleeping with his jacket?"

Without even thinking Cas hugged the jacket close to his chest. Claire's eyes drifted from the jacket to Cas's hands, which were gripping the jacket very tightly now, up to Cas's face. Cas found he could not meet her eyes.

"You're sleeping with his jacket," Claire repeated, but it wasn't a question any longer.

"It helps me sleep," Cas said. He made himself loosen his hold on it, looking down at it.

He found he wanted to shield the jacket from Claire's view, so he hauled himself to his feet, repeating, "It just helps me sleep." The closet door was already open, and Cas pulled out the hanger that had the trenchcoat, and rearranged it a little to put the jacket under the trenchcoat.

As he set the hanger back in the closet he heard Claire give a soft little laugh behind him, and turned to find that Claire had stood up, and was standing there watching him, her eyes flicking back and forth from Cas's face to the jacket and trenchcoat.

"What is this, Brokeback Mountain?" she said, a small smile quirking up one corner of her mouth.

Cas paused, looking back at her, one hand still on the hanger. He'd never seen the movie Brokeback Mountain, but somehow he seemed to know the basic plot anyway: Brokeback Mountain was a famous movie about two cowboys who had fallen in love with each other, but who had never been able to reveal—to themselves or to anyone else— how they'd really felt.

But what had made Claire mention that movie?

"I'm not a cowboy," said Cas, a little confused. He glanced back at the jacket (he found his hand was still on it) and then he realized what Claire was referring to. The movie contained a famous scene in which one cowboy had turned out to have the other cowboy's shirt, hanging together on a hanger with his own shirt. In his closet.

"Oh my god," said Claire, softly, from behind him. Cas turned to look at her again. She was staring at him, smiling openly now.

Cas said, "It's not like Brokeback Mountain."

"Not at all," said Claire. "Just his jacket and yours. On the same hanger. In the friggin' closet. Not like Brokeback Mountain at all."

"Exactly. It's just clothing. I don't know him," said Cas. Except in my dreams. Except that apparently we were walking around together for years when I thought I was in a coma. Except that he stabbed me. And has been crying over me in his dreams.

"Right," Claire said. "I just...  I never thought... Huh." Now she was looking at the jacket again. "I never would have thought.... Well actually... Now that I think about it. When you were in my head I thought I saw something, actually. I thought I imagined it...."

"When I was in your head?"

Claire didn't answer.

"Let's get you back to bed," she finally said, her voice very soft. "Where are those sleeping pills? You should probably take a few."

The next day was Friday. Cas somehow stumbled through his work shift. (Claire had wanted him to take a sick day, but Cas couldn't afford to lose the work hours. Especially with Claire's little college fund to worry about.)

When he picked up Claire from school and they got home in the afternoon, he found that another envelope had arrived, one Dean must have mailed a few days ago. It was postmarked from Kentucky. This time Cas let Claire open it, and she pulled out a fat wad of smoky-smelling bills in fives and ones.

She counted them up. "Eighty-three dollars," she said after a minute. "Eight-three dollars. All the way from Louisville." She looked up at Cas. "You could spend it on yourself, you know. He probably wants you to."

"I'd rather spend it on you."

"Well... " Claire paused. "I think you should spend this one on yourself. Some of it, at least." She looked up at him. "What do you want, anyway? What would..." She hesitated. "What would make you happy?"

Cas thought a moment. She'd never asked this before.

"More sleeping pills?" he suggested at last.

Claire's expression clouded a little.

She tucked the money back in the envelope, her head down. She looked quite somber now, and Cas felt a little worried. He asked, "Claire? Is something wrong?"

"No, no," said Claire. "Just... thinking. Hey, how about I go get us some ice cream."

"But it's freezing. Also, we still have to work on your play lines. And your math studying."

She didn't seem to be listening. She was staring out the window. At last she seemed to come to a decision, and she turned back to him, "It's Friday, Dad," she said. "Whole weekend ahead of us. We can take a break from the studying for a day or two. Actually I've got some friends to study with. Some friends from hockey. They're meeting Saturday and Sunday, and we've got our last game, and then they invited me to study. So I'll be gone all day Saturday..." She slowly looked up at him. "We could hang out and watch a movie tonight, maybe? I could get us some ice cream and a movie?" She seemed awfully tentative. "I could make that hot fudge sauce. We could have a father-daughter night?"

Cas suspected he was going to have a lot of difficulty focusing on a movie, but it seemed this would make Claire happy, so he smiled and agreed.

She said, "I'll walk to the library and get a dvd."

"I could give you a ride," Cas offered.

"Nah. Thanks, but I gotta make a phone call," she said, and she headed out of the house on foot. Cas watched her walk away. She didn't put the phone to her ear till she was very far down the block.

It was a lovely father-daughter night. Cas had to struggle at first to get the demon-dream out of his head, and try not to dwell too much on its surreal, bewildering elements (wings?). But eventually he managed to focus on Claire. He was rather touched, actually; usually Claire preferred to spend her Fridays with friends, but instead she spent the entire Friday evening with him. She even made dinner, this time— the cheesy pasta dish that Cas loved, and then the ice cream, and Claire's special home-made hot fudge sauce.

Which, Claire revealed halfway through eating it, was from a recipe that her mother, Amelia, had given her.

Apparently it had been Jimmy's favorite dessert.

Then Claire pulled out the movie she'd picked up from the library. It was called "A Little Princess."

Cas knew immediately, from the fuzzy memories he always seemed to retain about the plots of all movies, that this was a story about a lonely orphan girl who lived in an attic. Her mother and father had died and all she had left was the memory of how her dad used to call her his "little princess."

Cas felt a little concerned— the parallels were just too obvious— but Claire wanted to watch it, so he held his tongue and ate his ice cream (the hot fudge sauce was, in fact, quite good).

He'd known it was a sad movie. But he hadn't realized just how painful it would be to watch. How lonely the little girl was. How she'd been banished to such a horrible place to live, up in the freezing-cold attic of a hellish boarding school. And Cas had entirely forgotten what happened at the end of the story: how the little girl's father, thought dead for years, reappeared alive after all, but badly injured from a war. He had been blinded, and had lost his memory. But at the end of the film, the father remembered his daughter again. His memory came flooding back, and they had a tearful reunion, and it turned out he was rich and powerful, and the evil schoolmistress got what was coming to her, and the father whisked the daughter away to a life of luxury in an exotic, far-away land.

Cas began to get a sick feeling in his stomach as this plot unfolded, but every time he glanced over at Claire, she was perfectly dry-eyed, sitting stiffly upright on the sofa, her arms wrapped neatly around herself.

Claire remained dry-eyed the entire time, but Cas got progressively more choked up as the movie progressed. By the end of the movie he was wiping tears from his eyes.

"Claire..." Cas began, as the movie credits were playing. It seemed a little hard to speak.

"Dad," she said, picking up the remote and turning off the TV, "What if the little princess had done something really awful? Do you think her dad would still have taken her back?" She began inspecting her fingernails.

"What?" Cas had not been expecting this line of questioning.

"I meant," Claire said, still inspecting her fingernails, "Like, what if she'd lied to him." She was taking a long time inspecting her nails. "Wouldn't that make her a bad person? Like, really bad?"

Cas considered that. "Well, that would be bad, yes," he said slowly. "Depending on the lie, I suppose."

Claire folded her hands together.

Cas went on, "But there's sometimes reasons that people do bad things," he said. "People make mistakes sometimes. Bad mistakes. Like that angel I was telling you about—"

"Yeah but the point is, what would he do?" she said, staring at her folded hands now. "The dad. What would he do when he found out. Could he forgive her? Would he kick her out? Would he leave? Or would he hate her? He'd probably hate her, wouldn't he? "

"I don't know," said Cas. "But I don't think a father can hate his own daughter. Not if he's truly her father."

She gave a short little nod, and gazed out the picture-window for a moment.

"Night, Dad," she said a moment later, getting up. "I'm heading to bed."

"Claire—"

"I gotta get to bed," she said, perfectly calm. "It was fun hanging out with you, though. Nice father-daughter night, huh?"

"Yes," said Cas. "But, Claire, wait—"

"I really gotta get up tomorrow," she said. "I've got my friends to go hang out with, remember? We've got that hockey game."

"Oh," said Cas. "I meant to ask. Would you like me to come?"

"No, no, no," she said, shaking her head.

Cas frowned. "But isn't it traditional for parents to attend? To watch their children push the things back and forth? The balls and things?"

"Pucks," she said, with a faint smile. "No, you should stay here. My friend's mom'll pick me up. I already arranged it. I'll be gone all day. I'll get back at 8 p.m."

"I could come—"

"You stay here," she said. "Actually I was wondering if you'd, uh.... definitely be here? Tomorrow afternoon?"

"Yes, I was planning to try to make brownies," Cas said. "I found another card. In the baking section."

"Oh! Great!" she said. "You know what though. Make a pie instead."

"A pie?"

"Pies are easy. Easy as pie. Make a pie. Anyway, I gotta get to bed."

Cas had to relent. "Well, at least let me give you a good night kiss. C'mere."

She paused at her door, still looking a bit reluctant, and Cas had to stand up to walk over to give her the usual kiss-on-the-head. She stood still for the kiss, and then gave him one of her strange sudden hugs.

Cas hugged her back. She didn't let go for a moment.

She tore herself free quite abruptly, and zipped into her room and shut the door. Cas had the impression, as the door shut, that her eyes had looked a little bright and glittery. Almost as if she'd been crying?

It was probably just the movie.

There were no dreams that night. Cas found himself reluctant to try the "wishing" again, and instead he took three sleeping pills to knock himself out.

But the longing feeling was getting stronger. He felt it even through the sleeping-pill haze.

It was stronger still when he awoke.

Claire went trotting off in the morning. The friend's mother, who Cas knew slightly, did pick her up, and Claire was still adamant that Cas should not come to watch them push the "pucks" around. Though Claire was still acting a bit strange. Cas decided to make the pie for her return, as she'd suggested, and after a little poking around in the supermarket he decided to attempt an apple pie.

It seemed to go fairly well. Pies were, in fact, quite easy, it turned out. He was just taking it out of the oven, just past noon, when he heard the all-too-familiar grumbling of a certain car engine.

He almost dropped the pie. But he managed to set it down intact, and he rushed to living room to look out of the picture window. There was the shining black car. And there, getting out of the car, was Dean.

A/N - So now you know what happened... or, part of it. There's a part Claire hasn't told. 

That demon-dream is my favorite pet idea for what the show ought to do in the S10 finale, btw:  Cas sacrifices himself to cure Dean of the MOC with that classic angel-death explosion of Heavenly grace/power etc. And yes, I went back and rewatched the deaths of most of the major angels and timed the delay between stabbing and explosion. I always wondered why there was that delay, so for the purposes of this fic I decided the angel's death is caused by the grace slowly shattering and then exploding. Anyway the delay was 15 sec for Gabriel, 8 sec for Balthazar; and Balthazar was just able to say one thing. I gave Cas 8 seconds and decided he could do maybe one movement if he really tried. One really, really important movement. 

BUT... why didn't Cas die? And why did he come back thinking he was Jimmy?  And what on earth is Dean going to tell him?? Stay tuned!

I hope you're enjoying this. Please let me know if there was something you liked!

Chapter Text

A/N - Short chapter this week, sorry - I missed my deadline for wrapping up this fic. (edit: this is partially apology but also partially just sharing:) So - I got pretty sick last week and lost a lot of writing time, and then this week me and my colleague moved to the new fieldhouse and set it all up for our boat crew that arrives Sunday... but then at the exact moment when we thought we could finally take a break, Fri afternoon, my colleague got news of a family medical emergency. So that kind of took over everything. (Please spare a thought for all the little premature babies that just got born! Especially a certain tiny little baby girl who came 12 weeks early in a foreign country overseas and is in a pediatric hospital ICU right now.) (Saturday update: she's doing well!! :D) Tomorrow I'll be doing the long drive back to the city so my friend can fly to be with her family.

I don't know what will happen with my writing time the rest of this week 'cause of all that (scrambling to find a replacement for her, etc).  Long story short, this fic has gotten delayed! Just wanted to explain/apologize. But so be it, because, family and friends are what matter. :)

So I have only the first half of tonight's chapter. But I think it's a half you will enjoy (I hope). Warning: VERY explicit Destiel ahead. :D  Along with some emotions. I hope you like it.

Cas, watching transfixed from the picture-window, saw Dean pause outside the black car, one hand still on the car's open door.

There seemed to be nobody else in the car. It seemed strange to see Dean on his own, with the brother nowhere in sight. Though it was even stranger, of course, to be seeing Dean here at all. Dean did look a bit tentative, in fact. He was looking around uncertainly, peering at a house on the wrong side of the street (he'd parked on the far side of the street), and then looking at the house next to it. He still hadn't closed his car door. Cas realized he was trying to pick out the house numbers.

Oh, right, Cas remembered. He's never been here. He's not sure he's in the right place.

Cas hurried over to the front door, swung it open, and called "Dean."

Dean spun around at the sound of his name. Even from here Cas could see the uncertain flicker of hope in his eyes.

The flicker of hope didn't seem to last very long.

Dean gave an awkward little wave. He closed the car door at last, and began to walk across the street toward Cas's house.

Cas meant to say some sort of greeting as he drew closer, some friendly acknowledgement to welcome him— maybe a "Hello, Dean," or a "How are you, Dean." But he found himself completely tongue-tied just watching Dean walk closer. It seemed impossible that it could really be Dean. The real Dean, not just a dream version. Dean had actually showed up at Cas's house, right here in Missoula, Montana; for real, in person, walking right across the street toward Cas, out of the blue with no warning at all.

Cas drank in the sight of him: his expressive eyes (now downcast and guarded, looking at the walkway, flicking up now and then to Cas), his eerily familiar face, his scruffy short hair... the flannel shirt hanging loose. The wrinkled jeans, the scuffed boots. He looks tired, thought Cas, for there were dark circles under Dean's eyes, and he wore rather a haunted expression.

He looks VERY tired.

But he looks marvelous just the same.

"Hey...uh... Jimmy," Dean began. He had slowed as he got closer, and now he came to a halt only halfway up the path to the house. "I—"

"Cas," said Cas.

Dean stopped in mid-sentence, his mouth actually hanging open.

Cas said, "I mean, you could call me Cas if you wanted." He hesitated, and added, "Did you used to call me that? Was it some sort of a nickname?"

Dean finally managed to close his mouth. He looked at Cas for a moment longer.

"Yeah, um, so, about that," Dean said, shoving both hands in his jeans pockets. "Claire called. She asked me to drop by, and—"

"Claire called you?" asked Cas. "My daughter Claire? That's why you came?"

Dean blinked at the "my daughter" comment, but after a brief hesitation he nodded. "I was thinking of coming anyway, actually. But I thought..." He paused. "Well, anyway, then Claire called and said I should come see you. She didn't say why."

Ah. That phone call she made yesterday, Cas realized.

But, why? Why would Claire have called Dean?

Dean added, "Sam's been telling me we should come back to Missoula anyway." He glanced down at the ground again. "Kinda been on my case about it."

"Sam is your brother?" asked Cas.

Dean looked up at him with a rather sad look. "Yeah..." he said. "Yeah. Sam is my brother. Guess you don't... know him?"

"We've never really met," explained Cas. "Where is he?"

"Yeah... he... uh. He's checking us into the motel," said Dean, taking one hand out of a pocket to gesture vaguely toward the hills to the north. "Same motel we were at last time. He's there now. So, the motel people gave Sam this note...." Dean dug his hand back into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

It took a moment before Cas recognized it: it was the little note that Cas had left at the motel so many weeks ago. The note to "George Bailey."

"It says you wanted to talk to me." Dean said, glancing down at it and then looking back up at Cas. "Sam read the note and, well, anyway he suggested I should come talk to you on my own first. I'm supposed to give him a call later and let him know when to come by. I mean, that is, if you... if you want to see him too or anything."

"Of course I'd like to see him," said Cas, finding immediately that he did want to see this "Sam" brother. Despite their total lack of interaction, Cas had a conviction that Sam was someone he wanted to see, and that Sam might even turn out to be a....

A friend, maybe.

"Okay," said Dean. "So. I'll call him later then..." He trailed off into silence, looking down at the note. "Uh," he said. "So." At last he stuffed the note back into his pocket, and looked up at Cas almost desperately.

"Would you like to come inside?" said Cas. Dean gave a jerky nod, and Cas held the door open while Dean walked the last few steps to the house.

There was an odd moment as Dean brushed past Cas in the doorway. Cas was still holding the door open, and though Cas was well out of the way, Dean hesitated for the briefest moment as he walked past. He even wavered— visibly wavered, with a slight, abortive moment toward Cas, one arm even twitching slightly upward. But after a microsecond of hesitation Dean just ran his hand through his hair and walked on past.

Was he about to hug me? thought Cas, startled; but the moment was gone, and Dean was past him and inside. Cas closed the door and watched Dean take a few steps farther, into the middle of the little living room.

It was remarkable how Dean seemed to fill up the room. Cas was accustomed to having Claire around, of course, and occasionally one or two of her school friends, but there had rarely been any other guests in the house. Dean seemed much more formidable and larger than any other person who had ever been here. He seemed to inhabit all available space, looming larger than life. It almost seemed that he was taking up all the oxygen in the room.

Or maybe it was just that Cas was having a little trouble breathing. Just from looking at him.

Dean, though, wasn't looking at Cas. In fact he seemed to be looking everywhere but at Cas. He drifted over to the sofa, his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets again, as he looked around at all the furniture. He looked at the sofa, he looked at the TV, he looked at Claire's pile of books on the floor... he glanced ever-so-briefly at Cas and instantly looked away again. He looked at the cable TV remote, and at the hallway, and at the coatrack that held Claire's winter coats, and looked toward the kitchen nook (pausing a long moment when he noticed the pie, and the silver kitchen knife that was set out next to it).

Everywhere but at Cas.

"So, Claire told you to drop by?" said Cas at last, moving to the other side of the sofa— he could keep Dean's face in view from here, though the sofa was between them now. "You were in the area?"

Dean finally glanced over at Cas. As soon as Cas had spoken Dean had gotten a little frown on his face, as if something were puzzling him. "Kansas," said Dean. "Sam and me. Were in Kansas. Yesterday."

"You were in Kansas yesterday?" said Cas.

As Cas spoke again, Dean's frown deepened further, and he cocked his head a little, studying Cas with closer attention. "Yeah," he said. "Um. Yeah. Kansas."

"Kansas is a thousand miles away," said Cas.

"Twelve hundred," Dean said. "We drove all night. Sam and I took shifts. Hey, um." Dean made a little gesture toward Cas. "Your voice is different."

"It is?"

"It's lower now," said Dean.

"Oh, right," said Cas. He cleared his throat, realizing that once they'd gotten into the house he'd entirely forgotten to modify his voice the way Claire liked. He tried to explain, "Claire always tells me I pitch my voice too low. She tells me people would be more comfortable if I pitched it higher. So I usually try to, but... well. Honestly it's more comfortable to speak this way. Lower. When I'm in the house I usually relax about it."

Dean hesitated a long moment. "So... you're saying... this is your natural voice?"

"Yes," said Cas. In his usual deep gravelly tone.

Dean swallowed and looked away for a moment. Then he looked back, his eyes narrowed. "Wait. Claire tells you to change your voice?"

"Yes."

Dean hesitated again, still frowning. He glanced around at the furniture again. He was clearly thinking about something. At last he said, looking back at Cas, "What else has she told you?"

"Well... " Cas tried to think. "She's told me not to... uh, this may sound odd, but, she's said not to tilt my head. That I shouldn't squint so much. That I shouldn't loosen my tie. Various aspects of how I carry myself, I suppose. That I shouldn't stand too close to people. She has some little dislikes along those lines. Just little things, so I try to accommodate her. For example there's a coat I have that she doesn't like me to wear... it's a tan colored coat, and—"

"I know the coat," said Dean, a little sharply. "So. Claire told you to change the way you act? To change your clothes? To hide your whole style, huh?"

When Dean put it like that it suddenly didn't sound so good.

Cas bit his lip. He didn't want to sound critical of Claire, but he agreed uneasily, "I suppose so."

There was a very odd look on Dean's face now. His face had softened, and now he couldn't seem to take his eyes off Cas.

"I think I'm starting to get the picture," Dean said after a moment. He gestured around the room. "You work your butt off, right? You probably bought all the furniture, huh? You pay for the cable TV and everything?  And she lives here rent-free? Is that the deal?"

"It's not like that," protested Cas. "I like to make her happy. Besides, she's a good daughter. She works hard too."

"Right," said Dean, sounding unconvinced.

For a moment they just gazed at each other.

Dean suddenly blurted out, his voice a little rough, "Cas, is it you?" He took a tiny step closer, till his knees bumped into the edge of the sofa. His hands were knotting into fists at his sides now. "Is it really you?" he said, his voice urgent, words coming fast now. "Dammit. I'm not explaining this well. Do you even know what I mean?"

"I... think so," said Cas. "And I think it's really me."

The look of hope that spread over Dean's face then was almost painful to see. Cas said, "I don't remember much. But... I think so, yes. I know that's my name, at least. Cas."

"So you're not..." Dean took a breath. "You're... not Jimmy?"

Cas blinked. For several weeks now he'd felt certain that "Cas" was a nickname, and yet he'd also assumed his official name must still be Jimmy Novak. But now, all at once, something came clear in Cas's mind:

Cas wasn't "Jimmy" at all.

"Jimmy" referred to someone else entirely. Someone who was no longer here.

Cas repeated "I'm not... Jimmy," testing out the idea in his mind.

A stray thought floated through his mind: Jimmy was the vessel owner.

Cas repeated, stunned by this discovery, "I'm not Jimmy. I think. I'm pretty sure. My name is... Cas. Though... I'm confused— I had the impression it was a nickname. Isn't Cas a nickname?"

Dean nodded, staring at him.

The kitchen clock ticked in the silence.

"A nickname for...?" Cas prodded him.

"Castiel," said Dean, very quietly; and it was as if the air shimmered. As if the ground shook. As if the very walls trembled, just from the sound of that one whispered name.

Castiel.

"Cas is short for Castiel," Dean was saying, oblivious to the way the floor seemed to be tilting and the way the world seemed to be going dark.

"Castiel," whispered Cas, and the floor tilted further, and now he had to put one hand out to the sofa back to steady himself. A look of concern flashed over Dean's face, and as quick as lightning Dean was scrambling around the corner of the sofa, dashing around to Cas's side, grabbing both Cas's upper arms before he toppled over entirely.

"You okay?" said Dean, steadying him. "You need to sit down or something?"

"I'm... okay, yes," said Cas. The wave of dizziness was already lessening, his vision clearing, but Dean swiveled him around anyway, positioning him so that Cas could half-sit a little on the back of the sofa. "I just... I didn't know," added Cas, as Dean braced him there. "I didn't know that was my name. But it, uh, it sounds right."

Dean was studying his face intently, both hands still tight around Cas's upper arms. Grip me tight, thought Cas. Grip you tight... Another wave of dizziness washed over him.

Dean said, still holding him, "You sure you're all right?"

The second wave of dizziness faded away even as he asked. Cas nodded. "I'm fine. Sorry. Just dizzy for a moment." Cas took an unsteady breath. "Dean—I think there are some things that I don't remember."

"Yeah, I'd say that's correct," said Dean, still bracing him, and still peering at him from very close. "Can I ask you something? What do you remember from the past few years?"

"Hardly anything," Cas confessed, a little distracted by the feel of Dean's hands on his arms. (Grip you tight, grip you tight, kept running through his mind.) With an effort Cas continued, "Claire told me I was in a coma for six years. But I'm starting to think I wasn't really in a coma for that whole time."

"Not a coma, exactly," said Dean. He straightened up a little, and Cas had the impression he was choosing his words very carefully. "Not in... a coma, no. You were... doing stuff that whole time."

"Walking around?" said Cas, looking up at him. "Not in a clinic?"

Dean nodded. Slowly he released Cas's arms. But he stayed close, just a foot or two away, still watching him carefully.

"Walking around... with you?" said Cas.

After a pause, Dean nodded again. He said, "Some of it with me, yeah. Me and Sam. And some on your own."

"Twice now I've heard your voice," Cas said. "I mean, recently. Here."

Dean seemed to go very still. "What was I saying?"

Cas thought. "Once it was when you were here in town. You said something about, Sam's just gone out for breakfast. The second time was a couple days ago, and you were saying, Cas, can you hear me. But it was very faint and I lost hold of it pretty soon."

Dean was staring at him now with a stricken expression on his face.

"Those were prayers," he whispered, almost to himself. "You heard my prayers."

"Not very well," Cas admitted. "I only heard scraps—"

"It's really you," said Dean, and suddenly he'd grabbed Cas by both arms again and was pulling him bodily up on his feet, right up off the sofa, and was wrapping both arms around him. "It's really you," he repeated. "You heard my prayers. It's really you." Cas needed no encouragement to hug him back, and when Dean felt Cas's arms close around him he tightened on even more.

There had been a similar hug in the pool table dream. That hug had been good, but this hug was overwhelming. Everything seemed much more immediate than in the dream. Dean was actually rocking him from side to side a tiny little bit, very slightly, as he repeated in Cas's ear, over and over, "It's really you. It's really you. Isn't it." He seemed closer than in the dream-hug, somehow; larger, more solid, more real. His scent— that faint, intoxicating mixture of cologne, motor oil, coffee, the whole wonderful mixture—seemed so much more vivid than in the dream that Cas was nearly overwhelmed with the urge to turn his head and bury his nose in Dean's neck, just to drink it in more fully. Even the textures seemed overwhelming. Now that Cas had his arms around Dean's back, he could feel the soft fuzziness of Dean's flannel shirt in extraordinary detail, and he could feel Dean's ribcage heaving with his breaths, and feel how ragged and rough his breathing was.

"It's really you," Dean said yet again. "Isn't it."

"I'm okay, Dean," said Cas, knowing somehow that this was what he needed to hear. "I'm okay."

It took a few moments for Dean's breathing to steady. Cas held him, relishing the closeness, willing it not to end. It all brought a strange image to mind: a grey wilderness, trees all around, and a silent lake....

Cas couldn't chase the memory down. Dean at last made a little movement backwards, and Cas lowered his arms and let him step back.

Dean's eyes were bright with tears.

Cas asked, "We knew each other?" It seemed obvious; but he wanted to ask.

"Yes," Dean said, wiping at his eyes roughly.

"We were friends?"

"Yeah," said Dean. "Yeah, you could say that, I guess."

"I still don't remember," said Cas, frustrated. "I'm sorry—"

"S'okay. It's happened to you before actually—"

"—And I don't understand why Claire didn't tell me."

"We'll figure it out," said Dean. "We'll figure it out." He heaved a huge sigh. "Sam'll be so thrilled. Cas, jeez, I gotta tell you, I didn't think you—"

But Cas was still trying to put the pieces together himself, and he interrupted to clarify one more thing: "We've met in dreams too. Haven't we? Recently?"

Dean went a little tense. "Uh," he said, a worried look crossing his face. "What do you mean?"

"Haven't we had some shared dreams? In the last couple weeks?"

"Like... what... exactly?" said Dean, now beginning to look a little awkward.

Cas said, "Well, there was one where we were all in your car...."

Dean nodded, relaxing a little.

"And one with a pool table," added Cas.

It turned out Dean looked perfectly adorable when he blushed.

Dean folded one arm across his chest, rubbing his nose with his other hand. "Right..." he said. "The pool table. Yeah... So... I was wondering if you might have been, um... there's this thing called...uh... dreamwalking. But Claire said you don't have any power, and, uh, I'd thought you weren't you anyway, so, I, uh, I thought that wasn't possible. So, look, to be absolutely honest here," Dean cleared his throat. "I might've done some stuff in that dream that maybe I shouldn't have—"

"Even your ears go red," said Cas appreciatively.

"What?"

"When you blush. Your ears go red."

"Oh," said Dean, and immediately he was blushing more. He managed to say, his face almost beet-red now, "Look, I'm really sorry about that—"

"Sorry about what?"

"The... pool-table... dream?" said Dean desperately.

"But that was my favorite," said Cas, totally confused now.

"What?" said Dean.

"The pool-table dream was my favorite dream," said Cas. "Was there something wrong with it?"

Now Dean was looking confused. "Uh... do you remember what happened after the pool table part?"

Cas nodded. "Oh, yes. Under the moon. On the grass. Yes. That's the part that was my favorite. By far."

Dean just looked at him.

Cas was feeling a little worried now, wondering if he'd done something wrong in the pool-table dream, so he said, "Was there something wrong with the dream? Or..." He finally realized why Dean might have been blushing. "Oh. Wait. Do you regret what you did?"

Dean gave him a very long look. His blushing had faded.

"No," said Dean, his voice quiet but steady. He shook his head slowly, watching Cas. "Not if you don't."

"I only wish it had lasted longer," said Cas.

"You... do?" said Dean. He hesitated. "Uh... why?"

"There were other things I wanted to do," said Cas. Such an innocently surprised look came over Dean's face then that Cas could not resist taking one step closer, till there was a scant six inches between them. It was just so much easier to study him from this distance. He watched Dean's eyes darken, the pupils dilating a little, and heard his breathing go uneven again. Cas said, "Dean. As I said, I don't remember much. But there's something I'm certain of."

"What's that?" whispered Dean.

"We wasted chances," said Cas, from very close, examining Dean's face. "In the past. We wasted chances, and we wasted time. You said so in the dream, and I knew it was true. It's true, isn't it?"

Dean stood frozen still for a long moment. But then he nodded.

"We did it again in the motel," said Cas. "We wasted another chance."

Dean nodded again.

Cas said, "I don't want to waste any more chances. I don't want to let the opportunities keep slipping away. I would like..." Cas found here that he had to pause, for he had to choose from many possibilities. I would like many things, he realized. I would like so very many things. Getting his memory back, certainly. Figuring out what had happened, definitely. Discovering why Claire had lied; that was a big one. But there was something else he wanted even more, right now. It seemed almost a small thing, an unimportant thing. An odd thing, even. It was an odd thing to want, but Cas wanted it, and in this moment it seemed like the most important thing:

Cas said, "I would like to hug you again."

Dean gave a faint little half-laugh. He didn't answer instantly, and Cas began to worry he'd pushed too far.

But then Dean said, quirking an eyebrow, "Carpe diem, huh, Cas?"

Carpe diem... Seize the day.

"Carpe Dean," Cas replied, with a tentative smile. Dean laughed again— a real laugh this time. And then it was Dean who reached out and pulled Cas close, folding him into an embrace once more.

This hug felt different.

They were in exactly the same position as before— Dean's arms around Cas's shoulders, Cas's arms reaching up to Dean's back— but somehow it was different.

The potential was different.

And Dean was adding something: Slowly, very slowly, he leaned his head down on Cas's shoulder. As he did so, he let out a long, slow sigh.

Cas had no specific plan. In fact, he was only too aware that he didn't know what he was doing, and had no idea what the next step should be. Even just a hug seemed quite a rare and significant event— and one that Cas had little experience with. (It had been rather a lonely eight months. Claire had even encouraged him, several times, to date; but Cas never had been able to drum up much interest in any of the potential partners that she'd pointed out.)

Dean was, in fact, the only person other than Claire that Cas could ever remember hugging. And, of course, this hug was... different.

So Cas took his time. Dean seemed in no rush himself, just standing there with his head down on Cas's shoulder, and Cas allowed himself to notice everything all over again. The scent of Dean's skin, the feel of the flannel shirt, the feel of Dean's breathing. And new things too: Cas shifted one hand a little and instantly found himself fascinated by how wonderful it felt simply to slide one hand down Dean's flannel shirt, tracing the shape of the muscles underneath. It seemed Cas could feel every muscle individually, through the flannel shirt; he could make out the precise shape of Dean's shoulderblade, and could detect each and every rib. Cas continued to slide his hand slowly downwards, his head turned slightly into Dean's neck, thinking only, How good he smells... and how wonderful it is just to be able to have my hands on him.

Soon he found his hand had arrived at Dean's lower back. Cas slid his fingers down the center of Dean's shirt there and discovered that Dean's spine made a deep and surprisingly enticing curve there, right in the small of his back. So Cas stroked that lovely curve downward, letting his fingertips trail right into the hollow groove of Dean's spine, following it right down to where it disappeared into his jeans.

Dean gave a sharp inhale, his arms tightening around Cas's shoulders. Cas paused, only now realizing that he'd drifted a little outside of normal hug territory.

"Sorry," Cas asked. "Should I stop?"

He felt Dean shake his head. It was a rapid, emphatic little shake— Cas could feel Dean's nose moving back and forth against Cas's neck, and Dean's warm breath against Cas's skin.

Encouraged, Cas slipped his hand under the edge of Dean's flannel shirt, onto the bare skin of Dean's back, just above his jeans.

Ah. Now he was touching Dean's back directly.

This is good, thought Cas at once, the moment his skin met Dean's. This is extremely good.

Dean, for his part, let out another quiet sigh, his head still down on Cas's shoulder.

So Cas began to trace Dean's spine again, but now with his hand under Dean's shirt. His skin's so soft, thought Cas. Silky, almost, in fact; but with those firm muscles underneath. Fascinated, Cas ran his fingers lightly up Dean's spine. All the way up, from the small of his back up to his shoulderblades. And then back down again. Soon Cas had reached the small of Dean's back again (but this time skin-to-skin); again he became fascinated with the curve there, for it seemed almost an artistic curve, as well constructed as a museum sculpture, or a well-engineered piece of architecture. Cas traced that curve, very slowly, this time running his fingernails right down Dean's spine. Right down the middle, right down to where it disappeared into Dean's jeans.

"Jesus christ," Dean whispered into Cas's neck, and his back arched slightly, his hips moving infinitesimally against Cas. How can such a tiny movement be so thrilling, wondered Cas, and he repeated the entire motion— all the way up, all the way down, tracing his fingers down that curve again— this time turning his head slightly more toward Dean's. Dean still had his face buried in Cas's shoulder and all Cas really had access to was the side of Dean's neck, so he kissed the side of Dean's neck, and ran his hand down Dean's spine again, and Dean let out a faint sound. It was almost a sob, and almost a groan; it was very quiet; and it seemed the most fascinating sound Cas had ever heard. And Dean did that addictive, infinitesimal motion again, pressing his hips perhaps half an inch closer to Cas. Cas kept his hand moving, and began to trace his other hand up into Dean's hair, nibbling his neck now.

Dean rearranged his feet slightly, adjusting to get one foot between Cas's.

So that they could fit together even more closely.

Cas remembered, then, how in the dream his hand had been lower still, and how good that had felt. So he ran his hand down a little lower, sliding it right down into Dean's jeans, right down under his underwear, right down onto Dean's ass, completely amazed at himself and wondering how Dean would react. It turned out that Dean reacted with another of those fantastic little gasping sounds. And now it was very clear there was a lump in Dean's pants, a lump that was getting larger, and warmer, and that was starting to press detectably against Cas's thigh.

Cas felt the heat rising in his own groin, and knew Dean must be able to feel something similar.

Dean muttered, "Fuck, Cas. I was not expecting this."

"We're both becoming aroused," Cas pointed out, in case it had escaped Dean's attention. "Have you noticed?"

"I noticed, yes," said Dean, lifting his head at last. "I noticed that. Man. I thought this was just gonna be, like, a hug, dude."

"This is still a hug," said Cas, a little confused. He explained helpfully, "We're still hugging each other."

"A hug with extras," said Dean.

"Don't you like the extras?" said Cas. "It seems like you like the extras."

Dean finally pulled back a little, setting both hands on either side of Cas's face. "My god, Cas. I know I kinda went for it in the dream, but give me a second here to adjust."

Dean looked into Cas's eyes for a long moment. There was great tenderness in his eyes.

"I like the extras," Dean said. "I definitely like the extras. Quite a lot. But, Cas, look, I don't want you to rush into anything you don't really want." Dean took a breath, cradling Cas's face now with one hand, stroking his hair back with the other. "Yeah, maybe we got some stuff stacked up that we might wanna do. Maybe so. But you've been through... a lot. There's a lot of things you don't know, and... maybe you don't know what you really want, right now." Dean took a breath and stepped back, releasing him. "I don't want you to rush into something you don't really want."

"Dean," said Cas. "I don't remember everything, that's true. But I do know what I want." Cas held his hand out to Dean, and said, "That pool-table dream ended too soon. I don't want to let another chance slip away."

Dean looked down at Cas's hand a moment, and looked up at him. His mouth twitched, as if he were trying to say something, and unsure what to say.

Cas waited, still holding his hand out.

"Carpe Dean, huh?" said Dean, smiling a little.

Cas nodded, smiling back; and Dean said, "Carpe Cas," and he reached out and set his hand in Cas's. His fingers closed tightly around Cas's hand.

Without a word Cas turned and began to lead him down the hall.

Without a word Dean followed.

Cas had walked down this little hall many times, to his bedroom at night. Hundreds of times, by now. He had always done this walk alone. Always alone. How strange it was now, to walk down the same little hall, with everything looking just as usual— the soft warm glow of the polished floorboards, the bar of afternoon sunlight slanting across the floor from the little window at the end, the door of his bedroom getting closer— all just as usual. Everything the same as always. But this time Cas felt Dean's warm hand tight in his, and heard Dean's soft footfalls, and knew Dean was just behind him, and nothing was the same at all.

Nothing would ever be the same.

They got to the little bedroom. Cas opened the door, and led Dean in, and shut the door, and turned to look at him at last, still holding his hand.

Dean leaned down to pull off one of his boots, and put it down, and pulled off the other. He hesitated, then, looking almost abashed, one boot still in one hand. Cas had to help him, reaching out to take the second boot and set it down, and then undoing the buttons on Dean's flannel shirt, one at a time. Gently, slowly. Undoing his belt, next, slowly, Dean standing there apparently paralyzed. Till Dean began to fumble at Cas's shirt too, and grope at his belt. When they both had their shirts off Cas was unable to wait to get the pants off properly and instead he moved close and just set one hand right on Dean's crotch, to feel at the bulge in Dean's pants.

He'd imagined this many times in the shower; but it was electrifying to set his hand on that warm, solid bulge at last, for real.

Dean went wide-eyed and then they were kissing, Dean grabbing Cas's head in both hands again and kissing him hungrily now, pressing his hips into Cas's touch.

They got each others' pants off. And the underwear. Dean got a little shy again then, going a little still, his eyes wide and thrilled and uncertain as his gaze traveled up and down Cas's body, lingering on Cas's cock. He seemed to lose hold of what to do next; but Cas felt absolutely no shyness at all and just pulled him down on the bed. And then, at last, Cas was lying in his bed with Dean.

Not a jacket with empty sleeves. Not an imaginary vision in the shower. Not a dream in the night. It was the real Dean; a real person, a warm, living, breathing body. MY Dean, thought Cas, MY Dean, kissing him over and over, running his hands up and down his naked back now. He set one hand on Dean's cock again; Dean moaned at the contact, and Cas understood why when Dean gripped Cas's cock in return. Cas tried the spine-tracing move again with his free hand, for it seemed Dean liked that, and sure enough Dean let out another little groan and shifted even closer to Cas, sliding one leg over him just as he had in the dream.

Dean paused there, pressing against Cas full-length now. Dean buried his face in Cas's neck again and he let out a long sigh. He didn't move for a moment.

"You okay?" said Cas.

"Honestly?" said Dean.

"Yeah."

"I cannot fucking believe this is happening," said Dean.

"It does seem miraculous," agreed Cas.

"One thing about you, Cas," said Dean, "You are full of miracles. But—" he hesitated, pulling back just far enough to look Cas in the eyes.. "Are you sure that you want—"

"I'm sure."

"But—"

"I'm sure," Cas said, as he moved down to Dean's waist, and took a gentle hold of Dean's cock.

"Let me know if you want something different," Cas said. "But, I keep thinking about this and I'd like to try it, if you don't mind." He wriggled down further on the mattress, till he could grip Dean's cock firmly with one hand and study it from up close. Right at eye level.

It had seemed earlier that nothing could possibly be so interesting as studying Dean's face from up close. But suddenly there was competition. Cas had actually, somehow, underestimated how plain fascinating Dean's cock would turn out to be. Cas had had many shower episodes imagining this very moment, yet Dean's cock in reality turned out to be even more interesting than he'd imagined. He found he wanted to examine every single inch, from all angles; the length and breadth of it, the way it seemed to keep stiffening and lengthening, the vein that ran a slightly crooked path along the underside, the slight curve it had, and the astonishing velvet-softness of the skin. Cas ran his fingers over that silky-soft skin, from the base to the tip, and heard Dean gasp; he squeezed the shaft (very gently) at the base and watched it stiffen, and watched a clear pearl of fluid begin to well out the tip. He licked his hand and ran his wet fingers down the shaft, and at the sound Dean let out then, Cas knew that he could easily devote years to this field of study and still want yet more time. Years and years, just seeing how Dean would react to his touch, and figuring out what would give him the most pleasure.

I want to know how it tastes, too, thought Cas, so he began to lick around the head of Dean's cock.

"Jesus fucking christ," Dean blurted out, his hands grabbing at Cas's hair.

"Is that all right?" asked Cas, for that had been the most extreme reaction yet.

"Yes," said Dean.

"Are you sure?"

"YES," said Dean; so Cas did it again, and then again, and the noises Dean was making now were very encouraging, so Cas kept trying the licking. He licked the whole shaft from base to tip, and the sound Dean made then made Cas shiver, and he soon was wondering if he'd even be able to do much more of this before reaching his own climax.

Cas kept at it, trying everything he'd imagined doing in those lonely nights in the shower, everything he'd ever heard of. Ah, it was fantastic, to have Dean himself starting to squirm under his hands, to feel how hard he was getting, to hear his breath start to hiss, to feel his hips start to rock back and forth. Cas ran his tongue along the vein on the underside, lingered on the rim around the head, tasted the hole where the pre-cum was starting to drip out, and (feeling bolder now) at last he took the entire thing, heavy and hot now, into his mouth. Testing, experimenting, finding the things that made Dean moan, the things that made Dean's breath catch in his throat, the things that made Dean's hands clutch at Cas's hair and made him say, his voice rasping and tense, Yes, there... and Ah, Cas... and Fuck, Cas, yes...

Soon Dean was just grunting out short sharp words. Yes, or There, or Don't stop. He was starting to shift his legs around, moving them restlessly, one knee coming up and then the other, his feet thrashing in the sheets. His cock was rock-hard now, even twitching now and then; Cas swallowed him all the way down again, and Dean gave a helpless groan.

Cas coaxed Dean's legs apart, thinking, I want all of him, I want every part, I want to see everything. He found Dean's asshole and stroked the rim. Dean gasped, his hips jerking up, his legs spreading a little wider.

"Ah," Dean groaned. "Cas— I'm close— yeah— yeah—YEAH— UH—"

Cas could feel the moment when the threshold was crossed, when Dean began to fall over the edge into the void. His hips suddenly got jerky, lurching into short, sharp, thrusts. His cock was so hard in Cas's mouth that it felt like marble. Dean's legs clamped hard on Cas's hand, and Dean gave one last hard thrust upwards, his hips arching off the mattress. He froze there for a moment, his legs actually shaking, and then spurts of salty come were flooding into Cas's mouth.

Cas nursed him through it, swallowing everything he could, watching out of the corner of his eye as Dean writhed on the sheets, hearing his rough grunts, feeling his hands knotted tight into Cas's hair, feeling his cock twitching in Cas's mouth.

Slowly Dean's cock began to soften. Dean was still gasping for breath, drawing in air in great ragged lungfuls. Cas moved up and kissed him on the cheek. Dean wrapped his arms around Cas in a rough tight hug. He was still gasping from the orgasm, and Cas waited for his gasps to settle. But to Cas's puzzlement, Dean's gasps were not stopping. It seemed the gasps were getting heavier, not lighter. They were roughening, actually, his chest heaving more and more.

The gasps were turning into sobs.

A moment later Cas realized Dean was clutching onto him, and that he was crying. Hard sobs, wrenching through him, his whole body shaking with it.

"Dean?" Cas said, a wash of panic running through him. "Are you okay? What is it? Did I hurt you?"

"I thought you were dead," said Dean, through his sobs, his arms locked around Cas, his face buried in Cas's chest. "I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead, Cas, I thought you were dead—"

"Dean, I'm okay. I'm not dead. I'm okay. I'm okay," Cas said, desperately worried now. He wanted to wrap Dean in his arms, and wanted to wrap the comforter around him too, but Cas couldn't even get his arms free now because Dean was holding on too tight. I wish I could wrap him in my wings, Cas thought— an idea that made no sense at all.

"I thought you were dead," Dean repeated. And then: "I thought I killed you."

"Oh, Dean," said Cas, feeling a terrible weight of realization. The demon dream. The stabbing. That stab-in-the-chest had truly happened, and, Cas now realized, Dean had thought Cas was dead, ever since. Cas finally managed to get his arms free and pull the comforter around him (still thinking, If only I could wrap my wings around him!). Cas held him close, kissing him over and over, saying, "I'm all right. I'm alive. It wasn't your fault. Shh, I'm okay. Everything's okay."

He held Dean while Dean cried, and tried to wrap him up in the comforter, and tried to curl around him, protecting him from the world.

"I shoulda told you," Dean gasped. "Shoulda told you— I hurt you, Cas— You don't know what happened—"

"I know what happened," said Cas. "I already knew."

He felt Dean's sobs stutter a little. "W-what?" Dean choked out.

"I already knew. I remember that much. But, Dean, I walked into the blade on purpose."

Dean's sobs lightened into erratic little hitches. He pulled back a little and stared at Cas. His face was blotchy, his cheeks wet with tears, his eyes red... He was a mess.

And yet somehow he still looked beautiful. To Cas, at least.

"What?" Dean repeated.

"I walked into the blade on purpose," said Cas. "It's the only thing I remember clearly. I saw which way you were turning and I chose to walk into the blade. It was the only way I could free you of the Mark."

"You... what? On purpose?" Dean said.

"I made that choice," said Castiel. Dean looked stunned; Cas leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. And then on the temple, and then on the cheek, kissing the tears away (as he had tried to do in the motel), and then, at last, on the lips. "That was my choice," said Cas. "Dean, it wasn't your fault. Oh, I'm so very sorry, Dean, I shouldn't have forced you to let me be intimate with you before you were ready. I didn't want to let another chance go by. I'm sorry."

"Forced me? What?" Dean wiped a hand over his face. "You didn't force me. Did you not notice me telling you yes please more more more? And ripping your damn shirt off like a lunatic? I wanted it. I wanted every damn second. Ah shit, I'm fucking everything up now, aren't I? I'm such a complete fuckup—"

"No, you're not—"

"You give me the best blow job I've had in ages and, and, and, it's you doing it, I actually find you again and we actually manage to finally do this thing we've been dancing around for so fucking long, and then I fucking lose it like this." Dean tried to wipe his nose on his arm, and muttered, "Bawling like a little girl. God fucking dammit." Cas handed him a Kleenex, and Dean blew his nose. "Ah, I'm so fucking sorry, Cas. That was the best blow job I've had in years and I'm a friggin' wreck. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize." said Cas. "As long as... you didn't dislike the blow job, did you?"

"Best I've had in ages," said Dean. He drew another long, ragged breath, nestling back down into Cas's arms, and then said, "Just... amazing. To be honest I haven't really, uh." He paused. "It's been a while. Haven't even jerked off or anything. Since you... Since I lost you."

"Oh," said Cas, and he began to understand.

"Just haven't felt like it," said Dean. He wriggled a little closer, burying his face in the curve of Cas's shoulder again. "Till now."

His breathing had steadied, and Dean now started giving Cas a series of soft kisses, all over his collarbones and neck. They felt like little hummingbird kisses, softer and more tantalizing even than in the dream. "I gotta make this up to you," Dean whispered. "I swear I'm not going to burst into tears every damn time. And there's so much stuff I need to tell you, Cas— and— oh, wait, hey, I gotta, I gotta take care of you—" His hand was suddenly down on Cas's cock.

"Relax," Cas said, pulling Dean's hand away.

"But I want to."

"I would love it," said Cas. "But, Dean, you're exhausted. Rest. We have time, Dean."

"I don't wanna wait," said Dean. "I just want to..." He gave a frustrated sigh.

"Carpe Cas?" suggested Cas.

Dean gave a rough laugh, and Cas felt him nod. Dean said, "Exactly. Carpe Cas. Or... how do you say "suck off" in Latin? Or, 'fuck silly'? "

"I won't say no for long," said Cas, smiling now. "But wait just an hour. You've had far more on your mind than I knew. And you drove all night. You need to rest. Just relax for an hour. We've got all afternoon."

Dean finally relaxed a little.

Cas lay there stroking Dean's hair, feeling Dean's arms around him. Dean was, indeed, exhausted, for only a minute went by before Dean's arms began to loosen, and his breathing began to deepen. Cas felt his leg twitch, and heard his breathing slow further; Dean was falling asleep.

The afternoon light was slanting through the window. Outside it was turning into a pleasant March day, and Cas could hear the first birds of spring singing: cardinals trilling from the trees, and a sparrow twittering in the bushes just outside. But all that mattered in this moment was what had happened, and was still happening, right here in this little room. And it now seemed the greatest honor in the world, the greatest privilege imaginable, just to be able to lie here and make a safe place for Dean, and to be able to comfort and protect him as he slept.

Cas kept stroking his hand slowly over Dean's back. He found himself thinking (still without quite understanding the thought), Someday, when my wings heal, when my feathers regrow, then I will wrap you in my wings.

But for now at least he could hold Dean in his arms.

Now and then Dean muttered "Cas," coming half-awake, his hands tightening around Cas momentarily. Each time Castiel kissed him and said, "I'm okay, Dean," and held him close, until Dean drifted off again.

A/N - Hope you don't mind the emotional whiplash (of Dean suddenly breaking down right after the hot sex.) Some of you have noticed I like to mix up the sex scenes with non-sexy other things, with humor and sorrow and very mixed-up feelings. (The way it often happens in real life, right?) And I've noticed that there is a thing that can happen sometimes, in that moment right after sex, right after a person has really let their guard down, when someone who's been trying to tough it out can totally crumble into tears all of a sudden. I've seen it hit even the macho-tough guys very unexpectedly sometimes - sobs and all. It struck me that it might hit Dean that way, as this is really the first time he's truly let his guard down since the day he thought he lost Cas.

Hope you liked it.

Carpe diem!  :)

Chapter Text

A/N - Those of you who CONSTANTLY LAUGH AT ME (you know who you are) about my chapter count always increasing, seriously now, what am I supposed to do when these dang characters start taking over? For example, in this chapter, Cas and Dean were SUPPOSED to get up and start talking about stuff and have all these plot developments- I had it all mapped out - but the second Dean woke up he got obsessed with the idea that he needed to take a close look at Cas and just admire Cas's face for a while, and then Cas decided to kiss him, and then Dean remembered that Cas still needed "his turn," and I could not convince Dean to let go of Cas and let the plot get moving. You see, IT IS NOT MY FAULT at all. So here is a short chapter, and a 100% smut scene; the rest of the planned chapter will follow tomorrow. :)

Castiel lay there a long time with Dean's head pillowed on his shoulder, one arm wrapped around Dean's shoulders, as Dean slept.

Sleep well, Cas kept thinking. Rest. Relax. You're safe here.

Sleep.

He found himself touching Dean's forehead lightly with his free hand now and then. A soft touch, with two fingers. As if he could send Dean into a restful sleep with just a touch on the head. Cas smiled at the absurdity of the thought... yet could not seem to restrain himself from doing the little forehead-touch a few more times.

And Dean slept.

Soon Dean was so deeply asleep, his breathing so slow, his arm so slack across Cas's chest, that Cas thought, He probably hasn't slept so soundly in weeks.  

Sleep. Rest. Relax, Cas kept thinking, still touching Dean's forehead now and then.

One hour passed, then two; and then three. The afternoon wore on. A rectangle of sunlight from the window moved across the bare wooden floor, and then gradually began to slide up onto the wall. It wasn't until a robin outside began singing its sunset song, all the other birds having fallen silent, that Cas realized it was, in fact, nearly sunset— nearly six o'clock. Dean had been asleep for almost four hours.

Only then did it occur to him that his "Sleep, rest, relax," might have been a wish.

Cas had been lying here for hours wishing for Dean to sleep well; and sure enough, Dean was sleeping very well indeed.

Was it the same strange wish-making that had happened with the dreams?

With an effort Cas wrenched his mind away from the Sleep, rest, relax thoughts, and forced himself to stop touching Dean's forehead. Instead he turned his face to study the patch of light on the wall.

Not ten minutes later he felt Dean's arm tighten a little.

Cas turned to him. Dean's eyes were open. His face was just a few inches away, and he was watching Cas with focused attention. Cas opened his mouth to say "Did you sleep well? Do you want to get up?" but as soon as he drew a breath to speak, Dean reached up and put a finger on Cas's lips.

Cas fell silent.

Dean said nothing. But he slowly slid his finger off Cas's lips and onto Cas's chin. And then he began running the finger slowly along Cas's jawline. Very slowly. Dean's eyes were tracking his finger's progress, flicking now and then to Cas's eyes, to Cas's mouth, to his hair, to his nose, and then back to wherever his hand was.

He's studying me, thought Cas. He's studying my face.

Still Dean said nothing.

Finally Dean set his palm against Cas's jaw, cradling his face. Cas felt him brushing a thumb across the stubble on Cas's chin.

"Do I need to shave?" whispered Cas.

Dean shook his head. "I like it," he whispered back. He brushed his thumb along the stubble again. "I like it a lot. Just... trying to believe it's really you. And maybe..." He gave a little grin. "Maybe getting used to the stubble, yeah. It's different than what I'm used to. But I like it."

Cas thought a moment. "But you must have touched men like this before, yes?"

Cas had assumed that Dean must be very experienced. But to Cas's surprise, Dean shook his head.

Dean said, stroking a finger across Cas's stubbly cheek again, "I guess I've thought about it, though."

"Thought about it? How often?"

Another grin; a shyer grin this time, with a hint of a blush. "Okay," said Dean. "I might've thought about it maybe more often than I wanted to admit. Maybe a lot more often. But... no, never actually done this before. Not with a guy, I mean." Dean added, very quietly, "Just you."

Dean fell silent then, and now his hand began again to trace its way all over Cas's head: up to Cas's forehead, smoothing the slight puzzled frown on Cas's face; stroking Cas's hair back at the crown of his head; stroking into the hairs at his temple. It felt hypnotically delicious, to have Dean's fingers moving through Cas's hair like that; in fact it felt so marvelous that Cas had to close his eyes. Then he felt Dean's hand meander down to Cas's ear, and next Dean was tracing the outline of Cas's ear with one finger.

The touch on his ear was astonishing; Cas caught his breath.

"Is your hand enspelled?" Cas asked, opening his eyes. 

"What?"

"Is there something magic about your hand? Are you making a magical wish or something? It feels so good."

Dean chuckled, his whole face creasing in a broad smile. "No magic, Cas. Unless you count six years of pent-up frustration. Seven years, I guess, now." Dean was still smiling as his fingers began to trail down Cas's neck, and now it seemed his touch was creating a wave of heat that was spreading out to suffuse Cas's whole body.

How can just a touch on my neck feel so good? Cas wondered.

Dean said, his words coming more slowly now, "I don't know why I never made a move. It just... it wasn't in my picture of myself, I guess.... And I didn't want to mess things up with you. I was pretty sure you wouldn't even be into it. But once you were gone.... " He paused. "I've lost you before. But this time I thought it was final. I knew it was final. Those ashmarks..." His breath caught in his throat, and his hand paused now, resting on Cas's shoulder. "Cas, when I— when I saw—"

Castiel couldn't bear the look of guilt and pain that was starting to sweep over Dean's face. So he did the only thing he could think of to erase it: he shoved the comforter aside and rolled on top of Dean, pushing him onto his back, lying right on top of him, half-straddling him, both of them naked. And then Cas smothered him in a long kiss.

It seemed to be the right move, for Dean stopped talking, reached up and grabbed Cas's head in both hands, and kissed him back. A long, languorous kiss. Dean nibbled his way along Cas's lips, and ran his tongue along Cas's teeth. One of his hands moved to Cas's neck, scritching him a little there at the short hairs of the neck. Now that felt unexpectedly good; spears of heat went running right down Cas's spine, and Cas gasped into Dean's mouth. Dean's fingers on his neck felt so good that Cas had to break the kiss just to let his head fall down on Dean's shoulder.

Dean's hand moved on, down to Cas's shoulder.

"Do that again," Cas muttered into Dean's ear. "Do that again. Go back."

"What?"

Cas caught himself about to say: Preen the feathers on my neck. Which made no sense at all, so Cas just muttered, "The back of the neck." He reached up to grab Dean's hand and put it in the right spot. "There. Touch me there again."

Dean chuckled. "Found something you like, did I?" He moved both hands to the back of Cas's neck, scritching him with both hands. "You like that?" Dean said; Cas could hear the smile in his voice, but couldn't even respond, for he was shaking now, quivering from head to toe as he lay limp on top of Dean, flooded with emotions he could barely put a name to. Joy, and gratitude, and disbelief, and, yes, love, undoubtedly; and...

And feeling loved, in return. Feeling all the emotions echoed right back at him, from Dean.

"Wow, you do like that." Dean said, his voice rumbly now with amusement and affection. "Guess I do have the magic touch!"

And he kept on doing it, scritching at the back of Cas's neck. Cas wanted to say something to him, wanted to convey how good it felt, but the scritches on the back of the neck seemed to have blown all the words right out of Castiel's mind. Soon Cas was thinking only, I want to put my wings around him, but frustratingly the thought seemed to be in some other language entirely, something he knew Dean wouldn't understand.

So in lieu of words he kissed Dean again. Harder, hotter, almost biting at his lips.

The touch on his neck was fascinating. The thoughts about wings were fascinating. The kisses were fascinating. The taste of Dean's mouth was fascinating. Well, everything was fascinating, actually, including how it felt to be sprawled naked across Dean's bare body like this, and (Cas suddenly realized) it was also very fascinating to discover that Dean's cock was now pressing up right against Cas's balls, of all the astonishing things, and that Cas's own cock was half-hard too. Dean must have noticed too, for a moment later Dean stuck a hand down between them, wriggling around under Cas a little, pushing at Cas's shoulders a bit to shift him around.

Cas tried to adjust, unsure what he was doing. And a moment later Dean had both their cocks together in his hand, lined up along their bellies, pressed between them.

This was so extremely interesting that Cas almost forgave Dean for abandoning the back-of-the-neck area. In fact Cas had to break the kiss just to sit up, straddling the very uppermost part of Dean's thighs now, to take a look.

There was Dean, spread out before him, his whole torso almost glowing now in the sunset light. Dean was gazing up at him intently, his eyes dark, his cheeks a little flushed, his mouth half-parted. Dean still had one hand gripping both their cocks together and the other was now tracing its way, with its impossibly firey touch, through the soft hairs on Cas's forearm.

He looked impossibly gorgeous. Cas ran a hand along Dean's chest, thinking What an incredibly fine human specimen. And then when he looked down further, there were their balls, nestled together; and Dean's cock poking up gently, and Cas's cock sticking straight out now, and Dean's hand gently wrapped around both shafts together.

It was an absolutely incredible sight.

"Dean, your penis is.... so interesting," Cas said, staring down at the mesmerizing sight of Dean's cockhead right against Cas's own.

Dean laughed once more, another broad smile spreading over his face, and he said, "I was just thinking the same about yours." Then Dean reached up one finger to Cas's chest and drew a long line down the middle of Cas's chest, right down to Cas's crotch, and (letting go momentarily with his other hand) right out onto Cas's cock.

Right to the very tip.

Again it felt like a line of liquid fire. Cas felt a shudder run through his body, and heard himself gasp, and then managed to say, "Are you sure your hands aren't enspelled?"

Dean grinned again. "Let's find out. How much time we got? I mean, till anybody else shows up?" Again hand closed around both cocks, and squeezed a little.

"T-two hours...." whispered Cas, his breath starting to come short.

"Plenty of time," said Dean, and he spat into his other hand. Still squeezing the shafts with one hand, he gently, very gently, spread the warm slickness of his spit over Cas's cockhead with his other hand, keeping the palm flat, rotating his hand around and around.

"Oh," said Cas. Next thing he knew he'd wrapped both his own hands around Dean's and couldn't help pressing his hips forward a little, sliding his cock forward through Dean's hand, right against Dean's cock.

It felt surreally intimate. Both their cocks pressing against each other, and both Dean's hands and both Cas's hands squeezing together, their fingers interlacing. Dean clearly had some sort of plan, one hand gripping the shafts tight and the other still working at the cockheads; but Cas was really just groping, wrapping his fingers somewhat randomly around around Dean's, almost losing track of whose hand was whose. Soon Cas found himself thrusting steadily, his hips making jerky little movements forward and back that he didn't recall telling himself to do and that he couldn't seem to stop doing. Dean had made sort of a tunnel now out of both his hands, and every time Cas thrusted he felt his cock slide through the tunnel, sliding right against Dean's cockshaft, and even pushing right past the rim of Dean's cockhead. And on every stroke Cas's cock got harder... and so did Dean's; Cas could feel it.

"Dean," Cas gasped. "This is... good. It's good..."

"I found another thing you like?" said Dean, with another little smile, though he was definitely getting a little breathless himself.

"Yes," said Cas. "Sorry, I can't stop moving— I just can't stop—"

"Pro tip, Cas," said Dean, panting a bit. "That is not something to apologize for." Cas gave into it then, letting himself thrust faster, harder, feeling Dean gripping him, feeling Dean's cock like a hard line of pressure against his own. Soon Cas was gasping for air. He felt hot with fever, beads of sweat rolling down his chest and back, and he let his head sink back a little, tilting his face to the sky for a moment as let the thrusting just take over.

"You're so fucking gorgeous, did you know that" muttered Dean, his own breath coming heavier now.

"No," said Cas. "I didn't—"

"You are so goddam fucking hot. Damn, I love how you're moving. Ah, Cas— I can't believe this—"

"Getting close," said Cas. He was having to brace himself now, both hands planted on either side of Dean's chest, his elbows locked, his head down now, just to get enough leverage to keep thrusting the way he wanted. The way he needed to. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then he felt Dean shifting under him and opened his eyes to see Dean tossing his head from side to side, squirming underneath him, his chest heaving.

Cas nearly lost it right then. He felt his balls tighten up against Dean's; he felt his own cock throb, against Dean's.

"I'm close," gasped Cas. "Really close—"

"Yeah, angel, do it, do it," said Dean, giving little tiny thrusts of his own now, still squeezing their cocks together. "Do it for me, Cas, do it—"

And Dean lifted his head a little, staring down at Cas's cock.

"Yeah— ah— Dean— AH—" Cas felt a momentary panic just as he was losing control: did Dean really want this? Did he truly?  Would he pull away? But it was far too late for second thoughts— it was out of his control. Cas's hips were almost in spasms now, thrusting harder than ever, a wild instinct gripping him that he could not control. It seemed then that Cas felt invisible wings, wings that were grabbing down at Dean— wings that were injured, maybe, but that were still there, in some other dimension. My wings are on him! Cas knew somehow, My wings are wrapped around him, whether he can feel it or not— and at that bizarre thought, every muscle in Cas's groin seemed to pulse at once. Cas cried out, his hips rocking forward one last time as the wave of ecstasy ripped through him. Come began flying out of his cock, the first two spurts shooting all the way up onto Dean's chest.

Dean did not pull away. Not remotely. What Dean did was groan, "Holy fuck," and he reached up with one hand and grabbed Cas hard, yanking him right down on top of Dean. Cas cried out again as he folded down on top of him, Dean pulling him down till they were pressed together chest-to-chest, their cocks still pressed together by Dean's other hand, squeezed between their bodies. Cas's cock was still twitching and spurting.

"Ah, Cas... oh my god... uh... oh my fucking god..." Dean was saying, grunting now, his arm clamped around Cas so tight that Cas could barely breathe. Dean's hips slammed up at Cas a few times, and through the fading spasms of his own orgasm, Cas felt the tip of Dean's ramrod-hard cock jabbing at Cas's belly, moving through the slickness of Cas's come, as Dean clutched at Cas even harder, gave a hoarse grunt, and his cock started twitching. Dean's coming too, Cas thought. And my wings are still on him— the knowledge flared through him like a fire, somehow sparking a second, smaller orgasm, Cas's cock twitching five or six more times, more spurts of come pulsing weakly out.

Slowly it wound down, both of them gasping for breath as they shuddered through the last spasms.

As Cas got his breath back he folded an arm around Dean's head and turned his head to kiss him on the neck.

There were no tears this time. Dean just hung on.

A/N - Dean had a good idea there, don't you think? 

AND NO PLOT HAPPENED, lol. But they wanted this.... and needed it. And it's better, I think, to separate this scene into its own little chapter - it's too physically intense to attach well to the following scenes.

The rest will follow shortly, either later tonight or tomorrow! Please let me know if you liked this. :)

Chapter Text

A/N - Super long chapter today to make up for the last short one. I'm having to post this in a big hurry (today's a heavy work day and Sun-Mon are going to be boat days) so there will be a ton of typos - forgive me, I'll catch as many as I can later tonight on a re-read, but I've got to post it now or never! Hope you enjoy.

"I suppose we should get up," commented Cas a few minutes later. He was still slumped across Dean. They'd hardly shifted position at all. Primarily because Dean was again running his fingers through the short hairs on the back of Cas's neck, and it just felt too good to move.

Dean said, "Yeah. We should probably at least take a shower."

"Mm," said Cas.

"A shower would clean us up a bit," said Dean. "Though... it does mean we'd have to move."

The idea of moving seemed completely preposterous.

They both lay there for another long minute, Dean still scritching Cas's neck lightly. The light was fading outside; the little room was starting to grow dim.

"Wish I could stay here forever," Dean muttered, almost to himself.

Cas was about to say, "You could,"  when he felt Dean tense a little, and Dean said, "Oh. Wait. Shit. I need to call Sam. He knew I wasn't gonna call for a bit, but he'll be getting worried."

This reminder finally snapped them both into action. Cas managed at last to haul himself up off of Dean, handing him a few Kleenexes and then using a few more on himself to wipe off most of the stickiness. Dean then reached a long arm off the bed and managed to snag the edge of his jeans, hauling them closer to dig his phone out of his jeans pocket.

It turned out Sam had sent two texts already. Dean started tapping out a text in return. He reported to Cas, as he tapped away, "I'm telling him everything's cool. And I'm telling him you want to see him— right?" He glanced at Cas for confirmation, and Cas nodded emphatically. "Great," said Dean, "And I'll tell him I'll go pick him up and bring him back here."

Not thirty seconds later the phone screen lit up with a text in reply.

As Dean read the new text, Cas stood up from the bed— a little regretfully, but events were clearly moving on, and he knew it was time to return to the world. But when he went to the wall and flicked on the overhead light, he allowed himself a moment to just take in the scene: Dean sprawled there so casually on Cas's little bed, looking so at home now, right here in Cas's room. Dean was still totally nude, the comforter now pulled up half around his shoulders like a cape. He was on his side, propped up on one elbow, studying the phone screen, and then tapping away at another text to Sam.

If we ever had a life together, maybe it'd be like this, thought Cas. Relaxed, like this. Sharing the same room, maybe? Intimate, casual.... Comfortable.

The thought brought an almost painful wave of yearning. And of hope.

I want this, Castiel realized. And not just the sex. For even this mundane moment afterwards, this simple moment with Dean sprawled on Cas's bed, tangled up in Cas's bedding, tapping out texts on his phone, seemed a precious moment too. Just to have Dean here in his room in any way was important.

Just to have Dean part of his life.

Dean said, still looking at the screen, "I was gonna go pick him up but Sam suggested he just grab a cab here. It'll be quicker since he's across town anyway. It's six-thirty now. He'll be here in twenty minutes. And Claire gets back at, what'd you say, eight? So, speedy shower time, okay?" He looked up at Cas.

Dean blinked to see Cas standing there gazing down at him in rapt adoration.

"Cas, the last time someone looked at me like that..." Dean began. The phrase seemed slightly familiar, but Dean paused. "Actually," Dean finally said, sitting up on the bed and looking up at him with a grin. "You know what. I don't even remember the last time someone looked at me like that."

"It's so good to have you here," said Castiel. "Dean... I would like to spend more time with you. I mean, I don't want this to be the only time."

Dean's gaze flicked up and down Cas's body, an almost solemn look on his face now.

"Right there with you," said Dean.

Yet there was something darker in Dean's expression now. Something guarded. But whatever it was, Dean hid it away, a slightly forced smile coming over his face. "Shower time!" he said brightly, shaking off the comforter and scrambling to his feet.

The showers went fast, and soon they were both back in Cas's room dressing, shooting almost shy glances at each other as they got their pants back on. As Cas was starting to button up his shirt Dean said, "Allow me."

Dean took two steps closer and finished buttoning Cas's shirt. A little slowly, and again with that slightly solemn look— almost a hint of worry in his eyes.

"There you go," was all he said when he was finished. He patted Cas on the shoulder and took a step back.

"Till next time," said Cas with a smile.

Again the worried look flitted across Dean's face.

Cas took a step closer, studying his face. Yes; Dean was worried about something. Cas said, on a hunch, "There will be a next time, Dean. That is... if you want."

"Oh, man, I want. I definitely want," said Dean. lifted one hand to squeeze Cas's shoulder. "There's so much more I want to do with you, Cas...Everything. I want to do everything." He gave a little chuckle. "And to be honest I'd lounge around here all evening and all night and all next week, too, here in your room, if I could. Damn, even just that nap was awesome. But Cas..."

Dean set his hand on the side of Cas's jaw, cradling his face, as he had several times before. He said, looking very serious now, "We gotta get you sorted out first. I don't want to do anything else till I make sure you know everything. We gotta figure out what happened to you, and put you back together. And then... " Dean paused.

Again the guarded look came over Dean's face.

Dean said, "Then you can see what you really want to do."

Cas realized, He's not sure if I'll still feel the same way if I get my memories back.

He thinks I might change my mind.

The thought almost made Cas laugh. He said, "I told you already, Dean, I know what I want. That's not going to change." He took a step closer, and kissed him once more. A gentle kiss, on the lips; Dean kissed him back.

When Cas pulled back to examine his expression again, Dean looked slightly reassured.

But only slightly.

They still had a few minutes before Sam arrived, so they made their way back to the living room. Cas was still a little distracted, trying to think of more ways he could reassure Dean, but fortunately a solution presented itself immediately.

"Oh my god," said Dean, staring toward the kitchen. He started to laugh.  

"What's so funny?" said Cas, following his gaze; all he saw was the pie.

"I forgot about the pie!" said Dean, waving one arm at the apple pie. He turned and beamed at Cas. "I completely forgot about the pie!"

"Oh," said Cas. "I guess I did too. That's... funny?"

Dean laughed again. "You should probably know, Cas, there are damn few people in this world who could make me forget that there is a fresh-baked pie in the very next room. In fact, you might be the only one."

Cas knew he was missing the joke, but it was lovely to see Dean smiling like that, and Cas couldn't help smiling back. He said, "Then please allow me to serve you a piece."

He pulled out a chair for Dean, and set out a plate and fork for him. The pie had grown cold, but Cas cut a slice to heat up in the microwave. (Dean seemed a little taken aback that Cas was using his silver kitchen knife to cut up a pie; Cas assured him the knife was sharp enough for the job.) When the slice was heated he put a dollop of ice cream next to it and handed it to Dean, and as Dean took the plate he gave Cas such a bright-eyed, happy look that Cas almost started to laugh.

And Dean liked the pie.

"Cas, this is awesome," Dean said, after shoveling a gigantic bite into his mouth. He sounded a little surprised. He said, around another bite, "When did you learn to bake?"

"I've been learning recipes for months," Cas said. "Making dinners for Claire."

Dean gave a little huff of a laugh. "Well. Kickass job." Dean stuffed another big forkful of pie into his mouth and glanced around at the little house again. He said, "Looks like you're not half bad at this dad thing, you know."

Cas smiled at the praise. "I try. It's very important to me to keep my daughter happy."

For some reason Dean blinked at that. He even stopped eating the pie, pausing right in the middle of picking up a forkful, and gave Cas a long, considering look.

"Cas—" said Dean, setting down the fork.

There was a knock on the front door.

Cas swung the door open. A taxi was pulling away down the street, and there on the front stoop, just a step away, was, at long last, the mysterious brother Sam. The brother Castiel had seen, fleetingly, only twice before: in the parking lot where the demon had appeared, and at the motel.

And in the car dreams, of course. Cas now realized that Sam must be the taller silhouette in those dreams, the one who was always sitting on the right.

Sam met Cas's eyes uncertainly. He seemed totally tongue-tied. In fact he looked almost as tense as Dean had when he'd arrived.

"It's Sam, right?" said Castiel. "You're Dean's brother? Would you like to come in?"

Sam nodded. Cas backed out of the way and Sam took a tentative step inside. He had to duck just to clear the doorframe; if Dean had seemed to fill the house when he had first arrived, Sam seemed positively gigantic. His height should have made him formidable, but somehow it didn't. Maybe because he looked so uncertain, with the way he was sidling sideways into the house, hands fidgeting at his sides, turning to face Cas again with such a round-eyed hopeful look that he seemed like nothing more than an enormous puppy.

"Hi... uh..." Sam said to Cas. His eyes darted to Dean.

"It's him," said Dean. He pushed his chair back and stood up from the table, with an air of making an important pronouncement, and he said, "Sam, it's Cas."

Sam let out a sharp breath. He looked at Cas and then back at Dean. "You're sure?"

"Damn sure," said Dean. "Hundred percent. Two hundred. A thousand. It's Cas."

"I don't remem—" Cas began. He'd been planning to say "I don't remember much," but the rest of his sentence got cut off in an "oof" as Sam smothered him in a huge bearhug.

"Seriously?" Sam was saying, over Cas's shoulder to Dean. "Really?" Dean must have nodded, for Sam tightened on. All Cas could see now was a faceful of flannel shirt. He could barely even get his arms up to pat Sam tentatively on the back. The hug progressed from near-asphyxiation to Sam clapping Cas on the back several times, so thunderously that Cas almost started coughing.  At last Sam released him and stepped back a little, saying, "Jeez. Cas. Cas. It's so good to see you." Cas was startled to see him wiping his eyes.

He really WAS a friend, Cas realized.

IS a friend.

"Jeez. Cas. Wow," said Sam. He seemed a little overwhelmed. "That was one hell of a death scene you put us through, dude. Burnt wing marks and everything. We were sure you were gone. It was... uh..." He paused, darting a very brief glance at Dean. "It was pretty bad, actually. How the hell did you survive?"

"He doesn't remember anything, Sam," said Dean, setting the pie aside (giving it one last wistful look) and starting to walk over to them. "He really thought he was Jimmy Novak, all this time. Claire's apparently been... uh... encouraging him to think that. I was waiting till you got here to try to figure out that part."

Sam drew a slow breath, nodding. He said, "Okay. Okay." He looked at Cas. "So, well, what has Dean told you so far? You know you're an angel, right?"

Angel, thought Cas.

Dean had called him "angel" in the middle of that wonderful sunset interlude they'd just had in the bedroom. Cas had thought it was just a term of endearment, but...

But it fit.

Angel.

Wings. Feathers.

All the strange wing thoughts he'd been having. The certainty he'd had that he was somehow wrapping wings around Dean.... The weird certainty that he even had wings...

The intermittent strange ache across his shoulders. He'd been feeling it for months.

Black wings spreading...

I'm an angel.

The next thing Cas knew, Sam was at his side bracing him by one arm, Dean rushing up to grab the other arm. The room had gone tilty again. Cas staggered, leaning on both of them. Dean was saying, his voice dry, "Well, no, Sam, he didn't know that. Way to break it to him, though."

"Oh," said Sam, with a sheepish look at Dean. "Sorry. I'm really sorry, Cas, I thought by now Dean would've—"

Dean ordered, "C'mon, sit him down."

"I'm okay," Cas said, but they marched him over to the kitchen table anyway. "I'm all right," he tried again.

"Well, sit down anyway," said Dean. "Cause we got more stuff to tell you."

Cas gave in, and sank down in the chair at the head of the little table. Sam and Dean got him settled and then took their seats again on either side, Sam on Cas's left and Dean on his right. Dean was still looking at Cas closely, frowning in concern, one hand on Cas's arm. Cas gave him a weak smile, and repeated, "I'm okay. Really."

Sam looked abashed. "I'm really sorry," he said. "I assumed Dean would have told you by now." He scowled across the table at Dean. "Dean, you've been here hours, you could've told him at least that much. What've you been doing all this time?"

Cas said, "We were, uh...." He glanced at Dean, and found that Dean suddenly had a slightly desperate look in his eyes. Dean's hand had tightened on Cas's arm.

Sam doesn't know, thought Cas. Sam doesn't know how Dean feels.

And Dean doesn't want Sam to know.

It made sense; clearly it was all a new development for Dean.

Yet it stung a little too.

Cas lost his train of thought for a moment. He had to wrench himself back on track. "Um. We were busy with other things. Other things came up." He didn't even realize there was something amusing in his phrasing till he heard Dean try to suppress a snorted laugh.

Sam darted a slightly confused look across the table at Dean. He turned back to Cas with a sigh. "Well, anyway, you're an angel. Or you were, at least."

"That's why you could hear my prayers," Dean said.

"It makes sense, actually." Cas said slowly. "I mean.... it feels right. And it explains some things. Like why I kept wanting to wrap you in my wings."

Cas hadn't realized how that was going to sound till he saw an alarmed look flash across Dean's face.

"Oh," said Cas. "Uh... I just meant...."

"So, anyway—" said Dean.

"Wait, what?" said Sam.

"Nothing," said Dean, a little weakly.

There followed some ten seconds of an elaborate, completely silent exchange between Sam and Dean that Cas could barely follow. First Dean's eyes darted for a microsecond to Sam; then Dean made the mistake of glancing at Cas. His face softened for a moment as he met Cas's eyes, but then Dean instantly stared down at the table.

Dean licked his lips. Then he bit his lip. And shifted in his seat.

Sam, meanwhile, was staring intently at Dean, his brow furrowed.

Next Dean rubbed his mouth, glanced up again at Sam, met Sam's eyes for another split-second and instantly looked away again.

Dean began to blush.

Sam's eyes widened; his eyebrows lifted; he glanced at Cas, he looked at Dean again (who was now blushing even more), and a broad smile spread over Sam's face. Finally Sam let out a laugh.

"No way," Sam said.

Dean rubbed his forehead. "Sam. Could you just not—"

"Seriously, Dean? The very first day we find out who he is? Before you even tell him anything?"

"Wasn't just me," Dean muttered. Sam let out a bark of laughter at that and clapped Cas on the shoulder.

Cas said, "I think I'm not understanding this conversation."

"It's really not worth understanding," said Dean. "Trust me."

Sam was checking the time on Cas's kitchen clock now, still grinning. "We've been in Missoula all of six hours, Dean. Impressive. And here I thought you'd been wasting time!"

"Carpe diem," Dean said at last, with a little shrug, and Sam let out a truly pleased chortle of laughter, clapping Cas on the shoulder again. Ah, Cas finally realized; Sam has figured out that we were intimate with each other. That's what that was. But it seemed to be okay. Dean even seemed to be relaxing a little, much to Cas's relief; and Dean even allowed himself a glance back at Cas, a faint smile quirking up one side of his mouth. Cas couldn't help but smile back at him, and once again Dean's expression softened, the smile spreading a little wider.

"Aw," said Sam. "Aw. Jeez. Would you look at that." Now Sam had the puppy look again. In fact he almost looked like he was about to cry.

Dean said, "Okay, QUIT that. Get that look off your face, Sam, jeez. And NO COMMENTS. And no friggin' jokes." Dean cleared his throat. "Look, let's get back to business. We gotta figure out what happened to Cas and how to get his memory back."

"Yeah..." said Sam half-heartedly. He was actually wiping his eyes now.

"FOCUS, Sam."

"Yeah. Okay. I'm just happy for you guys, so sue me. Okay. Um... where do we start?"

"What I don't understand," said Sam, "is how you could hear Dean's prayers at all."

They'd been talking for some time. Dean and Sam had confirmed that Claire's hospital story, and Cas's dream as well, had actually both been correct. The Mark of Cain had taken over Dean, Cas had managed to free him of the Mark but had suffered a very serious stab wound in the process, he'd appeared to be dead, and Sam and Dean had taken him to the nearest hospital (in Nebraska).

Castiel had been declared brain-dead a day later.

And Claire had been called to come claim the body from the hospital.

Several days after that, Claire had called Dean to report that "Jimmy" had awoken. Dean and Sam had raced back to the hospital, but after watching from the doorway of the ICU (Cas remembered that day, but had never even known they'd been there), they'd seen "Jimmy" talking with Claire about memories of her childhood. And they'd concluded that "Jimmy" was indeed Jimmy Novak.

Just Jimmy Novak, and nobody else.

And they'd left.

"Those ashmarks, dude," said Dean, wiping at his eyes for maybe the fourth time. "I always thought that meant the absolute end, for an angel. I didn't think there was even a chance. And then... you had those Jimmy memories..." He dropped his hand, sighing. "I should've stuck around. But... those ashmarks...."

"If I'm understanding what happened," said Sam, "that light-explosion thing, that Dean saw, had to have been your grace leaving." Dean winced at the memory, closing his eyes. Sam gave him a sympathetic look, and said to Cas, "But apparently it didn't kill you. And somehow it wiped your memory. So, I don't get why you didn't die. That's puzzle number one, why you didn't die. Puzzle number two is, why'd you lose your memory and end up with Jimmy's memories. Puzzle number three is the prayers: how could you hear Dean's prayers? With no grace you shouldn't any angel-powers. No prayers, no healing, no nothing."

The mention of "healing" reminded Cas of something. He said, "Oh. Apparently I heal fast." He showed them his hand, and explained about the glass cut. "It healed overnight. In fact my cuts always heal overnight. Any injury I have, in the morning it's always gone. I didn't even realize that was unusual till Claire pointed it out."

Sam and Dean looked at each other.

"Overnight," said Sam. "That's way slower than usual for an angel."

"But way faster than usual for a human," said Dean, frowning. "Sam, he's been dreamwalking too. Into my dreams. I didn't realize that's what was happening till he mentioned it today."

"Huh. Okay," said Sam. "And he hears prayers... Weird. It's like, weak angelic half-powers."

"He wasn't hearing the prayers well," said Dean. "Right, Cas? You only heard me twice? And I must have prayed to you hundreds of times. Sam prayed too." Sam nodded at that.

"Only twice, yes," Cas confirmed.  "And one was when you were very close, Dean— close geographically, I mean, when I was driving very close to your motel. After you left and got further away, I did sometimes get a sensation of, well..." He struggled with how to describe it. "A sort of a longing feeling," he said.

Sam looked at Dean.

"Or a feeling of being called," Cas added. "But quite vague and distant. When you were out of Montana I only heard your words clearly one time."

Sam asked, "What were you doing? That one time?"

Cas thought back. He'd been in his bedroom; he'd just picked up the pillow to look at the badge. "I was sitting on my bed. I thought it might be related to the fact that I was holding some of Dean's possessions. His jacket, and the Fish & Wildlife badge that was in it. I've been... " He hesitated, suddenly realizing how odd it was going to sound to say he'd been sleeping with Dean's jacket. "This may sound silly... " He stopped again.

"If it's a potential clue we need to know, Cas," said Sam.

Cas drew a breath. "I've been... putting Dean's badge under my pillow at night. And holding on to his jacket, too. It... um. It just helps me sleep."

There was a little silence.

"Aw," Sam said.

"SAM," barked Dean. "Not a word."

But Dean turned to Cas, and he took Cas's hand.

Right there on the table in full view of Sam.

Sam just smiled.

Dean gave Cas's hand a reassuring squeeze and said, "NO aww'ing, Sam. Okay, Cas, so, when you held some of my things, that's when you were hearing my voice? And doing the dreamwalking?"

"That was my theory," said Cas. "That if I held your things and made a wish as I fell asleep — a wish to contact you, that is, or a wish to find you— that it might help the dreams happen. Mostly I was just trying to find you."

Dean frowned. "Couldn't you just have called?"

"I didn't know how to reach you."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look.

"But Claire has my phone number," said Dean.

"Mine too," said Sam.

Cas hesitated, and then confessed, "She told me she didn't know how to reach either of you." Sam and Dean exchanged a grim look, and Cas scrambled to try to make it sound less like Claire had been lying. Which apparently she had been doing, but... Sam and Dean weren't getting the whole picture. Cas tried again, saying, "What she actually said was..."

What she'd actually said was: I met Dean when I was alone... I was looking for you... I didn't know where you were...

And then Claire had burst into tears.

"Cas?" prompted Sam.

"Actually," said Cas, a bit uncomfortable to be describing Claire's breakdown to others, "When I asked her about it she started to cry. She's...." He paused. "She's had a very difficult time. I know it seems she's lied to me. And... I guess she has." It was still hard to admit this to himself; but Cas knew now it was true: Claire had lied.

Cas began to feel that he was on very shaky ground. But he said, determined to try to make them understand, "But, listen, she's taken such good care of me— she used to make all the dinners before I knew how, and she took care of me when I was sick last fall, and... We have a home here now. She's truly been a good daughter to me."

A good daughter to me.

He stopped short.

The phrase seemed to echo in the room. A good daughter to me.

"Cas," Sam said softly. "You do know that..." Sam paused and glanced at Dean. Dean nodded, and tightened his hold on Cas's hand.

Immediately Cas knew exactly what Sam was about to say, and the floor seemed to drop out from under him. He even wanted to stop Sam somehow from speaking, but could only sit mutely, frozen, as Sam turned back to Cas and said, in a very gentle voice:

"Cas, do you understand that Claire is not your daughter?"

Claire is not your daughter.

"I... just... realized that," said Cas. His chest felt tight; he felt almost nauseous. "I'm not Jimmy Novak, and so..."

Dean and Sam were both very quiet, watching him.

"So..." Cas said unsteadily. "... I'm not her father." He took a breath. "But I... I feel like I'm her father. I mean... I take care of her. I care about her." It seemed impossible to wrap his brain around it; to make room for the alien knowledge in his mind: He wasn't Claire's father. How could Claire possibly not be his daughter? Did that mean she would be taken away? What would happen to her?

"But I'm her dad," Cas said. "I love her, and..." He knew as he said it, how ludicrous it must sound.

An angel can't have a daughter. An angel can't be a father.

Dean put his other hand over Cas's now, clasping Cas's hand in both of his.

Sam didn't make a sound.

"I thought I was her father," said Cas, his voice still shaky. "Till today— till right now. For months I've thought that. She must have known I wasn't... She must have known..." All Claire's strange little jibes were suddenly making sense. Jibes about things Cas didn't remember; the sarcastic way she would say "Dad" sometimes. Cas said, "I don't understand why she lied. I don't understand." The shock of it had him surprisingly close to tears, and Dean scooted his chair even closer and put one hand up on Cas's shoulder, still holding Cas's hand with his other hand. It helped; Cas clung tightly to Dean's other hand, till he could make his breathing settle.

When he could talk again he said, still trying to explain, "I've been trying to make a good home for her. Every day I try to figure out what she might like for dinner... I've got a couple dozen things I can make now, things she likes... We have these, uh, she calls them father-daughter nights, where we watch a movie, and... "

It all seemed like such a charade now.

Yet Cas couldn't stop listing the things they'd done together. The way their lives had become intertwined. He said, "I've been helping her with her studying. I've been saving for her college. She asked me to come to her play..."

"You've been saving for college?" said Dean, interrupting him. "How'd you even manage that?"

Cas looked at him. "All the money you sent. That's where I've been putting it."

Dean and Sam looked at each other again.

"She tell you to do that?" said Dean, looking back at Cas.

"No, it was my idea." Cas began to feel a little embarrassed that he was hanging on to Dean so hard, and he forced himself to let go of Dean's hand, rubbing his face with both hands and trying to calm himself. "She didn't even know any money was arriving. I thought of it because she's so worried about college. She's been spending hours every night studying, trying to get a scholarship. I think she's frightened she's going to have be a prostitute otherwise."

Sam and Dean exchanged another look.

"Cas," Sam said carefully, "I think Claire has known all along that you were not her father."

"She's been keeping you in the dark," Dean added softly. "In order to have your help."

"I realize that," said Cas grimly.

"And," Dean went on, "She may know something about how all this happened. And how to undo it."

Sam asked, "Where is she?"

"She went out this morning," said Cas. "Said she'd be gone all afternoon..." Cas hesitated, recalling Claire's insistence that he stay home.

And her suggestion to make the pie.

Had Claire been trying to give Cas and Dean some time alone together?

"She said she'd be back at eight," said Castiel.

All three of them turned to look at the clock.

It was five minutes to eight.

The five minutes dragged by. Eight o'clock came, and passed. Soon it was five after, then ten after.

They all shifted to the living room to wait. Cas felt almost numb. Dean had to almost steer him to the sofa, and sit him down, and then Dean sat right next to him. Sam went to get Cas a glass of water.

Dean wasn't holding Cas's hand now, but he seemed to be taking care to sit quite close to him. Close enough so that their legs were touching.

Again that little bit of contact seemed immensely soothing.

"Thank you, Dean," Cas whispered to him.

"Anything you need," Dean muttered under his breath. "Anything."

Sam came back with the water, and Cas took a few sips. The creaking of the front door interrupted them. Claire stood there in the doorway, one hand slowly pushing the door open.

She took in the scene silently: Dean and Cas, sitting side by side on the sofa; two chairs to either side of the sofa; Sam sitting in one, and the other one empty and waiting. The empty chair was very close to Castiel.

"Claire," said Cas. He stood, and even as he rose he realized he was automatically planning to go over and give her a welcome-home hug. Like he always did. It was a habit; it was a ritual. The book he'd been consulting, Reaching Out To Your Teen, had said, "Even when they act like they don't want your love, they really do. Deep down, though they may not admit it, it makes them happy to know that you love them."

Except she's not my teen, thought Cas now.

Was that why she'd cringed from his hugs, all this time?

Cas just stood still, not knowing now if he should go over to Claire at all. She looked at him for a long moment, just a few yards away, her expression unreadable. She glanced at Dean and Sam, who were both still seated.

"You knew," Cas said to her. "You knew that... that I'm not..."

Claire nodded, and she said, "You're not my father." She set her pack down, and added, looking down at the floor, "Yes. I knew."

Cas sank back down onto the sofa.

She'd lied; she'd known all along... Cas was not her father. The daughter he remembered growing up, the daughter he remembered holding in his arms as a little baby, was not his daughter at all. And she'd known, and she'd lied about it.

Yet why did she look so sad?

Dean said, "Thought you might've run."

"Was thinking about it," said Claire. "I almost went last night."

"What?" said Cas, shocked.

Claire went on, to Dean, "But then I realized you'd never figure it out if I didn't come explain it. Even though I don't even understand it all myself." She shot a very brief glance at Cas. "Figured you deserved to know."

She sat down in the one remaining chair, just to Cas's left.

She looked calm. But her expression, Cas realized, was the same nonchalant tough-guy attitude that he remembered her using in her first weeks at school.

It might have been a convincing act if Cas hadn't known already that that expression, for Claire, was always just part of an act.

And maybe it might have been more convincing if Claire's hands hadn't been shaking, too. She was having to clasp both hands together tightly in her lap to hold them still.

She swallowed, and looked up.

"So..." she said.

"So. What is it?" Dean said, in a gruff voice. "What's keeping Cas in the dark? Is it a hex bag? A curse? Are you a witch now or something?"

"No, it wasn't like that—" said Claire, immediately on guard.

"Or was it all just good ol'-fashioned lies?" said Dean cheerily. "Kept him like a trained dog, didn't you? Just so you could have an easy place to live?" Cas turned to give him a reproving look (this was not the way to get Claire to open up) and Dean subsided a little, looking a little abashed. But Dean said, "Cas. She's been manipulating you. We need to know the truth."

Claire's nonchalant-tough-guy facade had faded into an almost pleading look. "It wasn't like that," she repeated. "I swear."

Sam asked, "Then why does he have these weird half-powers?"

"And the Jimmy memories?" asked Dean.

Claire bit her lip. She stared down at the carpet.

Dean said, "And why'd you tell him to change his voice? And why—" Cas set a hand on Dean's knee. He felt Dean fidget restlessly, but Dean did fall quiet.

"Claire," Cas said, turning to her. "Look at me."

It seemed to take her a terrific effort to drag her eyes up to Cas's face.

Cas had to make a conscious effort too, in his case just to ignore the mantra of "The most important thing is to make Claire happy" that was starting to drone away in the back of his mind. For none of this conversation would make Claire happy— that was becoming very clear.

Cas said to her, as gently as he could, "Tell me the truth. Please."

Claire whispered, "Okay, Dad." The moment the word "Dad" left her mouth she squeezed her eyes shut, and covered her mouth with one hand.

It took her a moment to get under control. Slowly she lowered her hand. She wiped her eyes, and looked up at Dean.

She said, to Dean, "I thought he was my dad at first."

She repeated it to Cas. "I thought you were my dad."

She drew a long breath, looking down at her jeans again.

"I got to the hospital and you were there in a coma," she said, still just staring at her own knees. "They said you were brain-dead. They were asking about organ donation and they asked me if they could pull the plug and for a long time I said no. I was hoping you'd wake up— I mean— I was hoping my dad would wake up."

She stopped.

She didn't want me at all, Cas thought. He'd known it, but the knowledge hurt just the same. She never wanted me here. She wanted her father. Her real father.

Claire let out a tiny sigh, one hand plucking now at the seams of her jeans.

"Guess I couldn't help hoping my dad might still be in there," she whispered. "I knew it was impossible, though."

Sam asked, "Why did you think it was impossible?"

"He told me my dad was gone," Claire said to Sam. She gestured at Cas. "Castiel, I mean. Castiel told me. Last year. When he came to get me out of the group home. Castiel told me my father's been dead for years. He said my dad's body got shredded apart into subatomic particles or something, and that human souls can't stay in bodies that are shredded like that, and Cas got put back together but my dad's in Heaven."

Dean and Sam looked at each other.

"I don't remember telling you that," said Cas slowly.

"Well, obviously," said Claire, a trace of her old sarcasm re-emerging.

Sam said, "I don't remember that either. We must've missed that announcement."

"I knew Jimmy was gone," said Dean. "I was certain. But Cas never really explained when. Jeez. Been a while, then."

Cas said to Claire "Go on."

She said, "I sat there a couple days, in the ICU next to you. Eventually I realized it was... it was not gonna happen. My dad wasn't gonna wake up. Which I'd known, but..."

A soft sigh.

She finally went on, "So after three days I said they could pull the plug. I was, um, I was, I was gonna try to, uh," Her voice was starting to waver. "I was gonna try to get you back to Illinois," she said, her eyes flicking up to Cas. "To bury you. I mean, I mean, to bury my dad. I mean... the body. But I couldn't afford it... I was trying to figure out how to afford the cremation and if I could hitchhike back to Illinois...."

She bit her lip.

Another long pause.

"But you didn't die," she said, raising her head and looking at Castiel for a long moment.

She said to him, "I waited by your bed for two more days for you to die. And you didn't die. Even with the tubes out and no respirator or anything, you just... didn't die. And then this other doctor showed up. A different doctor."

Cas blinked. He felt Dean stiffen beside him, and saw Sam raise his head slightly.

Claire said, "And some med students. They were from some medical school. The doc said there might be a way to.... wake up my dad. They said he might still be in there." And as she said this her head lifted a little, her eyes focusing somewhere far away. As if she had been transported back, very briefly, to the moment when she'd been told that her father might still return to her after all.

She said to Cas, "The doc said there's this new experimental procedure and if he did a transfusion of cerebrospinal fluid, from me, to you, it might wake you up."

"Wait, what?" said Dean.

"A transfusion?" said Sam. "Of CSF?"

Claire nodded.

Sam said, "I've never heard of that."

Claire said, "Well, he said it was experimental, and he started talking about syringes and things, and siphoning off some CSF, and me being a good match and all this stuff. He said if it worked, that Jimmy... my dad... would be a little fuzzy-headed, and he wouldn't have any recent memories and I should just tell him he'd been in an accident, but that he might have some memories of me. He quizzed me a bunch about whether I could take care of him, like, really commit to taking care of him and staying with him, and I said yes. He said that I was the only one who was a good match. I thought it was because I was your daughter...."

She hesitated, and added, "I knew my dad was gone. I'd known it the second you called me, Dean. I knew the whole thing was a lost cause. But I couldn't help hoping, you know? When the doc was telling me all this, I started to think that maybe Castiel could've been wrong? About my dad being gone? Cause..." She looked at Cas. "You haven't always been right about everything, you know. So I thought, maybe my dad might still be in there? Hidden away or something? Quiet... or asleep, maybe?" She gave a tiny, bewildered little shrug. "I thought... maybe? I thought maybe there was a chance?"

There was a quaver in her voice again. It was excruciating to realize how desperately she must have wanted to believe in such a thin thread of hope.

She said slowly, "I guess I made myself believe it.... So... anyway... he got out this gigantic needle to do the transfusion, and...." She hesitated. "Pretty soon I realized there was something sketchy about it. I mean, they just jumped right into it, they didn't even have me sign anything, and all of a sudden these med students were just holding me down, just, like, pinning me down, for the transfusion thing. It just didn't seem right. They didn't even have lab coats on, just the suits. And I realized they didn't even have name tags, and I knew then it was something pretty sketch, but by then I couldn't get loose. Um. It was... kinda scary actually..." She stopped again.

Cas remembered, then, how much Dean's touch had helped him earlier; and he reached one hand to her. Just as an offer.

Very unsure if she would take it.

She grabbed on.

Clinging to Cas's hand now (but still not looking at him), Claire said, "And the doc stuck this GIGANTIC needle in, into my flippin' spine I guess, and pulled out the CSF. They wouldn't even let me look at it. It hurt like a bitch, too. And then they finally let me go and honestly I just ran out of the room, I was just, I was pretty freaked." She darted a glance at Cas. "But then I realized I'd left you, or my dad, whichever, alone with them so... then I sorta crept back to see if I could do anything. I had some stupid idea I could rescue you or something. And it was all over. They'd already done it, I guess. They were standing around your bed talking. And the doc, he had my—"

"Wait just a second," said Dean slowly. "What kind of doctor was this exactly? I mean, what'd he look like?"

"Um," said Claire, frowning in concentration. "Older guy? Five foot nine or so? Dark hair. With a little beard? Kinda snarky actually."

Dean and Sam looked at each other. "No way," whispered Sam.

"He had, like, a British accent," added Claire, looking back and forth between them. "Does that help?"

"Crowley," spat Dean, jumping suddenly to his feet. He crossed the little living room in two long strides and spun around again at the window, hands on his hips. "Motherfuckin' Crowley. I cannot fucking believe it. I should have known."

"Claire," Sam said urgently, "Did you sign any kind of contract with him?"

"No. Like I said, that's why it seemed so sketch, he never had me sign anything—"

"Are you sure?" said Sam, "It's important. Like, really important."

"I'm sure." Claire was looking worried now. "Why?"

Cas had been following the story pretty well till now, but the "Crowley" factor had him lost. "Who is Crowley?" he asked. "Is he not a doctor?"

Dean looked at him. "One of your old associates, Cas. He's the King of Hell." Turning to Claire he said, "And the reason Sam's asking if you signed a contract is to try to figure out if you sold your soul to him without realizing it."

Claire stared at him a long moment. She tightened her hold on Cas's hand, and turned to him with a stricken look.

In a tiny voice, Claire asked Cas, "Was it... was it not CSF? Did he take out... my soul?"

Castiel knew immediately that this couldn't be right.

"I doubt it—" Cas began.

"Was that my soul?" Her hand was clamped on to his like iron. She said, "Is that why I've been such a bad person? Is that why I've been lying to you?"

"It can't have been your soul," Cas said, taking both her hands now. "It can't. First because I'm certain you have a soul." Sam was nodding at this. Cas continued, "And second, he can't have removed your soul without your express permission." He wasn't sure how he knew any of this; but he did.

Dean said, "Well then, what was it? Cause the CSF story doesn't seem too likely. Claire, you said he stuck the needle in your back?"

"No, my neck," said Claire. She finally let go of Cas's hand in order to gesture to the side of her neck, pulling back her hair and pointing just under her right ear.

"Oh my god," said Sam. They all looked at him. Sam was staring at Claire. And then he turned to stare at Cas.

"It was a piece of your grace, Cas," said Sam. "That's what it was! It was a piece of your grace."

There was a dead silence.

Dean said, "His grace? Inside Claire? But Metatron had Cas's grace. How would Claire have gotten some of it?"

"No, no, a piece from way earlier!" said Sam, excited now, almost bouncing in his seat. "I just realized! Cas, you told me once that angels leave tiny pieces of grace behind when they vacate a vessel. You even managed to get a piece of Gadreel's grace out of me! Dean, Cas stuck this giant needle in my neck to get it out."

"I did?" said Cas, bewildered.

Dean shot Cas a semi-amused, semi-frustrated glare. "Angels leave grace behind? You ever think of sending a memo around with some of this stuff? Like, oh, Dean, here's a list of critically important things I told other people and forgot to mention to you."

"Uh... sorry," said Cas.

Dean then spun on Sam, glaring down at him, "You too," he said. "You never mentioned this bits-of-grace thing."

"You were off getting the Mark of Cain and turning into a demon," said Sam, perfectly calm. "And you were working with, guess who, Crowley, now that I remember it. I kinda had my hands full. Sorry if I forgot to mention every last weird bit of angel lore Cas might've mentioned during that, y'know, eighteen months when you were basically a demon."  

That seemed to knock the wind out of Dean's sails; he was silent a moment and finally muttered, "Okay, fair point," walked back over to the sofa and slumped back down next to Cas. Cas patted his knee.

"Anyway, the point is," said Sam, unfazed, "angels leave pieces of their grace behind when they leave a vessel. And Cas possessed Claire once, remember?"

And then they all turned to look at Claire.

Dean said, "You still had some of Cas's grace. All this time."

Sam was looking frustrated. He wiped a hand over his brow, shoving his hair back behind his ears, and said, "Damn. I should have thought of this ages ago! I should've thought of it when we started looking for Cas's grace. I just forgot he'd been in Claire. I mean, he didn't possess Claire for very long. It was like, what, ten minutes?"

"It was long enough," put in Claire.

Dean turned to Claire again, "Claire, this is important: what did Crowley do with that grace?"

"I don't know," she said. "I never even saw it."

Sam said to Dean, "What was Crowley up to? Why didn't he just kill Cas?"

Dean shrugged. "He's saved Cas's life before. For no apparent reason. I never can figure out his gameplan."

Cas finally said, "Claire, what happened next? "

Claire continued her story.

"Like I said, he sent me out of the room. Then, when I finally got my nerve up enough to try to come back, I was hovering outside the room at first, trying to decide whether it was safe to come back in, and I heard one of the med students—"

"Demons," said Dean.

She glanced at him.

"Trust me," said Dean. "They were demons."

"Okay," she said uncertainly. "One of the med-student-demons, um, was saying to him, to the Crowley guy, 'you're turning into a softie in your old age, this is a waste of time.' But he, the doc, Crowley, he said something like: 'I want him off the chessboard but I don't want him dead.' And he said something like... even a hooded eagle is still an eagle? And, even a piece off the chessboard is still a piece, and it might still come in valuable someday, and better a piece you can control than one you can't. So... that's all I know about that. If that helps. Anyway, I finally walked back in, and the doc, your Crowley guy, said my dad would wake up soon, and gave me the whole spiel again about how he might be fuzzy-headed and might only remember a few things and that I should take care of him. And they left. The whole thing was just... completely bizarre. But they were gone and I thought, well, maybe they were just nutcases or maybe they really were med students, or who knows. But then..." She looked at Cas. "A couple hours later you woke up."

She was a silent a moment.

"The first thing you said was my name," Claire said, her expression soft now. "Then you said how much I'd grown. And then you said..."

She hesitated.

Castiel remembered what he'd said. "I asked where your mother was," he said. "Didn't I." He had awoken with those strange flat grey memories circling through his mind— secondhand memories of Jimmy's, he was certain now. And he'd asked about Amelia.

Claire nodded. "I asked if you remembered my childhood.. and... you remembered things about me."

"Not many..." said Cas slowly. "Not very well. Those memories are sort of... flat. Two-dimensional."

"Oh... I didn't know that," said Claire, a little sadly. "I just knew they were things I'd never told you when I'd met you as an angel. I guess you might've... seen those things in my dad's mind? But it was enough... I mean... enough to..."

"Enough to fool you?" said Cas.

Claire nodded. She gazed at Castiel for a moment. "Your voice was wrong, though. I thought at first it was, like... a habit, maybe? Muscle memory, from all the years speaking like that? I thought if I just told you not to talk that way you'd snap out of it. I know it was super dumb of me, I know that, but I really thought, it's my dad, I got my dad back, I actually got my dad back... it's okay if the voice isn't quite the way I remember. It's okay if he doesn't remember everything or if things are a little off, it's my dad." She was staring down at the carpet again. "But then... "

She stopped.

Sam said, in his very gentlest voice, "But then you realized he really wasn't Jimmy."

Claire gave one short nod.

"When did you realize?" asked Sam.

Claire drew a breath, but before she could answer, Castiel said, "Christmas."

She raised her head and looked at him with hollow eyes.

Cas said, "It was Christmas. Wasn't it. When I got your Christmas gifts wrong. When I put the angel on top of the tree." He remembered it clearly: How confused Claire had seemed when Cas turned out not to know any modern Christmas traditions at all. How skittish she'd been when he'd latched onto the one tradition she mentioned that seemed appealing: putting angels up high, on top of trees. And how worried she'd gotten shortly afterwards, when Cas had insisted on hand-making a better set of wings for the little plastic angel she'd purchased (the first set of plastic wings had seemed all wrong; Cas had felt compelled to collect some stray feathers and glue them together into a better pair of wings). And, most of all, how she'd reacted when he'd given her his gifts. The very best gift idea he'd had was to get her a set of three tiny packages of gold, frankincense and myrrh.

He had saved for two weeks to buy the little packages. Somehow it had seemed like the best possible Christmas gift.

And he remembered, so clearly, how she'd stared at the three tiny little bundles. And how she'd stared at him, and how she'd stared up at the angel on the tree, with its little feathered wings.

And how she'd broken down crying.

She'd cried for days.

Most of all Castiel remembered how bewildered he'd been... and how much it had hurt. To know that he'd made her sad, with a gift he'd been sure she would like.

"There were little things wrong all along," Claire whispered now. "I should have known. I just talked myself into believing. But at Christmas, suddenly, I realized. Just all of a sudden, I knew."

Cas couldn't even speak now. Beside him, Dean shifted slightly, pressing his leg against Cas's.

"Why didn't you tell him?" said Sam. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"I knew I should've," said Claire in a rush. "I know that. I knew I should tell you, Dad—" She caught herself with a grimace. "Castiel, I mean. I kept trying to. I knew I should call Sam and Dean too, I knew that, I knew it was some weird magic thing that was just making you think you were my dad, something about that transfusion, something that was making you obsessed about keeping me happy. Keeping you off the chessboard, I guess. But I just.... " She drew a long sigh. "I didn't know what to do. I kept thinking, if I can just get into college I'll be okay. I'm almost eighteen, almost a legal adult, and I knew, if I just had a couple more months! Just five more months to finish up and graduate... I thought, if I could just get my high school diploma and qualify for the in-state scholarship... I thought, just five more months... "

She fell silent.

"So why'd you call me yesterday?" asked Dean. "You just had two months left. Why call now?"

Claire looked at Cas.

"He wasn't happy," Claire said to Dean. "I realized he should be with you."

"So the million-dollar question is," said Sam, "Where's the grace?"

"Could it be in Cas?" said Dean. "Like, such a teeny amount of grace it would give him just half-powers?"

"No," said Cas. "I don't have it. It's not inside me." He felt certain.

"How do you know?" asked Dean.

"I just know."

Claire said slowly, "I think I know where it is." And she stood, and went down the little hallway. 

Not to her own bedroom, but to Castiel's. Castiel knew immediately where she was headed, and what she would return with. And sure enough, just as Castiel had suspected, she emerged a moment later carrying the little embroidered pillow.

She brought it back into the living room.

"A pillow?" said Sam.

Claire said, looking down at it, one hand stroking over the stitching pattern, "I had this stupid cross-stitch thing, this part on the front here. I made it when I was twelve. For my dad. For Father's Day. This was after he disappeared. I made him this... totally dopey gift for Father's Day. Even though he was gone." She sighed. "I don't know why. And every year I would get it out, in case he came back and in case I could give it to him someday. I know it's dumb. I carried it around all that time at the bottom of my pack. I brought it to the hospital... and the nurse saw me with it and she helped me make it into a little pillow and had me put it by his head." She sighed again and sat down, still looking at the pillow. She said, "Guess she thought it would make me feel better if my brain-dead dad got to finally die with my stupid cross-stitch thing next to him, huh? Anyway... " She glanced up at Dean. "It was by Castiel's head in the hospital. When I got back in that hospital room that day, your Crowley guy was holding my pillow. And he handed it me and made this huge point about how I had to make sure this pillow stays with him, that it's like a memory trigger or something, a tie to the past, that it was really really important for psychological reasons that he have one consistent thing with him always. Told me I should make sure it was always on his bed. He was, like, obsessed about the stupid pillow. So I agreed. And... after Christmas I finally took a closer look at it and I realized it'd been cut open on one side. Cut open and stitched back up. I've never opened it."

She held it out, very hesitantly, to Cas.

Claire's pillow. That he had cherished. The first gift she'd given him when he'd awoken.

Cas took it silently.

The moment he took hold of it, a thought ran through his mind. A very familiar thought: The most important thing is to make Claire happy.

Cas dropped the pillow as if it were red-hot.

"What's wrong?" said Dean. He scooped the pillow off the carpet to examine it.

"It... Something happened," Cas said. "When I picked it up, I thought something." He reached out, tentatively, and touched it again.

This time Cas felt almost overwhelmed with the sensation of "longing" that was coming from... Claire, of all people.

He stared at her for a moment. She looked away.

Cas looked back down at the pillow in Dean's hands. "There's something inside," said Cas. "Something that's calling to me. I think it's making me think certain things."

"Night," said Dean grimly, turning the pillow over. "All your half-powers happen at night. At night when you're asleep on your bed with this pillow by your head. I should've noticed. Dreamwalking happens at night. You heal at night. Let me guess, you always sleep with this pillow nearby?"

Cas nodded.

Dean said, "And you heard my prayer when you were on your bed, right?"

"I was holding the pillow..." Cas said, remembering it now. He'd picked up the pillow to look at the badge underneath, and that was when he'd heard Dean's prayer: when he'd actually been holding the pillow in his hand.

"We gotta cut this thing open," said Dean. He hitched up one jeans leg and pulled a jagged-looking knife out from his boot, but Cas stopped him.

"Allow me," said Castiel, and he went to the kitchen to get the silver kitchen knife.

"I better go to my room," said Claire. "I kind of think maybe I shouldn't be around when you take it all apart."

"What do you mean?" asked Sam.

"Whenever he's close to both me and the pillow, he gets really worried about whether I'm happy," said Claire. Cas nodded, knowing it was true, and Claire said, "I think I'm part of the spell somehow. I think I should just be... out of view. And also I don't really want to see my stupid little cross-stitch destroyed. I'm gonna go to my room, and you guys do what you gotta do."

She stood, picked up her pack, and walked to the hallway. She paused there, and looked back at Cas one more time.

Cas thought, I want to give her a hug.

But I can't. I'm not her father. I never was. She wants her father.

She doesn't want me.

She never wanted me at all.

He gazed at her silently, completely unsure what to say.

Claire paused, as if about to say something, but then she blinked a few times, turned away, and went into her room.

Sam cleared his throat.

"Cas," Dean said. Cas was still staring at Claire's door, feeling utterly lost, and Dean actually had to put one hand to his chin and turn his head away from Claire's door.

But looking into Dean's eyes steadied him. Cas saw concern there.

And love.

"We can wait a bit," suggested Dean. "Wait a day or two. Make sure you're ready."

Cas shook his head.

"You sure? You look pretty rattled."

Cas took Dean's hand and squeezed it. "Do it now."

"But—"

"Do it now." Cause if I'm losing Claire, I need to get something back. Something. Anything. My memory; Dean's love; Sam's friendship; I need it all.

"Well," asked Dean. "Go to it with the angel-blade, then."

Angel-blade, thought Cas. Not a kitchen knife. Of course.

"Uh. Yes," said Cas. "I'll... go to it." He turned his attention to Claire's little pillow.

He found he couldn't bear to destroy the pretty little pattern of stitches that twelve-year-old Claire had so painstakingly made for her missing father. He also couldn't bear, at all, to see the words the little colored threads spelled out, either ("BEST DAD EVER"), so he flipped it over, and then worked the blade along one of the seams, severing each little stitch carefully to pick open one side of the pillow.

He put a hand inside and pulled out... just a handful of cotton batting. And then another handful, and another.

But then his hand felt something inside. Something rough; yet his hand grew warm when he felt it.

He drew out a little bag of canvas tied with a blue ribbon. His breath caught at the feel of it. There was something in there; something intensely important, something vibrating, something that was trying to speak to him.

"Hex bag," said Sam.

Cas set the pillow aside and tried to untie the little bag. But his hands were shaking. Dean reached over and set one hand on his, stilling them, and then Dean carefully worked at the little ribbon, till the bag fell open in Cas's lap.

A lock of dark hair. My hair, thought Cas.

A lock of blonde hair. Claire's.

A small black feather. Cas ached to see it. Dean picked it up.

"That's mine," said Cas, not knowing how he knew. "That's my feather." Dean gave him a slightly shocked look, and set the feather carefully aside.

In the middle was a tough crumpled piece of paper rolled around something. Dean began to unroll it, and Cas thought That's it, that's where it is, the thing, that's it, and he took the whole bundle from Dean's hands to unroll it himself. The stiff paper on the outside turned out to be a color photograph of Claire, and her father and mother. Amelia, Jimmy, and a young Claire. They were all laughing about something, and Claire was smiling so brightly she seemed almost unrecognizable.

I don't think I've ever seen her smile like that, thought Cas.

Slowly Cas finished unrolling the photograph, and there, wrapped inside the picture of happy smiling Claire in her childhood home, was a a little glass vial, and inside the vial was a swirling silver-blue light.

"That's your grace," said Sam. "A piece of it anyway."

"And that's gotta be the spell," Dean said, pointing to the sides of the vial. "We better burn the rest of the stuff anyway, but, I kinda think that that there is the spell."

Cas saw what he meant; the sides of the glass were etched with runes. He touched the vial, as it rested there on the photograph, and instantly he felt an almost painful flare in his mind: Make Claire happy, make Claire happy, make Claire happy, buzzed in his mind.

His eye was drawn irresistably to the photograph of smiling Claire. Which had been wrapped right around the grace, and was in direct contact with the vial even now.

He found he could read the runes. He recognized six in particular. Three, he knew, meant "Most" and "Important" and "Thing".

And the fourth, fifth and sixth meant, "Block," and "Angelic," and "Memory".

"There's two spells," Cas said slowly, "One is a memory block. And the other... the other is to chain the grace to whatever is right outside the vial... It basically tells the grace that the most important thing is whatever is right outside the vial."

An image of a happy Claire. Dean's badge. Castiel himself, laying his head down, making a wish.

Cas continued, "...it instructs the grace should focus on that thing, whatever the most important thing seems to be, and help make that thing happen."

Most important thing. Most important thing. MOST IMPORTANT THING, was ringing through his mind.

"I have... to make her happy," muttered Cas, feeling almost deafened by the droning mantra. He glanced toward Claire's door. "She's not happy, Dean. I have to make her happy—"

Dean reached out and drew the picture of smiling Claire away from the vial. He picked up the lock of hair too. The moment Dean took them out of contact with the vial, the "make Claire happy" mantra halted entirely. For the first time in months.

"Better?" said Dean, watching him carefully.

Cas let out his breath. "It stopped," he said.

"What stopped?" asked Sam.

"I've had a chant in my head for months," Cas tried to explain. "A thing about making Claire happy. Kind of a compulsion. I kept hearing it in my head. Make Claire happy, make Claire happy."

He was startled to realize, a moment later, that he almost missed it.

When he picked up the vial now, he felt only a warm, delicious buzzing in his hand. That's mine, he knew. That's a piece of me.

"Weird," Sam said. "So... this was some kind of spell to tie your grace to the things wrapped around it. Claire smiling..."

"Claire in a safe home," added Dean quietly. He had moved a little further away so that he could look at the photo farther away from Cas. "Claire with a loving father by her side." He glanced at Cas. "This whole plan was weirdly elaborate."

"Maybe it's a way to chain an angel in one place," said Sam. "And keep him down on Earth. Keep him harmless, keep him from knowing who he is. Tie his grace down too, but not in him so that he's not a threat and doesn't have any real power. Just near him. Tie the angel, and his grace, separately, to some poor little girl who's just missing her dad."

"Unnecessarily elaborate," said Dean, considering, "But clever, too. And with a nice little side order of slavery and cruelty and guilt."

"Crowley all over, now that you put it that way," said Sam.

"But then what's been going wrong?" said Dean. "Seems like the spell was fading? Cas was getting bits of angel-knowledge and bits of angel-power from the grace somehow."

"The grace is stronger than he realized," said Cas. The longer he held the vial in his bare hand, the more bits of knowledge seemed to be seeping into his mind, and this was one of them. "Its influence extends farther than he knew. It affects me a little more than he knew it would. And what he may not have known is, grace is itself influenced by the angel it belongs too. It's not sentient, but it can be... tuned to focus on different things, you could say, and I was nearby. I was feeding it other ideas. Other wishes."

Dean waved the photo in the air. "So what do we gotta do?" he said. "Burn all this?"

"No," Castiel said. "The spell is in the runes on the vial. The photograph is just something that the spell focuses on. We only have to destroy the vial."

"Safer if we burn it," pointed out Dean.

"It might be Claire's last photo of her family," said Cas. "Don't burn it."

Dean looked at him.

"Please," said Cas. "I know what to do. I don't know why, but I know what to do." He felt sure. "She might want the photo. I only have to destroy the vial."

He rose, clutching the vial in his hand. "We should do it outside," he said. He looked at Sam and Dean, and was suddenly very glad to know they would be with him when it happened. Dean's presence was critically important, of course; and Sam mattered enormously too; and all at once Castiel found he wanted Claire to be present as well. He said, "I'll see if Claire wants to see this at all. Just... just in case she might want... to..."  He couldn't even finish the sentence.

In case she might want to see her father's body taken fully over by an angel again?

In case she wanted to see the angel who stole her father away, the angel she probably hated, getting some of his powers back?

In case she wanted to witness the little life she'd built here falling apart?

Castiel had to ask her anyway.

He walked, a little unsteadily, to her door and knocked. "Claire?"

No answer.

"Claire?" Cas called again, the vial of shimmering grace clutched tight in his hand. He knocked a few more times at her door, and then hesitantly turned the knob and pushed it open.

"Claire?"

The room was empty.

Her window was open; the curtain was fluttering in the breeze.

Her pack was gone, too.

She'd left a note on her bed. It was very short. It said:

Castiel -

I'm really sorry.

love

Claire

"She's gone," Cas said, bolting back into the living room. "She's gone, Dean, she's run away, I know it, she's run away, she, she, she won't have enough money, she has hardly anything, she'll have to be a prostitute, she's got a fifteen-minute head start at least, she could've caught a bus by now, she has a math exam on Monday and her play starts next week and she didn't take her warm hat—"

"Whoa," said Dean. He set his hands on Cas's shoulders. "Whoa there. We'll find her, Cas, we'll find her. Sam, let's see, we've got two cars, so—"

Cas interrupted him with, "I have to break the vial." He grabbed Dean by one hand and began to pull him to the little back door in the kitchen, repeating, "I have to break the vial."

"WHOA, Cas, wait, now?" said Dean, trying to resist as Cas hauled him along toward the door. "Right this second? What if something goes wrong? Why don't we go find Claire first?"

"I can track her if I get my grace back!" said Cas, flinging open the back door. There was a little flagstone patio outside: the perfect sort of stones to break glass vials on, Cas thought. He said, "Dean, I was almost able to track you even when the grace was blocks away. I know I could find Claire if I just have a little bit more of my abilities back."

"You can track people?" said Dean.

Cas pulled him outside and then dropped his arm, looking around at the flagstones, trying to select a good one. "If they're thinking about me, I can home in on them."

"He found her before that way," Sam pointed out from the doorway. "He told me once."

"I did not know that," said Dean, "You're a tracking angel? Memos, Cas. We're gonna work on your memos."

"Dean," said Cas, turning around to grab his hand again. "I can't abandon her again. I can't. I won't."

"I know," said Dean. "I can see that. Cas, hey, hey I get it." He raised both hands to Cas's face. "I get it. I know what it's like to lose family. And to try to get them back. I get it. I'm gonna help you. So's Sam." Sam, standing at the edge of the patio, nodded.

"I know I'm not really her father—" Cas said.

Sam put in, "It's looking to me like you kind of are, actually." Dean said, "Sam's right," and he reached and pulled Cas close for a moment, in a quick hug. One quick, fierce, tight hug; and a rough, warm kiss on the cheek.

"Don't die on me," Dean whispered into Cas's ear. "Don't you fucking dare."

Dean let go and backed off, his face rigid with tension and worry.

"I won't die," said Cas to Dean. "And, Dean." He looked straight at him, hoping Dean would know what he meant. "There will be another time."

Dean nodded, his expression still very worried.

"It's just a bit of grace," said Cas to both of them. "It probably won't be very bright. But you might want to cover your eyes just in case." They both nodded. Sam reached out and grabbed Dean's arm, tugging him back a little farther away.

Cas stood on the flagstones, holding the vial. It was buzzing almost maddeningly at his mind now, and it seemed Cas could almost hear a whole host of whispered voices. He could feel the ancient language in the back of his mind trembling, the dust shaking off, the words preparing to rise up into his consciousness again.

He hurled the vial down.

It shattered on a flagstone. It shattered completely, into a thousand tiny pieces, and a swirl of bluish-white light leapt into the air. That's me, Cas knew at once. That's part of me. That's mine. There was an odd moment of mutual recognition, the grace spinning up right at him, and it almost seemed Cas was seeing it from the grace's point of view for a moment, watching himself from outside, as if the grace were actually a lost part of his own consciousness. Then the little streamer of grace flew at him. Cas opened his mouth without thinking, and it speared into him.

And though it was only a small piece of grace, it seemed to expand within him, flooding into all the corners of his mind.

It felt like a tidal wave. All the doors in his mind sprang open, the thousand voices seemed to sing at once, and a million memories burst into being. All at once they were there; all in place as if they had never been gone at all; bright, vivid, colorful memories, spanning eons, spanning continents, spanning all the realms of creation. All of Castiel's history; all his long millennia of service; all his thoughts, all his experiences. All his doubts... and ultimately, his rebellion, and all his mistakes.

All his memories of Jimmy. And of Claire.

And all his memories of Sam.

And of Dean.

The discovery of human love. What it felt like... what it meant. What it was worth.

All the memories of Dean were there at last. Right at his fingertips. Spread out before him, a gallery of images and sounds and thoughts and emotions, from the beginning to the end.

I'm Castiel.

I'm an angel of the Lord.

I'm a soldier.

I gave everything for you.

I will redeem myself to you. I swear.

Please live. I love you.

I know what I want.

There will be another time, Dean.

Everything went dark.

A/N - And now you know everything! Well, almost everything.

S o it was CROWLEY! OF COURSE IT WAS CROWLEY! WHO ELSE! lol. 

And the spell, the strange magic that was keeping Cas half-captive, was his own grace (or a piece of it), chained up and turned against him. But even chained up in that little enspelled vial, it heard him; it heard his thoughts, and knew what he wanted, and tried to make those things happen. That little bit of grace, in the end, is what helped Castiel find Dean; and that is what led, ultimately, to this whole scene.

Poor Claire - she knows she screwed up, but she was really just a pawn. And she just wanted her dad back.

I know there are ten million typos, but my boat crew is arriving RIGHT NOW and I gotta run. I really hope you enjoyed this despite the typos, which will be fixed either tonight or the next time I'm back on shore. Crazy times at work and intense fieldwork - I can't promise a Friday update for the last chapter as everything's weather-dependent right now. But just one more chapter to go. (Well, one plotty chapter. There's always room for epilogues!)

The next Claire episode will leapfrog over this fic. But I hope you like my ideas for where season 10 could have gone, with Claire and Castiel and Dean, and the Mark of Cain. 

Please let me know if you liked this, and what you liked! I love to hear from you. 

Chapter Text

 A/N - Sorry for the huge delay. I haven't had any days off, or evenings off, in a few weeks. Pretty tired. And I haven't even been able to see the last two episodes so please don't spoil anything for me! :)

I have had the most magical and strange moments. Looking down into black water and suddenly the light changes and I see there is an entire goddam WHALE ten feet away, swimming sideways through the water, completely on its side, watching me. The place I have on the boat, I'm right by the gunnel and the edge of the tail is only a couple feet away. The tail is some twelve feet wide. The first three times I thought, that animal could so easily kill me if it at all wanted to... One flick of the tail would do it. But they never even touch me. They never even brush the boat. By the twenty-seventh time I forgot to flinch and was just scribbling down details on #27 in my data book, while that huge tail powered its way throug the water  right next to me, and my boss said, "You're getting used to it, aren't you." Yes.

Then the light changes and it all disappears and all you see is the surface of the water.

FWIW I picture Castiel's true form being something like that. Enormous and terrifying. Beautiful and graceful. Almost unimaginably powerful. Yet from the surface, from our dimension, from our viewpoint in our little human vessels, all we see is a little stirring of the water. Castiel himself doesn't even realize how little Dean and Sam see of what he really is.

Anyway - We had high wind though the last two days and I've been on shore and finally got some writing time in. But we have to head down back to the field station either tonight or tomorrow and I have to go buy a bunch of dry ice right now - so - you know what that means - SPLIT CHAPTER! WHEE! Here's the first half. 2nd half up tomorrow.

The angel Castiel thought of nothing at all, for a long while.

Then he heard a voice. He rather expected, as he floated in the darkness, that it would be the voice of God, perhaps saying "Let there be light." But what he heard was:

"Cas? Cas? Don't do this, Cas, please don't do this."

It didn't really sound like God's voice. It sounded rather like a human voice.

"Cas, don't you fucking dare do this to me again. Open your eyes." A pause, then, "Open your damn eyes, you fucker."

Okay, that really didn't sound like God at all. Yet the voice seemed awfully familiar. And since it sounded worried—quite worried, actually— Castiel opened his eyes.

He saw stars.

A brilliant scattering of stars. Thousands of them, sprinkled like tiny diamonds across a velvet-black sky.

There were some dark shapes nearby as well: some sort of dwelling or structure was quite close to him, and two dark forms were moving around, and the worried voice was saying some more words. It began to filter into Castiel's awareness, rather slowly, that he was in a human body; that he was lying on his back on some flat, cold stones; and that the two shapes were wrapping a blanket over him. There was even a hushed discussion going on that he could hear fragments of ("—he catatonic again? I swear, Sam—" "Calm down, calm down, it's only been three minutes. Give him a few more minutes before you panic. Here, put this ice on it—"). Then something cold was pressed to the side of Castiel's head. But in Castiel's half-awake haze, what really drew his attention was the stars.

Castiel knew the stars as well as he knew the feathers of his wings. Not long ago, during his centuries-long posting in ancient Mesopotamia (which felt very, very recent; it seemed quite possible it had been just last week) he'd learned that the young human race had developed a habit of naming patterns of stars. Constellations. As if the stars were fixed in place, which of course they were not. Naming constellations was, in fact, quite a childish thing to do. But Castiel had found the idea charming, and ever since, whenever he saw the night sky, he looked for those human constellations.

So he looked for them now, as he gazed up into the glittering darkness.

As his mind slowly cleared, Castiel began to recognize a few of the patterns. But the Mesopotamian constellations seemed wildly distorted. All the stars seemed to have drifted around into new positions. But Mesopotamia had been only last week, and the stars ought not to have moved so much. After a moment's puzzlement he thought to orient himself by searching for the north star, the fixed point around which the rest of the stars spun, but then he became even more confused.

The north star should have been brilliant blue Al-Vaki, but Al-Vaki was not there.

Al-Vaki's name came from the Arabic phrase al-nasr al-waki, "falling eagle," but Castiel knew well that it had originally been named from an older Enochian story that had not been about a falling eagle at all. The original story had been about a falling angel. Al-Vaki was a blue star, and it had come to represent the story of a blue-eyed angel who had chosen the love of a mortal creature over Heaven, and who had fallen from his place in the sky.

It had never been clear whether this ancient tale was a story of the past, or a prophecy of the future.

Castiel finally found Al-Vaki. It was off to the side, but it had to be Al-Vaki; no other star was that bright and that blue. But Castiel could feel which way was north, and Al-Vaki was not at true north.

Al-Vaki was no longer the north star. It had moved.

A different, younger, star was now the north star. Al-Vaki was circling around it.

There was a click, and a bright light came on— "flashlight," thought Castiel, the English word drifting up in his mind— and now a face came into view on Cas's left side, half-illuminated in the light. It was a human face, a man's face.

A very familiar face.

True north, thought Castiel.

The man was looking down at Castiel from very close. He said, "Cas? Can you hear me? It's me, Dean, remember?"

At the sound of his name, and the sight of his face, everything flooded back.

Mesotopamia had not been last week. Al-Vaki had been renamed millennia ago to just "Vega." Ten thousand years had passed; ten thousand long, long years, and indeed the very stars had moved, and the earth itself had even altered the angle of its spin, wobbling like a top; and Vega was no longer at the fixed point in the north. There was a new north star now, much younger, growing brighter every year.

"Dean," said Castiel. "The north star's changed."

Dean gave a little gasp of relief as Cas spoke. Cas felt his hands tighten, and realized that Dean had both hands on him. Dean's right hand was pressing something cold and damp to the side of Cas's head—ice in a dishtowel, it felt like— and his other hand was cradling Cas's cheek. Dean said, his voice a little hoarse, "Yeah, you been staring at the stars for a few minutes, buddy. Wasn't sure you were really back with us." He swallowed. "Cas, you really awake now? You okay?"

Cas gazed up at him. The yellow flashlight was bathing Dean in light; glints of green and hazel were shining in his eyes. The younger star, Castiel thought. My true north.

"I'm okay," said Cas. "Took me a moment to wake up, but I'm all right."

Dean's s face went almost slack with relief. "Holy friggin' fuck," he said, slumping down a little till he was sitting on the flagstones, still holding the ice to Cas's head. "Would you stop scaring me like that."

The light shifted a little and Sam came into view on Cas's right side. Sam turned out to be holding the flashlight. He held up his phone to Dean with his other hand, muttering, "I was about one second away from that 911 call. Actually I'd already punched in the nine." Sam looked down at Cas with a worried smile and said, "Hey, Cas... so... do you remember us?"

"Yes," said Cas. "I remember." He tried to sit up and they helped him, each pulling him up by one arm while Dean kept holding the ice to Cas's head. "I remember everything," said Cas, as he sat there, looking back and forth between them. For he did remember everything. The Apocalypse... Lucifer... the Leviathans... Purgatory... Metatron, and the loss of his grace... Claire...

And the Winchesters. Sam and Dean.

Cas could not help but gaze at Dean for a long moment. Here he was, Dean Winchester, Castiel's long-time charge. The Righteous Man; the battered soul Cas had rescued from Hell. The Righteous Man who had, impossibly, refused his preordained righteous path, and who instead had become something very different: a rebel. A soldier not of Heaven, but of Man. An agent of free will. And a comrade— a mentor, even— and at last a friend.

And something more as well.

Something immeasurably important.

My true north, thought Castiel once more.

Dean was still holding the ice to Cas's head with his right hand, and Cas reached up and closed one hand around Dean's right forearm. The moment he touched Dean's skin, Cas knew that the Mark of Cain was gone.

He felt no brand, no scar. But more than that, he felt no anger. There had been an anger, before, for all the months that Dean had borne the Mark. Like a buzzing under Dean's skin, detectable even by touch. But it was no longer there. And looking into Dean's eyes now, Castiel saw none of the bitter darkness that had haunted Dean for all that time. Cas saw worry in Dean's eyes, and weariness, yes; and something oddly like a resigned sorrow (what's that about? wondered Cas briefly). And there was a concern, too; a tenderness; a warmth in Dean's eyes, when he looked into Cas's, that made Cas's breath catch in his throat.

But the darkness was no longer there.

"It's gone," Dean confirmed, answering his unspoken question. "The Mark. It's really gone. You burned it out. Your grace burned it out."

Cas gave a long sigh. "I'm so glad," he said, still holding onto Dean's arm.

"Damn risk you took," said Dean. "Pretty friggin' risky move, bud, exploding your grace like that—"

"But it worked," pointed out Castiel. "And, by the way— it wasn't my grace."

Sam's voice said, "Is that why you didn't die?"

Cas turned his head, and then he had to take another moment to study the other Winchester. Sam. The boy with the demon blood, the "abomination"... but an abomination who had saved the world, hadn't he? And who had proved his worth a hundred times over. And who had long since become a close and trusted friend. Now here he was too, crouching on Cas's other side, flashlight still in one hand, holding Cas's arm with the other.

"You may be right," Cas told him. "An exploding grace usually kills the angel by shredding the angel's self apart, but that wasn't my grace, and it never really felt part of me. I think it didn't... " He paused, sensing how the little piece-of-grace that was in him now was nestling in so comfortably, spreading out little tendrils and reaching out through him. As if it felt at home. The stolen graces had never done that. Cas said, "It never really rooted in, if I can put it like that. It wasn't fully attached to me."

"And so it didn't tear you apart?" asked Sam.

Cas nodded. "I suspect so. Though it was still quite a powerful explosion. Obviously it shut me down for a while."

Dean said, "Long enough for Crowley to get to you and plan his little plot. And to get to Claire."

Cas nodded, saying, "Claire was just a—" Pawn, he'd been about to say, but the nodding made his head throb so viciously that Cas lost his breath with a gasp. He had to sit very still for a moment. Only now did he realize his head felt extremely sore. He tried to feel at the spot with one hand and discovered that it was where Dean was holding the ice to his head.

"Take it easy," said Dean, removing the ice briefly to let Cas touch the sore spot. "You hit your head when you fell. Guess your little grace can't fully protect you yet?" Cas probed the spot gently and felt a swollen, sore area. With a cut. It felt like it was bleeding.

"You might have a concussion," said Sam. "Dean and I never get concussions much, but we were wondering if maybe you might?"

"I think you're right," Cas said, finally realizing this was probably the cause of his slowed, fuzzy thinking. He took a breath. "I think I might be able to heal it. Like I do for you two every week. Let me just sit a bit and—"

"What?" said Dean.

Sam said "Every... week? What?"

Cas was still rubbing at his own head gingerly. He glanced up at Dean. "I meant, you know, about how the reason you never get concussions is because I've been healing you from them every week for years. Sam as well, once he started hunting with you. Anyway, I think I can heal this if I just focus for a bit."

Sam and Dean stared at him for a moment. And then stared at each other.

"You... never told us that," said Sam slowly.

Cas blinked at him. "Isn't it obvious? Hadn't you noticed you go flying into walls all the time but you never have concussions later?"

Now they were both staring at him open-mouthed.

Cas said, "I thought you knew. You didn't know?" They both mutely shook their heads, and Cas explained to Dean, "You were getting so many I finally came up with a protective spell but it can only prevent one concussion at a time. You use it up almost every week and I cast it again. I do one for Sam too. But, after I lost my own grace, last year, I couldn't work it as well and I had to start doing little trips back in every week to fix you up personally. Without my wings I always got there too late so I took to doing driving to the site later and going back by time-travel. I wish I could have prevented the concussions entirely but I didn't have enough power to pull off that sort of interference with the outcome of your battles, but at least I could dart in briefly, freeze time in the moment when you were out cold, and just fix the damage. Usually then I ran out of power and had to retreat, so... well... sorry, it was the best I could do."

There was a little pause.

"Are you kidding us?" said Sam.

"Every week?" said Dean.

Cas nodded (wincing as his head throbbed again) and said, "That's what I was doing most of the last year, didn't you know?" He added, curiously, "What did you think I was doing?"

"Uh," said Dean. "Getting gas?"

"Staying in motels?" said Sam. "For... no apparent reason?"

That made Castiel laugh. "Well, that too, but only because I was traveling to the place where you'd had a fight the week before. Then I'd go back in time to fix the physical damage. Then recover for a few days. Then I'd call Sam to see where you'd both been, then drive to the next place. Sam, that's one of the main reasons I kept checking in with you. I thought you knew."

Another little pause.

"Um..." said Sam hesitantly, "How many years have you been doing this?"

"Since Dean was twelve," said Castiel, glancing at him. He turned back to Dean. "I've been your guardian for a long time." He added, with an apologetic little grimace, "Not that I've done a good job of it recently. Sorry."

Dean seemed to have been stunned speechless.

"Anyway," said Cas, taking a breath. "I think I can try a healing now. Hold on."

Cas closed his eyes, feeling for that small piece of grace within him. It was there; very small, and spread very thinly through his body, but it was there. Waiting for his command.

Castiel thought, Heal.

He felt the bruised area heal. The headache vanished.

Though Cas still had to put his head down for a moment, this time because he was briefly dizzied by the draining of power. The little piece of grace was very small indeed, and for a moment he even felt it coil up tightly, flinching at the draining of its small store of power.  But after a moment he felt it recover, unfurling within him once again. Thin and wispy still, but it stretched out wide now, ready to recover.

Sam's voice broke into his thoughts. "Maybe you shouldn't try any more healing right now," suggested Sam.

"I think Sam's right," said Dean. "And no more anti-concussion spells for a while, okay? Sam and I'll be careful. We'll try not to get flung across any rooms for a while."

"I'm fine. Just low on power," Cas said. "But I'm used to that. And my head feels all right now." He staggered to his feet, Dean and Sam helping him up, and he glanced around and saw the house.

His house; his home. Claire's home too.

The back door was open and the kitchen light was on, gleaming cheerily. From here Castiel could see the little table where he and Claire had eaten so often; and the oven where Claire had cooked dinners for him for three months; and the cheap kitchen clock Claire had hung on the wall; and even the half-eaten apple pie that she had suggested he make.

Claire, who was not his daughter. Claire, who had lied to him. Claire, who had only wanted her father back; and who had just run away.

Castiel's heart plummeted at the thought of her out there alone in the night. He turned to Dean and said, "Dean, I need your help. I have to find Claire. Will you help me?"

Dean looked a little hurt. "Jeez, Cas. Of course. Did you even have to ask?"

Cas hesitated. "Well... once before you didn't want to."

A pained expression crossed Dean's face. "That was Mark-of-Cain me," he said. "This is old-me. Like before, remember?" And then that flicker of uncertainty passed over Dean's face once more. The oddly sad, resigned look that Cas had noticed before. Almost a shyness.

Dean took a step back, glancing at the ground.

Before Cas could figure out what was wrong, Dean looked up with an artificially bright smile and said, "Let's get a move on, then. You got a bead on Claire yet, with that new shiny grace you got? Or new shiny piece-of-grace? We could, um..." He hesitated. "Guess we should split up. Cover more ground. You could... ah... how about, you take your car, I'll take the Impala, and Sam, how about you stay here in case Claire comes back."

Cas knew immediately that he didn't want to do this search without Dean by his side. An hour ago he'd have just said so. But now, somehow, with the weight of memory, and the sudden knowledge of all their complex history, and with Dean moving that careful distance away, Cas was unsure what to say.

It was easier when I didn't know anything, he thought.

Then Sam, behind them, said, "No, Dean, you and Cas should go together."

Dean and Cas both turned to look at him.

Sam said, "The dude just got his memory back, Dean— look at him, he's still wobbly—"

"I'm fine—" Cas began.

Sam talked right over Castiel as if he hadn't heard him at all. "— he's all wobbly, he just passed out, he nearly passed out again an hour ago, he's got some kind of weak little bit of grace and we don't know how that'll act if he picks up some prayers, and the last thing we need is Cas driving his car into a ditch all alone cause he's trying to follow a prayer and gets another dizzy spell or something. So, Dean, you drive, Cas rides shotgun and tries to pick up a bat-signal from Claire if he can, and if he passes out you're right there to help. You guys take Cas's car, I'll take the Impala. We can leave a note for Claire here but I bet she's not coming back anyway. I'll start at the bus station. Cas, maybe you guys check her school first, and then try circling the whole town. Gimme the Impala keys." Sam held out his hand.

And Dean tossed him the keys.

Castiel could only give Sam a grateful smile. He was pretty sure, as Sam turned away, that Sam gave him a little wink back.

"You picking up anything?" said Dean. They'd just checked Claire's school (and had found only her play rehearsal going on— a key dress rehearsal that she was apparently missing). Sam had reported that she wasn't at the bus station, and he'd gone to check the I-90 ramps. Dean and Cas were back in Cas's car now, heading slowly north through the town, and though Cas had been studying every pedestrian they passed, hoping to catch a glimpse of that long blonde hair, they hadn't found anything.

"No," Cas said, with a frustrated sigh. "I haven't sensed anything."

"You sure everything's... working?" said Dean. "I mean, your grace? And, um." He hesitated. "Your memory?"

"I think so," said Castiel.

"You know... if you don't mind me saying so," said Dean, putting his blinker on to turn onto the river road, "You angels seem to have kind of a design flaw with your memories. Seems a little too easy for you to forget stuff."

"That's on purpose," said Cas, still gazing out the window at the river path. Was that a blonde girl? No, the hair was too short...

The car slowed a little and Cas realized Dean had glanced over at him. "On purpose?" said Dean. "What do you mean?"

"We have erasable memories by design," Cas explained. "The first generation of angels went insane. After less than a million years. It turns out the accumulation of memory was too much."

The car slowed again as Dean did a longer look over at him, and Cas tried to explain. "The memory of all that has been lost, I mean. All the friends who have died. Angels do die, you know, from time to time... but more than that, whole species die, and all the individuals that you knew. Landscapes that you fought to save are all erased with time. Continents erode to nothing, civilizations are utterly lost, wars are forgotten, songs are forgotten, entire species just disappear. And few of them have ever qualified to enter Heaven, so most are just... lost." Cas paused, and said, "Most of the first generation of angels went insane, as all their losses began to pile up." He looked over at Dean. Dean was watching the road again, driving quite carefully in fact, but it seemed his hands had tightened on the wheel.

Cas said, "After that, God gave the angels the ability to erase chunks of memory, so that we would not lose our minds with the weight of the eons. I don't remember much of the distant past, myself." He paused, thinking. "For example, apparently I decided for some reason to erase the entirety of my memories of the Permian. I did the same in the Cretaceous."

The car rumbled its way along the river road. Still no sign of Claire.

"Why?" Dean said, a little softly. "I mean, why did you forget? What did you forget?"

"I'm not sure," said Cas. "I could call up the memories if I really needed to, but it drains some power, and... well, I trust that I had some reason for erasing those times. Actually I have a little note to myself, in my mind, to leave it be. So... I leave it be. My active memories now are mostly just from the last ten thousand years. Even there I have some holes."

Dean seemed very quiet.

"Overall," Cas went on, "the erasable memory approach works quite well. But, you're right, it can be a flaw. Others can take advantage of it, as Naomi did. And sometimes injuries or trauma will block large areas of memory accidentally. The default state actually is to have all memory blocked, so it's not uncommon for a major trauma to cause complete memory loss. But overall I'm glad we have that ability to forget. Because, you know, it's.... uh..." Cas hesitated. His newly recovered memories seemed unusually fresh in his head, and as he thought once more of the peculiar blank gap he had for the entire vast stretch of the Cretaceous, millions upon millions of years that had all gone missing, a single vivid image suddenly sprang to mind: a mental picture of some sort of small, feathered, dinosaur-like creature gazing at him. It had a pretty pattern of delicate black-and-brown feathers on its head and across its back and legs, and a ruff of deep blue feathers around its neck, and it was holding an egg out to him with its little clawed forearms, as a bright comet— a meteor, maybe?— glowed in the sky behind.

The strange image was rather lovely; yet as Castiel considered it (the little animal, the unmistakably imploring look in its eyes, the way its ruff of neck feathers was slicked down tight, the way its head was held low, the egg it was holding out to him) the whole image began to take on an aura of tremendous sorrow. The sorrow began to expand and sharpen, and Castiel quickly decided to not think about it again.

He drew a shaky breath, and then another, and a thought rose up in his mind: Focus on the friends you have now. The ones you can still save.

When Cas was able to speak again, he said, "It's a good system, because otherwise, it's, there's, there would be, a sort of... an accumulation of grief. Until eventually it becomes impossible to function."

Dean was silent for a moment

"I get that," Dean said, a minute later.

Cas looked out the window, hoping once more he would see Claire, or feel the touch of her prayer. But still there was nothing.

"We'll find her, Cas," said Dean. He added, "Besides, she's tough. She'll be fine. She can take care of herself."

"Not entirely, Dean," said Cas, turning to Dean. "She'll be alive— she can keep herself alive— but that's not the same thing. It's not enough. You know it isn't." Dean shot him another sideways glance, and Cas went on, "She acts tough only because she's been so badly hurt. It's an act. She needs a home. She needs a family. She tries to pretend she doesn't, but she does. And—" Cas was picking up steam now, hoping to convince Dean to give her a chance, and he said, "She's a good person, Dean, you've got to understand that. She is. She really is. I know she can be rude, I know she's lied and stolen and all that, I know she put you in danger and I know you didn't really get along, but— Dean—"

"She kept you captive," said Dean. "She lied to you and kept you captive, and—"

"Dean, I kidnapped and killed her father," Cas said.

Dean closed his mouth.

"You didn't kidnap him," Dean said at last. "He volunteered. You didn't have much choice, as I recall. And you didn't kill him either. It was, what, Lucifer who killed him, right?"

Cas gave a grudging nod. "But it doesn't look that way to her. And she doesn't even know why, or what I was trying to accomplish. She doesn't know about Lucifer or the Apocalypse. All she knows is that her whole life was destroyed. By me. And, Dean, these last few months, she's been such a good d—" Cas stopped.

He'd almost said "good daughter."

He hesitated a moment and finally said, "Good... girl."

Again Dean glanced over at him.

After a moment Cas said, "She's been good to me. Even after she knew it was me. She took care of me when I was sick...she still made me the cheesy pasta, she even still wanted to do the movie nights... And she called you, in the end, didn't she? Besides, you heard what she said, how it developed. It was Crowley. He took advantage of her. "

"I know, Cas," Dean said. "Actually... I get it." He drew a breath. "Cause, if there is one thing I do understand, it's going to desperate lengths, and making huge mistakes, just to try to save your family. She was trying to put her family back together. She just wanted her dad back.... and... well... I get that."

And that reminded Castiel, all over again, that he wasn't Claire's father at all.

She cried for days.... Cas remembered. She cried for days, when she realized it was only me.

Cas found he was yearning to feel the comforting touch of Dean's hand, but Dean had been carefully keeping both hands on the wheel. In fact Dean had maintained a slight, but distinct, distance ever since they'd gotten in the car; both Dean's hands on the wheel, both knees together, carefully on his side of the seat, for the entire time. He hadn't even reached out to the tape player. Much the same way he'd stepped back, out in that little patio in back of the house.

There seemed to be some barrier in place.

The magical afternoon they'd spent together seemed a long time ago.

But then a moment later Cas felt the touch of Dean's hand on his knee. Cas looked over at him, but Dean said nothing; yet Dean left his hand there, and even gave Cas's knee a little squeeze. When Cas set his hand over Dean's, Dean turned his hand over, and laced his fingers into Cas's.

That one simple touch was unbelievably comforting. It felt as if a warm blanket had settled right around Cas's heart. Cas felt a flood of gratitude so strong he couldn't even speak. He tightened his hold, and was startled to feel Dean tighten his own hand in return a moment later.

This is holding hands, Castiel realized. It was a very simple type of touch, and a very simple type of communication. But it was something that Castiel had never experienced before.

It felt almost magical.

They drove on like that, holding hands.

Neither let go; and neither said a word.

Till Cas flinched.

"What?" said Dean at once.

"Somebody's calling me," said Cas. "But it's not Claire."

It was a monotonous prayer, consisting of just Cas's name, repeated over and over:

Castiel. Castiel.

Cas could not recognize the mind behind the prayer, but he felt certain it wasn't Claire. For one thing it had a tinge of something masculine. For another, it also had an aura of long experience at prayers; there was a subtlety to it, and a defensiveness. It felt as if someone were calling out just that one name, Castiel, through a very small window in a well-defended castle wall.

Cas steered Dean toward the prayer as best he could, and soon they found themselves back in the same parking lot where they'd met a month ago. Where a black-eyed demon had come walking out of the trees.

And where Crowley was standing now, leaning back on the hood of a baby-blue VW Beetle, staring down at his phone and tapping rapidly at something on the screen.

"I don't friggin' believe it," growled Dean. He pulled up a few spaces away and had barely cut the motor when Cas, who suddenly felt boiling with anger, jumped out of the golden Continental. Cas began striding toward Crowley even as Dean was still scrambling out of his own seat, saying, "Wait, Cas. Wait!"

"You were praying to me?" said Cas, stopping a few yards away from Crowley. "That was you?"

"What?" said Crowley. He was still tapping at his screen. "Got some cookies baking here, hold on a sec."

"Were you praying to me?" snapped Cas.

"Dammit! I missed a golden cookie!" said Crowley in annoyance. He clicked his phone off. "You made me miss a golden cookie, Castiel. Why, yes, I suppose you could call it a prayer, of a sort. I was really just checking in. I had a little notification spell on that vial and I got a ping that it had been broken. Thought I'd just check in and see what had happened. So! Looks like you woke up at last! Back on the chessboard, eh? Well, now that that's all wrapped up, I'll be off now—"

"You could have just killed me," said Cas, taking another step closer just to be able to glare at Crowley more effectively. "Why bother to wake me up at all? You could have just left me in a coma, for that matter. Why all the intrigue? Why all the lies? Why ruin a young girl's life all over again?"

Dean said, walking up next to Cas's side, "Cas, did you forget he's a demon? He loves this kind of stuff." Dean nudged Cas's elbow, and Cas, glancing over, realized Dean was holding not only his demon-blade but also Cas's kitchen knife— no, angel-blade, of course. And Dean was offering the angel-blade handle to Cas.

"Oh, right," said Castiel, taking hold of the angel-blade. It felt wonderfully familiar in his hand. "Was this just good old-fashioned torture, then, Crowley? No grand plan? You were just trying to torment both of us, weren't you? Me and Claire? What was it, just a game for you?"

"Right," said Crowley, after a slightly-too-long hesitation. "Yup. Torment. Exactly. Rather a good bit of entertainment, if I do say so myself. Some slow-burning emotional torment for you, some slow-burning emotional torment for her. And, lest we forget, quite a good dollop of torment for Dean as well, and even Sam got his share." (Cas blinked at that— Sam had suffered too?) Crowley went on, smiling brightly, "Four for the price of one! Just a bit of fun, really. Worked out well, I think. At least I was entertained, anyway. Got to get my fun somewhere, don't I, and it's been a bit of a slow season."

"Nah... I don't buy it, Crowley," Dean said, with a little shake of his head. "You had a chance to take Cas down completely. And instead you just woke him up? I just don't buy it. There's way worse things you could've done."

"Oh, don't give me that guilt trip," snapped Crowley. "It's not easy to come up with a good Machiavellian torture plan in five minutes without any warning. I did my best on short notice. And with everybody watching, I—" Crowley stopped suddenly. He covered his mouth and coughed discreetly. "Well, as I was saying—"

"Wait," said Cas, narrowing his eyes. "Who was watching?" For he had recognized that little cough move: Crowley was rattled.

Crowley was hiding something.

Dean said, "What do you mean, everybody was watching?"

"Why didn't you just kill me?" said Cas.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Nothing. Jeez, what are you, a pair of lawyers? Isn't Moose the lawyer? I just meant, you know, the court of Hell. They were all hanging about. As they tend to." He saw Cas's and Dean's puzzled expressions, and Crowley gave a big exaggerated sigh and said, "OKAY, okay, so, what happened was, it was a third-tier demon, just a hobgoblin really, who spotted Dean and Sam bringing you in to that hospital, Cas ol' buddy ol' pal. He'd had instructions to keep me updated discreetly on how you were, you know. What with you having that borrowed grace that I gave you. I just wanted to keep tabs on things, right? But the little ninny came bumbling on in to my throne room exactly when there were quite a few of the higher ranking types around — Knights of Hell, and Squires of Hell, and Dukes of Hell and Countesses of Hell and Librarians of Hell and Outer-Perimeter-Captains of Hell and Crossing-Guards of Hell and the whole tiresome lot of them, and the hobgoblin blurted out, like a complete idiot, 'that angel Castiel that you were so worried about is in a coma, you want me to kill him?' The little idiot doesn't have enough brains to fill a thimble..." Crowley gave another big tired sigh. He stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. "What could I do then? Couldn't really back down, now, could I, with every fifth-ranked Busboy-of-Hell looking at me to see what I'd do. It's dicey, sometimes, I don't mind admitting— just one hint of weakness and they're on you like a bloody pack of rabid dogs! That's exactly how that whole Abaddon thing got started. She thought she spotted some weakness... and... so... anyway...."

Crowley coughed again.

And he cleared his throat.

Finally he said, "So anyway, I had to do something. Best torment plan I could come up with at short notice."

"You didn't answer my question," said Cas. "Why didn't you kill me?"

Dean said, "Because he doesn't actually want you dead." He was studying Crowley's face, and he added, "He wants you alive. I just don't get why."

Dean was right, Castiel realized. But it made no sense.

It had made no sense when Crowley had given Cas the stolen grace in the first place; and it made no sense now.

Cas said "Twice now you've saved me. But... why?"

Crowley shuffled his feet. "Thought you'd... maybe you'd..." He cleared his throat. "Thought maybe you'd come in handy someday." His voice took an air of briskness. "It was just a wee experiment to see how easily manipulable angels might be. I had this idea maybe I could brainwash some angels into being my own private angel army! To see, if I had their grace, if I could make them do whatever I w—"

"No, that's not it," said Cas. "You were trying to save me. You've done it before. Because... because..."

Dean gave a chuckle. "You've been doing that with me too, Crowley, now that I think about it. What's really going on here? Mid-life crisis? Getting lonely? You missing your angel buddy?" At that Crowley pressed his lips together and looked at the ground, and Dean let out a low whistle, and said, "Holy shit. You're trying to save your friends. You think Cas is your friend. You think... you think I'm your friend?"

Crowley reddened slightly. "Don't be ridiculous," he snapped. "Castiel and I are not friends. We are not remotely friends. I wouldn't even want him as a friend. A fallen angel? A total outcast? Are you joking? And...and you and I aren't friends either. I don't NEED any friends. I don't WANT any friends." His voice abruptly escalated to a bellow. "CERTAINLY NOT YOU TWO!"

Dean and Cas both just looked at him.

"WHY WOULD I NEED FRIENDS! I'm the KING OF HELL!" roared Crowley. "I'm exactly where I want to be! I'm at the PINNACLE OF MY CAREER! Why would I want friends. Why would I want either of you to survive. I've got a plan, is what you don't know. There's a plan I've got, a secret plan, and this was all part of my plan."

Crowley snapped his mouth shut.

There was an awkward silence.

Castiel said, "And what's the plan, then?"

"It's a secret," snapped Crowley. He shook his finger at Cas, and at Dean. "But someday.... you'll see.... when you least expect it. It'll... my plan'll... It'll... make perfect sense!" He dropped his arms suddenly and rolled his eyes, saying with an exasperated sigh, "Oh, never mind. This is a complete waste of time. And you made me lose a golden cookie, Castiel, and don't think I'll forgive that."

And he disappeared.

Cas and Dean stood staring at the spot where he'd been. They both stayed on guard for a few more moments, turning to scan the whole parking lot, Dean with his demon-blade at the ready and Cas with his angel-blade.

The trees sighed in the chilly night breeze. But no other demons appeared.

"You know what, Cas?" said Dean, after a moment.

"What?" said Cas, still scanning around at the dark trees.

"I think the King of Hell is lonely."

"That... is starting to seem possible," said Castiel, slowly lowering his blade. He glanced over at Dean. "It may be that the human blood you gave him last year affected him more than I've realized. Perhaps more than he realized, as well."

"We're probably the only people who ever tell him the truth." remarked Dean, as he sheathed the demon-blade. "Hell's horrible in all kinds of ways, you know, but one of the ways is, it actually is weirdly lonely. Being a demon, I mean." He glanced over at Cas as they started walking back to the Continental. "I mean, as a demon, you have all this power, but everybody lies. Everybody's clawing for space. You have no friends at all. Last year, the whole time, when I had the Mark, as a Knight of Hell..." Dean stopped talking.

Cas looked at him. Dean's expression had gone blank.

Cas had just taken a step closer to Dean, starting to hold his hand out toward him, when Cas's head stabbed with pain again. He gasped.

"What?" said Dean, grabbing him by the shoulder. "What is it? Crowley again?"

Cas shook his head. "Claire," he said, turning and staring toward the south. "It's Claire."

A/N - I gotta go get that dry ice. More tomorrow!   

Do you like my little headcanon about why, for all of season 10, Cas's entire storyline seems to involve him driving around getting gas? He's been going back in time and fixing up Dean and Sam! From all the concussions they should have been getting from all times they've been flung across rooms!   :D

And btw, Vega was indeed named Falling-Eagle  - not too much of a stretch to shift that to a falling-angel, huh? And it was truly once the North Star, back in ancient times. And it has indeed been displaced by a much younger star, Polaris, that's been growing rapidly brighter. (in fact nobody can figure out why Polaris is suddenly so much brighter)  And Vega is blue. I was writing the scene where Cas was lying on his back looking up at the stars, and I thought, if he were disoriented, maybe he'd be expecting the stars to be like they'd been millennia ago, and then I remembered about Vega and all of a sudden it came to me that Vega and Polaris are such a nice parallel for Cas and Dean. :)  Cas falling from Heaven, Dean reorienting him. One of you said in a comment that Dean is Castiel's "true north".... that's it exactly. And that's the most important thing, for Cas, right now. (and it is not a coincidence that when he hears Claire, it's from the opposite direction, the south. What now?)

Hope you liked this. Please let me know if you did.

Chapter Text

A/N - ahhhhh I'm late! The weather forecast changed suddenly and we had some long grueling days out on the water and I could not do the Saturday fic update I had promised. Been working on the water since then. Yesterday was another 5am to 10pm day and I was dead on my feet by the end. But today was high wind and I'm back on shore. Tomorrow on the show the new Claire episode  airs, but miraculously despite the fieldwork I have managed to wrap this fic up exactly one day before! Whatever the show does with Claire and the Claire/Cas relationship, I hope you can still enjoy this fic anyway, and I hope you like my little mental picture of where I would have taken those two characters, and season 10 overall - if I'd been Queen of Supernatural. :)

In moments Dean was wheeling the Continental out of the parking lot. Cas was curled up in the passenger seat, one hand pressed to his forehead. He could barely speak, and had to direct Dean by pointing. Claire's prayer seemed deafening. It was almost painful, like a blaring horn in Cas's mind.

Perhaps it feels so powerful because I've just gotten a piece of my own grace back? thought Castiel. The little grace felt as if it were being overwhelmed. Though, at least the prayer wasn't really causing physical pain. It was more just that Castiel could very clearly feel Claire's state of mind.

And her state of mind was not good.

She was feeling a lot of guilt, for starters. Guilt, and even shame.

Regret, as well. A deep regret. A wish that things had been otherwise; that certain actions had not been taken; that some other path had been found.

Fear, unmistakably.

A stoic loneliness. A determination to head out alone, no matter the cost.

And then there was the grief. A doubled grief, it seemed; an older grief like a dull constant ache, and also a newer, fresher grief that was much more piercing and sharp. As if she had lost two things and not just one.

Cas knew he was getting only a glimpse of it all, but even the glimpse was painful.

The car was speeding smoothly southbound now, while Cas rubbed at his forehead. Dean had called Sam to give him an update. He lowered the phone briefly to say to Cas, "Sam's gonna come meet us. I'm trying to tell him where we're headed. You sure we're going the right way?"

"I think so, yes," Cas said. Then Claire's prayer surged a little and he said, "Wait, I'm picking up some words." He had to close his eyes to concentrate, gritting his teeth.

But the prayer ended.

Cas gave a hiss of frustration, opening his eyes. The few words he'd heard hadn't made any sense. He peered at the road ahead, hoping he would see Claire walking along in the night. But the road was empty. There were only dark trees rolling past, quiet houses on either side, and a few lone streetlights flicking overhead.

Dean clicked his phone off and reported, "Sam says she's definitely not at the bus station or on the I-90 ramps. Given where you're steering me, Sam thinks she might be on Route 12 south. Which probably means she's trying to get out of town but she decided to use the smaller road." Dean added, thoughtfully, "That was smart, you know. It's the last road we checked. So, what'd she say?"

"Just one sentence," said Cas, still searching the road ahead. "But it was strange. I can't make sense of it. She said, A squared plus B squared equals C squared."

Dean glanced over at him with a baffled look. "Come again?"

"Her prayer was: Castiel, A squared plus B squared equals C squared. And then it stopped." Cas stared over at the side of the road again, still searching for Claire among the few scattered houses and the little lines of dim trees, baffled by her strange prayer. He added, "It faded away right in the middle of the math statement. Dean, I don't understand. Oh— wait—"

There it was again, another prayer, surging at him with all the sudden force of an ocean wave. For a moment Claire's presence was bright in his mind again. Again Cas felt her pain— all the loneliness, all the fear; the searing sense of failure; and again that strange sensation of a doubled loss.

And then he heard:

Castiel, I just... Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Um, force equals mass times acceleration. Force equals mass times...

The prayer faded away.

Castiel opened his eyes, bewildered.

"What'd she say this time?" asked Dean.

"Force equals mass times acceleration," said Cas, totally confused. "What's she talking about? Does she want my help with her physics homework?"

Dean let out a little laugh.

Cas said, "I don't understand."

"I do," said Dean. "I think I do, anyway. It's not about homework. She's doing exactly what I did."

Cas turned to look at him, and found that Dean was glancing over at him with a little half-smile— a bit of a sad smile, though, one that only crooked up one side of his mouth. Dean focused back to the road, and said, "Back when I thought you were... well, when I thought you were dead...."

Dean stopped right there, and drove on silently for a moment, his hands tight on the wheel, his lips pressed together.

He was quiet for so long that Cas thought he had stopped talking. But then Dean ran his tongue over his lips and abruptly continued, "So for a long time I was trying to stop myself from praying to you. Or even from thinking about you. Trying to cut off the thoughts before they could get started. But I'd find myself thinking about you anyway..."

He stopped again.

I'd find myself thinking about you anyway....

Those times when Castiel had felt those faint distant longings. That feeling of being called.

Castiel had had no grace at all, then, of course. Not within him. But his own grace had actually been very nearby (always within a few miles, and sometimes a mere pillow's width away), and it had somehow been able to relay those faint, distant prayers to Castiel, amplifying them just enough.

Dean took a breath and added, "And then I'd try to make myself stop it. Stop the thoughts. But it's like trying to not think about a pink elephant, you know?"

"Pink elephant?" said Cas, puzzled.

Dean gave another little laugh. "Point is, it was difficult to not think about you. So I'd try to distract myself. Sometimes I recited song lyrics to myself, or thought through car-repair problems. Just to try to break the prayer, to break the stream of thought. So, with Claire... sounds like she's doing math in her head. The Pythagorean theorum or whatever that was? And some physics. She been studying that stuff, maybe?"

Cas nodded. "She's learning about them in school. Math and physics."

Dean said, "She's trying to distract herself from thinking about you. She gets as far as accidentally thinking your name and then as soon as she realizes she's thinking about you, and that she might be calling you, she makes herself recite things, math or physics or whatever, to break her chain of thought. To stop the prayer."

"So..." said Cas slowly, "she doesn't actually want to call me."

This was a discouraging thought.

"Well, uh. Yeah, I guess," said Dean. "But don't think of it like that. It's more like, she wants to, but is trying not to. Look on the bright side— she can't help thinking about you anyway."

Cas couldn't figure out if this was a bright side or a dark side.

Either way, he was sure that Claire wasn't happy. And though the "make Claire happy" compulsion seemed to be gone (Cas hadn't heard the familiar mantra at all since they'd disassembled the hex-bag), nonetheless it was surprisingly painful to know that she was sad.

A moment later he felt Dean's hand on his knee again. Dean said, "Cas. If we find Claire... I mean, when we find her, you, um. You just do what you gotta do, okay?"

But this time Dean didn't leave his hand there. Instead he only squeezed Cas's knee once. Then he carefully removed his hand and put it back on the wheel.

Cas would have taken Dean's hand on his own, but three more prayer-fragments occurred as they drove slowly south, each prayer hitting him with such a wave of emotion that it soon demanded all his concentration. The first prayer still seemed to be coming from farther south; it was ended abruptly by a snatch of dialogue that Cas recognized from Claire's play. The second was again coming from the south; this one was halted by a physics equation about air pressure that Cas knew she had learned only last month.

The third seemed to be entirely a list of food items. Cas eventually recognized it as the shopping list for her "cheesy pasta" recipe.

But the pasta prayer seemed to be coming from a different direction than all the others. It seemed to be swinging around, actually, veering more toward the east.

And it felt close.

"Wait," said Cas, craning his head around. "Stop." Dean pulled over and Castiel scrambled out.

They were on a deserted, curving stretch of road, far on the outskirts of town now. There weren't even any houses here, just thick stands of aspens clustered on either side of the road. Where the Continental's headlights struck the trees, the aspens' white trunks stood out sharply. Farther away, they were barely visible, glowing dimly in the moonlight like pale ghosts. Here and there small snowbanks made bright patches of white against the dark ground— the last of the winter snows.

Cas searched the eerie moonlit scene, but could see no sign of Claire.

Dean was watching him closely. "You picking up anything?" he said.

"I'm not sure," said Cas. "She was telling me about pasta. But I feel like it was coming from this direction." He drew a breath. Feeling very uncertain, he called into the night, "Claire?"

At once he felt a sharp wave of that ineffable longing.

Cas got a fix on it. It was close. "Claire?" he called again, and then somehow he knew where she was; it seemed his grace could feel the living soul nearby, the soul it had been focused on for so many months, and it pointed him in the right direction. Cas said, "Wait here," to Dean, and he clambered down the side of the road, picked his way across a tiny stream of snow-melt, and worked through the little snowbanks into the woods.

Soon Castiel was walking slowly through a grove of young aspen trees. His shoes crunched on old leaves and fallen branches through a thin layer of snow.

He came to a halt. All was still and silent. Overhead was the glimmer of stars, and a shining moon. White trunks stood all around him, glowing faintly in the moonlight. It was very cold.

"Claire?" Castiel said again, softly now. Amid all the ghostly pale trees he spotted one vertical streak of light that moved a little. It was a gleaming shine of blonde hair.

"Claire," said Castiel. She shifted a little, moving out of the shadows of some of the trees. She had her arms wrapped around herself and she looked quite cold, but she seemed okay, and it was such a relief to see that she was okay that Cas walked right toward her without really thinking through a plan. All he wanted was to protect her and comfort her, so he strode toward her, one arm coming up, thinking of nothing more than wrapping his arm around her shoulders and giving her a kiss on the head.

But Claire was moving away. No, she was cringing away. She was stumbling back a step, and another, until she fetched up against another little tree.

"Don't— please—" she said, clinging to the tree as Cas advanced. "I'm sorry, I really am. Please don't—"

"What?" said Cas. "Don't what?" He was close enough now to see her face, pale in the moonlight. The look in her eyes stopped him in his tracks.

She said, "Don't... smite me?" She drew an uneven breath, looking at Cas's half-raised hand. "Please?"

Cas was horrified at the thought. "Smite you?" he said, his arm slowly dropping to his side. "What?"

Claire hesitated, one hand holding tight to the little aspen tree, as if it could protect her somehow. After a moment she said, "Aren't you going to smite me?"

"No!" said Cas, still shocked. "Why would you even think that?"

"Well..." She glanced at his hand again, which was now down by his side. "What were you going to do?"

"Just... hug you," said Cas, almost at a loss for words. "Like I used to do...when..."

Like I used to do when you were a little girl.

Cas couldn't finish his sentence.

"Oh," said Claire, looking almost as confused as Castiel felt. "Uh... okay... Um."

"Why would I smite you?"

"Because...I... deserve it?" said Claire.

"You do not deserve that," said Cas.

"But I lied to you," Claire blurted out, her hand tightening on the little tree. "I kept you as a... slave. I kept you as a slave. And I knew better. I knew better. I knew it was you. I should've told you. I knew it was that pillow doing something, and I knew you weren't my dad. I just, I just, Castiel, I really thought you were my dad at first, I really did, please believe me—"

"I do," said Cas. "I believe you."

She drew a ragged breath. "You do?"

"You wanted to put your family back together," said Castiel. "That, I do understand. And Dean understands too, by the way."

That seemed to confuse her again. "Dean understands?" she said. She was silent a moment. "But, the thing is, I know I should have figured it sooner. And the worst thing is, I did figure it out sooner." Her mouth twitched in a little grimace. "I sort of knew. All along. I just wouldn't let myself think about it. And I was so crappy to you. I've been bitching at you all year when you've been trying your hardest. I made you work those crappy jobs and make all those dinners for me and watch those stupid movies—"

"I like the movies," interrupted Castiel. "I like the dinners." He added, after a moment's thought, "The jobs I could have lived without, I suppose."

She gave a shaky little laugh. "Well, you won't have to do that anymore. You can just flit off to Heaven or wherever, right? Hang out with Dean. Um, so..." She finally let go of the tree and tucked her hair behind her ears. "So you're not gonna smite me?"

"Of course not."

"Oh," she said. "Okay. Guess I don't have to be hiding in the trees then... which is a good thing because my feet are absolutely freezing."

"Come out of the snow," Cas suggested. "Come with me? Back up to the road?"

She looked at him a moment, and gave a short nod.

They walked back to the road together. Cas kept turning to check on her progress, and he tried to offer her a hand to cross some of the snowbanks. But Claire chose a path that was several yards away from him, and she kept her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

A familiar rumbling motor approached as they made their way out of the trees and across the little stream. Soon the Impala came into view, pulling up several yards behind the Continental. While Cas and Claire were still making their way across the stream (Claire, again, selecting a different crossing-point than Cas did), Sam got out of the Impala and conferred quickly with Dean.

When Claire and Cas finally got back to the road, both brothers were waiting for them.

"You okay, kid?" said Dean to Claire.

Claire nodded. She was still holding herself a little distant from everybody. And she was still shivering.

"I'm sorry," she said to them all, so softly it was difficult to hear her. "I know I messed up."

Dean said, a little grudgingly. "You did. But at least you know it. And, you know... I think everyone here knows what it's like to try to keep family together."

"And every one here has fallen into one of Crowley's traps, too," added Sam. "Sooner or later."

Cas could only nod at that. Claire just stayed where she was, her head down.

Then Dean looked at Cas. "What now?" he said. For a moment he locked eyes with Cas.

There were a thousand questions in his eyes.

"Her feet are very cold," was all Cas could say, willing Dean to understand: Give me a moment with Claire. Then I will return to you.

Dean just turned away. "Snow'll do that," he commented briskly.

"Hey. I got an idea," said Sam. "Since it's freezing cold here, how about we just reconvene back at your place, Cas? Dean can join me in the Impala. You and Claire can ride together and maybe talk things over a bit."

Cas nodded, and Dean took a step over to him to give him the Continental keys. Sam made a show of giving his own jacket to Claire, helping carry her backpack, and then steering her around to the Continental passenger-side door. All of which gave Cas and Dean a brief moment together.

But, somewhat to Castiel's regret, there was no hug, no hand-holding, no kiss, and certainly no romantic declaration. Dean just took a quick step closer and reached out one hand with the keys. But as Cas took the keys, Dean muttered, almost too quietly to hear, "It's cool, Cas. It's cool."

Then Dean turned on his heel and strode swiftly back to the Impala.

Cas watched Dean walk away. Dean was worried; Cas could see it in his quick strides, in the way his shoulders were hunched, in the way his head was hanging down a little. But Dean didn't look back.

"It's been rough, Cas," Sam said quietly. Castiel jumped in surprise; Sam had gotten Claire settled in the Continental and had somehow snuck up right next to Castiel, without Cas even noticing. Together they watched Dean get into the Impala.

"What's been rough?" Cas said, turning to him.

Sam took a step around in front of Castiel, shielding him a little from Dean's view, and Cas realized Sam was trying to say something in private.

Sam said, "It was rough when you died." He rubbed his nose, glancing aside at the aspens. "He was like a zombie. Never really seen him like that. Wouldn't talk about you, couldn't even hear your name. About bit my head off whenever I tried to talk about you." He lowered his voice a little more, with a quick glance toward the other car, where Claire was sitting, and he said, "I can see you got a dilemma here. But I just wanted to say, hope you can swing some way to be around us a bit, and if there's any way I can help sort things out, just let me know. And, look, Cas..." Sam took a breath, and then, looking Cas right in the eyes, he said, "Dean needs you. And he really cares about you, like... well, you don't even know how much. And he's terrified you're gonna change your mind now that you've remembered everything."

Cas blinked. "He said that?"

"He doesn't have to say it," said Sam. "It's obvious." With that, he turned to leave.

But only one step away, Sam turned back toward Cas. "Also," he said. His eyes dropped to the ground.

He looked a little embarrassed.

"What is it?" said Cas.

Sam was silent a moment, staring at his feet.

"I don't really have that many friends, Cas," Sam said at last, still looking at the ground, his voice quite soft. "I, um. I even missed your phone calls. And since Dean would never talk about you, I couldn't tell a damn soul about it. Couldn't tell a damn soul that my friend had died." Then he gave a little laugh, glancing up at Castiel. "This is what Dean would call a chick-flick moment, huh? Anyway... good to have you back, dude. Whatever happens, you stay in touch, okay?" Sam gave Cas a rough thump on the shoulder, and without even waiting for a reply he turned and walked away, his hands in his pockets.

Dean and Sam led the way in the Impala, Castiel driving along behind. They made their way slowly back to town. Castiel kept his eyes glued to the Impala's red tail-lights. It all seemed eerily like his dream; the dark car in the night, the stars overhead, the two silhouettes ahead of him. Except he wasn't in the back seat like in the dream, but instead was following from much farther behind.

The knowledge that Dean could pull away forever if he wanted to, with just a press of the gas pedal, was a little unnerving.

No black wings this time, either, Castiel thought. His own wings must be a ragged ruin. Cas hadn't had a chance yet to pull them into the Earthly dimension to take a close look at them, but he knew the damage must be severe. He knew he couldn't fly.

I'm barely even an angel, thought Cas. Burned wings, half a grace, mortal vessel. What am I, anyway? Not a man, not an angel.

And not a father.

Claire was very still beside him, sitting stiffly in the passenger seat.

"Are you cold?" asked Cas.

"No," said Claire. He looked over at her; she was still shivering.

She said, "Well, maybe a little."

He adjusted the heat till there was warm air blowing on her feet.

"Is that better?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

She added, very quietly, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," said Cas.

The conversation died there. They drove on a moment in silence.

"So I figured I'd just head out," said Claire at last. "Start over somewhere else."

Castiel tried to accept this decision.

And failed. "But what about school?" he said. "What will you do? What about your scholarship? What about your play?"

"I can take care of myself," said Claire. "I'll be fine." She was using her tough act, Cas knew, but she undermined the effect a moment later when she added, her voice catching a little, "Who cares about the stupid scholarship. Who cares about the play. It's just a stupid play."

"I was going to come see it," said Cas. Actually he had been looking forward to it quite a bit, and he felt a surprisingly sharp pang of disappointment to know he might never get to see her recite the lines that he'd helped her learn. "I wanted to see it," he said.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her head turn, and knew she was looking at him.

Claire said, "You don't have to do that shit anymore, you know."

"What shit?"

"Pretending you care," she said, almost gently. "You can drop the whole father act. It's okay."

"What if I don't want to drop it?" said Cas. "What if I like having a daughter?"

Claire went very quiet again, and Castiel realized that it had been the wrong thing to say.

She's not my daughter, he reminded himself sternly.

The Impala, ahead of them, took a turn, and Cas almost missed the turn, nearly unaware of where he was driving. "I'm sorry," he said. "That was an inappropriate thing to say. I shouldn't have said that."

Claire was still silent. And still looking at him.

"I shouldn't have even thought that," said Cas. He felt his hands tighten on the wheel, his jaw clenching, and tried to make himself relax. Stay calm. Just state the facts. Accept the facts.

"Claire, I know I'm not your father," Castiel said, as calmly as he could. "I know you don't want me as your father. I know you want your real father back and that I am a very poor substitute. I know you don't want me at all. I know it must be very painful that I look like your father and I'm not him. And I know you won't ever call me Dad again." He had to stop and swallow. "I understand all that. I just meant that, I, um... there were some elements of the last year that were... not bad things. And... I've enjoyed getting to know you."

It all sounded pathetically inadequate, and he was keenly aware that he hadn't said what he really wanted to say. He stole a quick glance over at her to find that Claire was studying his face.

"You don't really look like him actually," said Claire.

Cas blinked. "I don't?"

"Not to me," she said. "Not anymore. You carry yourself so differently. You sound different, you act different.... You're a little older, too." She added, sounding a little puzzled. "Didn't you tell him, 'you'll never age'?'"

Cas sighed. So many things had changed.... "That was before I lost my grace," he explained. And before I rebelled and fell.

"Oh... right," said Claire. "Well, it's almost more like you're his brother or something, now. I don't know why I got so mixed up about it. It should have been super obvious that it was you. Even things like, the way you instantly memorized the entire play script."

"If you didn't mind too much," Castiel said, "I'd really still like to come to that play. If you still wanted to do it at all."

She was silent a moment. "Seriously?"

"Yes."

"Well," said Claire, with an air of thinking something through, "Maybe I could stay another week just for the play? Maybe I could still get you a ticket— oh! Shit!" She stiffened in her seat, her hands tightening on her knees. "Dammit."

"What's wrong?"

"I missed tonight's rehearsal!" said Claire. "They'll kick me out of the cast! You won't be able to come see the play—"

"Actually I—"

"It was a dress rehearsal and it was required!" said Claire. She suddenly sounded near tears, her hands balling up into fists now. "It was a required play-practice, like, super required, they gave us this whole big speech, and also I was supposed to pick up your ticket tonight and I wasn't there to pick it up and it was supposed to sell out and we had to pick up any family tickets tonight and they'll give it away and there won't be any more tickets! I blew it, dammit, I blew it, didn't I, I messed everything up again—"

"I already got the tickets," said Cas. "You can do the play. I talked to the director."

Claire stopped in mid-sentence. She took a jerky breath. "What?"

Cas dug in his pocket with one hand, and pulled out four tickets. He handed them to Claire and turned on the car's interior light so she could see better. She stared down at the four tickets in her hand, and looked over at him.

"I went by," Cas said. "Earlier tonight."

"You went to my play-practice?" whispered Claire.

"Yes. Dean took me there so I could look for you," said Cas. "When I saw you weren't there, I spoke to the director. I explained you had to miss tonight's practice because of a family emergency. He said it's okay but he's really hoping you can make tomorrow's practice and also the one on Wednesday. The dress ones. The ones with the dresses."

"Family... emergency?" said Claire. Her voice sounded strained.

Cas grimaced. "I know I'm not family. But it seemed an appropriate phrase anyway. Anyway, you can still be in the play if you want. And I bought the tickets."

"Why did he give you four?" said Claire, looking down at the tickets again. "He was supposed to give you one."

"Well, at first I told him I wanted two," said Cas. "Two for me, I mean. So I could see both performances. But then Dean gave me money to get two more. He wants to see it on the second night, and then he called Sam and it turned out Sam wanted one too."

They were close to home now. Cas followed the Impala around the final turn, and soon both cars pulled up in front of the little rental house, the Impala in front and the Continental just behind. Cas cut the Continental's motor. But Sam and Dean seemed in no hurry to get out; they seemed to be just sitting in their car talking about something, so Cas and Claire stayed in the Continental as well.

Claire was still staring at the four tickets. She said, "You, and Dean, and Sam, all want to see my stupid play?"

"Yes," said Cas. He took the tickets back and tucked them carefully in his wallet. "Claire, I know I'm not your father. But I'd like very much to see your play. And also... I'd like to help you finish your schooling. I'd like to help you finish out the year, and maybe get that scholarship."

"But..." said Claire slowly. "Does that mean I could stay in the house?"

"What? Of course," said Castiel. "Why ever not?"

"Aren't you... leaving? Or... kicking me out? Or something?"

"Of course not," said Castiel. "You have to finish your school year."

"But don't you have to leave?"  Claire said. "I thought... you and Dean... Doesn't he live in Kansas or something? Don't you two have, like... uh... some kind of... thing?"

"We do have a... thing, I suppose," said Cas. "If that's what it's called."

After a moment, Claire asked, "A good thing?" 

"A good thing," agreed Cas, his voice low. He was looking at the Impala. Sam and Dean were visible only as silhouettes, but Cas could see they were deep into some discussion of their own. Sam seemed to be giving a big speech; he'd turned to face Dean and was now waving his hands around in big gestures, pointing back toward Cas now and then, and at the house, and at Dean. Dean was staring ahead at the road, unsettlingly still.

Castiel could not take his eyes off that silent silhouette. He said to Claire, "I'm not sure if he'll want to continue the thing. But I hope he does." I dearly hope he does. I desperately hope he does. "And if he does, I'm going to ask him if he might be willing to drive here sometimes while you finish out your school year. It's only a few months more. He's on the road a lot, you know; he and Sam do a lot of trips west anyway. I thought, maybe he could come visit? Once a week or something? Till summertime, and then in summer... well, we can figure something out for summer. Till then, would you mind if he dropped by sometimes?"

"You're asking me if Dean can come by?" said Claire, disbelief clear in her voice. Cas looked over at her, surprised at her tone, and Claire said, "You're a flippin' angel. Dean's a goddam hunter. I'm... I'm nothing."

"You're not nothing," said Cas at her. "And I want you to be happy."

Claire gave him a very long, focused look. Finally she said, "Castiel, are you sure the spell is broken?"

Cas nodded. "The sense of compulsion is gone. Yet I find I still want you to be happy anyway. Not as a compulsion anymore, but because I actually want it. Claire...." He shifted in his seat to turn a little more toward her. "There's something maybe you don't know: An angel's grace cannot be compelled to act entirely against the will of the angel."

"What?"

"An angel's grace cannot be used in a spell that would bring about something contrary to the angel's own wishes."

Claire frowned. "But, wait, wasn't your own grace used in a spell before this? Sam said something about that."

Cas nodded again. "That was the spell that sent all the angels to Earth. But, you see, that's something I'd actually wished for. I'd long wished, both for myself and the other angels, to be able to spend more time on Earth. Of course, I would never have wished for it to happen in the way that it did, as a forced compulsion, as a catastrophic exile, but I truly had wished that every angel could have a period of time on Earth to experience free will, and human emotion, for themselves." He drew a breath. "The same is true of the spell that made me concerned with your happiness. I would never have chosen for it to be a compulsion, for it to happen in this particular way, but I truly did wish for you to be happy. And I do wish it still."

Claire was very still, just looking at him, her eyes flicking up and down his body.

"I do care about you," Castiel said at last. "Whether you believe it or not."

She was silent for so long that Cas gave up. He subsided with a little sigh, and had started to turn away, putting one hand on the door handle to get out, when Claire suddenly lunged closer and clamped onto him with one of her surprise hugs.

It was a rather awkward hug— they were both twisted a little sideways in the car, and the steering wheel was in the way, and she had Cas's right arm pinned to his side, and he was very uncertain how to respond. Gradually he brought his left arm up to pat her shoulders tentatively, expecting her to pull away.

She didn't pull away. Instead she gave a muffled little sigh into his trenchcoat. He managed to pull his other arm free and got it around her too, and she gave another tiny little exhausted sigh.

This is entirely different from what I feel for Dean, he thought. But it is also good.

"Angels aren't supposed to be fathers," Castiel said, still holding her very delicately. "I used to be punished if I showed any signs of attachment. I don't have any experience of it. I must have done a poor job of it—"

"No, you didn't," mumbled Claire, her voice muffled against his coat.

"Well, you complained a lot, so I assumed that—"

"That's because I'm a brat," said Claire. Her voice had gotten a little shaky.

Cas got brave enough to ask, "Would it be okay if I gave you the kiss on the head? Maybe one last time?"

He felt her nod. So he gave her a kiss on the head, and tightened his hold a little, and she clung on, her face buried against his coat.

"Doesn't have to be the last time," she muttered.

She finally tore loose. She was wiping tears away.

"I can't call you Daddy," she said, her voice very choked up now. "That's for... that's for..."

"Your real father," Cas supplied, suddenly choking back tears himself.

She nodded, her face screwing up. "He's Daddy," she said, her voice contracting to a squeak. "That's for him." Castiel could see that she was fighting to get under control. She wiped her nose on her sleeve and said, her voice steadier, "But maybe I could still call you Dad? Like, a step-dad, kind of? An adoptive dad? Is that too weird? Would you even want that?"

"It would be a great honor, Claire," said Castiel, almost unable to speak.

"It'd make you happy?" she said, and then she gave a shaky laugh. Castiel nodded, and then he had to laugh too, and he was amazed at the bizarrely sweet sensation of laughter and tears happening at the very same time.

Once everybody got out of their cars there was some tentative small talk, which wrapped up quickly when Claire announced that her feet were still cold, followed by Sam saying suddenly that he needed to use the bathroom. The two of them darted inside, leaving Dean and Cas standing together outside by the Impala.

They did that on purpose, Cas realized. He'd expected that from Sam, but not from Claire.

"So," said Dean, leaning back against the Impala hood. "Busy day."

"I think it'll work out," said Cas, turning to him. "I've got sort of a plan."

"Yeah?" said Dean. He hooked one foot over the other, and crossed his arms over his chest. Not quite looking at Cas.

"I was thinking, I'll stay here while she finishes school—"

"Yeah," said Dean, nodding rapidly at his feet. "Sam was trying to tell me Claire could come stay in Kansas for a few months and he also had this idea about how she could maybe stay with Jody when we're all on hunts, but I figured you might wanna just stay here. It's cool, you know. It's cool."

"It is? You wouldn't mind if I stay here?" said Cas. "I was a little worried."

"No, no, no, it's cool, I get it," said Dean. He started fiddling with the Impala key in one hand. "Totally cool."

"But it'll be so much driving for you," said Cas. "I was trying to think of a way to meet halfway, but I'm afraid there'll be a few months when you'll just have to drive all the way here. Three months more, at least. I don't want her to feel abandoned and that would mean you would have to come here."

Dean finally looked directly at him, the Impala key stilling in his hand. "What?" he said.

"Well, if I stay here then you'll have to be the one who drives a lot. To come here," said Cas. "I mean... um. Assuming you would want to come visit?"

Dean had a very guarded expression on his face. "You want... me... to come visit?"

Cas almost laughed. He took two steps closer, thinking, I know now what the most important thing is. "Dean," he said, a smile crooking up his mouth on one side. "Didn't I tell you that I know what I want? And that there would be another time?"

Dean said, so flustered he was almost stuttering, "Well, y-yeah, but, that was before. You hadn't remembered yet. I kind of figured that it was just, a, you know. A fluke. Sam was trying to tell me otherwise but I thought... you'd probably want to go back to the way things were. Once you really remembered about me and all...." Dean made a jerky little gesture with his hand, pointing first to Cas and then to himself. He said, as he did so, "Angel. Demon. Well, fucked-up ex-demon. Who's treated you like crap a lot. I thought today might just be sort of a fluke...."

"You thought it was a fluke?" said Cas, narrowing his eyes. And tilting his head. And taking a step closer. It felt wonderful, really, to slip back into those old habits, and to be able to study Dean from up close again. "You thought this afternoon was a fluke?"

"Well, you hadn't remembered anything yet..." said Dean weakly.

"Tonight we held hands for nearly an hour in the car, after I got my memory back, and you thought that was a fluke?"

"Maybe? I wasn't... sure?" said Dean jerkily. There seemed then to be only one possible action that Cas could do, only one move that could convince Dean of the truth, which was for Cas to take one step closer still, and take Dean's face in his hands, and look into his eyes, and say, "I love you. I have loved you for years." And then, at Dean's breathy gasp, at the hopeful, astonished look in his eyes, at the way his whole face softened, again there was only one possible move. Which was to kiss him. So that's what Castiel did.

"Do you think that was a fluke?" said Castiel, breaking the kiss just enough to whisper, in a low voice, directly into Dean's ear.

"So, um," said Dean. "Maybe not. We probably need to get a room. Cause, you know they can see us." He glanced over toward the house and muttered, "Claire and Sam. They're friggin' watching. From the goddam window."

"Are they?" Cas turned his head and saw that Dean was right; Sam and Claire were standing side by side in the living room watching them. Sam had a huge grin on his face. Claire looked like she was in tears. But when she caught Cas's eye she started mouthing something. Cas couldn't make it out, and she exaggerated her words and starting making big pantomime gestures, Sam laughing now beside her, until Castiel finally figured out that Claire was saying:

"AGAIN. AGAIN. KISS HIM AGAIN."

So Castiel did.

A/N - ahhhhh happy ending!  And yes, there will be the usual Materials & Methods chapter, and a smutty epilogue, never fear, and a resolution to the question of Cas's wings. But those'll come in their own sweet time, possibly many weeks from now, once I get my head above water again (so to speak).

BTW I won't get to see the new episode till Friday, which happens to be my birthday, so please no spoilers. But if you want to give me a lovely birthday present, please tell me if you liked this chapter! :)

Thank you so much for reading my story. I really hope you all liked it.

Chapter Text

Smutty epilogue time! :D  

A word first about Cas's wings. (SPOILERS FOR S10.) This whole fic was written long before the ep where Cas got his grace back, but by some kind of freakish coincidence, Cas at this point in the fic is in much the same state as Cas in the show (well, except for the very end of the finale): Cas has a partial grace, and he's got damaged wings. If you want to use the wing image we saw in the show as your image for this fic, it's pretty similar except that in fic Cas's wings are less "ragged" and softer to the touch. One comment though: I think what we saw in the show is sort of x-ray shadow of his wings, not the actual wings. In my headcanon, and in this fic, the wings still have flesh on them, and are not just bones.

With that in mind... on to the smutty epilogue! Warning: super smut ahead. PS, i t's 3am now and I've got to get to work tomorrow so I was unable to do my last proofread, so typo-catching will have to wait till tomorrow night, sorry!

By six-thirty Sunday evening, they'd all finished an early dinner together. Claire had play-practice at seven, yet she'd insisted on making dinner anyway (her cheesy pasta, which Dean had declared "awesome" as soon as he'd taken a bite). As Cas and Dean began the dinner clean-up, Sam announced he'd drive Claire to play-practice in the Impala. Play-practice tonight was apparently one of the "dress" practices, and was supposed to last three whole hours. Then it turned out that Sam had also gotten it into his head that he should stay at the school for the entire three hours in order to help the stagehands backstage with some last-minute set design issues.

Castiel felt a little skeptical about this, and couldn't help wondering if Sam was vacating the house for another reason entirely— there seemed to be altogether too many knowing looks exchanged between Sam and Claire as they left the house.

But if it meant Cas would get a whole evening alone with Dean, he certainly wasn't about to complain.

As the Impala's rumbly growl faded away down the street, Cas and Dean started cleaning up the dinner dishes, Cas washing and Dean drying. It began to sink in that they were truly alone in the house. And that they would have three whole hours alone.

It felt half comfortable, half thrilling... and half awkward.

That's three halves, thought Cas absently, staring down into the sink at the soaped-up plate in his hands. He almost forgot to rinse it off, and fumbled handing it to Dean. Who, it seemed, was doing a pretty fumbly job himself; he gave the plate a very incomplete swipe with a very damp towel, and plunked it into the cupboard still wet. Dean seemed to be thinking about something else.

Cas tried to return his attention to the dishes, but then snuck a look at Dean out of the corner of his eye. Only to find that Dean was sneaking a look back at him at the exact same second. Dean started to laugh. Cas couldn't help grinning too, and Dean whipped the end of the damp towel at Cas's butt, grumbling in mock-anger, "Who you starin' at, angel?"

"You, of course," said Cas. "As always."

And Dean blushed.

Everything was fine.

Everything was more than fine.

"So," said Dean, suddenly serious again. He fiddled with the last knife and fork, lining them up neatly in the silverware drawer, "Are we... uh... you still wanna... "

"Yes," said Cas.

Carpe Dean, he thought. He rinsed his hands one last time, patted them dry on the dishtowel, reached out for Dean's hand, and led him, once more, down the hall. To the bedroom.

Dean turned out to have given certain things a little thought. He insisted on taking a shower, and "preparing" and "getting cleaned up" in some ways that hadn't previously occurred to Cas. While Dean showered (unfortunately the shower stall was too small for two people), Cas fidgeted in the bedroom. He shucked off all his clothes, leaving them in a heap on the chair — for once, he couldn't be bothered with hanging them up. Then he wondered if he should take a shower too, and pulled on a bathrobe. Then he felt uncertain about wearing the bathrobe and took it off; and then got worried and put it back on again.

Dean finally interrupted the bathrobe confusion by strolling back into the room, hair damp, mesmerizingly attired in just a towel wrapped around his waist. Dean went straight to his shoulder bag and dug something out. It turned out to be some "lube," he said, that he'd bought earlier. Brand new, still in a box inside a drugstore bag, still with the receipt.

Cas asked what it was for. That what was when Cas got to see, once again, how red Dean's ears could get when he really blushed.

After a moment's thought Cas decided he'd better take a shower too.

When Cas got back into the bedroom (modeling Dean, he'd wrapped a towel around his waist), Dean was already in Cas's bed. He was on his back, covers pulled up chastely around his waist, checking something on his phone.

Dean looked up at Cas with a grin. "Sam apparently got drafted into some last minute set-painting," he said. "Says Claire and he won't be back till late. Says we shouldn't wait up— he'll make sure Claire gets back and gets to bed. He'll sleep on the sofa again. He says, uh, he said Claire said" —Dean hesitated, glancing at the phone. "That she doesn't want to find me on the living room floor again."

Last night Cas had slept in his own bed (it turned he still needed to sleep, and eat too; the little grace was definitely not a full grace). But Dean and Sam had both slept in the living room, Sam on the couch and Dean on the floor. It had seemed like it might be a little rude, or inconsiderate or rushed perhaps, for Dean to jump right into sharing Cas's bed when Claire was dealing with so many other changes.

"So I'll tell him I got the text," said Dean, tapping something into the phone. "I'm saying: Roger... that." Dean finished tapping out the phrase, hit Send and then glanced up at Cas. "I mean.... if you... uh... want me in here? All night?"

This was one of those unnecessary questions that Dean asked sometimes. One of the questions that didn't really need an answer. Cas knelt by the side of the mattress, reached out and took Dean's phone, clicked it off, and set it aside.

Everything seemed so easy.

Everything was so comfortable.

Cas took his towel off (Dean's eyes got a little round) and then wriggled his way under the covers. He paused as he drew close to Dean. Dean had said nothing when Cas had taken the phone, and he said nothing now. And Cas said nothing too. Instead Cas simply moved right up next to him, watching Dean's face in the faint light of the little bedside lamp. Watching his eyes go dark and wide.

Cas drew closer still. Till he was just a few inches away. Close enough to feel the heat off Dean's skin; close enough to smell the scent of the soap Dean had used in the shower.

Closer still. Till Cas was nuzzling his nose around Dean's neck, sniffing his way through Dean's hair, breathing in the fragrance of his shampoo.

Closer still. Cas eased one leg between Dean's. One of Dean's arms slid around behind him, wrapping around Cas's back. Dean's other hand started to run through Cas's hair. Cas was still nuzzling at Dean's ear, and Dean turned his head and kissed him....

Then they couldn't stop kissing.

Every few moments Cas pulled back. Just enough to get a look at his face. Just enough to see the look in his eyes.

Then into the kissing again. Running his hands all through Dean's hair... all down his back... all over his body. Feeling Dean's hands on him as well.

It seemed Cas could feel all his newly recovered memories shifting around inside his head. All his knowledge of Dean seemed to be reorienting. All the long years of friendship and struggle, from the very first moment he'd seen Dean in Hell, through all their struggles on Earth; to Heaven, to Purgatory, to the past, to the future, and everywhere in between. All the mistakes, all the desperate battles... and, all along, the quiet hope. The steadfast devotion; the affection that Castiel had felt for so long.

All the long-suppressed yearning.

It all fell into place now, the whole long, complex story. And it seemed now that the story had been heading in this direction the entire time. All along, it had all been aimed right here: to this single moment, with Dean pressed up against him, arms wrapped around him, right here in Cas's bed.

Cas found he wanted much more contact; he needed it, actually, so he shoved Dean over onto his back. (Dean gave a little chuckle, and let himself be moved around.) Cas wriggled on top, clambering right onto Dean, shoving the comforter down a little, till he could lie full-length down on top of him. Cas's cock was already half-hard at the memory of last time, and it stiffened further as Cas pressed against Dean, right up between their stomachs. Soon Cas felt something poking up between his legs, right up against his balls; Dean was getting hard too.

The evening was off to an excellent start.

Cas paused to savor the moment. He looked down at Dean, bracing himself with his elbows on both sides of Dean's head, fingers tracing through Dean's hair.

Dean was grinning up at him.

"We got that lube, you know," Dean said softly. "We could do anything."

Now that was a completely thrilling thought.

Cas had long known about those other options, of course. Those options that required "lube." He'd seen humans do many such things, over the years. But being able to try such things himself... with this vessel, this vessel that was truly his now, a vessel he'd grown to love... to be able to try such things with Dean....

An intense desire came over Castiel then to feel Dean even more thoroughly. More exactly. More precisely. To enfold him completely, to protect him and envelop him. I want my wings on him, Cas thought. For, like all angels, Castiel experienced sensations more accurately through his wings than through his human vessel's hands. Things always seemed that little bit more real when he could touch them with his wings. As fond as he was of this vessel, the wings were part of his own true form; the human hands were not.

Dean reached up and grabbed him tightly. One hand wrapped around Cas's head; one hand was suddenly tight on his ass. Dean kissed him deeply now, his tongue right in Cas's mouth.

I NEED my wings on him, Cas thought, almost gasping for breath. I NEED it, I NEED my wings on him—

A crack of thunder overhead, a flicker of ghostly light, and Dean's body seemed to leap into vivid three-dimensional relief below Cas. It seemed, somehow, that Cas could feel every point on Dean's skin at once.

At first Cas wasn't even clearly aware what had happened, just that all at once, quite magically, he was feeling the outline of Dean's body as he never had before. The vividness of it took his breath away. Cas could feel everything, in electrifying, immediate detail. The curves of the muscles of Dean's arms; the beautiful contours of his torso and hips. The exact temperature of his skin, the little variations here and there; here slightly cooler, there slightly warmer. The pulse of the blood through his flesh, the rise and fall of his breaths, the beating of his heart. And the faint, lovely movement, underneath, of his very soul...

... and, too, Cas could feel the way Dean had just sucked in a surprised gasp of air. The way he'd just frozen still. Something had startled him.

Only then did Castiel realize that he actually did have his wings on Dean.

Literally. Physically. Both wings were right here, in the bed, in this dimension. Wrapped around Dean. Pressed to him on both sides, from shoulder down to knee, holding him securely.

Somehow, despite the weakened grace, Castiel had managed to transition his wings from the next-door dimension, where they usually rested, into the Earthly dimension. He hadn't meant to do this at all.

The next second seemed to unfold very slowly. Cas turned to look over his shoulder at his left wing, half in shock, just as Dean was lifting his head, saying, "Cas? What—"

Dean couldn't get a clear view of Cas's wings, for Cas's arms (still on either side of Dean's head) were blocking his view. But Cas had a perfect view. And Cas's blood ran cold.

His wings were ruined.

Cas had known, of course, that his feathers had burned, that awful day when the borrowed grace had exploded. But the memory of that terrifying moment had only just been recovered— just yesterday, really— and, what with all his concern for Claire over the past couple days, Cas hadn't had much chance to think about it. And he'd only just gotten the little bit of grace back, too. He hadn't had a moment alone to bring his wings over, to really look at them and assess the damage. Not till today.

Not till this very second.

Cas stared down at his left wing. It was baffling how stumpy and malformed it seemed. Skinny, too; like a weird, long bat-arm, almost. It took him a long moment to comprehend why it seemed so misshapen. At last he realized that all of the flight feathers were gone.

All of the flight feathers were gone.

This was almost incomprehensible. Cas's wings had borne a full set of elegant white flight feathers for as long as he could remember. For eons, now. From eons upon eons, every time he'd glanced down over his shoulder at his wing, whether in his true form or in a vessel, he'd seen a long, lovely wing of glowing white. He hadn't been vain about it, but it had been a very familiar sight. 

Without that familiar, fan-like array of the long regal white feathers, the wing looked bafflingly strange now. Nearly skeletal.

It was blackened all over, too. Completely black.

It was missing all the flight feathers... Cas still couldn't take it in.

It was hideous.

And Dean was about to see.

All this passed through Cas's mind in one long, drawn-out second. Dean was still trying to push Cas's arms out of the way, lifting his head up, starting to peer down at one wing. He said, "Cas? What are... Are those your..."

Cas actually knocked the bedside light over in his lunge to turn it off. He somehow got it turned off without breaking it, and tried next to tuck his wings back into the next-door dimension where they usually rested. But they wouldn't move over. He felt his little grace strain with the effort, but the wings only twitched and stayed stubbornly right where they were, stubbornly physical, right here in the Earthly dimension with him and Dean. Cas realized then, with something near to horror, that his grace must have been drained of power temporarily by act of shifting the wings here in the first place. He couldn't get the wings back over to the other dimension. He tried again; again, nothing, and this time he gasped as he felt the grace flinch weakly inside him.

The wings were stuck here.

Dean said, "Cas? What's wrong?" In the dimness Cas could just see that Dean was reaching for the bedside light now— he was about to turn the light back on—

Cas scrambled back on all fours, pulling away as quick as he could, almost swamped with panic. All he could think was, They're ruined, don't let Dean see, they're ruined, don't let Dean see. He floundered off of Dean in the dark, slithered clear off the edge of the mattress onto the floor, tangled in the comforter now, tucking the wings as tightly as he could behind his back. Once again he tried to shift the wings out of sight, his breath hitching. Once again they simply wouldn't shift, both wings merely twitching once more, the little grace wilting inside him, completely drained now. The grace would need more time to recover.

They're ruined— don't let Dean see—

Cas groped around in the dark for something to cover them. He yanked at the comforter, but it was tangled around his feet. Then one of his hands landed on a piece of fabric that was lying on the chair next to him. Cas whipped it over his back and across both wings. Just in time; click, the light was on, and there was Dean, propped up on one elbow, staring at him.

"Cas, what is it? What's going on?" said Dean. He sat all the way up now, peering at the long, lumpy shapes that were half-hidden on Cas's back. "Are those your... are those your wings?"

Cas discovered that the thing he'd grabbed was his old trenchcoat. He pulled it more tightly around his wings, pressing the two wings tightly together and flattening them against his back to try to hide them a little better. He risked a glance over his shoulder; the wings were hidden pretty well. "Uh," he said. "Yes."

Dean looked totally confused. "What's wrong? You okay?"

Belatedly Cas realized that he must look ridiculous. And that he'd totally ruined the intimacy of the moment. Ten seconds ago he'd been lying on top of Dean, both of them aroused, both of them reveling in the kisses and all the delicious sensations. Both of them looking forward to the ecstasy that surely would be coming soon. And now here Cas was crouching nude on the floor, half-hiding behind the chair, trenchcoat pulled tight over his pathetic wings.

Cas tried to straighten up a little. "Yes, I'm... I'm fine. I'm sorry, it's just that I... uh... I... brought my wings out accidentally." He made himself take a breath. "I can't seem to put them away just yet. Give me a moment, I think I can get them away if, I, uh... if I just have a minute or two to rest. My grace needs to recover a little, I think."

Dean's eyes had widened a little. He began to scoot a little closer to Cas, levering himself over toward the foot of the bed. "Your wings? You mean, like, physical wings? For real?" He reached the edge of the mattress and started to reach out one hand to the trenchcoast. "Can I see them?"

"NO," said Cas, pulling the trenchcoat tighter as he flinched away.

Dean's hand froze in mid-air.

"I mean... um... not just now," said Cas.

Slowly Dean withdrew his hand.

Dean asked, his voice a little softer now, "Cas, what's wrong?"

Cas was acutely aware now of how badly he'd screwed up. He'd completely ruined the moment. Dean had offered himself to Cas— he'd even taken that shower, he'd bought that "lube," he'd offered everything Cas had ever dreamed of and more, and Cas had messed everything up. Brought his wings over without thinking (ruined, destroyed, maimed...) and now he couldn't seem to get them back (which was all kinds of embarrassing— Cas had less control than a mere fledgling!).

Cas had to force himself to take another breath.

"My... apologies," Cas said. He took another breath. "I know I've ruined the.. the mood. My... my apologies. My wings are, um.... it appears they are... uh... damaged." Cas couldn't help glancing over his shoulder again. "I didn't realize how badly. I haven't seen them till now. I couldn't bring them to this dimension till I had my grace back, actually I didn't understand that I even had wings till yesterday; all this time I thought it was just my shoulders hurting, and... I... I didn't realize the condition they were in. I didn't even intend to bring them out just now. It was just a, um..." I wanted my wings on you, I wanted it so bad.... "It was a sort of a reflex."

Cas faltered; Dean was giving him a very strange look, his head cocked a little, frowning. Cas had to make himself continue. "And... it turns out they're... rather more damaged than I realized. All the flight feathers—" Cas's voice caught. He swallowed, and straightened up a little and made himself announce, calmly, "All the flight feathers are burned off," but now he could not seem to meet Dean's eyes.

Cas cleared his throat and went on, "I'll put them away in a moment. My grace just needs a moment to recharge a little. Let me just catch my breath."

Dean was quiet for a long moment.

"Can I see them?" Dean said. His voice had gone very low, and very soft.

"Uh...," said Cas, automatically pulling the trenchcoat a little tighter. But the solemn look that came over Dean's face then, and the way he blinked, and the way his shoulders fell a little, was almost harder to bear than the fear about what Dean would think of the wings.

"I ... apologize," said Cas.

"Stop saying that," said Dean.

"I should explain," said Cas, "It's just, perhaps I should tell you, I've had this idea in my head for some time about..."

He stalled. This was harder to say than he'd thought.

"About what?" said Dean.

"About... what it might be like, someday, if I could show you my wings," said Cas. I better make light of it, he thought. I've got to make him think it's not a big deal. So Cas pasted a smile on his face and said, with a little shrug, as if it were not very important, "I've just... had this notion for a while that it would be nice someday to show you my wings. Just a little thought, really..."

Dean said nothing. He was still just staring at Cas. And biting his lip.

Cas rattled on, "I mean, I thought it would be nice to show you my wings with flight feathers. The way they're supposed to look. The way angel wings are supposed to look. I thought you might like that because... well, I don't know if you remember, there was a time that you saw the shadows of my wings once? It was years ago, I don't know if you remember, it was in that barn—"

"I remember," said Dean, almost in a whisper.

"Well, those were just shadows of course, and I thought maybe you would like to see the actual wings someday. Just a silly idea I used to have. Just a silly little thought." I'm rambling, Cas realized, and he forced himself to wrap things up, saying, "Anyway, they're, um, they look... quite bad now and I don't think you'd like them. Dean, I wonder, if you could give me a minute or two alone, I think I can put them away again. And then we could start over. If you'd like?" If I haven't ruined the mood completely.

A few seconds ticked by.

Dean was very still. His eyes were flicking back and forth from the bulky shapes under the trenchcoat to Cas's face.

Dean finally said, "Do they hurt?"

That was easier to talk about. "Not really," said Cas, looking over his shoulder again at the trenchcoat. "They're just.. a little sore. They've been aching a lot, the past few months. I think they were healing, maybe? From the burns. But I wasn't even aware that it was my wings that were hurting. I thought it was my shoulders. I never was really able to treat them, of course, all this time. There are ointments I could have used.... to try to preserve the feather-roots, I mean. That is, to try to... save the... uh...." Cas's voice trailed off.

"I'm fine," Cas added at last, aware how lame it must sound.

Another long moment of silence.

Dean slowly moved a little closer. He scooted off the edge of the mattress. He was still totally nude (and he'd lost his erection, Cas couldn't help noticing. As had Cas. Dammit...) But Dean seemed to have forgot about all that. He just inched closer, till he was kneeling next to Cas. Dean slowly raised one hand.

Cas stiffened, thinking he was going to pull the trenchcoat off, but Dean only set his hand against the side of Cas's face.

Dean stroked Cas's cheek, and then let his hand drop away. He said, "If you don't want me to look at them I'm not gonna look. But could I touch them? That okay? See if you need any, I don't know, first aid or anything. Burn treatment or anything. I know it's been months but... I don't know, maybe I could do something. Is it okay if I touch them?"

After a moment Cas nodded, and Dean moved his hand to Cas's shoulder. There he paused. Cas sat very still, still trying to make himself calm down. He felt Dean's hand slide under the trenchcoat, coming to rest on the top edge of the left wing.

Burned. Broken. Ruined, Cas thought. Dean must be able to feel how damaged it was.

Cas stared down at the carpet.

After a moment he risked a glance up at Dean's face.

But Dean's expression seemed just... thoughtful. He was gazing off into space, his eyes a little unfocused. Concentrating on whatever he was feeling, presumably. His hand slid, very lightly, to the big joint at the leading edge of the wing. This was always a rather sensitive spot— Castiel, like all seraphs, had a couple of small winglets here that were tucked down against the main part of the wing, winglets that were every bit as sensitive as human hands. Cas felt Dean run his fingers over them. It was rather a relief, actually, to know that the winglets were still there, and still able to feel things.

Then Dean ran his hand slowly down the long edge of the folded wing, under the trenchcoat, toward the floor.

Dean's hand finally reached the burnt-off tip of the wing. Where the long primaries, the longest of the flight feathers, had once been. Cas closed his eyes.

But all Dean said was, "Does this hurt?"

"No," Cas said. But he kept his eyes closed.

"It feels like it's healed up," said Dean. He seemed very calm. Almost matter-of-fact. Cas opened his eyes to find that Dean was looking at Cas's face.

"Can I check the other one?" said Dean.

"Yes," said Cas, and Dean shifted around to Cas's other side, and traced a hand down that wing too. Quite slowly.

His touch was extraordinarily gentle.

His hand felt cool. Soothing, in fact.

It felt nice, actually. Cas heard himself let out a little sigh. Dean glanced at him.

"Dean, I'm sorry about all this," said Cas. It was getting a little easier to talk. "To tell the truth I've wanted to show you my wings for some time. But now I find I'm.... well, I'm ashamed for you to see them as they are now. It took me by surprise when I saw them. And then I realized I couldn't put them away."

Dean was quiet, as he ran his hand slowly along the wing.

Then he said, "Come back to bed." He removed his hand from the wing, took hold of Cas's hand, and tugged him back toward the mattress.

"Dean, I really am sorry about all this—" Cas began.

"Enough with the sorries," said Dean. He pulled at Cas's hand again. "Come back to bed. Keep the trenchcoat on if you want. I won't look."

Dean pulled him back to bed, and Cas finally followed. Dean lay down on his right side, guiding Cas to lie down next to him, even helping Cas keep the trenchcoat in place as he lay down next to Dean. Cas got on his left side, so that they were facing each other, side by side.

Cas was beginning to feel very silly about the trenchcoat. But it felt reassuring to have it there.

Dean didn't try to take the trenchcoat off. And he didn't try to look at the wings. But again he slid one hand under the coat. He got his other arm under Cas's head, and got that hand under the coat too, closing his eyes as he did so, as if to reassure Cas that he truly wasn't going to look.

Now both his hands were on Cas's wings. This time Dean explored the wings in the other direction, toward Cas's back, following the long wing-bones. He traced each wing down its middle section, from the big bend down to a nearly hidden joint that was right near Cas's back, from there Dean followed the inner part of the wing, following the sturdy stout bone that connected to the wing to the base of Cas's shoulderblades.

His touch was quite soothing. Cas turned his face into Dean's shoulder. He was beginning to feel more and more absurd about the whole situation.

"I am sorry—" Cas began.

"I told you, enough with the sorries," said Dean mildly, cutting him off. "Does this hurt? Is this okay?"

"It doesn't hurt," said Cas. Dean's fingers actually felt deliciously cool and relaxing. They seemed to be drawing an aching heat right out of the wings. Dean starting to stroke both wings now, gently rubbing the base of each wing.

Cas added, "It feels good, actually." For it did.

"And it's okay?" Dean said. "I mean, me doing this is okay?"

"Yes," said Cas. "Yes."

They lay a moment in silence. Side by side, Cas with his face pressed to Dean's lower shoulder, Dean's chin now resting against the side of Cas's head. Cas could feel his breath against Cas's ear. Dean's hands continued gently massaging the base of both wings.

"There's some little feathers," Dean commented.

Castiel had just become aware of this. The little covert-feathers must have grown back; Cas could feel Dean's fingers pushing them from side to side. "The wing-lining feathers," Cas explained.

"They're really soft," said Dean, and Cas could feel his fingers scratching through some of the fluffy little coverts right at the base of the wings, rubbing gently through them. It was starting to feel very relaxing. There were muscles there that seemed to have been knotted up for months. Cas could feel the muscles letting go, one by one. It drew another long sigh out of him.

"They're called coverts," Cas managed to say. "Some of them must have grown back."

He felt Dean's hands pause. "Feathers can grow back?" said Dean.

"If the roots aren't too damaged."

"Will the bigger feathers grow back too? The, what did you call them, the flight feathers?"

This was the big question. The one Cas had not allowed himself to think about. "I don't know," said Cas, unable to keep an edge of worry out of his voice. "Maybe? I don't know. I don't know how damaged the roots are."

Dean didn't ask any more questions for a while after that. But his hands kept gently exploring the wings. Pressing lightly; scratching a little at the base of the feathers. One hand shifted to the base of Cas's neck, and he began scritching gently there, and Cas felt himself relax further. Soon he found he wanted to stretch his wings out a little, to let them relax from their tightly tucked position. The trenchcoat was in the way, though.

"You can take the coat off," Cas said.

"Only if you want," said Dean.

"You can take it off," said Cas. "You can look at them if you want."

In the end it was Cas who reached back and shucked the trenchcoat off. Then, a little hesitantly, he stretched out his right wing a little, over Dean's side. Cas found that though he didn't want to look at the wing himself, he didn't seem to mind at all anymore if Dean did, so he kept his eyes closed and his face pressed to Dean's shoulder. He felt Dean turn his head, and knew Dean must be studying the damage to the wing, but somehow that seemed to be okay now.

Dean kept at his slow, gentle wing-massage the whole time. He started working on the wing that was half-extended over his side, both hands on that wing now,

"Cas, it looks pretty well healed up," Dean said at last. "I mean, I don't know wings or anything, but, the skin's all healed up. This part looks really good—" Cas felt him stroke the alulas— the little winglets— and Cas let out a breath of relief. Still got my alulas, at least, he thought.

"Looks like the little lining feathers all came back too," said Dean. "The whole wing's got 'em. Maybe the big feathers'll grow back too?"

"I won't find out till summer," Cas said. "That's when they usually molt. Or don't." And then he heard himself whispering to Dean, "What if they don't. What if I can never fly again."

He felt Dean's hands pause, and felt Dean turn his head back toward Cas. Dean kissed him on the cheek.

"You'll survive," Dean murmured in his ear. "And... I'll help. I'll be with you. I mean, if that's worth anything."

"It is," whispered Cas back. "It's worth everything. But... I wanted you to like my wings. "I've wanted that for so long."

"I love your wings," whispered Dean.

Cas didn't believe him at all. He opened his eyes and turned toward Dean with a skeptical scowl. "Dean, they look awful. They're ruined."

"Actually they're really soft," said Dean, shifting to look at the wing again. He began to stroke his hand over the little coverts again. "Glossy black. Kind of cool looking, to be honest. And Cas..." Dean paused, and turned his head to whisper straight into Cas's ear. "Your feathers burned because you saved me. This was my fault, Cas—"

Cas had to stop him right there. He interrupted sharply with, "Dean. This was not your fault. I do not blame you. You were under the control of the Mark—"

"It was still me," Dean said, a real pain in his voice now. "It was me that did this."

"That's not correct and you know it," Cas said, raising his head to look him in the eyes. "It was part of you, yes, but not all of you. The Mark amplifies one part of the bearer only. The aggressive part; the evil part. But that is not all that you are, Dean, it never has been all that you are. And I'm not just making that up, Dean, I have seen your soul. I see it every day. You are more than just that part of you. Everybody has a bad side but we are more than just that part."

Dean had fallen silent, just looking at Cas.

Cas added, "Dean, I truly do not blame you. I never did. Not even when it was happening."

Dean said, a little shakily, "It is not blame that falls on me, but fate?" Cas recognized the quote; those were Cas's own words from years ago. From back when Dean had broken the First Seal, and started the Apocalypse....

Cas couldn't help smiling a little. "Essentially. Yes."

Dean closed his eyes with a little sigh, and Cas let his head sink back down again onto Dean's shoulder.

"Well, however you look at it," said Dean, taking a slightly uneven breath, "This happened to you because of me. So whatever you are feeling, Cas, you gotta let me share it with you. You gotta let me help you carry it." Cas felt Dean's head shift again. Dean was looking at the damaged wing, and he said, "And, Cas. You want to know what I see, when I look at your wings?"

Cas frowned, unsure where this was going. "What?"

"First off, I think, whoa, these are awesome."

"No, you don't," said Cas, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

"Yes I do," Dean said right back. "You gotta remember, Cas, I don't even know what wings are supposed to look like in the first place. You've got some idea in your head that I want flight feathers or something? But I don't even know what flight feathers are. Your wings now, they're, what, skinnier than they're supposed to be? Shorter? Blacker?"

Cas nodded into Dean's shoulder.

"Well, they still look like wings to me. The black is super cool. And I look at these and I think, whoa, Cas is an angel, he really is an actual angel. So, they are awesome, and I'm not making that up. Then the second thing I think is, holy shit, an angel had his actual angel wings on me, he had some "reflex" to wrap his friggin' angel wings all down my sides for some reason, and that is... that is hot, in ways I don't even know how to explain to you. And then I get to to put my hands on them and you know what I think? I think, these little feathers are so silky soft and I love running my fingers over them. But that's not even the main thing. You know what the main thing I think is?"

"What?"

Dean turned his head a little to whisper right into Cas's ear. "Your wings being burned like this, you know what it really means to me? It means you fucking saved my soul. For the goddam second time and don't think I don't remember the first, too. And also it means you survived. It means you went through that somehow and yet you're still alive. It means I still got you. You survived and I survived, somehow we both got through it, somehow we're still here together, somehow I got a second chance with you, a chance I don't even deserve— it means I still got you, you're still here, you're still alive. So... Cas...."

Dean shifted then, pushing up onto one elbow. Cas opened his eyes to watch him. Dean was looking at the right wing now, staring right at it, and Cas was amazed to see no reluctance. No disgust. No hesitation at all.

Dean leaned closer still. Cas felt Dean's warm breath puff against the covert-feathers, blowing them a little sideways (it tickled a little). Then he felt Dean kiss his wing.

Dean kissed Castiel's ruined wing.

Right on the bend of the wing, where the little winglets were. In his surprise, Cas couldn't help lifting up the winglets a little.

Dean gave a little chuckle. "Now what are these? These look cool." He tucked one finger under one of the winglets.

"Alulas," whispered Cas, startled at how intimate it felt to have a human hand intertwined with his alulas. "They're... winglets... like... feathered fingers, sort of. They... " He lifted them again, and shifted his wing slightly to stroke Dean's cheek with one alula.

"Whoa," said Dean, after a moment. "That has... potential, dude. Um. Definite potential." Then he leaned in and kissed the little winglets.

Cas was a little embarrassed to feel his covert-feathers fluff up a little. All along the wing.

"And what does that mean?" said Dean. "The feathers fluffing?" He began to kiss his way down the wing. Right through all fluffed-up feathers.

"Means... I'm... feeling better," said Cas, a little dazed now.

"Oh, like, how much better exactly?" said Dean. He continued kissing his way down the wing. Kiss after kiss, all the way along the wing. Cas had really not expected this, and he felt such a rush of relief and gratitude that his covert-feathers fluffed up even more.

"A lot better," said Cas.

Dean kissed his way all the way to the tip of the wing. Where the flight-feathers would have been. Dean seemed completely unfazed by the lack of flight-feathers— he just kissed every feather-root. Though he had to stretch out a little to reach the tip of the wing, for by now the wing had somehow gotten so relaxed that it had flopped nearly completely open, stretching far across Dean, nearly to the window.

Dean twisted around to follow the wing right to the wall, kissing every inch.

Then Dean pushed at Cas's shoulder, rolling Cas onto his back, and said, "Other wing. Stretch that baby out." Cas stretched out the left wing obediently (and rather eagerly, truth be told), and Dean began kissing his way along that wing too, kneading the wing-muscles with his hands too as he worked his way along.

"Cas?" said Dean, halfway through the left wing. He'd started running his fingers though the little coverts now, and stroking the alulas a little. A delightful sense of relaxation was spreading through both wings now. 

"Yeah?" said Cas. It was getting a little hard to talk.

"I gotta ask something," said Dean. "Does it mean anything to let someone handle your wings?"

"Yeah," said Cas, almost in a trance by now.

Dean looked at him. But his hands were still working, so Cas forgot to say anything else and Dean had to prod him eventually with, "Cas, what does it mean?"

"Sign 'f trust," mumbled Cas, his eyes half-shut. "Affection."

"Oh," said Dean.

A moment later: "Is it... uh.... sexual at all?" said Dean. "Or anything like that?"

"No," said Cas. "It's just... nice...."

"Damn," muttered Dean. He paused a little in the wing-massage.

"It's really nice," said Cas, opening his eyes. He had to nudge Dean's hands with his wing to make him continue.

"So it's like a backrub?" said Dean, his hands working away again.

"Don't know," said Cas, eyes closing again. "Never had a backrub."

"Dammit, Cas," said Dean. He sounded appalled. "You angels really don't get to enjoy life at all, do you."

"Not really, no," said Cas. Dean's hands had stopped again. Cas had to nudge his hand with his wing again, a little more sharply this time. "Dean," Cas complained. Dean got going again— though Cas was pretty sure he heard Dean give a soft little chuckle under his breath this time.

"I'm asking because," said Dean, "If I'm going to send you entirely to sleep here, I just wanted to doublecheck first about whether you want any other kind of stuff too. Like this—" He shifted position, shuffling downward. He kept one hand on Cas's left wing, but the other hand disappeared. There was some rearranging and a moment later Cas felt Dean's hot breath at his groin, and then a warm, wet stripe of sensation along the side of his cock. Dean had... Dean had licked him.

"I mean, if you're in the mood," added Dean. He gave another lick, and Cas's breath caught in his throat, both wings twitching. "We don't have to," said Dean. "I seriously mean that. We could just fall asleep or whatever." Another lick, and Cas gasped. Dean added, offhandedly, "Just wanted to offer the option."

"You've been planning this all along," said Cas, lifting his head to look down at him.

"Hey," said Dean, sounding wounded. "I wasn't. Really. But you just started to look really appealing once you got all sprawled out. It's really just an option. I just want you to feel good. Whatever you want is cool, I swear—"

"I like the option," said Cas.

"We really don't have to—"

"I really like the option," Cas said. Dean grinned up at him. He still had one hand gently wrapped around Cas's left wing, and he ran his fingers through the feathers, and lowered his head. Lick, another hot stripe of wetness; lick, another one; now Dean's left hand was around Cas's cock and he was taking Cas's entire cock into his mouth. His other hand tightened on Cas's wing, tickling the coverts. The combination of sensations was bizarre, and startling, and exquisite; it drew a gasp of surprise from Cas. Dean did it again and Castiel said, gasping a little now, "I really like this option."

He heard Dean's gentle laugh, and Cas asked, slightly affronted, "Are you laughing at me?"

"Yup," said Dean, but it didn't even matter, for Dean was doing more of those delicious licks now. Cas let his head fall back on the mattress and gave himself over to Dean.

Dean dove into his new task as if it were the most important job he'd ever had. He swallowed Cas's cock right down to the root, swirling his tongue around in magical ways, palming Cas's balls occasionally, till Cas was moaning in delight, starting to squirm around on the sheets. And throughout it all Dean kept one hand on Cas's wing, running his hand along the wing, tugging at the alulas, tickling his feathers. He was experimenting, Cas knew. Some of it worked (the feather-tickling turned out to be pretty near magical), some of it didn't (a too-sharp tug on the alulas made Cas yelp at one point)... and all of it seemed far beyond any physical sensation that Castiel had experienced. If he could have gotten his breath back, he would have thanked Dean a thousand times over. For being so incredibly kind and supportive about the wings; for the wing-massage; for the blow-job, for making Castiel feel so good in so many ways. But Cas could barely even speak anymore. Soon he was panting, his cock throbbing in Dean's mouth, and Cas was straining his hips up, wings thrashing unevenly on the sheets, his hands knotted in Dean's hair.

"Wait," said Dean, pulling back.

"WHY ARE YOU STOPPING," said Cas, grabbing at him with both hands, both wings lifting off the bed in his urgency.

"I wanna try something with you," Dean said. His voice sounded a little uneven, and Cas looked down at him and at last realized that Dean had gotten pretty far aroused too. And that he was grabbing for the lube. In the next moment Dean had some lube in his hand and was lubing up Cas's cock. The icy shock of it made Cas hiss, his wings twitching in. "Sorry," said Dean. "I'll warm you up in a sec." Then he was straddling Cas's hips.

Cas lost his breath entirely when he realized what Dean was doing. And lost his breath again at the feel of his cock pressing against Dean's asshole.

"Are you s-sure?" Cas said, almost stuttering.

Dean nodded.

"Have you even done this before?" Cas said.

Dean shook his head.

Cas got worried. "Won't it hurt you?"

Dean shrugged. "Wanna try this with you," he said, adjusting his position a little.

"I don't want to hurt you," said Cas. But Dean said, "We'll go slow," and he grabbed Cas's cock with one hand, aiming it precisely where he wanted it, and began to lower himself down. Very, very slowly. Despite Cas's worry, it was intensely exciting, to feel Dean's hand on his cock like that, to see Dean crouching above him and trying to take him in, and soon all Cas was worried about was how to keep from coming instantly. Then there seemed to be some resistance, and Cas started to get a little concerned about Dean again. But then Dean let out a long, slow breath and something seemed to open slightly.

An intensely hot, warm, wet pressure wrapped around Cas's cockhead. Cas could only take in short, sharp breaths then, and once again it was all Cas could do to keep from coming right then. Dean sank down a tiny bit further, and Cas couldn't restrain a groan. In the next moment his wings were raising up, pressing to Dean's sides again. Dean grabbed on to the wings with something near to desperation, and Cas realized he was having a little trouble holding himself up.

"Lean on me," Cas muttered. "Lean on my wings."

"Y'sure?" said Dean, his voice rough.

"Yes—" said Cas, pushing both wings more firmly up at Dean, and Dean gave his body weight over to the wings. Cas's wings held him up, and in that moment Castiel did not care at all about the missing flight-feathers. Dean liked his wings. Dean was hanging on to his wings.

And Castiel could feel everything.

Very, very, slowly Dean opened up, more and more. Very, very slowly, Cas lowered him down. A fraction of an inch at a time, wings trembling with the effort.

"Your wings—" Dean gasped. "Are they—"

"They're fine," muttered Cas back.

Dean was all the way down now. Cas felt his pelvis settle heavily onto Cas's. The heat and tightness felt unbelievably good. Cas was panting now, trying to stay calm, trying to hold back, trying to keep from thrusting. Trying to last. He heard Dean mutter "Holy fuck." Dean stayed where he was for a long moment, very still, his eyes closed, still hanging on tight to the wings.

Cas reached one hand to Dean's cock. It had gone a little soft while Dean had been adjusting to the sensations, so Cas wetted his hand down with some of the lube, warmed it a moment, wrapped his hand tightly around Dean's shaft and began to jerk him.

"Ah, jeez," Dean croaked. He hardened almost immediately, and soon he was hitching his hips forward and back a tiny bit. Pulling at Cas's cock with every move. Cas gasped and almost forgot to keep jerking him. A little whimper from Dean reminded him to continue.

Cas's cock was buried to the root now, inside Dean; Cas felt almost impossibly hard now. Everything seemed impossibly hot. Feverish, boiling hot. He began thrusting upward, in tiny little pushes; trying to match Dean's jerky motions. They were a little uncoordinated at first, and Cas was hesitant to move too much, but even just doing tiny thrusts was amazing. Each thrust up squeezed his cock down, each move down pulled at the soft skin on his shaft; bolts of electricity seemed to be shooting through him with every move. Cas felt his balls tightening. "I'm not... gonna last...very long..." said Cas.

"Me neither," said Dean. On the next thrust upward, Cas felt his cock press past something inside Dean. Dean jerked, groaning. "Ahh. There. Right there." Cas pushed again, and Dean cried out. He seemed to be near collapse suddenly as some unexpected sensation rolled through him; he was clinging to Cas's wings again for dear life, one arm wrapped over each wing. Cas kept tugging at his cock with one hand, gripping his hip with the other, holding him up with the wings... another thrust...

"AHH," Dean cried out. "Yeah... Cas, yeah..." Cas gave one more gentle thrust, jerking Dean's cock even faster now. Dean gave a hoarse cry, his cock stiffening in Cas's hand, and then Dean was suddenly spasming. His asshole began twitching reflexively; Cas felt the first twitch squeeze his own cock, and on the very next twitch, hot jets of come began spurting out of Dean's cock, right onto Cas's stomach and chest. Dean grunted with every spurt, eyes closed, face contorted. It was too much, far too much to see; Cas groaned and bucked upward, wrapping his wings still more tightly around Dean. Dean was still in mid-orgasm himself and he groaned to feel Cas nearing the edge; Dean tightening his hold on the wings, grabbing hard at them. That did it; a galvanic shock ran through Cas almost like a convulsion, his stomach muscles knotting up so tightly that Cas curled up helplessly, clutching at Dean with both his hands and both his wings as his cock began pulsing deep inside Dean. Cas groaned as the orgasm rolled through him, warm jets of come flooding out of him, his balls emptying out, shot after shot after shot. Dean seemed to have another little series of spasms in response, his cock pulsing a few more times too. 

At last Cas's wings gave out, collapsing down at his sides, stretched out wide. Dean folded down on top of Cas, panting. Cas gasped one last ime as he felt his cock slip out of Dean.

"Holy fuck," Dean muttered.

They lay panting for a moment. Dean had gone totally limp, lying heavily on top of Cas. It was a little hard to breathe, but Cas didn't mind at all.

Dean still had both hands on Cas's wings.

No flight feathers, Cas thought, his eyes closed. But still good for something, apparently. And it seems Dean likes them anyway.

"I wasn't even going to DO anything," Dean said eventually, into Cas's ear. "I really was just gonna pet your wings. I swear that was all I was planning. I just wanted to make you feel better. I saw how relaxed you were getting and I was just gonna send you to sleep. But then I thought, well, what if he wants another option?"

"Really," said Cas, opening his eyes. "How generous of you."

"Well, then I had another idea after that," said Dean, lifting up a little to look down at him with a smile. "It wasn't a bad idea, huh?"

"It was an excellent idea, actually," Cas had to acknowledge, and he couldn't keep from smiling back.

Dean finally rolled off to one side— directly onto Cas's left wing. It didn't hurt though; Dean just nestled down with the big joint of the wing under his head like a pillow. Cas folded the far end of the wing around him, as Dean said, "I wasn't even gonna look at the wings, even. But then you took the trenchcoat off. That was you that did that."

Something about this made Cas laugh, and then Cas realized, I still want my wings on him. Even now. Cas rolled toward Dean and wrapped the other wing around him too.

Both wings enfolded him. Enveloping him.

As best Cas could without the flight feathers, anyway.

There was so much Cas wanted to say; but now he found he could not speak. All he could do was hug Dean tight with his wings, and with his human arms too, even wrapping one leg around him for good measure. He hugged Dean tight with everything he had, his breath coming in long uneven gasps, but he could not say a word.

"I know, angel, I know," Dean whispered, kissing him, caressing him on the back of the neck, stroking Cas's wings. "Me too. Me too."

A half-hour later, just as Cas was drifting off to sleep, he realized he could probably put his wings away now. The little grace was stirring within him, stretching and opening up, and Cas knew it had recovered enough to try shifting the wings over.

But Dean had fallen asleep with both hands on Cas's wings. Cas's right wing was stretched across Dean's bare torso now, and Dean's left arm was folded comfortably right around that wing, his hand wrapped over Cas's alulas. His other arm was under Cas's head, and the fingers of that hand were burrowed deeply into the fluffy covert-feathers at the base of Cas's other wing. Dean seemed pretty comfortable like that, so Castiel decided to leave his wings right where they were.

A/N - awwww!

After all the darkness of S10, I really wanted to have a scene where Dean could be really supportive toward Cas— gently easing Cas through some sort of unexpected crisis that made Cas really rattled. So, as soon as Dean realizes how freaked out Cas is about his wings— how traumatized Cas is, really— Dean starts moving very, very carefully; and as you probably figured out, the second Dean realized that Cas's deepest fear is actually about what Dean will think of Cas's wings, it just about breaks Dean's heart. And all he wants then is for Cas to feel better. (Of course, then he gets another idea... and then another idea...:D  But I hope it was clear that Dean was not trying to manipulate Cas back toward sex. Dean was truly, genuinely just wanting to make Cas feel better.).

We certainly haven't had much supportive-Dean in the show recently, but I like to think Dean-without-the-Mark would be a lot kinder to his friends than he's been for the last year and a half on the show.

This fic also plays with the idea that Cas might in fact be somewhat traumatized by the damage to his wings, much more than has ever been hinted at in the show. I like to think that he was hoping all along that as soon as he finally got his own grace back, he would have his wings back too and would be able to fly again. But alas, no. I have worked with many flying creatures who were injured, and it is a bewildering blow to them to discover that they cannot fly; I think even an angel could have a rocky adjustment. And might need a little help from his friends. 

And as for molt? I've written another molt-epilogue recently so I'm going to pause on that in this fic, till I can come up with a fresh take on it. But never fear: whatever's ahead for Castiel, rest assured that Dean, and Sam, and Claire too, will all help him out. As it should be. 

Materials & Methods to come soon. And then I will be starting my summer fic! 

If you liked this epilogue please do let me know!  

Chapter Text

MATERIALS & METHODS (NOT A CHAPTER)

Thank you so much for reading my fic! I hope you enjoyed it. As usual here's the Materials & Methods, which I always feel compelled to add (because I was trained that your work is not complete till you've written out a Materials & Methods!)

Note to recent readers: "The Most Important Thing" is an A/U that splits off from canon in mid S10, right at that point where we saw Claire walking off down a road on her own. The fic was completed before Angel Heart (the episode about Claire's mother), so that's why it doesn't include any of the Angel Heart canon.

Where the idea came from (aka The Saga of the Unwritten Fic): So, I was REALLY fascinated by the S8 finale when Cas lost his grace and became human. There has never been a Supernatural finale that gave me so many story ideas! I spent most of that summer thinking up elaborate, long plots about what Cas's experience of being human might be like. By August of that year, this had spun out into a gigantic plotty thing that I call the Unwritten Fic. I never wrote it down because I still hadn't discovered that fic-writing was a thing! ha. (Didn't learn about fics till mid S9 when I joined fandomnatural.) And here I'd been telling myself stories for decades, and honestly it never occurred to me that other people might want to read them! Anyway the Unwritten Fic kind of took over my thoughts that summer, till I had this grandiose, multi-novel thing all plotted out. The Most Important Thing springs from a small part of that fic.

The Unwritten Fic: Here's the original framework. My very first seeds of an idea were that Cas-as-a-human-after-the-S8-finale would be (1) consumed by guilt over all his mistakes, and (2) totally lost about how to get around and how to make any money. And (3) I also had a thought in my head that Dean would still be pretty freaked out about Cas turning out to be brainwashed, not to mention attacking Dean in the crypt and breaking Dean's arm. So, in the original Unwritten Fic, after the S8 finale Castiel tracks down Sam and Dean (Sam is in the hospital with PTS, Post-Trials Syndrome)— ahhh, so many deliciously angsty scenes as Cas is trying to find them!— anyway he finds them, and stays with them for a while to help take care of Sam as Sam gets over the PTS. But Dean is still so angry, and so freaked out about the whole Naomi/brainwashing/crypt stuff, that Cas eventually leaves (once Sam is better) and heads out on his own. It's all very Cas-angsty (big surprise, I know). So I thought, what if Cas tried, then, to make amends to all the people that he's hurt? It became a Cas road-trip story where he criss-crosses the country tracking down not only Claire but also Daphne (Cas's one-time wife— remember her?) and even the families of the people he'd killed when he'd made himself God.

In this road-trip saga, Cas slowly comes to a grim realization that he can never really help any of the people he's hurt in the past. Here's the Claire bit: Claire is the last person he finds, and she's a college freshman by then. (Claire's mother leaving her was not a thing yet in canon.) Cas at that point is homeless and broke and has discovered that the people who he hurt do NOT want to see him again, so by the time he finds Claire he has a lay-low strategy and he watches her from afar, trying to figure out some way he can help her even a tiny bit, but without her seeing. There is a scene where he tries to sneak a couple of twenties into her bag ("a couple of twenties" being all he's got in the world), trying to help with her college costs in the only way he can think of— but she spots him, has a very freaked-out moment thinking it's her dad, realizes a second later that it's Castiel, and she about explodes in fury and tears, flings the money back in his face, tells him to never speak to her again, and pretty much runs away. Cas is heartbroken, but lets her leave.

But later Claire spots him sitting on a bench at a bus stop staring at his feet and looking totally miserable. She's calmed down by now, and feels bad and goes over to talk to him. He finally convinces her to take the two twenties— actually he takes her out for a meal— and they end up striking up a tenuous, but hopeful, little friendship. Claire discovers how broke and alone he is, and she even starts to help him out a bit. Eventually he moves on, but they stay in touch and he sends her bits of money now and then.

So that was my original Claire-Cas idea. I loved the idea of Claire missing her dad so bad, and at first being angry, but coming around in the end to wanting some kind of connection with Cas — partly as a surrogate father, but partly just because... well, she was his vessel, she did get a taste of who he is, and she just wants to know him. (The show later took a very similar trajectory.) Anyway, that little scene of them talking on the bench at the bus stop stuck in my head, slowly working out the beginnings of a relationship. And also the element of Cas trying to help her pay for college with whatever cash he had.

Other portions of the Unwritten Fic did eventually get written down. (The first part where Cas is on his own, heavily reworked, became A Winter's Tale. Most of the middle part became Forgotten - at least, the original version of Forgotten in which Castiel vanishes entirely after the cabin burns down. The last part eventually morphed to Into The Fire, which I am now rewriting as an S10 fic.) Of all my fics, only Flight has no ties to the Unwritten Fic. But the Claire part never got told.

Waiting for canon (like waiting for Godot): Anyway, the Claire element kept itching at my brain as a story that needed to be told, and in early S10 I finally decided to try writing it out. But then I heard Claire was coming back on the show! And I thought, hell, now I have to wait and see what they do with her. I waited. I liked the ep (and it introduced some canon that I had to rewrite the fic to accommodate - ok, Claire's mom is gone, ok, Claire's been abandoned, that changes things, ok). Then I realized she was going to have another episode! I thought, DAMN, I have to wait again. I waited. More canon changes, more alterations. Then I heard she was going to have a THIRD episode! DAMMIT! At this point I had two fics tabled waiting for canon (Into The Fire had also been tabled to see what was going to happen with demon-Dean)... and finally I thought, damn the torpedoes, I gotta just write these fics and not get too shackled by wondering what the new canon is going to turn out to be. So I started writing, and got it all done before Angel Heart. I ended up setting the Claire fic after S10 and, as you saw, incorporating my favorite idea of how to rid Dean of the Mark. But the whole fic really still is rooted in S8 - you can see this in the fic's emphasis on Cas struggling with human responsibilities, Cas being brainwashable, and Cas's memories being malleable. Those all spring from those S8 roots.

The little dinosaur: I was so gratified that so many of you liked Cas's stray memory from the Mesozoic, of the little dinosaur handing Cas its last egg as the meteor falls. Yes, that was intended to be an intelligent, sentient dinosaur species. There's a whole other fic idea buried behind that (not part of the Unwritten Fic, for once) in which there was a highly intelligent dinosaur species that God decided to wipe out for some reason. Cas, of course, tried to help the little dinosaurs. (Some of you may remember that in Forgotten, it is revealed that Castiel is the angel who saved the dinosaurs' descendents - the birds.) One last detail: did you notice the dinosaur had a neck ruff of blue feathers??? My little idea here was that Cas keeps choosing blue, or blue-striped, ties out of a deeply buried, subconscious memory of the stripes of blue feathers around his little friend's neck. It's a subconscious attempt to honor the little dinosaur.

Vega, Polaris and the North Star: I had a pretty serious obsession with astronomy in 8th grade that has never quite left me, and it feels like I've "always known" that the North Star has changed in the last ten thousand years. So in SPN it always seemed obvious (to nerdy me) that any angel that popped down to Earth after a few millennia away would notice the distortions in the constellations and especially the shift in the North Star. Dramatic blue Vega, one of the brightest stars in the entire sky, used to be the North Star; now we have faint Polaris instead. And yes, Polaris is oddly variable in brightness and has been getting brighter, for unknown reasons. Vega's name does actually come from an Arabic phrase for  "Falling Eagle." I love metaphors of Cas as an eagle (this turns up in the "Mr. Imperial Eagle" bit in Flight) and as soon as I read that translation of Vega's name, I knew it was a perfect metaphor for Cas and Dean! I also LOVED the idea that Castiel and Dean's story might have been foretold in mythology eons ago, and that in some way they were fated for each other all this time. romantic sigh

Smut with emotion: I wanted this fic to have some all-out smut scenes. It's been a while since A Room Of One's Own and I was craving some down-and-dirty, every little detail, anatomically explicit smut!  But I also wanted it to come across as emotionally believable, so... chaining the explicit smut to the emotional heart of the fic, and trying to get it to flow naturally, was a challenge.

I always think of Dean as having some considerable internal hurdles to get over, re being with a guy. And Castiel has his own set of blocks in the way that he always keeps his emotions to himself and never tells Dean the important things that have just happened to him. (Cas could have a life-or-death battle and avert another entire Apocalypse, and the next Dean time sees him and says "So, how ya been?" Cas would just say, "Oh, fine.") So I often find it difficult, with these two, to find a realistic path for them both to open up to each other. Whenever I try to push them to move faster, they drag their feet, lol. Anyway, having the first sex scene happen in a dream turned out to be a great way for Dean to just let go and do what he'd always wanted — make a move without holding back — since he thought it was just a dream. Later, Cas is the one who makes the next move; and it turned out that the amnesia actually freed Cas too, almost in the same sort of way that the dreaming freed Dean. The amnesia freed Cas from all his worries and his self-criticism and his awareness of his mistakes, *and also* it freed him from the awareness that he is an angel and is not "supposed" to fall for a human - his perpetual concern that he is supposed to stay "focused on the mission" was at last sidelined. So then Cas, too, could just do what he'd always wanted and not hold back. 

Also, all the major sex scenes have a lot of strong emotion and even grief and sorrow. Dean's grief about when he thought Cas was dead, and later (in the epilogue) Cas's trauma about losing his ability to fly. I really wanted to find a way for the sex to include a lot of emotion, not just the romantic-love emotions but some negative stuff. Cause... I think it's realistic, given what these two have been through. (And after S10 I admit I am really craving some scenes where they really emotionally support each other. Especially, after The Prisoner I NEED some Dean supporting Cas....)

Other people matter: Similarly I wanted to find a way for the Cas-Dean relationship to exist alongside other important relationship (Dean-Sam brother relationship, Sam-Cas friendship, Cas-Claire father-daughter relationship) without displacing them. I wanted to convey something that I find to be important about romance and love stories in real life, which is, no matter how much you love your lover, the two of you do not exist in a bubble. There are other people in your life too that you also love, and who also matter. Sam matters, and Claire matters. So in the end there are some compromises (like, Claire has to finish school, Dean and Claire are going to have to learn to get along, and Cas and Dean aren't going to be able to live together right away). I wanted to convey that Cas and Dean are going to be forming a family that contains four people, not just two. 

Enough rambling. Hope you enjoyed the fic! And if you are curious about seeing the end of that long-ago Unwritten Fic, check out "Into The Fire"— it's the last third of the Unwritten Fic. I'm recasting it all as after S10, and it'll start posting next week. (warning, it starts very, VERY brutally, and I know it won't be everybody's cup of tea. But I hope it will be worth it.)

Thank you all so much for your support and feedback. You are my reason for writing!

great big hugs to you all

Northern Sparrow