Archive of Our Own ^beta

"What I really want to know is when are you going to start braiding it?"

Forty-three minutes. Castiel has been counting. For forty-three minutes, Dean has kept up a near endless stream of teasing at Sam's expense. For two hours before that it had been nothing but smirks and sideways glances that had Castiel thoroughly confused, unable to fathom the source of Dean's amusement until he had apparently been unable to contain himself anymore.

"Hey, Sammy, is it just me or is there something...different, about your hair?" he had asked.

There was something different; Castiel had noticed it earlier, but seen no reason to pass comment. It wasn't a drastic change – Sam's hair was still far longer than either Castiel's or Dean's. It was, technically, shorter now, but the difference was barely visible.

There was a time when Castiel would have misinterpreted the exchange between the brothers today, would have read Dean's jibes as mocking and Sam's fired-off responses as irritation. Now though, he can see the good-natured affection in Dean's smile, the amusement in Sam's eyes as they argue back and forth. Teasing between siblings, nothing more, and both brothers are grinning, perhaps a little too wide – Dean's jokes aren't that funny after all – but Castiel suspects it's as much for the ease of the exchange as it is for the nature of it. The brothers have been through much in recent years, but their relationship is smoothing out these days. They both carry scars, some which may never fade, but they are comfortable with each other again, and Castiel is pleased for them both.

He's not sure where he fits in with their dynamic though. Sam and Dean may be at ease with one another, but Castiel's relationship with each of them remains...complicated. Sam, he thinks, is a friend, but the shadow of Castiel's past actions still lies between them to some extent. Dean is far more confusing of course. Castiel knows, technically speaking, what terms might be applied to his relationship with Dean. Lovers. Boyfriends. Life partners. But none of them seem quite right; none of them quite define what lies between them. They don't talk about it, not really.

Castiel pulls himself away from those thoughts, to hear Sam saying, "You know what? I get it Dean. It's okay. I understand," with such seriousness that Castiel wonders if he's missed a turn in their conversation. Dean, however, seems equally baffled.

"Understand what?"

"You're jealous. It's obvious."

Castiel's confusion remains, but Dean obviously realizes what Sam is suggesting, because he huffs out a laugh.

"Jealous? Me, jealous? Of what, your girly curly hair?"

"Real men are hairy, Dean," Sam says airily. "You're about as hairy as a newborn baby."

This is quite untrue, but Castiel suspects that pointing out as much would be classed as one of those things the Winchesters don't talk about.

Dean seems less concerned. He scoffs at Sam's declaration. "Cavemen are hairy, Sam. I'm just hot shit." He twists in his seat, glancing over his shoulder at Castiel. "Back me up here, Cas."

"Hey, you can't go to Cas for back up," Sam protests. "He's biased."

"That's exactly why I can go to him for back up," Dean smirks. "I think you'll find in this car we are two to one in favor of not looking like cavemen, right, Cas?" He glances over his shoulder again. "Cas? You with us?"

Castiel hesitates, weighing his answer. He's not sure that the amount of hair Dean has on his body has had any impact on his own attraction to Dean, but something tells him this is not the answer either brother is looking for.

"You're both incorrect," he decides. "Man is naturally predisposed to be hairy, it's true, but if hair growth were a true sign of masculinity, Sam would not shave most days to prevent the development of facial hair. And while I do find Dean more aesthetically pleasing, I'm sure my preferences are not indicative of the human race."

Both brothers stare at him for a moment, before Dean lets out a delighted laugh.

"There you go, Sammy. You wanna be a real man, then you should grow a beard like Billy Gibbons."

Sam throws his hands up, conceding defeat. "Alright, whatever. How about we talk about the case instead."

"Well, I can't say no to the next L'Oreal spokesman," Dean grins. "What do we have?"

Sam promptly pulls a bundle of printouts and newspaper clippings from the glove compartment.

"Okay, in the past two weeks, there's been three decapitated bodies found in Pine Tree Village, their heads all missing," he begins, reciting from memory. "Local weather reports show record-low temperatures and strange fogs descending out of nowhere with no discernible cause. All this in the past couple of weeks, before that, nothing weird about this town at all."

"So whatever it is, it's only just moved in," Dean concludes.

"Looks that way," Sam agrees.

"Okay, but three deaths in two weeks, that's a pretty short interval between attacks. Something like this doesn't usually start up out of nowhere."

"It may have only just passed into this realm," Castiel suggests, thinking uneasily of the creatures they've encountered recently. "Or it may be a relatively benign creature turned feral for some unknown reason."

"No such thing as a benign monster," Dean says.

Castiel shakes his head. "You'd be surprised. There are many creatures in this world that you might deem supernatural, but have never hunted because they don't usually harm humans."

"What, like unicorns and leprechauns and shit?"

"No," Castiel says. "Unicorns are extinct."

There's a brief, reflective pause. Castiel can practically see Sam and Dean digesting this new piece of information. After a moment, Dean shakes his head.

"I don't even know why I'm surprised by that."

Pine Tree Village is the kind of sickeningly domestic family community that Sam is fairly certain is one devoted religious leader away from turning into a cult. It's all a little too Stepford for his liking, the neatly manicured gardens so out of place against the backdrop of wild forests and streams; the way the neighbors wave to each other but eye the Impala with deep-seated suspicion as she cruises by. The village is so small that its town records, library and newspaper – newsletter, really – are all housed in one building.

They've already agreed that Sam will be the first to go in, posing as a reporter investigating the story. They didn't really discuss why, but Sam suspects Dean wanted to spare him the less pleasant job of going to the morgue and checking the bodies.

Dean pulls over around the corner from the town hall, and Sam unfolds himself from the front seat, taking a long moment to ease the stiffness out of his limbs before turning to shut the door and leaning down to speak through the open window.

"This shouldn't take too long," he says. "I'll meet you guys back at that motel we passed on the way in."

Castiel leans over from the backseat and hands Sam a tan satchel. He slings it over his shoulder and steps back, watching the Impala pull away from the curb. In a side pocket of the bag is an ID badge; Sam pulls it out and clips it to his shirt pocket, before starting up the street.

The town hall is, if possible, even smaller on the inside than it looks from the outside. Sam is greeted by a crotchety old lady who studies his badge like she's determined to find proof that it's fake, which it is, but it's a damn good one and she doesn't find anything out of place. That doesn't stop her from looking down her nose at him as she directs him to find someone named Melissa, who will apparently be able to answer his every question.

Sam follows her finger through a doorway, into a room that apparently doubles as town library and public records. One wall is lined with well-browsed bookshelves filled with family-friendly titles, the other with dusty filing cabinets that look like they haven't been touched in a few decades. A door at the back is labeled 'Town History', although it could just as easily be a janitor's closet.

"Hello?" Sam calls tentatively.

A second door he hadn't noticed bursts open, a stack of books emerging from it, and behind them a red-haired woman in her mid-twenties who fits every single sexy librarian cliché Sam can think of.

"Oh, hi, sorry," she says, smiling at him around her load. Sam darts forward, good manners kicking in, relieving her of half the books she's carrying.

"Hi," he says. "Here, let me..."

"Oh, thank you," she says, tipping them into his arms and balancing the remainder precariously on the nearest filing cabinet.

"No problem," Sam smiles, following her lead. He picks up the top book from the pile. "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies?"

"It's a classic," she says with a bright grin. "Not exactly approved reading material, but I like to put them on the shelves and Maud likes to take them off; it's a thing. I'm Melissa."

"Uh, Sam," Sam says, then realizes that the name on his badge is Robert Plant. "Sam Plant," he corrects himself. "Robert Samuel Plant, that is, but everyone calls me Sam. It's a thing," he finishes lamely.

If Dean could see him right now, he'd be laughing.

Fortunately, Melissa is more amused than disturbed by Sam's sudden reversion to his sixteen-year-old self.

"Well, Sam Plant, what can I do for you?"

"I'm here about the, uh, the murders," he says awkwardly.

Her smile dies slightly, but she nods. "I figured it was just a matter of time before the media circus descended."

"Oh, no no no," Sam says quickly. "I'm not – I mean I am, but I'm not that kind of reporter. I'm not here to harass any families or cause trouble. I'm just here for the facts."

"Oh! Oh, well, I didn't mean to imply...so what do you need?"

Sam flashes what Dean calls his awkward dork smile: half sweet, half goofy.

"I just want to know if there's ever been anything like this in your town before; any violent attacks maybe, or even accidents involving, you know, decapitations?"

Melissa gives him a bemused look. "What kind of story are you writing?"

"I'm an investigative reporter," Sam explains. "This crime hasn't been solved yet, and I'm just here to see if I can maybe nudge things along a little. I know, it's weird."

"No, it's not weird," Melissa says. "You're saying you're kinda like Clark Kent." She gives him a wicked smile. "Or Lois Lane."

Sam flushes a little, acutely aware that she's flirting with him, and even more aware that he doesn't mind. He may even be a little interested, and the thought surprises him, but not half so much as the realization that it's been a long time – far too long – since he's been interested in someone. Since his memories of the Cage returned, most of Sam's free time has been occupied with staving off flashbacks and coping with the trauma. He still knows all the moves, can go through the motions and charm just about anyone he needs to, but this time he actually finds himself wanting to. Not even because he thinks something might come of it, but because something in her smile makes him realize that she's not seeing the shattered, traumatized shell of a man he sometimes feels like. To her, Sam is just a normal, perfectly healthy guy she might be interested in.

It might be a lie. But it's something Sam is happy to let himself pretend, if only for a little while.

It shouldn't be so distracting, Dean thinks, to watch Castiel tug at his tie for the fifteenth time in as many minutes. He's gotten so used to seeing Cas out of the suit that seeing him back in one – a different one, of course, but a suit nonetheless – is a little unreal, and maybe even slightly nostalgia-inducing. Not that Dean misses all the madness that suit-wearing Castiel used to herald in their lives, but damn, he'd forgotten, or maybe he'd just never noticed before, how appealing Castiel looks when he's all smartened up.

Dean can't tell if it's the fact Castiel has gotten used to not wearing a tie or if it's just that he never used to wear his tie as God intended – that is, with his collar buttoned up and the knot of the tie sitting snug at the base of his throat. He's a little put off by that himself, missing the glimpse of clavicle and collarbone that the open-collar look would allow him, but they're supposed to be looking like professionals here, so it's probably a good thing that Dean is marginally less inclined to eye Castiel's neck like a starving vampire.

He parks up in front of the county morgue and gets out of the car, circling quickly to the passenger side, so that by the time Cas has shut the door, he's already standing by, holding out the ID badge he first gave to Cas a lifetime – literally – ago.

"You're not going to say anything about angels and demons this time, are you?" he asks, more because he wants to remind Cas of that little incident than out of any genuine concern. The time they'd spent together then remains one of Dean's happier memories, though in hindsight he does wish his younger self had been less of a douche about the whole virginity thing and just manned the fuck up back then.

"I don't believe angels or demons are behind this," Castiel says, perfectly deadpan. He gives Dean a sly smile, and Dean laughs, though he's not sure if he should be pleased or worried about Castiel's newfound propensity for fucking with him.

"Alright, Agent Moscone," Dean says. "Let's go."

He doesn't miss the way Castiel double-checks his badge to ensure it will be presented the right way up this time, and it leaves a thoroughly unprofessional grin on his face all the way into the morgue.

Fortunately, the coroner is a gentle, elderly man, who seems only too pleased to offer assistance to the two FBI agents who have stepped into his office. He all but hugs them when they confirm that yes; they are there to investigate the awful murders in the next town.

Dean and Castiel follow the man into the examination room, where the latest victim is already laid out.

"Thirty-seven years on the job, and I've never seen anything like it," he tells them. "You have to understand, agents, this whole area is like one big community. Everyone knows everyone. Things like this just don't happen here."

"We understand, sir, that's why we're here," Dean says.

"I wasn't aware the FBI had been called in," the coroner says, but there's no suspicion in his voice. Still, Dean spins the necessary lie.

"We haven't, not officially. But my partner and I were passing through, and our boss thought we should stop and see if there's anything we can do to help."

"Well, we sure appreciate that. Sheriff Crane is doing all he can, but we don't have a whole lot of resources up here."

The coroner pulls back the sheet covering the third victim, and Dean wrinkles his nose as the too-familiar smell of formaldehyde and death reaches him.

"Thanks," he says.

"I'll fetch those files for you," the coroner says. "Take your time, gentlemen."

He potters off, leaving Dean to snap on a pair of gloves and approach the corpse.

"If I had a normal life," he informs Castiel, "I'd probably say something like ‘there's something you don't see every day' right now."

"You don't see this every day," Castiel points out.

"I see it more than enough," Dean mutters. He gestures vaguely at the body. "Well? What do you think?"

Castiel steps closer to the body, apparently less disturbed by the unpleasantness of the gaping neck hole than Dean, although he does wrinkle his nose at the smell. The coroner returns while Cas is still conducting whatever silent examination he's doing, and the man waits patiently for Castiel to look up and address him.

"This wound has been cauterized," Castiel says after a moment.

"Yes," the coroner confirms. "And the severance is remarkably clean. It's no easy task you know, taking off a head, not like you see on the television."

Castiel's eyes flicker towards Dean, brows rising fractionally, before his expression goes carefully blank.

"I would imagine not," he says.

"That's not the half of it though," the coroner continues. "Look closer, what do you see?"

Dean frowns, chancing another, longer look at the corpse's neck, while Castiel bends down, studying it closely.

"I see nothing," Castiel says with a frown. He looks almost frustrated for a moment, but then realization dawns. "No burns."

"Precisely!" the coroner says. "The wound was cauterized in an instant, yet there's no indication that the blade was heated."

"Is that even possible?" Dean asks, though he's fairly certain he knows the answer.

"I don't know," the coroner admits. "But it's the same for the other two."

"And you haven't found any of their heads?"

"Not one."

Dean frowns, searching a mental catalogue of monsters for one that decapitates its prey and keeps the head, but he comes up woefully short. It's no consolation at all, really, when a glance at Castiel tells Dean he's just as baffled.

The drive to the motel is mostly filled with Dean naming possible culprits for the murders and subsequently eliminating them as possibilities. The morgue has given them precious little else to go on, beyond the unfortunate confirmation that there is no obvious connection between the three victims, so Dean's list is extensive. Castiel is impressed by the sheer number of creatures Dean is aware of, even more so by his knowledge of their habits and methods of killing every single one of the things he names.

Sam is already waiting for them at the motel, sitting comfortably on the curb in front of room number twelve. Dean lets the Impala roll to a stop in the parking spot right in front of Sam, and he and Cas step out almost in tandem.

"That was quick," Sam greets them.

"Sheriff and coroner didn't have much for us to go on," Dean says. "Whatever's killing these people, it's definitely supernatural though."

"You're sure?" Sam says.

"No human weapon could have caused the kind of wounds we saw," Castiel confirms.

Sam screws up his face like he's trying not to picture the wounds they saw, then digs into his pocket, extracting two sets of keys and tossing one to Dean.

"You're in room seventeen," he says. "I've got twelve."

"What, no adjoining doorways?" Dean asks.

"No adjoining walls," Sam replies.

Dean snorts, but when he glances at Castiel, he can feel his cheeks heat up. They have more or less managed to keep their sexual activities private from Sam, but Sam likes to tease Dean about it anyway, and Dean is far more susceptible than he lets on.

Sam steps around them both before Dean can reply, liberating his duffel bag from the trunk of the Impala. Castiel and Dean follow, retrieving their own bags while Sam tosses his into room twelve, then follows them up to their room.

"So did you get anything useful?" Dean asks.

"Maybe," Sam says. "I couldn't find any connections between the victims, not beyond the small town ‘everyone knows everyone' thing anyway. But every single attack occurred within a mile of the forest west of the town. There's no local myths or legends around the forest, but everyone who mentioned it seems to think it's a creepy place."

As he speaks, Dean unlocks room seventeen and lets them all in. They spare a moment to survey the place – it's pleasant, at least to Castiel's eyes, though Dean eyes the blue and white plaid tablecloth judgmentally before dumping his bag on top of it.

Sam pulls out a chair by the table and sets his bag beside Dean's before taking the other chair, Dean having already opted to perch on the edge of the bed, not so subtly testing the mattress before leaning forward.

"Creepy how?" Dean asks.

Sam shrugs. "They didn't really say, but whatever the reason, they'd been spooked by it long before the first body showed up."

"Have you noticed lately how every place we go is creepy, spooky, eerie, or just plain fucked up?" Dean notes.

He's right, Castiel concedes, although in comparison to some of their recent stops, this town is almost as welcoming as Bobby's own home. But even here, Castiel can feel that awful twisting sensation deep down, that constant reminder that all is not well with the world.

"I don't think it's that everywhere we go is troubled," he says. "It's that the trouble is everywhere."

Sam and Dean exchange looks.

"I was trying not to think that," Sam says.

"Then don't," Dean tells him. "Right now, this is just a normal hunt. Job doesn't stop just because the world is ending. Again."

They're avoiding, Castiel knows, just as he knows that avoiding their biggest problems won't make them go away. Still, they have no leads, no idea how to even begin fighting a darkness they can't even name yet, and Dean is right, there are lives here that can be saved.

Sam nods, unspoken agreement passing between them to focus on the case at hand.

"So if no human weapon could do this, what could?" Sam asks.

"There are several possibilities," Castiel replies. "A harpy's talons would cauterize the wound in a similar manner. Some blades forged in Heaven and Hell would also."

"Or an angry spirit," Dean suggests.

"It's possible," Castiel agrees.

"This isn't exactly narrowing down the suspect pool," Sam points out. "We need to check out where the attacks happened."

"Right. We should split up, cover as much ground as possible," Dean says. "Sam, you take the school where that teacher was killed. Cas and I will check out Mr. Masbeth's home."

The ease with which Dean assumes that Castiel will pair up with him is almost enough for Castiel to accept it without questioning. But as much as he enjoys being near Dean, it bothers him too, though he knows it's unintentional, that Dean still feels the need to keep Castiel close when he trusts Sam to operate independently.

"Perhaps I should go to the park," he suggests. "The first victim was found there."

Dean hesitates for a moment, and not for the first time Castiel wishes he could still read Dean's mind as easily as he did upon their first meeting. Dean looks as surprised by his own assumption as he is by Castiel's challenge of it.

"Right," he says. "Yeah. You sure?"

"It seems prudent," Castiel says. It occurs to him that Dean might perceive this as some kind of rejection. It wouldn't be the first time Dean has confused a desire for independence with a wish to be rid of him. He fixes Dean with a look that he hopes communicates this is not the case, and that Castiel will be more than happy to rejoin Dean in their room – in their bed – when they have concluded their investigations.

The look Dean sends him in turn makes Castiel want to skip the investigation part entirely. Sam clears his throat loudly, not looking at either of them.

"We should go," he says pointedly.

The sooner they go, the sooner they can return. Castiel cannot argue with that.

Sometimes it hits Sam like a ton of bricks that he graduated high school over a decade ago. Even though it feels like several lifetimes ago, he can still vividly remember his teenage years.

At least, he thinks he can, but none of his memories were anything like this. It's lunchtime, and the halls are crowded; that part hasn't changed. But most of the students Sam passes are texting, or listening to their iPods through headphones, or playing with iPads, tablets, phones, everything that screams twenty-first-century student that Sam never saw in his high-school years.

A decade really isn't that long, but it's enough to make Sam feel as old as Methuselah. His own gadget is much less high-tech, and infinitely less cool. It' just a classic EMF meter that he sneaks glances he hopes aren't too suspicious at as he retraces the steps of the victim who was chased down here. There's a roped-off section up ahead, around a boarded up window with cards and photos pinned to it, flowers laid out beneath, tributes from students to a teacher who was clearly well-liked.

Sam weaves around distracted students as he walks towards it, every step confirming what he already suspects as the EMF meter lights up like a Christmas tree. He's forced to sidestep when a student opens his locker and is assaulted by poorly-stacked books, pauses when he sees another student stop to help. The sight calls to mind a memory he had all but forgotten, books scattered at his feet, students rushing on past, no-one caring for the plight of the new kid until one student stopped to help him rescue his wayward belongings. He can recall her sweet smile as though it was yesterday, the shy brush of fingers as she handed him the last of his books, the way his tongue felt too big for his mouth as he stammered out a thank you.

He's all but lost in the past as he draws closer to the window where Miss Martin was thrown and then beheaded as she lay dazed on the grass outside. The EMF meter is returned to his pocket – it's told him all he needs to know. He turns to leave, and his eye is caught by a smear of black on the side of the locker nearest to the window, a thick, viscous substance that he recognizes almost immediately.

Being an angel afforded Castiel certain benefits. Perhaps the most useful, though he could never have known it at the time, was an immunity to the kind of creeping feeling of unease that he is currently experiencing as he observes the line of trees at the far edge of the park.

It's a sensation Castiel has become accustomed to since his escape from Purgatory, one that never really relents, but that particular feeling of dread isn't the same as the feeling the forest is instilling in him. He is not afraid, merely wary, but his investigation here will not require him to venture into the forest yet, and so he sets the feelings aside.

There are a few tattered-looking bunches of flowers laid up against one of the trees at the very edge of the forest, and Castiel heads towards them. He doesn't have the tools Sam and Dean like to carry, doesn't need them, not for this. Pausing before the memorials, he closes his eyes and stands stock-still as he turns his senses outwards.

Castiel's senses are still keen, although his powers have diminished in other ways. The culprit is easy enough to identify, and Castiel is not particularly surprised to discover that the traces of its presence lead back into the forest. There is something unusual about its essence though, the energy pattern seems corrupted at first, but it isn't, he realizes – it's just entwined with another, a second, less sentient energy bound to the first. He opens his eyes, intending to leave, only to find himself being stared at by a boy, no more than ten years old.

"Whatcha doing?" the child asks.

Castiel looks at him, then looks towards his friends, the group of youngsters he had seen as he entered the park, playing a catching game. They're not playing any more, clustered together and watching Castiel with high curiosity.

"I'm thinking," Castiel informs the boy.

"D'you know someone got killed right here?"

"Yes."

The boy considers Castiel. "Danny reckons you're the killer," he says bluntly. "Maddie thinks you're a cop."

"FBI," Castiel corrects, surprised at how easily the lie slips out.

"Cool!" the boy declares. He turns toward his friends. "He's an FBI agent!" Then to Castiel he adds. "Can we see your badge? Are you here to catch the bad guy? Do you know who it is?"

Castiel hesitates, thinking back to Dean's advice on lying, the Winchesters' efforts to teach him social etiquette. Unfortunately, children have not often come up. The trouble with children, as Castiel sees it, is that they are so far removed from adults as to be a separate species entirely. The only child Castiel has dealt closely with was the Antichrist, and he remembers all too well the consequences of lying to that boy.

Besides. There is a great danger in the forest. These children should be warned.

"It's not a person," Castiel informs him gravely. "I believe it may be an angry spirit. A ghost," he explains when the boy gives him a baffled look.

"Really?" the boy gasps.

Castiel nods. "Most ghosts kill according to a specific pattern, but this one appears indiscriminate. It will kill anyone who crosses its path."

He pauses, noticing the boy's wide-eyed look, recognizing the beginnings of fear in his expression.

"Don't worry," he says. "So far it has only attacked at night. Although I cannot say with certainty that it will not attack during the day. I would suggest you and your friends do not go into the forest at any rate. I can sense its presence here; this path is where it emerges, and there's no way of knowing when it will return."

The boy simply continues to stare at him, mouth wide open, and Castiel's reassurances about his relative safety seem to have done little to ease the child's fear. They stare at each other for a moment, and then the boy sucks in a deep breath and shouts at the top of his lungs: "Mooooooooooooooooooom!"

He breaks into a run, sprinting away from Castiel and the forest as fast as his small legs will carry him. Castiel blinks, surprised, watching the child head towards the clutch of nervous parents supervising their children on the other side of the park. Somewhat belatedly, he remembers one of the few pieces of advice Dean did impart on the subject of children.

"Just don't make them cry," Dean had said. "And if you do, beware of the parents. Kids are great, but parents can be terrifying."

A mother detaches herself from the group and jogs over to the boy, sweeping him into a hug, and Castiel decides now might be the best time to make good his retreat. He turns back for one last glance at the forest path, and his eye is drawn by a curiously shaped mark on the ground. A hoof print, he realizes. Perhaps the locals don't avoid this forest as studiously as Sam had thought.

Dean has dealt with more grieving families in his lifetime than any man should ever have to. He's seen grief manifest in a thousand and one ways – in anger, regret, bitterness, hollow sadness – and he's pretty sure that Mr. Masbeth's grieving widow is not, in fact, grieving at all. He can practically feel his stock sympathy expression he had donned upon ringing the doorbell transitioning into a look of mild disbelief as the widow talks, and talks, and talks.

"Of course we hardly saw each other anymore. He worked nights, you know, and I often had to work late. I'm staying here for now, though I don't know that I can stand these children for much longer. They're my favourite nieces of course, but I've never really been one for kids. I can't go home of course, not with this killer still on the loose. I wouldn't feel safe on my own. You must be staying in town of course. Perhaps I should get a room next to you. I don't suppose there'd be anywhere safer right now, unless I was in your room..."

She trails off with a flirtatious giggle, and Dean can't resist giving her a once-over, the action hardwired into his brain. She's attractive, certainly, and obviously interested, turning in her seat beside Dean so that her knee nudges against his. There was a time when Dean would have needed nothing more to start flirting back, and it wouldn't have taken long to seal the deal. But now when he checks her out, he finds himself cataloguing all the other things too, the flaws, the potential dealbreakers, the fact that she isn't Cas. He smiles politely and stands.

"I'm sure you'll be safe here, ma'am," he says. "We'll find whoever did this, don't you worry."

She rises as well and steps close, fingers skating lightly over the edge of Dean's suit jacket.

"Are you sure there's nothing more I can do for you, Agent?"

Dean clears his throat and gently brushes her hand away under the pretext of straightening his jacket. He's not had much need to blow women like her off in the past, but that doesn't mean he's not as awesome at that as he is at picking them up in the first place.

"I think I've got everything I need. I'd better get back to my partner."

He doesn't even notice the emphasis he places on partner; it's such a subconscious thing, but the woman picks up on it somehow, stepping back and smiling that can't blame a girl for trying smile.

Two things occur to Dean in quick succession: first, that he didn't even entertain the thought of sleeping with her for a moment; second, that he's just sort of outed himself in front of a complete stranger. Both things can be blamed squarely on the fact that somewhere between Cas pulling Dean from Hell and Dean pulling Cas from Purgatory, some part of Dean's brain decided that deep-blue eyes, messy dark hair, day-old stubble, and a voice like gravel were more attractive than all the boobs in the world.

Things between him and Cas right now are complicated. Dean's not quite sure what is it they're doing together; all he knows is that it feels right, and it feels good. Truth is, Dean hasn't really given any thought to the future since things in Cicero fell apart. He and Cas have been living in the moment, which suits Dean just fine, except he suddenly finds himself dreading having the where is this going? conversation, because fuck, but he needs to figure that out for himself, first.

"Agent Mosely?" the widow prompts, and Dean forces himself to drag his attention back to the present.

"Sorry," he says. "Thanks for your help, ma'am, and once again, I'm sorry for your loss."

There's a case to work here, he tells himself sternly as she shows him out, and the end of the world is looking pretty imminent. There'll be time to worry about the future when he knows there's a future to be had.

Dean is the last to return to the motel, and by the time he gets back, Sam and Castiel have already exchanged all the pertinent details of their individual investigations. Sam doesn't miss the way Dean's gaze slides contemplatively over Castiel before he speaks, but it beats the eye-fucking that was going on earlier, so he doesn't comment.

"Okay, share time," Dean says.

"We're dealing with a restless spirit," Castiel says immediately.

"Definitely," Sam agrees. "EMF was through the roof at the school, and there are still cold spots all up and down the hall the teacher was found in. Not to mention ectoplasm on the lockers."

"Yeah, the Masbeth house was pretty much the same," Dean says, nodding. "And I went to talk to the widow as well, and she told me that they always kept all the doors and windows locked, and there were no signs of a break-in."

"Alright, great. Now I guess we just have to figure out who it is," Sam says.

Dean says, "Just a guess, but whoever he is, he probably died by decapitation."

Sam thinks back to the town records and his conversation with Melissa, but nothing like that stands out. "It must've been some time ago, because I checked back thirty years and there was nothing."

"Unless it's a missing person," Dean suggests.

"Or something may have brought the spirit here, or disturbed its rest," Castiel adds.

"Right," Dean says. "We should check nationwide for similar cases."

"Alright," Sam says. "I'll head back to the town hall and look into missing persons. You and Cas search national news databases."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "You're keen," he notes slyly.

Sam hasn't even mentioned Melissa, but Dean has always had some kind of creepy sixth sense for when Sam was into someone.

"Hey, we're on a normal hunt for a vicious murdering angry spirit," Sam bluffs, like the pro he should be. "I want to wrap this up so we can actually enjoy winning one for a change."

Dean just raises his eyebrows, the bastard, while Castiel glances between them, looking confused.

"Right," Dean says. "Well, you'd better get going then."

Sam most definitely does not pout at Dean as he snatches up his jacket and snags the Impala keys from the table. He's halfway to the door when it occurs to him that he's leaving Dean and Castiel alone together, in a room with a bed. The urge to deliver a mom-like make sure you are actually doing homework type speech rises up out of nowhere, but Dean must be able to read it on his face already, because he rolls his eyes and makes a shooing motion with his hands.

"Go on, Sam."

It's not like Dean has ever heeded Sam's reminders not to let his dick rule his head anyway, Sam thinks as he lets the door click shut behind him.

Castiel may not be the most socially-aware angel on the planet, but even he can sense the awkwardness in the room after Sam leaves. Dean clears his throat, glances at Cas like he wants to say something, but isn't sure what, then makes a beeline for the laptops.

"Alright, let's see what we can find."

He hands Castiel Sam's laptop, and Castiel takes it, mindful of Sam's property, handling it far more carefully than Dean, though logically he knows the laptop is as safe in Dean's hands as it is in Sam's.

"I'm not sure I'd know where to begin," he confesses, because Sam has been teaching him basic computer skills, but they haven't yet progressed to employing those skills for a hunt.

Dean looks at him, a soft smile playing at his face. "Sam taught you how to Google, right? Just throw in a bunch of words, see what it coughs up. I'll handle official databases, you try the weird sites."

Castiel frowns, entirely at a loss to know what Dean might define weird.

Dean's grin widens. "Trust me; you'll know them when you find them."

Castiel does trust Dean, so he opens up Sam's laptop and sets to work.

Almost an hour passes, silence broken only by the quick tap of laptop keys. Outside the sun slips lower in the sky, casting a golden glow over the room. At some point Dean makes an impatient noise and gets up to tug the curtains closed, banishing the light, much to Castiel's disappointment, though he supposes it's for the best. The play of golden hues across Dean's skin, highlighting the curve of his cheek, the firm line of his jaw, was a distraction Castiel should not have indulged.

He returns to his work, frowning as he clicks through page after page of increasingly strange sites – Dean hadn't been exaggerating when he said Castiel would know the weird ones when he saw them – but nothing reaches out to him as significant to this particular situation. Frustrated, he returns to the original search page and tries a few synonyms, expecting nothing.

The first result is a Wikipedia entry on a European myth that Castiel almost dismisses out of hand, but then he remembers the horseshoe print in the ground at the park and the second energy he had felt entwined with the first.

"Dean."

Dean starts slightly, glancing up at Castiel with raised eyebrows and an expectant look.

"You got something?"

Cas frowns. "I'm not sure. What do you know about headless horsemen?"

For a moment Dean just stares at him, as though he has heard Castiel but is failing to comprehend him.

"A headless....are you serious?"

"This Wikipedia claims it to be a myth, a part of folklore, but..."

"But most myths are inspired by something real," Dean finishes with a sigh. "I don't know, man. It's possible, I suppose? But it's an old legend, if we're dealing with a headless horseman. If they even exist, then we're looking in completely the wrong place."

He shoves his chair back and rises, circling the table in two quick steps to move behind Castiel. A hand falls onto the back of Castiel's chair, the other comes to rest on the table mere inches from Castiel's own, and a sudden warmth tells Castiel that Dean is leaning over him, closer suddenly than they have been all day, closer than Castiel is used to being to Dean these days without it leading to some kind of sexual activity.

He ignores the thought, partly because Dean is clearly not thinking anything similar, too preoccupied with evaluating the possibilities of the horseman theory, and partly because he is a few million years old and a former soldier to boot, and he should be more than capable of remaining professional when on a mission. This is what he tells himself as Dean gently nudges his hand aside and takes control of the laptop's keyboard. A few clicks, some tapping, and Dean has opened a series of new tabs and triggered several searches in succession.

"The headless horseman is part urban legend, part fairy tale," Dean explains as he works, voice soft in Castiel's ear, breath warm against the side of his face.

"I'm familiar with the dulachan," Castiel says. "But the American version escapes me."

"The dulla-who? Never mind. If there is a horseman in the forest, he may haunt a much wider area than we assumed, so maybe..."

A few more taps, then Dean stabs a triumphant finger at the screen. "There! Five people dead by decapitation in a town right on the other side of the forest. This was in 1899, so no wonder no-one joined the dots."

Castiel frowns. "That was over a century ago. Spirits don't usually remain inactive for so long."

Dean squints as he reads the text on the screen. He says, "I don't know, maybe something disturbed it. Dad once hunted a spirit that had gone almost 150 years without killing anyone because it was bound to this one patch of land at this one time of year, and no-one had passed it at the right time in that long." Dean claps a hand onto Castiel's shoulder and squeezes it. "We might be onto something here, Cas. I'm going to call Sam, tell him to go back further."

Dean's already clicking open his cell phone as he speaks, free hand still resting firmly on Castiel's shoulder, and even with his dwindling grace, Castiel's hearing is still keen enough that he can hear Sam's voice on the other end a moment later, tinny and not a little frustrated sounding as he answers: "Please tell me you've found something."

"We might have," Dean replies. "How far back do the town records go?"

"All the way back to the dawn of time, by the looks of it," Sam says, and Castiel feels a twinge of guilt that he and Dean have been tucked away with the technology while Sam scours dusty, old paper-based archives.

"Well, narrow your search down from the dawn of time to the nineteenth century," Dean replies. "Look for someone beheaded and buried somewhere in the area, possibly a cavalry soldier? It might not be on this side of the forest so Cas and I will look into records on the other side."

There's a beat of silence where Castiel imagines he can hear the neurons firing in Sam's head.

"A cavalry soldier?"

Dean's smiling as he says, "Yep."

Sam's voice drops, as though he's worried about being overheard by someone. "You're looking for a headless horseman? Seriously?"

"Why not? Things we've seen, this actually seems pretty likely."

"You know, it actually does. I'll look into it."

"Don't be out all night, Sammy."

Sam replies by hanging up, and Dean grins, tosses his cell across to the bed before he leans in closer, studying the laptop screen.

"I can't even remember the last time we had a straight-up honest-to-god urban-legend-come-to-life hunt like this," Dean says, and he sounds almost childishly giddy at the prospect. It warms something in Castiel to see Dean like this, like he used to be before Hell, the man Castiel has only ever seen glimpses of. It's a light in the darkest parts of Dean's soul that still burns in spite of everything. Zachariah had seen it, and though Castiel disagrees with his former superior on virtually everything else, he knows that in Dean's heart of hearts, Zachariah was correct in his belief that Dean lived for the hunt.

Or perhaps not the hunt, Castiel thinks, his eye drawn by the pile of thin manila folders that hold three autopsy reports. Saving people. It seems more important now than ever, because much of the past four years has been about failures – a failure to preserve the seals, a failure to stop Lucifer, a failure to save Sam.

Castiel's own failure.

They have been fighting a losing battle for so long, but Dean refuses to give up. This is what sets Dean apart from other men, what drew Castiel to Dean in the first place, what seems like a lifetime ago, when Castiel was as cold and hard as steel and Dean nothing more than a warm, shining soul in his grasp. Dean was battered and fractured, but never broken; he was stubborn and unflinching before the wrath of Heaven. Castiel doesn't even know if Dean remembers the way he fought Castiel as they rose from Hell, demanding that Castiel choose another, any other, anyone but him. Dean lives, and died, to save people, never expecting anything in return. It is one of the reasons Castiel loves him.

He turns his head to tell Dean this, or to tell him something at least. Castiel is not so foolish as to speak of love when Dean has not yet given a name to their union. But Dean turns in the same moment, opens his mouth, and if Castiel cannot confess love he can at least show it.

He acts almost without thinking, turning in his chair and bringing his hand up to anchor Dean and draw him in, kissing him a little too roughly, a rush of want he hadn't even realized needed to be released. He half expects Dean to push him away, to laugh and tell him to take it easy, but this is Dean Winchester, and he has always met fire with fire.

Castiel is all but dragged from his seat, Dean going with the abrupt change in activity like he's been planning for it, and maybe he has, maybe Castiel isn't the only one who's been stealing glances this entire time. If so, Castiel endeavors to show him now everything he has thought about for the past hour.

He's not sure who starts the movement towards the bed, isn't even entirely certain who is leading and who is following as they stumble across the room, never parting for more than a moment. Dean's hands are warm and possessive on his back, tugging at Castiel's shirt where it is tucked neatly into his pants, and Castiel fumbles with Dean's clothes between kisses, thankful beyond measure that ties are so much easier to remove than they are to put on. By the time they reach the bed, Dean's tie is lost, Castiel's tugged so loose as to be obsolete, and Castiel is winning the button race, Dean's shirt hanging open where his is still half done up, Dean apparently having been distracted by the line of protective symbols inked across the top of Castiel's chest.

Dean pulls back just long enough to free his arms from his shirt, letting it drop before sitting on the end of the bed and scooting back. Castiel hesitates for a moment, but Dean reaches out and wraps his hand firmly around Castiel's tie, tugging him forward. There's something in the smirk on Dean's face that Castiel can't quite interpret, but it's not important, not when there's so much distance between them. Castiel lets himself be led onto the mattress, hands falling to either side of Dean, knees bracketing Dean's legs. A moment of awkward shuffling as they push and shove each other a little further up the bed, and then Dean is lying back, hand still tangled in Castiel's tie, pulling him down. Castiel goes willingly, kissing Dean over and over, distracting him time and again from finishing what he started with Castiel's shirt buttons, until eventually Castiel is forced to balance his weight on one hand and undo the final three himself, as Dean laughs into his neck and mumbles something about fucking buttons.

Any further complaints from Dean are lost in that next moment, swallowed in Castiel's mouth as he presses down, skin against glorious skin, fire igniting between them wherever they touch. Castiel's head is spinning with it, the physicality of it, the lithe body beneath him, Dean's hands seemingly everywhere at once, a thousand touches Castiel could lose himself in. His own hands are preoccupied with supporting himself so that he doesn't crush Dean, and Castiel wishes it weren't so, but his position does afford certain advantages at least, the best of which, he discovers, is the ability to press their groins together and roll his hips in a grinding motion, then draw back, moving just far enough away to rob them both of friction. The action may seem counterproductive, but it's worthwhile purely for the noises Dean makes, the breathless demands, and the way Dean's hands tighten on Castiel's hips. It's an exquisite form of torture for them both, and Castiel continues, experimenting with pressure to learn the full range from tantalizing to indulging, until Dean is panting and gasping beneath him, half-formed curses slipping from his lips between kisses.

Eventually Dean pulls himself together long enough to reach for Castiel's belt buckle, an underhanded tactic no doubt, seeking to level the field, but the way he gasps, "Get these off, now!" in Castiel's ear makes it seem like the greatest idea Castiel has ever heard.

Dean has Castiel's belt open and the button of his pants undone when a distant noise draws Castiel's attention, the sound of a key in the lock of the door, and in the space of a second everything comes screeching to a halt.

"Oh, shit!" Dean yelps, yanking his hands away, and Castiel is already lifting himself off, half rolling away, but too late. The door swings open and Sam bursts in.

"Guys, I think I—oh my God!"

It's as though Sam has dumped a bucket of ice over them, the heat vanishing in a matter of moments, leaving Castiel acutely aware of how they must look. A sight he might find appealing, but not one that Sam needed to be subjected to.

"Oh, that's just. I did not need to see that, ever, never ever, oh my God." Sam screws his eyes shut as Castiel climbs off the bed, hastily rebuttoning his pants and buckling the belt. Dean, on the other hand, just collapses back on the bed with an indignant sigh, casting a baleful glare at the ceiling.

"Seriously, Dean, I thought this part of our lives was over," Sam is saying, eyes still closed as Castiel rescues Dean's shirt and tosses it towards him.

"We weren't expecting you back so soon," Dean grumbles. He pulls on his shirt and begins to button it, reminding Castiel to do the same.

"Yeah, well, while you two were busy doing whatever it is you were doing over there, I was ID-ing our ghost. Or, I think I did, anyway," Sam retorts. "Is it safe to open my eyes yet?"

"That depends," Dean says. "Do you think you can handle seeing Cas in his true form?"

Sam does open his eyes at that, if only to glare at Dean, though he does spare a glance at Castiel, whose shirt is now over halfway buttoned and thus unlikely to cause any further eye-searing.

"I can't believe you," Sam says. "We're on a hunt, Dean. If I'd come back five minutes later—"

"You'd have remembered why you got us separate rooms," Dean finishes for him. He slides off the bed to snatch his tie up, giving Sam a thoroughly unashamed smirk as Castiel hastily finishes buttoning his shirt. "Happy, now?" Dean asks.

"I'm scarred for life, thank you," Sam mutters.

Dean shrugs, still smiling at his brother. "Next time, you might want to knock first."

Sam throws Dean's jacket at him in response.

"Anyway," Sam proclaims when Dean and Castiel are at last looking presentable again. "As I was saying, I think I found our horseman."

"That's great," Dean says.

Sam nods. "Yep, and he was buried somewhere in the forest, like Cas thought."

Cas looks up. "It's only logical."

"It is," Sam agrees. "But there's no record as to where."

"Always a catch," Dean mutters.

"I might be able to locate the gravesite," Castiel offers. It's something he's already considered, having sensed that the evil stemmed from the forest, but it had seemed prudent to wait until they were certain of what they were dealing with. The spirit is a powerful one, and its trail should be easy enough to follow.

"I was hoping you'd say that," Sam says. "Should we go now or wait until morning?"

"It's almost dark out," Dean says. "All the other attacks happened at night, we shouldn't risk waiting."

Castiel nods. "The frequency of attacks is concerning, so we shouldn't take any chances."

"Well then," Dean says. "Guess we'd better saddle up."

Sam rolls his eyes, but Castiel sees the smile that tugs at his lips.

Saddling up consists of driving back to the park they had sent Castiel to that afternoon, and retrieving flashlights, shotguns, shovels, rock salt, and gasoline from the Impala's trunk. They retrace Castiel's earlier steps, but this time there is no hesitation before entering the forest.

It's like stepping through a veil. Just seconds ago Dean had been able to hear crickets, cars passing in the distance, the gentle creak of the swings blowing in the breeze. A few feet into the forest, and all that is replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence.

"Okay," Dean says, mostly to check he hasn't gone deaf. "Now I get why people are so creeped out by this place."

"This is not the spirit's doing," Castiel says.

"I don't want to know what's behind it," Dean decides. "For once, just once, I'd like to not stumble across some deep, dark mystery that tries to kill us when we're supposed to be on a routine hunt."

"I don't think it will try to harm us," Castiel says thoughtfully. Dean can understand why. The silence is unnerving, but not terrifyingly so. The forest doesn't have the same kind of cursed feel to it that the town of psycho fishermen had, and its creepiness is not really getting under their skin. Castiel is still focused on the task at hand, and Sam is standing firm beside them, so Dean chooses not to worry.

"Let's just get this over with. You sure you can find this grave?"

"I can sense the spirit's resting place even now," Castiel assures them. Then, a little softer, almost regretful, "if my powers were still intact I could have had us there and back in a matter of moments without needing to rest for a day afterwards."

Dean pats him on the shoulder. "Too bad, angel. Guess you'll just have to walk like the rest of us."

A half hour later, Sam finds himself fervently wishing that Castiel's mojo was still at full power. The walk shouldn't be so exhausting, but the woods are treacherous, filled with hidden dips and half-raised roots that seem deliberately placed to trip anyone passing through. Dean has mud stains on his knees, much to Sam's amusement. Less amusing is the growing ache in Sam's legs as he navigates up one incline and down the next.

If Castiel didn't seem so certain of himself, Sam would suspect they've been travelling in circles.

They don't even notice it at first, the rising mist curling round their ankles, the thickening of the air. Eventually though, the mist grows dense enough that the flashlights struggle to penetrate it.

"Well, this can't be good," Dean says.

Half a minute later, they are surrounded by fog so thick Sam catches himself trying to physically wave it away. Dean and Castiel have vanished from sight, but Sam can hear them calling out to each other and to him.

Sam brings his shotgun up just seconds before he hears hoof beats on the forest floor. The sound echoes around him, making it difficult to pinpoint the direction they're coming from, so Sam finds his way to a large oak tree and keeps it at his back, chambers a shell in the shotgun and readies himself.

"You hear that, Sam?" Dean calls, and Sam hopes it's just the fog making him sound so distant, because getting separated right now would be a bad idea.

"Yeah," he calls back. "Where's it coming from?"

"Fuck if I know. Can you find your way ove—"

"Dean!" Sam's heart drops a beat. Cas had sounded almost panicked just then, and a moment after he shouts, a shotgun roars and Dean swears heartily.

Then there's a rustling, crackling sound and a series of thuds. A sound like someone rolling down a hill, and Sam would hope it's the horseman, but judging by Dean's yells and the continuing sound of hoof beats, it doesn't seem likely.

The noise grows louder, the horse drawing closer, and Sam braces, waits, tries to watch all four corners at once. He's ready when the horseman appears, a massive black shape through the fog. The horse is the biggest Sam has ever seen, a warhorse for certain, solid and worryingly un-ghostlike. The horseman himself is, of course, headless, but he's not carrying his head under one arm. No, one hand is wrapped around the horse's reins and the other wields an honest-to-God sword, which is swinging in Sam's direction.

At such close range, Sam couldn't miss the horseman if he tried, shotgun already aimed right in the horse's face. But instinct takes over, that little tug in his gut, and he ducks instead of firing, dropping to his knees before he pulls the trigger. The roar of the shotgun is near deafening, and Sam can see the scattered rock salt round slamming into the horse's flank, but the beast doesn't so much as falter.

That would explain Dean's cursing then.

The horseman curbs his steed, turning in a tight circle, and Sam knows it's going to charge him down, knows he doesn't have a chance of outrunning it. That feeling of helplessness claws at him, threatens to freeze him in place as the horseman begins his second assault, but Sam grapples with it, fights to keep his breathing even and his mind focused. The horseman is almost upon him when he sees it, the tattered edge of the horseman's leg, where rock salt ricocheted from the horse's flank and grazed the spirit.

Gotcha, Sam thinks, and braces himself, facing down the horseman's charge. The sword flashes up, and Sam throws himself to the side, tucks and rolls and comes up firing, this time aiming for the horseman's back. The round rips clean through the spirit, shredding solid form into smoky wisps that fade into nothing, taking the horse with it.

The thing about hunting is, it messes with some very basic human instincts. Most people, for example, would be terrified if they ever heard shots being fired, but for Dean the fear doesn't kick in until the firing stops.

It can mean one of two things: either Sam has successfully fought off the horseman, for now at least; or the horseman has taken his little brother. Sam is a good hunter, one of the best, but knowing how skilled he is doesn't stop Dean from worrying whenever they get separated.

Speaking of worries, Dean's shotgun is digging into his thigh in a very unsafe manner, and his entire chest feels like one giant bruise, caused by Castiel falling on top of him. He'd actually noticed the steep slope to his right before the fog descended and made a conscious decision to not slip and fall down it, so how he and Cas ended up tumbling all the way to the bottom is beyond Dean.

Well, okay, it's the horseman's fault. If he hadn't been swinging a friggin' huge-ass sword at Dean, Dean wouldn't have been forced to jump back and he wouldn't have lost his footing. If he hadn't had hold of Cas' wrist, Cas wouldn't have been dragged down after him, knocking into Dean and causing them both to overbalance.

At least that means Cas is still with him, Dean thinks, groaning as he sits up and reaches blindly for Castiel again. Cas is right there of course, his hand on Dean's shoulder to steady him, and Dean is thankful that the angel always stays so damn close when they're together.

"Crap," he mutters as Castiel helps him to his feet. "Let's not do that again."

"My apologies."

"Not your fault, Cas." Dean glances around. "Any sign of Sam?"

Castiel shakes his head, looking worried. "I sense he's okay. He must have found a way to fight the horseman off, but I don't know where he is."

"Can't you just sense where he is?"

Castiel frowns, shaking his head. "For some reason I can't get a lock on a location. There's something down here that's...interfering."

"What do you mean, interfering?"

"Like radio static," Castiel explains. "It means I can't pinpoint anything outside of this area."

Dean groans. "Let me guess. Whatever's making this forest so weird is somewhere right around here."

"It seems so," Castiel confirms.

"Alright, then we gotta get moving. If we put some distance between us and it, will you be able to track Sam?" Dean glances at Castiel, but Cas doesn't seem to be listening to him. His head is cocked to one side and he's staring off at someplace behind Dean.

"It's calling to us," Castiel says. "Can you hear it?"

Dean is about to say that no, he can't hear the spooky thing calling to them, and could Castiel please stop hearing things that no one else can because it's incredibly unsettling, when he realizes that he can hear it. It's not a voice, nothing so obvious, just a strange humming sound, like a mother singing a wordless lullaby to a child. It piques Dean's curiosity, which he supposes is kind of the point.

"You sure it's calling and not luring us into a trap?" he asks, but Castiel shakes his head.

"It's not malevolent Dean, I'm sure of it."

"So if we just ignored it?"

"We could walk away," Castiel concedes, "and my senses would probably grow sharper as we put some distance between us and whatever this creature is..."

"But…?"

"But I think we should find out what it wants."

"You're not serious," Dean says, flatly, giving Castiel a disbelieving look. "Sam is out there somewhere with a spirit hell-bent on cutting his head off, and you wanna go on a field trip? We don't even know what this thing is!"

"Sam is fine," Castiel argues. "He can take care of himself, Dean. But if this thing is disrupting my ability to sense Sam, it may prevent me locating the horseman's grave too." He gives Dean a look, like he thinks if he can just spout enough logic Dean will change his priorities. The annoying thing is, he's right. Not about changing Dean's priorities, there's not a power on this earth that could do that, but if Dean wants to help Sam and Cas is right about this thing maybe keeping them from destroying the horseman, then they're damn well going to have to check it out.

"Of course," Dean snaps. "No such thing as a straightforward salt-'n'-burn in Winchester World anymore. It's not a hunt unless there's some new breed of monster, or gods or angels or demons or miscellaneous cryptic beings involved."

He continues to grumble even as he sets off for the source of the noise.

The closer they draw to the creature, the more certain Castiel grows of its identity. There is a sense of long-forgotten power in the clearing they are moving towards, of majesty almost divine. A forest god, he thinks, but not of recent times. This is no vanir, no green man or minor deity, but something ancient, older even than Castiel. One of the very first, Castiel thinks, from a time when mankind could barely comprehend divinity but learned faith in something greater than itself.

Castiel forgets sometimes that his Father is not the only deity that man has worshipped, though he thinks again of Kali and knows to forget the others would be a mistake. She was strong though, her names still in the hearts and minds of many worshippers. If this creature had a name once, it has long ago been lost. Gods rise and fall as easily as empires; Castiel himself is living proof of this.

Dean becomes more hesitant as they approach, but this creature is all but powerless, Castiel can tell. Nevertheless, he halts at the cave entrance, awaiting invitation.

"My, my, my, how you glow."

The voice is that of an old woman, week and feeble. Castiel glances at Dean, then sweeps aside the greenery obscuring the cave's entrance and steps inside.

The goddess is as ancient as Castiel suspected, both in age and appearance, but a deity all the same. Castiel bows his head in respect, though he wonders if she will even recognize the gesture, for the eyes she turns towards them are unfocused and milky white. She is dressed in rags that may once have been a fine robe, her skin grey-white and wrinkled. Her hair is matted and filthy, and her nose crooked, but even so, it is clear to Castiel that she was beautiful once. She stands barefoot by an open fire, stirring a pot of something that smells surprisingly appetizing, swaying to the tune of her own humming.

"Poor little lost soul," she croons. "What are you doing in this forest of mine?"

"Sorry to inconvenience your hermitude—" Dean begins, but Castiel cuts him off with a hand on his arm.

"Forgive us for trespassing," he says, giving Dean a look that, he hopes, communicates a request to allow Castiel to handle this, although given past experience, he doubts that will happen. The crone's face turns sharply from the source of Dean's voice to Castiel's, a flash of a frown in her withered features, gone as fast as it comes.

"Two voices," she mutters to herself. "A curious trick. She wonders why it's played?"

Dean shoots Castiel a look that manages to communicate both his confusion and his desire to not be here. He opens his mouth to speak, no doubt to remind Castiel that they don't have time for this, but Castiel hushes him quickly.

"We are seeking the spirit that roams this forest," Castiel continues.

The crone hisses and darts forward, far more agile than her aged body should possibly allow.

"The horseman is a trespasser," she snarls. "Its master is a blight on the land."

"Master?" Dean demands.

Sightless eyes turn sharply in Dean's direction. "Two again," the crone mutters. "A cruel game."

"It's no game," Castiel says. "We are two, myself and my companion."

The crone turns her head slowly between the two of them. Castiel cannot help but wonder what it is she sees. He certainly doesn't expect for it to make her laugh, but laugh she does, her head thrown back, cackling in delight. She reaches out and rubs a gnarled hand against Castiel's cheek, touches Dean's face with the other. Dean shoots Castiel a horrified look, but he doesn't flinch away. Still, Castiel can see the muscle in his jaw clenched tight, and knows this is only going to add to Dean's growing irritation. "Companion?" she says. "Who do you seek to fool with your words? You say you are two, but you are one. Two and one. One and two. Yes, yes, I see it now." She pats their cheeks roughly.

"We seek the horseman to destroy him," Castiel presses on. "To purge his spirit from the land."

"How noble," the crone huffs. "What is it you seek to gain from this?"

"How about no more people getting killed by him?" Dean suggests.

The crone gives a derisive snort. "Is that all? You would play games when the world is at stake? With your souls so entwined, do you look no further than yourselves?"

Castiel frowns. "I don't understand," he says.

"How little you see with those mortal eyes," the crone snaps. "You seek a dog with no thought for its master, and follow blindly into its trap."

"Are you saying the horseman is working for someone?" Dean asks incredulously.

"Controlled by someone," Castiel corrects as the realization dawns. "The horseman has a master."

"Yes, yes, the master. Now you choose to use those ears of yours. And what shall you do about that, she wonders?"

"Pretty sure stopping the horseman is still our best plan here," Dean huffs.

"So single-minded," the crone says. "It will cure you of that, when it comes, yes. It will open your mind until it cracks and shatters, but not yet, not yet. There is still time yet." She trails off, spinning sharply away from them.

Dean looks at Castiel, and Castiel looks at Dean, both of them at a loss before they turn back to watching the crone.

"When all that remains is the end, she must put if off as long as she can. It is not time yet," she mutters to herself as she rifles through an old wooden chest. Castiel can barely hear her as she extracts something and walks back towards them, almost chanting now, "Not yet, two souls, not one, not one, not two, but one. She will help them, yes she will."

She stops in front of them and thrusts her hand out. Clutched in her bony fingers is an ugly homemade candle, cracked and blackened, the wick so grimy Castiel doubts it will burn at all.

"Take this," she says. "Find the horseman. Find him and drive him from my home. Stop the master. Save your innocents and leave."

Dean shoots Castiel an incredulous look, but Castiel reaches out and gently takes the candle from her. "Thank you," he says solemnly.

For a moment the crone's features soften. Her eyes drift closed, and she snatches at Castiel's hand to hold him in place, pressing her own to his chest, her fingers ill-fitting to the scar beneath his shirt, but laid out perfectly over Dean's mark.

"Yes," she breathes, and then she pushes, shoving Castiel back, shoving Dean, driving them both to the cave's entrance. "Now leave. Leave, leave me alone."

Castiel lets her press him back. Dean is two steps behind him and already exiting the cave.

"Thank you," he says again, holding the candle tight in his fist. It feels like a gift, a blessing of sorts, though he knows how foolish a notion it is.

"Begone," the crone whispers. "Fallen one, righteous one, begone."

Dean is already halfway across the clearing and showing no sign of slowing when Castiel exits the cave. He jogs to catch up, pocketing the candle.

"Dean. Dean!"

"What the hell was that?" Dean demands, stopping so abruptly that Castiel almost runs into him.

"She was a goddess, Dean, one of the old ones—"

"I don't mean what was she, I mean what were you playing at? Sam's out there with the horseman and you're making nice with mad old witches in the forest."

"Sam is fine, he's—"

"Right here," Sam says. "I'm right here, guys." They turn to find Sam sliding down a slope towards them, a look of concern on his face. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Dean says quickly, scrubbing his hand over his face as if to disguise the relief that flickers across it. "Nothing. We were just hoping you hadn't gotten your ass killed."

"We found the source of the strangeness in this forest," Castiel adds.

Sam blinks. "You did?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "She was a real witch." He turns around and starts trekking up the slope.

"She was a forest goddess, one of the oldest beings in the world," Castiel corrects impatiently, following Dean up the slope.

"Yeah yeah, she was a crazy old lady and she gave Cas a candle," Dean calls over his shoulder.

"Um," Sam says. "Okay."

The explanation comes in bits and pieces as they trek further into the forest. Castiel explains about the goddess in the cave, and Dean points out that they just wasted a half hour that could have been used finding the horseman's grave by talking to her. Sam frowns.

"Dean, you were gone for like, five minutes," he says. "When the fog lifted I saw where you guys fell and went down after you. By the time I got to the bottom of the hill, there you were."

Dean gives him a disbelieving look, but Castiel simply inclines his head, like this makes perfect sense to him. "She was all but powerless," he explains, "but there is residual power enough in this forest that she could still bend reality to her will."

"I thought you said she was harmless?" Dean demands.

"I said she wasn't malevolent," Castiel corrects. They've been sniping at each other ever since Sam caught up to them, but he's not all that inclined to find out why. It's actually kind of endearing in a way, and it's not like they've never disagreed before, so he isn't particularly worried.

"Whatever," Dean huffs. "I still think it was a waste of time."

"Dean."

Castiel moves ahead of Sam, catching up to Dean and leaning in to him, voice lowered to give them both the illusion of privacy, though Sam can still hear every word.

"I don't understand why you're so angry with me," Castiel is saying.

"I'm not angry with you," Dean snaps. "I'm just wired, okay Cas. It's a thing we normal humans do. We get stressed and we get pissy, and we don't like it when other people do stupid things like hold polite fucking conversations with witches, and where the hell is this grave anyway? Are we going in circles here?"

"The grave is a few hundred yards away," Castiel informs him testily. "And she wasn't a witch. She was a divine being."

"I'm not gonna argue about this," Dean says. "Just give me the damn shovel and show me where to dig."

Sam rolls his eyes as Castiel points at a blackened, twisted tree a short distance from them. "The horseman is buried beside that tree."

"Figures," Sam says, a little too loudly, hoping to remind them of his presence before they start squabbling for real.

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "It doesn't exactly say here lies a stand up guy, does it?"

"The bones aren't buried that deep," Castiel says. He's holding his hands out, palms down as though he's communing with the earth, which, Sam figures, he probably could be.

Sam carefully rests his flashlight against the nearest tree as Dean takes up one of the shovels and drives it deep into the earth.

When he was barely more than a child, grave digging used to be one of Dean's favourite tasks. Not the actual act of unearthing a dead body of course – he's never been that kind of weirdo – but when he was in his early teens and still learning all the tricks of the trade under his father's watchful gaze, digging up graves in the middle of the night was the closest they got to real father-son bonding time.

Sometimes John would quiz Dean as they dug through the dirt, questioning him on methods for hunting and killing every monster John had encountered, and a few that were still mere myth as far as he was aware. Dean always aced those tests. Other times John would lecture Dean on ways of identifying potential hunts, omens and signs that would lead to the next bad thing to kill, or regale Dean with tales of earlier hunts, imparting the most important lessons: those learned through experience.

When Sam got older, it became the three of them for a while, then just him and John again when Sam was chasing the Stanford dream, before it switched to just Dean and Sam, or occasionally the two of them and Bobby. Now there's three again, Dean and Cas working into a rhythm while Sam keeps watch with his shotgun at the ready. And even though there's a thread of snippiness running through the banter as they work, it's still one of those rare non-crappy nights Dean hasn't had in a long while.

Of course, as soon as he thinks that, the fog rolls in.

"Fucking wonderful," Dean grumbles, picking up the pace of his digging, trusting Sam to watch their backs as he and Cas strike bone and start uncovering the horseman's skeleton, the echo of hoof beats growing louder in their ears.

Behind them, Sam curses and fires off a shot. Dean instinctively tries to shrink in on himself, knees bending, back bowing, head tucked down, presenting the smallest target possible. Cas is even better off, down on his knees already, clearing dirt off the bones while Dean scrambles to find the salt and gasoline.

"Get down!" Sam hollers, and Dean doesn't hesitate, drops flat on his belly. Castiel drops beside him, elbow shoved into Dean's ribs, and Dean throws a hand over Cas' shoulders, pinning him needlessly, because Cas can take care of himself, but everything in Dean is hardwired to protect the people he cares about, so Cas is just going to have to deal.

The shotgun roars again, but the thundering hoof beats don't stop, and a second later Sam's six-foot five-inch frame rolls into the grave on top of Dean and Castiel.

"Jesus, Sam!" Dean gasps, breath punched out of him by Sam's weight landing heavy on his spine. They all three flinch as the horseman's sword whistles down towards them, but piled on top of each other a foot below ground level, they're just out of his reach. The second after the spirit passes over them, Sam is scrambling to his feet and out of the shallow grave. Dean tosses the salt to Cas, pours gasoline over the bones and fumbles for his lighter.

The horseman wheels around, charges at them again, all three presenting far too easy a target now. He rides directly towards Sam, and Dean desperately flicks at the wheel of his lighter, tries to spark a flame before the horseman can ride Sam down. Sam throws himself to one side, but the horseman corrects his course too fast, bearing down on Sam.

The lighter ignites, and Dean drops it, watches the flames catch and ripple out across the bones, but the horseman doesn't stop coming.

"Why isn't it working?" Dean demands as Sam half rolls, half crawls away, flopping onto his back to toss an iron knife at the horseman. The rider recoils, horse rearing, and Sam scrambles out of range of those massive hooves.

"How the hell should I know?" he sputters. "Are we missing a piece?"

"Are we missing a—oh, Jesus fucking Christ, where's his head?"

"Headless horseman, Dean, kind of the whole point," Sam yells, darting behind a thick oak to avoid the horseman's next attack.

"I mean his skull, Sam! His skull is missing!" Dean yells back, searching frantically for his shotgun, hands flying blindly across the forest floor.

The horseman wheels around, abandoning his attempts to get at Sam.

"Oh, crap," Dean groans as the horse gallops towards him.

"Dean!" Sam yells, and Dean braces himself, calculating distances, the horseman's unnaturally fast recovery speed, and the reach of his blade. He times it perfectly, or at least he hopes he has, leaping aside at the last second, and the horseman yanks on the reins, starts to turn, before Castiel throws himself through the fire of the horseman's grave and tackles the spirit clean off his goddamn horse.

Dean has maybe a second to register the move and let his jaw drop in what he feels is a totally acceptable look of surprise, before Cas slams his sword down, and the horseman quite abruptly disappears, blinking out of existence a second before the blade makes contact.

"Holy shit, Cas," Dean pants.

Castiel climbs to his feet, brushing dirt and leaves off his pants as Sam makes his way back towards them.

"He'll be back," Castiel says, all business still. "Perhaps it's time we take what the goddess said into consideration?"

Dean doesn't miss the pointed look in his direction, but it's softened slightly by the fact that Cas just tackled a ghost to the ground to protect Dean. Not that he wouldn't have done it anyway, but still, it's hard to stay mad at a guy who does shit like that for you. Especially when it looks like that guy may in fact have been right all along.

"You mean the mad old witch?" Dean corrects, more on principle than anything. Castiel's answering glare lacks heat, and Dean gives him a smile that he hopes is equal parts smirk and apology.

Castiel digs into his pocket and pulls out the twisted old candle the crone gave him.

"She wanted us to find him," he says. "Maybe this is supposed to help with that."

"It's a candle, Cas," Dean points out impatiently. "What are you supposed to do with it?"

Cas gives Dean a look that makes him feel about as smart as a third grader, and just as temperamental. Fortunately, Sam saves them both from further arguing.

"Maybe we could try lighting it?" Sam suggests with a shrug.

"That was going to be my first suggestion," Castiel says dryly, and Dean snorts.

"Why the hell not," Dean says. Honestly, deep down he knows the witch, or goddess, or whatever, wanted to help them. He's just skeptical about the means.

It has to be some sort of cosmic joke that Castiel still has so much more faith than Dean.

Castiel holds the candle over the open fire still licking up from the horseman's grave. The wick catches, a tiny flame bursting to life, and for a moment all it does is flicker there, weak in the leftover dampness from the fog. They stare at it uncertainly for a moment, before the entire thing flares up, the flames shooting down the whole length of the candle until Castiel is forced to snatch his hand away or burn himself. Wax and wick burn away, until all that remains is a little glowing ball of fire that bobs slowly in front of Castiel.

"Huh," Dean allows. "That's...what the hell is that?"

"It looks like another will-o'-the-wisp," Sam says uncertainly, and the shotgun in his hand wavers like he might shoot at it on principle.

"It's not," Castiel assures them. "I believe it's intended to guide us. She asked us to purge the horseman from her forest, perhaps this was meant to show us the way."

"You sure?" Dean asks, just to be certain, because he's not in the mood to go chasing a ball of fire round in circles for the rest of the night for the amusement of some old hag in a cave.

"Yes. I think we should follow it," Castiel says, as though the way the fire dances in front of them isn't obviously some kind of lure. The flames begin to drift away from them, lighting a path through the trees.

"Just don't eat it this time," Dean mutters. Sam chuckles and hefts up one of the bags, setting out after the fire. Dean hangs back, a hand on Castiel's forearm to keep him in place.

"So maybe you were right," he concedes when Castiel gives him a questioning look.

Castiel sighs. "I understand why such creatures worry you, Dean," he says. "I just wish you'd trust me."

"I do!" Dean says immediately. "I trust you with my life, Cas, you know that. It's just...your track record isn't exactly stellar."

Castiel raises his eyebrows. "You say that as if I'm the only one here who has ever made deals with demons," he says flatly.

"That's not what I meant," Dean argues.

Sam calls out to them, and Dean heaves his bag onto his shoulder and sets out after his brother. Castiel keeps pace with him.

"No, you just meant that my judgment in the past has been poor," Castiel is saying. "But I knew when I allied myself with Crowley that he couldn't be trusted. I am capable of telling good from evil, Dean. I simply chose to align myself with what I considered to be the lesser of the evils I faced at that time."

That's not entirely true, and they both know it. But Dean understands what Castiel is trying to say. The truth of the matter is that Castiel has always been a good judge of character; he's just slow to act on his judgments. It's Dean who misplaces his trust too easily, Dean who looked at Castiel and saw an ally, even when he was secretly working against them. The thought isn't exactly a pleasant one, but Dean wasn't lying when he said he trusted Castiel. It's not like he's completely forgiven and forgotten the events of the previous year, but he's trying, and he thinks in time they will really be okay.

"I know," he says softly. "I get it, Cas, I do. And you know I trust you. I just find it hard to trust them. Angels and demons and gods and fucking dragons, and I know they all say they're on our side, but they're only ever out for themselves."

"I'm an angel," Castiel points out.

"Yeah," Dean says. "But you're different."

He meets Castiel's gaze steadfastly, tries to communicate with a look what different means to him, because he sure as hell doesn't know how else to put it into words.

Castiel regards him quietly for a moment, then nods. "I understand," he says, and Dean loves that he actually does.

"Good," he replies. "Okay. Great. I'm glad we cleared that up."

"Me too," Castiel says solemnly, then smiles, just a little, but the sight of it effectively dissolves any leftover tension in Dean.

The flickering ball of flame leads them to the western edge of the woods, to an old, abandoned warehouse. Castiel signals for them to halt at the edge of the trees, narrowing his eyes at the building. "Demons," he says.

"Of course," Dean sighs.

They've left most of their demon-fighting weapons in the Impala on the other side of the forest. Never ones to be unprepared though, they stow their shotguns in favor of Sam's knife and a flask of holy water. ("Never leave home without it," Bobby had once told them. "You never know when you'll run into a demon or get stranded in the middle of a desert with nothing to drink.")

"How many?" Sam asks.

"I'm not sure," Castiel says. "But there is something...familiar about one of them."

Somehow, Dean just knows what Castiel is going to say next. Sam too, if his pre-emptive groan is anything to go by.

"Meg," Castiel growls, and something in Dean twists, sparks, cold anger flooding through him."This is a trap," Sam realizes. "This whole hunt. She used the horseman to lure us here."

He's right, of course. This is how Meg operates, staging a hunt until the Winchesters are drawn right into her web, and Dean will be damned before he lets her get away with it this time. He's sick of being the fly in these scenarios, and lately it seems like that's all they ever encounter – the whole world apparently out to get them, and this shit was supposed to stop at Michael and Lucifer. The Apocalypse feels like ancient history now, except for the part where it's still happening, and there's a whole new cast of assholes jerking them around.

"Not this time," Dean hisses angrily. "This time we'll be ready. I swear to God, I'm going to stab her in the face."

"Get in line," Sam mutters. "But first we need a plan. I have an idea..."

"Great plan, Sam," Dean snaps, trying and failing to jab his elbow into the stomach of the demon that's dragging him to the centre of the warehouse.

"How was I supposed to know there were so many of them?" Sam demands, putting up a valiant struggle against his own captor.

Two demons lie dead at the warehouse door, but the two that came after them had overwhelmed Sam and Dean easily. Now their weapons are being dumped on a table, too far away for there to be any hope of reaching them even if they did manage to break free, and they're being manhandled towards Meg.

"Sam, Dean," she drawls as they approach. "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you here." She sounds quite delighted, a self-satisfied smirk on her face as their captors set about tying them up. Sam doesn't bother fighting against the hands that yank his arms behind his back. He just goes with it, lets his shoulders go loose and easy, waits for the familiar bite of rope against his wrists.

"And where's your pet angel? Don't tell me you left home without him," Meg continues.

"Cas is sitting this one out," Sam admits grudgingly.

"So, Clarence still hasn't got his groove back," Meg muses. "Guess that means you're on your own." She grins wide. "Oh, boys. Who's going to save your sorry asses this time?"

"Who says we need saving?" Dean snarls.

Meg laughs at this, but it's not the kind of malicious I-have-you-at-my-mercy laugh Sam might have expected. She sways closer to Dean, her face inches from his; breathes in deeply through her nose, like she's scenting him, and Sam clamps down hard on the urge to drag her away from his brother.

"Oh, someone's been naughty," she laughs. "You stink of angel, Dean. I gotta say congratulations. He's an awesome kisser." She licks her lips and smiles lewdly.

Sam can see Dean's arms twitching, like he wants to wrap his hands around Meg's throat. The demon just grins at him, before abruptly swinging her attention to Sam.

"Now Sammy here, he's a great kisser too." She saunters towards him, smiling wickedly. "Good at a whole lot of things in fact, or so I've heard, and not picky about his partners. I like that in a man."

"I'm flattered," Sam says dryly. "But I'd rather kiss a shark."

"I'd like to see that," Meg retorts. "But unfortunately, I'm expecting a call."

With that, she produces a thin dagger and the large silver bowl Sam recognizes as the demonic equivalent of a cell phone.

"I hope you don't mind," Meg continues, "but I'll need one of you to accept the charges for me." She begins to advance on Sam, and Sam's heartbeat kicks up a notch, adrenaline washing through him.

"That's it?" he blurts. "You're just going to kill us?"

"No," Meg replies. "I'm just going to kill you. Consider it a favor."

"How is that a favor?" Dean demands.

"Oh, believe me, Dean, with what's stirring out there in the deep, dark corners of the world, it's practically an act of mercy. You can stop worrying, Sam, about him, and what he might do to you." Meg's laugh is utterly inhuman. "To all of you."

For the first time that night, Sam feels an icy cold shiver of genuine fear. "Lucifer is trapped in the Cage," he says faintly. Is it possible that he's free?, Sam wonders. The idea alone sends a wave of fear pulsing under his skin. What if Lucifer is behind all the madness?

Meg's smile turns sour for a moment, but she recovers quickly. "I'm not talking about my father, you moron." She lets the knife in her grip drop slightly. "He's still in the cage where you left him. I'm talking about someone else. Haven't you noticed the signs?"

"You gonna share with the class this time or are you going to keep dropping cryptic hints ever time you tie us up?" Dean growls. "Cut the bullshit and just tell us what you know for once."

Meg gives a disbelieving laugh. "Oh, Dean. I should have known. You boys are dumb as posts, just stumbling along and waiting for everything to come to you."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sam demands, though he has a feeling he doesn't want to know.

Meg shrugs. "Like I told your brother and his boy-toy the last time we played our little threesome bondage game," she says with a smirk. "Something big's coming, Sammy. But I don't want to ruin the surprise for you!"

She raises the knife, and Sam tenses, ready for her, when the sound of glass shattering distracts all three of them. The window of the office overlooking the warehouse floor explodes outwards in a shower of diamond-bright shards, and a dark shape plummets towards the ground, hitting concrete with a disturbingly wet splat.

Meg stares uncomprehendingly at the body of one of her minions, then up at the window. Castiel stands there, looking for all the world as though he might be feeling some guilt over the collateral damage he has just inflicted on the building.
It's their cue to act.

"'Bout time!" Dean hollers, letting his ropes drop and snapping his head back against the demon behind him. The demon staggers back, blood pouring thick from the host's nose, and Dean follows up with a kick that sends it staggering.

Meg whirls around, but Sam is ready for her, dropping the tiny blade he had concealed behind his belt and landing a solid, oh-so-satisfying punch right on her nose.

Chaos ensues. Dean and Sam scramble to retrieve their weapons, fending off demon attacks as they go. Castiel disappears from the window frame and reappears seconds later on the warehouse floor to aid the brothers. Judging from the lack of reinforcements running to Meg's side, Sam figures he must have taken care of all the perimeter guards, leaving only Meg herself and four others. They're still outnumbered, but Sam likes these odds. They'd counted eleven demons in the brief surveillance conducted before mounting the first attack.

Dean reaches the knife first, snatching it up and jamming it through the neck of the demon scrambling after him, then flinging it towards Sam. Snagging it from midair, Sam slashes out at Meg, who jumps back, looking furious. Sam takes advantage of her temporary retreat to help Cas, who's tackling two demons while Dean holds off the third surviving minion with holy water.

Sam wrestles one of the demons to the ground, grappling with it, seeking an opening while it scrabbles for his knife hand, seeking to disarm him. Abandoning all pretence at finesse he headbutts the demon when it manages to pin him, stunning it long enough to drive the knife up through its ribcage. A moment later, the one Dean had doused with holy water trips over him as it staggers back, screaming and half blind, and Sam seizes the opportunity to dispatch that one as well. He stands, turns, seeking his next target, but all he sees is Dean, getting backed into a corner by Meg.

Sam starts across the room as Castiel shouts Dean's name and throws his sword, somehow not missing a beat between swinging at his opponent with his blade and then with his empty fist. Dean catches it, and Meg eyes the blade warily, but doesn't back up. Dean slashes at her, but she dodges the attack and catches his wrist, twisting it round and slamming it back against the wall, trying to force him to drop the weapon. Sam breaks into a run that is cut abruptly short when the horseman appears.

Throwing himself to one side, Sam thanks the God he knows isn't listening that the horseman lacks room to maneuver as it could in the forest, having to rein in to almost a complete stop before turning for a second assault. Sam risks a glance at Dean, and he sees Castiel seize Meg from behind. He grabs at something, throws it to Sam, who catches it through sheer instinct. The horseman's skull. Sam sprints the short distance to their bags as the horseman starts towards him. This is a dance so familiar to him, the spirit bearing down on him as he fumbles salt and gasoline over the skull, grabs for a lighter, flicks it open, and watches the flame spark.

A few yards away, Dean makes what should be a killing thrust, but Meg is already making good her escape, slamming an elbow into Castiel's solar plexus and breaking free of his grip. She doesn't stick around to see the last of her minions die, opting instead to run for the door, disappearing into the night, and they are once again powerless to stop her.

Sam ignites the skull, turning away from the horseman as soon as the spirit starts to crumble at the edges, choosing instead to watch Cas move in to check that Dean is okay, to watch Dean shove Cas aside and stab the demon Cas had abandoned to rescue Dean as it tries to brain Castiel with a crowbar, and then it's over, the warehouse littered with corpses and the three of them winded, battered, and bruised, but alive.
"Alright, go team," Dean pants.

"Not bad," Sam says, post-hunt elation mingling with leftover adrenaline to produce a grin so wide it actually makes his jaw ache a little, although that might just be one of his many imminent bruises.

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "All in a day's work and all that. We should clean up this mess, though."

"The glamorous life of a hunter," Sam quips, and Dean snorts.

"You know it." He glances around and whistles. "Man, we kinda trashed this place."

They end up burning the entire warehouse down – not Sam's usual first choice for dealing with the bodies of the victims, but the sheer amount of blood spilled inside requires drastic measures. They haven't had to worry about the FBI being on their tails in years, but Sam isn't inclined to tempt fate. Burning the whole building down serves the dual grisly purposes of destroying the bodies and removing any evidence that might be traced back to the three of them.

"What do we do now?" Castiel asks as they stand back and watch the flames climb higher.

Sam shrugs. "I guess we have to figure out what Meg was talking about."

"Yes we do," Dean says, decisively. "Except that's going to have to wait a day, because we're going back to the motel now, and we're putting a goddamn sock on the door." He reaches for Cas as he says it, grabbing a fistful of the angel's shirt, and apparently his post-hunt high is putting him in a mood Sam doesn't ever need to see his brother in.

Sam groans. "Maybe I'll walk back to the motel."

"That won't be necessary," Castiel informs him. He steps forward, takes the Impala's keys from Dean and tosses them in Sam's direction. Dean's protest is cut off by Castiel's mouth on his, and then silenced entirely when the sound of wingbeats echoes through the hall. Castiel and Dean are gone in the blink of an eye.

The things people do for sex, Sam thinks. He glances down at the keys in his hand and toys briefly with the idea of calling on Melissa in the morning, but decides against it. She's sweet, and in another lifetime he probably would have gone, but he's not ready. Not yet. Maybe next time.

The ground hasn't actually shifted, not really, and Castiel hasn't moved away from him at all, but Dean still sways on the spot when Castiel jumps them from the warehouse to the motel room. His first thought is that it's still a disorienting experience, but he realizes a moment later that Cas swayed as much as he did. Dean is all set to start fussing, to ask if Cas is okay, to berate him for using his powers for such a frivolous thing when it takes so much out of him, but Castiel straightens up a moment later and gives Dean a tentative smile.

Anything Dean may have wanted to say slips his mind when Castiel moves in to kiss him, a little less forceful than earlier, but Dean can worry about wasting mojo on recreational activities when he's not preoccupied with divesting Cas of his clothing as fast as possible.

There's a moment, when Cas slides his palm over Dean's chest, that Dean thinks back to the widow and wonders if this really is it, if he'll always prefer strong, work-roughened hands to delicate fingers and soft skin, but then Castiel opens his mouth over the pulse point on Dean's neck, and he files those thoughts away, along with his concerns over Meg's taunts, for a decidedly less naked time.