Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night before the end of the world was quiet.

As Dean made his way out into the salvage yard, he decided that he shouldn’t be surprised. The last time the world was ending it had been the same — the calm before the storm. It was as if the world was holding its breath right before it took the plunge.

If he were honest, he could admit that he was doing the same thing. He had given Sam his blessing to say yes to the devil and kickstart the apocalypse, but just below the calm, “I have my shit together” mask, he was terrified. Tomorrow the world may end, but even if their plan somehow worked, he was going to lose his baby brother. Their whole plan hinged on it.

He should be inside with his brother, spending their last night alive drinking and reminiscing like they always did when one of them was on the chopping block. It was a well-practiced ritual — one that he knew he’d plaster a fake smile on and grit his teeth through, no matter how much his heart was hurting.

It was a small relief that Sam wasn’t interested in it this time. He had begged off a “last hurrah,” pleading exhaustion and needing to be rested for the day ahead. They had a few beers, prepped their supplies for the impending showdown, and then Sam had clapped Dean and Bobby on the backs before heading off to sleep. That was it. 

As much as he would probably regret not having a proper farewell, Dean was grateful for the reprieve now. He didn’t want to think about the bleakness of the future for one night. Even if it may be his last chance to.

Which is how he found himself picking his way through the salvage yard, making his way towards where he had parked Baby at the back of the property. Earlier it had been so he and Sam could talk in private and now he was grateful for his forethought. 

However, privacy wasn’t what he found when he rounded a stack of cars and found the Impala. Leaning against the car’s polished black side was Cas, waiting for him with his head tilted upwards, scanning the night sky.

The angel turned towards him as he approached, his gravelly voice filling the space between them. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey Cas.” Dean sighed as he joined the angel at the side of the car. The cool night breeze felt good against his overheated skin and he settled against the Impala’s side, closing his eyes as he let himself relax next to Cas. The angel didn’t comment, simply turning his eyes back up to the stars as they fell into companionable silence.

That was the thing about Cas — he didn’t press, didn’t ask Dean to open up about how he was feeling about his brother planning to take a swan dive into Hell in a matter of hours. Anything that Dean could have told the angel, Cas knew already. There wasn’t any need to hide away, to look for another spot to break down, because what was the point? Cas had already seen him at his lowest.

After a few minutes of sitting in silence, he realized that he wasn’t breaking down. When he came outside for privacy, he had assumed it was because he was going to break something or weep pathetically, but he found that he wasn’t that interested now that he had gained it. No, what he needed was a distraction.

That need had him finally break the silence between them, clearing his throat to gain the angel’s attention. “So,” he started, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip, “last night on Earth.”

Cas’s head tilted in the darkness, and an amused huff escaped the angel as the corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk. “Yes. Funny how you would expect to only have one of those, but here we are.”

“Well, I don’t know how we’re going to top the last one. Getting kicked out of a brothel is hard to beat.” Dean grinned, falling easily into teasing banter.

“As I recall, getting kicked out was not the goal of that endeavor.” Cas raised an eyebrow pointedly, and Dean felt heat rise into his cheeks.

He rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling sheepishly. “Yeah, well. Maybe it didn’t go so well last time,” he admitted, looking Cas up and down. “Seeing as you’re still a virgin.”

The angel let out a soft snort. “Somehow, I’m not sure a second attempt would go any better, if that is what you had in mind.”

Dean swallowed, his stomach swooping slightly as he thought about what he could say. There was a safe option — one where he teased Cas a little more and they returned to their companionable silence until the sun came up. It was the choice he usually would have made, mindful of the boundaries he had set with the angel and well within his comfort zone. 

However, tonight was their last night on Earth. If there was any time to not pick the safe option, it was now.

In the darkness, Dean could just barely make out Cas’s face from where he was leaning against the Impala next to him. Like a timeless statue, Cas hadn’t changed a bit outwardly, seeming to take Dean’s advice literally. The same trench coat, suit, and scuffed dress shoes adorned Cas’s vessel, and aside from his hair being a little more windblown than usual, his features hadn’t changed since Dean had first met him in the barn.

Despite this apparent lack of outward change, Dean figured if he was put in a room with this Cas and the Castiel he had first met, he would be able to tell the difference instantly. This Cas was the one who had been through Hell with him — both literally and figuratively. This Cas had abandoned his garrison, his family, and everything he had ever known simply because he believed in Dean. It was terrifying to be the subject of such loyalty, but Dean wouldn’t trade this Cas for any other. 

There were also slight physical differences. The Cas he had first met moved like he was unused to being in a human body. There was a certain awkwardness and stiffness to his actions; something that was no longer as apparent the more time Cas spent on Earth.

And then there was the most glaring difference, one that Dean had tried not to focus on. Mostly because of guilt but also… something else.

Cas was falling, and that meant he was becoming more human.

The guilt over that made sense. If Cas hadn’t given everything up for Dean, he could be with the God Squad happily preparing for the End of Times without a care for humanity or its pitfalls. Selfishly, Dean was glad this wasn’t the case. Even if Cas became completely human like he had in the alternate future Zachariah had shown him, he would rather have Cas at his side than on Heaven’s. 

The other thing, however…

Both leaning against the side of the Impala as they were, Dean’s shoulder nearly brushed Cas’s. They weren’t quite pressed together, but they were close. Close enough that Dean could smell Cas, and without any other distractions, he found it hard to focus on anything else.

He didn’t know if angels had designations or if they simply took over whatever designation their vessel had, but until now, Dean hadn’t really thought much about it. Whenever he had been in the presence of angels before, they hadn’t smelled like much. Perhaps with all of the other crap going on with angel’s mojo, being possessed by one acted as a sort of suppressant. It was as good a theory as any, and in the current case, didn’t matter much anymore.

Because the more human Cas became, the more Dean was aware that he, or his vessel, was an alpha.

It wasn’t like Dean hadn’t noticed that Cas was attractive before, but the whole “possessing another person” thing was a bit of a turn off for him. Nevermind the fact that he didn’t know if he could even trust Cas at first, and there wasn’t much room to even think about it. After he had gotten to get to know Cas more, he had noticed it more often, but he didn’t have the desire to act on his attraction until their last “Last Night on Earth.”

He could still remember the awkward lead up to it. The reference that he knew would go over Cas’s head, the declaration that he was going to get Cas laid. In that moment, he was completely on board with going out with a bang with a certain angel of the lord. 

On the way to the motel, however, he had chickened out. Instead, he drove them to a brothel, and the rest was that. Now he had the opportunity to right that wrong, if he was brave enough to go through with it this time.

He licked his lips nervously as he cast a sidelong glance at the angel. Cas’s body was relaxed against the Impala, though through the layers of clothes he always wore Dean could tell there was some ever-present tension, like he was ready for a fight at any moment. As he slid his gaze down Cas’s body, Dean felt his mouth go dry as he pictured what else the angel might be hiding under his layers.

Fuck it. 

Crowding into Cas’s space, Dean tried not to reflect on the irony of his insistence on personal space so often in the past. If he was going to seduce the angel right this time, he was going to have to be straightforward with it. No amount of innuendo or obscure references would help him here.

Bracing one hand against the Impala, he leaned forward, making sure to expose his neck as he did so. “Are you sure about that?” He challenged, smirking suggestively as he looked at Cas with hooded eyes.

Cas inhaled sharply, apparently caught off guard by the proposition. Of course, doing so in such close proximity to Dean allowed him to scent the full arousal coming off of him, and his pupils dilated as he got the full intent behind Dean’s actions. “Dean…”

“Come on, man. Let’s do it. Bert and Ernie.” Dean joked, trying to put Cas at ease even as his own heart hammered in his chest.

It worked, as Cas rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I still don’t understand the reference,” he sighed before his expression grew serious. “Are you sure?”

Dean felt pinned by the intense stare locked onto him, but it also triggered a warm pool of arousal to form in his gut. With the hand not braced against Baby, he smoothed down the front of Cas’s shirt, feeling the firm muscles underneath.

“I wanted to do this the last time,” he admitted, his eyes darting over Cas’s face before returning to the hand on his chest. “I’ve thought about it ever since.” Dean worked up the courage to look Cas in the eye, finding the angel’s fervent gaze. “So what do you say? Want to spend our last night on Earth working on some firsts?”

For a moment, Dean thought he had lost Cas. The angel had gone still, his penetrating stare still piercing through his very soul, laying him bare — and not in a fun way. After a few seconds of silence, he began to regret his boldness. Maybe he had been wrong, maybe Cas wasn’t interested in—

Suddenly, a warm hand cupped his face. He tensed, ready to pull back, when Cas’s lips captured his own, and there was little room for doubt with that move. 

Kissing Cas was a little bit like flying in a thunderstorm. As much as Dean hated flying, there was a moment during takeoff when his stomach would drop, and everything he thought he knew about gravity was turned on his head. Adding the taste of ozone and the electricity that coursed down his spine, and the two could be compared, though it was so much more.

Whatever Cas lacked in experience, he made up for in passion. Abandoning his grip on Cas’s shirt and the car, Dean let his arms wrap around the angel’s neck, moaning softly into the kiss as Cas teased his mouth open.

He didn’t know how much time passed —  it could have been minutes, it could have been hours — before Cas broke their kiss, taking pity on Dean’s need for oxygen. As he caught his breath, Dean could only pant and shudder as Cas’s lips trailed down his neck, the angel inhaling his scent deeply.

Cas’s tongue laved at his pulse point, and Dean couldn’t contain the noise that escaped him, somewhere between a whine and a shout. Cas’s hand came up to press against his mouth, and that sent another bolt of heat shooting down his spine. He felt an ache starting to grow between his thighs and clenched them together.

“Quiet now, we don’t want anyone coming out here, do we?” Cas murmured in his ear. It only took one glance to show that the angel was smirking, clearly proud at how easily he was making Dean squirm. Bastard was enjoying himself.

Still, Dean couldn’t deny that the whole scenario was extremely hot. He nodded, and Cas lowered his hand. He only had a moment to brace himself before Cas’s mouth was on his neck again, and he had to focus on being quiet.

One of Cas’s thighs came up to press between Dean’s bowed legs, and Dean took to grinding himself on it quickly. He panted, his hands coming up to tug on Cas’s hair as he arched his back against the Impala. Shuddering, he felt slick sliding down the backs of his thighs, his body readying itself to be taken.

Getting impatient, Dean reached behind himself, fumbling for the Impala’s door handle. He regretted the loss of Cas’s thigh to grind down on as the angel took the hint and adjusted their position, but it was worth it once he was able to pull them both into the backseat, Cas hovering above him, arms braced on either side of his head.

As soon as they were horizontal, Dean got to work, his fumbling fingers finding Cas’s fly and making quick work of the front of his pants. Getting impatient, he cupped the hard, long line of Cas’s dick through the material, the choked off moan he received in return feeling like a reward.

His victory was short-lived as Cas chose to respond by removing Dean’s clothing all at once, the snap of his fingers echoing in the confined space. Dean hardly had a moment to react before Cas was descending on him again, still frustratingly clothed.

“Cas, I know you’re new to this, but usually both of us need to be naked for this part,” he quipped, holding back a moan as Cas sucked at his neck.

Cas’s lips moved to the shell of his ear, the rough timbre of his voice making Dean’s stomach clench in anticipation. “I’ve observed humanity since the beginning, Dean.” Without warning, he reached down and stroked Dean’s exposed dick. “I think I understand the mechanics of intercourse.”

Dean nearly bit his tongue at the touch, his dick throbbing in Cas’s hold as the angel continued touching him. “Yeah, yeah I’d say you got it.” He whined, letting his head fall back against the leather seat.

The movement left his neck exposed; something that Cas capitalized on immediately. As he returned to what Dean could only assume was leaving a hickey the size of Texas. He found himself caring less and less about it though as they continued. He finally managed to slip his hand into the waistband of Cas’s boxers, running his palm along the length of him. Fuck, Cas was huge.

He felt like a teenager again, sneaking off to the back of the Impala to get it on. The nostalgia was almost laughable, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he glanced up at the dark sky through the window behind Cas’s head. Only now, instead of some girl he’d just met, it was Castiel.

He wasn’t going to lie to himself and say he hadn’t thought about this before. Hell, he’d thought about it plenty. On more than one occasion, Dean had imagined what it would be like to see Cas lose control, to feel all that celestial power focused on him. It was a thought that had crossed his mind during the most inconvenient times — in the shower, in bed, while driving long stretches of empty highway with Cas seated right beside him.

Those thoughts had always been just fantasies, a guilty pleasure that made him feel dirty but desperate. He’d recall the time Cas had beaten him in that alleyway, how he’d been pinned against the wall by the angel’s righteous fury. Dean remembered the way Cas’s eyes had blazed, the raw strength in his grip. He wasn’t proud of it, but that memory had fueled more than one shower fantasy, his hand moving faster as he pictured Cas’s intense expression, the feel of his unyielding body against his.

Dean had come embarrassingly quickly to those thoughts, panting against the shower wall, ashamed but unable to help himself. They were vivid fantasies, sure, but he had never dared to do anything about them. There was a line he hadn’t been willing to cross — until now.

The backseat of the Impala was cramped, their breaths mingling in the small space. Cas’s lips were hot against his neck, each kiss sending shivers down Dean’s spine. It was real, more real than anything Dean had ever felt. The stubble on Cas’s cheek scratched against his skin, a delicious friction that made Dean arch into him. Cas’s weight was a solid, comforting pressure, pinning him down against the worn leather seat.

Every touch, every kiss was better than he had imagined. Dean’s hand roamed over Cas’s trench coat, sliding underneath to grasp at the fabric of his shirt. Cas’s fingers tangled in Dean’s hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp. The angel was everywhere, his presence overwhelming, consuming. Dean had always known Cas was powerful, but feeling that power so intimately was something else entirely.

Cas’s hands moved with a certainty that made Dean’s heart race. His touch was firm, decisive, and Dean felt himself melting into it, surrendering to the sensations. He had always been the one in control, the one calling the shots, but with Cas, it was different. He trusted Cas in a way he had never trusted anyone else.

“Dean,” Cas’s voice was a rough whisper, filled with something deep and primal. Dean shuddered at the sound of his name on Cas’s lips, his body reacting instinctively.

“Cas,” he managed to breathe out, his fingers digging into the angel’s shoulders. The world outside the Impala didn’t matter. It was just them, just this moment.

Cas’s mouth found his again, a searing kiss that left Dean’s lips tingling. Their movements were urgent, desperate, months of unspoken longing and suppressed desire coming to the surface. Dean felt like he was on fire, every nerve ending alive with sensation.

He had thought about this so many times, but nothing had prepared him for the reality of it. The way Cas’s body fit against his, the sound of their breaths mingling, the taste of Cas on his tongue. It was intoxicating, and Dean never wanted it to end.

For once, he let go of all the doubts, the fears, the guilt. He gave himself over to the moment, to Cas. The angel’s hands on him, the weight of him, the heat — it was all Dean had ever wanted and more.

Cas’s hand moved lower, and Dean bit back a whine as his dick was abandoned. Cas moved his head from his neck, icy blue eyes returning to stare at him through the darkness as his fingers found what they were looking for, circling Dean’s rim, and yeah, okay. He was on board with that.

There was still the problem of Cas’s clothes. To Dean’s frustration, the angel seemed entirely unhurried in disposing of his layers, the only thing that Dean had succeeded in was getting the front of his pants open. He was rather distracted from his task by Cas’s intensity, and he was starting to realize he may have been out of his depth dealing with the angel.

The leather of the Impala's backseat creaked softly beneath them, the heavy scent of sex mingling with the familiar aroma of old vinyl and gun oil. Dean lay sprawled, his breath coming in ragged gasps, eyes locked onto Castiel's intense blue gaze. Cas’s fingers traced the rim of Dean’s entrance with featherlight touches, sending shivers up his spine.

"May I?" Cas's voice was low, rough with need.

"Cas, if you don’t start fucking me—"

Dean’s words were cut off as Cas's finger breached him, the intrusion both startling and electrifying. He sucked in a breath, his body instinctively arching into the touch. Cas looked way too smug about his sudden loss for words, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to care. More slick gushed out of him, a flush of embarrassment mixing with the overwhelming desire coursing through him.

Almost too soon, Cas added another finger, and Dean’s head fell back, a throaty moan escaping his lips. His impatience grew, the combined scent of their arousal filling the confined space of the car, driving him wild. With one hand still stroking Cas through his boxers, Dean used his other hand to tug Cas’s tie, pulling him closer until their lips almost touched.

“I’m ready, Cas,” Dean whispered against Cas’s lips, his voice rough with need. “I need you inside me. Now.”

Cas hesitated for a split second, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, and Dean, deciding to play dirty, let his hand slide lower, brushing where Cas's knot was starting to fill. "I want you, Cas. I want you to fuck me and knot me. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want to get your big alpha cock in me?" 

Cas froze, and for a moment, Dean feared he had gone too far. Then, without warning, a third finger joined the others inside him, and Cas let out a growl that made Dean even slicker, if that was possible. Dean’s hand rubbed at the base of Cas’s knot, encouraging him further.

Finally, he seemed to have gotten through the angel’s infuriating levels of patience. Cas didn’t bother snapping his fingers to remove his clothes this time. One moment he was frustratingly clothed, and the next, he was gloriously naked. Dean’s eyes roamed hungrily over Cas’s body, but there was no time to savor it. Cas was already positioning himself, the head of his cock teasing at Dean’s hole.

Cas glanced up, his eyes searching Dean’s for any sign of hesitation. Dean thought if Cas asked for permission again, he might lose it. Fortunately, Cas didn’t. He guided the head of his cock inside Dean, moving slowly until his hips were flush against the backs of Dean’s thighs.

All of Cas’s surety and cockiness vanished the moment he was fully inside Dean. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his eyelids fluttered as he adjusted to the overwhelming sensation. Dean thought it was insanely hot, the way Cas was so undone, and he coaxed him through it with a gentle hand on the back of his neck.

“Easy,” Dean murmured, his voice a low rumble. “Just breathe. I got you.”

Dean was struggling to keep himself under control, the toe-curling feeling of Cas’s length completely inside him almost too much to bear. But he held on, wanting to make sure this was good for Cas. This moment was about him, about giving him something unforgettable.

Cas’s breath came in ragged gasps, his grip tightening on Dean’s hips. Dean could feel the angel’s confusion and pleasure, his body trembling. The friction, the heat, it was all too much and yet not enough.

The angel didn’t seem to know what to do, overwhelmed as he was by all the new feelings he was experiencing. After a minute, Dean experimentally clenched, feeling every glorious inch of Castiel inside of him. He gasped softly, the feeling of being so full addicting. Cas’s grip on his hips became ironclad, the angel groaning as his cock was enveloped within Dean’s walls. 

Slowly, Dean began to roll his hips, Cas’s length barely sliding out of him before being buried back inside his tight warmth. He dug his nails ever so slightly into the nape of Cas’s neck, whispering encouragingly against the angel’s jaw. “Come on, buddy. You can move.”

Cas hesitantly drew back, sliding barely halfway out of him before pushing back in, his length making its home deep inside. His mouth hung open, his eyes half-closed in ecstasy. Already, the angel was overwhelmed, and Dean was going to show him just how much better it could be.

He rolled his hips more insistently, but Cas’s firm hold on him meant he couldn’t move the way he wanted. He was like a pinned animal, and he was only going to get fucked as fast or as hard as the alpha wanted to fuck him. Frustration warred with arousal, and Dean found himself tilting his head, exposing his neck invitingly to the angel in an instinctive move, begging to be taken.

“Cas — Alpha, please — I need you to fuck me.” Dean almost didn’t recognize his own voice, high and needy as it was. 

The appeal to his baser instincts seemed to work on Cas, his eyes suddenly burning with blue intensity as his focus was brought back to Dean and not only the feeling of his cock being buried in inviting warmth. 

He drew himself almost entirely out of Dean’s heat, but before he could protest, to whine at the lack of a cock filling him up, Cas slammed his hips forward, hard enough to bruise as he began to fuck Dean in earnest, each thrust sending sparks shooting down his spine and through his body. Dean’s legs came up to wrap around Cas, the slight change in position allowing Cas’s thrusts to deepen even further. 

Their combined pants and moans filled the car, the sound of skin slapping against skin a raw, primal symphony. Dean kept up a steady stream of encouragement, spurring Cas on. As he felt himself nearing his peak, he noticed Cas was losing his tentative grip on his own control, his thrusts coming faster and more erratic as he neared orgasm.

“Dean, I’m—” Cas’s voice was strained, on the edge of losing control.

“I know, buddy. Just let go. I’ve got you,” Dean reassured him, squeezing tighter around Cas’s cock.

Cas’s control snapped. With a guttural groan, he bit down on the junction of Dean’s shoulder, hard enough to draw blood. The pain mingled with pleasure, sending him spiraling. At the same time, Cas’s knot swelled, locking inside him. The sensation of Cas spilling inside him, combined with the sharp bite, was enough to push Dean over the edge. He came with a force that nearly made him black out, his legs trembling from where they were wrapped around Cas. All he could do was moan softly as Cas continued to empty inside him, the knot ensuring they stayed connected.

They collapsed together, tangled in a mess of limbs and sweat. Dean’s breath came in shallow pants, his heart racing. Cas’s hair was sticking up in every direction, and Dean couldn’t help but smile at the sight. He wanted to run his hands through it, to mess it up even more. He wanted to lick the line of sweat running down the side of Cas’s face, to taste the salt on his skin. Cas’s knot tugged inside of him, and Dean’s toes curled at the feeling of being stuffed full, the steady pulse of Cas’s seed marking his inner walls causing him to shiver with arousal, even as his own dick lay flaccid, spent for the moment.

Dean reached up, fingers threading through Cas’s hair, making it even messier. “You look like you’ve been through a tornado,” he teased, his voice soft and affectionate. He continued his gentle petting, feeling the instinctual need to comfort, to soothe his alpha. “Are you okay?” 

Cas nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. His eyes were bright in the darkness. “I’ve observed this before,” he said, his voice still breathless. “As an angel.”

Dean chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “What, are you saying you were a perv, Cas? Watching people get it on?”

Cas shot him a look that clearly said to shut up. “Things feel differently now,” he continued, ignoring Dean’s teasing. “As I become more human, the sensations are more… intense.”

Dean tried not to look too smug about absolutely rocking Cas’s world. “Well, I’m glad I could give you a proper human experience,” he said, a mix of teasing and sincerity in his tone.

Cas’s eyes softened, and he leaned in to kiss Dean gently, a lingering press of lips that spoke of gratitude and affection. “Thank you, Dean,” he whispered against his lips.

As Dean pushed slightly up to meet him, a sharp pain hit him. He hissed and reached up, fingers tracing the fresh bite mark. He winced at the broken skin, a flash of realization hitting him. “Dude, did you fucking bite me?”

Cas tilted his head, his expression confused in the darkness. “Was I not supposed to? I was under the assumption that it was standard practice in alpha and omega pairings.”

Dean tried to be mad, he really did, but Cas was so earnest, so out of his depth, that he couldn’t be. He huffed, letting his head fall back against the seat cushions. “It’s like marrying the first person you sleep with, Cas.”

Cas looked at him, his blue eyes unwavering. “I fell from Heaven for you, Dean. I’d say I’ve made my commitment clear.”

Dean’s heart clenched at the sincerity in Cas’s words. He coughed, feeling a flush creep up the back of his neck. “Yeah, you sap.”

Cas’s gaze softened. “Are you alright, Dean? I understand that there are some… finer human particularities I may have missed.”

Dean sighed, feeling a strange warmth in his chest. A part of him wanted to run away and hide at any sign of commitment, of getting too close, but the feeling of Cas’s firm weight on top of him and the heady scent of their combined pheromones made it hard to panic. His omega instincts called for him to give in, to let himself be taken care of for once, and Dean found it a hard call to resist. Would it be so bad to just have this one thing? Moreover, the deed was done already. For his first time, Cas sure knew exactly where to bite down to mark Dean as his. Not that it was the first time Cas had marked him anyway, as the handprint-shaped scar on his shoulder could attest. Maybe it was inevitable. Perhaps he wasn’t destined to be Michael’s vessel, but to belong to Castiel. Of the two, Dean knew which he would prefer.

He traced light circles on the back of Cas’s neck, feeling where soft hair met skin. “It’s fine, Cas. Really.” Privately, he thought that the world would probably end tomorrow, so it wouldn’t matter much anyway.

Cas’s smile was small but genuine. “Thank you, Dean… For sharing yourself with me.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t keep the affection out of his voice. “Oh, don’t get mushy on me.”

Cas smiled wider at him in the darkness, and Dean found himself returning it. There was something incredibly comforting about the simple, honest connection they shared. Even if they did survive and have to deal with the whole mating thing, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Cas understood him. He saw Dean in a way nobody else ever had — like he was worth something. It was a terrifying but also humbling experience to have someone see all of him, even the horrible, hell-torture parts, and still care for him regardless.

“So…” Dean said after a moment, rolling his hips slightly just to feel the tug of Cas’s knot inside him again. “The night’s still young, and apparently this is our honeymoon. You up for a few more rounds?”

Cas’s eyes lit up with a mix of surprise and eagerness. “Yes, Dean. I am.”

Dean grinned, pulling Cas down for another kiss. The world may be ending, there may be no hope for the future and they may be dead tomorrow, but tonight he could have this. One moment of peace before everything went to shit. 

In the darkness, the Impala sat hidden within the maze of cars in Singer’s Salvage Yard. The night before the end of the world was quiet — the calm before the storm, and come what may, the two figures nestled within her embrace would face the morning with spines of steel and brave faces. 

But for now, they had time. 

The next day, Sam slid into the passenger seat of the Impala and immediately wrinkled his nose. The car still carried the lingering scents of the previous night’s activities, and Sam, perceptive as ever, clearly noticed. He sent a look Dean’s way, who stubbornly avoided eye contact, his gaze fixed intently on the steering wheel. 

It didn’t take long for Sam to spot the bandage on Dean’s neck. “Hey, what happened to your neck?” he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean mumbled, keeping his eyes trained forward.

Sam leaned back in his seat, raising his eyebrows. He followed Dean’s gaze out the windshield to where Cas was talking with Bobby, the two of them engaged in a quiet conversation. Sam’s mind worked quickly, putting the pieces together. He glanced back at Dean, who could feel a blush creeping up his neck despite his best efforts to remain composed.

“Really? Cas?” Sam asked, a mix of incredulity and amusement coloring his tone.

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean shot back, though there was no real heat in his words.

Sam laughed, a sound that was both surprising and heartening given the dire circumstances they were about to face. Dean acted offended, but inside, he was genuinely glad to see his brother laugh. It was a brief, but much-needed reminder of normalcy, a touchstone in the chaos their lives had become.

Dean thought about how Sam was braver than he ever was, able to laugh even as he prepared to give his body up to Lucifer. It was hard not to think of this as their last time together as brothers, that soon Sam would be in Hell with Dean expected to move on — if they even survived. The weight of that reality pressed heavily on his shoulders, but he forced himself to push it aside. They had a job to do.

Cas finished his conversation with Bobby and walked over to the car, sliding into the backseat. His eyes met Dean’s in the rearview mirror, and Dean was suddenly hyper-aware of the mating mark on his neck under the bandage. Cas’s gaze was steady, filled with a quiet understanding that made Dean’s heart ache and swell with unspoken emotions. Dean couldn’t help but wink at Cas, a small gesture that felt almost ridiculous given the circumstances, but it was their way of communicating the unsaid.

Dean put the car in drive, pulling out of the salvage yard with Bobby following in his truck. The rumble of the Impala’s engine was a familiar comfort, a steady heartbeat in the chaos of their lives. Dean took a deep breath, feeling a strange sense of peace settle over him.

They were heading for what could very well be the end of the world, but Dean wouldn’t want to face it with anyone else. He trusted in his family — in Sam, in Cas, in Bobby. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with, bound by more than just blood and destiny. They were bound by choice, by love, by an unbreakable commitment to each other.

Any demon or angel stupid enough to take them on didn’t know what they were in for. Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel, a determined set to his jaw. Whatever happened next, they would face it together. And that, Dean thought, was the most powerful weapon they had.

Chapter Text

In the end, the end of the world was averted — or at least postponed until further notice.

It all ended up working out as planned, which really sucked for Dean, seeing as he was counting on being too dead to care about the aftermath of their success, but here he was, alive and well. While Sam was in Hell.

Sitting on Bobby’s worn-out couch, Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that there had to be another way. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t think of one, and that infuriated him more than anything. How was it fair that the only way to save the world was for his baby brother to sacrifice himself? The kind, understanding, good kid that Dean had raised didn’t deserve that, but it seemed like the universe had other plans.

Sighing heavily, he reached forward and swiped another lore book off of the top of a stack resting on the ground next to the couch. Flipping it open, he began skimming the pages, looking for anything that might be useful. He had promised to not try to get Sam out of Hell, but he had known he was going to break that promise as soon as he made it. Leaving Sam in the Cage and moving on just wasn’t an option, no matter what Sam had begged otherwise.

It had been weeks since the showdown in Stull cemetery and not a moment had gone by that Dean didn’t think about it. The image of his brother grabbing Michael in Adam’s body and throwing them both into the pit was burned behind his eyelids, the memory ready to be played in detail every time he closed his eyes.

He rubbed at his neck, pausing as his thumb barely brushed the slightly raised lines of the mating mark just barely under his collar. That was another can of worms. On the way to Detroit, with Cas asleep in the backseat of the Impala, Sam had made Dean promise to move on and try to settle down. He had given a very deliberate glance to the rearview mirror as he spoke, and Dean knew he hadn’t fooled his brother one bit. But just like his promise to not look for a way to save Sam, Dean couldn’t keep that promise either. 

In the aftermath of averting the apocalypse, Cas had reappeared, resurrecting Bobby and fixing Dean up. His touch had been welcome, a grounding focus in the chaos that was Dean’s entire world being flipped upside-down. He hadn’t been able to stay, however. Regretfully, Cas told him that with the apocalypse averted, someone needed to make sure that Heaven wouldn’t try to release the archangels from the Cage and restart the end of the world. 

Dean knew that Cas had to leave, and he was even okay with it to an extent. He held no delusions that he and the angel would be able to settle down into some apple-pie life, no matter what Sam had thought. It hadn’t made the hurt any less, but he understood. Someone had to keep an eye on Heaven. 

Cas had kissed him before leaving, whispering promises that he would return as soon as he was able. Dean had responded in kind, promising to wait for him. In the moment, he was sure they had both meant it, but expectations had a way of never quite matching reality. 

Not that he didn’t plan to wait for the angel. After all, he was mated to Cas now, and that put kind of a damper on going out to bars and sleeping around. The thought didn’t even appeal to him anymore, the thought of someone else touching him in that way made his skin crawl. It was ironic and a little funny that Cas, the awkward, virgin angel, had absolutely ruined him for everyone else. Maybe that was a part of the whole mating thing. Dean didn’t know, it wasn’t like he had any experience with it before.

So at the end of everything, he really hadn’t been left with much to do other than make good on breaking his first promise to Sam. For the last six weeks, he had done nothing but camp out at Bobby’s house and research ways to get his brother out of the pit. For Bobby’s part, he had been in and out of the house, sometimes on a case and other times because he couldn’t stand to be around. Sam’s loss weighed heavily on both of them, and Dean couldn’t blame the older hunter for not wanting to stick around much. He was pretty miserable company these days.

He closed his eyes and swallowed roughly as a wave of nausea came over him. In the time since Sam had jumped into the pit, Dean hadn’t eaten or slept more than was absolutely necessary. All food had started to taste like ash, and his nightmares were a mix between his own greatest hits from Hell and what Sam could be going through right now in the Cage. His body had obviously had enough of the poor treatment, as he had to make periodic trips to the bathroom now to empty what little was in his stomach at least twice a day. 

Fortunately, this time there was no need for a mad dash to the toilet. The clunk of heavy boots and the front door slamming shut made his eyes snap open just in time to see Bobby make his way into the living room, a disgruntled look on his face.

“You look like hell,” Bobby greeted, his voice heavy with the weight of his own grief and exhaustion.

“Thanks,” Dean muttered, turning his attention back to the book in his hand. The words blurred slightly on the page in front of him, and he squinted with irritation as he had to reread the passage he had been working on. 

A sigh came from the older hunter as he came to stand in front of him. “Dean, you need to slow down. This ain’t what Sam would want, you know that.”

Dean didn’t look up. He couldn’t face Bobby’s eyes, knowing that they’d only reflect his own pain back at him. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing, Bobby. I have to find a way.”

He grimaced as another wave of nausea passed through him, more insistent than the last. It took a few moments and several swallows to tamp it down again, and he internally cursed his inability to keep it together. It was just stress, he rationalized. Making himself sick over finding anything to free Sam wasn’t helping, but he didn’t know what else he could do.

Bobby had noticed, of course. He always noticed. And now he was standing there, arms crossed with a look of concerned exasperation on his face.

“Dean, we need to talk,” Bobby spoke firmly.

Lifting his gaze from the book in his hand, Dean felt a surge of irritation at the hunter. Why couldn’t he just leave him alone like he had for the past week? “There’s nothing to talk about,” he snapped. “I’m fine.”

“The hell you are,” Bobby growled, his voice rising. “You ain’t fine, and neither am I. And pretending isn’t going to bring your brother back.”

“I’m not pretending,” Dean shot back, anger and frustration boiling over. He welcomed the feeling, eager for any escape from the crushing numbness of grief. “I’m doing what I have to do.”

“Damn it Dean!” Bobby’s shout exploded from him, filling the entire house. “You can’t keep running yourself into the ground. It’s gonna kill you.”

“Well, maybe it’s what I deserve!” Dean yelled before he realized what he had said. Silence fell between them, Bobby’s eyes wide with horror. Dean swallowed, but he couldn’t take back the words.

Bobby’s expression of anger fell, washed away with fresh pain. “Dean, that’s not what Sam would want. He wanted you to live. To have a life.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but his stomach lurched violently. He turned away, barely making it to the bathroom before he vomited. The bitter taste of bile stung his throat as he collapsed onto his knees, shaking.

Bobby was beside him in an instant, a strong hand on his shoulder. "See? This is what I'm talkin' about. You can't go on like this."

Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tears of frustration burning in his eyes. "I don't know what else to do, Bobby. I don't know how to keep going without him."

"You start by taking care of yourself," Bobby said gently. "You owe it to Sam. And to yourself. You promised Cas you'd wait for him. You think he's gonna be happy seeing you like this?"

Dean closed his eyes, the weight of Bobby's words sinking in. He knew Bobby was right, but the pain was so consuming, so all-encompassing. How could he let go, even a little, when it felt like losing Sam all over again?

Bobby helped him to his feet, placing a guiding hand on his back. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up. We'll figure this out, one step at a time. Together."

Dean nodded weakly, allowing himself to lean on Bobby, to accept the help he so desperately needed. It was a small step, but it was a step. And for now, that had to be enough.

Bobby sat at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. He glanced toward the hallway where Dean had disappeared again. The sound of retching reached his ears, making him wince. This had been going on for days, and Bobby was getting worried. It wasn’t just the vomiting; it was the way Dean was pushing himself, obsessing over finding a way to rescue Sam. Bobby knew grief, and he knew the toll it could take, but this was something else.

When Dean finally stumbled back into the kitchen, pale and exhausted, Bobby decided it was time to speak up. “Dean, this ain’t normal. We should call Cas down here, see if he can figure out what’s goin’ on.”

Dean shook his head stubbornly, taking a seat across from Bobby. “I’m not bothering Cas over a stomach bug, Bobby. He’s got enough on his plate with Heaven.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Bobby retorted, frustration seeping into his voice. "Even if Cas is an angel, he should want to take care of his mate." He nodded significantly towards Dean’s shoulder, where Castiel had left his claiming mark. The edge of it barely peeked out of Dean’s collar, a clear signal to all that he was taken.

Dean flinched at the word, his hand instinctively brushing against the mark, a troubled expression passing over his features. His eyes suddenly went wide, realization dawning on his face. Without a word, he shot up from the table, grabbing his keys.

“Where the hell are you going?” Bobby called after him, but Dean was already halfway out the door.

“I’ll be right back!” Dean shouted over his shoulder before disappearing.

An hour later, Bobby was pacing the living room, worry gnawing at him. The sound of the Impala’s engine pulling up outside made him rush to the door. Dean walked in, his face pale and tense, heading straight for the bathroom without a word.

Bobby stood there, bewildered, listening as the minutes ticked by. Half an hour later, Dean emerged, his expression a mix of shock and something Bobby couldn’t quite place.

“Maybe you’re right,” Dean said quietly, his voice trembling slightly. “I should call Cas.”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed with concern. “Dean, you’re not just sick, are you?”

Dean shook his head, looking like he was about to collapse. Bobby didn’t hesitate, stepping forward to wrap his arms around him. Dean stiffened at first, then relaxed into the embrace, drawing strength from the older man’s steady presence. After a moment, he gently pushed away.

“I need to talk to Cas,” Dean said, his voice steadier now.

Bobby nodded, watching as Dean walked outside, his head tilted in a silent prayer. The air was thick with the scent of oil and rust as Dean made his way among the rows of stacked cars, each one a silent witness to the lives he and his family had lived.

Once Dean was out of sight, Bobby headed to the bathroom, his heart pounding. Something had changed, something significant. He glanced around and spotted the trash can, where three pregnancy tests lay discarded, each one unmistakably positive.

Bobby's breath caught in his throat. “Balls,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. He stepped back out of the bathroom, his mind racing. Returning to the window, he scanned the junkyard. Amid the maze of rusting metal, he thought he saw a flash of tan trench coat.

Bobby sighed, relief and confusion mingling. He was glad that Dean hadn’t decided to be even more of a stubborn ass about it, but now that he knew the reason for it, he found himself wishing that Dean had been spared. 

The broken hunter had enough to deal with already without adding a kid to the mix. Hell, Dean could barely take care of himself these days. It was going to be a rude awakening and a hell of an adjustment to come to terms with, and Bobby mourned that the man he saw as a son had so much on his shoulders.

Turning away from the window, Bobby decided to leave them to it. He settled back into his chair at the kitchen table, the cold coffee forgotten. He would be there for Dean, just as he always had been, and they’d face whatever came next side by side.

Dean stood amidst the stacks of old, rusting cars, feeling the cool metal beneath his fingertips as he ran his hand along the hood of a forgotten vehicle. The sun overhead blazed down, reflecting off of broken mirrors and windshields across the yard. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He had to call Cas. He had no choice.

"Cas," he began, his voice rough and low. "I need you. I know you're busy with Heaven, but this is important. I wouldn't be pulling you away if it wasn't." He hesitated, trying to find the words, but his mind was a blank slate. How could he tell Cas something like this?

He waited, the silence stretching on, his nerves fraying with each passing second. Just as doubt began to creep in, he heard it: the faint, familiar rustle of wings. He turned to see Cas standing before him, looking slightly harried but undeniably present.

"Dean," Cas greeted him, a hint of urgency in his voice. "I heard your prayer. What’s wrong?"

Dean opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. He stared at Cas, feeling a surge of guilt for dragging him away from his duties. Cas took a step closer, concern etched on his features.

"Dean, what’s the matter?" Cas asked again, his worry palpable. He pressed into Dean’s space, searching his face for answers.

Dean swallowed hard, the proximity and concern in Cas’s eyes breaking down his resolve. "I’m pregnant," he managed to say, the words barely more than a whisper.

Cas squinted, tilting his head in confusion. "What?"

Dean found his strength, repeating himself with a bit more force. "I’m pregnant, Cas."

Cas’s brow furrowed in concentration as he listened to Dean describe what had been happening — the vomiting, the nausea, the exhaustion. He reached out, his lips quirking ever so slightly in a patient, soothing manner. “Dean, that’s not possible. If you were pregnant, I would have sensed it the instant it happened.”

As he spoke, he laid a hand on Dean’s midsection, intending to reassure him. His sentence cut off abruptly as his eyes widened in shock, sensing the truth beneath his hand. His gaze dropped down to where his hand rested, and a soft “Oh,” escaped his lips.

“Cas?” Dean questioned, worry creeping into his voice.

Cas looked up, his eyes distant and unfocused. “I don’t know how I didn’t sense it, but it’s there.”

Dean’s heart raced as he searched Cas’s face for answers. “So it’s true. I’m really…?”

“Yes,” Cas confirmed, his voice shaky. “You’re pregnant.”

Cas’s eyes slowly gained a panicked look, and he began to speak rapidly. “Dean, the situation in Heaven is worse than I thought. Raphael has issued an ultimatum. In order to avoid bloodshed, I would have to surrender and allow him to restart the apocalypse. If the other angels found out about this pregnancy, they would kill us all.”

Almost to himself, he muttered, “My path is suddenly clear; I cannot lose against Raphael.”

Dean felt a knot of confusion and anger twisting in his gut. "Wait a second, hold on, Cas. Why the hell would the God Squad care that I’m knocked up? Are they so far up Heaven’s ass that they can’t handle one of their own getting it on?"

Cas's eyes, usually so steady and sure, flickered with an emotion Dean rarely saw: fear. "Dean, this isn’t just a normal pregnancy. I’m an angel. That means that you— we conceived a Nephilim. And Nephilim are forbidden by heaven’s oldest laws. If they find out…" His voice trailed off, laden with a sorrow that made Dean’s chest tighten.

Dean's jaw dropped as he tried to wrap his mind around Cas's words. "But your grace… you were falling."

“Falling, yes. But not fallen. I’m afraid that made all the difference.” Cas’s words hung heavy in the air, a tangible weight pressing down on them both. “Dean, I’m so sorry. If I had thought—” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now. I made a mistake, and now we’re both going to pay for it.”

The words hit Dean hard, a dull ache forming in his chest. "You think it was a mistake?" he asked, his voice tinged with hurt.

Cas didn't answer, his silence more telling than any words. Dean’s hurt quickly morphed into anger. "Well, whatever you think, it takes two to tango, Cas. And I’m the one who came onto you if I remember right."

Cas's jaw clenched, and he looked away, the lines of his face drawn tight with tension. "I should have known this was a possibility. I’m the angel, Dean."

"And I’m the omega," Dean shot back. "Don’t act like I didn’t know that getting pregnant was in the cards. I just didn’t care."

Silence reigned between them, both set in their own determined self-blame. The only sound in the scrapyard the slight creaks of the rusted cars settling as the breeze ran over them. Finally, Dean softened, his anger dissipating into a sigh. He reached out, turning Cas's head back to face him with a gentle touch.

"Look, we can play the blame game all day long. But it doesn’t matter, man. All we can do now is figure out a game plan."

Cas hesitated, his expression torn. "There’s something else you should know."

"Alright, hit me," Dean said, bracing himself.

"I’ve been assigned to terminate several Nephilim in the time I served Heaven. In all cases, the carrier did not survive the birth." Cas lifted a hand to cup Dean’s face, the touch so gentle it almost broke Dean's heart. "I can’t lose you, Dean. Especially since I don’t know if there will be a Heaven left for you to go to."

Dean reached up, holding Cas’s hand, trying to convey all the reassurance he could muster. "You won’t lose me. We’ll figure this out."

Inside, Dean's mind and heart raced. This was more than he had ever imagined, the enormity of it threatening to overwhelm him. But he couldn’t panic, Cas was doing enough of that for both of them. He could see the fear in Cas’s eyes, the worry etched into every line of his face.

Still, Cas seemed to see through his calm façade, the fear retreating from his expression to look at Dean with clear eyes. "I’m sorry, Dean. This must be overwhelming. Are you alright?"

Dean let out a laugh, tinged with hysteria. "You mean after the bombshells you just dropped? I’m peachy, Cas."

Cas stared at him, looking a little helpless, and Dean sighed, bringing his forehead to rest against Cas’s.

"What are our options?" Dean asked quietly.

"Not many. Any attempt at termination will likely kill you, as will carrying to term. And if Heaven finds out, we’re both dead."

Dean closed his eyes, the weight of their situation pressing down on him. "All paths lead to the same place then."

"I’m sorry," Cas repeated, his voice barely a whisper.

Dean opened his eyes, seeing the open distress on Cas’s face. He tried to smile, rubbing at Cas’s hand soothingly. "We’ll figure it out, just like we’ve done for everything before."

He took a bracing breath, reluctantly pulling back from Cas’s embrace. Running a hand through his hair, he started to formulate a plan. "Okay, Raphael has to be the main concern, right? Do you have any idea of how to stop him?"

Cas nodded. "To defeat him, I’d need enough power to surpass or at least match an archangel. I’m exploring a few ideas."

"I’ll help you—" Dean began, but Cas cut him off.

"No, Dean. I can’t have you be a part of this war, especially now." Cas saw Dean about to protest and stopped him, moving his hand to the back of Dean’s neck, pressing on the sensitive spot there to draw his focus. "You need to focus on the Nephilim and how to survive." Dean started to try to move from his hold, but Cas held him fast, desperation fueling his actions. "Dean, there’s no point in winning the war against Raphael if you’re not there at the end of it! Please."

Dean stared into Cas’s eyes for a long moment, gauging the desperation and terror in his eyes. He didn’t like this, he hated it actually, but that didn’t stop Cas from being right. If they were going to make it through this together, they were going to have to approach it from both fronts. After a minute he sighed, defeated, and nodded in acceptance.

"Okay, okay."

Cas relaxed, the tension easing from his body in relief. "Thank you."

They stood there, inches apart, just breathing the other in. Dean didn’t want to move, to face reality outside of Cas’s comfort. But eventually, Cas pulled away, tired determination in his eyes.

"There is much to do." Cas laid his palm back on Dean’s abdomen, concentrating. "You’re both healthy enough for now, but you should eat more."

Cas took a step back, removing his hand. He hesitated, looking reluctant.

"Are you leaving again?" Dean tried not to sound pathetic, but he was pretty sure he failed miserably.

Cas’s eyes softened, and he moved forward again, pulling Dean in for a soft kiss, which Dean melted into, needing the reassurance. "I’ll be back to check in as soon as I can," Cas whispered, pulling back reluctantly.

"You better not die on me," Dean said, his voice rough with emotion.

"I will do my best," Cas replied with a slight smile.

They kissed one more time, Dean wrapping his arms around Cas’s neck, uncaring if it made him seem vulnerable. He channeled all of his fear, his passion, and his desperation into the kiss, as if he could force Cas to stay simply by not parting his lips from Cas’s. Eventually, Cas broke them apart, tenderly holding Dean’s face as he did so.

There was a moment where Dean wasn’t sure if the angel would tell him that he loved him. It would be a natural farewell, and without knowing if he’d ever see Cas again, Dean almost hoped for it. He almost said it himself, surprised by the depth of his feelings. But neither of them dared to take the plunge, even after all they had sacrificed and continued to sacrifice for each other. The moment passed, and with a flutter of wings, Cas was gone, leaving Dean once again alone in the scrapyard.

Dean leaned heavily against one of the rusted cars, the familiar, metallic scent of old steel filling his nostrils. Now that Cas was gone, the tears he’d been holding back burned at his eyes, blurring his vision. He pressed a fist to his mouth, biting down hard to stifle the scream building in his chest. The pressure of his knuckles against his lips wasn’t enough to hold back the torrent of emotion surging within him. He slid down the side of the car, his knees hitting the ground with a painful thud.

His vision swam in and out of focus, each breath a ragged, desperate gasp. The world seemed to narrow into a suffocating tunnel. This was the panic he’d forced down earlier — refusing to let himself break in front of Cas. But now, alone in the scrapyard, he couldn't hold it back any longer. The weight of everything crashed over him — losing Sam, now Cas, and the fear for their unborn child. Hadn’t he given enough? How much more did the universe expect him to endure?

Time lost all meaning. He was caught in the grip of panic, his mind a chaotic storm of fear and despair. When he finally began to surface, the sky had darkened, long shadows cast by the stacks of cars around him. He pushed himself to his feet shakily, swaying as he tried to get his bearings. Instinctively, his hand drifted to his abdomen, resting on the spot where Cas had touched him earlier. 

Standing alone in the scrapyard, Dean could admit to himself that he was terrified. This was so much more than he’d ever signed up for. But then again, hadn’t everything in his life been? He hadn’t chosen to be a hunter, to start the apocalypse, or to be a pawn in the battles between Heaven and Hell. Yet here he was, still standing. He realized that while he might not have chosen this path, now that he was on it, he had the power to decide how he would walk it. Giving up was not in his nature. He had faced down hell, angels, and every manner of supernatural terror; this was no different.

A thought crossed his mind — could the spark of life inside him sense his turmoil? Most fetuses couldn’t, but then, he had no idea what a Nephilim was capable of. The idea brought a strange sense of connection to the life growing within him. This was part of him and Cas; a new life that deserved a chance.

Steeling himself, Dean made a silent vow. He was going to fight. For Cas, for their child, and for himself. Destiny seemed determined to turn their lives into a tragedy, but Dean had other plans. He was going to protect his family — no matter the cost.

As he turned back towards the house, where Bobby was no doubt waiting with worry, Dean felt a firm resolve come over him. He had survived the apocalypse, he had fought monsters and demons, he had lost loved ones and kept going. He wasn’t going to give up now. He had work to do.

With each step, his resolve hardened. He was Dean Winchester. He had defied fate before, and he would do it again. The darkness might be closing in, but Dean was ready to fight back. For the sake of his family, he was prepared to face whatever came next.

Chapter Text

It had been nearly two weeks since Dean had last seen Cas, and the days seemed to drag on endlessly. He and Bobby had settled into a new routine, spending their days pouring over every scrap of information they could find about Nephilim. Which turned out to be frustratingly little. From what they had learned, apparently as soon as a Nephilim was conceived, a kind of beacon was sent out through Heaven, prompting angels to terminate it before it could become a threat. 

Dean wondered why that hadn’t been the case for him. At six weeks along, the only noticeable changes were Bobby's insistence on prenatal supplements and his persistent nausea. There hadn’t been any attempts on his life, heavenly or otherwise, which was both a relief and a nagging worry.

Dean was sprawled on Bobby's couch, flipping through yet another religious text that read more like a collection of myths than anything factual. His eyes scanned the pages, looking for any useful information on Nephilim, but it was all starting to blur together. He was about to give up for the night when the familiar sound of wings filled the room.

He jumped to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest. "Cas," he breathed out, the relief coursing through his veins like morphine. Cas stood in the center of Bobby's living room, looking as worn and worried as Dean felt. Without hesitation, Dean closed the distance between them in a few quick strides, his eyes scanning over Cas anxiously. The angel's gaze was equally intense, sweeping over Dean and lingering on his midsection with concern.

"Dean," Cas said, his voice rough with emotion. 

Dean pressed himself as close to Cas as he could, burying his nose in the hollow of Cas’s throat. The familiar scent of his mate calmed his racing heart, and he melted into the touch as Cas's hand came up to stroke his hair gently, his inner omega practically purring at having his mate so close. Cas seemed just as affected, inhaling Dean’s scent deeply.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Cas murmured, his voice a gravelly comfort.

Bobby’s entrance broke the spell. He raised an eyebrow at their embrace but seemed to decide against commenting. Instead, he turned to Cas with an expectant expression. “So?”

“Heaven has no knowledge of the Nephilim,” Cas announced, his eyes flicking between Dean and Bobby.

Dean pulled back slightly, just enough to see Cas’s face. “How is that possible? I thought there was some kind of bat signal as soon as a Nephilim is created.”

“There is, or at least there should be,” Cas explained. “But when we...” He faltered under Bobby’s scrutinizing gaze before continuing. “When we lay together, Heaven was preoccupied with the End Times. The creation of a Nephilim was likely overlooked in the chaos.”

Bobby frowned. “You better be right, or else we’re in for a load of trouble.”

“I’ve been verifying that over the past weeks,” Cas replied. “If any warning had been sent, it’s been lost now. Heaven is still in disarray with Raphael rallying forces.”

Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “So we would have known by now if they were onto us, right? No angels have come snooping around.”

“Correct,” Cas affirmed. “But I can’t be certain of how long we have. Heaven’s current state of turmoil provides some cover, but it won’t last forever.”

Bobby nodded. “So what’s the plan?”

“I need to stop Raphael. If the conflict escalates and spills over to Earth, the consequences will be catastrophic. I also need to find a way to mask the Nephilim’s signature as the pregnancy progresses.”

Dean’s confusion must have shown on his face because Cas elaborated. “Nephilim have a unique signature, a combination of grace and soul that any angel can detect. For now, it’s faint. I can only feel it when I’m close to you and touching you.”

As if to demonstrate, Cas placed a hand on Dean’s abdomen. Dean watched as Cas closed his eyes, feeling for the subtle, otherworldly signature. After a moment, Cas opened his eyes and met Dean’s gaze. “It’s doing well. Both of you are in fine health. Are you feeling any discomfort?”

Bobby interjected before Dean could respond. “He’s still puking his guts out nearly every day, but I assume that’s normal for any pregnancy.”

“Yes,” Cas acknowledged, frowning slightly. “I’ve been made aware of that unfortunate biological circumstance. As long as it’s not excessive, it should be normal.”

Dean huffed, crossing his arms. “Are you two done talking over my head now? Or should I get in the stirrups next?”

Cas’s lips twitched into a small smile. “Would you prefer a more medically traditional examination? It’s too soon for most human instruments to get accurate readings, but if it would help your peace of mind...”

Dean couldn’t help but grin, tilting his head invitingly towards his mate. “Only if you’re doing it, Dr. Sexy.”

Bobby cleared his throat pointedly, and Dean shot him a glare. Cas sighed, reluctantly pulling away from Dean. The loss of contact made Dean’s skin prickle, the absence of Cas’s warmth and scent almost physical in its ache.

“I must return to Heaven,” Cas said, his tone regretful.

Dean’s heart sank. “But you just got here.”

“I’ve been gone too long already,” Cas replied, his voice heavy with the weight of his responsibilities. “It’s a precarious situation.”

Dean sighed, nodding. “Yeah, I know.”

“I will return when I can,” Cas promised. “If you need anything, pray to me.”

Cas pressed a gentle kiss to Dean’s forehead, and Dean closed his eyes, savoring the moment. When he opened them again, Cas was gone, a rustle of wings the only sign he had been there at all.

Dean swallowed past the lump in his throat, ignoring Bobby’s knowing look as he moved back to the couch, picking up the book he’d discarded when Cas arrived. He was a big boy; he could handle being without his mate a while longer. Cas was fighting to save all their lives, after all. Wanting him here was selfish.

Even so, Dean pressed his nose into the fabric of his shirt, inhaling the faint scent of Cas that lingered there, letting it calm his racing heart as he resumed his research.

Weeks slipped by in a monotonous blur, punctuated only by the sporadic and increasingly rare visits from Cas. Each time the angel appeared, Dean felt a fleeting sense of relief, quickly overshadowed by the looming threat of Heaven’s war. As the conflict in Heaven intensified, Cas’s visits dwindled, leaving Dean to grapple with his mounting frustrations and the isolation of constant research.

More than once, Dean found himself storming toward the front door, driven by the overwhelming need to escape the suffocating confines of Bobby’s house. The urge to hunt, to feel the familiar weight of a weapon in his hand and the rush of adrenaline, was almost unbearable. But each time, he was stopped by his promise to Sam. He had promised to stop hunting. And now, with more than just himself to consider, he would reluctantly trudge back to the living room, a prisoner of his own decisions.

The middle of the third month brought an end to the relentless morning sickness, much to Bobby’s visible relief. Dean knew he hadn’t been easy to deal with, and he was grateful for Bobby’s patience. Despite this reprieve, the supplements Bobby insisted he take were still a source of resentment. The pills were huge, chalky things that got stuck in his throat and tasted terrible, but he dutifully took them, knowing they were necessary.

Some days, the grief of losing Sam was overwhelming, a crushing weight that threatened to suffocate him. On those days, hope for the future seemed like a distant memory. His nightmares were a cruel reminder of his fears — angels coming to take him away, torturing Cas in front of him before turning their blades on Dean. He usually woke up gasping for breath, hands clutching his abdomen as if to protect the life growing inside him.

Other days were easier. He would sit on Bobby’s porch, watching the sun cast long shadows over the towering stacks of cars. He imagined what Sam would think of his niece or nephew, how Sam would tease him about Cas. On those days, Dean would sit in the Impala, tracing his fingers over the initials he and Sam had carved into the rear window deck so many years ago.

Four months after averting the apocalypse, Dean was on the couch flipping through a book on omega pregnancies. Absently, he traced circles on his abdomen, where a slight firmness had developed. According to the book, the baby was now about the size of a plum. Male omegas tended to show far less and later than female omegas due to anatomical differences. Sometimes it was easy to forget that he wasn’t carrying a perfectly normal baby.

Cas hadn’t been able to share much about the pregnancy, his visits brief and focused on ensuring their health. Dean tried not to feel neglected, understanding that Cas was fighting a war. But he couldn’t help but crave the comfort of his mate’s presence. Bobby, though family, couldn’t provide the same sense of calm that Cas’s scent did. Bobby knew this, becoming adept at sensing when Dean needed space, when the smells of the world became overwhelming to his heightened senses. When that happened, Dean would bury his face in a shirt Cas had scent-marked, a necessity Bobby had insisted on. He remembered the scene vividly: Bobby shoving the shirt at a confused Cas and telling him to "get his head out of his ass" and leave something for Dean if he couldn’t be there himself.

At the moment, Bobby was seated at the kitchen table, the rhythmic clink of metal as he cleaned one of his pistols audible from the other room. It had been a quiet day, a mutual unspoken agreement that they needed a break from the endless research. Dean’s stomach had been cooperating more lately, and he thought he might try to make a pie from scratch after dinner. It wasn’t the life Sam had envisioned for him, but in moments like these, with a semblance of domesticity, Dean believed Sam would have been happy for him.

But the thing about quiet? Is that it never lasts.

A knock on the front door had both of them straightening up, Bobby picking up the pistol and cocking it as he headed to answer. Dean moved from the couch, picking up a knife from the table as he moved to the kitchen doorway, ready to defend Bobby if need be.

Bobby swung the door open, leveling the pistol at the newcomer’s face, his eyes widening in shock. "What the hell?" he muttered.

From his position, Dean couldn’t see the person standing outside, but he watched as Bobby reached for his flask of holy water, throwing it at the visitor. When that evidently didn’t work, Bobby pulled out a silver knife. All the tests were run, and the older hunter stood still, bewildered for a moment before he moved, pulling the figure into a hug.

With the movement of being pulled into Bobby’s embrace, the person crossed the threshold, allowing Dean to finally see who it was. Over Bobby’s shoulder, the man lifted his eyes and locked gazes with Dean.

Dean’s heart stopped, his blood rushing in his ears. It was impossible, more than impossible. This had to be some kind of dream.

Because the person hunched over slightly in Bobby’s hold was none other than Sam.

Dean’s knife clattered to the floor, his legs feeling like jelly. “Sam?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Sam confirmed.

In an instant, Dean let go of the kitchen doorframe and Bobby strategically stepped aside, allowing Dean to embrace his brother in a crushing hug. He pressed his nose into Sam’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of his little brother. Overwhelmed, he couldn’t stop a few happy tears from slipping down his cheeks, elated that his brother was alive and out of the cage.

Dean finally drew back, taking a good look at Sam. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. You — you were gone, man. I mean, that — that was it. How the hell are you…?”

“I don’t know,” Sam replied, a bit sheepishly.

Bobby stepped forward, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Sam shrugged helplessly, holding his hands out. “I mean, no idea. I’m just back.”

Bobby glanced over at Dean, seeking some kind of answer, as if he’d know. “You think it was God? He brought Cas back, didn’t he?”

Dean frowned, shaking his head. “Well, if he did, he’s sure keeping quiet about it.”

“What about Cas?” Sam asked. “I mean, I’ve been praying, but he hasn’t answered any of my prayers.”

Bobby sent a significant glance toward Dean, who ignored it. “No, there’s no way Cas knows anything.”

“Are you sure?” Sam’s voice held a note of desperation. “I mean, I was... down there, and then, next minute, it's raining, and I'm lying in that field, alone. It's kind of hard to go looking for whatever saved you when you got no leads. But I looked. I mean, believe me, I looked... for weeks.”

Bobby’s eyes widened. “Wait, weeks? How long you been back?”

“A couple of months now,” Sam admitted.

Dean inhaled sharply as shock coursed through him, quickly followed by hurt. “You’ve been back practically this whole time? What, did you lose the ability to send a fucking text message?” He could feel himself getting worked up, his voice taking on a shrill edge. Bobby tried to lay a hand on his shoulder to calm him down, but Dean shrugged it off, the touch of any alpha that wasn’t Cas grating on his enhanced senses.

“I was hoping you’d be out of the life,” Sam said quietly. “You know, like you promised me you’d do.” His voice took on a tone of reproach, and Dean bristled at the reprimand.

“Oh, don’t start that shit with me now,” Dean snapped. “You don’t get to take the moral high road here. You’ve been back for months and didn’t tell me!”

“You didn’t even try, Dean,” Sam retorted. “Tell me, how many hunts have you been on since I’ve been gone?”

Dean flushed, remembering how many times he’d almost walked out the door to find a hunt, only to remember his promise to Sam. He hadn’t been on any hunts, but he’d still been with Bobby, helping research and answering phones for other hunters. And there was still the matter of Heaven’s war going on. He couldn’t exactly say he’d been retired — not in the way Sam had wanted for him.

“It’s complicated,” he mumbled, grimacing at Sam’s piercing look.

“It’s not,” Sam countered. “Maybe if I had stayed away longer, you’d have moved on eventually, but something’s coming for you guys, and I need your help.”

Bobby intervened, raising a hand to forestall further argument. “Come on, let’s all sit down and talk.”

Dean stepped aside, allowing Sam to fully enter the house. Sam made a beeline for the living room, and Dean scrubbed at his face, wiping away the tears. Bobby gave him a look, to which Dean snapped, “Shut up. It’s the hormones or whatever.”

“Boy, you’re allowed to be emotional; your brother just came back from the dead. I’m barely holding it together myself,” Bobby replied, giving a watery chuckle.

Dean grunted, rolling his eyes as he pushed forward. “Yeah, well. Let’s see what he’s gotten into now.”

They entered the living room to find Sam standing at the table, flipping through a book from one of the stacks. Dean’s heart dropped, fearing Sam had stumbled upon the Nephilim research. He wasn’t ready to tell Sam about the baby yet — wasn’t even sure where to begin to open that can of worms. But a closer look at the cover showed it was one of the journals about Hell.

Sam looked up, his glare flinty. “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t try to bust me out.”

Dean crossed his arms. “Well, turns out I didn’t need to.”

Sam gave Dean a bitchy look and opened his mouth to respond, but Bobby interrupted. “How about we focus on what’s happening now? Sam, you said you needed help with something.”

“Right,” Sam said, snapping the journal shut. “So, I haven’t exactly been alone these past few months. I found some other hunters. Family.”

“Family?” Dean echoed, eyebrows shooting up.

“From Mom’s side, the Campbells. Turns out, they’re not all gone. And they were raised in the life, just like us.” Sam explained.

Bobby looked incredulous. “So instead of telling your brother you’re alive, you have some kind of hunter family reunion?”

“It’s not like that,” Sam insisted. “I didn’t seek them out or anything. It just happened.”

Dean tried to swallow down the hurt, along with some nausea that had nothing to do with morning sickness. Sam had been alive this whole time while Dean was mourning and miserable. Not only that, he found family that he’d rather be hunting with. Family that wasn’t Dean.

“Look, it’s more complicated than it sounds,” Sam said, sensing Dean’s distress. “The point is, we’ve been hunting a group of djinn, and things have gotten a little out of hand.”

“Djinn? That’s pretty exotic,” Bobby commented, sounding a little skeptical.

Sam paced back and forth, his eyes darting between Dean and Bobby. “Not anymore, at least. These... look like regular people. They can blend in. And all they gotta do to kill you is touch you. Their toxins get in your system, all of a sudden you’re hallucinating your worst nightmares, and pretty soon you O.D. I got hit a few days ago, dosed up with poison.” 

“So then how are you still alive?” Bobby asked, concern deepening his voice.

“There’s a cure for it.” Sam dismissed easily before seriousness took over his expression. “Listen, after they came for me, it looked like they were coming this way next.”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “So what the hell are we gonna do about it?”

“I hightailed it over here as fast as I could, but the others won’t be far behind me. We can draw the djinn here and take them out.” Sam determined, his spine straight as he explained his plan.

“Using us as bait,” Bobby noted, clearly unhappy.

“They’re coming here anyway, Bobby. I’m just turning that to our advantage,” Sam huffed in exasperation.

Bobby kept glancing over at Dean, eyes drifting down to his midsection more than once. Before Bobby could voice his protest, Dean noticed headlights outside the window. He ducked down, and Bobby joined him. Sam peered out the window and reassured them that it was alright, they were friendly.

“Is this your other family?” Bobby asked.

“Yeah, you could say that. Come on, we should go meet them,” Sam replied.

Dean warily followed behind Sam and Bobby as they went out to meet the cars pulling up. Figures got out of the cars — three men and a woman. Sam began introducing them.

“Dean, Gwen Campbell.”

Gwen extended a hand. “Good to finally meet you. Sam’s gone on and on.”

Sam pointed to the next person. “And this is Christian... and Mark Campbell.”

Mark nodded. “Hi.”

Sam continued, “Third cousin,” he said, pointing to Gwen. “Third cousin,” he repeated, pointing to Christian. “Something, something twice removed,” he finished, pointing to Mark. “They grew up in the life, like Mom and like us.”

Dean shook his head, trying to process. “I thought all of Mom’s relatives were gone. And I’m sorry. It’s just, you know, why didn’t we know about any of you?”

A voice spoke up, familiar yet unexpected. “'Cause they didn’t know about you. Not until I brought you all together.”

Dean turned to see Samuel Campbell — his grandfather. He remembered when Cas had sent him back to 1973, where Samuel was killed by Azazel in order for Mary to make her deal.

“Samuel?” Dean’s voice was filled with shock.

Samuel smiled. “Guys, give me a second with my grandsons here, please.”

The other Campbells moved away, congregating by one of the cars. Samuel looked to Bobby, but the other alpha kept his gaze level, standing protectively next to Dean. Dean barely repressed the urge to roll his eyes. He knew it was because he was pregnant that Bobby was being so protective. He nudged Bobby and gave him a look. Bobby grumbled and headed over to the group of Campbells, giving Dean and Sam space with Samuel.

“Lot of resurrections in your face today. It’s alright. Take a minute,” Samuel said gently.

Dean shook his head, still in disbelief. “It’s gonna take a little more than a minute. I mean, what the hell? H-how did this happen?”

“We’re guessing whatever pulled Sam up pulled me down. So, whatever this is, we’re both a part of it,” Samuel explained.

“But you don’t know what that is,” Dean pressed.

“Bingo,” Samuel confirmed.

“And you have no leads? Nothing? Well, this — this is, uh... No more doornails coming out of that door, is there?” Dean asked, half-joking, but still tense. In his family, it was always a possibility.

“As far as we know, it’s Samuel and it’s me,” Sam replied.

Dean looked between the two of them. “Okay, am I the only one here that thinks that this can’t all just be fine?”

“Believe me, you’re not,” Samuel said. “I wanted to come get you, of course. Sam was adamant about leaving you out, so we did. Until this.”

“Right. So, why are these things after us?” Dean demanded.

Samuel glanced at Sam. “Well, you did stake one a while back.”

Dean sighed, feeling a wave of exhaustion creep over him. “God, okay. What’s the plan?”

Samuel cast another glance at Sam. “Your brother tell you what we’ve been dealing with the past few months?”

“No, not really,” Dean’s gaze slid over to Sam, which his brother met evenly; unapologetic.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Been working ’round the clock,” Samuel said, his tone serious.

“So what’s going on?” Dean asked, anxiety creeping into his voice.

“We don’t know. But whatever it is, it goes way past a couple of djinn acting off — nocturnals attacking in broad daylight, werewolves out on the half-moon, creatures that we’ve never even seen before. We don’t — we don’t even know what they are. I’m knee-deep in half-eaten human hearts and exsanguinated 10-year-olds, and it’s all making me... uneasy,” Samuel explained, his expression grim.

Dean swallowed hard. “So what’s your theory?”

“You tell me. All we really know is it’s all hands on deck. We’re counting on each other right now. That’s how it is with Campbells. We need you, Dean,” Samuel said, his voice carrying a note of urgency.

Dean looked at his grandfather, then at Sam, then back to Samuel. He thought of his promise to Sam, and of the Nephilim growing inside of him. They didn’t understand. “Look, I hear you, but…”

Samuel cut him off. “You don’t know what you’re part of, Dean. You know, you had ancestors hacking the heads off vamps on the Mayflower. What I’m saying is that we’re your blood. And we’re out there dying, trying to get in front of whatever this is. Maybe not the best time for retirement.”

Before Dean could respond, Samuel waved the others back over, and after some deliberation and much grumbling from Bobby, they ended up inside Bobby’s living room again, this time with the Campbells gathered around the space.

Bobby, impatience clear in his voice, asked, "So, what? We just sit around and twiddle our thumbs until those djinn get here?"

Mark, standing by the window with binoculars, said, "They already are."

Dean moved towards the window, but Bobby stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. A growl built in Dean’s chest, a clear warning to back off, and Bobby removed his hand like it had been burned.

“Shit, sorry. But Dean, think about it. These djinn are here for you.” Bobby pleaded.

Dean sighed, the older hunter’s protectiveness grating on his nerves. “I know. But looking out one window isn’t going to kill me.”

Bobby clearly didn’t like it, but he allowed Dean to move towards the window. Outside, three djinn were barely visible at the edge of the property.

Dean asked, "What’s the move?"

“They’re not going to make a move when they’re outnumbered like this. We need to make it look like some of us have left,” Samuel explained.

Bobby, skeptical, asked, "Oh yeah? How do you suggest we do that?"

Samuel gestured to the other Campbells. “We’ll take the cars and circle around the property, make it look like we’ve moved on. You three will stay here and make it look like you’ve turned in for the night.”

They had agreed to the plan, though it was clear Bobby didn’t like it. The Campbells had left, leaving Dean and Sam in the dark kitchen while Bobby paced the hallway, gun drawn, his boots making soft thuds against the worn wooden floor.

Sam broke the silence first. "You okay?"

Dean snorted, shaking his head. "Oh, yeah."

Sam nodded, trying to muster a smile. "Yeah."

Dean let out a frustrated sigh. "No, this is... This is crazy. I mean, you, Grandpa. Whoever brought you back..."

"They don't want to be found," Sam finished for him, his tone flat.

"Yeah, I get that. But who are they, and what do they want? Why?" Dean’s voice rose slightly, his frustration evident.

"That's a good question," Sam said, staring at the wall, lost in thought.

Dean hesitated before asking, "Do you remember it?"

Sam's gaze snapped back to his brother. "What?"

"The Cage," Dean said softly, his voice laced with concern.

Sam's face darkened, a shadow passing over his eyes. "Yeah."

Dean took a step closer. "You want to—"

"No," Sam interrupted, his tone firm.

Dean took a deep breath, trying to push back the memories of his own time in Hell. "Well, if anybody can relate..."

Sam shook his head, cutting him off. "Dean, I don't want to talk about it. I'm back. I get to breathe fresh air, have a beer, hunt with my family, see you again. So why exactly would I want to think about Hell?"

Dean opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the sound of the front door being thrown open echoed through the house. He scrambled for his gun, while Sam pulled his out with quick, sure movements.

Three djinn entered the house, their eyes glowing with rage. Sam immediately engaged with two of them, moving with a speed and precision that spoke of his relentless training, while Dean faced off with the third.

The djinn sneered at Dean, its voice a low growl. "You killed our father, you son of a bitch."

"Yeah? Well, he had it coming," Dean retorted, bracing himself for the attack.

The djinn screamed in rage and rushed at Dean, but before it could reach him, Bobby suddenly charged out of the other room and tackled it from the side. Dean heard the sounds of Sam's fight moving outside, the Campbells rushing to help. Dean turned to help Bobby, but the older hunter had already managed to stab the djinn with a silver blade, killing it.

Bobby looked up, panting slightly. "You alright?"

"Am I— Are you alright, Bobby? It didn’t touch you, did it?" Dean asked, worry evident in his voice as he checked the older hunter over.

Bobby let out a derisive snort. "I may not be the hunter I used to be, but I’m not that rusty."

Dean ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. "What were you thinking, charging at it like that? It could have poisoned you!"

"Better me than you. Even with whatever mystery cure your family has cooked up, what would have happened if it poisoned you? Your child?" Bobby replied, raising an eyebrow pointedly.

"That doesn’t mean I want you to die protecting me," Dean argued, though he felt himself losing steam.

"And I don’t plan to. Just weighing the risks, that’s all," Bobby huffed, getting to his feet.

Dean sighed, looking away. "Just don’t do it again."

Bobby didn’t answer, and the silence stretched until Sam came back inside, looking more disheveled but otherwise fine.

"Everyone all right?" Sam asked, his eyes scanning the room.

"Yeah, you?" Dean replied, relief flooding through him at the sight of his brother unscathed.

"Yeah. Samuel and the others are taking care of the last one. Thought you might need some help in here," Sam said, glancing around the room.

Bobby groaned as he sat down. "We took care of it. I’m getting too old for this."

Sam laughed, though he grimaced at the sight of the djinn body. "Alright. I guess we better take care of this before it starts to stink. Want to give me a hand, Dean?"

Before Dean could respond, Bobby jumped to his feet with surprising speed. "I’ll do it." He grumbled. "It’s my damn house anyway."

Dean sighed but didn’t argue, knowing Bobby would pitch a fit if he tried to exert himself. Sam looked quizzically at both of them before shrugging and taking the corpse’s feet, hauling it off with Bobby.

Dean leaned against the kitchen counter, taking a moment to catch his breath. The fight had been brief but intense, and the sudden appearance of the djinn had thrown him off balance. He couldn’t shake the feeling that things were going to get worse before they got better. But for now, he was just grateful that they had survived another day.

Alone in the kitchen, Dean pressed a hand to his abdomen, feeling the reassuring warmth of his growing child. Exhaustion from the day's events seeped into his bones, and he mourned the lost simplicity of his earlier plans to make pie that night. He snorted at the absurdity of it all, thinking back to that morning when he was oblivious to the chaos that would unfold. A resurrected brother and grandfather — what a life they led.

He turned on the stove, deciding to have something ready for them to eat when they got back from burying the bodies. He lost himself in the simple preparation of food, chopping vegetables and simmering a stew, letting the rhythmic tasks soothe his mind. He refused to think about the shitshow their lives had become. He also pointedly didn’t dwell on how stereotypically omega he felt right now, knocked up and making dinner like a good little housewife.

Eventually, Sam and Bobby came back in, looking tired. Bobby perked up at the smell of food, and Dean cast a glance behind them, looking for the Campbells.

"Are the others coming in? I made enough for everyone," Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. "Oh, no. They left in a hurry. Probably going back to their place."

They sat down and ate in silence, the tension of the day easing slightly with the comfort of a hot meal. Dean packed away the leftovers for later, his movements automatic and efficient. Eventually, they retired to the living room. Bobby announced he was heading to bed and trudged upstairs, leaving Dean and Sam alone.

Dean collapsed on the couch, while Sam picked up the book he had been looking at earlier, glancing around at the stacks of research piled everywhere.

“Dean… Did you ever even think about it? Getting out?” Sam’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

Dean rubbed at his eyes, sighing. He might as well tell his brother the news. He would find out sooner or later anyways with the way Bobby had been acting. “You’re right, Sam. I’m not out. But I’m not exactly in either.”

Sam frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You asked me earlier if I’d been on any hunts since you’ve been gone. I haven’t.”

“Really?”

“Believe me, I wanted to. But, well…” Dean swallowed nervously before deciding to just say it. “I’m pregnant.”

Sam’s eyes widened in shock. “You— you are? Is it Cas’s?”

Dean nodded. “There’s a civil war in Heaven now, apparently. Some jackasses trying to restart the whole end of the world again. That’s probably why he hasn’t answered your prayers. Hell, he hardly has time for mine anymore. I’ve had to lean on Bobby more than I’d like.”

Sam was quiet for a moment, processing the information. Then a grin spread across his face. “So I’m going to be an uncle?”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, you are.”

Sam’s smile widened, and Dean returned it, feeling a warmth in his chest. But beneath the surface, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was too easy, that there had to be some catch to all of this, just one he hadn’t seen yet.

As the evening wore on, they talked more about the baby, about Cas, and about what the future might hold. But even as they shared these moments of normalcy, Dean’s mind kept drifting back to the impending threats and the uncertainty that shadowed their every step. There was something missing, something important. But try as he might, Dean couldn’t place his finger on it.

Eventually, Sam headed to bed, leaving Dean alone on the couch. He stared at the ceiling, one hand resting protectively over his abdomen. For now, they were safe, and that was enough. But he knew better than to let his guard down. In their world, peace was always fleeting, and the next storm was never far away.

Chapter Text

Dean lay on his back under the Impala, the cool metal of the car a comforting presence above him. He had started out with the intention of fixing a non-existent problem, but now he was just soaking in the silence, savoring the temporary reprieve from Bobby’s well-meaning but incessant hovering. The older hunter had been relentless ever since Dean had told him about the pregnancy. Dean understood Bobby’s concern, really he did, but it was suffocating.

It had been a week since he’d seen Sam, and even longer since Cas had been around. The war in Heaven had kept Cas busy, and Dean hadn’t heard from him in too long. He tried not to think about it, but the worry gnawed at him. What if Cas didn’t come back? What if he died up there, fighting his battles? Dean didn’t know how he’d cope. And what about the baby? He forced the thought away, though it lingered like a dark cloud at the edge of his mind.

He couldn’t help but chuckle bitterly at the thought that Bobby had become his closest thing to stability. It was a dark sort of humor that twisted inside him when he realized Bobby might also be the only one there for his child if Cas didn’t make it back. The image of Bobby trying to handle a tiny, squirming baby was amusing, but the underlying fear was anything but.

Bobby had tried to stop him from working on the car only once. Dean had snapped at him with such ferocity that the older man had backed off, leaving him to his own devices for an entire week. Now, lying under the car, he wasn’t really doing anything anymore. He was just basking in the quiet and the relief of lying flat on his back. The backaches were starting; a new and unwelcome symptom that all the books said were a sign he was in the second trimester. He didn’t know how a Nephilim pregnancy compared, but so far, his symptoms seemed to be right on schedule.

The sound of his phone vibrating broke the tranquility. He fumbled for it, squinting at the screen. Sam’s name flashed up at him.

“Sam?” Dean answered cautiously, concern for his brother sweeping through him.

“I need your help. Now,” Sam’s tone was urgent.

“What’s wrong?” Dean tensed, his heartbeat quickening at the desperation in his brother’s voice.

“I’m working this job—”

“Dude,” Dean began, but Sam cut him off.

“Look, I just need you with me on this, okay?”

Dean sighed in exasperation. “What part of being pregnant makes you think that I can hunt right now?”

“I know, but make an exception,” Sam’s voice was pleading.

“For what?” Dean demanded, bringing his hand up to rub at his eyes before grimacing at the oil and grime, dropping it to rest on his abdomen instead.

Sam gave up on pleading, his voice lowering instead into a threat. “I’m thirty minutes away, and I will drive there if you don’t meet me.”

Dean called his bluff. “Yeah, and explain to Bobby why you want to drag me on a hunt?” Dean knew that would be a losing battle.

Sam fell silent, and Dean could practically hear the gears turning in his brother’s head. He let the phone fall to his side, ignoring whatever argument Sam was concocting on the other end.

Dean already knew he was going to help Sam with whatever he needed. It had nothing to do with Sam’s pleading and everything to do with being cooped up at Bobby’s house for months on end. At this point, he’d be willing to do almost anything to alleviate the boredom. Unfortunately, Bobby kept reminding him that he had more than just himself to think about now, and there wasn’t much arguing with that.

But Sam needed him. And he could be careful. There was no reason he couldn’t at least meet Sam to see what was going on. If it was too dangerous, he could reassess then. Decision made, he lifted the phone back to his ear.

“You know what? Fine. Just… give me a minute.” Dean ended the call, sliding out from under the car fully. He wiped his hands on a rag and headed inside, bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation. Bobby was going to be pissed.

As expected, Bobby was in the kitchen, eyes narrowing as soon as Dean started explaining the situation.

“No, absolutely not,” Bobby said firmly. “Dean, you’re what, nearly five months now? Hunting is the last thing you need.”

“I know,” Dean groaned as he leaned against the counter, feeling the slight twinge in his back. “But it sounded like he really needs help, Bobby.”

“So he should have called me. Not his pregnant omega brother,” Bobby shot back, arms crossing over his chest.

“I’m going,” Dean insisted.

“What? Dean—” Bobby began, but Dean cut him off.

“No, listen to me. I’ve been cooped up in this house for months, and nothing has changed. I’ll be careful, but I’m going to start clawing at the walls if I don’t do something.” Dean’s voice was rising, the desperation seeping through.

“So take a walk! You shouldn’t be hunting in this state. Not only are you vulnerable, but you’re also out of practice. You’d just be asking for trouble.” Bobby’s frustration mirrored Dean’s, and although he had never used his designation against Dean, the beginnings of a rumble were building in his tone.

“I’m not some fucking damsel you can keep in confinement, Bobby!” Dean snapped, his hackles rising by the undercurrent of command Bobby was projecting. “I’ll be careful, but I’m not going to stay out of the fight just because I’m knocked up, especially since there’s no guarantee I’ll be around after!”

“Dean…” Bobby’s voice softened, but Dean shook his head.

“I’ll be fine, Bobby. Sam will watch out for me.”

Bobby searched his eyes, and after a long moment he finally sighed, relenting. “I guess even if I try to stop you, you’re too damn stubborn. You’ll slip out as soon as my guard’s down. Fine, but you damn well better be careful.” Bobby’s resignation was tinged with worry.

“Come on, Bobby. It’s me,” Dean tried to reassure him, putting on a cocky smirk for show.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.” Bobby’s muttered response was barely audible, but Dean caught it. It was the unspoken truth that they both carried: Dean was a magnet for trouble, and pregnancy hadn’t changed that.

Dean packed his duffel bag with practiced efficiency, each item placed with the precision of a soldier preparing for battle. His bag was stocked with everything he might need, including, much to his chagrin, the overly large bottle of prenatal supplements that Bobby had insisted he take. He hoisted the bag over his shoulder, casting a glance back at the house where Bobby stood on the porch, arms crossed and wearing a stern frown. Dean offered him a reassuring nod before slipping into the driver’s seat of the Impala.

The drive to the next town was uneventful, the familiar rumble of the Impala’s engine a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. Pulling into the lot of a dingy motel, Dean spotted Sam leaning against his car, a grim look on his face, but looking unharmed. 

Dean climbed out of the car, slamming the door shut. “Alright, what the hell has got you so out of your depth that you had to call me?”

Sam grimaced and opened the backseat of his car. Dean’s eyes widened as he saw a baby in a carrier, tiny and vulnerable.

“Oh you have got to be kidding me.”

“This is the fourth family this has happened to. Each time, parents are killed and the baby is kidnapped. I just got to this one before the monster could.” Sam explained.

Dean couldn’t tear his eyes away from the wiggling, chubby-cheeked bundle in the car seat. He could see that Sam hadn’t done the straps correctly and one of them was digging slightly into the baby’s adorably chunky leg. Finally turning back to his brother, he caved. “You’re sure this is our kind of thing?”

Sam nodded emphatically. “Yeah, whatever it was, it was fast and freaked when I cut it with silver.”

Dean let out a long breath, rubbing his temple. “So that narrows it down to…”

“A ghoul? A zombie, a shifter, or about a dozen other things.” Sam shrugged.

Scoffing, Dean shook his head. “Yeah, but those are all things you could have dealt with yourself or called the Campbells for backup. But no, you call the pregnant omega to help on this.”

Sam shrugged again, looking sheepish. “Well, it’s not like I know what to do with a baby.”

“Unbelievable.” Despite himself, Dean softened as soon as his gaze drifted back to the baby. It hadn’t started crying yet, instead looking at Dean with curious blue eyes. His heart clenched at the sight, another pair of blue eyes flashing in his mind. He sighed deeply and turned back to Sam. “We’ll need to get some supplies.”

Sam perked up. “I’ve got an arsenal in the trunk.”

 “No, not that kind. Baby stuff.”

His brother deflated. “Oh.” Then he seemed to realize that Dean wasn’t saying no. “So you’ll…?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll help take care of it.” Looking back at the baby, he finally gave in to the urge to fix the strap, earning a gummy smile that he couldn’t help but return. He steadfastly ignored Sam’s raised eyebrows. “You’re lucky I’m all hormonal and shit right now.”

Sam drove them to a nearby store, and Dean carried the baby inside, balancing the carrier with one arm while pushing the cart with the other. 

“Alright, I’m pretty sure that there’s some kind of paste or jelly you’re supposed to put on their butt.”

Sam grabbed a box off the shelf. “Like, uh... like that?”

“Yeah, grab that.” Dean picked up a box of diapers and placed it in the cart. He couldn’t help but think about how he hoped he’d be able to do the same thing — shopping for supplies — for his own child, but instead of his brother cluelessly running around, it would be his mate. The image of Cas standing cluelessly in the baby aisle brought a grin to his face. But the smile fell as he thought about how long it had been since he’d seen Cas. Would he even know if the angel had died in the war? Could Cas be gone already? He shook the thought off. If Cas were dead, Dean would know. He had to still be alive.

Sam’s voice broke through his thoughts. “So how do you know all this?”

He couldn’t help but grin at how out of his depth Sam was. “I raised you, didn’t I? Besides, I had to do some kind of research before I pop.”

“Right.” Sam peered at Dean’s midsection, wrinkling his nose slightly. “Isn’t that weird? That you’re going to have one of—” he gestured towards the baby in Dean’s arms, “—those?”

Dean grimaced, hefting the baby up further in his arms as he continued walking. “Yeah, I’m trying not to think about the ‘popping’ part, to be honest.”

The baby started fussing, and Dean began swaying slightly, trying to calm him down. “Alright, we gotta get moving. We’ve got the waterworks in like, T-minus ten.”

Sam’s eyes grew wide with panic. “Yeah, okay.”

“Go.”

As they approached the checkout, the baby started fussing more, his tiny cries escalating. Dean instinctively began swaying and bouncing the baby, trying to soothe him. It was almost second nature, a skill honed from years of looking after Sam, though this felt different. It must be that he was pregnant now. Damn hormones.

A woman approached, her gaze flickering between Dean and Sam before settling on the baby in Dean’s arms. "Aw... what's the matter? What's his name?"

Dean responded quickly, “Bobby.”

Sam chimed in at the same moment, “John.”

Dean shot a sidelong glance at Sam before turning back to the woman. “Bobby John.”

The woman smiled, cooing at the baby. “Hi, Bobby John. Aren't you handsome? May I?” She held her hands out, but Dean hesitated, his instincts screaming that something was off. He glanced up at the security feed and saw her eyes flare on the screen. Shapeshifter.

He stepped back, his face hardening. “Sam.” He warned, nodding towards the camera.

Sam’s eyes widened as he looked up. In a flash, he had his knife out, rushing at the shapeshifter. Dean, clutching the newly christened Bobby John tightly, bolted for the door. He made it to Sam’s car and slid into the backseat, frantically trying to secure the baby as Sam dashed out of the store, the shifter hot on his heels. Sam dove into the driver’s seat, starting the car and speeding off while Dean tried to calm Bobby John down.

“What the hell does a shifter want with a baby, anyway?” Dean yelled, struggling with the baby seat.

“You tell me,” Sam replied, glancing in the rearview mirror. “And how the hell did it find us?”

Dean grumbled, wrestling with the straps. He now saw why Sam didn’t have it done correctly earlier. “Who designed this thing? NASA?”

Sam hummed, considering something. “You know, it could have been following me this whole time. Since the baby’s house.”

Dean grimaced as he looked out the back window. He didn’t think the shifter had managed to follow them, but the hairs on the back of his neck still stood on end. “Alright, you know, we got to get off the road. Get Bobby John here someplace safe. Figure this thing out.”

They drove to a nearby motel. Sam checked them in while Dean dealt with the fussy baby, relief washing over him when Sam returned with the key. Inside the room, Dean laid Bobby John on the bed and began changing his diaper, muttering under his breath as he struggled with the wriggling baby. “Okay, you know what? I'll pay you money if you sit still.”

Sam chuckled, watching the scene unfold. Dean shot him a mock glare. “You want to get over here and do this?” His brother held his hands up and Dean grinned as he lifted the baby from the bed. “Alright, alright, alright, you are golden, Bobby John. Time to hit the hay.”

Dean picked up Bobby John and started humming “Smoke on the Water” as he carried him over to a crib.

“Dean, you’re just going to make him cranky again,” Sam warned.

“Shh, it’s working. Okay, if I put you down, you gonna be a man about it?” Dean placed Bobby John in the crib, and to his surprise, the baby settled down and fell asleep.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Huh.”

Dean squinted at Sam’s tone of voice. “What?”

Sam shrugged, frowning. “You’re just, uh, actually, not awful at that.”

Confusion washed over him. Just what was Sam getting at? “Well, isn’t that why you called me?”

“Yeah, yeah. I just didn’t think you’d be so… paternal.” 

Dean sighed, sitting down on one of the beds, one hand drifting to his abdomen. “Yeah, well. It’s the hormones or something, I don’t know.”

Sam studied him, then said quietly, “I think it’s a little more than that.”

Dean hummed noncommittally, his thoughts drifting to the life inside him. He was maybe a little over halfway through his pregnancy, and that’s if he was lucky. Taking care of Bobby John was bringing up all kinds of emotions, and he blinked harshly. He needed to keep a handle on it. Thankfully, Sam’s shuffling papers brought him back to the present.

“Crap. Can’t believe I missed this,” Sam muttered.

“What?” Dean questioned.

“This house on Elm. The mother was killed, baby was grabbed, but daddy wasn’t living in the house at the time, so he’s still alive.” Sam grabbed his jacket as he stood. “ What do you say we go and have a chat?”

Dean looked over at the crib, where Bobby John was still lying down peacefully. “You go.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “You sure?”

The thought of leaving the baby alone made Dean want to snarl. He repressed it, but it was a near thing. “Unless you’ve got a badge for Bobby John, yeah, I’m sure. It’s not like I’m here for the hunt anyway.” 

Sam nodded, gathering his things. “Alright. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

After a minute, Dean heard Sam start up his car and drive away. Bobby John started to fuss in the crib, and Dean picked him up.

“Shh, shh,” he murmured, rocking the baby gently. “You know, pretty soon I’ll be having one of you. Isn’t that weird?” The baby didn’t respond, but Dean didn’t expect him to. He kept talking, if only because it seemed to calm Bobby John down. “I don’t know if it’ll be a boy, or a girl, or some freaky angel thing. It might be purple and have eight toes or something.” He chuckled softly. “But you know what? That doesn’t matter, because…” He cleared his throat, blinking back tears. “Because I love them already. And even if I’m not around, there are people that will take care of them, and love them, and they’ll make sure that they’re okay.” He was fully crying by now, but with only a baby to witness it, he didn’t much care. “That’s what’s important, right?” He tried to smile, but he couldn’t quite make it stick. Deep down, he could admit that he was scared. He didn’t want to die and leave his child behind. He knew what that did to a kid, but he couldn’t stop his fate any more than he could stop Sam from throwing himself into the pit.

“It’ll be okay.” He didn’t know if he was trying to reassure Bobby John or himself.

Eventually, he was able to set the baby back down and went to the bathroom, rinsing his face with water. A noise came from the other room, and he went to investigate, finding blood and flesh sprayed across the wall over the crib. Heart in his mouth, he rushed over, only to find that Bobby John now was significantly darker and coincidentally looked just like the baby on the Pampers box lying nearby. As he picked Bobby John up and checked him over, his phone rang. It was Sam.

“I think the shapeshifter is his dad,” Sam said.

“You think?” Dean tried to hide his amusement, but the baby in his arms was kind of an obvious clue. Bobby John started to get fussy, and Dean sighed as he started to sway with him again. Eventually, there was a knock on the door.

“Manager! Everything okay in there?” came a voice from outside.

He glared at the door as he patted Bobby John’s back. “Yeah, no, we're fine. Thank you. Good night.”

“There’s been complaints. Mind opening the door, sir?”

Dean’s agitation rose with the continued interruption. “It’s not a good time. Just got out of the shower.”

The doorknob rattled. Dean put Bobby John in the crib and stood to the side of the door. The door unlocked and a man entered the room, the light shining off his eyes with an unnatural glint. Another shapeshifter. Dean attacked him, and they grappled. Dean was pushed back, but he came back twice as hard, though it didn’t do much.

“Get out of the way,” the shapeshifter growled.

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

The shifter growled again, this time deeper. “That child should be with his father.”

Dean took a moment to give the shifter a long look up and down. “Wow, I gotta be honest. I’m not really seeing the family resemblance.”

The shifter smiled slowly, a sharp grin overtaking its face. “I’m not just talking about me. I’m talking about our father.”

The shapeshifter moved to attack, and Dean punched him and slashed him across the face with a silver knife. They continued to fight, and Dean was thrown back on the ground, though he managed to avoid falling on his stomach. Sam entered the motel room and shot the shapeshifter through the heart, killing him.

Dean sat up, wincing. “Well, there goes our deposit.”

Sam glanced at the mess, then back at Dean, a wry smile on his face. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s just get Bobby John somewhere safe.”

Dean nodded, standing up and picking up the baby from the crib. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

Dean was sitting in the passenger seat, eyes flicking occasionally to the rearview mirror where Bobby John slept peacefully. The road ahead was dark and winding, illuminated only by the Impala's headlights slicing through the night.

“You know, it’s pretty smart, actually,” Sam said, breaking the heavy silence. “I mean, shifter poses as a guard for the security company to get near the house. Then it scopes out the fam.”

“Yeah, and then daddy takes off, and shifter becomes daddy. A few glasses of wine, shakes momma's trees, comes back in nine months to collect its prize,” Dean replied, his voice laced with disgust. He shook his head at the twisted logic, wondering how they always ended up in the middle of such warped situations.

Sam's mouth quirked into a smile. “I didn’t even know they had babies. I thought they were just freaks of nature, like X-Men style.”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “You learn something new every day, huh?”

“I’ve never seen a baby monster before.” Sam glanced at the baby in the back seat, his tone contemplative.

The comment unsettled Dean. He hadn't considered Bobby John as anything monstrous. Just a baby. It wasn’t the kid's fault his dad was a shifter. Dean shrugged it off, keeping his voice steady. “Of course it’s not really a monster. I mean, it’s still just a baby. It’s not its fault its dad’s a shifter.” He thought of Cas. Their child would be half-angel, would Sam consider them a monster too? 

“Right, but it’s a shifter, too,” Sam insisted.

Dean felt the tension rising but decided not to push further. “Still doesn’t change the fact that we’ve got to look after him. I mean, it’s not like we can just drop him off at an orphanage.” The mere thought of abandoning the baby sent a wave of anxiety through him. He had a crazy idea, one he couldn’t believe he was even considering, but maybe… “You know, I could—”

“Samuel,” Sam interrupted sharply.

Dean blinked, thrown off. “What?”

Sam’s jaw was set, his expression firm. “Samuel. He’ll know what to do.”

A different kind of panic gripped Dean at the suggestion. “You want to bring him to a bunch of hunters?”

Sam shot him a look. “Not just hunters, Dean. They’re our family.”

“We don’t know them,” Dean protested, his voice rising slightly.

“I do. Not every hunter is a head case.” Sam paused, tilting his head. “I mean, Samuel is actually a lot like you.”

Dean scoffed. “I’m a freaking head case.”

“Well, pitch a better idea then,” Sam countered.

Dean cursed inwardly, knowing his hormones were clouding his judgment. “Well, I– I could…”

“Great! Samuel it is,” Sam cut him off, flicking on the indicator.

Dean turned to stare out the window, forcing himself not to look back at Bobby John. If he did, he knew he’d cave, insist they turn back to Bobby’s, and then what? Play house for a few months and leave behind two kids instead of one? Pretend he could be any kind of parent? It was a stupid idea; a fantasy to think he could ever have a future with a family. He knew how his story would end. Subjecting another child to that fate was cruel. If only he had the choice to spare the one growing inside him from it.

Eventually, they made it to the Campbells’ home base. The fortified gate creaked open, allowing the Impala to roll into the Campbells' compound. The place had a strange dichotomy: a blend of military precision and a faint semblance of home. As they parked, Dean held Bobby John securely, his gaze sharp and protective.

Christian walked by, offering nothing more than a curt nod. Dean's eyes narrowed, his grip on the baby tightening. Gwen approached, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Well, aren’t you just the best disguise a monster ever wore?” She cooed to Bobby John.  “I’m kidding, Dean. Relax,” Gwen teased as she approached.

Dean’s jaw clenched, tightening his hold on the baby in his arms. Before he could respond, Mark approached but didn’t speak, as silent as he was the last time they had crossed paths.

“What, you got something to say? No? Alright, well, you stand there and think at me,” Dean snapped, his nerves fraying.

Sam and Samuel entered, the room’s atmosphere shifting with their presence.

“What’s our next move?” Sam asked, cutting through the tension.

“I got a couple of ideas. Dean, let me see the little guy,” Samuel said, reaching out.

“That’s alright, I got him.” For a moment, Dean envisioned lashing out and biting the hands reaching for the baby. He took in a deep breath, attempting to rein himself in. 

“What do you think I’m going to do?” Samuel asked, slightly exasperated as he lowered his hands. 

“You really don’t want me to answer that question,” Dean shot back.

Christian chuckled from the sidelines. “Well, I’m curious. Who exactly do you think we are?”

“Hunters,” Dean replied bluntly. He didn’t know what it was, but something about Christian set his nerves on edge. With both Samuel and Sam in the room, the stink of alpha was already overwhelming without Cas nearby. He took a moment to press his nose to the crown of Bobby John’s head, letting the scent of the baby calm him enough to keep a clear head.

“Funny, here I’ve been thinking we’re family,” Christian retorted.

“Hey, let’s not get worked up,” Sam interjected, trying to keep the peace.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s not,” Christian muttered condescendingly.

Sam edged closer to him. “It’s fine, Dean. Let me take him.” Dean shook his head, taking a step back from his brother. Sam held his hands up, approaching him like a scared animal.

“No.” Dean glared at him. “No, I’ve got him, I’m fine.”

The others in the room shifted uneasily, but Dean kept his eyes on the alphas, instinctually placing his back to the wall. “What are you planning to do with him?” He demanded, directing his question at Samuel.

“Raise him,” Samuel replied simply.

“Raise him?” Dean asked, his tone incredulous. As if he wasn’t considering the same thing just hours before.

“What, you’ve got another suggestion?” Samuel countered, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, you know what? I do. Come on, Sam, we’re leaving.” Dean turned to leave, but Christian stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

“It’s dangerous out there for him, Dean,” Sam interjected, warning lacing his tone.

 Suddenly, Dean was starting to feel a lot more trapped. “And what about in here? What are we gonna do — study him? Poke at him?” Dean retorted, wariness coloring his tone.

Christian scoffed, “Your mind goes straight to torture, Dean. Don’t assume that for everyone.”

“What exactly are you trying to say?” Dean demanded, narrowing his eyes at Christian.

“Sorry, I heard about what you majored in down in the Pit,” Christian spat mockingly.

Dean was going to rip his face off if he moved even a step closer. “The hell is your problem, man?”

“You’re starting to become a pain in my ass,” Christian snapped, something dark in his eyes.

“Christian, take it easy, man. He’s my brother,” Sam intervened, stepping between them.

Samuel stepped in, his voice authoritative. “We all done bristling up here, or what? Nobody’s doing anything to him, Dean. When he’s old enough, we throw it to him. He wants to volunteer to help out, that’s fine.”

“No, this is crazy.” Dean shook his head. “I’ll take care of it, so you all can get back to whatever serial-killer crap you get up to in this place.”

“Wait, Dean.” Sam stopped him, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder that had him shaking it off with a snarl. “You’re not talking about— Are you planning on raising it? You can’t.”

“And why the hell not?” Dean argued, hackles rising.

Sam paused, glancing at Samuel before continuing. “Dean, you can’t handle this. Not with… everything else you’ve got going on.” He glanced deliberately at Dean's midsection.

“Oh please. You want your own freaking Wolverine on a leash! Forgive me for seeing this kid as a— a kid! Not some experiment!” Dean snapped, hoisting Bobby John up further in his arms.

“And how are you going to deal with the other shifters coming for it?” Samuel spoke up. “Now come on, Dean, listen to reason—”

“Oh, reason? Is that what you call it? Turning a kid into a lab rat?” Dean hissed. 

“Why can’t you give me an inch of trust, Dean?” Samuel asked, a hint of frustration in his voice.

“Maybe because you two are suddenly back from the dead, and I seem to be the only one who wants to know how the hell that happened!” Dean shot back, his eyes narrowing.

“You’re not the only one who wants to know,” Sam interjected quietly, glancing at Dean.

“There’s just a little too much mystery with this family for me to get comfy,” Dean continued, his voice hard.

“Then don’t! But don’t put it on us. All we’re trying to do is invite you in,” Samuel replied, pleading.

Dean wasn’t listening. Every instinct of his was screaming to protect Bobby John, even if the shifter baby wasn’t his own. But the danger wasn’t only inside the compound, as he was reminded as dogs started barking outside, cutting through the tension building inside the room. 

Samuel snapped to attention, barking out orders to the other Campbells. Sam took off down a hallway, beckoning for Dean to follow. “Come on, there’s a panic room downstairs.”

Dean didn’t hesitate, holding Bobby John close as he moved quickly through the compound, every instinct focused on protecting the child in his arms.

The brothers barreled into the panic room, the heavy door slamming shut behind them with a resonant clang. The walls were fortified with layers of metal, making the room a secure fortress against whatever hell was breaking loose upstairs. Dean's heart was pounding, and he clutched Bobby John close, feeling the baby’s tiny heart beating against his own chest. Bobby John started to fuss, his little face scrunching up, clearly picking up on the tension radiating from Dean.

“Come on, Bobby John. You have got to keep quiet,” Dean whispered, trying to soothe the baby. He gently rocked him, but the distant sounds of gunfire and crashing furniture were making it hard for the infant to settle.

The gunfire intensified, each shot reverberating through the walls. Dean’s grip tightened on Bobby John. “It does not sound good up there,” he muttered, anxiety sharpening his voice.

Sam’s face was etched with determination. “Alright, I’m going to go up. Stay with the baby.”

Dean wanted to protest, but he knew Sam was right. Someone needed to stay with Bobby John, and Dean wasn’t in any condition to fight. “Be careful,” he said, his voice low and intense.

Sam nodded, his jaw set. He moved to the door, peering through the small reinforced window. Dean watched as Sam's expression shifted from determination to confusion, then horror. 

“Dean, get back!” Sam shouted, but it was too late. The door exploded inward, ripped from its hinges with a force that sent it crashing into the far wall. 

In the doorway stood a shifter, its form a perfect mimicry of Sam’s, but with an unsettling, predatory gleam in its eyes. Sam lunged forward with his knife, but the shifter moved with inhuman speed, knocking Sam aside effortlessly. Dean barely had time to react before the shifter was advancing on him and Bobby John.

As it neared, its features began to shift and meld, morphing into an exact replica of Dean himself. There was no grotesque shedding of skin, just a seamless, horrifying transition.

“What the…” Dean’s voice trailed off in shock as he stared at his doppelganger.

“Give me the child,” the shifter demanded, its voice an eerie mirror of Dean’s own.

“No way in hell,” Dean growled, backing up until he felt the cold, unyielding wall behind him.

The shifter’s eyes narrowed. In a flash, it grabbed Dean by the neck and lifted him off the ground, pinning him against the wall. Dean struggled, gasping for breath, his vision starting to blur. The shifter’s grip was ironclad, unyielding. It reached down with its other hand, prying Bobby John from Dean’s arms.

Dean’s heart shattered as he felt the baby leave his grasp. He clawed at the shifter’s hand around his throat, but it was no use. The shifter’s gaze was cold, but there was a flicker of something almost human in its eyes as it leaned in close to whisper in his ear.

“You should know as a parent, that there’s nothing you won’t do for your children. For your child’s sake, don’t follow us,” the shifter said, its voice laced with a twisted empathy.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the shifter was gone, Bobby John clutched tightly in its arms. The door to the panic room hung askew, and Dean fell to the floor, gasping for air, his vision darkening at the edges.

“Sam!” Dean croaked, trying to call out, but his voice was weak. He pulled himself up, using the wall for support. His throat burned, and every breath was a struggle. He stumbled towards Sam, who was just beginning to stir from where he had been thrown.

“Dean… what happened?” Sam groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow.

“The shifter… it took Bobby John,” Dean rasped, his voice breaking.

Sam’s eyes widened, and he scrambled to his feet. “Shit.”

Dean nodded, trying to muster the strength to stand tall. “We need to find it. We can’t let it get away.”

Sam put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, grounding him. “Okay, we will. Just– just breathe.”

Dean took a deep breath, steadying himself. The panic room felt like a tomb now, the silence pressing in around them. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

The night air was thick with tension as Dean approached Sam and Samuel in the compound. Christian and Gwen were busy cleaning up the aftermath of the attack, their faces set in grim determination. Dean felt the weight of the recent events pressing down on him, but he needed answers.

Samuel looked up as Dean neared. “Well, I’m pretty sure it’s not a myth now.”

“Yeah,” Sam replied, his tone weary.

Dean didn’t waste any time. “What the hell was that thing?”

“We think it may have been an Alpha,” Samuel answered, his voice steady but serious.

“Wait, so shifters can be alphas too?” Dean questioned. It made sense he supposed, there had to be a common ancestor in there somewhere. But he didn’t think naturally born monsters had designations like humans did.

“No, not like our kind of alpha,” Sam started. He looked to Samuel for help, and their grandfather stepped forward.

“Like all monsters come from somewhere, right?” Samuel explained.

Dean’s brow furrowed.  “And you think that this one was—”

“The king shapeshifter,” Samuel interjected. “First one who spawned all the others. There’s tons of lore about it.”

“The first one?” Dean repeated, trying to wrap his mind around the concept.

“That’s why it was so strong, and why nothing we had stopped it,” Sam added, his expression grim.

Samuel nodded. “And he said that he could find the baby anywhere. That he could feel it, like there’s a connection. That’s in the lore, too.”

“What the hell does it want with babies, anyway?” Dean asked, frustration boiling over.

Samuel shrugged, a helpless gesture. “A softball team? I got no clue.”

“Great, well then how do we kill it?” Dean pressed, his desperation clear.

“I don’t know if we can,” Samuel admitted, the uncertainty in his voice doing nothing to ease Dean’s anxiety.

Dean clenched his jaw, frustration and exhaustion warring inside him. He felt like he had been wrung out emotionally. With all of his omega instincts focused on Bobby John, now there was nothing to focus on but the deep pit of worry in his gut. Was this a warning? Would his own child be ripped from his arms as easily as the shifter took Bobby John?

"We don’t have a choice," he finally said, his voice gruff. "We’ve got to try."

Sam nodded, the flicker of doubt still present in his eyes. The two brothers exchanged a look of silent understanding, then turned towards the exit.

Outside the compound, the night was eerily quiet. Dean and Sam walked out together, the cool air doing little to calm Dean’s racing thoughts.

“You know, it’s funny,” Dean said, breaking the silence.

Sam glanced over at him. “What’s that?”

“Just before you ganked that shifter in the motel, he mentioned a father, which makes sense now because he meant the Alpha,” Dean explained, his mind turning over the implications.

“Huh. Yeah, I guess so,” Sam replied, seeming to follow Dean’s train of thought.

“Did you hear him say that?” Dean asked, probing further.

Sam looked uncertain. “Uh, I don’t know. Kind of a hot moment, you know? Why?”

Dean stopped and turned to face his brother. “Well, because if you heard him, then you knew the Alpha was out there.”

“Okay,” Sam said cautiously, trying to figure out what Dean was implying.

“And if you knew the Alpha was out there, then you knew he might come after the baby. In which case you were using the baby as bait. So was that the plan? To use the baby as bait?” Dean’s voice was hard, his eyes searching Sam’s for the truth.

“Of course not. Dean, I just thought that Samuel’s was the safest place. That’s all,” Sam insisted, his tone defensive.

Dean stared at him for a moment, trying to gauge the sincerity in his brother’s eyes. “Right, of course.”

Sam got into the car, brushing off the conversation. Dean followed, his mind still churning with doubt. He rubbed his midsection, the pain in his neck from being strangled a dull throb that he tried to ignore. 

It wasn’t just the physical pain that troubled him. Dean was deeply unsettled by the idea that Sam might have been willing to risk not only his brother but also his unborn niece or nephew. It gnawed at him, the fear that Sam might not be as unaffected by Hell as he claimed.

As they drove away from the compound, Dean couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. He glanced over at Sam, who was staring straight ahead, his face a mask of stoic determination. Dean’s hand moved unconsciously to his midsection again, a protective gesture over the life growing inside him.

The drive back to Bobby’s house was silent, both brothers lost in their own thoughts and concerns.

Dean climbed out of the Impala, the familiar creak of the door punctuating the cool evening air. Sam lingered behind the wheel, his expression unreadable as he watched Dean gather himself before heading toward Bobby’s front door. It was a relief, Dean admitted to himself, that Sam didn’t press to come inside. The thought made him immediately feel guilty, but he couldn’t help it. Something about Sam was off, and the idea of inviting anything remotely dangerous into what he had made a safe space made Dean nauseous.

Bobby was waiting for him inside, and Dean’s guilt spiked immediately again upon seeing the older hunter’s grim expression. Bobby’s eyes narrowed at the bruising around Dean’s neck, his mouth set in a tight line.

“What the hell is this?” Bobby’s voice was low, seething with anger.

Dean sighed, bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation. “Bobby…”

“Don’t you ‘Bobby’ me!” Bobby cut him off sharply. “You said you were going to take it easy! You said that Sam would look out for you. Get him in here, I have half a mind to give him an earful as well.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the weight of Bobby’s disappointment. “You know that hunts can go sideways, this one did.”

“Sideways, bent over, and upside down more like,” Bobby retorted, his frustration evident. “This is exactly why I didn’t want you going!”

“I’m fine, Bobby,” Dean insisted, trying to downplay the severity of the situation. “You can stop fussing over me like a damn mother hen, I’m starting to get sick of it.”

“Well, someone has to, since you’ve apparently decided to be a dumbass,” Bobby shot back, his voice tinged with concern. He paused, his gaze piercing. “And what do you think Cas would think about this, huh? I bet he’d be thrilled to know that his mate is throwing himself into stupid hunts and recklessly endangering himself.”

Dean’s blood ran cold at the mention of Castiel. “Don’t you dare.”

Bobby held his gaze for a moment longer, then sighed heavily. “No, I won’t call him. But I’m serious, Dean. You need to start taking better care of yourself.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean conceded, his voice softer now. He chuckled a little shakily. “Maybe you’re right, that hunt was a little intense.”

Bobby shook his head exasperatedly, but there was a softness in his eyes. “You better go get some rest.”

Dean nodded, grateful for the reprieve from Bobby’s scolding. He trudged up the creaky stairs, his footsteps heavy with exhaustion. The day had been brutal, both physically and emotionally, and all he wanted was a few moments of peace. He pushed open the door to his room, the familiar scent of old wood and faint traces of gun oil greeting him like an old friend. The room was dimly lit, shadows stretching across the walls in the fading light of evening.

He closed the door softly behind him, leaning against it for a moment as he let out a long, weary sigh. His eyes roamed over the room, taking in the comforting clutter of his belongings. The worn-out leather jacket draped over a chair, the stack of old rock magazines on the bedside table, and the battered cassette player that had seen him through countless hunts and sleepless nights.

Dean crossed the room and lowered himself onto the bed, the mattress sagging slightly under his weight. He lay back, resting his head on the pillow, and placed a hand on his middle, fingers splayed protectively over his midsection. A small, wry smile tugged at his lips as he thought about Bobby John and the lullaby he had hummed earlier. 

He started humming the familiar tune, wincing a little at the strain as he was reminded that his throat was still tender. The notes filled the space, mingling with the gentle creaks of the house settling for the night.

As he hummed, Dean felt a strange sensation, a flutter beneath his hand. His heart skipped a beat, and he froze, waiting with bated breath. There it was again — a gentle, insistent kick. His eyes widened in astonishment, and a rush of joy and love surged through him, overwhelming and pure. 

"Oh yeah? You like that?" Dean whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "I knew you had good taste. There’s more where that came from."

A wide grin spread across his face, and he felt the tension of the day melt away. He continued humming, his hand resting lightly on his belly as he savored the precious moment. Each kick was a reminder of the life that grew inside him, and it was with a sharp pang that he felt Cas’s absence more keenly than ever.

Eventually, his eyelids grew heavy, and he fought to keep them open, wanting to hold onto the feeling for as long as possible. He shifted to a new song, the familiar strains of "Ramble On" filling the room. The melody wrapped around him like a warm blanket, lulling him into a state of contentment.

With a final, sleepy hum, Dean succumbed to the pull of sleep, a soft smile on his lips and his hand still resting protectively over his unborn child. The room fell silent, the only sound the gentle rhythm of his breathing and the quiet promise of a new day.

Whatever it may bring.

Chapter Text

Dean woke slowly, the soft sound of birds chirping outside the window easing him into consciousness. Wrapped in warmth, he felt a familiar weight against him, grounding him. A low chuckle broke the morning stillness.

"Morning," Cas murmured, his voice a gravelly purr that sent a shiver down Dean’s spine. He was propped up on one arm, watching Dean with a lazy, affectionate smile.

Dean smiled back, still drowsy, and leaned in to brush his lips lightly against Cas’s. The kiss started gentle, full of the tender warmth that only morning brings, but when Cas deepened it, the heat between them surged. Cas shifted, pressing his solid weight over Dean, pinning him to the bed. Dean’s hands tangled in Cas’s hair, pulling him closer, a moan escaping as Cas nudged his legs apart, grinding against him. The pleasure coursing through Dean’s body was electric, and it took a concentrated effort to stay quiet, aware of Bobby’s presence just downstairs.

"Cas," Dean gasped, his nails digging into the back of Cas’s neck as the angel’s mouth found his pulse point, sucking on the spot that always drove him wild. Suddenly, his reservations of being quiet went out the window as Cas moved lower, nipping at his mating mark. "Ah, Cas!" He wrapped his legs around Cas’s waist, pulling him in as close as he could, craving more of the connection between them. 

"Cas!" Dean jolted awake, breathless, his heart racing. His body was still trembling, half-arched off the mattress, desperate for a touch that wasn’t there. His legs were tangled in the sheets, the room silent except for his labored breathing.

He groaned in frustration, dragging a hand over his face as the emptiness sank in. It had been weeks since he’d last seen Cas — and even longer since they’d been together like that.

But it wasn’t just the sex he missed, even though, this far into the pregnancy, his hormones were going haywire. No, what Dean really missed was Cas. He missed the quiet moments they shared, the intimacy they’d found in the midst of the chaos. He missed Cas’s soft smile as he lay beside him, palm pressed gently against Dean’s abdomen, finding peace together in stolen moments.

The last time he’d been with Cas, it had been sudden — Cas appearing out of nowhere, drenched in the scent of ozone and scorched with heavenly fire. Dean had been working on the Impala, and before he could even register the sound of wings, Cas had him pinned against the car. With wild, stormy eyes and hair sticking up from static, Cas looked every bit the avenging angel of legend he had first met.

Dean had gasped into Cas’s mouth, gripping his arms as the heat between them ignited. His body slicked with desire, Cas’s scent overwhelming him, making him lose control. It wasn’t long before Dean yanked open the Impala door, shoving Cas inside and following him in, their lips locked before the door could close.

No matter how much time they spent in the Impala, hidden away from the world, it was never enough. Afterward, Cas pressed his hand to Dean’s stomach, checking on their child, his lips brushing the nape of Dean’s neck as he inhaled deeply, like he couldn’t bear to be anywhere else.

But soon enough, Heaven had called Cas back, the war demanding his attention. Dean understood — of course he did — but now, lying alone in the empty bed, the ache in his chest felt unbearable. All he wanted was for Cas to come back, to be sure he was still alive.

Dean dragged himself out of bed, the weight of loneliness pulling at him as he went through his morning routine on autopilot. His mind wandered, distant and unfocused, as he dressed and made his way downstairs. Bobby, as always, was waiting with the morning usual — a glass of water and prenatal vitamins that seemed to get bigger every day. Dean swallowed them with a resigned sigh.

Bobby’s gaze lingered on Dean’s neck, where the bruises from his encounter with the shapeshifter had all but faded. The intense worry in Bobby’s eyes had softened, but it was still there, a constant shadow. Dean could see it, feel it. But the bruising around his throat barely registered anymore — nothing compared to the haunting memory of Bobby John. The feeling of having that baby ripped from his arms still burned fresh in his mind. How long would it be before it was his own child? Before Heaven found out and came for them? 

As they sat down for breakfast, a gentle flutter stirred in Dean’s abdomen. He paused, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as his hand instinctively rested on his belly. The movements were soft, not yet strong enough to be kicks, but they were there, a quiet reminder of the life growing within him. It was a comfort, something to cling to when his thoughts began to spiral into darker places. With that tiny flutter grounding him, it was hard to focus on anything else.

Across the table, Bobby watched him with a rare softness, his expression a little misty.

“What?” Dean asked defensively, catching Bobby’s eye.

“Nothin’,” Bobby replied, shaking his head. “Just… I always thought that whole ‘pregnancy glow’ thing was crap, but I’ll be damned — you’ve got it.”

Dean chuckled. “Well, with angel junior in here, it might end up being literal.”

Bobby snorted. “Let’s hope not. Last thing we need is you lighting up like a damn glowstick.”

Dean laughed and helped clear the table, preparing himself mentally for another day of researching Nephilim. Just as he was settling into the routine, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen — Sam.

“Hey,” He answered, still grinning at Bobby as he held the phone up to his ear.

“Dean, I need you to meet me in Pennsylvania,” Sam said, his voice brisk and all business.

Dean rubbed his forehead, already feeling the beginning of a headache forming. “Another case, Sam? You keep saying you want me off hunts, but you sure drag me into a lot of them.”

Sam’s response was sharp, but with an edge of exasperation. “You were the one who pulled me back into this life, Dean. Remember Stanford? Takes one to know one.”

Dean huffed, his good mood evaporating at his brother’s impatience. “Yeah, and remind me, how many months pregnant were you at the time? It’s not just me I’m worried about here, Sam.”

“I’ll do the heavy lifting,” Sam said, trying to sound reassuring. “You won’t even have to fire your gun. I just need you with me on this one.”

Dean sighed, the tension creeping in as he heard the plea in Sam’s voice. “This how it’s gonna be? ‘Just one more case,’ until it’s not?”

Sam’s voice softened. “Please, Dean.”

Dean closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the request. Saying no to family was never an option. Not for him. “Fine. Send me the address.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, relief evident in his tone.

As Dean hung up, his phone buzzed with a new message — the location for the case. He felt a familiar knot form in his stomach.

“Bobby’s gonna kill me,” he muttered to himself, knowing full well he wouldn’t get away with this unnoticed.

Sure enough, Bobby shuffled back into the room, his expression unreadable, but Dean could tell he’d heard the whole conversation.

“And why is that?” Bobby asked, his tone sharp. “Somebody agree to go on a dangerous hunt like a damn fool?”

Dean met Bobby’s gaze, guilt swirling in his chest. “Sam needs me.”

Bobby crossed his arms, frustration simmering beneath his concern. “Yeah, well, I need a vacation. Don’t mean we always get what we want.”

Dean shook his head, feeling tired already. “This time will be different. I’ll take it easy.”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed, disbelief clear on his face. “Last time you said that, you damn near got the life choked out of you!” He pointed a finger at him, waving it threateningly. “Don’t make me call Cas.”

Yeah, like that was gonna happen. Dean’s lips twisted into a bitter smile as he suddenly felt like pushing back, just to see what would happen. “Go ahead. Call him. You know, I’d be shocked if he even picked up at this point.”

Bobby’s face softened, a mixture of concern and sadness settling in. “Dean… you know if he could, he’d be here.”

Dean’s frustration boiled over. “Well, he’s not, is he?”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Dean clenched his jaw, forcing the emotion back down.

“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, his voice tight. “It’s fine.”

Bobby stepped closer, his voice gentle. “No, it’s not fine. You don’t have to pretend it is.”

Dean met Bobby’s eyes, the weight of everything pressing down on him. “I’ll be careful, but I’m going. Sam needs me.”

Without waiting for Bobby’s response, Dean turned and headed upstairs, grabbing his duffel from the closet. He moved with purpose, throwing in clothes and essentials, but the act of packing felt heavier than usual. Every item he stuffed into the bag carried the weight of his unresolved feelings, the missing piece of Cas’s absence gnawing at him.

When he finally slung the bag over his shoulder and came back downstairs, Bobby was still standing there, arms crossed, eyes following Dean with a mix of frustration and concern.

Dean forced a tired smile. “I’ll call you when I get there.”

Bobby nodded, though his expression remained troubled. “Just… be careful, Dean.”

Dean gave a curt nod, not trusting himself to say more. He headed for the door, each step feeling heavier than the last. As he stepped outside, the sun felt too bright, the air too crisp — everything seemed to underscore the absence of the one person who mattered most.

The Impala awaited him, a familiar comfort in its sleek lines and powerful engine. Dean set his bag in the trunk, then paused, resting a hand on the car’s roof as he took in a deep breath.

With a final glance back at the house, Dean slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. As he pulled out of the driveway, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just one more case that could go wrong, and that was something he couldn’t afford. Not now that he had something to lose.

Feeling uneasy, he set his course to the location Sam had sent him. Whatever awaited him there, he would handle it. And if Cas had anything to say about it? Well, he would handle that too.

Dean pulled up to the dingy Pennsylvania motel, the Impala’s engine rumbling beneath him as he killed the ignition. He sat there for a moment, staring at the peeling paint on the walls, feeling the weight of the request Sam had made over the phone. Why was he here? He’d told himself after the last time that he wasn’t getting dragged back into hunting — not while he had other responsibilities. His hand drifted absently to his stomach, a gesture he’d caught himself doing more and more lately, as if the small life inside needed the reassurance as much as he did.

But Sam had sounded...off. There’d been something in his voice, not quite desperation, but a hint of unease that Dean couldn’t ignore. So here he was. Again.

He grabbed his duffel from the backseat and made his way to the room number Sam had texted him. The door opened almost immediately after his knock, revealing Sam in his fed suit, tie slightly loosened, but otherwise looking every bit the professional agent. Dean gave him a once-over, noting the stiffness in his brother’s posture.

"You made it," Sam said, his shoulders relaxing visibly as he stepped aside to let Dean in.

"Yeah," Dean replied, his voice more tired than he intended. "So what’s so important that you’re dragging me back in after what happened last time? I’m not seeing another monster baby." His tone was dry, but the memory of Bobby John — of losing him — still ached, even if he hid it well.

Sam coughed awkwardly. "No, not that." He slid a file across the small, worn motel table, gesturing for Dean to take a look.

Dean hesitated for a second, then tossed his duffel onto the bed and sank into the chair opposite Sam, flipping open the file. The first thing that caught his attention was the photo of a guy, mid-thirties maybe, lying on a slab in the morgue. His skull had been cracked open, but that wasn’t what had Dean raising an eyebrow. 

"Okay… locusts in a guy’s head is weird," Dean said, skimming the report. "But I don’t see how you need me for this." He closed the file, leaning back in his chair, his eyes locking with Sam’s. 

Sam leaned forward, his expression intent. "Dean, look at it again. Blood, boils, locusts… it all points to Biblical plagues."

Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "What, so you think this is a Heaven thing? I don’t know if you’re aware, Sam, but they’re a little occupied right now."

"I’m just saying," Sam continued, "maybe we need to check in and make sure this doesn’t have something to do with their little post-apocalyptic party."

Dean shook his head, skeptical. "So you think in the middle of their civil war or whatever, some angels just decided to mess with one random town?"

Sam looked at him with that determined expression that meant he wasn’t going to back down. "I’m just saying we can’t rule it out. Why don’t you just call Cas down here and we can know for sure?"

Dean’s jaw tightened slightly. "Why can’t you call him?"

Sam scoffed, shaking his head. "You're kidding, right? I tried. It was the first and second and third thing I did as soon as I got topside. Son of a bitch won’t answer the phone."

Dean sighed, leaning back in the chair, frustration settling in his chest. "Yeah, well, he’s busy."

Sam didn’t say anything, but the look he shot Dean was all too familiar — the same one he’d been giving Dean for weeks. The ‘you’re avoiding something’ look. Dean wasn’t in the mood to argue, especially not about Cas. He knew Sam was right, though. They needed answers, and Cas was their best shot at getting them.

"You're not gonna let this go, are you?" Dean muttered, standing up. "Fine." He cleared his throat and raised his eyes to the ceiling, feeling more than a little ridiculous. "Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray to Castiel to get his feathery ass down here."

Sam snorted, shaking his head. "You’re an idiot."

Dean shot him a look. "Hey, I don’t mock your relationships." He turned his attention back upward, feigning seriousness as he continued. "We’ve got ourselves a plague-like situation down here, and... do you… do you copy?"

Sam raised his eyebrows, clearly exasperated. "Like I said... son of a bitch doesn’t answer—" 

Dean’s eyes flicked up just in time to see the familiar trench-coated figure appear behind Sam. He bit down a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching as Sam kept talking, oblivious.

"He’s right behind me, isn’t he?"

Sam froze, his expression dropping as he turned around slowly. Sure enough, Castiel stood there, his blue eyes locked on Dean, his face as unreadable as ever.

"Hello," Cas deadpanned. To the casual observer, he’d seem entirely indifferent, but Dean could see the glint of amusement in the angel’s eyes. He always did enjoy popping in at the most inopportune times.

Sam crossed his arms, clearly annoyed. "I spent all that time trying to get through to you. Dean calls once, and now it’s—" Sam’s voice dropped into a rough imitation of Cas’s gravelly tone, "‘Hello’?"

Cas rolled his eyes and walked past Sam without acknowledging the sarcasm. His gaze softened when it landed on Dean, and without hesitation, he moved across the room to where Dean was seated on the bed.

"Last time I checked, Sam," Cas said, his voice calm but firm, "Dean is the one I am mated to."

Dean couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth. He saw Sam scoff from across the room, not hiding his disbelief. “Right,” Sam muttered, shaking his head.

Cas’s expression remained calm, but his voice carried a touch of frustration. “If I had any answers to what pulled you from the cage, I would have responded. But I don’t, so there wasn’t any point.”

Dean glanced at Sam, seeing the same lingering confusion and frustration in his brother’s eyes that had been there since his return. But Cas’s attention was back on him, his hand pressing lightly against Dean’s abdomen. The angel closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if feeling for something.

"The Nephilim is growing stronger," Cas murmured, his voice almost reverent. "It won’t be long before Heaven will take notice."

Dean’s heart clenched at the mention of Heaven. His hand shot up, catching Cas’s hand with his own, gripping it tightly. He tried to push down the bolt of panic rising in his chest, the fear that Heaven might come for them — come for him and the baby. 

"Cas," Dean said, his voice low, "you really don’t know what could’ve gotten Sam out?"

Cas shook his head, his eyes filled with sincerity. "If I did, I would have told you."

Dean nodded, squeezing Cas’s hand a little tighter before letting go. He didn’t believe Cas would keep something like that from him — not with them being mated. The bond between them was too strong for secrets like that. Besides, when would Cas even have the time? Heaven was a constant drain on Cas’s attention, and it wasn’t like the angels were exactly on their side anymore.

Cas lingered for a moment longer before pulling back, moving over to the table where Sam had spread out the research. He scanned the papers, his brow furrowing in concentration before he looked up.

"Heaven isn’t behind these killings," Cas said, his voice firm. "Not officially, at least. These could only be caused by the Staff of Moses. It was stolen not long ago from Heaven’s archives — lost in the chaos."

Sam, who had been standing by the table, threw his hands up in exasperation. "Well, isn’t that just great."

“No,” Cas responded flatly, his eyes narrowing. “It isn’t. We must find this staff or more people will die.”

Dean smirked slightly. "Sarcasm, Cas."

Cas turned to Dean, his expression serious, almost stern. "And you shouldn’t be here. Or do I need to remind you that Heaven will destroy us if they find out about your pregnancy?"

Dean’s smirk faded, and he clenched his jaw. "Yeah, you don’t have to remind me, Cas."

Cas’s eyes softened slightly, but his tone remained firm. “You shouldn’t be hunting. Though I suppose I know the reason you’re here.” His gaze shifted toward Sam, leveling him with a glare that had Dean almost feeling sorry for his brother.

Sam blinked, incredulous. “What? You’re blaming me?”

Dean could feel his anger rising, a low burn simmering beneath the surface. He hadn’t wanted to be dragged into this hunt, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t handle it. “Okay, you know what?” Dean stood, his voice sharp as he faced Cas head-on. “Sam may have asked me to come out here, but I made the decision to do it.”

Cas’s expression didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes — concern, maybe frustration — but Dean pushed on, unable to stop.

“Do you know what I’ve found in the last four months sitting on my ass looking for any information on Nephilim? Nothing. So forgive me if I’m not gonna just sit back and wait like a good little omega until I’m ripped apart giving birth to your child.” The words came out harsher than he intended, but the frustration had been building for weeks, and it spilled over now.

Cas’s face visibly pained at the comment, a flash of guilt crossing his features, but Dean wasn’t done. His tone softened, though the determination remained. “I’ll be careful, but I’m not going to be sidelined. Not even by you.”

The tension between them was palpable, a battle of wills. Dean stared at Cas, daring him to push back, but Cas just stood there, his jaw tight, his eyes full of conflict. After what felt like an eternity, Cas let out a frustrated sigh and nodded, his shoulders sagging slightly in defeat.

Dean didn’t say anything, but the relief was there, just under the surface. He wasn’t going to be treated like glass, not when he was still perfectly capable of doing what needed to be done.

The silence was finally broken by Sam clearing his throat, awkwardly stepping into the conversation again.

"…Okay, so now that we know Heaven isn’t behind this, that brings us back to motive," Sam said, his voice a little tentative. "Right now, we got three dead cops. Only thing linking them is this." He held up a newspaper clipping, the headline reading, ‘Father of Slain Suspect Calls for Investigation.’

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, his patience thinning with every minute spent talking instead of acting. The pregnancy hadn’t made him any more tolerant of sitting around. In fact, the urge to move, to do something, was even stronger now with the constant tension about what Heaven might do if they found out.

"Very well," Castiel said, stepping forward and placing a hand on both Sam and Dean’s shoulders.

Before Dean could react, the familiar gut-wrenching sensation of angel travel hit him. His stomach lurched as they were yanked from the motel room and deposited in a completely unfamiliar house. Dean barely registered the shabby living room, the startled man in the chair, or the clutter around them. His vision swam, and nausea crashed into him like a freight train.

"Little warning next time, Cas," Dean managed to rasp, closing his eyes and fighting the bile rising in his throat. The last thing he needed was to throw up in some stranger’s house. 

Castiel’s hand came to rest gently on his back, steadying him. There was concern radiating from the angel, but before Dean could say anything, the man they’d interrupted shot up from his chair, eyes wide with panic.

"What the hell — who are you people?!" the man demanded, half rising from his seat.

Before either Sam or Cas could calm him down, a kid, no more than twelve, burst into the room, brandishing a jagged, broken staff. The kid’s face was tight with anger, his hands shaking as he pointed the weapon at them.

"Leave my dad alone!" the boy yelled, his voice cracking under the strain of fear.

Castiel’s eyes zeroed in on the staff immediately, his expression darkening with recognition. "Is that...?" he murmured, stepping closer.

Sam frowned at the broken weapon. "Shouldn't it be bigger?"

"Yes. It’s been sawed off," Castiel said grimly, already putting the pieces together in his mind. 

"Aaron!" the father shouted, panic seeping into his voice. "Get out of here!"

But before anyone could move, Cas stepped forward and pressed two fingers to the man’s forehead. The man slumped back into the chair, unconscious.

The kid — Aaron, apparently — let out a terrified gasp and waved the staff threateningly at them, his eyes wild.

"What did you do to him?!" Aaron’s voice cracked, his grip on the staff tightening. Dean could see the whites of the kid’s knuckles.

Dean held up his hands in what he hoped was a calming gesture. "It's all right, he's just sleeping," he said, his voice steady despite the churn in his gut. Why did it always have to be kids? 

Aaron pointed the jagged end of the staff directly at Dean. For a split second, Dean saw the kid’s face twist with raw anger and desperation, and it hit him right in the chest. He recognized that look — it was the same one he’d had, so many times before, when the world had kicked him down one too many times.

Before Dean could make a move, Cas flew across the room, appearing next to Aaron in the blink of an eye, snatching the staff from the boy’s trembling hands. Aaron jumped back, terrified.

"Cas!" Dean snapped, feeling a surge of protectiveness over the kid. "Take it easy!" He turned to the boy, his voice softening. "Hey, kid. We're not here to hurt you, okay? We just need to know — where did you get that thing?"

Aaron hesitated, glancing between them, his shoulders shaking. "Please," he said, voice small, "don't kill my dad. It wasn’t him. It was me. I did it."

Dean’s stomach twisted, though whether from the kid’s confession or the nausea, he wasn’t sure. "Okay, nobody’s killing anybody.” He tried to reassure the kid, keeping his voice soft. “What’s your name?"

"Aaron... Aaron Birch," the boy whispered.

Dean nodded slowly, trying to keep his tone calm and level, even though his insides felt like they were about to revolt. "Okay, Aaron Birch. Where did you get this?" He gestured to the broken staff in Cas’s hand.

Aaron looked away, biting his lip. "You won’t believe me."

Dean made sure Aaron looked him in the eyes before he responded. "Try me."

Aaron swallowed hard, finally meeting Dean’s eyes. "It was an angel."

The room went dead silent.

Dean’s heart dropped into his stomach, and not because of the nausea this time. "An angel?" He exchanged a quick glance with Cas, who looked just as disturbed as he felt.

Aaron’s voice wavered as he continued. "Those cops... they killed my brother. Nothing bad ever happened to them. It wasn’t fair." His lip trembled, but his expression hardened again. "So I prayed to God every night to punish them. God didn’t answer, but... but he did."

Dean took a step closer, watching the boy carefully. "Who? The angel?"

Aaron nodded. "He said I could have justice. But I had to take it myself." He gestured to the staff in Cas’s hands. "He gave me the stick."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "He just gave it to you?" He wasn’t buying it. "Come on, Aaron. He didn’t just give it to you, did he?"

Aaron’s lips tightened. "I... I bought it."

Sam raised an eyebrow, scoffing. "You bought it? With what? Your allowance?"

Dean shot his brother a look before turning back to the kid. "What did the angel want for it, Aaron? What did you give him?"

Aaron’s face twisted in shame. "My soul."

Dean blinked, his blood running cold. No. "You sold your soul to an angel?"

Beside him, Castiel frowned, his voice low. "That... shouldn’t be possible."

Dean ran a hand through his hair, feeling a fresh surge of anxiety. "Cas, can angels even do that?"

"It’s never happened before," Cas said, examining the broken staff more closely. "But it could explain why the staff was cut into pieces. More pieces... more product."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "More ‘product’? Who is this guy?"

"We'll find him," Castiel said, his tone resolute.

Without another word, Cas pressed his fingers to Aaron’s forehead, and the boy slumped into unconsciousness, falling limp in Cas’s arms.

Dean’s jaw tightened. "What did you do that for?"

"Portability," Cas said simply, slinging Aaron over his shoulder with ease.

Before Dean could protest, Cas grabbed his shoulder again, along with Sam’s, and transported them all back to the motel. The nausea hit him harder this time, the sudden shift in space turning his stomach upside down. As soon as Cas laid Aaron down on the bed, Dean barely managed to stumble to the bathroom before collapsing in front of the toilet.

The nausea had won, and Dean retched, gripping the edges of the toilet bowl as his body convulsed. When he finally came up for air, gasping and shaking, he was reminded of just how brutal morning sickness had been at the start of the pregnancy. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he slumped against the cool bathroom tiles, trying to catch his breath.

Dean stayed kneeling on the bathroom floor, his forehead resting against his arms as he tried to will the nausea away. He barely registered the quiet footfalls behind him until he felt a cautious hand on his back. Dean flinched but quickly relaxed when he realized it was Cas. 

“Apologies,” Cas said, his voice still gruff but tinged with concern. “I didn’t think of how transporting you may affect you or the Nephilim.”

Dean let out a weak chuckle, still bracing himself for another wave of nausea. “You can say ‘baby,’ Cas.”

Cas shifted awkwardly behind him, clearly unsure of how to navigate the situation. “I had hoped you might be spared any discomfort, seeing as the… our child is half-angel. I thought they might take to flight a little easier than you have.”

Dean snorted, amused despite his queasy stomach. A ridiculous mental image of a baby with fluffy, white angel wings popped into his head, even though he knew that wasn’t how angel wings worked. The thought did make him wonder… “Wait, would they be able to do that? Fly?”

“I’m not sure,” Cas admitted. “Heaven has been remarkably silent on any mention of Nephilim besides their elimination. Finding information has been… difficult.”

Dean shifted, sitting up a bit, the nausea starting to ebb. “Yeah, tell me about it. But there’s a chance?”

Cas hesitated, his brow furrowing in thought. “It is a possibility.”

Dean let Cas help him to his feet, the last bit of nausea finally subsiding. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m picturing one of those little fluffy babies with wings from Valentine’s Day cards.”

Cas’s expression was a mix of confusion and mild offense. “I’m quite sure that our child will be markedly different from a lower-tier cupid.”

Dean snickered. “Yeah, yeah. You’re a snob, I get it.”

Cas narrowed his eyes, though there was no real anger in his voice. “Nephilim are powerful, Dean. It’s merely a statement of fact.”

“Uh-huh. Sure,” Dean teased, knowing exactly how to push Cas’s buttons.

Cas sighed in that exasperated way he did when Dean was being difficult. “You are infuriating.”

“Missed you too,” Dean replied with a grin.

A rare, soft smile tugged at the corner of Cas’s mouth as he stepped closer, his hands settling on either side of Dean’s waist. Dean felt warmth bloom in his chest, and for a second, he let himself lean into the moment, the weight of Cas’s forehead lightly pressing against his own. It reminded him of his dream from earlier, before he had woken alone. His stomach fluttered, though this time it had nothing to do with nausea.

But of course, the moment didn’t last.

“Are we working a case or not here?” Sam’s voice called from the other room, loud and impatient.

Dean sighed heavily, knocking his forehead gently against Cas’s in playful defeat. “We could just lock the door.”

Cas, though clearly tempted, gave a small shake of his head. “Unfortunately, he is right. We need to find the angel that’s buying souls.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Dean sighed, reluctantly pulling away.

Together, they stepped out of the bathroom, Dean rolling his shoulders as he tried to shake off the last remnants of nausea. Sam shot them both an annoyed look but quickly refocused on the situation at hand. Dean didn’t miss the pointed raise of his eyebrow before Sam turned back toward the bed, where the kid — Aaron — was still sprawled out, looking disturbingly peaceful for someone who’d just had his soul traded like a used car. 

“So, do you want to explain why we just kidnapped a kid?” Sam directed the question toward Cas, but the tension in his voice made it clear he wasn’t thrilled with the whole situation.

Dean’s gaze drifted to Aaron, lying there motionless, and without thinking, his hand found his way to his abdomen, resting there in a protective gesture. Something about seeing the kid like this — helpless, caught up in a mess far beyond his control — pulled at him in ways he wasn’t ready to confront. He swallowed hard, fighting to keep his expression neutral, but the discomfort in his chest remained. 

Cas, standing tall as ever, didn’t seem fazed. “If the angel we seek truly bought this boy’s soul, it leaves a mark — a brand on his soul.”

Sam crossed his arms, furrowing his brow in thought. “What, like a shirt tag at camp?”

“I have no idea what that means,” Cas replied without missing a beat. “But I can read the mark and find the name of the angel that bought his soul.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “How?”

“Well…” Cas hesitated, glancing at the boy as if weighing his next words. “Painfully. For him. The reading will be excruciating.”

Dean’s stomach churned again, and this time it had nothing to do with the flight sickness. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on.”

Cas turned to him, his gaze firm, unrelenting. “Dean.”

“He’s a kid, Cas. A kid.” Dean’s voice sharpened, frustration rising as he turned to Sam, hoping for backup. “Sam?”

Sam was clearly torn, glancing between Dean and Cas warily. “Any permanent damage?” he asked Cas, as though that was supposed to make Dean feel better.

Dean shot his brother an incredulous look. “What?!”

“Physically, minimal,” Cas replied shortly, his gaze still fixed on Aaron.

“Oh, well, yeah, then by all means, stick your arm right in there,” Dean snapped, sarcasm laced with panic as he paced beside the bed.

Cas stepped forward, his voice growing more urgent. “Dean! If I get the name, I can work a ritual to track the angel down.”

“And I’m all for that!” Dean shot back. “But come on. There’s got to be another way.”

“There is no other way,” Cas said, his tone final, unyielding.

Dean felt the air in the room shift. "You're gonna torture a kid?" His voice cracked on the last word, his panic barely contained. 

"I can't care about that, Dean!" Cas’s eyes flashed with something raw, something that made Dean freeze. "I don't have the luxury."

Before Dean could stop him, Cas was already in motion. He pressed his hand into Aaron’s chest, his fingers digging in like they were cutting through air. Aaron’s eyes shot open, his mouth stretching into a scream so piercing that Dean instinctively lunged forward. “Cas, stop!” 

But Sam was quicker, grabbing Dean and holding him back, wrapping a firm arm around him before he could interfere. Dean thrashed in his brother’s grip, fury igniting inside him as Aaron screamed and his body lit up from the inside, glowing with some unnatural light. It was agony watching it happen, knowing the kid was suffering and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

“Sam, let me go!” Dean snarled, struggling harder, but Sam tightened his grip, his alpha strength holding Dean in place as if it were nothing. Then, just as Dean was about to break free, Sam’s hand found the back of his neck, gripping tightly.

Dean's entire body locked up. It was like all his instincts fired at once, obeying that old, primal command. A snarl tore from his throat as he struggled harder, but it was no use. Sam held him, forcing his body into submission, and Dean felt a white-hot surge of betrayal.

Sam, scruffing him? Him? No one, not even John, had ever dared to cross that line, and for Sam to do it… He had raised him better than that. Dean’s blood boiled. The moment Sam’s hold slackened, Dean wrenched himself free and swung, his fist connecting squarely with Sam’s face.

Sam doubled over, clutching his face, blood dripping between his fingers. He glared at Dean, his jaw clenched in pain and anger, but instead of retaliating, he shook it off, focusing his attention on Cas.

"Did you get a name? What is it?" Sam asked, his voice tight with barely contained frustration.

Dean’s chest was still heaving, his fists clenched at his sides. His anger wasn’t just directed at Sam anymore. He couldn’t believe what had just happened — Cas torturing a kid, Sam holding him back like that, and Cas… Cas hadn’t even looked his way. Not once. Dean’s mate, the one person who should’ve had his back, had been completely absorbed in whatever he was doing with the kid’s soul.

But as Dean looked at Cas now, something in the angel’s expression stopped him. Cas hadn’t been ignoring him. He was distant, but it wasn’t indifference. Whatever Cas had found, it wasn’t good.

"I thought he died in the war," Cas muttered, breaking the tense silence.

Sam shot him a confused look. "What, he was a friend or something?"

Cas sighed, his eyes distant. "A good friend."

Sam snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, your frat buddy is now moonlighting as a crossroads demon."

"Balthazar." Cas’s brow furrowed, lost in thought. "I wonder..."

Sam pressed, his tone sharp. "So we can find him now, right?"

Before Cas could answer, an angel materialized in the room. The air seemed to crackle with energy, and the intruder's eyes zeroed in on Cas.

"Balthazar," the angel sneered, voice dripping with mockery. "Thanks, Castiel. We'll make good use of the name."

Without warning, the angel lunged at Cas, angel blade flashing. Dean’s heart leaped into his throat, but Cas was quick, blocking the attack with his own blade. The clash of steel filled the room, the two angels locked in combat, their strikes brutal and precise.

"And by the way," the angel hissed, "Raphael says hello."

Cas didn't respond, his focus entirely on the fight. The two of them grappled, knocking over a lamp as they traded blows. The room seemed to shrink around them as they crashed into walls, furniture splintering under the force of their strikes. Finally, the fight carried them both toward the window, their blades forgotten as they wrestled for control. In one swift motion, they crashed through the glass, tumbling several stories down.

Dean and Sam rushed to the shattered window just in time to see the two angels land on a car parked on the street below. The vehicle crumpled under the impact, glass and metal spraying everywhere. For a tense moment, Dean’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes darting to Cas’s still form next to the wrecked car. But the other angel had already vanished, leaving Cas standing alone amid the destruction.

Before Dean could fully process what had just happened, Cas reappeared in the room, seemingly unharmed. His gaze immediately found Dean, and without hesitation, Cas stepped forward, placing a hand on Dean’s abdomen, checking on the Nephilim growing inside of him. The tension in the room hung thick as Cas remained silent, his focus entirely on Dean. After a few agonizing seconds, he relaxed, letting out a quiet breath of relief.

"They must not have been here long," Cas finally said, his voice calm but serious. "I would have sensed them otherwise."

Dean’s stomach twisted with the implication. "So they didn’t…?"

Cas shook his head. "I don’t believe they know about our child. It’s fortuitous that the amount of heavenly energy around this town is so great — it will mask the Nephilim’s energy. As well as the carvings already on your ribs."

Sam, clearly still struggling to catch up, crossed his arms, exasperated. "Well, that’s great, but would someone like to tell me what the hell is going on?"

Cas turned, moving with purpose as he began rummaging through their bags, pulling out various ingredients. "That was one of Raphael’s followers. He must have sent them to follow me when I left Heaven."

Sam’s face darkened with understanding. "Wait, so this civil war, that’s against Raphael? The archangel?"

"Yes," Cas confirmed, not pausing as he continued to sift through their supplies. "I need myrrh."

And then, without warning, Cas vanished.

Sam blinked at the empty space where Cas had stood just moments ago, then turned to Dean, incredulous. "So you were serious about Cas being in Heaven this whole time?"

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the exhaustion creeping in. "Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?"

"So he really didn’t pull me out?"

Dean shot Sam an irritated look. "No, how many times do we have to tell you, nobody knows what the hell pulled you out."

Sam looked away, his expression conflicted. "I just thought..."

Before Sam could finish, Cas reappeared, myrrh in hand, and immediately began drawing symbols with chalk on the motel table. The atmosphere in the room shifted as Cas moved with deliberate focus, preparing the spell.

Sam, still trying to piece everything together, asked, "So wait, why does Raphael want to restart the apocalypse?"

Cas continued drawing, his voice detached. "He’s a traditionalist." Finished with the chalk symbols, Cas extended a hand toward Dean. "Dean."

Dean walked over without hesitation, reaching back for Cas automatically. Cas gently took his hand, slicing into his palm with a quick, practiced motion, letting Dean’s blood drip into a bowl filled with the other ingredients.

Dean winced but forced himself to focus. "You sure Junior isn’t going to affect the spell?"

Cas glanced up at him, his expression softening ever so slightly. "The ritual calls for human blood. Our child won’t affect that."

"Right." Dean swallowed as Cas lifted their joined hands to his lips, healing the cut. He knew he should be pissed at Cas, but he couldn’t deny that something in him softened at the action.

As the sirens outside began to wail, Sam’s eyes darted toward the window. “Uh, Cas, how long does this spell take?”

Cas’s focus didn’t waver. “Got him. Let’s go.”

Dean stepped forward, his eyes landing on Aaron, still lying unconscious on the bed. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What about him?”

Cas glanced over his shoulder at the boy. “Don’t you think the police will take him home?”

Dean gritted his teeth. Cas was being pragmatic, but Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that leaving the kid like this wasn’t right. But there wasn’t time to argue. Raphael’s followers were closing in, and they had bigger problems.

He grabbed his jacket, casting one last glance at Aaron before heading for the door. “Let’s just hope the cops do their job for once.”

Dean stepped into the mansion, his eyes narrowing as he took in the surroundings. The place was massive, the kind of mansion where rich people probably held private parties with exclusive guest lists. But right now, it was eerily quiet, save for the thumping bass of music coming from upstairs. He could feel the tension radiating from Sam beside him, but it was Cas’s silence that had him on edge. Something about this felt off.

As they made their way up the grand staircase, the music got louder, vibrating through the walls like it was coming from some underground nightclub. Dean’s gut churned. He hated this kind of scene — flashy, over-the-top, and definitely the sort of place where things went wrong fast.

Once they reached the top of the stairs, they followed the sound down a long hallway, stopping in front of a large double door. Dean glanced at Cas, who nodded once before pushing it open. The moment they stepped inside, Dean was hit with the scent of stale booze and the heavy, vibrating rhythm of the music.

The room was huge, dark, with flashing lights that pulsed along with the beat. It looked like something out of a rave, except for the fact that there was no one else here. Just a massive, empty dance floor and the overwhelming feeling that they were being watched.

Before Dean could make a move, the door behind them slammed shut, and the music cut off abruptly. He spun around, hand instinctively going to the gun tucked into his waistband, even though he knew it wouldn’t do much good against an angel.

The lights flickered on, bathing the room in a harsh, bright glow. Cas had already pulled out his angel blade, holding it at the ready as his eyes scanned the space.

“Cas. You’re here,” a voice drawled from the other side of the room.

Dean's head snapped toward the voice, and standing there, looking as casual as ever, was a man Dean could only assume was Balthazar. The guy had this smug grin on his face like he wasn’t standing in the middle of a ticking time bomb.

“Balthazar,” Cas greeted, his voice low and controlled.

Dean watched as Balthazar took a few steps forward, completely unbothered by the tension in the room. “It’s so good to see you. He told me you were floating around.”

Cas’s brow furrowed. “He?”

Balthazar gave a little shrug. “I believe you two have flown together.” He flipped a switch on the wall, and the music completely died out. “Oh, you know, the old frog in the throat.”  

Dean’s stomach tightened as he noticed a body on the floor nearby — the angel who had attacked Cas earlier. A frog leapt from the angel’s mouth, letting out a croak.

Cas didn’t seem amused. “Even I know that that’s a bad joke,” he said, his voice filled with a hint of sorrow. “I grieved your death.”

Balthazar waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry about that, you know. I wanted them to think, you know, so… they wouldn’t come looking for me?”

Dean narrowed his eyes, his unease growing. He didn’t trust this guy — not one bit.

Cas’s eyes flickered with disappointment. “What… is all this? What are you doing?”

Balthazar smirked and spread his arms out wide. “Whatever I want. This morning I had a ménage à — what’s French for twelve?”

Dean raised an eyebrow, but Cas wasn’t impressed. His eyes locked onto Balthazar with an intensity Dean had come to recognize.

“You stole the Staff of Moses?” Cas accused, his voice carrying a hint of incredulity.

“Sure, sure. I stole a lot of things,” Balthazar replied casually, as if stealing divine artifacts was no big deal.

Dean shot Cas a look, but the angel didn’t even blink. “You were a great and honorable soldier. We fought together.”

Balthazar’s smile faltered for a second. “Yes, too many times to count.”

“I know you,” Cas continued, his voice heavy with the weight of their shared history. “You’re not some common thief.”

Balthazar’s grin returned, but this time it was sharper, more dangerous. “Common? No. Thief? Eh.”

Cas didn’t back down, his voice steady. “I need your help.”

Dean could feel the tension shift, the weight of the request settling between them.

Balthazar sighed dramatically. “I know. I’ve been hearing all about you, and as far as I’m concerned, you and me, Cas, nothing’s changed. We’re brothers. Of course, I want to help you.”

Dean didn’t trust the sincerity in Balthazar’s voice, but Cas relaxed, the tension in his shoulders fading infinitesimally.

“Thank you. I need the weapons,” Cas stepped forward.

Balthazar’s easygoing demeanor vanished, replaced by something colder. “Don’t ask that.”

Dean tensed, his instincts screaming that this was about to go south fast.

“Why take them? Why run away?” Cas pressed.

Balthazar threw his arms up in a dramatic gesture. “Because I could! What? What? I mean — you’re the one who made it possible. The footsteps I’m following — they’re yours. What you did, stopping the big plan, the prize fight? You did more than rebel. You tore up the whole script and burned the pages for all of us.” He let out a harsh laugh. “It’s a new era. No rules, no destiny. Just utter and complete freedom.”

Dean’s blood ran cold as Balthazar’s eyes flicked between him and Cas, his smirk growing. “I mean, look at you!” He gestured between them, his voice mocking. “I thought you had a stick up your ass, but mating your charge? That breaks all kinds of rules. I’m impressed.”

Dean felt the weight of Cas stepping in front of him, protectively blocking him from Balthazar’s gaze. Cas’s voice was low, dangerous. “And this is what you do with your freedom?”

Balthazar rolled his eyes. “Hey, screw it, right? I mean, dad’s not coming back. You might as well blow coke and jump on the bed. You proved to me we could do anything, so I’m trying everything. What difference does it make?”

Dean’s stomach churned. He didn’t like this guy’s attitude, didn’t like the way he talked about Cas like he was some sort of joke. And the mention of their bond — that struck too close to home. Too close to what else they were hiding from Heaven.

Cas’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. “Of course it makes a difference — it's civil war up there!”

“I know,” Balthazar replied, but there was no remorse in his voice.

“If we can beat Raphael, we can end this!” Cas’s voice held a desperate edge. “Just give me the weapons.”

Balthazar let out another laugh, this one full of disbelief. “Do you know what’s funny about you? You actually believe that you can stop the fighting. It will never stop. My advice — grab something valuable and fake your own death.”

Cas stared at him, his expression hardening. “You’ve gone insane. Your little holiday is over. Raphael knows you’re alive by now.”

Balthazar shrugged, his grin returning. “Oh, Raphael can try me anytime. I’m armed.” He paused, his tone softening for the first time. “I’m sorry, Cas. All else aside, I’m really, really happy to see you. Even though you still have that stick up your ass.”

The thunder rumbled overhead, deep and menacing, the kind that made Dean’s gut tighten instinctively. It was like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to give.

Balthazar’s eyes flicked to the window, raising an eyebrow. “Was that you?” His gaze shifted toward Castiel.

Cas shook his head, lips set in a grim line.

“Oh, that’s my cue then,” Balthazar sighed, as if annoyed by the inconvenience. "Tell Raphael to bite me." And just like that, he was gone, vanishing into thin air.

Dean barely had a second to process the angel’s disappearing act before the door behind them exploded open with a deafening crash. Three angels stormed into the room, their wings creating a gust of wind that scattered papers and debris. Cas immediately moved, trying to get between Dean and the attackers, but the fight broke out fast, too fast. They were separated almost instantly, the room devolving into chaos.

Dean caught a glimpse of Sam unsheathing an angel blade, going after one of the attackers with determination. Dean ducked as another angel took a swing at him, barely avoiding the blow. The sound of metal clashing, grunts of exertion, and the crackle of energy filled the air. Dean’s focus narrowed, the world around him becoming a blur of movement and violence.

Cas was a flurry of wings and fury, locked in combat with the third angel. Dean saw Cas plunge his blade into the enemy’s chest, the body crumpling to the floor in a heap, just as Raphael materialized behind him. Before he could call out to warn Cas, there was a flash of blinding light as Raphael sent Cas flying through the doorway, crashing down the stairs with a sickening thud.

Dean wanted to yell, to check if Cas was okay, but there wasn’t time. The angel in front of him wasn’t letting up. It swung at him again, this time too fast to dodge. Dean’s instincts screamed, but he couldn’t react fast enough. He braced himself, expecting the cold bite of steel in his flesh. But instead, a warmth bloomed low in his belly. The world shifted around him, and suddenly, he wasn’t standing where he had been a second ago. 

The angel’s blade sliced through the air where Dean had just been. He blinked, but there was no time to figure out what had just happened. Recovering faster than the angel, and in one swift motion, he yanked the angel’s weapon from its grasp and drove it deep into its throat. Blood sprayed and grace flared as the body dropped.

At the same time, Sam dispatched his opponent, the blade sliding cleanly through the angel’s chest. The room went quiet for a heartbeat. Without wasting a second, Dean sprinted towards the stairs. He skidded to a halt at the bannister, looking down in time to see Balthazar reappear at the base of the stairs, holding some kind of artifact. Raphael, who had been advancing on Cas, turned just in time to be hit by its power.

Raphael’s vessel transformed into a pillar of salt, frozen in mid-motion. Dean stared in shock, barely registering the conversation below.

“You came back,” Castiel said, surprise evident in his voice.

Balthazar smirked, pacing across the opulent wood floors. “Well, now Raphael will have to go shopping for a new vessel. Should give me a nice long head start on him. Until next time.”

“Next time,” Castiel echoed, seemingly prepared to let the angel go.

Dean’s attention was drawn to the circle of holy oil on the floor, surrounding Balthazar and the salt statue that had once been Raphael. It dawned on him — this must have been Cas’s plan all along. Before Balthazar showed up, he’d been about to trap Raphael.

Well, there wasn’t any point in letting the trap go to waste. He stalked down the staircase, flicking open his lighter as he went. Cas noticed his approach, but said nothing, allowing him to get close enough to Balthazar’s turned back to set the oil ablaze.

“No time like the present,” he announced, tossing the flame onto the trail of oil. The fire roared to life, trapping Balthazar inside the circle.

The angel’s expression twisted into annoyance. “Holy fire. You hairless ape! Release me!”

Dean crossed his arms, meeting the angel’s glare with his own. “First, you’re taking your marker off Aaron Birch’s soul.”

“Am I?” Balthazar’s voice dripped with condescension, his eyes glinting with barely restrained fury.

Sam descended the stairs as he uncorked a bottle of holy oil, stepping up beside Dean. “Unless you like your wings extra crispy, I’d think about it.”

For a moment, Balthazar just stared at Dean, his head cocked to the side as if considering something deeply. Then, his gaze dropped to Dean’s midsection, and a slow, knowing grin spread across his face. “You know, Dean-o… I felt something earlier. Something I haven’t felt in, gosh, must be centuries.” He raised his eyebrows. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, now would you?”

Dean tensed. His hand instinctively drifted toward his stomach.

“Balthazar,” Castiel warned, stepping forward, his angel blade at the ready.

“By all means, Castiel, join in on this,” Balthazar taunted. “Though I suppose you’ve already made a contribution in that department, haven’t you? You really are a rebel.”

“Release the boy’s soul,” Castiel demanded, voice hard as steel.

Balthazar chuckled. “Very well.” He pressed his hands together, touching them to his forehead. With a soft exhale, he added, “The boy’s debt is cleared. His soul is his own.”

Dean’s muscles relaxed, but only slightly. He wasn’t sure where this was heading next, but it didn’t feel over.

“And what will you do with that information?” Castiel’s tone was sharp, his blade still raised.

Balthazar smirked, unfazed by the tension. “Well, information is valuable these days, and your lovely baby momma here just broke my bank. I might just have to sell to the highest bidder.” He paused for dramatic effect before grinning. “Oh, come on, you should see your face! We’re old friends, aren’t we? My lips are sealed.”

He tossed something across the fire. Cas caught it mid-air, his eyes widening as he looked at the object in his hand.

“Call it a gift,” Balthazar said with a wink.

Castiel examined the amulet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a soft sigh, he lowered his hand, extinguishing the flames.

“My debt to you is cleared,” Castiel said quietly.

“Fair enough,” Balthazar replied. “Good luck.” And with that, he vanished, leaving the room eerily quiet.

Dean’s frustration boiled over. “Cas! What the hell?”

Cas didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the amulet in his hand, lost in thought. “He knew, Dean.”

“Yeah, even more reason not to let him go!”

Cas looked up, his eyes softening. “Balthazar can be trusted.”

Dean scoffed, not believing it for a second. “Sure looked like it.”

Ignoring him, Cas approached, looping the amulet around Dean’s neck before he could protest. “This is what I’ve been looking for in Heaven.”

Dean frowned, tugging at the cord. “Maybe tell me what it is before you put it on me, Cas.”

“It’s a cloaking amulet,” Cas explained. “With this, the Nephilim will be hidden from Heaven more effectively than with just the warding on your ribs.”

Dean dropped his hand to his abdomen, reassuring himself that their child still rested safely inside. “How much time will this buy us?”

Cas leaned closer, his scent relaxing Dean as he fiddled with the amulet, tucking it beneath his collar. “As long as you keep it on, Heaven shouldn’t find out at all during your pregnancy.”

Dean felt that familiar sense of dread rise in him again, the constant reminder that sooner rather than later, he would have to give birth, and they still weren’t any closer to finding a way for him to survive it. But before the fear could fully take hold, Cas spoke again.

“I must return to Heaven,” Cas said softly, as if reluctant to leave. “Raphael is weakened from this, and I must press my advantage while I still can.”

Dean knew this. He knew Cas had to go, but it didn’t make it any easier. His jaw clenched, the pain of separation creeping in. He tried to look away, but Cas gently turned his face back toward him.

“I need you to be strong, Dean,” Cas whispered, his voice filled with quiet determination. “We can get through this. I have faith.”

Dean swallowed hard, nodding, though his throat felt tight. Cas gave him a small, reassuring smile before leaning in to kiss him softly. Then, with a flutter of wings, he was gone.

Dean blinked back the sting in his eyes, his chest heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. He finally turned, catching Sam’s watchful eyes, but he couldn’t deal with it. Not now. Without a word, Dean pushed past him, heading for the exit, desperate to leave the mansion and the suffocating weight of everything inside behind.

Chapter Text

Torturing a demon wasn’t exactly Bobby’s idea of an ideal Tuesday morning, but it wasn’t the strangest way he’d spent one either. Life had a way of throwing these situations at him, and if he was being real honest, sometimes it was downright therapeutic. Hell, it was probably the closest thing to therapy any of them got these days.

Though, if he could choose, there was a certain shaggy-haired idjit he’d rather have strapped to this chair, giving him a piece of his mind. But no, Sam was several states away, hunting down a lamia, leaving Bobby to burn the midnight oil researching the damn thing. And without so much as a thank you for it. Not that Bobby needed it, but it was the principle of the thing. Manners weren’t supposed to vanish just because you crawled out of Hell. Damn kids.

And speaking of his other kid — Dean. Nearly six months pregnant, and still acting like he didn’t need to change his habits one bit. He was out there in the scrapyard every damn day, messing with that Impala. Bobby was fairly certain she was in prime condition, and hadn't needed a fix in weeks. But if tinkering with the car kept Dean close to home, Bobby wasn’t about to complain. Better that than him sneaking off on another hunt, even though Bobby knew he was itching for one.

Oddly enough, it was Sam who’d been the worst influence on that front lately. After all the talk about giving Dean a break, letting him rest — now the kid seemed to be pushing Dean to do the opposite. Bobby knew the trauma of Hell changed people — he’d seen it enough with Dean — but Sam’s behavior had Bobby’s hackles up. Just a few days ago, Sam had shown up at Bobby’s doorstep in person, since Bobby had confiscated Dean’s phone to keep him from being dragged back into the field. Sam hadn’t been himself at all, practically demanding that Dean join him on the hunt. He’d gone from pleading to barking orders to making threats, but Bobby had stood his ground. Sam didn’t get past the front porch, and eventually he’d driven off, tires squealing into the distance.

Dean hadn’t exactly been thrilled with Bobby after that little showdown, but there was less fight in him than Bobby expected. That bothered him more than anything. Something had happened on that last hunt, and though Dean had told him about it, Bobby could tell there were pieces missing. Normally, seeing Castiel lightened Dean up some, even if just for a little while. This time, though, Dean had come back more on edge — subdued, almost skittish. Bobby would eat his hat before Dean ever admitted to that, but he had seen it. The kid was carrying more than just the baby these days.

Sometimes, it felt like all Bobby did anymore was worry. That’s why having a bottom-feeding demon squirming under his blade felt like his own kind of therapy. A little time to take out his frustrations, no shrinks, no couches required.

“Right,” he hefted the blade in his hand, testing the weight. “Where were we?”

The demon gave him a simpering smile, leaning forward against her bonds. “Your soul,” she purred.

"Right," he deadpanned. "Talk."

She shifted, uncrossing her legs and then crossing them again, the movement slow and deliberate. "Look at you, all in a rush. Foreplay..." Her eyes sparkled with wicked amusement as she smirked. "...gets you more play."

Bobby didn’t have time for games. “I want Crowley's name,” he said, tone flat and impatient. “His real name, back when he was flesh and blood.”

The demon's red eyes flickered, and for a second, they changed back to something more human. She cocked her head, lips curling. “Does tying up demons in your basement make you feel better about that time you killed your wife?”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, but Bobby didn’t flinch. He’d heard worse, lived through worse. And sometimes therapy meant digging up old wounds. Instead of dwelling on it, he moved toward a bag resting in the corner and brought it over, placing it down next to her.

She eyed it with wary interest. “What’s that?” 

“You don’t recognize them?” Bobby asked, his voice low, the threat implicit. “They’re yours.”

The demon’s eyes followed his hands as he moved the bag into a large metal tub. Her expression flickered, curiosity shifting to uncertainty as Bobby lifted the flame thrower, the nozzle pointed at the tub.

“It won’t work,” she said, voice wavering just enough for Bobby to notice. “It’s a myth.”

Bobby stared at the flame, letting the crackling sound fill the silence between them. “Then you got nothing to worry about,” he said, calm and cold.

Without another word, he flicked the pilot on and aimed the fire over the tub. The demon’s scream tore through the basement, echoing off the concrete walls. The demon’s body jerked against the restraints, her face twisting in agony.

Bobby lowered the flame thrower, watching as she gasped for breath, her skin blistering from the burn. 

“I can’t,” she rasped, her voice raw with pain.

Bobby’s eyes hardened as he cranked the flame thrower higher again, sending another wave of heat over the tub. The demon screamed louder this time, her body convulsing against the chair. 

When he finally pulled back, her flesh was charred, her once confident expression now contorted in agony. 

"You don’t know what he’ll do to me," she gasped, trembling.

“Right now, you better worry about me,” Bobby said, his voice cold, unmoved by her suffering.

“You don’t get it,” she croaked. “He’s the King.”

Bobby’s jaw tightened, his grip on the flame thrower firm as he brought the fire back up. “King of the Crossroads. I’ve heard the speech.”

Her scream echoed again, but this time it was weaker. The burns were taking their toll. “No,” she groaned, barely audible now. “King of Hell.”

The doorbell rang, cutting through the moment. Bobby froze, the flicker of the flame illuminating his grizzled face. The doorbell rang again.

The demon, her voice hoarse, managed to croak out, “You gonna get that or what?”

Bobby sighed, blowing out the pilot of the flame thrower, his eyes still locked on her as he muttered under his breath. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He climbed the basement steps, groaning as his knees protested the movement. Damn if he wasn’t getting old, with two idjits running around that he practically raised, an angel that had become what amounted to his son-in-law, and another tiny idjit on the way.

The doorbell rang again, cutting through the stillness of the house. Bobby grumbled to himself as he trudged toward the front door. He wasn’t in the mood for visitors, especially in the middle of... well, everything. But ignoring the bell wasn't an option anymore. His boots thudded softly against the wooden floor as he reached the door, casting a quick glance back at the basement stairs. The demon downstairs wasn't going anywhere, not yet, but he'd have to wrap up this interruption quickly.

He squinted through the peephole and blinked in surprise. Marcy, his neighbor from a few doors down, was standing there, holding something wrapped in a checkered cloth. She was also... fixing her hair? Bobby felt a knot of discomfort settle in his stomach. He hadn’t expected a social call, least of all now. He checked his breath, then ran a hand over his flannel shirt, smoothing the wrinkles, not that it did much. With a resigned sigh, he twisted the knob and pulled the door open, stepping out onto the porch.

"Uh, hey," Bobby greeted, clearing his throat as he stepped into the sunlight. Marcy smiled brightly, holding the cloth-covered dish in front of her like an offering.

“Hi! Bobby, right?” she said cheerfully. “I’m Marcy, your neighbor from down the road. I brought you some peach cobbler. I figured, you know, neighborly thing to do.”

Bobby nodded, taking in her warm smile and the scent of freshly baked peaches wafting up from the dish. He shifted his weight uncomfortably. It had been a while since anyone in the neighborhood dropped by for pleasantries, and certainly not with home-cooked desserts in hand.

“Thanks,” Bobby said gruffly, gesturing awkwardly at the cobbler. “Smells good.”

Marcy’s smile widened, clearly encouraged by his response. “Thought you might like it. You’ve been keeping to yourself a lot lately. Figured I’d bring something over and introduce myself properly.”

Before Bobby could respond, Marcy’s eyes wandered to the yard. Her brow furrowed, and she pointed toward the figure hunched over the Impala, working under the hood. “Is that one of your employees?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “He’s been out there working non-stop. I wasn’t sure if I should say something, but it seemed a little... unseemly to have him out there so long without a break.”

Bobby snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "Employee? I wish. If he was, I could make him stop working. That's my son, Dean."

Marcy’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh, your son? I didn’t mean to be rude, I just... well, I thought — he’s been out there for hours.”

Bobby huffed, shaking his head. “You think that’s bad? The worst of it is he’s pregnant,” he said, letting the words out with a mix of frustration and worry. “I’ve been tryin’ to get him to take it easy, but every time I bring it up, I nearly get my damn head bit off.”

Marcy’s eyes widened, a look of astonishment crossing her face before softening into sympathy. “Oh my, pregnant? That must be... difficult,” she said carefully, glancing back toward Dean with concern. “Maybe... I don’t want to pry, but could his alpha help? Unless, of course, he’s not in the picture...”

Bobby let out a weary sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’s in the picture, alright. Just... he’s a soldier. Deployment. Far away, doin’ God knows what right now.”

Marcy’s expression softened even more, and she cooed sympathetically. “Oh, that must be hard. Do you think he’ll be able to come home in time for the birth?”

Bobby grumbled, “He better be, or else war’ll be the least of his problems.”

Marcy chuckled at that, her laughter light and infectious, but her eyes stayed on Bobby, warm with understanding. She handed over the dish, her fingers brushing his as he took it. “Well, maybe this cobbler will help get your son to take a break. He might just need a little sweet motivation,” she said with a wink. “And I’d bet you could use a break too. You’ve probably got more on your plate than most.”

Bobby shifted, holding the dish and nodding his thanks, though he felt the weight of his responsibilities pull at him. “Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta keep things runnin’.”

Marcy hesitated, biting her lip, before speaking again, “You know... if you need to get out for a bit, I’m having dinner at my place this Saturday. I’d love it if you joined me.”

Bobby blinked, caught off guard. “Dinner?”

Marcy waved her hand, quickly adding, “No worries if you’re busy! I know you’ve got a lot going on. It’s just... well, you probably deserve a nice meal too.”

Bobby felt a twinge of awkwardness at the offer. He wasn’t exactly used to socializing, much less having a dinner invitation handed to him out of the blue. “I... uh, appreciate the offer. I’ll see if I can make it,” he muttered, not committing to anything.

“Oh, and,” Marcy continued, almost as an afterthought, “my wood chipper’s been acting up. Would you mind taking a look at it? If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”

Bobby’s mouth twitched into a wry grin. “I’ll take a look, on one condition — don’t mention it to Dean. Last thing I need is that dumbass insistin’ on doing it himself. He’d be out there all day tryin’ to fix it instead of restin’.”

Marcy laughed, her face lighting up. “Deal,” she said with a playful smile. She lingered a moment longer, her eyes meeting Bobby’s in a way that made him feel suddenly aware of the space between them. Her gaze softened, and for a second, it seemed like she wanted to say something more, but instead, she just smiled again, giving him a lingering look before finally turning to leave.

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer,” she said, glancing over her shoulder as she walked down the steps. “I’ll see you around, Bobby.”

“Yeah,” Bobby muttered, watching her as she headed down the driveway. He stood there for a moment longer, holding the dish of peach cobbler, unsure of what to make of the whole interaction. He shook his head, then turned back toward the house. The demon downstairs wasn’t going to torture itself.

As he stepped back inside, he couldn’t help but mutter under his breath, “What the hell just happened?”

The stairs creaked under his boots as he made his way down, the dim light growing fainter as he descended back into the dark. The demon was waiting for him, her eyes flashing that sickly red as she watched him return.

“Aww,” she cooed mockingly as he approached, her voice dripping with malice. “She sounds nice.”

Bobby ignored her, walking past her bound form as if she were just a piece of furniture. He didn't have time for her twisted games. He picked up the flame thrower, reigniting the pilot with a steady hand.

“Are you going to make sweet love to her before you stab her to death, Bobby?” the demon purred, grinning like she’d found some great secret. “That is your usual thing, right? Kill the ones you love?”

Bobby clenched his jaw, the memories of Karen flashing through his mind like a knife to the gut, but he didn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. He aimed the flame thrower at the metal tub again, the fire roaring to life with a deep growl.

The demon’s scream split the air like a shriek from Hell itself, her flesh blistering and peeling under the heat. Bobby held the flame steady, the acrid smell of burning demon filling the basement, the sound of her agony filling his ears.

“I want Crowley’s name,” Bobby demanded, his voice low and cold. “Now.”

The demon writhed, her body twisting against the restraints as the flames licked closer. Her skin bubbled, blackening under the heat, but still, she resisted. Bobby watched her with a steely glare, unrelenting.

“Crowley’s name!” he shouted, and the fire flared higher, turning the air thick with heat and the scent of charred remains.

The demon whimpered, her bravado fading under the unbearable pain. “Okay, okay!” she finally gasped, her voice a ragged whisper. Bobby pulled back the flame just a bit, giving her room to speak.

She panted for breath, her charred lips quivering. “MacLeod. Fergus MacLeod. I swear. We—” She coughed, the sound harsh and broken. “We call him Lucky the Leprechaun behind his back.”

Bobby’s lip curled in disgust. “MacLeod’s Scottish, Einstein,” he muttered.

The demon’s eyes flickered, a hint of panic creeping in as she realized what was coming next. “You got what you want,” she rasped, the fear creeping into her voice now. “Now send me back.”

Bobby grabbed a can of lighter fluid, popping the cap with a flick of his thumb. The demon's eyes widened as he began soaking the contents of the tub, the liquid splashing against the already charred remains.

“No!” she shrieked, her voice rising in desperation. “We had a deal!”

Bobby kept pouring, his expression hard as stone. “I gave it my best effort.”

“No!” Her voice turned frantic, her body jerking against the restraints. But Bobby didn’t stop. With a final flick of his wrist, he drenched the tub in the last of the fluid, then set the flame to it.

The fire roared to life instantly, engulfing the remains in a blaze of orange and red. The demon’s screams filled the basement one last time, a horrible sound that rattled the walls and then, just like that, faded into nothing.

Bobby stood there for a moment, watching the flames until they began to die down. Then, with a slow breath, he blew out the pilot light on the flame thrower and stepped back. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his hands trembling just the slightest bit from the effort.

He heard the creak of a floorboard, and he froze.

He turned his head slightly, and that’s when he saw him — Dean, standing at the top of the basement steps. The kid was watching, but there was something off about the way his eyes gleamed in the half-light. They weren’t quite human, not fully, anyway. Bobby frowned, watching him carefully. He had noticed stranger and stranger things happening with Dean lately, but he was reluctant to bring it up.

With a tired sigh, Bobby set the flame thrower down and slumped onto the wooden stool by the workbench. “Crowley’s a bastard,” he muttered, rubbing his face with both hands. “Got a hold on my soul, kid. Need leverage to get it back.”

Dean didn’t say anything for a moment, just nodded slowly, his gaze still locked on the now-empty chair where the demon had burned up. There was something eerie in the way he stared, like he wasn’t quite seeing what was in front of him, but something else. Something darker.

Bobby followed Dean’s line of sight before shifting his attention back to him, noticing for the first time that Dean’s hand was resting on his middle. Right over where the Nephilim was growing. Bobby wasn’t sure what was going on, but he had his suspicions. It was easy to forget sometimes that Dean wasn’t just having a normal pregnancy, but with a half-angel child, there was more to account for than just aches and pains.

“You alright?” Bobby asked, his voice quieter, a little more cautious now.

Dean blinked, his gaze snapping back to Bobby as if he’d been pulled from some far-off place. “Yeah,” he said absently, but his hand stayed on his stomach, fingers pressing into the fabric of his shirt. “I’m fine. Just… I saw her. The demon. Her real face.” His voice dropped lower, as if he didn’t quite want to admit it. “I haven’t seen that since Hell.”

Bobby’s brow furrowed in surprise, his eyes flicking between Dean’s face and the hand on his belly. “It’s the Nephilim, isn’t it?”

Dean hesitated, then nodded, his expression tightening. “Yeah. It’s been… doing things. I’m seeing things I couldn’t before. Feeling things.” He swallowed, his throat bobbing, and for the first time, Bobby noticed just how worn Dean looked. “It’s like they’re responding to me, like they’re waking up or something.”

Bobby’s heart gave a heavy thud of concern as Dean swayed on the spot. “Damn it, Dean,” he rushed to the bottom of the stairs. “You should sit down, get some rest.”

Dean shook his head quickly, stubborn as ever. “We need to follow up on Crowley,” he insisted, his voice edged with determination. “I can’t sit around waiting for this thing to get worse. I’m running out of time, Bobby.”

Bobby felt his stomach drop at Dean’s words. The way he said it — like there wasn’t any light at the end of the tunnel, like there was only one inevitable outcome, and it wasn’t survival. “We’ll figure something out,” Bobby said, though his voice didn’t sound as sure as he wanted it to.

Dean gave a weary sigh, running a hand through his hair. “The kid’s getting more active,” he muttered. “Means I don’t have much longer, and we’re not getting any closer to a solution that has me living at the end of it.” His voice cracked just a little at the end, and Bobby could see the exhaustion seeping through the cracks in Dean’s armor.

“Dean…” Bobby started, but Dean cut him off.

“Just let me help, Bobby,” Dean said, his voice a little desperate now. “If it doesn’t work out… I need to know you won’t end up in Hell. I can’t… I can’t let that happen.”

Bobby felt his chest tighten, the raw honesty in Dean’s voice cutting him deeper than he expected. He wanted to argue, to tell Dean that it wasn’t his job to worry about him, but the truth was, he’d never been able to say no to the kid. 

“Alright,” Bobby said reluctantly, his voice rough. “I’ve got a name. Fergus MacLeod. I’m not sure what neck of the woods in Scotland he’s from. Could be anywhere.”

Dean nodded, his face a little calmer, but the weight of the situation hadn’t lifted. He winced suddenly, his hand pressing harder against his middle, his lips thinning into a tight line as he exhaled through his nose.

Bobby eyed him carefully. “Look, we’re not getting any closer to answers today. Why don’t you go upstairs, get off your feet for a bit?”

Dean shook his head like he was about to argue, but Bobby cut him off. “I know it ain’t pie, but the neighbor brought over some peach cobbler. It’s sittin’ on the kitchen counter, and I figure it’s better than you faintin’ on me down here.”

Dean perked up at that, his stubborn resistance faltering at the mention of food. “Peach cobbler, huh?” he muttered, already pushing himself off the railing.

Bobby nodded, relieved to see the spark of interest in Dean’s eyes. “Yeah, now get on upstairs. You need the rest, and I don’t want to drag your ass back up those stairs if you collapse.”

Dean rolled his eyes, that familiar Winchester bravado creeping back in, and with one last glance down at the basement, he turned and headed upstairs.

Bobby let out a long, weary sigh, watching him go before turning his attention back to the mess in the basement. The tub was still smoldering slightly, the last remnants of the demon finally settling into ash. Bobby grabbed a broom and started sweeping up the debris, his mind racing in circles.

Dean had brought up a good point, one Bobby had been trying to avoid thinking about. If something happened to Dean — and God, he hated even considering the possibility — then what? Cas was caught in the middle of a damn civil war, and Sam… well, Sam had his own problems. He was unreliable right now, to say the least. If the worst came to pass, if Dean didn’t make it, Bobby might just be the only one left standing between that kid and the rest of the world.

The thought terrified him. He’d never been one for raising kids, never thought he’d be cut out for it. But now? Now he might be the only one who could do it, if it came down to it. A half-angel child, no less. The kind of responsibility that could crush a man.

But no. Bobby shook his head, forcing himself to banish the thought. It wasn’t going to come to that. Dean would survive, and Cas would, too. They’d figure something out, and Dean would raise that kid like a normal damn family. They’d be just like one of those happy families you see on Christmas cards — the kind that made Bobby want to gag just a little bit.

It was a happier thought than the alternative, and right now, that’s all Bobby was willing to allow himself. Because the idea of outliving those idjits, his idjits, was too much to bear. He wouldn’t let himself go there. Not now.

With a grunt, Bobby finished sweeping up the mess and tossed the broom aside. Upstairs, he could hear the faint sound of Dean moving around in the kitchen, probably already halfway through the cobbler. Bobby huffed a small, weary chuckle to himself. Maybe peach cobbler wouldn’t solve all their problems, but at least it’d keep Dean from driving himself into the ground for a few more minutes.

It wasn’t until later that night, when they had eaten their fill of cobbler instead of having a real meal, that Bobby heard a knock from the front door. Dean tensed from his spot on the couch, and he lifted a hand, cautioning for Dean to be still.

Grabbing a shotgun on his way to the door, he hesitated, glancing back to make sure Dean was hidden from view before he opened the door, bracing for whatever may be on the other side.

“Oh good, you’re home!” Rufus Turner stood, leaning on the doorframe, slightly out of breath. “Listen, you gotta help me bury a body.”

“Is that Rufus?” Dean called from the living room. “Don’t let that asshole in!”

“Screw you, Winchester!” Rufus yelled into the house.

Dean appeared in the entryway of the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. “Man, you’re even uglier than I remember.”

“I would say the same for you, but I noticed that gut of yours first. What, Mr. Six-Pack getting a little too comfortable answering phones? Soon enough you’ll start to look like this guy.” He pointed toward Bobby.

“Okay, both of you cut it out,” Bobby sighed. He turned back to Rufus. “Come on, let’s go see what you’ve gotten us into.”

He walked out onto the front porch, Rufus leading the way. When the door didn’t close behind him he looked back, only to find Dean following them outside. He considered telling him to go back inside, that they didn’t need help, but he decided against it. It wasn’t worth the fight, and besides, he did feel for the kid. In the last few months he had to give up his brother, his mate, and then hunting. Hell, in a few more months he might even be giving up his life. With all of that in mind, letting him watch as two old men struggled to dig a grave seemed like a small thing to give him.

“So why’d you bring it here?” He asked Rufus, walking towards the other man’s truck.

Rufus threw his hands up in the air. “The law is on my tail! What was your guess?” He rolled his eyes at Bobby’s look. “What? They got lucky.”

“Yeah,” Bobby grumbled, “or you’re getting slow.”

Rufus scoffed, taking offense. “Yeah, I'm getting slow — says mister sits on his ass all day taking calls.” He turned back, looking over his shoulder at Dean. “Is that what he’s teaching you? Kids these days,” he huffed. “Look at me. I’m near seventy and I’m still out there, taking care of a damn okami of all things.” He pulled down the tailgate of his truck, revealing the body. 

“An okami? Where the hell did you shiv it?” Bobby asked.

“Get this— Billings.” Rufus crowed.

Bobby shook his head. “The only time I’ve ever seen one of those was in Japan.”

“Yeah,” Rufus nodded. “The only time anyone’s seen one is in Japan! Something weird is going on.”

“Well, Sam’s hunting a lamia in Wisconsin,” Bobby supplied.

“Get out. I thought they never left Greece.” Rufus exclaimed. He paused for a moment, then shook his head. “Anyways, got a shovel?”

“Oh, he’s got better than that.” Dean piped up.

Owning a scrapyard had its perks, and it was no time before Bobby was using a backhoe to dig up a grave for the okami, Rufus standing to the side with Dean.

Rufus let out a low whistle, leaning on his shovel with a grin. "Man, I know what I want for Hanukkah."

"It’s a shame," Dean said, smirking. "I was looking forward to watching you throw out your back."

Rufus raised an eyebrow, not missing a beat. "And I’m sure you were just going to sit back and watch, huh?"

Bobby leaned out of the digger, already feeling the banter start to drag things out. "Rufus—"

But Dean cut him off, leaning forward like he was settling into the fun. "No, Bobby, I’m enjoying watching him dig this hole instead."

Rufus squinted at Dean, clearly not following. "Boy, what the hell are you talking about?"

Bobby sighed, feeling every one of his years as he climbed down from the digger. He figured it was better to rip the band-aid off. "He’s benched because he’s pregnant."

Rufus did a double-take, staring at Bobby for a second before his eyes shot back to Dean. "Really?" He blinked, then let out a loud laugh. "Damn, is the guy who knocked you up blind? Either that, or he’s uglier than you are."

Dean’s smirk didn’t waver. "You’re just jealous I’m getting laid. Bet you haven’t seen any action since the seventies."

Rufus snorted. "Maybe you should sit down with Bobby sometime and ask him about the seventies. While you’re sipping tea and picking out baby names. Bet he’s got a few stories for ya." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Dean muttered, "Ugh, gross," but Bobby could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Something shifted in Dean’s expression, and Bobby knew it wasn’t Rufus’s ribbing that got to him. Dean had been carrying a weight lately, one Bobby wasn’t quite sure how to lift.

So instead, Bobby did what he always did — he changed the subject, steering the conversation back to what really mattered. "I got a name on Crowley," he said to Rufus as they dragged the okami’s body over to the grave. "Fergus MacLeod."

"Huh," Rufus grunted as they dumped the body into the hole. "Where you gonna look?"

"Scotland," Bobby replied with a sigh. "Crowley let slip that he’s fond of Craig. It’s—"

Before Bobby could finish, Rufus cut him off, waving a hand. "It’s Scotch. Only made and sold in a tiny area on the north tip of Caithness county. Peaty, sharp, with a long finish of citrus and tobacco."

Bobby blinked, momentarily stunned. "You got all that from a name?"

Rufus shot him a look and shrugged. "What am I, a heathen? I know what Craig is."

Bobby shook his head, unable to stop a small chuckle from escaping. "Well, I got a hunch that's where Crowley lived and died back when he was human, before he got roasted and turned demon."

Rufus paused for a moment, thinking it over. "You know, I’ve got some contacts over there. I could make some calls."

Bobby bristled, the instinct to reject help kicking in automatically. "I ain’t asking for no help."

Rufus, stubborn as ever, just shrugged. "Well, I ain't asking for your permission."

Before Bobby could argue, Dean called from the sidelines, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Are you two grandmas ever gonna finish, or should I call the cops now?"

"They’d be more help than you," Rufus muttered under his breath, tossing another shovel full of dirt into the grave.

Dean shot back without missing a beat. "What was that? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of your joints creaking."

Bobby sighed, feeling the weight of the shovel in his hands and the ache in his back. At this rate, they’d be out here all night burying the damn body. 

So much for his idea of a quiet night.

Not only did he not have a quiet night, but the entire following day was anything but as well. With federal agents sniffing around his property, killing the damn okami again because Rufus couldn’t do it right the first time and then springing his dumb ass from jail, Bobby had one of the most eventful days he had had in a while. So it was a relief when he was finally able to put up his feet, pour himself some of the Johnnie Walker Blue he had swindled out of Rufus, and wait for the simmering bowl of summoning ingredients on the table in front of him to do its job. 

Getting Crowley’s name and family history hadn’t been easy, and getting the location of his bones had been even harder. Fortunately, he had a little ghostly help from Crowley’s long-dead son, who apparently hated the bastard even more than Bobby did. 

He was just about to pour himself another finger of whiskey when Crowley finally showed, the demon looking a little rough around the edges. He also appeared deeply annoyed to find himself caught in a devil’s trap painted on the ceiling.

“Don't we both know how this game ends? Really Bobby, you gotta know when to fold 'em.” Crowley sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

Bobby leaned back in his chair, feeling the twinge in his lower back from all the heavy lifting he’d been doing. Damn, he was getting old. “Word on the street is that ever since Lucifer went to the pokey, you’re the big kahuna downstairs.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I see you've been reading the trades.”

Crowley sauntered over to Bobby’s table, pulling a glass from his coat and setting it down with a practiced flair. "Trouble in paradise?" Bobby asked, his tone dry as sandpaper.

Crowley let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Mate, you... have no idea." He uncorked a bottle he’d brought with him — because apparently, Hell didn’t provide quality booze — and poured a drink. "I thought when I got the corner office..." He trailed off, pulling a small white tablet from his pocket and dropping it into the glass. The antacid fizzed as Crowley watched with mild fascination before he continued, "I thought it was all going to be rainbows and two-headed puppies. But if I’m being honest, it’s been hell." The demon grimaced.

Bobby raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair, the creak of old wood breaking the momentary silence. "I thought that was the point," he replied, deadpan, folding his arms across his chest.

Crowley drained his glass in one long gulp and set it down with a heavy clink. "You know what the problem with demons is?"

Bobby’s eyes narrowed slightly. He wasn’t in the mood for one of Crowley’s long-winded speeches. "They’re demons," he shot back.

Crowley gave him a wide-eyed look as though Bobby had just answered the million-dollar question. "Exactly!" He threw up his hands. "Evil, lying prats, the lot of them. And stupid." He began to pace, clearly warming up to the sound of his own voice. "Try to show them a new way, a better way, and what do you get? Bugger all." He threw his hands in the air dramatically before turning back to Bobby. "You know, there are days I think Lucifer’s whole ‘Spike anything with black eyes’ plan wasn’t half bad."

Bobby snorted, half-amused despite himself. "You done?"

Crowley gave a little shrug and rolled his eyes, "Feels good to get it off my chest. We should make this a thing."

The sarcasm in Bobby’s voice was thick enough to cut with a knife. "Do I look like Dr. Phil to you?"

"A little," Crowley quipped, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Bobby shot him a dirty look that could’ve curdled milk.

Crowley cleared his throat, moving swiftly on. "Anyhoo. Obviously not here for a social call. So, on with it."

Bobby straightened up, his face hardening. "I want—"

Crowley waved a dismissive hand. "Save you the recap. In fact, I'll do the shorthand for you." He pointed at Bobby and mimicked his gruff voice. "'I want my soul back, idjit.' Then..." He pointed to himself with mock grandeur, "’Fraid not." His hand swung back to Bobby in mockery, "'But I’m surly and I got a beard. Gimme! Blah, blah, blah.'" He finished with a flourish, "The bottom line is, you get bubkes. Are we done?"

Bobby's eyes hardened further, a dangerous gleam entering his gaze. "Just getting started."

Crowley’s smirk faltered as Bobby shifted his attention to his left. From the shadows, a young man stepped forward, his eyes burning with an anger that seemed to have been buried for a long time.

Crowley’s grin froze. "Gavin?" His voice softened for a moment, as if trying to pull off some semblance of emotion. "Is that you? It’s — it's been so long." Crowley spread his arms wide, clearly laying it on thick. "I love you so—"

Gavin’s face remained cold, unreadable. Crowley’s charade broke into laughter. "Ah, who am I kidding?" he scoffed. "Your soul for my boy, is that it?" He clapped his hands once. "I’ve got to give you credit for thinking outside the box, but..." Crowley paused, leaning in with a malicious smile, "Problem is, I loathe the little bastard. You want to torture him, just let me pull up a chair and watch." He spread his hands dramatically. “Hell, burn his bones and send him down to me and we can have a family reunion. That right, son?” Turning back to Bobby, he smirked. “You picked the wrong bargaining chip this time, my friend.”

Gavin stood silent, his eyes glinting with dark satisfaction as Crowley spoke.

Bobby stepped forward, voice low and biting. "He ain’t a chip." Crowley’s expression shifted into confusion. "I was just using him to dig up dirt on you. And since Gavin hates you maybe even more than you hate him, he was more than happy to squawk."

Crowley’s face stiffened. His eyes flicked between Bobby and his son. "What did you tell him, son?"

Gavin’s lips curled into a wicked smile. "Everything."

Crowley’s face fell for just a moment, before Gavin flickered out of existence like he was never there at all.

Bobby stepped closer to Crowley, the smirk now on his face. "I know it all now. Fergus." He said Crowley’s human name like a curse, taking pleasure in every syllable. "You may be king of the dirt bags now, but in life, you were nothing but a two-bit tailor who sold his soul in exchange for an extra three inches below the belt."

Crowley’s eyes flashed with anger, but he quickly masked it with a snide grin. "Just trying to hit double digits."

Bobby returned the grin, unbothered by the demon’s bravado. Crowley faltered before shrugging. "So, you got a glimpse behind the curtain. And?"

"And now I know where you’re planted."

Without breaking eye contact, Bobby picked up a cell phone from the table and tossed it at Crowley. Catching it, Crowley pressed the phone to his ear, and his expression soured as he heard Sam Winchester’s voice on the other end.

"Crowley."

Crowley’s mouth twitched. "Sam. Last I heard you were playing Cage match with Lucifer. We should catch up sometime."

"Sure," Sam’s voice was calm but pointed. "But you see, I’ve gone international. In fact, I’m in your neck of the woods. Did you really use to wear a kilt?"

Crowley’s irritation deepened. "I had very athletic calves," he snapped. "What’s the game?"

"Dominoes. In fact, I’ve just dug yours up."

Crowley’s gaze shifted back to Bobby, realization dawning. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, tossing the phone aside. "The whole burning bones thing — it’s a myth."

Bobby’s grin widened. "I know an employee of yours who would disagree."

Crowley grumbled. "That’s where she got to."

"You demons," Bobby said, shaking his head, "You think you’re something special. But you’re just spirits. Twisted, perverted, evil spirits. But end of the day, you’re nothing but ghosts with an ego."

Crowley glared. His jaw was set, but he said nothing.

"We torch your bones," Bobby said, voice cold and final, "You go up in flames."

Crowley’s eyes flickered to the devil’s trap on the ceiling. "Your bones for my soul. Going once…" Bobby drawled.

Sam’s voice crackled through the phone again, the sound of a lighter flicking on in the background. "Going twice."

Crowley’s face twisted into an expression of pure exasperation as he threw the phone down. "Bollocks," he spat.

Raising his hand, palm out, Crowley revealed the contract marks on Bobby’s arms. With a wave, the contract began to erase itself, the sigils fading one by one. Bobby watched closely.

"You can leave the part about my legs," Bobby grumbled.

Crowley rolled his eyes but obliged, the rest of the contract disappearing. Bobby felt the sudden lightness, the pull on his soul gone, and allowed himself a small smirk.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he said.

Crowley glared up at the devil's trap. "Now if you don't mind," he growled.

Bobby took a long pole from the wall and used it to scratch out the paint on the ceiling, pleased with the victory but wary of what might come next. One thing was certain: Crowley wouldn’t forget this. But for now, Bobby had his soul back, and that was enough.

For now.

He watched as Crowley vanished with a sneer, the demon's absence leaving a faint, sulfurous scent behind. He lifted the phone back to his ear, exhaling slowly as he collected his thoughts.

“Thanks, Sam,” Bobby muttered, his voice rough from the tension still thick in the air.

“Of course, Bobby,” Sam replied. “Are we good now?”

Bobby nodded, though Sam couldn’t see him. "Yeah. Just take it easy, okay?"

"I will.” Sam hesitated before speaking again. “And you know, maybe you were right on this one. I’m not sure Dean would’ve handled the flight well."

Bobby grunted, leaning against the table as he rubbed a hand across his forehead. "Yeah. Probably better that you did this one yourself." He replied pointedly.

There was a pause, then Sam spoke again, quieter this time. "He’s still my brother, Bobby."

"I know," Bobby replied, softening his tone. "But you know he’s in no state to hunt right now."

Sam sighed. "He never wanted me to treat him any different. Even when he presented, he’s always been so… he’s always been a hunter."

Bobby's grip on the phone tightened. "But it’s not just him anymore, Sam. That’s your niece or nephew too, you know. Don’t you think Dean sitting out a few hunts is worth that?"

There was a longer silence on the other end, and Bobby could almost hear the gears turning in Sam’s head. "He may not have a choice, Bobby. These monsters… I don’t know what’s happening, but something big’s coming."

Bobby felt that familiar weight settle in his chest, the same one he'd been carrying for years now. "I know," he murmured.

He ended the call and pocketed the phone, taking a moment to breathe. His soul was finally his again, but there was no real sense of victory, not with everything still hanging over their heads.

With a sigh, Bobby made his way upstairs. The old steps creaked under his weight, each step feeling heavier than the last. He knew what was waiting for him at the top — Dean, sprawled out on the couch, a familiar sight over the last few weeks. 

Sure enough, as soon as Bobby stepped into the room, Dean sat up, his green eyes flickering with barely masked anxiety. 

"Well," Dean started, his voice rough around the edges. "How’d it go?"

Bobby shrugged, keeping his face neutral. "Well, he sure wasn’t happy about it, but I didn’t leave him much choice. I’m a free man."

Dean’s lips twitched up in the ghost of a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "I still wish you would’ve let me back you up."

Bobby let out a short huff. "The last thing we need is—"

"—Crowley finding out about the baby. I know." Dean interrupted, frustration edging his voice. "Still doesn’t mean I’m happy about it."

Bobby took a moment to really look at Dean. He saw the weight on his shoulders, the way he hunched in on himself, like he was carrying the world. It wasn’t just the exhaustion from the hunt or the pregnancy. It was something deeper.

"Why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you," Bobby said, crossing his arms over his chest. He saw the familiar look flash across Dean’s face, the one that meant denial was coming next. "And don’t start that with me. I know something’s up. You’ve been off ever since Rufus barged in here the other night. Don’t tell me you let his dumb ass get to you. Man’s half senile."

Dean’s eyes flickered downward, his jaw clenching for a moment. "It’s nothing." He caught Bobby’s stern look and sighed. "I mean, it’s stupid, really."

"Why don’t you let me be the judge of that."

Dean hesitated, glancing away. "Fine," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Rufus said something about baby names, alright? It just… it made me think." His voice cracked just slightly as he continued. "I’ve been trying not to think past the actual birth, because who knows if I’ll even be here after that. But even if I’m not, the baby will be. And I don’t know anything, Bobby. How would I even start? There’s no lore on Nephilim, because those dicks upstairs destroyed it all. And even if they survive — if by some miracle they actually make it — how long do they have before Heaven comes for them? I can’t keep them safe, not like that. I can barely keep them safe inside of me." He shook his head, his voice raw. "I just can’t…"

Bobby felt his heart clench at the sight of Dean unraveling. "Woah, Dean," he said softly, stepping closer. "Just breathe."

Dean let out a shuddering breath but didn’t look up. "How am I supposed to think about something normal like baby names when none of this is normal, Bobby? How am I supposed to name a child I don’t even know will survive long enough to use it?"

Bobby’s heart ached for him, but he knew Dean needed to hear the truth. “Hey. This, right here? Worrying about your child? I hate to break it to you, Dean, but that’s just about the most normal thing a parent can do. Hell, even when they’re grown adults and having kids of their own, you never stop worrying about them. That’s just a fact of life.”

Dean looked down, his jaw clenched. “Yeah, except most parents don’t have to worry about the God Squad raining holy fire down on their kid just for existing.”

"Well, sure," Bobby conceded, "things might be a little complicated. But most kids don’t have Dean Winchester as a parent. Now, I don’t know much, but I think your kid’s going to be a lot safer than most others. Their parents fought the damn apocalypse and won."

Dean didn’t look entirely convinced. "Yeah, only to get into another war right after."

Bobby sighed and patted Dean’s shoulder. "And we’ll beat that one too." He saw the doubt still lingering in Dean’s eyes and decided to change the subject. "Come on, we’re not at the end of the world tonight, and I just got my soul off lockdown. Let’s celebrate."

Dean cracked a half-smile. "What’re you thinking?"

"Takeout," Bobby said with a smirk. "Let’s order something that’s not going to fight back when you cut into it."

Later, as they dug into their burgers, Bobby found himself laughing at Dean’s speculation of Sam’s misadventures with Scotland’s local cuisine. For a little while, it was almost like the old days — just two hunters sharing a meal, the weight of the world pushed to the side for one moment.

As the night wore on and the food disappeared, Bobby started to head off to bed, but Dean’s voice stopped him. 

"You mean it, right?" Dean asked, his eyes searching Bobby’s face. "You really think we can beat this?"

Bobby turned to look at him, seeing the vulnerability there, the fear that lay just beneath the surface. "I don’t just think, Dean. I know."

Dean nodded, seeming to take some comfort in the words, though the worry didn’t fully leave his face. He bid Bobby goodnight and moved to turn off the lights downstairs.

Bobby watched him go, his retreating figure heavy with the burden of the impending birth and the war they couldn’t afford to lose. Even though Bobby wanted to believe what he’d told Dean, doubt gnawed at the edges of his certainty. Crowley would be back for revenge, and Sam — despite today’s cooperation — was still a wild card. He feared that by the end of it all, his family would be torn apart, and there wouldn’t be a damn thing he could do to stop it.

He shoved the dark thoughts aside. Dwelling on worst-case scenarios wouldn’t do anyone any good. Someone had to hold onto hope, and if that fell to anyone, well, it might as well be him. After everything, he had more than earned the right to worry about Dean, Sam, and even Cas. They were his family, and family stuck together.

What he’d told Dean was the truth. A parent never stopped worrying about their kids, no matter how old or capable they got. And whether they liked it or not, those boys were as good as his. So yeah, he was going to worry about them if he damn well pleased.

That was his job.

Chapter Text

Dean had sworn he was done with hunting, for what had to be the millionth time. He’d grumbled, snarled, and put his foot down until he was blue in the face. He’d told Sam in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t getting dragged out of the house again, that he’d stay out of the line of fire for once. But somehow, no matter how many times he dug in his heels, he still found himself giving in.

Maybe part of it was his omega instincts — the same drive that had him watching over Sam like a hawk from the moment he could walk, like he was a one-man army against everything sharp or dangerous in the world. Or maybe it was his own selfish need to be out there, doing something, feeling like himself again. He’d spent his whole life on the road, in the trenches with Sam at his side. Sitting around, waiting, growing more restless by the day as they got no closer to having any answers… it wasn’t Dean’s style. And when Sam looked at him with those wide, pleading eyes, like a little kid begging for just one more story before bed, he always caved. 

It wasn’t smart. Hell, Bobby even tried backing him up, growling at Sam about how “some people gotta have more sense than to go tromping off into the night with a bun in the oven.” But Sam would push back with promises of protection, promises that nothing would go wrong — and every time, Dean fell for it. Hook, line, and sinker.

The last hunt had really been it, though, he told himself. They’d been tracking a vampire nest, straightforward as far as hunts went. But at one point, Dean had gotten separated, backed into a corner by one of the bloodsuckers. He’d fought, throwing a punch with everything he had, but he wasn’t as quick as he used to be, and his balance was shot. He’d been pinned to the wall, feeling its breath on his neck, when he’d looked up and seen Sam. Just…standing there. 

And maybe it had been a trick of the light, or maybe the pregnancy was messing with his head, but for a split second, Sam had looked like he was watching . Like he was waiting to see what would happen. And in that instant, something inside Dean had twisted up, cold and sharp, something he hadn’t felt before. For the first time, he was afraid of his brother more than the monster trying to turn him. And after, as they sat in the Impala heading back to Bobby’s, he found he couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t shake that look in Sam’s eyes. That hunt had left him shaken in a way that even he wasn’t willing to admit.

He tried telling himself it was just stress, that Sam had gone through Hell — literally — and come out changed. Of course he was a little off. But a nagging thought lingered: what if he hadn’t made it out? If he had been changed by the vampire, what would his brother have done? Was Sam really willing to let his brother and niece or nephew die? And why?

It didn’t help that the Campbells had welcomed Sam with open arms, like he was some prodigal son, while they’d barely acknowledged Dean’s existence beyond whatever tactical information he could provide. Sam was right there at their sides, helping with the big plans, nodding along with their talks of “purity” and “wiping out monsters.” Dean might’ve even been glad for him, glad that he had some family left to lean on, but there was something dark about them. They were obsessed with hunting alphas — the oldest, strongest of the monsters — tracking them with single-minded fervor that went beyond just hunting. 

The more time Dean spent around them, the more he felt like he’d stumbled into a twisted kind of cult. They’d take any advantage, no matter how brutal, to win. And if they had no issue using an innocent baby like Bobby John as bait in one of their schemes, what would they do if they knew he was carrying a nephilim?

Dean shifted uncomfortably, one hand rubbing his stomach without thinking, grounding himself. It was barely a bump, just enough to make his jeans feel a little tight and his movements a little off, but the life inside him was unmistakable. A half-angel child — a concept that felt more absurd every time he thought about it, but at the same time, real in a way he couldn’t shake. He’d known he was pregnant for months now, and each day the reality of it got a little clearer, sharper, and increasingly impossible to ignore.

Cas had told him that nephilim were rare. Forbidden. The legends painted them as ticking time bombs, full of raw, divine power that could level mountains if left unchecked. And when he thought about it, really thought about it, Dean could see it — how the Campbells, with their fanatic zeal, would salivate at the chance to raise something like that. They’d try to turn his kid into a weapon, like some kind of nuclear missile to unleash on anything that crossed them.

It made him sick just thinking about it, knowing they’d strip his kid down to nothing but a tool — another means to an end. Dean’s hand clenched, nails pressing into his palm, and he forced himself to let out a breath. He wasn’t going to let that happen. Not in a million years.

But as much as he tried to convince himself he had it all under control, a part of him couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped. He couldn’t hide forever, couldn’t avoid them all forever, not with Sam and the Campbells weaving themselves into each hunt. And he knew it was only a matter of time before he got careless and they saw something — a touch to his stomach, a too-tight jacket, a wince he couldn’t hide. Then, it’d all be over.

It wasn’t just his life on the line, but his kid’s, too.

Dean felt every muscle tense as he trudged down the creaky stairs, bracing himself for what was about to happen. Sam was at the kitchen table, meticulously cleaning his guns in silence, each click and slide of metal against metal sounding like some kind of countdown. That focused, clinical look in his eyes... it reminded Dean way too much of the Campbells. Hell, maybe it reminded him too much of Lucifer. 

And the further along he got, the harder it was to hide everything from Sam. The vampire attack had been the closest call yet. Dean had almost tasted blood when the thing had its claws digging into his shoulder. He’d felt his body twist instinctively, protecting his middle more than his throat, and he’d been about to go down — until suddenly, he wasn’t. 

One second, he was staring death in the face; the next, he was on his feet again, with his machete back in his hand, and the vampire staggered a few feet away like it had never even touched him. Sam had run over a second later, face painted in what he probably thought was concern, but Dean had seen something else behind his brother’s eyes. Something a little too cold, like Sam had been watching for a while and was sizing up the situation before he’d commit to a reaction.

He’d forced himself to finish the hunt without so much as a word, but afterward, when they were miles away in the Impala, he couldn’t ignore the way Sam’s eyes lingered on him, the cold focus that honed in on his midsection.

“So teleportation, huh?” Sam had mused back then, casual, like it was no big deal. “Makes you wonder what other tricks the kid’s got up their sleeve.”

Dean had stared at him, unnerved by that casual, almost calculating glint. It wasn’t innocent curiosity; it was the kind of look that suggested Sam was running the numbers in his head, planning for… something. Dean had brushed him off, muttering some joke about the kid saving his ass before even being born, but the look on Sam’s face lingered in his mind.

Since then, things had only gotten weirder. The kid had made a habit of teleporting Dean around Bobby’s place without warning, like it was testing its own powers. Just earlier that week, he’d been sitting in the living room and then the next thing he knew, he was on the roof. It had taken Bobby an hour and a lot of swearing to get him down, and Dean had spent ten minutes scolding his middle afterward. He counted it as a parenting win that the teleporting had stopped after, but it didn’t stop his worry. If the kid was testing their angel powers now, it meant that soon enough, they would be strong enough to survive on their own. Soon enough, there would be no more hiding.

Sam, meanwhile, had been coming by more and more, and each visit felt like a tighter noose around Dean’s throat. The mask of helplessness and puppy eyes slipped further every time he turned down another hunt, every time he said no. Lately, he hadn’t even been keeping up pretenses by leaving, instead prowling around Bobby’s house with impatience souring the air. And Bobby’s own tension was rising, his eyes following Sam around the house with an intensity Dean had never seen before, like he was half a second away from putting a bullet in Sam’s leg if he so much as twitched wrong. 

Finally, Dean decided he couldn’t keep waiting. He had to do something to keep the peace, at least for a little while. He pulled Bobby aside one night, leading him up the stairs and into one of the upstairs rooms while Sam sat downstairs, running a cloth over his shotgun with slow, measured movements that sent a chill down Dean’s spine. When the door clicked shut, he turned to Bobby, arms crossed.

“I gotta go with him,” he said, keeping his voice low just in case Sam could still hear them.

Bobby’s frown deepened into a scowl. “Boy, don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know what’s going on with your brother, but he’s not safe to be around. Not for you, and certainly not for the baby.”

Dean sighed, already feeling the argument before it even started. “I know, Bobby. But he’s not going to let up. You’ve seen it. He’s gonna keep pushing.”

“You let me worry about him,” Bobby said, voice dark with a quiet fury Dean knew wasn’t aimed at him. “He wants something from you, and it isn’t brotherly bonding. He’s too… different. I don’t know what happened in that Cage, but it’s got him messed up, Dean.”

Dean let out a harsh laugh. “What, you’re going to Hulk out on him and throw him through a few cars? He’s not gonna go down easy. You’ve seen him. I don’t know what they’re feeding him at that Campbell base, but he’s stronger than I remember.”

Bobby’s jaw tightened, his gaze hardening. “I’ll figure something out.”

Dean shook his head. “Just let me distract him for a while. He clearly wants something with me.”

“Or with what’s growing inside ya,” Bobby said bluntly. “You said he’s gotten real chummy with your kin, too. What if he’s pulling the same trick they used on that shifter baby?”

Dean stiffened, the cold reality of it sinking in. “Don’t you think I thought of that?” He swallowed, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m not saying it’s forever, Bobby. Just another hunt so he’ll stop looking at you like he’s about to pull a Shining on you.”

Bobby huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I,” Dean said, his voice rough with resignation. “But what choice do we have?”

Bobby fixed him with a hard stare. “Have you tried calling Cas?”

Dean looked away, feeling a pang in his chest. “You know I can’t call him down for this. He needs to beat Raphael so our kid can live without an apocalypse breathing down their neck.”

The silence stretched, and then Bobby muttered, “I don’t understand. This isn’t Sam.”

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion and worry settling deep into his bones. “He was in the Cage, Bobby. With Lucifer. Who knows what kind of hell he went through?”

Bobby’s voice softened, but his eyes were still grim. “And we don’t know what got him out. For all we know, Lucifer hitched a ride along with him.”

Dean swallowed hard, his hand instinctively moving to rest over his stomach. “Cas would have sensed it, right? Or… Junior here.” He let his thumb rub absently against the curve of his belly.

Bobby nodded, his eyes flicking down to Dean’s middle with a flicker of hope, but it was brief. “Maybe so,” he said, “but your kid’s a little young for a full-time job watching your back.”

Dean managed a small grin. “Well, they saved me from turning fang-face last week. Seems like I’ve got someone watching over me.”

Bobby gave a reluctant huff of a laugh, but his eyes held worry. “I’m not sure your unborn child counts as backup.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Got any better ideas?”

Bobby fell silent, grumbling something under his breath before shaking his head. “Give me a minute. I’ll come up with something.”

Dean clapped a hand on his shoulder. “While you’re thinking, I’ll get him the hell out of here. Buy you some time.”

Bobby’s face twisted in frustration. “Damn it, Dean.”

“You know you can’t stop me,” Dean said softly, the corners of his mouth quirking into a sad, resigned smile.

Bobby muttered under his breath, “All too well.” Then, clearing his throat, he sighed heavily. “Fine. But if anything — and I mean anything — goes even the slightest bit sideways, you call me. If he so much as sneezes wrong, you pray like you’re getting murdered and get that idjit mate of yours to step away from his war and come haul you out of there. You hear me?”

Dean nodded. “Loud and clear.”

Bobby frowned, scratching his head. “I’d still rather just tie him up in the basement and be done with it.”

Dean huffed, thinking back to their childhood lessons. “He’d slip the cuffs. One of the first things you taught us.”

Bobby snorted, giving him a look. “Yeah, and don’t I regret it now.”

So that was how Dean found himself on yet another hunt with Sam, even when every one of his instincts wanted him to turn and run as far away from his brother’s stifling presence as possible. 

The Impala rumbled down the quiet streets of Calumet City, Illinois, the heavy hum of its engine filling the tense silence between the brothers. Dean gripped the wheel a little tighter than usual, the leather smooth and familiar under his palms, but it did little to steady the gnawing unease curling in his gut. 

Sam hadn’t said much since they’d left Bobby’s. Normally, the quiet would have been a relief — maybe even a momentary reprieve from the endless questions or snark that came with hours of driving together. But this silence felt different. Off. 

Every so often, Dean caught Sam glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t concern, not the usual kid-brother-worried-for-big-brother routine. No, this was something else entirely. Sam’s gaze felt heavier, sharper, like he was sizing Dean up, calculating something in that big brain of his. It sent a chill down Dean’s spine. 

When they finally pulled up outside the first victim’s house, Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Well,” he muttered, shifting the car into park, “time to play the Feds.” 

Sam didn’t answer, just opened the door and climbed out. Dean followed, adjusting his tie as they approached the modest two-story home. The place looked normal enough — well-kept lawn, flower boxes under the windows, a wreath on the door. It was hard to reconcile the neat exterior with the tragedy that had apparently gone down inside. 

Olivia, the victim’s sister, opened the door after the first knock, her expression a mix of irritation and exhaustion. Dean let Sam do most of the talking, watching as his brother slid into their usual routine with practiced ease. But something in Sam’s tone seemed a little too sharp, his movements a little too deliberate. 

“Federal agents,” Sam said, flashing his badge. “We’re here about your sister, Jane.”

Olivia frowned, her fingers twitching nervously toward the hem of her sweater. “I don’t understand. Why would federal investigators be interested in a suicide?”

Dean didn’t miss the way Sam’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Well, uh... it’s a new, more caring administration.”

The line felt forced, almost mocking, and Dean felt his unease grow. While Sam pressed Olivia for details, Dean wandered into the living room, taking in the framed pictures on the mantle. Jane smiled back at him from several of them — graduations, family barbecues, holidays. She looked happy enough, normal enough. Not someone who would end their own life without reason. 

He made his way toward the victim’s room, letting his EMF reader buzz softly as he scanned the space. Nothing. No sulfur, no hex bags, no signs of supernatural tampering. The place looked as ordinary as the rest of the house. But the more he listened to Sam’s questioning, the more his stomach twisted. 

“I already told the cops,” Olivia was saying, her voice tight. “Jane was having a really bad day, so I — I did what any sister would do. I tried to cheer her up, you know? Told her to hang in there.”

There was a pause, and Dean peeked around the corner in time to see Sam cock his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “You know what a tell is?” he asked, his voice low and cutting. 

Olivia blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a poker term,” Sam said, his tone dangerously calm. “For when you’re bluffing. Like what you just did with your hair.”

Dean stiffened. What the hell? This wasn’t their usual style. They didn’t come at witnesses like this. 

“What are you trying to say?” Olivia asked, her voice trembling.

“You’re lying,” Sam said flatly, his eyes boring into hers.

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Hey, man—” he started, but Olivia cut him off, her voice rising in panic. 

“What?!”

“Tell us what you did to your sister,” Sam demanded, his voice cold and unrelenting. 

Dean took a step forward, ready to intervene, but Olivia broke down first. Tears streamed down her face as she buried it in her hands. “Okay! You’re right. I was lying,” she sobbed. “I wanted to tell her, ‘I love you. I’m here for you.’ But what came out was… was… ‘You’re a burden. Just kill yourself.’ Who says that?! I-I-I just couldn’t stop!”

Dean’s stomach turned as Olivia crumbled in front of them, her shoulders shaking with grief. He cast Sam a look, his brother’s expression unreadable except for the faint glimmer of vindication in his eyes. 

“That’s enough,” Dean said sharply, stepping in and laying a gentle hand on Olivia’s shoulder. “Ma’am, we appreciate your cooperation. We’ll take it from here.”

He ushered Sam out of the house, shooting him a glare as they made their way back to the car. Once they were inside, Dean let out a frustrated sigh. “What the hell was that?”

“What?” Sam asked, his tone too casual as he buckled his seatbelt.

“Don’t play dumb,” Dean snapped. “You went full bad cop on her back there. What was that for?”

Sam shrugged, his expression as calm as ever. “It worked, didn’t it? She confessed.”

“Yeah, after you scared the crap out of her,” Dean shot back. “What’s your deal?”

Sam didn’t answer, instead steering the conversation back to the case. “So? Did you find anything?”

Dean ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to focus. “No hex bags, no sulfur, no EMF. Place was clean.”

“Then maybe she really was suicidal,” Sam said, his tone clinical. “The sister’s confession could have been the final straw.”

“Maybe,” Dean muttered, frowning. He felt a sharp tug in his middle. “But what made Olivia say that stuff in the first place? People don’t just tell their siblings to off themselves out of nowhere.”

Sam shrugged again, his lips curling into a faint, unreadable smile. “Guess we’ll find out.” 

As they got into the car, the Impala’s engine hummed beneath them, steady and soothing, but it did little to distract Dean from the ache building in his abdomen. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles whitening as a sudden wave of fatigue washed over him, stealing his breath. His vision blurred, and he blinked rapidly, trying to shake it off, but it was no use.

A familiar thrum echoed low in his belly, a sensation that left him both drained and oddly centered, like someone had flipped a switch and siphoned his energy into something — or someone — else. He leaned back against the headrest, wincing as he rubbed his hand over his midsection. “Damn it, Junior,” he muttered under his breath.

“You okay?” Sam asked, his tone more impatient than concerned.

Dean glanced at him, narrowing his eyes. “You’re gonna have to drive.”

Sam frowned. “What? Why?”

“Junior just zapped all my energy,” Dean said, gesturing vaguely at his stomach. “We’re gonna have to find a motel before I keel over.”

Sam scoffed, leaning back in the passenger seat. “Dean, we’re in the middle of a case.”

“Yeah, and I’m about to pass out in the middle of this case unless I get my ass to a bed,” Dean shot back. “Let’s move.”

For a moment, it looked like Sam was going to argue, but with an exaggerated huff, he climbed out of the car, stalking around to the driver’s side. Dean eased himself into the passenger seat, his head already lolling against the window as Sam started the car. He barely registered the drive to the nearest motel, the ache in his body lulling him into a half-sleep.

By the time they arrived, Dean could barely keep his eyes open. He staggered into the room and flopped down onto the farthest bed, a tiny flicker of self-preservation prompting him to put some distance between himself and the door. Sam hovered near the threshold, shifting from foot to foot.

“I’ll go follow up on some leads,” Sam said abruptly, his voice flat. 

Dean mumbled something unintelligible into the pillow, too exhausted to respond properly. The last thing he heard before he slipped into sleep was the sharp slam of the motel door.

He woke hours later, groggy and disoriented, the faint orange glow of the setting sun creeping through the window blinds. He blinked up at the ceiling, rubbing a hand over his face. The room was quiet — no sign of Sam. Typical.

As he shifted onto his back, a sudden, sharp kick made him wince. “Oh, don’t you start,” he muttered, resting his hand on his stomach.

Another kick followed, harder this time, and he groaned. “Hey, hey. Ow. Gentle, sweetheart.”

He rubbed slow circles over his abdomen, and the kicks softened, turning into fluttering movements that almost felt like feathers brushing against his skin. He smiled faintly, the absurdity of the thought striking him. Feathers. Right. As if the baby was sprouting wings in there. He knew it didn’t really work that way, but the idea made him chuckle anyway.

“Well, glad to see you’re putting all that energy you sucked out of me to good use,” he said softly. “Maybe you’re more half-vampire than half-angel.” The words had barely left his mouth when a sudden, sharp memory of the vampire attack surfaced — those claws, the fangs too close to his throat — and he winced again. The baby responded with another strong kick. “Alright, yeah. Too soon.”

He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Lying around wasn’t going to help anything. His eyes landed on the table by the window, where Sam had left a messy pile of papers and police reports. Dean stood, stretching before making his way over. 

One report caught his eye — a seemingly random theft reported on the same day their first victim had died. Normally, it wouldn’t mean much, but the item stolen gave him pause: an ancient horn, described by the owner as “one-in-a-million,” possibly hundreds of years old. Dean’s gut tightened as he skimmed the details. A rare, priceless artifact disappearing the same night as a death influenced by compulsion? That wasn’t a coincidence.

Dean sank into the chair, pulling out his phone to scroll through some online records. His fingers flew over the screen as he searched for anything that might connect the stolen horn to their case. When he found it — a passage referencing a mythic horn rumored to amplify the power of whoever wielded it — his stomach dropped.

He leaned back in the chair, dragging a hand down his face. If this horn was what he thought it was, they were dealing with more than a simple hunt. This was something big, something that could tip the scales in the war upstairs. 

The baby kicked, sharp and insistent, as if responding to Dean’s thoughts. “Ow — damn it, kid,” he muttered, his hand instinctively pressing against the spot where it hurt. The kicks softened, almost apologetic, but there was no missing the shift in energy. It was excitement, plain and simple — an eager response to the thought of Cas.

Dean sighed, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes. There was no getting around it now. Cas needed to know about this. Tilting his head back, he murmured softly, “Cas, I’ve got a possible hit on an angelic weapon down here. And I’m not talking about the freeloader kicking me in the ribs. You got your ears on?”

A warm presence surrounded him before he even finished the thought, familiar and grounding. Strong hands cradled the back of his head, and Dean’s eyes fluttered open to see Cas gazing down at him, his expression soft but serious.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas said, his voice as calm and steady as ever.

Dean smirked, letting his head rest against Cas’s hand. “Hiya, sweetheart.”

He opened his mouth to say more, but the nephilim had other ideas. Another sharp kick made him groan and close his eyes. “Kid’s got bad timing,” Dean muttered, shifting uncomfortably.

Without a word, Cas moved to kneel beside him, his large hand pressing firmly over Dean’s abdomen. The warmth was immediate, soothing the sharp pangs and leaving only a gentle hum in their wake. Dean exhaled slowly, watching as Cas’s eyes glowed faintly, his face drawn into a look of concentration.

“They’re getting stronger,” Cas said, his tone tinged with awe.

Dean let out a breathless laugh. “Yeah, no kidding. Definitely feels like it.”

Cas’s expression softened further, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “They are developing well. Their grace is beginning to form.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, rubbing his hand over his belly. “Oh, believe me, I’ve noticed. Kid’s been testing the waters for weeks now. And hey — turns out the wing theory? Pans out. Lucky I haven’t been flung to Antarctica or something.”

Cas’s gaze sharpened, his brow furrowing. “They’ve taken control of your vessel?”

“If you wanna call it that, sure,” Dean said with a shrug. “Hasn’t happened since I laid down the law after they parked me on Bobby’s roof, but yeah, I’ve been flown around the block a few times.” He caught the worry flickering across Cas’s face and frowned. “Why? Is that bad?”

“It is... unexpected,” Cas admitted, his voice low. “But much of this is, given how little we understand about nephilim. Does this happen often?”

Dean hesitated, the memory of the baby pulling him out of danger surfacing unbidden. “Just recently. Kid pulled me out of a tight spot not long ago. It’s like... like they can see through my eyes or something.”

Cas tilted his head slightly, considering this. “That would align with what little we know of their kind. I fear they will only grow stronger.”

Dean huffed, resting a hand on his stomach again. “Any stronger, and they’re gonna break a rib. This is the calmest they’ve been in days.”

Cas’s hand returned to Dean’s abdomen, his grace radiating outward like a balm. “Yes,” Cas murmured. “I believe the presence of my grace is calming them. I am sorry, Dean. I’ve missed much.”

Dean shook his head, catching Cas’s wrist. “Hey, don’t do that. You’re keeping us safe.”

“Even so,” Cas said, his voice soft, “I should be here with you.”

Dean’s heart clenched at the guilt in Cas’s tone, but he forced a smile. “The sooner you kick Raphael’s ass, the better, right?” He reached over, turning his laptop toward Cas. “So, tell me what you think of this. Could it be something?”

Cas leaned closer, his brow furrowing as he studied the screen. “Perhaps. You believe it may be in this town?”

Dean nodded, opening his mouth to elaborate, but the air shifted before he could get a word out. Cas was gone. “Dammit,” Dean muttered, running a hand through his hair as he stood from the chair.

He didn’t have to wait long. A split second later, Cas reappeared less than a foot away, his expression resolute. “It isn’t the Horn of Truth.”

“Shit,” Dean said, sighing. “Sorry, Cas.”

Cas stepped forward, crowding into Dean’s space with an ease that made Dean’s breath hitch. Strong hands found his waist, grounding him. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Dean looked away, the sting of disappointment lingering. “I guess I was just hoping it’d be something you could use.”

Cas’s hands tightened slightly, his eyes boring into Dean’s. “Your value is not in what use you can provide for others, Dean.” His voice was steady, but there was an unshakable intensity in his tone. “I will take care of Raphael — horn or not.”

Dean opened his mouth to keep talking, but his breath hitched as a sudden wave of weakness washed over him. His legs felt like jelly, and his head spun. He faltered, dropping his forehead to rest against Cas’s before he swayed too much. “Whoa,” he muttered, gripping Cas’s trench coat for balance.

Cas’s hands were steady on him immediately, anchoring him in place. “Dean? Are you alright?” There was concern laced in his gravelly tone, and Dean tried to force a reassuring smile.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, though his voice came out weaker than he intended. “Baby on board’s just using me as a battery. No worries.”

Cas didn’t look convinced. His hand drifted to Dean’s abdomen, fingers spreading gently, and Dean could feel the faint thrum of grace beneath his mate’s touch. “This is a recent development?” Cas asked, frowning.

Dean nodded, resting more of his weight against the angel. “Yeah. My best guess? Growing grace takes a little more juice than they can get from their daily dose of prenatal vitamins.”

Cas’s brow furrowed deeper. “That is… not an incorrect assumption.” He paused, his gaze darkening. “We are fortunate that they’ve chosen to drain your energy and not your soul.”

Dean straightened slightly, blinking. “They can do that?”

Cas’s lips thinned. “Now you see why nephilim are forbidden. Their power… It can be dangerous in the wrong hands.”

Dean huffed, his usual humor a bit weaker this time as he relaxed back into Cas. “Yeah. Go figure.”

Cas’s arms tightened around him, a small hum escaping as he gently rocked their bodies. The motion was soothing, grounding Dean further. “You should be resting,” Cas said softly, his tone more admonishing than stern. “I find myself wondering what you’re doing here on a case and not at Bobby’s. You cannot possibly be this stubborn—”

“It’s Sam,” Dean cut in, his voice quiet but firm. He exhaled heavily, his forehead still resting against Cas’s shoulder. “He’s been dragging me on cases. He’s… not acting like himself. I think there’s something wrong with him.”

Cas tilted his head slightly, the shift causing his stubble to brush against Dean’s temple. “Wrong how?”

“I dunno. Just… wrong,” Dean muttered, frustration evident. “And it’s not just about being pulled out of Hell. There’s something else going on.”

Cas hummed again, this time with no immediate response. The silence between them stretched, but Dean didn’t mind. He let himself sink into the moment, soaking in Cas’s scent and presence. His head dropped further, and his lips ghosted against the alpha’s neck, but he was too drained to do much more than that.

The exhaustion began to ebb, though, slowly but surely. Dean had a sneaking suspicion that Cas was lending him some of his grace, using their contact to recharge him. But when he felt the slight tension in Cas’s frame, he knew their time was running out. Cas didn’t have long before he had to return to his war.

Reluctantly, Dean pulled back, locking eyes with his mate. “I guess it’s probably time you got back to the War of the Roses, huh?” he said, his voice rough with emotion he didn’t want to unpack.

Cas’s expression was conflicted, pained. He raised one hand to cup Dean’s face, his thumb brushing softly over Dean’s cheek. His other hand stayed resting protectively over Dean’s middle. “You must know,” Cas said, his voice low and raw, “that if I had any other choice, I would be here with you.”

Dean caught Cas’s wrist, holding it gently as he rubbed his thumb against the angel’s skin. “I know, Cas.”

The kiss came quickly, but it wasn’t hurried. It was consuming, every cell in Dean’s body lighting up as he leaned into his mate. He could feel Cas pouring everything into it, his love, his devotion, and the ache of having to leave. It ended too soon, as it always did, and Cas rested their foreheads together, his intense blue eyes searching Dean’s as if memorizing every detail.

In the next moment, Cas was gone. The familiar flutter of wings echoed in the room, leaving behind a heavy silence. Dean swayed slightly, the loss hitting him like a sucker punch, but he steadied himself quickly.

The baby kicked again, sharp and impatient. Dean placed a soothing hand over his middle. “I know, it sucks, sweetheart. But Cas is stopping a whole freight train of crap from raining down on our heads, so we’ve gotta suck it up, alright?”

There wasn’t another kick, but Dean could almost feel the baby’s huff of annoyance. He chuckled softly, shaking his head. It was strange, feeling so connected to something he couldn’t even see yet. Like if he just reached a little further, he could feel their emotions as clearly as his own. 

Just another thing to add to the growing list of what it meant to carry a nephilim.

The orange light filtering through the threadbare curtains was dim, but it still managed to make Dean’s headache worse. He stared out the motel window at the empty parking lot, the Impala’s usual spot glaringly vacant. Sam wasn’t coming back anytime soon. Dean knew that much.  

He should’ve been relieved. If Sam wasn’t around, it meant fewer questions, fewer arguments, and fewer sideways glances at the hand Dean always seemed to rest on his stomach these days. But it also meant that Dean was stuck here, alone, with nothing but his thoughts and the slow, steady drain of energy courtesy of the kid.  

God, he wanted to crawl back into bed. The pull of exhaustion was still there, whispering promises of sleep and temporary relief. But Dean knew better. He’d been sleeping more and more lately, losing hours, sometimes entire days, to the crushing fatigue. If he gave in completely, he wasn’t sure he’d have anything left when it really counted — when it was time to face whatever nightmare the birth was bound to be.  

With a sigh, Dean pushed himself to move. His body protested the movement, heavy and sluggish, but he ignored it. Giving in wasn’t an option. Instead, he grabbed his jacket and decided to walk to the diner down the street. He didn’t have much of an appetite, but eating something might wake him up. Or at least keep him from passing out on the way back.  

The air outside was sharp and damp, making every step feel heavier than it should. Dean cursed under his breath as he trudged down the cracked sidewalk, his free hand instinctively pressing against his stomach to guard against the chill. Sam had taken the Impala, because of course he had. Leaving Dean to take a long walk by himself. 

By the time Dean reached the diner, the promise of sitting down was the only thing keeping him upright. He all but collapsed into the nearest booth, groaning softly as he let his head fall back against the vinyl cushion.

The waitress was there in an instant, a little too chipper for Dean’s liking, but he decided not to take his own bad mood out on her. “What can I get ya?”  

“I’ll take a burger,” Dean felt a strong pulse of the baby’s energy come over him, and he rubbed at his stomach. “Extra cheese. Extra pickles.”  

She gave him a weird look, her pen hovering over her notepad. But then her eyes dropped to where Dean’s hand rested protectively over his abdomen, and her expression shifted. Knowing.  

He bristled, but he didn’t say anything as she walked off with his order.  

The silence gave him too much time to think, which was dangerous. His mind kept circling back to Sam, to all the ways his brother had been acting off.  

Dean had noticed the cracks right after Sam came back from the dead. Hell, he’d expected some kind of fallout after everything they’d been through. But this wasn’t just trauma. This was something else.

It all came back to that damn motel before they’d confronted Balthazar. The moment Sam had scruffed him.  

The memory burned in his mind. It wasn’t just the act itself that had set off alarm bells — though it had. No, it was what it meant. Because the Sam Dean knew, the brother he’d raised, wouldn’t have done it.  

Not his Sam.  

Sam had spent years railing against the way Dean was treated because of his designation. He’d seen it firsthand: the dismissive comments, the way hunters and even their father had looked at Dean like he was something less just because he was an omega. Sam had hated it. And when Sam presented as an alpha, he’d made it his mission not to treat Dean differently.  

So for him to grab Dean by the scruff like he was some bitch in need of discipline? That wasn’t Sam. Couldn’t be.  

And the worst part? Sam hadn’t even seemed to realize how wrong it was. No apology. No second-guessing.  

That wasn’t just weird. It was wrong.  

Dean didn’t know what had changed his brother so much, but he was damn sure going to find out.  

The waitress returned, interrupting his spiraling thoughts as she set his plate down in front of him. “Anything else I can get ya?”  

Dean glanced up at her, intending to shake his head. Instead, the words slipped out before he could stop them. “The truth.”  

Her face flushed, and her eyes widened in shock. “I — I’m afraid to tell my parents I’m moving in with my boyfriend before we’re mated.” She slapped a hand over her mouth, her gaze darting around the room like she was looking for an escape. “Why did I say that?”  

Dean sighed, running a hand down his face. And of course now the case was catching up to him, because why wouldn’t it? “Yeah,” he muttered. “I think I know.”  

He quickly ate before making his way outside. Bobby had insisted he call every few hours, just to make sure nothing had happened. And if he was cursed like he thought with whatever was going around town, it would be best to try and test the range.

The air outside the diner was sharp and bracing, a reminder that Dean’s jacket was no match for the late-autumn chill. He rubbed a hand over his abdomen as he pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling to Bobby’s number with his thumb.

The line rang twice before Bobby answered, his voice gruff as ever. “Yeah?”

“Hey, you got anything you’re itchin’ to tell me?” Dean asked, keeping his tone light.

There was a pause on the other end, then a sigh. “Not really. Sorry to disappoint.”

Dean nodded to himself. So much for his theory then. “Ah, that’s all right. I’m just testing a theory.”

“Uh-huh.” Bobby didn’t sound convinced. “Is Sam with you?”

“No, he, uh…” Dean hesitated, glancing down the street as though Sam might magically appear. “He took off a while back. Mostly just left me here to nap and deal with angel junior beating on my kidneys.”

“What else has happened?” Bobby pressed.

Dean frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Dean, the last time you complained about the baby, it was because they stuck you on the roof. Most of the time you act like you’re not six months pregnant at all, so spill.”

Dean sighed, his free hand going to his hip. “Fine, fine. They may be using me as a spare battery pack—”

“Dean—”

“But it’s fine!” Dean cut him off quickly. “Cas came by and checked on them. As long as they’re not draining my soul or whatever, it should be fine.”

“Your soul ?” Bobby’s voice climbed an octave. “Dean, that does not make me feel any better.”

“Cas didn’t seem worried about it,” Dean said, leaning against the diner’s brick wall.

“And don’t get me started on that!” Bobby snapped. “Your angel baby daddy hasn’t been out of Heaven for more than ten minutes in the last month, and you think I’m reassured by his opinion? Well, guess what? I’m not. I’m worried that he’ll be too focused on his war to even be there when it’s time for you to pop, and I’ll lose you. And let me tell you, Dean, I really can’t do that. I’ve lost too many people, and I’ll be damned if I lose a son too.”

Dean’s breath caught in his chest, and he had to take a moment before responding. “You think I’m not worried too?” he shot back. “Every new thing the baby tries — do you think I’m not afraid that this is gonna be the thing that finally tips Heaven off? That they’ll come down here and kill us before we even have a chance? I’m trying here, Bobby! And I need you to be on my side. I need you to act like you have some faith in Cas, and that we’ll figure out what’s going on with Sam, because if you don’t, I’m not gonna make it. I won’t.”

The line was silent for a moment, save for Bobby’s steady breathing. Finally, the older man spoke, his tone softer. “Dean, I… I’m just afraid. I don’t want to lose you and the baby, or Sam, or Cas. Hell, I don’t want to lose any of you. I don’t know why I’m saying all this. I’ve been trying to keep it under wraps.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, his suspicions solidifying. “Well, that confirms my theory, I guess,” he muttered.

“What theory?”

“It works over the phone,” Dean said grimly.

“What does?”

“I’ve been cursed with a truth spell,” Dean admitted, glancing up at the sky as if it would give him some reprieve.

Bobby groaned on the other end. “How the hell does every ‘simple hunt’ end up with you in over your head?”

Dean managed a wry smile. “Bobby, this might actually be a good thing.”

There was a pause before Bobby asked, “Are you thinking—”

“I need to find Sam,” Dean said, his voice resolute.

“He’s dangerous, Dean,” Bobby warned.

“Tell me how you really feel, Bobby.”

“I am,” Bobby snapped.

Dean laughed bitterly. “Yeah. Ain’t that a bitch.”

Without waiting for a response, Dean hung up and pocketed his phone. He took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs before turning back toward the motel.

When he reached the room, he froze in the doorway.

Sam was sitting on the edge of one of the beds, his shoulders tense and his eyes sharp as they locked onto Dean.

“Well, hey there, Sammy,” Dean said lightly, even as the tension in the air threatened to suffocate him. He barely made it two steps inside before Sam rounded on him.

"Where the hell have you been?" Sam’s tone was sharp, irritation rolling off him in waves.

Dean raised an eyebrow, shutting the door behind him with deliberate slowness. “Chill out, I was getting something to eat.”

Sam crossed his arms. “I found something.”

Dean waved him off, plopping into the chair nearest the window. “It can wait. We gotta talk.”

That stopped Sam in his tracks, his frown deepening. “Fine. What’s up?”

Dean leveled him with a steady look, his hand instinctively resting on his stomach. “There’s a few things I want to ask you, and you’re gonna tell me the truth.”

Sam blinked, confused. “Uh, yeah, Dean. Of course. What are you talking about? Wait — are you saying you’re...”

“I asked for the truth.” Dean’s voice was low and calm, but there was a steeliness to it that made Sam pause. “And you know what? I’m getting it. So, like I said, I have a few questions for you. When that vamp attacked me, why did you just stand there?”

Sam faltered, his eyes widening for a split second before his expression softened into something apologetic. “I-I didn’t. I froze.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, leaning forward slightly. “You froze? You’ve been the Terminator since you got back, and now you’re telling me you froze? ”

Sam spread his hands, his voice earnest. “I don’t know, shock? And then it was too late. I feel terrible about it. Believe me. Dean…” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to something softer. “I can’t lie here. Do you really think I would let something like that happen on purpose? You’re my brother. You’re pregnant, for Christ’s sake. I—”

“Okay, okay,” Dean cut in, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I thought I saw something, but I guess I was wrong. It’s just been a really, really bad day.”

Even as the words left his mouth, Dean felt the heavy pit of doubt settle in his gut. Something was off, and no amount of Sam’s puppy dog eyes could convince him otherwise. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. Maybe it was the nephilim’s strange sense of awareness mingling with his own, but he could feel the wrongness radiating from his brother. Sam was dangerous. Sam was hiding something.

Sam reached out, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder in what was probably meant to be reassuring. “Hey. It’s okay. I got your back, all right? I always have.”

Dean forced a tight smile, even as the touch sent a chill skittering down his spine. “Thanks, Sammy.”

As Sam turned, Dean caught a glimpse of his brother’s face just before he fully turned away. The soft concern melted into something cold and unreadable, like a mask slipping back into place.

Dean swallowed hard, fighting the instinct to recoil. He sat stiffly as Sam began outlining his findings, but he only half-listened. His ears were ringing, his focus snagged on the quiet sense of danger thrumming at the edge of his mind.

Sam’s voice finally cut through. “—it’s a pagan goddess. Veritas.”

Dean blinked, bringing himself back to the moment. “A goddess of truth?”

Sam nodded, grabbing his laptop and opening it. “One of the victims — the first one — was so desperate to know if her boyfriend was cheating that she summoned Veritas. The thing is, Veritas doesn’t just stop with the truth. She forces everyone around her to spill their secrets, too. Once they can’t take it anymore, they end up killing themselves. Their deaths are her tribute.”

Dean grimaced. “Great. So because I asked for the truth…”

“Now you’re under her spell,” Sam finished. “And unless we take her out, you’re next on her list.”

Dean huffed out a bitter laugh. “That’s just fantastic. Got a plan for that?”

Sam reached into his duffel bag, pulling out a jar filled with dark liquid. “Dog’s blood. It’s toxic to Veritas. Should be enough to kill her.”

Dean eyed the jar warily. “Do I want to know where you got that?”

“Probably not,” Sam said with a shrug, setting the jar on the table.

“Fair enough,” Dean muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “So where do we find her?”

“She likes attention. Being worshipped. I tracked her down to a local talk show host. Veritas has been using it to get close to her victims, you know, speaking to the masses and all that.”

Dean shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Of course she has.”

Sam gave him a tight smile. “You ready to end this?”

As ready as he ever would be. With a sigh he forced himself to his feet, squaring his shoulders despite the weight of exhaustion dragging at him. “Let’s get it over with.”

The door creaked open as Sam led the way into the dimly lit house. Dean followed close behind, his eyes darting around the cluttered entryway. Every step felt heavier than the last, and the steady thrum of the nephilim’s presence in his body made it hard to focus. Still, he didn’t dare let Sam take point without watching his back.

The smell hit him first: coppery, metallic, and overwhelming. Blood.

Dean swallowed against the nausea rolling through him as they stepped into the main room. Bodies were strewn about, lifeless and pale, their blood drained into a large basin in the center of the floor.

“Damn,” Dean muttered under his breath.

Before Sam could respond, a voice rang out from the shadows.

“Breaking and entering? Tsk, tsk. Hunters these days have no manners.”

Dean spun, gun raised, but he didn’t see her until it was too late. A woman who must be Veritas stood at the edge of the room, her presence suffocating. With a flick of her wrist, Dean felt a force slam into his chest, sending him flying backward.

The world spun as he crashed into the basin. His head hit the edge with a sickening crack, and the darkness swallowed him whole.

Dean’s head throbbed as he came to, the coppery scent of blood still thick in his nose. Blinking blearily, he realized he was on the floor of the basin, Veritas standing over him with a predatory smile.

“Ah, you’re awake,” she said, crouching down to study him. “I’ve been dying to get a closer look.”

A few feet away, Dean caught sight of Sam tied to a pole, his hands working surreptitiously at his bonds with a knife. Dean’s attention snapped back to Veritas as she reached out and grabbed his chin, her nails digging into his skin.

“Mmm. I cannot wait to dig into you,” she said, her tone mocking. “I mean, I’ve seen liars before, but you two? Gold standard.”

Dean grimaced, forcing a smirk despite the pounding in his skull. “Point of professional pride.”

Veritas chuckled darkly. “I wouldn’t be so cocky if I were you, Dean. You know what happens when you base your life on lies, right? The truth always comes out.” She leaned closer, her gaze boring into him. “I think it’s time you spill some. So tell me—” Her grip on his chin tightened. “What are you so afraid of?”

Dean felt the nephilim stir within him, its energy flaring against Veritas’s pull. But it faltered, and he sagged under her power, the exhaustion he’d been holding at bay flooding him.

“I’m afraid…” His voice was strained, barely above a whisper. “I’m going to die.”

Veritas tilted her head, mock sympathy dripping from her voice. “But you’re a hunter. Surely you’ve faced death before?”

Dean clenched his jaw, fighting against her pull, but the words spilled out anyway. “I don’t want to leave my kid like my mom left me.”

Her smile widened. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? But there’s something else, isn’t there?”

Dean’s resistance crumbled under the weight of her power. “I told myself I didn’t want a family life. That I didn’t need to settle down. But I want it more than anything. I want to live.”

Veritas’s expression darkened. “That’s too bad, Dean. Because you aren’t making it out of here alive. But I do appreciate the truth.”

She patted his cheek before she stood, turning her attention to Sam. “Your turn. How do you feel about your brother? Anything you want to share with the class?”

Sam’s gaze flickered to Dean, his face a mask of sincerity. “I just want him to be safe. And his baby. I’m watching out for him because that’s what we do. That’s the truth.”

Veritas’s smug smile faltered, her eyes narrowing at him. “No. No, it’s not.”

Sam shrugged. “You said it yourself — I can’t lie.”

Her frustration boiled over. “How are you doing that?” She hissed. “That’s not possible. You’re lying to me!”

Sam met her gaze evenly. “No, I’m not.”

She turned her focus back to Dean, her expression sharp. “What is he?”

Dean’s head snapped up. “What?”

Veritas smirked. “You didn’t know that? Now, that I believe.”

Before she could elaborate, Sam cut through his bonds and tossed the knife to Dean. With fluid precision, Sam grabbed a second blade from his bag, its edge gleaming with dog’s blood, and charged.

Veritas spun, throwing out a hand. A wave of energy sent Sam flying, and he hit the ground hard, the knife skittering out of reach.

Dean’s hands fumbled as he cut through his own ropes, adrenaline surging as Veritas loomed over Sam. She extended a hand, and Sam clawed at his throat, gasping as she began to choke him.

“Hey!” Dean’s voice rang out as he lunged forward, the hooked blade in his hand finding its mark. He drove it into Veritas’s back, the blade sinking deep.

She screamed, her human face twisting into a monstrous visage as she turned to face him. Her claws slashed out, but before she could strike, Sam surged forward, snatching the blood-soaked knife and plunging it into her heart.

Veritas staggered, her monstrous form flickering as she let out a final, unearthly wail. Then, with a blinding flash, she crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Sam let out a breath, climbing to his feet, but he stopped short as Dean turned the knife on him.

Dean’s hand tightened around the hilt of the blood-soaked knife, the blade steady even though his pulse was anything but. The nephilim inside him stirred again, its warning a sharp, instinctive surge of danger. He could feel it prickling beneath his skin, fueling his wariness as he kept his eyes locked on Sam.

Sam raised his hands slowly, palms out. His face was calm, but his eyes were watching Dean with measured carefulness.

“Dean, it’s me,” Sam said softly,  likely aiming for reassurance.

Dean took a step forward, forcing Sam back around the basin. His knuckles whitened around the knife. “You are not my brother.” He felt the baby kick once in agreement, but he kept his focus on Sam, waiting for the slightest wrong move.

“Just listen,” Sam urged.

Dean’s jaw clenched. His voice came out low, tight. “What are you?”

“I’m me,” Sam said again, his tone pleading now. “Look, please, just let me explain.”

Dean’s laugh was bitter, humorless. “Why the hell should I believe anything you say?”

Sam hesitated, his chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate breath. “Okay, okay. You want the truth? Here it is. God’s honest. She was right. There’s something wrong with me. Really wrong. I’ve known it for a while. I lied to you. Yeah.” He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking to Dean’s face and then away. “And… I was going to let you get turned by that vampire. Because I knew the Campbells had a cure, and we needed information about that nest.”

Dean’s stomach twisted, and not just from the baby. “And you didn’t stop to think about the fact that I’m pregnant? I could’ve died! Your niece or nephew could’ve died!”

Sam flinched at the words, but his expression didn’t change. He just stood there, eyes hollow, hands still raised. “And that should stop me cold. But I — I just don’t feel it.”

Dean blinked, his grip faltering for a split second. “What?”

“Ever since I came back,” Sam said, his voice breaking just slightly, “I’m a better hunter than I’ve ever been. Nothing scares me anymore. Because I can’t feel it.” He shook his head, frustration and something close to desperation flickering across his face. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think... I need help.”

Dean stared at him, heart pounding. Sam’s words hung in the air, the silence pressing down on both of them. He wanted to believe it. God, he wanted to believe it. But the nephilim wasn’t letting up. His kid was still squirming, agitated, on edge with that same sense of danger. And Dean? Right now, he trusted his child more than he trusted Sam.

Sam could lie to Veritas. He could still be lying now.

And even if by some miracle he wasn’t lying, Dean couldn’t afford to take the risk.

His fingers tightened around the knife, then slowly loosened as a sudden clarity washed over him. Instinct kicked in, something deeper than thought. He stepped forward, and Sam’s expression flickered with hope.

Dean lifted his hand, pressing his fingers gently to Sam’s forehead.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered, and then he released the spark of grace thrumming inside him.

Sam’s eyes widened in surprise before his body sagged, collapsing to the ground in a heap. Dean stood there for a moment, breathing hard, the remnants of grace buzzing through his veins. He should be worried. Hell, he was worried. But right now, Sam’s situation took priority over everything.

Dean knelt, making sure Sam was still breathing, then pulled out his phone with a trembling hand. His thumb scrolled quickly through his contacts until he found Bobby’s name. He didn’t hesitate. He hit the call button.

As the phone rang, Dean kept his eyes on Sam, his voice low when he finally spoke. “Bobby, we’ve got a problem. It’s Sam. And I need your help.”  

He hung up, sliding the phone back into his pocket. He stared at Sam’s unconscious form, the quiet hum of the nephilim’s presence still coursing through him. It was strange how much he’d come to rely on the kid already. The baby wasn’t even born, and yet, they’d saved his hide more times than he could count.  

But this? This was something else. The way the nephilim reacted to Sam wasn’t just instinct or some innate sense of danger — it was more like a warning, a barrier pushing back against whatever Sam had become. 

Dean’s grip on the knife tightened again as he remained crouched beside his brother, his mind racing. Sam’s confession replayed in his head, every word twisting like a knife in his gut. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think… I need help. 

But what if help wasn’t enough? What if Sam couldn’t come back from whatever had broken inside him? Dean had seen too much, lost too many people, to cling blindly to hope. And now, with a kid on the way, he couldn’t afford to take risks — not with Sam, not with anyone.  

The nephilim stirred, and Dean felt the faintest pulse of reassurance. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to ground him for a moment. Whatever came next, he wasn’t alone in this fight. The baby seemed to know more than he did about who to trust, and maybe — just maybe — that would be enough to keep them all alive.  

Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. Sam might’ve admitted something was wrong, but that didn’t change the fact that Dean was standing on a razor’s edge. The truth was out now, but it didn’t make the path ahead any clearer.  

He glanced back at Sam one last time. “You better still be in there, Sammy,” he muttered, his voice low. “Because I don’t know how to save you if you’re not.” 

With that, Dean stood, squaring his shoulders. The nephilim pulsed softly in response, and he took a steadying breath. There was no turning back now, and as he settled in to wait for Bobby, he could only hope that there would be some way to pull Sam back from the edge.

Chapter Text

Dean’s boots scuffed softly against the worn carpet as he paced the motel room for what felt like the hundredth time. The cramped space stank of damp fabric and old takeout, but there was something sharper in the air now: the bitter scent of his own stress and the faint, sour tang that clung to Sam. Dean wrinkled his nose, glancing back at his brother slumped unconscious in the chair. Bobby was tying the last knot around Sam’s wrists, the rough rope cutting into the fabric of Sam’s shirt as Bobby muttered curses under his breath.

Dean paused, running a hand down his face. His other hand dropped instinctively to his abdomen, the steady kicks from the baby inside grounding him for just a second. But the kid was restless, agitated, and that only made his own nerves worse.

“I don’t think we’ve got any other options,” he muttered, half to himself. His hand lingered protectively over his stomach as he glanced at Bobby, who gave him a look that said finally.

“No kidding,” Bobby said gruffly, tugging the ropes tight. “Should’ve called him the second things started gettin’ weird.”

Dean wanted to roll his eyes, but he turned away instead, swallowing down his guilt before he opened his mouth. He hadn’t wanted to do this, but he didn’t have any other choice. 

“Cas,” he whispered. “I need you.”

He didn’t say anything more than that. He didn’t need to. The response was immediate. The air shifted, the motel lights flickering as the familiar sound of fluttering wings filled the room. Dean exhaled, tension slipping from his shoulders as Castiel materialized a few feet away.

“Dean,” Cas said, his voice calm but tinged with concern. His gaze swept over Dean, softening slightly when it landed on his abdomen. “I heard your prayer. What’s wrong?”

Dean didn’t realize how tightly he’d been clenching his jaw until he tried to answer. “Hey, Cas,” he said, his voice hoarse. He rubbed a hand over his stomach as another sharp kick made him flinch. “Sorry, I didn’t want to have to call you for this.”

Cas stepped closer, his presence immediately grounding. “You don’t need to apologize,” he said firmly. “What happened?”

Dean gestured toward Sam, still tied to the chair, his head lolled slightly forward. “Turns out things are worse than I expected,” he admitted.

“Yeah, go figure,” Bobby said dryly, crossing his arms. “Not like I told him or anything.”

Dean ignored Bobby, keeping his focus on Cas. “Even the kid can feel it,” he continued. “It’s like… like they know Sam’s dangerous. Like I shouldn’t trust him.”

Cas’s expression shifted slightly, his brows furrowing as he stepped closer to Dean. “Let me see,” he said softly.

The moment Cas’s hand rested on Dean’s stomach, warmth spread through him, soothing and grounding all at once. The Nephilim calmed, their movements becoming slow and deliberate, like they recognized the presence of their father’s grace. Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, leaning ever so slightly into Cas’s touch.

After a moment, Cas pulled back, his expression unreadable.

“Well?” Bobby asked, crossing his arms.

“Interesting,” Cas murmured.

Dean frowned. “Care to elaborate?”

Cas glanced at Sam, his gaze narrowing. “I need to examine him further.”

As if on cue, Sam groaned, his head lolling as he stirred against the restraints. “What — what the hell?” He rasped, blinking up at them, his face a mixture of confusion and frustration.

Cas moved to stand in front of Sam, studying him intently. “How long was he unconscious?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Twelve hours, give or take.”

Cas tilted his head, his brow furrowing. “That’s an unusual amount of time.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly me that knocked him out,” Dean said, jerking his chin toward his stomach. “Cas junior handled that.”

Cas looked back at Dean, his eyes widening slightly. “Really? That is… unexpected.”

Bobby grunted, his tone skeptical. “What’s so surprising? Ain’t that part of the package deal with half-angel kids?”

“There’s no ‘package deal,’” Cas said, his voice steady but distant, like he was half-focused on something else. “Every Nephilim is unique. Their abilities vary greatly, depending on their circumstances. I’m afraid we are… ‘flying blind,’ as you would say.”

“Great,” Bobby muttered. “One crisis at a time. So, what’s wrong with him ?” He gestured toward Sam, who was glaring up at Cas, his jaw clenched.

Cas turned back to Sam, his eyes narrowing as he studied him. “Have you been feverish?”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “No. Why?”

“Have you been speaking in tongues?” Cas pressed, tilting his head slightly.

Sam’s expression twisted in confusion and irritation. “No. What are you — are you diagnosing me?”

“You better hope he can,” Bobby cut in, his voice rough with frustration.

Sam let out a scoff, his lips curling in disbelief. “You really think this is—”

“What?” Bobby interrupted. “You think there’s some kinda clinic out there for people who just pop out of Hell wrong? This is the best we got.”

Dean winced at the harsh truth in Bobby’s words. He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling another familiar sweep of dizzying exhaustion.

Cas ignored the back-and-forth, his focus laser-sharp on Sam. “How much do you sleep?”

“I don’t,” Sam admitted flatly.

Dean blinked. “At all?”

“Not since I got back,” Sam said, his tone almost casual, like it wasn’t a big deal.

Bobby’s mouth fell open before he barked, “And it never occurred to you that there might be something off about that?!”

“Of course it did!” Sam snapped, his eyes darting between them before he looked down. “I — I just never told you.”

Dean’s chest tightened, the ache of betrayal mixing with worry. How the hell had Sam managed to hide something like that?

Cas stepped closer to Sam, his posture calm but unyielding. “Sam,” he said, his voice steady and deliberate, “what are you feeling now?”

Sam let out a humorless laugh. “I feel like I’m on the wrong end of a bender.”

“No,” Cas corrected, his voice taking on an edge of authority. “That’s a physical sensation — likely from uncontrolled grace. How do you feel ?”

Sam opened his mouth, only to falter. He frowned, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I… don’t know,” he admitted finally, his voice quiet.

Cas’s face darkened with thought, his gaze flicking briefly to Dean before settling back on Sam. Without a word, he turned to Dean, his hands landing on Dean’s hips with a surety that made heat rise to Dean’s cheeks.

“Whoa, Cas, what’re you—” Dean started, but the words died in his throat as Cas undid his belt with practiced ease.

Dean’s face burned as he glanced at Bobby, who wisely averted his gaze, muttering under his breath about angelic dramatics. Dean didn’t have time to process his embarrassment before Cas turned back to Sam, Dean’s belt now folded neatly in his hands.

“This will be unpleasant,” Cas warned, his tone clipped.

“What—” Sam began, but Cas cut him off, pressing the belt against his mouth.

“Bite down on this,” Cas instructed firmly. “If there’s someplace that you find soothing, you should go there. In your mind.”

Dean’s stomach twisted as he realized what was coming. “Cas, wait—”

But before anyone could stop him, Cas thrust his hand into Sam’s chest.

Sam’s muffled groan turned into a strangled shout as his body jerked against the restraints. His muscles strained, veins standing out against his neck as he writhed, but Cas didn’t flinch.

Dean couldn’t tear his eyes away, even though every instinct screamed at him to help, to do something. He’d seen Cas do this before — back when they’d been chasing down Balthazar — but this was Sam. His brother. And even knowing it was necessary didn’t make it any easier to bear hearing his little brother’s pain.

The baby kicked harder, reacting to Dean’s rising stress, but he forced himself to stay put. He’d prayed for Cas to fix this, to fix Sam, and now he had to trust him.

After what felt like an eternity, Cas pulled his hand back. A faint glow of grace lingered on his fingers before dissipating. Sam sagged in the chair, his head lolling forward as his breathing came in ragged gasps.

The room was silent except for Sam’s labored breaths and the faint hum of Cas’s grace.

Bobby cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “Well? Did you find anything?”

Cas straightened, his expression grim. “No.”

Dean’s heart leapt with hope. “So that’s good news, right?”

Cas’s gaze flicked to Dean, and the weight of his silence hit like a punch to the gut.

“I’m afraid not,” Cas said finally. “Physically, he’s perfectly healthy.”

Dean’s stomach dropped. “Then what?”

“It’s his soul,” Cas stated, his voice heavy with finality. “It’s gone.”

The words hit Dean like a freight train, the finality of them stealing the breath from his lungs.

"What the hell do you mean his soul is gone?" Bobby barked, his voice sharp enough to slice through the thick tension hanging in the room.

Dean didn’t blame him. Hell, he wanted to yell the same thing, wanted to shake Cas until the answer wasn’t something out of a damn nightmare. But he couldn’t move — didn’t trust himself to move — because the nausea that had been building in his gut wasn’t letting up.

Cas tilted his head slightly as he answered. “Somehow, when Sam was resurrected, it was without his soul.”

“So, where is it?” Dean’s voice came out rough, the words scraping his throat like sandpaper.

“My guess is…” Cas hesitated, the brief pause enough to make Dean’s stomach churn harder. “Still in the cage with Michael and Lucifer.”

Dean swore under his breath. Of course, it was. Of course, nothing about this was going to be simple.

Bobby, however, wasn’t ready to let it go. “So, is he even still Sam?”

Cas blinked at him, his lips parting as though to answer, but what came out was one of those frustratingly vague angelic non-answers. “Well, you pose an interesting philosophical question.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. That wasn’t what Bobby had asked, and they all knew it.

But he didn’t need Cas to spell it out. He could feel it in his bones — this wasn’t Sam. Not really. And the nephilim growing inside him seemed to agree, pulsing faintly, uneasily, like it was mirroring Dean’s own instincts. The nausea surged, and he turned on his heel, escaping towards the bathroom.

He made it just in time, collapsing to his knees and gripping the edge of the toilet as his stomach emptied itself in violent waves. The sharp, acidic smell hit his nose, making him gag again, but at least it drowned out the scent of his own stress, which was thick and cloying even to him.

In the other room, he could still hear Bobby’s gruff demands and Cas’s calm, measured replies. The sound of it made Dean want to laugh — bitter, humorless laughter that threatened to bubble up past the lump in his throat.

Of course, it’s not simple. When the hell has it ever been simple?

When he finally managed to stand, he rinsed out his mouth and splashed cold water on his face, taking a moment to catch his breath. The baby shifted inside him, a restless movement that made him wince.

“Yeah, I know,” he muttered to his stomach. “This ain’t great for either of us.”

By the time he shuffled back into the main room, Cas was mid-sentence, his deep voice calm but firm. Dean waved off the concerned glance Cas shot him, instead focusing on the argument brewing between Sam and Bobby.

“Well, what are you gonna do? Keep me locked up forever?” Sam demanded, his voice sharp and challenging.

Bobby didn’t even flinch. “Boy, you know I’ve got a panic room just for that.”

“You’re not gonna hold me,” Sam shot back, his tone turning dangerous. He twisted his arms, and just like that, he was free of his bonds. “Not here, not in a panic room, not anywhere. You’re stuck with the soulless guy, so you might as well work with me.”

He turned then, his eyes locking on Dean with a pleading intensity that made Dean’s stomach twist all over again. “Dean, please. Let me help. We can fix this.”

It was the same damn tactic Sam had been using since they’d figured out something was wrong — playing on Dean’s loyalty, his need to protect his brother. And damn it, it worked every time. He swallowed hard, glancing at Bobby, whose jaw was set tight enough to crack. After a long moment, Bobby let out a heavy sigh.

“Fine,” Bobby grumbled, pointing a finger at Sam. “But I’m gonna be watching every move you make.”

Sam’s lips quirked in a humorless smile. “So nothing new.”

Dean shook his head, his patience wearing thin. “All right, if we’re gonna figure out what happened to your soul, then we need to find who yanked you out.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Sam shot back.

“You say you don’t know?” Dean pressed, his voice hard.

“No idea,” Sam admitted, his expression darkening.

Dean glanced at Cas, who had remained silent through the exchange. “Then we start a list. If it’s so hard to spring someone outta the box, then who’s got that kind of muscle?”

Cas shook his head slightly, his eyes not meeting his. “I don’t know,” he admitted. He turned to Sam. “You have no memory of your resurrection?”

Sam shook his head. “I woke up in a field. That’s all I got.”

Dean ran a hand down his face, frustration mounting. “No clues? None?”

“I can think of one,” Bobby said, his voice cutting through the tension.

Dean and Cas both turned to him, their gazes sharp.

“Who else do we know that came back mysteriously at the same time as Sam?” Bobby said, his tone pointed.

Dean groaned as the realization hit him. “Samuel.”

Bobby nodded, his expression grim. “I’ve been thinking about it, and the more I look at it, the more this picture stinks. I think it’s time we paid your gramps a visit.”

Dean didn’t bother arguing. He just nodded, his jaw tight. If Samuel had anything to do with this mess, they were going to get answers — one way or another.

The Campbell compound was louder than Dean remembered, the low murmur of voices and the occasional clang of metal against metal blending into a constant hum that grated on his nerves. As they walked through the main hall, the air was heavy with the mingling scents of too many alphas and betas in one place. Dominant, aggressive musk layered with the sharp tang of gun oil and sweat, and under it all, the faint metallic scent of blood. It was enough to make his stomach churn, his instincts screaming at him to shield his growing belly and leave.

He forced himself to push past the unease. Beside him, Sam strode purposefully, his tall frame cutting an imposing figure. Bobby brought up the rear, his sharp eyes scanning every corner of the room like he expected a trap. Dean felt a flicker of gratitude for their presence, even as he fought to keep his expression neutral.

His child shifted within him, reacting to the overwhelming sensory input. Dean bit the inside of his cheek to ground himself, his hand unconsciously drifting to his stomach before he caught himself and shoved it into his pocket.

“Hell of a crowd,” Bobby muttered under his breath.

Dean grunted in agreement. “Yeah, no kidding. Never seen this many hunters in one place before.”

Sam’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything, his focus locked on their destination. Dean didn’t blame him; the last thing they needed was for someone to start asking questions about why they were there.

They found Samuel in his office, sitting behind a cluttered desk that looked more like a command center than a workspace. When he saw them, Samuel stood, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he said, his tone light but his eyes sharp as they swept over the trio. “What brings you here, gentlemen?”

Dean exchanged a glance with Sam before stepping forward. “Need to ask you a few questions.”

Samuel’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

Dean leaned against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms. “The day you got back. What happened?”

Samuel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ve been over this.”

“Yeah, well, recap it for our wingman.” Dean glanced toward the corner of the room, where the faint flutter of wings heralded Castiel’s arrival.

Samuel stiffened slightly, his gaze narrowing as he took in the angel. “This Castiel? You’re scrawnier than I pictured.”

Cas tilted his head, his expression unbothered. “This is a vessel. My true form is approximately the size of your Chrysler building.”

Dean couldn’t help the warm flush that spread across the back of his neck at the statement. It was stupid, but there was something deeply satisfying about having such a powerful mate. His inner omega practically preened, a rush of pride and satisfaction coursing through him. He coughed, trying to play it off, and waved a hand dismissively.

“All right, all right, quit bragging,” Dean said, though his lips twitched in a faint smirk. He turned his attention back to Samuel. “So, you were dead, and…”

“And, pow, I was on Elton Ridge,” Samuel said with a shrug. “Don’t know how. Don’t know why. I got nothing to hide, guys.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, his skepticism evident. “Well, you mind if Cas here double-checks?”

Before Samuel could respond, Castiel stepped forward and plunged his hand into the older man’s chest.

Samuel let out a strangled scream, his body arching as Cas searched for his soul. Dean stood back, arms crossed, a small part of him feeling vindicated. He didn’t like Samuel — didn’t trust him — and watching Cas tear through his defenses felt… satisfying, in a way he wasn’t entirely proud of.

The door burst open, slamming against the wall, and Christian stormed in, gun drawn and aimed at Cas.

“What the hell?” Christian barked, his eyes darting between Samuel and the angel.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sam said quickly, holding up his hands in a calming gesture. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Christian’s grip on the gun didn’t waver. “Like hell it is!”

Dean smirked, his voice dry. “Angel cavity search.”

Samuel coughed, waving a hand weakly as Cas removed his arm. “I’m fine, Christian. Just give us a minute.”

“But—”

“Just give us a minute,” Samuel repeated, his tone firm despite the strain in his voice.

Christian hesitated, glaring at Cas before finally lowering his weapon and stepping out, slamming the door shut behind him.

The room hung heavy with silence after the door shut, tension building until Samuel spun on his heel, crossing his arms and glaring. “What the hell was that about?”

Unbothered, Castiel turned his attention to Dean. His tone was calm, decisive. “His soul is intact.”

Samuel’s scowl deepened, confusion flickering in his eyes. “What? Of course, I have a—” He stopped abruptly, shifting his glare to Sam. “What’s going on, Sam?”

Sam avoided his grandfather’s stare, his voice carefully controlled. “Whatever dragged me out… left a piece behind.”

Samuel sucked in a sharp breath, his expression twisting with guilt and frustration. “Did you know?” Sam pressed, his tone accusatory.

“No,” Samuel admitted, shaking his head. “But I... I knew it was something. I...” He hesitated, his voice dropping. “You’re a hell of a hunter, Sam, but sometimes? You scare me.” He looked away, clearing his throat awkwardly before continuing. “How do we fix this? How do we get his soul back?”

Dean’s posture stiffened, his jaw tightening. “We don’t know yet,” he said, the admission bitter in his throat. “But we have to.”

Samuel nodded, his expression hardening with resolve. “Well, I’m here to help. What leads you working?”

Sam gave a humorless chuckle. “A bunch of dead ends — and you.”

Beside Dean, Castiel shifted slightly, the motion barely perceptible. But Dean knew that shift, that change in focus, like a static charge sparking across his skin. He turned his head slightly, lowering his voice. “You gotta go, don’t you?”

Cas sighed, his frustration evident in the subtle furrow of his brow. “Yes.”

Dean clenched his jaw, hating how powerless he felt, but nodded. He reached out, his hand finding Cas’s, and squeezed tightly. “It’s okay. Go.”

Cas lingered for a moment longer, his gaze soft and searching, before he vanished with a familiar flutter of wings. Dean exhaled slowly and turned back to find Samuel watching him, his expression unreadable.

Samuel’s lips twitched into a faint, knowing smirk. “Would’ve asked him to stick around for a beer.”

Dean forced a dry laugh. “Yeah, not really his thing.”

Bobby stepped in, his voice cutting through the tension. “So, what’s with the book club outside?”

Samuel leaned back against his desk, arms folded again. “Putting together a hunt.”

“That’s a lot of bodies for one hunt,” Bobby said, his tone skeptical.

Sam straightened, his eyes narrowing. “You found him, didn’t you?”

Dean glanced between them. “Who?”

Sam’s focus remained locked on Samuel. “The alpha vamp. You’ve got a lead, don’t you?”

Samuel’s jaw tightened before he gave a terse nod. “Maybe. Yeah.”

“When’s the run?” Sam pressed.

“Dawn,” Samuel replied, his tone clipped.

Sam’s expression hardened. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Samuel’s gaze flicked between Bobby and Dean. “You’ve been… busy. Didn’t want to pull you off whatever it is you’re working.”

“Well, I’m here now,” Sam said firmly.

Samuel turned to Dean, his expression unreadable. “What about you? You in?”

Dean opened his mouth to respond, but the baby chose that moment to shift again, drawing energy from him like a demanding parasite. His stomach churned, and he grimaced, shaking his head. “Nah,” he said tightly. “I’ve got something of my own to take care of.”

Samuel’s eyebrows shot up, his surprise clear, but before he could press, Bobby stepped forward, his expression determined. “I want in.”

Samuel’s eyes narrowed, skepticism plain in his expression. “No offense, Singer, but I’ve got enough guys already.”

“What?” Bobby shot back, his tone mocking. “You don’t trust me?”

Samuel shrugged. “Don’t know you. Not like I know Sam.”

Bobby smirked, his voice laced with challenge. “I can take orders. You lead, I’ll follow.”

Samuel snorted, clearly unconvinced. “Really?”

Bobby’s smirk widened. “It’s not every day you get to bag one of the big bads. Wouldn’t miss it.”

After a beat, Samuel relented with a reluctant nod. “Fine. We leave at first light.”

Sam strode ahead with a quiet confidence that spoke of familiarity with the compound. His boots thudded against the floor in a steady rhythm, leading the way down the barely furnished halls. Dean followed at a slower pace, his steps dragging slightly as he fought back the urge to cradle his belly where the baby was shifting restlessly. It wasn’t the kid’s fault — Cas’s sudden comings and goings always stirred things up, leaving behind a mix of frustration and longing that settled deep in Dean’s bones. He hated every second Cas was away in Heaven, but what could they do? It was just another mess they had to deal with, so no use whining about it.

When Sam stopped at a plain door and pushed it open, Dean stepped inside after him, surveying the room with a critical eye. It wasn’t much — two narrow beds with scratchy-looking blankets, a battered dresser shoved against one wall, and an air of utilitarian indifference that didn’t invite comfort. The faint smell of cleaning chemicals lingered, but no amount of scrubbing could erase the sterile, unwelcoming vibe of the place.

Dean wasted no time making for the nearest bed, easing himself down with a low groan as his muscles protested. The mattress creaked under his weight, and he winced as he rubbed his lower back.

Bobby was in front of him almost instantly, crouching down with a grunt and resting his forearms on his thighs. His sharp gaze roved over Dean’s face, his concern plain. “This ain’t good, Dean,” he said, his voice low but steady.

Dean let out a short, humorless laugh, tilting his head back slightly. “You’re telling me? Even I know I can’t hunt like this. I’ll get people killed.”

Bobby snorted. “I ain’t talking about the hunt,” he replied, nodding toward Dean’s midsection. “This is only, what, month six?”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, wincing as another kick landed under his ribs. He pressed a hand to the spot, willing the kid to settle down. “Feels like ten.”

Bobby frowned, his expression darkening. “Why do I feel like it’s only gonna get worse?”

Dean shrugged, trying for nonchalance but failing miserably. “Because it is,” he said flatly. “As far as we know, every other nephilim carrier died. Pretty sure it wasn’t all sunshine and daisies for them either.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and Bobby’s lips pressed into a thin line. He glanced over his shoulder at Sam, who leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed. “And you’re not worried about that one bit?” Bobby asked, his tone incredulous.

Sam shrugged, his face unreadable. “I mean, I know I should be.”

“Jesus,” Bobby muttered, shaking his head.

Dean waved a dismissive hand, trying to redirect the conversation. “I’ll be fine. You should worry more about you. Think Samuel’s gonna trust you on this?”

“Hell no,” Bobby huffed. “But he trusts Sam. That’s our way in.”

Dean arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t you just point out he doesn’t care if I kick it?”

Bobby sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, well, he’s still the best we got.”

Dean leaned back slightly, wincing as the weight of the baby pulled at his spine. “Fine. But you better be careful. Both of you.”

“I’d worry more about yourself,” Bobby countered. “Samuel’s no fool. He’s already clocked that something’s off with you. And you and Cas? Subtle ain’t exactly your thing.”

Dean rolled his eyes, a faint growl of frustration rumbling in his chest. “It’s gonna come out eventually.”

“Sure,” Bobby said dryly. “But I’d prefer it happens when we’re miles away from a bunch of monster baby snatchers, not in the middle of their damn compound.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but a jaw-popping yawn took him by surprise, cutting him off mid-thought. His body felt heavy, exhaustion creeping in with every breath.

Bobby’s expression softened, and he sighed again, this time more gently. “Get some rest,” he said, his tone quiet but firm. “Sam and I’ll handle tomorrow. You just focus on keeping yourself and that kid safe.”

Dean wanted to argue, to say he didn’t need coddling, but the pull of sleep was stronger than his stubbornness. He eased back onto the mattress, the stiff surface doing little to help his aching back, and let his eyes slide shut.

The last thing he heard was the low murmur of Bobby and Sam’s voices fading as they stepped out of the room.

Dean woke slowly, the stiff mattress doing nothing to soothe the ache in his back. He stretched, grimacing as his muscles protested. The baby shifted, a dull pressure against his ribs reminding him that sleep would be a luxury for the foreseeable future. The compound was quiet, a little too quiet considering all the other hunters that had been there the other night. He glanced at the other bed and frowned. Sam’s neatly folded blanket and absent duffel bag told him all he needed to know. Bobby and Sam were already out on the hunt, leaving without so much as a goodbye.

“Great,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face.

He sat up slowly and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold against his bare feet as he grabbed his boots and laced them up, irritation simmering just beneath the surface.

By the time he’d shrugged on his jacket, his frustration had crystallized into resolve. If Bobby and Sam were out chasing leads, then he’d make himself useful here. He didn’t trust the Campbells any further than he could throw them, especially Samuel. There had to be something in this place that could give him an edge.

Dean started his search with the offices. The compound wasn’t huge, but there were plenty of rooms that could hold any amount of information. Most of the doors he tried were locked, but eventually, he came across one that wasn’t. Coincidentally, one they had been in just last night.

Samuel’s office.

The space itself was unremarkable: a desk piled with manila folders, a couple of filing cabinets, and a worn leather chair. But it was the laptop sitting in the center of the desk that caught Dean’s attention. He approached cautiously, half-expecting some kind of security system, but when he flipped it open, the screen blinked to life without asking for a password. Clearly, grandpa hadn’t entirely caught up to the twenty-first century, at least not when it came to technology.

He clicked through the files, scanning for anything that stood out. Most of it was boring  —  inventory lists, scheduling documents — but an email thread caught his eye. He leaned closer, his eyebrows knitting together as he read.

To: Samuel Campbell
Subject: Shipment Confirmed
Body: Delivery to Lansing warehouse scheduled for tonight. Full inventory expected. No delays anticipated.

Dean’s jaw tightened. A warehouse in Lansing? What the hell were they shipping there, and why? He was about to dig deeper when the faint sound of voices reached his ears.

Shit.

He closed the laptop and straightened up, his heart pounding as he listened. The voices grew louder, and Dean realized someone was heading toward the office. He slipped out quickly, his boots silent against the floor as he made his way back to the guest room.

He had barely settled onto the bed, feigning nonchalance, when the door swung open. Bobby entered first, dragging Sam behind him by the arm.

“Alright,” Bobby said, his voice gruff, “tell him what you told me.”

Sam sighed, his expression caught somewhere between sheepish and annoyed. “Samuel’s been catching things. Taking them somewhere. He grills them for info.” He glanced away, avoiding Dean’s gaze. “You weren’t supposed to know about that.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, wait. What’s going on?”

Bobby let go of Sam with a huff. “We went after that Alpha Vampire, and everything goes off without a hitch. Your grandpappy sends me out to keep watch, but I circled around back. Caught this one,” he jerked his thumb at Sam, “shoving the vamp into a truck with Samuel and the rest of his merry band. Real heartwarming family reunion.”

Dean blinked, trying to process the implications. “So he’s what? Locking them up and torturing them for information? About what?”

Bobby’s glare shifted to Sam, who shrugged again. “Dunno. I’ve never been there.”

Dean swore under his breath, his patience wearing thin. “Hang on. I checked out Samuel’s office while you guys were gone. Found some emails about shipments going to a warehouse in Lansing. What do you bet the rest of the operation is there?”

Bobby frowned, considering it. “Enough to go check it out.”

Dean pushed himself off the bed, grabbing his jacket. “Alright, let’s go.”

Bobby’s hand shot out, stopping him. “Wait. You can’t be serious.”

“I’m not staying here, Bobby. Things are getting too close with keeping the baby under wraps. Besides,” Dean shot Sam a pointed look, “you need backup in there that’s capable of making judgment calls.”

Sam bristled. “Hey.”

Dean ignored him. “You’ve got no instinct right now, Sam. So you can work with us or go back to Samuel, but if you’re with us, you let us call the shots. Got it?”

Sam’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Fine.”

Bobby crossed his arms, his expression skeptical. “You sure about this? Angel junior’s been draining your battery more than usual.”

Dean smirked, though the edge of exhaustion dulled it. “This is about as good as you’re gonna get from me. I’ll hang back if it gets ugly, but I don’t see any other options.”

Bobby didn’t look happy, but he nodded. “Well. Best get to it, then.”

Dean grabbed his bag, determination flaring to life. Whatever Samuel was up to, it was time to get some answers.

Sneaking into the warehouse was almost insultingly easy. Dean took one look at the padlock hanging on the side entrance and snorted under his breath. It wasn’t even locked properly. For a moment, he entertained the idea of giving his so-called “family” some tips on security, but then again, their incompetence was working in his favor right now. No sense fixing what wasn’t his problem.

“Amateurs,” he muttered as he slipped inside, Bobby and Sam close behind.

The warehouse was dark, save for the occasional pool of light from overhead fixtures. The air smelled of metal and oil, sharp and industrial. Dean led the way, his boots silent on the concrete floor as they crept through the aisles of stacked crates and steel shelves.

“Keep it down,” Bobby hissed, though Dean didn’t need the reminder.

They moved like shadows until the muffled sound of voices drew them toward the center of the building. Dean motioned for the others to stop as he crouched behind a stack of crates, peering around the corner. What he saw made his stomach twist.

The Alpha Vampire was slumped in a chair inside a reinforced cage, his wrists and ankles shackled with heavy chains. Tubes of dead man’s blood snaked into his arms, the crimson liquid dripping slowly from IV bags. Electrical nodes were attached to his temples and chest, wires feeding into a control box near the cage. Samuel Campbell stood nearby, scowling as he adjusted dials and barked orders at two other Campbells flanking him.

The Alpha Vampire didn’t look particularly fazed. In fact, he seemed... bored.

Samuel cranked a dial, and the Alpha’s body jerked as a current of electricity shot through him. The reaction was brief — a twitch of muscles and a sharp inhale—but the smug expression on the vampire’s face didn’t falter.

“Give me what I need,” Samuel growled, his tone tight with frustration.

The Alpha Vampire chuckled low in his throat, the sound carrying a sinister edge. “You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that, Samuel.”

Samuel’s lips thinned into a hard line. He barked a sharp order to the other Campbells and stormed off, his heavy boots echoing through the warehouse.

As soon as the room fell silent, the Alpha Vampire turned his head, his eyes scanning the shadows.

“Well,” he said, his voice smooth and deliberate, “are you four going to stand there all night? Come on out.”

Dean froze. Four? His gaze darted to Bobby and Sam, both of whom looked as startled as he felt. For a moment, none of them moved, but then Bobby straightened, stepping into the light with a grumble. Dean and Sam followed, though Bobby made a point of placing himself squarely in front of Dean, shielding him from view.

The Alpha Vampire tilted his head, his piercing gaze flicking over each of them. “Huh. I’m usually better at the counting thing. I thought I heard—” His eyes landed on Dean, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “Ah. I see. Well, how can I help such... fine guests this evening?”

Dean bristled, but Bobby beat him to the punch.

“Well, seeing as you’re going nowhere fast,” Bobby said gruffly, “we’ve got some questions for you.”

The Alpha’s smile widened. “I’m happy to answer any questions you have.”

Sam’s brows knitted together in suspicion. “Really? That easy?”

“Sure, sure,” the Alpha replied, his tone mocking. “Seeing as soon enough I’ll be ankle-deep in your blood, sucking the marrow from your bones.”

Dean snorted. “Okay, creepy.”

Sam stepped closer, his expression hard. “So you’re the first one. The original vampire.”

“The very first,” the Alpha confirmed, almost proudly.

“But if you’re the first... who made you?”

The Alpha’s eyes glimmered with something between amusement and menace. “We all have our mothers. Even me.” He looked directly at Dean, and something about the way his gaze lingered made Dean’s skin crawl.

Dean’s voice was sharp. “What does that mean?”

The Alpha chuckled but didn’t elaborate.

Sam pressed on, his tone insistent. “What’s with the big surge of vamps lately? It’s like—”

“Like we’re going to war,” the Alpha interrupted, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

Sam frowned. “Why? What’s going on? Why did Samuel bring you here?”

The Alpha sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring. His eyes fixed on Sam. “You smell cold. You have no soul. What an oddity. Do you feel how empty you are? What is it like to have no soul? Answer my question.”

Sam didn’t flinch. “You first. You’re the one in the cage.”

The Alpha leaned back, as though considering his words carefully. “The thing about souls — if you’ve got one, of course — is they’re predictable. You die, you go up or down. Where do my kind go?”

Bobby cut in with a growl. “All right, enough with the sermon, freak.”

The Alpha raised a brow. “I’m trying to answer the question. When we ‘freaks’ die... where do we go? Not Heaven, not Hell. So?”

Dean shrugged, feigning casualness to hide his unease. “Legoland?”

The Alpha sighed, exasperated. “Little rusty on our Dante, boys?”

Sam’s eyes widened slightly. “Purgatory.”

“Purgatory?” Dean echoed, disbelief coloring his tone. “Purgatory’s real?”

“Oh, stupid cattle.” The Alpha chuckled darkly. “Of course! And it is filled with the soul of every hungry thing like me that ever walked this earth. Now, where is it? That is the mystery. And that is what your kindhearted granddaddy is trying to beat out of me.”

Sam’s jaw tightened. “Samuel brought you here... to find out where Purgatory is?”

The Alpha nodded. “I keep telling him — how would I know such a thing? But he refuses to untie me.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You know exactly where it is. Why does Samuel care about any of this?”

The Alpha’s smile turned sly. “He doesn’t care. He does as he is told.”

Dean frowned. “Well, if the old man’s Kermit... whose hand’s up his ass?”

The unmistakable sound of a gun cocking behind them sent a cold chill down Dean’s spine.

“Evening, guys,” Samuel drawled, stepping out of the shadows with his usual entourage of merry assholes in tow.

Dean bit back a curse, his jaw tightening. For all his complaining about the Campbells’ lax security, it seemed he and the others had stumbled headfirst into the same damn trap. Samuel didn’t even glance at the vampire still restrained in the other room; his focus was entirely on them. With a quick gesture, he signaled his crew.

“Take them outside,” Samuel ordered, his tone calm, almost bored.

The hallway was colder than the room they’d been dragged from, though Dean couldn’t tell if it was the chill in the air or the adrenaline starting to drain from his system. His boots scuffed against the rough concrete floor as Christian gave him another unnecessary shove from behind. Dean half-turned, shooting the guy a glare sharp enough to draw blood. Christian, predictably, didn’t so much as flinch.

Gwen walked ahead of them, her grip firm on Bobby’s arm, while the third Campbell, some guy Dean didn’t even recognize, brought up the rear with a shotgun leveled at Sam’s back. It was four against three, but Dean wasn’t particularly worried about the odds. He was pissed. Royally pissed.

“Wow,” Dean started, his voice dripping with sarcasm as they were lined up against the wall. “I have seen some stupid in my time, but you take the crown. Putting Jaws in a fishbowl? How do you think that’s gonna end? I don’t know what kind of game you’re running here—”

“Dean,” Bobby muttered low, tugging on Dean’s sleeve in a futile attempt to calm him down. Dean ignored him, too busy working himself up into a proper tirade.

“—but this little stunt? It’s not just dumb; it’s suicidal. You’re gonna get yourself, your pet goons, and everyone else killed—”

Samuel, standing at the other end of the hallway with his arms crossed, cut him off. “You think I’m doing this for kicks?”

Dean took a step forward, completely unconcerned by the gun Christian had raised to match his movement. “I think you’ve got the rest of these feebs convinced you’re John Wayne,” he shot back. “But whatever you’re doing, whatever you’re hiding, it’s gonna put you and everyone around you in the ground. And for what? Huh? What’s the big—”

The wet, sickening sound of tearing flesh and crunching bone cut Dean off mid-sentence. It took a split second for him to realize what had happened: the unnamed Campbell at the back of their little parade wasn’t standing anymore.

He was smeared across the wall.

“Aw, hell,” Bobby muttered, reaching for his flask of dead man’s blood.

In the chaos that followed, weapons were drawn, but by the time they reached the holding room, the vampire was gone. All that remained was the busted cage, a few splattered vials of dead man’s blood, and the limp corpse of Campbell Guy.

Bobby paced the room, his shoulders tense. “You need to get out of here. Now.”

“Yeah, think it’s a little late for that,” Dean replied, scanning the empty cage for any clues as to how the alpha had slipped out.

“I’m not kidding.” Bobby’s eyes didn’t leave Dean’s face.

“Yeah, neither am I. Besides, I reckon I have better odds than most here.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Gwen snapped, her nerves clearly shot.

Bobby ignored her. “You said you were going to hang back if this got ugly.”

“Seriously, Bobby.” Dean’s tone was sharp. “I start running now, what’s to say the vamp doesn’t get the drop on me while I’m out there alone?”

“You could call your mate,” Bobby countered, his voice dropping lower. “Get him to pull you out of here before this gets worse.”

Dean stiffened. “He’s fighting a war, not playing at being my personal chauffeur. Now can we focus on the problem here? How much dead man’s blood do we have left?”

His gaze snapped to Christian, who held up two small vials of dead man’s blood.

“Right. And how long until Dracula’s back up to 100 percent?” Dean asked, turning to Samuel.

The older man frowned. “An hour. Maybe less. We need to get him dosed up and back in that cage.”

Bobby’s head whipped toward Samuel. “Are you kidding me?”

“What?” Samuel barked, clearly losing patience.

“What?” Dean repeated, his voice rising in incredulity. “Your plan is to what, exactly? Play catch with a pissed-off vampire? You know damn well that cage isn’t holding him again. The second he’s up to full speed, he’s gonna kill us all.”

“So what do you suggest?” Samuel asked, his tone mocking.

Dean’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening on the hilt of his knife. “We take his head off. Now.”

The room was suffocatingly tense, the air thick with the collective weight of their decision. Samuel looked like he wanted to argue, but after a long, simmering silence, he begrudgingly nodded. "Fine," he said, his voice clipped. "We take it down like any other hunt. No more games."

Dean didn't trust Samuel any farther than he could throw him, but for once, they were on the same page. "Good," Dean said, his voice sharp. "Then we stick together. Splitting up just makes it easier for that son of a bitch to pick us off."

The group moved as a unit into the next room, weapons at the ready. Dean’s eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, his heart pounding steadily. The place reeked of mildew and old blood, a scent that only heightened the edge of his nerves. They’d barely started securing the room when it all went to hell.

The alpha vampire moved so fast that Dean barely registered the blur of motion before Christian let out a strangled gasp. The vampire's hand closed around Christian’s throat with bone-crushing force, and then there was a sickening snap. Christian crumpled to the floor in a heap.

Dean couldn’t bring himself to mourn the guy. Christian had always been an ass, and Dean had never trusted him. But there wasn’t time to dwell on it.

The alpha’s attention shifted to Sam, his lips curling into a smirk that showed far too many teeth. “Well, well,” the vampire said, his voice dripping with condescension as he stepped toward Sam. “No soul. Less room for weakness. You would make… the perfect animal."

Dean wanted to scream at the bastard to shut up, but then Christian moved. Dean’s stomach dropped as he saw the man rise, his neck grotesquely twisted at an impossible angle. And then the black eyes hit, and Dean’s blood ran cold. He’d always thought Christian gave him the creeps, but this? This was worse than anything he’d imagined.

Before he could react, two more demons blinked into existence, flanking the alpha vampire. They didn’t give the group a chance to retaliate; in a flash of light, the demons grabbed the alpha and vanished, leaving nothing behind but chaos and confusion.

Dean’s breath came fast and shallow as he tried to process what had just happened. "What the hell was that?" he demanded, his voice hoarse. He barely had time to think before the slow, deliberate sound of clapping echoed through the room.

They all turned as a familiar figure strolled in, his smirk as infuriating as ever.

“Well, that was dramatic,” Crowley said, his tone dripping with mockery.

“Crowley?” Sam said, his disbelief evident.

“Hello, boys,” Crowley said, flashing a smug grin. “What an unexpected treat.”

Samuel’s face darkened. “Bring Christian back now.”

Crowley raised a brow, feigning confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“My nephew!” Samuel snapped, his voice sharp. “The one you just crammed a demon into!”

Crowley let out a dismissive laugh. “Oh. No. I had him possessed ages ago. Samuel, really, do try to keep up. I keep an eye on my investments.”

Bobby stepped forward, his expression hard as steel. “What the hell is this? You two know each other?”

“Ah, Bobby,” Crowley said, his smirk widening. “And here I thought you’d gone and hung up the old hat.”

“Seems like every time I try, one of you bottom-feeders starts acting up again,” Bobby shot back, his tone laced with venom.

“Ooh. Ouch,” Crowley said, placing a hand over his heart in mock hurt. “And here I thought we had something special. I suppose that’s why I’ve had to move on to greener pastures. Like with my new business partner here.” He gestured to Samuel with a flourish.

Sam’s eyes narrowed as he turned to Samuel. “You’re Crowley’s bitch.”

“It’s not what you think,” Samuel said quickly, though his defensive tone gave him away.

“Oh, it’s precisely what you think,” Crowley cut in cheerfully. “That alpha he’s caught me is getting him a gold star.”

Dean took a step forward, his jaw clenched tight. “Since when do you give a crap about vampires?”

“Since, uh, what’s today, Friday?” Crowley said, glancing at an imaginary watch. “Since… mind your business.”

Sam folded his arms, glaring at the demon. “You may as well share with the class, Crowley. We know you’re looking for Purgatory.”

Crowley’s smirk faltered for a brief moment before he recovered. “So you heard about that?” He tilted his head. “Well, isn’t that cute. Little Winchester spies.”

“Why?” Sam pressed. “What do you want with Purgatory?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Crowley asked, spreading his arms theatrically. “Location, location, location. I’m a developer. Purgatory is vast, underutilized, and hell-adjacent. I want it.”

Dean’s teeth ground together. “What for?”

Crowley turned to him, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Best shut your gob, darling. Employees don’t question management.”

“We ain’t your employees,” Dean snapped, his voice low and dangerous.

Crowley chuckled, as if Dean had told a particularly good joke. “Of course you are! Well, at least Moose is. Didn’t take much convincing with that one. All dear Samuel had to do was gab about family values, and your brother hopped right to.”

Dean felt his fists clench involuntarily, but Crowley wasn’t done. His smirk widened, sharp and predatory. “But you …” Crowley’s voice dropped to a more dangerous tone as he took a single step closer, then another, until he was uncomfortably in Dean’s space. “You’re quite the curious case, aren’t you? Never thought I’d see the day where Dean Winchester turns down a hunt, and when it’s family asking, no less.”

“Maybe I just wanted to avoid seeing your ugly mug again,” Dean bit out, taking a half-step back, but Crowley only leaned in closer.

“Oh, but it’s more than that.” Crowley’s tone turned almost sing-song, his eyes narrowing with sharp amusement. “And if I were a betting man — which, spoiler alert, I am — I’d wager it has something to do with that interesting bauble around your neck.”

Dean stiffened, his hand twitching instinctively toward the amulet hanging against his chest. He froze mid-motion, but Crowley’s gleaming eyes told him the slip hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Crowley’s grin grew sharper. “Ah.” He took a deliberate step back, his hands clasped behind his back as if he were a professor about to give a lecture. “Now, I’m a little rusty on my Enochian, but something that powerfully warded usually means there’s something you want to keep out — or, perhaps, something you want to keep secret.” He tilted his head in mock contemplation. “And since the big boys are still locked up in the Cage, I have to wonder… What have you gotten yourself into this time, Squirrel? And what would take you out of the game to keep it safe? Something like that must be a full-time job, wouldn’t you say?”

Dean stared him down, his breath caught in his throat. The amulet felt like it weighed a hundred pounds against his chest now, but he kept his face as stone-cold as he could manage. He wasn’t giving Crowley another inch.

The tension in the room was thick, the silence almost deafening as everyone stood frozen, unwilling to move, lest they tip the balance one way or another. Then Crowley clapped his hands, the sudden sound making several people flinch.

“Well!” Crowley declared brightly, his sinister grin returning in full force. “This is how it’s going to go. The job’s simple enough — bring me creatures. Aim high on the food chain, please. Everybody wins.”

“And if we don’t?” Dean’s voice returned with his breath.

Crowley’s grin never faltered. “Then you never see Sam’s soul again.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, his knuckles going white on the grip of his gun. “You’re bluffing.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, then turned toward Samuel. “Tell them, Samuel.”

Samuel hesitated, his face a storm of conflicting emotions before he finally caved under the weight of Crowley’s command. “He pulled us both back,” Samuel admitted quietly. “Me and Sam.”

Sam’s head whipped around to stare at Samuel, his expression a mixture of confusion and betrayal. “What? You knew?”

Dean’s mind raced, pieces clicking together, but he wasn’t ready to buy into the demon’s theatrics. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Cas says it takes big-time mojo to pull something like that off, and you’re nothing but a punk-ass crossroads demon.”

“Was a punk-ass crossroads demon,” Crowley corrected smoothly. “Now? King of Hell. Believe me, I’ve got the mojo. I snap my fingers, Sam gets his soul back. Or you can be… well, you , and I shove Sam right back in the hole.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a sinister purr. “Can’t imagine what it’s like in there… and I can imagine so many things.”

Dean’s teeth ground together as Crowley straightened, his expression all business again. “So, we clear?” he asked, pausing dramatically as his gaze swept the room. “Fantastic. I would say it’s been a pleasure, but, well.” He flashed a final smirk. “See you soon.”

And just like that, he vanished in a flicker of smoke.

The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of what had just happened settling over them like a heavy fog. Dean felt the tension in his muscles burning, his body screaming for release, but he stood still, staring at the spot where Crowley had been.

They were screwed.

Chapter Text

The house smelled like old books, motor oil, and the lingering trace of whiskey that clung to Bobby’s flannel shirts no matter how many times he washed them. It was familiar, grounding in a way Dean probably shouldn’t rely on, but right now, it was the only thing keeping him from coming apart at the seams.

He hunched over the kitchen table, another stack of lore books spread in front of him, each one just as useless as the last. Every lead ended in a dead end. Every possible solution to the mess they were in was either a long shot or a straight-up fairy tale. His eyes burned from reading the same damn passages over and over again, like sheer willpower alone might make something new appear between the lines.

It wouldn’t. He already knew that.

Across the room, Bobby was doing a piss-poor job of pretending he wasn’t watching him, keeping busy with whatever task he could get his hands on — cleaning guns, sorting notes, anything to keep from outright asking if Dean was okay. As if the weight of his concern wasn’t already thick in the air, pressing down on Dean like a heavy, scratchy blanket he couldn’t shake off. It made his skin itch.

The chair groaned as he leaned back, rubbing a hand over his stomach. The baby had been restless all day, shifting and kicking like it was just as fed up with all this waiting as he was.

“Join the club, kid,” he muttered, pressing against a sharp jab beneath his ribs. “Ain’t exactly a lot to do around here.”

Another kick. Stubborn little shit.

Dean huffed and dragged a hand down his face. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re sick of this too.”

“Talkin’ to yourself is a bad sign, y’know,” Bobby said gruffly from across the room.

Dean shot him a dry look. “Yeah, well, talking to you ain’t exactly an improvement.”

Bobby snorted but didn’t argue.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick. This was the part where Bobby usually told him to get some rest, to stop working himself into the ground for five damn minutes. But they both knew it wouldn’t stick. It never did.

Dean exhaled sharply and pushed away from the table. “I need some air.”

Bobby didn’t stop him, just watched as he grabbed his jacket and stepped outside. The cold bit at his skin, sharp and bracing, but at least it was better than the suffocating stillness inside. He tipped his head back, eyes tracing the distant stars, and wondered — not for the first time — if the universe was laughing at him.

Because no matter how many times he fought, no matter how hard he tried to claw his way out of the inevitable, he always ended up back here. Waiting.

The worst part was knowing there wasn’t a clean way out. Even if they torched Crowley, even if they somehow yanked Sam’s soul out of whatever hellhole the demon had it locked up in, there was still Raphael waiting in the wings, ready to rip the world apart. And if, by some miracle, they managed to take down both of those bastards?

Dean still wasn’t walking away from this.

That truth sat heavy in his gut, slow and inevitable. Didn’t mean he was gonna roll over, but it sure as hell meant he wasn’t fooling himself. The math didn’t add up to a happy ending.

A sharp jab beneath his ribs snapped him out of it, and he hissed, rubbing at the spot. "Okay, okay, I get it," he muttered. "You don’t like me thinking like that."

The baby shifted again, pressing against his palm, and Dean sighed, quieter this time. He didn’t know if Nephilim could actually understand things before they were born, but this kid had a way of making its presence known at the worst possible moments. Or maybe the best ones.

Either way, it didn’t change the fact that he was stuck. Waiting. Watching. Knowing that no matter how hard he fought, some things were just written in blood.

He hadn’t realized how far he’d wandered from the house, too caught up in his own thoughts, when he felt it — a warning thrum deep in his bones.

He stopped short, scanning the darkened landscape. Bobby’s house was farther away than he expected, a shadow in the distance, and unease prickled along the back of his neck. His belly went tight, the Nephilim shifting, alert, and Dean instinctively reached for the knife tucked at his waist.

He never got the chance to use it.

The stench of sulfur hit him too late, and the next moment, the world went black.

Dean came to slowly, the dull ache in his skull pulsing with every beat of his heart. His wrists burned, the ropes digging in deep enough to tell him everything he needed to know before he even cracked his eyes open.

Tied to a chair. Again.

The air was thick with sulfur, burning the back of his throat before he even got a good look at the room. Dirty walls, dim lighting, demons lurking at the edges with their eyes flickering black — yeah, just about what he expected.

Perfect. Just freaking perfect.

Dean flexed his fingers, testing the ropes. Tight, but not impossible. His stomach gave a restless flutter, but it settled fast. The kid wasn’t panicking. That meant he didn’t need to, either. Not yet.

Then he looked up, and every muscle in his body went rigid.

Sam.

Slouched in a chair across from him, posture lazy, like he was kicking back at some damn poker table instead of sitting in the middle of a demon-infested hellhole. His expression was unreadable — cold, calculating. Wrong.

Dean swallowed hard against the twist of unease in his gut. He didn’t trust Sam like this. Not without his soul. He still had the same face, the same voice, but the parts that made him Sam were gone. And Dean hated it. That’s why it had almost been easier to let Sam run with the Campbells, chasing alpha monsters, while he spun his wheels at Bobby’s.

But Sam wasn’t with the Campbells now. Had something happened? Did a hunt go sideways? Had Crowley finally gotten tired of their arrangement and decided to make a point?

Before he could even process the thought, the door creaked open, and the unmistakable sound of deliberate footsteps echoed through the room.

It wasn’t Crowley.

Worse.

It was Meg.

She strolled in like she owned the place, her smirk sharp enough to cut as she took them both in. Dean exhaled through his nose, trying not to gag on the overwhelming stench of sulfur. "Figures. Thought I smelled an evil skank."

Meg pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. "Such a flatterer. But I don’t have time for foreplay."

Dean rolled his shoulders as much as the restraints allowed, flashing her a smirk. "No? Could’ve fooled me with the whole bondage setup." He cocked his head. "Sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t swing that way."

Meg clicked her tongue and sauntered forward. "Oh, but you do swing some way, don’t you?"

Before he could shift away, she straddled his lap, pinning him down with her weight. That’s when he noticed the glint of the knife in her hand. "Before we get to the kinky stuff," she purred, pressing the blade against his chest, "let’s have a little Q&A. Where’s your boss?"

Dean opened his mouth, but Sam beat him to it.

"You think we work for somebody?" His tone was flat, unimpressed.

Meg tapped the flat of the blade against Dean’s chest. "I happen to know for a fact you’ve been juggling Crowley’s orphans. Now, where is he?"

Sam didn’t miss a beat. "Don’t know. Don’t care."

Meg’s smirk thinned. "You’ve been working his beat for weeks."

"Doesn’t mean we get face time." Sam shrugged like the whole thing bored him.

That was clearly not the answer she wanted. Her grip on the knife tightened, lips pressing into a thin line. Then, before Dean could brace for it, she dragged the blade up to his throat, just enough to sting.

"Okay, officially over the foreplay," she said, her voice all sugar and venom. "Satisfy me, or I please myself."

Sam chuckled. The sound was low, humorless. "You’re bluffing."

Meg’s eyes snapped to him, dark with irritation. "Am I?" 

She turned back to Dean, her grip tightening on the blade. Then, slowly, she dragged it downward, stopping just over the slight swell of his abdomen.

Dean went rigid. His stomach fluttered — his own panic, not the Nephilim’s. The kid was still, watching, waiting.

Meg’s smirk sharpened. "Your brother doesn’t seem to care very much about me threatening your life, Dean-o. But there’s something else you’re protecting, isn’t there?" She pressed the knife down just a little more, enough to make her point. "So why don’t you tell me what I want to know before I cut Baby Winchester out of your belly?"

Dean gritted his teeth, but Sam? Sam didn’t even blink.

"So get on with it," he sneered, utterly bored.

Meg’s grip on the knife twitched, pressing slightly harder, and Dean forced himself to stay still, to keep his breathing even. If the kid was in any real danger, he’d feel its grace gearing up for a fight — but there was nothing. Just the same restless stirring he’d gotten used to.

"She can’t do jack squat," Sam continued, voice even, almost lazy. "She’s totally screwed."

Meg scowled, but Sam wasn’t done.

"I’m guessing with Crowley being the big man on campus, he’s rooting out all the Lucifer loyalists. She can’t kill us. She needs us to get her to Crowley so she can stick that knife in his neck. It’s him or her."

Dean let out a breathy laugh. "Well, I hope you both lose. But good luck."

Meg’s fingers twitched against the handle of the blade, but she didn’t press harder. Her mind was already shifting gears.

"Which means there’s only one thing to do," Sam said.

Meg cocked her head. "And what’s that?"

"Work with us."

Dean’s head snapped toward him. "What?"

Sam didn’t even glance his way. "We’ll hand you Crowley with a bow. On one condition: we come with you, and you help us wring a little something out of him before you hack him to bits."

Meg scoffed. "What?"

"Doesn’t matter." Sam tilted his head. "Question is, can you get us what we need?"

Meg let out a slow breath, considering. Then, a wicked grin curled at her lips. "I apprenticed under Alastair in Hell, just like your brother." She turned to Dean, eyes glittering. "So, Dean, can I make Crowley do whatever I want?"

Dean clenched his jaw. As much as he hated to admit it, yeah. She could.

"Yeah," he muttered. "She can."

Meg’s smirk widened. "It’s a deal, then. Hugs and puppies all around!"

Dean glared. "Great. Now how about untying us?"

Meg leaned in close, dragging the knife up his chest before pressing just a little deeper into his stomach. Dean barely flinched.

"Please," she murmured, grinning. "Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it."

Then she pulled back, slipping the blade away, and sauntered out of the room.

The night air was cold against Dean’s skin as he stumbled out of the demon-infested hideout, his muscles aching from being bound for too long. Sam was right behind him, having made quick work of their restraints once he’d gotten free. They had to get the hell out before Meg or any of her little demon flunkies changed their minds about letting them go.

But as soon as they reached the open air, Dean turned on Sam, his voice sharp and unforgiving.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Sam gave him a blank look. “What do you mean?”

Dean threw his hands up. “I mean, what are you doing!?”

Sam scoffed, brushing dust off his jacket. “Dean, you wanted to screw over Crowley. Merry Christmas. What?”

Dean stepped closer, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You wanna work with a demon again?”

Sam folded his arms, unimpressed. “We’re working with demons now. I’m doing this because I wanna stop.”

“She killed Ellen and Jo!” The words came out sharper than Dean intended, but the anger was real, raw, still bleeding underneath his skin.

Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know. But you can’t look at this emotionally, Dean. We need her.”

“The hell we do!” Dean barked. “That little bitch is gonna screw us over so fast—”

“Of course she is,” Sam cut in, his voice steel. “Which is why we’ll screw her first. Meg and her little posse are dead the second we’re done with them.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, if they don’t kill us first.”

“They won’t.” Sam’s tone was calm, measured, but there was something else in his expression — something calculating. “’Cause we’re bringing insurance.”

Dean felt a prickle of unease crawl up his spine. “…What kind of insurance?”

Sam’s eyes flickered down, lingering too long on Dean’s midsection. A slow, creeping feeling curled in Dean’s stomach, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His instincts screamed that he wasn’t going to like what came next.

Then Sam’s lips curled slightly, and he spoke aloud, voice steady and deliberate.

“Castiel, we need you. It’s important.”

Dean’s stomach clenched. “Sam, don’t—”

Sam ignored him, gaze still locked on him with that damn glint in his eyes. “I think it’s the baby. There’s something wrong. Dean’s having contractions, but it’s too early—”

“Sam!” Dean’s voice shot up, panic lacing through it. “Stop it!”

But Sam just opened his mouth to continue when a sudden rush of wings filled the air. The presence of celestial power crackled in the atmosphere, and before Dean could even brace himself, Cas was there.

“Dean!” Cas’s voice was frantic, his blue eyes scanning over him in an instant.

Dean barely had time to throw his hands up. “Hey, hey, it’s okay! I’m fine.”

Cas didn’t listen. He was already stepping in, his hands reaching out, one landing firmly against Dean’s abdomen. Dean exhaled slowly, letting him feel for any distress from the Nephilim. Cas leaned in, close enough that Dean instinctively tilted his head, exposing his throat and allowing Cas to scent him.

Cas’s gaze flicked up to his, searching. “Sam said you were having contractions. Are you feeling any strain?”

Dean shook his head. “I’m not, Cas. I’m fine.”

Cas frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Dean’s jaw tightened as he shot a glare at his brother. Sam looked entirely unapologetic, arms crossed, watching the interaction like he was taking notes.

Evidently reassured that Dean and the baby weren’t in immediate danger, Cas turned away from him and faced Sam. His entire demeanor changed in an instant.

“You lied to me?” Cas’s voice was low, dangerous. “You made me believe that my mate and child were in danger.”

Sam shrugged. “Technically, they were. Meg kidnapped us a few hours ago.”

Dean huffed. “We were fine.”

Sam gave him an unimpressed look. “She held a knife right up to your stomach and threatened to cut them out of you.”

Cas went utterly still. Dean could practically feel the temperature around them drop, the air thickening with an electric charge. The angel’s entire posture shifted, and when he spoke again, his voice was ice. “Where is she?”

Sam didn’t blink. “Doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that you owe me. So you’re going to help us.”

Cas’s expression twitched. “I am mid-battle, Sam.”

Sam tilted his head, lips pressing into a flat line. “I could give a rat’s ass about your little pissing match with Raphael.”

The air changed in an instant. Dean felt it immediately — the sudden shift in alpha pheromones, Cas’s scent sharpening to ozone and petrichor. A charge ran up his spine, and inside him, the Nephilim stirred in earnest. His instincts flared, protective and possessive all at once, and before he even thought about it, his hands came up to cradle his midsection.

Cas took a slow step forward. “Do you not understand that I am fighting—”

Sam cut him off. “I’m sorry, do you think we’re here to talk this out?”

Dean gritted his teeth against the wave of instinct battering at him. His inner omega screamed at him to move, to place himself closer to his mate, to bare his teeth at any threat. But the other part of him — the part that had raised Sam, protected him since before he even presented — wanted to defend his brother.

His hand burned where it rested on his stomach, and he felt the Nephilim’s grace ignite inside him, a power he had only felt occasionally, though it was becoming more frequent. It filled him, warm and electric, humming in his blood.

Cas took another step forward. “Sam, I can’t just—”

Sam’s voice was cold, final. “If you don’t help us, I will hunt you down and kill you.”

Cas let out a breath, slow and even. Then, his head tilted slightly, and his voice dipped into something old and deadly. “Will you, boy?” he growled, low and rumbling. “How?”

It was too much. Dean stepped forward, his back straight, his chin lifted, and despite the overwhelming pheromones in the air, he didn’t flinch.

“That’s enough!”

The silence was instant. Both alphas blinked at him, as if they’d forgotten he was there. The weight of their gazes pressed on him, but Dean didn’t back down. His blood was still thrumming, still alight with something powerful, something beyond instinct.

Cas’s eyes widened as he took Dean in properly.

“Dean…”

Dean frowned. “What?”

Cas stared. “Your eyes.”

Dean’s breath hitched. He turned slightly, glancing at the dim reflection in one of the house’s broken windows. What he saw made his pulse stutter.

Two glowing blue pinpricks where his eyes should have been.

He exhaled slowly. The power was still there, but it was fading, the grace settling back where it belonged — centered inside him, around the Nephilim.

As the light dimmed from his gaze, Cas’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

Sam let out a short breath. “Right. Are we done with the dramatics?”

Cas tensed, like he was debating whether to punch him or smite him outright, but before he could decide, Dean placed a firm hand on his arm, grounding him. The angel inhaled deeply, then turned back to Sam, his expression dark. “Fine,” he said, voice clipped. “What is it you need?”

The run-down hovel was mercifully quiet when they returned, the usual stink of sulfur and decay lingering but absent of any immediate threats. Dean didn’t know how long it would last, but for now, he’d take it. Cas was already moving, setting up a ritual in the middle of the room with an intensity that made Dean wary.

Dean tried not to pay too much attention at first, letting Cas do his thing, but it was hard to ignore the way the angel kept brushing against him — fingertips ghosting over his arm, the small of his back, even lingering near his stomach as if shielding him. Subtle, but it was constant.

Dean shot a glare at Sam, who was busy acting like he hadn’t just pulled the biggest dumbass stunt of the night. Because, sure, let’s scare the shit out of Cas and make him think Dean and the baby were in mortal danger just to get him to show up. Great plan.

Sam met his glare without a shred of remorse.

Cas, meanwhile, worked in silence, his hands moving swiftly as he scattered ingredients across the sigils he had drawn. The air hummed with energy, the telltale buzz of angelic power making Dean’s skin prickle. Then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Cas exhaled sharply and stepped back, his jaw tightening.

“It’s not working,” he said, his gravelly voice edged with frustration. “Crowley is hidden from me.”

“Guess we’re doing this the hard way, then,” Sam muttered.

Dean leaned against the heavy wooden desk in Samuel’s study, watching as Sam and Cas rifled through drawers and papers, searching for any clue that might lead them to Crowley. He had meant to help — really, he had — but the second Cas had flown them into the compound, the baby had gone absolutely nuts.

The moment his feet had touched the ground, a surge of restless energy had shot through his body, his belly twisting with the unmistakable stirrings of excitement that weren’t entirely his own. The kid had loved the flight. Too much. And now they were buzzing inside him, an eager, impatient thrum that had Dean pressing a firm hand against his abdomen, rubbing slow, grounding circles in a desperate attempt to keep them from getting any ideas.

Not the time, kiddo, he thought, taking a slow, measured breath.

Cas kept glancing his way, brows drawn tight in concern. Dean caught his eye once, mustered up his best I’m totally fine, don’t worry about it smile, and ignored the way Cas’s frown only deepened. He could worry about it later. Right now, they had bigger problems.

The stairs creaked behind him.

Dean’s muscles tensed as he turned sharply, instinct screaming danger. His hand twitched toward the gun tucked into the back of his jeans, but he stilled when he saw Samuel at the door, lowering his weapon as he took in the three of them.

Dean straightened, already bracing for a fight. Samuel’s eyes flicked between them, his mouth set in that permanent disapproving grimace of his. “Can I help you? What do you want?”

Dean didn’t bother with pleasantries. “We wanna know where Crowley is.”

Samuel let out a scoff, shifting his weight. “If I even knew, why would I tell you?”

“’Cause you’re our grandfather,” Dean said, voice flat.

That earned him a dry, unimpressed look. “And?”

Before Dean could fire back, Sam stepped in. “Samuel, I’m gonna get my soul back.”

Samuel didn’t even blink. “Who says you can get it back?”

Sam met his gaze steadily. “Me.”

Samuel sighed, shaking his head. “Look, I’d like to help, but I’m sorry.”

Dean’s patience, already hanging by a thread, snapped. “It’s your grandson’s soul.” His voice was tight, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Samuel’s expression didn’t change. “I can’t.”

Dean let out a slow breath, trying not to let his anger get the best of him. “What is wrong with you?” he asked, voice low. “You wanna work for Crowley? We’re your blood.” He spread his hands, trying to get through to him. “But if you don’t wanna help us, I can’t make you. I just gotta know — why? What is Crowley holding over you?” His voice softened, just enough to make it clear that this wasn’t just about the job anymore. “You owe us that.”

Samuel’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked to Cas, something uncertain, almost wary, flashing across his face.

Dean immediately stepped into his eyeline, blocking him. "Hey. Anything you have to say to us, you can say in front of him."

Samuel’s expression soured like he’d sucked on a lemon, but hell, Dean figured that was his default setting anyway.

For a long moment, Samuel hesitated. Then, with a sigh that felt more like defeat than resignation, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a photograph.

He held it out, and Dean hesitated before taking it. The second his eyes landed on the image, his breath caught. "Mom?"

Samuel’s face was unreadable. "He’s gonna give her back to me."

Dean’s grip on the photo tightened, his heart pounding hard against his ribs. "Crowley’s gonna bring Mom back from the dead?"

Samuel met his gaze. "You tell me you don’t want her back."

Dean couldn’t answer. He couldn’t force the words out, not with the picture burning in his hands, not with the sudden, aching weight pressing against his chest. He did want her back. More than anything. If anyone could understand this — could understand him — it would be her.

Samuel’s voice softened, almost regretful. "You know the one difference between us?" His eyes flicked to Dean’s, heavy with meaning. "You know how to live without her."

Dean swallowed hard, his fingers pressing against the edges of the photo. His jaw locked. "Look, I know how you feel."

"No, you don’t," Samuel said, his voice sharp, cutting. "She’s my daughter. And she’s dead. And I can do something about it."

Dean’s stomach twisted. He barely knew his kid — had barely known them for more than a couple of months. Hadn’t even met them outside his own damn body. But he knew, deep in his bones, that he would die for them. Hell, he probably would. And he’d kill for them, too. So, yeah, he got it. But that didn’t mean Samuel’s plan wasn’t doomed to crash and burn.

"Do you really think Crowley’s gonna make good here?" Dean asked.

Samuel’s gaze hardened. "He brought Sam back. And me."

Dean let out a rough breath. "Trust me. Don’t go down that road."

Samuel’s brow furrowed. "What are you saying?"

"I’m saying, stop trying," Dean snapped. "It’s gonna go nowhere good. Samuel, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m your grandson, and I’m telling you — this is wrong. For so many reasons."

Samuel’s lip curled. "You hypocrite."

Dean clenched his teeth, forcing himself to stay calm. "I’m asking you to learn from our mistakes. Doing this — this is how the bad guy gets us every time. It’s our Achilles' heel. Apparently, it runs in the family." He exhaled sharply. "We will figure something else out. Okay?"

Samuel’s jaw worked, his grip tightening on his own arms. But when he spoke, his voice was quiet, immovable. "I’m sorry, Dean. But I—"

Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "Fine. Bring her back. But what are you gonna tell her?" His voice dipped, slow and deliberate. "You gonna tell her you made a deal with a demon? That you wouldn’t help out her sons?"

Samuel’s expression darkened, his face twisting with something ugly, something dangerously close to shame. "That’s enough," he snapped. "Just get out."

Dean swallowed past the anger burning in his throat, his hands balling into fists. For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at the man who was supposed to be family, supposed to give a damn.

Then he turned to Cas.

Cas didn’t need to be told. Without a word, he stepped forward, reaching out to grab both Dean and Sam by the shoulders. And just like that, with a rush of air and a shift in the atmosphere, they were gone.

The second his feet hit solid ground, a familiar thrum of energy buzzed through his middle. The baby, once again, was very excited.

Dean muffled a groan, pressing his hand against his stomach. Cas, ever the worrier, immediately honed in, his expression creased with fresh concern.

Dean forced a breath and shot him a tired, strained smile. “I’m fine,” he said.

Cas didn’t look convinced. “I wish there was something I could do.”

Dean exhaled, something tight in his chest easing just a little. “You’re doing what you can, Cas.”

Cas held his gaze for a second longer, his face unreadable, before finally nodding.

Sam, standing off to the side, rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath before heading to the table, already pulling a book toward him. “I’m gonna get back to researching,” he announced, not even looking up.

Dean barely heard him. Now that they weren’t in the middle of a hunt, weren’t dealing with Samuel or Crowley or the latest crisis, the full weight of Cas’s presence finally hit him.

Dean inhaled, just a little deeper than necessary, and — God.

The scent of his mate flooded his senses, warm and familiar and Cas, and before he could think better of it, he leaned in, pressing his nose to the curve of Cas’s neck.

Heat. Safety. Home. 

Dean bit back a groan.

It had been too damn long. Months since Cas had been this close, since he’d been able to touch him, breathe him in, let himself sink into that warmth. His pulse picked up, body reacting before his brain could catch up, and for a second — just a second — he almost didn’t care that Sam was in the room.

But then reality snapped back into place, and he took a step back. The loss of warmth hit him like a punch to the gut, but he forced himself to shake it off.

Instead, he dropped down at the table across from Sam, dragging a book toward himself in a half-assed attempt to focus. Cas, seemingly unbothered, made his way over to the couch, picking up the remote and turning on the TV.

They settled into a routine — Sam and Dean flipping through pages, Cas watching whatever was on — but it wasn’t even an hour before a sound caught Dean’s attention.

A low, unmistakable moan.

Dean’s head snapped up.

Cas was staring intently at the TV, his brows furrowed in concentration, but the sounds coming from the screen left no doubt about what the hell he was watching.

Dean blinked. “Cas, are you watching a porno?”

Cas didn’t even look away from the screen. “It’s very complex.” He tilted his head slightly. “If the pizza man truly loves this babysitter, why does he keep slapping her rear? Perhaps she’s done something wrong.”

Dean let out a rough chuckle. “Oh, I don’t know, Cas,” he drawled, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe we should give it a shot.”

Sam made a noise somewhere between a groan and a gag, then cleared his throat — loudly.

Dean turned just enough to throw him a look and flip him off.

Unimpressed, Sam just shook his head and returned to his book.

Dean rolled his eyes, ready to pick up where he left off teasing Cas, but before he could open his mouth, a sharp knock cut through the room. The sound echoed, heavy and deliberate.

Sam muttered something under his breath as he stood, already irritated, and strode to the door. The second he pulled it open, his whole body went rigid.

Dean didn’t need to see who it was. He felt it in his gut.

“Samuel.”

Samuel stepped inside, his eyes sweeping over the room before landing on the TV. His scowl deepened. “This what you boys do?” he said dryly. “Sit around watching pornos with angels?”

Dean leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Better than getting our jollies on with Crowley.”

Samuel didn’t dignify that with a response.

Sam, less inclined to bullshit, cut straight to the point. “What are you doing here, Samuel?”

Samuel hesitated for half a second before stepping forward, pulling a folded piece of paper from his jacket. “It’s what Mary would want.” His voice was gruff, almost defensive. “Now, this is what I know.” He unfolded the paper, revealing a map, and pointed to a specific location. “Whatever we bag ends up there.”

Dean sat forward slightly, eyes narrowing.

Samuel continued, “That’s where he tortures ‘em, interrogates ‘em. I don’t really know. Only been outside the place, but it’s a death trap. Nothing gets in that Crowley doesn’t want in, and nothing gets out, period.”

Dean studied the map for a moment, then leaned back. “Well, thanks.”

Samuel sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t do this.”

Sam leaned forward. “Come with us.”

Samuel let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “I may be soft, but I’m not suicidal.”

Sam scoffed, shaking his head before turning and heading outside. Dean figured he was probably going to contact Meg.

Samuel lingered for a moment, his gaze shifting warily between Dean and Cas, his expression unreadable. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out the door.

Dean let out a long, slow sigh as the door closed behind Samuel. Without thinking, he grabbed the remote and flicked off the TV. The sudden silence in the room was almost deafening. He hadn’t even realized he’d moved closer to Cas until he turned and found himself right in front of the angel, face to face with those stupidly intense blue eyes.

For a second, Dean forgot how to breathe.

Then, as if his body had a mind of its own, he was climbing into Cas’s lap, hands gripping the rough fabric of the trench coat. Cas let out a small noise of surprise, but his hands automatically settled on Dean’s hips, steady and warm. And that was all Dean needed.

He crashed his mouth against Cas’s, all but devouring him. Cas met him with equal fervor, fingers tightening, his grip possessive in a way that made Dean’s blood burn.

Dean wasn’t letting up. He was already reaching for Cas’s coat, yanking at the lapels, when Cas suddenly broke away just enough to suck in a ragged breath.

"Dean—” Cas barely got the name out before Dean stole another kiss, deep and dirty. Cas tried again, voice rough, panting. "What—" Another kiss. "Are you doing?"

Dean pulled back just enough to give Cas an incredulous look. "You’re kidding me, right?"

Cas blinked at him in genuine confusion, his breath coming fast.

Dean huffed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he leaned in, lips grazing the sensitive skin just below Cas’s ear. He nipped at it, rolling his hips for emphasis.

"I am nearly seven months pregnant with your kid," Dean growled, letting his teeth scrape along Cas’s pulse point. "Horny all the damn time. And this is the first time I’ve seen you for more than five minutes in months." He lifted his head, staring Cas dead in the eye. "And you’re surprised I wanna jump your bones right now?"

Cas’s breath stuttered, his fingers digging into Dean’s hips. "Dean—”

Dean bit down lightly on his earlobe, smirking as he felt Cas twitch beneath him.

"As much as I want you too—” Cas groaned, sounding utterly wrecked.

Dean’s smirk widened. "What?"

And then—

A loud, obnoxious throat-clearing sound cut through the tension.

Dean froze. Cas’s grip went slack.

Dean turned his head just enough to see Sam standing in the doorway, arms crossed, an impressively unimpressed expression on his face.

Cas cleared his throat, straightening slightly. "We have company," he said, like that wasn’t already obvious.

Dean scowled. "Sam, has anyone ever told you you’re a cockblock?"

Sam, deadpan, said, "You have. Multiple times."

"Well, it’s true.”

Sam ignored him. "Yeah, well, get your pants on. We’ve gotta go." He turned and walked away, disappearing down the hall.

Dean groaned, dropping his forehead against Cas’s shoulder in defeat.

Cas exhaled through his nose, a small chuckle vibrating in his chest. Gently, he ran a hand through Dean’s hair, fingers soothing.

Dean lifted his head slightly, lips just brushing the shell of Cas’s ear. "Hope you were taking notes from the pizza man," he murmured, voice low and full of promise. "‘Cause I’m gonna test you later."

Cas groaned, deep in his chest, and rutted up against him. Just once, quick and uncontrolled.

Dean shuddered, gritting his teeth as he forced himself to not react. It took every ounce of willpower he had to slide off Cas’s lap, straightening his clothes. He glanced back at Cas, and— Jesus.

Cas looked wrecked.

His hair was even more mussed than usual, lips flushed, pupils blown wide. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, and Dean — despite his own frustration — couldn’t help but preen a little. He did that. He made his angel lose his composure.

Cas exhaled heavily, running a hand over his face. "I believe my annoyance with Crowley is greater in this moment than it ever has been."

Dean barked out a laugh. "Well, come on. Soon as we get Sam’s soul back, we can kill the limey bastard and move as much furniture around as we want."

Cas’s humor faded slightly. He hesitated. "Dean, about Sam’s soul…"

Dean sobered immediately. "What is it?"

Cas’s expression darkened. "Have you considered the dangers of returning it?"

Dean frowned. "What do you mean?"

Cas’s voice was grim. "Sam’s soul has been locked in the Cage with Michael and Lucifer for more than a year. And they have nothing to do but take their frustrations out on him. You understand? If we try to force that mutilated thing back into him, we have no idea what will happen. It could be… catastrophic."

Dean’s stomach turned. He swallowed hard. "You mean he dies."

Cas’s gaze was unwavering. "I mean, he doesn’t ." He let that sink in. "Paralysis. Insanity. Psychic pain so profound that he’s locked inside himself for the rest of his life."

Dean clenched his jaw, processing. "But you’re saying you don’t know anything for sure," he said carefully. "I mean, he could be fine."

Cas hesitated, then gave a small nod. "He could be, yes."

Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. He got what Cas was saying — he did. But…

"The guy out there?" Dean jerked his head toward the door, where Sam had disappeared. "The one without his soul? He would’ve let me get turned by a vampire without even blinking." His stomach twisted at the memory. "He doesn’t care about anything. I can’t trust him. Not with watching my back, not with the baby." Dean shook his head. "That’s not my brother out there. So I’ve gotta try."

Cas studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded. "Of course, Dean." His voice was softer now. "I just… I hope it’s the right decision."

Dean swallowed. His throat felt tight. “Yeah. Me too."

The deeper they got into Crowley’s little supernatural prison, the more Dean’s skin crawled. Something was off. It was too easy.

No demons guarding the outer perimeter, no alarms, no nasty hellhounds sniffing them out. It felt wrong . The last time he’d had this feeling — this gnawing sense of deja vu — was when they went after the Alpha Vamp. That had been a damn trap, and he had a bad feeling this was shaping up to be the same.

He tried to shake it off, tried to focus on something other than the feeling that Crowley was playing them like puppets on a string. So he focused on the baby instead. They were moving again, just little shifts here and there, but Dean could feel them, this tiny presence nestled inside him. He rested his hand against the slight swell of his stomach, rubbing slow circles over his shirt without really thinking about it.

Cas’s sharp gaze flickered down, lingering on the movement. His brow furrowed, concern clear on his face.

Dean caught the look and gave Cas a small, reassuring smile. "Don’t worry, CJ’s just excited you’re around."

Cas blinked. "CJ?"

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, you know, Cas Junior."

Cas’s expression was unreadable. "You have chosen this name?"

Dean snorted. "Relax, I’m just trying it out. Figured we gotta start thinking of names at some point. Can’t just be calling them the baby or the Nephilim forever, can we?"

Cas tilted his head slightly, considering this. "And this name is… desirable to you?"

Dean grinned. "I mean, it’s got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?"

Cas seemed to think very carefully before responding. "Why not Dean Junior?"

Dean made a face. "God, no . Bad enough the kid’s gotta have half my DNA. I wouldn’t wanna make them share my name, too. Feels kinda… I dunno. Self-centered?"

Cas frowned, looking genuinely perplexed. "I do not understand. Naming a child after a parent is a common tradition, is it not?"

"Yeah, well, maybe for some people," Dean muttered. "I just — I don’t know. ‘Dean Junior’ doesn’t sit right."

Cas was silent for a beat, and then he said, "I am unfamiliar with this process."

Dean quirked a brow at him. "What, naming?"

Cas nodded. "Angels are created with names already bestowed upon them. There is no need to choose one. I have always known myself as Castiel. I cannot conceive of myself as anything but Castiel." He paused, then added, "And I cannot know you as anyone other than Dean Winchester. Because Dean Winchester is who you are."

Something about the way Cas said it made Dean’s throat feel tight.

"Okay," Dean said after a moment, "but what if I changed my name? What if I woke up tomorrow and decided to go by… I dunno, Jim Bob or something?"

Cas’s entire expression shifted to one of mild horror. " Would you?"

Dean snorted. "No, Cas, I wouldn’t. It’s just an example."

Cas still looked deeply perturbed by the idea.

Dean smirked. "But hey, technically, I did change your name."

Cas blinked. "You did not."

"The hell I didn’t." Dean shot him a knowing look. "I was the first one to call you Cas, remember?"

Cas’s brows knit together as he absorbed that information.

Dean shrugged. "I mean, I guess you could’ve told me to cut it out, but you never did."

Cas’s expression softened slightly. "No. I never did."

Something passed between them then — something unspoken, soft, and warm. After a beat, Cas said, "If my opinion is desired, I do not feel that ‘Cas Junior’ is an accurate portrayal of our offspring."

Dean snorted. "That a no on CJ, then?"

Cas nodded. "They will be equally from you, if not more so, as you are the one carrying them."

Dean chuckled. " That’s what makes you say no? Not that it’s weird naming a kid after one of their parents, but that they’re more me than you?"

Cas blinked. "It is simply a fact."

Before Dean could respond, the baby kicked, a sharp thump against his palm.

Dean huffed. "Guess the peanut gallery agrees."

Cas’s lips twitched like he was trying not to smile.

Dean sighed, dropping his hand from his stomach. "Alright, fine. No CJ. But that means we gotta start actually figuring this out at some point."

Cas nodded solemnly. "Yes. It is an important decision."

Dean smirked. "Yeah, no pressure or anything."

Cas merely inclined his head, as if accepting the challenge.

Dean shook his head, turning his attention back to the darkened hall ahead of them. It was still too damn quiet.

His grip tightened on his gun as that uneasy feeling crept back up his spine.

Yeah. Definitely a trap.

For a while, they continued on in silence, still meeting a suspicious lack of resistance. Then, in the distance, came the sound that made his blood run cold.

A low, echoing growl.

Meg stiffened, muttering, “Damn it. Here come the guards.”

His stomach dropped as he recognized them. Hellhounds.

Dean didn’t hesitate. “Go!”

The group broke into a sprint, boots pounding against the cold concrete. The snarling and growling behind them grew louder — closer. They weren’t going to outrun them.

Just then, Dean spotted a set of metal doors up ahead. “In here!”

They all rushed inside, slamming the heavy doors shut just as the first hound lunged. Something massive and unseen crashed against the barrier with a sickening thud. Dean and Sam barely had time to wedge a thick piece of wood into the handles before Cas knelt down, dragging a line of salt along the base.

A shriek of pain echoed from the other side as one of the hellhounds hit the salt line. Furious scratching and growling followed. Dean’s pulse pounded in his ears.

Then came the screams.

Meg’s two demon lackeys hadn’t made it inside in time. The sounds of their vessels being torn apart were wet and violent, punctuated by desperate howls of agony. The coppery scent of blood bloomed in the air.

Dean clenched his jaw. He knew this was too easy.

“I knew this was a damn trap.”

Meg scoffed. “What do you want, a cupcake?”

Sam wiped his sleeve over his forehead, sweat already beading at his temples. “Alright, that should keep them out.”

Dean exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Not for long. How many of them are out there?”

Meg hesitated. “Lots.” Then, she shrugged and gave a smirk. “I’ll be pulling for you… from Cleveland.”

Dean’s head snapped toward her. “What?!”

Meg didn’t even look sorry. “I didn’t know this was gonna happen. Bright side — them chewing up my meatsuit oughta buy you a few seconds. Seacrest out.”

She tilted her head, opening her mouth wide as she tried to ditch her host body. But nothing happened. She frowned, tried again. Nothing. Panic flickered in her expression.

Cas observed her impassively. “A spell, I think. From Crowley. Within these walls, you’re locked inside your body.”

Dean barked out a humorless laugh. “Karma’s a bitch, bitch.”

Meg scowled.

Sam was already moving, pulling Ruby’s knife from his belt.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing, gonna slash at thin air until you hit something?”

Sam ignored him, turning instead to Meg. “You can see them. Take this. Hold them off. It’s our best shot.”

Meg considered him for a long second before shaking her head. “At Crowley. Take it and go. You kill the smarmy dick. I’ll hold off the dogs.”

Dean’s stomach churned with unease. “How you gonna do that?”

Meg’s eyes flicked to Cas, and before anyone could react, she grabbed him by the lapels and kissed him. Cas barely tolerated it for a second before he shoved her off, looking completely disgusted. But by then, Meg had already swiped his angel blade. She twirled it between her fingers, pouting dramatically.

Dean growled before he could stop himself, the sound low and purely territorial.

Meg caught it immediately. Her smirk deepened. “My, my,” she purred. “What’s got you all worked up, Dean? Don’t like watching?”

Dean glared, lips pressed into a thin line.

Meg’s gaze flicked between him and Cas, something clicking behind her dark eyes. And then—

“Oh-ho.” She grinned, a glint of realization in her expression. “We don’t need Maury after all here, do we? No doubt about your baby daddy now.”

Dean’s stomach dropped. His hand instinctively drifted to his stomach, but he forced himself to still it. Too many demons were picking up on the truth, and that meant it was only a matter of time before Heaven caught wind, too. He flicked his gaze toward Cas, who met his eyes with equal concern.

Sam, however, was focused on the hounds. “Is that even gonna work on a hellhound?” he asked, nodding toward the angel blade in Meg’s hand.

Meg twirled it again, testing the weight. “Well, we’re about to find out.” She tossed them one last look before jerking her head toward the hall. “Run.”

The snarling behind them grew louder.

They didn’t have to be told twice. Dean turned on his heel and ran.

The dark stairwell they found themselves in was steep, the air thick with dust and the scent of damp concrete. Their footsteps echoed with every descent, the dim lighting making it nearly impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. Dean’s back was already starting to ache from the strain of keeping a steady pace, and he was about to grumble about the damn darkness when—

A blinding flash of light exploded around them.

Dean barely had time to react before a white-hot pain tore through his abdomen, like something was being ripped out of him from the inside. He doubled over with a strangled groan, his hands instinctively flying to protect his middle. His knees buckled, but strong arms caught him before he could collapse.

Sam.

Wait — why was it Sam? Cas had been right next to him, hadn’t he?

Dean’s breath hitched as he forced his head up, eyes darting wildly.

Cas was gone.

His heart pounded in his chest, his stomach twisting with a cold, consuming panic. Not just because Cas had vanished — but because their baby…

Nephilim were half-angel.

Banishing symbols didn’t just make angels disappear —they threw them. Violently. Cas had once been banished and ended up halfway across the damn country.

Dean’s stomach lurched.

What had that force done to their child? Had they been ripped from him?

The sheer horror of that possibility sent his mind into freefall. His hands pressed harder against his belly, searching — pleading — for any movement, any reassurance that his baby was still there. He barely registered Sam’s voice yelling, raw with anger.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Dean’s gaze snapped up, and he saw Samuel standing there, his palm still pressed to the fresh angel-banishing sigil smeared in red.

Dean couldn’t breathe. His fingers dug into his shirt as if he could somehow hold everything together with sheer force of will.

“Cas,” he croaked, but it was useless. Cas was gone.

Samuel shifted, looking at Dean with something that might have been guilt — but Dean was too far gone to care. His ears were ringing, the terror consuming every rational thought in his mind. He barely had time to think before rough hands wrenched Sam away from him.

Dean blinked as he stumbled back, only to be grabbed by two more demons. He struggled on instinct, but their grips were iron-tight, and before he could twist free, a familiar voice hummed in amusement.

“Well, well,” Crowley drawled, stepping out of the shadows, his hands in his pockets like he had all the time in the world. “It’s been far too long, Dean. You don’t call, you don’t write…” His lips curled into a smirk. “I suppose impending parenthood makes one a little too busy for social calls, yeah?”

Dean bared his teeth, but the demons held him firm.

Crowley clicked his tongue. “Shame, really. The littlest Winchester won’t see the light of day.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “But, let’s be honest, it’s for the best. Nephilim are notoriously difficult creatures. Unstable. Unpredictable. You understand.”

Dean saw red.

With a furious snarl, he lunged for Crowley, but the demons yanked him back before he could lay a hand on the bastard. He thrashed violently, uncaring of anything except getting his hands around Crowley’s throat — he’d kill him, tear him apart—

Crowley only chuckled as the demons dragged Dean away, locking him in a cell with a heavy clang of metal.

Time after that passed in a haze of rage and fear. Dean paced the length of his cell, hands cradling his stomach. He couldn’t feel anything. No kicks, no shifts. His breath came fast, his mind racing through every worst-case scenario.

Had his child been banished too? Sent hurtling through some unknown force, torn from him completely? Dead?

His heart pounded against his ribs, panic clawing up his throat. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe through his nose. No. He couldn’t think like that. Cas had said before that trying to remove the baby would kill him. Maybe that meant — maybe—

The small window to the cell scraped open.

Dean turned sharply, his whole body tensing.

Samuel’s face appeared in the window, his face lined with guilt.

Dean’s blood boiled at the sight of him. “You want forgiveness?” His voice was rough, lethal. “Find a priest.”

Samuel sighed. “I just want you to understand.”

“Oh, I understand, alright.” Dean’s fists clenched. “I understand that you’re a goddamn liar! All your talk about putting blood first, and look at you now!”

Samuel’s jaw tightened. “I am putting blood first. Mary’s my blood. My daughter.” His eyes burned with conviction. “Don’t come at me like I sold you out, Dean. You sold out your own mother. It was her or Sam, and you chose Sam, plain and simple.”

Dean let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, that is such crap.” His glare hardened. “You wanna know what really happened? You chose a demon over your own grandsons!”

Samuel’s face darkened. “See it how you want,” he said gruffly. “I don’t even know what Sam is anymore. And you expect me to protect him? And you?” His lip curled slightly. “You’re a stranger to me, Dean. Really, tell me — what exactly are you supposed to be to me?”

Dean’s jaw flexed, anger vibrating through every inch of him. “I’m Mary’s son.” His voice was dangerously low. “We’re both Mary’s sons. And you know what? She died for us. To protect us.” He stepped forward, eyes locked onto Samuel’s. “So you can see it how you want, but if Crowley actually holds up his end of the deal? You are gonna have to be the one to tell her how you killed her sons.” His voice shook with barely contained fury. “You’re gonna have to explain how her grandchild never got a chance to live because you decided to trust a demon over your own family.”

Samuel opened his mouth but closed it again, his throat working around an invisible lump. He looked away. “For what it’s worth,” he muttered, “I’m sorry it had to be this way.”

Dean’s chest burned with hatred. “Yeah,” he said coldly. “Too bad your sorry isn’t worth shit.”

Samuel shut the small window in the cell door and walked away.

Dean turned away, pressing a shaking hand to his stomach. He still couldn’t feel anything. His breath hitched, terror gnawing at him all over again. Was his baby—

No. He couldn’t think like that. Couldn’t let himself fall apart. For a brief, stupid second, he almost understood Samuel. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his kid. Nothing.

But then, the moment passed. Samuel had been the one to press that damn banishing sigil. If his child was dead, it was his fault.

Dean swallowed hard, forcing the rage to anchor him. The second he got out of here, he was going to tear Samuel Campbell apart with his teeth.

What could only be maybe half an hour later, the sound of heavy boots echoed down the hall.

Dean barely had time to process it before the door to his cell slammed open, and rough hands seized him, dragging him forward. He thrashed on instinct, but there were too many of them, their grips like iron vices on his arms. As they pulled him into the dimly lit corridor, his head snapped up — and he saw him.

Samuel stood off to the side, watching, his face etched with something that might have been guilt.

A red haze clouded his vision as fury took over, raw and unchecked. He lunged, his muscles coiling like a predator ready to strike, but the demons yanked him back just in time. It took three of them to hold him back, to keep him from ripping into the old man right there in the hall.

"You son of a bitch!" Dean snarled, his voice raw with pure hatred. He struggled, feet skidding against the floor as he tried to break free, but the demons held tight. His entire body burned with the need to kill. "You goddamn coward! Look at me! LOOK AT ME!"

Samuel flinched but didn’t move, his expression shadowed in something unreadable. He didn’t answer.

Dean’s chest heaved, his vision tunneling to nothing but Samuel — but then the demons wrenched him away, dragging him down the hallway.

Dean kept struggling the entire way, his breath ragged, his fingers curling into fists. His arms ached from the force of their grips, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was getting free. Finding Cas. Knowing his baby was still alive.

They shoved him through a doorway, and the rancid stench hit him like a freight train.

Blood. Meat. Death.

His boots skidded slightly as he was forced forward, his nose curling at the overpowering iron tang in the air.

The room was lined with basins filled with blood and chunks of raw flesh, the floor slick with something he really didn’t want to think about. Shower curtains sectioned off parts of the space, fluttering slightly from the motion of his entrance. Dean’s stomach turned.

This was a killing floor. A place meant for slaughter. And judging by the fact that the demons were backing off, he was about to meet whatever poor bastards they thought could take him out.

Then the doors at the far end opened, and two figures were shoved inside.

Ghouls.

Tall, lanky things, their skin pale and sickly under the fluorescents. Their sharp, rotten teeth gleamed as they lifted their heads, sniffing the air.

One turned to the other, grinning. "Look," he muttered, lips pulling back over jagged teeth. "Breakfast." They started toward him.

Dean didn’t move. Something inside him was already snapping, unraveling. The banshee-wail of terror from earlier had quieted, funneled into something sharper. Colder.

These things didn’t know.

They had no idea what they were walking into.

Dean Winchester was already numb inside. He had been since Cas vanished in a flash of light, since Samuel betrayed them, since he realized Sam was still wrong, since he couldn’t feel anything from his child anymore.

They thought he was prey.

They had no idea that he was the most dangerous thing in this room.

The first ghoul lunged, and Dean met it head-on. He ducked under the swing of clawed fingers and drove his fist into the thing’s throat. It barely had time to choke before he followed up with a brutal knee to the ribs, sending it sprawling. The second one tried to flank him, but he spun, grabbing a rusted metal pipe from one of the blood-filled basins and slamming it across the ghoul’s face.

Bone cracked. Blood splattered.

Dean didn’t stop.

He smashed the pipe down again and again, caving in the thing’s skull with ruthless efficiency. It gurgled once before it stopped moving. The first ghoul tried to crawl away, and he stomped down on its ankle, hearing the satisfying crunch of bone snapping. It screamed, but he didn't let up. He grabbed the back of its head and slammed it into the floor, over and over, until there was nothing left but pulp.

His breaths came heavy and fast. His arms trembled with exertion. The room was dead silent, except for the distant sound of dripping blood. Dean stood in the middle of the carnage, chest rising and falling, his entire body shaking.

That’s when he heard footsteps.

The door burst open, and Sam ran in, clearly ready to fight — but he stopped cold. His brother’s expression barely shifted, but there was a flicker of something like surprise. Like he hadn’t expected to find Dean standing there, drenched in gore, surrounded by the very, very dead ghouls.

"Woah," Sam said, his voice quieter than usual.

Dean exhaled, wiping a hand over his face, smearing more blood across his cheek. He took a second, just a second, to catch his breath. Then he straightened, stepping over the corpse at his feet. His fingers curled into fists again.

He didn't look back as he strode toward the door, past Sam, past the carnage.

"Come on," he said roughly. "We’re not finished."

Dean barely registered the demons he cut down as they moved through the compound. His body moved on instinct, dropping them one after the other. His pulse roared in his ears, a vicious drumbeat of fury and dread. Cas was still gone. His baby— He didn’t know. He couldn’t feel anything, and that void inside him sent his rage into a fever pitch.

He barely noticed the splatter of blood soaking his sleeves, barely registered the way Sam kept glancing at him. Dean just kept moving, hunting.

Then they found the torture room.

It was dimly lit, the kind of place nightmares were made of. Metal trays filled with jagged tools gleamed under the sickly fluorescent light, and a heavy stench of burnt flesh and old blood hung in the air. The walls were lined with crude restraints, chains dangling from the ceiling, and in the middle of it all—

Meg.

She was bound to a table, her face bruised and bloodied, but she was still smirking. And above her, leaning in like he was savoring every bit of her pain, was Christian’s meatsuit.

Dean didn’t make a sound as he slipped into the room. The bastard was so fixated on Meg, so busy enjoying himself, that he never even saw Dean coming. It wasn’t until Meg started chuckling low in her throat that the demon hesitated.

Christian frowned, glancing down as if just realizing something was wrong—

But by then, Dean had already buried the knife six inches into his spine.

The demon stiffened, a choked gasp slipping out. Dean twisted the blade, leaning in close. "Guess I won’t have to look at your smug face anymore," he muttered.

The demon’s body jerked once, then went still. When Dean yanked the knife free, it collapsed bonelessly to the floor, the meatsuit finally at rest.

Meg let out a low whistle, tilting her head. "Well, hello, sunshine. I’d say I’m touched, but I know you weren’t doing this for me."

Dean shot her a look before slicing through her restraints. She stood, rolling her shoulders.

Sam glanced at Dean. "Alright, we got her. Let’s go."

But Dean wasn’t finished. His fingers tightened around the knife, his chest still heaving. This place — Crowley’s whole damn operation — it all needed to burn. So instead of heading for the exit, Dean turned and yanked the fire alarm. A shrill wail filled the compound. Then he turned and leaned against the table, arms crossed, waiting.

Sam let out a heavy sigh but didn’t argue. Meg arched an amused brow, stepping beside him. "You sure know how to throw a party, Winchester."

Dean didn’t respond. He just waited.

It didn’t take long.

Crowley arrived in a whirl of irritation, stepping into the room and taking in the scene with a slow glance. His expression flickered briefly at the sight of Christian’s dead meatsuit, but he masked it quickly, rolling his eyes.

"You should be ghoul scat by now," he drawled. 

Before he could react, Sam swung the demon-killing knife across his back, sending him sprawling to the floor.

Crowley groaned, brushing off his coat. "Really necessary? I just had this dry-cleaned." As he tried to rise, his eyes flicked to the ceiling — where a devil’s trap gleamed under the bloodied light.

Crowley sighed. "So, to what do I owe the reach-around?"

Meg stepped forward, grinning like a cat with a cornered mouse. "Crowley."

Crowley’s lip curled. "Whore."

Meg’s expression darkened. "Okay, you know what—" She raised her hand, and Crowley choked, his face twisting in pain as blood spilled from his lips.

"The best torturers never get their hands dirty," she purred. Then she gestured at Sam. "Big boy here wants a word."

Crowley groaned, lifting his head. "What can I do for you, Sam?"

Sam’s expression was hard, unreadable. "You know damn well. I want my soul back."

Meg smirked. "And here I thought you just grew some balls, Sam."

Sam didn’t look at her. "Well?"

Crowley’s gaze flickered between them. "No."

Dean’s hand tightened around the knife, rage tightening his chest. "Meg?"

Meg clenched her fingers, and Crowley writhed, coughing harder, blood splattering on the floor.

"Can’t," Crowley wheezed.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Can’t or won’t?"

Crowley snapped, "I said can’t, you mop-headed lumberjack! I was lucky to get this much of you out. Going back in for the sloppy bits? No way. I’m good, but those two in there?" He shook his head. "Forget it."

Sam’s jaw clenched. "How do I know you’re not lying?"

Crowley let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You don’t. But it doesn’t change anything. I’m telling you — Satan’s got one juicy source of entertainment in there. I’d swallow a rag off a bathhouse floor before I took that soul. Unless you want to be a drooling mess."

Meg crossed her arms. "Sam, I hate to say it, but he’s right."

Sam exhaled in irritation. "Yeah, right. I get it. Thanks." He turned to Meg. "He’s all yours."

Dean could barely contain the anticipation rising in his chest. Crowley had earned this. He flipped the knife in his hand and tossed it to Meg.

She caught it smoothly and started toward the devil’s trap. "You’ll let me back out, right?" she asked.

Sam and Dean nodded.

Meg smirked, turning to Crowley. "This is for Lucifer, you pompous little—" She never got the chance to finish.

Crowley moved, faster than any of them could react. In an instant, Meg was flat on the ground, the knife skidding across the floor. Then Crowley took the blade and threw it into the ceiling, severing the devil’s trap.

Dean barely had time to register what had happened before he was thrown back, slammed into the wall with bone-crushing force. His breath left him in a pained gasp, and his hand flew instinctively to his stomach.

The baby—

But then the crushing weight of reality hit him.

It didn’t matter.

It was probably already gone.

His vision blurred for a second, not from the impact, but from the sickening weight of loss settling deep in his gut.

"That’s better," Crowley sneered. "You don’t know torture, you little insect."

And then—

A sudden flutter of wings.

"Leave them alone," came a familiar, low voice.

Dean’s head snapped up.

Cas.

Relief flooded through Dean so suddenly it almost made him dizzy. But then guilt followed fast on its heels — Cas didn’t know yet. He didn’t know what they might have lost.

Crowley turned, smirking. "Castiel. Haven’t seen you all season. You the cavalry now?"

Cas’s expression was like stone. "Put the knife down."

Crowley scoffed. "You that bossy in Heaven? Hear you’re losing out to Raphael. The whole affair makes Vietnam look like a roller derby." His gaze landed on the bag in Cas’s hands. His smirk faltered. "Hey, what’s in the gift bag?"

Cas reached in and pulled out a skull. His eyes met Crowley’s. "You are."

Crowley’s smirk disappeared entirely. "Not possible."

Cas tilted his head. "You didn’t hide your bones as well as you should have."

Crowley chuckled weakly, clapping mockingly. "Cookie for you."

Cas didn’t waver. "Can you restore Sam’s soul or not?"

Crowley hesitated. “If there’s anything else I can do—”

Cas’s grip tightened around the bones.

And then he incinerated them.

The acrid scent of burning flesh and old bones filled the air, the last remnants of Crowley’s existence crackling in the flames. His final, agonized scream echoed off the walls before silence crashed down, thick and suffocating. Dean barely noticed Meg vanishing into thin air. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

Because Cas was here.

And now, Dean would know for sure if his baby was dead.

His chest ached with the weight of it, with the sheer, gut-churning terror that had been sitting inside him ever since that sigil had burned against his skin. He couldn’t run from it anymore. He had to know.

His throat felt tight. “Cas.”

Cas turned, his deep blue eyes immediately locking onto Dean’s. His expression, normally unreadable, softened into concern the second he took in the look on Dean’s face.

Cas was at his side in an instant. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

Dean swallowed hard, his hands twitching at his sides. His pulse was pounding so loud he could barely hear himself think. “The banishing sigil earlier, I felt… I think there’s something wrong. I think something happened to the baby.”

Cas didn’t hesitate. His hands came up to Dean’s face, cupping it gently, his thumb brushing along Dean’s cheekbone in a soothing, grounding touch. Then he moved, resting both hands carefully over Dean’s abdomen, his fingers pressing lightly against the worn fabric of his shirt.

Dean barely breathed as Cas closed his eyes, his brow furrowing in deep concentration. Seconds stretched unbearably long, every moment feeling like an eternity. Dean’s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he waited, his heart in his throat.

Then Cas’ face smoothed out, the tension melting from his features as his eyes opened and met Dean’s.

“All is well, Dean,” he said, his voice calm, steady.

Dean’s breath hitched. “Really? You’re not just saying that, right? Because I swore I felt something tear—”

Cas shook his head, his gaze unwavering. “No, nothing is wrong. She’s a little grumpy at the jostling, but you’re both fine.”

Relief hit Dean so hard he almost staggered. It left him breathless, dizzy with the sheer force of it. His baby was okay. She was alive. She—

Wait. Dean’s brain screeched to a halt.

“She?”

Cas blinked at him, tilting his head slightly before realization dawned. And then, for the first time in what felt like forever, Cas smiled. A slow, almost bashful grin that sent warmth straight to Dean’s chest.

“Yes,” Cas said. “It would appear so.”

Dean’s mouth worked, but no sound came out at first. His throat tightened, emotion clogging it until he could barely breathe.

“We’re having a girl?” he finally managed, voice hoarse, disbelieving. “A daughter?”

Cas’ smile widened, his eyes alight with something warm, something soft. “Yes.”

A strangled sound tore from Dean’s throat — something between a laugh and a sob, and then he was moving. He threw himself at Cas, arms locking around him in a fierce, desperate embrace. Cas caught him easily, holding him just as tightly, like he wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut as tears slipped free, hot and unchecked. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about any of it. His baby wasn’t dead. She was alive. She was alive, and she was a girl.

His daughter.

He had a daughter.

Cas pulled back slightly, just enough to meet Dean’s gaze, his hands steadying him. His expression was serious again, but the warmth in his eyes remained.

“Dean,” he said, voice steady, certain. “I am going to do whatever it takes to protect you both. Crowley wasn’t wrong about the war not going well, but I will not fail. I cannot fail.”

Dean looked at him, really looked at him, and he believed him.

“I know you won’t,” Dean said, voice rough with emotion.

Cas exhaled softly, his hands tightening slightly where they rested against Dean’s back. “I love you,” he said, quiet but firm. “I love you both.”

Dean’s heart clenched. He was so overwhelmed, so full of everything he couldn’t even begin to name, that there was only one thing left to do.

He kissed him.

Cas made a surprised sound against his lips, but it lasted only a second before he melted into it, before his arms pulled Dean in even closer. The world outside of them — the war in Heaven, Sam’s soullessness, the fact that Dean might not even survive the year — none of it mattered in that moment.

Because Cas loved him. And Cas loved their daughter.

Their daughter.

Dean still couldn’t believe it.

They were having a girl.

Chapter Text

"Cas! Ah— Fuck!"

Dean’s fingers clawed at the worn headboard, trying to ground himself as it slammed against the wall in time with Cas’s thrusts. Each jolt sent shudders through his spine, pleasure sparking in his nerves like a live wire. The bed creaked beneath them, sheets tangling around their limbs, the air thick with heat, sweat, and the rhythmic sounds of their bodies moving in sync.

Cas was right there — pressed against him, breath hot against Dean’s temple, moving with a deliberate urgency that had long since burned away any semblance of restraint. The slow, teasing touches that they had started with had melted into frantic, desperate need.

Dean was close. They hadn’t been at it long, but Cas knew his body too damn well — knew just how to move, how to take him apart. And with his thick cock hitting that perfect spot inside him with every thrust, Dean felt his orgasm creeping up fast, tightening low in his gut. Cas was close, too. Dean could feel it in the way his movements grew sharper, more erratic, the push of his hips going deeper, harder. Dean abandoned his grip on the headboard and slid his hands into Cas’s hair, tugging hard. He didn’t know if Cas even felt it, but when he wrapped his legs tighter around Cas’s waist, that earned him a growl — deep and possessive — before Cas snapped his hips forward with even more fervor.

“Cas, c’mon, I’m close, baby, I’m so close—” Dean choked out, his voice breaking as Cas’s cock caught just right, nailing his prostate dead-on. His vision went white for a split second, pleasure crackling through him like lightning. “Oh god, Cas— Cas—”

Cas had buried his face in Dean’s shoulder, his breath ragged against sweat-damp skin. His mouth found the mark on Dean’s neck, the place where he'd bitten before — where he’d claimed him. He pressed his teeth against it, not yet biting down, but promising. Dean whined, his whole body tensing in anticipation.

Then he felt it — Cas’s knot swelling, catching at his rim every time he pulled out. Dean clenched around him, pulling Cas in tighter with his legs, wanting it. Craving it. The shudder that wracked Cas’s body made Dean smirk through the haze of pleasure.

Cas’s thrusts turned frenzied, the need overtaking him as he chased the edge of release. “Dean—” Cas moaned, voice rough, desperate, breaking apart.

“Yes, yes, Cas— please—” Dean clutched at him, nails digging into Cas’s shoulders. “Come in me—”

Cas’s whole body tensed, muscles flexing as his rhythm stuttered, hips snapping forward one, two, three more times before his knot locked deep inside. Dean gasped as it stretched him, holding him open, stuffing him full — anchoring him.

And at the same time, Cas’s teeth sank into his neck, breaking the skin.

Dean shattered. The pressure inside him snapped, pleasure detonating in his core like an overdrawn bowstring finally released. He came with a strangled whine, his body wracked with shudders, waves of sensation rolling through him so hard that he couldn’t stop the wrecked moans spilling from his lips. He clenched down around Cas’s knot, his whole body shaking with aftershocks as he felt the warmth of Cas’s release fill him, each pulse sending another spike of pleasure down his spine.

Minutes passed before he could pull himself out of the haze. His heartbeat gradually slowed, his vision cleared, and when he finally blinked back to awareness, Cas was right there — so close — their foreheads nearly touching, breathing the same air.

Dean swallowed hard, overwhelmed with the desperate need to taste him. He surged up, capturing Cas’s mouth in a clash of tongue and teeth. Cas groaned into the kiss, and Dean shuddered as he tasted blood — his own — from the fresh bite on his neck. He licked into Cas’s mouth, reveling in it.

Cas’s knot pulsed inside him again, sending another sharp thrill through Dean’s oversensitive nerves. His omega instincts purred with contentment, settled. This was where Cas should be. This was how things should be. No more getting called away to Heaven. No more fighting separate battles. No more losing ground on two fronts. Just this. Just them.

Cas pressed their foreheads together, nuzzling in close, his breath warm against Dean’s lips. “You’re mine,” he growled, his voice thick with possession.

Dean’s toes curled at the sound. He tangled his fingers in Cas’s hair, anchoring him there. “Damn right I am,” he murmured.

They stayed like that for a long while, wrapped up in each other, tangled together in the heat of their bond. Eventually, Cas’s knot went down enough for him to pull out. Dean felt it — the slick slide of Cas slipping free, the rush of come spilling out, and he didn’t even try to suppress the shudder that ran through him. Cas didn’t rush to clean the mess, knowing full well by now that Dean liked the feeling, the evidence of it, the way it made him feel owned.

The room was warm, the only light coming from the lamp on the bedside table and the sun slightly peeking from between the drawn curtains. It was mid-morning, later than Dean usually slept in. Gently, Cas rearranged their bodies so that they were on their sides, his front plastered to Dean’s back, his hands coming around to cradle Dean’s midsection. Dean smiled as he felt his belly warm, the nephilim answering Cas’s grace with her own.

He sighed, closing his eyes as he relaxed into the feeling of Cas’s fingers tracing patterns into his skin. It was quiet, save for their slowed breathing, the occasional creak of the old mattress beneath them. His body felt loose, his mind sluggish in that good, post-sex kind of way. The kind that made him want to stay wrapped up in Cas, in the stillness of the moment forever. He let out a contented sigh before cracking his eyes open again.

“So,” he said lazily, voice rough with use, “I was thinking… what about Emma?”

Cas hummed thoughtfully, his fingers stilled for a moment before resuming their slow path over Dean’s stomach. “No.”

Dean huffed a quiet laugh. “No? Just like that?”

Cas shifted, tilting his head up over Dean’s shoulder enough to properly look at him. “Yes. Just like that.”

Dean let out a breathless laugh. “Jesus. Okay, high standards. ” He thought for a second. “Alright, what about — uh, I don’t know — Hannah?”

Cas’s expression immediately darkened. “No.”

Dean’s eyebrows lifted. “Damn, alright. What, bad experience?”

Cas didn’t answer.

Dean chuckled. “Okay, so no Hannah. Got it.” He thought again. “What about Lily?”

Cas actually scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

Dean blinked at him. “Dude, what is your problem?”

Cas huffed, propping himself up on one elbow. “Our daughter’s name should be meaningful. Distinct. It should carry weight.”

Dean fought back a grin. “Cas, babe, you just vetoed three perfectly normal names. You wanna tell me what exactly counts as ‘meaningful’ to you?”

Cas narrowed his eyes, looking shockingly bitchy for someone who had just gotten laid. “Something that suits her.”

Dean snorted. “Oh yeah? And what suits her? She’s not even born yet.”

Cas’s lips pursed like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t have a counterpoint yet.

Dean watched him for a second, then grinned, shaking his head. “Man, you are picky about this.”

Cas sighed, but there was a certain sharpness in his eyes that told Dean he wasn’t actually annoyed. If anything, Cas was enjoying this as much as Dean was. And damn, Dean loved that.

Loved him.

Dean felt something in his chest tighten, something so huge he didn’t know what to do with it. He wanted to say it. He should say it.

Cas already knew, of course. Cas always knew.

Still.

Dean opened his mouth—

Before he could get the words out, Cas shifted, pressing up onto his elbow. “I must leave soon.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. He flopped back onto the bed with an exaggerated groan. “Of course you do.”

Cas hesitated, then leaned down and kissed him. It started out soft. Sweet. Then Cas deepened it, shifting fully over him, pressing him down into the mattress, and God, it was almost enough to make Dean say, screw it, let Raphael burn, let Heaven fall, just stay here.

Cas pulled back just slightly, lips brushing against Dean’s. “I will return as soon as I can,” he murmured.

Dean’s fingers dug into Cas’s back, holding him close. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled.

Cas pulled away completely, and the bed already felt colder.

Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Man, I never thought I’d be a soldier’s wife.”

Cas frowned. “You are not my wife.”

Dean snorted. “I mean, the way you just keep running off to war? Feels like it.”

Cas looked faintly puzzled, but then his expression settled into something more serious. “We both have battles to fight, Dean. For the sake of our child.”

Dean huffed. “Yeah, sure. If you wanna equate me sitting on my ass staring at the same research I’ve been looking at for months to you fighting in actual combat against an archangel, then yeah. Totally equal.”

Cas quirked an amused half-smile, tilting his head slightly. “I will try to return as soon as I can.”

And then, before Dean could think of something else to say, Cas was gone. A rush of air, a flutter of wings, and just like that — gone.

The room already felt colder without him.

Dean lay there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, feeling sorry for himself. The bed still smelled like Cas, like ozone and electricity. It made his chest ache, made him want to bury his face in the pillow and hold on to the feeling of safety Cas had left behind. But Cas was gone. Off fighting a war Dean couldn’t help with, no matter how much he wanted to.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before groaning and forcing himself upright. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long moment, blinking blearily at the floor, willing himself to move. He wasn’t just dragging today because of Cas’s absence — he felt like he was carrying an extra hundred pounds of exhaustion. The kid was doing a number on him.

Finally, he pushed himself up with a grunt, shuffled around for some clothes, and made his way downstairs.

The smell of something burning hit him first. Dean grimaced as he stepped into the kitchen to find Bobby standing over the stove, looking entirely out of his depth. The man was armed with a spatula like it was a weapon, poking at whatever sorry excuse for breakfast was in the pan with clear frustration. At the table, Sam sat hunched over a cup of coffee, clearly making absolutely no effort to help. He looked up as Dean entered the room, raising an eyebrow.

“Could you be any louder up there?”

Dean knew that it was meant to be teasing, but something about it fell flat. Sam’s voice wasn’t right, like he was reading lines from a script. His eyes were cold, his words hollow. Dean barely repressed a shudder. “Shut up bitch,” he shot back automatically.

“Jerk,” Sam scoffed, but it was just muscle memory at this point, an echo of something they used to be.

Dean turned his attention back to Bobby, who was still frowning intently at the stove as if it had personally insulted him. “You gonna burn the place down, or do you want me to take over?”

Bobby let out a huff of exasperation and stepped back, throwing his hands up. “Be my guest. I’ve seen crime scenes prettier than what I’m trying to do here.”

Dean chuckled, nudging Bobby out of the way as he took over. The man was a genius when it came to lore and hunting, but he was a complete disaster in the kitchen. Within minutes, Dean had managed to scrape breakfast into something edible, and Bobby huffed in slight embarrassment as he watched. 

“So,” Bobby said, leaning against the counter, “Cas fly the coop already?”

Dean sighed, flipping the eggs carefully. “Yeah. Apparently Raphael’s pressing his advantage right now.”

Bobby grunted. “Cas know what he’s gonna do about it?”

“I hope so. Otherwise, we’re screwed.” 

He didn’t say that he was worried. That every time Cas left, Dean wondered if he’d come back. That the war in Heaven was getting worse, and Cas was taking bigger risks. Instead, he focused on plating breakfast, setting food down on the table before turning to rummage in the fridge.

“We hitting the books again today?” Bobby asked as he helped himself. 

Dean snorted. “Yeah. Got nothing else to do. Unless you’ve got any leads?”

“Nope.”

“Well. Books it is, then.”

He finally found what he was looking for and pulled out a jar of pickles and a bottle of honey mustard. Popping the lid off the jar, he grabbed a pickle and squirted a generous helping of mustard on it before taking a bite. He hummed in satisfaction as he sat down at the table.

Sam stared at him in pure horror. “What the hell is that?”

Dean smirked, taking another bite with relish. “That, Sammy, is pure deliciousness.”

Bobby chuckled, shaking his head. “Honestly, that’s pretty tame as far as cravings go. You having a half-angel kid, I would expect you to start sucking down holy oil or something.”

Dean shuddered. “Yeah, that might’ve been a problem. Fortunately, she has better taste than that, don’t you sweetheart?” 

Right on cue, he felt a firm kick against his ribs. He grinned, rubbing a hand over his stomach. 

Sam wrinkled his nose. “It’s still gross.”

“You’re gross,” Dean shot back.

Sam scoffed. “That’s real mature.” 

Dean shrugged. “I don’t have to be mature. I’m growing a life here.”

“So what, that just gives you a free pass?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You’re such a—”

“I think I liked it better when you two weren’t speaking,” Bobby interrupted, rubbing at his temples.

Sam huffed, pushing his chair back. “Whatever. I’m heading into town today for supplies.”

“I’ll come with you,” Bobby said. “Been meaning to stock up on salt and spell ingredients.”

“Fine,” Sam muttered. He glanced at Dean. “You coming?”

Dean considered it. He probably should, if only to get out of the house for a bit, but before he could answer, a wave of exhaustion crashed over him. His limbs suddenly felt like lead, his energy draining in a way that was becoming all too familiar. The kid was leeching off him again. 

He forced a smile. “Nah, I think I’ll take a nap. Gotta get my beauty sleep in, you know.”

Bobby shot him a look, clearly concerned, but before he could say anything, Sam snorted. “Yeah, and I’m sure you didn’t get much of that with Cas here all night.”

Dean stiffened, but he covered it quickly with a smirk. “Jealous?”

He didn't tell Sam that not much of anything had happened last night. That after the high of learning his kid was safe, after the adrenaline and the endorphins had faded, Cas had flown them back to Bobby’s house and Dean had broken down in his arms. That he had sobbed into Cas’s coat, all of the fear and anger from the day pouring out of him at once.

He didn’t tell Sam that Cas had only stayed because Dean had begged him to. That he had clung to him with more than human strength, afraid that if he let go, Cas would disappear.

He didn’t tell Sam that Cas was probably losing more ground in Heaven every second he spent with Dean, and Dean was terrified that last night had cost him more than he could afford. That the next flutter of wings that he heard wouldn’t be from his mate, but from a garrison of angels coming to kill him and his daughter.

He didn’t say any of that.

Instead, he rolled his eyes. “You’re just mad ‘cause I get more action than you.”

Sam scoffed. “Please.”

Bobby shook his head, his eyes glancing between them warily. “Come on, we’re burning daylight.”

Sam grabbed his jacket, and with one last dismissive glance at Dean, he and Bobby headed out the door. 

The second they were gone, Dean let the smile drop. His body sagged against the table, the exhaustion pressing in hard. He rubbed a hand over his stomach, feeling another tiny kick in response. “Just you and me now, kid.” he muttered.

He let out a breath and pushed himself up, the movement slightly more difficult than it should’ve been. Might as well get that nap while he could.

The stairs were right there, just a few feet away, but Dean couldn’t summon the energy to climb them. His body felt like dead weight, his limbs too heavy to drag up even one step. Instead, he let himself drop onto the couch with a grunt, stretching out with a sigh. The worn fabric gave way easily, a small comfort as it cradled his body enough to ease some of the growing discomfort that was his reality these days.

The books that he and Bobby had been pouring over for months were still stacked on the coffee table. Dean grabbed one without looking at the title, flipping it open more out of habit than actual interest. His eyes dragged across the page, but the words blurred together, refusing to make sense. He blinked hard, shook his head, and tried again. No luck. 

His vision swam, exhaustion pulling at him like a riptide, and before he could fight it, his eyelids slipped shut.

When he opened them again, he was somewhere else.

The kitchen he was in was bathed in warm, golden sunlight, the kind that made everything glow, soft and hazy, like a memory wrapped in gauze. It was cozy, lived-in. Honeycomb-printed hand towels hung over the oven door handle, rustic wood cabinets and matching furniture adding to the homey feel. The air carried the scent of something familiar — bread, mustard, and something briny. He looked down and found himself holding a plate with a sandwich.

Pickle and mustard.

He blinked at it, confused, before something moved in front of him. A small hand reached out expectantly. Dean’s eyes lifted, and he nearly dropped the plate.

Claire Novak.

Or — at least that’s who she looked like. But this Claire was younger than the child he’d met years ago. The last time he’d seen Claire Novak, the girl had been a slightly gangly pre-teen with eyes that saw too much. This girl couldn’t be older than five, with soft, round cheeks and a bright smile, her blonde hair falling in unruly waves around her shoulders.

He swallowed hard and, slowly, hesitantly, handed the plate over. She beamed at him, taking it with both hands before scampering over to a small kid’s play table he hadn’t noticed before. She picked up the sandwich from the plate and took a huge bite, humming happily as she chewed. 

Dean barely had time to process what the hell was happening before a voice behind him made him freeze.

“What do we say to Daddy for making you lunch?”

The voice was warm, familiar, threaded with quiet amusement.

Claire — or the little girl who looked like her — swallowed and chirped, “Thank you, Daddy!”

Dean’s breath caught.

Strong arms wrapped around him from behind, a solid weight pressing against his back, and he felt himself relax into it without thinking. The scent of rain and ozone wrapped around him, and everything in him settled.

Cas.

Of course. How could he forget?

“She certainly gets her appetite from you,” Cas murmured near his ear, his voice laced with fondness. 

Dean was about to respond, some half-formed quip on his tongue, when Claire’s head suddenly snapped up. The playfulness in the room vanished. 

She stared at him, her green eyes sharp, serious — too old for the five-year-old face they belonged to. Dean felt something cold slide down his spine. Claire had blue eyes.

Didn’t she?

Before he could dwell on that, she spoke again, her voice steady, unwavering. 

“I don’t want him here.”

The words rang through the space like a gunshot.

Dean’s stomach twisted in confusion. “What?”

A dry chuckle echoed behind him, the sound like wind scraping over ancient stone.

“My apologies, young one,” another voice said, rich and deep, a thread of amusement woven through it. “But I’m afraid I have business with your father.”

Dean turned — Cas was gone, as if he had never been there at all. He hadn’t even felt the weight of his mate’s arms around him leave until now. But he didn’t have time to focus on that.

Because in the doorway, stood Death.

His long, skeletal fingers curled around the head of his cane, his pale face unreadable. Dean felt his chest tighten, the weight of the moment settling over him like a shroud. Death tilted his head slightly, dark eyes gleaming with something ancient and knowing.

“It’s time to wake up now.”

Dean wrenched awake, gasping.

His heart pounded against his ribs, his breath coming fast and uneven. The dream clung to him like cobwebs, lingering in the corners of his mind even as reality took hold. The nephilim shifted inside him, sending a sharp, irritated kick against his ribs. Dean winced, rubbing at his stomach to soothe her. 

“Alright, alright,” he muttered. “You didn’t like that one either, huh?”

He sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. That was a weird dream, no doubt. But that’s all it was — a dream.

Right?

A throat cleared pointedly.

Dean’s body reacted before his mind caught up. His hand shot toward the gun he kept stashed between the couch cushions, but he froze mid-reach when he saw who was standing in the middle of Bobby’s living room.

Death.

Not a dream.

The Horseman peered at him with thinly veiled impatience, the dim light of the room casting shadows against his gaunt features. 

“Dean,” Death said smoothly. “We must speak.”

Dean’s mouth was dry. He swallowed hard. “What — what are you doing here?”

Death arched a brow, fingers tapping idly against the handle of his cane. “I’m afraid you have something that belongs to me.” 

The ring.

Dean’s stomach twisted. He’d buried the Horsemen's rings out in the yard after they’d used them to open the Cage, shoved them into the dirt like he had wanted to bury the memory of everything that had happened in Stull. But Death had made it clear back then — his ring had been a loan, not a gift. And now he’d come to collect.

Still, something about Death’s presence here felt… off. There was something almost — distracted about him. Or amused. His head tilted slightly, considering Dean in that eerie, unreadable way of his. 

“It is truly remarkable,” Death mused, “that a protozoa such as you has managed to surprise me with such regularity.”

Dean blinked. “Uh, thank you?”

Death’s lips quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You may not wish to take that as a compliment.”

Dean exhaled sharply, shifting slightly on the couch. His whole body was tense, his instincts screaming at him to be on guard. 

“Nephilim haven’t been permitted to exist in millenia for good reason,” Death continued, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather, though his eyes lingered pointedly on Dean’s midsection. “The fact that you have kept this one concealed for so long is… impressive.”

Dean stiffened. His hand rose instinctively, protectively, resting over his middle as if he could shield the nephilim inside from Death’s notice. He had no clue how he’d fight off Death if he had to, but if the Horseman had come for his kid — well, Dean had never been one to back down from a fight. There was a strange gleam in Death’s eyes, something almost knowing, and Dean didn’t like it.

Death sighed, as if Dean was being incredibly tedious. “Oh, do relax, Dean. I’m not here to reap your child.”

Dean didn’t move for a long moment. He wasn’t sure if he entirely believed that, but Death had never been the type to lie. He exhaled slowly, willing his body to ease out of its fight-or-flight mode. “Right,” he said, voice still rough from sleep. “Well, I can get your ring.”

Death waved a hand dismissively. “I know where the ring is, Dean. If that was all I wanted, I would have retrieved it already.”

Dean frowned. “Then what else do you want?”

Death’s gaze flickered toward the kitchen, his expression considering. “How about one of those lovely sandwiches you prepared in your dream?” 

Dean blinked, thrown for a moment. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

It was automatic, the way he got up, his body moving before his brain fully caught up. The dream still lingered in the back of his mind, that sun-warmed kitchen, Claire’s small hands reaching for the plate, Cas’s voice so close and real. Shaking off the memory, he went to the kitchen, grabbing the pickles and mustard from earlier and putting together a sandwich.

When he turned back, Death was watching him with an almost expectant air. 

Dean hesitated for half a second before handing over the plate. Death took it, considering the sandwich like it was some fine delicacy before taking a bite.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then, something shifted inside Dean, a flare of warmth, a flicker of something both foreign and familiar. The nephilim stirred, her energy brushing against his own like a cat rubbing against his ribs. It wasn’t afraid. If anything, it felt… smug.

Death exhaled, an almost put-upon sigh, and murmured, “Gloating is unbecoming, you know.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “What?”

Death took another bite of the sandwich, chewing thoughtfully, then said, “But I must admit you are right. This is delicious.”

Dean stared. Death wasn’t looking at him. Not really. His gaze was distant, as if he was having an entirely separate conversation. 

Well, no one said cosmic beings were entirely sane.

Dean ran a hand over his face. “Man, I am way too tired for this.”

Death only smiled faintly, but there was something sharper in his gaze now, something that made the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up.

“Whoever raised your brother from the Pit was quite sloppy with it, weren’t they?”

Dean’s stomach dropped. His hands clenched into fists. “You know about that?”

Death lifted a single brow. “It is my job to know.”

Dean felt his jaw tighten, his pulse hammering. He hadn’t let himself think too hard about what had happened to Sam, not beyond the immediate horror of knowing his brother wasn’t right. But if Death was bringing it up—

“I’m inclined to rectify that mistake,” Death said casually, taking another bite of his sandwich. “I tend to get offended when something goes against the natural order, and your brother walking around without a soul falls into that category.”

Dean swallowed against the lump in his throat. “You can do that? Just… grab his soul from the Cage?”

Death nodded. “It would take some work. Your brother’s soul has been flayed to the last nerve. If I were to just cram it back into his body, he wouldn’t survive it. But if I were to place a sort of ‘wall’ to block his memories from Hell… well, that should work nicely.” He paused, regarding Dean with mild amusement. “As I said, it would take considerable work on my part. And as much as I enjoy you, Dean, I do not do favors.”

Dean drew in a breath. “What’s your price?”

Death took another bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. Then with a casualness that made Dean’s skin prickle, he said, “I want you to fetch my ring. And when you do, I want you to put it on.”

Dean froze. That wasn't what he had expected at all. “What?”

“I want you to be me for one day.”

Dean’s throat went dry. “Why?”

Death only smiled slightly, ignoring the question. “You’ll need supervision, of course.” He lifted a hand and snapped his fingers.

A rush of air, and then, standing beside Death was an all-too familiar reaper. 

Tessa. 

Dean’s chest tightened. He hadn’t seen her in years, but she looked the same — sharp eyes, no-nonsense posture, the quiet weight of something ancient resting in her gaze. 

“Hi Dean,” she greeted.

Dean’s fingers twitched. “Tessa.”

“Tessa here will accompany you for the duration of your task.” Death explained smoothly. He turned to her, nodding in acknowledgement. “You may go now.”

Tessa nodded in return before vanishing as quickly as she had appeared. 

Dean ran a hand through his hair, trying to wrap his head around Death’s instructions. His mind whirled with questions. “Okay, but— do I have to die to do this?” He thought of his daughter. “Because I can’t risk—”

“No, Dean.” Death’s tone was patient, almost indulgent. “You and your nephilim will both be perfectly fine. You may even keep the amulet you’re wearing on if it pleases you, though my ring will mask you from Heaven’s detection while you wear it.”

Dean clenched his jaw, searching Death’s face for some kind of trick, but there was only certainty in those dark eyes. 

“Do you accept my terms?”

Dean inhaled sharply. He thought of Sam. Thought of his missing soul, his vacant stare, the way he wasn’t right.

This was the only shot they had.

Dean exhaled. “Yeah. I accept.”

Death’s lips quirked ever so slightly. “Good. I will be seeing you shortly then.”

And with another breath, he was gone.

Dean groaned, dragging both hands over his face. ”What the hell did I just get myself into?”

Sam and Bobby returned not long after, and Dean set to work making them lunch as they unloaded the supplies they had bought in town. By the time they had finished putting everything away, lunch was ready, and Dean set the plates down on the table. He waited until Bobby and Sam were chowing down on their meals before he dropped the bombshell.

“Death came by earlier,” he said casually, as if that would make it any less strange.

Bobby choked mid-bite. “Death? Like The Death?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. He said he has a way to get Sam’s soul back.”

Sam, who had just lifted his fork, froze. His expression flickered between curiosity and apprehension. “Wait,” he said slowly. “I heard Cas and Crowley when they said it would either kill me or turn me to jello. Why are we still talking about this?”

Dean leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Death said he can put up a wall.”

Sam frowned. “A wall?”

“Yes, yes, a wall.” Dean repeated, waving a hand. “Basically, you wouldn’t remember Hell.”

Sam stared at him. “Really?”

“Really.”

Sam let out a breath, glancing away as if weighing the offer in his mind. “I don’t know about this, Dean. I mean, trusting Death? Just what does he get out of this?”

Dean shrugged. “He seemed pretty offended that you’re ‘disrupting the natural order of things’ by walking around without a soul.”

Bobby squinted at him. “So he’s gonna put it back, just like that?”

Dean hesitated. “We have a deal.”

Bobby’s expression darkened. “Dean…”

Dean cut him off. “Look it’s not my soul, or hell, even my life on the line. I just have to wear his ring for a day.”

Bobby sat back, arms crossed over his chest. “Why?”

Dean exhaled through his nose. “I don’t know. Maybe the dude just wants a vacation or something. I don’t care, I’m doing it.”

Sam abruptly stood, pushing back his chair. “I need a minute,” he muttered.

Dean watched him head for the door before standing and following. He knew Sam well enough to see that look in his eyes — he wasn’t just clearing his head. He found Sam outside, standing over the patch of earth where they’d buried the Horsemen’s rings. His brother’s expression was tight, uneasy.

Dean pulled Death’s ring from his pocket. He had dug it up earlier, too paranoid to leave it buried in the yard after his conversation with Death. Now he was glad he had. “Looking for something?”

Sam turned, eyes landing on the simple silver ring in Dean’s hand. His lips pressed into a thin line. “Just taking a walk.”

Dean sighed. “Sam, I’m your brother. I’m not gonna let you get hurt. I know what I’m doing here.” He really didn’t, but there was no way in hell he was going to let Sam know that. 

Sam scoffed under his breath. “What if you’re wrong?”

Dean met his gaze. “I won’t let it go wrong.”

Sam studied him for a long moment before exhaling sharply. “Fine.”

Dean blinked. “Fine? So you’re—?”

Sam clenched his jaw. “So I’m trusting you here. Barely.”

Dean searched his face for any hesitation. “You sure?”

“You’re the one with the compass, right?” Sam said dryly. “Just don’t mess it up.”

Dean smirked. “I won’t.”

With a last lingering look, Sam turned back toward the house, leaving Dean standing in the yard, the ring still clutched in his fingers. He looked down at it, rolling it between his fingers before taking a deep breath and slipping it on his finger.

The world didn’t shift. No immediate, earth-shattering revelation or feeling of immense power. But he felt something, subtle and cold, wrapping around him like a shadow.

Then Tessa was there, standing beside him between one blink and the next. “You ready?” She asked. 

Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Guess so.”

Tessa nodded, arms crossed. “Let’s go over the rules then. For the next twenty-four hours, you kill everyone whose number’s up.”

Dean frowned. “And how exactly am I supposed to know who to…”

“Kill?” Tessa supplied smoothly.

“Yeah.”

She smiled, though it wasn’t all that reassuring. “I have a list.”

Dean held out a hand. “Let me see.”

Tessa shook her head. “No. You touch them, they die. I reap them. Are we clear?”

Dean set his jaw. “Yeah, I guess.”

Tessa’s expression was as unreadable as her boss’s. “Remove the ring, you lose. Slack off, you lose. Got it?”

Dean rolled his shoulders, adjusting to the weight of the ring. “Yeah.”

“Great,” Tessa said simply. “Let’s go.”

The world shifted around them. One second, they were in Bobby’s yard; the next, they were standing on a busy small-town street. People moved past them, oblivious to their presence. Dean looked down at himself, but he was still there — no invisibility cloak, no ghostly transparency. Just him.

The baby kicked, and he instinctively placed his free hand over his abdomen, the warmth of grace flickering beneath his palm. He glanced at Tessa and caught her watching him with something like curiosity. 

She schooled her face when she noticed him watching her. “Just so you know, when people die, they might have questions for you.” She paused. “Well, not you, but Death.”

Dean furrowed his brows. “Like what?”

“‘What’s it all mean?’ is a popular one.” Tessa shrugged.

Dean considered that for a moment. “And am I just gonna magically know the answer?”

Tessa smirked. “No.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at her. “Then what the hell am I supposed to say?” 

She didn’t answer.

“Oh, come on,” he groaned. “Give me something.”

Tessa gave him a small, knowing smile. “Sorry. Comes with the gig.”

Dean didn’t think she sounded all that sorry, but he was distracted as they made it to what was apparently the first name on the list. The only bank in town was a mess of flashing lights and sirens, the small-town cops crouching behind squad cars with their guns drawn, civilians screaming as they ran from the building. Dean stood at the edge of the chaos, unseen, watching the scene unfold. A guy in a cheap ski mask was waving a pistol at the hostages inside. Every instinct Dean had screamed at him to jump in and save the trapped people, but Tessa’s hand fell to his arm, keeping him in place. 

“First name on the list,” she murmured quietly.

Dean huffed. “Please tell me it’s the guy waving the gun around.”

She just gave him a quelling look, her eyes telling him to be patient. 

He was never very good at that.

Dean watched as the man barked something to the bank tellers. Clearly, this guy wasn’t a professional. His hands were shaking, his movements erratic. He was desperate.

A warning shot cracked through the air. The cops responded immediately, shouting for him to stand down. Dean tensed, but he didn’t move as the gunman turned toward the doors. The man hesitated — just for a second — and then ran for the exit, weapon raised. 

A single shot rang out. The man stumbled, clutching his chest, and crumpled onto the sidewalk. 

Dean stepped forward, crouching beside him. The guy was gasping for breath, blood gushing through his fingers. His eyes darted frantically around, searching for a way out. The sound of the sirens, the panicked calls from the people around, it all faded into the distance as Dean reached out and touched the man on the shoulder. His struggle died immediately, as did his body. There was no life left — just an empty shell lying on the ground. 

Tessa reaped the man’s soul with practiced efficiency. Dean watched her absorb the soul with a strange distance. He wasn’t sad to see the man go, not really. He had made his choices, and those choices got him killed. It was simple. Fair. The way things were supposed to go.

And yet… he felt strangely distant, like he was watching someone else move his body, make the call. Like he wasn’t really there.

Then, warmth curled in his middle, a flicker of grace pulsing through him, and suddenly, he was there. His hand found his abdomen instinctively, grounding himself in the sensation.

When he looked up, Tessa was watching him.

They moved on.

The next guy on the list was hunched over a greasy slice of pepperoni pizza in a dingy diner, blissfully unaware that it would be his last meal.

Dean arched a brow. “Seriously?”

Tessa didn’t respond.

Dean exhaled, folding his arms as they waited. It didn’t take long. The man’s face contorted, a sharp wheeze escaping him as he clutched at his chest. The slice of pizza slipped from his fingers, landing with a wet splat in the puddle of grease on his plate.

Dean sighed and stepped forward, brushing his hand over the guy’s shoulder. Just like that, the man slumped forward, dead.

His soul blinked up at Dean, wide-eyed. “I’m dead?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Sorry.”

The guy glanced down at his lifeless body, then back at Dean. “What does it all mean?”

Dean shrugged. “Means you should’ve chewed slower.”

Tessa shot him a look of pure exasperation. Dean smirked but barely had time to revel in it before a sharp kick pressed against his ribs. He bit back a startled noise, lips twitching into a grin.

Clearly, his daughter had a sense of humor.

Weirdly, Tessa’s expression softened. Just for a second, her gaze flicked downward, then she schooled her features and turned away, leading him out of the diner.

The next few stops went about the same — death on schedule, souls moving on. It should’ve kept Dean on edge, but he let himself slip into the rhythm, lulled by the routine.

He shouldn’t have.

When they landed in a hospital next, it made sense. If anywhere had a revolving door for death, it was this place. Dean had almost died in one himself. He only realized something was wrong when Tessa led him into the children’s wing.

His gut twisted as they passed rows of sterile white beds, IV stands, and oxygen masks. Parents sat slumped in plastic chairs, their exhaustion carved into every worry-lined face. Nurses moved in and out like ghosts, their smiles worn thin.

And then Tessa stopped.

Dean swallowed hard.

At the foot of one of the beds, a twelve-year-old girl lay talking animatedly with her father. She looked a little pale, a little thin, but her eyes were bright, her hands gesturing excitedly as she spoke. Her father — early forties, worry lines etched deep — listened intently, nodding along with a tired but genuine smile.

Dean’s heart sank.

He already knew the answer before he even asked, but the words left him anyway, his voice rough. “The dad or the kid?”

Tessa didn’t hesitate. “Kid.”

Dean closed his eyes. His hand drifted down, pressing absently against the swell of his stomach. He could feel the faint, restless stirrings of the baby, a presence both grounding and unbearable in this moment.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

He forced himself to look at the girl again. She was smiling. Laughing, even. Her fingers twisted around a stuffed animal on her lap, hugging it close as she spoke, and Dean felt something inside him crack. She didn’t look like a kid who was about to die. She looked alive. More alive than he felt, that was for damn sure.

His gaze shifted to the father, whose entire world was sitting in that hospital bed, oblivious to the storm about to crash down on him.

“Does he have anyone else?” Dean asked quietly.

Tessa shook her head. “No, not really.”

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw clenching. “So he’s here. He actually gives a shit about his kid, and she’s gonna die anyway? I have to take her away from him?”

“That’s the job, Dean,” Tessa said, her voice even, but not unkind. “You have to take her. Now.”

His hands curled into fists. Everything in him screamed that this was wrong. He’d taken lives before — plenty, actually. He’d killed monsters, demons, people who deserved it, even people who didn’t. But this wasn’t the same.

“Just — just give me a moment,” he said, voice rough.

He turned slightly away, his breathing unsteady.

She was twelve.

That was all he could think about. Twelve years old. He thought about his dream. That was how old Claire had been the first time he met her. Claire Novak, all gangly limbs and big, piercing eyes, staring him down like she saw right through him. She was still out there somewhere, living her life. She was older now, probably figuring out what she wanted to be, all while knowing that things like angels and demons were real.

But this girl? She wouldn’t get that chance.

A sharp kick beneath his ribs snapped him out of it. He sucked in a breath, blinking back the burning behind his eyes, before finally stepping forward.

He reached out and pressed his fingers gently to the girl’s hand.

The shift was immediate. One second, she was in the bed, warm and laughing — the next, she was standing beside him, looking down at herself, confusion knitting her brows.

“I’m dead?” she asked, turning to him.

Dean swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Her lips trembled, but she didn’t cry. Instead, her wide eyes darted to her father, who was still holding her hand, not yet realizing that it had gone cold.

“What’s gonna happen to my dad?” she asked, her voice small.

Dean felt something deep inside him splinter. He remembered, just for a moment, what it had felt like — the sheer, suffocating terror of almost losing his own child before she was even born. The helplessness, the hollow grief. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone, not even his worst enemy.

And this man… this father, who had stayed, who had been here through God only knew how many long nights and bad days — he was about to learn what it meant to live with an empty space where his kid used to be.

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted honestly.

The girl shook her head, tears spilling over her cheeks. “I can’t just leave him. It’s not fair!”

“I know,” Dean said, his own voice shaking.

“Then why?” she demanded, turning to him. “Why me? Why now?”

Dean inhaled slowly. His hands clenched at his sides. “Sometimes, there is no reason,” he said, barely managing to force the words out. “Sometimes things just aren’t fair.”

She sniffled, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her hospital gown. “That sucks.”

Dean let out a short, hollow laugh. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “It does.”

Tessa stepped forward then, placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. There was a brief shimmer of light, soft and warm, and then she was gone.

Dean turned away, muffling a sob with his fist against his mouth. His chest ached, and the weight of the ring on his finger felt unbearable.

He stayed like that for a moment, breathing ragged, fighting to keep himself together. Then he felt Tessa step closer. She didn’t say anything at first — just waited. Then, finally, her voice came, soft and steady.

“Come on.”

Dean swallowed, squeezed his eyes shut, and nodded. Then he turned and followed.

The maternity ward was quiet, but not the peaceful kind of quiet. It was the kind of silence that sat heavy in the air, the kind that made Dean’s skin prickle, like the moment before a storm broke. The soft beeping of machines, the muted voices of nurses, the occasional low groan of pain from down the hall — it all felt too delicate, like one wrong step could shatter the whole damn world.

He followed Tessa through the hallway, past glass windows that peered into rooms filled with exhausted, joyful parents holding their newborns. He barely glanced at them. He knew better than to look too long at the happy endings.

She led him into a dimly lit hospital room where a mother labored through her contractions, sweat-damp and trembling, her face twisted in pain and determination. A nurse dabbed her forehead with a cool cloth, whispering encouragement, while a doctor positioned himself between her legs, calling out instructions she was barely conscious enough to follow. The father stood at her side, gripping her hand so tightly his knuckles were white, murmuring soft reassurances even as fear made his voice shake.

Dean stood back, watching. He already knew why they were here.

For a long moment, he just listened — to the desperate, exhausted pants of the mother, the nervous murmurs of the nurses, the father’s whispered pleas.

Then, finally, he turned to Tessa.

“Mother or child?” he asked, voice rough.

Tessa sighed, not looking away from the scene before them. “That is the question, isn’t it?” she said, her tone unreadable. “Which one lives, which one dies?”

Dean exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. He hated this. Hated the waiting, the helplessness, the knowledge that he was standing here like some goddamn vulture, just waiting to take what was his.

Minutes passed. The mother screamed as she pushed, her body wracked with pain as the baby was finally delivered into the doctor’s waiting hands.

And then — silence.

No cry. No first wail of life. Just hurried, anxious whispers as the nurses rushed to the still, blue-tinged infant, their hands moving quickly, desperately, trying to coax breath into tiny, unresponsive lungs.

Dean knew.

He knew before they did. Knew before the father started pleading, before the mother, exhausted and barely conscious, weakly asked why she couldn’t hear her baby.

He walked forward slowly, his boots making no sound on the tile. The mother’s head lolled to the side, her wide, hopeful, terrified eyes locked on the frantic movements of the nurses. Dean memorized her face in that moment — this fleeting, desperate mix of love and fear, clinging to hope with her very last breath.

Then he turned to the baby.

The nurses were still trying, but he already knew it wouldn’t work. It never did.

Dean reached out, pressing his fingers to the tiny chest.

The room didn’t change. The frantic attempts continued. The parents still cried.

But now, in his arms, was the baby’s soul.

It didn’t cry. It didn’t fight. It just looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes, impossibly small in his hands. Dean swallowed hard, cradling the infant closer to his chest, his heart hammering in his ears.

Tessa stepped toward him, her expression unreadable but gentle as she reached out. Dean hesitated — just for a second — but then he handed the baby over, watching as she took the tiny soul into her grasp. A shimmer of light. A quiet sigh. And then, gone.

Dean turned sharply, heading for the door.

“Let’s go,” he said, his voice tight.

But he wasn’t fast enough.

Behind him, the mother wailed.

The sound cut through him like a blade, raw and broken and so goddamn familiar. It clawed its way into his ribs, settled there like lead, and he had to physically force himself to keep walking, to not stop, to not turn around.

After that, it felt like every other name on the list belonged to a kid.

Yeah, sure, there were the usuals — old women slipping away peacefully in their sleep, men crushed under the weight of their own bad decisions, car accidents, heart attacks, the occasional freak medical condition.

But the ones that stuck, the ones that burned themselves into his eyelids, were always the kids.

A little boy with bright red sneakers, laughing as he chased his ball into the street — and then the sudden screech of tires.

A tiny infant, barely a few months old, her parents asleep in the next room, never knowing she just… stopped breathing.

A little blonde girl with pigtails, shrieking with delight as she skated across a frozen pond — right before the ice cracked beneath her.

Dean had never been soft. He’d seen death more times than he could count, had delivered it with his own two hands. But this was different.

He treated each one gently, tenderly, like it was the least he could do. He made sure they weren’t scared, made sure they weren’t alone.

And every time — every damn time — he never managed to escape the aftermath.

The mother collapsing in the street, clutching a pair of red sneakers to her chest.

The father screaming into the night, cradling his lifeless baby.

The grandmother sobbing by the pond, unable to break through the ice in time.

Each time, his heart throbbed with something raw and unbearable. Each time, he had to remind himself — his kid was still alive. His daughter was still here. Still safe. Still his. Still breathing.

It was the only thing that kept him going.

Finally, when the weight of it all had settled so deep into his bones that he thought he might not be able to keep standing, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Tessa.

“There’s just two more names,” she said quietly, “and then the day is up.”

Dean swallowed. Nodded. Forced himself to keep moving.

“Alright,” he said hoarsely. “Let’s get it over with.”

The hospital was the same, but different.

The fluorescent lights still buzzed overhead, casting their cold glow over too-white walls, still making everything feel sterile and detached. The quiet hum of hushed voices, beeping monitors, and distant footsteps still filled the air. But this time, the weight in the room was heavier. This time, Dean could feel it coming before it even happened.

Tessa led him back into the maternity ward, past rooms where mothers cooed at their newborns, past the quiet laughter of exhausted but happy parents, past everything he knew better than to look at.

And then they reached her room.

The scene inside was already bad.

The woman on the bed was drenched in sweat, her face pale and contorted in pain. Too much pain. The monitors attached to her beeped frantically, warning of what was coming, but Dean didn’t need the sound to tell him. He already knew.

The doctors were trying, voices clipped and urgent as they called for more blood, more medicine, more anything, but the dread in the room said it was useless. The husband — Jesus, the guy couldn’t be older than thirty-five, just a little older than Dean — was clutching his wife’s hand, whispering frantic reassurances that even he didn’t believe anymore.

Dean had been around death long enough to recognize the moment someone realized they were losing the person they loved.

The woman gasped through her pain, her free hand shaking as she reached down toward her belly, toward the baby she was still trying so damn hard to bring into the world. Her husband placed his hand over hers, his grip firm but trembling, and Dean had to look away.

Minutes passed. Long, grueling, hopeless minutes.

And then the beeping stopped.

The woman exhaled one last, shuddering breath, and the machine beside her let out its long, flat wail.

The husband choked on a sob.

Dean clenched his jaw and stepped forward. He touched her hand — still warm, still lifelike, even though she was already gone.

Her spirit appeared next to him.

She barely seemed to notice him. Her wide, terrified eyes were fixed on the hospital bed, on the body she’d just left behind. And then, just beyond that — on the baby.

Nurses surrounded the tiny, unmoving form, their hands moving frantically, trying to force life into a body that just wasn’t taking it.

“No,” the woman whispered, her voice hoarse with denial. “No, he was supposed to live.”

Dean swallowed. He’d heard it before. He’d felt it before.

He still felt it.

“It’s okay,” he said, but the words felt like nothing.

She turned to him, desperate, pleading. “I knew there was a chance I wouldn’t make it. I knew. But he — he was supposed to be okay.”

Dean let out a slow breath, his hand tightening into a fist at his side. She didn’t deserve this.

“I know,” he said softly.

The woman shook her head, eyes darting between Dean and the baby. “Was it my fault? Could I have — could I have held on longer? Was there something I—”

“No,” Dean said firmly. “It wasn’t your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault.”

She swallowed hard, waiting, needing something more.

Dean hesitated, just for a second, before he let the truth spill out.

“Sometimes…” He exhaled sharply, looking away. Remembering. The little boy in the red sneakers. The baby lost in her crib. The girl under the ice.

“Sometimes, kids just die.”

The words felt wrong. Felt ugly. Felt like they should be impossible.

But they weren’t.

The woman let out a shaky breath, her gaze flickering back to the baby as the nurses finally stepped away. The doctor shook his head. The husband — now a widower — broke.

Dean walked toward the table where the baby lay, still and quiet. This time, when he touched the tiny, fragile body, the baby’s spirit didn’t appear in his arms.

It appeared in hers.

She gasped, and then her hands were moving, lifting the baby up to her chest, cradling him with the care of a mother who had just been given a second chance — no matter how unfair, no matter how undeserved.

She smiled through her tears. “He’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Dean felt his throat close up, so he just turned away.

Tessa stepped forward, resting a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder. Dean watched as the light overtook them both, mother and child vanishing together into whatever waited beyond.

Then it was just him and Tessa.

She stared at him for a long moment, searching. He didn’t want to know what she saw.

“Alright,” she finally said. “Let’s go.”

They landed back in Bobby’s yard. The world was dark, quiet. No beeping monitors, no screaming parents, no wails of grief.

Dean closed his eyes and breathed. His ribs ached, like something inside him had cracked under the weight of the day. Maybe it had.

Tessa watched him. He could feel her eyes on him, studying him like he was some kind of puzzle she couldn’t quite figure out.

“You know…” she said after a long silence. “I didn’t expect you to pass.”

Dean snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, well. That makes two of us.”

“None of us did,” she admitted. “You surprised me.”

Dean rolled his shoulders, still feeling the tension of the day lingering in his bones. “That’s me,” he muttered bitterly. “Full of surprises.”

She hesitated. “I know it was hard for you.”

Dean scoffed. “I’d hope that would be hard for anyone,” he shot back. His voice was sharp, raw. “Those kids… it wasn’t right.”

Tessa’s expression didn’t change. “It was the natural order.”

Dean let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah,” he said, voice hollow. “That’s right. It’s not fair, but life isn’t fair. Neither is death.”

Tessa nodded. “No, it’s not.”

Dean looked away. “At least it’s familiar.”

She studied him for a second longer before sighing. “I’m just saying, well done.”

Dean’s head snapped up. His stomach twisted. “I don’t want a fucking pat on the back for killing kids, Tessa.”

Tessa flinched. “I know.” She hesitated, just for a second. “I just…”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

Dean exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

“Good luck, Dean,” she said quietly.

Then she vanished, leaving Dean alone.

He sucked in a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the chill night air did nothing to settle the weight in his chest. He could still feel it, the ache buried deep in his ribs, like something had taken root there and refused to let go. 

His boots scraped against the dirt as he exhaled, watching the puff of breath disappear into the dark. He was still breathing, still alive. He couldn’t let himself think about all the ones who weren’t anymore. Couldn’t let himself dwell on the faces — the ones he wouldn’t be able to forget, just like every other person he had failed to save.

But even as he tried to force the images away, the silence of the yard was broken. A muffled thud, so distant he wondered if he imagined it, but a sharp grunt came next, followed by the sound of shouting. His head snapped toward the shed, his stomach dropping. Where was Sam?

He had a feeling he knew the answer.

He ran for the shed, wrenching the door open to find Sam with his hands around Bobby’s throat, his face dark with effort, his expression cold, empty. 

Dean didn’t hesitate. He lunged for his brother, catching him by the shoulder as he ripped him backward, sending him stumbling into the workbench. Sam’s eyes were calculating as he grabbed a knife from the table, slashing at Dean with ruthless efficiency.

He dodged, barely, and grabbed Sam’s wrist, forcing it back. Sam was stronger than him, all alpha strength and emotionless power, but Dean had something better. Eager grace rushed through his veins, the nephilim jumping to help, and Dean grit his teeth as he slammed his free hand to Sam’s forehead, the warmth flaring in his chest.

Sam’s whole body seized. His breath hitched, fingers spasming open as the knife clattered to the floor. He staggered, barely staying upright before his knees buckled, and then — he was out. 

Dean caught him before he could crack his head on the workbench, lowering him to the ground. His own breath was ragged, his heart hammering like he’d just run a marathon. 

Bobby let out a wheezing cough behind him.

Dean turned, still catching his breath. “You okay?”

Bobby rubbed at his throat. “Been better.” He looked down at Sam, face dark. “Thank God you’re back. I don’t think I could have held him off much longer.”

“Didn’t look like you were holding him off much at all,” Dean quipped, but it fell flat. There wasn’t much humor in the fact that Sam had just tried to kill Bobby. What was even worse was that he wasn’t surprised. Not even a little.

“Come on,” he said, shoving away the bitter twist in his gut. “Let’s get him to the panic room.”

Together, they hauled Sam’s dead weight down into the basement, securing him to the cot with reinforced cuffs. Dean wasn’t taking any chances. Not anymore.

Bobby sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck tiredly as he stared at Sam’s unconscious form. “Damn kid was gonna kill me for a spell. Something about making sure his body rejected the soul if we tried to put it back.”

Dean drew in a breath, then nodded. “Right. Then we better put it back before he gets the chance again.” He turned toward the stairs, but Bobby stopped him.

“Dean,” Bobby’s eyes flickered back to where Sam was laid out on the cot. “Are we doing the right thing here?”

Dean dragged his gaze back to Sam. Strangely, he felt nothing for the chained figure lying in the middle of the panic room. Because whatever that thing was, it was not his brother. His brother was still trapped in the Cage, and Dean was going to make sure Death held up his end of the deal and get him out. 

He looked back at Bobby, his jaw set with certainty. “We have to be.” With that, he turned back to the stairs, leaving the panic room behind. 

He found Death in the kitchen.

The ancient deity was sitting at Bobby’s table with a hot dog in hand like he regularly made house calls. He looked up as Dean entered the kitchen, his eyes holding the weight of galaxies. “Dean,” he greeted, his voice calm as ever. “Join me.” He pushed a second hot dog across the table. “Brought you one. From a little stand in Los Angeles. They’re known for their bacon dogs.”

Dean huffed, but took the hot dog anyway, dropping into the chair across from him. “So, what? Last meal before putting the ring back on?”

Death gave a thin smile. “It’s heavier than it looks, isn’t it?” He tapped his fingers against the table. “Sometimes, you just want the thing off. But you knew that.”

Dean met his gaze, something cold curling in his gut. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s no walk in the park.”

Death brushed the crumbs from his fingers. “Yes. You’ve impressed me. I must admit, I didn’t expect you to pass this test.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, I know.”

Death studied him. “So I’m curious. Why did you?”

Dean frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The Dean Winchester I met before would have fought destiny before accepting the death of a child.” Death laced his fingers, staring at Dean over the top of them.

Dean swallowed, glancing away. “I don’t know.”

Death gave him a look. “Of course you do.”

Yeah. He did. He just didn’t want to say it.

“Look,” he muttered. “That little girl at the hospital — she was good. She hadn’t hurt anyone, hadn’t done anything wrong. And she died anyway. That’s not fair.” He drew in a trembling breath. “I’ve done things. I’ve hurt people. And I’m still here.”

Death watched him carefully. “Do you believe you deserve death, Dean?”

Dean shook his head. “It’s not about deserving. Every kid today—” He stopped, swallowed. “They died. Not a single one of them deserved it. And I can tell you—” His throat tightened. “—all their parents would have traded places with them in a heartbeat.”

Death nodded, as if that was the answer he had expected. “And that’s the heart of the matter, isn’t it?” He studied Dean. “You know where this road ends.”

Dean swallowed, looking down at the table.

“Those kids didn’t deserve to die,” he murmured. Then, more firmly— “My kid doesn’t deserve to die.”

Death nodded, as if he expected this. He leaned forward. “And are you prepared for what it will take for her to live?”

Dean didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

As if in answer, a warmth bloomed in his stomach, subtle but unmistakable, and Death’s lips curled slightly — almost fond. 

“I remember the time of the Nephilim,” Death said. “Most were too powerful for their own good. Arrogant. Reckless. They placed themselves above the natural order. But this one…” Death continued, his gaze flicking downward, to the life inside Dean. “I must say, I find her quite charming.” He lifted his gaze again, meeting Dean’s eyes. “I strangely find myself hoping you will surprise me again, Dean Winchester.”

Then, just as quickly, he rose from the table. 

“I will go retrieve your brother’s soul now,” he said, brushing off his coat. “If I were you, I’d continue looking into the subject of souls. I believe you will need it.”

Dean frowned. “Wait. With Sam… will the wall really work?”

Death only smiled. 

“We shall have to see, won’t we?”

Death wasn’t gone long.

A few hours later, he returned with a briefcase in hand. After a long, tense moment, Dean led him to the panic room.

Sam was awake. And fighting.

“Dean—” His voice was rough, desperate. “Dean, don’t let him do this.”

Dean just watched.

Sam struggled against the cuffs. “You know this is a bad idea. You know what could happen. Dean, please—”

Dean pressed a protective hand to his stomach. He wasn’t risking his kid.

Not for Sam. Not for anyone.

Death opened the briefcase.

Sam thrashed. “Dean — please!”

Dean watched.

Death reached forward, pressed his hand against Sam’s chest—

And Sam screamed.

Dean closed his eyes.

He was going to do whatever it took.

No matter the cost.

Chapter Text

Dean sat slouched in Bobby’s worn armchair, head tilted back, eyelids heavy. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep — hell, he’d been fighting it for the past half-hour — but exhaustion pulled at him with a relentless grip. It was becoming more frequent now, creeping in at the edges of his mind like a slow-building tide. He knew why. He wasn’t stupid.

At the same time, he knew she didn’t mean to do it, not really. But his daughter was growing, and to grow, she needed energy. And growing inside him as she was, there was really only one place she could get it from.

He let out a slow breath, hand drifting to his stomach, rubbing absently at the slight curve beneath his shirt. He was getting used to it, the way her grace siphoned from him in steady waves, like the pull of the moon on the tide. It left him drained, boneless, like he was running on fumes half the time. But she was alive. She was strong. That was all that mattered.

He was just starting to doze again when a hand on his shoulder startled him awake, and he jerked upright with a sharp inhale, heart hammering against his ribs as his eyes snapped open. His fingers curled instinctively toward his knife, but then — blue. A familiar weight crouched beside him, concern carved into every line of Castiel’s face.

Dean slowly released the breath he had been holding, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus, Cas. You tryna kill me?”

Cas didn’t answer. He just studied Dean, unreadable but intense, gaze flicking over his face like he was cataloging every shadow, every hollow space left behind by fatigue. Then, without a word, he reached forward, pressing a warm palm against Dean’s abdomen.

Dean rolled his eyes — more out of habit than anything else. “Cas, it’s fine.”

“You’re this drained, and you think that’s fine?” Cas’s voice was steady, but there was something sharp beneath it. His hand lingered, fingers splayed like he could somehow will Dean’s strength back into him.

Dean sighed, too tired to argue. “She does this all the time. She just needs the energy.”

Cas’s jaw tightened. “You need the energy, Dean.” His voice was edged now, frustration bleeding through the cracks. “If this continues at this rate, you’ll be in a coma before it’s time to deliver.”

Dean let out a short, dry laugh. “Oh, good. Means I won’t even have to get an epidural.”

Cas’s expression darkened. “Dean.”

“What?” He spread his hands, feeling the weight of fatigue settle into his bones again. “It’s not like talking about it is gonna change anything. She’s just doing what she needs to survive, just like the rest of us.” He leveled a look at Cas. “Now tell me about Sam.”

Cas’s lips pressed into a thin line, the tension in his shoulders not easing, but after a long moment, he relented with a sigh. “His soul is in place,” he said, voice quieter now. “But it’s… in rough shape. I’m not sure he’ll wake up.”

Dean swallowed. He nodded once, then took a slow breath. “Okay.”

Cas’s gaze softened, but he still looked troubled. “I wish I had better news.”

“No,” Dean said, shaking his head. “It’s on me. I made that choice — to put his soul back.”

Cas hesitated, something flickering in his expression before he finally asked, “Why did you?”

Dean didn’t answer right away. He felt the tug of exhaustion again, the slow pull of grace leeching the energy from his body. His hand drifted down to press at his middle again, feeling the steady warmth beneath his palm.

“That Sam was a ticking time bomb,” he finally answered. “He already tried to kill Bobby. He put me in more danger than he ever would have before. I just—” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I couldn’t do it. I was given a choice. And for the chance to get my brother back? My real brother? I had to take it.” His throat felt tight. “And if it didn’t work… at least it would remove a threat.”

Cas studied him carefully. “So having him dead is better than soulless.”

Dean met his eyes. “Yes.”

Cas sighed, deep and heavy. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean squeezed his hand. “Me too.”

A sudden kick thumped against his ribs, and Dean let out a quiet huff of amusement. Without thinking, he grabbed Cas’s wrist, guiding his hand over the spot. Cas’s fingers spread carefully across Dean’s abdomen, and his eyes flickered with something soft, something reverent, as another tiny movement fluttered beneath his palm.

“See?” Dean murmured. “She’s using my energy for better things than I was gonna use it for.”

Cas shook his head, but his lips twitched — almost a smile. “She could afford to slow down.”

The warmth of Cas’s hand deepened, and a familiar sensation spread through Dean — Cas’s grace, seeping into him like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The exhaustion ebbed just slightly, a weight lifting from his bones. But before it could settle, Dean caught Cas’s wrist, grip firm.

“Stop,” he muttered. “You need your grace more than I do.”

Cas met his gaze, stubborn as ever. “I will decide what I use my grace for.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Cas suddenly tensed. His eyes screwed shut, head tilting to the side — the telltale sign of Angel Radio crackling in his mind. When he opened them again, something raw burned behind them. His gaze roved over Dean’s face like he was memorizing it, like he wasn’t sure if he’d see him again.

Dean sighed. He lifted Cas’s hand — the one still joined with his — and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his knuckles, eyes never leaving Cas’s.

“Go,” he said softly. “Kick Raphael’s ass.”

Something in Cas’s expression shattered — grief, longing, love, all tangled together. And then, before Dean could breathe, before he could brace for it, Cas surged forward, kissing him like it was the last time. Like he couldn’t bear to leave. Like he was afraid.

God, Dean hoped this wasn’t the last time.

That creeping sense of inevitability clawed at his chest, the feeling that time was slipping through their fingers faster than they could hold onto it.

But it wasn’t the end yet.

Not yet.

Cas pulled back just enough to murmur against his lips, “I love you.”

Before Dean could say it back, he was gone in a rush of wings.

Dean slumped back against the armchair, exhaling a slow, weary breath as his eyes slipped shut. He shouldn’t be doing this — not again. Cas was right. Every time he drifted, it got harder to claw his way back. But sleep was easier than sitting in the suffocating weight of fear, easier than the relentless gnaw of dread whispering that maybe this time, they wouldn’t get lucky.

That Cas might not make it back from Heaven.

That Sam might never wake up.

His fingers traced idle patterns over the fabric of his shirt, a mindless motion, grounding and distant all at once. Cas was worried. He had that look in his eyes again, like he was already grieving. Like he thought Dean was slipping away just as much as Sam was.

Maybe he was.

It would be so easy. All he had to do was close his eyes and let go. Let her take what she needed, let her drain him down to nothing but quiet. He could sleep — really sleep — until it was time for her to be born. No more fighting. No more worrying. No more clawing at his own damn mortality like it was something he could actually hold onto.

God, he was so tired.

The thought settled deep in his chest, curling around his ribs like lead.

He exhaled slowly, let the weight pull him under—

And let go.

When he opened his eyes again, soft light streamed through the living room windows, morning creeping in with long, golden rays that warmed his skin. The crushing exhaustion that had settled over him for days had eased — just a little. He could breathe without feeling like the air was being stolen straight from his lungs.

He blinked sluggishly, trying to get his bearings, when, at the edge of his awareness, he felt it — something small, hesitant, curled in the back of his mind. Not words, not exactly, but emotion. A feeling.

An apology.

Dean huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing a slow circle over his stomach. “You don’t have to apologize, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. “Take whatever you need.”

A gentle warmth pulsed beneath his palm, not draining this time, just there. Steady. She was full, then. Sated, for now.

Dean sighed and let himself sink deeper into the chair. For the first time in weeks, something close to peace settled over him. His eyes flicked toward the stairs at the familiar creak of footsteps — Bobby, moving through the house just like he had every morning since Dean had landed on his doorstep.

“Well, good morning,” Bobby greeted, gruff as ever as he stepped into the living room.

“Yeah, morning,” Dean muttered, stretching briefly before letting his arms drop back to the chair’s armrests.

Bobby hesitated. “Any change?”

Dean exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting toward the basement door, where Sam lay in the panic room, unmoving for days. “Cas checked on him last night,” he said. “Didn’t sound too hopeful.”

Bobby’s expression darkened. “Balls.”

“Yeah.”

Silence settled thick between them, heavy with everything neither of them could say.

After a long beat, Bobby crossed his arms. “He’s… he’s gonna wake up.”

Dean looked at him, searching his face for any real certainty. All he found was forced optimism, the kind of blind hope neither of them had the energy to believe in anymore.

“Maybe,” Dean said. “Maybe not.”

Bobby huffed, rubbing a hand over his beard. “He’s been through worse. Always bounces back.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “He’s never been through this.”

“You made it through Hell,” Bobby countered. “So will he.”

Dean nodded, but he didn’t answer. There wasn’t much left to say. Hell had left him broken, but at least he had still been himself when he came back.

Sam…

Sam wasn’t.

Pushing the thought away, Dean braced his hands on the chair’s arms and pushed himself to his feet with a quiet grunt. His stomach pulled, his back ached, and for a moment, dizziness hit him with a force that was becoming too familiar.

Bobby stepped forward automatically, brows drawn in concern. “Cas check on you too?”

Dean scowled. “Hey, I get enough mother-henning from him. I don’t need you to do it too.”

Bobby snorted, shaking his head. “Well, just wait until Sam wakes up. You’re not gonna get another moment’s rest without him hovering.”

A beat of silence followed, heavy and awkward.

They both knew that might not happen.

Bobby cleared his throat. "How ‘bout I make us some breakfast?"

Dean leveled him with a flat look. "Do not touch that stove."

Bobby scoffed. "Hey, I ain’t that bad."

Dean raised an eyebrow in response.

Bobby threw up his hands. "Alright, fine. But hurry up before I start throwing random crap in a skillet."

Dean shook his head, a small, tired smile on his lips. "Give me a minute. I’ll be there."

A creak behind him sent a jolt through Dean’s spine. His body tensed, instincts on high alert. His hand shot out, ready to dive for the nearest gun, when he saw the figure hesitating at the last step from the basement. 

Six feet of disheveled, shaggy hair, broad shoulders, wary eyes — Sam.

Dean barely had time to register it before Sam spoke. 

“Dean?”

Dean blinked, heart stuttering. “Sam?”

His legs moved before his brain could process it. In a second, he was across the room, arms wrapping tight around his little brother, the one who he’d been missing for what felt like forever. He expected Sam to feel wrong somehow, the way he had before, the way he hadn’t even realized until it was too late. But now, his brother smelled right, felt right, warm and solid in a way he hadn’t in a long, long time.

Sam’s arms locked around him just as tightly, his grip almost desperate. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t have to.

After what had to be minutes, Dean finally let go, taking a step back. His hands lingered on Sam’s arms, as if making sure he was still there, still real. Bobby stepped forward next, reaching for Sam with a rare softness in his eyes.

“Good to see you, son.”

Sam exhaled sharply, like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. “Wait. I saw you. I— I felt Lucifer snap your neck.”

Bobby gave a small, wry smile. “Well, Cas kind of—”

“Cas is alive?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, Cas is — Cas is fine.” He wasn’t quite sure of that, but it was what he had to believe. But what was odd was that Sam didn’t know that. “Sam, are you okay?”

Sam hesitated, then let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh. “Actually, um… I’m starving.”

Bobby snorted. “Well, we can fix that.” He turned toward the kitchen.

Dean’s head snapped toward the older man. “Bobby—”

“I can make a damn sandwich, Dean! I’m not touching the stove.”

Dean huffed. “You better not be.”

They followed Bobby into the kitchen, where he pulled a beer from the fridge and set it in front of Sam before grabbing a glass of water for Dean. Dean was about to reach for it when Bobby also dropped one of the stupid horse-pill prenatal supplements next to it.

Dean groaned. “You had to, huh?”

Bobby just raised an eyebrow at him, and Dean huffed but dutifully tossed the pill back and took a gulp of water.

Sam was already cracking open his beer when Bobby sat down across from him. “So, Sam,” Bobby said, leveling him with a look. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Sam swallowed a sip, rolling the bottle between his hands. “The field,” he said slowly. “And then I fell.”

Dean exchanged a look with Bobby. “And then?”

Sam shook his head. “I woke up in the panic room.”

“That’s it?” Bobby asked. “You don’t remember anything else?”

“No,” Sam glanced between them. “How long was I gone?”

Bobby hesitated, but Dean didn’t. “Nearly seven months.”

Sam stiffened with surprise. “What? I was downstairs — I don’t remember anything. So, how’d I get back? Was it Cas?”

Dean almost wanted to laugh. He felt a sense of deja vu, answering the same questions as the last time. “No.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, catching on to what Dean wasn’t saying. “What did you do?”

Dean sighed. “I worked out a deal with Death, but—” He raised a hand before Sam could start protesting. “It’s done.”

Sam turned to Bobby for confirmation. Bobby nodded. Sam exhaled, then took a long swig of his beer. His eyes flicked to Dean’s glass of water. “Did you quit drinking?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Not by choice. Probably one of the worst things about having a bun in the oven.”

Sam choked on his beer. “Wait. You’re pregnant?”

Dean blinked, then shook his head with a slight grin. He wasn’t used to this, to Sam not knowing. “Yeah. About seven months now.”

Sam’s mouth opened, then closed. “Is it Cas’s?”

Bobby scoffed, nearly spitting out his own beer. “Who else’s would it be?”

Sam’s brain seemed to catch up all at once. “Wait… seven months?” His eyes widened. “Oh my god. The Impala—”

Dean cut him off. “We don’t have to talk about when it happened! It happened, I’m knocked up. That’s all we need to know, okay?”

Sam smirked, but after a minute, his face shifted, something softer settling in his expression. “So…”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “So?”

Sam’s grin broke wide, lighting up his whole damn face, the way it did when he was a little kid. “I’m going to be an uncle?”

Dean inhaled sharply. Months ago, Sam had said those same words, when he first came back. But back then, something had felt wrong. Off. He hadn’t understood why at the time. Now, hearing Sam say it again, it finally felt right. Dean let out a slow breath, his own smile growing to match his brother’s.

“Yeah,” His voice was quieter, steadier. “You are.”

Sam jumped up from the table and pulled Dean into a hug before Dean could protest. Dean stiffened at first, but then, with a small huff of laughter, relaxed into it. 

“Alright, alright, you big lug. Let go of me.”

Sam pulled back, still grinning like an idiot. “So where’s Cas? He out getting a crib for the nursery or something?”

Dean swallowed. The image of Cas, kneeling in front of him that morning, the look in his eyes — haunted, resolute — flashed in his mind. He looked away. “Cas is… it’s complicated.”

Sam frowned. “Complicated how?” Understanding suddenly flooded his expression. “Oh god. Don’t tell me you guys got into a fight or something.”

Bobby snorted from his stance by the counter. “Oh yeah. They sure did a lot of ‘fighting’ the other day.”

Dean shot Bobby a glare before he turned back to Sam. “There’s a war in Heaven,” he explained. “Apparently, the one archangel left got pissy that we stopped the apocalypse and is trying to hit the play button again. Cas is trying to stop it.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Wow. Is he winning?”

Dean let out a humorless laugh. “No. He’s getting his ass kicked.” 

“Dean…” Bobby warned.

“What? It’s true.”

Sam straightened. So wait. What are we doing about it? We’ve gotta do something to help.”

Bobby sighed. “We’ve got bigger problems than that.”

Sam looked incredulous. “Bigger than the apocalypse?”

“Dean?” Bobby prompted.

Dean groaned. “Why do I gotta be the one to tell him?”

Bobby crossed his arms. “Well I’m not telling him.”

Dean sighed. “Fine. Crowley — he's dead now — but he'd been rounding up monsters, doing experiments for god knows what. He also resurrected our grandfather, who is a major dick. Speaking of monsters, they’re bigger and badder than they’ve ever been, like they’re gearing up for a party of their own.”

“Monsters from all over the world too,” Bobby added. “Lamia, Okami… it’s like a damn family reunion.”

Sam processed that, then shook his head. “Okay, that all sounds bad, but how is that worse than what’s going on with Heaven? Shouldn't we be helping Cas?”

“We can’t have Dean anywhere near angels,” Bobby said.

Sam frowned. “What? Why?”

Bobby glanced at Dean almost apologetically before continuing. “Because if the God Squad gets any whiff of what Dean’s carrying, they’ll kill all three of them.”

Sam’s face drained of color, confusion and horror mixing in his expression. “Why the hell would they care about that?”

Dean forced a wry smirk. “‘Cause they can’t handle one of their own getting some.”

Bobby shot him a look. “Because nephilim — half angel kids — are forbidden. There’s hardly any record of them ever existing because any time one is discovered, they’re destroyed.”

Sam exhaled. “Shit.” He looked at Dean. “What are we gonna do?”

Dean shrugged, fingers curling around the familiar weight of the amulet before pulling it from beneath his shirt. The brass caught the dim light, glinting as it swung gently from its cord. “I’ve got this,” he said, voice light. “Keeps me off Heaven’s radar as long as the baby’s on board.”

Sam frowned, arms crossing over his chest. “Okay, but you’ve got, what, two months left? What happens after that?

Dean’s grip tightened around the amulet. His gaze flickered away, fixing on some invisible point across the room. He didn’t want to answer that. Not now.

The silence stretched, thick and uneasy, until Bobby finally spoke. “We’re still working that out,” he said gruffly, filling in the gap Dean left open.

Sam tapped his fingers against the table, considering that for all of two seconds before exhaling sharply. “Alright. So how can I help?”

Bobby let out a low, exasperated sigh. “Now, hold on a damn minute. You just got vertical. Maybe take a second to get your bearings before diving headfirst into this mess.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Bobby, I’ve been out of the game for seven months. I think that’s long enough. And from where I’m sitting, you guys look like you’re barely keeping your heads above water. Let me help.” His eyes flicked between them, steady, determined. “I promise — I’m good to go.”

Bobby studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp and assessing. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he muttered, “Alright. I’ll show you the books.”

Without hesitation, Sam pushed back from the table and followed Bobby into the living room, leaving Dean alone.

Dean drummed his fingers against the scarred wood of the table, staring at the spot where Sam had just been. His brother’s grin still lingered in the air, warm and familiar, but it didn’t ease the weight pressing down on his chest. If anything, it made it heavier.

Sam was back.

Really back.

His soul was in place, his eyes held that softness again — the humanity that had been missing for months. It should’ve been the best damn news Dean had gotten in a long time, but all he could think about was how much Sam didn’t know.

How much he didn’t remember.

Dean’s hands clenched into fists. The memories of the last several months clawed at his brain like a goddamn horror reel — Sam watching coldly as Dean nearly got ripped apart by vampires, Sam’s fingers wrapped tight around Bobby’s throat, the utter blankness in his expression as he did it.

That had been Sam. Maybe not all of him, but enough. And now, just like that, it was wiped away, like it had never happened. 

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a breath. He needed Cas. He needed his solid presence, his steady weight at his back reminding him that he wasn’t in this alone. But Cas was in Heaven, locked in a battle he was barely surviving, and Dean had other problems to deal with — problems that weren’t wrapped up in angels and the sky falling down on their heads.

Pushing back from the table, Dean made his way to the living room. Sam sat hunched over one of the older tomes they had uncovered, his eyes scanning the pages with the same intensity he always had when he was in deep research mode.

It was so normal, so Sam, that Dean had to take a moment to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep again. Looking around the room, he noticed that Bobby was nowhere in sight, but the distant clang of metal and the faint hum of the car lift told Dean exactly where he was.

He stepped outside onto the porch, the cool night air biting at his skin as he spotted Bobby near one of the rusted-out cars in the yard. It was one of those projects Bobby had sworn he’d get to eventually — and if he was out here now, elbow-deep in grease, that meant something was eating at him.

Dean didn’t waste time beating around the bush. “Okay,” he said, stepping off the porch and crossing the dirt toward Bobby. “What is it?”

Bobby didn’t even glance up as he wiped his hands on an old rag. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean scoffed. “Bobby. You can’t out-bullshit me. I do this for a living.”

Bobby finally looked at him, arching a brow. “Please. I’ve been doin’ this since before you were born.” Tossing the rag onto the hood, he turned back to the car like the conversation was over.

Dean folded his arms. “Weren’t you the one all hopeful and sunny about Sam waking up? Now he’s back, and suddenly you find time to work on a car that’s been collecting dust for months?”

Bobby let out a noncommittal grunt. “Not like hunting monsters pays the bills.”

Dean watched him carefully, noting the way Bobby’s shoulders tensed, the way he avoided looking at him. He wasn’t just keeping his hands busy — he was avoiding the conversation altogether.

Dean sighed. “You gonna talk, or do I need to pull the ‘pregnant and has two months to live’ card?”

Bobby stilled. For a moment, Dean wondered if he’d pushed too hard, but then Bobby exhaled heavily and finally turned to face him.

“Look, I’m glad he’s better,” Bobby said. “I really am. But… that kid went straight-up Menendez on me not ten days ago. And now it’s all just… erased? Sorry, but I’m having a hell of a time even looking at him.”

Dean swallowed. Hearing Bobby say it out loud — everything that had been gnawing at the back of his own mind since the second Sam had woken up — it was like a punch to the gut.

“You think I’m not?” He dragged in a breath, forcing himself to stay calm. “But it wasn’t him, Bobby.” He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince more — Bobby or himself.

Bobby’s eyes darkened. “Maybe it wasn’t all of him. But it was him.”

Dean exhaled sharply, looking away. He didn’t want to have this argument. “So what do you want to do?” he asked, voice quieter. “Tell him everything? How’s that gonna help?”

“I just don’t see how not telling him helps,” Bobby countered.

“It’s not lying,” Dean said, sharper than he intended. “It’s just…” He rubbed a hand over his face. “We just got him back. Let’s take a damn minute before we drop, ‘Hey, by the way, you were a cold-blooded monster for most of the past year’ on him.”

Bobby’s lips pressed into a thin line. He stared at Dean like he wanted to argue, but in the end, he just sighed, shaking his head. “Alright. We’ll do it your way.” He pointed a finger at him. “I just hope you know what you’re doin’.”

Dean huffed a quiet laugh. “Do I ever?”

He turned and stepped back inside, rubbing a hand over his face as he shut the door behind him. The conversation with Bobby had left him drained, the weight of everything pressing heavier than before. The last few months, the uncertainty of the future — it all settled on his shoulders, and he was too damn tired to carry it. But there was no choice. There never was.

Sam was right where Dean had left him, hunched over a different book, brow furrowed in concentration. He looked up as Dean entered, offering a small nod.

“Hey.”

Dean returned the nod, making his way toward the armchair. “Hey.”

Sam hesitated, glancing between the book and Dean before speaking. “So… I’ve been looking over the lore on nephilim, but I thought maybe you could help clear some things up. There’s not much to go on here, and most of it is contradictory.”

Dean let out a short, humorless laugh as he dropped into the chair with a groan, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Yeah. Welcome to my life.”

Sam huffed, flipping through the pages. “Right. So, this one says it takes a ritual under a blood moon and twenty virgin sacrifices to conceive one, but unless the Impala and cheap beer count as substitutes, I’m calling that a myth.”

Dean shot him a flat look. “You’re hilarious.”

Sam smirked, but it faded quickly as he refocused on the book. “Alright, what about this one? Says the bearer has to stick to a diet of holy water, angelic manna, and consecrated bread the whole pregnancy.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, no. Weirdest craving I’ve had is for eggs and peanut butter.”

Sam wrinkled his nose. “That’s disgusting.”

Dean shrugged. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

“No thanks,” Sam muttered, shaking his head before skimming further. His expression shifted as he hit the next passage. “Okay, what about this? Says nephilim can control the minds of their carriers, use them as a kind of vessel until they’re born.”

Dean arched a brow. “Well, I could say that’s not true, but how would you know it’s not the baby just lying to you?”

Sam shot him a look. “Funny.”

Dean smirked, but it didn’t last long. The air in the room shifted.

Sam’s gaze had dropped to another passage, his brow furrowing.

“Are any of these right?” Sam asked. His voice was disbelieving. “Because this one says birthing a Nephilim has a 100% mortality rate — that the carrier has to die for them to be born.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Come on, the blood moon thing was more believable. It’s ridiculous.”

Dean didn’t answer.

His fingers curled against the arm of the chair, nails digging into the fabric. He stared at the floor, at the scuffed wood beneath his boots, at anything but Sam’s face.

The silence stretched.

He could feel Sam’s eyes on him, burning with expectation, with a need for denial.

“Dean?”

He swallowed, opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Sam’s chair scraped against the floor as he sat up straighter, his expression shifting from confusion to something closer to panic. “No, no. See, that one has to be wrong. Because if it’s right…” He trailed off, shaking his head like he could physically reject the thought. “That would mean you’ve only got two months at most to live.”

Dean forced himself to meet Sam’s eyes. “It’s not wrong.”

Sam flinched, like the words had struck him clean in the chest. He inhaled sharply, his hands gripping the edges of the book, knuckles white. “Okay, but — maybe that’s true for every other one in history, but nephilim haven’t been seen in thousands of years. There has to be something now that they didn’t have before. Something we can use.”

Dean dragged a hand over his face, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. “If there is… we haven’t found it.”

Sam shook his head, his jaw tightening. “So what? You’re just giving up?”

“Sam—”

“No.” Sam’s voice was steel, sharp with the same unshakable determination Dean had seen before — the same fire that had driven him to stop the Apocalypse, to drag Dean out of Hell, to fix things that were already broken beyond repair. “It’s a damn good thing you got me back. Because whatever it is we need to find, I’m going to find it.”

Dean didn’t have the energy to argue. Didn’t have the heart to tell Sam he’d already torn apart every book, hunted down every lead, and come up empty. So instead, he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.

“Okay.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with unsaid things.

Sam exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand through his hair before letting it drop. His eyes flicked down to the book in front of him, but whatever he was reading wasn’t holding his attention. After a moment, he huffed and shoved it aside, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees.

“So tell me,” he said.

Dean, who had been watching the ceiling like it might offer up some kind of answer, dropped his gaze. “Tell you what?”

“Everything.” Sam gestured vaguely. “I’ve been gone seven months, Dean. I need to catch up.”

Dean shifted in his seat, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Okay, um…” He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Where do you wanna start?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “How did you find out?”

Dean snorted. “Oh, that was easy. After about a week of puking my guts out every morning, I figured it was time to take a pregnancy test.”

Sam blinked. “You had morning sickness?”

“Yeah. Not a fun time.”

Sam shook his head, still processing. “Any other symptoms?”

Dean tilted his head. “Human or non-human?”

Sam sat up straighter. “You’ve had non-human symptoms?”

“Oh yeah,” Dean said dryly. “Got teleported a couple of times. Had to lay down the law after that.”

Sam frowned. “Wait — they can understand you?”

“Yeah. She listens to Cas better, though.”

Sam froze, emotion flickering across his face. “She? I have a niece?”

“Oh yeah.” Dean pointed at him. “Which reminds me — you’re helping me come up with baby names, ‘cause Cas is one picky son of a bitch.”

Sam let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head. “That’s… wow. Okay.” He blinked, refocusing. “What else can she do?”

Dean leaned back, considering. “She’s used her grace a couple of times.” He hesitated, remembering how Sam had gone down hard both times she’d used it to knock him out. “Tires both of us out, though. And she has to steal energy from me after, like a leech.”

Sam’s frown deepened. “Steal energy? You mean she drains you?”

“Something like that.” Dean rubbed a hand over his stomach. “Cas says we’re lucky she’s just pulling from my body and not my soul.”

Sam straightened, alarmed. “Your soul? She could do that?”

Dean met his eyes. “She wouldn’t,” he said firmly. “She’s good, Sam. If there’s one thing I know about this whole thing, it’s that.”

Sam exhaled through his nose, nodding slightly. “Still,” he murmured, “I can see why they’ve been forbidden.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Hey. That’s your niece.”

Sam winced. “Yeah, sorry. Just — still trying to wrap my head around it.”

Dean snorted. “Well, let me know when you do. It’s been seven months, and I still haven’t.”

Sam studied him for a long moment, then asked, “Are you okay?”

Dean blinked. “What?”

“I mean, this is a lot, Dean.”

Dean forced a smile. “I’m fine.” He waved a hand. “More worried about you, actually. Everything feeling okay? No memories from the box crawling out?”

Sam looked down at his hands. “No, it’s weird. It’s like…” He trailed off, then huffed. “I fell in, and next thing I know, I’m waking up in the basement. It still kinda feels like it’s just a dream, you know?”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Believe me, it’s not.”

Sam didn’t argue, but his gaze was distant, still trying to piece it all together. Dean knew better than to push. Instead, he grabbed a book off the table and tossed it to Sam.

“Now stop staring at those useless old books and take a look at this.”

Sam caught it easily, glancing at the cover before frowning. “Purgatory?”

Dean nodded. “It’s what Crowley was after. Whatever’s going on with the monsters lately, it all points to the same thing.”

Sam shot him a pointed look. “Don’t you think your situation is more pressing?”

“Right now?” Dean grunted as he shifted in his chair. “She’s pressing on my bladder. So you read that while I take care of that problem.”

He pushed himself up and headed for the hallway, eager for the escape. Shutting the bathroom door behind him, he braced himself on the sink, taking a deep breath. He knew Sam was still new to all of this — fresh into the fight again, still full of hope and boundless optimism that there was a solution for everything, but Dean was tired. So damn tired. He’d long accepted his fate. He was okay with it, really.

Now all he cared about was making sure his daughter made it out of this alive. That was all that mattered.

After a few minutes, he stepped out of the bathroom and found Sam reading again, but not the book on Purgatory he’d just handed him. That one had been tossed aside with the rest. Instead, Sam had cracked open a book on baby names, his focus on it as intense as it was on any other kind of research. Dean barely suppressed a groan. Clearly, Sam wasn’t going to let this go anytime soon.

“What about Mary?” Sam asked without glancing up.

Dean wasn’t prepared for the question, but he wouldn’t have been able to prevent the way his body locked up even if he had been. Sam continued on, completely oblivious to the way Dean’s heart had dropped to his stomach with three simple words. Just one, really.

“I mean, when you said you were still picking out baby names, I was kind of surprised. I thought for sure you’d name her after Mom.” Sam said, his voice casual, almost expectant.

A breath caught in Dean’s throat, sharp and painful. His fingers curled into a fist at his side.

Mom.

Mary Winchester, burning on the ceiling. Flames devouring the hem of her nightgown, turning white lace to curling black ash. The way her mouth had gaped open in a silent scream, her eyes wide and unseeing as her body was consumed. The smell of it. The thick, acrid stench of burning flesh, of blood sizzling as it hit fire.

The sound of his father screaming.

The knowledge — seared into his brain at four years old — that this was the moment everything fell apart.

But it wasn’t just Mary burning anymore.

It was him.

Dean saw himself spread out on a worn bed, limbs slack, eyes glassy. Blood soaking into cheap sheets, a dark, pooling stain beneath him. The scent of it filled his nose, iron and death and loss, and he knew, he knew, that this was how it ended. For him. For Cas.

For their daughter.

He saw Cas holding their child alone, grief carved into his face, something hollow and broken in the way he clutched her. Or worse — Cas dead, his body left behind in the war in Heaven, leaving Bobby and Sam to raise her in hiding. Always looking over their shoulders. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He saw his daughter alone, growing up with the same grief that had haunted him.

He saw her standing in front of his grave, the way he had stood in front of Mary’s.

He saw her turning into him.

“No.”

His voice came out too sharp, too quick.

Sam frowned, finally looking up, blinking in confusion. “Why not?”

Dean swallowed hard. His tongue felt heavy, thick with something sour and rotten.

Because naming her Mary would be a curse.

Because he was Mary.

He was the one on the ceiling.

He was the one burning.

“She’s not a Mary,” he said, his voice rough, final.

And then he turned and walked out of the house, leaving Sam alone with the book.

The morning air was cool when Dean stepped outside, a crisp breeze rolling through the yard. The familiar scent of oil and rust filled his lungs as he walked onto the porch. Bobby was sitting on the front of the deck, a beer bottle hanging loosely between his fingers. Dean wordlessly joined him, watching as the sun reflected off of the car windows throughout the yard.

“So,” he finally muttered. “Sam’s back.”

Bobby took a slow pull of his beer, then grunted, “Yup.”

Silence settled between them, but this time it was comfortable. Familiar. 

Dean sighed, his shoulders sinking. The world felt too heavy right now. His body ached from the inside out, and to top it all off, he felt the steady tide of exhaustion creeping into his bones faster than it had any right to. His daughter was feeding again. 

He tried to fight it, but his eyes started to droop, and before long, his body leaned to the side. Bobby didn’t say anything, just scooted over slightly, offering his shoulder.

Dean felt like a little kid again, nodding off after a long hunt, resting against his dad on the drive home. But this was Bobby, and somehow, that felt safer. 

The last thing he remembered before sleep took him was the steady warmth of Bobby beside him, shielding him from the slight chill in the air. 

Dean opened his eyes to the familiar warmth of the kitchen he was slowly coming to recognize, the scent of something sweet lingering in the air. The wooden cabinets gleamed in the golden afternoon light filtering through the windows. 

And there she was.

Claire — except not Claire — stood before him, smiling with that wide, bright grin. Her green eyes sparkled, even as his brain told him that was wrong. Claire Novak’s eyes were blue. 

But the thought drifted away like smoke before he could hold onto it. 

She reached for his hand, small fingers curling around his own, warm and solid and real.

“Come on, Daddy,” she said, tugging him toward the large bay doors. “Come outside with me.”

Dean couldn’t think of a reason not to.

The garden was beautiful, the kind of perfect that only existed in childhood memories, or dreams. Sunlight bathed the landscape in soft gold, flowers swaying gently in the breeze. Bees hovered lazily above the petals, their buzzing a soft, steady hum in the background. 

Claire giggled and pulled him along, guiding him toward a small wooden playhouse nestled among the trees. 

“Come play with me!” She said, eyes alight with joy.

And so he did.

For what felt like hours, they played. Hide-and-seek among the tall flowers, tag through the sun-dappled grass. He ducked into the tiny playhouse, pretending to be a noble knight sworn to protect his queen, but she laughed and shook her head. 

“You’re not my knight,” she declared. “You’re my handmaiden!”

Dean huffed, but he couldn’t fight his grin. “Oh, so I’m demoted, huh?”

She nodded, her eyes bright. “Yup! Now fetch me a snack, handmaiden!”

He threw up his hands in defeat, letting out a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

And she laughed, a sweet, joyful sound, and for a moment — just for a moment — everything felt good.

Eventually, they collapsed onto the grass, lying side by side, staring up at the clear blue sky.

Dean had never felt so peaceful.

It was rare — impossible, even — to feel something so light. He let himself bask in it, listening to the quiet rustling of leaves, the distant chirping of birds.

But then Claire turned her head, looking at him, and something changed. 

The weight of her gaze sent a cold shiver through him. The brightness was gone, replaced by something far too old for her tiny five-year-old face. Her green-not-blue eyes locked onto his, and her expression softened into something sad.

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

Dean frowned, reaching out to brush her hair away from her face. “Why are you sorry, sweetheart?”

Claire hesitated, then whispered. “I’m making you sleep. So you can be with me.”

His breath caught, the edges of the dream fraying. It should have scared him, but instead, something inside him ached.

“It’s not your fault,” he murmured, thumb ghosting over her cheek. “I want you to take what you need.”

Claire’s lower lip trembled. “What if I take too much?” 

She sounded so scared, and Dean would do anything, say anything to make that go away. He smiled reassuringly at her, trying to inject as much warmth into it as possible. “You won’t, honey.”

She looked away, her small fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t want you to go.”

Dean swallowed past the lump in his throat. He pulled her closer, wrapping his arm across her tiny shoulders. “Then I won’t go,” he promised. “I’ll stay right here with you. We can play, I can make you lunch. We can stay here together.”

At this, Claire’s face crumpled. Her small hands clenched into fists, and a quiet sorrow seeped into her expression.

“You can’t,” she whispered. “You have to talk to Cas.”

Dean frowned. His grip on her tightened. “Cas isn’t here, honey,” he said gently. “He’s in Heaven, protecting us.”

Claire sat up abruptly, staring into the distance, her expression unreadable.

“You have to talk to him, Daddy.”

Dean followed her gaze, turning toward whatever she was seeing.

His breath left him.

Cas stood at the edge of the garden, motionless, his blue eyes piercing and solemn. He looked real — too real, too solid for this dreamscape — but impossibly far away, as if separated by a chasm Dean couldn’t cross.

Then, something in Cas shifted.

A hundred wings unfurled, dark as a starless sky, their edges razor-thin and endless. Within them, rings of burning eyes turned, unblinking, knowing. Faces formed and reformed in the shifting mass, speaking in voices that layered over one another, cascading into something too loud, too divine for human ears. The air vibrated with it, a thrumming pressure that settled deep in Dean’s ribs. His presence wasn’t just big — it was limitless, pressing against the fabric of the dream, bending reality around it. It was too much, too much. The cacophony rose, voices crashing over him like a tidal wave, and somewhere in the vastness of it all, he heard his name—

He gasped awake.

He was still outside, still leaning against Bobby’s shoulder — but now he wasn’t alone.

Cas was kneeling in front of him, so close that Dean could see the tension in his jaw, the deep worry carved into his face. His hands hovered near Dean’s knees, like he was debating whether to reach out or not.

Bobby let out a gruff sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

Dean blinked blearily, disoriented. The sky was orange and dusky, the sun dipping below the horizon. 

Hadn’t it just been mid-morning?

Cas’s expression was tight with concern. “Dean.”

Dean exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the lingering weight of the dream. “Cas?” His voice was hoarse. “What are you doing here?”

“Sam prayed to me,” Cas explained in a low murmur. “So I came to check in on his soul. When I came to look for you, Bobby said you wouldn’t wake.”

Dean forced himself to sit up, pushing past the exhaustion weighing him down. “I’m fine.” 

Cas’s expression darkened. “You’re not,” he said firmly. “Dean, this is progressing far too quickly. You should not be this drained.”

Dean exhaled through his nose, tilting his head back against Bobby’s shoulder. “She needs it, Cas.” 

Cas’s jaw tightened. “So do you.”

Before Dean could argue, Cas leaned forward, gripping him by the shoulders, and with effortless ease, he lifted Dean into his arms. Dean barely had time to process the movement before he found himself cradled against Cas’s chest in a bridal carry like he was some kind of damsel in distress. He knew he should protest, knew that if he had even an ounce of energy left, he’d be kicking up a fuss. 

But right now? He couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Cas’s arms were steady, his warmth seeping into Dean’s skin, and Dean let his head fall into the crook of Cas’s neck, breathing him in. He smelled like war, and death. He smelled like scorched holy fire and iron. Ozone and rain.

He smelled like home.

Cas carried him into the house, and as soon as they crossed the threshold, Sam shot up from his seat, his face a mask of alarm. 

“Dean?” Sam’s gaze flicked from his brother to Cas, his brow furrowing. “Is he okay?”

Dean sighed, tipping his head back against Cas’s shoulder. “I’m fine, Sammy.”

But Sam wasn’t buying it. His hands hovered uselessly, shifting his weight like he wanted to help but didn’t know how. Cas ignored him, lowering Dean onto the couch with meticulous care.

Dean barely had time to catch his breath before Cas was cupping his face, fingers brushing over his cheek with an almost reverent touch. Dean sighed, melting into it. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” He tried to reassure his mate. 

Cas’s eyes flickered with something hard and unreadable, “Yes,” he said softly. “It will be.”

Then his hand withdrew, reaching into his coat. When he pulled it out, his fingers curled around a small glass vial, glowing with an eerie, pulsing blue light.

Dean’s stomach turned to lead. 

Cas’s gaze hardened as he held up the vial, the glow casting sharp shadows over his face. “I just hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

Dean swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Cas… what is that?” He already knew, but his brain refused to accept it. “That looks like—”

“Angel grace,” Cas confirmed. His voice was steady, but there was something bitter at the edges. “This is from one of Raphael’s followers. There was a skirmish earlier today. I was able to do it quickly enough that no one saw me.”

Dean pushed himself upright, his muscles protesting with the strain. “Cas, no.”

Cas’s expression didn’t waver. “We don’t have a choice, Dean. You don’t have enough energy. If this continues, she will start to drain your soul next.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “Then let her.”

Cas’s grip on the vial tightened. “Dean—”

“Cas, if they find out you’re doing this, they’ll turn on you!” Dean snapped, forcing himself to sit up further,  though the effort sent a wave of dizziness through him. “You’re already on thin ice. If they catch you stealing grace—”

“Then they won’t find out,” Cas interrupted, his voice steel.

Dean shook his head, panic clawing at his ribs. “Cas—”

“When I said that I would do whatever it takes,” Cas growled, voice low and firm, “did you think I wasn’t serious?”

Dean swallowed hard. “What will they think when they realize that you’ve been sacrificing angels to feed your forbidden nephilim their grace?” His voice was hoarse, raw. “They’ll think you’re a monster, they’ll kill you.”

Cas didn’t flinch. “If they knew about our child, they’d kill me without a moment’s hesitation.” He leaned closer, his voice carrying more certainty than Dean had ever heard from him. “I don’t care what they’d think. They don’t matter. If protecting you, protecting our child, makes me a monster, then I will gladly be a monster.”

His breath ghosted over Dean’s lips, his words a promise edged in steel. “I will burn Heaven to the ground before I see harm come to either one of you.”

Dean couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

Cas’s forehead pressed against his, and the world shrank down to just this, just the warmth of Cas’s skin against his own, just the weight of his words ringing between them. “Do you understand me?” Cas whispered.

Dean exhaled shakily, his resolve crumbling. He couldn’t fight this. Couldn’t fight him.

Cas lifted the vial with near-reverence, pressing it to Dean’s lips. “Take it. Please.”

Dean didn’t answer. He just nodded, dumbly, and parted his lips. The grace slid down his throat, smooth and cool, spreading through him like liquid fire. It coiled in his chest, snaked through his veins, before settling low in his abdomen — where their child resided.

And then power crashed over him.

Energy surged through his body, setting every nerve alight. His exhaustion burned away like fog in the morning sun, and a breath of relief filled his lungs, deep and cleansing.

Across from him, Cas sagged slightly, his shoulders slumping with relief. The tension in his face eased, and for the first time in what felt like days, the tight line of his mouth softened. Dean barely had time to process what had just happened before Cas’s hands were on him again, cradling his face. Then Cas kissed him.

The moment their lips met, the fire inside him roared to life.

Dean melted into it, his body no longer weak, no longer heavy with exhaustion. Cas kissed him like he was something fragile and precious, like he was the only thing keeping Cas tethered to the world. 

When Cas pulled back, his eyes were dark, filled with something Dean couldn’t quite name.

“I love you,” Cas said, the words quiet but unshakable.

Dean opened his mouth, but before he could answer, Cas abruptly stood. 

“If you feel anything else — anything at all — pray to me,” he said, his voice edged with finality. He hesitated for just a moment. “And Dean…”

Dean swallowed. “Yeah?”

Cas’s eyes met his, steady, unwavering. 

“I will not fail.”

And then, with a rush of wings, he was gone.

Dean let his head fall back against the couch, eyes sliding closed. The weight that had been pressing down on him for weeks — months even — had lifted. Not completely, but the exhaustion that had settled in his bones, making every breath feel like a struggle, eased. He still felt tired, but it was a different kind of tired now. The kind that came after a long hunt, after a hard-won fight. His body ached, sure, but the grace coursing through his veins was like a shot of pure adrenaline, crackling just beneath his skin.

For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, he felt alive.

He flexed his fingers experimentally, then stretched his arms over his head, rolling his shoulders. The hum of energy in his body made him feel like he could run a marathon, or take on a full nest of vamps without even breaking a sweat.

Across from him, Sam settled gingerly into the armchair, watching him like he was afraid Dean might keel over any second. His fingers twitched against his knee, restless, his brow furrowed with something too heavy to be simple concern.

“Uh… how are you feeling?” Sam asked, his voice cautious — maybe a little too cautious. And yeah, no wonder. That must’ve been one hell of a show for his recently returned brother to witness with barely any context.

Dean smirked, leaning back against the cushions. “Like I could wrestle a wendigo,” he said, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Seriously, they should market that stuff as the new 5-Hour Energy.”

A faint, incredulous chuckle escaped Sam, and the tension in his shoulders loosened — just a fraction, but enough for Dean to notice. “I think it’d be a little harder to produce,” Sam quipped, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Dean let out a quiet huff of laughter, but as the moment stretched, his amusement faded. The weight in the room hadn’t lifted — if anything, it had only thickened. Sam’s fingers tapped rhythmically against his thigh, and his jaw twitched — tiny tells that screamed louder than words. There was a nervous energy rolling off him, tight and coiled, like he was bracing for something.

Dean studied him for a beat, then cut straight to the point. “Why’d you pray to Cas?”

Sam swallowed, his hands clasping together between his knees. He hesitated, gaze flicking to the floor, and for a second, Dean thought he wouldn’t answer. But then, finally, he met Dean’s eyes, his voice quiet.

“Look,” Sam began, measured and careful. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me. I thought it was everything with the baby — but you’ve been surprisingly open about that. So, I knew it had to be something worse.”

Dean’s stomach twisted. Of course Sam knew. He always did.

Sam inhaled sharply, his voice softer but no less heavy. “Dean, why did I have to find out from Cas that I’ve been here the whole time?”

Dean froze. He forced himself to keep his expression blank, but his pulse thudded loud in his ears.

“Well,” he said after a beat, voice rougher than intended, “you weren’t here the whole time.”

Sam’s jaw clenched, a flicker of anger flashing across his face. “I was here enough, ” he bit out. His voice trembled — barely — but Dean heard it all the same. “Cas said I was walking around without my soul. That I did things…”

Dean’s hands curled into fists at his sides, a flash of annoyance rising — not at Sam, but at the angel who couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “No wonder he ran,” he muttered darkly. “I’m gonna kill him.”

Sam’s head snapped up. “He just saved your life,” he protested, his voice sharper.

“Melodramatic,” Dean shot back, waving a hand dismissively. “He saved me from a nap. ”

Sam just looked at him with those big, sad eyes. “Dean…” His voice cracked, just a little. “I am so sorry.”

Dean’s chest ached at the words — at the way Sam’s voice trembled around them — but he shook his head, stubborn. “It wasn’t you, Sammy.”

“I’m not sure it’s that cut and dry.” Sam looked away, the muscle in his jaw jumping. “You keep saying that, but it was still me walking around. I was the one who—” He cut himself off, breathing out harshly through his nose. “I appreciate you trying to protect me, but I’ve got to fix what I can. So, I need you to tell me.”

Dean hesitated. He wanted to — hell, maybe he even needed to — but how was he supposed to unpack months of chaos, violence, and half-truths? How was he supposed to hand over that kind of burden without it crushing both of them?

“It’s… it’s a lot, okay?” He exhaled, the sound heavy and tired. “And I wasn’t even there for most of it. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of benched.”

Sam didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down. His voice was steadier now, but no less fierce. “But I did hurt you, didn’t I?”

Dean’s jaw tightened as memories flickered behind his eyes—too many moments he’d rather forget. The vampire nest. The panic room. The bruises that lingered long after the fights.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, but the words felt hollow even as they left his mouth.

“It matters to me, Dean.”

The weight of Sam’s guilt hung heavy in the air between them. Dean let out a slow breath, trying to push down the ache in his chest. Finally, he nodded. “Okay. I’ll tell you,” he relented. “But not all at once. One thing at a time.”

Sam studied him for a long moment, measuring his words, before he gave a curt nod. “Fine,” he said. “But you tell me one thing right now.”

Dean arched a brow. “You got something specific in mind, or…?”

Sam shook his head.

Dean sighed, dragging a hand through his hair as he searched for something — anything — he could offer up without opening wounds too deep to close. After a beat, he settled on the safest truth he could find.

“You kept trying to drag me into hunts, even when I said no.”

Sam let out a breath, the tension in his shoulders easing — but not by much. “Okay,” he said quietly. His fingers flexed against his knees. “What else?”

Dean shook his head. “That’s it for tonight. I know you slept for days, but you still need rest.”

Sam huffed softly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to argue but didn’t quite have the energy. “You’re gonna have to tell me eventually,” he warned.

Dean pushed himself up from the couch with a grunt, already turning toward the hall. “Like I said,” he called over his shoulder. “One thing at a time.”

Later that night, when Dean finally felt tired enough to sleep, he forced himself upstairs, each step heavier than the last. The grace still hummed beneath the surface, a low, steady pulse of power, but it didn’t stop the pull of his very human need for rest. It was a strange thing, being so worn down while something so vast and unrelenting burned inside him. Like his body and soul were moving at two different speeds, two opposing forces stuck in the same shell.

He barely made it to the bed before his legs gave out, sinking onto the mattress with a sigh. His boots hit the floor, then his jeans, but beyond that, he didn’t bother. The second his head hit the pillow, sleep dragged him under.

And then—

Sunlight.

Warm and golden, stretching over rolling fields, filtering through the trees, kissing his skin like an old memory. The air was sweet, thick with something floral, something light — something just out of reach, yet impossibly familiar. It settled in his chest like peace, like warmth, like home.

And when he blinked, adjusting to the brightness, he realized where he was.

The garden.

And she was there.

For a fleeting second, his mind tried to tell him it was Claire — younger than she should be, blonde, familiar in a way that tugged at something deep in his ribs. But the longer he looked, the more the truth settled in, heavy and undeniable. No, she wasn’t Claire.

She was his daughter.

The knowledge didn’t crash into him — it simply was, slipping into place so effortlessly that he couldn’t believe he’d ever thought otherwise. Of course she was his. She’d always been his.

She stood barefoot in the grass, bathed in golden light, smiling at him like he was the best damn thing in the world. Sunlight danced in her green eyes — his eyes — but there was something of Cas in her too, something in the shape of her face, the way she held herself, like she carried the quiet weight of knowing things beyond her years.

And yet, she was still just a kid.

His kid.

She reached for his hand, small fingers curling around his like it was the easiest thing in the world, like she had never known a reality where he wouldn’t take it.

“Come on,” she said, laughter spilling into her voice, bright and unburdened. “Let’s play.”

And there was no universe where he’d ever say no to that.

So they played.

She ran ahead, squealing with delight as she darted through the tall grass, glancing back to make sure he was chasing her. He was. He always would be. He let himself laugh, let himself be weightless in the moment, let himself forget anything existed beyond this. And when he caught her, sweeping her up in his arms and spinning her in the air, she shrieked with laughter, the sound ringing through the garden like a melody he never wanted to forget.

He memorized her — the way her nose scrunched just like Cas’s when she smiled, the way she threw her arms around his neck without hesitation, the way she looked at him like he was the safest place in the world.

And for her, he would be.

For as long as he could.

Until the day came where he couldn’t be anymore.

Chapter Text

Having his soul back, as it turned out, didn’t magically solve all of life’s problems.

Sam sighed, flipping yet another brittle page, his eyes skimming the faded text for anything useful. The book in his hands was one of the few Bobby had managed to dig up on Nephilim, but most of it read like myth and speculation rather than fact. Half of what he found, Dean had already dismissed outright, and the rest — well, Sam couldn’t blame him for being skeptical. Nephilim weren’t exactly common, and what little lore existed had been twisted over centuries, warped by religious doctrine and fear.

Still, it was all he had.

He adjusted his grip on the book, fingers absently tracing the aged ink. It was strange, reading about something so directly tied to Dean. Even stranger was the growing awareness of just how much he had missed. Seven months. He hadn’t been gone, not in the literal sense, but it sure felt like it. Like someone had scooped out a piece of his life and left him scrambling to make sense of the gaps.

And of course, Dean wasn’t helping.

Sam knew his brother. Knew the way Dean closed in on himself whenever things got too big, or painful, or dangerous. It had been like pulling teeth to get any real answers out of him, and Bobby hadn’t been much better. Anytime Sam tried, Bobby just muttered something about asking Dean and then changed the subject. That meant whatever they were hiding, it wasn’t just bad — it was the kind of bad that made even the usually blunt Bobby Singer tread carefully.

That left Cas. At least, it had for the few short minutes before the angel had hightailed it back to Heaven.

To be fair, Sam could hardly blame him. The guy had a literal civil war to fight. From what little Dean had told him, Raphael was still gunning to restart the apocalypse, and Cas was the only thing keeping the floodgates shut. Just another end-of-the-world crisis to add to the growing list.

Sam let out a slow breath, rubbing at the tension in his temple with one hand. It was exhausting, the way it never stopped. Like the universe had decided that the Winchesters weren’t allowed to catch a break. He’d barely had his soul back for a week, and already, it felt like he was drowning in everything he’d missed.

And then there were the monsters.

Bobby and Dean hadn’t been kidding about the sudden spike in supernatural activity. Just a few days ago, Bobby had gone off chasing a lead on Purgatory and had come back talking about dragons of all things. Dragons. If that didn’t scream “end of days” Sam didn’t know what did. Thank god they had at least gotten rid of Crowley, but they still had to deal with the mess he’d started. 

One crisis at a time would be too easy, apparently.

Sam glanced at the clock. It had been a few hours since he’d seen Dean. His brother had mumbled something about taking a nap, and though Sam hadn’t said anything at the time, it was starting to concern him. Dean had been sleeping more than usual, and though it wasn’t exactly weird for him to crash midday, it was the way Bobby and Cas had reacted that put Sam on edge. The way Cas had carried Dean inside like he weighed nothing, his expression dark. The way Bobby hovered, constantly watching Dean like he expected something to go wrong.

The way Cas had said, so gravely that it sent shivers down Sam’s spine, that the Nephilim might start drawing from Dean’s soul.

Sam clenched his jaw, flipping another page with a little too much force, tearing it slightly. He let out a sigh as he smoothed it down, repressing the urge to throw the book at the wall instead. He still didn’t know the full story, but what he had pieced together wasn’t good.

He let out a slow breath and leaned back against the couch, rolling out the tension in his shoulders. He’d give Dean another hour before going to check on him. If his brother was still passed out by then, well — Sam wasn’t above shaking some answers out of him.

Still, something told him he wasn’t going to like what he found.

He had just about convinced himself to go upstairs when he heard the soft creak of the stairs. He looked up in time to see Dean descending, moving a little slower than Sam was used to seeing, but he was steady.

For the first time since Sam had woken up in the panic room, Dean didn’t look like he was about to collapse. There was still exhaustion lining his face, but something in his posture had changed — he wasn’t quite as weighed down. Lighter. Not happier, exactly, but… something close to it.

Dean nodded at him in greeting as he stepped into the living room, dropping unceremoniously into the armchair across from Sam. He propped his feet up on the coffee table in that careless way that would’ve earned him a glare or a swat upside the head from Bobby under normal circumstances. But Bobby wasn’t here right now, and even if he had been, the man hadn’t been enforcing his usual house rules lately — especially when it came to Dean.

Sam had noticed it — the way Bobby’s patience stretched in ways it never had before. The man who used to grumble at them for tracking mud into his house now barely blinked when angels flapped into his living room, when books went flying off shelves from a sudden surge of uncontrolled grace, when the air itself crackled with power when Dean got too frustrated. It wasn’t that Bobby didn’t care — if anything, he cared more. That same instinct that once had him watching over two reckless kids now kept him hovering, his sharp eyes tracking Dean with quiet, unwavering concern. And Sam felt it too — that silent, heavy anticipation, like they were both just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And if Sam was being honest, he wasn’t any better. He might have been an alpha, but Dean had been his big brother first — always the one to take charge, to throw himself into the line of fire without a second thought. But now, it was impossible to ignore the reality staring him in the face: Dean wasn’t just his brother. He was an omega. A pregnant omega. And no matter how much Dean bristled at even the slightest hint of coddling, Sam couldn’t just turn off the instinct. It was hardwired into him, this deep-seated need to protect, to keep track of every shift in Dean’s scent, every subtle wince when he moved wrong. Whether Dean wanted it or not, Sam couldn’t help but watch over him.

Even now, with Dean looking healthier and more rested than Sam had seen in days, he couldn’t shake the worry clawing at the edges of his mind.

Still, he let it go for now, returning his attention to the book in his hands. He had already read it cover to cover, but he wasn’t exactly spoiled for options. Between him, Dean, and Bobby, they had scrounged up only a handful of books on Nephilim, and the information in them was… not exactly credible. He was barely ten minutes into rereading the same useless passage when Dean let out an exaggerated sigh.

Sam looked up. “What?”

Dean blinked at him. “What do you mean, what?”

“You clearly want something.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, Sam. I want to be let out of this damn house for more than five minutes before I kick the bucket. I mean, what is it Bobby’s hunting this time? Last time was a dragon, maybe this time he’ll come back with a unicorn.”

“Dude, you don’t hunt unicorns,” Sam protested, wrinkling his nose slightly. 

“Yeah, and you don’t shoot Bambi either. That’s not my point. My point is—” Dean sighed. “I just want to do something other than sit around, waiting for a miracle instead of going out and doing something.”

Sam winced. It was easy to forget sometimes, in the small moments between, that Dean’s time was running out. That, in a matter of weeks, his brother might—

No.

He clenched his jaw, gripping the book tighter in his hands. Dean looked better today. That had to mean something, right? Sam wasn’t giving up yet. He refused to.

But they couldn’t just sit here, waiting for something to happen. Dean was right — that wasn’t how they did things.

His eyes drifted to another book on the table — the one filled with baby names, half of them crossed out already. Then, to the pendant resting against Dean’s collarbone. An idea began to form.

“That necklace,” Sam said, leaning forward. “It hides you from Heaven, right?”

Dean frowned, his fingers brushing absently over the charm. “Yeah. Why?”

“Then why can’t we leave?” Sam asked. “Get out for a while?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You mean…”

“I’m not saying we find a hunt or anything,” Sam rushed to clarify. “But we could just… I don't know, drive for a bit. Get out of here for a couple of hours.”

Dean hesitated, but Sam could see the interest in his posture. “Bobby won’t like it.”

“Bobby’s out hunting unicorns right now,” Sam pointed out. “He’s not gonna know.” He closed the book with a decisive snap and stood from the couch. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Dean looked at him, weighing it. Then, slowly, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth — not his usual sharp-edged smirk, but something softer. Something that made Sam think maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t a mistake.

Dean pushed himself to his feet, stretching a little before reaching for his jacket. Sam watched him for a moment before turning to grab his own things. 

If his brother only had weeks left to live, Sam was going to make damn sure they were weeks worth living. 

Dean didn’t dream anymore.

Not in the way he used to anyway — not in the way that left him waking in a cold sweat, heart pounding from memories of fire, blood, and the scrape of Hell’s hooks against his flesh. Now there was none of that. Now, everytime he closed his eyes, he saw her.

His daughter.

She was always there, waiting for him in the golden glow of the garden, caught in a place that wasn’t quite Heaven but something achingly close. Here, she wasn’t the fragile newborn he would never hold or the child whose first steps he would never witness. In the garden, she was older — whole — her own person, her eyes bright with something sharp and knowing, her small fingers reaching for the golden leaves that drifted lazily from the trees.

And her eyes… they were his. His shape, his color, that same mischievous glint he used to catch in the mirror before life had worn him down. But the rest of her — she was all Cas.

The delicate furrow of her brow when she concentrated. The slight scrunch of her nose when something failed to impress her. The quiet, weighty way she watched him, as if she saw past skin and bone, past time itself, straight to the core of who he was.

Dean ached for her.

Being awake was harder now, because it meant being away from her. Bobby and Sam didn’t understand that — not really. They pushed him to stay awake, kept him busy with research, made sure he ate, drank, moved. They thought they were helping, and maybe they were, but every second they kept him from sleeping was a second stolen from her.

Still, she was with him even in the waking world. Her grace hummed under his skin, wrapping around his soul, growing stronger by the day. He could feel her. She was feeding from him, drawing from his energy, from the grace Cas had given him. And every day, as her strength grew, the fire of that borrowed grace in his body lessened. Soon it would be gone, and she’d go back to pulling solely from him.

Dean should’ve been worried about that. 

Instead, he found himself looking forward to it.

It was sick, maybe. Stupid, definitely. But there was something grounding about the idea that he was the one keeping her alive. Not just in the usual omega way — yeah, he was carrying her, but this was more than that. His body was a vessel. His soul, if it came down to it, could be hers to take. He didn’t know what that meant, or what that would do to him in the end, but some part of him didn’t care.

If Cas came back with more grace, Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to take it.

He wanted—

Dean wasn’t sure what he wanted.

He was torn between the waking world and the sleeping one, between the daughter curled in his womb and the one in the garden, even though he knew they were one and the same.

The thought made his chest feel too tight, so he leaned back against the passenger seat and let the steady hum of the Impala’s engine soothe him, 

Sam had given him a weird look when they first got in the car, like he was expecting an argument. A few months ago, he probably would’ve gotten one. But Dean had come to terms with it — narcolepsy and driving didn’t mix, and he wasn’t about to risk crashing his Baby into a ditch just because he was stubborn. So, Sam drove, and Dean let himself relax, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and gunpowder, letting the world blur past the window.

Something loosened in his chest as they put miles between them and Bobby’s house. He knew this wasn’t smart. Definitely wasn’t safe. But he couldn’t bring himself to care.

At least, not until he saw where Sam was taking them.

“No. Sam, no.”

Sam pulled into the parking lot of a baby supply store, ignoring him entirely as he cut the engine.

“You wanna go back to Bobby’s?” Sam asked, glancing at him like he already knew the answer. 

Dean scowled, sinking lower in his seat. He was still glaring as Sam practically leapt out of the car, looking way too thrilled about this whole thing.

With a resigned sigh, Dean followed him inside.

The store was overwhelming the second he stepped through the doors. Brightly colored toys lined the walls, stuffed animals stacked in neat little pyramids, rows upon rows of tiny clothes, and grinning pictures of Gerber babies staring at him from every side. The air smelled like fresh plastic and baby powder, and the whole place made Dean feel like he was walking into something he wasn’t supposed to.

This wasn't for him.

If Sam wanted to shop for baby stuff, he could’ve done it himself. It wasn’t like Dean’s opinion mattered — not when he wasn’t going to be around to see any of this put to use.

His throat felt tight, and he fought to shove the thought away, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. 

Sam, oblivious, was bounding ahead like a giant Labrador, picking up rattles, pointing at cribs, making comments about diaper brands as if Dean had any intention of caring. 

Dean just focused on breathing.

His daughter was with him, humming softly under his skin. She was always there, a steady pulse of warmth in his core. But this time, there was something new — a curiosity threading through her presence.

Dean blinked, pulled out of his own head just enough to realize he’d stopped in front of the infant blankets. 

They were soft, embroidered with different letters, stacked neatly on display. 

The warmth in his middle pulsed again.

Dean frowned, running his fingers over the blankets, letting them sift through his hands. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for until he touched a pale yellow one with the letter ‘N’ stitched carefully into the corner.

His daughter buzzed inside him, excitement sparking through their bond.

Dean exhaled, lips quirking up despite himself. “This is the one, huh?”

Sam, having finally noticed Dean wasn’t behind him, doubled back. “What’s going on?”

Dean held up the blanket, giving it a little shake. “Little ass kicker likes this one.”

Sam squinted at it. “N? What’s up with that?”

Dean shrugged. “No idea. Maybe we called her ‘the Nephilim’ so much she thinks it’s her name.”

His daughter’s amusement echoed his own, but she gave no further hints.

Dean rolled his eyes but tightened his grip on the blanket. “Well, looks like we found something she likes, at least. We good to go?”

Sam hesitated. “Well, I—”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “I swear to God, if you’re about to suggest we look at cribs, I’m going to smite you.”

Sam spluttered. “Can you— can you actually do that?”

Dean just smirked cryptically and turned back toward the front of the store.

Sam huffed behind him, but followed.

Amusement carried Dean all the way to the checkout, where the cashier — a middle-aged beta woman with a warm smile — mistook Sam for his mate.

“Oh, your first?” she asked, ringing up the blanket.

Dean didn’t even try to hold back his laughter as Sam’s face instantly went red.

“We’re brothers,” Sam corrected, a little too hastily. “I’m just—helping.”

The woman glanced between them, one brow arching before she shrugged. “That’s sweet. Congratulations.”

Dean was still chuckling as they walked out to the car. Yeah, he’d nearly lost it in the middle of the store, but watching Sam turn tomato-red in public? Totally worth it.

And, well… maybe the omega treatment wasn’t so bad. Sam hadn’t bitched much about it, and when Dean insisted on greasy diner food, he barely put up a fight—just sighed and pulled into the nearest one like a man accepting his fate.

The second they parked, Dean was out of the car, the scent of sizzling meat and too much grease hitting him the moment they stepped inside. His stomach growled loudly, reminding him just how long it had been since he’d eaten. For the first time in what felt like forever, something actually sounded good. His body might have been running on borrowed grace, his insides practically rewired from the Nephilim siphoning energy off him, but dammit — he was still human enough to appreciate a greasy, juicy burger.

He plopped down in the booth, stretching out a little, and flipped through the laminated menu. Across from him, Sam sighed through his nose like he already knew what was coming.

Dean grinned. Too bad, Sammy.

When the waitress came by, Dean ordered the biggest burger on the menu, complete with bacon, onion rings, and extra cheese. He threw in a side of fries and a milkshake for good measure, because why the hell not? He was eating for two, after all.

Sam gave him a look of pure judgment as he ordered a sad little salad, but Dean barely noticed. His middle thrummed with warmth, his daughter humming with anticipation, and he smirked as he rubbed a hand over his stomach.

“Kid’s excited,” he said.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Guess she takes after you then.”

Dean just leaned back and enjoyed the moment. This — sitting in a diner, ordering too much food just to gross Sam out, feeling good — this is what he had missed. 

When the food came, Dean wasted no time digging in, the first bite practically making him moan. It was greasy, messy perfection. His daughter’s grace lit up in approval, her excitement a bright flicker inside him. Dean savored every bite, relishing in the way she mirrored his contentment. 

When he was only halfway through his burger, the bell above the diner door chimed.

Dean didn’t know why it set him on edge, why the hair on the back of his neck bristled like he’d just stepped into a trap. But the second the door swung open, the warmth under his ribs shifted — twisting, tightening into something sharp and warning.

Something was wrong.

He looked up.

Three men had stepped inside, their movements just a little too controlled, their postures unnaturally stiff, like they weren’t entirely used to wearing human skin. Dean knew that look. He’d seen it too many times before. And the moment he felt their grace, cold and unmistakable, his stomach turned to ice.

Angels.

And not the friendly kind.

His pulse hammered as a terrifying thought slammed into him. They know. They know about the baby. They’re here to kill us.

For one awful second, he thought he felt the grace inside him recoil — his daughter sensing danger, curling inward like she knew she was being hunted.

Dean forced himself to breathe. No. No, they wouldn’t be walking in here all casual if they knew. They’d be smiting first, asking questions later.

Still, he could feel his body tensing, his instincts screaming to run, to fight, to do something — but there was nowhere to go. Not here. Not in a diner full of clueless people who’d get caught in the crossfire if this went sideways.

Across from him, Sam must have noticed too, because he went rigid, his fingers curling tight around his fork like he was considering using it as a weapon. Dean barely resisted the urge to groan. Couldn’t they get through one damn meal without some heavenly dick-measuring contest?

The angels spotted them immediately, their gazes locking on with cold, unyielding focus. They strode toward the table with purpose, and Dean sighed, dropping his burger back onto the plate. So much for lunch.

The lead angel — a tall, broad bastard with an expression like he’d just stepped in something foul — stopped just shy of their table.

“Winchesters,” he greeted, his voice sharp as ice. “We know you have been aiding Castiel in his rebellion.”

For a heartbeat, Dean didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. But then, the tension coiled in his chest loosened just a fraction. They don’t know about the baby. This wasn’t about her. This was about the war.

He scoffed, rolling his shoulders back, trying to look as unconcerned as someone not actively growing an illegal Nephilim inside them. “Yeah? What’s it to you?”

The second angel sneered, his lip curling in disgust. “Raphael sends his regards.”

Of course he did.

The third angel didn’t waste any time.

With a blur of movement, he drew an angel blade. The other two followed suit, their weapons gleaming under the diner’s fluorescent lights. Just like that, the entire room shifted. The air crackled, thick with energy, humming like a live wire ready to snap.

Dean and Sam were already moving, sliding out of the booth in perfect sync, hands going for their own blades.

The first angel lunged at Dean. He met him halfway. Their blades clashed with a metallic screech, the force of it rattling down Dean’s arms. He gritted his teeth, twisting and ducking under a wild swing before driving a sharp kick to the angel’s ribs. The bastard barely stumbled.

Sam was holding his own, grunting as he shoved the second angel back against the counter, the linoleum squealing under their weight. The third one circled, predatory, waiting for an opening.

Dean barely had time to track him before something inside him shifted — his daughter’s grace surging to the surface, rushing forward like a tidal wave.

For a fraction of a second, everything slowed. Dean dodged the first angel’s blade without thinking, rolling to his feet in one smooth motion. He spun, ready to strike — except his opponent wasn’t moving.

The angel was frozen.

Suspended mid-action, his eyes wide with shock. Like someone had hit pause on reality itself.

“What—”

Dean didn’t give him time to finish. He surged forward and slit the angel’s throat.

Grace spilled from the wound in a brilliant flash, curling into the air like mist. And before Dean even thought about what he was doing, he breathed it in.

It wasn’t a choice. It was instinct. Something deep, something primal, something fueled by the Nephilim inside him. Her power called to the loose grace, drawing it in, devouring it like a flame starved for oxygen. Energy slammed through Dean’s veins, bright and burning, just like it had when Cas had given him grace. It was intoxicating.

He barely had time to process before Sam’s fight brought the second angel straight into his path.

Sam knocked his opponent backward. Dean stepped in without hesitation.

One clean strike. Another burst of light. More grace, more power flooding into him, setting every nerve in his body on fire.

The last angel panicked. Dean saw it in his eyes — that split-second realization that this fight had never been theirs to win.

Dean lifted a hand.

The angel stopped.

Suspended, trapped in an invisible grip. Dean could feel his own body thrumming, energy radiating off him in waves. He stepped forward, looming over his prey.

The angel struggled, fear flashing across his face, but it didn’t matter.

Dean’s blade sliced clean through his throat.

Grace spilled into the air.

And Dean took it.

The moment it hit, his body exploded with power. His vision blurred, the world tilting sideways, his whole body vibrating so high he thought he might burn up completely.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard Sam shouting his name, but it was fading. Everything was fading.

The world went white.

Golden light filled Dean’s vision as he blinked his eyes open.

The garden.

The air was warm, humming with quiet life, and across from him, nestled in the grass, his daughter sat with the yellow blanket spread over her lap. Small fingers traced the letter ‘N’ into the fabric with careful precision.

Dean let out a slow breath, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he moved closer. “Please tell me the N isn’t for Nephilim.”

His daughter giggled, her eyes bright with mischief. “No, Daddy.”

“Good. Not sure how I’d explain that one to Cas.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “So, you gonna tell me what it does stand for?”

She grinned. “You have to guess.”

Dean smirked, rising to the challenge. “Alright, let’s see… Nicky?”

“Nope!” she chirped.

He scrunched up his face, pretending to think hard. “Natalie?”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Hmmm… What about Nancy?”

She burst into giggles, shaking her head wildly.

Dean huffed in exaggerated defeat. “Maybe the N stands for No, since you seem to like that word so much.”

“Noooo,” she sang, drawing out the word playfully.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “It better not be some weird angel name.”

A voice sounded behind him. “Now would that be so bad?”

Dean turned and saw Cas. Or rather, the version of Cas his daughter kept in the garden. He could tell right away that it wasn’t the real Cas, especially after the real Cas had pulled him from the garden not so long ago. That had been different, real. This Cas was just a memory, a reflection.

Still, that didn’t mean that Dean couldn’t enjoy this. He smirked at Cas. “I dunno, I’ve heard some pretty bad ones. I mean, what kind of names are Gamaliel? Or what about Sandalphon?”

His daughter perked up. “Balthazar.”

Dean laughed, turning back to her. “Exactly! See, you get it!” 

His smile froze on his face as he saw her eyes. She was looking past him, her small brows knitting together. 

“He’s here,” she murmured, “He wants to speak with you.”

The garden lurched, the golden light spinning before his eyes—

He gasped awake on the floor of the diner, sucking in air in a rush as his whole body crackled with energy. The stolen grace burned beneath his skin, and alongside it, his daughter — stronger and more present than he had ever felt outside of the dream.

The diner was a wreck. Blood from the angels was splattered across the floor, their vessels sprawled across the tiles like broken dolls. The reek of burning ozone still hung thick in the air, cloying combined with the scent of fryer grease.

And Balthazar was there, standing in the middle of it all, watching him with something that wasn’t quite fear but wasn’t far off either.

“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty.” Balthazar said lightly, but Dean didn’t miss the way he stayed well out of arm’s reach. “Get enough rest?”

Dean barely resisted the urge to bare his teeth at the angel. His muscles were tight, coiled with something itching for more. He could still taste grace on his tongue like honey and lightning, and his stomach churned with it.

“What do you want?” he growled, voice hoarse.

Balthazar sighed theatrically. “Straight to business, then. Fine. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Raphael’s on the move, and this little stunt of yours was like ringing a dinner bell. You were already on his radar, but now? I’d wager you’ve just leapt to the top of his ‘things to smite’ list.”

“Yeah, I think we noticed,” Sam groaned from somewhere off to the side, pushing himself up from where he’d been thrown during the fight. His hair was mussed, and he had a cut on his temple, but otherwise, he looked intact. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

Balthazar rolled his eyes. “Do I really have to spell it out for you? Raphael’s not just going after your darling Castiel. He’s going after anyone who’s ever helped him, which includes you two, and much more importantly — me.” 

Dean’s stomach twisted at the mention of Cas. “Where is he?” he demanded.

Balthazar waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, your baby daddy’s still kicking, don’t worry. He’s just very deep underground, which is where I suggest we all head next.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “And you’re helping us why, exactly?”

Balthazar scoffed. “Because I’ve already taken sides, haven’t I? Might as well throw all my chips in. Now, are we going to stand around gabbing all day, or are we going to get the hell out of here before reinforcements arrive?”

He stepped forward like he was going to grab Dean’s arm, but the second he got close, Dean felt something in him shift — the stolen grace flaring bright, dangerous and protective. His pupils blew wide, and his breath hitched as the raw power crackled through his veins.

Balthazar stopped short. His face smoothed over into something unreadable, but Dean caught the flicker of wariness beneath it. 

“You know,” Balthazar murmured, tilting his head. “I never quite believed the tales about Nephilim. Never ended up volunteered for that particular duty. But the things the others said about them — I thought they were just fearmongering. Superstitions. But now? Now I believe it.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “Yeah? What exactly do you think you believe?”

Balthazar moved slowly now, like he was circling a dangerous predator. “What I just saw… do you know how taboo it is for an angel to take another angel’s grace? I mean, it’s basically what you’d call cannibalism. Any angel who would even think of it would be put to death. It’s monstrous. But you…” He looked Dean up and down, something calculating in his gaze. “You just snacked on three angels like it was nothing.” He let out a dry chuckle. “It’s a good thing we’re in the middle of a war or else you’d have the combined forces of heaven tracking you down.”

Dean’s hackles rose defensively. “She’s not a monster,” he said, voice hard.

Balthazar chuckled darkly. “Oh, but she is. She’s the perfect monster Castiel needs to end this war. With a Nephilim’s power, even Raphael will fall.”

Dean’s blood went cold. “Cas wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t what?” Balthazar cut in smoothly. “Wouldn’t use you? Wouldn’t see just how convenient this all is? Oh, I agree, he’d never be that calculating. He has such an annoying little blind spot when it comes to you if you ask me, but the truth remains — this changes everything. The tides of war will turn, and you? What you carry? That’s the key.”

Dean shook his head. “Our kid isn’t some kind of weapon.”

“You’re wrong.” Balthazar smirked. “But there’s no point in convincing you, is there? That’s the most convenient part of all of this really — this first victim of a Nephilim is always the mother.”

White-hot rage exploded in Dean’s chest. He lunged, but before he could get his hands on the smug bastard, the world lurched.

The next thing he knew, he and Sam were crashing down onto the cold cement floor of an unfamiliar basement, the air filled with the rush of departing wings. Dean rushed to his feet, turning for any sign of the angel, but he was long gone. The fury inside him boiled over, burning hotter than the stolen grace under his skin. His fists clenched, his breath came sharp and fast, and before he could stop himself, he swung—

Crack.

His fist drove into the nearest wall, splitting concrete like paper.Dust and small chunks of debris crumbled to the floor, leaving behind a gaping hole in the foundation. His knuckles stung for a brief moment before healing. Even that wasn’t nearly enough to cut through the rage curling in his gut.

“Damn it!” he snarled. “Fuck!”

Sam flinched at the sudden explosion of violence but didn’t hesitate before stepping forward. “Dean, it’s alright.” His voice was low, calm — the way someone might talk to a cornered animal. He reached out, hands hovering near Dean’s shoulders, but the moment his fingers brushed fabric, Dean jerked away.

“Nothing’s alright, Sam!” Dean snapped, twisting out of reach. His eyes burned, angelic power still pressing just under his skin, making him feel too big, too unstable. “What if he’s right? What if the second I kick it, they take her and turn her into a damn weapon?”

Sam set his jaw. “We won’t let that happen.”

“You don’t know that.” Dean paced, his voice dropping into a growl.

“Yeah? Well I don’t know a lot of things right now, Dean,” Sam shot back. His voice was frustrated, but he was clearly making an effort to not direct it at Dean. “I’m missing months of my life. I barely even know what the hell happened while I was walking around without my soul. But there is one thing I know, Dean and that's that this isn’t the end for us.” He locked eyes with Dean, his gaze determined. “We’re gonna beat this. But I need you to do something first.”

Dean swallowed hard, his throat tight. “...What?”

Sam sighed, reaching into his jacket pocket. After a moment, he pulled something out. “Try to believe you’re gonna make it,” he said, holding the object out. “I can believe for both of us, but it’d be a hell of a lot easier if I didn’t have to.”

Dean hesitated before taking it, his fingers brushing against soft fabric. When he looked down at it, he froze.

It was the yellow baby blanket.

The same one he’d grabbed that day in the store. The one his daughter was so fond of. It was still folded, still small in his hands, but the moment he touched it, the writhing energy inside him settled. Like a screaming child being soothed, the foreign grace tucked itself away, the raging storm in his chest easing just enough for him to breathe.

Sam blew out a careful breath, watching him. “If you can’t believe for yourself, do it for her,” he said. “Because if you don’t make it, I don’t know if we can stop Heaven from coming for her. Balthazar might be right.” His voice softened. “But if you live? I know he’s wrong. Because I know there’s nothing you won’t do for family.”

Dean stared down at the blanket, fingers curling around the fabric. His jaw clenched, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything. The weight of it settled into his bones, heavier than it should have been.

Then, finally, he swallowed. “...Alright.”

Sam nodded, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “Good. Now let’s figure out where the hell we are.”

Together, they searched the basement. Sam took point, scanning the area until he spotted something in the far corner. “Here,” he called, striding over.

Dean followed as Sam pushed on a metal door, revealing a staircase leading up. The air that hit them was colder, fresher, laced with the faint scent of oil and old machinery. They climbed fast, boots clunking on metal, and when they finally burst into the open, Dean squinted at the sudden brightness. The hall around them was wide open, with high ceilings and the sound of creaking equipment. A cannery.

“What the hell?” Dean murmured, looking around. Why the hell would Balthazar send them here? Before they could step further into the building, another set of footsteps rushed toward them.

“Shit—” Dean barely had time to react before two figures rounded the corner, guns raised. 

“Hey, hey, hey! Don’t shoot!” Sam threw up his hands immediately, stepping in front of Dean on instinct.

Bobby Singer and Rufus Turner froze.

“Sam?” Bobby’s voice was sharp with confusion, his eyes sweeping over them both. His expression shifted as his gaze landed on Dean. “Dean!” 

Dean let out a breath. “Where the hell are we?”

Bobby lowered his gun, still frowning. “Ohio,” he said. “You’re telling me you didn’t know that?”

Sam shook his head. “Look, we ran into some angels. We took care of them, but… somehow, we ended up here.”

Bobby let out a low whistle. “Well I’ll be damned. Rufus and I were scouting this place out. Bunch of monster hooey’s been happening along I-80, all leading this way.”

Dean huffed as he looked the other hunter up and down. “Damn, Rufus. I didn’t think it was possible for you to get uglier.”

“And I knew you’d be fatter, but seeing it is something else,” Rufus shot back without missing a beat.

Dean snorted, shaking his head. “At least I’m—”

“Hey!” Bobby snapped, his gruff voice cutting through the banter. “Are we on a damn hunt or what? Let’s make sure the place is clear before you two pull out the rulers.”

Dean and Rufus both rolled their eyes, but they still sported matching smirks. The banter did loosen something in his chest, the tension easing slightly as they turned as a group down the hallway.

They moved as one, years of hunting together making their steps instinctive, seamless. Dean and Sam flanked Bobby and Rufus as they advanced deeper into the cannery, their boots silent against the worn concrete floor. The air was thick with the scent of rust and old oil, shadows stretching long beneath the dim industrial lighting.

Just ahead, a heavy door loomed, its surface marred with age and grime. Before they could reach it, the hinges groaned, the door yawning open just enough for a small figure to slip through. She froze the moment she saw them.

Dean drew in a breath as he recognized her. “Gwen.”

Her eyes widened, her scent spiking with uncertainty. She held herself tense, caught between the instinct to run and the urge to stand her ground. But it wasn’t her reaction that had Dean’s muscles going rigid.

It was what lay just beyond her, framed in the grimy windowpane of the door she’d come through.

Samuel.

Heat surged through Dean’s veins, anger igniting like dry kindling. His entire body coiled, the stolen grace beneath his ribs flaring, responding to his rage like a live wire touching water. His skin prickled, power thrumming beneath the surface, barely restrained.

Memories slammed into him — Samuel’s betrayal, that moment in the prison when the bastard had chosen Crowley over family. The way demons had swarmed him, how he had fought like a rabid animal, every strike fueled by desperation and fury. Every second not spent wondering if his daughter was still alive had been spent clinging to the singular, savage need to tear Samuel’s throat out with his teeth.

Now, he knew she was alive. He could feel her, a steady ember burning beneath the storm of his emotions. But that certainty did nothing to dull the fury pounding against his skull.

Before he could think better of it, he shoved past Gewn and into the room, his entire focus trained on the man who had betrayed them.

Samuel barely had time to blink before Dean was storming toward him. 

Before Dean could make good on his intent to actually kill his grandfather, Sam was suddenly in his way, blocking his path. “Hey!” His brother barked, holding out a hand between them.

Dean’s fists clenched, his teeth still bared. “Sam, get the hell out of my way.”

Sam didn’t budge. “Look, just take a second.”

Dean’s teeth ground together, but Sam held his ground, eyes steady.

Rufus, standing off to the side, took in the tension with a raised eyebrow. “I take it you know each other.”

Sam, still watching Dean carefully, answered. “He’s our grandfather.”

Rufus’s other brow raised to join the first. “Oh. Somebody needs a hug.”

Bobby ignored him, crossing his arms as he leveled Samuel with a hard stare. “Why are you here?”

Samuel straightened his shoulders, his tone laced with something defensive. “We’re working. You?”

“None of your damn business,” Dean snapped, the words leaving his mouth like venom.

Bobby exhaled sharply and shot Sam a look. “Sam, maybe take Dean for a walk.”

Sam hesitated before reaching for Dean’s shoulder, but Dean growled low in his throat, his eyes sparking with barely restrained aggression. He didn’t want to lash out at Sam, but the grace roiling inside him needed an outlet, and if Sam put a hand on him, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Fortunately, Sam wasn’t stupid, and his hands shot up immediately in surrender, taking a deliberate step back. 

Dean relaxed as soon as Sam made it clear he wasn’t about to drag him outside. He glanced at Samuel before hissing in a whisper at Sam. “You don’t remember what he did, Sam. I do.”

Sam’s jaw tightened, his gaze darting to their grandfather as he lowered his voice to match Dean’s. “I know. Just… not yet. Maybe he knows something.”

Dean wanted to argue, but the words died on his tongue. Instead, he gave a sharp nod, barely containing the restless energy that still burned through him. The only thing keeping him grounded was the steady pulse of his daughter’s grace inside him. 

They turned back to the group, tension still thick in the air. 

Bobby eyes Samuel critically. “So… You’re Samuel.”

Samuel’s gaze slid over to him, sharp with disapproval. “You must be the guy pretending to be their father.”

Dean bristled, a low, warning growl slipping from his throat before he could stop it. He caught the sour scent in Samuel’s scent, something unpleasant curling at the edges.

Bobby gave a small snort. “Well, somebody ought to.”

Samuel’s expression faltered for half a second before he straightened again, setting his sights on Sam. “You’re looking well.”

Sam barely held back a scoff. “Save the small talk, alright?”

Samuel frowned, his gaze turning scrutinizing. “You seem… different.”

Sam’s expression hardened. “I got my soul back. No thanks to you, I hear.”

Samuel’s face flickered with something unreadable. “You hear?” His eyes widened slightly as realization dawned. “You don’t remember.”

Sam’s shoulders squared. “I remember enough.”

Before the tension could mount any further, Rufus clapped his hands together. “I, uh, really hate to break up this little circle of love, but why don’t we talk shop, huh? How about you tell us what it is you’re hunting?”

Samuel’s lips pressed into a thin line before he finally answered. “A creature from Purgatory. She calls herself Eve.”

Sam frowned. “Eve?”

“Yep. They call her Mother. Every freak that walks the face of the earth can be traced back to her. And she’s back.”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “How the hell do you know all that?”

Samuel gave a dismissive shrug. “You don’t know half the things I know, kid. Hell, until recently, you didn’t even know about us.”

Bobby’s voice went steel-cold. “I now know that you’d throw your own kin to hungry ghouls. I think I know enough.”

From the corner of his eye, Dean saw Gwen stiffen. “You what?” she asked, her voice shrill with disbelief.

Samuel’s jaw clenched. “Don’t listen to them.”

Dean scoffed. “Why? Because if she listened to us, she might find out that you tried to kill me? To kill your family? Maybe she’d find out you don’t even know the meaning of the word.”

Gwen turned to Samuel, something dark and unsettled in her eyes. “I didn’t know.” She hesitated for half a second. “But now that I do…”

She moved fast, gun swinging up—

The gunshot cracked through the air, echoing against the walls as Sam grabbed her wrist, forcing the shot harmlessly into the ceiling.

Bobby jerked back. “What the—”

Gwen thrashed against Sam’s grip, her movements frenzied, unnatural. Her body twisted as if fighting something inside of her, and then she collapsed, body twitching. As Sam released her, Dean caught sight of movement by Gwen’s head as something slithered out of her ear.

Dean’s stomach turned. “What the hell is that?”

Rufus’ face was grim. “That’s the damn thing we’ve been hunting.”

As he and Bobby rushed to try and kill it, the thing somehow disappeared in the chaos. Gwen stirred, her hands going to her head as she groaned.

“What happened?” She touched her ear, recoiling at the wet goo smeared on her fingers. “What the hell?”

Rufus nodded as he caught sight of the goo. “Yep. That settles it.”

Bobby’s eyes swept the room, sharp with suspicion. “Where the hell’d it go?”

Rufus exhaled sharply. “Could be anywhere. Or in anyone.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with the implication. 

Bobby muttered a curse under his breath. “Shit.”

The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on, the stale air lingering with the scent of fear. Samuel was the first to speak, crossing his arms over his chest. “We should spread out and look for it.”

“That’s just what it wants — to keep us divided,” Sam argued, his voice carrying a hint of suspicion.

Gwen shifted nervously beside Samuel, her eyes darting between them. “So what do we do?”

Bobby grunted and slung his duffel from over his shoulder. “I’ll tell you what. We make it harder for that thing to kill us all.” He held the bag open, leveling a hard look at everyone. “Weapons in the bag.”

The command was met with silence. No one moved at first, leveling equally distrusting glares at each other. Samuel scoffed, staring at Bobby like he’d just suggested they all go unarmed into a vampire nest.

“You serious?” Samuel finally said, his voice laced with distrust.

“As a damn heart attack. We don’t know who’s got that thing crawling in their skull. I say we level the playing field.” Bobby shook the bag expectantly.

One by one, they all complied. Dean was the first to pull his gun and knife, dropping them into the bag without breaking eye contact with Samuel. Sam followed suit, his jaw clenched. Gwen hesitated before sighing and unholstering her pistol. 

Samuel was the last, sliding his shotgun in like he was parting with a limb. Dean didn’t miss the way he lingered, fingers flexing before he finally let go. Bobby locked the bag inside a nearby locker with a satisfying click, then turned back to the group.

“Okay, time for a new plan,” Bobby said, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Based on what?” Sam asked, arms crossed.

“I’m gonna make a few phone calls, see if anybody’s ever heard of anything like this,” Bobby answered, already reaching for his cell.

“Ditto,” Rufus added, flipping his own phone open. “Got a few trees I can shake.”

As the older hunters busied themselves with their calls, Dean and Sam stayed where they were, watching Samuel with wary eyes. 

Samuel glared at them, his hackles rising. “What?”

Dean’s lip curled. “Nothing. Just wondering how you sleep at night.”

Samuel’s lips quirked, but it wasn’t a smile. “Like a baby. Thanks for asking.”

Dean took a slow step forward. His voice was quiet, but each word was coated in venom. “You fed us to Crowley.”

“True,” Samuel admitted, not even blinking. “But what am I gonna do about it now? Do I blame you for wanting to kill me? Of course not, Dean. What I did was… well, I’m not apologizing. I did what I did. I don’t cry over spilled blood.”

Sam tensed beside him. “So you can really go on, like…”

Samuel scoffed. “Just because you’re Dr. Jekyll at the moment doesn’t mean you can get all high and mighty. Don’t forget, we spent a year together.”

Sam’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, we did. We’re blood.” He took a step forward, his mouth twisting in disgust. “And you still sold me out.”

Dean saw it then — the flicker of something in Samuel’s expression. Not regret, not guilt, but something smug. Something like satisfaction. Dean’s hackles rose, his omega instincts reading the shift in body language before his brain caught up.

“Trust me,” Samuel said, voice low and needling. “What I did pales in comparison to what you did, and on more than one occasion.”

Sam stiffened, but Dean could see the interest in his eyes. “All right, tell me what I did.”

“No,” Dean snapped, stepping between them. He could feel his pulse hammering at his throat. “Sam, come on.”

His brother hesitated, lingering half a step behind him. Dean didn’t have to look to know Sam was torn, his body rigid with uncertainty. But Dean wasn’t. Not when it came to this.He turned his gaze back to their grandfather, taking in the older man’s stiff posture, the way his fingers flexed at his sides like he was weighing his next move. Dean’s lip curled.

“The only reason you’re still breathing right now is because we’re working a job,” he said, tone flat, final. “The minute we kill this thing…” His jaw tightened, the promise thick in his throat. “You’re next.”

Samuel’s expression barely shifted, but Dean saw it — the quick flicker in his eyes, the slight twitch in his jaw. It wasn’t fear, wasn’t even anger. It was calculation. Then, the corner of Samuel’s mouth lifted in something that might have passed for amusement if Dean didn’t know better. “Okay, then,” he said easily. “We’ll just see.”

Dean frowned. Something was off. The air felt heavier, charged with something thick and unnatural. Then he saw it — a glistening trickle of dark, viscous goo leaking from Samuel’s ear.

Shit.

Dean barely had time to register the realization before Samuel moved, pulling out a concealed gun — because it would have been too easy for him to have given up all of his weapons.

Dean’s instincts took over, his hand shooting out to grab Samuel’s wrist, shoving it upward just as the gun went off. The shot cracked through the air, ricocheting somewhere in the metal labyrinth of the cannery.

Samuel snarled and surged forward, slamming Dean back against the rusted lockers with a force that rattled the whole damn row. Dean gasped as Samuel’s forearm pressed hard against his throat, cutting off his air. His boots scraped against the concrete as he fought for leverage, hands coming up to pry at Samuel’s arm, but the bastard had an iron grip.

“I think,” Dean rasped, his vision going a little spotty, “we found the worm.”

“Hold on, Dean!” Sam’s voice cut through the haze, but Dean barely registered it.

Because something else was stirring inside him. The grace that had been simmering under his skin since that night with Cas flared to life, heat blooming under his ribs. But it wasn’t just the grace. It was her.

His daughter.

Her presence surged forward, bright and insistent, nudging him toward something. And before he could fully grasp what was happening, his own body moved. His arm shot out, hand wrapping around Samuel’s throat and lifted.

Samuel choked, eyes going wide as his feet left the ground. He clawed at Dean’s grip, but it was useless. Dean could feel the strength coursing through him, not just his own, but hers — his daughter’s power intertwined with the grace, steady and controlled, like she was showing him how to wield it.

Samuel’s hands twitched, and for the first time, Dean saw something new in his grandfather’s expression. Not anger. Not even fear.

Recognition.

Dean narrowed his eyes, tightening his grip. “There you are.”

“What the hell?” Rufus’s voice rang out from somewhere behind him, but Dean didn’t look away.

“Just… stand back,” Bobby muttered. He sounded wary, but not panicked. Like he knew whatever was happening, Dean was in control.

And he was.

He could feel the worm, squirming beneath Samuel’s skin, writhing against his hold. But instinctively, Dean knew how to keep it there. He could use the grace, use his daughter’s power, to lock it in place.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, his voice steady, controlled. “Now, we’ve got some questions for you, so you can either play ball, or we end this right here.”

Samuel — or whatever the hell was inside him — huffed out a breath, lips curling into something too smug for a man being held a foot off the ground.

“And what about your grandfather?” the thing rasped, voice thick and warbling. “You’d be killing him too.”

Dean tilted his head, considering that. Then he sighed, almost mockingly. “See, that’s the problem.” He leaned in, fingers flexing around Samuel’s throat. “Because out of all the people in this room, you just happened to pick the one I don’t give a shit about.”

There was a pause, and then, sickeningly, Samuel’s face twisted into a monstrous grin. Not his grin — it was the worm’s. 

“Ask, then,” it rasped, eyes glinting. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Samuel’s body was rigid in Dean’s grip, his eyes flickering between human fear and something darker, something oily and creepy squirming just beneath the surface. Dean’s fingers dug in harder, feeling the pulse of life beneath the skin. The worm inside him twisted, sensing that it was caught, trapped in a vessel it had thought safe.

Dean’s own blood pounded in his ears, his daughter’s presence thrumming through his body, guiding the grace that he barely understood how to wield. It was effortless now, this power inside him — terrifying in its enormity, because he knew without her, it would consume him. Burn him out from the inside. But she held it steady, keeping him from drowning in the divine fire licking at the edges of his soul.

Dean tightened his grip further, pressing the grace in just because he could. He felt the worm writhing, struggling, but it wasn’t going anywhere. His voice came out low, dangerous. “What are you?”

Samuel’s lips curled, but it wasn’t Samuel’s smirk. The thing inside him grinned through his face, making his features stretch too wide. “You haven’t got a name for me yet. I’m new around here.” The voice slithered, a rasp that sounded too thick for Samuel’s throat. “Eve cooked me up herself.”

Dean pressed harder, feeling the grace coil like a viper in his chest, ready to strike. His daughter was a steady pulse beneath it, guiding, watching. She was waiting to see what he would do. 

“Who is she?” he demanded. “Eve?”

The worm laughed — a guttural, wet sound that made the hairs on Dean’s arms stand on end. “The mother of all of us, and the end of all of you,” it purred. “By the time she’s done, there’ll be more creatures than humans. You’ll live in pens. We’ll serve up your young and call it veal.”

Dean’s stomach churned, a flash of protectiveness surging through him that had nothing to do with his own life and everything to do with the unborn child inside him. His fingers clenched tighter around Samuel’s throat, threatening.

Bobby’s voice cut through, almost startling Dean. He had forgotten there were others in the room. “And what’s your deal in all of this?” The hunter asked. “I mean, how’s jumping a few truckers gonna help”

Samuel’s possessed grin stretched wider, eyes flicking to Bobby. “You think I’m here to mess with a couple of cannery workers? We led you here.” The thing’s eyes flicked back to Dean. “Though not all of you.”

Dean’s grip twitched, his instincts howling that something was off. “Why?”

The thing inside Samuel let out a slow, slithering chuckle, its voice thick with malice. “She has a message for you.” Its eyes glinted with dark satisfaction. “You’re all going to die. She’s pissed. She’s here. And it’s nothing but pain from here on out.”

Dean took a breath, letting the words sink in. There was no fear, no hesitation — just a slow, simmering rage that had been building ever since he’d first laid eyes on Samuel. He nodded once, his jaw tight. Then, he growled, the sound more primal than human, something deeper and older than his anger.

“Well,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “here’s my response.”

The grace inside him surged, flooding his veins like fire. Samuel’s body went rigid, his entire form convulsing under the onslaught of power. The worm inside shrieked, an otherworldly wail that rattled the old metal lockers around them, the sound screeching in the air like nails on glass. Gwen stumbled back, her hands flying to her ears as the shriek reverberated through the room. The pungent, acrid smell of burning flesh filled the space as goo began to pour from Samuel’s ears, his mouth gaping open in agony.

It would be so easy to keep going.

Dean could feel it, the simmering temptation, the hunger gnawing at the edges of his mind. Samuel deserved this. He deserved more. He’d tried to kill Dean. He’d tried to kill her. He’d sold them out, handed them over to Crowley like they were nothing more than pawns to be sacrificed. Dean had every right to erase him, to wipe his existence off the map. He could feel his grip tightening, the power of the grace calling to him like a siren, pushing him closer to the brink.

And then, through the haze of anger and burning rage, he felt her.

She wasn’t speaking in words. There were no commands, no demands. But her presence was undeniable. It brushed against his soul, gentle but firm, like a hand on his shoulder pulling him back, like Cas had done so many times before. It wasn’t forceful, not like the grace wanted to be. She was calm, steady, a quiet anchor in the chaos.

For a second, Dean fought it — fought her. He wanted to finish this. He wanted to give in to the hunger, to end Samuel’s life in a single, devastating move. He could feel the grace, the power, threatening to consume him completely, but then she nudged him again. Soft, guiding, holding him steady.

He took a breath, his heart pounding, and let go.

Samuel’s body collapsed to the ground in a heap, smoke curling from his ears. Dean staggered back against the lockers, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps as the burn of grace faded. He pressed a hand to his abdomen, grounding himself, feeling the presence inside him settle once more.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice cut through the haze. “Dean, are you alright?”

Dean breathed, forcing himself to straighten. “We’re fine,” he said, voice rough. “I’m fine.”

On the floor, Samuel groaned, his fingers twitching as he slowly pushed himself up. Everyone took a wary step back, watching him carefully. He looked around, blinking dazedly at them. “What happened?”

Bobby’s eyes never left him. “Dean, is he safe?”

Dean stared down at his grandfather, heart hammering, still feeling the ghost of power in his veins. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Worm’s dead.”

Samuel wobbled as he stood, scanning the room. His eyes landed on Gwen, but she didn’t move toward him. Instead, her expression twisted in disgust, and she strode over to the locker where Bobby had put the bag, grabbed her gun, and without a word, walked out of the room.

Dean had a feeling that she wouldn’t be hunting with Samuel again.

Samuel sighed, rubbing his temples before looking back at the group. “So that’s it? You learn anything else?”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Nothing else that you need to know about.”

Samuel let out a frustrated sigh. “Look, I know we haven’t had the greatest history, but this is something that affects more than just us—”

“I don’t care.” Dean cut him off. “I don’t want to see your face again, you understand me?” He took a step forward, making sure Samuel knew he wasn’t bluffing. “The only reason you’re still sucking air right now is because my daughter — Mary’s granddaughter, who you tried to kill — wanted me to spare you.”

Samuel’s mouth opened, but Dean didn’t want to hear it. “Go,” he barked, pointing toward the door. “Before I change my mind.”

Samuel hesitated. His gaze flickered to Bobby, then to Sam, searching for something. But no one spoke. No one moved. With a sharp huff, he turned on his heel and walked out.

The second he was gone, Dean sagged against the lockers, pressing his palm against his middle. His body felt drained, the aftershocks of power leaving his limbs heavy. 

“You alright, son?” Bobby asked, eyeing him with concern.

Rufus snorted. “Is he alright? What the hell kind of bug zapper are you baking in that oven?”

“Not now, Rufus,” Bobby grumbled.

Sam stepped closer, his brows drawn together. “I didn’t know that she could… that you could do that, Dean.”

Dean forced a dry chuckle. “That makes two of us.”

Sam hesitated. “And you’re… you feel alright?”

Dean shot him an irritated look. “I’d be a hell of a lot better if everyone would stop asking me that.”

Bobby sighed, rubbing his hands together. “Well, I guess the job’s done then. Might as well get out of this crap show if you’re not about to keel over.” 

Dean pushed off the lockers with a grunt. “Might as well.”

The night air was a cool balm against Dean’s overheated skin as they stepped outside, the tension of the last few hours still clinging to his bones. Rufus muttered a half-assed goodbye before peeling off toward his truck, clearly done with all of them for the night.

Bobby shot Dean a sideways glance as they made their way toward his own truck. “So where the hell’s the Impala?”

Dean barely had time to register the question before Sam groaned. “Shit. Probably still at the diner.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “After everything that went down, that place is probably swarming with cops by now.”

Bobby let out a long-suffering sigh. “We’ll deal with it later. For now, let’s just get home.”

Dean didn’t argue. He climbed into the truck, the familiar creak of the old bench seat beneath him oddly comforting. As he settled in, his hand drifted absently to his stomach, a quiet, grounding gesture more instinct than thought. Funny how, this morning, the last place he’d wanted to be was stuck at Bobby’s. He’d needed out, needed the road, needed to do something.

Now?

Home sounded good.

Sam glanced toward the backseat of Bobby’s truck, something in him easing — just a little — at the sight of Dean out cold. His brother’s head was tilted back against the seat, mouth slightly open as he snored, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to him. Considering what had gone down at the cannery, Sam wasn’t surprised. Whatever Dean had done back there had drained him. Maybe more than he was willing to admit.

As tempting as sleep sounded, Sam couldn’t seem to settle. His knee bounced against the passenger door, the dull vibration of the road beneath them doing nothing to quiet the thoughts racing through his head. Outside, the scenery blurred past in the dim glow of the truck’s headlights. Bobby was silent beside him, one hand firm on the wheel, the other occasionally adjusting his cap. His shoulders were tight, his expression unreadable, but Sam knew Bobby well enough to tell when something was weighing on him.

They rode in silence for a few more miles before Sam finally spoke. “Bobby, about what happened back there…”

Bobby cut him a quick glance before checking the rearview mirror, making sure Dean was still out. “With Dean?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

Bobby exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Look, I know you ain’t been all here for a while, so this Nephilim stuff probably feels like a lot.”

“A lot?” Sam let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Bobby, he burned that thing right out of Samuel. That’s not just some Nephilim stuff. That’s angel-level power.”

Bobby huffed, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “What, you think he’s growin’ a poodle in there?” He shook his head. “You should’ve seen him when the kid figured out she had wings. Nearly sent Dean flying through a damn wall before he put his foot down.”

Sam shook his head, struggling to wrap his mind around it all. “I just don’t get how you can act like any of this is normal.”

Bobby’s hands tightened around the wheel. “It ain’t normal, Sam. Never said it was. But this is Dean. If he says he’s okay, then we gotta trust him.”

Sam glanced back at his brother, his chest tightening. “It’s not him I have trouble trusting.”

Bobby’s gaze flicked over, sharp and assessing. “You think the kid’s doin’ something to him?”

“No, no.” Sam ran a hand through his hair, though he wasn’t as sure as he wanted to be. “I just… I’m worried about him.”

Bobby sighed, the weight of it filling the cab. “Yeah. Me too.”

Sam hesitated, then lowered his voice. “He’s really gonna die?”

Bobby’s jaw clenched. “We don’t know for sure. But from what Cas says… yeah.”

Sam swallowed hard, the lump in his throat nearly choking him. “We can’t let that happen.”

“We won’t.” Bobby’s voice was firm, unyielding. Like he could make it true by sheer willpower alone. “We thought we were in deep before, but Cas figured out this whole angel grace thing. Maybe that’s the key to all of this.”

Sam frowned. “You didn’t see him take down those angels, Bobby. It wasn’t like anything I’ve ever seen. And he took their grace like it was…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Too easy.”

Bobby didn’t answer right away. The truck rumbled on, the road stretching endlessly ahead of them. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, but heavy with meaning. “Whatever it takes for him to live, Sam. That’s what matters.”

Sam bit his lip. “What if… what if it’s like the demon blood was for me?” He swallowed hard, forcing himself to say it. “What if it makes him worse?”

Bobby’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Then we’ll deal with it.”

The words sat between them like a promise, heavy and unspoken, as the truck carried them through the dark.

By the time they rolled into Singer Salvage, the first thing Sam noticed was the Impala, parked neatly beside the house. Relief settled in his chest — at least they wouldn’t have to go hunting it down. But his relief was short-lived when he spotted the figure leaning casually against the driver’s side door, arms crossed like he’d been waiting for hours.

Balthazar.

“Took you boys long enough,” the angel drawled, pushing off the car with a smirk. “I sent you to Singer because I assumed you’d end up here, not gallivanting across state lines.”

Sam scoffed. “Yeah, well, thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome.” Balthazar’s smirk didn’t waver as he turned his attention to Dean, who was rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he climbed out of the truck. “I may be a coward, but even I can see where the chips are landing in this war. If you see Castiel, put in a good word, won’t you?”

He didn’t wait for a response. A moment later, he vanished, the flutter of wings the only trace of his presence.

Dean snorted, stepping closer to the Impala and running his hand over her hood, checking for any signs of damage. “Still think he’s a dick.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as Bobby headed into the house. Then he turned to Dean before he could follow. “Hey, wait up a second.”

Dean frowned, shifting his weight. “What is it?”

Sam hesitated, then squared his shoulders. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened? When I didn’t have a soul?”

Dean let out a sharp breath, looking away. “Sam…”

“Look, Samuel knows,” Sam pressed. “But who the hell knows if we’ll ever see him again? Bobby won’t tell me, so that leaves you. And if you can’t — or won’t — tell me, fine. But I need to know.”

Dean was silent for a long time, staring out at the dark salvage yard. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but steady. “If you really want to know, I’ll tell you everything. But you have to understand, Sam, that it’s done. And I don’t have enough time left to hold any grudges.”

Sam studied him, searching his face for something he wasn’t sure he’d find. “You’d really tell me everything?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. You want me to?”

Sam swallowed, considering. Then he shook his head. “No. At least… not yet.”

Dean relaxed just a fraction. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

For a moment, they stood there in the quiet, the air between them heavy with everything unspoken. Then Sam clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and together, they headed for the house.

Sam kept his eyes on his brother, knowing there were things he still didn’t understand — things he still didn’t know. But for now, that was okay.

Dean was right. What was done was done.

And if Sam was going to make sure Dean lived, he needed to stop looking back at the past and start figuring out how to change the future.

Chapter Text

Dean drifted up from sleep slowly, pulled by the persistent pressure of a firm but careful hand shaking his shoulder. He groaned in protest, shifting against the lumpy cushions of Bobby’s couch, reluctant to let go of the dream just yet.

He’d been in the garden with his daughter, her laughter bubbling in the air like birdsong as he made ridiculous faces and spun stories full of monsters and magic. He’d crawled through the grass on his belly, letting her poke and prod and boss him around. For anyone else, it might’ve been humiliating. But for her? He’d have gladly spent the rest of his life on all fours.

No wonder waking felt like a disappointment.

Especially when waking meant this — cramped on Bobby’s couch, his spine screaming in quiet protest. It wasn’t the worst place he’d ever slept, not by a long shot, but it wasn’t winning any awards either. He grunted something halfway between a curse and a groan, swatting lazily at the hand trying to rouse him as he burrowed deeper into the scratchy pillow.

“Morning, sunshine,” came a familiar, teasing voice.

Dean grumbled again, forcing his eyes open against the golden morning light filtering through the windows. Ellen stood over him, arms crossed, lips quirked in an amused smirk.

“Yeah, yeah.” She rolled her eyes. “You know, when I was pregnant with Jo, I wanted to sleep all day too. But you know what I did?” She yanked the blanket off of him. “I kicked ass, even though I looked like a beached whale.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down. “At least you pull the pregnancy look off. Not all of us were so lucky.”

Dean let out a groggy snort, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It was a slow, lazy sort of morning — one where he felt safe, warm, like he had all the time in the world. Ellen was here, talking to him, teasing him like nothing had changed. 

Except… something was wrong.

His mind jolted fully awake as reality caught up with him. Ellen was dead. She had died a year ago, in a blaze of fire and blood, alongside Jo. He had watched her die, had carried that grief in his bones ever since. And yet… he remembered something else too. A different life.

He remembered Ellen surviving, not just surviving, but thriving. Remembered her and Jo sticking around after the apocalypse, Ellen eventually fully accepting Jo’s choice to hunt, even going out with her group on occasion. He remembered Bobby and Ellen finally pulling their heads out of their asses and getting married after months of watching them circle around each other. He remembered them becoming a power couple of retired hunters, turning Bobby’s house into a hub of information, covering all the bases from tackling phones to researching unheard of monsters for hunters in the field. He remembered them all, together, a little mismatched family that had never gone their separate ways.

And he remembered the explosion. The fiery, heart-wrenching end that had torn a hole in him, one that had never quite healed.

“Ellen?” His voice was hoarse, uncertain.

She scoffed, rolling her eyes as she nudged him up. “Come on, enough bellyaching from you. I made breakfast.”

Dean hesitated, but his feet moved anyway, trailing after her toward the kitchen. The air smelled of bacon and fresh coffee, the warmth of it familiar and comforting. His mind was screaming that something was wrong, but his body wanted to sink into the illusion, just for a little longer.

Bobby sat at the table, a plate piled high in front of him. He barely looked up as Dean entered, shaking his head with mock exasperation. “You snoring for two now too? One of these days you’re gonna bring the damn roof down.”

Ellen swatted his shoulder as she passed by. “Be nice, Bobby.”

“I am being nice,” Bobby protested. “I’ve let him have the run of my house, haven’t I? Practically rolled out the red carpet.”

Dean let their banter wash over him, grounding himself in the sound of it. It felt so real. Ellen, Bobby, the smell of breakfast, the creak of the old kitchen chairs. It felt real, but it couldn’t be. Ellen was dead.

“Don’t listen to him, Dean,” Ellen said with a wink. “He’s being an old coot.”

“Old coot?!”

Ellen ignored Bobby’s squawking, rolling her eyes again. “I swear, it’s even worse after he’s been on a hunt with Rufus. Those two are like a pair of old hens.”

Before Bobby could fire back, the front door swung open. Sam stepped inside, breath still heavy from his morning run, his shirt damp with sweat. He clapped a hand to Dean’s shoulder as he passed, heading straight for the food. 

Bobby groaned. “Great. And here comes the other one that’s eating us out of house and home.”

Ellen smirked. “Just be glad Jo’s not here. She puts away more than these two combined.”

“Don’t I know it,” Bobby muttered.

Ellen tilted her head, watching Bobby with a fond look in her eyes. “You keep pretending you don’t like it, Singer, but I know you. You love having your family close.”

Bobby grumbled under his breath, but didn't argue, proving her point.

Dean watched it all unfold, his heart caught somewhere between aching and disbelief. This was too perfect, Too warm, too easy. The warm light filtering through the room reminded him of the garden, giving the kitchen a dreamlike quality.

The realization sent a bolt of cold through him. Of course. A dream. He’d seen this before — too many times, in too many ways. He had never encountered one where false memories were involved, but he had dealt with enough djinn before to know the signs. Djinn were always a bitch to deal with, twisting reality into something almost right, something that felt so good it made you want to stay. But Dean had spent too many years seeing through pretty lies to let himself fall now. And he sure as hell wasn’t letting some djinn take his daughter too.

His fingers twitched, his mind already made up. Striding across the kitchen, he grabbed the sharpest knife from the block, his grip steady despite the way his heart thudded in his chest. Killing himself in these dreams was never pleasant, but it was the fastest way out.

The second he turned the blade toward his own heart, the room erupted into panicked shouting. Ellen and Bobby lunged for him, but it was something else that stopped him cold. His daughter’s presence flared in the back of his mind — sharp, urgent, warning.

Dean barely had time to process the feeling before the knife was wrenched from his grip. The next moment, he was spun and slammed against the nearest wall, a strong hand pinning him in place. His breath hitched, and he found himself staring into wide, terrified blue eyes.

“Cas?” His voice came out barely above a whisper.

Panic was clear in Castiel’s gaze, his grip tightening like he was afraid Dean might disappear.

Dean swallowed hard, his heartbeat racing in his chest. This wasn’t a djinn dream — that much was clear now.

Something was very, very wrong.

Dean swallowed hard, barely daring to breathe as Cas’s grip slowly loosened, their daughter’s grace sending out waves of pulsing calm. Around them, the kitchen had fallen silent — Ellen, Bobby, and Sam frozen in place, caught in the eerie stillness of the moment.

Cas let out a slow breath, collecting himself. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, edged with something Dean couldn’t quite name.

“This isn’t a dream, Dean.”

Dean had gathered that much, but that still didn’t explain what was going on. Ellen was dead — he knew that, remembered it like it was yesterday. And yet… he had other memories that said otherwise. He searched Cas’s face, looking for some sign of hesitation, some sign that Cas was wrong.

“Then what is it?”

Cas’s jaw tightened. “Something’s happened to the timeline. You shouldn’t be able to remember the one before.”

Dean frowned. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He remembered both. The warmth of Bobby’s house, the banter between Bobby and Ellen turning from sniping and bitching to something softer and teasing over time. But he also remembered the explosion, the fire, the gaping hole Ellen and Jo’s deaths had left behind. He remembered moving forward without them, carrying their loss with him like a scar that had never fully healed. He had lived both of these lives — two truths tangled together in his mind, each reality fighting for dominance.

He swallowed hard, pressing a hand absently to his middle, where the warmth from earlier still lingered, steady and pulsing. She was the only thing that felt constant, the only thing anchoring him through the storm of fractured memories.

Dean exhaled sharply. “I think I might know why.”

Cas’s gaze flicked downward, taking in the way Dean’s hand rested against his abdomen. His mouth curved, just slightly, the barest hint of wry amusement breaking through the tension.

“She does have a way of breaking the rules, doesn’t she?”

Dean huffed, allowing himself the ghost of a smile. “Wonder where she gets that from.”

The moment was fleeting, gone as quickly as it came. They both knew there was no time to linger.

Dean straightened. “Cas, what is this? I mean — Ellen, Bobby —”

Cas’s expression turned solemn again. “I know. I’m working on figuring it out.”

Dean studied him, searching for reassurance, for something solid to hold onto. “But you remember too?”

Cas’s brows knit together, almost like the question offended him. “Of course. I’m an angel. We don’t tend to follow your human perception of time.”

“Right. Okay.” Dean tapped his finger against Cas’s wrist, trying to make sense of it. “So what? Something just — rewrote reality?”

“Something, or someone,” Cas muttered. “I need to find out exactly what changed and why.”

Dean didn’t like the sound of that. If reality had been rewritten once, it could be rewritten again. And what if next time, it was more than just Ellen and Jo being alive? What if whoever was messing with time made it so that more people died? What if next time, Cas wasn’t there?

Cas seemed to sense his unease. His voice softened. “Stay here for now. I’ll see what’s changed the timeline.”

Dean opened his mouth to respond, but Sam stepped in before he could, shattering the quiet bubble that had briefly formed around him and Cas.

“I’ll go with you,” Sam volunteered, expression eager.

Cas turned slowly. His face was blank, carefully composed, but Dean caught it: the slight twitch of his jaw, the flicker of something in his eyes. Hesitation. And maybe... irritation?

“I don’t require your help, Sam,” Cas said flatly.

Sam frowned. “Cas, be reasonable. If the timeline’s changed, I should know what’s different too. We can work faster together—”

“I said no.”

Cas’s voice was sharp now, final. Sam looked ready to argue, but Cas had already turned back to Dean — and just like that, the tension bled out of his frame.

There was a softness in his expression now, something reverent, like Dean was the one fixed point in a constantly shifting universe. He stepped close without hesitation, like this — like them — was unshakable, immune to all the fractures in time.

He leaned in and kissed Dean, slow and sure, like a promise. When he pulled back, he lingered just long enough to brush his thumb across Dean’s cheek in a silent goodbye.

Then he was gone, vanished in a breath of wings.

Dean blinked, dazed for half a second, before turning his attention back to Sam standing in front of him, arms crossed with a look of disbelief on his face.

“What the hell was that?”

Dean huffed, half amused, half exasperated. “Dude, don’t take it personal. He ignores everyone when he’s got a mission.”

Sam scoffed. “Yeah, sure. That must be it.”

Dean smirked, but it didn’t last. His stomach twisted with new unease. Cas was gone, and that meant Dean was left sitting in a reality that wasn’t his own, surrounded by ghosts who weren’t supposed to be here.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what the hell to do next.

Silence settled over the kitchen like a heavy fog. Dean moved over to the table, sitting stiffly in his chair as his eyes flickered between Ellen, Bobby, and Sam as they all uneasily settled back into breakfast. Dean pushed the food around on the plate in front of him, not having much of an appetite with the curious eyes trained on him. They were trying to be discreet, but Dean felt their attention on him, waiting.

Sam was the first to break the awkward silence. He set his fork down, eyes sharp and assessing in his usual way when he was working a case as he looked at Dean. “What did Cas mean about an alternate timeline?”

Dean exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “It’s like—” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s like I remember both.” He gestured around the kitchen. I remember all of this. I remember Jo getting her crew together, I remember the three of you constantly on my ass about staying off of hunts when Cas and I told you about the baby, I remember Ellen—” He cut himself off, his throat tight before he forced himself to continue. “But I also remember another life. The one where Ellen and Jo didn’t make it. They died taking out Lucifer.” 

Ellen sucked in a sharp breath, her hand curling into a fist against the table.

Bobby reached for her hand without a word, his fingers curling tightly around hers. The flicker of pain in Ellen’s expression softened as she met Bobby’s gaze.

Sam swallowed, his face pinched with something unreadable. “So what do we do?”

Bobby huffed. “And what can we do?” He shook his head. “Sounds to me like this is angel business. If Cas says the timeline’s screwed up, then it’s screwed up. But messing with whatever Heaven’s got going on? That’s attention we can’t afford.” He sent a deliberate glance towards Dean.

Dean snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Right. Because a timeline where Heaven’s not after the time bomb inside me would be too much to ask for.”

The words had barely left his mouth when he felt a sudden kick from inside him. His breath hitched as he pressed a hand against his abdomen, wincing. It wasn’t painful, exactly, just strong — like his daughter had heard his sarcasm and was giving her two cents on the matter.

Across the table, Ellen had noticed his wince, her eyes darting to where he pressed his hand to his middle. “She knows when she’s being talked about.”

Dean huffed, but before he could say anything, Ellen rapped her knuckles against the table. “Alright, then. If we can’t do anything, then I’ve got something else for you.”

Dean arched a brow, but she pointed a firm finger at him. “Not you. Sam.”

Sam straightened with interest. “What?”

Ellen turned toward him. “Jo’s on a case right now. She and her crew are working on a string of deaths in California. Just this morning, the same thing popped up in Pennsylvania. Someone needs to check it out.”

Sam nodded. “I’m on it.” He turned to Dean, already holding out a hand. “Give me the keys to the Mustang.”

Dean blinked. “The—” The memory slotted into place before he could even finish the question. In this timeline, he didn’t have the Impala. The Impala didn’t exist.

“Oh, that’s just wrong.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You’re not going, Dean.”

“That’s not—” Dean clenched his jaw. Whatever. He pulled the keys from his pocket and tossed them at Sam with a little more force than necessary. “Fine. Here.”

Ellen nodded approvingly, then turned to Bobby. “You should go too.”

Bobby scoffed. “Don’t tell me what to do, woman.”

Ellen ignored him, looking at Sam. “He’s going with you.”

Sam pressed his lips together, wisely choosing not to comment on the way Bobby was glaring at Ellen.

“Be careful,” Ellen added, her expression turning serious. “Jo says whatever’s going on, it’s weird.”

Bobby muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue further. With that, the two of them got up from the table and started gathering their things, Bobby grumbling all the while as he packed a duffel and grabbed his shotgun. An hour later, they were gone, leaving the house quieter than it had been all morning.

Dean exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before sending a sidelong glance toward Ellen.

“Well,” she said, stretching her arms before leaning back in her chair. “Guess it’s just you and me, kid.”

Dean snorted. “Great.”

Ellen smirked. “Don’t sound so thrilled.”

Dean shook his head and stood, quietly helping Ellen gather plates. She muttered something about making Bobby and Sam do cleanup next time, but her tone was all bark, no bite. He joined her at the sink, bumping her gently with his hip.

“You wash, I’ll dry?” he offered.

Ellen huffed a laugh. “Well, ain’t you helpful.” She scrubbed a plate with a little too much elbow grease. “If I’d known knocking you up was all it took to get you doing chores, I would’ve played matchmaker for you and that angel years ago.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Please. How long did it take you and Bobby to pull your heads outta your asses?”

“Fair enough,” she said, handing him a plate. “Still, at least I didn’t get knocked up on the wedding night.”

Dean smirked. “Bet it wasn’t in the back of a car, either.”

He instantly regretted the image that came to mind — him and Cas in the backseat of anything that wasn’t Baby. He shoved it aside.

The conversation tapered off after that. They worked in a comfortable rhythm: Ellen scrubbing, Dean drying, the clink of dishes filling the quiet. She hummed under her breath now and then, like it was any normal morning in a normal house with a normal family.

And maybe that’s what got to him — the ease of it.

Ellen wasn’t his mom. But she had always known how to be one. Even in the other timeline, even in brief moments, she’d filled a space Dean had long since assumed would always stay empty. But back then, it had been fleeting. Now, watching her work, listening to her hum like this was just another Tuesday, it hit him how much he’d missed. How much they all had.

Bobby had been the closest thing he and Sam had to a dad. John had tried, sure — but after Mom... he’d never really made it back. Bobby had filled the gaps where it counted. Dean would never stop being grateful for that. But a dad and a mom — those weren’t the same thing. And Dean had spent a lifetime learning how to live without either.

Now, somehow, he was supposed to be one.

His fingers tightened around the plate. Another soft kick nudged at him from the inside, a reminder of everything waiting just around the corner. A reminder of everything he didn’t know how to fix.

The thought of his daughter growing up the way he had — that wrapped around his throat like barbed wire.

He didn’t want her to become him. Didn’t want her looking over her shoulder every day. Didn’t want her to know how to stitch a wound before she could write her name. Didn’t want her to learn that sometimes, the people who are supposed to love you just... leave.

But he didn’t see a way out, either.

And that was the worst part.

Before he could spiral too far, Ellen bumped his shoulder with hers.

“If you keep thinking that hard, your brain’s gonna short-circuit,” she said, passing him another plate.

Dean huffed a quiet laugh. “Thought I was hiding it better than that.”

“Kid, I raised Jo,” Ellen said, giving him a look. “You think I can’t tell when someone’s drowning in their own head?”

He shook his head with a crooked smile. “Guess not.”

They stood in a companionable silence for a beat, and then Ellen said, quiet but sure, “You’re gonna be a good parent.”

The words landed like a punch to the chest — simple, honest, unflinching, like everything Ellen said. Dean swallowed hard and masked it with a scoff.

“Yeah? Wait ‘til she starts talking back.”

Ellen grinned. “Then you’ll really know what it’s like raising a Winchester.”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. But he could tell that Ellen wasn’t joking. He could feel her watching him, her usual bluntness laced with something softer. Something real. Dean tried not to shift under her knowing gaze, feeling like she was seeing too much. But then, Ellen was always like that.

They finished washing up and moved to the study, Dean settling into a chair across from Ellen as she sat at the desk, poring over the research scattered over it. She pushed it aside in favor of her crossword book, flipping it open and honing in with the kind of intensity she usually reserved for lining up a shot. Dean closed his eyes as he rested a hand over his abdomen, smiling as he felt his daughter stirring again.

Ellen glanced up from her puzzle book and caught the movement. A slow smirk tugged at her lips. “She kickin’ again?”

Dean hummed. “More like doing somersaults.”

Ellen chuckled. “Figures. She’s yours, after all.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s hope she doesn’t inherit all of my bad habits.”

“I would say she won’t, but Jo seems to have picked up all of mine and then some.” Ellen snorted. “You still having those dreams? About the garden?”

“Yeah.” Dean swallowed as he thought about it. It was hard, being apart from the version of his daughter he loved so dearly. Of course, she was still with him when he was awake, but it was different.

Ellen hummed, letting the quiet settle again, until Dean leaned forward. There was something about having Ellen here, being able to talk to her, that made him want to confide in her. “We play a game, sometimes.”

Ellen tilted her head, intrigued. “What kind of game?”

“The name game.” He smiled a little, faint and distant as he thought about it. “I guess names, and she tells me they’re wrong.”

Ellen chuckled. “She does, huh?”

“Every damn time,” Dean said, smiling more now, warmth blooming behind his ribs. “I throw out a name, and she just — shuts it down. With this little giggle like she’s got the entire universe figured out and I’m just some idiot stumbling in the dark.”

Ellen softened, her expression going a little watery around the edges. “She sounds like you.”

“Hardly,” Dean shook his head. “If anything she’s got Cas’s taste — picky as hell.”

“You ever get close?” Ellen asked.

“Apparently not,” Dean muttered. “Every once in a while she doesn’t shoot me down right away, but then she just grins at me and tells me ‘nice try’ and I’m back at square one.” His eyes lost focus as he pictured her, laying in the grass giggling at him. “She’s still with me,” he murmured, rubbing at his abdomen. “When I wake up, I can feel her. But sometimes it’s hard, y’know? Hard to leave. Hard to pull out of the dream when I know she’s just right there. Laughing and kicking her feet in the grass, waiting for the next guess.”

Ellen reached across the desk. “Then don’t leave her behind. Keep playing.”

Dean looked at her, blinking in confusion.

She shrugged. “Play the game out here, too. Might as well. Bet she’ll still let you know what she thinks.”

He opened his mouth to argue — then paused. Closed it again.

“...Yeah?” he asked softly.

Ellen grinned. “Yeah. Let’s try it.”

She pulled her chair around the desk to sit across from him and leaned forward like they were two kids plotting something in a schoolyard. “Alright, we know she’s picked the letter ‘N’, right? So let’s try out some names that start with that.” She brought her face closer to his abdomen, like she was speaking to the baby directly. “What about Natasha?”

There was a beat, and then — kick.

Dean flinched slightly, and then laughed under his breath. “That’s a no.”

“She didn’t even give it a chance,” Ellen complained, mock-offended. “Alright, fine. Nadia?”

Kick.

“Wow,” Dean muttered. “Tough crowd.”

Ellen narrowed her eyes at his stomach. “Now listen here, you little punk, you gotta meet me here halfway.”

Dean snorted.

“Nina?” she tried.

This time, there was a pause. Dean sat very still. 

Then — kick.

“Whew,” Dean muttered. “She let that one marinate for a second.”

“You were right. She is as picky as Cas is,” Ellen said, sitting back with a knowing smile. “You poor thing.”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, she better be careful. Keep turning names down like that, I’m gonna start getting creative.”

Ellen raised a brow. “Creative?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, feigning seriousness. “Like, I dunno — name her Noodle or something.”

Ellen let out a bark of laughter. “Noodle?!”

Dean smirked, rubbing slow circles over his stomach. “That’s right. Noodle Winchester. Has a nice ring to it.”

There was a furious kick.

“Oh!” Dean laughed. “She hated that one!”

“Deserved it,” Ellen said through her laughter. “What else you got? Nougat? Nigel?”

Dean gave a mock gasp. “Nigel. That might be the winner.”

He got a solid double kick for that one and nearly doubled over from the force of it. 

“Alright, alright,” he wheezed, still laughing. “Message received.”

Ellen smiled, softer now, her eyes shining. “You’re good with her.”

Dean quieted, his hand resting still over the place he swore he could feel her most. “I just want her to know me. Even if it’s just for now.”

“She will,” Ellen said. “She already does.” 

She hesitated for a moment, before she leaned forward slightly. “Mind if I…?” She gestured toward his stomach, hesitation creeping into her usually confident voice.

Dean blinked at her, then moved his hand invitingly. “Go for it.”

She reached out, pressing her palm gently against him. The warmth of her hand seeped through his shirt, and for a moment, there was nothing. Then, as if sensing the new attention, the baby shifted, kicking lightly against Ellen’s touch.

Ellen grinned. “Well, ain’t that somethin’”

Dean felt a warmth spread through his chest — different from the Nephilim’s usual warmth. This was something else. Something quieter. 

“She likes you,” he murmured, covering Ellen’s hand with his own.

Ellen raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

Dean nodded. He didn’t know how to explain it, not fully, but he could feel it. The Nephilim’s presence had always been there, a quiet hum under his skin, but when Ellen had touched him, there had been a shift — a sort of contentment that settled in the same way it did when Cas was close. 

“She knows you’re safe,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “Knows you’re family.”

Ellen looked at him then, her expression soft, even as she tried to make her voice sound tough. “Well, she’s damn right about that.”

Dean swallowed hard, looking away. He wasn’t used to this — this kind of care without strings attached, without the constant fear of losing it.

Ellen must have sensed it, because she pulled her hand back and leaned back in her chair. “Just means I get dibs on babysitting duty when she’s born,” she said, her voice noticeably lighter.

Dean huffed out a laugh. “Think you’re gonna have to fight Bobby for that.”

Ellen smirked. “Good thing I fight dirty.”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head, but the warmth lingered in his chest. His daughter liked Ellen. And damn, he’d missed her — more than he’d let himself admit. There was something grounding about her presence. Someone who understood him, not just the hunting or the losses, but him. She didn’t tiptoe around him, didn’t try to fix things she couldn’t. She just was , and that was enough.

The whole timeline situation still made his head spin, but for now? He let himself sink into the quiet peace of it. Just for a little while.

They spent most of the day like that, swapping old stories and bad jokes. Ellen eventually finished her crossword and moved on to a baby names book, flipping through it with a mischievous glint in her eye. She kept tossing names at him until Dean had to wave the white flag — partly because the suggestions were getting ridiculous, but mostly because the baby’s kicking had gotten relentless.

Later, they ended up combing through more research together, Ellen zeroing in on updates Jo had sent from the field. The quiet between them was easy, companionable — until a phone rang, slicing through it.

Dean sighed and reached for his phone, pushing himself upright. “Yeah?”

“Dean, it’s me.” Sam’s voice came through the line, tight with confusion and tension. “We’ve got something.”

Dean glanced over at Ellen, who raised an eyebrow in silent question. He gave a slight nod before speaking again. “Yeah? What is it?”

Bobby’s voice cut in from the background, unmistakably gruff. “Only thing these victims got in common? Their ancestors all came over on the Titanic.”

Dean blinked. “The what?”

“The Titanic,” Sam repeated, like it should be obvious.

Dean let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You mean the giant boat that hit an iceberg and took a nosedive into the Atlantic?”

There was a pause. Then Sam said, slowly, “What the hell are you talking about?”

Dean froze. Oh.

“Okay,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, just… humor me for a second. What do you guys know about it?”

He could hear Sam flipping through papers on the other end. “Not much. We didn’t even know the Titanic existed until today. According to these records, it had a close call with an iceberg back in 1912, but it didn’t sink. Apparently, it was saved thanks to the first mate—”

Bobby snorted. “I.P. Freely.”

Dean blinked. Then laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “You’re shitting me.”

“I wish,” Sam muttered. “So… what does that mean? You remember it sinking?”

“Yeah. It was kind of a thing. Biggest maritime disaster of its time, thousands dead, movie with the sad music, Leo freezing to death, all of it.” He exhaled hard. “So if it didn’t go down in this timeline… then yeah. Timeline’s been screwed with.”

Bobby made a thoughtful noise. “If whatever we’re hunting is targeting the descendants of Titanic passengers, we’re probably standing right on top of the cause.”

“Hang on,” Sam said. “Sending you a photo of the first mate. Tell me if this guy looks familiar.”

A second later, Dean’s phone buzzed. He opened the image — and swore under his breath.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

There he was, smug as ever: Balthazar.

Fucking angels.

“Dean?” Sam asked. “What is it?”

“It’s Balthazar,” Dean muttered, rubbing his temple. “Last I saw him, he was trying to cozy up to Cas. Guess screwing with history was part of the pitch.”

Ellen leaned over to glance at the screen. “You know him?”

“Yeah. Real pain in the ass.”

Sam sounded like he was already over it. “Well, we’re summoning his ass. Stay on the line.”

Dean leaned back, bracing himself. Sure enough, a few minutes later, he heard the rustle of movement, followed by a familiar flutter of wings — and then Balthazar’s voice, bright and insufferable.

“Oh, lovely. A summoning. You know, there are more polite ways to get my attention.”

“Cut the crap,” Bobby snapped. “Why’d you go screwing with history?”

Balthazar sighed, dramatically. “Honestly? Because I loathe that film. The overwrought acting. That dreadful ballad. I mean, please. It's a cultural stain.”

Dean closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You changed the entire course of human history because you didn’t like a movie?”

“When you put it that way,” Balthazar said breezily, “it does sound rather reckless, doesn’t it?”

“Because it is,” Sam bit out. “People are dying. Descendants of Titanic passengers — fifty thousand of them, Balthazar.”

“And?”

Dean sat up straighter. “And?”

Balthazar’s voice turned cold and bored. “I don’t care.”

Sam and Bobby kept pressing him, voices rising with frustration, but it wasn’t long before Balthazar was done. Another flutter of wings, and he was gone.

Dean let out a slow breath, shaking his head as he looked at Ellen. “Well, that went great.”

It was night by the time Dean was about ready to give up, his eyes heavy as he tossed aside yet another useless journal. The study had become even more of a mess than usual as he and Ellen dove through more and more research, books and loose papers scattered everywhere. They’d been at it for hours, poring over old texts and half-baked internet theories, trying to piece together just what was picking off the Titanic’s descendants.

Ellen, sitting across from him, tapped a pen against the side of a book, her brow furrowed. “So you’re tellin’ me, in this other timeline of yours, this Titanic goes down and they make some movie about it?”

Dean huffed. “Yeah. Pretty famous one too. It’s kind of funny, makes me wonder if DiCaprio got his big break somewhere else.”

“I’ve never heard of him.” Ellen shrugged.

“Yeah? Well probably for the best.” Dean reached for another journal, rubbing at his eyes.

Ellen shook her head. “Still, what a damn fool thing to mess with.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, well, welcome to the wonderful world of angelic jackassery.”

They fell back into an easy rhythm, Ellen making notes, Dean skimming article after article, the occasional sound of a turning page or an absentminded sip of coffee. It was the kind of domestic calm Dean hadn’t had in years, the kind of thing he wouldn’t let himself want but felt right anyway.

He could see his daughter’s future in a place like this. Safe. Steady. With family that gave a damn.

His hand drifted to his stomach before he even realized it. The Nephilim shifted under his palm, a soft nudge of movement, and he let out a breath, grounding himself in the moment.

Ellen caught the motion, giving him a look. “She doin’ all right?”

Dean nodded, rubbing slow circles over the fabric of his shirt. “Yeah. Just gettin’ comfy, I guess.”

Ellen smirked. “She’s got good instincts. You are sittin’ in a damn uncomfortable chair.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, not much choice there, unless you wanna switch.”

She snorted. “Nice try, kid.”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head, but the warmth lingered. It was nice — bantering with her, the way she slipped into something damn close to mothering without making it weird. He’d had Bobby for years, but Bobby had always been more of a gruff, exasperated father figure. Ellen, though — Ellen was different.

He felt the loss of her in the other timeline like an ache he hadn’t let himself acknowledge.

Before he could get too deep into his own head, Ellen tapped the book in front of her, eyes lighting up. “I think I got something.”

Dean straightened, leaning forward. “Lay it on me.”

Ellen flipped the book around, pointing to a passage. “Golden thread, right? That’s what Sam and Bobby found at the crime scenes?”

Dean nodded.

Ellen smirked. “Fates. It’s gotta be.”

Dean frowned. “Like the Fates? The ones with the whole ‘snip your life thread, you’re dead’ deal?”

Ellen nodded. “Balthazar’s little history stunt? That threw their whole system outta whack. They’re tryin’ to fix it.”

Dean ran a hand over his face. “Great. Just great. As if we didn’t have enough cosmic overlords trying to kill us already.”

He pulled out his phone, dialing Sam. The call barely rang before his brother picked up.

“You get something?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “It’s the Fates. They’re tying up loose ends, trying to set history back to how it should’ve been.”

A pause. Then Bobby’s voice, gruff and matter-of-fact: “So what, we just track down Fate and tell her to knock it off?”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, Bobby, I’m sure that’ll go great.”

Ellen, arms crossed, mused aloud, “Might be easier to just resink the boat.”

Dean froze. “What?”

Ellen shrugged. “Look, Dean, if everything goes back the way it’s supposed to, the killings stop. Simple solution.”

“No,” Dean said immediately, a sharp edge to his voice.

Ellen frowned. “Dean—”

“No,” he said again, jaw tightening. “Ellen, you died. You and Jo. It was messy, and it was painful, and—” His throat closed up, not allowing him to say any more.

Ellen watched him carefully, her eyes seeing too much. “Was it painful for me?” She questioned. “Or was it painful for you?”

Dean’s gaze dropped to the floor. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

After a long silence, Ellen exhaled slowly, shaking her head. “Dean, if it’s meant to happen, then it’s meant to happen.”

Dean’s head snapped up. “No.” The word came out firm, final. “That’s not how we do things. You think I’m just gonna roll over and let fate win? Hell no. We make a living out of screwing fate. And we’re not gonna stop now.”

Ellen studied him. “You applying that to yourself too? Because you sure seem to think that you’re not gonna make it past the birthing bed.”

“Tell you what,” Dean pushed himself to his feet, teetering slightly as he regained his balance. He held out a hand to Ellen. “We can believe for each other.”

Ellen watched him with sharp eyes, and then she grinned. “Better cowboy up then,” she challenged. “Because I am counting on being a grandma, and I can’t be the only one who gets to see Bobby cry over a baby.”

Dean was in the middle of pulling her from her chair when a sudden warning buzz crawled over his skin. He barely managed to push Ellen out of the way before one of the bookshelves fell over, crashing down right where she had been standing. He looked up to see a blonde woman standing in the doorway, thin-framed glasses perched on her nose, blocking eyes that were cold and ancient, filling the room with a suffocating inevitability.

Dean didn’t need a name. The air around her practically vibrated with it. Fate. 

“You shouldn’t exist,” she said. Her voice was low and calm, almost tender, which somehow made it worse.

Dean stepped back, hand automatically going to the knife at his belt — fat lot of good that’d do. “Yeah, well, you’re not the first lady to tell me that.”

“You were meant to die. You and your brother. The Apocalypse was your end. That end was denied.”

Dean’s hand tightened around the hilt. “We tend to be bad at dying when someone says we’re supposed to.”

Her fingers twitched. A strand of golden thread shimmered into existence between them, glinting in the dim kitchen light. Dean’s heart hammered.

“You’re a tear in the fabric,” she whispered. “You and your brother. It was already chaos, and then your angel friend started pulling at the seams.”

The thread curled in the air, drifting toward him like smoke.

Dean had no time to move. No time to think. The moment that golden thread touched his skin—

A sudden wrenching snap of wings and wind tore him from the room.

He staggered forward, catching himself on a table. The world tilted, then steadied. A cheap motel room. Bobby and Sam stood nearby, weapons halfway drawn before realizing who had appeared.

Dean blinked. “What the hell—?”

Before he could orient himself, Cas was on him, hands skimming over his shoulders, his face, pressing gently against the swell of his abdomen.

“Are you alright?” Cas asked, voice tight with worry.

“Y-yeah, I’m fine,” Dean said, still breathless. Then it hit him. “Wait — Ellen. Cas, you have to go back—”

“Ellen is safe,” Cas said quickly. “She wasn’t the target.”

“But if she’s still there—”

“Dean.” Cas caught his gaze. “Atropos isn’t after her. She’s after you. The second I pulled you from her reach, she had no reason to stay. I swear — Ellen is safe.”

Dean’s breathing slowed, his pulse settling, but the silence didn’t last. He could feel the weight of Sam and Bobby’s stares, heavy with questions.

Sam, never one for patience, finally broke. “You said Atropos? Who is that?”

Cas’s jaw ticked — just slightly — but Dean caught it. That flicker of frustration again. Still, his voice stayed calm. “She’s one of the Fates. One of three sisters tasked with preserving the cosmic order. But when you stopped the Apocalypse… the order she upheld unraveled. She’s been adrift ever since.”

Sam frowned. “Okay, but why now? Why is she just coming after us now ?”

Cas turned to him, face unreadable. “Because she’s obsolete. Her purpose was tied to the script you tore apart. And now, with the Titanic timeline altered, the threads are even more tangled. She’s trying to claw back meaning — by cutting out the disruptions. The ones who broke the story.”

Dean exhaled, jaw clenched. “You mean us.”

Cas nodded, grim. “She won’t stop. Not until you and Sam are dead.”

The words settled over them like ash.

Sam’s voice was quiet but sure. “Then we kill her first.”

Bobby blinked. “Just like that? Great. Add ‘murder a literal Fate’ to the to-do list.”

Cas didn’t even flinch. “It’s possible. But it requires a specific blade. One that Balthazar stole from Heaven during the rebellion. I know where he’s hiding it.”

Dean glanced at Sam, then back at Cas. “Alright. We get the weapon. But she’s not gonna show her face unless she thinks the odds are in her favor.”

Sam nodded. “So we give her a reason to show up.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You offering to be bait?”

Sam gave a half-shrug. “We both are.”

Before Dean could reply, Cas cut in, sharp and immediate. “No. Not Dean.”

Dean’s head snapped around. “Cas—”

“I saw what she meant to do to you,” Cas said, louder than usual. There was heat in his voice, almost panic. “She wasn’t going to kill you clean. She was going to make you an example. You didn’t just tear the thread — Dean, you mocked her design.”

Dean held his gaze. The words hit deeper than he wanted to admit. “So what? We just sit on our hands?”

“I didn’t say that.” Cas’s voice was quieter now, strained. “But I won’t let her take you.”

Dean stepped closer, his voice softer, pleading. “Cas, if things go the way she wants, Ellen will die again. Jo too. I can’t just let that happen. Not again.”

Cas looked away, his expression pained. Dean knew he was remembering the night before that mission, the five of them together in their little mismatched family. Before Lucifer tore it all apart.

Dean turned to Bobby. “You should head back. Even if Fate’s not gunning for Ellen, she shouldn’t be alone.”

Bobby grunted, already turning toward the door. “Don’t need to tell me twice. That woman’s gotten under my skin enough that I’d be real pissed if she went down on account of some stupid boat.”

Dean nodded and Bobby left the motel room, the distant sound of the Mustang starting up reaching them a minute later. As Bobby peeled out of the parking lot, Dean felt Cas’s gaze on him again.

“You’re not invincible, Dean,” Cas said, voice low enough that only Dean could hear it. “You shouldn’t have to carry the weight of stopping Fate itself.”

Dean shook his head. “Maybe not. But it’s always been the job, hasn’t it? Not like that’s gonna change now.”

Cas swallowed, but he didn’t argue again. At his sides, his hands curled into fists anxiously, and his eyes darted over Dean’s face, like he wanted to commit every detail to memory.

Dean wasn’t the only one afraid of what was coming.

Sam’s grand idea of playing as bait could do with a little more work, Dean thought as they walked through the town Sam and Bobby had been investigating. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, and they had been walking through the streets waiting for something to happen for over an hour now, sticking close to open sidewalks and exposed intersections, making themselves as visible to Fate as possible, and all Dean had to show for it was swollen and aching feet.

Dean hated this part. Waiting to get killed by something he couldn’t shoot or stab always made his skin crawl. He glanced at Sam, who had his hands in his jacket pockets and eyes scanning rooftops, lampposts, windows.

“Think she’ll bite?” Dean asked, low and tense.

“If she’s watching, yeah.” Sam muttered. “We’ve made ourselves plenty tempting.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Great. Just how I wanted to spend my weekend. Playing Final Destination in Small Town, USA.”

They turned a corner near a hardware store, where a delivery truck rumbled off down the street, leaving behind the oily scent of exhaust and asphalt. Dean barely had time to notice the faint creak above them before his instincts screamed. He shoved Sam back as a heavy steel pulley from a rooftop hoist gave a tortured groan and snapped free.

Just before it came crashing down on top of them, time stopped.

Dean froze mid-shove. The pulley hovered midair, inches from his face.

Then, with a rush of wings and a blink of distortion, Cas appeared. The tension in his frame spoke volumes.

“I found her,” Cas said flatly.

Dean’s pulse pounded. “Yeah, no kidding.”

The air shimmered again, and suddenly across the street, hand outstretched toward the pulley frozen in time, was the blonde woman from earlier. She had a look of deep annoyance on her face, and she scowled as Cas approached her.

“Atropos,” Cas said calmly, though the storm behind his eyes was anything but. “You look well.”

Atropos sneered. “I look like stomped-over crap. Because of you.”

Dean straightened, the force of her malice palpable from a distance. Cas carefully positioned himself so that he was blocking Dean from her sight, using his body as a shield.

“All right,” Cas said. “Let’s talk about this.”

“Talk?” Her voice rose shrilly. “About what? Maybe how you and those two circus clowns destroyed my work? You ruined my life.”

Cas stayed firm. “Let’s not get emotional.”

That was clearly the wrong thing to say. Atropos’s eyes blazed with fury. “Not get emotional? I had a job. God gave me a job. We all had a script. I worked hard. I was really good at what I did — until your big prize fight threw it all in the trash!”

“I’m sorry,” Cas said, not sounding all that sorry, “But freedom is more preferable.”

“Freedom?” Atropos spat. “This is chaos! How is it better? You know, I even went to Heaven to ask what to do next, and you know what? No one would even talk to me.”

“There are more pressing matters,” Cas replied.

“But I don’t know what happens next,” she hissed. “I need to know. It’s what I do.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas repeated, and this time there was a clear coldness to it. “But your services are no longer required.”

Dean glanced at Sam, who’s eyes were wide. This was starting to feel like a bad idea.

Atropos sneered at Cas, her expression one of disgust. “You know what? I kept my mouth shut. I could have raised a fuss, but I didn’t. But you know what the last straw is? Un-sinking the Titanic! You changed the future. You cannot change the past. That is going too far!” 

“It’s Balthazar,” Cas said quickly. “He’s erratic—”

“Bull crap.” Atropos jabbed a finger toward him. “This isn’t about some stupid movie. He’s under your orders. You sent him back to save that ship.”

Cas’s eyes were wide, sensing he had lost control of the situation. “No, I didn’t,” he defended. “Why would I?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, arching a brow. “Maybe because you’re in the middle of a war and desperate?” She smirked. “Come on. This is about the souls.”

Cas’s expression hardened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” she pressed. “Balthazar created fifty thousand new souls for your little war machine.”

“You’re confused.” Cas said, but his voice was tight now.

“No. You can’t just mint money, Castiel.” She stepped closer, furious. “It’s wrong… it’s dangerous… And I won’t let you.”

Cas met her step-for-step. “You don’t have a choice.”

Atropos’s smile turned cruel. “Maybe I don’t. So here’s a choice for you.” She stepped back, widening her path as she began to pace around them. “If you don’t go back and sink that boat, I’m gonna kill your two favorite pets.” Her gaze slid deliberately to Dean’s middle. “And your other weapon you have up your sleeve.”

Dean tensed. He was getting really sick of people calling their daughter a weapon.

Cas didn’t take it much better — his face tightened, fury simmering just beneath the surface. “I won’t let you,” he growled.

“Oh yeah?” Atropos challenged. “What are you gonna do?”

Cas stepped in close, his height casting a shadow over her smaller frame. “Do you really want to test me?”

Atropos considered him coolly for a beat. Then her head tilted, thoughtful. “Okay. Fine. But think about this — I’ve got two sisters out there. They’re bigger, in every sense of the word. Kill me, and Sam and Dean are target one. For simple vengeance.”

Dean’s heart kicked hard. She wasn’t bluffing. He could feel it.

“You’re not fighting a war or anything, right?” Atropos went on. “So you can watch them every second of every day. Because maybe you’ve heard — fate strikes when you least expect it.”

Cas stared her down, unmoving, unreadable. Then, finally, his gaze shifted over her shoulder.

“Balthazar, stop.”

Dean turned and saw him — Balthazar, standing behind her with his blade raised mid-air.

“Ah. Awkward,” Balthazar said, grimacing as he slowly lowered the weapon at Castiel’s command.

Atropos spun back toward Cas, her expression darkening with real irritation. “Set things right,” she said coldly, “before I flick your precious boys off a cliff just on principle.”

Balthazar huffed. “Uh, sweetie, before we go, I could remove that stick from your—”

“Don’t try me.”

Balthazar raised both hands. “We’ll leave it inserted then. All right then.” He turned to Cas. “Let’s sink the Titanic.”

Cas nodded, slow and defeated, and Dean felt something hollow open up in his chest — deep and cold and gutting. No. No, it couldn’t end like this.

Because that meant—

“Cas, wait—” Dean’s hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of trench coat before the angel could move. Cas stilled, eyes meeting his, worn and weary but still lit with that stubborn, quiet concern.

The world tilted. Dean could hardly breathe. “We can’t just— Ellen, she—”

“I know, Dean,” Cas said softly.

“No. No, please.” His voice cracked. The panic was surging now, bubbling out of his throat, raw and helpless. “You don’t understand. I—” He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t think. His heart was sprinting, fists clenched against the tide. “Look, just — just her, okay? And Jo. We can save them, right?”

Cas didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The sorrow in his expression said everything. And then, quietly:

“I’m sorry.”

The words hit like a punch to the ribs. Dean staggered, knees almost buckling as he clung to Cas’s coat, shaking. “Cas, please.” It slipped out in a whisper, nothing but desperation. A plea for mercy. A miracle.

But none came.

“This isn’t a battle we can win,” Cas said, voice gentle but unflinching. “I was wrong. We can’t change the past.”

Dean didn’t realize he was crying until the heat blurred his vision, until the tears streaked down without permission. He wiped them away with the heel of his palm, angry and aching, but Cas was already stepping in — one hand reaching up, fingers brushing away the tears with a tenderness that made Dean crumble.

“When it’s all set right,” Cas murmured, “this will all seem like a dream.”

Dean blinked up at him, ragged and unsteady. “No. I’ll remember. You know I will.”

Cas’s eyes darkened. He didn’t deny it. “I wish this didn’t cause you such pain.”

Dean swallowed hard, throat raw. “Just— can I at least say goodbye?”

Cas turned his head toward Atropos, who stood off to the side, arms crossed and expression tight with impatience. She rolled her eyes and gave a sharp nod.

“Five minutes,” she snapped. “Then that boat better be sunk.”

Dean was already fumbling for his phone. His hands shook so violently he had to try twice before tapping the right contact. The line clicked. A pause. Then:

 “That’s it, huh?” Ellen’s voice came through, clear and steady. Strong, even now. “You’ve gotta sink the boat.”

Dean’s breath hitched. She knew. Of course she knew. “Ellen—”

“Hush, Dean.” She cut him off gently. He could hear the ghost of a smile, laced with sadness. “I knew this was comin’, even if the rest of you were too pig-headed to see it.”

He pressed a trembling hand over his eyes, voice thick. “How am I supposed to do this without you?”

Ellen chuckled, soft and warm. “You already are, sweetheart.”

A choked sound escaped him — half sob, half laugh, broken at the edges. “Well I don’t want to.”

“I didn’t want to either,” she said, quieter now. “When my Bill died, I wanted to join him, did I ever tell you that? But I had to keep living for Jo, because she needed me. And then you boys and Bobby came into my life, and somewhere along the way, I stopped looking for an out.”

Dean bit down on his lip, fighting to stay silent, fighting not to fall apart.

“You have to live, Dean. Because your kid needs you, and you need her. And I know we agreed to believe for each other, but if my time’s done, that means it’s on you. So I don’t care if you want to live or not, or if you think you can’t see another way. You’re gonna live, alright? Let me hear you say yes.”

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “Y-yes.”

“Good.” Her voice wavered — just a little — the first crack in her armor. “I love you, kiddo. I’ll see you on the other side. A long, long time from now. And I want to hear all about it.”

Dean opened his mouth, desperate to say something — anything — but the line went dead before he could speak. She’d known. She hadn’t waited for him to hang up. She’d taken that burden, too.

He stood there, phone still pressed to his ear, tears hot on his face, trailing freely down. His breath shuddered out of him. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

He didn’t look up until Cas stepped in close.

Dean met his eyes — blue and ancient and aching — and nodded once.

Cas reached out, hand settling on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean let himself close his eyes.

Dean woke with a start.

The room was dim, lit only by the fading orange haze of sunset leaking through the threadbare curtains. Dust floated in lazy spirals through the light. The ceiling above him was familiar — cracked paint, warped boards, and the faint scent of old books and motor oil. 

Bobby’s house.

He was back.

His face was wet, cheeks cold as the air hit them, and when his lifted a hand to wipe at them, his skin came away damp. The tears had followed him — through time, through loss, through whatever cosmic reset Cas and Balthazar had pulled to stitch time back together. But erasing the other timeline did nothing to erase the ache behind his ribs, the sharp pang of grief that overwhelmed him. 

Dean sat there for a second, breathing shallow, staring at nothing. His head throbbed, like his body had been dragged through a dream he couldn’t fully remember — except he did remember. All of it.

Ellen’s voice still echoed in his head. 

“Let me hear you say yes.”

A shadow moved in the corner of his eye, and then a hand entered his field of vision — calloused fingers reaching towards his face.

Dean flinched, recoiling instinctively. His back hit the couch, and he sat up too fast, the world tilting for a moment as the blood rushed from his head. 

Cas stood beside him, trench coat rumpled, face guilt-ridden and solemn. There was sorrow in his eyes, deep and ancient and unspeakable. He looked like someone trying to mourn from behind glass. 

Dean didn’t think. He couldn’t speak. He just stood up and crossed the space between them in a blink, burying his face in Castiel’s neck, arms winding around him like he’d drown if he let go.

Cas stiffened for the briefest second — surprised, maybe — but then his arms came up, covering Dean’s back with gentle surety. He held him like something fragile. Like something sacred.

“I’m sorry,” Cas whispered against Dean’s hair. “I’m so sorry.”

Dean couldn’t answer. His throat clenched shut around the grief, and all that came out was a broken, gasping sob. His hands tightened in the back of Cas’s coat, and his knees threatened to give out. He was crying now, really crying, the kind of crying that emptied you out from the inside. Not loud, or angry. Just helpless. 

And through it all, Cas held him.

It wasn’t fair. Ellen, Jo, the whole war Cas was in— none of it was fair. It wasn’t fair that every time they had something good, it was wrenched away again. It wasn’t fair that every time Dean had hope for something it was squashed just when he started to trust it. It wasn’t fair that now he had to believe in something he knew would just disappoint him again, the thought that he might live—

It wasn’t fair.

But then, when were things ever fair for them?

Dean buried his face in Cas’s shoulder, trembling, and let it all fall apart.

Chapter Text

Heaven’s battlefield was not made of clouds.

It was made out of memory and light, of sound without source and space that bent and folded in on itself like the corners of a long-forgotten dream. Time unraveled in the heat of angelic combat, moments stretching and snapping like rubber bands. Castiel could feel himself slipping in and out of form — grace surging, a wavelength of divine energy flickering raw and unfiltered. He had long since stopped trying to stay fully anchored in his vessel. There was no point.

Battles between angels were never neat. They were beautiful and terrible — full of radiant fury and the burn of falling grace. Energy collided with energy in bright explosions that would have annihilated a human mind in seconds. Blades clashed in fits and starts, sometimes physical, sometimes on other planes. Every move felt like striking chords in the music of the spheres — discordant and desperate.

This was not how things were meant to be.

Castiel surged through the chaos, dodging another bolt of concentrated light. He countered with his blade, not stopping to see the face of the angel it pierced. They fell away in a scatter of wings and screeching noise, and Cas barely had a second to mourn them.

Raphael’s forces were everywhere.

Too many. Too loyal. Too blind.

They hadn’t questioned the return to the old ways, hadn’t flinched at the idea of obedience without compassion, order without mercy. They wanted Heaven restored to its former hierarchy — rigid, cold, absolute. And Cas? He had seen what free will looked like. What humanity could be. What they all could be.

He would not go back.

Another flare of energy caught him in the periphery — a flicker, sharp and fast. He pivoted too slow, and a mass of force slammed into his side. Before he could reform his balance in the chaotic drift of Heaven’s broken sky, they were spiraling downward. He twisted in the fall, struggling against the grip of another angel. Grace tangled with grace. He recognized the pattern of it before he saw the vessel.

“Virgil,” Cas hissed. 

The other angel didn’t speak. There was no need. His intent was a blade: loyal, brutal, and blunt. They crashed with a thunderous crack into one of the far-off personal heavens — an old, quiet corner of the realm most angels didn’t bother with. It shimmered around them, the illusion trying to hold — an old farmhouse, golden fields stretching on forever. Someone’s paradise.

They were desecrating it.

Castiel forced them both to the ground, their forms half-visible now — wings flashing in and out of sight, faces flickering between vessels and true forms. The air was thick with the scent of ozone, heavy with the crackling tension of divine wrath.

Virgil was strong. He always had been. One of the older angels, completely unquestioning of the angelic order and hierarchy. But Castiel had learned something more powerful than strength: desperation.

He ducked a blow meant to shred his vessel and drove his blade up — not into Virgil’s chest, but just below the ribs, where the grace was the most vulnerable. Virgil reeled, mouth opening in surprise that was too late to stop what came next. Cas shifted form for just a second — enough to press his hand against Virgil’s grace, to extract it in a flash of raw light, and condense it with a whispered Enochian spell.

The vial in his hand pulsed with energy as he filled it with the other angel’s grace. He tucked it quickly into his vessel’s coat, hiding it from sight. There was no time to waste.

Virgil groaned, crumpling to his knees, now contained entirely to his vessel’s form. He blinked with horror as Castiel flipped his blade in his hand. “What have you done?”

“What was necessary.” Cas replied solemnly before driving the blade forward, piercing through the other angel’s throat. He didn’t blink as Virgil died, forcing himself to watch as the life burned out of him. This was his burden. His cross to carry. The blood of his siblings spilled across Heaven’s sky so that Earth would be safe. 

So that Dean would be safe. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. But Virgil was dead. There was no one left to hear his regret. The fields around him were still and empty. No eyes on him. No witnesses.

He unfurled his wings — black and impossibly wide against the golden light — and took off in a burst of air and sound, soaring up through the shattered sky. His heart burned, not just with pain, but overwhelming purpose.

He would not lose Heaven. Not to Raphael. Not to obedience. Not when he’d come this far.

He returned to the battlefield, grace replenished, wings stretched wide in a furious warning.

Castiel was not done fighting.

The garden glowed with golden light, that kind of soft, honeyed warmth that made it easy to believe nothing bad could ever happen here.

Dean lay sprawled on his back in the grass, arms folded behind his head, staring up at a sky so blue it looked painted on. The breeze smelled like honeysuckle and summer rain, and somewhere nearby a bee buzzed lazily between flowers. It was too perfect. Like every backyard dream he’d ever had as a kid before life got hard.

Beside him, his daughter was giggling.

“Nessa,” Dean guessed.

“Nope!” she said immediately, a wide, gap-toothed smile spreading across her freckled face.

Dean groaned dramatically. “Aw, come on. Nessa’s a great name.”

“It’s not my name,” she said with mock offense, rolling onto her side and poking his cheek.

Dean squinted one eye open and smirked. “Okay, okay. What about Nala?”

She gave him a flat look that reminded him way too much of Cas. “Like the lion?”

“What? It’s a good movie.” Dean protested, but he sighed, rolling over onto his stomach. “What about Noelle?”

She giggled again, hiding her face in the crook of her elbow. “Still wrong.”

“Kid,” Dean sighed, pretending to be exasperated, “I’m running out of names here.”

She was quiet for a moment, eyes turned up to the sky, grass tangled in her hair. Dean looked at her — really looked at her — and thought about how strange and wonderful it was that she looked like both him and Cas. That her eyes had this curious, ancient way of looking at things. She was the impossible made real, and sometimes he still didn’t understand how he’d gotten so lucky.

She rolled over then, propping herself up on one elbow, and looked at him with a seriousness that didn’t match the sun-dappled peace around them.

“Grandma Ellen isn’t coming back, is she?”

Dean’s heart caught mid-beat.

The sunlight didn’t dim. The breeze didn’t stop. But all the warmth in his chest evaporated in an instant, replaced by a heavy, laden grief that settled deep in his bones. He hadn’t felt that here before — not in the garden. It was supposed to be safe here. Gentle. The place where nothing hurt. But now, the ache in his throat was as real as anything he’d ever felt.

He swallowed hard. “No, sweetheart,” he said finally, voice rough. “She’s not.”

His daughter looked down, fingers playing with the edge of her shirt. “Why not? I like her.”

“Yeah,” Dean murmured, blinking fast. “I like her too.”

He sat up slowly, brushing a hand through his hair, looking at the flowers stretching across the field like they could offer an answer. “In this time, she… she died a long time ago. When Balthazar messed with the timeline, we got to see her for a little bit again. But Cas had to set things right. Had to put it all back the way it was supposed to be.”

“That stinks,” she said, frowning.

Dean gave a short laugh, though it was choked. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

She scooted closer, her small hand wrapping around two of his fingers. He felt it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want you to leave me too,” she whispered.

That knocked the air out of him.

Dean turned toward her, pulling her gently into his arms, her head resting against his chest. He held her tightly, as if holding her hard enough could anchor him to this place forever. He remembered his promise to Ellen, the thought of her sending a fresh bolt of grief through his chest.

“Oh, honey,” he breathed, pressing a kiss to the crown of her hair. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

And for now, that was the truth.

They stayed there, wrapped up in each other as the garden hummed around them — safe, if only for a little while longer.

The house was too quiet. 

Dean wasn’t moping. Not really. He just didn’t feel like doing anything. Which wasn’t the same thing as moping. He wasn’t brooding or wallowing or pacing around like a caged animal, even if he had already wandered into every room in the house at least twice and stood blankly in the doorway like he’d forgotten why he’d walked there. He wasn’t moody, he just didn’t want to deal with anything. Not the way the shadows stretched across the floor like reminders of the time slipping away, not the creak of the old house settling like a sigh, not the damn silence pressing in from every direction. 

He definitely wasn’t thinking about her.

And if he was, it wasn’t because he was grieving. He just… missed her voice. Missed her calling him “sunshine,” missed the way she made the world feel solid when everything else was shaking apart. And maybe, yeah, he was hoping — just for a second — that the next sound to break the silence would be Ellen Harvelle’s boots on the floor, her laugh echoing down the hall like this was her home too.

But it wasn’t her.

It was Sam and Bobby.

The front door burst open, the wind shoving it against the wall with a bang. Boots stomped mud and snow across the worn rug in the entryway. Dean blinked, momentarily startled out of his spiral.

“How’d it go?” he asked, trying not to sound too eager, or too desperate.

Sam’s face was tight, jaw clenched. “Dean…”

Dean’s stomach dropped. “Don’t tell me it’s another dead end,” he snapped, sharper than he meant to, but he couldn’t help it. “Because I cannot take any more bad news right now. I mean it, I really—”

“No, it’s—” Bobby started, but Dean wasn’t done.

“I mean it,” Dean said again, more forcefully. “I’m so sick of this. Sick of chasing ghosts and running outta time and—”

“Dean!” Sam barked.

Dean snapped his mouth shut, chest heaving.

“We have a lead,” Sam said, stepping forward.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “On?”

“Bobby’s friend — the one who helped him with the dragons — she’s got a book. A journal. It mentions phoenix ashes. Says they can kill the Mother.”

Dean blinked “Phoenix? Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Apparently, it’s one of the few things powerful enough to counteract something as powerful as she is.”

Dean frowned. “And we know this is Eve how?”

“Dean, this is the first real lead we’ve had in weeks. Shouldn’t we at least look into it?”

Dean opened his mouth to argue — but without warning, something hit him.

His hand flew out to brace against the kitchen doorway. His vision tunneled, the edges going dark. He swayed on his feet as the air rushed from his lungs, and for one awful second he thought he was having a heart attack. But then — he recognized it.

The burn.

Or rather, the lack of it.

The steady hum of grace that had become a part of him over the last few weeks was just gone. Like a light switch had been flipped, and all that energy — angelic and overwhelming and necessary — had vanished. And in its place came a sharp, gnawing hunger, an ache that started in his bones and radiated outward.

His daughter. She needed him.

She was feeding on him, more than she had before. The grace had been enough to sustain her without risking his life, and now that it was gone…

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was worried. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

Dean’s knees buckled. His hand slipped from the doorframe, and he half-collapsed before Sam caught him around the chest.

“The grace,” Dean gasped, eyes wide, breath coming in shallow gulps. “It’s — it’s gone.”

Bobby’s face paled. “Oh hell. She’s draining you. Fast.”

“We need Cas,” Sam said, frantic now, lowering Dean gently to the floor. “We need him now!”

Dean barely heard them. Everything was slipping away, like the garden was calling him back, pulling him under a tide he couldn’t fight. The exhaustion was bone-deep, dragging him down, and all he could do was curl in on himself, trying to shield the tiny spark of life that still flickered inside him.

The beat of wings was distant. Like thunder rolling in from a hundred miles away.

And then — fire. 

Dean’s eyes snapped open as he choked on the sudden flood of grace pouring down his throat. It burned. God, it burned. He writhed in Sam’s arms, back arching off the floor as the power filled him with no gentleness, no warning. He clawed at the hands holding him — Cas’s hands, he realized, fingers curled tight against his shoulders.

“Stop— stop—” Dean rasped, but the grace wasn’t listening.

Cas’s face loomed above him, grim and emotionless, but Dean could see the guilt in his eyes, the torment just behind the steel.

It was like lightning in his veins. Like razors under his skin. Like being flayed from the inside out as the foreign energy took root, latching onto his soul with desperate hunger. His body jerked, convulsing with the force of it, and somewhere inside, he felt her, his daughter’s grace reaching out for the familiar spark, wrapping around it, holding it tight like it had been waiting.

The pain started to ease, and Dean went limp, breath shuddering out of him, chest heaving. The fire receded to a simmer, burning steadily in his blood, tamed only by the fact that part of it was no longer his alone.

Cas’s hands didn’t leave him, but the pressure softened.

Dean looked up, dazed, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Cas was still staring down at him, his expression carved from stone. Unmoving. Unreadable. But there was something in his eyes that Dean couldn’t ignore — fear.

Cas was afraid.

And that scared Dean more than anything. 

As he slowly came back to awareness, Dean slowly registered everything around him. The cold floor under his back, the ceiling overhead still blurry, but steadily coming back into focus. Somewhere in the middle of Dean being burned alive, Sam had been pushed aside by Cas, so that the angel was the one cradling Dean in his arms. And above it all, the sound of his brother yelling. 

“What the hell was that?” Sam’s voice snapped through the air, sharp as broken glass.

Dean groaned, trying to push himself up on one elbow, but his limbs trembled too much. A dull whine escaped before he could bite it back, the grace still writing inside him like it hadn’t decided whether to settle or burn him alive. His vision swam, and he slumped back down with a grimace. 

Cas brushed his hair back from his forehead gently, scanning his face with anxious eyes. After a quick check that Dean wasn’t actively dying, the angel’s eyes lifted to where Sam was pacing, his gaze cold and calm.

“I thought it was pretty obvious,” Bobby grunted from across the room, arms crossed, face pale under his beard. “Kid ran out of grace to suck on. Went right back to feeding off of Dean.”

“It wasn’t like that last time!” Sam’s voice cracked, frustration boiling over.

Cas inclined his head slightly. “It appears that the…” He glanced at Dean again — just long enough that Dean could see the calculation in his eyes. Cas corrected himself. “Our child has grown accustomed to a certain level of energy to feed off of. In its absence…”

“She needed more from Dean,” Bobby finished grimly, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “She’s gettin’ bigger. Stronger. Needs more fuel to keep growing.”

“Essentially, yes,” Cas agreed, his voice low.

Sam threw his hands up, pacing a few steps before turning on them again. “That’s — what the fuck, guys. Do you hear yourselves?” His voice rose, sharp and frantic. “You’re okay with this— this half-angel hybrid just draining Dean like he’s some kind of— of battery? Like she’s some kind of vampire or — or leech?”

Cas’s gaze didn’t waver. “She did not drain his soul, Sam. I administered the grace before it came to that.”

“And what about next time?” Sam shot back, stepping closer, eyes blazing. “What if you’re off in Heaven, measuring your dick against Raphael’s, and you can’t get back in time? What am I supposed to do then — watch him die?”

“It will not come to that,” Cas said, quiet but firm.

Dean winced again. The grace inside him was still too much, shifting like molten metal under his skin. His daughter — their daughter — was still latching on to it, her presence humming quietly at the edges of his soul. He could feel her, hungry and scared, clinging to him. And despite the pain, despite everything, he didn’t want her to let go. Didn’t want her to starve.

He opened his mouth to tell Sam to knock it off, to not compare his daughter to a monster again, but all he managed was a gasp, another sharp jolt of agony twisting through him. A low, involuntary whine broke free, and Sam’s head snapped toward him.

“Look at him!” Sam’s voice cracked again, pure panic now. “It’s fucking hurting him, Cas!”

Dean blinked, vision going in and out, just in time to see Sam take a step forward — and Cas stand to meet him. They were inches apart now, eye to eye.

 “What the hell is your plan?” Sam demanded.

“I understand that you’re worried, Sam, but—”

“Worried?” Sam’s laugh was bitter, disbelieving. “Oh, I’m so far past that. You think I haven’t been watching this? You think I didn’t notice how he can’t keep food down half the time anymore, how pale he’s gotten? How his hands shake when he thinks no one’s looking?”

Dean wanted to protest. To tell Sam to shut up. That it wasn’t that bad. That he was fine. But the words wouldn’t come.

“I tried to be on board with this,” Sam continued, voice rising again. “For Dean’s sake. But I can’t. I can’t keep pretending this is okay. That thing — your spawn — is killing him. And maybe you’re fine standing there watching him fade, but I’m not.”

Cas’s expression didn’t change, but the pressure in the room increased, like a storm was about to crack open the ceiling above them. “Do not presume to know what I am fine with,” Cas said, his voice low and dangerous. “You have no idea how I feel.”

Sam’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t back down. “No? But if he does die, at least you still get something out of it, right?” His voice was shaking snow, full of fury and something close to grief. “You still get your perfect weapon against Raphael, and then you’ll have no one standing in your way. It’s just like Balthazar said — it’s just a matter of time before you’ve got everything you need, and the only thing you had to give up — was my brother’s life.”

The next moment happened so fast Dean didn’t register it until it was done.

Cas’s hands were on Sam, fists balled in the front of his shirt, slamming him back against the wall so hard a picture frame hit the floor and shattered.

“You dare speak to me of sacrifice?” Cas’s voice wasn’t just angry — it was righteous, shaking with barely restrained wrath. “You have no idea the lengths I’ve gone to protect your brother. To protect you.”

Sam stared back, stunned but unyielding.

“I have rebelled,” Cas growled, his voice reverberating through the walls. “I have killed thousands of my brothers and sisters. I have burned Heaven to the ground to save him.” His face was inches from Sam’s, eyes burning like twin stars. “You think I want to rule? That this — this was ever about power? Do not speak to me of sacrifice.”

He shoved Sam back, enough to make him stumble. Sam stayed against the wall, breathing hard, face taut with fury.

Cas didn’t look at him again.

He turned instead, kneeling back beside Dean, fingers brushing lightly across Dean’s wrist, checking the pulse he already knew was there.

Dean blinked at him, still dazed, heart pounding in his chest — not from the pain, though that was still there, but from what he’d just heard.

“I apologize for taking so long,” Cas said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. His expression was open now, heavy with the kind of guilt that came from wars Dean couldn’t see. “The situation in Heaven remains… difficult.”

Dean shook his head, just a little. “It’s okay.”

“It is not,” Cas replied firmly. “Your brother was correct in that, at least.” His gaze drifted over Dean, the pale sheen of sweat still clinging to his forehead. “You should rest.”

“No, no,” Dean said quickly, waving a weak hand before dropping it back to the floor. “Just… help me up.”

Cas hesitated, the muscles in his jaw ticking with worry, but he nodded and reached out, one hand grasping Dean’s arm while the other slid around his waist to brace him. Dean bit down on a groan as Cas eased him up, closing his eyes against the wave of pain that ran through him. 

Once Dean was upright and not swaying, he looked toward Bobby, who’d been standing back and watching with his arms crossed and his mouth pressed in a grim line.

“Bobby… what is it you were saying?” Dean asked, voiced strained but thankfully steady.

“It can wait, Dean,” Bobby said with a tone that meant he really didn’t want Dean hearing it.

Dean huffed a breath that might’ve passed for a laugh if it didn’t sound so dry. “I think it’s been made pretty clear at this point that it can’t.”

Bobby muttered something under his breath and scrubbed a hand over his beard. “Fine. We think… the ashes of a phoenix might be able to kill this ‘Mother of All’ that keeps popping up.”

Dean blinked. “Right. Phoenix.”

“Yep. Flaming magic bird, whole nine yards,” Bobby said. “Problem is, apparently the last one was killed back in 1861 by Samuel Colt himself.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? The Samuel Colt?” 

“Yeah. Busy man, that one,” Bobby muttered. “Problem is, if he killed the last one, we’re back to square one.”

“Not necessarily,” Castiel said, his voice calm as he stepped closer again. “If you know the exact date and location where the phoenix was killed, I can transport someone there.”

Bobby narrowed his eyes. “And you’ll be able to bring us back?”

“I would only be able to allow twenty-four hours of time,” Cas replied. “But yes.”

“Twenty-four hours? Why?”

“The answer to your question,” Cas said, matter-of-fact, “can be expressed as a series of partial differential equations.”

Bobby scoffed. “Yeah, aim lower.”

Cas paused, then gave a slight tilt of his head. “The further back I send you, the harder it becomes to retrieve you. Twenty-four hours is all I can risk. If I don’t pull you home within that time, you’ll be lost to me.”

“Well, count me out,” Bobby said gruffly. “Somebody’s gotta stay here and hold the fort down.” He turned his sharp eyes on Dean, catching him before he could speak. “Don’t even think about it. You nearly keeled over ten minutes ago. There’s no way in hell you’re going to the 1860s.”

“Oh come on—” Dean started, scowling.

“I agree with Bobby,” Cas interrupted, his voice low and resolute. “Putting your soul through time travel in your condition is a risk we can’t afford.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “So who the hell is going?”

“I am,” came Sam’s voice from the other side of the room.

The three of them turned to look. Sam stood with his arms folded, shoulders tight, jaw set. He still looked like he wanted to strangle someone — probably Cas — but there was something unshakeable in his eyes. Determination. 

“By yourself?” Dean asked, frowning.

Sam didn’t blink. “Apparently I handled hunting alone just fine when I didn’t have a soul. I can do it.”

“You can’t just—”

“What other choice do we have here?” Bobby cut in. His voice wasn’t unkind, just blunt.

Dean stared at Sam. “What happens if you get stuck?”

Sam didn’t hesitate. “I’ll figure it out. But I’m doing it. Someone has to.”

Cas inclined his head slowly. “I need to inform Balthazar, so he can manage things in my stead.” And with that, he vanished in a flutter of wings.

Dean swayed slightly as his support vanished, but Bobby moved fast, stepping in to steady him.

“Great,” Sam muttered. “I’ll get my stuff ready.” He left the room without another word, the sound of his boots echoing down the hall.

Dean and Bobby looked at each other. Neither spoke for a long moment.

Finally, Bobby grunted and jerked his head toward the couch. “Come on, ya idjit.”

Dean didn’t protest this time. He let Bobby guide him down, sinking into the cushions like a man twice his age. His body hurt, like he had been wrung out and hung to dry. Even his daughter was subdued, curled quietly inside him. Clearly, they were both rattled by what had happened.

“You good?” Bobby asked, watching him carefully.

Dean gave a half-hearted nod. “Peachy.”

Bobby snorted. “I’ll go grab the journal. Don’t move.” 

Dean didn’t plan on it. He let his head fall back against the couch and stared up at the ceiling, lips parting in a long, slow sigh. The sunlight slanting through the dusty windows reminded him of the golden light of the garden, and with that thought, he began to feel his daughter stirring again, slowly recovering from the scare from earlier.

“There you are,” he murmured, rubbing slow circles over the swell of his abdomen. “That was scary, wasn’t it sweetheart? It’s okay now. I’m here.” He closed his eyes gently against the light, trying to concentrate on feeling her. “I’m still here.”

Slowly, surely, he felt her warming up again, the stretch of her grace curling and winding around him like a cat rubbing up against his soul. He grinned as she playfully nudged him, a question pressed into his mind.

“Really? You want to play the game again?” He received another nudge, and chuckled despite himself. “Alright, we can play.” He hummed for a moment before he offered up a name. “Nia?” There was a pause, and then a solid thump hit his palm in response.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Okay, not Nia. Jeez, kid, you could at least pretend to consider one.”

He let his hand drift lightly over the skin just beneath his shirt, fingers tapping a rhythm. “Nadine?” Another kick. “Noreen? …Nikita? Nike?” That one earned a double jab.

“Alright, alright! That’s fair. I was reaching with that one.” He laughed again, and for a moment, he could almost forget how bad things were. Almost.

He didn’t hear the footsteps right away, but he felt the shift in the room — like the air tensed just slightly. Dean glanced toward the doorway and saw Sam standing there, half in shadow, arms crossed tight against his chest. His face was carefully blank, but his eyes were fixed on Dean’s hand.

Dean didn’t speak first. Didn’t want to push it.

“What… are you doing?” Sam asked finally, voice low, wary.

Dean tilted his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Playing the name game,” he said casually, fingers still moving gently over his bump. “She kicks every time I guess wrong. Which, so far, is always.”

Sam hovered in the doorway like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to come closer. A far cry from earlier, with the frantic yelling and alpha posturing, now his little brother seemed… little. Small, and scared. Dean held his gaze and finally, slowly, Sam stepped into the room and lowered himself onto the edge of the couch.

Dean didn’t say anything. Just let him sit there. Let the quiet stretch and settle until it felt less fragile.

His daughter shifted again, and Dean let out a hum deep in his chest. Sam glanced at him, brow furrowing with curiosity. Dean hesitated — then lifted his hand and gestured. “Wanna feel?”

Sam blinked, surprised. Then, after a breath, he reached out — cautious, unsure — and laid his hand beside Dean’s.

For a second, there was nothing. Then — thump.

Sam jerked, just slightly. Not violently, but enough that surprise flickered across his face, a crack in the calm.

“She’s got opinions,” Dean said softly, a note of fondness in his voice.

Sam stared at his hand, then pulled it back. “I don’t…” he started, then stopped. His eyes dropped to the floor. “I don’t hate her, Dean.”

Dean’s breath caught in his throat. The words landed heavy, like a gauntlet thrown between them.

“I’m scared,” Sam admitted. He wasn’t looking at Dean now — eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder, jaw tight. “We survived the Apocalypse. Crawled through it, bloody and broken, but we made it out the other side. And I don’t remember anything from the time my soul was gone, but when I came back… you were already on the chopping block again.”

Dean closed his eyes.

“This time,” Sam went on, “we don’t even have a plan. No lore, no angel blade, no backup. Just… time, ticking down.”

Dean swallowed hard. “Sam—”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Sam snapped, voice cracking. “You keep saying you’ll make it, and I want to believe you. But you don’t believe it. I see you, Dean.”

Dean stared down at his stomach — at the gentle swell of it, the impossibility. “I want to live, Sammy. I swear to God. More than anything. I’m trying. I promised you and Ellen I’d try, and I am. But if…” He shook his head, throat working. “If I don’t make it… she’s gonna need someone. She’s gonna need you .”

Sam’s fists clenched tight against his knees. He didn’t answer.

“Sammy,” Dean said, voice cracking. “Please.”

Sam looked up at him, and there was pain in his eyes, real and raw, but it was tangled with something harder. Older.

“I’m not sure I can,” he whispered.

It hit like a bullet to the chest. Dean sucked in a sharp breath, like maybe if he inhaled hard enough, it wouldn’t land. “Sam… she’s your niece.”

“She’s something,” Sam muttered. “But I don’t know what.”

“She’s family.”

“Yeah,” Sam snapped. “And so was Samuel. And he still put a knife to your throat.”

Dean’s voice rose, sharp. “This isn’t the same—”

“No?” Sam’s tone was bitter now, a low snarl. “Samuel only tried to kill you. If she does it… If she tears you apart from the inside…” He stopped, swallowed hard. “I don’t know if I can forgive that.”

Dean’s chest tightened. “She doesn’t even know what she’s doing, Sam. She’s just a baby. My baby. You can’t hold that against her.”

Sam stood abruptly, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Sam, just — please. Just promise me—”

But Sam was already walking to the door.

“I can’t, Dean.”

And then he walked out.

Dean sat there frozen, his chest tight, his hands shaking. The silence that followed was almost worse than anything Sam had said.

From the hallway, there was the sound of floorboards creaking. Bobby stepped into the room, arms crossed, eyes soft beneath his furrowed brows. “He’ll come around,” he said.

Dean didn’t look at him. “We both know I don’t have the luxury of time.”

Bobby moved to the couch, sitting down beside him with a tired grunt. “Then you can count on me.”

Dean turned toward him, and Bobby met his gaze steadily. “I know I was never allowed to be your father in a way that mattered,” Bobby said, gruff but gentle. “But you can trust me when I say I’ll protect her with my life. Just like I would’ve protected you boys if I’d had the chance.”

Dean’s throat was tight. His vision blurred.

“But,” Bobby added, “we ain’t counting our chickens before they hatch. You hear me? We’ve gotten through worse. And you gotta have some faith that we’ll figure it out.”

Dean leaned his head against Bobby’s shoulder, feeling the steady weight of the man who had been more of a father to him than anyone else ever had. Bobby wrapped an arm around his shoulders and held him like he wasn’t just a broken man clinging to hope, but his child, his son. Someone worth saving.

“We’ll figure it out,” Bobby murmured.

Dean closed his eyes and tried to believe him.

It was late by the time Cas returned, and the study buzzed with quiet, focused motion as they prepped for the time jump. Dean tried not to stew in it — really, he did — but there was no getting around the jealousy coiling low in his gut. His little brother was about to go gallivanting through history, while he was stuck here, barefoot and pregnant.

At least he got a little entertainment out of the deal.

Across the room, Sam stood stiffly beside one of the armchairs, arms at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. Or his face. Or the ridiculous outfit Dean had shoved him into.

Dean had dressed him like a cowboy.

Not just any cowboy — a dusty, end-of-the-trail, seen-some-things gunslinger straight out of a spaghetti Western. Brown duster coat, sun-bleached shirt, suspenders, a battered hat pulled low like he was avoiding a bounty hunter, and boots that had seen more miles than Sam’s entire Stanford career. All of it — straight from Dean’s personal collection. Authentic, lovingly sourced, and slightly musty.

“Seriously?” Sam tugged at the collar with a dramatic scowl. “You dressed me like an extra from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.”

Dean smirked from his spot on the couch, one hand resting over his belly. “Damn right I did. You’re heading into the Wild West, Sammy. You gotta commit to the bit. You wanna roll up in your flannel and jeans and get burned at the stake for witchcraft?”

Sam leveled a glare at him. “ This is your idea of blending in?”

“It’s authentic,” Dean said, mock-offended. “I even double-checked the boots. Period accurate.”

“They’re two sizes too small.”

Dean gave an unbothered shrug. “Then don’t run.”

From the corner, Bobby let out a bark of laughter and raised his beer. “You look like a jackass,” he offered cheerfully.

Sam sighed, long-suffering. “Thanks.”

Dean just grinned wider. This might’ve been the most fun he’d had all week.

He turned his gaze to Cas, who was pacing slow circles in the center of the room, his eyes narrowed as he murmured in Enochian under his breath. He was doing that thing again — tilting his head and blinking in a way that made him seem like he wasn’t entirely there, like part of his mind was floating in a different dimension.

“So,” Dean said, straightening up, “you sure this is gonna work? No half-sending him to the 1960s or— or the Jurassic era?”

Cas looked up at him, expression serious. “I’m sure.”

Dean gave him a nod, then turned back to Sam, bruising invisible lint off his brother’s shoulder. “Lucky bastard,” he said under his breath. “Gets to go ride horses and shoot revolvers and drink whiskey in a saloon.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You done?”

Dean glared at him for a moment before he huffed. “Yeah, I’m done.”

Cas stepped forward then, the air shifting slightly with his presence. “Sam. I can hold the connection open for twenty-four hours. Not a moment longer. When the time runs out, I will retrieve you. If I am unable to—”

“You won’t be,” Sam said. “I’ve got it.”

Dean felt his jaw clench. He didn’t like any of this. Not sending Sam alone, things still not fixed between them. Not the ticking clock hanging over their heads. Not the way he was forced to the side, helpless to do anything but wait.

Cas lifted a hand “Then I’ll begin.”

The light around them dimmed like something had drawn in a deep breath, and then a soft hum filled the air. Dean felt the vibration of it against the base of his skull, almost too low to hear. Cas whispered something that Dean didn’t catch, and with a flare of light, Sam was gone. Like someone flipped a switch and erased him from the room.

Silence fell.

Dean stared at the empty space Sam had just stood in. “That’s it?” he asked, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

Cas lowered his hand, expression weary. “Until twenty-four hours have passed… yes.”

Dean nodded slowly, still watching the air like Sam might flicker back into view any second. He felt a strange ache in his chest — worry, mostly. That and the usual cocktail of protectiveness and frustration and, yeah, jealousy.

“Wish I could’ve gone,” he murmured.

Cas turned toward him, stepping closer, concern etched in the lines of his face. “I know.”

They stood in the quiet for a moment longer, and then Bobby let out a sigh, setting his beer down on the desk. “He’ll be fine,” he said, aiming for reassurance. “You know your brother. Stubborn as hell. Won’t let anything stop him, not even the Wild West.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Still don’t like it.”

Bobby didn’t argue. Just gave him a grunt of agreement before walking off toward the kitchen, muttering something about needing more coffee or whiskey — or both.

Dean exhaled and finally turned toward Cas, whose eyes hadn’t left him.

“You gonna stick around?” Dean asked, his voice low but steady. “Or is Heaven calling?”

Cas tilted his head. “Raphael’s forces are recovering. So are mine. For the moment… there is nothing more I can do there.”

“So you’re free?” Dean tried not to sound too hopeful.

A small nod. “For now.”

Dean glanced toward the hall where Bobby had disappeared before turning back to Cas. He reached out, taking Cas’s hand. “Then come on.” He tugged the angel toward the stairs. 

Cas followed without protest.

Upstairs, the room Dean had claimed for his own in Bobby’s house looked more like a laundry explosion than a bedroom. The bed was completely buried under layers of shirts, jackets, a few random blankets, and some other soft things Dean had hoarded without fully realizing it. All of it carried one unifying feature: they all smelled like Cas. 

Dean had never been able to explain it — some ridiculous omega instinct he suspected — but being around Cas’s scent calmed him down in ways nothing else could. On the nights Cas was gone, Dean curled up in his makeshift nest, breathing in the scent of grace and ozone until his eyes finally drifted shut.

Thankfully, now he had the real thing. He led Cas to the bed now, easing down onto it with a soft exhale and pulling the angel down beside him. The mattress gave beneath them as Cas settled on his side, eyes gentle and curious. Dean didn’t waste time. He took Cas’s hand and guided it to his belly.

“She’s kicking,” Dean murmured.

Cas’s palm flattened instinctively, and after a second — thump.

Dean smiled faintly. “She always has more energy when you’re around. Think she likes to show off for you.”

Cas huffed something close to a laugh, his other hand wrapping around Dean’s back, tugging him close until they were pressed together from chest to knees. “I hope she’s not giving you too hard of a time. You need rest too.”

Dean tilted his head, resting it against Cas’s shoulder, and let the steady rise and fall of his mate’s breathing soothe something restless in his chest. “I’m good right here.”

Cas hummed low in his chest, pressing his lips into Dean’s hair.

They lay like that for hours. No talking. No worrying. Just the quiet hum of grace, the gentle weight of Cas’s touch, the intermittent kicks from the baby that made Cas smile each time she stirred. Dean drifted in and out of dozing, not quite fully sleeping but more at peace than he’d felt in weeks. Every breath felt like a little less weight on his shoulders, every heartbeat a temporary reprieve.

But nothing good ever lasted.

Dean felt his heart sink as Cas stiffened against him, his muscles going taut under Dean’s fingers, the sharp breath he took through his nose.

Dean carefully didn’t move. “What is it?”

“I’m being summoned,” Cas growled. At least he didn’t seem happy about it either.

Dean closed his eyes. “Seriously?”

“I don’t want to go,” Cas muttered reluctantly.

Dean sighed. “You have to.”

Cas nodded once, silent. His arms tightened around Dean for a moment, fiercely protective, like if he held on long enough maybe the summons would vanish. But of course, Heaven wasn’t that merciful.

Dean pulled back just enough to meet Cas’s eyes. “You better come back alive.”

“I’ll do my best,” Cas said quietly.

Dean searched his face, desperate for something solid — something that might make the goodbye feel less like a gamble. Then Cas leaned in and kissed him. Soft. Steady. Like he was pouring every word he didn’t have time to say into the shape of Dean’s mouth. Like he wanted Dean to feel it long after he was gone.

Dean kissed him back, harder. Fiercer. Like maybe he could anchor him here if he just held on tight enough.

And then Cas was gone.

The room felt too still in the aftermath. Dean clenched his jaw, staring at the space where Cas had stood, fighting the impulse to hurl the bedside lamp across the room just to break something. Do something. Because standing still had never suited him — and neither had feeling this helpless.

He was Dean Winchester, damn it. Not some storybook damsel. Not a housebound omega, laid up and waiting like a good little mate.

But that’s exactly what he was.

He collapsed back onto the bed, curling into the soft mess of worn fabric and familiar scent, one hand pressing instinctively to the swell of his stomach. The baby had gone quiet — sulking in her own way at Cas’s departure. Dean tried not to sulk with her. Tried not to let the ache in his chest get the better of him.

He rolled onto his side, face buried in Cas’s pillow, and breathed him in like it might bring him back. Like it might stop the creeping dread that whispered, What if this time is the last?

Every time Cas left, it felt a little more like goodbye.

And Dean wasn’t sure how many more goodbyes he could take.

The warehouse was cavernous and cold, its silence broken only by the echo of Castiel’s boots scraping across cracked concrete. Pale shafts of moonlight bled through the high, broken windows, casting long shadows that twitched like restless ghosts. The air hung heavy with rust and dust, and beneath it all, Castiel could sense it — grace. Not his own, but another angel’s.

His vessel’s jaw clenched as he turned in place, narrowing his eyes, senses straining. His blade materialized in his sleeve, ready to defend himself if necessary. 

He relaxed when he saw the angel that slid around one of the concrete pillars. “Rachel,” he greeted. The shape of her vessel was a young brunette woman that he didn’t recognize, but the angel inside was unmistakable. He felt the hum of recognition in his own grace. Rachel was a good soldier, and more importantly she was loyal. He was fortunate she had declared for his side in the conflict against Raphael.

“Castiel,” she said, her voice calm and composed. 

“You summoned me here?” He questioned.

“I did.”

A long silence stretched between them. Castiel didn’t move. Whatever Rachel needed, it must be important to summon him out to a secluded place like this in the middle of a lull in the conflict. Did she have information?

“I saw you,” Rachel finally spoke, stepping closer. “What you did in Heaven.”

Castiel tried not to grimace. The war in Heaven was a messy affair, but it was much preferable to having the conflict on Earth, where millions could die. “Yes. It is unfortunate, that so many of our brothers and sisters have fallen—”

“Don’t play dumb.” Rachel interrupted him. “I saw you. You killed Virgil.”

A pulse of alarm flared through his grace. In all honesty, he had never liked Virgil, but that didn’t mean he wanted the other angel dead. Still, he had made his choice, and he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, especially when it was Virgil’s grace that now fed his child, keeping Dean alive. He let none of these thoughts show on his face, keeping his expression impassive. “Virgil followed Raphael. He would have killed me.”

“I understand that,” she said. ‘We’re at war. We all knew what that meant.” She stepped around him slowly, eyes never leaving him. “But taking another angel’s grace? That’s abhorrent, Castiel. You know that. You knew it when you did it.”

He swallowed thickly. “I had no choice.”

“There’s always a choice.” Her voice wavered, just slightly. “When I saw you… back in Heaven… I wanted to run. I should have. But I still had faith in you. I thought — surely — you had a reason. That there was an explanation.”

She stopped walking, standing just a few feet from him now.

“So I followed you. I watched you.”

Castiel felt cold. No. He would have sensed her. He would have known.

Rachel’s eyes flashed. “And I saw what you’ve really become. What you’re hiding. A Nephilim, Castiel. You fathered an abomination.”

His eyes widened. She knew.

“You know what the punishment is for that,” she said quietly. “What you would have done to any angel caught doing the same.”

He swallowed, bracing himself. “We can talk about this.”

“No,” Rachel said, voice like iron. “We can’t.”

Her own blade slid out of her sleeve, dropping into her hand smoothly. “For your crimes against Heaven,” she intoned, “I sentence you to death.”

Her wings shimmered faintly behind her, barely visible in the dim light of the warehouse but blazing with judgment. “Do you have any last words?”

Castiel’s grace roiled inside him. Everything in him screamed to run, to fight, to protect what he loved. But all he could see was Dean, curled protectively around their child in their bed. His voice was hollow with conviction. “I have no other choice.”

Rachel’s face didn’t so much as twitch. “Neither do I.”

Then she lunged.

He barely twisted in time. Her blade sang past his face, carving a gash into the concrete pillar behind him. He moved on instinct, summoning his blade mid-motion, steel clashing with hers in a shriek of metal and grace. Sparks danced in the air around them, their movements too fast, too precise to be human.

She struck high — he blocked. She kicked low — he staggered back. Her strength was formidable, honed by centuries of battle, but so was his.

Still, she was righteous, and Castiel… Castiel was afraid.

He stumbled when she drove a shoulder into his chest, knocking him into the wall. His blade clattered from his fingers, skittering across the floor. She was on him in seconds, striking fast and hard. One swipe of her blade slashed across his ribs, heat blooming across his side in a rush of blood. Another split open the skin above his brow, blood blurring his vision.

But as her blade came down for his throat, he caught her wrist, twisting with all the force he could muster.

He summoned his blade back into his hand with a flare of will, spun them, and threw her to the ground. She rolled, kicked him back, but he was faster now — desperate. He pinned her, knee to her sternum, blade to her throat.

“It didn’t have to be this way,” he said, chest heaving with exertion.

Rachel glared up at him, blood on her lips and fury in her eyes. She struggled to lift herself, but the weight of her wounds and his power pinned her down like gravity.

“You think this will save you?” she spat, her voice ragged. “Kill me, and Heaven will rise against you. Soon, they’ll all know what you’ve done.”

Castiel looked down at her, impassive.

“No,” he said. “They won’t.”

With mechanical precision, he drew the blade across her throat. Not deep enough to end her — not yet. Just enough to sever control.

Her grace began to spill, brilliant and volatile. She gasped, clutching at her neck, and that was when Castiel moved — fast, practiced, cold. He pulled a vial from his coat and held it beneath the wound, catching her grace before it could dissipate. The glass glowed as it filled, sealing her power away like a flame snuffed in a jar.

Rachel’s expression crumbled. The anger drained into shock. Then fear.

“Please—” she tried.

Castiel silenced her with the blade, driving it straight through her chest without a flicker of hesitation.

Whatever shred of Rachel’s angelic being remained flickered once in her eyes before vanishing entirely. Her vessel gasped a final, rattling breath. Then she was gone.

Castiel didn’t move for several seconds. Just knelt there, blood on his blade, the vial of her grace glowing faintly in his hand. 

He didn’t spare her body a second glance as he rose, pressing a hand to his wound. He couldn’t afford to mourn. There was no telling who else knew. What kind of danger there could still be just around the corner.

He had to get to safety.

He had to get to Dean.

Dean was barely awake when the crash shook the room — loud and sudden, a crack of displaced air and energy slamming into the quiet like a grenade. He sat up sharply, eyes blinking against the dark, the worn sheets tangled around his legs. He opened his mouth, a smartass comment already on his tongue — rough landing, Cas? — but the words died before they could take shape.

Cas was crumpled in a heap on the wooden floorboards, blood soaking through the front of his shirt in a slow, dark spread. His breaths were ragged, uneven, and the dim light caught on the too pale shine of his face.

“Cas!” Dean was out of bed in an instant, nearly tripping over the blankets as he stumbled across the room. His hands flew out to steady him, to gather him up, to do something — anything — but Cas lifted a trembling hand, palm out.

“Stay back,” Cas rasped. His voice was rougher than Dean had ever heard it — like gravel under steel. “We can’t risk it. You or the baby.”

Dean blinked, stunned. “Are you serious right now?”

Cas’s hand didn’t lower. “If she reacts by trying to heal me… if she uses the grace inside you…”

Dean swore and swatted his hand away. “Screw that.” he dropped to his knees beside him, already tugging at the torn fabric of his coat. “You’re not dying on this floor. We’ve had enough of that crap for one lifetime.”

“Dean—” Cas hissed as Dean peeled the coat open and gently pulled the fabric of his shirt away from the wound. Blood welled up immediately, and it was obvious that Cas needed stitches. The wound was deep, carved through skin and muscle, gaping like it wanted to swallow Cas whole.

Dean’s stomach twisted at the sight, but before he could do more than mutter a curse, Cas shifted, and with a shuddering breath, dipped his fingers into the blood. Dean recoiled slightly, confusion snapping into alarm as Cas crawled toward the nearest wall and began to smear a symbol in sharp, practiced strokes. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean asked, heart pounding.

Cas grimaced, but continued with determination. “I’ve been betrayed. Raphael… he turned one of my lieutenants to his side. She turned on me.”

Dean’s chest flared hot with anger. “I’ll kill her.”

“She’s dead,” Cas said quietly. “I was wounded in the fray.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, no shit. If you’re done finger-painting with your own blood, maybe let me take a look before you keel over?”

Cas slumped back, eyes drooping with exhaustion as he let his hand drop from the wall. “Just make sure you don’t—”

“Heal you, yeah, yeah, I got the memo,” Dean muttered, already grabbing the edge of the torn shirt again. “But unless patching you up with dental floss and butterfly tape is going to spontaneously drain the grace from my body, I think we’re good.”

Before Dean could get a good look at the wound, a sudden knock cut through the room.

“I heard crashing,” Bobby’s voice grunted from the other side of the bedroom door. “You okay?”

Dean didn’t look away from Cas. “Get in here, Bobby!”

The door creaked open, and Bobby stepped inside — and stopped cold when he saw the scene in front of him. “What the hell?”

“Short version?” Dean said, keeping pressure on the wound. “Cas got summoned into a trap. Now he’s bleeding all over the damn floor. Grab the first aid kit, now.”

“Yeah, sure thing.” Bobby ducked back into the hall before returning with a battered kit, crouching down beside them and popping it open. “Damn. He looks like he got dragged behind a truck.”

Cas didn’t comment. He just sat there with his eyes closed, breathing shallow. The ward behind him smudged and dripping.

Dean tore open a packet of alcohol and gently cleaned around the wound, though the skin was already raw and angry. “What the hell did I tell you, Cas?”

“Technically,” Cas said, voice a little thinner now, “I did come back alive.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t mean barely.”

Cas didn’t answer. His head was tilted back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, but he didn’t stop Dean from threading the needle and starting to stitch. He barely flinched, but Dean could see the tension in every line of his body.

“Okay,” Dean said after a few minutes, tying off the last stitch. “Let’s take it slow.” He hooked an arm under Cas’s and helped him up, the weight of the angel heavy against him.

Bobby frowned. “What’s with the finger painting?”

Cas’s voice was strained. “It’s a warding symbol. Against angels. If Rachel managed to alert anyone, I can’t risk another surprise attack.”

Bobby gave a low whistle. “How bad’s it hurt?”

“It’ll heal,” Cas said stiffly.

“Yeah, if you lie the fuck down,” Dean snapped, pushing him towards the bed. “Not if you play martyr about it.”

Bobby looked toward the clock, then back at them. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we’ve got less than an hour before Sam’s time runs out.”

Dean bristled. “Bobby, look at him. You really think he had the juice for that right now?”

“He’s right,” Cas admitted. “This fight… drained me.”

Bobby rubbed a hand down his face. “Well, if you’re up on blocks, then call in another halo who can get the job done.”

“I can’t,” Cas said. “I don’t know who I can trust right now. Raphael has infiltrated my ranks.”

Dean swore under his breath. “There’s gotta be something, Cas. A spell, a recharge, something.”

“There is one thing,” Cas said after a moment. His eyes flicked toward Dean, then Bobby. “But it’s extremely dangerous.”

Bobby huffed, arms crossed over his chest. “Shocker. So lay it on me.”

Cas looked between them, hesitation flickering across his face for the first time. Then he said, “It’s your soul.”

Dean blinked. “Wait, what?”

Bobby’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you want me to do, make another deal? Seal it with a kiss?”

Cas didn’t crack a smile. “I need you to let me touch it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was heavy, crackling with a kind of dread that settled low in Dean’s chest. His mind snapped back, unbidden, to the image of Cas plunging his hand into Sam’s chest, into Samuel’s, arm sunk wrist-deep in flesh and light. He remembered the way Sam had screamed, the way his body had jerked. Bobby clearly remembered it too; his eyes widened, and something like fear — or maybe just deep, understandable caution — etched itself into the lines of his face.

“You mean,” Bobby said slowly, “you shove your arm into my chest like you did to Sam?”

“Yes,” Cas answered seriously.

Dean caught the slight tension in Bobby’s jaw as he glanced sideways at him, then back to Cas.

“Didn’t look like a great ride to be on,” Bobby said. “But Sam ended up fine. What’s the catch here?”

Cas’s gaze dropped to the floor, then lifted again. “The human soul is pure energy. That’s why Dean and I’s child will be able to sustain herself on his soul if need be. The problem is that your soul doesn’t… recognize me. Not like Dean’s does. Your soul may very well try to fight back. I’ll have to be very careful.”

Dean’s chest clenched. “Or what?”

Cas looked at him, then Bobby. His voice didn’t waver. “Or you’ll explode.”

Dean raised his hands like he could push the idea right out of the air. “Okay, hang on. Hang on. If my soul’s more receptive to your grace already, why not do it to me instead?”

Cas blinked, and for a second Dean swore he saw something flicker in his expression — exasperation, concern… and just a little edge of possessiveness. “You’re truly asking me why I don’t want to risk siphoning energy off your soul?”

Dean shrugged, fighting to keep his voice level. “You said it yourself — Bobby’s soul might fight you. I’m not thrilled with the idea of him going full fireworks. Don’t we stand better odds with mine?”

Cas took a breath, and when he spoke, his voice was low and sure. “There is very little chance of your soul fighting me, Dean. As entwined as we are…” His words trailed, but the implication was clear. Dean felt heat rise in his chest at the sound of it — entwined. Yeah, okay. That did things to him.

Cas continued, “It’s not a question of whether your soul will welcome me — it will. The danger lies in disrupting the balance of how our daughter is absorbing energy. If I take from your soul now, I’m afraid she may… follow my lead. And begin to draw directly from your soul rather than the grace stored inside you.”

Dean’s jaw flexed. He didn’t like it. None of it. But he couldn’t argue with the logic. Not when it came to their kid.

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Alright, stop clucking, you hens. We’re wasting time. We’ve got five minutes before the clock runs out on Sam, and you two are gonna debate me into an early grave either way. So let’s just get it done.”

Cas didn’t move — not yet. He looked at Dean, held his eyes, quiet and still as if waiting for permission that wasn’t his to ask for.

Dean sighed. His shoulders slumped. “Just don’t kill him.”

Cas gave a solemn nod and turned to Bobby.

Bobby, for his part, grabbed the nearest leather belt from the dresser, looped it around his hand, and shoved the other end between his teeth. “Let’s make it fast,” he mumbled through it.

Cas knelt in front of him, eyes closing briefly in concentration. Grace flared just beneath the surface of his skin, lighting his veins from within. He lifted his hand and pressed it against Bobby’s chest — over his heart.

And then, with a shuddering breath, Cas pushed in.

Bobby’s body seized. His back arched, muscles jerking like live wire. A muffled, guttural scream tore through the belt clenched between his teeth. His eyes flew wide, rolling, but Cas held him steady, his other hand gripping Bobby’s shoulder.

Dean watched Cas work, watched the way his arm disappeared into Bobby’s chest like it was slipping beneath the surface of water — and he knew this was serious, deadly serious. Bobby could die. Cas could burn him out from the inside if he misjudged the pull by even an inch. That knowledge was right there in Dean’s head, loud and rational.

And yet…

Somewhere just beneath the fear and the tension and the sweat-beaded urgency of the moment, Dean felt it — jealousy. Hot and sour and out of place, curling low in his gut like a live wire.

He blinked, scowled at himself. What the hell was there to be jealous of? It was Bobby, for God’s sake. This wasn’t anything intimate — it was angelic siphoning, a dangerous-ass procedure with the very real risk of ending in kaboom. But still… the sight of Cas, so close, arm elbow-deep in Bobby’s chest, face twisted with concentration, eyes glowing faintly as he siphoned off his soul — something about it sent a jolt through Dean’s chest. A throb of something possessive and raw.

He didn’t like it. Didn’t want to like it.

But it was there.

Everyone else had had their turn, hadn’t they? Sam, Samuel, now Bobby. Hell, at this point Dean was the only one Cas hadn’t jammed an arm into. He snorted under his breath at the thought, dark amusement curling in his throat. Real exclusive club, that.

Still, the bitterness in that thought had teeth. Dean could feel it nipping at him even as he tried to shake it off.

Though that wasn’t strictly true, he reminded himself. Cas had touched his soul once. Ripped him out of Hell, pulled him from the Pit, made sure there was enough left of him to scrape back together. Dean didn’t remember it — at least not clearly. It was just flashes: wings like knives, light too bright to look at, the echo of a voice calling his name in a place where names meant nothing. He didn’t remember, but some part of him still knew.

He looked at Cas again, watched the way grace curled like lightning beneath his skin, and he wondered — what would it feel like? To have Cas touch him like that now, on purpose. Not in some fiery rescue mission, but here, in this battered room, with Dean wide awake and able to feel everything.

He swallowed hard.

It wouldn’t hurt. Not him. He knew that in his bones. His soul wouldn’t fight Cas. No way in hell. It would open up, bare and desperate, wrap around Cas’s grace like it was the only thing keeping it from flying apart. It would cling — greedy, needy, starving. Dean could feel that certainty in his core, like something older than his body, something that came from before he had lungs or skin or a name.

It would feel good.

Too good, maybe.

The idea bloomed behind his ribs — what it might be like to be full of Cas in every possible way. Not just flesh and bone, not just the graze of fingers or a kiss bruised by panic. But deeper. Whole. Claimed.

Dean clenched his fists at his sides. Christ. He was a mess.

He’d already had Cas inside him in every usual way — fingers, mouth, hips pressed hard and urgent against his own in dark motel rooms, behind locked doors at Bobby’s house, in the Impala under the stars. But this? This was different. This was something more.

He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more — the fact that he wanted it, or the way that want sat in his chest like something tight and coiling.

He didn’t want Cas to burn Bobby out. God knew they couldn’t afford to lose him. But still, Dean’s gaze lingered, a flicker of heat behind his eyes, wondering what it would be like to have Cas look at him that way again. To feel that grace, bright and terrible, reaching not just into his body, but into the one part of himself that no one else had ever touched. That only Cas ever could.

The air in the room snapped like a live wire, jolting Dean from his thoughts like a bullwhip. He didn’t even have time to react before the pressure shifted and reality bent with a sound like cracking glass — and suddenly, Sam was standing in the middle of the bedroom, covered in dust, smelling faintly of gunpowder and horses. He held a glass bottle of what looked like ashes, and he blinked blearily at them before he grinned. 

“Took you long enough. Samuel Colt and I’ve been playing poker for the last—”

He trailed off, his eyes finally taking in the scene.

Dean followed his brother’s gaze, and yeah… okay. It looked pretty bad.

The room was a mess — no, it was a crime scene. Blood splattered the floor and the walls, bedsheets soaked with it. The first aid kit was scattered across the floor, supplies in disarray. Bobby sat against the wall, deathly pale, sweat pouring down his face. Cas looked worse — half-conscious, his shirt hanging off in bloody tatters. 

Dean wasn’t looking too hot himself. The stress and exertion had left him flushed and reeling, crouched by Cas with blood on his hands and adrenaline still making his vision a little too sharp around the edges.

Sam cleared his throat. “What the hell happened?”

Dean let out a low breath. “Well,” he said. “It’s a long story.”

Bobby snorted weakly. “That’s… a hell of an understatement.”

Dean stood, wiped his palms on his jeans, and blew out a shaky breath. “Short version? Cas walked into a trap. One of Raphael’s little flunkies played him. He got jumped, stabbed, and bled all over my sheets. Then, while you were out playing Blazing Saddles, Cas had to recharge the hard way.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Recharge?”

Dean jerked a thumb toward Bobby, who raised one trembling hand in a half-wave.

“He stuck his arm in Bobby’s chest and took a little soul juice,” Dean added.

Sam winced. “Yikes.”

“Yeah. Yikes is one word for it,” Bobby muttered, massaging his sternum like it still ached.

Cas lifted his gaze to meet Sam’s. “We had no choice. Time was running out.”

Sam came closer, carefully stepping around a smear of blood on the floor. “Well. I got the ashes.” He held up the bottle, and Dean could see the strange way the ashes caught the light inside, a slight red sheen to them.

Dean nodded at him. “So. How was the Wild West?”

Sam actually grinned, a little lopsided and weirdly fond. “Honestly? It’s probably better you didn’t see it. It… might ruin the whole thing for you. All dust and grime and gun smoke and people who smell like they haven’t seen soap in six years.”

Dean chuckled, despite everything. “And here I was picturing saloons and swinging doors.”

“Oh, those were there. But so were dysentery and teeth falling out of people’s heads.”

Dean grimaced. “Great. Thanks for that image.”

“Samuel Colt put up a good fight,” Sam continued, sobering a bit. “Wasn’t exactly thrilled to have another hunter knocking on his door. But I talked him into helping. Got the ashes. He even gave me a bottle of that awful whiskey they used to drink back then. I think it burned a hole in my tongue.”

Dean gave a half-smile. “You always were good at making friends.”

Sam looked around again, then down at the bottle in his hand. “So… we got what we need.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Bobby straightened against the wall with a groan. “Then we take the fight to Eve.”

Cas didn’t speak, but his head tilted slightly in agreement, the faintest glimmer of fire returning to his eyes.

They were bloodied, exhausted, and hanging on by threads — but they had what they needed.

Now all that was left was to burn the Mother of All to the ground.

Eventually, Sam and Bobby called it a night, murmuring their goodnights and retreating to their own rooms down the hall. Dean ended up perched on the edge of the bed, watching the door close behind them with a low hum of tension still coiled in his chest. The room settled with quiet. Just him and Cas now.

He could feel the shift in the air before Cas even moved. The telltale rustle of wings about to unfurl. Dean turned just in time to see Cas straighten his shoulders like he was preparing for takeoff.

“Oh, hell no,” Dean snapped, already reaching out to snag Cas’s coat. The damn thing was in tatters, and his fingers shredded it further as they curled in the lapel, yanking him back before he could disappear. “You get your ass in bed before you keel over.”

Cas blinked at him, brow furrowing like Dean had just suggested something deeply irrational. “Dean, I assure you, I am fine. I need to get back—”

“Get. On. The bed.” Dean ordered, emphasizing each word with a slow, deliberate glare. “I will tackle you, man. Don’t test me.”

Cas exhaled hard through his nose, a huff of exasperation that might’ve carried more weight if he didn’t look like he was about to collapse. Dean held his gaze until he relented, moving toward the mattress, settling onto it with a reluctant air.

Dean followed, moving further up the mattress to kneel beside him. “Good angel,” he murmured as he tugged at what remained of Cas’s clothes, helping him strip down, carefully avoiding aggravating his wound further.

“I am not fragile,” Cas insisted impetuously, his voice a low growl.

Dean ignored him, peeling back one layer at a time. “Just let me do this,” he sighed. “I’ve been holding back all my stupid omega instincts for days. Just… let me have this, please.”

That quieted the protests. Cas’s jaw tightened, but he nodded once and let Dean work. Dean pushed him gently back against the pillows, fingers brushing tanned skin and darker bruises. He hissed in sympathy as he took note of several injuries, but none that required as much attention as the wound he had stitched earlier.

Cas was solid beneath his hands. Familiar. Warm.

And close. Close enough that Dean could feel his own scent shifting in response, could see the tension in Cas’s jaw go tight for a different reason now. Cas’s breath hitched, and when Dean glanced up, he caught the flicker of heat in his mate’s eyes.

Dean’s mouth curled into a grin. “You happy to see me, soldier?” he teased, palm brushing down over Cas’s abdomen, lingering just above the waistband of his boxers.

Cas’s gaze was heavy. His throat bobbed with interest. “It has been… a long time.”

Dean’s grin widened. “Yeah,” he murmured, leaning in, mouth brushing against Cas’s as he kissed him soft at first, careful not to jostle his wound. Cas tasted like ash and blood, like war. Dean wanted more.

Dean’s hands found the hem of his own shirt, tugging it over his head between kisses, and that was apparently where Cas’s patience ended. One moment, Dean was straddling Cas’s lap, doing his best to be gentle, and the next, the ceiling spun as he was flipped, back thudding against the mattress with a rush of air.

He let out a startled, breathless noise. “Cas! You shouldn’t— you should be resting—”

“I have survived far worse wounds than this,” Cas growled against his throat, mouth hot as it found the sensitive place near Dean’s scent gland. Teeth scraped across his skin. “And there are things I want to do to you that don’t involve ‘rest’.”

Dean shuddered, the words going straight to his dick. He wanted to argue, he really did, but Cas’s weight was pressing down over him, fitting against every place he ached. His body was practically vibrating with need. It was maddening.

Cas braced one hand beside Dean’s head, and Dean couldn’t help the way his eyes dropped to it. Earlier, he’d thought about exactly where that hand could go — what it could do. Now the thought hit him square in the chest, and his body responded, heat and slick pooling between his legs. He was already open, aching, slicker than he had any right to be just from imagining it.

Cas’s other hand went to Dean’s waistband, sliding down his boxers with more smoothness than he had any right to. The room filled with the sharp, heady scent of Dean’s arousal, and Cas’s eyes went dark with it.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who’s impatient,” Cas murmured, though the tease was lost with the desire in his tone.

“I need you inside me,” Dean breathed, the words practically punched out of him with desperation.

Cas groaned, grinding down, their cocks catching and sliding together, dragging more wrecked moans from both of them. Dean clutched at Cas’s arms, fingers digging into solid muscle.

“Cas, I need—”

“I know,” Cas said, voice almost reverent. “I’ve got you.”

He lined himself up, and the press of him inside was slow, deliberate, stretching Dean full until he nearly sobbed with relief. But even then— even with Cas buried inside him — it wasn’t enough. 

Dean shook beneath him, body trembling with it. “It’s — it’s not enough. Cas, please, I need more.”

Cas started to thrust, deep and steady, and it felt so good, but it didn’t reach deep enough. Not where Dean needed it most. He whimpered, nails scratching helplessly down Cas’s back.

“Cas!” he whined, desperately hitching his legs around Cas’s hips, trying to draw him in deeper.

Cas slowed, the haze in his eyes thinning just enough for concern to peek through. “Dean, what—”

Dean grabbed his hand, moving it so that it was pressed flat against his chest — right over his heart, over the thrum of his soul beneath. “I need you inside me.”

Cas froze, the movement of his body against Dean’s stilling in realization. “Dean…”

“Please,” Dean begged, voice breaking. “Please Cas. I need it. I need you.”

Cas looked down at him, torn, lips parted like he was trying to figure out how to argue but didn’t have the words. Dean didn’t give him the chance.

“You said it before — my soul won’t fight you. It wants you. I want you. I want you inside me, in every way. Please.”

Cas’s hips jerked just a little, and Dean’s breath hitched sharply. He looked like he was going to say no, even if the way he gasped told a different story. But then something shifted behind his eyes — a crack in his control. And that was what did it — the tension, the hesitation. Dean wanted to shatter it.

He arched up again, flushed and fevered, voice slipping into something ragged and hungry. “Come on, Cas. You won’t hurt me. I want to feel it — all of you, inside me. Not just your hands or your cock or your body—” he gasped. “Your grace. Everything. I want it. I want you.”

Cas’s eyes snapped open, blown wide, and Dean saw the crack hit — deep and final.

“Make me yours,” Dean whispered, near desperate now, wild and pleading. “Claim me. I trust you.”

He brushed his lips along the edge of Cas’s jaw before drawing back, looking him in the eye.

“Please.”

That did it.

Cas surged forward, mouth catching Dean’s in a searing kiss that left no room for breath. He thrust deeper inside, dragging a choked gasp from Dean, and they rocked together, panting into each other’s mouths.

When Cas finally pulled back, his hand was still over Dean’s chest, palm warm with grace. He met Dean’s eyes with intensity, carefully looking for any flicker of doubt.

There wasn’t any.

Dean nodded, lips trembling with anticipation.

Cas pushed in.

Dean’s eyes slammed shut. His body flinched, bracing for pain — because surely this had to hurt, even with all of his certainty, there was still some primal part of him that expected pain. Having someone reach past flesh and blood to touch his soul had to burn. He clenched his fists in the sheets, held back a gasp—

And then his back arched.

His mouth fell open in a long, drawn-out moan that didn’t sound human. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t even pleasure in the way he’d understood it before. It was ecstasy, raw and delicious and terrifying in its depth. It was like a choir sang through every nerve ending. It was Cas, everywhere, all at once, inside places no one had ever touched before.

His eyes fluttered open, dazed and wet at the corners, and what he saw nearly made him come undone all over again.

Cas was above him, flushed and panting, pupils blown wide, expression wrecked. Dean had never seen him look so lost to it, so consumed. Like this — Dean gasping beneath him, soul utterly bare — was the most beautiful thing he’d ever beheld.

Dean surged upward with a whimper and caught Cas in a messy, open-mouthed kiss. Their teeth clicked. His lips slipped, but the need behind it was pure. Desperate. Real. The movement sent Cas’s hand deeper, his grace threading further into Dean’s soul, and Dean gasped, his whole body shuddering from it.

Cas groaned, swallowing Dean’s moan with a greedy push of his tongue. He kissed him like a man starved, like he needed Dean’s mouth as much as he needed his body, as much as he needed his soul. His tongue slid deeper, stroking the roof of Dean’s mouth, and Dean knew he was being claimed in every way a person could be.

There wasn’t a single part of Dean that didn’t belong to him. The thought made him shiver, slick dripping steadily down his thighs now as his body responded to the completeness of it. The totality. There was no Dean without Cas. Not anymore. There hadn’t been for a long time.

Cas pulled back slightly, panting hard, his eyes nearly black with lust. His voice was wrecked when he spoke.

“I can feel your soul reaching for my grace,” he said, reverent. “I can feel how much you like this.”

Dean could only moan, hands fisting in the sheets, too overwhelmed to speak.

Cas leaned in, breath hot against his cheek. “When I raised you from Hell, I left my mark on your soul. When we mated, I marked your neck to claim you in a way your body would understand.” His hand shifted slightly, pressing gently where Dean’s soul pulsed around him. “It is… stimulating, to see these marks. To know that you are mine. Irrevocably.”

Dean whined, every nerve alight. He could feel it — Cas’s grace moving through him, leaving no corner untouched. Every time Cas’s fingers moved, it sent another wave of aching, gorgeous heat rippling through him.

Cas’s eyes dropped to Dean’s middle. “But it’s even more stimulating,” he murmured, “to know I’ve claimed you from the inside in the most primal way of all. That my child grows within you.”

Dean’s breath caught. Something inside him clenched — his body, his heart, his soul — around Cas. The truth of it rang through him like a bell.

“I haven’t allowed myself to feel it,” Cas continued, voice rough with emotion. “Not fully. Not with everything going on. But Dean — if this weren’t a matter of life and death, if Heaven didn’t demand my attention elsewhere at every moment—” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Dean’s cheek, his throat, his mating mark. “—I wouldn’t leave your side. Not for anything.”

Dean’s eyes filled with tears he hadn’t expected. He let go of the sheets, arms wrapping around Cas’s neck. He clung to him tightly, like he could keep him tethered to him through willpower alone.

Cas kissed his neck again, teeth grazing. “I’d keep you in the throes of pleasure. I’d give you everything our child needs to flourish. I would bask in the knowledge that you are mine in every way.”

Dean’s voice was barely there, just a breath against Cas’ skin. “I am.”

Cas growled, low and hungry, and bit another kiss into Dean’s mouth — deep and claiming, stealing the breath from his lungs.

“My mark is on your soul,” Cas whispered hoarsely, hips rocking forward again, “my bite on your neck, and my child rests in your womb. I am inside you in every way. How is it that I want more?”

Dean whimpered, his body grinding helplessly up to meet him.

“But I do,” Cas went on. “I want to possess you entirely. Completely.” He cupped Dean’s face, thumb brushing his cheek with aching tenderness. “I love you, Dean. I love you.”

Dean choked on a sob, the sound ripped straight from his chest like it didn’t belong to him. He was too full — bursting at the seams with everything he didn’t have words for. Love that felt like it could split him open, grace curling around his bones like wildfire, want so thick it pressed against the edges of his skin. He kissed Cas again, desperate and shattered, a broken little sound catching between them — and it echoed, deep and low, reverberating through the hollows of his soul like something sacred.

He didn’t think he’d ever felt so whole.

And yet, beneath all of it — beneath the tremble in his limbs and the way his fingers clutched at Cas like he might vanish — there was still that one, unspoken ache.

It would be perfect, so perfect… if Cas would just take him. All the way. If he’d wrap Dean’s soul in his grace and keep it. If he’d carve his name into the softest parts of Dean, the ones no one had ever touched, and make it known — that Dean was his.

The thought hit like a lightning strike: Cas could possess him. Not just be inside him like this, flesh and heat and pulse, but inside him — soul-deep. Dean would let him. Gladly. He’d hand over everything. His body, his will, his whole damn self. Let Cas pilot him from the inside out if that’s what he wanted. Because there was no one else Dean trusted like this. No one else he’d ever want to own him.

And God, that was it, wasn’t it? He wanted to be owned.

Not in a way that demeaned — not like some submissive omega fantasy. But in that raw, elemental way, where every part of him could finally stop fighting and just belong.

He didn’t say it. Didn’t even form the words in his head. He just felt it — deep and bone-deep and soul-deep — a cry so vulnerable it nearly scared him. And before he could even breathe through the ache of it, Cas gasped like the desire had slammed into him.

Like he’d felt it.

And then he moved.

Whatever fragile restraint Cas had been holding himself back with shattered in the span of a heartbeat. His grace surged blindingly, deeper into Dean’s soul like a tidal wave rushing home. Cas didn’t ask for permission. He didn’t need to. Dean had already offered himself, every broken, aching part. He’d opened the door and Cas stepped through like he belonged there — and he did.

If Dean had any control over his body, he would have screamed.

It was too much. Too good. Too intimate. Like being flayed open and made whole all at once. Cas kissed him like he was dying without it, every movement messy, greedy, possessive. His hips slammed into Dean with a rhythm driven by something beyond instinct, something ancient and celestial and mated. 

They spiraled — together.

Dean lost track of time, of his body, of himself. All he knew was Cas. Inside him. Around him. Claiming him in the only way Dean had ever dared to ask for.

He barely noticed the swell of Cas’s knot locking them together. Barely noticed his own release spilling between them. His body bucked, helpless, but it felt like an echo — secondary to the deeper, more profound crescendo still happening within him.

Only when Cas finally began to draw his grace back — slowly, so slowly, as if it physically pained him to part from Dean’s soul — did Dean begin to return to himself.

It was like a tide pulling away from the shore, careful not to take the sand with it. Dean whimpered, limbs trembling, skin sensitive to every shift of air.

Cas kissed his temple, soothing. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m still here.”

Dean nodded, though he felt empty without that searing presence touching the innermost part of him. His body was still full — Cas’s knot thick and swollen inside him — but that was somehow not enough. Not when he’d just been cradled so completely.

Cas didn’t collapse on top of him, mindful of his bump, but it was a near thing. His arms shook as he lowered himself carefully, bracing most of his weight on his elbows.

“That was…” Cas started, voice hoarse.

“Awesome,” Dean croaked, managing a grin despite the lingering tears at the corners of his eyes.

Cas let out a breathless laugh. “Yes. That is an apt description.”

They lay like that for a while. Cas’s body blanketed over his own, heat seeping into Dean’s skin. Their mingled scents filled the room — salt and sex and ozone — and Dean breathed it in like it was proof that they were alive. 

Eventually, Cas’s knot began to go down, and he gently repositioned them, pulling Dean into his arms. He cradled him possessively, protectively, like he never wanted to let go. Dean melted into it, boneless and content in a way he hadn’t felt in… God, maybe ever. 

As long as Cas was with him, alive, Dean could breathe.

Cas pressed a hand to Dean’s abdomen. He hummed low in his throat, a sound that reverberated through Dean’s chest.

“How is our child?” he asked softly.

Dean nuzzled into his shoulder, lips brushing against the curve of Cas’s neck. 

“She’s good,” he murmured. “She appreciates the grace, even if I don’t.”

Cas chuckled, and Dean felt it more than heard it. It made him smile. 

He reached down and traced Cas’s fingers with his own, guiding them gently over the curve of his stomach. “We’ve been playing a game,” he said. “She’s got opinions, y’know?”

Cas tilted his head curiously. “A game?”

Dean grinned. “The name game. I guess a name that begins with ‘N’, and if it’s wrong, she kicks me.”

Cas raised an eyebrow. “Why ‘N’?”

Dean reached over, dragging the yellow baby blanket from the nightstand. The embroidery glinted faintly in the low light, reflecting off of the letter stitched in the corner.

“She doesn’t like anything I’ve tried so far,” Dean muttered, smirking. “Gave me a hell of a thump for Nigel.”

Cas hummed, intrigued. “Norma?”

Dean huffed as she kicked. “Nope.”

“Niamh?”

Another kick. “Yeah, no.” Dean laughed. “Try again.”

Cas thought for a long moment. “Nellie.”

Silence.

Dean blinked. A strange warmth bloomed in his chest. And then — he felt it. Not a kick. Not a protest. Just a quiet, radiant glow of energy from inside him. Almost like she was humming in time with Cas’s grace.

They both stilled.

Dean let out a shaky breath. “Her name’s Nellie.”

He paused.

“Really? Nellie the Nephilim?”

Cas smiled against his neck, amused, but then he pulled back, looking down with something flickering in his expression. A recognition.

“It’s Ellen,” he murmured.

Dean stiffened. His heart twisted, the wound of loss still fresh. “What?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s derived. From Ellen. Technically, both names come from Eleanor, but…”

Dean blinked hard, fighting sudden tears. “She named herself after Ellen.” His throat closed up as he let out a shaky laugh. “What are the odds, huh?”

Cas said nothing. He just held Dean tighter.

Dean closed his eyes. “Cas,” he said quietly.

“Yes, Dean?”

“Our daughter has a name.”

“She does,” Cas whispered, something close to pride in his voice. 

“She has a name.” Dean’s voice cracked, and this time, the tears slipped free.

Cas seemed to sense the shift immediately. He moved just enough to look down at Dean, eyes searching his face with quiet intensity.

Dean struggled to breathe through the emotion rising in his chest. “What if she doesn’t live long enough to use it?”

Cas’s grip tightened. “She will,” he said firmly. “You both will, Dean. I will not allow anything else. I’m not going to let either of you die.”

He kissed him then — soft and slow and sure. It broke something loose in Dean. The dam cracked, but the water didn’t rush out. Not yet.

“I love you,” Cas whispered against his lips. 

Dean wanted to trust him. He wanted to believe that promise, but he couldn’t shake the sinking pit in his stomach — the one that had followed him for years, maybe his whole life. He turned his head just slightly and looked at the clock on the wall, steadily ticking away, slow and cruel. Mocking him.

He curled tighter into Cas, letting his eyes fall shut, and let the sound of the angel’s steady breathing lull him into sleep, all while ignoring the seconds passing, the sand running out of the hourglass.

This security, this safety, wouldn't last. Soon Cas would have to return to Heaven, to fighting for all of their lives. For now though, he had Cas. He was safe and warm in his arms, completely enveloped in his mate. For now, he felt like things would be okay.

For now, it would have to be enough.

Castiel did not sleep. He didn’t need to. And yet, in moments like these, with Dean tangled in the sheets beside him, body pressed close, he wished he could — for no reason other than to wake again with Dean in his arms and relive this feeling, this impossible peace, all over again.

Dean lay nestled into his chest, breathing slow and even, lashes casting faint shadows against flushed cheeks. One hand curled lightly around Cas’s forearm, as though even in unconsciousness, Dean refused to let him go. His soul pulsed softly, brighter now — warmed by the intimacy they’d shared and curled instinctively around the tiny soul growing in his womb.

Castiel could still feel it, that spark of light floating peacefully within Dean’s essence. Their daughter, he thought with reverence. He exhaled slowly and traced gentle circles across the curve of Dean’s belly.

And yet, even as he lay there, cocooned in the warm glow left in the wake of their union, Castiel felt a deep, consuming ache.

It wasn’t just the memory of their coupling, though that lingered, sharp and heady. No, it was the memory of Dean’s soul. The way it had felt.

Being inside Dean had been intoxicating — but touching his soul? Possessing him fully, in that celestial sense only angels could understand? That has been something else. Something holy. Something dangerous.

He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on Dean’s face, slack and beautiful in sleep. There was a throb of want that hadn’t gone away since their joining. It stirred in him again now, low and persistent. Not purely lust — thought here was that too — but something deeper. Possessiveness. Obsession. Need.

He had expressed it in the heat of passion, but it hadn’t been a lie. He wanted to possess Dean. To have him, completely and eternally. Perhaps it was his nature — an angel’s tendency to claim, to guard, to protect what is theirs. Or perhaps it was just Dean. There was something about his humanity, his fierceness, his stubbornness, that made Cas want to hoard him to himself, to not let any other even look upon his mate.

Dean was his.

The idea of ownership wasn’t quite right. Dean wasn’t a thing to be owned. He was a force to be reckoned with, his mate, but the appeal remained. There was something exquisitely satisfying about having Dean’s soul wrapped around his grace, about being welcomed in a place no other being had ever touched.

His to hold. His to protect.

And God help him — he would protect Dean. At any cost.

Castiel’s gaze drifted to the far edge of the bed. His torn coat lay half-off the mattress, crumpled and forgotten in the heat of passion. In the dim lighting, the glint of the glass vial peeking from its pocket caught his eye.

Rachel’s grace.

He stared at it for a long moment, jaw tight. He’d crossed so many lines already. Broken so many rules — both Heaven’s and his own. Once, he would have been horrified by the things he’d done. The angel he used to be — the good soldier, Heaven’s righteous hand — he would’ve wept to see how far he’d fallen.

But that Castiel hadn’t known Dean Winchester.

That Castiel hadn’t held him through nights of passion and pain, hadn’t stitched his soul back together in motel rooms and graveyards and broken-down churches. He hadn’t seen Dean fall apart after Sam’s death. Hadn’t watched him grieve, or laugh, or rage against the world just to live.

That Castiel had never made love to Dean while their child glowed between them.

He looked back at Dean’s sleeping face. His soul had settled now, still radiant, but calm. The way it cradled their daughter — fragile and fierce, like a shield made of pure light — nearly brought Castiel to his knees.

It was worth it. All of it.

Every broken oath. Every angelic protocol discarded. Every drop of stolen grace and shattered allegiance.

Worth it for this.

For him.

Dean shifted slightly in his sleep, nuzzling closer with a faint sigh. His face twitched, but he didn’t wake.

Castiel’s heart clenched. He reached out and brushed a thumb along Dean’s cheek, careful, worshipful.

He would burn the sky for him.

He would tear Heaven down brick by brick if it meant Dean would breathe a second longer. He would scorch the earth beneath his feet. Bury their enemies. Silence even God if He stood in their way.

For Dean, he would commit a hundred more atrocities. A thousand. More, if it meant keeping him safe.

He didn’t care what it cost. Not anymore.

Because the only future he could imagine — the only one he would allow — was one where Dean Winchester lived. Where their child grew up with her father’s arms around her and the light of Heaven never touched her in anger. Where Dean got to rest, finally, without fear that the world would demand more of him.

That future was the only one Castiel would accept. 

And if the rest of creation disagreed?

Then creation could burn.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he whispered, promising to Dean, to their child, to the universe itself.

He didn’t sleep. He held Dean through the night, eyes watching for any shadow that dared to cross their threshold. He would fight to save Dean. He would save Dean.

No matter the cost.

Chapter Text

Dean didn’t bother looking up when the door creaked open. He didn’t have to. He felt it — the shift in the air, the familiar scuff of Sam’s boots, the heavier, steadier weight of Bobby’s steps right behind him. The floorboards groaned under Bobby like they always did, and Sam — Sammy was doing that thing again, hovering just far enough away like Dean might blow if someone breathed too loud.

He thumbed another phoenix ash shell into the chamber, a little harder than necessary. Metal scraped, powder crunched, the sound and feel of it grounding him better than anything else could right now.

Five shells. Five chances.

Still not enough — not if Sam was the one doing the shooting.

The thought twisted in his gut, mean and ugly, but hell, he wasn’t feeling charitable these days. Especially not toward Sam. Not after what he said.

Dean could feel his brother’s stare digging into him, could practically hear the kid second-guessing whether he should say something. Eventually, he sighed, dragged his eyes up, jaw tight enough to crack.

Yup. There they were, standing like statues, shoulders bunched up around their ears, faces locked down tight. Like he was some kind of bomb they were waiting to defuse.

He barely held back an eye roll. Jesus. Not like it was anything new. Lately, they couldn’t shuffle him out of a room fast enough whenever the conversation got serious. Planning things behind his back like it was gonna somehow keep him safer if he didn’t know what the hell they were doing on the hunt for Eve. Like ignorance ever saved anybody in this life.

It was almost funny. Almost.

Sam stepped forward, slow and careful, like Dean was a skittish horse he didn’t want to spook. Typical. Ever since Cas had bailed, Sam had been treating him like he was gonna shatter if somebody breathed too hard. Like Dean couldn't tie his own shoes without his angelic emotional support following him around.

But Cas wasn’t here, and that left nothing between Dean and the sharp edge of Sam’s disapproval. Not about Eve. Not about Cas. And sure as hell not about Nellie.

So he didn’t bother saying anything. Just slammed another shell into the chamber, the sound sharp and final.

Sam cleared his throat nervously and then asked, “How are you doing?”

Dean let out a humorless snort. “Five shells. That’s how I’m doing.”

Sam glanced at the table, sighed like it was somehow Dean’s fault for not giving him a better answer. “Well, you know... it’s a hell of a lot more than we had last week.”

Dean grunted. “Sure.”

"Dean…” Sam pushed.

“What?” He snapped, not even trying to hide the edge in his voice.

Sam hesitated, but then plowed ahead anyway. “Look, I’m sorry we’re sidelining you, okay? But you can’t seriously tell me you wouldn’t do the same thing if the shoe was on the other foot.”

Dean shrugged, his jaw ticking. “I’m fine.”

“Really?” Sam’s voice climbed, brittle. “Then why won’t you even look at me?”

Finally, Dean sighed, lifting his gaze until it rested on his brother. “Guess I’d rather be looking at someone who actually gives a damn about family.”

“That’s not fair,” Sam said, voice low, wounded.

Bobby, who’d been hanging back with the kind of expression that said he regretted every life decision that led him here, cut in before things could get uglier: “Sam, maybe we should—”

“No.” Sam’s jaw locked. “I know I didn’t say the right thing when you first— when you went down. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“Not the time—” Bobby warned, sharper now.

“Oh, right,” Dean barked, half-rising from his chair, anger flashing. “Because blaming a goddamn baby is real sound logic, Sammy. Gold star for that one.”

Sam’s mouth twisted. “She’s a Nephilim, Dean. That’s not just a baby.”

“She’s still your family.”

“You’re my family!” Sam snapped, voice cracking like a whip. “You think I’m just supposed to be okay with you dying for — for some—”

Dean’s voice dropped to a low, lethal calm. “You really wanna finish that sentence?”

Sam’s mouth opened — then closed as he thought better of it. Silence hit the room like a punch to the gut.

“I can’t forgive her,” Sam finally said, voice raw. “Not if she’s the reason you’re dead.”

Dean stared him down, chest tight, blood pounding in his ears. “So what, Sam?” He challenged, voice razor-thin. “If I blamed you for Mom dying, I’d be right? She died for you, didn’t she?”

Sam reeled like Dean had clocked him across the jaw. His mouth worked soundlessly. Nothing came out.

“Dean!” Bobby snapped. “That’s enough.”

Dean dropped back into the chair. Sam turned away, stiff and silent, locking his eyes on the window like he could will himself somewhere else.

He wanted to feel guilty. He really did.

Mostly, he just felt tired.

God, he was so tired.

“We got bigger problems than your pissing match,” Bobby said, voice clipped and hard. “In case you two idjits forgot, Eve’s still out there, cooking up who knows what.”

The silence hung, thick and ugly. Neither one of them moved, refusing to look at each other.

Bobby cleared his throat, continuing. “She ain’t on the radar. Whatever she’s doing, it’s off-grid. No news reports, no body counts. We need new eyes on the ground. Dean, I think it’s time you made a call.”

Dean flicked a glance at Sam, who didn’t so much as twitch. Just kept staring out the window like it might shatter if he glared at it hard enough.

“You sure Captain Sunshine over there’s okay with that?” Dean muttered. “Or am I gonna have to break up another round of Fight Night in the living room?”

Bobby just scrubbed a hand down his face. “Just call him.”

“Why’s it always gotta be me who makes the call?” Dean asked, sharper than he meant to be, but he didn’t bother reeling it back. He stood and stretched until his back popped loud enough to fill the silence. Good. Better to make noise than let the tension suck all the air out of the room.

“Because he’s your mate, idjit,” Bobby said, like it should’ve been obvious five tantrums ago.

Dean huffed, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah, well, dude’s busy. It’s not like he lives in my ass.”

He was just about to let off another smart-ass remark, feeling particularly vindictive, when suddenly the air changed. Grace, slow and deliberate, brushing down his spine like a hand smoothing out all the knots he'd tied himself into. Dean froze a beat — then instinct took over. He leaned back into it, into him, and the breath he didn’t know he was holding left him all at once.

Strong arms wrapped around his waist, fitting there like they were made for it, and for the first time all damn day, Dean didn’t feel like he was vibrating out of his own skin.

Cas leaned in, mouth close enough to ghost heat along Dean’s ear. “I thought you liked me inside you,” he murmured, teasing.

Dean’s breath hitched. Heat rose fast under his collar, a traitorous flush he didn’t even bother fighting. He could still feel the raw memory of it — Cas’s grace twining through him, carving new shapes into his soul. Every nerve ending seemed to light up under Cas’s touch, like the angel had flipped a switch he hadn’t known was there.

“Kinda ruining my point here, man,” Dean muttered, but his voice came out rough, shaky in ways he really hoped no one else picked up on.

“I can think of other things I’d like to ruin,” Cas said, and nipped lightly at his earlobe.

Dean’s knees almost buckled. He didn’t know what had gotten into the angel — this smooth-talking, confident version of Cas wasn’t exactly rare these days, but it still knocked Dean on his ass every time. He was trying to think of something equally smart to say back when Bobby cut in with a bark.

“Hey! Cut it out with the PDA and pay attention here.”

Cas loosened his hold with obvious reluctance, stepping neatly to Dean’s side like he hadn’t just short-circuited every thought in Dean’s head. Dean already missed the weight of him, the feel of Cas’s chest against his back.

“What is it?” Cas asked, voice smooth but clipped — back to business, like he hadn’t just promised to wreck Dean six different ways to Sunday.

Bobby gave him the rundown, while Sam lurked by the window, arms folded so tight it looked painful.

“Have you found anything on Eve’s location yet?” Bobby asked.

Cas’s brows drew together, frowning faintly. “No. She’s hidden herself. From Heaven. From me.”

“Awesome,” Sam muttered, low and bitter.

Dean caught the edge in Sam’s voice and stiffened out of habit — but he didn’t bite back this time. Not with Cas around. It was easier to breathe when Cas was standing beside him, easier to let go of the impulse to throw a punch just to feel something.

Bobby scratched at his beard. “Maybe what we need is someone on the inside. A monster that still gives a damn.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah? Maybe you wanna send out a MonsterMatch.com invite while you're at it.”

Bobby ignored him. “Could work. Not all of ‘em are straight-up killers.”

Sam, still perched in his own personal stormcloud, muttered, “What about Lenore? Her nest. They went animal blood, remember?”

Dean shrugged, noncommittal. “That was a lifetime ago. People change. Monsters too.”

Cas turned toward Sam, tilting his head. “Do you know where they might have gone?”

“I helped them out last time. They might’ve stayed close.”

Cas nodded once — and vanished.

Dean's gut twisted the second the warmth left. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, jaw working silently against the hollow that opened up without Cas in the room.
He told himself it was fine. Cas would be back. He always came back.

Across the room, Bobby shot him a look. Amused, knowing.

Dean scowled. “What.”

Bobby lifted his eyebrows, all innocence. “Nothing. Just didn’t realize a little angel action turned you into a lovesick teenager.”

Dean flipped him off without any heat. “Bite me.”

Before Bobby could throw another jab, the air snapped again — and there Cas was, standing in the doorway with a woman in tow. Pale. Wide-eyed. Skittish as hell. Dean barely registered the details before she bolted.

“Wait, wait — hey!” Sam called, moving fast, hands up like that ever worked. “Lenore, stop! Look, we’re happy you’re here!”

Dean stepped up next to him, mostly because he wasn’t about to let Sam get shredded without backup, even if he was an ass. “Been a long time. You remember us?”

Lenore’s eyes burned through him. “I remember. Your hunter friend almost killed me.”

“Well,” Sam offered, “if it makes you feel any better… he turned into a vampire, and I chopped his head off.”

“With razor wire,” Dean added, because screw it. “Pretty metal.”

Lenore’s mouth twisted. “Well, that’s something. Why am I here?”

“That’s Cas,” Sam said, jerking a thumb awkwardly. “He’s our… friend. And we need to talk. About Eve.”

She flinched, averting her eyes. “I have nothing to say about Eve.”

Dean cocked his head, already tired of playing nice. “You sure about that?”

Lenore held up her hands defensively. “I’m trying to stay away from her. Believe me.”

“Where’s your nest?” Sam pushed.

“Gone,” Lenore said, voice cracking like old glass. “They couldn’t hold out. It’s her voice, always there. They left. They’re killing again.”

Dean felt his gut tighten. Same old song, different verse. “But not you.”

She rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Don’t look so impressed. I was hiding in a basement like a rat. Not exactly a heroic stand.”

Dean shrugged. “Whatever works.” He stepped in a little closer. “That mind-link mean you know where she’s camping out?”

Lenore’s eyes sharpened. “You have no idea what you’re asking. She could be inside me right now. Listening.”

“We’re still going,” Bobby said, voice steady.

“You’re insane,” Lenore hissed. “I can’t help you.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Sam asked. “Come on. You still care. You don’t want to be this.”

She hesitated, tensing noticeably, but she was listening. “You think you can stop her?”

“Tell us where.” Sam pressed.

Dean watched Lenore sag in place, like all the fight leaked out at once. “Grants Pass, Oregon,” she said finally. “And now she knows you’re coming.”

“Good,” Bobby grunted, already reaching for his bag.

“Wait.” Lenore’s voice cracked like a whip. “I want something.”

Dean frowned. “What?”

“Kill me.”

The words hit like a slap. Dean just stared at her.

“We’ll lock you down,” Sam rushed out, desperate to fix it. “We can keep you safe—”

“You don’t understand.” Lenore’s voice shook. “I’m dangerous. I hear her. She’s in my blood. I already—” She sucked in a shuddering breath. “Sixteen. She was just sixteen. I couldn’t stop myself.”

Dean’s chest ached in that awful, familiar way — the one that said there were no good guys left. He barely had time to react before Cas stepped forward, expression unreadable. He reached out and gently placed two fingers against Lenore’s forehead. Light burst from her eyes and mouth, her body going rigid. She crumpled to the floor before Dean could move.

Cas didn’t flinch. He just said, calm and matter-of-fact, “We needed to move this along.”

Dean felt it like a punch to the gut. Not the smiting — hell, he’d seen Cas do worse, done worse himself — but the way Cas said it. No hesitation, no apology. Just necessity. Just business.

Sam stiffened beside him, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides. His eyes burned holes into Cas’s back, and for a second Dean thought his brother might lose it. But Sam didn’t say a word. Just took a sharp breath, turned slightly away, and started gathering their gear with more force than was strictly necessary.

Dean was grateful for the silence. He didn’t have it in him to referee one of their fights, not now. Not when everything felt so damn fragile. They were heading straight into the heart of Eve’s nest, and Cas had just proven exactly how far he was willing to go to “move things along.”

And if Dean was being honest — and he really didn’t want to be — there was something else buzzing under his skin, hotter and heavier with every breath.

Cas had looked good doing it.

Not good like righteous or holy. Good like lethal. Good like something Dean wanted to get his hands on, sink his teeth into. Ethereal, commanding, devastating in that cold, ruthless way angels could be when they stopped pretending to be tame. His grace had burned bright behind his eyes, crackling just under the surface like a live wire, and when he touched Lenore, it hadn’t been cruel. It was just… business.

It short-circuited something inside Dean — something raw and stupid and desperate.

He shifted where he stood, restless and flushed, his body reacting without his permission — too tight in his skin, too keyed up, too aware of every breath Cas was taking across the room.

Wrong moment. Definitely the wrong reason. But damn it, Cas had looked like an avenging god, untouchable and terrifying and beautiful, and Dean was halfway to wrecked just thinking about it. He hated how badly he wanted to go to him. To touch him. To see if that lightning under Cas’s skin would burn.

He was still thinking about it when Sam turned back around, reminding him of their earlier disagreement. His mood soured just thinking about it. “You know,” he sniped as Sam moved toward the desk to collect the phoenix-ash bullets. “I’m not an invalid. I can help.”

Sam’s mouth tightened. “You are helping, Dean. We need you here, manning the phones in case something goes sideways.”

Dean let out a bark of laughter, sharp and mean. “Phones, Sam? Seriously? What, you want me to bake cookies too while you’re at it?”

Bobby, stuffing salt rounds into a duffel like he was afraid they'd grow legs and run, snorted. “Even I know that sounds patronizing.”

He glanced up at Dean then, face softening with that same old cocktail of sympathy and pity Dean was getting real goddamn tired of drinking down. “But it’s the best we got. You can’t go risking yourself in the field, Dean. Not when you’re this far along.”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not even a month away yet,” he snapped.

Bobby just shook his head, that final, unmovable look Dean hated. “Sorry, kid. You’re sitting this one out.”

Dean bit down hard enough to taste blood, fists clenching as he looked away. Great. Perfect. He was grounded. Benched. Too fragile to fight, too much of a liability to even try. Sam and Bobby got to be heroes, while he got to play secretary. Again.

He turned, searching for something, someone, and found Cas.

The angel was already looking at him, steady and fathomless, like Dean was the only thing in the world worth seeing. That stare punched all the way through the anger and landed somewhere so deep inside him it ached.

“I hope you know this is bullshit,” Dean said, voice rough. Half daring Cas to argue. Half begging him to drag him out of this hell.

Cas stepped closer, the heat rolling off him in waves Dean could feel through his clothes. The room tightened around them, and all Dean could see, all he could feel, was Cas. Dean could feel his grace just under the surface, beautiful and dangerous, and Dean wanted it like he wanted his next breath. Wanted him to reach back into his soul.

Cas’s gaze dropped to Dean’s stomach — quick, reverent — then back up, and when he spoke, it was low, solid, sure. “I will take care of them, Dean. You don’t have to worry.”

Dean did worry. Christ, he worried so much it hollowed him out some days. But right now, standing this close, he didn’t feel hollow. He felt full. Anchored. Wanted. When Cas leaned in, Dean didn’t hesitate. He let it happen. Let Cas kiss him slow and deep and grounding, hands itching to grab onto his coat, to hold him there, to never let him go.

It wasn’t about lust this time —well, not just lust. It was about trust. About need. About the brutal, simple truth that even if the rest of them didn’t trust him to stand on his own two feet anymore, Cas still chose him. Still wanted him. Still saw him as something more than a liability.

“Be careful,” Dean whispered when they broke apart, forehead tipping forward to brush against Cas’s without thinking.

Cas nodded, eyes saying a thousand things Dean didn’t have time to read — and then he was gone, wings snapping out in a rush of wind that slammed into Dean’s chest. Bobby and Sam vanishing along with him.

Alone, Dean stood there in the study, surrounded by maps and weapons and plans he wasn’t trusted to touch, adrenaline rotting in his blood with nowhere to burn it off. He scrubbed a hand down his face, swore under his breath, and yanked a chair toward the desk like it had personally offended him.

“Phones,” he muttered, dragging the battered chair across the floor. “Awesome.”

Sam shifted in the diner seat, the cracked vinyl peeling at his jeans every time he moved. He tried leaning forward, slouching back, stretching out his legs under the table — nothing worked. He was stuck. Uncomfortable. Just like everything else about this stupid hunt.

It wasn’t the case itself. He could’ve dealt with that. It was this — being here, with Cas, without Dean.

 He didn’t hate Cas. Not really. He owed the guy too much for that. Saving Dean, saving him, saving the damn world more than a few times over. And yeah, he knew how much Cas meant to Dean. Probably more than anyone else realized. Definitely more than Sam ever liked thinking about.

But none of that made it easier to sit across from him now. Not after everything.

He shifted again, jaw tightening. It was one thing to believe in miracles when it was just theory. It was another to sit there and watch his brother getting pumped full of angel grace like a lab rat just to keep an unborn kid alive. Cas might believe it was safe. Dean might want to believe it was safe. But Sam had been around long enough to know how this story usually ended.

And what scared him more than anything was that he didn’t have the words to stop it. Not without tearing everything between them wide open.

So instead he sat here, half-sick with worry, taking cheap shots at Cas because it was easier than facing the truth: he was scared out of his goddamn mind.

Bobby grunted across the table, squinting at Sam’s iPad like it had personally offended him. “Nothin’,” he muttered, swiping through another dead-end report. “No weird deaths. No missing people. No calls about mass sickness.” He thumped the screen with one calloused finger. “Maybe Lenore was lying.”

Sam frowned. He didn’t think so. But facts were facts, and right now they had jack.

Cas, silent as a statue for the last ten minutes, finally spoke. “I could search the town.”

Sam looked over, catching the stiff set of Cas’s shoulders, the way he didn’t even bother getting up. Just sat there, radiating judgment like it was his full-time job. He opened his mouth — about to snap something he’d probably regret — when Cas deflated, his expression shifting to frustration, “It appears I’m being blocked. Likely by Eve.”

Sam blinked, slightly taken off guard. Huh. That was new. Cas usually treated obstacles like they were minor inconveniences. If Eve could block him, maybe they were finally onto something real.

“Well,” Bobby said, tapping the iPad against his palm, “that’s as good a sign as any.” He hunched back over the tablet, muttering under his breath as he dug deeper into the database.

The silence fell again, heavy and uncomfortable. Sam tapped his fingers against the tabletop, the steady rhythm louder than it should’ve been. Without Dean here to crack a joke, toss out some dumb movie quote, do anything to break the tension, it just sat there between him and Cas, thick and ugly.

Dean always made it easy, even when he was pissed. Even when he was hurt. He never let them sit in silence like this, drowning in it.

Sam caught Cas’s eye for a second. Cas looked away first.

Yeah. This was going great.

He didn’t want to be fighting with Cas. Didn’t want to be fighting with Dean, either. He just… didn’t know how to stop. Didn’t know how to say, I’m scared. I’m scared of losing you. I’m scared you’re betting everything on a future that’s not guaranteed. I’m scared I’m going to be standing here alone when it all falls apart.

Instead, he picked at the scabs, made it worse.

He was halfway through wondering if he could fake food poisoning just to get out of there when Bobby grunted again.

“Got somethin’,” he said, spinning the iPad around. “Local doc made a call yesterday. Flagged a patient for something bad. CDC level bad.”

Sam leaned in. It wasn’t much — barely a whisper of a lead — but it was something.

“Good enough,” Sam said, shoving out of the booth with a groan of old springs.

Cas rose too, smooth and controlled as ever. Sam couldn’t tell if it was judgment in his stare or just plain indifference. Whatever. It probably didn’t matter.

He turned away, following Bobby toward the door, the cold blast of outside air hitting him like a slap. It jolted something loose inside him, some part of him that wanted to turn around, go back, drag Dean out of Bobby’s house and force him to sit at this booth just so everything could feel normal again.

But Dean wasn’t here. And Sam knew — he knew — it was the right call. Dean needed to rest. Needed to stay safe.

Knowing didn’t make it easier. Didn’t make the hollow space at Sam’s side feel any less raw.

And without Dean here, Sam wasn’t sure any of them were going to make it out of this whole thing still standing.

Dean didn’t know where the hell he was.

The ground under his boots felt half-right, but the air — thick and heavy like a shroud around him — was all wrong. It wasn’t the garden. Couldn’t be. The golden light that used to soak into everything, that quiet hum of peace that made it feel safe, was gone. Dead. In its place was a choking grey fog, swallowing up the sky, the trees, the ground, until everything just blurred together like a smear on a dirty window.

He turned a slow circle, heart already hammering against his ribs. No house. No wide bay doors. No porch where he could sit and watch his daughter run barefoot through the grass.

Nothing but endless, empty grey.

A cold shudder worked its way up his spine. Something was wrong. Wrong in a way that made every instinct he had scream at him to run, fight, do something.

Then it hit him. Hard. Right in the center of his chest, like someone drove a nail straight through.

Every time he dreamed — every single time — she was there. It didn’t matter where he ended up: the meadow, the house, the woods. Nellie was always there. Laughing. Yelling for him. Tugging at his hand with her tiny fingers, dragging him to see some flower or bug she thought was special.

But now?

"Nellie?" His voice cracked in the thick silence. He spun faster, breath hitching, trying to punch through the fog with his eyes. "Sweetheart? Where are you?"

Nothing.

Just the dead, smothered hush of a world that had lost its heartbeat.

Panic slammed into him, wild and blinding. Dean clutched at his abdomen — the place where he always felt her now, that small, solid curve that meant she was there, alive — but the second his hand hit, he knew.

Flat.

Empty.

No.

His heart lurched, almost stopped. He looked down.

And saw the blood.

Dark, thick, soaking through his jeans, spreading in a slow, steady leak like an oil spill he couldn’t plug. His hands slapped over it, desperate, stupidly trying to hold it in, stop it, fix it, but the warmth just kept slipping between his fingers.

Pain flared sharp and deep, tearing through his gut, and Dean choked on a sob, stumbling to his knees. His vision swam.

"Nellie—" he gasped, the name shredded and broken on his tongue. "No. Please, baby, no—"

He was losing her. He had lost her.

Everything — everything — he’d fought for, prayed for, built in this tiny, fragile corner of the world, ripped out of him like it was nothing.

Somewhere in the fog, a voice slithered through.

"The death of a child," it crooned, soft and deadly.

Dean dragged his head up, vision swimming.

A woman stepped out of the mist, like it was birthing her from some rotten place inside itself. She wore a dress that used to be white but looked wrong now — stained, somehow — and her skin was too pale, too smooth, like it was stretched too tight over her bones. Her eyes glowed sickly orange, like dying coals under the ash.

Dean should’ve gotten to his feet. Should’ve raised a hand, drawn a blade, fought.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t even care.

If Nellie was gone, what the hell was the point?

The woman tilted her head, smiling like she was seeing right through him. Right down to the wreckage inside. "That’s every mother’s worst nightmare," she whispered, mock-sweet. "Losing the one thing that made life worth living."

Dean wanted to snarl at her, spit blood in her face. Instead he stayed crumpled in the dirt, breathing through his own grief.

The woman came closer, slow and careful, like a hunter approaching wounded prey. Her hand brushed his cheek, cold and soft at the same time, and Dean didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

"I see you," she murmured. "I understand. I’m a mother too."

Something pulsed from her palm into his skin — a crawling, electric warmth that didn’t belong in a place like this. Her eyes burned brighter, and Dean, too wrecked to fight, too broken to breathe, let his eyelids sag shut.

Whatever was coming, he welcomed it.

Hell, maybe she’d tear his heart out and put him out of his misery.

Instead, a burning filled his chest — not pain exactly, but something fierce and invasive, like a brand pressed into him from the inside out.

His heart kicked once, hard, and he gasped. This was it—

Dean's eyes snapped open.

The fog was gone.

He was tied to a chair, ropes biting into his wrists and ankles, the fibers rough and burning where they cut into his skin. Around him, the world buzzed — diner plates clattering, voices murmuring, laughter drifting from unseen mouths.

But nobody looked at him.

Nobody saw him.

Standing right in front of him, impossibly close, was the woman from the fog.

And now, her smile was bigger.

Hungrier.

But Dean wasn’t focused on that — couldn’t be — because as he drew in an aching, desperate breath he felt it — Nellie’s presence buzzed inside him, strong and fierce, like a little ball of fire wedged behind his ribs. She was mad — pissed, actually — and Dean could feel her tiny consciousness directing its anger straight at the woman. He closed his eyes for a half-second, feeling the pure, unbreakable connection between them, and could have cried from the sheer relief of it.

She was alive. His baby girl was alive.

And now, Dean had a reason to fight.

Forcing his breathing to steady, Dean opened his eyes again and stared hard at the woman in front of him. Whoever the hell she was, she wasn’t getting to him — or Nellie — without a damn fight.

Time to figure out what the hell was going on.

He shifted against the ropes binding him, keeping his breathing even as the woman paced toward him. She studied him with a strange gleam in her eyes, like he was some rare specimen she wanted to keep in a jar.

“Beautiful,” she murmured, voice dripping with a kind of wonder that made his skin crawl. “I can only imagine the power she’ll hold once she’s born.”

She drifted closer, slow, deliberate, the hem of her faded dress whispering across the cracked linoleum. Dean tensed as she neared, muscles coiled tight, but he stayed silent, waiting.

“And you,” she added, her smile widening, almost… fond. “Such a good mother. Carrying her. Protecting her.”

Dean jerked his head up, glowering at her. “And who the hell are you?”

She tilted her head, as if the question amused her. “I told you,” she said sweetly. “I’m a mother.”

Dean’s stomach twisted. He knew who she was. “You’re Eve,” he said, voice low and cold.

The woman’s smile sharpened, pleased. “Yes.”

Dean swallowed the bitter taste rising in his throat. Of course it was her. Who else could hijack his mind, threaten his kid, and still talk like she was offering him milk and cookies? “What the hell do you want with me?” he demanded, his heart pounding hard against his ribs, against the baby still curled inside him. His hand twitched where it was bound, attempting to lay a hand protectively over his middle.

“I want to make a deal,” Eve said simply, stepping even closer. Her presence was heavy, thick in the air, pressing against him like a weighted blanket. “You see, I love my children. But I understand that on this Earth there must be a balance. Purgatory belongs to them, but here…” She spread her arms as if gesturing to the diner, the world. “Here, there’s healthy competition. My children turned a few of you, you hunted a few of them. I was happy.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What changed?”

Eve’s expression darkened, a shadow crossing her face. “My children,” she said, voice sharpening like a knife, “no thanks to you, started getting kidnapped. Tortured. Even my firstborns.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, the memory of hunts and blood and burning bodies flashing unbidden behind his eyes.

“I was pushed into this,” Eve continued, shrugging one delicate shoulder. “After all, a mother defends her children.”

Dean snorted humorlessly. “So what, you’re Mother of the Year now?”

“Mmm, but you agree, don’t you?’ Eve cocked her head at him, then, with an almost tender motion, reached forward and placed a hand against his midsection. “After all, there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for your child.”

Dean flinched instinctively, but the moment her palm touched him, a wave of protectiveness surged through him, fierce and immediate. His belly warmed under her touch, the baby’s presence sparking bright and strong inside him like a flare.

Eve’s eyes widened in delight. “Oh,” she breathed. “And such brilliance! You must be very proud.”

Dean gritted his teeth, muscles trembling with the effort it took not to lunge at her, ropes or not. He could feel it now — Eve’s power pressing against the grace inside him, not nullifying it completely, but it was like a block he couldn’t get past. His daughter pushed at the boundaries of it, uncomfortable.

“You do anything to her,” he growled, low and threatening, “and you’ll find out just how much I’m willing to do.”

Eve chuckled softly, withdrawing her hand like she’d found exactly what she wanted. “But I don’t want to kill her,” she said, as if explaining to a particularly stubborn child. “Or you, for that matter.”

Dean glared at her. “Then what’s with the Taken act? ‘Cause I gotta say, your bedside manner could use some serious work.”

“I want the one torturing my children dead,” Eve said simply. She smiled, but it was a cold, empty thing. “Crowley.”

Dean blinked. For a heartbeat, the haze of anger and fear cracked, and something sharper cut through — disbelief.

“Crowley’s dead,” he shot back, voice flat, certain. “We burned his bones months ago.”

Eve’s eyes glinted, dark and unshaken. “No,” she murmured, the word curling like frost through the air. “He’s alive. I see his face through the eyes of every child he strings up and skins. Every scream, every last, rattling breath — I see it all.”

Dean felt his gut twist, nausea creeping up the back of his throat — but no. No. He knew what he’d seen. Cas, standing over the fire, the brittle snap of bone, the stink of burning flesh. He’d watched it happen. Crowley was gone. Eve was bluffing, or delusional. Hell, she was probably both.

“Any idea why he’s hurting my babies?” Eve cooed, unbothered by the storm behind Dean’s eyes.

Dean worked his jaw, teeth grinding. It didn’t matter what kind of twisted game she was playing — if he wanted to survive this, he had to stay on script. “He wants Purgatory,” he muttered. “He was looking for a way in.”

Eve hummed, the sound almost indulgent. She leaned in, her breath cold against his skin. “Maybe so. But it’s not the place that matters,” she whispered. “It’s the souls.”

Something shifted in his chest — a slow, heavy click. Souls had power. He remembered Cas’s voice, low and taut, remembered the way Bobby had staggered when Cas drew from him, the raw, searing light that had flashed in his mind’s eye.

“Souls have power,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

“Exactly,” Eve purred, pleased. “Each soul a little nuclear reactor. Put them together, you get the sun.” Her eyes sparkled, dark and hungry. “Now imagine what the King of Hell could do with all that. How powerful he’d be.”

Dean’s hands flexed uselessly in the ropes. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. Crowley was dead.

“Now Crowley wants to siphon off my supply,” Eve went on, voice tightening like a snare, “and torture my children to do it? Fine. I’ll stop playing nice. I’ll turn you all. Every soul, mine. Let’s see how hot Hell burns when everyone comes to me.”

Dean’s breath stalled. “You’d turn every person on Earth?” His voice cracked low, disbelieving. “That’s billions of people.”

Eve smiled softly, as if humoring a child. “What do you think I’ve been doing?” she murmured. “Your family’s out there right now, getting a taste of my latest creation. Soon, I’ll have the perfect monster.”

Dean’s chest went tight, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his ears. “And if you do get Crowley?” he rasped. “What then?”

Eve gave a lazy shrug. “Then we go back to the old ways. Just… with a little twist. Your brother’s already close to cracking the code on my children. The others will follow.”

Dean swallowed hard, forcing his brain to keep moving, to keep ahead. His voice came out low, even. “And you’ll let us go?”

Eve’s grin widened, too sharp, too wide. “When Crowley’s dead,” she promised sweetly. “Otherwise…” She tilted her head, studying him with an almost tender hunger. “I’d love to see a Nephilim born of one of my children. Turning you…” She clicked her tongue thoughtfully. “Well. That would be fascinating.”

Dean’s gaze darted through the diner, stomach sinking. Every face — every waitress, every trucker, every kid at the counter — shimmered faintly, the shine of something wrong. Monsters, all of them. Even if he broke free, he wouldn’t make it five feet. He had no choice.

But even as the words came up his throat, something inside him dug in its heels, burning hard and defiant. His jaw tightened. He met Eve’s eyes, glare hard and unflinching.

“Alright,” he said at last, voice rough as gravel. “I’ll find Crowley.”

“Good,” Eve purred, her smile softening — but it never touched her eyes. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

With a flick of her hand, she gestured toward two monsters slouched near the door — ghouls, judging by the stench rolling off them. “Go fetch.”

Dean stiffened in his seat as the creatures slid from their booth, heavy boots thudding over the cracked linoleum. His fingers twitched, aching for a weapon he didn’t have, heart pounding as he strained against the ropes cutting into his wrists.

His voice came out raw, tight. “Where are they going?”

Eve, still poised like a queen beneath the flickering lights, tilted her head, the picture of serene menace. “I think I’ve let your little angel and friends run wild long enough. Time to bring the family home.”

Dean’s stomach lurched, that protective spark flaring hot in his chest. “You touch them—”

“Relax, darling,” Eve crooned, brushing a few stray strands of his hair back with disturbingly gentle fingers. “Stress isn’t good for the baby.”

Dean bit the inside of his cheek to keep the snarl in his throat. He sat ramrod straight, fists clenching behind his back, eyes locked on the door. It was only minutes — five at most — but they stretched like an eternity before the commotion hit. The door banged open, and his heart shot into his throat.

Bobby stumbled in first, fists raised, fighting even as two monsters shoved him forward. Sam followed, wide-eyed, struggling in a ghoul’s grip. And Cas — Cas walked stiff and furious between them, rage coiled tight in every line of his body, though his face was carefully blank. His eyes snapped to Dean, and in that instant, Dean felt the weight of Cas’s worry slam into him like a fist.

“Dean!” Sam barked, jerking free for a second before the ghoul yanked him back.

“What the hell is this?” Bobby growled, eyes flicking sharply around the diner.

Eve clapped her hands with mock delight. “Hello, gentlemen. Please, join us.”

Sam’s mouth opened — probably to argue, protest, something — but Dean cut him off sharply, voice low and commanding. “I’m fine, Sam. Do what she says.”

Sam hesitated, confusion etched deep into his face, but then he allowed himself to be shoved into the booth across from the chair Dean was tied to. Bobby slid in beside him, muttering under his breath. Cas stayed standing, immovable, his eyes never leaving Eve — or Dean.

Dean could feel it, the tension crackling in the air, the sluggish drag of grace in his veins. Whatever spell Eve had draped over this place, Cas was caught in it, straining at the leash but not strong enough to break it. And Dean was no better. There would be no breaking free, no fighting their way out of this. Not yet.

Bobby narrowed his eyes at Dean. “How the hell’d you end up here?”

“Did you follow us?” Sam asked sharply, the accusation scraping under Dean’s skin.

Eve laughed — a lilting, musical sound that made Dean’s teeth ache.

“You really thought I haven’t been watching you?” she said sweetly. “I saw you through my children’s eyes. And when three big alphas leave the omega they’re protecting all alone in the castle with the drawbridge down…” She clicked her tongue, circling behind Dean’s chair. “Well, how could I resist such an invitation?”

As she passed Cas, she tapped his chest lightly with one pale finger. “Don’t worry, Castiel,” she purred. “You’ll be able to protect him again when I’m gone. But for now…” With a flick of her wrist, Dean felt the heavy press of her power settle even deeper in the room. Cas’s shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly.

Dean clenched his jaw, feeling Cas’s frustration crackle down his spine like static.

Eve leaned down, her hand sliding once again over Dean’s belly. His skin crawled. The baby shifted restlessly, a flicker deep inside, and the growl that tore from Dean’s throat was pure instinct.

Eve’s smile widened, eyes gleaming. “Your child,” she murmured, voice thick with satisfaction, “she’s got a spark. Like her mother.”

Finally, Cas spoke, his voice low, sharp. “What do you want?”

“I’ve already told your mate what I want,” Eve said smoothly, drifting back to the center of the diner. “If he keeps his word, none of you have to get hurt.”

Sam’s frown deepened, his eyes darting between them. “Dean, what is she talking about?”

Dean swallowed, throat dry. His gaze flicked to Eve, then to Sam. “She says Crowley’s alive.”

Sam froze. “What? But — you said —” He turned sharply on Cas. “You burned his bones!”

Cas’s face tightened, confusion flickering behind his eyes. “I… I did. I don’t understand.”

Eve’s laugh was sharp now, cutting through the air like a knife. “Well, you’d better start,” she said silkily. She drifted closer, her palm pressing firmer against Dean’s midsection. Dean stiffened under her touch, every muscle tight, teeth bared.

“I told you not to threaten her again,” he growled, voice low and dangerous.

“Clock’s ticking,” Eve sang, tapping her wrist as though she wore a watch.

Sam scrambled for footing. “What if — what if we summon him? Crowley?”

Eve smiled indulgently, like a twisted mother humoring a child. “I’m waiting.”

“Okay, okay,” Sam rushed out, already rattling off the ingredients they’d need. Dean barely heard him over the roar in his ears.

Eve gave her monsters a pointed nod. “You heard him. Go.”

Three of the monsters bolted for the door, nearly tripping over each other in their haste to obey. It slammed behind them, swinging on its hinges before falling still. A heavy silence settled over the diner. Dean caught Cas’s gaze, the worry mirrored in his eyes. He tried to look confident, like he had a plan — but the fear clawing at his throat kept him quiet. Eve’s fingers curled around his shoulder, a cold reminder of what they were gambling with.

It didn’t take long. The monsters returned, dragging a black duffel bag streaked with thick, wet patches of blood. Dean grimaced as they dumped it at Sam’s feet. Eve flicked her fingers — sharp, silent. A command.

Sam’s hands shook as he unzipped the bag, pulling out the contents and arranging them quickly, almost mechanically. They’d done this ritual more times than he could count, always when calling on something of the demonic variety. When he finished, a bloody sigil gleamed on the floor. Everything was in place — ready to summon one specific demon.

“Okay,” Sam muttered under his breath. “Okay, here goes.”

He launched into the Latin, his voice steady despite the tension snapping through the room. Dean watched, heart pounding, while Eve hovered at the edge of the circle, eyes gleaming with anticipation, her arms folded like she had all the time in the world.

The candle flames flickered. Wind howled against the diner’s thin glass.

Then — nothing.

The sigil fizzled, smoked — and went dark.

“No, no, no,” Sam breathed, shaking his head. “That should’ve worked—”

“It didn’t,” Eve hissed, and the temperature plunged.

Dean had no time to move. She was there in a blink, one cold hand clamped around his arm, yanking him to his feet like a ragdoll. Her other hand skimmed over his belly with a slow, possessive stroke.

“Time’s up,” Eve murmured, breath brushing his ear like silk and ice. “I gave you your chance. Now we do things my way.”

Dean ground his teeth, wrists twisting subtly in the ropes as he worked at the knots. His skin burned raw, but the fibers were starting to give—

“And you know what I’m looking forward to most?” Eve purred. “Not just you. But her. My future grandchild. A perfect union of old and new. Oh, the things we’ll do together—”

“Over my dead body,” Dean snarled, jerking free as the last rope gave way.

His hand slammed against her chest, light flaring from his palm — wild, raw power surging up from deep inside, not wholly his own. Eve staggered back a step, a hiss escaping her teeth — but it wasn’t enough.

Dean’s breath hitched. His knees buckled as a wave of her power crashed back over him, suppressing his and Nellie’s grace.

Eve laughed softly, voice low and syrupy as she brushed ash from her dress. “Almost, darling,” she crooned. “But you’re not quite ready, are you? Maybe what you need is a little more motherly persuasion.”

And then her form shimmered — twisted — and Dean’s world tilted.

Golden hair. Soft eyes. That familiar, gentle smile that haunted his dreams.

“Dean,” Mary whispered, in Eve’s voice, stepping closer, her hand hovering near his face. “Baby, it’s okay. You’re tired. Let me help. Let me take care of you.”

For a heartbeat, Dean froze.

Memory crashed down like a tidal wave —
the crackle of fire,
the smell of burning flesh,
Mary screaming on the ceiling,
blood dripping onto Sam’s crib.

His heart lurched — then hardened like iron.

No.

Not this time.

He would not be her.

Something surged in his chest, sharp and electric, his daughter’s fierce, unformed power unfurling inside him like a second heartbeat. He could feel her — wild, defiant, reaching for him. Dean clenched his fists, teeth bared.

“Nice try, bitch,” he ground out.

He lunged, palm slamming into Eve’s chest again — but this time, the power roared free. It tore through him, through her, a blinding surge of light and heat that split the air with a crack like thunder.

Eve shrieked, Mary’s stolen face peeling away in strips of smoke. Her skin cracked, fissures of molten light racing up her throat, across her arms, through her veins like fire in a glass jar.

“You—” she rasped, eyes wide, monstrous. “You don’t even know what you’re—”

The rest of her sentence never made it out.

Eve convulsed once, twice — and then collapsed, her body slamming hard into the linoleum. Smoke curled from her mouth, her eyes, her fingertips.

For a long, shuddering moment, the diner held its breath.

And then the monsters screamed.

All around them, ghouls, vamps, and shapeshifters surged forward — snarling, howling, teeth bared and claws flashing. Tables overturned, glass shattered, a chair went flying past Dean’s head.

“Cas!” Dean shouted, already backing toward the booth, shielding his belly with one arm while drawing his blade with the other. “Now!”

The instant Eve fell, the pressure on Castiel’s grace vanished like breath on glass. His eyes ignited with divine blue, wings flickering behind him — not just angelic, but radiant, like something holy dragged up from the ashes. His own kind of phoenix.

“Shut your eyes!” he commanded, voice ringing like a bell through the chaos.

Dean ducked, grabbing Sam and Bobby, dragging them down with him, arm curled protectively around his stomach.

Light erupted.

Not white — not just light. Holy. Blinding and absolute, the echo of creation, the fury of Heaven itself. The monsters didn’t stand a chance. Their shrieks cut off mid-scream, bodies incinerating mid-leap, clawed hands turning to dust before they ever reached the booth.

Then it was quiet.

When Dean blinked the light away, they were back at Bobby’s.

Sam and Bobby staggered, blinking like they’d just stepped off a rollercoaster. Dean barely had time to exhale before Cas was on him, pushing him to sit as his hands fluttered across his face, his shoulders, his belly, concern radiating off of him in palpable waves.

“Cas,” Dean grunted, trying to bat him away. “I’m fine.”

His mate didn’t answer — just kept touching, scanning, searching. His hands trembled slightly. His grace whispered over Dean’s skin in gentle pulses that made his throat tighten.

“Cas,” Dean said again, more firmly, catching his wrist. “I said I’m okay. She didn’t hurt me. Didn’t get to her either.”

Cas finally met his gaze — and Dean almost wished he hadn’t. That look: raw and terrified and so full of love it physically hurt. For a second, it looked like Cas might break apart right there.

Then he folded, sinking to his knees and pressing his forehead gently to Dean’s knee.

Dean threaded his fingers through Cas’s hair, soothing. “We’re good,” he murmured. “We’re safe. That was all you.”

A beat of awkward silence — then Bobby cleared his throat near the doorway. “If you two are done makin’ moon eyes, we got some talkin’ to do.”

Cas stood slowly, hand still hovering near Dean’s side like he couldn’t bear to be too far.

Sam dropped into the armchair opposite, scrubbing his face with both hands. He looked like hell. Then again, they all did.

“So,” Sam rasped. “That thing Eve said. About Crowley.”

Dean stiffened. “The summoning didn’t work,” he said flatly. “End of story.”

Sam gave him a look. “Dean, we’ve seen demons dodge rituals before. Especially ones like him.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue—

“She sounded sure,” Sam cut in. “She knew something.”

Silence fell. Dean’s hand drifted to his stomach without thinking.

Sam’s gaze flicked to Cas. “You’re sure you got the right bones?”

Cas’s shoulders tensed. “I was certain,” he said. “But Crowley has always been crafty. It’s possible…” He sighed, shoulders dropping. “I will have to investigate.”

Dean instinctively grabbed a fistful of Cas’s coat. Not ready to let go. Not yet.

Cas leaned down, cupped Dean’s jaw with one strong, shaking hand, and kissed him. Slow. Lingering. A promise. When he pulled back, their foreheads touched for a moment.

“I’ll be back,” he whispered.

And then he was gone, vanishing with a whisper of air and the scent of ozone.

Dean stared at the empty space for a long moment, heart thudding against his ribs like it was trying to break free.

Bobby grunted, dragging a chair over and sinking into it. “Boy’s hiding somethin’,” he said, not unkindly — just honest.

Dean’s head snapped up. “Don’t.”

Sam leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. “Dean. Think about it. Cas doesn’t make mistakes like that. If Crowley’s still alive, it’s not ‘cause Cas slipped. It’s because he let him go.”

Dean shot to his feet, fists clenched, shaking with adrenaline. “You don’t know that,” he spat, glaring down at Sam. “You don’t know a damn thing.”

Sam pushed up from the chair, voice calm but tight. “Dean, just listen—”

“No, you listen,” Dean snapped, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You wanna stand there and talk crap about Cas? About the one person who’s been breaking himself in half to keep us safe? About my mate — the father of my child?” His hand came protectively to rest on his stomach. “Get it through your head, Sam. Cas doesn’t lie to me. Ever.”

Sam’s jaw flexed. “I’m not saying he doesn’t care—”

Dean’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “Oh, sure you’re not. You’re just sitting there, poking holes, trying to find a reason to blame someone, because you can’t admit the truth.”

Sam frowned, shoulders tightening. “Dean, what are you talking about?”

Dean advanced a step, eyes hard and bright. “You’re scared, Sammy. Not of Eve. Not of Crowley. Not even of Cas. You’re scared of her. Of the kid I’m carrying. And you’re looking for something — anything — to pin this on so you don’t have to look me in the eye and admit you’re terrified this baby’s gonna kill me.”

Sam flinched, just slightly, but it was enough.

Dean let the words hang between them, heavy and sharp as a blade.

“I trust Cas,” he said, softer now but unyielding. “I trust him with everything. And you know what? I trust her, too. She’s not some monster waiting to rip out of me. She’s ours. She’s family. And I’m not gonna stand here and let you throw that away because you’re too busy looking for someone to blame.”

Sam swallowed hard, glancing away. His hands flexed at his sides, restless and aching to grab onto something solid.

Dean exhaled shakily, rubbing his hand over his belly, trying to rein himself back in. His voice dropped to a rough murmur. “Cas didn’t mess up. Crowley’s dead. And if you can’t deal with that — if you can’t deal with her — that’s your problem. But leave Cas the hell out of it.”

For a long moment, Sam just stood there, eyes dark and unreadable.

Finally, he dropped his gaze, shoulders sagging with a tired, bitter breath.

Dean turned away, jaw clenched, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break his ribs. His eyes flicked to the spot where Cas had vanished, a knot of fierce, stubborn love tightening in his chest.

They were wrong.
Sam was wrong.

Cas wouldn’t lie to him.
Not ever.

If there was anything Dean was certain of in this world, it was that.

Chapter Text

He should have known it would end like this.

The signs had been there from the beginning — whispered warnings from the universe itself, ever since the moment he chose to fall. From the moment he dared to love a human more than Heaven itself. Castiel had abandoned everything he was for Dean Winchester, and this — this was his punishment. His brother Lucifer had his cage, locked within the depths of Hell as punishment for his sins. It was only right that Castiel had his own.

He stood encircled by holy fire, the flames burning bright enough to blister his wings, to blacken the edges of his being — and yet, he barely registered the pain. It paled in comparison to the sight before him: Dean, the man he loved beyond reason, beyond sanity — writhing in agony as their child lashed out from within him, breaking bone, shattering flesh. Castiel could do nothing but watch, helpless. Powerless to stop the grace meant to shield his mate from turning against him. Powerless to stop the protection he had tried to forge from becoming a weapon.

There was a cruel symmetry to it. Everything Castiel had done, every sin, every betrayal — it had been for Dean’s sake. To protect him. To keep him safe. And yet, every choice had only brought Dean closer to harm. Every sacrifice had led them here, to a moment so bitter that it soured Castiel’s very being, leaving a hollow, aching nausea in his chest.

How had it come to this?

Castiel already knew the answer. Every wrong step, every compromise, every desperate lie — they had all led him here. He could trace the path back with perfect clarity, could see all the forks where he should have turned away, should have chosen differently.

If only he had.

Working with Crowley would never have been his first choice.

In fact, it hadn’t been a choice at all — not truly. Not when Raphael had cornered him with an ultimatum, as cold and inevitable as death: fall in line, submit, or die alongside the rest of free will. And Castiel… Castiel had never been skilled at obedience when it came at the cost of the people he loved.

There had been a time — not long ago — when he had thought he could weather it. That he and Dean could stand side by side and face the gathering storm together, as they always had, a force stronger than destiny, stronger than Heaven’s decrees.

He had meant to tell Dean everything.

He had meant to place the burden in his mate’s hands, trusting him — trusting them — to find a better way. Together.

But then Dean had told him he was pregnant.

At first, Castiel hadn’t believed him.

He had stared at Dean, searching his mate’s face for signs of jest, misunderstanding, even madness. But Dean’s green eyes, wide and frightened and impossibly brave, had held no deception. Only the trembling, vulnerable truth.

And when Castiel had laid a hand against Dean’s abdomen, he had felt it: the pulse of new life, shimmering with a fragile blend of human and angelic grace.

Their child.

Dean was carrying their child.

It had changed everything.

He couldn’t risk it — couldn’t risk them. Not when Dean’s life, the life growing inside him, hung in the balance.

He could not ask Dean to fight a war.

He could not ask him to bleed for Heaven again, not now.

Protecting them became Castiel’s only priority, burning through him hotter than any holy fire, louder than any edict Heaven could scream. And so, with a heart heavier than any sword he’d ever lifted, he had made the decision.

He would fight this battle alone.

When he left Dean standing in the scrapyard, he hadn’t gone far.

It was cowardice, perhaps. Or maybe something crueler: the need to be near even when he couldn’t allow himself to be seen. Castiel had flown to the other end of the junkyard and cloaked himself, folding his grace tightly around him until he was nothing but a whisper in the air.

He watched.

Dean stood where Castiel had left him for a long time — too long — before his body sagged under an invisible weight, falling to his knees with the weight of all he had been burdened with. Half an hour later, he emerged from between the rusting hulks of abandoned cars, wiping his face with the hem of his t-shirt. His shoulders were squared in the way of a man who had just finished breaking and was determined no one would see the pieces.

Had he been crying all that time?

Had he spent it terrified, alone?

Castiel felt something twist and tear inside him — something deep and shameful — but he did nothing.

He only watched.

He only hid.

And hated himself all the more for it.

The self-loathing was suffocating enough that he almost didn’t notice the approach until he heard it — a voice like nails scraping against the walls of his mind.

“Ah, Castiel. Angel of Thursday. Just not your day, is it?”

He stiffened, every feather of his wings bristling in instinctive revulsion. He dropped his shroud and turned, face blank and stony as he faced the demon swaggering toward him with infuriating casualness.

Crowley.

“What are you doing here?” Castiel asked, his voice low and sharp enough to cut glass.

Crowley gave a lazy, exaggerated shrug. “I want to help you help me help ourselves.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Speak plain.”

The demon’s grin widened. “I want to discuss a simple business transaction. That’s all.”

“You want to make a deal. With me?” Castiel spat, incredulous. “I’m an angel, you ass. I don’t have a soul to sell.”

Crowley tutted and waggled a finger. “But that’s just it, isn’t it? It’s all of it. It’s the souls. It all comes down to the souls in the end, doesn’t it?”

Castiel frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Crowley stepped closer, bold as ever. “I’m talking about Raphael’s head on a pike. About happy endings for all of us — with all possible entendres intended.” He winked in that oily, self-satisfied way of his. “Come on. Just a chat.”

“I have no interest in talking with you,” Castiel snapped. His hand twitched toward the blade at his side, more instinct than threat.

“Why not? I’m very interesting.” Crowley grinned. “Come on. Five minutes. No obligations. I promise — I’ll make it worth your while.”

Every fiber of Castiel’s being screamed to smite the creature where it stood, to cleanse the air of its stink and lies.

But then Dean’s face flashed in his mind — Dean wiping away tears when he thought no one was watching, Dean’s hand unconsciously resting over his abdomen, protective and scared and determined.

Dean, carrying their child. Doomed to be destroyed if Heaven ever found out.

Castiel gritted his teeth. He hadn’t wanted to listen to Crowley. Every instinct told him it was wrong, poisonous, beneath him. But he’d convinced himself that he was smarter than the demon, stronger, more righteous — that he could take the offer and wield it as a tool, not a leash.

Now, standing in the aftermath of his shattered plans and burned bridges, he knew the truth.

It had been pride.

Pride had whispered that he could bend Hell itself to his will and walk away clean.

Pride had promised he could outwit Crowley and save Dean at the same time.

Pride had been his downfall.

And pride — Castiel realized bitterly — made fools of them all in the end.

Even angels.

The partnership with Crowley had been tenuous from the beginning, a distasteful necessity rather than any true alliance. Still, against all odds, it had worked — for a time.

Castiel had even fallen into a rhythm of sorts, waging war on three fronts: Heaven, Hell, and the fragile earth between where Dean lived, where his mate waited without knowing just how deeply the tides of battle reached for him. Every day was a new battle, a new compromise, a new moment of standing at the edge of ruin — and in between, there was Dean. Only Dean. Their stolen hours were Castiel’s sole reprieve from the carnage, the only time he could let his defenses slip, just for a breath.

But war was greedy. It demanded everything, and then more. As Raphael grew stronger and Crowley more demanding, Castiel’s time with Dean had become less and less.

His focus wavered. 

He missed things. Important things.

He underestimated Crowley.

First, it had been the Campbell patriarch.

Castiel had foolishly trusted Crowley to handle the matter cleanly, expediently, with none of the mess that would draw Dean’s attention. It had seemed the better option — better that Samuel Campbell work for Crowley in a way that could be explained without tipping Dean toward questions that Castiel couldn’t answer.

Instead, he had been banished.

He had not expected that particular betrayal, but the inconvenience had served as a decent cover. It explained his sudden absence to Dean, the too-long silence. He told himself that enduring it was worth it if it meant Crowley’s true operations remained hidden, if it meant Dean remained safe.

But what had followed was unforgivable.

Castiel had believed, foolishly, that the bargain he struck, born from the desperate need to protect his mate and their unborn child, would be enough. That it would safeguard Dean, secure their fragile world, buy them the time they so desperately needed.

It was the lie at the heart of every compromise he’d made.

But Crowley had disabused him of that illusion with ruthless efficiency — first by unleashing ghouls on Dean, and later, by coming for him directly.

The betrayal landed like a blade Castiel should have seen coming. He was old enough, war-worn enough, to know better.

After that, there had been no room for hesitation. No mercy. The terms of their deal had to be made unmistakably clear.

As he had stood amid the scorched remains of the operation, the air thick with the sharp, acrid tang of smoke and charred bone, Castiel felt the anger coil through him, white-hot and barely restrained. His grace crackled just beneath his vessel’s skin, slipping dangerously close to the surface.

He had burned the decoy Crowley left for him himself, watched the false body turn to ash under his hand.

If only it had been the real thing.

If only he had been burning Crowley instead.

And yet, in the same breath as his fury, there was Dean — bright, blinding. The memory of his smile when Castiel had whispered that their child would be a daughter was almost enough to unmake him.

He hadn’t meant to tell Dean he loved him.

He had known it was a mistake, a moment of weakness. The war, the lies, the compromises — he had no right to burden Dean with love when he could not promise him peace. But standing there, watching the way Dean’s face had lit up, how his hand had fluttered to his belly with something like wonder — Castiel’s heart had broken open, and the words had spilled out before he could stop them.

Now, he wondered if he should have kept them buried forever.

The pain he now saw etched across Dean’s face — the fear, the desperate, naked longing masked clumsily by anger — it was almost too much for Castiel to bear.

He should have known it would end this way.

How many times had he almost told Dean the truth? How many times had he stood on the precipice of confession, the burden of his secrets too heavy to carry alone? And every time, fear had silenced him. Love had silenced him.

He would carry the weight of a thousand lifetimes’ worth of secrets if it meant sparing Dean the agony of knowing.

But now, the truth — twisted and ugly and bleeding — was out.

And all Castiel could do was burn the bones and swear vengeance in the ashes.

As soon as the flames had consumed the last remnants of Crowley’s deception, Castiel turned away from the smoldering heap, his vessel vibrating with rage. He flew, landing hard enough to shake the ground in the abandoned warehouse where Crowley had set up his latest makeshift throne.

Crowley looked up from the remnants of his ruined operation with an expression of long-suffering irritation — quickly replaced with smug satisfaction.

“Well, that was a right cock-up,” Crowley said, brushing ash from his sleeves. “Still, silver lining — the Winchesters bought the show. You’re welcome, Feathers.”

He didn’t have time for more than that.

In an instant, Castiel seized him, slamming Crowley hard against the wall with a crash that sent cracks spiderwebbing through the concrete.

The demon wheezed, struggling against Castiel’s grip, but Castiel only pressed harder, his fingers digging into Crowley’s lapels like claws. His voice was low, vibrating with barely-restrained fury, and his grace flared bright enough to singe the edges of reality.

“If you ever touch my mate again — if you even look at him, or our child — I will destroy you down to your very atoms. There will not be enough of you left for Hell to mourn.”

Crowley’s eyes widened — a flicker of real fear flashing through them — before he masked it with a brittle, mocking smile.

“Well,” he rasped, voice strained. “Looks like you’ve already got the authoritative dad voice down pat. Good thing too.” He bared his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a grin. “Chances are, you’ll be the one raising the little squirrel. Too bad mummy won’t get to appreciate it.”

The barb hit its mark, sharp and cruel — but outwardly, Castiel didn’t so much as flinch.

Inside, he shattered anew.

He leaned in closer, his grace coiling tight enough around Crowley that the demon whimpered involuntarily.

“You will stay away,” Castiel said, each word cold and final as the tolling of a bell.

Crowley, pinned and paling, managed a scoff. “Fine, fine,” he gasped. “Message received. Loud and bloody clear.”

Castiel released him with a disgusted shove. Crowley slid down the wall, coughing and straightening his ruined jacket with shaking hands.

The angel gave him one last look, a silent promise burning in his eyes. Then he was gone, wings slicing through the air in a violent burst of sound, leaving only the smell of ozone and ash behind.

He had Dean to protect.

He had a daughter to protect.

And he would burn the world down before he let Crowley, or anyone, take them from him.

After that, it should have been easier.

Castiel had seen Crowley’s treachery firsthand. He knew now what the demon was capable of — the kind of lies he spun, the cruelty he wielded like a blade. There were no more illusions between them, no lingering hope that their alliance was anything more than a necessary evil.

Unfortunately, knowing what Crowley was did not make working with him any easier.

And it wasn’t as if Crowley was the only thing demanding Castiel’s fractured attention.

Shortly after their confrontation, a new host of problems rose to meet him — some of his own making, others inevitable.

Killing his siblings had been bad enough. He had broken Heaven’s laws before, but the weight of it had always sat heavy on his shoulders. This… this was different.

Taking their grace — stripping it from them, the very essence of their being — it was a violation so profound it didn’t even have a name. It was one of the greatest taboos an angel could commit, reserved only for those who had utterly lost their way.

But Castiel had done it anyway.

And he would do it again.

For Dean. Always for Dean.

He had fallen for him — once, twice, a thousand times — and he would fall for him again, no matter the cost. His fellow angels were going to die regardless. Better that their grace find a use. Better that they become something Dean could use to survive, to live.

It was callous thinking. Cold. A weapon’s thinking.

But that was what Castiel had become again: a weapon, honed sharp and bloody. Not a guardian. Not a protector. A tool of necessity.

And he could live with that. If it meant keeping Dean alive, he could live with anything.

But taking the grace hadn’t been the worst part.

No, the worst had been giving it to Dean.

It had been necessary. The nephilim growing inside Dean could have fed off his soul. Without something to bolster it — without the power of grace to sustain both him and their child — Dean would have burned out from the inside like a dying star.

So Castiel hadn’t hesitated to do what was necessary.

But watching Dean writhe in agony as the alien power fused with his human soul — holding him while he whimpered and screamed, helpless to soothe the fire that licked through his veins — that had nearly destroyed him.

And when Sam had tried to intervene, to pull Dean away from him, to touch what was his—

Castiel had struck out without thinking.

He wasn’t proud of it.

But pride wasn’t something he had room for anymore.

If he were a better man — or a man at all — he might have cared more about Sam. About what it had cost the younger Winchester to be dragged from Hell. About the suffering he had endured.

But Castiel had long since lost the bandwidth for anyone but Dean.

He would like to say he had pulled Sam out because it had been the right thing to do. Because Sam deserved a second chance. Because it was the merciful, righteous choice… but that would be a lie. Like everything else, it had been for Dean. Only Dean.

And after the rest — after the betrayals and compromises, after the corpses and stolen grace — well, a soul was a small thing to overlook. A cracked soul was not his highest priority.

At least, it hadn’t been until Sam’s instability had threatened Dean’s life.

Maybe that was why it had been so easy to dismiss Sam. To push him to the periphery, a problem for another time. Even Crowley — snide and sneering as he was — had pointed out his mistake. Underestimating even one Winchester had never led to anything good.

But Castiel hadn’t listened.

He hadn’t wanted to listen.

He should have been paying attention.

He should have seen the house of cards he had built shivering, ready to collapse with the slightest breath. He should have seen the ruin coming, should have anticipated it like he anticipated Dean’s smiles, Dean’s touch, Dean’s needs.

But he hadn’t.

Because once he had touched Dean’s soul on that raw, perfect night — once he had felt the vast, aching depth of Dean’s love for him, the raw, broken edges of want and need sharpened into something blinding —

Everything else had paled in comparison.

The wars. The politics. The betrayals. Sam. Crowley. Heaven and Hell and the endless, gnawing conflict.

None of it mattered.

Only Dean mattered.

And Dean, somehow, impossibly, loved him in return.

Ever since that night, Castiel had been lost. Hopelessly, willingly lost.

Falling into each other had become inevitable — effortless. It was as if the rest of the world had receded, blurred into meaningless noise around them. Their love consumed every breath, every thought, every beat of their hearts.

It was romantic, maybe. Foolish, definitely.

And that was why he hadn’t seen it coming.

The first sign had come from Sam and Bobby.

Castiel had suspected they would grow wary, but he hadn’t expected them to see through him so quickly.

He had tried. Truly, he had tried to mimic surprise when they confronted him about Crowley, after the affair with Eve. Played his part, lied with as much human imperfection as he could muster. Dean had easily believed him — and for a moment, that had been enough.

But Sam and Bobby were not so easily deceived.

He should have known better.

It was shortly after he had transported them all back to Bobby’s house. He had pretended to leave, his wings carrying him soundlessly away. But he hadn’t gone far. He had remained behind, invisible, a silent presence tucked into the cracked plaster and worn-out walls.

He needed to know what they were saying.

Needed to know how close they were to uncovering the truth.

The truth he was hiding even from Dean. Especially from Dean.

He hovered in the corner of the room as the conversation unraveled.

Sam’s voice was the first to break the uneasy silence.

“Dean, all I’m asking is that you consider—”

“What?” Dean’s voice snapped like a whip. “That Cas is lying to me? You’re serious about that?”

There was a pause. Bobby shifted uncomfortably.

“Sam, maybe there’s another—”

“Oh, come on!” Sam cut him off, frustration thick in his voice. “You see it too.”

Bobby hesitated, and Castiel could feel the old hunter’s reluctance crackling in the air.

“He—” Bobby started, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “He’s right, Dean. It does look suspicious.”

Dean laughed, short and bitter.

“You know what? Screw both of you!” he shouted, taking a furious step back. “You’re both wrong about this. Cas wouldn’t— he wouldn’t do that.”

“Dean—” Sam began again, softer this time.

“Fuck. You.” Dean’s voice shook with rage and something deeper, something more wounded. “You think I’m gonna listen to you? All you care about is being right. What will make you happy, huh? What if you’re right? What if my daughter kills me, and Cas is lying to me, or whatever other story you want to make up?”

Dean’s hands were trembling now, glowing faintly with the volatile flicker of borrowed grace. His face twisted, grief and fury warring for dominance. Castiel yearned to hold him, to wrap him in his arms until he only felt good things. Instead, he remained where he was, watching.

“Does it fucking matter, Sam?” Dean roared. His arm lashed out, sweeping the books and papers off the desk, sending them flying to the floor in a clatter. “In the end, does any of this fucking matter? Just leave it the hell alone!”

And then he was gone — storming out the door, grace sparking and sputtering in his wake.

Sam and Bobby stood frozen in the wreckage he left behind, the heavy silence settling over them like a burial shroud.

Sam spoke first, his voice barely above a whisper.