Supernatural 1. Prologue

**My take on season 10. The prologue is not directly related to the rest of the story, but it is important. Will contain eventual Destiel.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.**

* * *

_ A lifetime ago._

Dean grinned as he was led behind the back of the school, hand clasped in another's. He felt giddy, drunk on adrenaline despite the trash and dirt surrounding them. They slowed to a halt beside a relatively clean space of brick wall, right beside the outside exit for the gym just for the hell of it. It wasn't nice, it wasn't romantic, and yet somehow it felt more exciting than anything else at the moment.

Dean pushed the boy up against the wall, smirking.

"We really shouldn't be doing this," the boy said breathlessly as Dean placed his hands on either side of the other's head. "We should be in class."

"To hell with class. I'm up for a little adventure," Dean said huskily.

The boy's pupils dilated as he grinned back at Dean.

This wasn't right. It was completely, completely wrong, and Dean's heart was pounding in his chest just at the thought. With girls, it was different, safe. He knew what he was doing. Hell, he still loved girls and everything that came with them. But lately he'd been eyeing up the other sex without even realizing it, until Romeo here came sauntering in and gave him one look and he knew. The Romeo in question was currently breathing heavily two inches from him, so Dean decided that this was it. There was no going back now.

He threaded one hand through the boy's blond hair and suddenly their mouths were connected, warm and wet and terrifyingly new. There was just the slightest bit of stubble on the boy's jaw, and Dean ran his thumb over it, reveling in the feeling.

The boy groaned loudly just as the gym door swung open.

Dean's heart froze in his chest as the gym coach and the entire class paused at the sight of them, red lipped and disheveled, still in each other's breathing space. The coach's face began to redden while the class remained in stunned silence.

"You..." he sounded winded. "You two...to the office. Now."

Dean didn't make eye contact with the boy for the rest of the day.

* * *

The road passed by like it always did, despite how hard Dean's world had been flipped around. Dreary raindrops smeared down the windows, the only noise besides his father's angry breathing and the rumble of the car.

Dean's fingernails bit into his palms, leaving white crescent marks. "Look, Dad-"

"Don't." The cold reply almost made him wince. "Just...save it, Dean, at least until I'm not behind the wheel of a car."

Dean bit his lip, a sinking feeling settling deep in his stomach.

They arrived in tense silence at the grubby motel. As they pulled up in front of their room, Dean noticed Sam through the window, reading a book in peace. His heart sank even further. The kid was only eleven-why should he have to deal with Dean's mistakes, too?

They walked up to the door, and suddenly Sam looked up, catching sight of Dean and grinning. While his father fumbled for the key, Dean tried to mouth, "Go!" to Sam, but his brother only looked confused.

The door creaked open, and Sam stood from the bed, dog-earing one of the pages. "Hi, Dad. Hey, Dean."

Their father pulled out a five dollar bill from his pocket. "Go get something from the candy machine."

Sam took it, brow furrowing. "Why-"

"Now!"

Sam scurried out the door, looking a little scared.

There was a beat of quiet. Dean's heart was beating hard, trying to escape the inevitable. His father was turned away, face hidden. The suspense was almost unbearable.

"Dad..."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Your principal tells me that you were found behind the school with some..._boy_. Is this true, Dean?"

Dean looked at the ground. "Yes, sir," he said quietly.

"Can you explain to me what _exactly_ you were thinking?"

Dean desperately swallowed his snide remark and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Dad," he whispered. "I don't know what came over-"

"No son of mine will ever lay eyes on another man, understand?"

"Yes, but Dad-"

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?" John roared, and Dean couldn't hold back his flinch.

John heaved a sigh. He sat down on the bed and buried his head in his hands. Dean wanted to sit next to him, explain everything, but he knew that his father would never understand.

He was right, these feelings were unnatural. Dean tried to swallow around the lump in his throat and stood up straight. "Dad, listen. Please. It was just an experiment, I swear."

John said nothing. Dean tried again. "Dad, I swear, I'm not interested in guys." The lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

Finally, his father spoke. "Dean...son," he said softly, dropping his hands and looking at the brunet. All the anger seemed to have evaporated, and now all that remained was weariness. "I love you. I really do. You and Sammy are my boys. But I don't know what I've done to disappoint you this much."

Dean was confused. "Disappoint me?"

John shook his head. "Is this some act of rebellion? I'm used to that attitude with Sam, but I always thought that I could count on you, Dean."

A sharp sting of hurt shot through his chest at his father's words. Dean's eyes fell to the floor as he tried to hold back the tears threatening to fall. Boys didn't cry. Dean didn't cry.

"No, Dad," Dean said. "I was just curious. That's all."

His father eyed him, and then sighed, nodding and smiling thinly. "All right, Dean. But this had better be the last time."

Dean nodded hurriedly. "Of course, Dad."

The older man stood, walking over to the hotel room door and placing his hand on the doorknob. "Take care of Sam, alright? There's a shifter in town. I'll be back in a few hours."

Dean nodded again and looked down, torn between hurt and relief. John paused, as if he wanted to say something else, but by the time Dean glanced up again, the door had slammed shut.

A minute passed, and the door cracked open again. A small figure slunk into the room, two candy bars clutched in hand. He handed one to Dean, who forced a smile for the sake of his brother. He knew Sam didn't buy it for a minute.

Sam wrapped his arms around Dean's middle and pressed his face to his brother's chest. "It's okay, Dean."

Dean hugged his brother back and tried not to cry.


	2. Something Borrowed

**Here's an early update-finals are coming up and there might not be any more for a while. Thanks to everyone who reviewed/followed!**

******WARNING: major spoilers for Season 9.  
**

* * *

It sucked being a demon.

Crowley was smirking over him like a bitch, and he was _really_ not the first thing Dean had wanted to see after coming back from the dead. Again.

Not to mention the angry torrent of emotions ripping him up from the inside out. His head pounded as a wave of bloodlust washed over him. Anger, hurt, pure rage, all boiling just beneath his skin. If he'd thought it had been bad before, he'd been dead wrong. That was just a friggin' warm up.

And for some reason, he couldn't move at all. He pushed against the incredible pressure holding his body in place, but to no avail. One of his fingers twitched, but Crowley didn't seem to notice.

"How you feelin'?" Crowley grinned.

Dean growled. Once he got control over these emotions and his body, he was going to snap that junkie's neck. His pulse was racing with the overwhelming feeling_._

"Hey, hey, hey. Easy, tiger." Crowley put his hands in front of him in a gesture of peace, eyeing him smugly all the while. "Doesn't feel too nice, does it?"

"Shut your mouth!" Dean managed to grind out through his teeth. His voice was deep and gravelly, dark and rough. He tried to move again, willing his body into motion, but it was nearly impossible. It felt like trying to wade through molasses. He managed to flex his fingers again, but didn't get much farther than that. It was frustrating as hell.

"Now," Crowley said in that damned _annoying_ voice of his, "I, personally, don't have much experience with the Mark of Cain—at least, not firsthand. But I've heard that it's some pretty nasty business, especially when the Mark doesn't want to let you go. Technically, you're dead, but it's bringing you back to life. Or, well, as much as it can, anyway."

A small groan sounded in the back of Dean's throat as he managed to free his entire right hand, the one holding the First Blade. Crowley's eyes flickered down to it for a second.

"Hey, uh, Dean? Dean-o?" he chuckled nervously. "We're buddies, remember? Chums? Mates? Ring a bell?"

Dean wrenched his arm free with a gasp and immediately pointed the knife towards the other. "Stop talking," he half-growled, half-wheezed from the exertion. Crowley's mouth snapped shut.

It might have been minutes. It might have been hours. Crowley had long since kept quiet and Dean was focusing purely on willing himself to break free of invisible hold. Finally,_ finally_, he was able to lift his head along with everything else, and he sat up, groaning loudly. Everything seemed to be working, if a bit stiff.

But while his body was fine, his brain wasn't cooperating.

The hunger. The desire to kill. It seethed and bubbled inside of him, to the point where it was almost unbearable. Dean itched for the feeling of blood on his hands, a hot body slowly draining away, glassy-eyed and all because of him. Not just one. Many. Countless.

"Dean, before you do anything, just listen to me," pleaded Crowley. Dean cracked his neck and looked at the other, who was really starting to look like a suitable first victim.

"I know, it's bad. Probably a thousand times worse with the Mark," he said hastily, standing up and backing away a few feet as Dean planted his feet on the floor experimentally. "But you can't kill me."

"Why not?" Dean snarled. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't slice you open, you son of a bitch."

Crowley paled for a moment, hesitated, lifted a finger in thought, and then sprinted from the room.

Dean darted after him. His legs were heavy at first, and then out of the blue he felt a million times stronger than he'd ever been, which was saying something. The walls, brown and familiar, flew past him. He chased his prey, like a lion after a gazelle. He was definitely catching up.

When he bolted into the main room, he was going so fast that by the time he heard a shocked "Dean?" called after him, he'd already caught up to Crowley. The bastard turned into the small, unused bathroom at the end of the hall and Dean followed. His pulse thrummed in anticipation of that first cut, first slice, the B-movie blood splatter all over the walls.

He rounded the corner only to see a red-faced Crowley gesturing towards the mirror.

"Here!" he panted, a hint of fear in his eyes that Dean figured was the human bits left in him. Or maybe he was genuinely afraid of Dean. "Here's your reason!"

Deciding to humor him, Dean turned toward the mirror. He wasn't surprised at what he saw, really. The pitch black eyes staring back at him only confirmed his suspicions of what he'd become.

If he hadn't been so full of hatred, Dean might have been sad.

"See?" Crowley insisted. "See? You do need me. I can be your demon tour guide. I can make life great for you. Show you the ropes, remember?"

Dean focused, squinting in the mirror, and with a determined blink his eyes were back to green. "I don't need your help."

Something shifted in the air, and Dean felt Crowley's demeanor change. Behind him, reflected in the mirror, Crowley's face darkened. "Fine," the latter said coolly. "If that's how you want to play..."

An invisible force slammed Dean against the wall. He barely noticed the impact, more concentrated on the bastard pinning him with an outstretched hand.

Dean gritted his teeth as fury built up further inside of him, burning even brighter than before. The blade had flown out of his hand, and he'd wasted all his energy on catching Crowley. He tried to reach for it, call it to him, but Crowley just chuckled and slammed his hand back into the wall.

"Looks like you're too tired, pretty boy," the junkie crowed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll just grab this..." He sidled toward the First Blade without taking his eyes off of Dean.

Unexpectedly, something coiled in the pit of Dean's stomach. Something hot. A single ball of raw energy, raw power filled up his gut and sent shocks down his arms. The feeling expanded throughout his whole body until he was burning from the inside out and incensed, pulling at his invisible chains. Again.

Crowley bent over to pick up the blade, and a split second passed before the mirrors exploded.

Dean wrenched his arms from the wall and, throwing his right hand forward, hurled Crowley back to the opposite wall. He hit the tile with a pained groan. The Mark was searing Dean's arm, but he barely noticed. Immense satisfaction washed over him as he saw the other stare at him in shock, wide-eyed. He clenched his hand experimentally, and Crowley gagged.

"Don't try to move," Dean ordered as he stepped away from the wall. "Don't even breathe."

The king of hell was cowering under his steel gaze. Dean advanced and picked up the fallen blade, a sense of relief flooding through him as he was reunited with it once more.

He strode up to Crowley and pressed the First Blade into his neck. A few drops of blood beaded up from the thin cut.

"Please," Crowley whimpered. "Please don't kill me."

"You're pathetic," Dean said.

"And useful."

He knew Crowley was expecting him to slice his throat right then and there. Which was probably half of the reason why he dropped the blade to his side.

"Stay out of my way," Dean hissed, and then walked past the stunned Crowley to find his brother.


	3. Charcoal

**Sorry it's a bit of a half-assed chapter. The transition between events was going to be awkward whether I liked it or not.**

**Thanks again to everyone who gave this story a little love!**

* * *

Dean knew he could control himself. He knew that these awful urges boiling inside of him weren't stronger than he was, not really. Compared to everything he'd been through, everything he'd done, these feelings were nothing. He'd literally been to hell and back. He'd died more times than he could count. Right now he was stable enough, despite having just become a _demon_ with the _Mark of friggin' Cain, son _of a_ bitch_. So when he rounded the corner and crashed into a frantic Sam, he managed to keep the bloodlust to a minimum. A manageable level. He could do it.

Sam stared at him in utter astonishment. "Dean?" he breathed.

Dean cleared his throat. "Hey, Sammy."

Sam blinked a few times. Suddenly strong arms were wrapping themselves around Dean's shoulders and squeezing, and he was lifted a couple of inches off of the ground.

"Woah! Hey!" Dean chuckled, the First Blade hot in his palm. "You missed me that much, huh?"

Something wet soaked through his shirt. Dean was let back down onto the floor. "Sam?"

"I really thought this was it," Sam whispered. He stepped back, wiping his wet face with one hand. "I mean, I'd given up hope. But it still hurt, Dean," he added quietly.

Dean's knuckles were white over the blade's handle. Sam didn't notice. "I know, Sammy."

Sam let out a weak chuckle. "Guess nothing can really stop you, can it?"

"Guess not." His smile probably looked faker than it felt. Well, if he was going to go down, he might as well take someone with him. "Anyway, it wasn't all me. Crowley helped, I s'pose."

"Oh. Where is he?"

"Hiding in the bathroom."

"...Why?"

"Long story," Dean offered. "Why don't we get something to eat?"

Sam nodded, a grin breaking out over his face. Dean swallowed the urge to gut him.

* * *

Insects were crawling on his skin, leaving little bites everywhere and making him itch. There weren't really any bugs, Dean knew, but it sure as hell felt like there were. He was agitated and irate and was resisting the urge to take his anger out on that short bastard still sulking at the end of the table. Sam was on his right and beaming with relief.

"So," said Sam. "How'd you do it, Crowley?"

Said short bastard looked up in surprise. "Dean didn't tell you?"

Sam's brow furrowed. "No, he didn't."

A shit-eating grin began to snake its way across Crowley's face. Dean wanted to carve it off. "Oh, really? Well, Dean, tell Moose what happened."

Sam turned to his brother. Dean couldn't meet his eyes. "It's not important, Sam."

Eyebrows were raised. "Not important?" he asked incredulously. "It's very important."

"Just...leave it, please." Dean did his best to look pleading, and, miraculously, Sam wavered before nodding.

Sam got up from the table and meandered over to the stove. "What do you want for dinner, Dean? You've gotta be starving."

Nervousness curled in Dean's stomach. It was too early for Sam to find out what he was. If his brother discovered that he was a demon, his reaction would not be pretty. And even though Dean was managing this tidal wave of demon-y feelings, Sam would get worked up and start freaking out, and he wasn't sure if he could handle that right now. Until he himself figured it out. So he faked a frown and put his hand on his stomach in mock-confusion. "Actually, I'm not hungry. Huh."

Sam's eyes narrowed. But he kept quiet and took a can of chicken soup from the cupboard, pulling out a saucepan to heat it up. Dean breathed.

"Nothing for me, thanks," said Crowley. He was ignored.

Dean drummed his fingers on the table. "So, uh," he said awkwardly, trying to sound casual. "Any new hunts?"

"Dean, you just came back from the dead," Sam bitched, stirring his soup. "Metatron just _killed_ you. And you want to go on a _hunt_?"

Dean shrugged, nodding.

Crowley suddenly grinned like the friggin' cheshire cat and leaned back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head. "Ah. I see. Naughty, naughty boy, Dean-o."

Dean glared daggers at Crowley while Sam looked between them in confusion. "Dean, what the hell is going on?"

A sudden spike of anger flashed through Dean, who desperately beat it back. "_Nothing_, Sam!"

"Dean, why can't you just tell me?"

Dean lost it. "I SAID THERE'S NOTHING!"

"_Cristo_!"

Dean knew. He knew, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The spoon Sam had been holding clattered against the floor, and then dead silence rang through the room.

"Dean," Crowley stage-whispered to him, leaning in and holding one hand to the side of his mouth. "I think he figured it out."

All the spit in Dean's mouth had evaporated. "Sam?"

Sam didn't reply. Instead he reached into the cupboard and took out something, hiding it from Dean. Dean stood up and immediately made to leave, but his shoulder was grabbed and he was spun around. His first instinct was to cut, to hurt, to kill, but he didn't get the chance.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam said sadly before pouring an entire bottle of holy water over Dean's head.

Dean was familiar with pain. Shit, he was best friends with pain. But it still hurt.

Like hell.

Dean screamed, grabbing at his blistering face with blistering hands. He vaguely registered Sam shouting an exorcism at him.

When he came to, the exorcism was nearly finished. Sam spoke the last words with finality, assurance.

There was a slight tug on the inside of his body, but nothing else happened.

"Moose, darling, you're wasting your breath," Crowley said.

Sam stood in shock once again. The Mark was whispering to Dean, to hurt this man who'd hurt him, even if he hadn't wanted hurt him to kill him anyway and then Crowley and then everyone he could get his hands on.

"Get out of my brother," Sam said shakily. "Get the hell _out_."

"Sammy, listen—"

Sam punched him in the face. Dean barely felt it, but his head snapped to the side anyway.

"Who are you, you sick bastard?" Sam yelled and punched him again.

Dean lost it. Again. He raised his hand and threw Sam forcefully against the opposite wall, just like he'd done to Crowley. A gasp escaped his brother as the wind was knocked out of him. Crowley got up and fled from the room like the coward he was. Dean gritted his teeth.

He advanced on Sam, the Mark of Cain screaming at him, pounding in his ears, making him deaf. Sam was still trying to catch his breath when Dean slammed his fist down right next to Sam's head, his other hand coming up to touch the tip of the First Blade to his brother's cheek. Damn, he didn't want to. He didn't.

And yet, he did.

"Dean, please," Sam pleaded. "I know you're in there."

Dean chuckled darkly, barely holding back. "You don't get it, do you? It _is_ me."

"No." Sam's eyes flickered down to the blade pressing into his skin. "It's not."

"It is, Sammy."

It would be so easy. So incredibly, awfully easy.

Dean lowered the blade for the second time that day. Sam exhaled loudly as Dean let him down, looking bewildered. There were some definite parallels here.

"Lock me up," said Dean.

Sam nodded without a word.

* * *

**Reviews make my day. They really do. Constructive criticism is appreciated!**


	4. Impulse

**Sorry it's a bit short, but at least things are heating up. Thanks for the reviews, follows, etc.  
**

* * *

It felt like hunger. Insatiable, painful hunger. Dean suddenly sympathized with Famine.

The room had been cleared out, nothing against the walls, nothing scattered on the ground, nothing but the chair Dean was currently strapped in. Thick, heavy bolts were secured around the door on the other side. It was dark, damp, and he was screaming at the top of his lungs.

Son of a _goddamn bitch_.

Two days ago, this had seemed like a great idea. No one would get hurt, and Dean would be able to work out these feelings without any distractions. Before, he'd been able to handle the pull of the Mark. Now, trapped in a complex Enochian Devil's Trap, he felt like he was splitting from the inside out. He'd predicted it would get worse. But never this bad.

A regular Devil's Trap hadn't held him. He and Sam had tested it out, and he'd been able to walk through it like it wasn't even there. Like Crowley had guessed, the Mark of Cain made him ten times more powerful than a regular demon. It was surprising the holy water had even affected him at all.

His right arm was on fire. He wanted to rip out the Mark with his teeth. Wherever the First Blade was, Sam had locked it up real nice and tight, since Dean couldn't even feel the pull of it. He needed it. He needed to get out of here and get his hands as dirty as he could.

All of a sudden, the door began to unlock for the first time in what seemed like forever. It opened with a creak that Dean barely heard over the sound of his own screams.

Sam walked in, a somber look on his face. He closed and locked the door behind him, which seemed like a pretty dumbass move. In his hand was a syringe with a needle attached, and then Dean knew what it was for.

He stopped yelling by sheer willpower, gritting his teeth and nearly biting his tongue off. "It's not gonna work," he gasped, voice little more than a croak.

"I have to try."

"You know...what happened...last time."

Sam stuck the needle in his arm, grimacing as he drew a sizable amount of blood. "Yeah, well, I'm not doing the trials this time, am I?"

Images of himself slashing Sam's throat, the blood smearing underneath his hands, flashed through Dean's mind. He was too far gone took hold them back, so he just groaned and prayed that the Devil's Trap would stay effective. His body pulled at the chains in desperation.

"Sammy, no..."

As Sam approached Dean, the latter could see his pulse beating fast in his neck. The urge grew tenfold and Dean snarled.

"Sam!"

Sam stopped. "What?"

"You never...finished the trials," Dean ground out, breathing hard. "It still counts. Don't you...don't you _dare_, you hear me?" Oh, he wanted to rip out his throat. But he didn't. But he did.

His brother shifted to one side, looking uncertain. "Dean, I can't just let you stay like this."

"Well, you're gonna...gonna have to."

Sam looked down at the syringe of his purified blood and sighed. "...All right. But I'll find another way, I swear."

Dean nodded, and then added, "If you can't, I want...you to promise me something, Sammy."

"Anything."

"Promise..." The hunger was overwhelming. "Promise me if I...ever try to kill you...you gotta kill me first."

"Dean, I can't—"

"Sammy!" he shouted. Sam took a step back, eyes wide.

"Okay. Okay, fine."

Dean gave another curt nod. "Get out. Please."

Sam listened. The door slammed shut and Dean let the waves rock his body once more.

* * *

Sam leaned against the door, stomach churning at the sound of his brother's agonized screams. He ran a hand through his hair. God, they'd been through so much already, and now _this_?

He eyed the syringe of blood and sighed. He'd known it couldn't be that easy. He wanted to barge back in there and force the demon out of Dean, but he'd probably end up dying in the process. Plus, he had no idea how the Mark of Cain would react to an attempt to cure the demon side. If an exorcism hadn't worked, he didn't know what would. And this was kind of a last resort situation.

"Crowley!" he shouted reluctantly. "Get your ass over here!"

The newly reappointed king of hell appeared around the corner. "What?" He sounded weary.

Sam didn't give a damn. "Tell me how to cure Dean."

Crowley snorted. "Why should I? Oh, let me guess, 'you won't kill me if I help your brother.' Well, guess what, mate? I'm taking off. Abbadon's not on my ass anymore and I'm back as the king." He paused, and his snide demeanor fell. "Look, I really am sorry about what happened to your brother. The Mark of Cain is something very rough, even I can admit that. But there really is nothing I can do to help your brother. I don't know anything either." He looked up at Sam. Sam couldn't tell if he was lying or not. "All I can say is best wishes, and good luck. So long, Moose."

"Wait, you can't do that—"

"Oh," Crowley said, "but I can." And with that, he walked past Sam, who was completely unable to stop him.

"Damn it!" Sam shouted.

There was only one option left he could think of without including Crowley. It was a bit desperate and a bit last-minute, but he hoped it would work. After placing the syringe on the floor, Sam clasped his hands together and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the noise still coming from behind him.

"Dear Castiel," he began awkwardly. "I know it's probably a bad time, but we really need your help. So, uh, if you could just..."

He waited a minute, and then cracked open one eye. Nothing.


	5. Subtext

The bar smelled like old beer and some darker things Castiel would rather not think about. His hands, resting on the unpolished wood, were covered in something sticky. The bartender was chewing a large amount of gum and flirting shamelessly with a guy that looked like he hadn't taken a shower in days. With his previous experience as a human, he felt like he fully understood human interaction by now, and the way the woman's shirt was pulled down low on her chest was probably meant to seduce the male. It seemed to be working.

Castiel drummed his fingers on the dirty bar, an untouched glass in front of him. He'd gotten the drink, hoping to blend in, but the amount of people eyeing it in confusion meant that the plan had probably backfired. No one seemed to care enough to bother him about it, anyway.

It had been around three days since he'd put Metatron in Heaven's dungeon, he guessed. Time had blurred by as he grew weaker and weaker, searching to find his stolen grace.

Metatron, after much reluctance, had told him that it wouldn't be easy to find, as it had fallen to Earth along with the angels in order to keep the angels locked on Earth. He had hidden it well, so well that no angel or other creature had been able to find it. The spell was contained in an intricately carved box and buried deep underground. Had the spell been broken, the grace would have likely returned to Castiel, but instead it was somewhere in the United States. That was as much as he knew. All he had to do to regain his grace was separate the parts of the spell.

A tiny bit of his original grace resided in his vessel, Jimmy. He knew that Jimmy was long dead, but the grace still remained. It had attuned to the rest and now he could sense when he was getting nearer to the spell. However, the process greatly drained him, as it took large amounts of concentration and energy to search out his grace from so far away. So he had to make the occasional, as Dean would say, "pit stop," and rest. He had realized that Metatron had prompted him to live a normal human life in the hopes that he wouldn't care to find the spell, as he was technically the only other one who could.

A sudden voice startled him, resounding loudly in his head. He recognized it as a direct prayer to him.

_Dear Castiel,_ the voice said. It sounded like Sam, Castiel realized. _I know it's probably a bad time, but we really need your help. So, uh, if you could just…_ Sam had trailed off.

Castiel knew he was too weak to fly such a long distance over to the bunker, and he was positive his grace was in this area, or at least close to it. Surely whatever was happening could wait a few more hours, at least.

And then he remembered. Sam was calling because Dean was dead. Castiel understood why_—_the Mark of Cain would have lead to this eventually. He wasn't surprised at all. He'd been expecting it.

It still hurt.

_Please, Castiel,_ the voice came again after about five minutes, _I really need you here. We need you here._

Castiel surmised that Crowley was with him. Well, if there was still a demon by his side, it couldn't be that dire. He probably wanted Castiel to help bury Dean's body, and the angel wasn't sure if he could handle that right now. Besides, he was on a mission.

He got up from the bar and walked out the door, closing his eyes and tuning into the faint hum of his grace.

If he didn't find it within another day, he would go check on Sam, he promised himself as he walked down the street, sticking out his thumb in a gesture he'd learned. Because Dean would have wanted him to.

* * *

Damn it. Where _was_ he?

Sam paced in front of the table in the main room. Dean had finally quieted down, and Sam hoped he hadn't bitten off his tongue. He wanted to go check on his brother, but he wasn't sure Dean would appreciate that right now. Especially as he'd just seen him an hour ago.

Castiel wasn't showing. Either he was locked up or something had happened to him. Or maybe he just didn't care.

No, that wasn't like him. There was no way he would leave Dean, especially not when Castiel knew he bore the Mark of Cain.

Sam considered re-summoning Crowley, but it would probably be pointless. He'd scoured the web, but there was absolutely nothing about curing a demon with the Mark. Even the oldest, most powerful exorcisms in the book hadn't worked. Castiel might know _something_, what with his millennia of knowledge, but he wasn't turning up and Sam was on his own.

He was out of options. There was nothing he could do but wait and hope for a miracle.

* * *

Dead leaves crunched under Castiel's weary feet. The hum of his grace was strong and steady, pulling him closer and closer to the spot where the spell was located. He was in the middle of the woods somewhere in Maine, and it had taken three hours of hitchhiking to get here. He'd only encountered one angel, who had been relatively harmless and let him pass without a fight. Of course, getting here had been the easy part. Now all he had to do was figure out how to break the spell.

Castiel suspected that Metatron had laid traps around the area, but all he'd come across so far was a rotting tombstone and a black bear. Maybe he hadn't even considered the idea that someone would come looking for the box.

After a few more minutes, he stopped in front of a large maple tree, feeling a strong pull toward the ground. He looked down at it. This could easily be a trap, and yet it didn't feel like one. It wasn't as if he had any other choice, and he'd spent so long getting here.

Castiel used a small amount of his nearly faded, stolen grace to dig down to the box. It had only taken a moment, and the hole was about twelve feet deep. He stumbled slightly, feeling incredibly drained, and looked down into the hole to find the box in question sitting at the bottom.

He jumped down and crouched next to it, inspecting it closely. It was thick, solid, and had ancient markings carved into it. There was no lock, only a fastening, but when he pulled on it experimentally it stuck fast.

He turned the box over, and on the bottom was an inscription in Enochian.

"_A sacrifice must be made._"

There was a worn spot underneath the writing, as if that particular spot had been touched countless times. Castiel's brow furrowed as he placed his palm over the burnished section.

A sharp pain suddenly spiked in his hand, traveling up his arm and throughout his whole body in a millisecond. He gasped as he felt the last bits of life draining out of him and tried to yank his hand away, but it stayed in place. His stolen grace was being taken, seeping into the box which had now begun to glow with a faint, unearthly light.

After a few painful minutes, his grace was completely gone and he was left panting and shaking. The latch on the front of the box unlocked with a small click.

Castiel hesitated. This could either go completely wrong or completely right.

He knew that any angel's grace was typically used in a spell as a binding instrument, holding the other parts together. If the spell remained contained in this box, the grace would be completely unneeded, and therefore easily taken out. Undoing something as complex as this would take far more than just five minutes and a few words, and if done wrong would most likely kill everything within a two hundred-mile radius.

Still-trembling fingers ran over the edges of the box and gingerly pried it open.

A soft glow filled the pit around Castiel as he stared in wonder at the small ball of light hovering inside of the box. His eyes, even as a human, were naturally tuned to smaller details, and he could see the different components that made up the spell. He reached out, entranced, but pulled his hand back when it gave him a little shock.

He flexed his fingers and prepared to remove his grace. It was light blue and floating around near the surface in small wisps, so now would be the best opportunity to take it. Once he had removed it completely, it would automatically reenter his body and he would be a complete angel again. He supposed, well, hoped, that his powers would be fully restored along with his grace. The spell would hold long enough for him to get it back into the box, as he didn't have the time or energy to work on undoing it.

Castiel took a deep breath, something he'd learned helped calm down his now-once-again-human mind, and reached into the ball of light.

* * *

It had been four hours, and still no sign of Castiel. Sam was beginning to get desperate as he rifled through tall stacks of books in hope of finding something, anything. He'd gotten tired of waiting, and while he wasn't about to resort to demon pacts and self-sacrificing, he had to do _something_ to help. It was Dean, after all.

He'd gotten down into the depths of the archive, and was now somehow reading up on how a werewolf bite could be cured with an angel's blood.

Sam paused. He reread the section, and a relieved smile touched the corners of his mouth.

Now all he had to do was get Cas to show up.

* * *

Castiel's hand curled around the last thin tendril and maneuvered it out of the orb. It seeped back into his body, which surged with renewed power as his grace was fully restored. He still couldn't believe it had been that easy, disregarding the painstaking hour and a half he'd taken to retrieve the grace.

The ball of light, now dimmer without the added grace, began to shake and tremble ominously. Castiel quickly shut the box over it and locked it. The box gave one violent shake before settling, which he figured was the spell separating.

He covered up the pit and placed the box back on the dirt, turning away and leaving a small red marking on the tree to signify the location of the spell. Someone else could figure it out. When this whole grounded-angel mess was sorted out.

With one quick flap of his wings, he was back at the bunker and standing in front of a startled Sam, who was holding a book and looked extremely distressed.

"Cas," he said, snapping the book shut. "I need your help."


End file.

Supernatural, Drama, Romance