Chapter Text
***
Castiel’s world was darkness and red lights as the stealth transport climbed through the low clouds over London.
The roar of the engines was muffled in the cabin, but it thrummed through his boots, through his ribs, steady and unrelenting. Around him, Jo, Caleb, Ian and three others in his assault team sat in silence, each man and woman checking their weapons for the dozenth time, faces hard in the dim glow.
Even Jo’s second, Gordon, was here. Castiel thought about what Dean had told him last night. How the man had made it clear he didn’t want either of them here. And looking at Gordon now, glaring at him, Castiel figured Dean was right. But he just shrugged the thought away and focused on what was happening now.
He didn’t need to check his own rifle again. Every part of it was already familiar under his fingers, cleaned, loaded, ready. He kept his hands folded loosely in his lap, eyes fixed on the floor between his boots.
When they’d split from the others back at the airfield, he’d watched the two F-22s taxi to the far end of the runway, sleek, predatory, lethal. The pilots who’d volunteered for the decoy mission would already be climbing over the Channel by now, running full EMCON, baiting RAF interceptors away from their true path. Their job was to be seen, to get lit up on someone’s scope, to draw as much attention as they could.
His job was to disappear. And that suited him just fine.
He shifted slightly in his harness as the plane banked, angling southwest.
It had been years since he’d flown into a combat zone like this. Not since the academy.
Most pilots never saw this side of it.
He remembered the morning they’d been called into the briefing hall, only a handful of cadets, the top of their class. They’d all thought it was some honor, some distinction.
Special Operations Pilot Training.
It wasn’t mandatory. Not even offered to most. But when they told him, he said yes. Even then, before he understood how much it would hurt, he said yes. He wasn’t even surprised to see Dean in the same training room, sitting just a few seats away.
They’d handed him rifles instead of checklists. Made him crawl through mud instead of metal. Taught him how to move quiet, how to shoot straight, how to kill without leaving a mark.
They called it "broadening his skill set."
He called it preparing to be used.
And here he was, sitting in the red-lit belly of a stealth transport, wearing black webbing instead of a flight suit, about to storm a black site deep in hostile territory.
Perhaps it was right to have said yes. Perhaps this was what he was always meant to do.
Castiel couldn’t help thinking about Jack as he sat quietly in his seat, still a little stunned to see him at the safehouse.
He’d half-expected Jack to be holed up somewhere, far from everything, after the Airbus incident. He’d felt awful about what happened, blaming himself more than he’d admit, but seeing the kid up and moving, even smiling faintly, eased something heavy in his chest. What surprised him more was learning Jack was a hacker, originally bound for UK's Cyberspace Ops. That little revelation made Cas grin despite himself, of course Jack would’ve been good at that too.
He was lucky to have Jack on his team now, though, he’d never doubted him, not for a second. If anything, it only deepened his anger toward Nick for what he’d done to this kid.
He thought of Dean next.
Dean would be moving through the tunnels by now, cutting closer to Nick with every second.
For just a moment, he let himself imagine Dean’s hands, strong, warm, always a little rough, gripping his shoulders the way they had before they’d split up. The low murmur of his voice, the faint smirk that never quite reached his eyes when he was worried.
'You come back. No matter what.'
Castiel exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a moment. He’d never been good at promises. But this one he intended to keep.
For Dean.
For Bobby.
For the little fragments of loyalty and decency still left in this crumbling alliance.
The plane’s comm crackled.
"Approach in two. Decoy team reports RAF interceptors have broken east. Path is clear. Drop in two."
Castiel opened his eyes.
He rose, unbuckled, and slung his rifle across his chest. Around him, his team did the same, quiet, efficient, no wasted motion.
Jo met his gaze from across the cabin and gave a single, sharp nod.
He nodded back, moving toward the ramp as the light over the door shifted from red to amber.
Through the slits of the loading bay, he caught glimpses of the ground below, rolling black fields, faint ribbons of light, the glow of Cardiff in the far distance.
The black site would be waiting for them. Fences. Spotlights. Armed guards. And Bobby somewhere inside.
The light above the ramp turned green with a sharp buzz.
The loadmaster’s voice came through the comm, flat and steady.
"Go. Go. Go."
The ramp dropped with a shuddering groan, and cold night air howled into the cabin. The roar of the engines became a deafening rush behind them.
Castiel didn’t hesitate.
He stepped forward into the wind, boots thudding on the ramp’s edge before he dropped into open air.
The black fields rose to meet him in silence, his parachute snapping open with a hard jolt. The sudden drag wrenched at his harness, and the wind screamed past his ears as he angled into his descent.
Above him, Jo and the others followed one by one, dark shapes spilling from the plane, canopies blossoming like shadows against the stars. Below, the compound loomed, fences gleaming faintly under sweeping spotlights, watchtowers cutting sharp silhouettes against the faint glow of the horizon.
Castiel tightened his grip on the toggles, adjusting his line to the rally point just outside the perimeter.
This was it.
No second chances. No room for mistakes.
He fixed his eyes on the ground and forced his breathing steady.
Somewhere in that maze of concrete and lights, Bobby was waiting. And tonight, he was going to bring him home.
The ground came fast, dark and uneven beneath him.
Castiel flared the chute at just the right moment, boots hitting the field with a controlled roll, the impact rattling up through his knees. The parachute collapsed into the grass behind him, and in a fluid motion he unclipped the harness and yanked the fabric into a bundle.
Around him, the others touched down one by one, shadows converging silently in the darkness. Jo was already moving as she stripped out of her rig, her MP5 coming up to a ready position without a word.
Castiel knelt, fingers to his earpiece, and whispered, "All teams down. Rally point secured."
A soft crackle of acknowledgment came back from the comm, and then nothing. Just the faint wind rippling across the field and the distant hum of the compound’s generators.
Jo crouched at his side, her eyes cutting toward the perimeter.
"Spotlights are on a lazy sweep," she murmured. "We’ve got a window."
Castiel nodded once and rose to a low crouch, rifle ready.
"Move."
The team fell in behind him, black shapes melting into the grass.
They moved fast and low, weaving through the open field, keeping to the uneven shadows. The scent of mud and ozone hung heavy in the night air.
The perimeter grew sharper with every step, chain-link fences strung with razor wire, security lights painting bright cones of white across the barren yard inside.
At fifty meters out, Castiel dropped to a knee, raising a fist. The squad froze, flattening into the grass.
Through his scope, he scanned the fence line. Two guards ambled along the inside, their rifles slung carelessly, more bored than alert. The tower to the east was manned, but the light swept too high to catch them.
Jo crawled up beside him and whispered,
"We can cut here. Between sweeps."
Castiel adjusted his grip on his rifle and gave her a curt nod.
"Do it."
Jo slipped forward with the breaching kit, her silhouette merging with the fence. The faint hiss of the cutter was barely audible, tiny sparks winking as the steel gave way.
Castiel’s team waited in tense silence, rifles trained on the guards, every breath controlled.
Jo glanced back when the last strand of wire fell away.
"We’re in."
Castiel rose just enough to meet her eyes and murmured one word, "Go."
One by one, they slipped through the gap in the fence and into the compound’s shadow.
The black site lay ahead of them now, a squat concrete fortress lit by pale security floods, its dark windows hiding whatever waited inside.
Castiel tightened his grip on his rifle, eyes cold, movements deliberate.
The air inside the fence was sharper somehow, colder, smelling faintly of oil and dust.
Castiel kept low, his boots silent on the cracked pavement as he led the team toward the eastern side of the building. The guards were predictable, their routes rehearsed, their movements lazy in the comfort of routine.
Good.
They rounded the corner of a supply shed and pressed into the shadows at the base of the main structure. From here, the black site loomed above them, all unmarked concrete and barred windows.
Jo was already at his shoulder, a faint grin flashing as she gestured to a narrow service door ahead. "Unmanned. Cameras don’t even cover it. Someone got sloppy."
Castiel raised two fingers, signaling the rest of the team forward. Gordon, Caleb and Ian stacked on the door, rifles raised, while Jo crouched by the panel, pulling a small black device from her pack.
The faint click and whine of the lock override filled the quiet night.
"Ten seconds," Jo murmured, fingers flying over the keypad.
Castiel’s eyes never left the corners of the yard. One guard was smoking near the tower, oblivious. Another’s silhouette passed briefly in the upper window and disappeared.
Jo’s device beeped green.
"Clear," she said, already stepping back.
Castiel was first through the door, rifle raised.
The hallway beyond was sterile concrete and buzzing fluorescents, empty except for a few crates stacked against the far wall. The team filed in silently, weapons at the ready, fanning out to clear the corners.
"Gordon. Caleb. Hold the exit," Castiel ordered softly, his voice low but firm.
The two men nodded, moving to cover the door. He and Jo pushed deeper, navigating the maze of narrow corridors and sharp turns.
Castiel’s earpiece crackled faintly. Jack’s voice, hushed and steady, bled through.
"You’re inside. Good. Cameras are looping for another six minutes. After that you’re on your own."
"Understood," Castiel replied, already scanning the door ahead. A security office, unmanned. Its interior walls lined with monitor screens, all showing static.
Jo slipped inside and crouched at the terminal. "Give me a second to pull what I can. Might tell us where they’re keeping him."
Castiel stayed at the door, keeping watch down the corridor.
The building felt wrong somehow, too quiet. No footsteps, no chatter over radios. Just the faint hum of lights and distant machinery.
Jo’s fingers flew across the keyboard. "They’ve got a sublevel. Access through that stairwell we passed. Room 3A. Looks like they’ve got him down there."
Castiel nodded once. "Good. Let’s move."
They retraced their steps, every corner cleared, every angle checked twice. When they reached the stairwell, Jo paused and tilted her head at him, smirk faint but sharp.
"After you," she murmured.
He led the way, boots silent on the metal steps as they descended into the dim, claustrophobic sublevel.
The corridors grew narrower, colder. The sterile hum of fluorescent lights overhead did nothing to warm the concrete maze. Castiel’s grip on his rifle stayed firm, his breathing steady, but in the pit of his stomach something began to turn.
Jo was just behind him, her MP5 ready, the others too, Caleb and Ian covering the rear. Gordon lingered behind them all, his silence thick with tension, but Castiel didn’t waste thought on him.
Every hallway looked the same. Every door they passed was locked and unmarked.
And still, nothing.
No alarms. No resistance.
They’d been inside for nearly ten minutes, and it was… too easy.
At the next junction, Castiel held up a hand, signaling a halt. The team pressed to the walls, rifles raised, eyes sharp.
Jo edged closer to him, her voice barely above a whisper. "You feel that?"
He nodded faintly. "Quiet. Too quiet."
She glanced around, then gave a sharp gesture forward. "Keep moving. Intel said sub-level two. Holding cells."
Castiel didn’t argue. He swung left at the junction, the team following in tight formation. They descended another flight of steel stairs, boots barely making a sound.
At the base of the stairwell, a reinforced door loomed. This one wasn’t locked. Castiel hesitated just a second before pulling it open.
Inside, rows of cells stretched down both sides of the long hall, each one dark and silent.
The team swept in, fanning out. Caleb checked each cell one by one. Ian followed, covering him. Jo moved toward the far end, scanning the corners. Gordon and the others stayed near the door, standing on guard.
Empty.
All of it.
Every cell. Every room.
Empty.
Castiel’s throat tightened.
Caleb cursed under his breath, slamming the butt of his rifle against one of the cell doors. "Clear," he spat, his frustration echoing in the sterile space.
Jo turned back to Castiel, her eyes narrowing. "He’s not here."
The words hit him like ice water.
No.
He stepped toward the far cell, gripping the bars tight as he looked inside at nothing but bare concrete. His mind was already working, already running through possibilities.
Bad intel? A transfer? A mistake?
The thought formed in his head just as the lights overhead cut out, plunging the hall into darkness.
And then they came on again, red this time.
An alarm blared somewhere above them. The sound of boots thundered down the stairwell behind them. Castiel swung around just as the first muzzle flashes lit up the darkness.
"Contact!" Caleb barked, already firing back.
Figures in black poured through the door, too many, too fast. They weren’t guards. They moved like operators, trained and deliberate, cutting off the exit before the team could even regroup. Castiel dove to cover, squeezing off a burst that dropped one of the attackers. Jo was already yelling for Caleb, Ian and the others to fall back, her voice sharp over the chaos.
But there was nowhere to fall back to.
Trapped.
They were trapped.
The sinking feeling in his gut hardened into cold, furious clarity. The black site hadn’t been waiting to hold Bobby Singer.
It had been waiting for them.
Castiel ducked behind a corner as rounds sparked off the concrete around him, breathing hard. His mind was already moving, already planning.
They’d been fed bad intel. Or worse, Nick had fed it to them himself.
Bobby wasn’t here.
And now they were surrounded, outnumbered, cut off.
They were pinned, nowhere to move, and every exit was cut off by enemy fire. Gritting his teeth, he yanked his radio up and barked, "Jack, come in! Jack, do you copy?"
But all he got was a harsh hiss of static. Again he tried, louder this time, desperation creeping into his voice, nothing but dead air. The signal was jammed. He cursed under his breath, feeling the knot of frustration tighten in his chest.
Castiel slammed a fresh mag into his rifle and glanced at Jo across the corridor. Her jaw was set, her eyes dark with realization.
"This was never about Bobby," she shouted over the gunfire.
Castiel’s voice was low but full of steel.
"No," he agreed. "It’s about us."
He risked a glance toward the stairwell. More black-clad figures poured in, pinning them deeper into the cell block.
He thought, briefly, of Dean.
'You come back. No matter what.'
His grip tightened on his rifle. He intended to keep that promise. But first, he’d have to find a way to get his team out alive. Even if it meant fighting their way through hell itself.
The deafening crack of gunfire filled the block, punctuated by the sharp clang of bullets striking steel and concrete. Chips of masonry rained down as another burst tore through the corner of Castiel’s cover.
He ducked lower, his chest heaving, his ears ringing. Across the row of cells, Jo fired in controlled bursts, keeping the attackers pinned on the stairwell landing. Caleb crouched beside her, his optics glowing faint green, scanning for targets through the haze. Ian was already bleeding from a graze to his upper arm, but he stayed on his feet, pressing his back against the bars of an empty cell and firing from the hip.
"Cas!" Jo shouted between volleys. "We’re boxed in! Suggestions?"
Castiel’s eyes darted around the cell block, taking in every detail he could through the chaos. The red lights. The stairwell. The endless row of cells.
Then his gaze caught on something.
A service hatch. Low to the ground, half-hidden behind the legs of a toppled guard.
He didn’t waste a second.
"On me!" he barked, his voice cutting through the din like a whip. "We’re moving! Caleb, cover fire. Jo, Ian—drag the wounded. Gordon—"
He risked a glance over his shoulder. Gordon was crouched by the door, face grim, rifle barking every few seconds.
"Gordon, you’re rear guard. Let’s go!"
Jo didn’t even hesitate, grabbing Ian by his vest and yanking him toward the far wall. Caleb popped up, unloading a blistering spray into the stairwell, forcing the attackers to duck back into cover.
Castiel was already moving, dropping to one knee by the hatch. He wrenched it open, revealing a narrow crawlspace lined with pipes and dim emergency lights. It wasn’t on any schematic he’d seen, but that was exactly the kind of oversight this place would have.
"Down here!" he ordered, motioning Jo through first.
She swung her MP5 onto her back and dropped into the crawlspace without argument. Ian followed, wincing as he slid down. Caleb was next, laying down another burst of cover fire before disappearing into the dark.
That left Gordon.
Gordon met his eyes across the corridor, lips curling in a snarl even as he laid down another controlled burst.
"You better know what you’re doing, Collins," he growled.
Castiel stared back, unflinching.
"I do," he said flatly. Gordon gave a bitter little laugh, then shoved off the wall and dove for the hatch.
Castiel was the last one through, his boots scraping on the steel lip as he dropped into the crawlspace. He reached up and wrenched the hatch shut behind him, muffling the sound of gunfire above.
The space was tight, hot, and stank of metal and damp concrete. Jo was already a few meters ahead, moving fast on her hands and knees. Caleb, Ian and the others followed, Gordon close behind, muttering curses under his breath.
Castiel took up the rear, rifle slung and one hand pressed to the ceiling to steady himself as they crawled through the maze of pipes.
The sound of boots thundering overhead was still audible, distant but moving.
"They’ll sweep the sublevels next," Jo hissed over her shoulder. "How far do you think this goes?"
"Far enough," Castiel replied evenly.
But his mind was already working ahead.
They’d been trapped once tonight. That wouldn’t happen again.
He reached for the small tablet tucked into his vest, powering up its dim display as he crawled. A quick scan of the emergency schematics confirmed what he hoped, this service tunnel snaked beneath the compound and connected to an access hatch outside the perimeter fence.
One exit. No guarantees it wasn’t also covered.
But better than waiting to be slaughtered like rats in a cage.
He shoved the tablet back into his vest and called ahead quietly, "We’ve got one chance to get clear. When we surface, fan out and make for the treeline. Caleb, smoke charges. Jo, prep a beacon. We’ll call for evac once we’re clear."
Jo gave a quick, tight nod, her voice low but full of steel. "Copy that."
The team pressed on through the darkness, every breath loud in the cramped space, every scrape of boot on steel echoing down the line.
Castiel kept his eyes forward, his mind already ahead of them, already thinking three moves beyond this one.
They’d walked into Nick’s trap tonight. But Castiel would see them out alive. He hadn’t promised Dean anything less. And he never broke his promises.
The crawlspace ended in a rusted, bolted hatch, half-hidden behind a thicket of pipes. Castiel ran his gloved fingers along the edges, finding the release latches and working them loose one by one. Above them, the muffled pounding of boots and the bark of distant orders told him their window was closing.
"Smoke," he ordered quietly.
Caleb pulled two canisters from his pack and cracked them, pale gray clouds already hissing out as he shoved them toward the junction behind them. The crawlspace quickly filled with a stifling, acrid haze that would cover their tracks for a few precious seconds if anyone came down here.
"Beacon," Castiel added, glancing back.
Jo already had it in her hand, a small black cylinder with a blinking infrared light. She clipped it to her vest. "Set for 30. If we make it to the tree line, I’ll trigger it."
Castiel nodded once, then gave the hatch a final shove. It groaned, then swung open into a world of wet grass and moonlight.
Fresh air rushed into the crawlspace.
He was the first through.
The ground above was uneven, a shallow depression just outside the perimeter fence, half-hidden by overgrown weeds and mud. In the distance, spotlights still swept the compound, but no one had eyes on this corner yet.
He rose into a crouch, scanning the darkness. Beyond the fence stretched an expanse of black woods, dense and silent. That was their way out.
The rest of the team followed one by one, emerging fast and low. Jo was already raising her suppressed MP5 toward the fence. Caleb slipped a pair of wire cutters from his belt and went to work on the razor coil.
The first section peeled back silently.
"Go," Castiel hissed.
Jo slipped through first, then Ian, then Gordon and the others. Caleb crawled through next, pulling the last strands of wire aside for Castiel before following.
They were just starting to move when the alarms started.
A klaxon blared, loud and shrill, and behind them the floodlights swung wildly across the grounds, beams crisscrossing like angry fingers.
"Contact north perimeter!" a voice shouted from somewhere behind the fence.
"Move!" Castiel ordered.
They bolted for the tree line, boots pounding mud and wet grass, the air alive with shouted orders and the staccato crack of rifles behind them.
Bullets tore up the ground, sending up sprays of earth and grass. Caleb threw another smoke canister over his shoulder without breaking stride. Jo’s beacon blinked alive on her vest, broadcasting their position to whatever friendly asset Amara still had in the sky.
But there was no time to wait for evac yet.
Just run.
The first trees closed around them, the undergrowth swallowing them in shadow. Castiel led them deeper, weaving through brambles and roots, his mind already working through the next steps.
By the time the shouting behind them began to fade, and the gunfire became no more than distant pops in the night, they were a full kilometer into the woods.
Castiel finally raised a fist, signaling them to stop.
They sank to their knees behind a fallen tree, each of them panting, the silence between them ragged but whole.
No one dead.
Jo was the first to break the silence. "We clear?"
Castiel scanned the dark canopy above them. Somewhere high up, he thought he heard the faint thrum of rotors in the distance, friendly, he hoped.
He nodded. "For now."
Caleb was already unpacking a comms dish, angling it up through a gap in the leaves. Ian tore off his gloves and started tending to his own wound. Gordon leaned against the tree, staring off into the darkness with a scowl.
But Castiel stayed on one knee, his rifle across his lap, his breathing steady again.
This had been a disaster.
They hadn’t gotten Bobby.
He was still out there, still Nick’s prisoner, or worse, and now they’d tipped their hand. Nick would know exactly who was coming for him.
Castiel let his eyes drift shut for a moment. He could still see Bobby’s face in his mind, beaten but defiant in the grainy surveillance photo they’d been given. He could still hear Dean’s voice before they’d split up. He intended to keep his promise to him. But coming back wasn’t enough. Not yet.
He opened his eyes, looking out into the endless dark of the woods, and thought of Bobby. Somewhere out there, maybe alive, maybe already moved to another black site, maybe tortured for information.
They couldn’t stop now. If Bobby was alive, he would find him. If this mission hadn’t ended clean, then the next one would. Somewhere, somehow, there was still a way to make this right.
He swore it quietly to himself, gripping his rifle tighter as he stared into the darkness, 'We’re not done yet.'
The woods were quiet now, but only because the enemy was regrouping somewhere behind them. Castiel’s team huddled low behind a fallen tree, breathing hard, weapons trained on the blackness beyond.
Castiel glanced to his right and saw Gordon crouched over a figure on the ground, a black-clad operative, zip-tied at the wrists and gagged. The man thrashed once, but Gordon drove a knee into his back to keep him still.
Jo noticed Castiel’s look and smirked faintly.
"Thought you could use a souvenir," she said under her breath.
Castiel didn’t return her smirk. He stood, wiping mud from his gloves as he stepped toward the captive.
The man glared up at him through the shadows of his balaclava, chest heaving.
Castiel knelt, quiet and deliberate, and ripped the gag away.
The operative spat mud and snarled. "You’re dead men. All of you."
Castiel stared at him, unblinking.
"Where is Bobby Singer?" he asked calmly.
The man laughed, a short, bitter sound. "Singer? You think he’s here? You’re dumber than I thought."
Gordon pressed his knee harder into the man’s back, earning a grunt of pain.
Jo crouched nearby, rifle resting casually on her knees. "You wanna try that again? Before our friend here decides to stop being polite?"
But Castiel’s voice was already cutting through hers, low, even, terrifying in its calmness.
"You know who sent me," he said.
The man’s laugh faltered slightly at the edges.
"You know," Castiel continued, leaning closer, "what happens to people who make me come back empty-handed."
The operative tried to hold his stare. But there was a flicker now, a shadow of unease.
"Where?" Castiel repeated.
When the man said nothing, Castiel’s hand shot out and curled around the back of his neck, fingers digging into the pressure points with a cold precision learned long before he ever wore a uniform.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t make a threat. He just leaned in close enough that the man could feel his breath against his ear.
"You think you’re the first one to beg?" Castiel murmured. "You’re not."
The man’s breath hitched, just slightly.
"Where?" Castiel said again, no louder, but this time his thumb pressed into the base of the man’s skull, sharp and sudden, a place most people didn’t even know could hurt that much.
The operative let out a hiss through gritted teeth. "…Convoy. Moved north. Manchester outskirts. Grey Row. That’s the designation."
Castiel tightened his grip a little more.
"Is he alive?"
The man coughed, spitting mud, but nodded faintly.
Jo felt her smirk falter as she watched Castiel’s fingers dig into the base of the man’s skull, just below the ridge of bone. Most people didn’t realize how vulnerable that spot was, but she did.
Pressing there could cut off blood flow to the brain, send lightning pain through the nerves, even make someone black out if held long enough. It wasn’t just painful, it was dangerous.
Jo swallowed and glanced at the captive’s face, already slick with sweat and fear, and thought grimly that Castiel didn’t even need to break anything to make a man talk.
"For now. But even if you catch up…" he sneered weakly, "…Singer won’t last the week. Not after what he did."
Castiel’s fingers stayed on his neck a moment longer. Long enough for the man to feel the quiet weight of what could happen next.
Then, at last, Castiel released him and stood.
Jo’s smirk was gone now. She watched Castiel carefully as he adjusted his rifle and gave a single nod.
"Grey Row," he said.
And without another word, he turned his back on the whimpering captive and walked away.
Jo gave a low whistle, rising to her feet. "Grey Row. That checks out. Heard of it, unmarked military site out past Salford. Locals think it’s just an abandoned depot."
Castiel nodded once. "Then that’s where we’re going."
Gordon looked down at the man one last time, then hoisted the operative to his knees, shoving him back down behind the tree. The man cursed at them, but Castiel didn’t even glance back.
"Leave him," Castiel said quietly.
Jo raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Could put a bullet in him. Quieter that way."
"No," Castiel said. His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the iron in it. "He’s not worth it."
Jo exchanged a look with Gordon, then gave a little shrug.
Castiel adjusted his rifle sling and scanned the tree line, already plotting their route in his head.
This wasn’t over. Not yet.
And thanks to the terrified man now zip-tied in the mud behind him, he knew exactly where to go next.
The woods pressed in around them, damp and cold, each breath fogging faintly in the moonlight. The team moved in silence, weaving through the undergrowth toward a secondary rally point where Jack had promised to route an evac for them.
Castiel took up the rear, rifle slung across his chest, boots crunching softly over leaves. Every step forward felt heavier than the last.
Bobby wasn’t here.
He’d led them straight into Nick’s trap, and now he had his team, his responsibility, bleeding and bruised in hostile territory.
Ahead, Jo paused at a clearing and raised a hand, signaling the all-clear. Caleb and Ian dropped into a crouch by a rotting log, checking their ammo. Gordon just stood there, silent, arms folded.
Castiel hung back, adjusting his comms pack, fingers moving almost automatically as he cycled through the encrypted channels.
He hesitated.
Dean.
He could picture him even now, moving through the dark tunnels of Nick’s compound miles away. Focused. Steady. A storm of quiet violence just waiting for the right moment to strike.
And if he heard what had happened here...
Castiel’s hand tightened briefly on the handset. He couldn’t risk it. Dean didn’t need to know. Not yet.
Still… he trusted Dean enough to tell him he was alive.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
He switched to a secure burst channel and keyed the mic, his voice low and even, "One actual to Two. Package not here. Pursuing alternate lead. Continue with your objective. Will advise."
The message sent with a soft click of static. No need to wait for acknowledgment. Dean would get it.
Castiel clipped the handset back to his vest and looked up at the dark canopy overhead.
He didn’t allow himself to think about what might happen if Dean’s mission went sideways too.
For now, he focused on the one thing he could still control.
Find Bobby.
Make this right.
Jo’s quiet voice cut through the night.
"Evac bird’s five out. You coming, Cas?"
Castiel glanced at her, then at the woods ahead, toward Manchester, toward Grey Row, toward whatever trap or salvation waited for them next.
He nodded once.
"I’m coming," he said.
And then he started forward.
***
The storm over Manchester broke just as the bird pulled off, fat sheets of rain turning the windows into rippling glass. The Grey Row facility lay ahead, a black skeleton of fences and sodium lights rising from the mudflats, tucked behind a half-abandoned industrial park.
Castiel sat in the back seat, his gloved hand gripping the rifle across his lap, his eyes fixed on the gates in the distance.
Jo's voice echoed form behind, she's holding a slim tablet that looked like the one Jack gave Dean before they separated.
"That’s the place. It looks like no more convoys have come or gone since Singer arrived. Heat signatures match. He’s there."
Castiel only nodded at her.
Jo sat again in silence, her jaw tight, MP5 already resting against her thigh. Gordon sat behind her, still simmering, but even he seemed to feel the weight of what they were about to do. In the back, Caleb and Ian checked their kits. Caleb caught Castiel’s eye in the rearview and gave a faint nod, calm as ever.
It should’ve been comforting.
It wasn’t.
The bird hover to a stop in the shadows of a crumbling warehouse two blocks from the compound. The team disembarked quickly, hoods up against the rain, weapons shouldered.
The perimeter was even more exposed than the black site, tall fencing, razor wire, a few guard towers. But fewer patrols. Sloppier security.
Nick thought he’d already won.
They made it through the fence without incident, cutting through the wire and slipping across the open ground in darkness and rain.
Inside, they moved like ghosts, a silent, practiced rhythm. Jo took point. Castiel stayed center. Gordon and Caleb flanked, Ian keeping low.
It didn’t take long to find the holding cells.
They turned a corner into a dim, concrete corridor lined with barred doors, and there he was.
Bobby.
Slumped in a chair, wrists chained to a table, battered but alive, his head lifting weakly as they burst through the door.
Castiel strode forward, ignoring the sharp crack of a startled guard’s rifle as Jo and Caleb dispatched him cleanly.
"Bobby," Castiel said low, already crouching to check him.
Bobby squinted up at him through the swelling around his eyes. And then, hoarse, he said, "…Took you guys long enough."
Castiel felt something ease in his chest at the sound of that voice.
Jo covered the door. "We don’t have long. Wrap it up."
Ian was already at the chains, cutting Bobby loose.
And then, the first shots rang out from down the corridor.
"Contact!" Gordon barked.
The hallway behind them erupted in gunfire. Shadows moved at the far end, muzzle flashes lighting the walls.
"Out the side!" Castiel snapped, dragging Bobby to his feet.
Caleb and Ian each took an arm, half-carrying him as Jo laid down suppressing fire.
The side door burst open into another rain-soaked yard.
They made it to the fence when the second wave hit.
Figures in black poured out of the shadows, shouting over the storm. Bullets ripped into the mud around them, sparking off the wire.
"Caleb!" Castiel shouted, turning as the tall man swung his rifle up and cut down two of them in quick succession.
But there were too many.
The crack of a rifle split the night, and Caleb stumbled.
A blossom of dark red bloomed across his chest as he crumpled against the fence.
Jo was screaming his name, dragging him by his vest even as he gasped, blood bubbling between his lips.
"Go," he coughed, his eyes glassy. "Go—"
But there was no time. The next volley of gunfire forced them back, Bobby sagging between Castiel and Ian as they pushed through the cut in the fence.
Jo stayed behind long enough to fire a few last wild shots before following, her face set and unreadable.
By the time they made it back to the bird, Caleb was gone.
Castiel sat in the back, Bobby slumped against him, rain still dripping from his hair and coat. No one spoke as Jo shouted at the pilot to gun the engine and tore away from the dark silhouette of Grey Row.
He looked down at Bobby, who blinked up at him blearily.
"You got me out," Bobby murmured.
Castiel didn’t answer right away. He stared at the floor, jaw tight, thinking of the man they’d left behind in the mud.
Finally, his voice low, "Yes," he said.
But it didn’t feel like a victory.
Not with Caleb's blood still on his gloves.
And not with Nick still out there.
***
The safehouse in London was quiet when they came back.
Rain still clung to them as they filed inside, boots heavy on the tile, the faint smell of cordite and wet earth following them down the hallway.
Jo was the last to come through the door, her MP5 still slung across her chest, face unreadable.
Someone, one of the locals, shut the door behind them without a word.
Ian helped Bobby to a chair in the kitchen. He was pale, bruised, but breathing on his own.
Castiel stood by the counter, stripping off his gloves. His hands were stained dark where Caleb's blood had soaked through. He stared at them for a long moment, then tossed them into the sink.
The others peeled away, Gordon muttering something bitter under his breath as he disappeared down the hall, Jo silently pulling the door to the storage room closed behind her. Ian crouched by Bobby, checking his vitals, murmuring softly. But Castiel stayed where he was, staring down at the wood grain of the counter.
Caleb was gone.
They’d gotten Bobby out, but it hadn’t felt like a win.
Not at that cost.
He flexed his hands against the counter’s edge until his knuckles ached.
And then the comms crackled on the table.
Static hissed, and then a familiar voice broke through the noise, quiet, quick, measured.
"—repeat, confirmed. Nick’s position verified. Command center London, sub-level three. He’s barricaded with remaining SAS and MI6 security. Winchester’s squad is moving, but resistance is heavier than expected."
Jack.
Castiel’s hand tightened on the table's edge.
He pressed the mic close to his mouth. "Status of Winchester’s team?"
A pause. Crackle of keys, faint chatter in the background.
"Pinned outside the inner room," Jack said. "One of their decoy charges misfired and drew more guards inward. Dean’s still leading, but it’s ugly. They need help, sir."
Castiel’s heart thudded once, hard.
He didn’t wait for the rest. He was already shrugging back into his webbing, slamming a fresh mag into his rifle.
Ian looked up from Bobby, frowning. "Cas, what are you doing? You just got back."
Castiel met his eyes.
"Dean’s in trouble," he said simply.
Jo appeared in the doorway, her eyes red but her tone sharp. "We’re in no shape to—"
"I didn’t ask," Castiel cut in, quiet but final.
He slung the rifle over his shoulder and turned for the door.
"Watch Bobby. Patch him up. And keep your comms open."
Jo stared at him for a long moment, then gave a single, resigned nod.
***
The transport descended hard into a deserted industrial park on the outskirts, landing gear screeching against the cracked concrete.
As soon as the ramp lowered, Castiel walked down into the night, alone.
The pilot didn’t say anything, just hauled the ramp back up and banked the bird away into the dark.
Waiting in the shadows ahead was a civilian-marked truck, keys left in the dash. Castiel climbed behind the wheel without a word, mud slick on his gloves, rifle propped against the passenger seat.
This was off the books, but he didn't care.
By the time he reached the perimeter of Nick’s command center, the sky was bleeding stormlight, the compound lit faintly by sodium lamps and distant firelight.
He remembered Jack’s voice before he left the safehouse, crackled in the comms, low and urgent.
"Winchester breached sub-level three. They’re close. But Nick’s got last-stand security locking it down. Sensors tripped. Blast doors closing. If you’re gonna help, you need to move. Now."
He kept those words in mind and slid out of the truck and into the alleys behind the compound, crouching low behind a dark van as he surveyed the rear entrance.
Through the smoke and faint alarms, he could already hear the fight somewhere below, muffled bursts of gunfire, the deep thump of detonations shaking the ground under his boots.
Dean was close.
He moved.
A silenced charge made short work of the rear door. The metal groaned faintly as it buckled and swung in. The corridor beyond was chaos, alarms flashing, water dripping from ruptured pipes, overturned desks and streaks of blood marking the path.
Castiel kept his rifle raised and his pace steady, slipping through the carnage like a shadow.
Down two flights, past a barricade littered with bodies, British loyalists and what was left of a decoy squad.
And then the noise sharpened.
Dean’s squad was pinned in a wide hall outside the command room, crouched behind improvised cover, muzzle flashes cutting through smoke thick enough to choke on.
At the corner of the doorway, Dean.
Pressed against the wall, rifle raised, barking orders through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse but alive.
Castiel’s chest tightened at the sight of him.
Dean was alive.
Still fighting.
Still keeping his promise.
Castiel didn’t call his name. Didn’t announce himself. He stepped into the hall, rifle already up, and opened fire. The first SAS loyalist dropped before he even saw him. A second swung his barrel toward Dean, clean line of sight. Castiel’s shot was clean, center mass, and the man folded soundlessly into the smoke.
Dean didn’t even flinch, just glanced over his shoulder, caught sight of Castiel striding toward him through the haze, and barked a wild, breathless voice.
"You son of a bitch. What the fuck are you doing here?!" Dean shouted over the noise, teeth gritted despite the grime streaking his face.
Castiel took a knee behind the next barricade, reloading as calm as if nothing had happened, his voice low and flat.
"You’re welcome."
Dean was still pissed, but for a split second his eyes softened, even in the middle of hell.
The two of them fell into step, covering each other without a word.
One by one, the defenders fell back.
One of Dean’s men planted a charge on the blast door while Castiel covered the hall, smoke curling up from the barrel of his rifle.
Dean dropped down beside him, his chest heaving, sweat and soot clinging to his jaw.
"You didn’t have to come," Dean muttered, his smirk faint but real.
"I did," Castiel said simply, his eyes fixed on the door.
Dean glanced at him then, something hot and fierce flickering behind the green.
"…Yeah," Dean murmured finally, quieter now, almost private. "Guess you did."
The blast door gave way with a roar, the metal screeching as it tore free.
Smoke poured into the command room beyond, the dim light of monitors and map screens throwing eerie shadows across the walls.
And at the far end of the room, Nick.
He stood behind his desk, a pistol in his hand, his smile sharp and cruel even as the barrel shook slightly.
Dean and Castiel moved as one, rifles trained on him, every step deliberate.
The rest of the room fell into place around them, their squads holding the perimeter, weapons at the ready.
Nick’s smile faltered when he saw Castiel beside Dean. Castiel felt the faintest hum of tension in the air, but it didn’t matter.
Not anymore.
Dean was here.
He was here.
And this time, they weren’t leaving until it was done.