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Chapter Text

Waco, Texas
March 1887

Getting into the house had been easy.  It was an old, three-room structure just far enough outside of town that no one would bother them.  The field out back suggested the owners were once some kind of farmers, but whatever crops had grown there in the days of their youth had long since withered.

The place wasn’t exactly a fort, which wouldn’t be that difficult to slip into either, if years of experience had taught her anything.  Light feet and a pretty face went a long way, after all. And when that didn’t work, her knife usually did the trick.

The couple had been sleeping when she’d first arrived, two white-haired old crones practicing for kingdom come.  The toughest creature on the property was an ancient mule in the pen, and it had barely even snorted when she walked past it.  Still, the old woman was sprightlier than she looked.  All it had taken to wake her up was the slight click of a pistol’s hammer being pulled back.

And now the elderly couple was bloody and tied to chairs in the kitchen, probably wishing they hadn’t woken up at all.

“We don’t know where she is!” the man was pleading.

The outlaw’s serrated knife was stuck tip-down in the splintering wood of the table, right next to where she sat, boots dangling off the edge as her legs swung back and forth.  It was almost childlike.  There was a candle lit on the other side of her, its tiny flickering light playing shadows on her face.  Her brimmed wool hat sat atop spiraling dark waves.  Her eyes were two black holes in the darkness.

“Heard you the first ten times,” she said.  She grabbed the knife by the handle and ripped it out of the wood.  She held the point out to the man’s face, and he winced away from it.  “Funny.  I still don’t believe you.  So, I’ll ask again: Where’s your daughter?”

The man kept wincing.

She sighed loudly and dropped her arm back to her lap.  “Fine,” she said, exasperated.  “Have it your way.”  She slid off the table, ready to make a move.

“What do you want with our daughter?” the old woman spoke up, attracting the outlaw’s attention.

Finally.  They were getting somewhere.

The outlaw changed course, striding up to the woman instead.  She crouched down in front of her on the wooden-slated floor and looked up into her eyes.  “She has something that belongs to my boss.  And, trust me, you do not wanna keep him from his property.”

The woman shook her head.  “She wouldn’t have stolen.  We raised her better.”

“Oh, trust me, she did.  But it’s not too late.”  The outlaw lifted up her knife again.  “Tell me where she is and I’ll go easy on her.”

There was a moment, just there in the eyes, when it looked like the old woman would give in.  But then her face hardened.  The outlaw lifted herself up to a stand, hands pressing into her knees as she went.  “Looks like we’re doing this the hard way.”

“She wrote us a letter!”

She looked at the man.  His eyes were wide.  “A letter?”

“Jack, don’t—”

“Shut up.”  The outlaw turned back to the man.  “You were saying something about a letter?”

The man nodded.  His eyes flittered to his wife, as if asking her forgiveness.  “It was posted out of somewhere in Kansas.”

“Where?  Dodge?”

The man shook his head.  “Please, we don’t know anything else.  It’s been over a year since we’ve seen—”

“Where in Kansas?” the outlaw pressed.

The man glanced at his wife again, and then back to the outlaw.  He would talk.  He was too scared not to.

He drew in a breath, and gave up a name.

Lawrence, Kansas
May 1887

Dean pressed down on the footbrake and pulled on the reins, and the two horses came to an ambling stop in front of a storefront with a hanging wooden sign proclaiming, Wells, Fargo & Co., Banking & Express.  The sign was creaking on its hooks.  The morning sun lit up the entire main strip from end to end, from the courthouse to the dentist’s office with its signage in the shape of a tooth promising painless extraction.  Dean could personally attest to the falsehood of that advertisement.

It was still fairly early, but people were already up and about to begin their day.  Garth, the General Store clerk, was sweeping the boardwalk in front of his shop’s entrance.  Kevin Tran was rolling a new silver tub toward the back door of his mother’s laundry storefront.  Carts were rattling along, piled high with barrels of water and crates of coal for delivery.  At the end of the block, a group of builders were piling wood for the construction of the new saloon.  People were entering and exiting the hotel dining room on their way to and from breakfast.

The stagecoach beneath Dean came to a shuddering halt, its front wheel stopping just shy of a ditch in the road.  The black paint on the wood was covered in a fine layer of dust, but Dean was more concerned with the grime that stuck to his skin from the past week.  He was concerned with Sam’s hygiene, too, because he stunk to high heaven.

That’s what nearly a month on the road would do to a person.  When they’d first left Lawrence, the warm days still needed to thaw out from the frigid nights.  The morning grass had still been crunchy underfoot.  Since then, they’d made deliveries from Wichita to Boulder, and now Dean was sweating just sitting in the coach’s driver box.

His ass hurt from so much sitting, and his shoulder complained when he tried to rotate it from pulling on the horses' reins.  He tested out his range of motion again and winced.

He squinted over at Sam in the shotgun side.  He was snoring, with a sawed-off gun resting across his lap.  Dean swatted him.  “Wake up, sunshine.  We’re here.”

Sam snorted as he startled awake.  He blinked in the daylight and eventually straightened up in his seat to look around.  Dean ignored the fact that, sometimes, his overgrown oaf of a baby brother still reminded him of the little kid who used to collect caterpillars to watch them turn into butterflies.

“You’re a terrible guard, you know that?” Dean griped, but it was more teasing than anything.  “You got any idea how long you’ve been asleep?  Since Topeka.  What if somebody tried to hold us up, huh?”

Sam lifted his hat off his head to run his hand through his sweaty hair.  It was getting way too long, and Dean had to remember to break out the scissors and tie him down later.  Sam readjusted his hat and said, “Gun’s right here, Dean.  Last I checked, you’re still able to shoot.”

Dean snorted derisively.  “I can shoot you in the ass.”

Sam grinned.  The stage shifted under him as he stood up and stretched.  Dean didn’t bother standing before getting out.  He draped the reins over the singletree crossbar and slid down to the road.  He reached over his head to stretch out his back, his spine cracking as it realigned.  He was sorer than he thought.

Sam was already sifting through the carriage.  He pulled out the box of US mail and brought it over to the boardwalk before returning for the sealed crate loaded with currency and gold.  Dean grabbed the mail, because it was always the lighter of the two boxes, and ignored the scowl Sam sent his way.  He took it toward the bank, leaving Sam to trail after him with the crate.

Arms laden, Dean opened the front door with his shoulder and held it open with his foot so Sam could get through.  Behind the booth, Bobby was counting out the money in the till in preparation for the day.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean called when he glanced up.  At the same time, Sam greeted, “Hi, Bobby.”

“Boys,” Bobby answered, setting down the money and closing the register.  “Took you long enough.  I was about to write to the Marshal tellin’ him to start searching for your dead bodies.”  He opened up the security door leading to the back of the booth for them to trudge through.

“Yeah, ha-ha,” Dean grumbled.  “You try riding with him twelve hours a day.”

“Me?  I’m the one who has to put up with your singing,” Sam shot back.

They set their haul down against the vault on the back wall for Bobby and Rufus to sort through.  Another stage messenger would come around to collect anything that wasn’t labeled with Lawrence as its final destination.

“I’m the one that’s gotta deal with the aftermath of your bean diet,” Dean said.

“I see you’re both in a pleasant mood,” Bobby droned, probably just to silence their bickering.  They usually got like that after a few weeks on the trail, where they generally only had each other for company—during meals, on the stage, while making camp at night, or during stops at the stations along the way.  Every now and again, they’d have a passenger, but it was usually just the two of them.  Every waking second.  Together.

All they needed was a few hours apart, and then it would be like nothing happened.

Dean shot Sam another look before turning his attention to Bobby.  “We just need some shut-eye.  How’ve things been here?”

“About the same,” Bobby answered with a shrug.  He folded his arms over his chest and leaned into the booth.  “They finally started working on Talbot’s new saloon.  Just what we need.”

“What, you a teetotaler now?” Dean snorted.

“Another saloon is fine,” Bobby said with a wave.  “Another business lining Talbot’s pockets ain’t.”  Dean couldn’t argue with that.  But the rich stayed rich for a reason.

“Looks like there’s been a little bit of excitement.  What about that wanted poster?  What’s that about?” Sam asked as he crossed over to the booth’s window.  He peeled off the small poster hanging there and held it up.  There wasn’t a sketch of the sorry sap they were after, but the bounty was close to ten grand.  Dean’s eyes popped.  He hadn’t even noticed the poster when he’d walked in, but now he was seeing dollar signs.

“Is everything okay?” Sam asked, brows now pinched with concern in Bobby’s direction.  But it was pretty clear that, whoever this outlaw was, he hadn’t tried to rob this bank.  Bobby probably would have mentioned that sooner.  Just to be sure, Dean glanced at the vault.  It was secured tight, and it hadn’t been updated with a newer model, so everything was probably fine.

“Oh, yeah.  That’s just up as a precaution,” Bobby told them.  “Some new bandit that’s been making a name for himself in the paper.  Nicholas Pike or something or other.  Goes by the name Lucifer.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh.  “Think he’s overcompensating a little there?”

Bobby hummed, like he agreed but didn’t want to make light of the situation.  “Well, on top of robbery, him and his gang have been going around burning homes and businesses to the ground.  Usually with people still inside.  Rufus thinks he’s trying to liken the murders to hell-fire, but what does that idjit know?”

“But he’s not here, right?” Sam asked.  “I mean, in Lawrence?”

“Last I read in the paper, he was in Tulsa.  Doubt there’s any reason for someone like that to hit up some backwater town like Lawrence.”

Dean plucked the poster from Sam’s hand and read it over again.  There was probably nothing to worry about, but that bounty was awfully tempting.  Dean almost wanted this Lucifer fella and his gang to roll through Kansas.  “Ah, you never know, Bobby.  They say Lawrence’s got the best corndodgers for miles.  Let that entice him, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

Sam laughed, and it was kind of insulting.  “Yeah, right.  What are you gonna do?”

“I can take ‘im!” Dean defended, voice going up an octave in offense.

Bobby snorted, and Dean didn’t appreciate being ganged up like this.  “Your brother thinks he’s the next Wyatt Earp.”

Dean crossed his arms, the poster crinkling against his side.  He licked his lips, tasting salt and dirt, and tried to come up with a good retort.  The best he could do was, “Shut up.”

“Anyhow,” Bobby said.  He took the poster back and stuck it to the window again.  The glue on the bottom corners had thinned, causing the parchment to curl back loosely.  Bobby tried to smooth it back down before giving up and heading back to the register.  Dean’s fingers itched excitedly as he counted out their salary and handed it to each of them.

“Don’t go gambling it all away tonight,” Bobby warned.

Dean and Sam shared a mischievous look.  Sam said, “We don’t gamble, Bobby.”

Dean finished, “Yeah, what we do is art.”

Bobby merely grumbled and said, “Yeah, you’re right.  Artists don’t see a penny for their efforts, neither.”  Before either of them could respond, Bobby added, “And I better not see you headed for Rowena’s place.”  His eyes were on Dean, because everyone and their mother knew Sam didn’t pay ladies for their time.  Because he was a nice boy or whatever.

Dean gaped, again affronted.  And Sam wasn’t doing him any favors as he teased, “Come on, Bobby.  Dean doesn’t do that stuff anymore, now that he’s a married man.”

“Hold on!” Dean argued, heart jumping.  He didn’t need any rumors getting started.  The gossip around town was bad enough.  He didn’t care what people thought of him, really, but he wished people would butt out of his personal life.  “We’re not married.”

He wasn’t married.  He just . . . had companionship.  Why was everyone in his life so obsessed with labeling it?  He was fine without a label.  They were fine.

Sam shook his head, but he was grinning.  Bobby looked humored, too, but only to the well-trained eye.  “You’re as married as they get, boy.”

Dean didn’t have to stand around and listen to that kind of talk.  “You ladies done yapping?  Because I’d like to get my stage off the road before someone decides it’s up for grabs.”  He turned on his heels and threw the security door open.  Sam was chuckling as he followed him out, but Dean let it slide.

“And go bathe,” Bobby called after them.  “You smell like fresh shit.”

“Bye, Bobby,” Sam threw over his shoulder as they exited the bank.  Dean didn’t bother with a farewell.

The sun had climbed higher in the sky, and it had turned into a white-hot orb that bleached the blue around it.  Dean shielded his eyes with his hand.  The boardwalk on this side of the street wasn’t covered like it was across the way.  Dean glanced across the street, his eyes falling on one storefront in particular.

He realized Sam was talking.  “. . . go home and get something to eat.  We can always come back later to wash the stage.  Or wait ‘til tomorrow.  Bobby probably won’t have another route for us for a few weeks, anyway, so there’s no rush.”

Dean wasn’t really listening, because he had other priorities in mind.

They had to return the stage back to the home station first, and maybe Bobby was right about them needing a bath.  Dean sniffed his armpit and grimaced.  He’d probably have to launder these clothes twice, they were so full of sweat.  But there was something else he had to do first: something that took precedence over bathing and sleep, and even his empty stomach.

“I dunno.  Might make a stop at the doctor’s first.”  He played it up as he cradled one shoulder and rolled it back.  “My shoulder’s been killing me.”

It took a second to process, and then Sam let out a breath of laughter and glanced off across the street.  “Right.  Sure it is.”

“It is,” Dean insisted, and didn’t allow Sam the satisfaction of replying.  “You wanna return the stage?  And lead Baby home.  She deserves a rest.”  He paced closer to the sturdy, black Colorado Ranger mare, her rump spotted with gray and white.  She was still harnessed to the stage as he ran his hand down her smoky-colored mane.  The hair was coarser than usual, all matted with filth.  She needed to be brushed.  “Ain’t that right, girl?”

Chevy’s ear flicked as a fly buzzed by, and Dean took that to mean she agreed.  Next to her, Sam’s favorite horse, Bones, a chestnut Azteca, snorted.

Dean glanced over his shoulder and said, “I’ll meet you back home in a couple hours.”

Sam only pretended to be annoyed.  He acquiesced and climbed up into the stage’s box before picking up the lines.  “See you in a bit,” he said, and spurred the horses into motion.  The stage lurched before trailing along.

“And cut your damn hair!” Dean called after him.  Sam shot him an obscene gesture from behind that only made Dean laugh.  He shook his head and started in the direction of the doctor’s office.

Red dripped off of Castiel’s hands.  It slid down his forearms and palms to collect on the tips of his fingers.  The droplets splattered back into the basin of similarly color-tainted water.  It looked pinker in a pool.  Perhaps that was only because the basin was white.

He dipped his hands back in and splashed more water up his arms one last time before deciding, despite the blood flakes still lining his fingernails, that it was good enough.  He grabbed the cloth hanging off the side of his apothecary hutch and turned around to lean against the ledge.

His eyes fell on the operating table in the center of the room.  It was mostly clean now, all but for that stubborn stain in the wood that he couldn’t wash or sand out.  His predecessor, who apparently was too cheap to launder sheets to cover the table during surgery, had left it there.

The damp cloth was still in his hands, and he wasn’t so much wiping them dry anymore as he was keeping them occupied.  He closed his eyes and narrowed his thoughts down to the scratch of cotton against his skin.

It was already shaping up to be a hot day.  The sun outside was bleaching the dusty street of Massachusetts Avenue into a light tan color.  The glare it caused came through the rectangular window in the front door, leaving patches of dirt-streaked light on the floorboard along with the backward shadow of the chipped paint decal: Dr. Novak, Physician & Surgeon.

There wasn’t much of a breeze either, so the only sounds that came through the opened window were the click of boots on the boardwalk whenever someone passed by, chatter, and the occasional horse snort.  And flies.  There was one buzzing around the room right now.  He could hear it.

Back home, on a day like this, women would be holding parasols above their heads to shield themselves from the sunrays.  Castiel carefully blanked his mind of the past.  He reminded himself that Lawrence was his home now; it had been for quite some time.

Presently, the office was quiet.  It was a welcome respite, especially after such an exhausting night.  He almost hated the summers, even though they were the most lucrative time of the year.  It was the same for every merchant and business in town, the same as it was for every cattle and boomtown on the map—and those too new even for that.  Summer was when the herders came through, with their droves of longhorns to be sold in every town and city between Texas and Chicago.

The cattle weren’t the only things they brought.

They tended to arrive with enough money to drink, gamble, and whore themselves into either jail or an early grave.  Or, in many cases, Castiel’s office.  When the cowboys were in town, he rarely made it back home to sleep.  Most summer nights, he slept on one of the two patient cots in the back room.  When both of those were full, he made due in his desk chair.

He refused to sleep on the operating table.  That was most likely asking for bad luck.

Regardless, summer hadn’t even officially begun yet.  It was the very beginning of cattle season, and Castiel had a creeping suspicion it would be a long one.

The bell above the office door jingled as someone entered.  It took all of Castiel’s will not to sigh at the intrusion, and instead opened his eyes to the customer, ready to greet them with a pleasant, “Hello, what seems to be the trouble?”

But he ended up having to blink multiple times because he was certain the person in front of him was nothing but a mirage.  He stood up from his lean, lips parting and heart quickening.  “Dean?”

Dean was grinning from ear to ear.  His beard had grown in, and there was dust from the trail still caking the lines of his face and his clothes, which meant he hadn’t gone home yet.  His freckles were hidden, but his eyes were stark green against the filth and sunshine.  “Hey there, Doc.  Glad I caught you.  Got something between my legs that’s in need of professional attention.”

Castiel only allowed a twitch of a smile.  He walked around the operating table to meet Dean by the door as he palmed off his hat.  His hair was sticking to his forehead.  “That sounds serious,” Castiel answered dryly, eyeing him up and down.  “I think that requires immediate bed rest.”

Dean’s eyes darkened, still something playful about them.  When Castiel was close enough, Dean reached down to grab his wrist.  He brought Castiel’s arm over his shoulder and tossed his hat onto the table before his other hand grazed Castiel’s hip.  “Can’t say I’ll be doing much resting.”

Castiel tightened his hold around him slightly and let himself smile as Dean leaned forward to kiss him.  It was strange how the warmth of the day was comforting now.  He pressed the flat of his hand between Dean’s shoulder blades, savoring the kiss.  It had been three weeks since he’d had this.  He’d missed him.

Dean hummed when he drew back, keeping his hands on Castiel.  Castiel took a second just to look at him.  He said, “When did you get back?”

“About ten minutes ago,” Dean said.  He pulled away further but wrapped his hands around Castiel’s suspenders.  He walked backward and hopped up on the table, guiding Castiel the whole way.  As he did, he was saying, “Rode all night to get back.  Sammy headed on home already, but I thought I’d find you here first.  Didn’t want to wait ‘til tonight.”

Castiel nodded and allowed a sigh.  “That was probably a good idea.  Who knows if I’ll make it home later.”

“Cas,” Dean scolded—or complained.  “C’mon, don’t tell me you slept here last night, too.”

He could easily say that.  “I didn’t sleep here last night,” he confirmed, “because I didn’t sleep.”

“Cas.”

“You just said you hadn’t slept either,” Castiel reminded him.  He placed his hands on Dean’s thighs.

Dean grumbled, “One of us shoulda kept the bed warm.”

Castiel didn’t tell him that their bed was never warm without Dean in it.  Possibly because it still felt like Dean’s bed.  In Dean’s house.  Castiel had a room on the Winchester’s homestead for the last nine years, in the stable house behind the main one.  He’d rented it at first, after he’d arrived in Lawrence.  Six years later, Dean moved into the stable house, too, and Castiel no longer paid rent.

But sometimes it still felt like he did.

Often, when Dean was away on his route, Castiel preferred to spend the majority of his time at the office.  Perhaps he even made excuses to work through the night, even in the colder months.

“Warm it for me,” Castiel told him, squeezing Dean’s thighs before pulling away.  He went back to his apothecary and unrolled the leather pouch of surgical knives.  He could feel Dean’s eyes on his back.

“Jesus,” Dean hissed, causing Castiel to peer over his shoulder.  Dean was glancing at the water basin.  “Was there any blood left inside the body?”

Castiel grimaced and went back to his task.  “Mick Davies got himself shot last night.  His arm was mangled.  I had to amputate it.”

Dean groaned out in disgust and shivered squeamishly, even though he was anything but.  “Shot by who?”

“Who do you think?”

“Goddamn rustlers,” Dean said with a click of his tongue.  “Mick doing okay?”

“He’s fine, considering.  Sleeping it off in the back.” Castiel tipped his head toward the wooden door in the back of the room to indicate it.  “The cowboy who did it is with the sheriff.”

“Yeah, he better be,” Dean mumbled.  And then, brighter and louder, “Well, hey, if you don’t have any customers now, why don’t we go home for breakfast?”

Castiel wished.  After the tools he needed were laid out, he rolled the rest back up and rubbed at his eyes, trying to rally himself.  “There’s a fresh body coming in for an autopsy.  It should be here any minute.”

When Castiel turned back around, Dean was shrugging.  “So?  He’ll still be dead tomorrow.”

Castiel shot him a look.  Dean shot him one back.  Castiel sighed.  “They wanna bury him this afternoon.  You go home.  I’ll try to follow in a few hours.  And take Lincoln.  He needs to be fed.”

Dean hopped off the table, swiping his hat off but not putting it on.  “How’ll you get home?”

“I’ve walked it before.”  The Winchesters’ homestead was only a couple miles out of town.  It wasn’t far.

“Oh, fuck no,” Dean told him, adamant.  He stepped closer, until Castiel was trapped between the apothecary and Dean’s body.  “Tell you what, I’ll bring him back into town tonight.  Me and Sam’ll probably want to come back, anyway.  We just got paid, and you know I play a better game when you’re rolling my cigarettes.”

It was tempting, even if Castiel would rather spend his free time asleep.  But Dean had a strange ability to tempt Castiel into almost anything.  “Deal.  If you can keep anyone else from bleeding out tonight.”

Dean smiled again, eyes crinkling.  “Deal.”

Castiel’s eyes dropped down to Dean’s mouth, and his lips itched to kiss him again.  Only, the bell above the door rang, and Dean quickly leaned out of his personal space, rubbing at the back of his neck as he did.  They both glanced at the newcomer.

“Miss Kline,” Castiel greeted, brightening.  He liked Kelly.  She was fairly new in town.  She arrived about four months previous, already heavily pregnant.  Despite that, Rowena had given her a place to stay at the bordello.  Other than that, Castiel didn’t know much about her past.  She’d come from the south, and she’d apparently worked a few towns on the circuit for a year before ending up in Lawrence.  He assumed she’d left her old residence after falling pregnant, but she usually changed the subject when it was broached.

The other girls at the brothel loved to speculate about Kelly’s past.  Castiel had treated enough of them to hear all the wild rumors.  He didn’t take part in the gossip.  He considered Kelly a friend.  She was kind and warm, and she seemed eager to keep her child once it was born.  Most girls would give their babies up, or find an abortionist.  But Kelly had taken to the idea of motherhood.

“Hello, Dr. Novak,” she said as she ducked into the room.  She tucked a strand of her cropped hair behind her ear and smiled softly in the two men’s direction.  “Mr. Winchester.”

“Hey, Kelly,” Dean said.  “Still no baby?”  He’d asked it as if it weren’t painfully obvious.

“No,” she laughed, her hand resting on her stomach atop her skirt.  “I’m told, any day now.”  She glanced at Castiel, as if checking to make sure she was correct.  And she was.  Actually, it might have been any hour, rather than any day.  “God knows, I need the relief.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

“Thank you.”

Dean turned back to Castiel and put his hat back on.  “Guess I’ll leave you to it.  See you tonight?”

A soft smile pressed against the corners of Castiel’s mouth, and he nodded.

Accepting it, Dean started toward the exit.  “Have a good day, Kelly.”

“You, too.”  They waited until Dean was gone, the two of them standing on opposite sides of the room and looking at each other.  Castiel heard Dean’s footsteps receding down the boardwalk outside, until the sounds of them were indistinguishable from the others.  Kelly was biting back a teasing smile.  She said, “You two are good together.”

Castiel tried not to roll his eyes.  He busied himself by turning back toward the basin.  The fly that had been buzzing around had landed on the edge.  He swatted it away and moistened his hands again.  “We’re rarely together,” he told her, and he hadn’t meant to sound so severe about it.

Behind him, Kelly said, “I don’t think distance matters.  He loves you, doesn’t he?”

Castiel realized he’d stopped drying his hands.  The cloth was held between them, but he wasn’t moving.  He rattled his head, trying to shake up the thought his mind had gotten stuck on.  The thought: I don’t know.

The thought: When it suits him.

“Maybe,” he admitted.  “Sometimes.”

“And I know you feel the same,” Kelly said.

When Dean was with him for an extended period of time, the answer again was, maybe, sometimes.  When Dean was away, the answer was, usually.  In times like these, when Dean first got back, it was, always.

He forced a laugh and turned around.  “Kelly, you didn’t come here to talk about Dean Winchester.”

She must have known it was a deliberate distraction, but she allowed it.  “No,” she said, moving further into the room.  She fingered at the edges of her shawl, eyes downcast.  It was a little odd.  Kelly was usually more direct.  It concerned him.

“Is everything alright?”

“Well,” she answered thoughtfully and rolled her eyes as if it was a silly complaint, “the morning sickness is back.”

Was that all?  “Have you been taking the medication I gave you?”

Her smile faltered.  “I ran out a few weeks ago.  I would have come sooner but—Well, I still need to find a way to pay you, and—The drug just makes my heart beat so fast, anyway, and—”

“Kelly.”  He put his hands on her shoulders, trying to calm her.  It took a moment, but she met his eyes.  “I understand the concern, but it’ll relieve the illness.  And, I’ve told you before, don’t worry about payment.  I just want to see you and your baby healthy.”

She considered, and then nodded.  She seemed reluctant but grateful.  Trustful.  Castiel shot her a disarming smile before letting his arms fall away.  He turned back to his apothecary and opened the cabinet up top.  He pulled out the glass bottle of powdered cocaine and a small, empty vial to transfer a few doses into.

When he was finished, he stopped up the vial and brought it over to her.  “Remember to mix it with water when you drink it.”

She nodded again and slipped the vial into her purse.  Something else seemed to be bothering her.  “Is there something else?”  A thought struck him: “Is the baby okay?”

“Oh, yes!  Of course,” she assured, seeming startled.  And then, “It isn't anything like that.  It’s just . . .” Her arm went around her stomach again, as if she were shielding the child.  She cleared her throat, and held her chin up to admit, “I’m afraid, Castiel.”

He wasn’t really certain what to say to that.  Dean had told him that his bedside manner tended to be a bit awkward.  Perhaps someone like Rowena would be better suited for a conversation like this.  But, then again, he doubted Rowena wanted a child running around her bordello.  She’d likely tell Kelly to give the child up to an orphanage, but he already knew Kelly wouldn’t.  They’d discussed that option.  The nearest orphanage was outside Kansas City, and Kelly didn’t want her child raised by the Catholic brothers.

He tried his best to console her, despite the nervous trill it sparked under his skin.  He was certain he’d say the wrong thing.  “That’s perfectly normal.  Many new mothers feel unprepared before the birth of—”

“It’s not that,” she interrupted with a wave, but she didn’t appear prepared to continue.

Castiel thought back to all the leaky-mouthed gossip he’d heard from the other soiled doves.  They said Kelly was the daughter of a governor, and she ran away with a man that her father didn’t approve of, only to be abandoned when she became pregnant.  They said she was on the run from her former madam after having an affair with the woman’s husband.  They said she was captured by a band of highway robbers on her travels and managed to escape after they’d taken advantage of her.

He doubted her misfortunes piled so high.  In truth, she was probably just a sporting woman who’d been impregnated by one of her clients.  Whatever the case, Castiel suspected she knew who the father was.

He wondered if this had anything to do with him.

“Then what is it?” he asked, not wanting to press too far.

She glanced out the window as if to make sure they wouldn’t be interrupted.  She said, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to protect him.”

Castiel canted his head to the side, eyes narrowing.  “Why—Why would he need protecting?”

For a brief moment, it looked as if she might tell him.  She got as far as opening her mouth and drawing in breath, but then she clamped it back shut and shook her head flightily.  “It’s nothing.  I’m being silly.”

“Kelly,” he said.  He reached out again and took her hands.  “Whatever it is, I’d like to help.  You can trust me.”

She softened somewhat, doe eyes lighting with hints of a smile.  “I know.  Sometimes, I think you may be the only person I can trust.”

Then why not tell him?

He tried to keep his expression from tightening.  He couldn’t allow his own curiosity to get the better of him.  He had to trust that, when she needed his help, she’d come to him.  He forced himself to nod.  “Then, whatever . . . whatever you need.  When you’re ready.”

She pulled her hands out from between his.  “You’ve already been so generous.  I shouldn’t take up any more of your time.”

He shook his head, because none of that mattered.  “It’s no trouble.”

With another, albeit shaky smile, she put her shawl back around her shoulders and told him, “I expect I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah.”  He placed his hand on her arm and helped her to the door.  “Come back if you need anything else.”

The bell above the door chimed.  He squinted against the sunlight bouncing off the road.

“Goodbye, Castiel.”

“Bye.”

She walked down the steps of the boardwalk and onto the dusty street, her skirt dragging on the dirt so that a fine film of brown stained the lilac cloth.  She glanced up and down the road before stepping out onto it, but he had a feeling she wasn’t just wary of carts and horses.  He watched her cross to the opposite side.  Another fly zipped past his ear into the office.

The Winchester homestead was tucked and secluded into a basin of freshly budding trees on three sides.  The main house, a wooden structure with smoke currently curling out of the stone fireplace, was situated closest to the dirt road that cut through the plains until the land met the sky in the distance—all green grass and golden wheat against the clear blue horizon.  Their closest neighbors’ house was a mile away, but their property stretched much further.  They owned that wheat; they had for as long as Dean could remember.  When he was seven, they had to put up a fence to stop him from riding his horse through the crops and stealing stocks for bread.

Of course, that’s when Dean taught his horse to jump fences.

He turned Cas’ palomino Thoroughbred toward the beaten path that led through the entrance of the homestead’s perimeter fence.  One of the logs near the trees had fallen down, and Dean made a mental note to fix it later on.  His eyes swept along the rest of their land—the one his father had left to him after his death nearly nineteen years ago.  Dean had been almost eleven when the Plain Indian Wars made him the man of the house.

There was the stable house toward the back of the property, the barn across the way from the main house, and the pen where they kept the horses.  He spotted Chevy immediately as she grazed inside the pen.  Bones and his brother, Dodger, were in there with her.  Dean couldn’t have been too far behind Sam, but he was happy to see his brother had unsaddled and watered the horses without him.

His gaze swept back to the smoke from the house, which meant breakfast was cooking.  His stomach rumbled at the prospect as he slid off Lincoln’s back and led him to the barn to unsaddle him.  When he was done, he put some feed in a bucket, and the horse gave a snort of anticipation as if to hurry Dean along.

“Don’t be impatient,” Dean told him.  Lincoln shook out his white-blonde mane.  Dean argued back, “You learned that from Cas, you know.  He's impatient, too.”  He hefted up the feed bucket and made for the patch of sunshine spilling through the barn door.  Lincoln followed after him, hooves thudding lightly into the dirt.

When they were outside, he nosed at Dean’s back, nearly toppling him over.  Dean shot him a glare over his shoulder before leading him around the wooden well.  “Don’t blame me that he works all the time.  I don’t like it, either.”

He opened the pen, leading Lincoln inside, and the other horses must have caught the food’s scent because they all perked up.  Dean spilled it into the trough and moved out of the way as the animals advanced.  On his way out, he ran his palm across Chevy’s flank and gave her a gentle pat.  She flicked her tail lightly against his chest before he slipped away.

A deep inhale filled his lungs with the scents of springtime, and more than ever he could feel exhaustion overcoming him.  He was home now, and the trees were gaining their leaves, and the champagne-colored wheat fields were shuddering and rolling in the gentle breeze that swept through the land.

He was home, where the biggest threat in recent years had been tornados, and not something he had to concern himself with as of right now.  He could rest.

He stepped onto the porch, the wood creaking beneath him as he swiped his boots so as not to track any dirt in.  The shade the overhang provided was a bit of relief from the warm day.  Dean could already hear chatter from inside, along with the familiar sound of lyrical laughter.  He let it wash over him, as if it were a balm to the last few weeks, before opening the door.

“Oh, you don’t really mean that,” Mom was saying, sweet laughter still in her tone.  She was seated at the table in the kitchen, one elbow propped up on the table as she cradled her cheek in her hand.  She’d cropped her hair much shorter than the long blonde waves Dean was used to seeing whenever she wore it down.  The fire was going behind her, a giant cauldron of water sitting on the grate inside, flames licking around the base.  There was another lidded pot next to it, and Dean wondered what was cooking.

There was already a loaf of bread—fresh from the oven, by the smell of it—on the table, crumbs on the cloth it was set upon, and a few slices taken out.  Sam, sitting at the end of the table, his back to Dean in the doorway, was munching on a honey-covered slice.  They usually had more honey than they knew what to do with, thanks to Cas’ love of it.  He kept asking to keep a hive of bees for himself on the property so he could get the stuff fresh.  Dean kept telling him he’d think about it, and then never did.

“What doesn’t he mean?” Dean asked in ways of greeting.

Sam swiveled around.  Mary glanced up, her smile turning warmer.  “Hey, sweetie,” she said, and she shifted like she was about to stand.

“Don’t get up,” Dean told her as he palmed off his hat and walked around the table.  He had to squeeze between the wall and Sam’s chair to do so, and he purposefully kneed Sam in the back.  Sam responded by scooting the chair backward to trap him, but Dean was too quick.  He was out before his brother got the chance.

“Hey, Mom,” he said when he reached her and leaned down to peck her cheek.  “I like the hair.”

“Oh, thank you.  I was tired of putting it up all the time,” Mary said, patting his cheek before Dean drew away.  He took with him the cloth set in front of her.  “How’s Castiel?  I’ve barely seen him all week.”  She turned to watch Dean crouch next to the fire and used the cloth to take off the pot’s lid.  Oatmeal was bubbling inside.

“Yeah, kinda figured you wouldn’t be back so soon,” Sam interjected.

Dean lifted the pot from the grate, since it would be hell to clean if the oatmeal burned to the bottom, and brought it over to the table.  “Ah, he’s working.  Like always.”

“Will he be home tonight?” Mary asked.

Dean tried for a smirk because he really didn’t know the answer, but he could hope.  “If I have to drag him by his ears.”  He collected three bowls and spoons from the pantry cabinet and brought them over, too.

Everything was exactly where he’d left it—which, truthfully, he hadn’t expected to return to a reorganized pantry, but it was still a comfort.  The rest of the house was quiet, with Mary’s bedroom through the door behind the kitchen, and the bedroom he’d once shared with Sam on the other side of the house.  The bath was in the small, enclosed deck on the other side of the fireplace, a door that Dean had built himself connecting the rooms.  It wasn’t much, but it had always been enough for them.

But, sometimes, he got the feeling it wasn’t enough for Cas.  Not that Dean really blamed him.  He knew, after growing up in a big city like Chicago, Lawrence probably felt like the ends of the earth.  For a few years, when Cas was still their renter, Dean constantly expected him to pack up one day and move on to another town.  All these years later, Dean still half-expected that.  He wanted this to be Cas’ home, too, in more than just name.  He just didn’t know how to provide that.

“Anyway,” Dean said, clearing his throat in an attempt to steer the subject elsewhere.  “What does Sammy not mean?”

It took a second for Mary to understand his meaning, but then her eyes lit up in recognition.  Sam got there first, though.  “Nothin’, nothing.  I was just telling Mom about how everyone who works at the station in Salina is an idiot.”

As Mary laughed, Dean scooped the porridge into the bowls and slid them in front of his family.  He brought his own, nestled between his palms, to the other side of the table, and sat down.  “Uh, yeah, he absolutely means that, then,” he said, annoyance spiking from the memory.  “You tell her about how they tried to swap out our bum wheel with one three sizes smaller?”

Sam seemed happy to keep complaining.  Dean spooned his oatmeal into his mouth.

After breakfast, Dean brought a bucket of the heated water to the stable house out back.  It was a small, one-room thing—nothing but a fireplace, a table, and a bed pushed up against the back wall.  But it was home.

Except, at the moment, it was more of a pigsty.  The second Dean opened the door, he nearly tripped over one of Cas’ boots.  He glared down at it like it had just insulted his mother, and then brought his eyes up to the rest of the damage.  The unmade bed.  The stale bread on the table.  The dinner chair over by the window for some reason and strewn with clothes that were supposed to be in the dresser.  The dresser, of course, was nearly empty, and the middle drawer was hanging open.  Even the crucifix on the wall over the piece of furniture was inexplicably lopsided.

Just once, Dean would like to come home to a clean house.

“Dammit, Cas,” he grumbled and closed the door behind him.  He set the water on the table before going around and grabbing the stray objects so they could be put in their correct places.  He didn’t bother making the bed, since he was planning on taking a nap, anyway.  The bread was gone for, but at least it hadn’t attracted any mice.  It would probably make good food for the birds, because Dean would be damned if he’d waste food.

The water was lukewarm by the time he was finished setting everything right.  He sloshed it into the basin on the dresser, anyway, before stripping out of his clothes.  He shaved and scrubbed himself down as best he could.  He’d need a real bath to get any real caked-on grime off, and if he wanted to soak his aching muscles.  But god knew Sam would take his sweet time bathing, so Dean would just have to wait.

Clean enough, he got into fresh clothes and dumped the browning water out the window.  And then his eyes landed on the bed.  The simple fact that it was still unmade meant Cas had slept in it at some point while Dean was away, but he wondered how long ago that was.  He was almost reluctant to climb in and see just how cold the blankets were.

Their bed always seemed too big without Cas sleeping next to him.  That might have been because his old bed back in the main house had been so damn small, he’d outgrown it by the time he was a teenager.  Or maybe it was because he found it easier to sleep in Cas’ presence.

He let out a breath and ran his hand through his now damp hair.  He needed to sleep.  His body was sluggish and his eyes were drooping.  But his mind was still whirling, his senses still honed for any bandit or Native scout that might come upon their camp in the middle of the night.  His fingers still flexed like he was sleeping with his gun wrapped inside of them.

He needed to calm himself, so he guessed it was lucky his best friend was the town’s doctor.  He went back to the dresser, a small apothecary chest that Cas usually left at home sitting atop it.  He rifled until he found a vial of small opium tablets.  Upon a cursory glance, there wasn’t any whiskey around to mix it with, so he simply took off the cork and swallowed one without dissolving it first.  He assumed it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Hoping that would do the trick, he settled into bed above the blankets and stared up at the graying wooden planks of the ceiling.  Beneath his untucked shirt, the chain around his neck slowly slid from his chest to the pillow.  He reached under his collar and pulled the necklace out.

Two bronze items were hanging from the chain.  One was an Anasazi symbol of protection that Sam had bought for him at a roadside merchant years ago during their travels.  The other was newer: a tiny, plain Christian cross.  Dean wasn’t much of a believer in either religion those trinkets represented, but the one from Sam had been a gift.  And the other was from Cas, who had given it to him one night before Dean took off on a job.

Dean still remembered protesting when Cas had taken the cross from around his own neck and placed it in Dean’s palm.  But, like always, it was an argument Dean lost, and he was grateful he had.  It probably wouldn’t do much good for protection, just like Sam’s gift wouldn’t.  For that, Dean would rely on his Colt.  But it was a comfort to have a piece of Cas with him when they were apart.

He fiddled with the cross between his fingers before bringing it to his lips.  Then, he tucked the necklace back under his shirt and went to sleep.

Somehow, Dean managed to keep his promise.  The night was a lively one, but as far as Castiel knew, no one had been stabbed or shot, and no one came frantically looking for him.

He spent the evening in one of the saloons in town, sitting at the table with a bottle of whiskey and tobacco as Dean bested a group of men at cards for hours.  The game attracted quite the crowd of spectators, and for a moment it seemed like a fight might break out when one of the men appeared to be cheating.  Dean managed to diffuse it by sternly telling the man to “play poker,” and the cowboy appeared to get the hint well enough.

For the better part of the night, Sam had been trying his hand at the faro table and seemed to be doing well.  Castiel was never much of a fan of poker, and he wasn’t foolish enough to think he could buck the tiger; but he did enjoy a game of dice from time to time, so long as Dean was around to blow on them before he tossed.  There was no dice game that night, though, and he was too tired to be upset or care much either way.  He was content to sit at Dean’s elbow and share in the excitement of the game.

As the night wore on, someone started to play a tune on the piano, and one of the actresses from the troupe that had rolled into town began to sing.  Many of the men fell silent, their attention on her as she put on the show.  Some of them grabbed a woman and began dancing; and Dean tipped his hat at Castiel, a bright grin lighting his watery, intoxicated eyes, as he offered his hand.

Castiel followed him away from the tables and closer to the piano, his hand set in Dean’s warm, calloused palm, as the singer continued on:

I’ve been thinking a long time, my darling,
Of those sweet words you never would say,
But the last of my fond hopes have vanished,
For they say you are going away

It was still second nature for Castiel to warily glance around before dancing with Dean in public.  But there was no need for concern here like there was in the cities.  Even now, there in that saloon, he saw a few of the cowboys cozying up to one another.  He supposed long weeks on the trail or on the ranches without any women around changed a man’s attractions; or perhaps their proclivities leaned toward men to begin with, as his own did.  Perhaps there were even a few among them who, like Dean, weren’t picky about gender.

It was one of the many reasons Castiel preferred life in a small cattle town to the societies like the one he was brought up in.  The frontier was wild, and there were better things to get caught up about.

I have promised you, darling, that never
Would words from my lips cause you pain;
My life will be yours forever,
If only you will love me again

He held Dean close to him, his chin tilted to rest on Dean’s shoulder, their fingers entwined; his other hand was on Dean’s side as they rocked together.  When Dean was away, Castiel never quite knew how much he missed him until he returned.  He wondered if Dean knew that.  Castiel wondered if he’d even have the guts to say it aloud, and to hear what the answer might be.

Just remember the Red River Valley
And the cowboy who loves you so true

It was close to two o’clock in the morning by the time they headed home, according to the clock on the town hall’s tower.  The three of them collected their horses from the corral and road home.  Sam was a little unsteady on his feet as he bid them goodnight and headed for the main house.  Dean teased after him, his arm slung around Castiel’s shoulders, and Castiel could feel his rumbling laughter at his side.  The bright moon was lighting up the sky, overtaking the stars and casting the world in silver.

When they were inside the stable house, Castiel started toward the table to take off his boots, but Dean grabbed him by the hand and reeled him back in.  Their chests knocked together, taking the air from Castiel’s lungs, but it would have disappeared anyway with the way Dean had wrapped his arms around him.  He met Dean in a kiss and brought his hands up to take off Dean’s hat.  He tossed it to the side so he could run his fingers through his hair.  It was a little longer than Dean normally wore it, and Castiel would have to trim it later.  But, for the moment, he enjoyed the extra inches he had to cling to.

By the time the kiss broke, Castiel felt stirring in his lower abdomen.  He could taste whiskey again, and it must have come off Dean’s tongue.  Castiel licked his lips, chasing the taste.  Dean hummed, eyes dark and hooded as they looked at him, chin tilted, and sly smirk firm on his features.  “What d’you say you get those boots off and leave the rest to me?”

After weeks apart, Castiel wasn’t about to deny either of them.  He always liked their pace on the nights Dean got home, when Dean was more tender and attentive than usual.  He pressed his lips to the corner of Dean’s mouth and nodded before reluctantly pulling out of his arms.

He went to the table and sat down in one of the chairs.  Some moonlight was spilling in through the windows, but he reached for the gas lantern in the center of the table and turned it on high enough to cast an orange glow around the room.  He removed his hat first, setting it on the table, before pulling off his boots and socks.  Dean retrieved his hat from the floor and smacked it twice to get the dirt off it before hanging it on a hook next to the door.  Then, he went to the edge of the bed and lifted one leg up to wriggle his boot off.

It was around then that Castiel realized the place was clean, which was another advantage of Dean being home.  He’d never been very good at tidying up after himself, not for a lack of trying.  But he was usually rushing out the door in the mornings, too busy to come back during the day and bone-tired whenever he managed to make it home at night.  He was glad a bit of normalcy could resume, and he’d get a clean house and hot, home-cooked meals now that Dean was back.

He stood up and removed his duster and necktie, dropping both on the chair.  Dean was bent over, arranging his boots along the bottom of the bed.  Castiel eyed him in that position for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek and contemplating Dean’s immaculately built form.  He moved closer, determined, as Dean stood up, to grab him by the hips and turn him around.

Dean acted as if he’d been expecting it.  He moved easily and was grinning into their kiss, pliant as Castiel backed him against the wall and slid his tongue hungrily into his mouth.  Dean’s palms smoothed down his back, coming to a rest on his ass.  He dug his fingers into the seat of Castiel’s trousers and hauled him in closer so their bodies could be flush.  Castiel pressed his hips into him, groaning at the friction it caused.

After some time, Dean kissed down Castiel’s jaw and nipped at his Adam’s apple.  Castiel’s breath came out choppy, and he tilted his head back to expose his throat, giving Dean better access.  “Cas,” Dean said between pecks and sucks.  “I don’t care if it makes my ass hurt even more.  I’m riding you tonight.”

Castiel’s eyes opened, and he hadn’t even been aware he’d been closing them.  He realized his throat was dry, too, and his lips were cracked from sucking in air through them.  He dipped his head back down to nose at Dean’s cheek.  His dick was begging for attention, wanting him to rut up against Dean again.

“I’d like that,” he whispered into the space between them.

After that, it was a rush of pulling off each other’s shirts and undoing their pants.  Dean grabbed Castiel’s dick through the fabric, and started rubbing and teasing, and generally making Castiel’s knees get to the point of collapse.  Before that could happen, Castiel grabbed Dean’s wrist, stilling him.  He took the other wrist, too, and stretched Dean’s arms over his head.  He held them against the wall with one hand, his other trailing the expanse of Dean’s torso as he kissed him deeply.  Dean moaned and bucked his body forward to meet him.  The cross hanging from his neck clinked against the amulet as they shifted.

When Dean ripped his wrists out of their hold, he quickly wrapped his arms around Castiel’s middle and off-balanced them both.  A dizzying rush overcame Castiel as they tipped onto the bottom of the bed with a thud.  His knee hit against the wooden bar of the end board, and feather quills poked out from the mattress to prick at him.  Dean landed on top of him, punching a grunt out of him.

“Dean,” Castiel scolded.  Dean grinned and picked himself up to straddle Castiel’s hips.  His hands roughed up Castiel’s ribcage, settling on his chest.  And despite his previous annoyance, his skin prickled in the wake the touch left behind.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” Dean told him.  His cheeks were rosy in the flickering gaslight on the table—one side of him in shadows, the other illuminated in warmth.  His full lips were slick and bruised with kisses, and he ran his teeth over his bottom lip as his eyes moved along Castiel’s torso.

Dean circled his thumbs around Castiel’s nipples, making his blood course with flames.  Castiel grabbed on to Dean’s waist.  Dean started moving on top of him, circling his hips and pressing his ass into Castiel’s groin.  He was whispering soft encouragements.  “That’s it, sweetheart.  Just let me do the work.  That’s it.”

Castiel moved his hands to the tops of Dean’s thighs, still mercilessly covered by his trousers.  He dug his fingers in.  His breath hitched when Dean changed his rhythm and sunk down further into him.  He tried to buck back up into him, but it was hard to do under Dean’s weight.

It was easier to sit up, to trail his mouth along Dean’s chest and clavicle, to smooth his palms along his shoulder blades.  Against him, the muscles in Dean’s stomach jumped, and he started whispering Castiel’s name in a stuttering mantra.  Castiel rounded his hand to Dean’s belly and dropped his fingers below Dean’s unbuttoned waistband.  Dean hissed, his body tensing before relaxing.  Castiel took him out of his trousers and circled his thumb on the moist head of his dick.

Dean framed his jaw and tilted his head up into a messy kiss.  He was keening into it, the sounds broken and fraught.  Castiel got lost in the noises, and in the way their mouths moved together.  He didn’t come back to himself until Dean pulled away and blanketed Castiel’s hand with his own to still it.  “Thought we were comin’ together tonight?”

Castiel grinned up at him.  Dean’s mouth was still so close to his, but he stopped himself from capturing it again.  He nodded and let Dean off of him.  Dean left the bed and moved toward the dresser with Castiel’s medical chest on top.  As he opened it up and rifled through it, Castiel shimmied out of his trousers.  He scooted up the bed so his knees wouldn’t hang off the end.  His body was pulsing and heated, a thrill of anticipation going through him as he eyed Dean’s flushed chest and neck.  The sight of him reminded Castiel how heavy his dick was.

“It’s in the side compartment,” Castiel told him, hoping to hurry him up.  He knew he was running low on petroleum jelly, but they should have enough to get through the night.  He’d just have to order more tomorrow.

“Hold your horses,” Dean told him, but he found the tin as he spoke.  He twisted off the lid and brought the bottom half back to bed.  His gaze scanned Castiel as he moved, landing appreciatively on his lower half.  He didn’t say anything.  He just handed the tin over and bent over to strip out of his pants.  Castiel watched him, heart jumping when he caught sight of Dean’s cock curling up toward his belly.

“I think,” Castiel told him, extending his arm out to offer his hand.  Dean took it, lacing their fingers together as he climbed up onto the bed.  He knelt over Castiel’s lap.  “You may have the finest body I’ve ever seen.”

Dean let out a breath of laughter.  “Not too encouraging coming from a man who performed an autopsy this morning.”  He draped his arm over Castiel’s shoulder, free hand combing through the hair on the base of his skull.

“You’re certainly more handsome than a dead man.”

Dean pecked his lips.  “All right, enough with the romance,” he joked, just to cover up how pink his ears were turning.

Castiel took his hand out of Dean’s to scoop up some of the jelly.  As he reached around, Dean parted his legs further.  He met Dean’s stare.  And then Dean’s eyes fluttered when he fit one finger inside him and swiped at his rim.  Dean’s lips parted on a shaky breath.  Castiel pressed the pad of his finger down teasingly before slipping into his hole.

Dean grunted, his shoulders going taught and his muscles tightening around Castiel’s finger.

“Dean, relax,” Castiel told him, keeping his voice even.

Dean breathed out, easing the tension from his body.  “I’m relaxed,” he assured.  Castiel believed him, so he pushed further inside to the next knuckle.  Dean’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.  Castiel eased him open, adding more jelly and another finger when Dean was ready for it.  By the time a third finger was stretching him open, Dean was rolling back into Castiel’s hand and letting out loud groans.

His erection had waned some, so Castiel used his other hand to plump him up again.  Dean rocked back and forth between his fist and fingers.  He was gripping Castiel’s hair tight, and his moans were mixed with, “Cas . . . Castiel.”

Castiel was aching by the time he laid back and watched Dean sink down on him.  Dean moved on top of him, mouth open and eyes far off.  Castiel rolled his hips up to meet his thrusts.  His hands scrambled for something to hold on to, and he ended up riding Dean’s motions on his hips—until Dean took one of his hands and tied their fingers together again.

Castiel kept staring at him, watching the way Dean’s jaw worked, seeing the sweat collecting on his chest.  Dean’s eyes swept down to meet him, and a smile spread on his cheeks, crinkling his eyes.  He really was quite the sight to see.

With the beginnings of his orgasm slowly curling his toes, Castiel wrapped his fist around Dean’s cock and started working him.  Dean’s free hand joined him, and they pumped him together until Dean was gasping and grunting.  His body locked up, and he sat down further onto Castiel’s dick.  He came into their hands.

Castiel’s orgasm hit soon after, making him buck up into Dean.  They rode through the aftershock together, chasing the last of it, as their bodies slowed to a stop.

His lungs were burning.  He didn’t realize how sweaty he was until he reached up to run a hand through his hair.  Dean was still on top of him, chest heaving as he caught his breath.

Dean winced when he pushed himself up, sliding Castiel’s spent dick out of him.  He rolled off to the side and let out a breathy kind of laugh.  Castiel turned his head toward him, beaming in return to Dean’s infectious smile.  He was happy Dean was home, and his. At least for now.

As Dean lay on his back, Castiel looked down at his own body.  He wiped his hand on the sheet.  They’d made a mess of the blankets, but it wasn’t anything they hadn’t been able to wash out before.

Dean hummed, his eyes falling closed.  “Okay, now I’m exhausted.”

“I’d have to agree,” Castiel told him.  He could feel it creeping back into his bones, more powerful now that he was sated.  His mind didn’t turn like it had these past weeks every time he tried to sleep.  He thought he could drift off quickly.

“You know what else?” Dean asked, eyes still closed, voice sleepy.  Castiel rolled his head against the pillow again to look at him.  His profile was outlined by the orange light.  He said, “I think I’ve taken a shine to you.”

Castiel felt himself smiling again, a close-mouthed thing.  Every time Dean said that, it made him come alive.

He responded, “I think you better have.”

Something had spooked the horses.  That’s what had woken Dean up.  They were making a fuss, nickering and stomping around the pen.  Dean blinked awake to the darkness, the muted silvery light of the moon now hidden behind a wisp of clouds outside.  The temperature had dropped, sending shivers up his arms and legs.  Cas was still fast asleep on his belly, hogging all the blankets.

Dean sat up, hearing the bed whine under him.  Pain was thudding dully in his ass, and he had to shift his weight to stop it.  He held his breath, listening out for any unrecognizable sounds.  All he heard were the horses.

And then a shout cut through the night.  It was long and loud, pained.  It sounded like a woman being attacked.  Dean’s stomach dropped out from under him.

“Cas,” he hissed, immediately shaking Cas by the shoulder as he scrambled out of bed.

Cas scrunched up in on himself, taking a sharp breath.  “Mmm?”

Dean found his slacks on the floor and hopped into them.  “There’s someone outside.”  Where the hell was his shirt?  He quickly scanned the floor.

“What?” Cas asked, sounding more alert.  He’d lifted his head off his pillow and stared at Dean. Dean stared back, about to repeat himself, but then another cry echoed.  One of the horses whinnied.  Cas’ eyes went big.

As Dean slipped into his shirt, Cas jumped out of bed and hastily started dressing.  Dean lifted the mattress to pull out his Colt from underneath, and pulled back the hammer as he moved to the window.  He heard the whisper of wood sliding as Cas opened the dresser’s top drawer to retrieve his Derringer.

He stayed out of sight against the wall and peered outside.  There were no signs of a scuffle, but there was a figure by the main house, doubled over as one hand was held out on the porch post for support.  The other was clutching her stomach—her large, swollen stomach.

“Shit,” Dean hissed, the reality of the situation dawning on him.  He rushed to the door and shoved his gun into his waistband.  Cas was on his heels.

“Miss Kline!” Dean called.  The figure in the moonlight brought her head up, but she was still bent over in pain.

Cas overtook him in a jog.  “Kelly!”  He was at her side in no time, his arms going out to support her.  She let go of the post and hung on to him, one hand on his shoulder and the other in his.

She was talking quickly, voice weak.  “. . . didn’t know where else to go.  Please, help me, Castiel.”  Dean barely heard her.  He was too busy looking at the large, dark stain blooming on the front of her skirt.  It was difficult to tell its color in the near darkness, but he suspected it was blood.  His first instinct was that she’d been shot.

“Come inside,” Cas told her, his tone calm and measured, but he was afraid.  Dean could tell in how clipped his words were, and how tightly he was holding himself.  He glanced up, eyes connecting with Dean’s, and there was a controlled fear in them.  “Dean, help.”

Dean was at Kelly’s other side immediately, and they helped her onto the porch and through the front door.  It was awkward maneuvering her, and she was as heavy as bricks.  Her hand was clammy as it clutched Dean’s, and her grip must have been an indication of how much agony she was in.

When they got inside, Dean didn’t even have to call out before Sam’s bedroom door opened.  His hair was askew, and he was barefoot under his loose slacks.  The cuff buttons of his shirt were undone.  “Dean?” he was asking.  Unlike the state of him, he sounded wide awake—and he was.  Dean had seen Sam transition from out cold to sprinting in five seconds flat before.  “Miss Kline?  What’s—?”

“I need hot water,” Cas cut in as he led Kelly to the kitchen table.  Dean let his hands slip away, and he stood dumbly in the doorway.  He shared a severe look with Sam.

At that moment, Mary came through her bedroom door, still in her nightgown.  “What’s going on?”

Cas quickly cleared the table of the kettle and plates.  As he did, Kelly leaned forward against the wood, panting hard.  “Hot water,” he repeated, voice snippier.  “And blankets.  Go.”

“On it,” Sam said at once.  He squeezed past Dean and let the door clatter behind him as he rushed to the well.  Mary had disappeared into her bedroom, and she came back with a bundle of blankets and pillows from her bed.  She and Cas scurried to situate them on the table.  Then, Mary quickly turned to the fireplace and began piling wood to rekindle the fire.

Dean kept looking at Kelly.  Her hair was sweat-matted, and she was letting out grunts that suggested she wanted to scream.  Dean couldn’t fathom why she’d come there.  It wasn’t like Cas was a midwife.  He wondered if Cas had ever delivered a baby, or if he’d just read about it in his medical texts.  Mostly, Dean wondered if any of those books taught him how to deal with so much blood.

It seemed like a lot.  Too much.  Was that normal?

“Dean,” Cas said through gritted teeth.  Dean blinked back into himself.  “Get my medicine kit—and my tools.”

Dean didn’t think.  He turned around and ran back to the stable house.  He passed Sam at the well, hefting the full bucket back up from the depths by the rope.  They acknowledged each other, long enough for Dean to know that Sam had questions, too, but that was all.  They’d get their answers later.

When he got to the stable house, he opened Cas’ dresser drawer and pulled out his leather roll of tools to tuck it under his armpit.  He made sure the medical chest was fully closed before snatching it up, too.  He heard the contents inside rattle and shift, but the doors didn’t open to spill them out.  He doubled back on his way out to grab the blankets from their bed, just in case more were needed.

Back in the main house, Kelly was situated against the blankets and pillows on the table, her knees up and spread and her skirt rucked up.  She was gritting her teeth, grunting and crying, and her hair was soaking.  She looked pale in the flickering light of the fire behind her.  Dean looked away to give her privacy, because he shouldn’t have even been there.  None of them should have been.  Kelly should have stayed at the brothel, where she’d likely find better aid for this situation.

But Cas was bent over her knees, hard at work.  Mary was next to her, gripping Kelly’s hand as Kelly squeezed hard.  Sam was crouched next to the fireplace, stoking the wood and waiting for the water to heat up.

“What d’you need?” Dean said, hurriedly taking the medical kit to the pantry and placing it on the surface.  He’d helped Cas out with surgeries once or twice, so he knew what some of the medications and tools were but not what the hell to do with them.

“Morphine,” Cas told him distractedly.  Dean knew that one well enough.  He picked out the small tincture of clear liquid.  His fingers fumbled over the syringes laid out in the roll of tools as he tried to infer which of the three sizes Cas wanted.  The largest had a thick needle, and three round metal finger grips; while the smallest was a fine point with a stopper.  He grabbed the in-between size and brought the items over.

He watched, wide-eyed, as Cas measured out the right amount.  “Hold her still.”  Dean did as he was told, grabbing Kelly’s free hand.  She immediately laced her fingers with his and squeezed so tightly, it hurt.  Cas found a vein in her arm and administered the drug, his voice a little less calm as he explained, “This’ll help with the pain.  It should start working in a minute’s time.  Tell me if it doesn’t.”

She nodded quickly, grimacing.

“Sam, how much longer?”

“Uh—another couple minutes,” Sam told them.

“It needs to be boiling.”

“Got it.”

Dean patted Kelly’s hand once before slipping away to join Sam at the fire.  He glanced into the cauldron, where the first bubbles were beginning to line the bottom.  There was a cloth in Sam’s hand, and he was wringing it, nervous.  Dean realized he was grinding his own teeth.  His eyes flashed toward the table, and then to Sam.

“Why the hell would she come here?” he whispered, and Sam’s gaze flickered up to him.  “And how did she get here, anyway?  You’re telling me she walked two miles in that condition?”  He shook his head, trying to make sense of it.

Sam thinned his lips and took in a thoughtful breath.  Next to them, the fire popped.  “Maybe she didn’t want anyone to know the baby’s coming.”

Dean’s brow collapsed.  “Why?”

Sam glanced at Kelly, and then back.  He slapped the cloth into Dean’s hand.  “I dunno, Dean.  I’m gonna get more water.”  He stood up and rushed from the kitchen.

Dean stayed frozen for a long moment, blinking at the empty space where Sam had been.  He tried to make heads or tails of what Sam had meant.  Then, he shook his head and looked into the water pot.  It seemed heated enough now, so he dipped the cloth in and brought it over.  Mary took it from him, folded it, and handed it to Cas.

Kelly had stopped yelling so much, which was a relief until Dean looked down at her.  She was lying back against the pillows, head lolling and eyes fluttering.  She looked cold, despite all the sweat.  Dean brought his hand up, meaning to check her temperature, but then formed a fist and dropped it back to his side.

When Cas handed the cloth back to Mary, it was thick with blood.  Mary blinked down at it, stunned, and it made something tight clamp up in Dean’s stomach.  “Castiel,” she said, keeping her voice low.  “There’s a lot of blood.”

That seemed to make Kelly come to.  She lifted her head slightly, eyes half-opening.  “Wha—what?” she said, delirious.

“It’s okay,” Cas snipped before he could get his frustration in check.  Dean tensed his jaw, trying to stifle the urge to go over to Cas and lay a calming hand on him.  Cas breathed out, and it was pretty clear that nothing about this situation was okay.  “Don’t worry, Kelly.”

“No—no, Castiel,” she said, slowly shaking her head.  “If I don’t—You have to protect the baby.  My parents.  Take him to my parents—”

“Kelly, I promise, you’ll be fine.”

Shit.  She really wasn’t going to be fine.

Dean laid a hesitant hand to Kelly’s shoulder and tried to smile.  “Don’t worry, Miss Kline.  You’re in good hands.”

At that moment, Sam came back with another bucket of water, some of it sloshing out of the side in his haste.  Dean wet the cloth again before Sam dumped the bucket into the cauldron for heating.

Not long after that, Cas instructed Kelly to start pushing.  Mary was still holding her hand and dabbing her brow.  Sam was on her other side, reminding her to breathe.  Dean did his best to stay out of the way.  He kept his arms at his sides, fists tightening each time Kelly’s wailing pierced through the house.  His heart was pounding in his ears, urging him to do something useful, but he didn’t know what.

“Kelly,” Cas said at one point, and there was something about his voice now.  It was less tense—a little lighter.  Dean blinked over at him attentively.  “You’re almost through.  Just a little more.”  He wasn’t exactly smiling, but there were hints of breathless pride in his eyes.  “Just a little more.”

Kelly let out another yell, and then there was crying.  It took Dean half a second to realize it was the baby. Cas was standing up, the blood-slick child in his arms.  He was grinning down at it, holding it against his chest like it was precious.  A laugh bubbled up Dean’s throat, and he didn’t really know why.  He was aware of Mary and Sam letting out joyful breaths, too.

Cas looked up, eyes latching on Dean, holding his gaze.  Dean beamed at him.  And then he realized they should probably cover the child up.  He collected an extra blanket from the floor and brought it over to Cas.  They swaddled the baby up together, and Dean noticed that the front of Cas’ white shirt was stained red.  His hands and arms up to his elbows were slick, too.

“Take him,” Cas whispered, handing over the baby.  Dean’s heart leaped in panic because he didn’t know what the hell to do with an infant.  Especially when it was still screaming.  He wrapped it in his arms and tried rocking it.  The baby was swollen and pink, eyes shut and mouth open.  It was the smallest thing he’d ever seen.

He blinked down at the child as its cries lessened.

Cas had resumed his position on the opposite end of the table, and Dean realized he should hand the baby off to its mother.  Kelly had collapsed against the pillows, her breath coming out in shallow wheezes.  He went up to her, and she seemed to perk up a little.  “It’s a boy,” he told her.

Despite the drugged exhaustion on her face, she smiled and reached for the boy as Dean settled him in her arms.  “A boy,” she said, smiling widely.  “Jack.”

“That’s a beautiful name,” Mary whispered to her.

Dean looked next to him, at Sam.  Sam was still grinning, and his eyes were glistening.  He wiped at his mouth before clamping his palm to Dean’s shoulder.

And then Dean looked to Cas, meaning to share in the happiness.  But Cas was bent over again; when he glanced back, his face was drawn and severe.  He locked onto Dean’s eyes.  Dean went cold, his lips parting.

On the table, Kelly’s grip around the baby was slipping.  Her chin was dipping, and she would quickly raise it again in small bursts as if she were struggling not to fall asleep.

Dean paced toward Cas.  He tried to keep his eyes up, but he could see just how much blood was soaking the blankets around Kelly’s legs.  “What d’you need?” he whispered.

Cas stared back at him, nostrils flaring and jaw clamped as he tried not to panic.  His throat worked.

“Cas,” Dean said, trying to snap him out of it.

Nodding, Cas ran a shaky hand through his hair.  It left behind a smear of blood on his forehead.  “Um—A syringe,” he said.  “The big one.”

Dean nodded, but he thought Cas was missing something.  “Okay.  What drug?”

“Just the syringe.”

Dean didn’t understand it, but he did as he was told.  He collected the biggest syringe from the roll and brought it back.  Cas took it into one hand, and then held out his other.  He stuck it into his arm.

Dean jumped.  “What the hell are you doing?”

Cas pulled up the stopper, his blood filling the instrument.  “She needs blood.”

Dean was horror-stricken.  “Cas—”

“She needs blood,” Cas repeated, more irritated.  “Get out of my way.”  He took the needle out and walked around to the side of the table.  Sam blanched at the syringe, but he didn’t question it.  He lifted the baby from Kelly’s arms, and she didn’t protest.  Her body went limp.  Cas leaned over her, his hands adjusting her head to the side and sweeping her hair away from her throat.  He jammed the needle into her neck.

Kelly’s eyes fluttered.

“She needs more,” Cas reported, and went to stick himself again.  Dean was at his side before he’d made a conscious decision to move.  He grabbed Cas’ wrist.

“Are you crazy?”

“I’ll survive, Dean,” he said, trying to swat Dean away.

Dean didn’t budge.  “What if she needs more after that?  And after that?  You gonna bleed yourself dry?”

“Dean!”

“Dammit, Cas, no!  You need blood?”  He pushed up his sleeve and stuck his arm in front of Cas, because he’d rather bleed out himself than watch Cas do it.  “Use mine.”

Cas’ eyes softened, mouth falling open.  He shook his head somberly.  “Dean . . .”

The baby started crying again.  Sam bounced and shushed him to no avail.

“Castiel,” came a frail, croaking voice from the table.  Kelly’s eyes were open.  Her lips were blue in the firelight, skin waxy and dull.  Cas was instantly at her side, taking her hand in both of his.  “Castiel, you have to—Please, take him—Take him to my parents.  Waco—Texas.  Please.  Promise me.”

Mary reached up and brushed back Kelly’s hair with her fingers.  She was looking down at the woman mournfully.  Dean wondered if the two of them had ever even met before.

“Kelly—,” Cas whispered, and Dean felt his own heart break from the sound.

“Promise me you’ll protect my son.  You’re—I trust you, Castiel.”

Cas shook his head.  “Why does he need protecting, Kelly?”

Kelly blinked, and her eyes didn’t open back up.  “His father.  He’s—he’s looking for him.”

“Who’s his father?” Cas asked, suddenly urgent.  Kelly didn’t respond.  “Kelly, who’s the baby’s father?”

It took Dean some time to realize Kelly was speaking.  Her voice was so low, her lips barely moving.  “He’s the devil,” she repeated.  “He’s the devil . . . the devil . . .” She breathed out.

The fire popped.  The baby cried.

“Kelly?” Cas said.  He shook her arm, and she moved limply.  “Kelly?”  But he must have known.

Dean averted his gaze to the floor.  And then he looked up, his eyes landing on the child in Sam’s arms.

Jack.

Chapter Text

The sun was up by the time Dean placed the shovel against the back wall of the barn.  They’d found a nice spot for Kelly just beyond the tree line beneath one of the oldest oaks.  They marked it with a cross and everything.

Dean wiped his arm across his forehead, hoping to mop up some of the sweat that had collected there while digging.  He idly watched Sam prop his shovel next to his.  The two of them had been pretty silent throughout the whole thing, only speaking when they had to.  Their voices had sounded strange in the dawn’s red light as they lowered Kelly’s sheet-wrapped body into the earth.

Somehow, things were even quieter now.  Dean could barely even hear his boots against the grass when he walked.  The birdsong seemed far away.

Sam sighed, and it was far too loud.  “How’s Cas?” he asked, because the world had to return to normal eventually.  One of the horses snorted rowdily in the pen outside.

Dean glanced in the general direction of the main house, but all he saw was the barn’s wall.  He wasn’t really looking, anyway.  Sam’s guess on what state of mind Cas was in was probably as good as Dean’s, if not better.  Dean hadn’t seen him in hours; in truth, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Cas was thinking.  Poor bastard probably blamed himself for what happened.

“Tell you what: you manage to figure that one out, let me know,” Dean said.

Sam nodded.  And then, with a steadying intake of breath, “All right.”  He straightened out his spine and marched out of the barn.

Dean inspected the dirt under his fingernails before slumping after him.

The inside of the house was as quiet as a tomb—and almost as dark.  The curtains were drawn and Mary and Cas were sitting on opposite ends of the table.  Neither of them spoke or even seemed to know the other was there.  Mary was hunched forward, staring into the cup of moonshine cradled between her hands.  The jug was at her elbow.

The baby was asleep in Cas’ arms.  Jack had been cleaned of all blood; Cas hadn’t been.  It was stained deep into his shirt and flaking on his arms.  A streak of it was on his forehead, and the dried bits of blood in his hair were making it harden and stick up.  He was looking down at Jack, expression blank.  There was a whiskey in front of him, too, but it looked untouched.

Cas and Mary glanced up as Dean and Sam entered the house.

“How’d it go?” Mary asked after a moment.

Sam answered, “Good.  I think she’ll like it where we put her.”

Silently, Dean watched Cas square his jaw and dip his chin back down to look at Jack.  In Dean’s peripheries, Mary nodded.  There was a soft clink as she lifted her cup and took a pull.

“How’s the kid?” Dean asked.

It took a second for Cas to answer.  He let out a heavy breath from his nose, chest puffing and deflating.  “Asleep.”  Dean decided not to mention that he’d already gathered as much.

He walked to the sink and pumped some water out to wet his hands.  The stream just barely rinsed the dirt off, and he made a mental note to do maintenance on the aqueduct.  He shook his hands dry and went to the pantry for the bacon and a frying pan.  It would probably do them all some good to eat something.

Meanwhile, Sam had slid into one of the table’s free chairs.  He asked Cas, “Do you want me to take him for a while?  Maybe . . . If you wanna get cleaned up?  Or—change clothes?”  He was leaning forward, his voice low and respectful, eyes earnest.

“No,” Cas said simply.

Dean paused laying out the strips of meat on the pan to look over his shoulder.  Sam’s gaze was already waiting for him, asking him to talk some sense into Cas.  Dean really didn’t know how he was expected to do that.  His eyes flickered to his mother, and she looked back before pointedly flickering her eyes to Cas, too.  Dean looked heaven-bound, but all he saw was the ceiling.

He wiped his greasy fingers on his jeans as he turned toward the table.  Pulling out the empty chair, he dragged it until it was facing Cas, and sat into it.  He leaned forward into Cas with his elbows on his knees.  “Cas,” he said, and then waited until Cas looked up, already seeming pissed off.  “Why don’t you let us take the kid for a minute while you—”

“Jack,” Cas pointedly reminded him.

Dean paused, blinking.  His first reaction was to argue that it didn’t matter, but he stifled the urge.  He wasn’t trying to pick a fight.  “Right.  Jack,” he acquiesced with a lick of his dry lips.  He straightened his spine and gestured for Cas to hand him over.  “I’ll take him.  Get washed up and then we can figure out what we’re gonna do with him.”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, because Cas put on his half-perplexed, half-argumentative expression.  The one with the tilted head, narrowed eyes, and pouty lips.  “What are you talking about?  We’re taking him to Kelly’s parents.”

Dean sighed.  He shared another look with Sam, raising his brows as if he’d just proved some kind of point.  Sam’s lips formed a firm line.

“C’mon, Cas, that’s crazy,” Dean tried to reason.

Cas had been more than prepared to jump down his throat.  “Why is it crazy?  It was Kelly’s dying wish.  We owe it to her to give her that.”

“We don’t owe her—”

“She trusted me.”

Dean grunted down his argument.  He huffed and ran his palm down his face.  They shouldn’t have been saddled with this responsibility.  There was no way he was going to Texas to drop off some baby to two people who probably had no idea they even had a grandson.  The railroad would be too expensive, and they’d have to switch at least three times, and it would take weeks to get there and back on horseback.

“Don’t you think there are people better suited to care for a motherless baby?” he asked.  “Like an orphanage?”

“Kelly didn’t want her son raised by the Catholics.”

“You’re Catholic.”

“So, don’t you think I’d understand why she wouldn’t want that for her son?”

“Cas—”

“Dean,” Cas gritted out.  “I promised her I’d protect him.”

Dean threw his arms up in defeat and let them slap back down to his thighs.  There was no reasoning with Cas when he got this determined, but it was worth a try.  “You don’t even know who you’re protecting him from.”

Cas looked back down at the baby, expression pinched.

Behind him, Mary said, “She said . . . Jack’s father was the devil.  Any idea what that means?”

Dean shrugged, because it didn’t matter.  He was probably some outlaw or corrupt sheriff or Democrat politician eager for the South to rise again.  “Lots of shitty people out there.  Take your pick.”

“Maybe not,” Sam said from across the table.  His eyes were moving from side to side like he was reading, his brows knitted in intense thought.  “Remember that wanted poster at the bank?  Uh, Nicholas Pike?  Bobby said he went under the alias Lucifer.”

“Yeah, he’s been in the papers,” Mary added.

Dean’s forehead smoothed out in realization.  He’d forgotten about all that, but it made sense.  “You think he could be looking for Jack?”

Sam shrugged like Dean’s guess was as good as his.  But he looked at Cas and said, “If that is the case, Dean’s right, Cas.  If Lucifer doesn’t find Kelly, the next place he’ll look is with her next of kin.  An orphanage may be the safest place for him.”

Dean was grateful for the back up.  He turned his head back to Cas expectantly.

He watched Cas jut out his jaw as he stared down at the child.  He still seemed reluctant, but he was considering it.  Dean got the urge to rest a tender hand on his knee, but he didn’t.  He wished they were alone so he could talk openly with Cas—to tell him he wasn’t to blame for Kelly’s death; and, at the same time, he was glad Mom and Sam were around, because Dean really didn’t know what he’d say to comfort him.

After a while, Cas nodded.  “Okay,” he decided, but he didn’t seem too happy about it.  “You’re right.”

Sam nodded, too, even though Cas wasn’t looking at him.  “Okay, good.  Then, why don’t you wash up while we make breakfast?  We’ll go into town and get some supplies for the journey.”

Slowly, Cas stood up, his chair scraping against the floor.  Dean’s eyes followed him, his spine straightening automatically.  He began to lift his arms up, expecting Cas to place the baby in them; but Cas pivoted away to Sam and bent down to give Jack to him.  Dean watched them shuffle Jack into his brother’s arms, and Sam gave Cas a tight smile as if to say he had him.

He watched Cas slump toward the door and disappear into the daylight.

Sam tied Bones’ reins to the post outside Talbot's General Store.

“All right, I figure if we leave at noon, we can be in Kansas City by sundown,” Dean was saying as he dismounted Chevy.  “Hopefully Ellen’s got room.  We can stay there tonight and ride the rest of the way to the orphanage in the morning.  Sound like a plan?”

Dean’s voice was bright and sunny, just like the heat beating down on them from above.  It was forced cheer, and Sam preferred it no more than Cas’ continued sullen silence.

“Yeah, sounds good,” he said distractedly.  He looked down the post, past where Dean was tying up Chevy’s lines, to check on Cas.  Below the brim of his hat, Cas was squinting idly at the group of men playing checkers on the store’s porch benches.  But Cas must have felt his gaze, because his eyes flickered to Sam out of their corners.  Sam’s pulse leaped in a panic, because he knew how hard Cas was taking Kelly Kline’s death, but he offered a smile Cas’ way.  Cas didn’t smile back.

Oblivious to the interaction, Dean said, “Then, let’s get it done.”  He patted Chevy’s nose before walking around her.  Sam turned his head to watch him before following.  Dean’s shoulders were held tighter than his cheery demeanor suggested, and just because he wasn’t paying attention to every expression of consolation shot Cas’ way didn’t mean he wasn’t paying attention at all.  The entire morning, Sam watched Dean stare at Cas when he thought no one was looking.  He saw the way Dean’s fingers tightened into fists when he wanted to reach out, saw the way Dean held Cas’ name between his teeth every time he wanted to say a kind word.

Honestly, Sam didn’t know what was stopping him.  It wasn’t as if he didn’t know what went on between his brother and their friend.  Cas was family at this point, and more than that to Dean.  But, sometimes, Sam wondered if Cas knew that.  Hell, he wondered if Dean did.  But he decided long ago to butt out of their relationship, no matter how difficult that often proved when they put him in the middle.

As Dean trudged up the steps of the porch and waved a little, offering a “How’re you fellas?” to the group of men, Sam hung back and waited for Cas to catch up.  They walked toward the store together, and Sam stayed quiet for a few paces, deciding on what to say.  He landed on, “Hey, uh, Cas?  You know I’m here, right?  If you need to talk or anything?”  He thought he should add on his brother’s behalf, “And Dean is, too.”

Saying things like that could only go one of two ways with Cas.  He could sigh and roll his eyes as if he was being belittled or he could give a gentle smile and appear appreciative of the gesture.  Luckily, Sam received the latter.  “Thank you, Sam,” Cas said, voice low.

Sam decided to leave it at that.  As they walked up the porch steps, he glanced at the signs lining the outside of the store: tin advertisements for cigars, goods, and medications, along with an old poster from the last mayoral election.  Talbot’s opponent’s poster, however, wasn’t present, which may have been why he’d lost.  Sam noticed that the wanted poster for Lucifer was also missing, which was strange.  He’d been expecting to see it there.

He pushed in the double doors of the General Store and was immediately met with the blended aromas of cheeses and cured meats, the pungent scent of fresh leather, and the sharpness of tobacco.  Long counters lined the sides of the store, folded denim and dresses, household items, soaps, and medicines sat on the surfaces.  Rounded display cases held jewelry and China dolls, guns and knives, harmonicas, and Jew harps.  A few tables were set up, littered with open paper bags with pungent loose spices, nuts, chicken feed, and licorice.  The grocery and foodstuffs were on shelves lining the back of the store.  Pails, lanterns, ropes, and farming supplies hung from hooks on the ceiling.  A potbelly stove was situated in one corner, and a booth that served as the post office in the other.

Dean was already leaning against the register, talking to Garth across the counter.  Garth was fixing him a cup of coffee from the mill.  A box of cigars rested near his elbow, another box of nails near that.  Garth was all smiles and already talking a mile per minute as Sam approached.

“Oh, howdy there, Sam,” he exclaimed in his jovial Southern accent.  “I was just tellin’ Dean that Bess thinks the little one on the way is actually little ones.  I’m gonna be a daddy to twins!”

Sam shot Cas another look, because he doubted any of them wanted to hear about a pregnant woman right now.  Cas had wandered to the back of the store, where he was inspecting a can of condensed milk.  Figuring they were safe, he shot Garth a smile of his own.  “That’s great!  Congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you!”  He handed the cup of coffee to Dean.  “You want one?”

Sam shook his head, declining.  “Actually, we just came in here to grab a few things.  We shouldn’t be in your hair for too long.”  He mostly aimed it at Dean, as a reminder, but Garth laughed loudly and waved it away.

“Aw, you know I love seein’ y'all!”

Sam liked Garth, but he often came on a bit too strong, and he could rarely take a hint.  He tried to keep his grin from flickering as he said, “Right.  Us, too.”

Dean stayed behind to chat with Garth as Sam ducked away.  Cas had moved on from the shelves of food, his arms laden with a few cans of milk, and gone to the cloth nappies.  His brow was furrowed down at them in abject confusion as he picked one up between two fingers and looked at it like he didn’t know how it was supposed to work.

Sam decided to take pity on him.  “We don’t need those,” he said when he reached Cas.

“Infants are known to defecate frequently,” he informed Sam.

“Yeah, but we have cloths we can use in the meantime.”  He pinched the nappy out of Cas’ hand and set it neatly back down on the counter.

The cans wedged between Cas’ arm and chest shifted precariously as he turned to Sam.  “We don’t have that much cloth to spare.”

“We have enough for one day,” Sam promised him.

Cas’ eyes flashed with something akin to realization, but Sam couldn’t quite place it.  It made him pull his brows together.  Cas had quickly trained his features back into something more neutral.  There was something he wasn’t saying.

Sam opened his mouth to ask what it was, but then, across the store, Garth’s voice caught up to him: “. . . flames were higher than I’d ever seen!  They needed three water tanks and six hoses to put it out.  We’re just lucky it didn’t spread to the rest of the street.  The whole town’d go up like a tinderbox.”

“Shit,” Dean cussed.  “Anybody die?”

Sam and Cas shared a glance, the moment between them forgotten for now, and they both walked back over to the till.  Garth was answering, “I heard one of the firefighters did.  And one of the johns who was inside at the time.  I think maybe a couple of the townsfolk who helped to put it out, too, but I’m not sure.”

“What happened?” Sam asked.

“The cathouse went up in smoke last night,” Dean told him, glancing up at him as he continued to lean against the counter.  His posture was relaxed but his eyes were hard.  Bobby had told them that Lucifer’s gang burned places down.  If this was them, after all, they could have been looking for Kelly.

But they had no proof of that yet.  There was no need to jump to conclusions.  “That’s awful,” Sam said.  “What happened?”

Garth shrugged.  “Not too sure.  Paper’s saying a candle got knocked over or something.”

Sam considered that.  He wondered if anyone was still hanging around the bordello that would have more answers.

“Hey, you looking to buy that?” Garth asked, indicating the milk in Cas’ arms.  They bought it, along with some jerky, butter, eggs, and tobacco.  Garth wrapped it all up for them in brown paper and tied it with twine.  The three of them walked out of the store, and Sam waited until they were out of earshot from the checkers players before turning into Dean and Cas.

“So, what’re we thinking?” he asked, his eyes moving between the two of them.

Cas mulled it over, holding the package of supplies against his chest.  “If this Lucifer really is Jack’s father, and he’s looking for him, he could have started the fire,” he said.

“Yeah, or it coulda been a candle,” Dean argued, just for the sake of it.  He didn’t really believe it.  “Too much—ya know, chandelier shaking going on.  Accidents happen.”

“Seems like a pretty purposeful accident to me to burn down the whole place,” Sam shot back.

Cas seemed eager to agree.  “It couldn’t be an accident.  Kelly—when she came into my office yesterday . . . she was nervous.  She was afraid.”  He shook his head, eyes going far off and his mouth forming a line as if he were angry with himself for not acting on that sooner.  “I thought she was worried about becoming a mother.”

“Cas, knowing what she was afraid of couldn’t’ve stopped what happened,” Dean said, voice suddenly tight.  Sam was almost relieved.  It was the most he’d said all day on the topic.

“I know,” Cas said like he didn’t actually believe it.  “But if Jack’s father is already in town . . .”

“Okay, slow down,” Sam said, raising a hand.  “We don’t know what happened yet.  We need answers first.  Real answers, not whatever the papers are saying.”

Dean plucked the package from Cas’ arms and brought it over to Chevy’s saddlebag.  He opened the flap and stuffed it in.  “Then let’s go get some,” he suggested.  “Whatever happened, I’m guessing Rowena knows.”

They walked down the street together, toward the side of the intersection where the majority of the saloons, opium dens, and the brothel were situated.  Where men generally never slept and usually ignored the town ordinances banning guns on the street.  Sam could already smell the ash on the wind from down the block.  There were still remnants of smoke in the air, and more upstanding citizens than usual were milling around on the street outside where the once-two story, purple painted walls of the bordello stood.

The top floor was rubble, the balcony where the girls used to entice men to join them collapsed.  The bottom floor seemed still intact, but it was charred black, and the windows were shattered.  The front door was gone.

A few of the girls were crowded around the boardwalk on the opposite side of the street, talking in hushed voices and smoking cigarettes.  But there was one away from the crowd, leaning against a post and squinting at the remains of the building.  Her dress was black and red lace, and waves of dark hair fell around her shoulders.  Sam didn’t recognize her from around town.

“You think Rowena’s inside?” Dean asked, light eyes sizing up the building as if determining whether or not it was still a sound structure.

Before Sam could answer, Cas shouldered between them and marched toward the entrance, his tan duster kicking up dirt in his wake.  Dean threw his arms up.  “Guess we’re finding out,” he muttered before starting after him.

Sam glanced around at the woman and was surprised to find her now looking back.  “Uh, yeah, you go ahead,” he called after Dean.  “I’m gonna see if any of the girls know anything.”

Dean looked over his shoulder, teasing grin in place.  “Don’t go spending your hard-earned cash for an alleyway fuck, Sammy.”

Sam puckered his lips in annoyance, at a loss for how to answer that, and Dean only laughed and kept on.  He checked to make sure there weren’t any carts or horses coming before crossing the street toward the woman.  She was lighting up a cigarette now, not paying him the time of day.

“Uh, excuse me, miss?” he asked when he was close enough to her.

She looked up, dark eyes cold as they landed on him.  She pressed a tight smile on to her lips that seemed to suggest Sam should go fuck himself.  “Sorry.  Not working right now, in case you didn’t get the message.”  She gestured her cigarette toward what was left of the bordello.

Sam raised his brows and then knitted them in confusion.  He thought she’d been expecting him to come over, but he hadn’t meant it in that way.  “What?  No!”  He chuckled, and it sounded awkward to his own ears.  She was actually very pretty.  “No, I—uh.  I’m Sam.  Winchester.”  He put his hands on his chest to indicate himself, meaning for it to be disarming.

She took a pull of her cigarette and shook her head.  “Okay?  Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

He was going about this all wrong.  “Guess not.”  He cleared his throat and tried again: “I was a friend of Kelly Kline’s.”

The girl blinked in recognition, her lips parting.  “Oh.”

“I mean,” he corrected himself, flustered, “Not a friend-friend.  I wasn’t a client.  Just—a friend.”

She nodded like she didn’t really care.  “Right.  Got it.”

Sam felt the tips of his ears heat up.  He tried to tame his pulse and to redirect the conversation.  “Did you know her?”

She shrugged.  “Not really.  I’m pretty new here, but I hear Kelly is, too.  But she’s—you know.  Nice.”  She said it as if that were a bad thing.  “Can’t stop talking about that baby to anyone who’d listen.”  And then, something seemed to dawn on her.  She stood up from her lean against the post.  “Hey, why did you say was?”

Sam realized what he’d done.  Of course, no one else would know Kelly was dead.  “Oh.  She’s, uh . . . She passed.  Last night.”

The girl blanched.  “You’re kidding?”  Sam shook his head, mournful.  She let out a heavy breath and looked blankly ahead as she fell back against the post.  “Fuck.”

Sam nodded, remembering all the blood.  “Yeah, you can say that again.”

The girl kept staring off.  “And on the same night that this happened, too.  I never expected this town to be so exciting.”

He looked down and gave a breath of mirthless laughter.  “Well, welcome to Lawrence.”

“Thanks,” she answered dryly.  “But something tells me I should start packing my bags.”  She scoffed, “Well, what’s left of them.”

He turned back to the bordello, eyeing the damage, and remembered why he’d walked up to her in the first place.  “You have any idea what happened?”

“People are saying it was a candle,” she answered.

He had to admit, he was a little disappointed, but he supposed not everyone who’d lived inside would be able to determine truth from gossip.

“But, if you ask me, that’s a load of shit.”

His eyes snapped back to her, shocked.  “You’re not buying it?”

She shook her head.  “No way.  After what happened last week?”

Now they were getting somewhere.  “What happened last week?”

“When that man showed up?” she said as if expecting him to follow.  He shook his head, at a loss.  She continued on: “It was one of my first nights here.  There was some man who came in, making a ruckus.  Threatening Rowena about something.”

Sam considered that.  It could have been Lucifer.  There hadn’t been a sketch on his wanted poster, so he could have easily slipped into town without anyone knowing.  “Threatening her about what?”

The girl shrugged again.  “You got me.  But a bunch of the other girls were scared.  Rowena got him to leave, but I got the feeling it wasn’t over.”

Sam asked, “He wasn’t after Kelly, was he?”

The girl gave him a funny look.  And then, “Sorry, that’s all I know.”

He hummed, accepting it.  Hopefully, Dean and Cas had found Rowena and gotten better answers.  But, still, this girl had given them a little bit to work with.  “Thank you, miss, uh—?”

“Ruby,” the girl told him.

Sam smiled at her before he realized what he was doing.  “Ruby.  Thank you.”

“Sure.”

He turned and started back across the street.  He only managed a couple of paces before Ruby called after him again.  “Hey, Sam?”  He paused, a little thrill of excitement zipping through him at the sound of her voice saying his name.

“Yeah?” he asked, looking back around.

Her expression was set in concern.  She asked, “What happened to Kelly’s baby?”

He was surprised she cared, but pleasantly so.  He told her, “He’s alive.  And safe.  Under the care of the town doctor.”

Ruby mulled that over for a moment before nodding, seeming satisfied.  The corners of her lips quirked in a more genuine smile than before.  “That’s good news.”

He nodded, agreeing, and tipped his hat to bid her goodbye.  She took another puff of her cigarette, and he continued on to meet his brother and Cas, already standing outside the bordello again.

The interior of the building was just as blackened as the outer walls, but Castiel had pictured much worse damage when he poked his head inside the door and glanced around.  The wooden tables and chairs around the bar were now piles of ash, but the fabric sofas and armchairs were, surprisingly, somewhat intact.  Their upholstery was mostly burnt off, but patches of cloth patterns peeked out beneath the soot in some places.  The stairs leading to the rooms upstairs were still standing, only they ended in a wall of rubble at the top.  The banister had crumbled in the middle.

A giant hole, its shape jagged with broken rafters jutting out, in the ceiling let in a patch of sunlight that illuminated the gray ash swirling through the air.  The bar was also still standing, though it was clear the flames had licked their way up its wood.  One chunk of it, off to the side, was still smoking.

He took in a deep breath, the stinging scent overpowering his lungs until he could taste it.  He’d seen this before: smoke and fire, ash and ruin.  He was half his own age when Chicago was swallowed by flames.  When the image of fire was forever burned behind his eyelids.  When he walked through the smoldering carcass of his family’s home, watched his sister cry and his parents and neighbors collect anything that was salvageable.  When he saw the wounds of the injured and dying and could do nothing to help them.  When he decided to go to college, after all, like his mother wanted, to study medicine, and then to never risk living in a big city again.

He breathed out and shook the memory from his mind.  It was a ghost from so long ago.  He had matters to attend to in the present.

A single woman stood in front of the bar, her back to the door and her elbows against the charred wood.  There was a glass of whiskey in her delicate white hand and a half-empty bottle next to her.  Her bright red hair and pink dress were a stark contrast to the scorched blackness surrounding her, so much so that she almost hurt Castiel’s eyes when they found her.

“Rowena,” he called, and stepped through the threshold, deciding the building wouldn’t collapse on top of him.  The floorboards groaned under him as he left boot marks in the soot.

Rowena looked over her shoulder long enough to acknowledge him, and then faced forward again.  “Dr. Novak.  Pity a handsome man like you only comes round when there’s a problem,” she said, her accent as lyrical and bubbly as ever despite the shambles in which she’d found her business.

As he came level with her, she took a pull of her whiskey, swallowed, and said, “But I don’t think your expertise is much use to this particular predicament, which begs the question . . . Why are you here?”

He looked at her profile, searching for any signs of burns or injury.  She appeared fine, which was a relief, because he’d rather not get sidetracked.  He’d left Jack with Mary for longer than he’d like already, and if the bordello fire had anything to do with Lucifer, he wanted to get back as quickly as possible.  The sooner they sorted this out, the sooner he could get the child far away.

“I want to know what happened last night.”

She brought her glass back to her lips but didn’t drink right away.  “Don’t we all, Castiel?” she answered dryly.

He didn’t believe that, but he’d expected a little pushback.  Rowena had a tendency to keep her affairs, and those of her girls, private.  It was her job to ensure no real harm came to them.  “You know what happened.  Tell me.”

She paused, and then turned to face him, placing one hand on her hip.  “What’s got you so interested?” she challenged.  Perhaps he was going about this wrong.

Before he could opt for a lighter touch, there was a commotion in the doorway.  “Cas?” Dean barked, and he halted there, shadow filling out the threshold.

Castiel rolled his eyes.  “Over here.”

Dean glanced over, his expression going taut.  He looked around warily and placed a tentative hand on the doorframe, then wrapped his fingers around it and tugged.  He lifted his foot and toed at the floor inside as if testing for cold water.  When he seemed satisfied that the structure would hold, he dropped his shoulders and walked inside.

The ceiling above creaked, ash raining down.  Dean threw his arms protectively over his hat and yelled, “Sonofabitch!”

At the same time, Rowena pointed a stern finger at the ceiling, glared, and yelled, “Don’t you dare, you bloody slag,” as if scolding it would prevent the building from collapsing.  However, it seemed to work, because the wood settled.

Across the room, Dean straightened out, cleared his throat, and tugged on the bottom of his vest.  His expression was carefully blank, or so he thought.  It barely concealed his embarrassment.  When he spoke again, his voice was rougher than normal, likely to compensate.  “Great, you found her.”

“Implying you were looking for me?” Rowena said as Dean joined them near the bar.  His eyes flickered up to the ceiling once, just to make sure it was holding.

Castiel sighed.  The excitement of Dean’s interruption had taken all the fight out of him.  He hadn’t had proper sleep in two nights, and his exhaustion was starting to catch up with him.  “Rowena, we need to know who started the fire.  Were they looking for Kelly?”

Rowena’s face evened out and she narrowed her heavily painted eyes at him.  “How on earth would you know that?”

Castiel shared a look with Dean, who raised his brows, because she’d just confirmed their fears.  Lucifer was here.  Somehow, he’d tracked Kelly down.

Dean said, “What happened last night?”

Rowena eyed them for another long moment before exhaling.  “For the full story, we’ll have to go a little further back than that, my dears,” she told them.  “About a week ago, a man came in looking for Kelly.  Tall fellow—sandy hair.  I didn’t recognize him, so, naturally, I was a little skeptical of him asking for one of my girls by name—especially one who wasn’t even working.  I told him she wasn’t in, but he didn’t believe me, insisting to have a look around.  I let him, but had a few of the girls sneak Kelly out.  He left soon after that, easily enough, but . . .”

Dean shook his head, fishing, “But?”

“Ach!” she scoffed.  “I had a feeling he’d be back.  He seemed angry not to find her.”  She gulped down another sip of her whiskey.

That’s why Kelly had been afraid for Jack.  She knew Lucifer had found them.  But Castiel didn’t know why she hadn’t come to him sooner.  He could have helped her leave town.  On top of that, he wouldn’t be left with so many unanswerable questions, the foremost of which was, what did an outlaw and murderer want with a baby?

Rowena looked up at them suddenly, apparently just realizing something.  She asked, “Where is Kelly, anyway?”

Castiel looked at his boots, his throat suddenly clogged.  He should have pressed Kelly for information sooner.  He could have helped.

“She died,” Dean said, slipping his hat off his head and pressing it respectfully to his chest.  Castiel felt his eyes on him before looking away again.  “Last night, giving birth.  She sought Cas out to deliver the baby.”

Rowena let out a noise of disbelief.  “Oh, the poor darling!” she exclaimed.  “And the baby?”

He felt Dean about to answer with the truth.  Castiel cut him off before he could.  “It was stillborn.”  Dean’s eyes snapped to him, and his jaw audibly clamped shut.  Castiel didn’t return the stare.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t trust Rowena.  She’d been more than kind to Kelly.  But, the fewer people who knew about Jack, the better.

Rowena let the news wash over her.  She nodded, expression tightening.  She picked her glass up again, made a toasting motion as if for the mother and child, and drained her drink.  When she spoke again, her voice was thick with whiskey.  “Still, the child’s probably better off—what without a mother to protect it, especially if its father was capable of something like this.  I don’t blame her for wanting to keep the baby’s birth a secret.”

Castiel agreed.  It certainly was unfortunate.

“Thank you, Rowena,” he said.

Dean put his hat back on, and said, “Yeah, thanks.”  He still sounded distracted.

Rowena dismissed them with a wave and poured herself another glass.

Castiel and Dean started toward the exit together.  When they were halfway across the room, Dean whispered, “So, we’re sure the guy looking for Jack was Lucifer?”  It wasn’t really what he wanted to say, but Castiel was grateful he wasn’t asking why he lied to Rowena.  Dean must have understood the reasoning behind it.

“It fits,” Castiel told him.  “I think we can only assume it’s him.”

Dean nodded, introspective as he let Castiel go through the door before following him out.

The sun seemed brighter than before, and Castiel squinted into it as his eyes adjusted.  He shook his head.  “I don’t understand.  If Kelly knew Lucifer was after her, why didn’t she say anything?  Even if she’d been too afraid to tell the sheriff, she could have come to me—”

Dean threw his arm out, catching Castiel by the chest, and stopped walking.  It halted Castiel immediately, and he had no choice but to mirror the motion when Dean turned to him.

“You know none of this is your fault, right?” Dean asked, and he didn’t exactly sound annoyed.  Impatient, maybe?  As if he didn’t know why he even had to say such a thing.

Castiel let out a breath, hoping it would ease the spike of irritation and remorse that rushed to his head.  “Yeah,” he answered shortly.  He knew it wasn’t his fault—conceptually.  Not viscerally.

Dean didn’t seem to buy it.  “Even if Kelly had told you about Jack’s father, it wouldn’t matter.  She bled out.  You know that.  I mean, hell, man, after seeing that last night?  I’m shocked any woman survives giving birth!”

Castiel slid his eyes back to him, and Dean must have known he was on the verge of a tangent.  He shook himself to get back on track.  “Point is,” he said firmly, holding a hand out between them as if he were laying down the law, “there’s nothing you coulda done, okay?  Nothing.”

“I know,” Castiel told him, trying to convince them both.  He didn’t mean to sound so argumentative, but Dean often brought that out in him.  “But there’s something I can do now.”

“Oh, yeah?  And what’s that, huh?” he asked, like he already knew.

Castiel prepared for a fight.  “I can respect Kelly’s wishes and bring Jack to Waco to be raised by his grandparents.”

Dean was already nodding halfway through, but not in agreement.  His lips were pursed and he was staring to the side with hard eyes, because he’d expected to hear as much.

Castiel powered through.  “It’s what she wanted.  She believed it was what’s best for Jack.  I promised her I’d—”

“We’ve been through this!” Dean erupted, his voice a whisper-shout as to not attract attention.  “The best thing is to take Jack somewhere he’s anonymous.  That’s the orphanage.  Won’t do him any good to go all the way to Texas just for Lucifer to knock on the Klines’ door.  You get that, right?”

Castiel steeled his jaw and looked off.  Sam was across the street, talking to one of the working girls.

“And you never actually promised her anything, anyway,” Dean said because Castiel really needed reminding that Kelly died without hearing the words.  Without knowing for certain that her child was safe.

Dean let out a breath, settling.  “Look,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose to tame his frustrations.  “I know you’re just trying to help.  And I wanna help, too.  Kelly was a nice lady.  But the orphanage is the best course of action for everyone involved.  It’s what we all agreed to.”

Castiel brought his eyes to the ground.  He couldn’t tell Dean that he’d never planned on taking Jack to the orphanage.  He’d only agreed to shut the Winchesters up, because it was clear they weren’t going to help him on this.  He’d go with Sam and Dean to Kansas City, and he and Jack would catch a southbound train from there.  He didn’t want to lie to Dean, but what option did he have when Dean was so set in his ways?

He’d go to Texas, and he’d deal with the consequences of Dean’s ire when he returned, after Jack was safe.  Perhaps he’d even stay in Waco for a few months, just until he was certain Lucifer wasn’t coming.

“Okay?” Dean demanded.

Castiel nodded.  “Okay.”

Dean let out a relieved breath.  “Good.  Now, let’s go get the stage from the station so we can pack up.  We gotta get that kid out of town before anybody realizes he’s actually alive.”

He turned and raised his hand to signal to Sam, who was crossing the street toward them.

Castiel looked up, watching Dean’s back as he walked away—the familiar bowlegged gait, the tense way he always carried himself, like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.  So much had been placed on him from such a young age after his father died.  Dean was put in charge of his family’s well-being: their livelihood, the food on the table, their land, their protection.  When Castiel had arrived, Dean had been quick to adopt him into that fold.  Everything Dean did, he did for the good of his family; Castiel understood that.

He just wished Dean would listen to him sometimes.  And he wished Dean would take the same care with Jack.

Castiel couldn’t tell Dean what he was planning once they reached Kansas City.  He just hoped, when he returned to Lawrence, he’d be welcome.

The outlaw waited.

Maybe she should have been worried.  After all, conducting a meeting in such a public setting was probably as safe as walking into the sheriff’s office and stating her business.  And maybe she would have been worried if she didn’t have certain protections in this town.

It was high noon.  She sat at a table in the center of the hotel’s dining room.  The windows were open, letting in the sunshine and the scent of dust and horses.  The long, lace curtains twitched every so often when someone walked by on the boardwalk.  There was chatter from the other lunch-goers rising up around her, mixed with the clinking of utensils on china.

“More wine as you wait, miss?” a waiter said, appearing at her elbow.  He was already holding a bottle in hand.  She gave him a smile and nodded.  He poured some of the red liquid into the glass, careful not to splash any onto the white tablecloth, and then he was gone.

The outlaw glanced back at the entrance and sighed when she found it empty.  Her meeting was supposed to begin ten minutes ago.  She wasn’t exactly a stickler for timetables, but she was on a schedule.  Lucifer had taken a few of their gang and ridden back to their base near Wichita; but he expected an informant with his child’s location by nightfall tomorrow, and she did not want to piss him off.

Other than that, the person she was meeting was a bitch.  She couldn’t trust her.  Maybe inviting her to lunch was a bad idea.  Maybe breaking into her apartments and waiting for her there would have gotten the outlaw a more captive audience.

Someone was approaching the table.

She glanced up and saw a tall woman with light brown hair walking toward her.  She was wearing a linen regency dress and a diamond necklace, far more elegant than the frock and corset the outlaw currently had to suffer inside.  A cat-like smile was already pulling at the woman’s face.

“Lovely to see you again.  I do hope you haven’t been waiting long,” she said in an upscale British accent.  Apparently, her parents had shipped her off to boarding school across the ocean from a very young age.  As if the bitch wasn’t pretentious enough, the accent was the icing on the cake.

She slipped off her silk gloves and folded them on the table before sitting down.  At once, she raised an arm, waving for the waiter.  “Pardon me?”  The waiter arrived in an instant.

“Good afternoon, Miss Talbot.”

“Good afternoon,” she said, smiling back.  Every inch of it was knife-sharp.  “Could I trouble you for a wine?  Whatever my friend is having is splendid.”

“Of course,” the waiter said and went to fetch the bottle.  Bela brought her attention back to the table.

“You done?” the outlaw asked snidely, raising a brow.  “Or are you gonna order the cream stew?”

“Don’t be crass, Ruby,” Bela chided.  “It is lunchtime, after all.  But, never mind that.  What have you got for me this time?”

The waiter returned to fill up Bela’s wine.  Ruby waited until he was gone again before saying, “Nothing.  It’s time you held up your end of the bargain.”

Bela’s eyes twinkled.  “I should say my family is holding our end just fine.  I don’t see you languishing in jail, for instance.”

Ruby rolled her eyes.  Lucifer had a number of mayors and sheriffs in his pocket.  He gave them a simple deal: provide protection from the law when he and his gang were in town and a share of the robberies went to them.  It was funny how many politicians responded to that kind of incentive.

But Bela went above and beyond.  She gave them train schedules, bank blueprints; she even let them know when a wealthy businessman was in town with his money and jewels.  After the hand-off, Ruby was certain Bela pocketed just enough money for herself that her father wasn’t suspicious.  Ruby could respect that, even if she didn’t hold an ounce of respect for the woman herself.  Because, perhaps once, Bela Talbot had a soul, but she’d sold it for a bar of gold years ago.

“There’s another one of us in town,” Ruby said, cutting right to the chase.  “Someone I need to find so I can bring him back to my father.”

“Your father,” Bela said, reproving.  She sipped her wine, sharp eyes never blinking.  Ruby felt her annoyance spike, but she was known for her patience.  It always paid off in the end.  “Please.  He ripped you from your parents’ arms so that you could be an urchin pick-pocketing the foolish masses, only to later graduate to highway robbery.  That’s all any of you are: foundlings and plunders shaped into his liking.  That doesn’t sound very much like a father to me.”

Ruby gritted her teeth, a moment away from bringing out the knife concealed in her boot.  Patience, she reminded herself.  Bela was only trying to get a rise out of her, most likely because she was bored.

“Oh, yeah,” Ruby snipped back, “because you’re such an expert on loving fathers.”

Bela’s smile instantly dropped, her eyes going cold.

Ruby smirked and leaned it.  It was nice to have Bela’s attention.  “Now.  About why I’m here.  I need to find Lucifer’s son.  His real son.  The girl carrying the child lived in the bordello.  I’m told he’s under the care of the town doctor now.  Novak?”

“I’m certain Novak holds office hours,” Bela quipped, frigidness now in her tone.

Ruby shook her head.  She’d gone by the doctor’s office earlier.  It’d been locked up.  “Yeah, I think I’d rather make a house call.  I need to know where he lives.”

“And how should I know?”

“Find out.”

Bela scoffed and waved her hand dismissively, but she appeared to be thinking.  Her eyes moved back and forth, and then, something dawned on her face.  A sly kind of smile spread on her lips, closed-mouth.  “Instead of Dr. Novak, you might instead want to look for Dean Winchester.  It’s rumored that the two of them are in a bachelor’s marriage.”

Winchester?  Ruby thought back to earlier that day—to that flustered monolith of a man with puppy-dog eyes.  The not-friend-friend of Kelly Kline.  His name had been Winchester.  Sam.  He’d been with two other men, and Ruby was willing to bet that was Dean and Novak.

“They live a couple of miles south of town.  Shouldn’t be able to miss them,” Bela supplied.

Ruby nodded, a plan formulating.  That far out of town, getting the baby would be easy.  She could collect him and get out quickly, meet up with the others, and ride to Lucifer.

“But I have to warn you,” Bela went on, and her voice was wily again as if she contrived some kind of amused pleasure out of the drama that was to unfold.  “Don’t underestimate the Winchesters.  The whole family is full of brutes and Neanderthals.  Worse, they’re animals, and all an animal knows how to do is survive.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?  Ruby was pretty confident she wouldn’t be bested by some prairie dwellers.  “Thanks but I think I can handle myself.”

Bela shrugged and sat back primly.  “Suit yourself, but there’s a reason that family survived the Massacre of ‘63.  From what I understand, their father was a Union soldier and their mother was a Jayhawker.”

Ruby had heard of the Jayhawkers.  They’d been a group of free-state Kansas civilians during the war, banded together to fight the pro-slave towns on the Missouri border.  She hadn’t known there’d been women among them.  It was almost a shame Ruby would have to kill this Winchester.

“They taught their sons everything they knew in order to defend themselves against the inevitable Confederate retribution,” Bela went on.  “In fact, I’m told that during the raids, Dean Winchester was barely six years old when he shot and killed his first man.”

No way that was true.  “Yeah, right,” she laughed.

“I’m quite serious,” Bela told her, and Ruby couldn’t tell if she truly believed the story or if she was just eager to retell a juicy tale for the sake of it.  “Apparently, he was protecting his brother.  Now, if he can do something like that as a child, imagine what he could do as a grown man when his lover is being threatened.”

Ruby wouldn’t put much stock in that.  But the rumor was there for a reason, so maybe the Winchesters would be more of a challenge than she’d originally thought.  Or maybe not.  Because, all it meant was, the Winchesters and Novak had a weakness.  Each other.  Ruby could do a lot with that, given a little patience.

Too bad she’d have to do this one quickly.

“Right.  Back up, it is,” she said and stood up.  “Thanks for the tip.”

Bela looked up at her, smile firmly back in place.  “Anything for my favorite business partner.”

Ruby left her.  There was a lot to plan.  She’d have to ride out of town and meet up with the others.  They could attack tonight.

Dean had a map spread out on the kitchen table, his eyes on the space between Lawrence and Kansas City.  It was a little outdated, missing a few of the towns that had cropped up in the last two or three years along the state border, but it was accurate enough for what they needed.  He picked up a piece of charcoal and drew a snaking line along the Kansas River from one point on the map to the other.

It was an easy enough road to take.  All they’d have to do was follow the river upstream until it connected with the Missouri.  They could avoid going through any towns if they wished, which would probably be wise.  It took a little convincing, but Bobby let them take out the stage for the journey under the threat of his boot up their asses if so much as a scratch got on it.  But that didn’t mean they wanted to risk running into any Wells, Fargo agents in the neighboring towns.  It was best to keep this unauthorized route as hush-hush as possible.

Dean wasn’t about to lose his job for a baby.

Speaking of the baby . . .

He brought his eyes up to peer through the window over the sink.  Sam was finishing loading their overnight luggage and supplies into the stage’s rear boot.  The three horses were already harnessed.  Usually, they only took Chevy and Bones, but the luggage, along with an added passenger in the carriage, required extra effort, and the two horses had only just gotten back from a long drive.  They’d barely had time to rest, so Lincoln was reined in next to Bones.  Chevy was in front, guiding the others.  She was the smartest, after all, and the best with commands.  And Dean trusted his girl a lot more than the other two.

Mary was standing beside Sam at the boot, bidding him goodbye with an embrace.

Dean’s gaze sought out Cas.  He was standing a little ways away, looking down at the baby nestled into the cross-body sling Mary had stitched together from an old bedsheet.  She’d also given them a wicker basket with bedding shoved inside to carry Jack, but Cas seemed to prefer keeping the child close to his chest.  Apart from their ride into town, Cas had barely put the kid down all morning.

It was the damndest thing.  The baby brought out something fierce in him, and something gentle.  Cas always had been both those things, but never at once—not that Dean had seen, anyway.  Not until the first time he saw Cas hold Jack.

In his peripheries, he saw Mary move away from Sam.  On her way toward the house, she passed Cas, laid a hand on his shoulder in a goodbye.  She smiled down at Jack, said something, and then started walking to the door.  Dean snapped his eyes back down to the map, not really seeing it anymore.

He heard the door open, followed by the sound of Mary’s boots against the floorboards as she stepped inside.  He stood up straight, leaving the map where it was.  “Hey,” he said.  “They ready to go?”

She nodded.  “I think so.”

“Great.”  He rounded the table and stopped in front of her.  “Well, all goes according to plan, we should be back by tomorrow night—following morning, at the latest.”  He hated leaving her behind again, especially so soon after another route.  He especially hated that she wouldn’t even have Cas around if she needed anybody—not that he stayed home much.  But it was still nice to know there was someone dependable in the vicinity.

“You need anything, just go find Bobby,” he reminded her.

“I know, honey,” she said, smiling in that way she did when he was being overbearing but she pretended it was sweet.  He couldn’t help that he worried about her.  “I’ll be fine.”

“No, I know,” he assured.

“Then, relax.”  She reached up to cup his face and went up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek.  When she was back on her heels, she said, “Safe travels.”

He smiled down at her, relishing the way her thumb stroked his cheek to wipe off the moisture from her kiss.  His eyes dropped to the plain bronze ring on a chain around her neck.  He wished his father were still with them.  Maybe then, Dean wouldn’t feel so guilty about leaving her behind all the time.

He went back to the table and grabbed his hat next to the map, then palmed it onto his head.

She waved him off, a fond smile licking the corners of her lips, and he set off out of the house.  Sam was leaning against the back of the stage, digging the toe of his boot into the dirt as he waited.  His shotgun was propped up against the back wheel.  Chevy was hoofing at the earth, too, ready to go, despite her lack of reprieve from their previous job.  Cas was still standing off to the side, his arm wrapped under the sling to give Jack added support.

“We movin’ out or what?” Dean called to them.

Sam looked up from under the brim of his hat.  He didn’t answer, but instead moved to the front of the stage.  He placed the sawed-off in the footwell and climbed up into the shotgun seat.  Cas was walking over, his eyes on the ground.  Dean paused at the back of the stage and waited for him to catch up.

“He asleep?”  He tried to peer into the sling but he only caught sight of Jack’s arm and his tiny, wrinkled hand.

“Yes,” Cas said, bringing his attention back to the child as if making sure.

Dean leaned in to get a better look.  Jack’s eyes were closed, his head resting against Cas’ chest.  Dean couldn’t help the sideways smirk that quirked his lips at the sight.  When he glanced up, there was a line between Cas’ scrunched brows.

“What?” Cas asked, suspicious that Dean was making fun of him.

“Nothin’,” Dean promised.  He didn’t know what possessed him, but he reached out for Cas’ arm holding Jack up.  He placed his hand over his, momentarily sharing the slight heft of the baby.  He never thought he’d be much a father to any child, and he likely never would be at this rate—but a strange sort of longing swept over him then.  As if that baby could stay in Cas’ arms.  As if it could be normal.

He let his hand drop and reminded himself of the purpose of their journey.  He cleared his throat.  “Go on and get in.”

Cas nodded solemnly before heading for the carriage door.  Dean walked around the stage and climbed into the driver’s box.  Gathering the reins, he looked at Sam, making sure everything was settled.  Sam didn’t even have to nod back for Dean to understand the message.  They were set to move out.

He tugged on the reins, getting Chevy’s attention, and told her, “Yah.”

The horses started in a canter.  The stage lurched forward, pulled toward the eastern road.

Chapter Text

Dusk was dripping like honey over the prairie.  The sunrays were visible streaks as they lit up the swaying fields of wheat in gold, and the canopy of trees was a smudge of blue-tinted shadows.  The sight of it brought back an old memory, one Ruby had tried to forget long ago but kept returning like a half-forgotten dream.  Except, instead of plains, it was of mountains—as high as the clouds.  The sun always used to dip low over the mountain ranges.  When it got too dark to see, her mother would call her inside, and scold her for the mud on her knees.

Ruby couldn’t remember what her mother looked like now.  But she remembered the mountains.

She shoved the memory aside, because it brought back less peaceful thoughts, too.  Like the ghost of her father’s fists.  She’d run from them, straight into the arms of her true father.  Her savior.  Lucifer.  He ensured she never had to be afraid again.

She urged her mount down the dirt road until a homestead nestled into the trees came into view.  A fence ran the perimeter, with an opening beneath a wooden arch.  Ruby glanced over her shoulder at the man riding behind her.  “This is it,” she said.  The Winchesters’ home.  Smoke was coming from the chimney and a soft glow permeated the windows.

Ramiel was nearly a silhouette in the subdued light, but she saw him well enough to know he’d nodded.  She faced forward and tapped her heels against her horse to set it into a canter.  Ramiel followed swiftly behind her.

A single horse was inside the pen nearby the Winchesters’ barn, and there was a darkened stable house toward the back of the property.  No one appeared to be inside, unlike the main house.

Ruby and Ramiel dismounted near the porch.  She took the house in, looking for any means of escape should she need to.  It was small enough that she could get a better assessment once inside.  She looked at her companion, her eyes dropping as Ramiel opened his coat to reveal his revolver before concealing it again with the garment.

The two of them walked to the front door, Ramiel standing behind her as Ruby rapped on the wood.  She listened to the sounds of footfalls inside.  Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw the curtain on the window next to the door twitch.  It was followed by the rattling of a chain being unlatched.

The door creaked open only halfway, revealing a frowning blonde woman.  Ruby assumed she was Mary Winchester.

“Can I help you?” Mary asked, her eyes flickering warily over Ruby’s shoulder to Ramiel.

Ruby put on her sweetest smile.  “Mrs. Winchester, good evening.  Sorry to be calling so late.  I’m a friend of your son’s.  Sam.”  For effect, she stood on her toes and made it appear as if she were trying to spot Sam inside.  She was actually taking in the layout of the house.  All she could see from that vantage point was a wooden table, the shelves of a pantry, and the closed door of a back room.  “Is he here?”

Mary crowded more into the doorway.  The woman was suspicious, Ruby noted.  “No,” she said.  “He left earlier today.”

“You don’t know when he’ll be back, do you?  We don’t mind waiting.”

Again, Mary glanced at Ramiel.  “I’m sorry, but he’s on a route.  You’ll have to come back another time.”

She made to close the door.  Ruby stepped forward, preventing it.  Mary’s head jolted back in surprise.  Her body tensed in what appeared to be preparation.

Ruby shot her another disarming smile and a quick laugh.  “Do you mind if I come inside, then?  It’s just—he has something for me and I need it.  It won’t take long.”

“Okay,” Mary said, but she didn’t move out of the way.  “Why don’t you tell me what it is and I’ll get it for you?”

“It’s a little hard to describe.”

Mary leveled her with a look.  She shifted slightly to the left, as though she were reaching for something on the other side of the door.  “I think you better leave.”

That was enough of that.  Ruby shoved open the door, causing Mary to reel backward.  Mary had a double-barrel shotgun in her hand, not yet raised, and Ruby yanked it from her grip.  She pushed it into Ramiel’s chest behind her as she continued to crowd into the tiny kitchen.

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna have to insist,” she said, dropping the cheery demeanor.

Ramiel held up the shotgun and cocked it to show they meant business.  Mary’s eyes were alert, expression firm as she raised her hands in surrender.

Ruby looked around to her companion.  “Keep an eye on her.  I’m gonna look around.”

“Come on, against the wall,” Ramiel told Mary, backing her up further into the kitchen.

Ruby left them to check out the room behind the closed door.  It was a bedroom, two single beds inside.  One was pushed under the window and the other was perpendicular to it, up against the wall.  A dresser was sandwiched between them with a few tomes flanked by bookends on top.  Ruby went up to it, inspecting the books.  There was an encyclopedia, a couple of law manuals, and the like.

“You’re awfully handsome for a bookworm, Sam,” she muttered to herself.

She pulled out the drawers, only to find clothes and a few other personal items.  She doubted there was anything in the room that would point to where the Winchesters and Novak were taking the baby.  There had been another door off the kitchen, but Ruby figured that was Mary’s bedroom.  It probably wouldn’t contain any clues, either.

Leaving Sam’s bedroom behind, she walked back out into the kitchen, surveying her surroundings as she went.  Nothing immediately jumped out at her.

Ramiel had Mary backed up against the corner between the fireplace and the pantry.  The crackling inside the hearth filled the small space while Ruby paced toward the sink.

“What do you want with Sam?” Mary said, not so much asking as she was demanding.

Ruby shrugged, the corners of her lips pulling down while simultaneously running her fingers across the top of the table.  “Horseback rides through the fields,” she answered.  “Picnics under an oak tree.  Who knows, maybe a baby?”  She glanced up with an innocent smirk.

Mary’s face went dark.  “The baby’s not here.”

Ruby rolled her eyes.  “Yeah, I know that.  Just like I know your sons have him.  Tell me where they went.”

Mary closed her lips tightly.

Ramiel looked over his shoulder.  “What do you think?  Should we take her to the boss?”

In her peripheries, Ruby saw Mary slowly bring her hand up to the pantry.  There was a folded piece of parchment on the ledge.  Her fingers inched toward it.  It was a subtle movement, and Mary probably would have been able to pull the wool over anyone else’s eyes.

“No need,” Ruby said.  She briskly walked around the table and ripped the parchment out from under Mary’s fingertips.

Ruby turned, walking back around to the other side of the room as she opened up the map.  A charcoal line was drawn along the river leading to Kansas City.

Ruby smiled down at the black line.  “Looks like we have what we need right—”

Behind her, Ramiel grunted out in pain.  She spun around to find Mary had somehow gotten the shotgun back.  She whacked Ramiel across the head with it, sending him to the floor.  He stumbled and fell headfirst into the fire.  But Ruby barely heard his screams as Mary turned the gun on her.

Mary blew a stray strand of hair out of her face.  She said, “Stay the hell away from my boys.”  She pumped the gun, looking ready to use it.  Ruby had no doubt she would.

Thinking quickly, Ruby grabbed the side of the pantry’s shelves.  She pulled hard, causing it to topple over between the two of them.  It crashed down, taking the pots and pans, sacks of grains and flour, and jars with it.  She heard Mary let out a shout as she jumped out of harm’s way.

Ruby tore from the house, the map still clutched in her hand.  Outside, the two horses were restless.  She moved as fast as she could, stepping into the stirrup and swinging her leg over the saddle.

The front door of the house banged open.  Mary stepped out, shotgun still poised.  She fired off a shot.  Ramiel’s horse bucked before running away.  Her own mount backpedaled nervously.  Ruby tugged the reins to get it under control.

She kicked, steering the horse to gallop out to the road.

Another shot went off behind her, kicking up the dirt on the trail to Ruby’s right.  It’d just missed her.

She tore down the road, not stopping until the Winchester homestead was far out of sight.

Sam was ready for a hot meal and a bed.

Night had fallen by the time they reached the outskirts of Kansas City, where the homes and farms were nestled closer together before giving way to industry.  The city was glowing with scattered orange in the distance.  The steamboats were black monoliths where the Missouri River branched off into the smaller Kansas.  The stars were a blanket overhead, meeting the tall grass of the plains at the horizon.

They’d gotten a little sidetracked on their journey—and not just because Dean was adamant to steer clear of any towns, which Sam thought was a good call.  But they had to stop, too, when Jack began wailing.  They knifed a hole in the top of the canned milk, but feeding Jack proved more difficult than they had anticipated.  One of them had to slant Jack’s head back while another tipped the milk into his mouth.  That only made him spit it back up, usually over Cas, who was holding him.  Eventually, they worked out a system.  They stopped a second time to wash Jack off in the river when he soiled his nappy.  The entire thing set them two hours behind.

But, thankfully, they’d at last reached their destination.  Unfortunately, however, Dean had taken to humming the same tune he had been for the last three hours.  Every now and again, he would mumble the offbeat lyrics.  It was “Red River Valley.”  It must have been stuck in his head, and, at this rate, it was stuck in Sam’s, too.

“Dean, seriously?” Sam complained, unable to take it anymore.  He was tired.  They were all tired.  “At least change up the song every now and again.”

Dean shot him a sideways look, like he’d been the one offended.  “You know the rules, Sammy.  Driver picks the tune, shotgun shuts his cakehole.”

Sam rolled his eyes and looked back out to the surrounding landscape.  He didn’t have it in him to argue at the moment.

“Speaking of,” Dean said.  He leaned over and picked up the sawed-off at Sam’s feet.  He slapped it into Sam’s lap.  Sam let out a sound of protest, but Dean didn’t stop to hear it.  “Hold that, would you?  At least pretend to live up to your job title.”

Sam resituated the gun on his lap and took another sweeping look around.  Sure, it was dark, but he was keeping an eye out by the light of the lanterns swinging by hooks at the front of the stage.  Not that there was much to look at.  There weren’t any spots in the vicinity where a highway robber could potentially hide.  It was all just flat land and wheat.  Besides, they were almost in the city, anyway.  “I’m doing my job just fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We haven’t gotten robbed yet, have we?”

“Yeah, because there’s no one around to rob us,” Dean admitted, proving Sam’s point.  He ruined it by adding, “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

Despite himself, Sam scoffed out a laugh.  “You know I have a gun in my hands, right?”

“Good.  Keep it there.”

There was a beat, and then Dean glanced over again, a smirk on his mouth.  He was just bored.  Sam sighed, long-suffering.  Dean went back to humming.  Sam very nearly shot him, after all.

Soon enough, they were paying the toll at the bridge to cross into the city.  Their stage moved down the crowded streets, wheels rattling and horses’ hooves clunking against the cobblestones.  Street vendors were pedaling their products to the crowds still milling around.  Lit lanterns and telegraph poles lined the sidewalks.  Horses, buckboards, and passenger stages were on the road alongside them.  Sam even saw one person on what he was sure was a bicycle.

Massive factories and slaughterhouses loomed, puffing smoke through great chimneys.  Some of the tenement buildings were four floors high.  As they passed a hotel, Sam was excited to see a steady yellow glow emitting from the windows.  He’d only seen a handful of places with electricity in the cities they’d passed through on their routes.  He pointed it out to Dean who, like always, seemed interested in the engineering but distrustful of the thing itself.

It had been nearly ten years since they’d last been to Kansas City, and it had become much more metropolitan in that time than Sam remembered.

Before long, they found the street where Ellen’s saloon stood.  It was a little off the beaten track but Sam still spotted the lively group through the saloon’s windows.  Dean stopped the stage in the street outside the building.

“Alright, why don’t you and Cas go in and get settled?  I’ll find the stage house to put this for the night,” Dean said.

Sam didn’t need to be told twice.  He grabbed his shotgun and climbed down to the street.  Cas still hadn’t gotten out, and the curtains inside the carriage were drawn.  Sam rapped his knuckles against the window.  “Cas?  You alive in there?”

He didn’t wait for an answer before opening the door.

Cas was blinking awake, his brow pulled down as he peered around in groggy confusion.  On the seat beside him, Jack was fast asleep in the wicker basket.  Sam was jealous, if he was being honest.  He grinned teasingly.

“Have we arrived?” Cas asked, voice rough with sleep.  He sat up in an attempt to rally himself.

“Just got here,” Sam told him.  “C’mon.  Let’s grab the luggage and head inside.”

Cas was nodding, despite his attention being on Jack, while Sam walked around to the boot of the stage.  He pulled out his luggage, along with Dean’s, who only packed a spare shirt and socks into a saddlebag.  Cas joined him, the wicker basket hanging from his elbow.  Sam handed him his leather suitcase before closing the boot.

“Good to go,” he called to Dean.

“Buy a whiskey for me.  I’m right behind you,” Dean told him before he urged the horses forward again.

When Sam looked around, Cas was on the sidewalk staring up at the floor above the saloon.  The Roadhouse wasn’t technically an inn, but Ellen sometimes rented out the rooms for the right price.

“Let’s go in,” Sam said.  He readjusted Dean’s saddlebag on his soldier and tightened his grip on his own luggage’s handle before pushing through the door.  A wall of noise, tobacco smoke, and whiskey arrested his senses at once.  Drunken men were sitting at tables and standing around the bar.  One table was in the midst of a poker game; another was loudly singing a tune too garbled for Sam to understand.

He turned back to Cas, who was warily glancing around at the affairs.  Sam’s eyes fell to the baby, who luckily wasn’t stirring.  They had to get him upstairs before he woke up—or before someone tried to make it their business as to why they’d brought an infant into a saloon.

He shepherded Cas toward the bar, where a young woman with long blonde hair was serving up a glass of whiskey to a man who appeared to have had one too many.  He was practically doubled over on the counter.  He was saying something, slurring his words.  When Sam got closer, he heard, “—fit for something other than pouring drinks, little lady.  Pay you a pretty nickel, I would.”

Sam’s fist tightened again, this time around the handle of his shotgun concealed beneath Dean’s saddlebag.  He was about to pull the man away when the woman shot him a sweet smile and asked, “Oh yeah?  Well, why don’t you come a little closer then?”  She reached out, her slender hand coming to the man’s neck.

The man instantly leaned forward, eyes closed and lips puckered.  Her expression changed, going from pleasant to angry.  Her grip on the back of the drunk’s neck tightened and she slammed his cheek down into the bar, holding him there.  The thump it caused made a few people look over.

“Get the hell out of here,” Jo barked at the drunk, practically wiping the bar with his face as she shoved him away.  He stumbled backward.

“Bitch,” the drunk said before fighting through the crowd.

“Yeah, you bet I am!” Jo called, getting the last word.  Her attitude always had been much bigger than her body.

Sam’s eyes were wide, impressed and amused, when her gaze landed on him.  He hadn’t seen Jo since five Christmases ago when she and Ellen visited Lawrence.  Clearly, she’d grown quite a bit from the fifteen-year-old girl who’d blushed when Dean complimented her dress.  Of course, she had ripped that dress after mass that evening getting into a fight with one of the town’s boys for flicking the back of her head during the service, so maybe she’d never been destined to be a proper lady.

“Sam?” Jo asked like she couldn’t believe her eyes.

“How’s it going, Jo?”

She rushed around the bar, and he leaned in for a hug, and he had to set down his luggage to return it.  Raising her voice over the noise, she asked, “Is Dean with you?  What the hell are you doing here?”

Sam’s smile flickered slightly when he remembered all that had occurred in the last twenty-four hours.  “Long story,” he said and turned halfway around to bring Cas into the conversation.  When Ellen and Jo had last visited, Cas had gone home to Chicago to spend the holidays with his family.  Dean had moped the entire month; not so suspiciously, his mood had lifted the moment Cas returned in early January.  “Jo, this is Cas.”

She nodded pleasantly at him.  Cas gave her a tight smile, as he usually took some time to warm to new people.

“And this,” Sam continued, resting his hand on Jack’s feet under the blanket in the basket, “is Jack.”

Jo balked.  “Oh my god.”  She brought her eyes back up to Sam.  “Whose—?”

“It’s part of the long story,” Cas told her.

Jo nodded, something dutiful passing over her eyes like she already understood the gravity of the situation.  Ellen and Jo were like that, always eager to aid those they cared for, no questions asked.

Speaking of Ellen, Sam glanced around in search of her.  “Where’s your mother?”

“In the cellar getting a few more bottles,” Jo told him, looking around, too, like her mother could appear at any moment.  “We should get you guys upstairs.  I’ll let her know you’re—Dean?”

Sam glanced around just in time for Dean to appear at his shoulder.  He was all smiles.  “Hey-ya, Jo.”

“I was wondering when you’d show your ugly mug,” she said before the two embraced.  Sam glanced over them, looking at Cas.  Cas stared back, seeming perplexed and a bit overwhelmed.  He was likely still waking up, if his rumpled hair was any indication.

When Sam looked away, he spotted Ellen walking in through the backdoor behind the bar.  He called her name over the crowd.  She spotted him at once, which wasn’t so hard considering he was taller than most of the people around him.

She walked around the bar, expression welcoming.  “Sam and Dean Winchester, as I live and breathe,” she said, taking in the sight of them.  Her gaze fell on Cas, a little cagier.  “Who’s this?”

“Mom, this is Cas,” Jo introduced, but Ellen didn’t seem so interested.  She’d already spotted the baby.  She was looking at the four of them in turn, waiting for clarification.

“We can explain everything,” Dean told her.

Ellen’s mouth formed a line, but she nodded.  “All right.  Then, let’s get you boys somewhere quiet.”  She turned toward the door in the far corner that led to the stairwell.  The rest of them followed.

They got settled in a room upstairs, down the hall from Ellen and Jo’s living quarters.  The sounds from downstairs were muffled while they got the women up to speed.  Ellen was seated in the armchair in the corner of the room, while Dean and Jo were sitting at the end of the bed.  Cas was standing nearby, arms free.  Sam had offered to take Jack when the baby woke up and began fussing, and Cas actually relented.  Sam bounced Jack in his arms, trying to stop the intermittent cries.

“And does the orphanage know you’re coming?” Ellen asked when they were finished with the story.

Dean shook his head.  “The kid was only born last night.  And, like we said, we had to get him out of town pretty quick.”

“So, what?” Ellen said, lifting a brow.  “You just gonna pray they have room for him?”

Sam had considered that.  There was a chance the orphanage could turn them away, but he was banking on that not happening.

Dean groaned and knuckled at his eye.  “I dunno, Ellen.  It’s an orphanage.  If they’re not gonna take him, who will?”

“His grandparents will,” Cas said from the corner.  It was the first thing he’d said in an hour.  The fact of that made his voice sound grittier than usual—or perhaps it was just the nature of the topic.

Dean swiveled around, likely to glare at him.  “Don’t you start.”

Cas narrowed his eyes at Dean.

“Well, in any case, we oughta pray,” Ellen cut in, diffusing the situation.  Dean turned back around.  “In the meantime, you three can stay here.  I’ll make up two more rooms.”

Dean yawned, waving it away.  “Me and Cas can share.”

There was only a slight pause.  Jo glanced at Sam as if looking for confirmation to the revelation.  Ellen remained steady and said, “Okay.  One room for Sam, then.”

Sam nodded his thanks, right before the loud sound of glass shattering sounded from downstairs.  They all jumped at the noise.  Ellen had offered one of her regular patrons payment to watch the bar while they were upstairs, but from the sounds of it, he wasn’t doing a great job.

Even worse, it made Jack start crying in earnest.

“Dammit,” Ellen hissed, standing up.

Sam tried rocking him faster to no avail.  Dean groaned and put his head in his hands.  Cas sighed.  “I think he’s hungry,” he said, crossing the room.

“What, again?” Dean asked, voice muffled.

Cas shot him a look that Dean couldn’t see as he passed him.  When he reached Sam, they shuffled Jack into his arms.  The baby didn’t stop crying.

Jo was asking, “You fed him already?”

Dean lifted his face out of his palms.  “If you wanna call it that.  He mostly threw it up.”

“Useless men,” Ellen muttered.  Then, louder, “You need a baby bottle to feed him.”

“A what?” the three of them asked at once.  Cas made it sound confused; Dean made it angry.  Sam just had no idea what Ellen was talking about.

Ellen scoffed.  “Figure it out.  I gotta get downstairs and see what got broken.”  She breezed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Jack was still crying.  Sam felt a headache coming on because of it.

“All right,” he said, deciding, “Why don’t me and Dean go out and try to find one of those baby bottles.  Cas, you think you can handle him by yourself for a while?”

Momentarily, Cas seemed besieged, but he nodded like a soldier might when receiving orders.

Dean slapped his palms on his knees and stood up.  As Jo got to her feet, he asked, “You wanna show us where we might be able to buy one of those things?”

She snorted, halfway offended.  “Yeah, because I’m supposed to just know that information, right?  But, sure.  I’ll help you find . . . whatever a baby bottle is.”

Sam wasn’t feeling very confident about their odds.  Unfortunately, it was the only option they had.  As the three of them got ready to go, Cas brought Jack to the armchair and sat down.  He wasn’t doing a great job at rocking him.  He looked far too uncomfortable.

But he was trying.  They were all trying.

An hour later, Sam and Dean still hadn’t returned.  Luckily, the saloon had become less rowdy.  The group singing drunken tunes was gone and the poker game had dwindled into a few seasoned players.  A number of men continued to loiter around the bar, but they conducted themselves in a quiet fashion as Ellen poured their drinks.

Castiel sat at a table toward the back of the room.  He’d given up waiting for the baby bottle as Jack’s cries turned into wails.  Ellen took pity on him by heating some fresh milk in a pot over her potbelly stove and giving Castiel a tin ladle to go with it.  It made feeding Jack much easier than the earlier attempt on the trail.  She also informed him they needed to cut the milk with water to feed him.  He considered the fact that he was out of his depths.

Ellen had also warmed up a plate of steak and potatoes for him, but it sat mostly uneaten at his elbow.  He found he couldn’t stomach much that day; besides, he was too busy with Jack.

He was down to the last dregs of milk, only enough to partway fill the ladle.  He tipped it against Jack’s lips as the baby stared up at him with wide eyes.  Even outside the candlelight, his eyes were light.  Blue.  Kelly had light eyes, too, but he couldn't recall their color.

A sad half-smile pulled at the corner of Castiel’s mouth and, in that moment, looking at the baby, something crashed over him like a wave.  He wasn’t certain what it was—only that it was too big to name.  It had hit him at certain moments throughout the day.  The feeling made him cradle Jack a little closer to his chest.  It made him all the more confident in his decision to take the child to Texas.

But, when the tide receded in the inevitable push and pull, it left a twinge of guilt in its wake.  He didn’t want to keep lying to Sam and Dean about his intentions.  Perhaps Sam would understand, but he’d tell Dean, who wouldn’t.

Castiel set the ladle back down in the pot as Jack yawned widely.  It made the smile on Castiel’s face stretch wider.  “I agree,” he told the baby.  Despite his nap in the stage, he was still bone-tired.  With any luck, he’d be able to grab some more sleep on the train that night.

He was so wrapped up in Jack that he didn’t notice a newcomer approaching the table until she was standing over him.  “Now, that’s not something you see every day.”

Castiel glanced up at the woman.  She was in a lace, garishly colored dress and the darkness of her hair and eyes contrasted her porcelain skin.  She carried a bottle of whiskey by the neck in one hand; two empty glasses were pinched between her fingers in the other.  He thought, in a city such as this, prostitution would be outlawed.  Still, he would have thought the same of gambling, but that didn’t seem to stop the sporting men in the corner, either.

“I’m not interested,” he told her, hoping that would be the end of it.

She snorted, humored by his bluntness.  “Who says I am?  Maybe I just need a break.  Figured a man with a baby could give me an excuse for that.”  She placed the whiskey and glasses down on the table before pulling out a chair to seat herself.  She poured them both a drink and slid one across the wood to him.  “Name’s Meg.”

He sighed, resigning himself to his fate.  He’d rather not be sociable, especially now that he’d finally gotten Jack settled, but he didn’t know how to politely get rid of her.  His eyes flickered to the entrance, hoping Dean would come through.  He didn’t.

“Castiel,” he said, picking up the glass and taking a sip.  Perhaps he could use a drink.  It may help calm his anxiety about leaving.

Meg swallowed some of her drink, too, and nodded her chin forward.  “That your kid?”

He found himself pressing Jack closer to him, getting a better handle on him in case the woman tried to take him away.  It was a silly thought.  She was only looking for a client, not a baby.  He looked down at Jack, trying to come up with an answer to the question.  He settled on a simple, “No.”

“Aren’t you chatty,” she teased.  He looked back up at her and found her smirking.  “So, what?  You kidnap him?”

Castiel started at that.  “Of course, not!”  He didn’t need her spreading that rumor so that the sheriff might catch wind of it.  “His mother—she—she passed.  I was her physician.  I’m . . . caring for him.  For now.”

She raised a brow as if she hadn’t expected such a reaction.  “Real nice of you to tell me your life story, Doc.”

He huffed.  First, he was too quiet for her; now, he spoke too much for her liking.  He very nearly told her to leave if she wanted better company, but then she asked, “So, what?  You gonna pawn him off at that Catholic mission outside town?”

His heart stuttered, and then his eyes narrowed in suspicion.  “How did you—?”

She shrugged.  “Know a few girls who’ve done the same when they got unlucky.”

He settled.  Of course.  She was a whore.  It was likely she’d know of the orphanage.

She sucked on her teeth and spit off to the side of her chair.  “So?  That the plan?” she asked with mild interest.

Castiel considered her.  Part of him wanted to take the opportunity to unload on this stranger—to tell her that, yes, it was the plan, but it wasn’t one he’d follow.  And that the man he was involved with most likely would take it as a personal offense when he woke up in the morning and found Castiel gone.  Telling someone, anyone, would probably help him more than whiskey could.  Because, hopefully, Meg would agree with him.

He could have confirmation, once and for all, that he was making the right decision.

But he didn’t tell her—because her opinion didn’t matter much, anyway.

“Yes,” he said.  “That’s the plan.”

She poured herself another drink and nodded.  “Good luck with that.”  She stood up, draining her glass before slamming it back down on the table.  “Well, better get back to it.  Keep the bottle—as a parting gift.”

He pressed his mouth into a line, trying for a smile, but his expression didn’t seem to get the message.  Regardless, Meg sauntered away.  He squinted after her, watching her sidle up to one of the men near the bar, her hands sliding up his back to gain his attention.  He seemed much more interested than Castiel ever could be.

Movement near the entrance caught his eye.  He glanced over and found Dean, Sam, and Jo step inside.  There wasn’t anything in any of their hands, which didn’t seem very promising.  Perhaps no one else knew what a baby bottle was either.

“Dean,” Castiel called, catching his attention.

Dean looked at Sam and Jo before leaving them, walking toward the table.  “Hey,” he said, occupying the chair where Meg had sat.  He didn’t say anything else.  Instead, he grabbed the bottle of whiskey and sloshed some into Meg’s empty glass.  He knocked it back without questioning why it was there in the first place.  His eyes flickered to the uneaten food on Castiel’s plate.

“You didn’t find it?” Castiel lamented.

Dean brought his eyes level.  He held up a finger, indicating Castiel should wait.  Then, he opened the left side of his coat and dug in the pocket.  His expression shifted.  He opened up the right side and checked that pocket instead.  He produced a rectangular glass bottle with a long tube attached to the opening.  There was an apparatus at the end of the tube.

“Apparently, that’s it,” he said, settling the bottle between them.

Castiel studied the object.  “That looks complicated.”

“It looks like a torture device,” Dean corrected.  “And a nipple.”  He picked up the rubber end of the tube, holding it up.  “That look like a nipple to you?”

Castiel tilted his head, getting a good look at it.  He had to admit, it did.  “I suppose that makes sense.”

Dean scoffed a laugh, unconvinced.  “If you say so.  People’ll buy anything these days.”  He leaned in and drew the plate toward him with a scrape of metal on wood.  Ignoring the utensils, he picked the steak up with his hand and immediately began gnawing on the bone.  Mouth full, he said, “The kid give you any trouble?”

Castiel’s temples were still throbbing from all the crying earlier but it wasn’t worth mentioning.  “No.  I managed to feed him.  He should sleep for a few hours.  Hopefully.”

Dean nodded like he agreed with the notion.  He sucked some grease from the meat off his thumb.  “Yeah, we probably should, too, while we have the chance.  Ellen get Sam’s room set up?”  Castiel nodded.  “Good.  I’m gonna head upstairs, then.  You comin’?”

He had to return the pot and ladle to the kitchen first but, “Yeah, I’ll be right there.  Can you take Jack with you?”

Dean hesitated, eyes widening, but only for a fraction of a second.  He shrugged, feigning nonchalance.  Castiel wasn’t certain what any of that was about.  He’d seen Dean with the children in town before, and entertaining them never seemed to faze him.  In fact, he always seemed happy around kids.  Surely, bringing an infant upstairs wouldn’t be too difficult for him.

“Sure, why not?” Dean said, standing up.  Castiel stood, too, and they shifted Jack into Dean’s arms.  Jack let out a gentle sound during the transfer.  He immediately nestled into Dean.  Dean’s smile was small when he situated the baby.  When he was done, he looked back up and said, “’Kay, see you in a minute.”

He struggled to pick up the glass and the whiskey before departing.

As he left, Castiel collected the kitchen supplies.  He brought them to Ellen, thanked her, and then glanced down the bar at the dwindling crowd.  Sam and Jo were together, drinking and catching up.  Castiel continued to look around.  Meg was gone; so was the man she’d approached.  The poker game was still ongoing.

Not long after, the saloon downstairs emptied out and the Harvelles closed shop for the night.  Castiel was glad for that, because Dean was usually a light sleeper.  If there was noise coming from below, Dean would constantly be on the cusp of consciousness.  Now, hopefully, he could sleep a little deeper, and Castiel wouldn’t have to worry so much when he was trying to sneak away.

Of course, the worry was already there.  It sat under his skin like an extra layer—prickled and pulled too tight around him.  His heart drummed against his ribs like a bird beating its wings against a cage.

He’d stepped out of their room a couple of minutes ago with the excuse of filling the pitcher with water from the bathroom.  It was only half true.  On his way down the hall, he paused outside Sam’s room.  There wasn’t any light flickering beneath the door, and all was silent inside.  The same quiet filled the rest of the hall—no creaking floorboards or muffled voices.  Everyone was asleep.

That was a good thing—because there was only one way out of the building and it was through the saloon.  He’d checked.  There was no fire exit on the upper level.  His options were limited to the front door or the door behind the bar.  Anticipation raised the hairs on the back of his neck, convincing him he’d be caught.  He tried to shove the feeling down.

As satisfied as he could be under the circumstances, Castiel walked back into the bedroom, the pitcher of water laden in his hand.  Dean was in bed, his boots off and his legs crossed at the ankles.  His vest was gone and his shirt was untucked.  He’d taken the left side of the bed, leaving space for Castiel beside him, but it didn’t look as if he’d be retiring any time soon.  He was sitting against the headboard, enraptured by a dime novel.  Castiel didn’t know that Dean had packed one for the journey, but he wasn’t surprised.

Where he and Sam stuck more to books on science, history, and other practical matters, Dean preferred the sensationalized tales of Wild Bill and Davy Crockett or the fictional accounts of heroes and damsels.  Back at the homestead, tucked away beneath his old bed in the room he’d once shared with Sam, were stacks of the novels.  The more recent additions were on a bookshelf in the stable house.

Sometimes, when Dean got a new one, he would stay awake until sunrise, too engrossed to come to bed.  Castiel would drift off to sleep as he watched Dean in the candlelight—the way his eyes lit up, or his brow furrowed, or his lips spreading into a grin or turning pensively downward.  He would often awaken to Dean climbing into bed in the small hours of the morning and wrapping his arms around Castiel’s middle.

They were good memories.

Castiel walked further into the room, where the basin was on the wooden stand next to the armchair.  He splashed some water into it and set the pitcher down before turning to his luggage on the floor beneath the window.  On the chair, Jack was nestled into the wicker basket.  He was awake, his little legs kicking out under the blanket.  He made grunting sounds, but he seemed content enough.

Castiel passed the chair and unlatched his suitcase.  He had a change of clothes inside, and some tools and medications from his kit were in there, too, but the majority of the space was filled with items for Jack.  Castiel figured it was better to pack everything in one bag.  It’d be easier to carry—and easier to slip away after Dean had fallen asleep.

For the moment, he got out his toothbrush and a tin of baking soda.  He carried them back to the basin.  For a second, he knew Dean’s eyes were on him, likely silently teasing him for bringing the toothbrush.  He didn’t speak his mind, though.  Instead, he licked the pad of his thumb and turned the page with a soft rustle.  Castiel went on with his business.  Just as Dean hadn’t poked fun at him, Castiel wouldn’t mention the bottle of whiskey and the glass he’d spotted on the floor next to Dean’s side of the bed.

Afterward, he shrugged out of his suspenders, letting them hang at his sides.  He sat on the bed and took off his boots, making sure to leave them nearby.  He kept on as many layers as he could without looking suspicious.  But, of course, the thought of that only made his pulse race.  He forced himself to look at Dean, even if it was difficult to do at the moment.

“What are you reading?” he asked, breaking the quiet.  He kicked his legs onto the bed and scooted in closer to the middle.  He squinted at the title of the novel in Dean’s hands: Frontier Angel.  Judging by the unbalance of the pages remaining in Dean’s right hand, it was a new read.

“Just started it,” Dean said, barely glancing up.  “I picked it up when we were out getting the bottle.”

“Oh.”  Castiel wanted to keep his mind off leaving, and he certainly didn’t want his imagination to conjure up the expression on Dean’s face when he realized Castiel was gone.  He fished for something to say.  “Do you like it?”

Dean hummed like his opinion hadn’t yet been swayed in either direction.

It wasn’t a very good distraction.  So, Castiel asked what he sometimes did when he needed to ease his thoughts: “Read it out loud?”

Dean’s eyes swept up, the green of them overshadowed by the sconces’ dancing flames.  But something concerned passed over them.  Luckily, he didn’t question what was troubling Castiel.  With any luck, he’d chalked it up to Kelly dying and giving Jack to the orphanage tomorrow.  Still, his eyes flickered back and forth across Castiel’s face as if he was checking for injury.  He said, “Sure.”

Castiel sidled in closer until their sides were pressed together.  He got comfortable, stretching his legs out and resting his chin on Dean’s shoulder.  He skimmed the page, following along as Dean read to him about a flatboat pioneer named Jim Peterson, about a lost love presumed dead, about love re-found.  But Castiel couldn’t really pay attention.  He wasn’t so much listening to what Dean was saying as he was simply hearing him.  He felt the vibrations of that gravel-deep voice in his cheek.  He listened to the breaths Dean took between sentences.  He basked in the warmth of him.

And then Jack made a fussing noise.  It wasn’t quite a cry, but he didn’t sound happy anymore.  Dean stopped reading abruptly.  They both looked over to the wicker basket, holding their breath as if doing so would solve anything.  Castiel sighed heavily when Jack fussed again.

He sat upright, extracting himself from the bubble of warmth that surrounded Dean.  He was about to get up when Dean said, “Hang on, I got ‘em.”

Castiel blinked dumbly, not knowing what to say to that.  He watched Dean put the book down, open and facing downward on the mattress so as to not lose his page, and get out of bed.  He bent over to scoop up his glass of whiskey before walking to the armchair.

“All right, kid, it’s time for bed,” Dean said, his voice taking on a softer, quieter tone.  When Jack responded with more low, grunting cries, he stuck his finger into his glass and then inside Jack’s mouth.  The baby stopped crying.  Castiel couldn’t actually believe that had worked.

Dean looked over his shoulder, eyes alight and beaming.  He shrugged at the incredulous look on Castiel’s face.  “Dad used to do this when I was a kid.  Worked for me.”  That put a lot of things into perspective, actually.  Dean looked back down at Jack.  “Worked for Sammy when he was teething, too.  Thought it was worth a shot.”

Castiel thought it might have been something else, too.  Dean seemed to have a calming effect on Jack.  So far, he’d been the only one able to get him to stop crying.  Dean seemed to always know exactly what to do to settle him.  Castiel didn’t even think Dean realized it, but he did get the same glowing, happy look on his face every time it happened.

He would have made a good father.

That thought made Castiel look down at his lap.  He didn’t know how he would manage getting Jack to Texas without Dean.

“You’re very good with him,” he said.  “I think he likes you.”

“Bad judge of character.”

Castiel pulled his brows together and looked back up.  “That’s not true.”

Dean shook his head, but Castiel saw his lips twitch in a bashful smile that he tried to fight back.  He cleared his throat and, apparently confident that Jack was settled, meandered back to the bed.  He was scanning Castiel up and down, considering.

“You know,” he said into a grunt as he laid back down on his side, facing Castiel, “it’s kinda nice having you on the trail with me.”  He cupped his hand behind Castiel’s knee and gave him a quick squeeze.  He drew in closer, tucking his nose into Castiel’s throat.  Castiel bit down on his jaw to stop himself from grinning.  “What do you say we keep it up?  You could take your practice on the road.”

Castiel scoffed at the prospect.  “I’m not becoming a traveling physician, Dean.  I’m not a charlatan.”

Dean dropped a kiss to his neck before leaning back out again.  “Well, yeah, but you’re much better company than Sam.  Not that that’s hard.”

“Sam said the same about you,” he joked.

“Because he’s surly,” Dean maintained.  “You are, too—just easier to look at.  Besides, we could probably make a hell of a lot more money if you were a swindler.  Just something to consider.  Might make you less surly.”

Castiel rolled his eyes.  Dean lifted his hand and pointed at Castiel’s face as if his point had just been proven.  Castiel had half a mind to slap his finger away, but Dean brought his hand forward to slide his palm along his jaw.  It moved to the back of Castiel’s neck, fingers slipping into his hair.  Dean brought him in for a kiss.

When Dean pulled away, he was staring down at the sheets between them.  He said, “Hey, you know that beehive thing you’ve been wanting?”

Castiel tilted his head, confused.  Not long ago, he’d read about Europeans keeping bees.  He thought it may be interesting to do, but every time he mentioned it, Dean appeared less than enthused.  “Yes?”

Dean shrugged.  “Well, I figure—when we get back home—maybe we can try to build it.”  He glanced up to gauge Castiel’s reaction.

And, truthfully, Castiel wasn’t certain he reacted at all.  He felt his expression shutter.  He wished Dean hadn’t offered such a thing.  Because they wouldn’t be returning home together.

“If—Well, if you still want to,” Dean said, sounding a little nervous now.  “We don’t have to.  I just thought . . .”

Castiel knew what he thought.  He was sorry that they were taking Jack to the orphanage instead of Texas, and he was trying to make Castiel feel better about the decision.  Only, it made Castiel feel much worse about his own private decision.

“I—,” Castiel said, trying to find his voice.  Something was scratching its way up his throat.  He meant to lie—to say something along the lines of, I would like that, or, Thank you.  What came out was: “I think we should sleep.  It’s been a long day.”

Dean blinked, his head snapping back a little in surprise, but he recovered quickly.  “Yeah, okay.  Sleep on it,” he said, but it wasn’t really what he wanted to say.

Castiel pressed his mouth into a line and nodded, eyes downcast.  He got out of bed and turned the dial on the sconce near the door until the flame went out.  The second one was near the bed, and it was easier to hide the shame on his face in the near darkness.

As he made for it, his eyes moved to Jack one more time, checking on him, and then slid to his luggage just to ensure his coat and hat were piled neatly on top of it.  He wouldn’t want to fumble in the dark and risk waking Dean.  He turned off the other light and blinked until his eyes adjusted to the darkness.  Outside, the world was quiet but for a horse’s hooves on the cobblestones.

Dean was already settled, lying on his back.  Castiel got back in bed, under the covers.  He settled on his side, facing away from Dean.  He tried to regulate his breathing, but it sounded too loud in the nighttime.  His heart thundered against his chest.  He kept his eyes open and waited to hear Dean’s snoring.

It didn’t happen right away.  It never did—but Dean always fell asleep before Castiel did.  On a good night, Castiel could keep time by it, could know when Dean was dropping off simply by counting his breaths.  He’d done that quite a lot when they first began sharing a bed; sometimes, he still did it after Dean returned from a long journey.  The average number of breaths was twenty-one.

Castiel had that committed to memory because Dean had been twenty-one when they met.

That night, it took fifty-seven breaths before Dean started snoring.

Castiel gave it another minute, just to make sure Dean wouldn’t wake up again.  He closed his eyes and remained completely still, his limbs curled tight as he tried to shake the feeling that Dean would awaken the moment Castiel tried to get out of bed.  The building was still silent, as was the street down below.  Off in the distance, carried on the wind, a train’s horn blared.  He reckoned he had a half hour before the train pulled into the station.

He didn’t know if it’d be that one specifically, but he and Jack had to be on one of the departing trains.

His gut was still swimming.  It was now or never.  Slowly, he picked himself up by his arms, the sheets rustling beneath him.  He looked over at Dean in the darkness, at the outline of the sleeping form beside him.  Castiel carefully and quickly swung his legs over to the side of the bed and picked himself up.

The floorboard under his foot creaked.  He froze, heart seizing.  Dean remained asleep.  Castiel cast his gaze heaven-bound and sent up a silent prayer of thanks to the Almighty.

Bending down, he picked up his boots and nestled them under his armpit.  He tiptoed to the armchair, where a strip of moonlight streaked across Jack’s face.  The baby blinked up at him and made a gentle cooing sound.  Castiel picked up the wicker basket, causing Jack to make another happy noise.  Castiel shushed him.

He moved to the window and picked up his suitcase, duster, and gun belt.  He didn’t allow himself to look at the bed as he crept toward the door.  One of his boots started to slip from his hold, so he desperately squeezed his arm tighter against it, hoping it would do the trick.

He had to put Jack down in order to open the door just wide enough to slip through.  Instead of picking the basket up again, he nudged it out into the hallway with his foot, and then followed it out.

Castiel turned to close the door as softly as possible.  Without meaning to, his eyes found the bed.  Dean was still asleep on his back.  His head was angled to the side, toward where Castiel had lain next to him.  The sight of him made something in Castiel’s chest clench to the point of suffocation.  He worked his throat like that might help.  Like he could be allowed to breathe again.

He closed the door, and the feeling passed—at least, enough for him to carry on.

His resolve was strengthened by the time he put on his gun belt, duster, and hat.  He picked up the basket in one hand and his luggage in the other.  Less concerned about waking anyone now that he was nearly in the clear, he hustled down the stairs into the shadowy saloon.  Across the room, the front door was in sight.

Once he reached it, he set down his suitcase and unchained the lock.

“Castiel?”

His breath caught.  His hand was around the doorknob.  He tried to convince himself he was only imagining things.

But he wasn’t.

A lantern flickered on behind him, its fiery glow spreading out to the wall to the right of the door.  Bracing himself, he turned around.

Ellen was behind the bar, standing up straighter from where she’d been leaning over.  She was staring at him curiously.

“Ellen,” he said, voice coming out breathier than he’d intended.  He swallowed to get himself back under control.  “I—didn’t know anyone was awake.”

Her eyes were still skeptical, and her tone matched them when she said, “I usually stay up late to go over inventory.”

Castiel’s forehead wrinkled.  “In the dark?” he accused.

Her arms crossed over her chest.  She walked around the bar.  He thought it best to step closer inside.  Jack was still hanging by his arm.

“No.  I was just wrapping up, actually.  Turned out the light before you came in.”  In the near darkness, her gaze moved down to the baby and then back up to him.  And then it was her turn to sound accusatory: “Where are you going?”

The question shouldn’t have taken him by surprise.  He’d expected it.  Maybe he was hoping for more time before it was posed.  His mind scrambled for an acceptable answer—anything but the truth—but the more he panicked, the more elusive it became.  He still didn’t have an excuse lined up when he opened his mouth.

“I, um—”

Her brow pinched, expression rearranging from uncertainty to distrust.

The sound of the door opening interrupted them.  Ellen’s eyes immediately snapped over his shoulder, and Castiel looked around at the newcomer.  It took him a second to process that he was looking at Meg.  Instead of the dress she was wearing before, she was garbed in slacks, the ends of them shoved into boots.  She wore a buttoned shirt under a jacket.  A brimmed leather hat sat atop her head, long dark hair streaming out of it in waves.  There was a six-shooter in her hand.  Another one was strapped to her hip.

“Hey there, Doc,” she said, a grin spreading on her face.

Castiel turned around fully, his fist gripping the wicker basket’s handle tighter.  He kept it behind him, shielding Jack from her with his body.  He hadn’t realized he’d done it, but he’d stepped in front of Ellen, too.

Something that felt as cold as steel ran down his spine.  He pulled his shoulders straighter.  “Meg.”  Part of him wanted to deny it, to say, what are you doing here?  But there was no use.  She was one of Lucifer’s.

“Aw, shucks.  Sweet of you to remember me,” she taunted.  “Most men aren’t so considerate.”

He ignored that.  “How did you find us?”

Meg took a step closer.  He stepped back, his shoulder knocking against Ellen.  Briefly, he glanced to the side and found Ellen’s hand gripping the edge of a nearby table.

“Got a telegram from an old friend,” Meg said, “telling me to watch out for three men arriving by stage.  All we had to do was keep an eye on the stage houses.  Wasn’t too hard, really.”  She leveled her pistol, her smile dropping.  “Now, hand over the baby and I’ll let you live.  See?  I can be considerate, too.”

Castiel gritted his teeth.  He’d rather take a bullet to the chest than give up Jack.

“What do you want with him?”

“Me?  Nothing.”  She extended her arm and pulled back the hammer.  “Except to take him to my father.”

My father.  Castiel turned his head slightly in question.  She’d said my father, not his father.  He didn’t have much time to suss out her meaning though, because she again demanded, “Bring him here, Castiel.”

Behind her, about a dozen men filed in through the open door.  They each had a pistol in their hands, more than ready to fire.  Another man with a rifle came through.  He raised it, aiming the barrel for Castiel.  The cold steel sitting on Castiel’s skin heated up, licking along his back.

He checked Ellen again.  Her grip on the table tightened.

He told Meg, “No.”

The man with the shotgun stepped forward.

Meg seemed amused.  She clicked her tongue.  “I was sure hoping you’d say that.”

It all happened at once.  The hammer on the rifle was pulled back.  Castiel tensed.  There was a deafening crack through the air, followed by Jack’s wailing.  For a moment, Castiel thought he’d been shot.  He looked down at his chest and found it clean, and it was that moment that he realized the sound had come from behind him.

The man with the rifle was on the floor, a hole between his eyes, a pool of blood spreading out from under him.  Meg’s face was splattered in crimson.

Castiel whipped around to find Dean in the stairwell, his arm raised and face hard.  Smoke was curling out of the end of the engraved nickel-plated barrel of his Colt.  Sam was right behind him, holding his own six-shooter at the ready with both hands.

Shots erupted.

Ellen flipped over the table, the wood slamming to the floor.  She and Castiel dove for cover behind it.  At his back, Castiel could feel the wood being riddled with bullets.  It wouldn’t hold long.  Already, a bullet had torn a hole clean through a spot over Ellen’s shoulder.

Jack was screaming, his little arms flailing.

Sam and Dean were fully in the room now.  Sam was covering behind a wooden beam, which kept splintering as bullets flung into it.  Dean was crouching behind the far end of the bar.

Next to Castiel, Ellen got to her knees and turned around.  She poked her head up above the table.  She sat back on her ankles and asked, “You got a weapon?”

He nodded.

“Good.  Get the baby out of here.”

Castiel’s eyes went wide.  He needed to get Jack to safety but he couldn’t just abandon her.  “What about you?”

At that moment, Sam whipped around the beam and fired off a shot.  A man went down, his gun flying out of his hand and sliding across the floor nearby.  Ellen said, “I’ll cover you.”

He didn’t have time to argue before she jumped out from behind the table.  Staying low, she reached for the gun.  Dean must have seen it, because he did something extremely stupid.  He leaped out into the open and yelled, “Hey!”

At least four guns turned on him.  Dean walked forward as if to meet the bullets.  He was firing back rapidly, one finger on the trigger as his other hand flew along the hammer of his gun with each subsequent shot.

From the other corner of the room, Sam was leaning around the beam and shooting.  Two men fell, bodies still, and another let out a yelp as his knees buckled beneath him with a spray of blood before Dean’s gun clicked emptily.

Still on the floor, Ellen started shooting, too.

Castiel picked himself up to a crouch.  He scooped up the wicker basket, hugging it to his chest.  Steadying himself with a few quick inhales, he made a mad dash for the bar.

Vaguely, he was aware of Dean letting out a yell as he stampeded forward, knocking right into a man as if he were a bowling pin.  Dean’s arms around the outlaw’s waist, they both went crashing down into a table.  It cracked under them, sending them to the floor.

The banging of firearms died away, leaving only the scuffling sounds of tussling: grunts and yells, knuckle on bone, glass breaking.

Castiel made it to the end of the bar.  Before he could jump for cover behind it, someone grabbed the collar of his duster and yanked him back.  It made the wicker basket fumble from Castiel’s grip.  It landed on the ground, blessedly upright, but the impact only set off a louder bout of cries from within.

Castiel was manhandled around and shoved up against the end of the bar.  The outlaw grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him closer, and then pushed him away again—hard.  The wind was nearly knocked out of Castiel with how painfully his spine hit the wood.  His hat got knocked off.

But, when the man dragged him in again to repeat the motion, Castiel was ready.  He propelled himself forward, unthinkingly, and slammed his forehead into the outlaw’s.  His vision whited out momentarily, and he was almost certain he’d cracked his own skull.  He shook his head out, desperate to recover.  In front of him, the outlaw was doubled over.

Castiel pulled out his Derringer from his gun belt.  He wasn’t as skilled with the weapon as the Winchesters, but he was accurate enough with a stationary target.  Luckily, he’d rendered his opponent unmoving.

He pulled back the hammer, his finger on the trigger.

He’d never killed a man before.  In fact, he spent most of his days trying to keep men alive from gunshot wounds.  He’d lost some of them—many of them.  But he’d never deliberately caused a death.

The man was recovering.  Jack was hysterical.  The thought of anyone ripping Jack away was enough to spur Castiel on.

He shot the outlaw in the temple, because it would kill him the fastest and most effectively.  The bullet went clean through to the other side of his head and lodged itself into the wall.  A spray of blood and gray matter followed.  The man’s body fell as if someone had cut his strings.

Castiel.  Castiel had cut his strings.

Jack was still wailing.

Castiel picked the basket up by the handle and moved beneath the bar.  He nearly collapsed to the floor.  He sat back against the shelves and caught his breath.  His Derringer was still clutched in his hand like a lifeline.  He squeezed his eyes shut, the image of the outlaw falling burned behind his lids.

He allowed himself five seconds to let his guilt overwhelm him.  That’s what he always did when someone on his operating table bled out, or when he couldn’t make it to someone on the other side of town in time.  What he’d done when Chicago was burning and he couldn’t get his neighbors out from behind their blazing front door.  What he’d done when he’d made a fatal mistake as a student.  What he’d done when Kelly died.

Five seconds.

And then it became a dull ache in the pit of his chest along with the rest of his regrets.

He opened his eyes and got up to the balls of his feet.  He peered over the top of the bar.  Bodies were strewn all around.  Only four outlaws were left alive.  Sam had one bent backward over a table as he reeled his arm back to land another punch.  Ellen was on the floor fighting with another.  She picked up a nearby chair and slammed it over the outlaw’s head.

Dean seemed to be having less luck.  He was up against two men.  Castiel watched Dean swoop low to pick up a stray liquor bottle from the floor.  He slammed it against the wall, shattering it to pointed shards.  When he came back up, he elbowed one outlaw in the face.  He drove the shards into the second man’s neck, causing the assailant’s hands to fly to his throat.  He gagged and staggered backward before falling to his knees, and then to the floor.

Despite his bloody and broken nose, the outlaw still left alive came up quickly from behind.  He grabbed Dean by the shirt and pushed him backward.  Five feet away from Castiel, Dean landed so hard against the edge of the bar, the wood quivered.  His breath audibly punched out of him, and his arms didn’t so much fly back to brace himself as they did sprawl helplessly.

Still, Dean recovered with a laugh as the outlaw approached.  “That all you got?” he goaded, voice weak.

Castiel remembered the gun in his hand.  The outlaw was moving slow, but too much was on the line if Castiel missed.  He shouted, “Dean!”

Dean’s head snapped toward him.  Castiel slid the gun down the bar.  Dean caught it and pulled the trigger.  The outlaw went down.

Dean rushed off at once.  “Sammy!”

Castiel crouched back down behind the bar, and his pulse jumped when he saw someone was with him.

“Jo,” he realized.  He had no idea when she’d joined the scene, but there was blood on her cheek and in her braid.  Her nightgown was ripped at the shoulder.  She crawled on her hands and knees toward him before sitting back against the shelves.

“You okay?” she asked.

He nodded, but, “We have to get Jack out.”  They could sneak through the back door, but it may be easier said than done.  Meg had been nowhere in sight, which caused more panic than relief.  She could be waiting for them.

Jo’s eyes flashed, seeming to register his concern.  She glanced around before reaching behind her to the shelves.  She came back with a shotgun.  Looking at him, she pumped the barrel and grinned wildly.

He smiled back.

Together, they made for the back door.  Jo led the way, crawling on her knees and one hand as the other held up the gun.  Castiel was doubled over, thighs burning as he strained them while carrying the wicker basket tightly in both hands.  Jack hadn’t settled any.

Once the door was open, Jo stuck the barrel of her gun out quickly.  She checked around the alley and reported, “Clear.”

They moved out—into the fresh, crisp night air.  Castiel gulped in a large bout of it and leaned back against the wall.  Jo was still alert, gun raised as she looked around.

“We have to keep moving,” he said.  He placed the basket on the floor and picked Jack up out of it.  He bundled the blanket around him and held him close, hushing and rocking him.

Jo was at the mouth of the alley.  He had no idea what she was doing.

“Jo!” he called, and considered leaving without her.  He could come back once he was sure it was safe.

Then, he heard Jo shout, “Hey!”  She took off in a run, out of the alley and down the street.

Castiel’s heart clenched.  He held Jack tighter and rushed down the alley.  Distantly, he heard the stampede of hooves getting further and further away.

He broke out into the street just in time to see Meg riding away.  Jo was chasing after her, but she soon came to a running halt when Meg picked up speed.  Before long, the horse and rider were out of sight.

Castiel swallowed hard.  He tried to breathe.  It wasn’t over, but it was over for now.

Jack’s cries had lessened some but they still echoed along the buildings.  He was aware of lights going on in nearby windows.  People leaned out to get a look at the street.

Castiel ignored the onlookers.  He collected Jack closer to his chest and dropped his forehead against the baby’s head.  He closed his eyes, taking in Jack’s scent, and hoped it would calm them both.

“You’re safe,” he whispered.  He kept standing there in the center of the empty street, unable to move until Jack settled.  His world narrowed down to the child in his arms.

Jack was okay.  Castiel never knew he could feel so relieved.

He promised, “I’ll keep you safe.”

Dean sat on a chair at the bar trying not to skirt away from Jo as she pressed a chilled, damp cloth to his eyebrow while she wiped up the blood.  He could already feel a bruise blooming under his eye and a cut from someone’s fist was thudding dully on his temple.  Jo dragged the rag against the cut, not being very gentle about it.  He hissed and reflexively leaned away.

“Don’t be such a baby,” she griped right before slapping the cloth even less gently against his wound.  He shot her a glare.

“Here, this oughta help,” Ellen said, depositing a bottle of whiskey and a glass in front of him.  He ignored the glass and drank right from the bottle.  In turn, Ellen ignored him and moved back to Sam at one of the tables.  He had a pretty nasty cut, still sluggishly bleeding, on his cheekbone, but he was fine.  He accepted a glass.

Dean’s eyes moved to Cas, slumped at a table in the corner of the room.  Jack was in the wicker basket on the chair next to him, pulled close to Cas’ side as if he expected Lucifer’s posse to come back at any moment to take the child away.

His leather suitcase was tucked beneath the table.  Dean had spotted it there a little earlier when they were dragging the fallen bodies out the back door for one of Ellen’s “friends” to get rid of, no questions asked.  His eyes lingered on the luggage momentarily, until he felt Cas’ steady gaze on him.  He looked up, holding the stare.  He couldn’t really read Cas’ expression in the dark and the distance, but the line of his shoulders was tired—and guarded.

Dean took another swig of whiskey, relishing in the burn of it down his throat.

The room around them was still a mess of shattered bottles, splintered tables and broken chairs, and bloody floorboards.  He figured they were all too tired to care very much about that at the moment.

“So what now?” Ellen asked.  She walked back behind the bar and slapped the rag she’d used to dab Sam’s wound over his shoulder.  She placed one hand on the counter and the other on her hip.  “You think they’ll be back?”

The worry was clear in her tone, but only if one knew her well.  Dean shook his head as Jo took her cloth and stepped away.  “Nah.  I managed to get a shot off that woman’s shoulder before she ran.  She’ll need to tend to it.  And the rest of ‘em are dead, so she’ll need more men to regroup.  That’ll take time.  They gotta figure we’ll have the kid long gone by then.”

“Yeah, but how did they even know we were here in the first place?” Sam piped.

Ellen said, “That one woman—their leader, I guess.  She said she got a telegram.”

“A telegram from where?” Sam questioned.

Ellen didn’t have an answer.  She paused, looking like she was weighing her next words, which was strange because Dean had never known Ellen to be delicate.  After a moment, she nodded her chin to the back corner and said, “She seemed to know him.”

Dean froze for a second, wondering if he’d heard her correctly.  He looked around at Cas, his brow pulled down in question.

Cas sighed heavily and slumped even further.  “This is all my fault.”

“You know her?” Dean asked.  He didn’t know why he sounded so angry.  He didn’t know why he felt the emotion spike in his chest.

Cas shook his head.  “No, I—not before tonight.  She—Meg,” he clarified, pronouncing the name like he didn’t know whether or not to believe it, “tried to proposition me earlier.  I thought she was a prostitute.”

“In my saloon?” Ellen said, affronted.

Cas only shrugged.  “She didn’t seem interested in Jack, just curious.  I didn’t take her to be a threat.”

Dean rubbed at his eye, letting his exhaustion roll over him for a moment.  Frustration followed in its wake.  “Yeah, well, great job with that.”

“How was I supposed to know?” Cas shot back as quick as a venomous snake.

“All right, okay,” Sam cut in, breaking up the fight before it could get any worse.  That was lucky, because Dean felt himself simmering.  He couldn’t stop looking at that luggage.  Sam leaned forward and went on, “Cas, what else did she say?”

With another loud breath, Cas seemed to let go of his ire, too.  He said, “Nothing.  But . . .” His eyes were on the table.  “I told her we were taking Jack to the orphanage.”

Dean threw up his hands haplessly.  He reached for the whiskey.

Even Sam sighed, “Dammit.”

“Well, you can’t take him there now,” Ellen said as if everyone in the room hadn’t worked that out already.  “So, what?  We find another one further away?”

That would take forever.  They’d have to stay in town for a while as they asked around, and that would only give Meg time to come after them again.  Besides, if they asked the wrong people, the location of the new orphanage could get back to her—and then they’d be right back where they started.

Damn.

They really only had one play.

“No,” Dean decided, his voice still thick with alcohol.  He looked at Sam, and then turned to Cas.  “We take him to Waco.”

Cas sat up straighter, his eyes lifting.  He tried to hide it but, somehow, it seemed like he always knew he’d get his way.  Dean swallowed that thought down and brought his attention back to Sam.  “We take him to his grandparents like Kelly wanted.”

Sam nodded once, accepting it.

“How?” Jo asked.  “The railroad?”

“No, no, too risky,” Sam told her.  “If Lucifer’s gang knows the baby’s here, they could be waiting for us at the depot.”

It was never Dean’s intention to take the train, anyway.  He pinched the neck of the bottle and idly rolled the glass against the wood.  The liquor inside sloshed, and the movement of the bottle caused a low rumbling sound.  He remembered his maps back home.

“There’s an old cattle trail that runs from here all the way to Austin,” he recalled.  “Waco’ll be along the way.  We take the Texas Road.”

Sam scoffed.  “The Shawnee Trail?”  He stood up and paced to the bar.  “Dean.  That hasn’t been used in over a decade.”

“Exactly.  We won’t run into anyone.”

Sam shook his head.  “Maybe we will.  The railroad runs pretty close to where the Trail used to be.  There could be bandits camped out along it.  Besides, it goes right through Indian Territory.  You really wanna take that risk?”

Dean waved the concern away.  The possibility of running into train robbers and Indians sounded a lot better than definitely getting mixed up with cattle herders and covered wagons asking after their business.  They didn’t need to leave a trail of witnesses.

“We’ll have the stage.  That’ll make the journey safer—and quicker.”

Sam didn’t seem convinced.  He puckered his lips, but apparently, he didn’t have a strong enough argument against that, so he kept quiet.

So, Dean looked over at Cas.  “You good with that?”

Cas nodded.  Dean thought he might.

He slapped the bar and stood up.  “Good, then it’s settled.  We leave at first light.”

He was about to go back upstairs, but Sam sidestepped into his path.  He was wearing his concerned face—all earnest eyes and lined forehead.  “Wait, Dean, hang on.  We can’t just set off.  Cas told Meg we were going to the orphanage.  If the outlaws go there and they don’t find Jack . . .”

Dean could fill in the rest for himself.  Shit.  He hadn’t even thought of that.  “They could burn the place to the ground.”

“Or slaughter everyone inside.”

Dean knew what Sam was going to ask him.  And it was the right thing to do.  Of course, it was.  And so was taking an orphaned child all the way to Texas to unite him with his family.  There were only so many good deeds that could be expected of them.  And, yet, if Dean didn’t at least try to do them all, he’d never sleep at night.  The blood of those orphans would be on his hands.

“We gotta help them,” Sam said, even though Dean had already made up his mind.  Of course, they’d help them.

He nodded.  “Okay.  New plan: we leave now.  We can get to the orphanage before dawn.  Hopefully, that’ll give us enough time before Meg’s finished licking her wounds.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Dean’s eyes snapped behind the bar.  Vaguely, he was aware that everyone else had done the same, but his vision had narrowed into a tunnel.

“Jo,” he warned.  Ellen said the same thing at the same time, an argument already in her tone.

No way Dean was allowing that.  Jo was tough, but if things went wrong, he didn’t want her anywhere near Lucifer’s gang.  She was too young, too full of bravado, too eager for glory.  And, Dean thought, she wanted to prove herself.  She wanted to impress.  She wanted to impress him.

Anyway, it wouldn’t matter what he said, because Ellen would rather hang than let her daughter go off into a fight.

“Mom, I have to,” Jo said, already arguing back.

Ellen shook her head.  “Absolutely not.  It’s too dangerous.”

She tried appealing to Dean and Sam instead: “You need back up.  I don’t think a bunch of priests and nuns will be much use.”

“Damn it, no.  That’s final,” Ellen answered firmly.

“I can handle myself.”

“Jo, your mother’s right—,” Dean tried, but Jo only silenced him.

“Why?” she asked, fire in her eyes.  “If I were a man, you’d be begging me to go.”

“Joanna Beth,” Ellen scolded.

Dean’s eyes flickered to Sam, hoping for support.  Sam looked back, and he appeared like he was thinking.  Thinking about something Dean probably wouldn’t like.

“Mom.”  Jo stepped closer to Ellen, her hands going up to take her mother’s shoulders.  She looked her dead in the eye.  “These are children—innocents.  Not just Jack, but others, too.  If they get murdered, can you really live with that on your conscience?  I know I can’t.”

Ellen’s shoulders stayed taut as she glared back.

Sam said, “I think she should come.”

Ellen whipped around on him.  Jo’s face lit up.  The friction between the two of them could start a fire.

“Samuel Winchester—,” Ellen warned.

“Look, Jo’s good in a fight,” Sam reasoned.  “And, she’s right, we’ll need all the help we can get.”

Ellen stared hard—but, with every second that passed, her resolve weakened.  Dean desperately searched for something to say to change her mind back.  Because this was a bad idea.  He couldn’t be worried about protecting Jo, too—not on top of Sam and Cas, and everyone at the orphanage.  Not to mention himself.

But Ellen sighed, and there was nothing he could do.  Slowly, she turned back to her daughter.  “Fine.”  Jo was already grinning.  Ellen didn’t let that stop her from ordering, “But under no circumstances are you to go to Texas.  You go help out the orphans, but then I want your ass right back here.  You got that, young lady?”

Jo seemed too excited to care much about the terms of the arrangement.  “Got it.  Loud and clear.”

Dean ran his tongue across his teeth, trying not to let his discomfort on the matter show.  “All right,” he said.  “Then go get packed.  Sam, you too.  I want us gone in a half hour.”

Jo practically bounced toward the stairs.  When she was gone, Ellen held up an unyielding finger in Dean’s face.  “I swear to god, Dean Winchester, you let anything happen to her—”

Dean really didn’t know why she was blaming him when Sam was the one who’d vouched for Jo.  But it didn’t matter.  She was his responsibility now.  Dean brought his hands up and wrapped them gently around Ellen’s wrist, bringing her arm down.  She tried to resist momentarily.

“Don’t worry.  I’m not letting her outta my sight,” he promised.  He meant it.  If something bad happened to Jo, Ellen would never forgive him.  He’d never forgive himself.  Jo was family, and they didn’t have too much of that around.

Ellen still seemed pissed, but she nodded.  Dean turned to Sam.  “Go get your things together.”

Sam nodded before leaving.  Ellen started cleaning up, probably to take her mind off of everything.  As for Dean, he stood still for a moment.  His eyes were burning with the need for sleep, but it looked like that wouldn’t come.  He rubbed at them, hoping to get his adrenaline coursing again.

He felt Cas’ eyes on his back.  In all the ruckus, he almost forgot Cas was there.  Almost.  In some way, shape, or form, Cas was always on Dean’s mind.

Only, right now, it wasn’t for any particularly good reason.

He walked over to the table where Cas was sitting, his eyes briefly catching the suitcase before he pointedly refocused them.  “You okay?” he asked when he was standing over the table.  Cas had killed a guy tonight.  Dean had seen it.  He also saw how steady Cas’ hands were now.

Dean chalked it up to them being a surgeon’s hands.

“I’m fine,” Cas said curtly.  Dean decided not to press.  They had more important matters to attend to.

“Well, I guess you’re happy,” he grouched, changing the subject.  In the chair next to Cas, Jack was sleeping peacefully.  Like an angel.  Or not.  After everything that had happened, Dean wasn’t so convinced anymore.

“No,” Cas sighed out.  “But thank you—for honoring Kelly’s wishes.”  He wasn’t looking Dean in the eyes.  His gaze was cast forward to some point on Dean’s torso.

Dean looked him over, his heart thumping in a way he was far too aware of.  He tried to bite back the thoughts on his tongue, but he just couldn’t bite hard enough.  He said, “Cas?”

Cas looked up, at last.

“You did think she was just a whore, right?  Meg?” Dean asked.

Cas’ expression shifted, his brows coming together and his head tilting just off-center as if he didn’t understand why Dean was asking him that.  “Of course.  Why wouldn’t I?”

Dean nodded, swallowing down his protest.  He was just tired and coming down from the thrill of a fight.  He was paranoid that their door would be kicked in at any moment.  Most of all, he was antsy for the day to come.

“No reason,” he said, deciding to let it go.  Maybe he just needed to hear Cas say the words, just for confirmation’s sake.  It was Cas, after all.  That was the only reason Dean needed to know he was telling the truth.

“All right, well, I better get my stuff together,” Dean said.  He kicked lightly at the luggage under the table.  “Looks like you’re all set.”

Cas nodded, lips contorting into a flicker of a neutral smile.  He brought his attention to Jack, resituating the blankets around him.

Dean turned around, begging himself to let it go.  He couldn’t.  He swiveled back, holding a finger up and turning down the corners of his lips in casual question.  “Why is that, anyway?”

Cas kept playing with the blankets.  Maybe it was all in Dean’s head, but it took him a moment to ask, “Why’s what?”

Dean’s stomach turned.  His skin bumped.  “Well, Ellen said, before the outlaws showed up, you came down here with the kid.  And your luggage.”

Cas looked up, something in his eyes daring Dean to inquire further.

Dean pushed a smile.  “Why were you down here, Cas?”

Again, Cas pulled a face like he didn’t quite understand.  “Jack was fussing.  I didn’t want him to wake you, so I took him down here to calm him,” he answered steadily.

It was a reasonable enough explanation.  Except: “You needed your luggage for that?”

“I didn’t know whether he was hungry or needed a change.  All his supplies are packed in my suitcase,” was the answer.  Cas narrowed his eyes up at Dean.  “You know that.”

Oh.  Right.  Dean felt like a fool.  He didn’t even know what he thought had been happening.  He guessed, deep down, he’d convinced himself Cas was running off with the baby.  But that was stupid.  Dean hadn’t been thinking.  Cas’ explanation checked out.

So, why couldn’t Dean shake the unease in the pit of his stomach?

“Yeah, right,” he said, rattling his head.  It was Cas, he reminded himself.  He dragged his palms down his face.  “I need to wake up.  See if you can find some coffee in the kitchen before we head out, huh?”

Cas smiled at him.  “Of course.  I’ll have it waiting for you.”

Dean walked toward the stairs.  He thought he could still feel Cas’ eyes on him, even when he was out of sight.

Chapter Text

Dawn was lighting up the sky in deep reds and oranges that stretched out from the horizon to the zenith.  The colors set the fields and trees aflame and made churning magma out of the rushing water of the creek next to the road.  The last of the stars had blinked out by the time they stopped for a break before the last stretch to the orphanage.

Dean figured it would be another hour until they got there, and once they did, it would be a hectic situation.  They could use a few minutes of respite before the storm rolled in.

He took that time to kneel next to the creek to use the water to freshen himself up.  The water was freezing after the chilled night, but it felt good to wash some of the dirt off his arms and face.  When he bent in further to splash some into his hair, the chain around his neck slipped out from under his shirt.  He let it dangle as the droplets trickled out of his hair and back into the pool, winking with birthing sunlight in their descent.

He wished he had time for a shave.

Presently, he felt someone approaching behind him, and he sat back on his ankles to glance up.

“Hey,” Jo greeted.

Dean picked his hat up off the grass and slapped the loose dirt from it as he stood up.  “Hey,” he said.  “Sam done taking a piss yet?”  He glanced back to the stage on the road.  Chevy was nosing at the ground, and the other two horses behind her remained still.  Sam was still hidden in the trees.

Cas was at the back of the stage, rifling through the boot.  When he stood back up, there was something glinting in his hand.  It caught the warm hues of the morning in a way that was sharp, dangerous—so different from the way the light played on Cas’ face.

Dean watched as Cas knelt down and slipped the small surgical knife into his boot.  The image made something uneasy curl in his gut, but he stifled it.  He told himself that Cas was right to give himself an added layer of protection before they reached the orphanage.  It was better to be safe than sorry.

It took him a second to realize Jo was answering him.  “Nah, he’s still out there.  I asked him if he wanted me to take over as shotgun for a while so he could get some sleep.  That okay with you?”

Dean wasn’t really used to anyone else riding as his guard.  He relied on Sam’s sharp eyes, and he was wary about someone else in that position.  But this wasn’t a heavily traveled road, which meant there was a slim chance of highway robbers, especially not in broad daylight.

He shrugged, rubbing at the back of his neck to smother his hesitation.  “Yeah, sure.  Why, Cas talkin’ your ear off back there?”

Jo snorted.  She put her hands on her skirt’s waistband and looked back at the stage.  Frowning thoughtfully, she said, “He’s quiet.  But I like him enough.  He’s awfully protective of that baby.  You’d think it was his.”

Dean brushed the rest of the water from his hair and put his hat back on to avoid considering her words.

Jo turned back to him.  “So, what’s the deal between you two anyway?”

Dean wished he still had something in his hands.  He ended up balling them into fists, and licked his lips.  “The deal?”

“Yeah.  Sam says you’re together.”

God, this was awkward.  Not just because he knew Jo was sweet on him since she was a kid.  He turned back to the creek, hoping the heat on his face wasn’t evident in a blush.  Maybe the tinted sunlight would cover it.

“Ah, I wouldn’t call it that.”

“Then, what’d you call it?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

Dean had no idea how to answer that.  They lived together.  They shared the same bed.  Dean hadn’t been with anyone else since he and Cas had taken up together, and he was pretty damn sure Cas hadn’t either.  But it still felt wrong to call them committed.

Because, despite everything, they still led separate lives.  Hell, these last few days were probably the longest he and Cas had been together in months.  Even when Dean wasn’t on the road, Cas was busy with his own work.

Dean wished that didn’t make him feel so hollow.

He forced a grin.  “I’d call it none of your business.”

Jo took it in stride.  She smiled and put up her hands in surrender.  “Whatever you say.”

“Why so interested?” he teased.  “You jealous?”

To that, she let out a laugh that probably should have been insulting.  “Jealous?  Yeah, right.  I got a little something called self-respect.”

“That right?”  A real grin was licking at his lips now.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam emerge from the trees.

“Yeah,” she teased, walking slowly backward to the stage.  “You should get some sometime.  Maybe then you’d be able to admit you’re a married man.”  She pointed to his necklace.  “Nice cross.  Didn’t know you were so religious all of a sudden.”

He puckered his lips, trying not to let on that she’d bested him.  “That’s it.  You’re riding in the carriage.”

She laughed victoriously and turned away, walking back to the stage.

Dean’s smile faded, and his eyes flickered off of her retreating back and latching on Cas.  Cas was poking his head inside the carriage now, no doubt tending to Jack.

He told himself she was wrong.  They weren’t together and it had nothing to do with self-respect.  In fact, no self-respecting man would privately consider himself married to someone who’d no doubt wake up one day and decide it was time to move on.  Because Cas was educated and brought up in a city’s sprawling society.  Small town life wouldn’t suit him forever.  Truly, Dean was surprised he’d even stayed so long.  Every time he left on a route, he felt himself holding his breath, thinking he’d return and Cas would be gone.

That wasn’t a situation that allowed room for love, no matter how much the flutter in his chest disagreed whenever he returned home to find Cas still there.

He cleared his throat and shoved his necklace back beneath his neckline.  He rallied himself.  “All right, load up.  Let’s get a move on.”

Cas glanced over his shoulder at Dean momentarily before climbing back into the carriage.  Sam went in after him.  Jo was already sitting in the box, sawed-off across her lap.  Dean lifted himself up to join her.

They arrived at the orphanage in a little over an hour, when Dean had to squint as the sun was hovering over the eastern horizon.  There was no fence around the perimeter of the land, where a steepled wooden church sat closest to the road.  A cross topped the uppermost point.  Behind the church, what looked like a tenement building or a hotel was attached.  It was two floors and stretched back toward the farmland behind the structures.  Cornstalks towered over rows of vegetables in the hoed dirt.

A small barn was a little ways back, across the dirt patch in front of the chapel.  A number of children, boys and girls in a range of ages, were walking in and out of the barn, reemerging with farming tools.  A couple of nuns in long habits, too conservative for the hot day it was fixing to become, watched over them.  One of the boys, a Native from the looks of him, spotted the stage’s approach.  He tugged at one of the nun’s sleeves and pointed, making both women look around.

Before either of them could move, the door of the church opened.  Out walked a middle-aged man in a thick brown monk’s robe, a rope belt with a rosary around his waist.  He had long hair tied back in a low ponytail and a graying horseshoe mustache.

Dean hit the footbrake when the stage was level with the church.

“Good morning to you,” the Brother said, eyeing them with a healthy amount of skepticism.

Dean climbed down from the stage.  Jo did the same on the other side.  “Morning,” he said, holding out his hand to the man.  As he did, the carriage door opened.  Sam ducked out and turned around to take the wicker basket from Cas, who followed him out before taking it back.

The Brother clocked the baby instantly.  “I see you’ve brought us a child.”

Dean looked around, his eyes falling on the basket before he glanced up to Cas.  “Not exactly,” he said, turning forward again to see mild confusion on the Brother’s face.  “My name’s Dean Winchester.  That’s my brother Sam.  This is Cas and Jo.”

“Morning, Brother,” Sam said, leaning forward to shake the monk’s hand.

“You can call me Sonny,” the Brother said.  “You’ve come a far way.  If you’re not here to drop off the child, care to explain your reason for this visit?”

Dean let out a heavy, sardonic breath.  Where to begin?  “You’re not gonna like it.”

Sonny’s brows lifted with worry.  Sam stepped forward and, in that way of his—the calm and trustworthy way—he said, “We’re here to help.”

Sonny took another sweeping look at them, but he must have decided to trust them.  He glanced over at the nuns near the barn and waved one over.  “Well, then,” he said.  “Perhaps we should discuss this inside.”

About a half hour later, a breakfast of coffee, biscuits, bacon, and eggs was set in front of them around the long table of the orphanage’s dining room.  One of the nuns had given them milk for Jack, along with a rattle.  Sam, seated on the other side of the table, was feeding the baby in his arms.  Every now and again, he would shake the rattle and Jack would coo and lift his arms up toward the noise.

Dean and Cas spent that time before breakfast filling Sonny in on all that had happened.

When they were finished, Sonny sat back heavily in his chair, his arm stretched out in front of him and hand fisted tensely on the table.  He didn’t touch the food, and neither did Sam, Cas, or Jo.  Dean eyed the plate of bacon, briefly wondering if it would be appropriate to start eating.

“So, what happens now?” Sonny asked after absorbing the information.  “Do we leave this place?”

Sam shook his head.  “I don’t think that’s the best option,” he said.  “If they think you have the baby, they’ll keep looking for you.”

Dean agreed.  “I think the best bet is to stand our ground here.”

“Our ground?” Sonny repeated.  “Son, there are women and children here, not fighters.  And you said you don’t know how many outlaws are on their way—or if you know for certain that they’re coming.”

“They’re coming,” Dean told him frankly.  “Only a matter of when.  And I’m not asking you to put your life on the line—or those kids’ lives.  Let us handle this.”

Again, Sonny looked like he was weighing his options.  Dean wondered if he should tell him to leave, after all—to pack up the nuns and orphans and run while the four of them stayed and fought.  He wasn’t letting any innocents get caught up in the crosshairs.

“Okay,” Sonny allowed.  “The nuns and children can shelter in the dormitories, but it’s my job to protect them.  Whatever I can do, I’ll do it.”

Dean shared a look at Sam, who lifted his brows in an exasperated way but didn’t look like he was about to argue.  Dean wouldn’t either.  It was Sonny’s right to protect his own charges.

“Thank you, Brother,” Cas said earnestly.

“So, what’s the plan?” Jo asked, reaching for the serving dish of eggs.  She shoveled some onto her plate.  Dean followed her lead and snatched up some bacon.

As he did, he said, “Way I see it, we gotta divide and conquer.”

“Yeah, and hide out until we have the outlaws where we want them,” Sam added.  “We could use the element of surprise.”

“Sonny, how many entrances are there to the building?” Dean asked.

“Two,” was the answer.  “The church’s front door and the back door to the dormitories.”

“Okay, so that’s two places they can get in.  One of them’s a little more obvious, meaning two of us should hold out inside the church.  Me and Sam’ll do that.”

Jo scoffed.  “And, what?  You just want me to hang out at the back door, hoping some action comes my way?”

Dean shot her a look.  He’d kind of been hoping to do just that, actually.  He couldn’t spend half his energy worrying about an amateur gunslinger.

“There’s the barn,” Cas said.  “Jo and I can hide in there.  If any of them head to the back of the building, we’ll cut them off.”

“I’m good with that,” Jo said at once.

Dean tried not to sigh.  “Fine.  And if they don’t, come back us up in the church.”

“I’d like to avoid bloodshed if we can,” Sonny told them.  Dean gripped his fork tighter, because it was impossible.  Bloodshed was inevitable.  It was better for Sonny to know that.  “Let me greet them first.  Maybe I can convince them the child isn’t here.”

That would never work.

“Sonny,” Sam said, no doubt about to put it a lot more politely than Dean would have.  “I understand, but we’ve faced them before.  They won’t fall for it.”

“We have to try,” Sonny said, resolute.

Dean chewed on his food.  It was an unnecessary risk and he didn’t like it.

“It’s worth a try,” Cas said, surprising Dean.  He jerked his head back, looking at Cas.  Cas was looking at Sam.  “If nothing else, it will allow us more time to get a read on who we’re fighting, and how many weapons they’ll have with them.”

Admittedly, it was a good point.  Hell, it was smart.  Safe.  For them.  Not for Sonny.

But Sam seemed to agree, only the slightest bit of hesitation on his face.  “Okay, yeah.”  He looked at Sonny.  “You sure you’re up for it?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Sonny dismissed, taking a sip of his coffee.

Everyone’s eyes fell on Dean.  Dean glanced back.  He was outnumbered.  Dropping his shoulders in a sigh, he said, “Fine, whatever.  So, that’s the plan.”

Sam tipped his chin in a half-nod.  “That’s the plan.”

It was a stupid plan.

After breakfast, they all stood up to prepare.  Sam went to bring the stage around back, out of sight from the road.  One of the nuns offered to take Jack off their hands for a while as they rounded up the other children, which caused a bit of reluctance on Cas’ part.  He didn’t say anything, but his eyes went alert and he began to lift his hand in an aborted protest before thinking better of it.  The nurse walked out, smiling down at Jack.

Cas and Jo left right after her.

Dean hung back for a moment while Sonny cleared the dishes from the table.  “You need a hand?” he asked, not waiting for an answer before collecting a few dirty forks and knives.

“That’s kind of you,” Sonny told him distractedly, and Dean wanted to say it was the least he could do.  The only problem was, it was nowhere near good enough.  They’d put these people—Sonny, the nuns, the kids—in danger.  That wasn’t a debt he could pay by cleaning a table.

“Yeah, well,” he said awkwardly.  It was best to just come out with it: “Sorry.  For—y’know—bringing this to your doorstep.”

“You didn’t mean for this to happen.  That’s no cause for apology.”

Dean gave a weak chuckle.  “Isn’t it?”

Across the table, Sonny stopped what he was doing.  He set the stack of plates down in front of him, eyeing Dean perceptively.  Dean tried to ignore it by reaching for a spoon.

“What’s troubling you, son?” Sonny asked after a pause.

Dean kept staring downward, his fist tightening and relaxing around the cutlery.  He really shouldn’t complain to the man.  It was none of Sonny’s concern.  All Sonny had to do was live to see suppertime and Dean would be out of his hair forever.

But that was exactly the problem.  He might not live.  Dean didn’t know what was going to happen.

“People are gonna die today,” he said and remained undeterred when Sonny sighed.  “No way around it.  Don’t know if it’ll be the outlaws; don’t know if it’ll be us.  And people have already died for this kid.”  Dean scoffed and shook his head.  He added another fork to his bundle.  “Guess I really don’t know what makes that baby so special.”

“And that’s why you’re fretting?” Sonny said.  “You’re worried about what’s coming next?”

That wasn’t quite it.  It was close, though.

He thought back to the night before—to Cas’ packed luggage, to his steady hands after the shootout.  Something was changing in him.  Dean tried to ignore it, tried to make excuses, but it was happening right before his eyes.  He didn’t know if it was for the better or the worse, and maybe it was too soon to tell.  It started the second Jack came into the world.

The cross around Dean’s neck suddenly felt too weighted.

“No,” he said, bringing his eyes level.  “I’m worried about what’s gonna be left when all this is over.”

And he worried, mostly, about what might get lost.

It was getting late.  The afternoon sunlight was weak as it lit up the western facing windows of the chapel.  Castiel sat in the pews, leaning forward so that his elbows were resting on the back of the seat in front of him.  His hands were knotted in front of his forehead, his head was bowed and eyes were skewed tight.

He’d never been very good at praying from his heart, so he settled on the Our Father.  He’d gone through it at least a dozen times by now, and he wasn’t certain if it was getting his point across.  He hoped it was enough to ask for protection—and for absolution.

Behind him, the door to the church whined open.  It must have been one of the Winchesters getting into position so they could prepare for the outlaws’ approach.  Most likely Dean.  However, the footsteps that reached Castiel’s ears didn’t belong to Dean.  The gait was off.

He lifted his head and swiveled around to find Sonny walking down the aisle.

“Castiel,” the Brother said as he came to a stop beside the pew where Castiel was seated.  “I came in here for some alone time with the Almighty.  Didn’t expect to find anyone else.”

Castiel pressed his lips together.  He should leave Sonny to it.  Perhaps the Brother’s prayers would be received better than his own.  “I’m sorry.  I’ll leave.”

“No, no.  Stay.”  Sonny sat down in the pew in front of Castiel.  He turned back to face him, resting his arm on the top of the backrest.  “I’m always happy to be joined by a fellow man of God.”

Castiel parted his lips, not really knowing what to say to that.  He certainly didn’t feel like a man of God.  “I, um—,” he said, looking down at his upturned hands on his lap.  He shuffled a little and folded his hands together.  “I don’t know about that.  I am Catholic.”

“Even better,” Sonny joked.  Castiel tried to laugh politely.  He only managed a small smile and a huff.  Sonny must have seen that, because he leaned in a little more and asked, “Mind if I ask you what you were praying for?”

Swallowing down the constriction in his throat, Castiel said, “Probably the same thing you’re about to.  Except . . .” He sighed, wondering if he should continue speaking.  “Forgiveness.”

Sonny nodded sagely.  “We could all use some of that.”

Castiel dipped his head, eyebrows arching as he agreed.  “Some more than others.  I require active forgiveness—mainly for the bloodshed I’ll have a hand in today.”  He paused again, thinking back to last night.  He’d killed a man.  He didn’t even think about it; he’d just killed him.  “And for the things I’ve done.  Even though they—had to be done.”

He felt Sonny’s eyes on him.  It wasn’t until Castiel looked up again did the man say, “You know I’m not ordained.  I can’t hold confession.”

Castiel sighed.  He supposed, deep down, he’d been hoping a monk would be close enough.  He twisted his hands together.  “Yeah, I know.”

“But,” Sonny added, sparking a bit of hope.  He held up a finger.  “I can tell you this: our Lord has a tendency of testing us.”

That was a bit disappointing.  It was nothing Castiel hadn’t heard since he was a child.

Only, Sonny elaborated: “And, often, He pushes us past what we see as our limits.  I believe your limits are being tested, Castiel.”

Castiel considered that.  All it offered him was more questions.  He shook his head.  “How will I know if I pass or fail?”

Sonny lifted a shoulder.  “That’s up to you to decide.”  Castiel had no idea how to do that.  He’d been hoping for direction.  He didn’t expect to get much more of it when Sonny continued, “I guess you just have to ask yourself how far you’re willing to go to complete what you’ve set out to do.  And if you’re willing to bear the consequences if you go past that point.”

Castiel blinked, wrong-footed.  He mulled over Sonny’s words.  In that moment, he thought he was ready to sacrifice anything for Jack’s safety.  He didn’t even think it had anything to do with the promise he made to Kelly anymore.

Sonny got up.  “It's getting late,” he pointed out.  “Best get yourself prepared.”

With that, he walked back down the center aisle toward the door.  His footfalls echoed through Castiel’s skull.

Castiel was starting to think Meg wasn’t coming.  It was easy to get complacent while sitting on a haystack in the barn.  He’d been there for what felt like hours, long enough for the heat of the day to dwindle somewhat as the world cooled off.  The sun hadn’t yet given way to the darkness, but the mayflies were already swarming.

Jo hovered around the barn’s entrance, her double-barreled shotgun in her arms while she peered out the crack between the doors.  She hadn’t let her guard down once.

Castiel wondered how long they’d have to wait.  Perhaps all night.  He really hoped not.

He got his answer a few minutes later when Jo said, “Castiel.”  He immediately straightened his posture to attention.  “Horses.  I count seven of ‘em.”

He stood up, pulling his Derringer from his belt as he joined her at the doors.  He peered through the crack.  A dust cloud was being kicked up in the near distance, headed straight for the orphanage.  He squinted, trying to spot Meg in the group, but he couldn’t see any of their faces.

“You think that’s them?” Jo asked.

Castiel’s eyes slid to her across the gap in the doors.  “Be ready.”

Jo leaned back against the wood and cocked her gun.  Castiel looked back out, his eyes falling on the church.  It appeared silent inside, but he knew Sam and Dean had already seen the approaching riders.

Presently, the stampede of horse hooves pounded against the dirt as the riders rode up to the front of the church.  There were six men—and Meg.  As she slid out of her saddle, Castiel saw the bandage wrapped around the gunshot wound on her shoulder.  He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on his gun, readying himself for the fight.

The church’s door opened and Sonny walked out, arms outstretched.  “Welcome, travelers,” Castiel heard him say.  “What brings you to us?”

Meg stepped forward, her gun on her hip glinting like a razor in the sunlight.  “We’re looking for three men traveling with an infant child.  We have reason to believe they came here.”

Sonny tipped his head in a display of ignorance.  “Three men?  I’m sorry, no one like that has come through.  There’s no infant here.”

“Uh-huh,” Meg said, not seeming to buy it.  Behind her, four men walked up to flank her in a show of intimidation.  Sonny didn’t seem the least bit perturbed.  “You mind if we go in and check?”

Looking at each of them in turn, Sonny said, “Unfortunately, it’s nearly time for the children’s supper.  You’re all welcome to join us before you set back out on your way.”

Meg’s face erupted into a sharp smile.  “Nice try.  We’re not leaving until we find the kid.”

“I told you: there’s no baby here—”

Meg pulled her six-shooter out of her belt, pointing it at Sonny’s chest.  The men followed in suit.  “And I told you: I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Jo let out a sound.  “Shit,” she whispered.  “We gotta help him.”

Castiel ripped his eyes off the scene to look at her, just in time to see her stand up straighter like she was ready to charge into the fray.  He grabbed her arm, stopping her.  “Jo.  Stick to the plan.”

She shook out of his hold.  “Plans change.”

He gave her a warning glare.  This couldn’t go wrong.

Outside, Meg whistled.  The four men at her sides walked around Sonny and went into the church.  Two others stayed outside, their guns still held at the ready.

“Please,” Sonny said, turning slightly to watch the men disappear inside.  “This is a place of God.”

“Not my god,” Meg told him.

“They’re gonna kill him the second they hear Sam and Dean’s guns, Castiel,” Jo told him pointedly.  “You really okay with sacrificing him for this?”

Castiel’s jaw tightened.  He didn’t want Sonny to die.  He didn’t want anyone to die.  But they knew the risks.  He said, “Of course not,” and hoped that would overpower his justification for the opposite.

“Last chance,” Meg was saying.  When Castiel looked outside again, Sonny was on his knees, hands held up.  He seemed so calm.  “Give up the baby.”

“Fuck this,” Jo whispered.  Before it even processed, Castiel heard one of the doors roll open just slightly more.  Jo walked out of it, shotgun against her hip.

“Jo, no!” Castiel hissed, trying to get her back before it was too late.  But she was already out of reach.

“Hey!” Jo yelled, her voice booming.  All three outlaws looked at her at once.  Even Sonny appeared taken aback.  Jo fired off a round, the force of the kickback jerking her petite frame as she continued to march forward.  The buckshot hit one of the men.  He flew back with a splatter of blood and hit the dirt.  The horses reared and fled in different directions.

“Brother, get the hell out of here!” Jo yelled.  “Run!”  Sonny did as he was told.  He hopped to his feet and ran around the side of the church, out of sight.

Jo got closer and fired off her second shot.  The other man went down.  Meg was still standing—smiling.

Barrel empty, Jo tossed the shotgun to the side.

“Well, looks like you’re out of ammo,” Meg told her.

“You wish, bitch,” Jo spat back.  She went for her six-shooter.

Meg’s expression contorted.  Before Jo could swing up her weapon, Meg brought up her arm and fired.  The shot hit Jo in the gut.  There was a yelp of pain as she fell to her knees.  Her gun tumbled from her hand.

Castiel’s reaction was yanked out of him: “Jo!”

That got Meg’s attention.  Her head snapped toward the barn, her eyes immediately latching onto his.  Slowly, her smile returned.  Damn it.

“Don’t you go anywhere, Doc,” she called, making it sound friendly.  “Be right with you!”

She walked up to Jo and grabbed her by the hair.  Jo cried out as she was dragged into the shadow of the church.  Meg dropped her by the door and then aimed her weapon down.

Castiel turned around, hitting his back against the wood.  A shot rang through the air.  Another scream followed it.  That meant Jo was still alive, but he didn’t know for how long.

He needed to get to her—but he needed to stop Meg first.  His mind spun, searching for a plan.  There was no way he could best her in a shootout.  This required something else.  He glanced outside again, wondering how much time he had.

Through the crack between the doors, he saw Meg crouching down next to Jo, saying something that he couldn’t hear.  It was unlikely her gloating would last long.  She’d be on her way into the barn soon enough.  Castiel cursed under his breath.  He faced forward again.  There must have been some solution.

The barn was mostly filled with farming supplies—shovels and rakes and a large tractor wagon with a broken wheel.  None of them would help his predicament.  His eyes moved upward to the hayloft above, where crates, barrels, and trunks were loaded.  They were likely supplies for the church and orphanage.  Possibly blankets and robes, dishes and wines, utensils, and anointing oils.

Castiel blinked, an idea striking him.  He didn’t have time to consider the possibility of being wrong.  He rushed toward the stairs leading to the loft and bounded up them.  He went for the first trunk he saw.  It was filled with thick wool blankets.  There was a drum of kerosene nearby, next to a crate of lanterns and candles.

The next trunk seemed more promising.  There were wine chalices and hymnals inside.

He was running out of time.  He realized his lips were moving in half-uttered prayer.

He was about to lose hope when his fingers connected with a glass jar.

Sam waited behind the altar, bent low with his Smith & Wesson six-shooter in hand.  Dean was on the other side of it, out in the open.  He faced the altar, clothed in a long, plain brown monk robe.  His head was bowed.  His gun was resting in front of him in both hands, concealed from anyone who would come through the door.

They’d heard the horses come to a halt next to the church, and Sonny went outside moments ago.  Sam had heard voices and strained his ears to listen to what they were saying through the wooden walls.  All he got were murmurs.

Then, the doors opened again.  Sam peered around the side of the altar.  Four men filed inside.  They stopped momentarily when they spotted Dean’s back, glancing at one another unsurely before flanking out.  Two went to the sides of the church, slowly walking along the walls, their guns held out warily.  Another man paced down the center aisle, his spurs rattling as he moved.  His gun belt was nearly half empty of bullets.  The fourth man hung back.

“Brother?” the man in the center aisle said.  Dean didn’t react.  All he did was bring his gaze up, immediately making eye contact with Sam.  He had that look on his face—the one that suggested he was about to be really stupid.

Probably because this whole plan was stupid.

Sam’s expression tensed.  He hoped he could convey his warning to Dean through his eyes alone.

“I ain’t looking to kill a holy man in the house of God,” the outlaw said, raising his gun level.  He was right upon Dean now.  The other two men came to a halt at the edge of the pews.  “But I got no qualms about killing a Catholic.”

Sam controlled his breathing.

Dean winked at him.

Before Sam could even pull a face, a loud shout came from outside.  A crack of a shotgun followed it.

All four outlaws whipped around toward the noise.  Dean took that to his advantage.  He swung around, lifting his gun and holding it to the back of the outlaw’s head.  The hammer clicked when he pulled it back.

Sam wondered what had crossed the outlaw’s mind in that moment as he went completely still.

“I got no qualms about killing you, neither,” Dean said.  And then fired.

Sam jumped up from his hiding spot.  The two outlaws on either side of the church were aiming for Dean.  Dean swiveled left and fired again; the man went down.  At the same instant, Sam took the one on the right, hitting him in the arm.

The man at the back jumped behind the pews.  The one Sam had wounded dropped for cover, too.  As they reciprocated fire, Dean dove behind a statue of the Virgin Mary.  Sam went back behind the altar.

Outside, shots were still being fired.

Inside, bullets rang out like bells.

Castiel was crouched behind two barrels when the barn doors below rolled open, letting the waning peach-bruised light from outside fill up the room.  He heard boots crunching on the hay as Meg walked inside.  He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, especially when he heard the metallic scrape of a six-shooter’s hammer being pulled back.

His grip tightened reflexively on the Derringer in his hand.

“Doc?” Meg’s voice rang out through the barn.  “I know you’re in here.  I got someone outside who’s hurt real bad.  I think she might need professional attention.”  It sounded like she was moving around, likely checking around the tractor for where he was hiding.  “Who knows?  Maybe she’s already dead.”

Castiel ground his teeth, nostrils flaring in anger.

The sound of Meg’s shoes stopped.  She let out a loud huff.  “Now, now.  Where could you be?  Don’t tell me you’re hiding with the linens.”

She was on the stairs.  Her footsteps were slow and deliberate like she was trying to unnerve him.  But her approach wasn’t why his heart was slamming against his ribs.

Before, he hadn’t had time to consider the implications of his plan, but now he did.  He closed his eyes again.  The only thing he saw behind them was orange and red reflecting off the clouds in the night sky.  He’d thought they’d been clouds, anyway, when he was a teenager.  It’d been smoke.

The floorboard of the loft groaned loudly underfoot when Meg reached the top of the stairs.  Castiel’s eyes flew open.  He allowed himself five more seconds of fear.

“You know you’re cornered,” Meg taunted.  “Tell you what, you hand over the baby and I’ll kill you fast and painless.  Won’t even damage that handsome face of yours so the angels have something nice to look at.”

Castiel pulled out his matches from his coat pocket and struck one, the flame erupting at the tip.  He touched it to the floor.

The fire sprang out, blue and yellow, on the anointing oil.  It flew down the line he’d poured on the floor, whipping toward the edge of the loft.  It built up high, climbing onto the protective banisters and licking at the rafters.  It barred the exit to the stairs.

He got to his feet, his gun in hand.  Meg was looking around, body coiled with fear as she realized Castiel wasn’t the one who’d been cornered.

He walked around the barrels, coming to a rest in front of them.

Meg turned back to him slowly.  She didn’t raise her gun.  The flickering red light of the flames tinted her skin and sparkled in her eyes.  She gave him a sideways smirk.  “Real smart of you.  But you know you’re trapped, too, right?  Figure we have five minutes until this loft collapses.  What’s your plan then?”

Castiel glared steadily at her.  “I won’t let you take Jack.  If I have to burn to ensure that, so be it.”

He kept one eye on the gun at her side.  He planted his feet firmly on the floor.

She let out a short sound—something like a scoff and a laugh.  “Nah,” she told him.  “You won’t live long enough.”

She lifted her gun quickly, pulling the trigger.  Castiel jumped to the side and hit the floor, instantly curling into a protective ball.  The bullet hit the barrel of kerosene that had been behind him.  It spilled out, adding explosive bursts of fuel to the fire.

The flames climbed quickly up the back wall.  The ceiling lit up like tinder.  Castiel told himself not to panic, to pay no mind to the heat.  He could still breathe.

He could still breathe.

And he needed to be quick, while Meg was distracted.

He aimed his gun at her and fired.

And missed.

Meg let out a pained shout as his bullet grazed her shoulder.  Her hand flew to the wound, the smallest bit of blood leaking through the cracks in her fingers.

“You son of a bitch,” she cursed, the smile off her face.

The heat was too much.  He put his feet under him, pushing himself off of the floor with effort and letting his legs wobble.  As he stood, he slipped his fingers inside his boot to pull out his small surgical blade.  The metal was warm against his palm, and he clutched it at his side like a lifeline.  The smoke was rising, black all around him.

He couldn’t die here.  He wouldn’t die like this.  He had too much will.

Meg marched forward and grabbed his necktie, pulling him in close.  There was soot on her cheeks.  Her eyes were shadowed and black against the light of the flames.

“Nice try, Doc,” she said.  “You need practice with a gun.”

His fist tightened.  “I know,” he admitted, the words coming out breathily.  The air was getting thinner.  He lunged his knife forward until he hit the gentle resistance of flesh.  Meg gasped, her eyes going wide.

He said, “I’ve always been better with a blade.”

Meg’s grip around him tightened.  She was in shock.  He’d taken enough people apart with a knife before; only, they were patients, and he was trying to save them.  Still, he knew where the right organs were.

He sliced the knife upward toward her intestines.  There was a clattering sound as her gun fell from her grasp.

She sputtered, coughing blood onto her lips and chin.  Castiel could feel more of it on his hand.

He couldn’t afford remorse.  She would have taken Jack.  She’d likely killed Jo.  She would have killed him, too, and the Winchesters.  This was survival.

He gritted his teeth.  “I’m sorry,” he heard himself say.  He pulled the knife out.  She gave a yell and collapsed against him.  Her fingers tightened desperately around him before she sucked in a wheezing breath and went still.

She was dead.  Castiel was just glad he didn’t have to see the light go out in her eyes.

He pushed her off of him, letting her body buckle down to the floor.  She flopped onto her back, her blank eyes staring up at the ceiling as ash rained down upon her.  Castiel couldn’t bring himself to look away.

And then one of the rafters crumbled.  It banged loudly as it fell, taking a piece of the banister with it.

He had to go.  Now.

Castiel rushed back to the trunk filled with blankets.  He wrapped one around his shoulder and bundled another one against his chest.  He took it toward the stairs and beat the flames with it.  They lessened enough for him to smother with the blanket before rushing down the stairs.

Smoke was filling his lungs and causing his eyes to itch and water.  Every time he tried to breathe, it came out in a cough.  He pulled the blanket over his head and ran for the door.  Outside, the sun was barely an orange glow lining the horizon.  Twilight twinkled in blues and purples above him.  He dropped to his hands and knees and heaved, catching his breath.

Behind him, the fire roared as the breeze fanned the flames.

He fisted at the loose dirt, collecting himself.  His hands were red and black.

Getting to his feet, he ran for the church, where Jo was propped up against the wall.  Her face was pale of all color, lips turning blue.  Her hand was limp on her lap, fingers curled in and bloody where she’d been cradling her wounds.  The two shots had landed close together on her stomach, maximizing the damage.  Her shirt and skirt were sopping wet with blood.

Castiel thought she was dead.  But then he saw the shallow rise and fall of her chest.  He quickly crouched next to her and checked her neck for a pulse.  It was there, but barely.

“Jo,” he said, trying to call her back into the world.  Her eyes fluttered.  A low, audible breath pulled itself from her lips.

She managed to crack an eye to look at him.  “Castiel—”

“Thank God.”

She coughed as if telling him that God wasn’t yet to thank.

He looked down at her wound, still leaking.  They needed to stop the bleeding, and he needed to get her inside so he could help.  But he couldn’t move her on his own.

Remembering the blanket around his shoulders, he tugged it off and balled it up.  “Take this,” he instructed, confident enough that she wouldn’t die in the time it took to get the Winchesters.  She was conscious.  That was a good sign.

He pressed the blanket into her wound, and she let out a yelp.  “Apply pressure.  I’ll get help.”

She nodded weakly, her fingers grabbing at the fabric.  He inspected her again, just to make sure she’d last.  He had no choice either way.  He got to his feet and pushed through the door of the church.

Dean, Sam, and Sonny, lantern in hand, were in the center aisle between the pews.  The four outlaws Meg had brought with her were dead on the floor.

The three men looked over as Castiel entered, but it was Dean who reacted first.  He startled, eyes wide.  “Cas?  Cas!”

He was already worried.  Castiel didn’t know why.  Not until Dean rushed over and grabbed his shoulders as if he was trying to keep him upright.  His eyes were on Castiel’s torso.

Castiel looked down.  There was blood everywhere.  The front of his shirt and his sleeves were soaked in it.

Dean’s jaw tightened when he realized it wasn’t Castiel’s blood.  He asked, more composed, “You okay?”

Castiel nodded swiftly.  He didn’t care about himself at the moment.  “Where’s Jack?”

“The nuns have him,” Dean said as Sam and Sonny walked up behind him.  “He’s good.  No one got past us.”

Castiel allowed himself to sigh in relief.  It was over—for now.  Jack was safe.

“Cas, what happened?” Sam asked, sizing up all the blood.

Castiel’s gut clenched.  They had to get Jo inside.  “Dean.”

Dean must have not been paying attention.  He answered Sam, “Doesn’t matter.  It’s finished.”  His grip tightened on Castiel’s shoulder.  It was a comforting weight, because Castiel could still smell smoke tickling at his nose.  He wondered if the others could smell it, too.  He must have had ash in his hair.

“No, Dean—”

“We did it,” Dean assured.

Castiel grabbed his wrist tightly, immediately gaining Dean’s attention.  “Dean, you need to come outside.”

Something sparked in Dean’s expression.  He gazed around as if expecting to see something.  Fear dawning in his eyes, he asked, “Where’s Jo?”

Castiel didn’t answer.  He pulled Dean toward the door.  Dean followed immediately until he ripped his arm from Castiel’s grip and overtook him in a dash toward the exit.  Sam and Sonny rushed after them.

Across the way, flames had swallowed up the barn completely.  It was blinding to look at, and Castiel could feel the heat searing his face even from the distance.  Sonny paused in the doorway to gawk at it.  He crossed himself, muttering, “My God.”

Castiel didn’t bother to tell them what happened.  He dropped down next to Jo, where Dean was on his knees, his hands holding up her face.  There was blood on her cheeks and her head tilted unconsciously downward.  Castiel had been afraid of that.

He checked for a pulse again, breathing out when he found it.  “She’s still alive.  We have to get her inside.”

Dean’s eyes were large as he stared at her with barely concealed panic.  He didn’t even appear to have heard Castiel.

“Dean,” Castiel said, managing to snap him out of it.

Blinking and shaking his head, Dean said, “Yeah—okay.”  He scooped Jo up, one arm under her knees and the other supporting her shoulders.  Sam came over to help him.  He seemed much more composed, despite the fear in his eyes.

“No, Sam, go to the stage,” Castiel told him in a rush.  “Get my kit.  Go.”

Sam nodded.  He reluctantly pulled away, his hand lingering on Jo’s shoulder as long as it could before he was too far.  He rushed around the church.  Dean didn’t wait.  He was carrying Jo inside, following after Sonny.

“Take her to my room.  You’ll have space to work,” the Brother was saying as he led them through the church and back through the door to the dormitories.  There was a flight of stairs on the other side leading up to the next floor.

Castiel followed after them, up the stairs and into the first door on the right of the narrow hallway.  The room beyond was sparse—just a bed with a wooden frame and a crucifix over it.  A table and chair with writing implements and stacks of paper were against the wall opposite the door.

Dean set Jo down on the bed, and there was blood on the borrowed robes he was wearing.  He knelt down on the floor and grasped Jo’s hand, murmuring something to her that Castiel was too busy to hear.

Castiel checked her vitals again.  Her pulse had picked up somewhat, but that could have been from the movement.  All it did was make the blood seep from her bullet wound more quickly.

He removed the soaked blanket and handed it to Sonny.  He peeled back her shirt.  The bullets had torn through her stomach, leaving two one-inch holes.  Blood gushed, dark and heavy, out of them.  He felt behind her quickly.  “There’s no exit wound.  The bullets are still inside her.”

Perhaps that was a blessing.  Judging by the wound’s placement, the bullets would have ripped through her spine.

“We need fresh water,” Sonny said, not halting before rushing from the room, leaving his lantern behind.

There wasn’t much Castiel could do besides stem the bleeding until Sam came in.  He pressed down on the wound, and Jo reacted with a sharp intake of breath.  The pain made her come to.  She nearly jack-knifed off the bed.  Castiel grabbed her shoulder without thinking.  On the other side of the bed, Dean did the same.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Dean told her, voice rushed and shaky while he got to his feet.  He gently guided her back to the bed.  “It’s okay, we got you.”

Jo was letting out agonized grunts.  She gritted her teeth, her eyes eventually finding Dean.  “So much—so much riding shotgun—on the way home,” she eked out.

Sam barreled into the room, coming to a running halt.  Castiel’s medical kit was clutched in his hand.  His eyes went wide when he saw Jo awake.

“Nah, fuck that,” Dean was saying as he brushed her matted hair out of her eyes.  “I’ll let you drive.”

Jo’s laugh sounded pained.

“Sam, come here,” Castiel said, speaking over Dean.  Sam quickly did as he was told, and Castiel instructed him on how much pressure to apply so he could go through his kit.

Sam nodded, swallowing hard, before taking over.  His hands slipped slightly on the blood before he found the right hold.  It made Jo let out another shout.  He said, “Hey, Jo.  How you doing?”

“Peachy,” she gritted out.

Dean said something then, but Castiel was focusing on his supplies.  He pulled out a tincture of clear liquid and a cloth to splash it on.

“Dean, you—you gotta—my mom,” Jo was saying.  Dean was squeezing her hand hard and shaking his head.  “Tell her—not her fault.”

“Jo, listen to me, you’re gonna be fine,” Dean promised as if he could make it so through sheer power of determination.

“Tell her—”

Castiel couldn’t wait for her to finish that sentence.  He slapped the cloth over her nose and mouth.  Jo breathed it in and passed out in a couple of seconds, her body going lifeless against the bed.

“Cas, what the hell!” Dean barked.

“We don’t have time,” Castiel told him while he took out his roll of surgical blades.  One was missing, still in his pocket.  He took the smallest one out of the roll as Sonny came through with a pitcher of water and some cloths.  He brought them over, and Sam moved out of the way so he could clean the wound.

“Tell me what you need, son,” Sonny was saying.  “I can help.  I served as a field medic in the war.”  Sam and Dean’s eyes both snapped to him.  He explained, “Don’t worry.  For the Union.”

Castiel couldn’t care at the moment if he’d been a Confederate.  He was just relieved to have trained help.

“I need space,” Castiel told them.  Both Sam and Sonny stepped back.  Dean didn’t.

“I ain’t leaving,” he said firmly.

Whatever sentiment Castiel felt for Dean, he shut that part of his mind and heart down immediately.  He threw over his shoulder, “Get him out of here.”

“I’m not leaving!” Dean said, louder.

Sam grabbed Dean by the arm, pulling him back.  Dean resisted.  “C’mon, let ‘em work.  Dean, you can’t do anything.”

“The hell I can’t!”

“If you want to help, go help the boys put out that fire,” Sonny was saying, shooing the brothers from the room.  Sam was practically dragging Dean.

Castiel focused on the wound.  He made a cut—in the exact same place he’d cut Meg minutes ago.

“Don’t you let her die,” Dean was yelling.  “Cas, don’t you let her—!”  His words were muffled when Sonny closed the door on him.

Hours went by.

Dean had tried to distract himself in all that time.  He and Sam, along with some of the older boys from the orphanage, put out the fire in the barn.  The structure was a smoldering husk now, nothing but a pile of ash and charred wood.  They’d found Meg’s burned body among the wreckage.

But now, there was nothing else to take his mind off Jo.  He feared the worst, his mind whispering to him that he should be in there to help her.  That maybe he could do something to save her that Cas and Sonny couldn’t.

Dean paced outside the door, still locked tightly since Cas and Sonny had first brought Jo in there.  He only knew it was locked because, at one point, he heard Jo screaming and tried to kick down the door.  He probably would have if Sam hadn’t physically stopped him.

Now, Sam was sitting at the top of the stairs, hunched in on himself and leaning his side against the wall.  His hands had been folded in prayer not too long ago, and Dean was almost desperate enough to join him.  But now, Sam was unmoving, as was Jack sleeping in his wicker basket beside him.  Peaceful.

Dean wondered if Lucifer really was the devil, after all, and Jack was the antichrist.  It would have made sense with all the death that followed him around like a plague.

Dean tried to shake that thought away, to tell himself that it was all going to be okay.  Jo was in good hands.  But Cas had lost people before, and there’d been a lot of blood.

He walked past the door again, his heels scraping against the scuffed floor as he turned.  The adrenaline had faded out of his system about an hour ago, and his knees were begging him to sit down.  His eyes were burning for sleep.  He pushed himself through the exhaustion, because he wasn’t about to rest knowing Jo was still in there.

She couldn’t die.  She was just a kid.  He couldn’t bury a kid.  And what the hell would Ellen say?  He wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted to talk to him again.  He never should have let Jo tag along.

To his left, the door creaked open.  Dean whipped around.  For hours, he’d been waiting for some sign of life in the room beyond, but now that he was getting it, something was blocking his windpipe.  His throat felt scratched raw.

Cas emerged from the room.  The first thing Dean noticed was blood—more than had been there before.  It was on his hands, his arms, his cheeks.  His shirt was stained with a pattern of fresh red.  Dean’s eyes were wide as they moved up to Cas’ face.  He looked tired, the bags under his eyes shadowed and bruised.  Sonny was behind him in a similar state.

Dean tried to look inside to see Jo on the bed, but the wall blocked her from sight.  He couldn’t see a damn thing but the night outside the window.

“Wh—How is she?” he asked, fearing the answer.

For the first time, he noticed Sam’s presence at his side.

Cas looked at them both severely, like he was about to deliver bad news.  “She’s alive.”

Dean felt himself deflate.  He just about collapsed against the wall.  Next to him, Sam nodded and ran his shaky hand down his mouth to collect himself.

And then Cas added, “For now.”

All the relief Dean felt sank like a stone in his gut.  Cold waters took its place.  Sam was quicker to react.  “Cas, what d’you mean, for now?” he asked.

Cas let out a heavy breath and averted his eyes down the hallway.  “She had internal bleeding.  I was able to stop it but I don’t know for how long.”

The adrenaline was back.  It spiked out from Dean’s heart, rushing to his head.  “Well, figure it out!” he demanded.

Cas kept staring off.  “It’s not that simple.”

Bullshit.  “You’re a damn doctor!  Fix her!”

Cas turned to him sharply, his mouth pinched and eyes warning.  “I can’t.  Not without resources.”

Dean shook his head, ready to spring into action.  “Okay, fine.  We get her back to Kansas City and to a hospital.”

“If we move her, her condition could worsen.  It’s best to leave her where she is.”

Dean threw an arm out to indicate the bed inside the room.  “Where she is, is dying!”

“Dean.”

Dean clamped his jaw tight, glaring.

He watched as Cas dropped his shoulders in a breath.  He looked down, hands loosening and tightening at his sides.  When his gaze swept back up, he said, “All we can do is—”

No.

“If you say pray, so help me god, I will march my ass to Chicago and burn down every single medical college—”

Cas stepped in close, his eyes fixed on Dean’s and chin raised.  Voice low, he said, “If you move her, her wound will rupture into her lungs, and she will drown in her own blood.”

Dean shut up.  He swallowed hard.  But he kept his eyes on Cas’, just to show he wasn’t happy about any of this.

Sam broke the tension with a deep exhale into his hands folded against his mouth.  He dropped his arms and said, with a much more level head than Dean was currently experiencing, “So, she’s not out of the woods yet.”

Cas challenged Dean’s glower for a second longer before turning his face to Sam.  Dean kept watching him, his eyes flickering up and down the side of Cas’ face.  The thought struck him that, if Jack had been in that bed, Cas wouldn’t have stopped until he knew his life was saved.

Dean tried to stamp that thought down.  It wasn’t true.  Cas had done everything he could for Jo.  Of course, he had.

“No,” Cas said bluntly, but his voice was softer than it had been a moment ago.  “Perhaps, given time, she’ll heal.  But . . .”

“She might not,” Sam guessed the rest.

Dean wanted to throw up as he watched Cas tense, then nod remorsefully.  Sam let out another breath, halfway to a scoff.  He nodded, too, much more quickly.

Behind Cas, Sonny stepped forward.  “It’s in God’s hands now, gentlemen.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, voice thick.  “Thank you, Brother.”

Sonny nodded sympathetically before squeezing past Cas into the hallway.  He paused, laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder, and then reached his other toward Dean.  His touch was gentle but strong, so self-assured that everything would be okay given enough faith.  The confidence warmed Dean slightly as if he were borrowing it momentarily; right up until the moment Sonny’s hand fell away, and Dean realized he held no faith for himself.

Sonny’s boots sounded down the hall.  Sam lingered for a moment before turning toward the stairs.  He scooped up Jack’s basket, whispering something like, “It’s okay, I gotcha,” under his breath.  He walked down the steps.

Dean remained staring at the floor between his and Cas’ boots.  Cas was still in front of him, and Dean could feel his gaze latched onto him.  His heart thundered in his ears, hoping Cas wouldn’t try to say anything.  Dean wasn’t sure how he’d react if he did.

“Dean.”  It was a whisper, small and soft-spoken and full of apology, like he’d already failed.

Dean closed his eyes.  He shook his head slowly.  Cas wasn’t the one who failed.  Dean had.  Jo was his responsibility.

Cas raised his hand between them and hovered there, fingers stretching out hesitantly as if he was unsure whether or not to touch him.  Under most circumstances, Cas’ touch could calm Dean far more than Sonny’s ever could.  Maybe, now, Dean could find some of that faith in Cas’ hands.  Maybe he could keep some.

He brought both hands up and wrapped them around Cas’.  Dean wanted to trust him so badly.

Cas tilted his forehead into Dean’s.  Dean let his eyes slip shut again.  He swiped his thumb up and down Cas’ finger, still slick with blood.  He listened to Cas breathe in and out and say, “You should rest.”

How could he?

Still, he said, “Yeah, okay.  I’m just . . . I’m gonna check on her first.  That okay?”

Cas took a long second to answer.  Dean wished he knew what he was thinking before he said, “Yeah.”  He leaned back, their eyes pulling up to meet each other’s.  Cas offered him the barest flicker of a smile.

Dean thought he should thank Cas for trying, for doing his best.  The words bottlenecked in his throat.

He let Cas’ hand go, and Cas returned it to a fist at his side.  His shoulders were taut as he turned and walked toward the stairs, following after Sam.  Dean listened to the faint tread of his shoes until the sound faded to nothing.

Chapter Text

Sonny had given them rooms for the night.  Dean hadn’t used his.  He stayed in a chair next to Jo’s bedside all night, just in case she woke up.  She never did—at least, not that he saw.  He’d fallen asleep at some point in the night and woke up to sunlight on his face and a kink in his neck.  Jo remained unchanged, her skin still pale and waxy, her breaths shallow.

At one point, Cas came in to change her bandages.  Not a single word passed between them.  Dean felt Cas’ eyes on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to return the gaze.  It wasn’t that he blamed Cas for what happened—not really.  Maybe Dean wanted to.  Maybe it’d be easier to blame Cas.

Instead, he blamed himself.  For not looking after Jo—for not protecting her because he was too busy protecting Jack.  And he didn’t even know why he was doing that anymore when so many people had been put in harm’s way just for the sake of a baby.  Not just a baby, either—a baby whose father was a killer and an outlaw.  With blood like that, there was no reason the kid shouldn’t grow up to be the same.

After all, the first thing he ever did in this world was kill his own mother.  Jo could be next.  And he still had no idea who’d sent the telegram to Meg with their location.  Or how they got that information.  Bobby?  Mom?

Dean had half a mind to give the baby over to Lucifer’s gang just so all of this could be over—but then who knew how many people he’d grow up to hurt?  The safest place for Jack right now was with them.  Dean would figure out the rest later.

About a half hour after Cas left the room, Sam came in.  He stayed silent for a while, just looking down at Jo like he was trying to decide for himself whether or not she’d live.  He didn’t say his verdict aloud, but Sam had always been the hopeful brother.  Dean tried to live with his feet planted firmly in the real world, ugly as it was.

“Dean,” Sam said after a few moments.  He was using his soft voice, the same one he used when one of the horses was spooked and he was trying not to frighten it further.  His eyes were round and full of empathy.  Dean wanted to punch that look right off his face.  “We need to go.  I packed you up some biscuits from breakfast for the road, all right?  But we’re burning daylight.”

Dean knew he was right, but part of him was determined to stay with Jo until she woke up.  Or died.  But then Sam and Cas would just leave for Texas without him and if Lucifer’s gang caught up with them on the trail, he needed to be there.  He couldn’t let this child hurt anyone else he cared about.

When he didn’t answer, Sam walked around the bed and knelt down next to the chair.  “Dean,” he said again.

Dean let out a heavy breath.  It was the first time he recalled breathing in hours.  “Yeah, all right,” he said.

“She’ll be fine, Dean.  Sonny’ll take good care of her,” Sam assured, like he could predict these things.

Dean snorted sardonically.  “Yeah, he can pray over her.”

Sam’s lips went into a line, but he held back whatever he wanted to say.  He picked himself up to his feet and placed his hand over Jo’s on the bed.  He gave it a quick squeeze, and Dean didn’t know if he’d intended it as a see you soon or a goodbye.  Whatever Sam meant by it, his expression was mournful.  It made Dean’s gut sour even further knowing Sam wasn’t as optimistic as he let on.

He waited until Sam was gone to stand up from the chair.  His spine protested after being seated for so long and his knees wobbled uncomfortably.  He chalked that up to lack of use, too, and not emotion.

Jo was still unconscious, looking like she could be sleeping.  Or looking like she could be laid out in a casket at a funeral service.  Dean really didn’t have anything to say about that, because everything he could come up with were should haves and would haves and apologies.  None of them did any good.

Instead, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Jo’s forehead.  Her skin was cold and clammy.  He stood up and told her earnestly, “Once this is all over, I’ll be back.  And you’ll be healed.  And your mother can kill the both of us together.”

The twisting feeling in his gut moved to his heart, knowing he, unlike his brother, was more optimistic than he let on.

Before that thought could take root, he put his hat on and set out of the room.  All the children were already awake, the beds in the rooms he passed made up.  The previous night, a few of the older boys had helped them dig graves for Meg and her posse.  Sonny had prayed for their damned souls.  It was more than any of them deserved.  As far as Dean was concerned, they could all rot in hell under the watchful eye of the real Lucifer.

The sun was white-hot in the cloudless blue when Dean walked outside the back door of the dormitories.  He had to shield his eyes with his hand until they could adjust to the light.  In the near distance and high above, two vultures were wheeling through the sky.  The stage was in the drive, all three horses already harnessed in.  Sam was standing in front of the open carriage door, Jack in his arms.  Dean pointedly didn’t look at the child.

He brought his eyes over to where Cas and Sonny were talking.  Cas was holding up a vial of something, seeming like he was explaining what was inside.  Dean steeled himself and walked over to them, hearing the tail-end of Cas’ words: “. . . should be administered as needed, whenever she’s in pain.  Just a small dose will do.  And, like I said before, if the morphine doesn’t work, the chloroform will put her back to sleep.”

If she even wakes up in the first place, Dean almost said.

“Understood,” Sonny said, plucking the morphine from Cas.  He already had another vial in his hand.

“Thanks, Sonny,” Dean told him.  “For taking care of her.  We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

Sonny shook his head.  “It’s the least I can do.  The three of you saved us.”

Dean looked down at his boots to hide the way his mouth twisted downward.  “Yeah, after we put you in danger in the first place.”  He felt Cas go rigid next to him.

“Well, that’s true,” Sonny said, voice light like he was only joking.  “But what’s done is done.  You focus on getting that baby where he belongs.”  Dean didn’t mention he wasn’t really sure where that was.  “I’ll pray for your safe passage.”

“Thank you,” Cas told him, always meaning it.  His gaze was heavy as he glanced at Dean one more time before walking toward the stage.

Dean brought his eyes back up.  Now that Cas was gone, he could speak a little more freely.  He licked his lips, hating to ask anything else of Sonny: “Can you do me one more thing?”

Sonny didn’t seem the least bit hesitant.  “Of course.”

Dean licked his lips nervously, hands unsteady as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a letter.  It was addressed to Kansas City.

“Next time the express comes through to collect mail,” he said, eyes fixed on his own penmanship.  “You mind putting this with it?  It’s, uh . . . to Jo’s mother.”

There was a pause.  Sonny didn’t take the letter, and Dean had the crazy notion that he was about to be rejected.  When he looked up again, Sonny was eyeing him closely.  The Brother reached forward and clasped his hand to Dean’s shoulder.

“Dean, whatever you’re holding inside of you,” he said, “try not to let it eat you alive.”

He should have come back with, everything’s eating me, or, you don’t know me at all if you think I’ll listen to that piece of advice.  But the words sunk deep down into the hollow of his chest, and he couldn’t shake the cold they left behind.  It made him more aware than ever that the world wasn’t a weight; it was something with teeth, and it was always gnawing.  In truth, Dean didn’t know why he wasn’t laughing.

Dean nodded, because he didn’t know what else to do.  Sonny took the letter from him and let his hand slip away.  Dean turned for the stage.  Sam was climbing up into the box.  Cas was holding Jack now, and he was smiling down at the baby like he was a blessing from above.

Like he was innocent.

Her father was forgiving.

Ruby tried to remember that as she rode toward the compound.  The journey from Lawrence to the outskirts of Wichita took a day and a half when stopping for breaks, but she only paused when she absolutely had to.  She’d left Lawrence in the early morning as soon as she received the news regarding what happened in Missouri.

Meg Masters was dead, as well as a handful of their men.  The Winchesters and Novak had bested them and the baby was gone—again.

Lucifer wouldn’t be happy, and he’d see it as Ruby’s fault.  She’d been the one who sent the posse after his son.  She’d failed.

But her father was forgiving—provided she offered a solution.

The sun had long since set by the time she reached the compound, with its lanterns flickering across the prairie, drawing her in.  The nearby lake was shimmering in the moonlight.  When her horse drew closer to the squat, sod house structures, she saw a number of her comrades completing the rest of their chores for the night.  They all stopped to watch her pass, blinking silently at her like they already knew she was coming to deliver a message—and to seek forgiveness.

Her horse was exhausted by the time she reached the barn and handed it off to one of the younger boys.  There was a chance the journey had weakened the beast, and she wouldn’t be surprised if it dropped the moment it was allowed to rest.  But it was worth it; so was her own weariness.

She couldn’t delay this news.  It was better Lucifer hear it from her.

Lucifer’s cabin was set back from the rest, closest to the lake.  From within, she could see the orange and red glow of a fire in the windows.  Through the drawn curtains, shadowy figures moved around inside the front room.  He wasn’t alone.

Brady was leaning next to the front door, his leg bent as he rested his boot against the wall.  She guessed it was his turn to be the guard tonight.  His jacket was pushed back, tucked behind the gun on his hip.  Upon her approach, he glanced up.  A slow, sharp smile formed on his face.

“Look who’s back,” he greeted, voice faux-jovial.  “Can’t help but notice you don’t come bearing gifts.  Where’s the baby?”

“Shut up, Brady,” she said.  Her stomach was already in knots.  She didn’t need him taunting her.  Halting in front of him, her eyes flickered back to the shadows in the window.  She pointed her chin to the door.  “He home?”

She tried not to show how much she hoped for a no.

“He’s in there,” Brady confirmed.

Ruby hesitated.  Dropping her voice, she asked, “What’s his mood like?”

Brady kept the grin on his face, amused by her suffering.  “He’s in with Dagon and Asmodeus.”

Shit.  Those two had been around longer than anyone else, before Ruby had even been born.  When Lucifer sent for them, it meant he was calling in the cavalry.  She needed to find that baby and fast.

Apart from that, she assumed Asmodeus wouldn’t be too happy about the fact that Mary Winchester killed his brother.

Ruby shot Brady a glare before turning to the door.  She lifted her hand to the wood, steeled herself, and knocked.

A low voice from within said, “Come in.”

Ruby opened the door, stepping inside.  She palmed off her hat in a sign of respect, clasping it between both hands over her chest as if it were a shield.

As she was told, Dagon and Asmodeus were inside, sitting on opposite sides of the table in the front room.  Dagon’s boots were kicked up onto the chair next to her, crossed at the ankles.  Asmodeus had his elbow casually popped up on the back of his seat, his white shirt and vest tarnished by a layer of dust.  They must have gotten to the compound not long ago.

The fire in the hearth was stoked high, puffing out a smoky and brimstone smell into the cabin.  The light of the flames reflected yellow in their eyes as they glanced over at Ruby in the doorway, both frowning.

Ruby nodded to them both in turn, not expecting a response from either.  Her eyes moved to the end of the table—to where Lucifer sat.

He was facing forward, posture upright, in his seat before the fireplace.  The flames licked upward behind his back, the halo surrounding him cast his features into a silhouette.  His forearms were resting on the arms of his chair.

When he spoke, Ruby couldn’t see his mouth moving in the darkness.  It seemed as if the flames were addressing her.  “Sit, child.”

Ruby averted her gaze and moved to do as she was told.  On her way, she caught sight of an oval, ornately framed photograph sitting on the shelves along the wall.  It was of a severe, frowning woman, her blonde curls pulled back while she stared off.  Lilith had passed away before Ruby was taken into the fold, but she always thought of Lucifer’s late wife as a mother of sorts.  The image of Lilith reminded her to have strength.

She crossed to Asmodeus’ side of the table and pulled out a chair, quietly sitting.  She kept her eyes down, knowing better than to speak before being spoken to.

It took a long moment, in which she felt Lucifer’s eyes on her, before he asked, “You have news of my son?”

She nodded.  Her pulse lurched now that the time to speak was upon her.  She laced her hands together in an attempt to keep them from shaking.  “Yes.  He’s in Missouri, brought there by three men from Lawrence.  I was told they were taking him to an orphanage.”

Lucifer waited.  “And?”

“And,” she said, ignoring the way Dagon and Asmodeus were, too, holding their breath as they judged her.  “Meg Masters led a group after them.  But . . . the Winchesters were ready.  There were no survivors.”

There was a long pause before Lucifer leaned forward in his chair.  He clasped his hands between his knees.  Ruby tightened her jaw, relieved that she hadn’t winced.

“But what about my son?” he asked pointedly.

“The Winchesters are protecting him,” she said.  “I don’t believe they’ll leave him at the orphanage now that we know its location.  They’ll likely take him elsewhere.”

“Where?” Asmodeus asked in his drawl, dripping accent.  “What other orphanages are in the area?”

Ruby looked at him, deciding whether or not to voice her thoughts.  It was better not to keep this to herself.  “I don’t think they’ll leave him at another orphanage.”  She turned to Lucifer, who remained silent, expecting her to go on.  “The mother—Kelly.  We already traced her roots back to Waco.  I found her parents there.  The men could be taking the child to his grandparents.”

Across the table, Dagon laughed.  “Why would you think that?”

Ruby thought of Sam Winchester.  His earnest eyes, the way he carried himself—strong, but caring.  A sort of kind innocence radiated off the man.  And then there was his home, and all his books, his mother’s fierce love.  He seemed like a decent man, the kind of man who would always do the right thing just for the hell of it.  And he clearly cared about the baby enough to defend him.  She expected his brother was cut from the same cloth, especially after the story Bela had told her about the Lawrence Massacre.

She knew less about Novak, but he’d been part of the fights in Kansas City and the orphanage.  He could be just as upstanding—and just as violent—as the brothers.  For all Ruby knew, he could be even more formidable.

She didn’t know how to tell them any of this and make it sound convincing.  She settled on saying, “You don’t know the Winchesters.”

Dagon waved her hand dismissively.  “Lucifer, this is nothing but speculation.  If we’re to find the child, it’ll be at an orphanage—”

Lucifer held up a palm, silencing her at once.  He let it fall to his lap as he leaned back in his chair again.  Ruby really wished she could see his face, that way she would be able to determine if he was angry or disappointed, or if he was listening.  But the line of his shoulder was calm, self-possessed, and aloof, like always.

“Tell me, if these Winchesters are taking my son to Texas, as you say,” he asked, “how will you find them?”

Ruby had thought of nothing but that all day.  She’d formulated a plan on her ride over.  “Talbot’s daughter, Bela—she told me the Winchesters are stagecoach messengers.  That means they’ll stick to the roads.  There are two trails that lead to Texas.  They could either head back west to link up with the Chisholm—”

That would be the safer route.  Ever since the railroad laid tracks out further west, cattle driving was a dying profession, but it wasn’t dead yet.  The Chisholm would be bustling with longhorn drovers and cattlemen, covered wagons and frontiersmen, merchants and entertainers.

“Or they could stay in Missouri and go south on the Shawnee,” Ruby finished.

Again, Dagon laughed.  It was more than a short burst that time.  Ruby looked over at her, annoyance spiking.

“What Shawnee?” Dagon said.

Asmodeus added, “The Shawnee Trail has been out of commission for years.  They’d have to be madmen to travel through the Indian Territory alone.”

“Exactly,” Ruby told them.  “They know we’d never look for them there.”

“This is a waste of time,” Dagon muttered.

Ruby simmered.  She reminded herself that Dagon and Asmodeus’ opinions didn’t matter.  “Either way,” she gritted out before composing herself.  “They’ll have to stop for supplies eventually.  I know girls in every major town along both routes.  I could get word to them, have them be our eyes and ears.”

“Why would we trust whores?” Dagon asked, and it stung—just like she’d intended it to.  “We have men of higher status in each of those towns that could help us far better.”

Pursing her lips and shaking her head, Ruby couldn’t keep the agitation from her tone as she said, “Yeah, well, my girls are loyal.  And they see things that sheriffs and politicians don’t—but, sure, I can put them on the Winchesters’ trail, too.”  As she spoke, an idea struck.  She’d have to ride back to Lawrence, but it might be worth it.  “In fact, I think I know a way to get every sheriff from here to Prescott looking for them.”

“And what exactly do you plan on doing, girl?” Asmodeus asked.  “Once you have these men?”

The Winchesters had proven, time and time again, that they could hold their own in an all-out fight.  Ruby would have to approach this situation in another manner.  “Gain their trust,” she said as confidently as possible.

Asmodeus’ bushy eyebrows shifted, nonplussed.  He scratched audibly at his beard.

Dagon eyed her for a moment, appearing unimpressed.  “I still say we hit the orphanages.”

“We’ll do both,” Lucifer decided.  Ruby jerked her head in his direction.  She tried to process his words, but she couldn’t quite believe it.  “Dagon and Asmodeus will round up posses and scout out the orphanages in the area.”  His head turned to fix his gaze on Ruby.  “And you will follow the Winchesters.”

Ruby heard Dagon tsk, but she didn’t care.  She tried to fight back a smile.  Lucifer had faith in her plan.  He wasn’t punishing her.

“Thank you, Father,” she told him.

Lucifer stood up and paced toward her.  It made her heart thunder and her muscles tense.  She stood up, too, her eyes downcast.  When he was standing in front of her, she saw his hands slowly lift up between them.  She bit down on her jaw when he framed her cheeks and gently brought her face up.

Her gaze flickered across his face, which held no expression.  His blue eyes were cold and distant as they bore down on her.  The light of the fire caught on the tips of his sandy hair.  She forced herself to look away when her eyes were attracted to the scars on his left temple and forehead.  They were speckled and round, some small and others like welts—red and pink.  She didn’t know for sure how he’d gotten them so long ago, but they appeared to be burns.

His thumb stroked her cheek lovingly, bringing her a feeling of peace at the praise she craved—and a feeling of choking fear that he could lift his hand and strike her at any moment.

“Good work, child,” he said softly.  Then, his grip tightened marginally.  She sucked in a reflexive breath, preparing herself.  “Don’t fail me.”

Relieved, she shook her head as much as his hands allowed.  “Of course, Father,” she promised.  “I won’t.”

He let his hands fall away.  When he dismissed her, she grabbed her hat off the table and left immediately.  Something was clawing up her throat, suffocating her, though she didn’t know why.  Everything was fine.  Lucifer believed in her.  She wouldn’t prove him wrong.

The sensation only climbed higher when she walked out of the cabin.  Behind her, Brady said, “Well, well.  She lives to tell the tale.”

Ruby didn’t even stop to glower.  She kept going, dizzy and exhausted and trembling.  Once she was far enough away, she stopped next to the lake.  The water lapped against the weeds on the banks.  An owl was hooting in a nearby tree.  The moon was a cold, silver disk up above.

She let out a heavy, gasping breath and told herself everything was okay.

She was okay.  She wouldn’t let Lucifer down.

Castiel wasn’t too sure of these things, but he was fairly certain they made it out of Missouri in record time.  The Shawnee pointed them toward the southwestern part of the state before briefly dipping back into southern Kansas.  Then, they’d be in the Indian Territory until they reached Texas.

Privately, he was concerned about that leg of the journey, but if they kept going at this speed, they’d be in and out in almost no time.

Generally, they stayed out of the towns, deigning to make camp along the trail instead.  Once they reached Kansas, they had to stop in a small, nameless town to replenish their supply of canned milk for Jack.  Dean didn’t even allow them to stop for lunch after leaving the General Store.

When they did stop along the trail, whether it was to feed or clean the baby, eat, or rest the horses, Dean never allowed them much time.  Even sleep was interrupted the moment the sun was a pink line on the horizon.  The only event that required them to stop for a significant amount of time was when the stage’s wheels began to whine and the brothers had to grease them.

The pace made all of their moods sour, but—it seemed—no one more than Dean.  Although, Castiel knew it was more than the journey upsetting Dean.  It was Jo.  It was guilt and worry.  And it was something else, too, but Castiel didn’t know what.

He thought, maybe, it was Jack; that the reason Dean was pushing them so hard was so they could get rid of Jack all the sooner.

Castiel sometimes caught Dean looking at the baby, expression guarded like he expected the child could harm him in some way.  He never helped take care of him, never even held him anymore.  He always made excuses for it.

He made excuses, too, when Castiel tried to approach him.  At first, Castiel just wanted to make sure Dean’s mental state was all right after what happened at the orphanage.  Dean only brushed him off, like Castiel had expected him to even though he’d been hoping for the opposite.  But then Castiel noticed that Dean kept his distance at all times.  He only spoke to him when he had to, and he kept his eyes averted when they were unharnessing the horses or cooking.  Even when they slept, Dean would face the opposite direction.

Perhaps Dean was angry with him, after all. Perhaps Dean thought none of this would have happened is not for Castiel. He couldn’t be certain, but it was obvious they were fighting.  Castiel was just having trouble figuring out what they were fighting about.

Sam seemed to notice it, too.  He and Castiel would share looks when Dean wasn’t paying attention, and Sam’s expressions ranged from apologetic on his brother’s behalf, to confused, to irritated.  But at least Dean was speaking to him.

By the fourth day, Castiel had no idea where they were, only that it was somewhere in Cherokee lands.  Ever since they passed out of Kansas, the Winchesters were on higher alert.  Dean even slowed their pace some so that the horses didn’t tire or that the stage’s wheels didn’t incur any damage.  Sam kept his shotgun in hand at all times.  When they did stop, it was for even shorter periods.  The previous night, they even took shifts staying awake to be on the lookout.

Castiel had never been in the Indian Territory before, and despite Sam and Dean’s insistence that everything would be fine so long as they didn’t draw any attention to themselves, there was still a hollow pit in Castiel’s gut.  He took to keeping Jack in the fabric sling across his chest rather than the wicker basket.

Through the carriage window during the daylight hours, Castiel saw only wild terrain for as far as the eye could see.  Grassy plains sat uninterrupted by towns and structures, fences, and mining camps.  Copses of trees would appear in intervals.  Occasionally, he caught sight of prairie dogs, white-tailed deer, and rabbits in the wheatgrass.  Every so often, buffalo bones lay bleached in the sun.  There were no humans, though, which he supposed was a relief, no matter how much it made him feel as if they’d fallen off the edge of the world.

Dean’s mood held throughout, long enough for Castiel to confirm his silence wasn’t born of caution.  The green of his eyes reflected the pewter clouds that had hung thick overhead all day.

The lack of sunlight made them have to make camp for the night a little earlier than usual.  They set it up a few yards from the trail, and Sam built a small fire from twigs and grass under a single oak tree that dominated the otherwise flat, desolate landscape.  Dean stayed a little ways away from the camp to unsaddle and feed the horses until dinner was ready.  As Castiel fed Jack, his eyes stayed on the hard line of Dean’s shoulders.  He tried to ignore how hollow the absence of reciprocated eye contact made him feel.

After they were settled for bed and Jack was put down in his basket, Sam offered to take the first watch.  Dean didn’t argue—nor did he argue about the fact that Castiel had laid their bedrolls out next to each other.  But, again, he did tuck in with his back to Castiel and his arms crossed over his chest.

Castiel lay awake, looking up at the shadowy clouds that blocked the stars and moon.  It was cold, and he wanted to press against Dean for warmth.  The wet wind whistled through the prairie.  It didn’t rain.  All the weather did was build in pressure.  Castiel counted his own breaths.  Dean didn’t fall asleep.

A little over an hour after they settled in, Dean threw his blankets off with a huff and got up.  “I’ll take over,” he told Sam in a whisper, even though he must have known Castiel wasn’t asleep, either.

Sam glanced up to him, the minuscule light of the fire playing on his skin.  “You should rest.”

“Go to sleep, Sam,” Dean told him harshly.  Sam looked like he might challenge that for a moment, but he dropped his shoulders in a close-mouthed exhale and picked himself up from the grass.  He walked toward his bedroll, settled in, and was asleep within minutes.

Castiel lay perfectly still.  A coyote howled in the far distance, its cry almost inaudible beneath the scrape of metal as Dean checked how many rounds he had in his gun.  Apparently satisfied, Dean rested his elbows on his knees, six-shooter still in hand.  Time passed, and his body relaxed only enough for the gun to hang a little more limply in his hold.

Castiel was still wound tightly.  He thought his pulse might shatter his chest with how much tension his body held.

He couldn’t do this anymore.  He couldn’t take the silence.

He sat up, letting the wool blanket drop to his lap.  Outside of it, the wind was a little chillier than he’d anticipated.  It was nothing compared to the cold that struck him when he saw Dean’s fists tighten again.

“Dean,” he said, keeping his voice low so as to not wake Sam and the baby.

Dean kept his eyes on the dark, empty field.  It took him a moment to answer.  “Yeah, what?”

Castiel sighed.  He wasn’t going to have this conversation feet apart with Dean not looking at him.  In fact, part of him wanted to give up right then and there so he could again try for sleep.  But he was too wired for that, more so when he considered enduring another day of Dean’s cold shoulder.  It was beginning to make Castiel feel guilty, though he wasn’t sure what for.

He picked himself up and walked toward Dean, sitting on the dry grass beside him.  Some of the blades prickled through the fabric of Castiel’s trousers, itching at his skin.  Once he was settled, he realized he didn’t know what to say.  He wondered if there were any string of words in the English language that wouldn’t make Dean shut down immediately.

Uncertain of his choice, he decided on, “How are you?”

Unlike before, the answer was immediate: “I’m fine.”

“Dean.”

“I mean it, Cas.  Go to sleep.”

Behind them, one of the horses snorted.  It made Castiel’s heart skip a beat.  He looked over his shoulder at the three sleeping shadows tethered to a low hanging branch of the oak.  The nearby stage sat like a black hole against the night.  But they were still alone.

When Castiel looked back, Dean was staring at him.  He glanced away quickly, licking his lips, like he hadn’t meant to be caught.

Castiel let out another heavy breath.  He’d tried asking the nice way.  Now, he demanded, “Do you—blame me for what happened to Jo?”

In the low light, he saw a muscle in Dean’s jaw jump.  Dean said, “No, I don’t blame you.”  It sounded like he meant it and didn’t mean it at the same time.  Castiel wasn’t sure what to make of it.  It was no secret Dean would hold himself accountable for Jo’s injury, but there was something else, too.  Someone else.

“Then why can’t you look at me?”

As if to prove him wrong, Dean slid his eyes over.  It didn’t help Castiel get a read on him at all.  “Dean?”

Dean let out an explosive breath.  “I don’t blame you, Cas, okay?” he stressed, his voice still a harsh whisper.  He fisted some grass out of the earth and idly tossed it toward the flame.  “I just—I’m trying to figure out why the hell we’re here.”

Castiel shook his head.  “I don’t understand.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t,” Dean muttered, causing Castiel’s brow to line.  And then, “Look, all I’m saying is, we’ve only had this kid a few days and look at everything that’s happened.  Everyone who’s gotten hurt.  And for what?”

Castiel felt as if he understood even less than before.  “Because,” he said slowly, “Lucifer will take Jack.”

“Well, he is his father,” Dean said, venom in his words.  It was like he was suggesting an infant was causing so much death and destruction, not Lucifer and his outlaws.

“Do you,” Castiel asked haltingly, “blame Jack for what happened?”

Dean stayed quiet.  He tapped the barrel of his gun lightly against his knee in thought.

“Dean,” Castiel demanded.

Dean shook his head, lips pursed.  And then, he rested his gun on the grass and brought both hands to his face.  He dug at his eyes and pushed his hands back to run his fingers through his hair.  He bent his neck, cradling the back of his skull.  His words were muffled when he said, “I know you care about him.”

“And you don’t?”

“I care about—,” he huffed, cutting himself off.  Castiel watched him warily as Dean let his arms drop.  Dean looked up at him then, keeping eye contact for the first time since they left the orphanage.  Castiel felt his anger dwindling when he searched Dean’s face and found something vulnerable.

Dean turned, orienting his entire body into Castiel, until he was shoved up against his side.  Dean’s arms wrapped around his middle, and Castiel found himself sitting between Dean’s legs.  His own legs were bent over Dean’s left knee.  It was such an abrupt change, Castiel went rigid.

However, that didn’t stop Dean from leaning in further to rest his forehead to Castiel’s temple.  Castiel felt the tip of his nose brushing his cheek.

“I’m trusting you, alright?” Dean said softly.

Castiel closed his eyes into the words.  For the first time in days, his body eased.

“You say we gotta take the kid to Texas, so that’s what we’re doing,” Dean continued.  “But, Cas . . . I can’t let anyone else I care about get hurt.”

Deep down, Castiel knew it was a plea, not an ultimatum.  They both had guilt to atone for.  Castiel’s was for Kelly.  Dean’s was for Jo.

“So, what are you saying?” Castiel dared to ask him.

Dean lifted his head, but his arms wrapped around him tighter.  “I’m saying, if things get bad—you gotta trust me, too.”

Castiel opened his mouth to tell him he did trust him.  The protest died in his throat as he remembered his attempted escape in Kansas City.  He closed his mouth, looked at Dean, and nodded a promise.

Dean leaned forward and pressed his lips to the corner of Castiel’s mouth.  It was a kiss, and it wasn’t.  He rested there for a long time before pulling away again.  Castiel turned his head to look at Dean, but his eyes fell to Dean’s lips.  He reached up and cupped Dean’s jaw.  He hoped this was enough to dissolve whatever had been festering between them since they left the orphanage.

When he moved in for a kiss, Dean met him halfway.

For a little while, the dark night around them faded away.  There was no wind chill, no threat lurking in the distance, no outlaws set on finding them and abducting Jack.  There was only the gentle push and pull of Dean’s mouth, Dean’s warm hands on his ribs, the soft sounds coming out of Dean’s throat.

And then, across the fire, Sam made a grunting noise in his sleep as if he somehow knew they were kissing in his presence and he had to do his duty as a little brother.  Dean broke away, his eyes flickering to Sam.  Castiel did the same.  The younger brother was still sound asleep, his broad shoulders rising and falling under his blanket.  Castiel remembered how cold the night was, and that they were in the middle of the Indian Territory.

He turned back to Dean and offered a soft smile.  “Wake me when it’s my turn to be on watch,” he said in the space between them.

Dean groaned, his hands tightening on Castiel’s side as though he were trying to steal some warmth.  “I got a better idea.”

Castiel pushed slightly backward to get a better look at him.  Dean’s eyes were alight with mischief as he licked his lips and nodded sidelong at the stagecoach.

Castiel had to bite back a smile.  He forced a neutral expression.  “What about the Indians?”

“You see any Indians nearby?” Dean shot back.  He glanced this way and that as if proving his point.  “Look around.  No one here for miles, sweetheart.”

Castiel did look around.  All he saw was grassland.  His pulse sped up a little, daring him to take the chance.  “What about the baby?” he asked, just to make Dean work a little harder.

Dean huffed, his breath coming out in the barest of clouds.  “Sam’s right there.”

“Asleep.”

“We’ll be quick if you’re so worried.”

“What’s the point in that?”

Dean rolled his eyes, catching on to the act.  “You tryin’ to make this tough for me?”

Castiel didn’t grin, but he was pretty sure Dean could see it in his eyes, anyway.  He shrugged and pulled a face.  “Maybe.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean laughed.  He was still smiling as he came in for another kiss.  Castiel returned it by parting his lips and licking against the seam of Dean’s mouth.  Dean opened up to him easily.  The cold was replaced entirely by the slow build of pressure in Castiel’s body.

Dean hummed as he pulled away, already getting to his feet.  “C’mon,” he whispered conspiratorially.  He offered a hand to Castiel to pull him up from the ground.

Chevy raised her head when, hand-in-hand, they passed by the tree on the way to the stage.  Castiel felt a giddy rush overcome him as Dean opened the carriage door and climbed inside.  He looked behind him, taking a quick survey of the land just to make sure they were still in the clear, before following Dean inside.

As he closed the door behind them, Dean pulled down the curtains on the windows for privacy.  The moment he was done, Castiel pushed him against the back of the bench seating and straddled his lap.

Dean’s hands were on Castiel’s lower back, pulling him in closer while they kissed.  Castiel knotted his fingers into Dean’s hair, combing and tugging, making Dean sigh and groan in turn.  It took almost no time at all for Dean to unclip Castiel’s suspenders and pull off his necktie.

They had to lean back so Dean could get out of his vest and take off his shirt until he was down to nothing but the bronze necklace sitting on his chest.  Castiel trailed his mouth down Dean’s throat as his hands roamed up his torso.  In his ear, Dean’s breaths were hitching.

Castiel pressed down on him and rolled into Dean, and the sound it elicited went straight through him.  Dean bucked up into him, his body quaking beneath Castiel’s.  Castiel sat up straighter, his head nearly hitting the roof, so he could get out of his shirt.  Dean helped him pull it off; once it was, his mouth was on Castiel’s chest.  He sucked at his collarbone and painted his way downward to swirl Castiel’s nipple with his tongue.

A sound punched its way out of Castiel’s mouth.  He wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck to keep him in place.  His skin was burning and his throat was cracked dry as he pulled in deep bouts of air.  His dick was aching for attention where the rough fabric on his pants scratched against the sensitive skin.

Dean’s arms were strong around him, his palms hot on Castiel’s shoulder blades as he dug the pads of his fingers desperately into muscle.  He moved his face to work on the other side of Castiel’s chest.  Castiel cradled the back of his head, petting at Dean’s hair.

Under Dean’s touch, he felt like a river’s current trashing in a storm.  The water level kept rising until the banks were washed away.  His head was swimming and thoughts drowning, and the only thing he could grab on to was the pulsing pleasure running through him.  He wanted more of it.  He wanted to share the sensation with Dean.

“Dean,” he managed to eke out.  His hand fisted on Dean’s hair, yanking it gently to pull his face up.  His thoughts, however, came to an abrupt halt when Dean stared up at him—lips bruised and glistening as they sucked in air, face flushed, and throat bared.  He was awe-inspiring.  Castiel felt something like fondness bloom in his chest—something more than fondness.  Bigger.  Much too big to be returned in kind.

He didn’t know what else to say.  All that came out was, “Dean.”  And he could only pray that his meaning was interpreted.  He buried his nose into Dean’s collarbone and breathed in the scent of his neck.

When he reached between them to palm at the bulge in Dean’s pants, Dean’s back arched and his lips opened wider to suck in a gasp.  Dean parted his legs wider, causing Castiel to do the same on top of his lap.  “Cas—fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Castiel swallowed, hoping to return some moisture to his throat, as he watched Dean’s eyes screw closed in concentration.  Dean’s hips jerked under him, following the touch as Castiel dug the heel of his palm against the base of his dick.

“Fuck, Cas—I love—”

Castiel’s heart stuttered.  It was a split second of joy—and fear.  And he didn’t even know why he was afraid.

Dean licked his lips.  His Adam’s apple jumped.  He finished, “I love when you do that.”

A wave of emotion crashed into Castiel, then, and he wasn’t quite sure which emotion it was.  It was too overwhelming in its swell.  Disappointment and relief mingled in the undertow.  He felt dizzy.  It was best to rattle the feeling away and correct himself.

He undid the front of Dean’s pants and reached inside.  Dean jumped, his arm flying out against the side of the carriage so he could catch his balance.  He left a handprint in the window’s fogged-over glass.

Castiel took him out of his pants and wrapped his fingers around Dean’s shaft, giving a few quick pumps before letting go.  Dean gave a sound of protest and looked down.  Castiel ignored the way Dean’s eyes widened when he fumbled with his own fly to take out his dick, too.

Dean’s hands went to Castiel’s ass and he hauled him in further up on his lap.  He sat up straighter in the process, until their noses were nearly touching.  Leaving one hand where it was, he brought his other between them to wrap it around both their dicks.  Castiel’s lungs emptied at the hard line of Dean’s cock against his.  He put his hand over Dean’s and they began pumping themselves together.

Castiel kept his eyes open and fixed on Dean’s face, too close for his gaze to fix onto it as a whole.  His vision flickered from Dean’s eyes to his nose to his mouth and back again.  Vaguely, he was aware of the stage creaking beneath them as they moved against each other.

He tried to gasp in the humid air, and he thought this might be what being in a sweatbox was like.

With his free hand, he reached up to cradle Dean’s chin.  He swiped his thumb along Dean’s bottom lip.  Dean’s mouth curved into a smile.  He parted his lips more and pressed his tongue into the pad of Castiel’s finger.  Castiel chased after the wet heat, his gaze now unwavering on Dean’s glistening mouth around his finger.

He wasn’t going to last much longer.  He knew it by the way his toes were curling in his boots—just as surely as he knew Dean was about to come by the humming sounds he was making.  He both hated and loved this moment.  Loved it because he never felt more in tune with Dean than right before his orgasm hit.  Hated it because he didn’t want that connection to be broken.

But that thought was wiped clean the moment he came.  It was half a second after Dean, and he only knew that by the way Dean’s dick twitched in his hand.  Dean’s fist tightened around them and Castiel was just along for the ride as he worked them harder, chasing the shuddering aftershocks while they came back down from the high.

When it was over, Castiel became aware of the sticky mess on his hand and chest.  He decided that was a problem for later and focused on getting his breath back first.  Dean had collapsed back against the seat.  Castiel leaned into him and rested his forehead on Dean’s shoulder, just breathing in the scent of sweat and dirt lifting off his skin.  Above him, Dean let out a “whew” sound as the rise and fall of his chest became steadier.  Castiel smiled against him and pressed his mouth to Dean’s chest before pulling away.

He lifted himself up and fell back into the seat next to Dean.  Dean’s arm came up to wrap around his shoulders and pull him against his chest.  Castiel let himself be manhandled.  He looked down at his torso and pulled a face at the come on his skin.  It was too hot inside the carriage for it to dry much.  He wiped his hand on his trousers and put his spent dick back into his pants.

Beside him, Dean was unmoving.  He hummed after a minute, sounding sleepy.  Dropping a kiss to Castiel’s shoulder, he said, “See, now that’s just another reason for you to come on the road with me more often.”  Castiel frowned, not knowing what the hell he was talking about until the memory dawned on him.  Dean was continuing a conversation they’d been having days ago.

Or no, it wasn’t even a conversation.  At the time, he’d assumed Dean was joking.  He was pretty sure Dean was still joking.

“We could do that a lot more than we get to,” Dean finished.

Castiel turned his head slightly to look up at him.  He studied Dean’s expression.  There wasn’t anything in it to show he was being serious.  Castiel faced forward again and snuggled back against Dean’s chest.  He closed his eyes, letting his own tiredness sweep over him.

“I’m sure you have no trouble finding that on your travels,” he said off-handedly.  Like always, when he thought of such things, he ignored the jealous curl in his heart.  He told himself that Dean wasn’t his.

Behind him, Dean shifted a little.  “Now, what the hell is that supposed to mean?”  There was a chuckle in his tone, but something was under it, too.  He didn’t quite sound offended, but it was something.  Castiel wondered what he’d said wrong.

He tilted his chin to look up at Dean again.  Dean was smirking down at him, but after a moment of eye contact, the expression shifted.  He pulled his brows down in something like confusion.  “Cas.  You think I sleep with other people while I’m on the road?”

Castiel blinked, his mouth falling open like he meant to respond.  He really didn’t know what to say.  His skin was buzzing with the foolish hope that Dean stayed true to him.  “Well . . . I just assumed . . .” No, that was wrong.  There was no way Dean had meant what Castiel thought.  He sat up and turned toward Dean, cocking his head to the side.  “You don’t?”

Dean’s eyes widened.  “No!”

It took a second for the meaning to process.  And, when it did, Castiel still didn’t understand.  “Why?”

Dean scoffed and stammered.  “Why?” he shouted out.  “I just—I—.”  He was blushing.  Castiel couldn’t see the coloration in the darkness, but that was certainly Dean’s embarrassed tone of voice.

Dean shot back, “Do you?”

Castiel shot him a look, suggesting, are you serious?

Dean’s brows popped expectantly.  He was really waiting for an answer.

Castiel startled.  “No!”

“Well, why not?” Dean demanded, throwing the question right back.

Castiel opened his mouth to say that Lawrence was a small town and he didn’t have many prospects.  Even when the cowboys did come through in the summer months, it wasn’t as if he could tell a man’s proclivities just by looking at him.  The option just wasn’t there for him.

But he knew that wasn’t the whole truth.  He just couldn't say it, no matter how much he dared to.

He looked downward, ashamed by his own cowardice despite it being the best course of action if he had any hope of a future with Dean.  “I . . . never had the inclination.”

Dean paused for a moment, just staring at him.  After a while, he said, “Okay.  Me, neither, I guess.”

Castiel pulled his brows together.  “You haven’t?”

He knew he’d offended Dean by the way his face went taut.  “That so hard to believe?”

He hadn’t meant to pick a fight.  In fact, he was glad the pressure between them these last days had been resolved.  Sex tended to be the remedy to their arguments.  It was how they began sleeping together in the first place.

He shook his head.  “No.”  But it was hard to believe—not through any fault of Dean’s.  Dean could sleep with whomever he wished.  But he didn’t.  He only slept with Castiel and Castiel didn’t know where to begin interpreting that.

Dean let out a heavy breath, apparently hearing the unspoken question.  He said, “I just . . . I dunno, Cas.  It’s not like I haven’t been tempted.  I guess I just . . . like it better now when there’s . . . you know—meaning behind it.”

Castiel’s eyes snapped up.  He wanted so badly to ask what meaning Dean found in their relationship, because for the life of him, Castiel had no idea.  But Dean’s eyes flashed like he’d just heard his own words.  He swallowed hard.

“It’s not a big deal,” he muttered, shutting the conversation down.  Castiel had no choice but to believe him.  He nodded against the hope wrapping around his heart like thin twine.

He cleared his throat.  “We should, um—get back outside.”

“Yeah, yeah, good idea,” Dean agreed, seeming more than relieved to be off the hook.

Castiel opened up the door and hopped outside.  It was at least ten degrees colder than inside the carriage and the wind didn’t help.  His skin immediately bumped and a shiver racked his spine.  Dean stuck his head out to hand him his shirt and necktie before hopping out onto the grass himself.

As they dressed, Castiel looked around to make sure they were still alone.  The landscape was quiet and Sam and Jack were still sleeping near the dwindling fire.  Its flames barely provided any warmth as it were, but they’d need to throw more leaves and grass in it when they got closer.

When Castiel got back to the campsite, he went over to the wicker basket to check on the baby.  He lifted the blanket shielding Jack’s face from the wind to find him smacking his lips in sleep.  Castiel couldn’t help but smile down at him before replacing the blanket.

“He okay?” Dean whispered.  Castiel glanced over his shoulder at Dean, who was crouched down next to the fire and tossing on fuel.  Smoke curled upward before his face.  Castiel nodded.

“Okay.  Then—,” Dean grunted as he sat back down on the grass.  “You better get some sleep.  I’ll let you know when it’s your turn.”

“Okay,” Castiel said.  He considered picking up the basket and pulling it closer to his bedding, but it probably wasn’t worth the risk of waking Jack up.  It was a miracle the child was sleeping through the night instead of attracting every Indian scout for miles with his crying.  He was fine near Sam.

Castiel picked himself up and crossed back over to Dean.  “Goodnight,” he said, bending over for a quick kiss.  Dean lifted his face to accept it.

“’Night.”

As Castiel settled in, he was aware of Dean pulling out his dime novel from his saddlebag.  The pages rustled in the breeze.  Castiel rested on his side, watching Dean read by firelight, the lines of his body much more relaxed than they had been earlier.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift off.

“You’re not tying a hog, Dean!”

“I got it!”

“Be careful!”

“You tell me to be careful one more time . . .”

Sam tuned out.  Dean and Cas had been bickering since they broke for lunch, but at least it was their usual bickering instead of the passive-aggressive glares they’d been shooting each other during the first few days on the trail.  Bickering was good.  Bickering was talking.  It was normal.

Watching them try to tie a nappy around Jack, however, wasn’t very normal.  And it stopped being funny five minutes ago.

Sam chewed on his johnnycake.  He was sitting on a fallen tree and waiting on the water-canned milk mixture in the pot over the fire to heat up so they could feed Jack.  Cas would have to feed him on the road because, with the way things were going, they wouldn’t get moving again until nightfall if he didn’t.

It probably wasn’t the best idea to stay in one place for too long, either.  They were still in the Indian Territory and would be for at least another day or so.  It was true, they were in the middle of woodland at the moment, which provided cover.  Sam only worried about who else might have been hiding among the trees.

He peered up and down the dirt road.  It curved out of sight up ahead, but Sam didn’t see any signs of life—not wheel tracks or even a boot print.  He startled when a twig snapped at his back, but when he looked around he only caught sight of a deer walking through the gray trunks.

“There we go, good as new,” Dean said in the gentle voice he only ever used on kids.  Sam brought his gaze back over to find Dean scooping Jack up off the blanket they’d laid out on the grass.  The nappy around his bottom seemed done up pretty well, Sam had to admit, even though it was tied together in knots at the sides due to a lack of safety pins.

Cas breathed out heavily as he sat back on his ankles.  “Thank God that’s over.”

“Hey,” Dean shot back, tone returning to its usual roughness.  “I did good.  Ask Sam.”

“Keep me out of this,” Sam said off-handedly, his attention back on the milk.  A layer of skin was starting to form on top, so it was warm enough.  He picked up the bottle off the grass and carefully tipped the pot’s contents into the glass.

“He knows I did good,” Dean proudly interpreted before offering the baby to Cas.  “Here, take the damn kid.”  Cas huffed, but let Dean shuffle Jack into his arms.  Sam screwed the top back onto the bottle.

Dean got to his feet, brushing the dirt off his knees before scooping down again to pick up the blanket.  As he folded it, Cas brought Jack over to the fire and sat down next to Sam.  Sam held the end of the bottle’s tube close to Jack’s mouth until the baby latched onto it.

“There you go,” Sam muttered, smiling down at him.  Jack blinked back as he suckled.

“We should find clothes for him in the next town we stop in,” Cas considered aloud.

“Might not be for a couple days—not until we get to Texas,” Sam told him.

Cas thinned his lips, staring down at Jack.  “How long do you think until we reach Waco?”

Sam shrugged, trying to calculate the distance in his head.  “A little under a week.  Maybe five days.”

Cas stayed silent, his eyes still on Jack.  Only, now they seemed mournful.  Sam understood that.  He tried not to think about it—what would happen when they reached Waco.  Or the fact that they’d be traveling back to Lawrence without the baby, if all went according to plan.  And that was good.  Jack belonged with his family.  He deserved a life with his grandparents, since he was robbed of one with his mother.

But the three of them had fought for Jack, had killed for him.  It was hard to think that, by this time next week, he’d be gone.

“All right, let’s start thinking about moving out,” Dean called from the back of the stage, where he was packing up the blanket in the boot.

Sam cleared his throat, coming back to himself.  He was blinking rapidly before he even realized there’d been tears welling in his eyes.

They packed up their supplies and stamped out the fire before climbing back onto the stage.  The horses trotted at a light pace, the pounding of their hooves on the dirt echoing off the trees.  Sam kept his shotgun in hand, eyeing both sides of the trail.  Besides the flapping of wings high up in the trees, everything was silent.

Until they rounded the corner.

Both of them spotted it at that same time: an animal in the road.  Sam reacted by bringing up his gun and ricocheting his gaze back and forth from one side of the trail to the other.  Dean pulled on the lines, halting the horses.

It was a deer—dead and in the very center of the trail.  If they wanted to keep going, they’d have to move it.  There was blood matting its fur and seeping into the dirt.  It didn’t appear to be run over.  It hadn’t been flattened and there were no wheel treads in the dirt.

They stayed quiet, both listening out.  Sam didn’t hear anything except for a hawk screeching in the distance.

“Looks like a fresh kill,” he whispered.

“You think another animal got it?” Dean asked.

Sam couldn’t tell from the distance, but he was wary about getting off the stage.  “I dunno.”

Behind them, the carriage door creaked open loudly.  “What’s going on?” Cas called.

“Cas, stay in the back.  Close the door,” Dean hissed as loud as he dared.  Cas didn’t listen.  He kept hanging out the side.

“Is that a deer?”

Dean put down the footbrake and climbed off the stage.

“Yeah,” Sam answered Cas before following his brother’s lead, taking his gun with him.

They approached the deer, and Sam was careful not to step into the puddle of blood.  The animal didn’t seem like it’d been in a fight.  Its throat had been cut, and then it’d been gutted.

Sam looked down at the blood.  There was a trail of it leading off the road and into the trees, mixed in with the disturbed dirt.  Like the deer had been dragged there.

A shiver went down his back.

“Dean,” he said, cocking his gun.  He pointed it to the shadows between the tree trunks.  “That’s no animal kill.”

Behind him, he heard the hammer of Dean’s Colt click.

“We gotta move,” Sam said quickly.  “Now.”

Before they got a chance, a shot cracked through the air.  It came from behind Sam’s back.  He only knew that because the round flew past his shoulder and splintered against a trunk.

“Highway robbers!  Take cover!” Dean bellowed.

They ran to the side of the carriage, crouching low next to it.  Cas had slammed the door shut, and Sam saw him through the window kneeling over Jack’s wicker basket, keeping it close to his chest.

Two more shots were fired from the trees.  There was an explosion of glass as one of the carriage windows shattered.

“Cas!” Dean yelled.

“I’m fine,” Cas’ muffled voice came out.  Inside, he leaned back, gun in hand.  He stuck it out the broken window and loosed a bullet.  Sam wasn’t sure what it hit.  “There’s four of them!”

Sam peered around the back of the carriage and saw a shadow in the trees a little further away from where Cas was looking.  “Make that five,” he reported, lifting his weapon.  He fired.  There was a shout as the figure jerked back and fell.  Sam nodded to himself, pulling down the corners of his mouth.  “Make that four.”

“Well, thank God it’s not Indians, right?” Dean said, trying to be funny.

More glass shattered, but it wasn’t any of the windows.  Something had landed on the stage’s roof.  The next thing Sam knew, he was on his back, coughing the air back into his lungs.  There’s been a loud boom.  He smelled smoke.  The horses were whinnying and bucking frantically in their harnesses.

“Cas!” Dean was shouting, panicked, as he scrambled to his feet.  Sam saw blood on his brother’s temple.  He blinked the darkness out of his vision.  The roof of the stage was aflame.

The carriage door opened.  Cas stumbled out, gasping, hugging the wicker basket.  He shook his head out like his ears were ringing.  Blood was trickling down from his hairline.  Inside the basket, Jack was wailing.

Sam pulled himself to his feet just in time to see four men emerge from the trees.  Dean extended his arm to the side and shot one between the eyes as he rushed to Cas and out of the robbers’ sight in the shadow of the burning stage.

Sam took cover behind a tree.  He only had one round left in his sawed-off.  He had to make it count.  Gripping it in one hand, he pulled his six-shooter from his belt and swung around the trunk.  He fired off a warning shot in the robber’s direction.  The robbers scattered.

“Sammy!” Dean called.  “Cover us!”

While Dean and Cas sprinted toward him in the trees, Sam sent off another shot.  It hit one man in the leg.  He fell over, landing face-first on the deer carcass.  He rolled over, shouting in pain.  The last two robbers disappeared back into the trees.

He wasted another bullet, just in case one of them tried something funny before Dean and Cas made it behind a nearby tree.

Sam held his breath, listening out.  The only sounds he heard were the injured robber’s grunts, the crackling of flames, and the horses’ frantic neighs.  The fire hadn’t reached the front of the stage yet, but it was only a matter of time.  If they were going to save the horses, they needed to move fast.

And they would save the horses.  They needed them with or without the stage, especially in the middle of Indian Territory.  Besides, Sam knew Dean would rather light himself on fire than sacrifice Chevy.

“Are they gone?” he heard Cas say behind him.

Both Winchesters paused for another moment before Sam said, “I think so.”  Highway robbers usually didn’t look for fights.  When it did come to a shootout, they’d run off if they saw it wasn’t a fight they could win.  The other two men were likely long gone by now.

Dean stepped out from behind the tree.  He jogged back onto the road.  “Sam, help me untie the horses!  Cas, watch this asshole!”

Sam raced after him.  Dean was already working on Chevy’s harness.  Sam went for the buckle on Bones’ breast strap.  It was heated from the flames.  He hissed, withdrawing his hand.  The horses were stomping on the dust, wiggling around in terror.  It made their job harder.  He heard Dean saying, “Easy, Baby.  I gotcha—”

Cas was at the front now, standing over the robber with his Derringer pointed downward.  The man had terror in his eyes, looking like he was about to wet himself, and his hands were up in surrender.  Jack’s basket, cries still emitting from inside, hung from Cas’ elbow.

“Did Lucifer send you?” Cas demanded.  In all the commotion, Sam hadn’t even considered that possibility.

“Luc—?  Who?” the robber said, voice shaky.  “I don’t know who you’re talkin’ about, honest!”

Chevy broke free, galloping a little way down the road, with nothing but her reins left.  Dean stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly.  The mare cantered to a stop and turned back around.  Dean moved on to free Lincoln.

Once Bones was free, Sam moved to the other side of the Thoroughbred and worked to help Dean free him.  The flames were getting closer.  Sweat was collecting on Sam’s hairline and it was getting tougher to breathe.  His cheeks stung relentlessly and he began to feel lightheaded.

Before the last of the straps could fall away, Lincoln shot forward to join the other two horses.

Sam moved desperately away from the stage, trying to correct his tunnel vision.  He cradled his forehead in his hand.  Dean came up next to him.  His face was red from the singe, but he looked unharmed as he put both hands on Sam’s shoulders and manhandled him to face him.  Dean’s eyes searched Sam’s face with a mixture of fear and purpose.  When he seemed satisfied, his shoulders dropped and his grip eased.  He patted Sam’s shoulder before turning away and going to Cas.

“Well, was it worth it, ya yellow dog?” Dean barked at the robber.

Sam picked his shotgun off the dirt.  He looked at the stage.  One of the back wheels collapsed, causing the whole carriage to crash to the ground.  It was unsalvageable—so was everything inside.  All their luggage and supplies.  Everything.  Up in smoke.

He let out a breath through his nose and turned away.

“. . . thought you were transporting gold!” the robber was saying when Sam joined the others.  “You’re in a Wells, Fargo!”

“Yeah, next time make your own living.  Don’t go stealing someone else’s!” Dean shouted back.  His gun was pointed down, too, even though the man was all but harmless now.  Dean looked about ready to shoot him anyway.

“All right, enough,” Sam said, grabbing Dean’s wrist.  Dean resisted.  “Dean, let it go.  Let’s get the horses and get out of here.  Leave him to the mercy of his friends—if they come back for him.  Maybe the Indians’ll get him first.”

“What?” the robber asked, lifting his head quickly.

Dean glared at him for another long moment before dropping his arm and turning away in a huff.  Cas let out a breath and holstered his gun, too.

Sam made for the horses.  They were still uneasily stomping around.  “Easy,” he soothed, holding out his hands.  He petted down Bones’ snout.  When the horse was calm enough, he grabbed the reins, then took Lincoln’s in his older hand.  Chevy trailed after them as he led them to Dean and Cas.

Dean rubbed at his eyes, making them bloodshot.  He glanced at the stage, now fully consumed.  “Man.  Bobby’s gonna hang us.”

Sam thinned his lips with resignation.  “Yeah,” he agreed.

Cas set the wicker basket on the dirt.  He dug through it, pulling out the folded sling and putting it over his shoulder.  He lifted Jack in a small bundle of blankets, trying to shush him before fitting him into the sling.  Sam handed him Lincoln’s reins.

“Now what?” Cas asked as Dean mounted Chevy’s back.

Sam let out a sardonic laugh.  “Now,” he said, “we do this the hard way.”

He climbed up onto Bones’ back, shifting a little to get comfortable without a saddle.  Cas handed Jack up to him momentarily while he got astride, too.

When they were situated, they rode off down the trail, Dean leading them back in the direction from which they’d come.

Behind them, the robber shouted, “Wait!  You can’t leave me here!  Wait!”

They rode until his voice could no longer be heard.

Chapter Text

Riding without a saddle wasn’t particularly pleasant, Castiel was finding.  It was even more difficult with a child being jostled around while strapped to his chest.  They’d only been riding for an hour and he was already sore.  He hadn’t a clue how he’d make it all the way to Texas like this—but it didn’t look like they were headed for Texas anymore.  Dean was taking them back north.

Soon, the woodland surrounding them became less dense and then gave way fully for the empty, sprawling plains.  In front, Dean slowed Chevy to a trot.  Castiel pulled on Lincoln’s reins to do the same.  He thought they would stop completely so they could talk over the plan on what to do now—because this wasn’t sustainable for long.  Castiel would like to know what the brothers were thinking.

But Dean kept going, riding further from the tree line.

Castiel looked over his shoulder at Sam bringing up the rear.  Sam glanced back and lifted his brows slightly, as if he was having similar thoughts.

“Dean,” Castiel called, facing forward again.  “Maybe we should stop.”  They were far enough now from anyone else who might be hiding out in the trees.  The landscape before them was barren of life; it was probably safe to let their guard down a bit.

Sharply, Dean said, “We’re sitting ducks out here in the open.  We need to keep going.”

Castiel bristled.  “Going where?”

“To Kansas.”

Kansas?  That was decidedly in the opposite direction to where they needed to be.

He looked around again.  Sam pressed his lips together like he also thought this was the best course of action.  Neither Winchester explained their reasoning, leaving Castiel at a loss.  The brothers always did have some kind of magical connection, as if they could read each other’s minds without so much as a word or a glance.  But Castiel wasn’t in on that psychic link.  He required communication.  It never grated on him as much as it did now.

He squeezed his heels against Lincoln’s sides, bringing the horse back to a canter.  In the sling against his chest, Jack wiggled against the momentum.  Castiel yanked his horse in front of Chevy, blocking Dean’s path.  Chevy stopped short with a frustrated grunt—the same noise as what her rider let out.

“Cas—”

“Why are we going back to Kansas?”

Sam caught up to them, bringing Bones level with Chevy.

“We don’t have any supplies,” Dean told him, frustration licking his tone.  He still had blood clotting on his temple.  “We don’t have food.  We barely have any money.  You got any suggestions on how to get some in the middle of Indian Territory, you let me know.”

Castiel bit down on his jaw, quelling his need to argue.  Because Dean was right.  All their supplies, luggage, money—even medicine—burned.  Castiel just didn’t see why they needed to go all the way back to Kansas for that.  “Then why not go east to Arkansas?”

“Cas,” Sam said, voice more patient.  “We need money fast.  That means we need to find a poker game.  There isn’t a town big enough for the kind of game we need anywhere on the state borders.”

“We have to go to Wichita,” Dean finished.

That was nearly all the way back to Lawrence.  They’d been on the trail for close to a week for nothing.  Castiel withered, but there was no use in cursing the situation, no matter how unjust.

“We’ll stop in a town on the Kansas border for the night and get what we can,” Dean continued.  “That’s why we gotta keep moving.  Before the kid starts screaming, needing to be fed.  I don’t wanna be here after dark when that happens.”

Castiel’s mind turned in hopes of finding another way.  But his legs were burning and his lower back was stiff, his shoulder aching where the sling was supporting Jack’s weight.  And whatever discomfort he was feeling, it would be nothing compared to the headache and heartache Jack would bring on when Castiel couldn’t feed him.

“Okay,” Castiel said.

“Okay,” Dean repeated.  He tugged Chevy’s reins to lead her around Lincoln.  “Trust me, I ain’t happy about it either.”  His back now facing Castiel, he muttered, “The sooner we get to Waco, the better.”

Castiel gritted his teeth, staring after Dean, trying to determine what the hell that was supposed to mean.

They reached the Kansas border a little later than Dean would have liked.  Luckily, the days were steadily getting longer, so they had about an hour of light left after they got out of the Territory.  Just in time, if you asked him.  Jack was starting to fuss, and they’d stopped a few times to give him water in the hopes of nipping his appetite in the bud.

That’d only work for so long.

Just like it’d only work so long for Dean.  His hunger was beginning to make him irritable.  He imagined it was the same for Sam and Cas, but they were usually irritable anyway, so it was hard to tell.

After night fell, Dean figured it would be best to get off the road.  He didn’t want another run-in with highwaymen—not that there was really anything else to take.  He pointed them toward Arkansas City.

It was a town just a breath away from a population boom, and Dean wouldn’t be surprised if it gave Wichita a run for its money in a few years' time.  But, unfortunately for them, that time wasn’t now.  It could only serve as a detour on the way to the bigger town.

They rode toward the center of town, headed for the red light district full of gentlemen’s clubs, cathouses, and saloons.  The packs of people walking down the boardwalks were mostly men, quite a few with a painted lady on their arm.  Other girls stood on the street corners and in doorways, and when Dean made the mistake of making eye contact with one as they rode past, she crooked her finger in a come-hither manner.

He ignored her and steered Chevy toward the other side of the street, where a stagecoach pedaling “authentic” gemstone jewelry and gold watches was standing outside a saloon.  The crowd through the window seemed a little livelier than Dean had spotted in the others, so he figured it would be a good place to start.

“All right,” he said after the three of them slid off their horses and tethered them to the post outside the saloon.  “How much money do we got?”

As he said it, he dug through his pockets, finding a couple of nickels in his coat and two bucks in his pants.  Sam had three dollars and a penny on him.  Cas rifled through his coat and found a five-dollar bill.

Counting the money in his palm, Dean said, “Ten bucks and change.  Good.”  That was something.  He folded up the bills and brandished them.  “Let’s go see if me and Sam can double this.”

“Jack needs to eat,” Cas reminded them.  Against his chest, the baby was letting out soft grunts that didn’t sound all too happy.  Dean glanced in at him, seeing his face pinched, a little line running vertically down the bridge of his nose.  Like the one Cas sometimes got when he was confused.

Dean blinked the thought away.

“Yeah, fine,” he agreed, deciding not to mention the empty pit roiling in his own gut.  “Let’s get inside first and scope it out.”  He spun around without waiting for an answer and ignored the fact that Sam clapped Cas on the shoulder in solidarity before they both followed.

Inside, the saloon was at about half capacity, with a few tables still unoccupied and gaps between the men standing around the bar.  A few girls walked around serving drinks, but the stairs leading up to the private rooms remained empty.  It was still pretty early, and that was a good thing.  That meant the really good card players wouldn’t be out yet.  After the week they had, Dean was looking forward to an easy win.  He thought the table in the corner might just get him that.

He took a step in that direction when Sam abruptly halted him with a hand on his arm.  “Wait, Dean, isn’t that—?”

Dean took a closer look at the table.  It looked like one of the men had just won, because the other players were sitting back heavily and groaning.  The winner stood up, spreading out his arms as he yelled, “Read ‘em and weep, bitches!”  He bent over the table to slide in his earnings, which looked like a few bills and a pocket watch.

Dean eyed the man, who wore a cheap gray suit with a paisley colored shirt underneath.  A bowler hat sat snuggly on his head, the barest hint of shockingly orange hair peeking out beneath.  He was short and skinny with a fair complexion and gentle features.

And then Dean got a better look at those features.  That was no man at all.

“I’ll be damned,” he breathed out, taking another step forward as Sam let his hand fall away.  A smile was already coming to his face as he called across the room, “Charlie?  Charlie Bradbury!  Is that you?”

All the men around the poker table looked over.  Charlie lifted her eyes and she looked around the room for a moment before her attention snagged on Dean.  A large grin immediately lit up her features, her eyes going wide as she jumped back up to full height.  “Dean?” she just about squeaked.

Dean laughed loudly.  Maybe this detour wasn’t such a bad thing, after all.  He hadn’t seen Charlie since they were seventeen, when people still called her Charlotte no matter how much she tried to make them stop, and her father was trying to marry her off to one of the farmer’s sons before he fell ill and passed on, her mother going not long after.  Charlie left Lawrence and never went back.

And Dean missed her like hell.  They exchanged letters whenever they could, but it was a poor form of communication after a lifetime of friendship.  She was in a different town every time she wrote to him.  The last time Dean had heard from her a year ago, she was in San Francisco.

“Stay right there!” Charlie called as she scrambled to pocket her newfound money.  She walked around the table, where the men seemed relieved to see her go, and pushed through the crowd toward them.  Dean walked forward to meet her, holding his arms out for her to rush into.

He wrapped his arms around her tight as she pressed her face into his chest, and suddenly it was like no time had passed at all since he’d last seen her.  When the hug broke, she grinned up at him, eyes twinkling.  She looked much the same, despite a few lines around her eyes and mouth.  He wondered what he looked like to her after all these years.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, because he couldn’t believe out of all the saloons in all the world, he’d run into her here—in Kansas.

“On my way to St. Louis,” she said.  “Heard some talk about Arkansas City while I was in Boulder, so I figured—,” she shrugged, “why not?”

Before Dean could respond, Sam stepped forward.  “Hey, Charlie.”

Charlie balked up at him.  “Sam?  When did you get so—?”

“Oversized?” Dean supplied, talking over Charlie as she concluded, “Colossal?”

Sam shook his head in a huff of laughter.  “It’s good to see you again.”

Charlie threw her arms around him, beaming as they hugged.  She was so tiny in his arms, she seemed to be swallowed up.

It was around that moment when Dean felt Cas press against his shoulder.  Cas was watching the proceedings hesitantly.  He’d probably never seen Dean and Sam so excited to reacquaint with someone.

“Charlie,” Dean said, putting his hand on Cas’ shoulder and jerking him in closer to the group,  “there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”  He’d mentioned Cas a few times in his letters and he’d told Cas about Charlie before, but this was different.  He realized he was a little nervous, hoping that they’d like each other.  The last thing he needed was his two best friends not getting along.  “This is—”

Charlie cut him off with a gasp.  “You must be Cas!”  She bounded forward, clawing Cas into a hug.  Cas went rigid, one arm held tightly to his side while the other cradled Jack in the sling.  Charlie didn’t seem to notice.  “I feel like I know you already!”

A dizzying thrill went through Dean at the sight of them.  He felt a little silly for not seeing that coming.  Charlie loved almost everyone.  But she could also be pretty loud and affectionate, which wasn’t Cas’ style.  With any luck, he could overcome that.

Either way, Charlie must have realized there was a baby held between them, because she leaned back a little and looked down.  “Oh,” she said softly.  And then, “Uh?  Why do you have a baby?”

“Long story,” Dean told her, overlooking it for now.  He looked back at Cas.  “Cas, this is Charlie.  You remember.”

“Yes,” Cas said, offering her a polite but sheepish close-mouthed smile.  “I was just . . . under the impression you were a woman.”  He was really lucky Charlie actually was a girl, because he hadn’t exactly said that delicately.

“She is a woman,” Dean told him.

Charlie held her hand up to shield her mouth, suddenly looking around wildly.  “Shh!”  All three of them shot her perplexed looks.  Satisfied no one had overheard, she said, “Looks like all of us have some catching up to do.”

“I’ll say,” Dean agreed.

“All right, well, why don’t we grab a table and I’ll get us some drinks,” Sam offered, clapping his hands together.  “And, uh—some milk.  Maybe they have some in the kitchen.”  Cas nodded thankfully as Sam went off to the bar.

The rest of them found a table near the back, and Sam returned a moment later with a bottle of whiskey, four glasses, and the news that a girl would bring over the milk once it was finished warming.  While they waited for it, they caught Charlie up on everything that had happened—Jack’s birth, Lucifer, the orphanage, the trek to Texas.

When it was over, Charlie let out an exasperated breath and said, “Well.  Sounds like you can’t catch a break.”

Dean scoffed, unable to prevent his eyes from flickering over to Jack being bounced gently by Cas’ knee.  “You’re telling me,” he said.

“Not too surprising that you would drop everything to go to Texas, though,” she mused after a sip of her whiskey.  Dean pulled his brows together and found Sam equally confused.  Charlie only leaned into the table and whispered to Cas across the way, like it was a secret, “They’ve always been the good guys.”

Dean looked up at the ceiling, not really knowing what to say to that.  She was giving them a little too much credit.  Back when they were growing up, he and Sammy were usually the tallest and strongest, thanks to their parents’ training.  They knew how to hold their own, and Dean felt like it was his duty to kick any boy’s ass who teased Charlie for not being a proper lady.

“Well, I don’t know about—”

A girl came over then with a glass of milk in one hand and a metal spoon in the other.  “You order this?”

Cas looked up at her.  “Oh.  Yes, thank you.”

The girl set the milk on the table and balanced the spoon across the top.  After Charlie insisted on paying with her earnings from the game, the girl stuffed the cash into her corset and eyed each of them.  “Anything else I can do for you tonight?” she asked, tone suggestive.

Sam put on a tight face, like he always did when he was propositioned—because he was a stick in the mud.  “No, thanks,” he said.  “We’re good.”

The girl shrugged and walked off again.  Cas reached for the milk, sliding it closer to himself.  He spooned some out and carefully brought it over to Jack in the sling.

Dean refocused on Charlie, who was taking off her bowler hat to set it on the table.  Dean half expected her long wavy hair to all cascade out when she lifted the hat, but it was cropped short like a man’s.  He was surprised when he saw it, and it only reminded him that she was in men’s clothes, too.

“So, what’s with the outfit?” he asked, loftily waving up and down her person.

“Yeah,” Sam said, leaning in.  “Why do you want people to think you’re a man?”

Charlie snorted.  “Spoken like a real man,” she said.  “Do you have any idea what it’s like for a single woman to work the circuit?  Did you know it’s still illegal for me to play poker in some places?”  She shook her head, tsking.

Dean reached for the bottle of whiskey and topped off his drink.  “Yeah, it’s better that way.  You’d wipe everyone clean.”  Charlie never had much skill with card games—but she always won because she cheated by counting them.  Of course, if you ever called it cheating, she’d tell you she was just using her god-given gifts.  Dean couldn’t argue much with that logic.

She waved a hand, dismissing his comment.  “Well, it’s shitty.  So,” she shrugged innocuously, “I started posing as a man.  It’s safer this way, and no one gives me a hard time.”

The corners of Sam’s mouth turned down in a thoughtful frown.  “Smart.”

“Thank you.”

Dean rested his elbow on the back of his seat, recalling a dime novel he’d once read.  “Yeah, you’re a regular Charley Parkhurst.”

Charlie jumped excitably.  “That’s where I got the idea!”

Both of them beamed at each other.  Damn, he’d missed her.

“Who’s Charley Parkhurst?” Cas cut in, frowning.

“Only the greatest frontiersman ever,” Charlie told him.

“Old Eyed Charley,” Dean expounded.  “He was one of the best stage drivers to ever live.  Tough as nails.  No one knew he was a she until after he died.”

Cas slit his eyes as he considered that.  “Oh,” he said and brought his attention back to Jack.  He didn’t ask any more questions.

But Dean did.  “So, no one knows you’re actually a woman?”

Charlie’s smile spread.  “No one but the ladies,” she sang, sidling up to Dean to knock their shoulders together.  “If you know what I mean.”

Dean snorted.  “Yeah, yeah.”

Sam shook his head in a chuckle.  When it died away, he changed the subject.  “So, Charlie—how long have you been in town?”

“About a week,” was the answer.

“Well, then maybe you can help us,” Sam said.  “That robbery we told you about?  All our supplies burned up with the stage.”

Charlie’s mouth fell open.  “Wait, really?”

“Really,” Dean answered.  He crossed his arms on the table.  “We need some money to restock before we head back to Texas.  Or at least enough to get us to Wichita first.  I’m guessing those guys over there won’t be too much help.”  He nodded behind him at the lackluster poker game Charlie had vacated.

She shook her head.  “Yeah, right.  They’ll all end up giving you IOUs they’ll never be able to pay up.  I wish I could say this town had higher stakes games, but Vegas, it is not.”

Dean had noticed that.  Still, he’d been hoping she could point them in the right direction so they didn’t have to waste time going to Wichita.  He just wanted this whole experience to be over, which meant getting to Waco.  Next to him, Cas deflated.

“But,” Charlie said, reigniting some hope.  “I think I know where you can find enough cash to move on.”

Sam’s brows shot up.  “Really?  Where?”

“Well,” Charlie said, leaning in conspiratorially.  “There’s been talk of a prizefight happening tonight.  The town’s been buzzing about it.  And if you two are still half the brawlers I remember you being . . .” She let herself trail off, and Dean mulled it over.

Prizefights were dangerous.  They were technically illegal, even though the law tended to turn a blind eye.  But, sometimes, they were lethal, too.  Their father used to take them sometimes when they were kids.  When Dean got older, he’d even entered a few.  The money was usually pretty good for the winner.

“Okay, I’m in,” he said.

Sam held up a palm.  “Wait a minute, Dean.  Maybe we should talk about this.”

Dean shrugged.  “What’s there to talk about?  I get in, you bet on me—we’ll get our money.  Simple.”

Sam pursed his lips.  “Yeah, only if you win.”

Dean wasn’t too worried about it.

“Dean, maybe he’s right,” Cas chimed in.  The glass of milk was empty now.  Jack was still fussing.  “You could get hurt.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean asked, “What, you afraid I’ll stall the journey to Texas?”

Cas’ eyes flashed, and Dean knew that, yes, that was a reason.  It was a relief to hear it wasn’t the only reason.  “No,” he insisted.  “Because it’s dangerous.”

“Yeah, and you don’t know that you’ll win,” Sam added.  Dean wanted to thank them for their confidence.  But then Sam gestured to himself and said, “I mean, maybe I should enter, too.  At least that way, we’ll double our chances.”

No way Dean was letting him do that.  “No, c’mon.  What happens if we both make it to the last round?  You really want me to kick your ass in front of all those people, Sam?”

Sam huffed.  Dean powered through.  “I got this.  It’s our best chance of getting to Wichita, all right?”  Neither Sam nor Cas answered.  Dean turned to Cas.  Pointedly, he repeated, “All right?”

Cas sighed, not seeming too happy about the plan.  Still, he said, “All right.”

Dean leaned back.  “Well, that settles it.”

Cas pushed back his chair, standing up.  “Fine.  Since you don’t need our money for cards, I’m getting supplies for Jack.”

“Yeah, good idea,” Sam said.  He stood up, too.  “I’ll come with.  We can meet back here before heading over to the fight.”

Dean took the money out from his pocket and handed it over to Sam with half a mind to tell him not to spend it all on bottles and milk.  But before he could say anything at all, Cas was taking off the sling and pressing the baby against Dean’s chest.

“What—?”

“We’ll be back soon,” Cas told him tiredly, giving Dean no other option than to hold Jack as he straightened back out.  The baby whined a little in the transfer before cuddling against the front of Dean’s shirt.  Dean really didn’t know why Sam and Cas couldn’t just bring Jack along.

He blinked dumbly while he watched the two of them walk toward the door, and he realized his mouth was slack.  Closing it into a tight line, he looked down at Jack, who’d settled against him and stared back in a way that was a little too intense for an infant.  Dean felt like he was reading his mind.

Charlie leaned over to peer into the bundle.  “He’s a cute kid.”

“Then you take ‘im,” Dean groaned.

Charlie didn’t take him.  She popped her brows.  “Attitude much?”

He deflated in a breath, checking the baby one more time before giving her his attention.  “Nah.  He just . . .” He really didn’t know how to voice his thoughts without sounding like an asshole.  “He’s been a handful.”

“Obviously.  He’s a week old.”

Dean pursed his lips, considering.  Jack had been through more in a week than most children went through in years—maybe even a lifetime.  But it was hard not to think he hadn’t brought that on himself.  “Yeah, maybe.”

“Dude.  What’s the matter?” Charlie asked.  “You jealous he’s stealing all your man’s attention?”

Dean rolled his eyes at the smug, humored smile lifting her cheeks.  “Cas isn’t my—.”  Whatever.  It didn’t matter.  And it’s not like Dean didn’t already know that Cas was obsessed with the baby.  He already loved Jack way more than he could ever love Dean.

He wasn’t jealous.

Dean rattled his head, letting his eyes slip closed in the process.  “I swear, you’d think it was his son.  I don’t know if it’s about the promise he made to the mother, or what.  But I wouldn’t be surprised if Cas decided to stay in Waco just to be near him.”

It was the first time he’d said that particular thought aloud.  It made it feel like a knife was wedged under his ribs.

“And you’re not jealous?” Charlie mocked.

He shook his head.  “It’s not like that.”  He didn’t know what it was like.  He guessed it was something akin to anticipation—because this might be the reason, once and for all, that made Cas leave Lawrence.  Dean felt like he was holding his breath, waiting for Cas to voice his decision.

He looked downward again, where Jack was pursing his lips—like the expression Cas made when he was pouting.  In that moment, the resemblance was uncanny.  Dean had to remind himself that Cas wasn’t actually the father.  The real father was still out there, gunning for them.

If Cas left, Lucifer would find him eventually.  And then Dean would really never see him again.  Just like he’d probably never see Jo again.

“I dunno, Charlie,” he said.  The pressure of the last week was building inside of him, and he was afraid he might burst if he didn’t let it out soon.  “It just seems like, anywhere this kid goes, bad follows.”

Charlie paused, seeming a little taken aback.  But her eyes were big and sympathetic.  “But he’s a baby, Dean.  None of that’s his fault.”

“No, I know that.”  Did he know that?  In his head, sure.  Not so much in his heart.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to find a way to express his thoughts.  “It just feels like he’s—cursed or something.”

He really wished he had one of his hands free.  He needed a sip of his drink.  The baby was too much of a burden in his arms.

Charlie lifted her shoulders.  “I’ve been sitting with you for close to a half hour.  Nothing bad’s happened to me.”

“Yeah, yet.”  If she knew what was good for her, she’d run in the opposite direction.  He knew she wouldn’t.

“Dean,” she said, reaching her hand across the table as if trying to both comfort him and knock some sense into him at once.  “Have you talked to Sam and Cas about it?”

Like talking would solve anything.  He’d tried it, but neither of them understood.

“Sam said pretty much the same thing you did.  And Cas—,” he scoffed.  “He’s too blinded by the kid.”  He shrugged, not knowing what else to do.  He remembered the previous night.  He knew he and Cas still weren’t on the same page, but it had felt like they were getting there.  Dean tried to change his mindset about the situation—for a few hours.

“You know, I was starting to think they were right,” he told her.  “Maybe I was just being ten kinds of simple believing some bad mojo was following Jack around.  But then we got robbed—”

“But those weren’t Lucifer’s people,” she reasoned.  “They were just highway robbers.”

His brows shot up.  “Exactly!  After all the shit, we’ve been through—we get robbed?  Just at random?”  He shook his head.  “It can’t be random.  Right?” 

If she thought he was being silly, she didn’t show it.  She only said, “So, what?  All of a sudden you believe in divine intervention?”

Dean was suddenly aware of the amulets around his neck.  He was starting to think the Anasazi pendant Sam gifted him would come in more handy in the coming days than the cross ever would.

“I believe people I care about have gotten hurt ever since he came into our lives,” Dean corrected.  “And I don’t know if I should be protecting him from everyone else . . .”

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, knowing he couldn’t come back from what he was about to say once it got out.  But he trusted her not to tell Sam and Cas, and he knew she wouldn’t judge him like they would.

“Or if I should start protecting everyone else from him.”

By the time they rode out to the field where the prizefight was taking place, Castiel didn’t feel any better about Dean entering the competition.  But Dean wouldn’t hear any of it.  He took the remainder of their money and paid the two-dollar fee to sign himself up while Sam used the rest to bet on him.

There hadn’t been much left over after their trip into town, where they bought supplies for Jack.  They brought some beef pasties for dinner, as well, mainly because Dean needed something that wasn’t whiskey in his stomach to build his strength.  Castiel purchased some basic medicines, bandages, and stitches, because he had a feeling Dean might need them in a few hours.  He would have to go without replacements for his blades and tools, which all burned up but for the scalpel tucked into his boot.  With any luck, he wouldn’t need them for the remainder of their journey.

He’d just have to order more from the catalogue once he returned to Lawrence.

If he returned to Lawrence . . .

He supposed he would eventually, but the thought of staying in Waco had crossed his mind from time to time in the last few days.  It would unsettle him, leaving Jack without any protection in case Lucifer’s gang tracked him down.  Castiel didn’t know if he could wash his hands of that concern once the baby was with Kelly’s parents.

But the decision weighed on him, especially not sharing it with the Winchesters.  He wondered if Dean would tell him to stay gone.

And he wondered if he should ask Dean to stay in Texas with him—just until they were certain Jack was all right—so they could be together.  Although, he supposed he already knew the answer.

He shook the thought away and told himself to focus on one thing at a time.

Currently, that was the prizefight.  He was seated on the grass, Jack in his sling against Castiel’s chest, as the other spectators around him settled into a wide circle.  People sat on parked buckboards and blankets, and there was one covered wagon in the mix with people poking their heads out of the back to watch the fight.  Whiskey was being passed from friend to friend while others snacked on jerky and boiled nuts.  There was a group of Germans nearby roasting frankfurters over a campfire.

The location of the fight was a half hour outside the city, but it had attracted a large enough crowd.  Prizefights always tended to.

Presently, someone sat next to him, drawing his attention away from the crowd.  Charlie was folding her legs in front of her, carefully balancing a paper bag of popcorn so none of it would spill.  “Hey,” she said.  “Sam and Dean aren’t back yet?”  She held out the popcorn in offering.

Castiel pressed his lips together in a thankful smile and picked a piece out from the bag.  As he chewed, he said, “No.  They went to go find the bookie.”

She dropped her shoulders, regarding him.  “You still don’t think this is a good idea?”

He turned away, his eyes snagging on a couple of men trying to clear a path through the crowd for the fighters to enter the ring.  “I rarely think Dean has good ideas,” he said flatly.

Charlie snorted out a laugh, understanding it as a joke.  “Fair point.”  She tossed a kernel of popcorn in the air and tried to catch it with her mouth.  It bounced off her nose and landed in the grass.  “But it’s not like this is his first prizefight.”

That wasn’t news to Castiel; he’d just never seen it firsthand.  Dean hadn’t fought for money since before they met—unless he did it on the road and Castiel didn’t know about it.  But he was fairly certain he’d be able to spot the cuts and bruises on Dean when he got home.

Regardless, it seemed Charlie knew a side of Dean that Castiel didn’t.  Perhaps more than one.  She was the only person Dean corresponded with through letters on a semi-regular basis, and he seemed to trust her.  Castiel wondered what Dean had confided in her.  It was tempting to ask.

He didn’t.  It was none of his business, despite his curiosity.

“Dean has a multitude of experiences.  I haven’t seen them all,” he said, unable to stop himself from hinting at his interest just a little.

Against his chest, Jack woke momentarily before settling again.  Castiel peered down to check on him.  It was late at night.  He felt badly, having to bring Jack to such a noisy place, but he needed to be there in case Dean got injured.  It wasn’t exactly like he could leave Jack behind in a hotel room.

“I guess,” Charlie said.  “But—,” she fisted her hand and playfully punched his shoulder.  It surprised him enough to look up at her.  She seemed undeterred.  “You get to experience the best thing with him, right, dude?”

He blinked at her, and not just because she’d called him that a number of times now and he felt he should point out he wasn’t a rancher.

“I do?”

Her expression flickered like he was the confusing one.  “Well, yeah.”  It sounded more like a question.  “You know—life experience.  Growing old together.  Or something.  Because you two are together.”

Castiel stared at her.  What the hell did Dean tell her?

“Did he . . .” He swallowed hard, his pulse suddenly vibrating in his throat, “tell you that?”

“Well, no.  But . . .” She looked back down at the popcorn.  “Aren’t you?  I guess I kinda figured—I mean, from the way he talks about you in his letters—”

“What does he say in his letters?” The question was out before he could stop it, because he was still fluctuating between desperately wanting to know and telling himself it was better if he didn’t.

Charlie shrugged unsurely now.  “Stuff,” she muttered.  “Not really . . .” Suddenly, she erupted, “I don’t know!  You have to read between the lines.”

Castiel told himself to calm down.  He focused on Jack again, but the baby was sleeping so the distraction didn’t last.  “You’re mistaken,” he told her, voice thicker than he’d like it to be.  Dean didn’t feel that way.  Castiel couldn’t make him.

Castiel couldn’t even make Dean stay with him for any extended period of time.  And that was fine.  He’d take whatever Dean would allow.

“If you say so,” Charlie said as if she didn’t believe it.  “But, trust me, between the lines—Dean could probably out-poet Walt Whitman.”

Castiel refocused on the crowd.  He had the errant thought that he’d very much like to read these letters.

The crowd was pressing into a tighter circle around the patch of grass that would serve as the ring.  Spectators on the outskirts stood on their toes or got up on the flatbeds and wheels of buckboards for a better view.  Sam even saw one woman sitting atop a man’s shoulders.  That could only mean the first round was about to commence.

Sam stood outside the bookie’s tent along the line of vendors, entertainers, and catcoaches into which painted ladies led men by the hands.  He scanned his surroundings for Dean, who’d gone off to enter the fight fifteen minutes ago with the promise that he’d meet Sam at the tent when he was done.  Sam was beginning to think he should go back to the spot Charlie and Cas had staked in the crowd.

He did another sweeping glance, his eyes snagging on the back of a petite woman’s head.  She had wavy dark hair, her vibrant red dress fitted with a black lace bustle.  His heart sped up so quickly, it uprooted from his chest and got lodged in his throat.

The woman looked around as a man approached her.  A broad, enticing smile was on her face—the wrong face.  Sam watched her take the man’s hand and lead him to one of the stages.

He blinked away, righting himself, and trying to shake away the image of a similarly dark-featured woman from his mind.  Ruby had cropped into his thoughts on occasion, but she was still in Lawrence.  Or, at least, he hoped she hadn’t moved on.  He considered calling around to her once he got back to town so he could invite her to the homestead for dinner.  He wondered if she was the kind of woman who’d say yes.

His gut swam at the possibility of her rejecting the invitation.  Maybe she was happy with her life.  Maybe she hadn’t spared him a moment’s thought since their first meeting.

Or maybe she had.  Maybe she was waiting for him to ask her to dinner—

“Hey, Sam!  You awake?”

Sam’s head snapped up.  Dean was standing right in front of him, brows pinched with concern before he rearranged his features into humor.  “What’s the matter?  You’re blushing.”  His eyes flickered to the catcoaches.  “Now, don’t tell me . . .”

“What?  No!” Sam spat out, possibly with more gusto than he’d intended.  Dean’s brows popped like he didn’t believe him.  Sam rolled his eyes and pinched his lips.  He wasn’t about to entertain Dean’s filthy mind.  “Shut up.  Did you enter?”

Dean nodded once.  “Sure did.  I’m fourth up.  C’mon, let’s go find Cas and Charlie.”

Before Sam could stop himself, his eyes flickered back to where the dark-haired woman had disappeared.  He tore himself away and followed Dean away from the bookie’s tent and around the crowd.

“And you’re sure this is a good idea?” Sam double-checked as they walked.  “I could enter, too.  Offer’s still on the table.”

Dean snorted.  “With what money?  We spent our last penny, remember?”

Sam was sure Charlie would loan them the cash if they really needed it.  They would pay her right back.  “Yeah, Dean.  All the more reason.”

“No—Sam.  It’s fine.  Don’t be like that,” Dean huffed.  He walked a little quicker, like he was eager to get away.  Sam easily kept up with him.

“Fine, but you better win,” he warned, a smirk coming to his face.  “Cas might make you sleep with the horses if you don’t.”

He heard Dean grumble.  “Yeah, yeah.  He’s worried about getting to Texas.  I know.”

Sam’s expression dropped.  He’d thought Dean and Cas were done arguing but apparently there was still some residual bitterness.  He told himself to bite his tongue, because it was none of his business, and he wasn’t about to pick sides between his brother and his best friend.  But, then again, he was usually able to escape whenever they put him in the middle.  It was much harder to do that when they were traveling together.

Deciding to put his foot down, he grabbed Dean by the shoulder and halted him.  “Dean,” he sighed as Dean whirled around on him.  “He’s worried about you.  And, if I’m being honest, I am, too—and not just about the fight.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asked, anger already rearing its head.

Sam dropped his shoulders.  He didn’t want to start an argument, but maybe it was worth it.  “Ever since . . . what happened to Jo.”  Dean froze up, and Sam pushed his own heartache on the issue to the side.  “I know you’re pissed.  I am, too.  But you can’t keep giving Cas the cold shoulder like—like he’s somehow to blame.”

“I don’t blame Cas,” Dean answered swiftly.

He could have fooled Sam.

“I don’t,” Dean insisted.  “Hell, if I did, you really think I’d be entering this fight instead of just going home?”

Sam shrugged.  “Depends on how bad you wanna hit something.”

Dean threw his head back and groaned dramatically.  “Whatever.  It’s none of your business, anyway.”

“It is when I have to play messenger for you two over the campfire,” Sam told him pointedly.  “And I’m sick of it.  So just . . . cut him some slack.  He’s doing his best.”

Dean’s eyes widened at that.  He opened his mouth to yell.  Before he could, Sam held up his palms and added, “I’m not picking sides.  We’ve all been through a lot lately.”

Settling, Dean managed to hang on to some of his annoyance by pursing his lips.  “Whatever,” he said again, but at least he wasn’t arguing.  “Now, come on.  We’re gonna miss the first round.  I wanna see who my opponents are.”  He stalked off again before Sam could say another word.

Not that he was going to.  He’d said his peace.  For now.

They had to squeeze through the crowd to get to where Cas and Charlie were standing at the front of the spectators.  In the ring, the referee and the MC were speaking.

“Hey,” Sam said as he rested at Charlie’s side.  He turned his attention to her and Cas.  “Anything happen yet?”

“No,” Cas answered, squinting forward.  Jack was still bundled up quietly against his chest.  “I believe they’re starting soon.”

Dean took a step out of the group and turned to face them all.  “Sooner the better,” he said, and began bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet to warm up.  “I’m ready.”

“Go get ‘em, killer,” Charlie encouraged.

Dean stopped bouncing.  He took off his hat, and Sam reached out to take it.  Sam kept his arm out for Dean to drape his vest on after he shrugged out of it.  While Dean began unbuttoning his shirt, he said, “Looks like the prize money’s a hundred dollars.  With any luck, we’ll be able to get at least fifty more off the bet.”

As he spoke, the MC was welcoming the spectators and announcing the fighters for the first round.  The crowd around them erupted with cheers.  Sam ignored them and paid attention to what Dean was saying.

“This is a pretty decent-sized crowd, so we might be in luck.”

“I wouldn’t say luck,” Cas said dryly, his eyes still narrowed on the ring over Dean’s shoulder.

Dean huffed, dropping his arms.  His shirt hung open.  “Can you just be a little optimistic, please?”

Cas’ eyes flickered to him, unblinking as he held Dean’s stare.  “Maybe I would be if Sam had entered instead,” he said, expression flat.

Sam pinched his brows, and he really didn’t know if he should be mad that Cas would rather see him bruised than Dean.

Dean sighed loudly.  “Yeah?  And why’s that?”

Cas looked back at the ring.  “Height advantage.”

Sam’s confusion only deepened, and then it occurred to him that Cas was looking at something in particular.  He glanced up, following Cas’ line of vision.  Charlie did, too, and Dean looked around.

Across the ring, an impossibly large man was standing up from a buckboard.  The flatbed creaked and shifted as he hefted his weight from it, and Sam was almost shocked the people on the other end hadn’t been catapulted off.  The man’s head must have been the size of a longhorn bull’s, but it seemed disproportionately tiny compared to the muscles of his chest and arms.  His hands were the size of a normal man’s entire torso.

Truthfully, Sam wasn’t certain he’d be able to take the man.  He doubted a Greek God would even have the advantage in a fight.

Dean looked around to share a look with Sam.  His eyes were big.  Sam wouldn’t go as far as to say Dean was petrified, but he certainly seemed to be reevaluating his choices.  Sam swallowed hard, his throat suddenly clogged.  He’d known this was a bad idea, but since when did Dean ever listen to him?

“Boy howdy,” Charlie squeaked fearfully.  “Who climbed up a beanstalk and found that giant?”

Sam realized there was a man standing next to the giant.  He was much shorter, with big eyes and dark hair.  He collected the giant’s shirt and boots, which might as well have been a tent and two boulders in his hands, and turned to put them on the buckboard behind them.  There was a yarmulke atop his head.

The other fighter entered the ring from another side, and Sam doubted the man had much in the way of a prayer.  The Jewish boy clapped the giant on the arm in a sign of encouragement before the giant walked out onto the ring.  Around them, gasped and amazed sounds rose from the crowd.  The giant’s opponent bent his head back to look up at the man, his face twisting in disbelief.

“All right, gentlemen,” the MC said, standing between them.  “Shake hands.”  When they did, the opponent’s hand was engulfed completely.  The two fighters stepped back from each other as the MC got out of the way.  The referee stayed close.

The MC rang a cowbell, signaling the fight to begin.

Immediately, the crowd burst into jeers and shouts.  Sam privately wondered if they might be able to sneak away.

“Well,” Charlie suggested, wrinkling her nose in thought, “who knows?  Maybe he’ll go down in the first round?”

The giant let out a shout—and it was an honest to God roar.  He punched his opponent square in the chest, sending him backward and sprawling to the ground.

“Ooh!” Sam and Dean let out at once, Dean fisting his hands and Sam wincing as if he’d felt the blow himself.

“Or not,” Charlie finished meekly, gritting her teeth.

Amazingly, the opponent got back to his feet.

Dean turned back to the group, movements stiff.  Part of Sam wanted to tell Dean to drop out completely, but he didn’t.  He knew his brother.  Dean could do this.  He just needed a confidence boost.

“Okay, Dean,” he said, putting his hand on Dean’s shoulder and looking him square in the eye.  “You can do this, okay?  Remember what Dad taught us?  The bigger they are, right?”

Dean nodded swiftly, putting on a brave face.  “Yeah, yeah—uh—the harder they fall.”

“Right,” Sam coached.  He clapped Dean’s shoulder lightly.  “It’s just like that.”

Dean nodded.  His eyes flickered over to Cas briefly before looking back.  He pulled in a breath through his nose and out of his mouth.

The match didn’t last long.  All the giant had to do was knock the opponent down one more time.  The man fell back, unconscious.  A woman and two men broke through the crowd and frantically crouched next to him, trying to wake him up.  The cowbell rang, signifying the end of the match.  The crowd roared.

Sam kept his eyes fixed on the opponent, and he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until the man lifted his head, coming to.  He was alive.  Thank God.

The second match lasted longer, most likely because the men were evenly matched.  They went eight rounds before one was declared the winner.

The MC announced the fighters of the third round as a man named Wally and one going by Mr. Ketch.  The fight was livelier, and it went on for close to an hour and thirteen rounds.  In the end, Ketch brought Wally down with a left hook.

And then it was Dean’s turn.  He stripped out of his shirt the rest of the way and forcefully handed it to Sam before pulling off his boots.  He was carrying himself much more tensely now, and Sam was partially grateful he wasn’t taking the situation so lightly anymore.

“Next up,” the MC called, “joining us all the way from New York, ladies and gentlemen, welcome Mr. Cole Trenton!”

A severe-looking man came out into the ring, already bouncing and shaking out his arms in preparation.

“Tonight, he will be against Kansas’ own son—Welcome, Mr. Dean Winchester!”

The crowd clapped louder for their fellow Kansan.

“You’ll do great,” Sam said, giving Dean’s back a gentle slap.

“Good luck!” Charlie called after him as Dean rushed out into the ring.  Cas didn’t say anything, but he was alert, already acting as if he were ready to swoop in at any moment should Dean need him.

Dean and Trenton shook hands at the MC’s request before parting.  The bell rang, and the fight began.

Trenton was a decent match.  He was shorter than Dean, but more muscular.  He managed to get in a few quick jabs in the first round.  Dean’s footwork and blocking were a little rusty, but he seemed to be getting a feel for it again as the fight progressed.  He became lighter on his feet, his necklace bouncing up occasionally against his bare chest when he slipped and ducked.

Trenton went down in the first round, and then Dean in the second.  Although, it seemed like the crowd was rooting in Dean’s favor.  They cheered whenever he got in a hit, and boo’d when Trenton blocked him.

Sam did his part cheering Dean on.  When Trenton went down in the fifth round, Dean looked over, and Sam gave him two OK signs.  The entire time, Charlie was screaming encouragements at the top of her lungs.

By the ninth round, Dean seemed to be getting tired, but he kept on just the same.  They went six more rounds before Trenton didn’t get up again, and Dean was declared the winner.

As the referee held Dean’s hand over his head and the crowd shouted, Sam heard Cas breathe out.  Out of the corner of Sam’s eye, Cas’ body slackened.  Sam kept clapping as he looked over at him and offered a smile.  Cas nodded and smiled back tightly, eyes full of relief.

Dean came back to them while the MC was bringing up the giant and the champion of the second match to fight each other.  He was a little out of breath, and he was favoring his left side.  There was sweat matting his hair and his cheeks were rosy.  A bruise was forming on his jaw.  But he was all grins.

“You see that?  I was awesome!” he exclaimed happily.  He took his shirt from Sam and buried his face in it to mop up some sweat.

“I knew you had it in you, champ!” Charlie said, feeding off his energy.  She bounced forward and embraced him tightly.  Dean winced audibly, and Charlie jumped back, apologizing profusely.

Cas stepped in closer, his hands on Dean’s face as he inspected the bruise.  Dean tried to swat him away, resulting in a small tiff between them.  It was one round Dean wasn’t about to win, so Sam refocused on the match.

It lasted a little longer than he expected, considering how the giant’s last match went.  The opponent managed to bob and weave out of the way enough to last five rounds, and he’d even managed to win the second by sweeping the giant’s feet out from under him.  He’d lost the other three though, and when he went down for the last time he seemed content to stay down.

Too soon, Dean was sent out again, matched against Mr. Ketch.  For a while there, Sam wasn’t too sure it was a fight Dean could win.  Even with blood staining his teeth, Ketch stayed up.  The crowd jeered at him whenever he got a hit in, and Dean used that to his advantage.  He started goading Ketch, who seemed to have no trouble returning it in a cocky British accent.  Whenever the man went down, Dean would rally the crowd by gesturing his arms out wide.  The spectators loved it.

Someone even started throwing popcorn kernels at Ketch, and more people joined in until the referee had to put an end to it.

Every time one of them got back up, Sam felt his anticipation rising.  They were already on round eighteen.  If Dean won, he’d be too tired out to face the giant—and that was a whole separate issue entirely.

That issue became a reality when Dean did win in the twenty-third round with a double-uppercut to Ketch’s chin.  The man practically flew off his feet before landing, winded, in the dirt.

Dean’s shoulders were heaving, and he had blood trickling down from a reopened wound on his eyebrow.  Still, he managed a wide smile as he hyped up the crowd.  “Come on!” he yelled.

The crowd started punching the air and chanting, “Kansas!  Kansas!”

Dean appeared to garner energy from it, and Sam hoped it was enough.  He was biting down so hard on his jaw, his teeth were starting to hurt.  Next to them, Charlie was clapping, but she was nowhere near as uproarious as the crowd anymore.  She seemed just as somberly worried as Sam felt.

Over her head, Sam shared a look with Cas.  Cas pouted and shook his head, nostrils flaring.

“He can do this,” Sam told him with more confidence than he felt.  He hoped Cas could hear him over the crowd.

There was about a seventy-five percent chance Dean would die.

The MC took the center of the ring, his hands going up to silence the crowd.  When they were quiet enough, he shouted out, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have one final match for you tonight—a match that will determine who goes home tonight with one-hundred dollars!”

“Come on, Kansas!” someone from the back hollered.  Dean’s smile went from ear to ear, and Sam noticed he had a fat lip.

“Looks like Dean’s the underdog,” Charlie said as the MC kept on.  She looked up at Sam before her eyes went back to Dean.  “That’s good, right?”

Sam wanted to say yes.  He shrugged, forlorn.  “Only if he wins.”

The crowd was clapping again, which meant the fight was starting.  Sam looked back to find the giant lumbering out onto the ring.  Dean’s posture went slightly more rigid.  He stepped forward to offer his hand.

“Good luck, big guy.  Remember, there’s no shame in losing,” Dean teased, loud enough for the people in the front of the crowd to hear.  Sam let out a desperate breath.  The giant grunted, unamused, and the sound seemed to echo from the depths of the earth.

The two of them went to opposite sides of the circle.  Dean turned around fully, his gaze latching onto Sam’s.  Sam tried to shove his fear down, to put every ounce of support on his face that he could muster.  He nodded at Dean.

Dean nodded back, and then his gaze flashed to the side, to Cas.  He held his eyes a little longer as he lifted the chain around his neck and brought the pendants to his lips.  Sam knew he wasn’t kissing the Anasazi symbol.

Dean spun around.  He hopped from foot to foot and loosened out his shoulders.

The cowbell rang.

The two fighters rushed toward each other at once.  Sam felt his lungs constrict, paralyzed.  The giant went for a right hook.  At the last second, Dean moved left and ended up on the other side of the giant.  The monolith of the man stumbled slightly when his fist didn’t connect with anything.  He wheeled around, growling, and Dean circled him again.

“What the hell is he doing?” Cas gritted out.

Sam ran his fingers through his hair, trying to keep them from shaking.  He smiled breathily at Dean’s tactic.  “Tiring him out.”

“C’mon, keep up!” Dean called, still bouncing on his feet.  He flapped his fingers in a come on motion before fisting them again to guard his face.  “I can do this all day.  I got practice!  You think you’re big?  You should see my baby brother!”

Sam shook his head, casting his gaze heaven-bound.

The giant swung.  Dean weaved out of the way and jabbed the man in the gut.  The giant barely even reacted.  Dean grimaced as he jumped back, shaking out his hand.  The giant used that to his advantage.  He punched, his fist connecting with Dean’s stomach.  There was the squelching sound of flesh on bone.  Dean flew backward, landing flat on his back.

Sam gasped, his muscles going tight.  Next to him, Charlie yelped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth in shock.  Cas took a reflexive half-step forward before stopping himself.

The crowd went silent so quickly it was as though someone had blown them out like a candle.  For a moment, Sam could even hear the crickets chirping.

Dean sputtered as his breath returned to him.  He rocked back and forth before picking himself up to his feet.

The crowd started up again.  Sam reminded himself to breathe, but it was tough to do.

A little shakier than before, Dean got into his boxing stance, his bowlegs parted wide.  “That all you got, Frankenstein?”

That was as long as the second round lasted.  The giant slammed Dean’s face, and Dean’s body spun around before he fell on his front.

Cas moved forward again, purposefully this time.  Sam grabbed him by the arm, stopping him.  “Cas, don’t.”

“He’s—,” Cas argued as he rounded on Sam.  He was baring his teeth.

“He’ll get up,” Sam promised.  He knew Dean would get up.  He still had more left in him.

Cas’ chest puffed and fell again like he was deciding whether or not to listen.

It took Dean longer to recover that time.  The referee began counting down the seconds, and Dean managed to move just before time was up.  He picked himself up by the arms and spit blood into the grass.  It looked like an effort when he hauled himself to his feet.

“Okay, tiny.  Fun time’s over,” he said weakly, raising his hands again to guard his face.  The crowd was delighted.

Dean managed to run a few more circles around the giant, whose movements were becoming stilted and sluggish as he continued to throw his weight forward and catch it again before falling over.  After a while, it just seemed to make him mad.  When he found a split-second in, the giant got Dean’s ribs, sending him down again.

Sam was beginning to get nervous.  He was a moment away from shouting at Dean to surrender the fight.  They could get money some other way—but Dean needed to be alive for that.

The giant bounded forward, and Sam realized he was intending to slam down on Dean to pin him to the ground.

Sam’s reaction was ripped out of his throat.  “Dean!” he bellowed.  He heard Cas do the same.

The giant jumped.  Dean rolled out of the way.

Gravity brought the giant down hard, and Sam was almost convinced the ground quaked upon impact.  The man let out a loud shout.  He didn’t sound pained, just mildly hurt and majorly frustrated.

Dean jumped to his feet.  And then he ran toward the crowd opposite from where Sam was standing, toward the buckboard with the giant’s friend.  Sam had no idea what the hell he was doing.  Was he running away?  That didn’t seem like him at all.

The giant sat up, swaying slightly and blinking rapidly as he recovered.

Just before Dean reached the edge of the crowd, he spun around and ran full-speed back to his opponent.  He jumped up and kicked the giant in the nose with both feet.

He fell hard with a thud.

So did the giant.  His head snapped backward and he fell over, nose bloody and at a jagged angle.

The noise of the crowd swelled.

The referee came over, counting the seconds down.  The giant didn’t recover in time.  But Dean wobbled to his feet.

The referee grabbed Dean’s wrist and pulled his limp arm over their heads.  Dean looked like his knees were about to give out on him.  But he was smiling.  Everyone was cheering.

Sam looked on in disbelief.  Reality only caught up with him when Charlie wrapped her arms around his elbow and jumped up and down excitedly.  Sam smiled wide and looked at Cas, whose eyes were fixed on Dean.  Jack was wailing loudly in his arms, but the sounds were swallowed up in the cacophony.

“Incredible!  Ladies and gentlemen, let’s have a round of applause for your champion, Mr. Dean Winchester of Kansas!” the MC shouted.  He reached into his breast pocket and held out an envelope with the prize money inside.  He handed it to Dean.

After shaking the MC and referee’s hands, Dean clutched the envelope of cash and made for their group.  He almost reached them when three whores intercepted him.  One pressed up to his side.

“What do you say we spend that prize money tonight, champ?” she offered.

Dean smiled politely but tried to push away.  “Sorry, ladies,” he said.  “Only in town for one night.”

“One night’s all we need,” another whore said.

“Well, where’re you headed?  We’ll have the girls there welcome you,” the first promised.

Sam shot him an exasperated look.  Dean tried to sidestep between two of the ladies.  “Sorry, gals,” he told them lightly.  “Tell your friends here and in Wichita, I already got someone to celebrate with.”

The ladies seemed annoyed by the prospect of not getting payment, but Sam was sure they’d find it somewhere else.  They turned away, disappearing into the dispersing crowd.

Still in the ring, the Jewish boy was crouched over the giant, patting his friend’s shoulder in consolation.

“Dude!” Charlie yelled, visibly stopping herself from hugging Dean that time.  “You did it!”

Dean shrugged as if it didn’t spend the very last of his energy.  Blood was still moving as slow as sap from his eyebrow down his face.  “Told ya I’d win,” he just about slurred.

“God, Dean,” Sam said, shaking his head.  He was still only half-convinced Dean was alive and walking around.  “I can’t believe you pulled that off.”

Dean wilted.  “What happened to the bigger they are?”

Sam popped his brows and stared into the middle distance in astonishment.  “Honestly?  I was just saying that.”

Dean shot him an incredulous, slack-jawed glare.

Cas stepped in, inspecting Dean without touching him, though he clearly wanted to.  “Are you all right?”

Dean blinked and shook his head.  “I’ll let you know when my head stops ringing.  We sure that cowbell was put away?”

Normally, Sam wouldn’t justify that with a laugh.  But, tonight, he couldn’t help himself.

“I think he likes me,” Charlie declared from her spot on her bed, where she was sitting cross-legged over the covers.  Jack was in her arms, his little hands reaching out from the bundle of blankets to grab at her nose.  Her voice went up in pitch as she cooed, “Do you like your Auntie Charlie?”

Dean rolled his eyes, trying to play off the fond feeling tugging at his chest at the sight of the baby making Charlie so happy.

They were staying in her boarding room for the night.  It was a tight space in a small house owned by some old widow, but they were making due.  The owner loaned them some blankets, and Sam laid his out at the foot of the bed.  Dean set his and Cas’ along the wall between the door and the window.  The two of them were sitting there now, Dean trying to remain still and not wince as Cas stitched the wound on his eyebrow.

“You’re not his auntie,” Dean reminded her, and then hissed when Cas’ needle hit a sensitive spot.  “Dammit, Cas—”

“Hold still,” Cas scolded, not seeming the least bit apologetic.

Dean gritted his teeth and fisted his hands against the pain.  He tried to refocus on Charlie, who was scowling slightly his way.  “I’m his auntie tonight,” she maintained.

Dean dropped the subject.  He didn’t have the energy to argue.  In truth, his vision was still swimming and he was doing his best not to vomit.

“Anyway,” Charlie said, addressing the room as a whole.  “You think you have enough money to get you to Wichita?”

Sam, already tucked in beneath his blanket, rolled over to his side and propped his head on his hand to face her.  “I think so,” he said.  “There’s enough for some saddles and food.  We should have enough left over for a few games.”

They’d have to stop by the gunsmith to restock on ammo, too, just to be safe.  The more personal items would have to wait.  Dean personally couldn’t wait to change his clothes when they had the winnings for it.

There was a painful tug when Cas cut off the end of the stitches with Dean’s pocketknife and pulled away.  Dean wondered if that was his punishment for getting the wound in the first place.

“Too bad,” Charlie said.  “I wish you were staying a little longer.”

Dean wished that, too.  But they needed to get to Texas.  He would have invited her along if he didn’t think that was such a bad idea.  She was much safer far away from them.

“Well, you’ll just have to visit us back home,” he told her, knowing it was a long shot.  It earned him a scoff.

Cas packed away his sparse new medical supplies before getting up and crossing to the bed.  “I think it’s time we let Auntie Charlie get some rest,” he said to the baby, and it was a sentence Dean never thought he’d hear coming from Cas’ mouth.  It was a little jarring.  But it made Charlie glow.

“Aww,” she complained, but she relinquished Jack into Cas’ arms nonetheless.  “’Night, little man.”

Dean realized he’d been watching the exchange.  He met Sam’s eyes without meaning to, and Sam looked back with a gentle twinkle in his gaze and a smile pulling at his cheeks as he looked on as well.  Dean swallowed and refocused on his lap to fight down the fluttering in his gut.  He reminded himself that the baby was trouble, and he had to keep that in mind since everyone else refused to see it.

“Yeah, we should all call it a night,” he told them.  Careful of his bruised ribs, he laid down on his good side.  Cas came back over and crouched down to set Jack on the blankets next to them.  Jack kicked his legs under the blankets.

Across the room, Sam laid down on his back again and Charlie pulled out the covers beneath her to fit under them.  “Don’t try sneaking out in the morning without saying goodbye,” she warned, pointing at each of them in turn.  “Don’t make me track you down and slap you.”

Dean chuckled and promised her.

“Good,” she said before reaching over to the lantern on the nightstand.  She blew out the flame and the room descended into darkness.

There was a bit of shuffling as Cas situated himself beside Dean, lying on his back.  Dean pressed his spine into the wall to give him more room on the blankets.  And then there was nothing but quiet.

Dean lay there for a few minutes, closing his eyes.  It didn’t take long to become uncomfortable.  The hard floor was making his side sore, and his other side was throbbing dully now that he had nothing else to think about.  The stitches in his head stung, too, as did the cuts on his knuckles.  Given time, it would all heal.  He just wished the aches and pains would go away so he could rest.

The adrenaline of the day wasn’t helping, either.  He hadn’t noticed it was still present before the light was out.  But there was still a bounce in his feet from moving around his opponents’ jabs, and the muscles in his shoulders tingled like they still expected him to throw a punch.  His ears rang.

The familiar sounds of Sam’s light snoring began after a while.  He assumed Charlie was asleep, too.  Cas wasn’t.  He was still next to Dean, but he kept sighing through his nose at varying intervals of time.  It was unsurprising.  Dean was usually asleep long before Cas slipped under, too.

Cas sighed again, a little more pointedly this time.  It made Dean crack an eye open.  Cas’ eyes were already open, staring up at him.  “Is your head still bothering you?” he whispered.

Dean shook his head a little.  “Nah.  The laudanum helped.”  His headache from earlier might be gone; he just wished he could say the same about the rest of him.

In the darkness, he was just able to see Cas’ lips thin into a line as he nodded once.

Jack let out a soft noise, and Dean’s eyes snapped over to him before he could stop himself.  Cas did the same, turning his head on the blankets.  When Jack stayed quiet, Cas shuffled again to get comfortable.  “Get some sleep, Dean.”

Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek, still contemplating the baby. He thought about what he’d told Charlie earlier, and about Cas’ face the previous night when he figured out Dean thought Jack was to blame for all their misfortune.  He could feel Cas’ body heat in the inches between them, but he still felt something cold licking up his spine.

“Dean.”

Dean blinked.  He was surprised to find his hand was fisting at the front of Cas’ shirt.  He let go.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, trying to play it off.  He closed his eyes again.  “Don't worry. I'll be awake enough in the morning to get to Wichita.”

“Good,” Cas told him. “Then we can head back south.”

Dean's inner cheek was starting to get raw from all the pulling. It was only adding to his list of discomforts. “Right.” He let out a soft laugh, not really feeling it. “Woulda thought you'd be okay with the detour.”

Under his palm, he felt Cas’ breath snag. Dean bit down on his jaw, cursing himself for even bringing it up. He should have kept his traitorous damn mouth shut, because if Cas really were going to leave him to stay in Texas instead of give up the baby, Dean would rather not know tonight.

When Cas spoke again, his voice was even quieter, past what was necessary to not wake the others. “Why—why would you think that?”

Dean kept his eyes shut. He didn't answer. Maybe he could pretend he was asleep.

Cas rolled over to face him. “Jack belongs with his grandparents. It's . . . what's best for him.” He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself of that fact.

And now Dean’s pulse was jumping again. His feet were itching to run. His shoulders were aching to throw a punch at Cas, because he really was planning on keeping his intentions a secret. When was he expecting to tell Dean? When they reached Waco? When they were readying for the return trip? Would Cas tell him then that he wasn't going with them?

And would Dean just let him? Just ride off without him and spend the rest of his days regretting it, even if that's what Cas wanted?

What if Dean stayed, too?  Would Cas want that?

“What about what's best for you?” Dean asked. It wasn't what he wanted to ask—but it seemed easier. That way, Dean could keep a little spark of anger in his chest, and not let it fizzle to denial and rejection.

“What are you talking about?”

Dean opened his eyes suddenly, before he even made the decision to do so. Cas was tucked in close, his face a few inches away. His brows were knitted tightly together and his eyes were squinted, looking both perplexed and ready for an argument.

Only the sight of him made all the fight leave Dean.

He wanted to skip that part for once—the part where words got in the way. The part where they butt heads. The part where they went their separate ways for a while, only for Dean to return in a few weeks and for the process to start all over again.

He wanted to know what Cas wanted from him. Because everyone else seemed to make it their business to tell Dean.  He wondered if they were right.

Or if he wanted them to be right.

“What about what’s best for,” he started, swallowing down the rest. Because it was too hard to say us. Somehow it was easier to say, “you and me?”

The lines on Cas’ forehead evened out. His eyes flashed a little, looking like a spooked animal. And Dean didn't blame him because the question caught him off guard, too.

“If there is a you and me.”

He licked his lips, eyes flickering down to Cas’ chin. His body was shaking, both scared to ask and scared not to: “Is there?”

He could feel Cas’ eyes moving around his face in that way of his, as if he could see into Dean’s soul. It used to unnerve him. Sometimes it still did. Sometimes he wondered what Cas saw—if he thought it was tarnished and ugly.

When Cas brought his hand up to Dean’s face, he did it slowly, like he wanted to give Dean enough time to either pull away or understand he wasn’t about to strike him. His palm fit beneath Dean’s jaw, fingers spreading against his cheek. Dean’s breath emptied out of his lungs, and he realized he was closing his eyes again.

He braced himself, ready for Cas to say no.

All he said was, “Dean.”  And Dean realized he didn't have an answer to the question, either.

It was kind of comforting. As much as Dean had wanted Cas to dictate to him what to do, it was also nice knowing he wasn't wandering in the dark all alone.

Dean leaned in, the tip of his nose brushing against the hollow of Cas’ cheek. Cas dipped his face to capture his lips. It was a chaste thing, rare for them. It filled Dean’s chest with something he knew might rise up and spill out from his lips for Cas to taste. And that was a dangerous thing, Dean realized, because no one else had ever held that kind of power over him.  Like a tornado’s pull over the wind.

Cas pulled away slowly and stroked his thumb against Dean’s cheek.  Haltingly, he asked, “Do you—think there could be?”

Dean licked his lips nervously.  They didn’t do this.  They didn’t talk about this—whatever the hell it was.  And Dean didn’t know what to say next.  He felt, no matter what he said, it’d be wrong.  It’d make Cas realize that, no, there couldn’t be.  Because they weren’t something built to last.  Like tornados didn’t last; they just left devastation in their wake.

So why speed up that inevitability?  Why ruin a good thing by saying it aloud?

Dean kept quiet.

Cas put his hand over Dean’s chest, pressing his necklace against his skin.  He must have felt how erratic Dean’s heart was, but he didn’t mention it.  He said, “We'll talk about this in the morning,” like it was a promise. But they wouldn't. Dean nodded nevertheless, both relieved and disappointed. He didn't know what he’d say, anyway.

Yet, shame burned hot inside of him for letting the moment pass them by.

Cas rolled over to his other side and pressed his back to Dean's chest. Dean put his arm around him, pressed his forehead to the back of Cas’ neck, and breathed in his scent.  He felt Cas’ hand rest on top of his own over Cas’ chest, their fingers knitting together.

When they reached Waco, if Cas decided to remain there, Dean wondered if Cas would ask him to stay with him.

It must have been the early morning when Castiel awoke to Jack’s gentle fussing.  The stars were still out beyond the windowpane and the moon had set, leaving the room in pitch-blackness.  Castiel blinked until his eyes adjusted to the shadows.  Behind him, Dean was snoring softly, his breaths tickling the back of Castiel’s neck.  The weight of his arm was still slung like a sturdy blanket over Castiel’s side.

Sometime in the night, they’d pressed up closer to the wall so that they were both on Dean’s side of the blanket.  Wide inches rested between his body and where his arm was outstretched toward Jack.

The baby was awake, kicking and waving his arms in jerking motions.  Unhappy, aborted cries were coming out of his mouth.

It was a strange thing, but the sounds only added to Castiel’s comfort.  His eyes fell heavily closed again, and he settled back into Dean’s arms.  The thought occurred to him, on the cusp of sleep, that this might be the most content he’d ever be for the rest of his life.

And then Jack whined even louder.

Castiel’s eyes shot open.  He realized he ought to see what was wrong.  It was a miracle the cries hadn’t woken up the Winchesters, but he was grateful.  Dean needed to recuperate.

As quickly and stealthily as he could, he extracted himself from Dean’s hold.  Jack’s face was scrunched up when Castiel crouched over him.  He tried shushing the baby to no avail.  He couldn’t have been hungry yet, and his nappy didn’t appear soiled.  Castiel rested two fingers to Jack’s forehead.  It was warm.

Panic clogged his throat.  He tried to tell himself that night fevers were common for infants, and they didn’t often result in deaths.  He’d had plenty of frantic new mothers storm his office lamenting how they were up all night with their child until the fever broke.

He didn’t have any soothing syrup on hand, which was admittedly ridiculous of him.  He’d been so focused on getting medical supplies in preparation for Dean’s injuries that he’d forgotten about this possibility.

Laudanum might do the trick.  The main ingredient was the same, only stronger.  He’d give Jack a low dose.

He scooped up the baby before kneeling down again to pick up the sparse leather medical satchel.  Silently, he made for the door, cursing it when it squeaked slightly.

The sconces in the hallway were off for the night, so he had to feel along the wall until he got to the kitchen in the front of the house.  A half-spent candle sat atop the table, its dripping wax suspended down the side, but he’d left his matches in his duster.  He assumed it would be uncouth to go through the homeowner’s pantry in search of some.

Jack’s cries had gotten louder with each step until he was wailing.  The noise seemed magnified by the quiet night and the enclosed space of the kitchen.  Castiel tried to hold him as close to his chest as he could to lessen the sound, but he was afraid Jack would wake up the whole house.

“Shh,” he tried again, both trying to rock the child and go through the medical supplies at the same time.  Jack was tucked into the crook of his arm, his legs dangling around Castiel’s elbow and his head cradled in Castiel’s palm.

And Castiel wondered when he’d last gotten a full night’s sleep.  It seemed like months ago.  He’d been hoping for one tonight.

“Please, don’t do that,” he sighed when Jack began wiggling around in his hold.  The baby debated that point by crying louder.  Castiel took a single second to pause, close his eyes, and pray that the Almighty would render him unconscious so this could be someone else’s problem for at least a few minutes.

Rallying himself, he blindly sifted through the satchel on the table until his hand connected with the glass bottle of laudanum.  He pulled it out, simultaneously glancing around the shadowy kitchen in hopes of spotting a spoon.  There weren’t any drying near the sink.

Set on the task of going through the widow’s pantry after all, he suddenly heard a thundering of footfalls in the hallway.  He looked around quickly, just in time to see Dean skid to a running halt outside the threshold, stopping his momentum with his hands on the doorframe.

Castiel blinked at him.  Dean blinked back.

And then his eyes fell to the satchel on the table.  He stood up straighter, seeming to collect himself.  “Hey,” he said casually.

Castiel didn’t have the patience for this.  “Find me a spoon.”  He focused on rocking Jack again, all but begging him to quiet down.  Part of him felt badly for waking Dean, but the more dominant part was happy for the help.

Dean paced into the kitchen and pulled open a few drawers, the contents inside each shifting and rattling, until he plucked out a spoon.  Holding it up, he walked around the table and joked, “Don’t tell me you’re gonna whack him with it.  That’ll only make the crying worse.”

Castiel ignored him.  He nodded his chin to the bottle before placing it back on the top of Jack’s head.  “I need half a spoonful.”

Dean pulled out the cork and measured out the medicine.  When it was ready, Castiel leaned forward, supporting Jack with both hands to lay him down flat.  Jack turned his head back and forth, his face red with agony.  Castiel felt his heart break at the sight.

“He keeps moving,” Dean complained as he tried to bring the spoon forward without spilling it.  Castiel tried to hold Jack’s head steady, which was more difficult to do than it should have been.  But Dean was able to fit the spoon against his lips and tilt into Jack’s mouth.  The crying ceased for a blessed moment as Jack swallowed—and then it started up again.

Castiel felt the urge to join in suddenly.

“He has a fever,” he told Dean.  When Dean’s eyes went wide, Castiel explained, “It’ll be fine.  It’s just—the laudanum will take time to work.”

Dean didn’t answer.  His eyes moved from Castiel’s face, down to the baby, and then up again.  He seemed to resign himself to something, and said, apparently taking pity on Castiel, “All right, hand him over.”  He held up his arms to accept the baby.

Castiel had no idea what he was planning to do, but Dean always did have a way of calming Jack down.  They shuffled the baby into Dean’s arms, and Castiel breathed out in relief once free of Jack’s weight.  He turned around and leaned against the side of the table.  He scrubbed at his face and eyes.

Next to him, he heard Dean hushing Jack, his voice vibrating in pitch as he bounced.  Jack didn’t stop.  Castiel dug the heels of his palms into his eyes until a kaleidoscope of colors filled his vision.

And then he heard Dean begin to sing.

As I walked out in the streets of Laredo
As I walked out in Laredo one day
I saw a young cowboy, wrapped all in white linen
Wrapped in white linen, as cold as the clay

Castiel dropped his arms.  He stared at Dean as the darkness around his vision faded and Dean swam into view.  Jack was cradled in both his arms, held close to Dean’s chest.  Dean was looking down at him.  His voice was low at first, the tune rough and out of key.

Castiel thought he recognized the lullaby.  It was an old one—melancholy and mournful.  Jack’s cries were lessening, dipping back into grunts and whines.

Dean’s eyes flickered up, catching Castiel’s.  He seemed a little nervous as his tongue darted out to lick his lips.  He looked down at the baby and carried on singing.  Castiel didn’t know if it was due to the fact that Jack was settling or if he was gaining confidence, but Dean sang a little louder.

Oh, beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly
Sing the Death March as you—

He shook his head, stumbling as he struggled to recall the words.

—carry me along
Take me to the valley, there lay the sod on me
I’m a young cowboy, I know I’ve done wrong

Castiel wrapped his hands around the edge of the table as he leaned back further into it.  He kept watching Dean, the sound of his voice carrying through him.  He realized one corner of his mouth was lifted.  His heart felt too snug in his chest, like it could beat its last at any moment.  He might just be fine with that, so long as this was the last sight he saw; although, he thought maybe he’d fight even the angels themselves so that he might remain on Earth, if only for more moments like this.

He remembered what Dean had asked him before.  If there was a “you and me.”  It had terrified Castiel at the time, imagining that Dean could want more, too.  Because it would change everything and nothing at once.  Because there was no promise that it would end well for them, and Castiel would rather spend his life loving Dean silently on his own, still at Dean’s side, than lose him.

But now, looking at him, Castiel thought it might be worth the risk.  For the first time, he wondered if Dean felt the same.

In that time, he realized Jack had gone quiet.  He was sound asleep against Dean’s chest.

Dean stayed silent for a second, just to make sure they were in the clear.  His shoulders dropped, and he whispered, “Okay, we’re good.”  He leaned against the table next to Castiel, their shoulders touching.

Castiel pressed into him, covering up the motion by peering down at Jack.  “Thank you,” he said softly.

Dean hummed like it was no big deal.  “Figured you needed rescuing.”

Castiel hooked his chin on Dean’s shoulder, still staring down at the sleeping baby.  “You were right.”  He exhaled through his nose, the reality of the situation creeping up on him.  “I’m all but useless.”  He was fortunate to have Dean and Sam helping him.

“Don’t say that,” Dean told him, voice going up a little like he hadn’t meant to insult Castiel.  Castiel knew that.  Dean had only been teasing him.  But the fact remained . . .

“Maybe you just weren’t supposed to be a caretaker,” Dean added.

Castiel knitted his brows together.  “I’m a physician.”

Dean choked a little as if he hadn’t considered that.  “Okay, but still—,” he fumbled.  And then: “You’ve gotten him this far, haven’t you?  You burned down a whole damn barn to keep him safe.  That doesn’t count for nothing.”

He supposed he hadn’t thought of it that way.  He pressed his lips together, thinking.  He had done that and so much more to protect Jack.  He’d been prepared to give up his life in Lawrence, his life with Dean, for the baby.  And, one day, Jack would grow up, and he’d never know any of that.

Perhaps his grandparents would tell him of the three men from Kansas who brought him home.  But Jack wouldn’t know them.  Castiel would be a stranger to the man he’d become.

He didn’t think he could bear that.

“We better get back to sleep,” Dean whispered, breaking Castiel’s thoughts.  “I think he’s down for the night.  Hopefully.”

Castiel leaned back and blinked the stinging pressure from his eyes.  He nodded, hoping Dean couldn’t see his emotion in the darkness.  “Okay.”

He collected the medical supplies, putting the laudanum back into the leather satchel.  He deposited the spoon in the sink.  And then a thought struck him.  He looked around, where Dean was still gently swaying Jack.  He asked, “Dean?  Why did you come running in here?”

He’d overlooked it in all the commotion.  But Dean had reacted a little more urgently than he ever had before when Jack was crying.  It couldn’t have been from that.

Dean looked up, brows raised.  “Huh?  Oh, uh—heard him crying,” he said.  “And, you know—didn’t know where you were.”  He turned his eyes back to Jack.  “Thought something was wrong, I guess.  I dunno.  I was still half-asleep.  And that big guy probably knocked a few things loose in my head.”

It was a long-winded explanation.  Dean was likely just covering up the fact that he was concerned for their well-being.  Still, it made a warmth bloom in Castiel as he stepped forward.  “Well, I think we’re safe from Lucifer’s outlaws here, at the very least,” he said, hoping to ease Dean’s mind.

“Yeah,” Dean mused, not looking up.  “Right.”

Castiel picked up the satchel and gestured toward the hallway, indicating that Dean should go first.  They walked back to Charlie’s room, floorboards whining underfoot.  Sam and Charlie were still asleep.

When they closed the door behind them, Dean bent over to set Jack down on the blankets.  Jack made a soft sound of protest, and Castiel’s heart jumped thinking he’d start crying again.  Dean reacted by quickly picking him back up and holding him against his chest.  “Okay, then,” he muttered hopelessly.

Castiel was just relieved Jack was quiet again.

Dean settled on his back, the baby laying stomach-down on his chest, Jack’s cheek smooshed against the front of his shirt.  “Guess I’ll try not to roll over.  We’ll have a baby-pancake on our hands,” Dean joked as Castiel sat down next to him and fixed the blankets.

Castiel considered him.  He said, “I may have a solution.”  He went down on his side, facing Dean, and pressed himself into Dean’s ribs.  The wall was on Dean’s other side, preventing him from turning over in the other direction in sleep.  Castiel draped his arm across Dean’s torso, bending it upward to rest his hand atop Dean’s on the baby’s back.  He told himself all of this was for Jack’s safety.

He heard Dean swallow before settling in.  Dean shifted, pulling his arm out from between them and fitting it beneath Castiel.  He wrapped it around his shoulders, bringing their bodies closer together.  It couldn’t have been very comfortable.  Neither of them mentioned it.

Castiel tucked his forehead into Dean’s shoulder and listened as Dean’s breaths evened out.

And he’d been wrong before.

This was the most content he’d ever be.

Chapter Text

Leaving Charlie that morning had been tough.  She made him promise to write to her once he returned safely to Lawrence, and she told him she loved him; then she hugged Sam and Cas goodbye.  Cas seemed more at ease with her, which caused a floating feeling in the soles of Dean’s feet.  He flew even higher when, while departing, Charlie pointed to Cas behind his back and mouthed, I like him, before gesturing the OK signal.  He hid his flush with a scowl.

Dean hoped it wouldn’t be another thirteen years before he saw her again.

They made it to Wichita a little before sunset that day and scoped out the downtown area.  There were a few saloons, dance halls, and gambling halls to choose from.  They boarded the horses in the cheapest corral they could find and used the rest of their disposable money on two hotel rooms.

Dean also scared up a nickel for a bath, because his muscles were still stiff and aching from the prizefight.  Besides, he probably smelled like shit.  He felt like he smelled like shit.

He left Cas and Sam to take care of Jack and waited for a hotel attendant to fill up the tub in the bathroom with water hot enough for steam to rise off it.

The temperature had made Dean hiss at first, but he eased into it bit by bit.  He took care of soaping up first with the bar set out on a dish on the floor.  He passed it over his chest and armpits and then dropped the bar beneath the surface to make the water suds up.

He stretched out in the porcelain tub, extending his limbs until his muscles throbbed pleasantly.  It did wonders.  He took in a breath and slipped under the surface, listening to the water rush against his ears, rendering the word silent.  Calm.  He stayed under as long as he could.

When he broke the surface, he let out the air that had been trapped in his lungs.  He shook out his hair, letting the droplets fall down into the water.  Easing back against the rim of the tub, he closed his eyes and let the water seep into his skin.  He thought he could probably fall asleep there.

And then there was a knock at the door.  A muffled voice from outside called, “Dean?”

Dean lifted his head slightly, winking one eye open.  “Yeah, c’mon in, Cas,” he said, tipping his head back.

The door creaked open and then closed again, followed by the sound of Cas’ footsteps.  Dean could feel Cas’ eyes on the column of his throat.  He could picture the way Cas was looking at him, which was never as good as seeing the real thing, but opening his eyes would only make Cas glance away.

“I wanted to check on your stitches,” Cas said when he was standing over the bath.  Dean blinked up at him, seeing him come into focus with the orange glow of the candlelight lighting him up from behind.

“They feel fine,” he said, because he didn’t need to be babied.  He probably hadn’t even needed the stitches.  He only relented to make Cas shut up.

Cas sighed wearily and knelt down.  “Dean,” he said impatiently.

Dean pouted but again relented.  He lifted his arms off the tub and splashed them into the water, giving Cas the go-ahead.

Cas reached around with one hand to cradle the back of Dean’s head, and maybe this wasn’t so bad, after all.

“Where’s the kid?” Dean asked, because he couldn’t help but notice Cas wasn’t clinging to Jack like normal.

“Sam insisted on taking him for the night.  I think he felt guilty about not waking up in Arkansas City,” Cas said.  Dean hummed.  Fair was fair.

“Now stop talking.”  Cas lifted Dean’s face and turned it so he could inspect his eye.  Dean watched Cas’ gaze flittering across the wounds, his jaw set and lips pressed together as he worked.  The blue of his irises was lost to the glowing orange darkness, but Dean thought he could see hints of the color in the shadows.

It was like the night sky—never fully black.  Full of a universe of color.

“They should come out in a day or two,” Cas told him.  It took a second for Dean to remember he was talking about the stitches.

“Right,” he said, trying to hide the bashfulness his last thoughts brought on.  “Thanks, Doc.”

Cas slowly lifted his other hand, touching the tips of his slender fingers to the bruise under Dean’s eye.  It was feather-light, just a tickle, but it made Dean’s breath stutter.  He knew the bruise had yellowed around the edges.  It wasn’t as dangerous-looking as it was when it was black and blue.  Now, it was just ugly.

But Cas wasn’t looking at it like it was.

Withdrawing his hands carefully, Cas got back to his feet.  “How’s the bath?”

Dean relaxed back into the water.  “Feels good to soak the old bones,” he joked.  Then, he regarded Cas—the dirt on his face, his matted hair.  He looked rugged, which was a nice change, but Dean missed the clean, starched-shirt, slightly-rumpled version of him.  He said, “You could join me, you know?  Might do you good.  I could smell you from the doorway.”

Cas huffed.

Dean shrugged.  “Just sayin’.  Take it or leave it.”

Take it, Dean hoped.

For another long second, Cas just stared at him, his jaw working in consideration.  Dean closed his eyes again and tilted his head back, hoping it was enticing.  It’d been over a week since they were well and truly alone.  Was it so much for a man to ask for some time?  Preferably spent naked?

He tried not to smile when he heard Cas undressing.  When Cas stepped one foot into the tub, Dean cracked open his eye to appreciate Cas’ thighs.

“That’s scalding,” Cas complained, but he seemed to get used to it quickly enough because he swung his other leg in.  “And I can see you looking.”

“Can you blame me?” Dean teased.

Cas lowered himself to the opposite end of the tub, kicking Dean’s feet out of the way in the process.  Dean playfully kicked back, the water splashing around them.  Some sloshed out of the tub and splattered on the floor.

The water and suds rippled and waved as they situated themselves.  One of Dean’s knees emerged from the bubbles.

Cas bent his neck and splashed some water into his hair.  He rubbed behind his ears and his shoulders.  He cupped some into his hands and dragged it down his face.  Dean kept watching him, pretending he wasn’t.

When Cas sat back again, he sighed contentedly.

“Told ya it felt nice,” Dean said.

Allowing himself to look fully, Dean saw Cas was regarding him with an arched brow.  It made him feel like he was about to be scolded—or he was about to get very lucky.  Or both, preferably.

“What?”

“I have no idea how you live like this,” Cas said.  “It’s very dirty.”

Dean snorted.  He really did miss having a stagecoach.  It was still dusty on the trail, but at the very least, it provided them with somewhere dry to sleep when it rained.  Life was a bit easier that way.  “So, that’s a no on the traveling physician idea?”

“It’s a no,” Cas confirmed evenly.

Dean didn’t let on the spike of disappointment souring his chest, because there was a hint of truth in every joke.  “Too bad.  I was starting to get used to having you around.”

“Is that right?”

“Hell, yeah.”  He shot Cas a grin.  “I think I’ve taken a shine to you.”

Cas ducked his head down and to the side, obviously trying to hide the private flicker of a smile tugging his lips.  The sour feeling transformed into something airy.  Dean wanted to keep riding on its pleasant heat waves.

The water sloshed again when he shifted, and Cas looked up quickly.  Dean bent his legs awkwardly so he could turn around, his back to Cas.  He heard Cas sit a little straighter and move his legs so Dean could fit between them.

“Can you get my back?” Dean asked.

Cas didn’t answer.  After a second, he felt the press of Cas’ fingers on his spine.  Cas splashed some water and suds onto him and dragged his palms along Dean’s shoulder blades above the water.  His movements were slow as he swiped his thumb on the freckled skin.

Dean felt Cas’ lips on the ridge of his shoulder.  He let his eyes fall closed and swallowed down the dryness in his throat.  He focused on the sensation of Cas’ lips across the line of his shoulders.  When he got to the end, Cas hummed and rested his forehead there.  His arms wrapped around Dean’s middle, pulling him closer.  Dean eased back into it, lowering himself against Cas’ chest.  Cas hooked his chin over his shoulder.

Dean was now one hundred percent certain he could fall asleep there, despite the butterflies in his gut.  He closed his eyes, nothing but the flickering light of the candles a vague notion behind his lids.

“It is nice,” Cas whispered.  “I’m surprised you didn’t bring your book in here so you’d have an excuse to stay longer.”

Dean wished he were able to.  “Nah,” he said, trying not to make a big fuss about it.  “It burned up with the stage.”

“Oh,” Cas said after a moment.

“Yeah.”  Dean snuggled in closer to Cas’ chest.  “Guess I’ll never find out if Jim Peterson’s girl was really dead or not.”

“What do you think happened?”

Dean guessed it really didn’t matter what he imagined.  Unless he found another copy of the novel, he’d never know for sure.  But, he supposed, “I dunno, Cas.  Guess I wanted her to be alive.  So they could . . .” It felt a little silly to say aloud.  “Find their way back to each other.”

He felt Cas tilt his head a little, pressing their temples together.  Cas said flatly, “That’s very tender of you.”

“All right, fuck you,” Dean laughed, doing his best to brush it off.

Cas’ chest rumbled at Dean’s back.  When he stopped laughing, he said, “I mean it, Dean.  If that isn’t the ending—I like yours better.”

Dean thought on that.  “Yeah, me, too.”

They sat there for a little while, the water in the tub cooling around them, Cas’ stomach rising and falling with breaths at Dean’s back.

Dean turned his head toward Cas, meeting him in a kiss.  It was slow and languid, just a simple push and pull.  Cas’ tongue pressed against his.  Dean dipped his tongue further into Cas’ mouth, deepening the kiss.  His hand came up to cradle Cas’ jaw and keep him in place at the strange angle.

He realized soft groans were coming out of him, right on the tails of the noises Cas was giving off from deep within his throat.  Heat was swimming in Dean’s groin and teasing his inner thighs.

One of Cas’ palms moved up to Dean’s chest, the other submerged under the water, sliding down to his dick.

Dean groaned when Cas’ fingers wrapped around him.  He broke the kiss and dipped his head back against Cas’ shoulder.  Cas kissed his throat.  Dean didn’t know whether he should concentrate on that or Cas jerking him.  The temperature of the water started to feel boiling.

“Fuck,” he hissed out, his eyes skewing closed again for a whole new reason.

Cas nibbled at the shell of Dean’s ear.  He said, “We’re alone tonight.”  His hand stilled, and Dean gasped out petulantly.  And then Cas said, “Let’s take our time.”  It was nearly enough for Dean to come on the spot.

He tried not to be too modest when they got out of the bath, where the suds were no longer able to hide his half-mast erection.  It was a feat, especially when Cas eyed him smugly.  “Shut up,” Dean muttered at his pruning toes, wondering how the hell he was expected to walk down the hallway to their room like that.

He pulled on his jeans, which were still stiff and gritty with trail dust.  It felt absolutely disgusting, and he wished he could leave his clothes outside for the hotel to launder, but there was no way they’d be dry by morning.  Sucking it up, he pulled on his shirt, leaving it untucked and only bothering to button it partway.  He picked up his shoes and hat, holding them in front of his pants in the hope that it would cover his bulge.

Cas was shrugging into his shirt, letting his suspenders hang at his hips.  His back was still wet, dampening the dirty, off-white fabric of his shirt in patches and making it transparent as it stuck to his skin.  He folded his blazer over his arm and collected his shoes before turning to Dean.

Dean gestured his palm toward the door, a twirling, fizzy feeling frothing over in his chest.  “Shall we?”

He followed Cas out, both of them looking up and down the hallway to make sure the coast was clear.  It wasn’t.  A man and woman in fine dinner-wear were walking toward them and spotted them instantly.  Dean choked back a laugh as the man raised his brows, scandalized.

Cas stepped out of the bathroom and started toward their room, keeping his head down.  Dean followed after him, holding his hat closer against his crotch.  The woman must have seen his awkward gait, though.  He likely wasn’t fooling anyone.  As they passed each other, Dean offered a casual, “Evening.”

The man let out a sound that sounded like a harrumph; the woman stifled a laugh behind her hand while her eyes pointedly flickered to Cas before returning to Dean with an air that seemed to suggest a congratulations was in order.

The couple was almost instantly forgotten, however, when Dean and Cas reached their room.  Dean chained the door and hastily dropped his hat and boots on the floor next to Cas’.  Cas went to the nightstand and lit the lantern atop it, providing a bit of shadowy glow to meet the patches of moonlight slipping through the windows.

Dean met him there, putting his hands on Cas’ hips and spinning him around to face him.  There was that rare, sideways grin on Cas’ face, lining his cheeks and making his eyes sparkle.  He put his hands on Dean’s jaw and kissed him, the press of his smile adding a frothy kind of taste to the kiss.

Between them, Dean unbuttoned his shirt a lot more quickly than he’d gotten into it.  The shirttails snapped as he struggled blindly out of his sleeves so the garment could fall to the floor.  And then he worked on getting Cas’ shirt off, even though Cas wasn’t helping at all.  His mouth had moved down to Dean’s throat, sucking on a patch of tender skin beneath his jaw.  It made Dean’s knees shake with the need to sit down.

When he finally got Cas’ shirt off, he grabbed him by the wrists and tugged him toward the bed.  It was a single, barely big enough for one of them, never mind both.  That was about to make sex a little more complicated and sleeping either blissful or annoying.  But Dean would work with what he had.

He lowered Cas onto the bed and draped himself on top of him.  His fingers carded through Cas’ wet, clean hair, making it stick up at every angle while they kissed.  Cas’ hands roamed up and down his back, his fingers groping and stretching in certain areas.  Their ankles, tangling together, hung off the bed, toes brushing.

Dean aligned their hips, his mind narrowing in on the pulsing need to press down into Cas.  Cas let out a sharp breath, followed quickly by a hum.  He rolled his body upward to meet Dean in the next shallow thrust.  When Dean broke the kiss, he gently pulled Cas’ bottom lip with his teeth before releasing him.

He tried to drink in the air, but it felt like smoke and fire down his throat.  They rutted into each other, building up a rhythm.  Dean’s arms started to burn where he was holding himself up—but Cas had latched his hand to Dean’s ass, pulling him in closer.  His other hand clapped against Dean’s chest, landing on the pendants around Dean’s neck and pressing them mindlessly into his skin.

The wood of the bed frame creaked beneath them.  The headboard thumped against the wall.

The stiff fabric of Dean’s jeans scratched against his dick, and it was almost as bothersome as the notion of having any layers between them.  “Cas—,” he grunted out, the single syllable taking all the air from his lungs.  He tried to slow his body, reminding himself it was necessary.  “Naked.”

“Naked,” Cas agreed, his voice raw and deep.  His brow was pinched like he was trying to remember what the word actually meant.  He must have figured it out because he gave off a low growl and tipped Dean over to the side.  It almost made Dean fall off the bed entirely.  He scrambled to stay on by grabbing the sheets and Cas’ ribs.

Cas rolled into him, kissing him possessively as he tugged on the buttons of Dean’s fly.  Dean lifted himself off the bed to pull his jeans down to his thighs.  Even there, it was a welcomed relief.  Better still when Cas cupped his palm to Dean’s dick and rubbed up and down.

Dean fought the rippling pleasure in his muscles to unbutton Cas’ pants with shaking fingers.  He pulled Cas’ dick out, Cas letting out a choppy moan when he did.  Dean circled the head with his thumb.  “Dean,” he whispered, and it made Dean realize he was staring at Cas’ parted lips.

He helped Cas pull down his trousers until Cas was able to kick them off the rest of the way.  They were kissing again, tongues moving together when Cas manhandled Dean to slide in closer to the center of the mattress.  He pressed his hand into Dean’s shoulder to get him to lie flat.  Dean went easily, Cas rolling on top of him.

Cas broke away to kiss down his neck and shoulders, and Dean thought he was coming back until Cas moved lower to his chest.  It made knocking their hips together impossible.  “No, don’t go, don’t go,” Dean whined, trying to pull him back up.

Cas chuckled deeply, glancing up before setting back in on Dean’s chest.  He swirled his tongue around and flattened it to lick a stripe down the center, and it felt so good that Dean couldn’t argue.  He put his head against the pillow and panted hard up at the ceiling.  The grain pattern in the wood, vaguely resembling a pair of eyes, stared back.

Dean forgot all about their audience when Cas laid a trail of open-mouthed kisses to his stomach and along his hips.  He tried to part his legs, hoping to direct him a little faster to where Cas was already headed, but his jeans were still constricting his thighs.

As Cas moved lower, he took the jeans with him, and Dean arched up to help him slide them off.  Cas put his feet on the floor at the end of the bed, leaning over.  Without much warning, he grabbed Dean’s hips and pulled him down the bed, making the pillow and sheets slide after him.  Dean let out a surprised whooping sound that he wasn’t much proud of as his stomach bottomed out.

Cas laughed again, now that Dean’s knees were hanging off the bottom of the bed and he was standing between them.  Dean lifted his head up to look at him, taking in the flush on his chest and thighs, his bruised lips, and erratic hair.  His gaze landed on Cas’ dick, and Dean bit his bottom lip, wondering if they had any petroleum jelly.  Probably not.

Dean picked himself up by the elbows and sat up fully.  He drummed his fingers against Cas’ sides before pulling him in.  Cas stumbled slightly when his knees hit the bottom of the bed.  His hands smoothed out Dean’s hair as he smiled down at him.  Dean gazed back up, a little bit breathless, his chest ballooning from the inside.

Cas bent over and kissed him soundly before dropping to his knees.  Dean sucked in a shuddering breath, preparing himself.

Cas put his hands on Dean’s thighs and parted them to suck and nip at the inside skin.  His cheeks brushed against Dean’s dick, the rough stubble on them making Dean jump.  Dean watched him, his fingers tangled in Cas’ hair.

His vision blacked out momentarily when Cas mouthed at the side of his dick.  He keened out a long, low sound.  Cas wrapped his fist over the base of Dean’s cock and put his lips on the tip.  Dean closed his eyes tight, brow lining as he concentrated.

He felt Cas push up his length, his mouth hot and lips tight.  Dean fell back against the bed with a thud.  He threw his arm over his face, burying his eyes into the crook of his elbow.  He lost track of what Cas was doing.  All he knew was that it felt incredible.  There were small bursts of sanity, where he was able to latch on to the way Cas used his tongue or when he hit the back of Cas’ throat.  He was aware of Cas pulling off momentarily to catch his breath—to breathe hot air on Dean’s dick as he rubbed his balls.

Dean fisted his hands tight and clawed against the sheets, letting his muscles constrict and his toes curl.  Cas draped one of Dean’s legs over his shoulder and groped his ass.  His fingers moved down, two of them pressing into his perineum.  Dean’s body arched off the bed in a shock of pleasure.  He was pretty sure everyone on their floor heard him scream a heartfelt, “Fuck!  Again!  Do it again!”

Cas did it again, and it made Dean come.  His body wracked with it, and Cas pulled off, letting him come on his chest and neck.

When it was over, Dean opened his eyes and blinked swiftly, even though he wasn’t really seeing anything.  He put his mouth into an O-shape and breathed through it, the air whistling.  His lungs burned and his lips were dry.

Cas really did know how to take him apart when he wanted to.

He laughed drunkenly when Cas got off the floor and joined him on the bed, lying right on top of him.  The impact punched an oomph out of Dean, and his arms went up to wrap around Cas’ back.

Cas’ grin was big and gummy, his cheeks flushed red and eyes blown out.  His lips were glistening.  His skin was a sticky mess from both sweat and come, and Dean thought they might need another bath.

With another long breath, Dean said, “God, I love knocking boots with a man who knows his anatomy.”

Cas shook his head.  He raised a brow down at Dean and offered, “I could teach you sometime.”

Dean gaped, mock offended.  “What, you saying I’m bad at reciprocation?”

“No,” Cas said.  He hummed and pecked Dean’s lips.  His eyes were dark as he looked at Dean.  “Why do you think I’m still sleeping with you?”

It was a joke, even if it was presented like it wasn’t one.  But Dean still felt a little twinge break through the sated bliss.  He dragged his fingertips up and down Cas’ spine, watching him shiver.

The words were stuck in his throat.  He tried to clear them away.  “So, you wouldn’t be fucking me if I wasn’t any good?” he asked, trying to make it as light as possible.  It fell flat.  He didn’t know how to take the words back.

There was a pause, and Dean didn’t want to meet Cas’ eyes, afraid of what he might find there.  There was a sorrowful shift in Cas’ tone when he said, “Dean.”  He put his finger under Dean’s chin and tilted his face up, forcing him to look at him.  Dean searched his face openly.  Cas’ stare was as penetrating as ever, eyes sad.

Cas kissed him again—like he really meant it, like it was an answer.

Dean loved him.

He thought he might have loved him for a long time.  He'd only just gotten so used to the feeling, he'd forgotten what it was like to be without it. Only now, he was remembering that it was there.

“I think there could be,” he said—only in the barest of whispers.  His throat closed up, trying to stop him—begging him not to ruin what they had.  But he wanted more.  He didn’t want Cas sitting at home thinking Dean was fucking someone else on his route.  He didn’t want Cas to pick up one day and leave.

Cas’ eyes squinted, his head titled only slightly.

Dean’s throat worked.  His eyes dropped.  He finished, “A you and me.”

After some time, Dean’s heart went from slamming against his ribs to stuttering to a halt.  Cas sighed.  Dean didn’t know if it was a good sigh or a bad sigh until Cas said softly, “I’d like that.”

Dean didn’t know if he’d ever felt such happiness come on so quickly.  His gaze snapped back up.  He found a smile in Cas’ eyes.  Dean’s face stretched into a wide grin.  He didn’t know what else to say.  He ended up with, “Well, all right, then.”

Cas nodded, a shy kind of exhilaration on his face.  “All right,” he repeated.

The urge to find humor in his previous fears caused Dean to joke, “So, what do I call you then?  My husband?”

He liked the ring to that.

Cas rolled his eyes.  “Why don’t we decide later?  It’s my turn now.”

Dean chuckled as he slowly rolled them over to lay Cas on the bed.  He crawled down Cas’ body, saying in a teasing, put-upon way, “Yeah, yeah.  Guess I’ll have to perform my husbandly duties.”

He saw Cas rumble happily, even if Cas tried to hide it.  And he soon turned Cas’ laughter into moans.

The following night, Castiel found himself in his hotel room looking idly down at the people milling to and fro on the street below.  It was close to midnight, and the nightlife was in full swing now.  Three hours ago, the Winchesters had made their way to the gambling hall a few streets over.  They’d agreed such a place probably wasn’t appropriate for an infant, so Castiel stayed behind with Jack.

Either Sam or Dean was supposed to relieve him any time now.

It was decided they’d take turns, two of them at the gambling hall at a time while the other watched Jack at the hotel.  But now, Castiel was wondering if the brothers would ever return.

He’d tried busying himself by reading the book on childcare he’d found in one of the shops earlier that day.  When that got old, he reorganized the medical satchel.  It was almost a blessing when Jack started crying, because at least it had given him something to do.  But now Jack was bundled up, asleep on the bed.

Castiel wondered if he should take another crack at reading—even though Dean had called the book a waste of money.

There was a knock at the door across the room.  Castiel looked over, unfolding his arms from across his chest.

“Cas?  It’s me,” Sam’s muffled voice came from the hallway.

“Finally,” Castiel said under his breath.  He picked himself off the wall next to the window and crossed to open the door.

Sam gave him a quick smile as he walked into the room, palming his hat off at the same time.

“Well?” Castiel asked, turning around to follow Sam.  He pushed the door closed.  “How’d it go?”

Sam lifted his shoulders and pulled down the corners of his mouth.  “Pretty good.  Played a little bit of chuck-a-luck—mostly faro.”

Castiel plucked his duster off the coat rack and shrugged into it.  “Did you win any money?” he asked, fixing his collar.

Grinning, Sam shoved his hand into his jacket pocket and took out a clip of money.  “Eight hundred.”

Castiel blanched.  “You’re joking,” he intoned.  Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised.  He’d seen Sam win big before.  “At faro?”

Sam only shrugged again.

“You may be the luckiest man I’ve ever met.”  He paced back to the bed to peer down at Jack, still sleeping peacefully.

Sam snorted.  “Says the guy about to get lucky with dice.”

Frowning, Castiel adjusted the blankets around the baby.  It was strange: he’d been bored all night, and now he was hesitant to leave Jack.  But he was in good hands.  Sam was more capable than information imparted by a book.

Perhaps it had been a waste of money.

“It’s all probability,” he answered Sam distractedly.

Sam said, “Okay.  So’s faro.”

Castiel’s nose wrinkled in baffled disagreement.  He squinted sidelong at Sam.  He wouldn’t necessarily call two card decks and chance probability.  He’d call it a level of advanced mathematics that a man from a backwater cow town had no business understanding.  Sam Winchester was made for the likes of New York.

Still, he let it go, because he knew Dean would rather have Sam in Lawrence.

Speaking of which: “How’s Dean doing?”

“Pretty good, I think,” Sam told him.  “When I left, he was still in the middle of a poker game.  You’ll probably find him there.”

Castiel nodded.  He took his eyes off of Jack, willing himself away.  “All right,” he sighed.  “Jack woke up under an hour ago.  You shouldn’t have an issue.”

“Thanks.”  Sam looked this way and that until his eyes fell on the baby sling hanging off the top of the armchair.  He made for it.  “Think I might take him for some fresh air.  I’m still kinda jittery from the game.”

Castiel understood the desire to not be pent up.  He nodded, then pulled the door open.

“Good luck,” Sam called after him.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, hey, Cas?”

One foot in the hallway, Castiel looked around.

Sam was fitting the sling over his head.  “Tell Dean to quit while he’s ahead, okay?”

Castiel rolled his eyes, forlorn.  If living with Dean all these years had taught him one thing, it was that Dean didn’t even know how to quit while he was behind.

“I’ll pray for a miracle,” he told Sam.

Sam snorted out a laugh.  Castiel closed the door behind him.

The gambling hall was a ten-minute walk from the hotel.  It was a room a little larger than a saloon, with games tables set up around a circular bar in its center.  A cacophony of clinking glasses, chatter, whoops of the winners, and piano music permeated the smoke-filled air.  Men crowded around the tables, brandishing gambling chips and money, while women hung off their arms.

An attendant at the door pointed Castiel toward the bar to check his gun, and Castiel didn’t mention the scalpel tucked into his boot.

“A whiskey for the gentleman?” the barkeeper asked as he placed Castiel’s Derringer beneath the bar for safekeeping.  “And some chips?”

“A whiskey.  Thank you,” Castiel told him, placing a nickel down on the wood.  The barkeeper went to pour his drink, and Castiel glanced around for Dean.  He didn’t even see any poker tables.  When his drink was set in front of him, he squinted back at the man.  “I’m looking for the poker games.”

The barkeeper grinned.  “You’ll need chips for that.”

He refrained from saying he didn’t have enough money for them yet.  “I’m looking for a player.”

The barkeeper waved toward the far end of the hall.  “Backroom,” he dismissed.  “Through the curtains.”

Castiel tipped the brim of his hat in thanks and walked in the indicated direction.  A swell of cheers went up around the hazard table as a man won, and Castiel sighed longingly in that direction.  He kept himself from joining the excitement for now, mostly because he doubted they’d allow him to stake only the dime in his pocket.

When he pulled aside the red curtains of the backroom, his senses were immediately arrested with mingling scents of cigar smoke and opium.  He blinked against it as he stepped inside.  Three tables were set up, all of them with at least four men around them.  Women with serving trays littered with empty glasses and burned out cigars were tending the men.

He spotted Dean toward the back corner, at a table with a pile of poker chips, gold chains, pocket watches, and one diamond stickpin in the center of the green felt.  If the size of the pot was any indication, they’d been at the game for hours.  Dean’s hat was off, hanging on the back of his chair by its stampede string.  The last dreg of a whiskey was in a glass at his elbow.

Castiel got closer just in time to hear Dean goading the Mexican man across from him.  “Listen, Edgar, we’re all friends here.  I’m trying to help you out,” he chuckled.  “You raise, you ain’t gonna like the outcome—Hey, Cas!  Look who it is.  I was just tellin’ the fellas about you.”

Perfect.  He was drunk.

Castiel shot him a despairing look.  Dean met his gaze—with his own very alert, sharp, not at all swimming or bloodshot eyes.  He winked.

Not giving him away, Castiel stiffly turned to the others at the table and offered them a tight, fleeting smile in greeting.  Besides Edgar, there were three other men, one with a woman practically sitting in his lap.  Castiel found an empty chair at the nearby table and pulled it up behind Dean.

“We’ll see who doesn’t like the outcome, Winchester,” Edgar said.  He picked up two more chips and added them to the pot.  Castiel glanced at Dean’s cards, and he hoped to God Dean knew what he was doing.

“What are you doing?” he whispered into Dean’s ear.  Dean smelled like sweet tobacco, which made Castiel realize he was chewing.  Castiel really hated when Dean did that.  It made his breath foul and rotted his teeth.

Dean spit to the other side before leaning back in.  “I’m up a grand.  Relax,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth.

Castiel rolled his eyes.  He reached into the inside breast pocket of Dean’s leather coat and pulled out his tobacco tin and rolling papers.  Dean paid him no mind as the game proceeded.  The man to their right folded.

“You’d be smart to follow his example,” Edgar said, voice calm and even.

Dean clicked his tongue, regarding his cards.  “You know, I would.  But the missus doesn’t like it when I come home a loser.  Between you and me, she’s a little uppish.”

Castiel only allowed a flicker of a smile.  A thrill of excitement rolled through him, carrying with it the memory of Dean’s words from last night: my husband.

He rolled the paper and brought it to his mouth to moisten it.

“A miracle you go home at all, then,” Edgar responded.

Dean let out a very convincing fake inebriated laugh.  Castiel took out his matches and struck one, touching the tip to the end of the cigarette held between his lips.  Dean tossed another three chips onto the pile.  Without looking, he plucked the cigarette from Castiel’s waiting fingers and took a drag.

The two men to Dean’s left folded, leaving only Edgar and Dean.  Edgar looked down at his cards, expression neutral as his eyes swept back to his opponent.  Dean said nothing.  He did nothing except take another pull of his cigarette, the thin paper curling and graying around the embers of the tip.

Castiel sat back boredly, keeping his fingers still on his glass of whiskey.  After a moment, Dean lifted that from his hand and sipped it.  Castiel gave him a wearisome stare that was met with a wily smirk before Dean turned back to the table.

Edgar’s confidence seemed to be wavering off Dean’s ease.  Castiel slumped lower in his chair, glancing off like he couldn’t care less how this game ended.

Edgar let out a loud breath and tossed his cards down.  “I fold.”

Dean’s face lit up from within.  “Heh-heh, you sorry son of a bitch,” he said, putting his cards down upright.  He didn’t even have a full.

Edgar eyed the cards, seething while Dean pushed the pot toward himself on the table.  “I vum!  You cheating—,” he gritted through his teeth, dark eyes fixing on Dean.  Castiel didn’t like that glower.  Edgar seemed willing to take it a step further than words.  Castiel sat up a little straighter.

Edgar jumped up, shouting, “Vete a tomar por el culo!” The pool chips on the table in front of him rattled upon impact, and everyone in the room glanced over at the scene.

Castiel’s eyes narrowed.  He counted to five, attempting to calm himself.  He had no idea what Edgar had just said, but he assumed it was some kind of threat.

Dean kept wearing his impish smile, raising a palm to placate the man.  “Bluffing ain’t cheating, Edgar.  It’s poker.”

“No,” the man thundered.  “You’ve been cheating all night!  Is that what you do?  Is that how you got that black eye?”  He pointed to his own eye.  “The last man you tried to steal from gave it to you?  The sheriff will know of this!”

At last, Dean’s grin waned.  He cleared his throat, quickly throwing a glance to Castiel before standing up.  Castiel’s fists tensed on his lap.  He knew Dean could handle this.  Even if Dean couldn’t talk the man down, he was up to snuff in a fight.  But Dean was still bruised from his last fight.  He couldn’t afford more injuries.  He wasn’t only fighting for himself these days.  He was fighting for all of them.  He was fighting for Jack.

And the last thing Castiel would ever allow was for someone to take Dean away from them.

“Now, why don’t we all calm down?” Dean tried, speaking slowly.  His tongue darted out to wet his lips.  “Edgar, I wasn’t cheating, all right?  You really think I’d have a hand that bad if I wasn’t playing honest?  Come on—maybe sit the next game out, huh?  Get your upper floor in order.”  He tapped his temple and then shrugged.

Simply by the way Edgar’s jaw clamped, Castiel knew Dean had failed.  The man shot forward, his fists clutching the collar of Dean’s coat and dragging him in.  Dean let out a noise, stumbling forward into the table.  The wood clamored, and Castiel’s whiskey spilled over.  The woman at their table shouted out.  Edgar was yelling in Spanish.

Castiel was on his feet as if it were a reflex—uncontrolled, unthought of, as automatic as a heartbeat.  His scalpel was in his fist and pressed against Edgar’s throat.

Edgar went still suddenly at the touch of the cold silver.

“Let him go.  I won’t ask again,” Castiel told him plainly.

Edgar didn’t move.  He seemed too stunned to.  Castiel ground his teeth.  He realized the rest of the room had fallen quiet.

It took a moment for Dean to speak.  When he did, his voice was just as calm as before, but there was something beneath it.  Castiel didn’t know what to call it.  “Okay, everybody take it easy.  Cas, put the knife down—Cas!”

Castiel glared hard at Edgar, deciding whether or not to listen.  He pulled away.  Edgar let out a tense breath and, for some reason, so did Dean.

“Great,” Dean said.  “Take a break, Edgar.  No hard feelings.”

Quickly, Edgar let go of him and leaned back.  Dean’s body jerked a little before he caught himself and stood up straighter.  He pulled at the bottom of his vest to right it.  Edgar turned and stomped out of the room, beating back the curtain as he went.  The other tables went back to their games.

“All right,” Dean said, voice again cheery and a smile firmly on his face as he sat down.  “Why don’t we get another round of whiskey—on me.”

The other men at the table seemed to find that agreeable.  One began collecting and reshuffling the cards.

Dean looked up, and it was at the moment Castiel realized he was still on his feet.  His knife was still clutched in his hand, his pointer finger pressing into the blunt side of the blade.  When he met Dean’s stare, he caught a flash of something—something not quite right, almost concerned.  But Dean swiftly blinked it away and raised his brows in exasperation, as if to say, that was a close one.

Castiel looked down, numbness curling in his belly.  He slipped his blade back into his boot and sat.

Sam wandered aimlessly.  He’d meant to only walk a few blocks and then turn back, but Jack seemed to enjoy meandering.  At first, his small hands reached up and grabbed weakly at the buttons of Sam’s shirt, and he made cooing noises that Sam decided to interpret as happy.  After a while, the steady motion lulled Jack back to sleep, and Sam didn’t want to risk waking him by putting him down.

Besides, it was kind of nice having Jack all to himself for a moment.  The baby was a heavy weight on Sam’s shoulders as he nestled in the sling, but it was a comfort.  Sam had always imagined having children of his own someday.  He didn’t know what kind of father he’d be—but he also hadn’t known it could feel like this.

He thought back to his own father, who was always off fighting some battle.  As a child, Sam never understood why.  Why was he never home?  Why did he risk his life in such a way?  Now, he thought, maybe, John did it so that his sons could be safe.

Sam peered down into the sling as Jack slept against his chest.  Soundly.  Safely.

He had to remind himself that Jack wasn’t his own.

“Oh my God, Sam?”

Sam looked up at the sound of his name.  He blinked back the pressure in his eyes and peered around the street, realizing he had no idea where he was in relation to the hotel.  He seemed to be downtown, if the number of saloons was any indication.  Upon getting his bearings, he noticed the gambling hall a few blocks down the street.

And then his eyes landed on the person calling him.  She was headed his way down the boardwalk, away from a group of whores in corsets and skirts.  She was similarly dressed, but a wide, stunning smile was on her face.

Ruby.

Sam opened his mouth, but all that came out was a surprised sound.  He found his voice when she was a few feet away.  “Ruby?”

“Yeah,” she said, stopping in front of him.  “I didn’t expect to find you here, Sam.”

He blinked again, but this time in astonishment—not only by her presence, but also by the fact that she remembered him.  He smiled back at her.  “I could say the same thing to you.”

Ruby kept his eyes for a moment, just grinning back, until her gaze dropped downward.  Her expression rearranged.  “Is that a baby?”

“Uh—.”  Sam looked down at Jack, still sleeping.  He readjusted his arm supporting the child to make him more comfortable.  “Yeah.  This is Jack.”

“Oh,” Ruby stammered.  “I didn’t know you were a father.”

Sam’s heart jumped.  She probably now assumed he was a married man.  “No!  Uh—no.  He—he’s not mine.”

“Oh,” Ruby said again, her brows pulling down, puzzled.  But then the lines of her face smoothed out as if something had just dawned on her.  “Wait, is that—?  Is that Kelly’s baby?”

It felt like someone had dropped snow down the back of his shirt.  Frigid tendrils trickled down his spine.  He didn’t know why—but his gut suddenly told him not to answer.  That it was more than just a strange coincidence running into Ruby here.  That she had no way of knowing who Jack’s mother was.

Ruby must have seen the apprehension on his face.  She smiled again, this time a little more awkwardly.  “It’s just—Well, you said the baby was being looked after by the town doctor.  And word around town is, your brother’s taken up with him.  So, I just—Well, I thought maybe . . . that was the baby?”

Sam shook his head, doubting himself.  Sometimes he forgot that everyone in Lawrence knew about Dean and Cas—everyone except for the two of them, really.  But, still: “Why were you asking around town?”

Ruby bit down on her lips.  She folded her arms behind her back and swayed a little.  “I was asking some of the other girls, actually,” she said, dipping her chin coyly.  “About you.”

The wariness in Sam’s gut instantly broke apart and turned into humming electricity.  He dropped his head with a breath of laughter and shuffled his feet.  “You, uh—you were?”

“Maybe,” she returned.

Sam could feel his pulse racing.  She’d been thinking about him, too.

He cleared his throat, trying to tame his embarrassment.  He glanced up, seeing her do the same through her eyelashes.  “But you—you left Lawrence,” he said, and it sounded like a question by the way his tone lifted at the end.  He hadn’t meant it to, even if it was.

She nodded.  “Yeah, well, Rowena’s place burned down.”  She shrugged.  “Wasn’t really any work there for me—or, really, anything for me there—so I moved on.”

“Right,” he said, a twinge of disappointment creeping in.  But, if she only left because she was out of work, maybe she’d be willing to return.

“To the big city,” she said dryly, rolling her eyes as she gestured to the people milling around the street.  “It was either here or Denver—but, I don’t know.  I guess Kansas is kinda growing on me.”

He was glad she’d decided to stay close.  “Why Denver?”

“I’m from Fort Pueblo,” she said, waving it away.  “It’s a small town—”

He opened his mouth, pointing at her as he recalled something.  “No, no, yeah.  The, uh—Fort Pueblo Massacre.  In ’54, right?”

Her brows popped, impressed.  “Yeah.  How—?”

He pulled his mouth down in a shrug.  “I’m a little bit of, uh—.”  He didn’t want to divulge just how much of his time he spent reading history books.  It could be, she’d prefer more impressive stories of his travels as a shotgun messenger.

She leaned in close, a teasing look on her face.  Her hair smelled like lavender.  “Bookish?”

He laughed.  She didn’t seem to hate the prospect.  “Yeah.”

A beat passed between them, and he wasn’t certain how to keep the conversation going, or if she even wanted to.  He glanced away, eyeing the saloon they were outside of.  Mustering his courage, he asked, “Hey, do you wanna get a drink?  I’ll pay.  You could tell me more about Fort Pueblo.”

He was nervous to find an answer on her face.  When he looked back, her mouth was open, like she was trying to find an excuse to say no.  “Oh.  I’m working,” she said.

“Oh.”  He tried not to feel too rejected—or embarrassed.  He took a step back.  “No, that’s—”

“But what the hell?” she added, throwing her arms up.

Sam stopped backpedaling.  He processed what she’d just said.

She’d said yes!

Another puff of air punched out of him, a smile on its heels.

An hour later, the poker game ended and Dean walked away with $1,450 in chips, plus a gold watch.  If only they could find a room more private, Castiel would have kissed him senseless.

Instead, they made their way back into the main room of the gambling hall and ordered two more whiskeys at the bar.  Dean ordered himself a Cuban cigar, too, because he was “celebrating.”  Castiel kept to the cigarette held between his fingers as he surveyed the games tables.

“So, what’re we thinking?” Dean asked, doing his own quick scan of the room.  He turned to lean his back against the bar, propping one elbow up casually while he brought his other hand up to puff the cigar.  He nodded his chin somewhere over Castiel’s shoulder.  “I saw roulette over there earlier.  Think there’s birdcage, too.”

Castiel wrinkled his nose at that.  “I saw hazard,” he countered, even though it wasn’t a debate.  Dean had his fun.  It was Castiel’s game now.

Dean scoffed out a laugh.  “I knew you’d pick that.”

After taking a sip of his drink, Castiel slouched over the bar and said, “You’re just worried I’ll win more than you.”

“Okay, you wish,” Dean maintained.  Castiel’s brows lifted.  “I mean, Cas—play to your strengths, but come on.  Fourteen hundred!”

“All right,” Castiel told him, because he was prideful and he was willing to bet his money on a side wager.  And even if he wasn’t all that usually, the smoke in his lungs and the whiskey in his head and his survival of the last week made him feel daring.  “I bet I could double your earnings.”

Dean turned his mouth down thoughtfully.  “Okay.  And, when you don’t, I get to keep your money.”

Castiel didn’t see a problem with that.  He straightened and held out his hand.  “Deal.”

Dean blinked like he hadn’t expected that.  “You’re sawing me.”

“No,” Castiel told him.  He reached for Dean’s hand dangling off the counter and gently took his fingers.  He brought Dean’s hand up to his mouth, watching as Dean’s smile dropped into something wonderstruck.  “You are my husband, so what’s yours is mine.”  He kissed Dean’s knuckles.

Dean puckered his lips and looked away, clearly fighting back a smile.  “That how that works, huh?”

“That’s how it works,” Castiel confirmed, letting Dean’s hand fall.

“All right, Romeo,” Dean agreed.  “You got yourself a deal.”

Castiel led him over to the hazard table, where a group of five gamblers and the setter were mid-game.  The two wooden dice were currently in the hands of a burly man with a sandy-colored beard and a black hat pulled down low over his eyes.  He cast the dice, rolling an eight.  He let out a whooping sound of victory, and a few of the other men around the table yelled happily.

The setter picked up two chips near his elbow and slid them closer to the pot on the side of the table.  “Taking bets for chance before main, with a main of five.  Stake your bets.”

A few of the men tossed in a couple of chips for their side bets.

Dean squeezed through, tossing down one of his chips.  “Fifty for chance,” he said.

He still had three chips in his hands, and he idly fiddled them back and forth between his fingers as he watched.  Castiel grabbed one and tossed it in.  “A hundred.”

“Betting closed,” the setter told the group then.

The caster threw again, rolling a nine.  Everyone remained quiet, watching with anticipation.  He rolled again, getting a pair of snake eyes.  Castiel pulled a face.  Perhaps he shouldn’t have bet on the man without seeing him play first.  Next to him, Dean hissed.

“All right, boys,” the caster said as he shook the dice in his fist.  His accent was drawl and deeply southern.  “This is the one.”

He tossed.  It was an eight.

Everyone at the table erupted with excitement.  Castiel let out a breath of laughter as Dean gleefully slapped his arm with the back of his hand.

The game proceeded, and eventually the southern man threw three losing rolls in a row.  The dice were passed to the man to his left, who eventually lost when he rolled a twelve.

Before long, the dice were in Castiel’s hands.  He rolled them in his fist, trying to get a good feel for the weight of them.  He staked a hundred dollars and chose seven as his main.  He always chose seven.  It gave him the highest probability of wins.

Shaking the dice, he was briefly distracted by Dean’s presence beside him.  Dean was leaning slightly into his side, his weight a sturdy comfort.  Castiel tossed the dice to the table and watched them roll.  They landed on a seven.

Dean grabbed his arm and jumped up animatedly, shouting something that Castiel couldn’t quite hear as the tension eased from his body.

He shook out before the dice were handed back to him.  He rolled an eleven, much to the delight of everyone at the table.  Especially Dean’s.  He clapped Castiel’s shoulder and leaned into his ear to say, “Two nicks in a row.  Keep that up and we’re about to have a repeat of last night.”

Castiel licked his lips at the promise.  He turned to meet Dean’s darkened eyes, but his gaze landed on Dean’s mouth.  Dean chewed on his bottom lip.

“Place your bets, gentlemen,” the setter said, breaking the spell.  “Main before chance, with a main of seven.”

“Two hundred,” the southern man said, placing two chips down.  He winked at Castiel across the table.  “Gonna make us all rich men tonight, brother.”

Dean tossed in a couple of chips, too.  “Make that two.”

Castiel squeezed the dice.  He stopped, looked at Dean, then relaxed his grip and brought his hand up.  Dean stared coquettishly back for a moment.  He kept eye contact while he leaned in and blew on the dice.

Both he and the southern man were ecstatic when Castiel rolled another eleven.

Sam lost track of time.

He and Ruby had talked for what felt like hours—or minutes.  She told him about growing up in Colorado, and about how her mother taught her how to read and bake bread; how her father would take her riding in the mountains every Saturday until he passed away.  She told him about working the gambling circuit from Dallas to Mexico City to Dodge.  And he told her about his life, his parents, and Dean, and the time they almost got robbed outside Omaha on a route.

He told her about growing up in Lawrence and lit up inside when she wistfully commented, “Sounds like a nice place to raise a family.”

After a while, the saloon was emptying out, which meant the men were moving on to the dance halls and whore houses.  He wondered if Dean and Cas had gotten back to the hotel yet.

However, he couldn’t seem to pull himself away.  Ruby was holding Jack, the baby looking much larger against her small frame.  She rocked him in her arms, smiling down at him.

“He’s a good baby,” she said, knocking Sam out of his reverie.

“Yeah, he is,” Sam told her.  “Sleeps through the night most of the time.”

“That’s good.”  She looked up at him and snorted sardonically.  “When I was in Fort Griffin, one of the girls in the house had an infant.  It would scream all night.  Every night.”

Sam made a cringing face just imagining it.  “Ouch.”

“Yeah.”  She shook her head.  “Because that’s all johns wanna hear when they’re with a girl.  A crying baby.”

He laughed down at the glass cradled in his hands and realized it was empty, which was probably for the best.

“It’s kind of you,” she said, regaining his attention.  “Looking after Kelly’s son like this, taking him to her parents.  Most people wouldn’t bother.”

Sam shrugged.  He never really thought of it as kind.  It was a responsibility, sure, but not one he necessarily minded.  They’d only had Jack for a week, and already he could hardly remember life before him.

It was even harder to consider life after him.

“Yeah, I guess,” he sighed.  For lack of words, he dumbly repeated, “He’s . . . he’s a good baby.”

Knowingly, she said, “You’re gonna miss him when he’s gone.”

Sam nodded sadly.  He sat up straighter, rallying himself.  She didn’t need to hear his sorrows—although, it seemed she was pretty good at reading him.  “But it’s fine.  He belongs with his family.”

Ruby nodded, a sympathetic expression on her face.  She didn’t seem to have anything to say to that, but what could anyone say?  She understood.  That was good enough for Sam.

He scrubbed his hands down his face, some of his tiredness creeping up on him.  “It’s getting late,” he said regretfully.  “I should get him to bed.”

He stood up as she nodded, seeming a bit sorry to depart herself.  “Right!  Yeah, it is.”  He walked around the small table and scooped Jack out of her arms.  Their shoulders brushed and her hair got a little stuck between Jack and Sam’s chest.  They both chuckled at that before pulling away.

He cradled Jack close, reluctant to ever let go.

Ruby stood up and flapped her arms against her sides.  “Well.  Back to work!”

Sam’s gut turned a little at the thought of other men paying for a night with her.  He knew he had no right to get jealous.  It was her livelihood, just the same as riding shotgun was his.  But he wished she didn’t have to work the night.

“Yeah,” he said.  “It was nice to see you.”

He’d rather her spend the night with him.

“You, too,” she said softly.  And then, “Hey, maybe come back to Waco sometime.  Look me up.”

“I will,” he promised, and dared to add, “Or maybe you could come back to Lawrence one of these days.”

She gave him a gentle, flattered look, and seemed to be considering it.  She said, “Maybe.  If there’s something for me there.”

That sounded promising.

She touched his forearm that was holding up Jack.  “See you around, Sam.”

She turned away.  He watched her head out of the saloon and into the small crowd on the street corner.

In the end, Castiel hadn’t matched Dean’s fourteen hundred.  He did earn them an extra seven hundred, however.  Combined with Sam’s faro winnings, they’d have enough to get to and from Texas and then some.

Castiel had no idea what time it was when Dean finally stepped out of the heat of the gambling hall and into the muggy yet breezy night.  A number of people were still on the street, so it couldn’t have been very late.

Still, Castiel was tired, and a little drunk.  Not very drunk—just enough to make him feel light.  Of course, that could have also been because of Dean.

His husband.

Side-by-side, they made their way down the boardwalk away from the gambling hall.  They remained comfortably silent for a few paces, and Dean was looking up at the wisps of clouds around the hazy half-moon.  It was the color of honey.

That reminded Castiel: “I think, when we return home, we’ll have enough money to build that beehive.”

Dean bubbled with laughter, his eyes lighting up.  It was the polar opposite of his normal reaction to whenever Castiel brought up beekeeping.  “Yeah?  How ‘bout we get home first, huh?  Before you start nagging me about it.”

Castiel pulled a fake frown.  “You did promise.”

“I promised we’d talk about it,” he told him wryly, even though Castiel knew he’d get his way eventually.  “Tell you what, though: you keep playing dice like that, maybe we can buy a whole new stage.”  It sparked a bit of pride in Castiel’s chest.  “That’d make Bobby less inclined to kill us for losing the first one . . . Maybe.”  The delight fell away when Dean added, “Plus, we’d get down to Texas and back in no time.”

He’d meant it to be light, judging by the way he smirked and knocked his shoulder against Castiel’s.  His eyes flitted to their corners to look at Castiel, and Castiel automatically pressed a tight smile to his lips, not wanting Dean to think he’d caused him sadness—especially after last night.

But the fact remained.

Castiel looked down at his boots as they continued to walk.  Their shoes clicked on the boardwalk, mixing with the sounds of drunken laughter, shouts, and chatter from the people around them and inside the saloons.  And there was the sound of Dean’s breathing.  Everything else faded away, leaving only Dean’s presence—the warmth buzzing like static in the inches between them, the occasional brushing of their shoulders or knuckles at their sides.

He thought of that night in Arkansas City—falling asleep with Dean and Jack, waking up slowly to the same thing.  Ever since then, he felt like he’d been chasing the feeling such moments made bloom inside his chest.  He’d recreated it in his mind time and time again until the remembered press of his cheek to Dean’s chest and the imagined weight of Dean’s arm on his shoulder were a thrumming sensation on his skin.

It hurt to think about.  It hurt more to know it may never happen again.  Time was running out, after all.  They'd make it to Texas eventually.  And then Jack would be gone, and Dean would act as though it never happened, apart from a recounting of a distantly forgotten “remember when” when the mood struck him.

Castiel wondered if, for the rest of his life, he’d mark Jack’s birthday; if he’d wonder if he were happy.

“Dean,” he heard himself say, voice so low it might have been drowned out by the clomping of a horse’s hooves as a rider passed by.  But Dean heard him.  He glanced over expectantly.

Castiel tried to swallow down his sorrow.  He felt as if he were already mourning for a loss that had not happened yet.  He wondered if Dean felt it, too.  He’d had his doubts—but, despite himself, Dean’s hardness melted whenever he managed to calm Jack down.  Dean was tender with the baby in a way he usually reserved only for Sam.  Perhaps he didn’t want to see Jack go, either.

Besides, things were different now—between Dean and himself.  For the first time, Castiel thought he could have everything he never knew he wanted before he’d met Dean.  Before Jack was born.

Resolving himself, he said, “I’ve been thinking.  Jack—he—.”  He met Dean’s eyes.  “He won’t remember us when he grows.”

Ever so slightly, Dean’s jaw firmed, a muscle jumping under the shift.  It was from some emotion.  Castiel didn’t know which just yet.  Dean shrugged, his voice still casual.  “Guess not.  He is a baby.”

Dean continued walking, his pace quickening as they came to the edge of the boardwalk.  He hustled down the steps to the dirt road and looked both ways before stepping out.  Castiel hastened after him to the other side of the street.

“I know,” he said, following Dean back onto the wooden planks.  “I just—.”  He let out a breath.  “I wish things could be different.  That we didn’t have to be strangers to him.  That we—”

He paused, his tongue darting out as they walked around a group of men smoking.  Dean went first, and Castiel walked after him before quickening his steps once more to be side-by-side with Dean once they were past.

Castiel’s heart was thumping loudly in his ears.  He chalked it up to the sudden speed he had to keep.  He overlooked the heat burning beneath his cheeks and the trepidation sitting like a boulder in his gut.

Once the men were far enough behind them not to overhear, Castiel dropped his shoulders wearily.  He mused, “That we could be together.  That we could be . . . happy.”

Dean stopped walking quite suddenly.  At first, Castiel hadn’t even realized it.  It took him a few paces to come to a halt.  If his pulse had been hammering before, it was frozen now.  Behind him, Dean was completely silent.  Castiel didn’t know what he’d said wrong.

Hesitantly, he turned around.  Deep down, he’d expected to find Dean glaring at him.  He didn’t expect to see this—the slack jaw, the despairing eyes, like he’d been cracked down the middle.  Castiel couldn’t tell if Dean seemed more surprised or hurt.

He tilted his head, not understanding.

Dean asked him, voice small, “You mean, you’re not happy?”

Castiel frowned, still confused.  He went over his own words, wondering how Dean could construe them in such a way—as if he were somehow to blame.

He shook his head.  “What?  Dean.”  He took a step closer.  Dean didn’t exactly step back, but he leaned away.  His shoulders pulled up, and the lost expression on his face shuttered.

Castiel felt himself start to panic.  There was a sharp feeling in his chest.  He shouldn’t have said anything.  Maybe Dean didn’t feel the same way he did about wanting to keep Jack in their lives.  Maybe Dean didn’t feel the same way about him.  There was nothing Castiel could do about the latter—but about Jack . . .

If Dean just listened—

“That’s not what I meant,” he tried.

“Then what did you mean?” Dean asked, tone guarded.  Castiel could practically see the rage welling inside of him.  As always, it sparked his own temper.  Why wouldn’t Dean just listen to him?

“I’m talking about Jack,” he stressed, trying to get back on course.  “About our future with him.”

Dean jerked his head back, brow lining.  “What future, Cas?  We take him to his grandparents.  That’s the plan.”

Castiel let out a low growl because he couldn't get his frustration in check.  “No, I know,” he said.  “But that doesn’t have to be the end of it.  We could visit him once in a while—maybe.  If his grandparents deem it acceptable.”

He doubted they would create an issue.  After all, the three of them were bringing them their grandchild.  Besides, they’d raised Kelly.  She was kind.  It stood to reason her parents would have the same values.

Dean spread out his arms akimbo.  His shoulders were raised high in tension.  “And why the hell would they do that?  They don’t know us!”

“We don’t have to be strangers to them, either!”

Dean blanched, as if waiting for an explanation.

Castiel got the feeling that he shouldn’t give one—that he should stop.  But he had to keep going.  He couldn’t let go of Jack so easily.  Maybe that was selfish of him, but he could offer the Klines his help.  Kelly wanted him to help.

“We could protect them for a while,” he said, trying to phrase it in a way Dean would respond to.  “We don’t know if Lucifer will track them down.  We could stay, just for a time.”

Dean scoffed, a sardonic smile tugging his lips.  He ran his hand down his mouth before letting his arm drop again.  “In Waco?”

That seemed rather obvious.  Castiel nodded.

Dean appeared to think for a moment.  He stepped forward, pointing at Castiel.  “So, what?  You just wanna abandon your life in Lawrence?”

Castiel’s frown deepened.  He couldn’t deny he’d considered it, but he planned on returning eventually.  And that was before.  That was before last night.

“You want me and Sam to—what?  Quit our job?”

“Of course not—”

Dean powered on, his voice raising.  “What about Mom?  We’re just supposed to leave her, too?”

The group of smoking men was looking at them now.  They’d attracted a few other eyes, as well.  Castiel didn’t pay them any mind, but Dean needed to calm down.  “I’m not saying that.”

Dean did not calm down.  “Then what are you saying?  What the hell do you want, Cas?”

Castiel grunted.  He should have known this conversation wouldn’t end well for them.  Nothing ended well for them.  Giving in to his frustrations, he said, “If you don’t want to stay there, don’t.”

“And, what, you will?”

Rising to the challenge that question posed, Castiel met his eyes squarely and retorted, “Maybe.”

Dean didn’t seem to have expected that.  He looked off, huffing and shaking his head.  He muttered, “I can’t believe this.”  Turning back, he demanded, “That’s really what you want?”

It was a loaded question.  “I want to stay with Jack,” he said, clearly and concisely—but that wasn’t all of it.  “And—.”  This part was harder.  Or, at least, it was harder to say while he was looking at Dean.  He glanced down.  “I want to be with you,” he managed to get out, but only in a whisper.

Dean erupted.  “Well, you can’t have both!”

His shout echoed down the street.  Castiel’s head snapped up to look at him.  Belatedly, he realized his eyes were wide and his jaw was locked.

Dean appeared to have surprised himself with the outburst.  For the briefest moment, fear flashed across his face.  But then he steeled himself.  He was breathing hard through his nose, shoulders rising and falling.  He didn’t look away.

After a second, he swallowed hard, throat bobbing.  Castiel was still frozen in place.

Calmer than before, Dean said, “You can’t have both.  So, either you stay in Waco, or you come back to Lawrence with me and Sam.”

The ultimatum was clear.  Worse, Dean looked terrified of the answer—and Castiel didn’t care.  Because Dean wouldn’t listen to him.  No matter what he said, no matter what he wanted, Dean wouldn’t even try to hear him.

Castiel wondered if choosing Waco would make Dean finally listen.

He didn’t want to do that.  He didn’t want to break Dean’s heart.

With every passing moment, the hardness of Dean’s expression wavered.  He let out a breath.  “Son of a bitch,” he said, as if Castiel’s silence were somehow an answer.  He pressed his lips together and nodded at his shoes.

Castiel snapped.  He wouldn’t be made to feel guilty for caring about the child in his charge.  “What would you like me to say?  That I’m okay with leaving Jack?  After everything?”

“Everything?” Dean shot back.  “Like what?  Kelly dying so he could be born?  Jo almost dying?  Putting damn orphans in the line of fire?”

Castiel took a step closer until his chest was nearly touching Dean’s.  Dean didn’t back away.  “Are you blaming an infant for those things?  Or are you blaming me?”

“I’m blaming him for what you’re turning into!”

Dean’s voice had cracked toward the end.  It was clear that it hadn't been intended.  It was meant to be a weapon, but it ended up wounding them both.  Castiel felt it like a blow to the chest.

He didn’t know what he was becoming.  He wished Dean would elaborate, but he was afraid of what he might say.

He recalled what Sonny had told him, about the consequences he’d face if he overstepped the limits of his conscience.  He wondered if hurting Dean was his limit—because, even now, he couldn’t bear the thought of walking away from him.

But everything else had been necessary.

Fisting his hands at his sides, he told Dean, “I did what had to be done.”

Dean’s expression darkened.  When he spoke next, he bared his teeth.  “Yeah, you did.  You did what you had to do.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes into slits.  “Meaning?”

“Meaning, if I knew what was gonna happen to Jo, I woulda let you leave me and Sam that night in Kansas City.”

He tried to hold onto his anger.  He tensed his fists tighter, told himself Dean was narrow-minded and self-righteous, that Dean was trying to control him just like he did everything else.  Told himself that Dean couldn’t control him—because there was a fire inside of Castiel, and it followed him everywhere he went.  From Chicago to Kansas, Missouri to the Indian Territory.  It would lick at his heels, bringing him all the way to Waco, with or without Dean.

But he wanted Dean with him so very badly, or else the flames might consume him.

“Then maybe I should leave now.”

He didn’t know why he said it.  Maybe just to see if Dean would stop him.

He already knew how that would end.

“Yeah, maybe you should.”

Castiel remained in place, trying to decide whether he was more heartbroken or pissed off.  He might have been both in equal measure.

Until Dean shoved him backward hard and yelled, “What the fuck have you been waiting for?”

Pissed, Castiel decided as he stumbled backward.  A small crowd of onlookers was on the street, watching them like they were actors on a stage.  Castiel really didn’t care.

He stomped back to Dean and grabbed him by the front of his coat.  He hauled him against the wall, slamming his back so hard against it the wooden planks rumbled.  Dean grunted out in pain, his hands reflexively wrapping around Castiel’s wrists.

Behind them, a few gasps went up, and people began muttering excitedly.  One voice rose up among them: “Cas!  What—?  Hey!”

Sam rushed up behind Castiel and placed himself between them.  Jack was in the sling across his chest, one of Sam’s hands supporting him.  He used his free one to lightly press at Castiel’s shoulder, urging him away.

Castiel kept glaring at Dean, and Dean returned it.  And then he realized how tightly Dean was gripping his wrists—not to bruise or to defend.  He wasn’t letting go.

Castiel thought Dean was his limit, after all.

He released him, stepping back.  Dean let out a heavy, relieved breath and sagged his shoulders.

Sam stepped between them, quickly glancing Dean over to check for injury before facing forward.  “What the hell’s going on?”

Castiel opened his mouth.  Dean beat him to the answer: “Cas was just leaving.”

Sam’s brow collapsed.  His hair flipped slightly as he jerked his head around in question.  “What?  Why—?”

“There!  There they are!” another voice called from behind Castiel.  Quickly, he looked over to find Edgar from the poker game pointing at them.  Another man was with him, a silver deputy’s star glinting in the moonlight as he approached.  Castiel’s gut squirmed at the sight.

“Anyone wanna tell me what’s going on here?” the deputy asked.  Bright white teeth flashed behind his dark, crooked smile.

Sam held out a placating hand.  “Nothing.  Sorry, Deputy—Uh?”

“Walker,” the deputy said.

Sam tried for a smile.  “Right.  Sorry for the ruckus.  It’s just a misunderstanding.  We’ll get off the streets.”

The deputy sucked on his teeth, not seeming to buy it.  He put his hands on his hips, pulling back his long coat.  Two pistols sat on his sides.  “Uh-huh.”  He nodded down to the sling on Sam’s chest.  “Care to tell me whose baby that is?”

Sam opened his mouth.  Castiel answered, “He’s ours.”  At the same time, Dean growled toward Castiel, “It’s his.”

Castiel’s eyes snapped back to him, at his boiling point.

Sam let out an aborted, frustrated sound, as if the two of them weren’t helping.  “It’s fine,” he assured, brows raising earnestly.  “The baby was entrusted to us by his mother.”

“And where’s its mother now?” Walker asked.

Sam’s face went taut.  “She passed.”

The deputy stayed silent.  A numb sensation swept over Castiel.  The Winchesters must have noticed it, too.  Walker was asking too many questions.

“Right, okay,” Walker said after a moment.  He scratched at the side of his nose before bringing his hand back to his gun belt.  “I’m gonna have to ask you three to come with me.”

“What?” Dean demanded, quickly lifting his shoulders off the wall to square them.  “What for?”

“Deputy—,” Sam tried to reason.

Walker didn’t seem to want to be reasoned with.  He unholstered both of his pistols and held them out at hip-level.  “Now,” he commanded.

Castiel shared a concerned look with Sam.  He could see Sam thinking.  But, slowly, Sam raised his free hand in surrender.  He must have deemed that the best course of action.  Castiel thought, as his eyes fell to Jack, he was too fired up to think clearly at the moment.

He followed Sam’s example and raised his palms.

It was just Dean’s luck that, the moment he’d decided to write Cas off, he got shoved into a five-by-eight feet cell with him.  He really didn’t know why he hadn’t been put in with Sam.  He’d asked for it and ignored Cas’ scowl in the process, but the deputy seemed to take some sick pleasure in causing Dean misery.

The jailhouse was pretty standard, despite how big of a town Wichita was.  There were two cells with thick steel bars, each with narrow wooden bunk beds shoved against the back wall.  Cas was sitting on the lower bunk, his hands dangling between his knees and his head hung.  Every so often, he’d lift his eyes to glare at Dean.

Not that Dean was looking.

He was standing as far away from Cas as the cell allowed, which was to say, he’d shoved himself in the corner between the bars and the wall.  His arms were crossed tightly around his chest to keep himself as small as possible.

He really wished he’d been in Sam’s cell.  Because the fucker looked like he had all the space in the world, despite his massive form.  His hands were on his hips as he paced back and forth.

Dean risked a quick glance at Cas, grateful that Cas hadn’t been looking at the moment.  He could hardly believe that, barely twenty-four hours ago, they were laughing with each other as they fell asleep.

Twenty-four hours.  That was all they lasted before everything went to shit.  Dean should have never opened his stupid mouth.  He knew nothing good would come of sharing his feelings for Cas aloud.

And it was all that damn baby’s fault.  Because Jack’s presence alone had put the thought of a family in Cas’ head.  Dean couldn’t give him kids, but it shouldn’t have mattered.  Weren’t they a family already?  Wasn’t Cas family?

Apparently, Cas hadn’t seen it that way.

And Dean couldn’t give him any more than he’d already offered.  He couldn’t make Cas happy.

Maybe it was for the best that they’d only lasted a day.  At least now, they knew.

Jack started fussing.  In unison, all three of them looked over.  Sam stopped pacing.  Cas lifted his head.  Dean stood a little straighter.

The baby was in a large iron pot on the sheriff’s desk.  Deputy Gordon Walker was sitting on the chair behind it, his feet kicked up on top of the desk and crossed at their ankles.  One of his six-shooters was resting in his lap.  He glanced at Jack, too, with disinterest.

“How do you make sure it doesn’t start crying?” Walker said.

“Let us out and we’ll show you,” Dean bit back.

Walker turned his attention to the cells, a pissed-off expression pinching his lips.  And then he smiled, a huff of laughter escaping him.  “Nice try.”

Apparently, that had been Sam’s final straw because he held out his arms and burst, “Why are we even here?  You arrested us with no cause, and now you’re just gonna keep us here?  Are we even gonna get to talk to a judge?”

Dean tried not to sigh.  Sam had read more books about law and lawyering than Dean knew existed, but all the book learning in the world was nothing compared to a cocky sheriff’s deputy.

“You’re really gonna play dumb?” Walker asked, his tone as measured and even as Dean had heard all night.

Sam scoffed, flicking his head back and apparently coming up blank for a retort.

“He’s not ‘playing dumb,’” Cas spoke up.  “You’ve given us no indication as to why we’re here.”

The smile wiped itself off Gordon’s face.  He lifted his boots off the desk and placed them firmly on the floor.  Tearing open a drawer, he pulled out a flier and brought it over, practically shoving it against the bars.  “Here’s why.”

Dean looked at the flyer, his eyes immediately attracted to a sketch picture of himself.  There was one of Sam and Cas, too.

WANTED
For kidnapping and murder

  Dean Winchester                       Samuel Winchester
$10,000                                    $10,000

Castiel Novak
$10,000

TRAVELING WITH INFANT
If found, bring to the TALBOTS in LAWRENCE, KS

Dean felt his blood shoot to his head.  “Bela, that bitch!”  This had her stench all over it.  He knew the Talbots were dirty, and Bela was the filthiest of all.

“That’s crazy!” Sam shouted.  “We didn’t kidnap him!  His mother entrusted him to us!”

“Yeah, and we definitely didn’t murder anybody!” Dean added.

“That was self-defense,” Cas said, probably thinking he was helping.

Dean rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and shook his head.  If he were talking to Cas right now, he’d tell him to shut up.

“Uh-huh,” Walker said dryly.  “Sure.  But, the way I see it: I can either take you by your word, or I can become thirty-grand richer.”

Dean pursed his lips, inwardly and begrudgingly admitting that was a good point.  He figured, if he was a wanted man, he was at least glad it wasn’t for a chump change reward.

“But we didn’t kidnap Jack,” Cas said, now sitting up straight.  “We’re taking him to his grandparents in Waco.”

Walker turned away, heading back for the desk.  “His grandparents, huh?  They got a name?”

“Kline.”

“What Kline?”

Dean’s mind blanked.  He realized he had no earthly idea what Kelly’s parents’ names were.  He guessed he kind of just assumed they’d figure it out once they got to Waco.  How many Klines could there possibly be in one town?

He looked at Sam through the bars.  Sam shook his head and shrugged.  They both looked at Cas.  Cas went quiet, clearly thinking hard as he stared Walker down.  Eventually, he blinked down to the floor and thinned his lips.

Perfect.

“You fellas better get your story straight before the U.S. Marshal gets here,” Walker advised.

Dean’s stomach dropped.  “U.S. Marshal?”

As if on cue, the door to the sheriff’s office opened up.  A man in a duster and a ridge top hat filled out the threshold.  He stepped inside, taking off his hat in the process to reveal a bald head.  His facial hair was trimmed into a clean mustache and goatee.  He eyed the three of them like a hawk as he came to a stand in front of them.

“Dean and Sam Winchester?” he asked.  He leaned to the side a little to look at Cas.  “And I’m guessing that makes you Castiel Novak?”

The three of them exchanged looks.  It was Sam who said, “Yeah.  That’s us.”

“Great.”  The Marshal opened up his duster to reveal his badge.  “Victor Henriksen, U.S. Marshal.  I’ll be the one transporting you three back to Lawrence in the morning, so I suggest you get comfy for the time being.”

Dean shook his head.  All of this was just a waste of time, even though part of him wanted to be spiteful toward Cas and say, good thing me and Sam were headed back anyway.  Instead, he said, “Man, you’ve got the wrong guys.”

Sam walked up to the edge of his cell and wrapped his fists around the bars.  “Marshal, we didn’t kidnap the baby.  That’s what we’ve been trying to tell the deputy.  All of this is just one big misunderstanding.”

Henriksen didn’t seem very interested.  He nodded, pulling a frown.  “Right, right.  Let me guess: You’re the heroes here?  Just a few of those Robin Hood types, sick of the rich bigwigs running your town into the ground?  Can’t say I much blame you for that part, but snatching Bela Talbot’s newborn son from his crib’s not exactly what I’d call justice.”

“Bela’s baby?” Dean gaped.  That was a new low, even for the Talbots.

At the same time, Cas gritted out, “Jack’s mother was named Kelly Kline.  I delivered him myself.  We’re protecting him from his father.”

“His father?” Henriksen repeated.

“Lucifer.  The outlaw.”

Henriksen let out a laugh, leaning backward to play it up.  “Forget Robin Hood.  They might have to make a new story about you three,” he said.

“It’s not a story,” Cas went on, but it was no use.  Dean knew it was no use because Sam had gone quiet.  Whatever he wanted to say, he was saving it for their trial—if they even got one.

“Well, guess we’ll let the judge decide,” Henriksen said.  “’Til then, I suggest you sleep tight.  We’re leaving at dawn.”

He turned around, headed for the door.  He only stopped when Walker said, “Uh, sir?  What about the baby?”  He gestured to Jack bundled up in the pot.

Henriksen shrugged.  “You’re watching the prisoners tonight.  Might as well watch the baby, too.”

To that, Walker opened and closed his mouth a few times.  Dean didn’t like Henriksen very much, but he had to admit, he didn’t hate watching Walker squirm.

“I—I think a woman might be better suited for—,” Walker began.

“And I think you were doin’ just fine before I got here, Deputy,” Henriksen interrupted.  He walked back to the door.  “See you in the morning.”  The door slammed behind him.

Off the clatter, Jack started crying.

Walker stared at the door, dumbfounded and angry.

Dean ignored him and looked at his brother, hoping to somehow find a plan forming in Sam’s eyes.  But Sam was looking at the baby; so was Cas, seeming awfully pained about it—as if they weren’t in yet another mess because of Jack.

Dean let out a breath and knocked his head back against the wall.

The baby kept crying.

Chapter Text

Deputy Walker was asleep.  He was at the desk, his boots kicked up on the top and crossed at the ankles, his arms folded over his chest, and his hat tipped over his eyes.  The iron keys to the cells were sprawled on the desk next to the cast iron pot Jack was bundled in.  Sam had been eyeing them for hours with nothing to show for it—not unless he somehow gained the ability to move objects with his mind before sunrise.

Maybe it was better to wait until Henriksen took them.  They’d likely be transported back to Lawrence in a locked stagecoach and shackles.  The cuffs would be easy enough to pick open.  They’d find an opportunity to escape.

But even if they did, then what?  Something told Sam that Henriksen would be hot on their trail until they were recaptured—and running would only make them look guilty.  More than that, they’d never be able to go home.  Their entire lives would be up-ended.  Then again, their lives would also be ruined when the Talbots’ expensive lawyer managed to convince a judge to send the three of them to Yuma until the end of their days.

Maybe the best course of action would be to take matters into their own hands and prove their innocence outside of court.

Dean seemed to think so.  Or, at any rate, he was looking for means of escape.  He’d been plucking at the splinters of a floorboard for hours in an attempt to get a nail out of it to pick the cell’s door.  His fingers were bloody in his effort, and every now and again, he’d suck at them to quell the pain.

Cas was laying down on the bottom bunk, staring up sightlessly at the slats beneath the bed above him.  He twirled his thumbs on his chest.  Sam had no idea what he was thinking, just like he didn’t know what Dean’s plan was once he got that nail out of the floor.

A sudden thundering of boots on the boardwalk outside filled the quiet night.  Walker stirred awake, his hand immediately going for his gun.  As the footfalls grew louder, Sam stood up from where he’d been sitting on his cell’s bunk and walked toward the bars.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean and Cas raise their heads to attention, as well.

“Sheriff!  Sheriff!” a man’s voice sounded from beyond the door a moment before it slammed open.  Walker was on his feet in an instant.  “Sher—Deputy!” the newcomer cried.  He seemed out of breath.  “You better come quick!  There’s a fire at the corral!”

Sam’s eyes widened.

“A fire?” Walker repeated.

The man was practically bouncing in his haste.  “Yeah!  It’s spreading to the Harvey House!”

Walker cast a look at the cells, his cold eyes meeting Sam’s.  Sam swallowed down his offer to help with the fire, because he doubted Walker would let them out of the jailhouse for anything.  In fact, for a moment, it looked like Walker wouldn’t leave himself—but then he steeled himself and turned back to the man.

“All right, gather as many men as you can,” he said as he followed the man out the door.

“No need,” the man was saying as the door swung closed behind them.  As they rushed down the street, Sam heard his voice trailing off.  “Half the town’s already there, but the firefighters need more . . .”

Sam waited until he could no longer hear either of the men.  His eyes moved to the keys on the desk—much too far away and painfully in sight—before looking at the cell next to him.  “We gotta get out of here,” he said hurriedly.  The distraction could be their only chance of escape.

“Yeah, how?” Dean barked back.  He was standing near his own cell’s bars, the nail still embedded in the floor.  Cas was at the back wall, inspecting the bars on the window like he was looking for a weak point.  Even if there was one, it wouldn’t matter.  The window was too small for either him or Dean to fit through.

Dean wrapped his fists around the cell’s bars and pulled to no avail.  “Son of a bitch!” he growled.  “The damn horses are in that corral!”

Sam had thought of that, too.  If the fire really was bad, the animals were likely already dead.  He picked his hat off his sweat-matted hair and wiped at his forehead, trying to keep calm.  “Yeah . . . Yeah, I know.  One thing at a time.”

He looked around wildly.  There had to be something he could use to pick the lock.

An idea struck him.

“Cas!”

Both Dean and Cas looked around.

“You still got that scalpel in your boot?” Sam asked, pacing quickly toward the bars separating their cells.

Cas’ brow furrowed.  “Yes.  Why?”

Sam held out his palm.  “Give me it.  Maybe I can use it to pick the lock.”

“Sam, it’s too big,” Dean argued as Cas knelt down and pulled out the blade.  He handed it over.  “No way it’s gonna work.”

“I’m open to a better idea, Dean!”  Sam didn’t wait for a reply, and Dean didn’t have a better idea.  He made for his cell door and wrapped his arms around it, feeling blindly for the lock.  It was small, and Sam prayed the blade would fit.  He tried to wedge it inside, fumbling a few times as the point of the blade scraped the metal.  He felt it hit a groove—and then there was resistance.

Sam gritted his teeth.  “Shit.”

“Told you!” Dean called.

“Not helping!”

Over on the desk, Jack made a few whining sounds as the commotion woke him up.

There were footsteps outside again.  Sam froze, his breath getting stuck in his throat.  He sensed Dean and Cas halting what they were doing, too.  The dread turned into suffocation, rising up from Sam’s chest and blocking his windpipe.

This was it.  Walker was back.  Their chance of escape was over.

The door opened.  A woman stood in the threshold, her lace dress sweeping the floor.  The heels of her boots clacked on the floorboards as she walked inside.

Sam balked, his anxiety quickly transforming into exhilaration.  “Ruby?”

Ruby paced closer, a smile on her face.  “Hey, Sam.”

“Who the hell is she?” Dean asked, his rough voice breaking through Sam’s head, reminding him of their predicament.

Stowing his amazement, Sam looked over and said, “She’s, uh—.”  He really had no idea how to answer.  He turned back to Ruby.  “What are you doing here?”

“Figured somebody better save your bacon,” she said as she strode toward the desk, having already spotted the keys.  She paused momentarily to check on Jack before swiping the key ring, causing the metal to clunk together.

Sam let out a breath of laughter.  “How did you know . . .?”

“Please.”  She shoved the key into his cell’s door and tilted her head toward Dean and Cas.  “The whole damn town heard those two arguing.  It was pretty entertaining.”  The door swung open with a metallic creak.

“What?” Dean stammered, clearly offended.  He crossed his arms firmly over his chest, brows raising.  He licked his lips indignantly.  “Who the hell are you?” he asked again.

She walked over to the next cell.  “Name’s Ruby,” she said as she freed them.  Somehow, she made it sound like she was insulting Dean.  “Nice to meet you.”

Meanwhile, Sam rushed over to the desk.  He briefly looked in on Jack, who was fisting his little hands and scrunching his face, still waking up.  Sam left him to grab their gun belts and gambling money that Walker had stored in the bottom desk drawer.  His sawed-off was propped up against the back wall, the Wells, Fargo Express stamp on the butt of it illuminated by the light of the lantern.

Distractedly, he heard Dean say, “Nice?  Hell, I don’t care who you are.  I could kiss you!”

“Yeah, no thanks,” Ruby shot back.

“Dean,” Sam said, tossing him his gun belt.  Dean caught it with both hands and fastened it in a slant on his hips.  Cas was already at the desk, putting the baby sling over his shoulders.  He scooped Jack up, gently hushing him as he situated him.

Sam would give him his gun later.  As for now, “We gotta move.”

The four of them went for the door.  While they did, Ruby said, “Go two streets over and head south until you see the water tower.  Your horses are tied up there.”

After clearing the door, Sam paused on the boardwalk, his confusion showing on his face as he looked at her.

She shrugged.  “What?  I checked the corral’s ledger.  The stable boy’s a client.”

Sam looked down the street behind Ruby.  Over the tops of the buildings, he could see the red glow of the fire against the night sky.  Billows of smoke were pluming upward.

“Hang on,” he said, the pieces sliding together.  “Ruby, did—did you set the fire?”

Ruby’s eyes widened, making her look both innocent and guilty.  She huffed, flapping her arms out.  “Okay, yeah!  I got all the horses out first!”

A laugh bubbled out of Sam.  He didn’t think he’d ever met anyone like her before.

“Sammy, enough flirting!  Let’s go!” Dean called.  He and Cas were already on the road a few feet away.  They were both half-turned, ready to run.

Sam dismissed him with a wave and turned back to Ruby.  She opened her mouth to say something, eyes flashing with some emotion that gave Sam hope.  But, whatever it was, she shook her head, wavy hair bouncing.  Instead, she told him, “Your luggage is with the horses.”

He blinked, not really certain what she found on his face, but it prompted her to explain, “The hotel attendant is a client, too.”

In that moment, Sam was certain he’d never meet anyone like her again.  With a twinge in his chest, he realized this might be the last time he ever saw her.

“Ruby,” he said, shaking his head.  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

The same expression as before glistened in her eyes.

“Sammy!” Dean called.  He sounded far away now.  Quickly, Sam looked over his shoulder.  Dean and Cas were rushing down the street, merely silhouettes in the darkness.

He had to go.

Ruby let out a few sounds, mouth open, as if she wanted to say a few things but knew there was no time.  “Go, Sam,” she told him.

He nodded, looking at her one last time before turning around.

And then he stopped in his tracks, a moment of bravado overcoming him.  He didn’t know how to thank her, but if he truly never would see her again, he could try.

He spun back around, walking purposefully back to her.  Her brows pulled together, and she shook her head, a question poised on her lips.  He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her in, and she went easily.  Her hands landed on his chest when he kissed her.  When the shock wore away, she returned the kiss.  Elation floated up from the soles of Sam’s feet, making him feel like he could fly.

When the kiss broke, she swayed slightly, her eyelashes fluttering.  “Uh—okay.  You’re welcome, I guess.”

Sam laughed.  The sounds of the crowd putting out the fire a few blocks away filtered back in.

He had to go.

She seemed to realize it at the same moment.  Her hands patted his chest before withdrawing.  Again, she told him, “Go—go!”

Sam turned around and ran.

As soon as the Winchesters left town, Ruby headed back to the compound.  They’d need to move quickly in order to keep on their trail.

She barely slowed her horse when she entered the compound, meaning to go right to the stable.  However, she caught sight of Dagon and Asmodeus walking along the barracks.  She called to them, gaining their attention while she steered her horse in their direction.  A few others nearby looked over, but Ruby ignored them and slipped out of her saddle.

A rush of victory was pulsing through her at the sight of them.  They’d returned from Missouri empty-handed, not having found the child in any of the orphanages.  But Ruby had found him, exactly where she said she would.  That must have really stung them, knowing they’d failed and she was right.  She happily soaked in their scowls.

“Well, well.  Don’t you seem chipper tonight, missy?” Asmodeus drawled, eyeing her up and down with ridicule.  “What happened, then?  You find a high-paying john?”

Dagon scoffed and held her hand up to silence him.  “What do you want, Ruby?  We’re busy.”

“Not as busy as me,” Ruby gloated.  “I found the baby.”

Both of them stood to attention and shared an incredulous look.  “What?” Dagon asked after a moment.

“Yeah,” Ruby told them, still slightly out of breath—but she didn’t know if that was from riding so quickly or from the joy of rubbing their faces in her success.  In truth, it might very well have been from the kiss Sam Winchester had laid on her.  It had been only slightly unexpected, but she counted it as part of her triumph.  She had his trust.

Poor Sam.  He was almost too easy to fool.  She almost felt bad for him but, if she got to have a little fun in the process, it was worth it.

“The wanted posters Bela Talbot had distributed worked.  The Winchesters and Novak were arrested tonight in Wichita.”

“Excellent,” Asmodeus said.  “Then, gather the men.  We’ll go collect them.”

Ruby huffed, rolling her eyes.  He really was so shortsighted.  “No need.  They’re long gone—no doubt looking for a place to lay low.”

Dagon jerked her head back.  “And how did they escape?”

“Me,” Ruby said.

“You?”

“Are you out of your mind?” Asmodeus snapped.

Ruby put her hands on her hips.  They didn’t understand, but Lucifer would.  They might have been old-fashioned but her father was a visionary—like she was.  “It’s called a long con, asshole.  If they stayed in custody, there’d be a trial.  It would attract attention.  Reporters from all over would go to Lawrence for the story about Bela Talbot’s kidnapped child.  And what happens when that baby goes missing again the second the trial’s over?”

The two of them stared at her, not really seeming to care.

Ruby sighed, bristling.  “The point was never to have them arrested.  It was to help them escape.  They trust me now.”  It was a genius plan.  She was a genius.

Dagon folded her arms over her chest.  “You’re telling me,” she said, “that you had them—and you let them go?”

Asmodeus seemed to agree with her discontent.  “This could have been over.”

By then, the onlookers had come forward, a small group of them crowding around.

Ruby threw her arms out, frustration seething through her.  “Yeah, okay.  Well, excuse me for being a little more subtle than raiding orphanages and killing nuns.”

“Lucifer will hear of this,” Asmodeus threatened, but Ruby had been counting on that.

“Yeah, he will,” she shot back.  “Because I’m gonna tell him!  And he’ll agree with me.”

Dagon raised a condescending brow.  “Oh, he will?”

This was futile.  Ruby should have never stopped.  She should have ridden straight to Lucifer’s cabin.  Trying to end this exchange, she said dismissively, “Look, the Winchesters are on the run.  They’ll head for the Unassigned Lands.  Don’t you think it’ll be easier to corner and kill them there?”

The two shared another look between them.  Then, Asmodeus glanced at the crowd over Ruby’s shoulder.  He gestured them forward.

Ruby’s stomach dropped with the realization that she’d made a mistake in telling them her plan.  Only, it was too late now.  Three men came up behind her, two restraining her arms.  The other shoved his pistol into her lower back.

She ground her teeth, trying to quell her fear.  Inwardly, she kicked herself for being so stupid, especially when Asmodeus stepped forward and wrapped his hand around her throat.  He didn’t squeeze, but he probably wanted to.  Ruby should have known he’d wanted revenge on her for getting Ramiel killed.

She tried to rip her arms away from the two men.  They only doubled their grip.  She had to get to Lucifer.  She had to explain.  He’d understand.

“We’ll corner them, alright,” Asmodeus told her, squashing her hopes.  “And you’re gonna help us.”

He turned his focus back on their comrades.  “Someone go fetch Lucifer.  I think it’s high time we ended this charade.”

They rode west all night and day, only stopping when the baby needed tending to.  There weren’t many towns between Wichita and the Red Hills, but Dean made sure to steer clear of any homes or settlements that popped up around the creeks and grassland on their journey.

As of now, the plan was to head south of the state border into the Unassigned Lands of Oklahoma.  Walker didn’t have jurisdiction outside of Wichita, but Henriksen would still be able to pursue them—and Dean had no doubt he would.  Still, it’d take him time to catch up.  They could regroup, lay low, and restock their supplies in Oklahoma before making their next move.

But first, they needed to break. They reached the Red Hills at sundown.  The landscape was mostly barren of people and expansive enough that they could hide out for a night before moving on.  The pinks and oranges lighting the sky were hardly distinguishable from the rust-colored dirt of the high rocks and rounded cliffs.  Even the patches of green grass and the leaves on the trees were bathed in harsh vermillion.  If Dean didn’t know better, he’d say they were in Arizona or the wild terrain of the Badlands.

But they were still in Kansas, a little over forty miles from the border.  Dean had half a mind to keep pushing on, but it wouldn’t do any of them any good.  They needed sleep—at least a few hours—and something to eat, even though they didn’t have anything but Jack’s canned milk.  The horses needed a break, too.  Even Chevy was slowing, and her breaths were coming out in labored snorts.

Still, Dean wondered if any of them would get any rest that night.  His heart hadn’t stopped pounding in his ears since they left Wichita, and he could feel the adrenaline spiking in his fingers and causing his knees to jounce.  He kept looking over his shoulder all day, expecting to see dust clouds kicking up in the wake of Henriksen and his posse.

They made camp among the trees, not too far from a small pond.  Sam took care of the horses while Cas got a fire going.  Dean set out to try to find something they could eat.  It was fully dark by the time he made it back to camp, two jackrabbits swinging by the ears at his sides.  He’d also found a bird’s nest with a few eggs inside that they could have for breakfast.  It wasn’t much, but it’d get them through.

That is, if they actually made it through the night without getting caught.  It was looking unlikely with the way Jack was screaming.  He’d been at it for hours, long enough to cause the dull thumping in Dean’s temple to blow up into a migraine.  His entire brain felt like it was on fire, which went along with the heat on his cheeks and the back of his neck as his stress levels continued to rise.

He could hardly see straight, which made skinning the rabbits by the firelight even harder.  The blood kept drenching his hands and making his knife slip.

Sam was sitting on his bedroll, Jack in his arms.  He was desperately trying to hush the baby.  Cas was across the campfire, being generally unhelpful with his hands in his hair and his head bowed between his knees like he was trying to drown out the sound.

Dean’s knife slipped again, the blade nicking his thumb.  He hissed from the stinging pain, and for some reason that small discomfort was more than he could bear.  “Would you get him to shut up?” he snapped.  “The Marshal’s gonna hear him a mile away!”

Sam’s heated gaze came up, his jaw tight enough to crack his teeth.  “I’m trying, Dean!” he snipped.

Cas’ muffled voice came from somewhere inside the ball he’d tucked himself into.  “He’s tired.”

Dean’s headache transformed again, turning into something sharp and needling in his temples and at the base of his skull.  His eye twitched.  He was surprised his damn nose wasn’t bleeding with how enflamed his veins were.  “Then, why isn’t he sleeping?”

Cas brought his head up.  The bags under his eyes were dark and his gaze seemed far away, like he really wasn’t seeing anything.  “You take him,” he whined.

The very last thing Dean wasn’t to do was cradle the very reason they were wanted fugitives.  But the cries somehow got louder, bouncing off the trees.  The horses were starting to get agitated.

Dean huffed, throwing down his knife and the half-skinned rabbit to the dirt.  “Jesus, fine.  Give him here,” he shouted.  Sam seemed more than willing.  He scooted closer on his blanket, and Dean wiped the blood off his hands onto his jeans.  He slid closer to Sam and shifted Jack against his chest.

“You make dinner,” Dean barked at Sam.  Sam got up and went to his other side to pick up the rabbit.  Meanwhile, Dean bounced Jack, looking down at the baby’s red face as he yelled.  He had no idea how something so small could be so loud.  Despite himself, the sound made his chest ache.

But it mostly made his head throb.

“C’mon, be quiet,” Dean practically pleaded.  He wondered if he should start singing, but he wasn’t much in the mood.  “Be a man.”

Jack kept on, but the cries slowly began to diminish.  Dean kept rocking him.  Eventually, the wailing stopped, and Jack shifted around in his hold while making grunting and gurgling sounds.  Dean breathed out, only halfway letting down his guard just in case the crying started up again.

“Thank god,” Cas muttered.

Dean glowered across the way at him.  “Yeah, thanks for the help, Cas.”  It wasn’t fair.  Jack had been strapped to Cas’ chest for most of the day, which wasn’t easy with how hard they were riding.  But still, it was nice to get some of his anger out.

Cas narrowed his eyes at Dean, the line of his mouth pinched.

By that time, Sam had gotten the rabbits onto the stick they were using as a spit.  The sweet smell of cooking meat and smoke filled the campsite.

It was blessedly silent for a moment.  Dean’s heart began to slow, and the heat in his face started cooling.  He looked down at Jack, on the cusp of sleep.  Dean’s own eyes felt heavy.  He sighed, listening to the crackling of the fire and the hooting of a nearby owl.

And then Sam said, “So, what’s the plan after we get to the Unassigned Lands?”

Dean wanted to snort—because that was a very good question.  His only plan was to hide out for a while to get Henriksen off their trail.  Maybe once it was safe, they could somehow get a message back to Lawrence to tell Mary where to meet them.  From there, he had no idea.  Maybe head to Mexico?  He hadn’t gotten that far in his planning yet.

But one thing was for certain: he better get a good look around, because he’d never see Kansas again.

“We have to get Jack to Waco,” Cas said.

Dean’s anger spiked.  “Fuck, Cas, don’t you think we got bigger things to worry about?” he yelled, baring his teeth.  Jack gave a whining sound, and for a second, Dean thought he was going to start back up again.  He started rocking him quicker, muttering, “Fuck.”  Thankfully, Jack didn’t stir again.

Cas sat up a little straighter, even though his shoulders were still sagging.  “Will you watch your language around the baby?”

Dean ground his teeth.  “Why?  It’s not like he understands a goddamn word I say.  Kinda like you!”

Cas opened his mouth, about to argue.  Sam jumped in first, his arm shooting up like a barrier between them.  “Okay, enough!” he said firmly.

Dean kept glaring at Cas.  Cas glared back.  But eventually, he stood up and announced, “I’m getting more firewood.”  Hands fisted at his sides, he stalked off into the dark trees.  Dean didn’t find it any easier to breathe.

However, Sam let out a loud breath through his nose, his shoulders dropping.  With the hand not holding the spit, he dug at his eye with the heel of his palm.  “Okay, Dean?  What the hell’s going on between you two?” he asked, fed up.

Dean looked back down at Jack, just so he didn’t have to face his brother—or stare at the spot where Cas had disappeared.  “Nothing.”

Sam scoffed.  “Bullshit.”

Another needle jabbed at Dean’s skull.  “Drop it, Sam,” he warned.  It wasn’t even any of Sam’s business.  “I thought you didn’t like getting in the middle.”

“Yeah, but like it or not, I am in the middle,” Sam gritted out.  “And I don’t like it!”

Dean sucked on his teeth, shaking his head.  If Sam really wanted answers, he’d have to talk to Cas.  Because Cas seemed more than happy to let this baby ruin their lives in every imaginable way.

Sam let out a frustrated sound off Dean’s silence.  “You know what, I just don’t get you two,” he said, shaking his head in Dean’s peripheries.  “One minute, it’s like no one else is in the room and—and—and then, out of nowhere, you’re fighting like an old married couple.”

Dean could feel his ire slowly mounting throughout Sam’s little speech, but the last part sent him over the top.  He erupted as swiftly and as powerfully as a geyser.

“We ain’t married!”

His voice echoed back to him after it hit the trees.  There was a quick flapping of wings as a spooked owl took flight.  It was an honest-to-god miracle Jack didn’t wake up.

Sam’s spine straightened out, his expression becoming alert.

Dean looked away, his throat working and his face burning with shame and misery.  His ears were ringing and, when he let out a breath, it was much shakier than he’d wanted it to be.  He held his teeth together to stop his lower lip from quivering.

Sam must have known he hit a nerve.  He remained silent for a long stretch of time, clearly deciding whether or not to pry.  Dean really hoped he wouldn’t, because he couldn’t predict how he’d react.  He’d either punch Sam or start crying, and he didn’t want to do either.  He was too tired—and already too guilty.

Mercifully, Sam said with all the neutrality he could muster, “Okay.”  It was both a great relief and a massive, curling disappointment.  “But he’s right, you know?  About bringing Jack to Texas.”

Dean scoffed wetly.  It was a terrible change of topic.

“Getting him to Kelly’s parents might be our one shot at clearing our names,” Sam reasoned.  “I mean, think about it, Dean.  We escaped from a U.S. Marshal.  Think about how guilty that looks.  If we get caught and they put us in front of a judge, they’ll hang us.”

He was right.  Dean squared his jaw.

“All we can do now is show them we didn’t kidnap Jack,” Sam went on.  “We get him to his grandparents, and they’ll vouch for us.  And—I mean, yeah, it’ll be hard to prove he’s not Bela’s, but there are people in Lawrence who know she wasn’t pregnant and Kelly was.  Like Rowena.”

Dean shook his head.  Whatever dismal hope Sam had managed to spark, it sputtered out.  “Rowena can’t help.  Cas told her Jack was stillborn.”

He watched that information process on Sam’s face.  Eventually, Sam ran and hand through his hair, nodding.  “Shit,” he whispered.

Dean thinned his lips and arched his brows, agreeing with the assessment.

Still, Sam nodded, ever the optimist.  “Okay, but still.  Rowena’s smart.  She’ll figure out the truth—and, even if she doesn’t, we’ll figure something else out.  We just need to get to Texas first.”

Dean still wasn’t convinced.  Even if they did get Jack to Waco, Kelly’s parents didn’t know they had a grandson and they had no reason to believe the three of them.  If they happened to accept the story, there would still be questions from the authorities.  Henriksen wouldn’t just drop it like that.  They’d likely still be arrested, and the Talbots would win in court.

He licked his lips, far too exhausted to argue his points.  He was sure Sam had considered them already, anyway.

“So, let’s just . . .” Sam said, “say that’s the plan until we come up with a better one.”

Dean looked at him incredulously.

Sam seemed just as frustrated, like he needed Dean to agree for his own sanity.  “Okay?” he asked forcefully, practically daring Dean to argue.

It wasn’t worth it.  “Fine,” Dean grumbled.

He looked back at the trees.  Cas still hadn’t come back, and it’d been a long enough time.  He was probably just moping.  Or, hell, maybe he really had left for good.  Or not.  Dean doubted Cas would leave without Jack.

Dean needed a better topic change—one that was far less stressful.  He fished around for one, his eyes landing back on Sam.  He remembered the night before, the whore who’d helped them escape.

Doing his best to push a lighthearted tease into his tone, he asked, “So.  Ruby?”

Sam’s eyes snapped up, and they were as wide as dinner plates.  “What?”

Dean did his best to cock a smirk.  “Don’t pretend I didn’t see you two bussing back in Wichita.”  It was too dark to see in the orange light, but he was pretty sure Sam was blushing.  “So, who is she?”

“No one,” Sam maintained.  Dean raised his brows and turned the corners of his mouth down in amusement.  “Just—a girl.  I barely know her.”

“Uh-huh, looked like it.”  Dean teased, “except, I got no idea why she’d want anything to do with a coot like you.  What, is she simple?”

Sam smiled despite himself.  He tried to cover it up by shaking his head.  “Shut up.”

Dean’s smile turned a little more genuine.  At the very least, he was glad he could cheer Sam up.

He was happy for his brother.  Especially because the girl was so pretty—and pretty damn smart in a pinch.  “Well, who knows, Sammy?  Maybe, if we get out of this mess, you can make an honest woman of her.”

Sam’s smile faded.  He stared down into the flames.  “Yeah,” he said heavily.  “If we get out of this mess.”

Dean’s stomach soured.  He looked down at Jack, now fully asleep in his arms.

“Yeah,” he agreed.  It was a nice thought, but it was useless.  Their lives were as good as over.

Castiel took the first watch.  He’d offered, and for a moment it had seemed like Dean might argue.  He’d had a strange look in his eyes, like he didn’t trust that Castiel wouldn’t leave the moment he and Sam fell asleep.

Truthfully, it wasn’t as if Castiel hadn’t considered the possibility himself.

It was clear that Dean wouldn’t take them to Waco.  He’d cross the border into the Unassigned Lands and that’s where they’d remain.  It was a terrible plan.  Henriksen would find them eventually; if he didn’t, Lucifer would.  It wasn’t safe for any of them, especially Jack.

The best course of action was to get the baby to Kelly’s parents.  And maybe Castiel would be apprehended.  Maybe he’d be jailed in Texas.  It didn’t matter.  He was more concerned with making sure Jack was out of harm's way.

But he knew Dean wouldn’t agree.

Maybe Castiel should leave.  After all, Dean had told him to.  All day, Dean barely looked at him.  Maybe that was all there was left between them now: space and silence.

Maybe it would be safer for everyone if Castiel were gone.  It would be harder for Henriksen to find them if they were separated, and Dean and Sam would be far away if Lucifer came for Jack.  And Dean would have what he wanted.

Perhaps it was best if the space between them stretched on for miles.

Castiel realized he was staring at Dean across the fire.  Dean was asleep, his back facing Castiel, his shoulders tight even now.  His blanket had fallen down to his waist, and Castiel’s fingers itched to pull it up to make Dean more comfortable.

He tore his eyes away, refocusing on Jack’s bundle of blankets beside him on his bedroll.  The baby blinked back at him, the light of the fire flickering across his button nose.  Castiel felt a soft smile pull at his cheeks.  He reached a finger into the blankets.  Jack wrapped his fist around it and cooed gently.

There was a tugging sensation in Castiel’s chest.  He imagined it as a rope—Jack on one side and Dean on the other.  He remembered what Dean said.  Castiel couldn’t have them both.  He’d known that for a long time.

His smile faded.

He tried not to think on it.  Instead, he told himself to breathe, to count to five.  He focused on the world around him.  The fire was crackling, its faint heat seeping through Castiel’s trousers and touching his face.  There was a slight breeze making the leaves atop the canopy rustle.  In the distance, he heard a vixen’s scream.

A twig snapped beyond the trees.

At once, Castiel’s head jerked toward the sound.  Behind him, Chevy snorted, sounding alarmed.  The other two horses began to rouse.

Castiel’s heart rate pounded, clogging his throat.  He realized his breath was trapped there, too.  He squinted into the trees, trying to see in the darkness.  It was likely just a deer, or maybe another fox.  He hadn’t heard any coyotes howling all night, but with mounting dread, he supposed that could also be a possibility.

He pulled out his Derringer from his belt and placed his hand firmly on Jack.

A shadow moved through the trees.  It wasn’t a deer or a coyote.  The shadow was much too tall.  Castiel pointed his gun in that direction, trying to stay calm.  “Sam,” he called as loud as he dared.  The word came out low and rough.  Neither brother stirred.  Louder, more urgently, Castiel called, “Dean!”

Dean shot up immediately, his Colt already in his hand.  Sam sat up, too, instantly wide-awake.  He quickly surveyed the area and asked, “Cas, what—?”

Another twig snapped.  Both Winchesters sprang to their feet, Dean having to kick off the blanket that got stuck around his ankle in the process.  Sam held out his sawed-off, jerking the barrel this way and that as he looked for the source of the sound.

Meanwhile, Castiel climbed to his feet and quickly scooped up Jack, holding him close to his chest with one arm so he could keep his gun in his other.  “I saw someone,” he whispered.

“Who?” Dean asked.  His face was hard, eyes flinty as they searched the trees.  “Henriksen?”

Castiel had a sickly feeling in his gut telling him it was much worse.  “I don’t know.”

There was the sound of fallen leaves crunching to Castiel’s left.  All three of them turned toward it, guns held out.  Castiel narrowed his eyes as he caught movement between two trunks.  The shadowed figure was approaching, his hands raised to show he was unarmed.  He walked slowly, unhurried, into their camp.

When he stepped into the flickering light of the fire, Castiel saw a sandy-haired man before him.  There were scars on his face, small but angry welts.  Burn marks.

“Don’t be afraid,” the man said in a voice low and soothing, but it raised the hairs on the back of Castiel’s neck.  Instantly, he knew who this man was.  His grip around Jack strengthened.

“Who are you?” Dean demanded, his gun aimed forward.

Lucifer lowered his hands slowly, folding them together in front of his chin as if in prayer before lacing his fingers together and letting them drop to his front.  “My name is Lucifer,” he said.

Castiel shared a look with Sam, whose throat worked fearfully before his eyes moved to Jack.  They snapped back to Lucifer when he took a step forward.  Both Winchesters cocked their weapons, and Dean shouted, “Stay there!”

“I assure you, I’m unarmed,” Lucifer told them.

“Great,” Dean responded.  “Then blowing your brains out should be easy.”

Castiel braced himself for Dean to make good on that threat.  He didn’t know why they hadn’t shot him already.

Steel touched his spine when he realized Lucifer was smiling.  “Yes, it would,” he said, undeterred.  All around them, the underbrush rustled.  More faces and shadows emerged from the trees.  Castiel counted six total, but there could have been more hiding in the darkness.  All of them had their guns out.

Lucifer continued, “But you may not survive the retaliation.”

“Drop your weapons.  Now,” the Asian woman to Lucifer’s left ordered.  Castiel looked at Sam and Dean, who were having a silent conversation between them.  They must have decided they were out-matched.  Sam moved first.  He put his shotgun in one hand and held his arms up in surrender.  With a huff, Dean did the same with his six-shooter.

Castiel gritted his teeth, trying to decide what to do for himself.  His gun had two shots in it, so he certainly wouldn’t get far.  But he was holding Jack.  He doubted Lucifer’s people would shoot at the baby—but what if they did?  He couldn’t risk Jack’s life.  He forced himself to raise his hand in surrender.  Slowly, the three of them crouched down to drop their guns to the dirt before standing up again.

Castiel kept his eyes fixed on Lucifer.  He remembered the surgical blade in his boot.  If Lucifer tried to take Jack, maybe Castiel could be quick enough to kill him.  But he wouldn’t be able to kill everyone.

“Now,” Lucifer said.  He turned to his right, meandering closer to the Winchesters.  He stopped briefly in front of Sam, seeming to size him up.  Dean’s fists tensed at his sides.  Sam stared back, controlling whatever fear he must have felt, judging by the sharpness of his breathing as he pulled the air into his nose.  Castiel watched them.  It seemed to go on forever, but in truth, it only lasted mere seconds.

When Lucifer started walking again, he rounded the fire and approached Castiel.  Castiel tensed, pressing Jack in closer and taking a step back.  He heard the metal scrape of several guns’ hammers being pulled back in unison, and he quickly froze.

Lucifer too stopped walking, as if he didn’t want to scare Castiel away.  He remained still for a long moment, his expression almost empathetic.  He breathed out, dropping his shoulders.  His eyes didn’t once stray to Jack.  “Castiel Novak,” he said, and Castiel hated the sound of his own name in that man’s mouth.  “I’m told you’ve fought fiercely to protect my son.”

He couldn’t stay his tongue any longer.  Through gritted teeth, he said, “Stay away from him.”  Against his chest, Jack made a soft whining sound before falling silent.  Castiel hadn’t realized just how tightly he was clutching the child.

Lucifer didn’t make a move in either direction.  He just kept staring, almost unblinking.  Castiel couldn’t stop himself from looking at his scars.

“I’m grateful to you,” Lucifer said after a long time.  He looked briefly over to Sam and Dean.  “To all of you.  You’ve gone to great lengths for my child.”

“He’s Kelly’s child,” Castiel told him.

“Yes, Kelly Kline,” Lucifer said with a hum, as though he’d just remembered.  “I also appreciate all she’d done to bring him into this world.”

“All she’d done?” Sam spat, disgusted.  “She died giving birth to him!”

“An unfortunate occurrence,” Lucifer said, tone still even, like he could have been talking about rain on its way.  “I was sorry to hear what became of her.  And I’m glad she made you my son’s caretakers.”  At last, his gaze fell to Jack.  Castiel had expected something primordial in the stare, something possessive.  But it was cold.

“But your job is finished,” Lucifer told them.  “I’ll take my son now.”

The three of them reacted at once.  Dean and Sam stepped forward, only for the woman to shout at them to stop.  Castiel took another large step backward, uncaring about the guns pointed at the back of his head.

“No,” he said, nostrils flaring as he tensed.  “I won’t let you.”

Lucifer unclasped his hands.  He brought one up and tapped thoughtfully at his lips with his pointer fingers.  “Let me?” he echoed, almost humored.

Castiel stood his ground.  “No.  He won’t become like you.  He won’t become an outlaw, a murderer.  I won’t allow it.”

Lucifer looked at him pityingly.  “Castiel.  You don’t understand.  I’m not what they say I am,” he said with the air of a man who’d given this speech many times before—who truly believed it.  He gestured out to the world beyond the trees.  “Look at this place.  Ever since the expansion westward, look at what we’ve done.  People came under the guise of society, but they slaughtered and trapped those who already claimed this land.  They took the plains and trees—they hacked and burned—so they could lay down railroad tracks.”

Castiel didn’t know why he was listening to this.  None of what he was saying was relevant.

“And then,” Lucifer went on, “came the war.  Neighbor turning on neighbor.  There was more killing, this time of their own kind.  More burning things down.”  He looked back at the Winchesters.  “You know that well, being from Lawrence.  The Confederates raided your town.  Others did the same to mine.”  He gestured at the burns on his face.  “In another year, another war.”

Back to Castiel, he said, “War after war, on and on.  All in the name of progress.  And these people call me a killer?  Lawless?  Tell me: what laws do they follow that make them more just than me?  In fact, how many people have you killed, Castiel, in defense of the child?”

Castiel clamped his jaw shut.  He wanted to argue.  He couldn’t.

Lucifer stepped forward, his hands were folded together again, almost like he was pleading, as he pointed them to Jack.  “I don’t want my son raised in such a world.  Don’t you see?  I want him to be free, as all my children are free.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say.  He was stalled in place while a heat flared at the base of his spine.  He didn’t know if he could deny anything Lucifer had just said.  The only thing he knew for certain was this: the man before him was evil.  Castiel could feel it to the depths of his soul.

It was Dean who spoke first.  “That’s crap,” he said, voice tight to keep it from shaking.  Lucifer turned to look at him.  Castiel wanted to stop Dean, to keep him from Lucifer’s cold eyes.  But Dean kept going: “This isn’t about freedom.  Your town gets raided and you—what?  Spend the rest of your life getting revenge on innocent people who had nothing to do with it?”

His anger was growing with every word, causing his voice to rise and his expression to twist.  “You go around killing and burning and raping because someone torched your house, and you think that doesn’t make you just like them?  Don’t stand there and pretend you’re some kind of saint.  You’re a monster!”

Lucifer nodded shallowly, seeming totally unfazed by Dean’s ire.  “I understand why you’d see it like that.  Many do until they’re shown a better way.”  He looked back at Castiel, at the baby.  “I want to show my son a better way.”

This time, Castiel shook his head immediately.  “No.”  He didn’t know how many times he’d have to say it.  “I won’t let him go.”

“I know you won’t,” Lucifer answered at once, taking one step forward.  Castiel forced himself to remain still, no matter how close Lucifer was.  He remembered his scalpel.  He didn’t know how to reach it quickly.  His fingers flexed anyway.

And then Lucifer promised, “You won’t have to.”

Castiel went rigid.  The words processed in his mind.  He had no idea what they meant.  His brow lined with confusion.  “What—?”

“I told you, I’m grateful for all you’ve done for him, Castiel,” Lucifer answered.  “The sacrifices you’ve made, the lives you’ve taken.  I won’t soon forget that.”  Castiel bewilderment only deepened—until Lucifer said, “Join us.”

Again, it was like Castiel’s mind was moving far too slowly.  It took a long time for him to catch up.  His lips parted.  He blinked.  The words rattled around in his skull.  Join us.

“You’ll never have to leave the boy’s side.  You can raise him with his mother’s values.”  Lucifer shrugged, adding, “And I will raise him with mine.  And, when he’s grown, he will have the freedom of choice.  Shouldn’t we allow him that?  Don’t you deserve freedom, too?  I like you, Castiel.  I see a fire in you.  You know you don’t belong in the life you’ve been trapped in.  Just like my son, you belong with us.”

It was insane.  Lucifer was insane—and dangerous.  He was a zealot.  And the strangest thought popped into Castiel’s head.  He thought of a beehive.  He thought of building one.  He thought of not having to ask for permission.

“Cas!” Dean’s voice broke him from the spell.  He sounded almost desperate, as though he thought Castiel was really considering it.  And, for the briefest of moments, perhaps Castiel was.

His eyes flickered to Dean.  Dean looked back—gaze frantic and wide, hurt.  Castiel would never hurt him.  That was his limit.

Castiel pulled his shoulders back, bracing himself.  He returned his gaze to Lucifer.  “No.  You’ll have to kill me.”

Lucifer regarded him.  He hummed.  “No, I don’t think I will,” he said.  Again, Castiel didn’t understand.  Lucifer looked over his shoulder at the woman and nodded.  In turn, the woman glanced around.

From the trees, came the sound of a struggle.  Someone was being dragged along the dried leaves, kicking and yelling the whole time.  It sounded like a woman.  Presently, a man in all white came into view, yanking the prisoner along by the scruff of her neck.  Castiel went taut when he realized he knew the woman.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam shift his stance.

Ruby was thrown forward onto the dirt, her hands flying out to brace herself before her face hit the ground.  Her dress was rumpled and torn at the bottom, and her hair was tussled, bits of leaves tangled into it.  The man in white took out his six-shooter and pointed it down at her head.

“Ruby,” Sam said, voice thick.  His eyes were volleying from one point to another as he tried to determine how to get her out of harm’s way.

She raised her head, terror on her face as she looked at him.  “Sam!” she cried.  “Please, don’t let them kill me!”

“I won’t.  I won’t,” he assured her hurriedly.  He held out his palms, both reaching for her and keeping them up in surrender.  “Ruby, I promise.  You’re gonna be alright.”

“Sam!”

Lucifer took a few paces backward, but Castiel found it no easier to breathe because of the distance.  “I admire you three,” he told him.  “You’ve shown bravery.  I’m told Mary Winchester did, too.  She even managed to kill one of my men.”

Castiel’s stomach dropped.

“You son of a bitch!” Dean yelled.  “If you hurt her—”

“She’s alive,” Lucifer assured.  “And in one piece.”  Castiel felt as if his knees might give out from relief.  He listened as Lucifer said, “She’ll remain that way.  She’s not who I’m after.  After all, her only crime was protecting her sons.  I find myself . . . relating to her.”

It looked like it was taking all Dean’s willpower not to charge forward.  Castiel really hoped he wouldn’t, or else they’d all be dead.

“It’s in her honor that I’ll give you a choice,” Lucifer said.  “A life for a life.  Give me my son, and the girl goes free.”

No.  No, there had to be another way.  Castiel put his hand over Jack’s head atop the blanket, cradling him closer.  He felt Jack clasp his fist around the bow of his necktie.

“And if we don’t?” Dean asked, but he already knew the answer.  Sam’s eyes were fixed on Ruby.  The man in white pulled back the hammer of his gun.  Ruby made a frightened sound and closed her eyes tightly.

“No!” Sam called, reacting.  He took a large step forward.  The man in white swung his gun up, pointing it at Sam’s chest.  Castiel gasped, having to physically stop himself from running to Sam’s aid.

“Sam!” Dean yelled, his body jerking forward.  He caught himself at the last second.

Everything fell silent for a moment.  The fire hissed as it continued to weaken into small licks of flame and dying embers.  An owl hooted.  Further away, the fox was still screaming.

“Or maybe,” Lucifer said like he’d just reconsidered, “the girl won’t be needed, after all.”  Castiel watched as he slowly raised his palm to shoulder-level.  The man in white steadied his arm, waiting for the signal to shoot.

A pressure was building in Castiel’s body, smothering him.  He couldn’t breathe.  He couldn’t speak or swallow.  He couldn’t think.

Sam’s jaw was clamped.  He schooled his expression.

Dean didn’t.  “No,” he said decisively, desperately.  “Cas, give ‘im the kid.”

Castiel found his voice as something sharp pierced his heart.  He couldn’t stop it from feeling like betrayal.  “Dean.”

Lucifer’s hand was still raised.

“Cas, don’t do it!” Sam said, and it shattered something inside of Castiel.  He didn’t know what to do.  He couldn’t let Sam die, but he couldn’t hand Jack over, either.

“What will it be, Castiel?” Lucifer asked, his gaze still steadily on Sam.

Dean barked, “Cas, give him the damn baby!”

“Don’t,” Sam said, nearly begging.  His eyes flickered to Castiel, and he nodded stiffly.  “It’s okay.”

Castiel went numb.  He looked at Dean.  Dean would never forgive him.

Sam pulled himself to full height.  To the man in white, he said through gritted teeth, “Do it.”

Castiel was a breath from letting it happen, and a moment from handing over Jack.

Lucifer swiped his hand down.  Immediately, the crack of a six-shooter echoed off the trees.  Castiel’s heart stopped.  Jack began wailing.

“Dean!” Sam shouted, panicked.

Dean collapsed backward into Sam’s chest, Sam’s arms bracing him.  He lowered Dean down to the ground.  Castiel’s breath tripped out of him as he saw the blood.  It was on Dean’s neck, some of it splattered onto his jaw.  Dean’s name was punched out of Castiel’s chest.

Dean had stepped in front of Sam, taking the bullet.  It hit him near his collarbone, right where his neck met his left shoulder.  He was gasping shallowly, his hand clutching his wound as trace amounts of blood slipped through the cracks in his fingers.

With Dean still between his knees, Sam scrambled backward and picked up his shotgun.  He fired, the shot ringing through the air as it hit the man in white squarely in the chest.  He was blown back to the ground.  It took Castiel a second to process that he should go for his weapon, too.  He swooped down and retrieved the gun, holding it forward.

Lucifer’s gang closed in, eager for retaliation.  However, Lucifer held up his hand, stopping them.  “No,” he ordered.  “Not where my son can be harmed.”

“Lucifer!” the Asian woman shouted, sounding both confused and appalled.

“Take the men and go, Dagon,” Lucifer told her.  Immediately, the group began to retreat, leaving Ruby and their fallen brother in the dirt.

Lucifer lingered.  Castiel ground his teeth.  His finger twitched on the trigger of his gun.

“We’ll meet again,” Lucifer said before following after his gang.  Castiel imagined firing a shot between his shoulder blades.  He wanted to so badly, damn the consequences.  But soon it was too late, and Lucifer had bled back into the shadows.

Dean let out a pained groan, pulling Castiel back into reality.  He whipped around and rushed to Dean’s side.  Ruby got up, too.  She was hovering over the Winchesters, seeming at a loss on what to do.  Castiel quickly shoved Jack into her arms.  “Hold him,” he said over the baby’s cries.

Meanwhile, Sam was pulling himself out from under Dean.  Carefully, cradling Dean’s head, he sat back on his knees and lowered Dean to the ground.  Dean was blinking rapidly up at him, his face pallid and breaths sharp.

“Cas, what do we do?” Sam asked frantically as Castiel knelt across from him.  “Can you—can you fix him?”

Castiel didn’t know—but he would.  He had to.  He leaned over and gently touched Dean’s wrist over the wound.  “Dean, let me look,” he said, trying his best to keep his voice steady.  It still shook some.  Dean gulped audibly and removed his hand.  There was blood staining his skin and shirt.  It trickled out of the wound, but sluggishly.  Castiel felt behind Dean’s shoulder, ignoring Dean’s grunt.  His suspicions were confirmed.  There wasn’t an exit wound.

“The bullet’s still inside him,” he said.

Sam shook his head.  “Can you get it out?”

“Right now, it’s the only thing stopping the bleeding.”  He looked around.  The fire was all but embers now, leaving them in near darkness.  He needed light and tools.  The only surgical implement he had was the blade in his boot, and it was dulled enough now not to be any good.  It would do more harm to Dean than anything else.  There was nothing he could do there.  “We have to get him somewhere I can work on him.”

Sam balked.  “What?  Where?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel answered, some of his own fear seeping in.  He tried to calm himself, but he couldn’t.  Jack was still crying.  Dean was still bleeding.  He wouldn’t bleed out any time soon, but his body could go into shock.  It was hard to say how long they had.  “Maybe there’s—a—a town nearby?”

“We have to get past the state border,” Dean said, voice coming out in a choppy rasp.

Both of them looked down at him.  “Dean, that’s forty miles,” Sam said.  “We won’t get there until after sunrise.  And who knows how much longer until we find a settlement.”

Dean gritted his teeth after trying and failing to shake his head.  “I’m fine.  I’ll last.  We gotta move.”

“Dean,” Castiel tried.

“I said, I’ll last,” Dean said more forcefully, as if he could make it so by the strength of his will.  And maybe he could.

Or maybe he’d pass out and they’d find a town along the way.  Either way, they couldn’t stay there.  Lucifer could return, and Dean certainly wouldn’t last forever.

Castiel met Sam’s eyes.  He nodded, relenting.

Reluctantly, Sam took his hands out from under Dean and got to his feet.  “Okay.  Okay,” he said, clearly trying to keep it together, as he climbed to his feet.  “Uh, Ruby, help me pack up the camp.  You can ride with me.”

Ruby, who’d been rocking Jack to no avail, nodded.  “Yeah, okay.  Uh . . .”  She crouched down and rested the bundle of blankets at Castiel’s side.  Then, the two of them set off to pack up and saddle the horses.

Castiel dug into Dean’s pocket for his bandana and used it to put pressure on the wound.  His other hand cradled the back of Dean’s neck.  All the while, he could feel Dean’s eyes on him, searching his face both guardedly and vulnerably.

Castiel didn’t look back.  He didn’t know if he could forgive Dean for being so willing to hand Jack over.  For trying to take Castiel’s choice away.  For truly doubting Castiel would struggle with choosing Jack over Sam.

“Cas,” Dean whispered.  Castiel’s eyes snapped to him.  Dean swallowed again.  “You weren’t—you weren’t really thinkin’ about going with them, were you?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes.  How could Dean think that?  “Of course not,” he said, and it felt like a lie even though it wasn’t.

Dean kept looking at him like he wanted to believe it but couldn’t.  “You just—took a long time to answer.”

“Stop talking,” Castiel told him, his pulse pounding.  He increased pressure on Dean’s wound.  “Save your strength for more important things, Dean.”

Dean let out a sound that could have been a scoff.  “More important,” he muttered.

Castiel had no idea what he meant by that.  He glanced up, mostly to distract himself from the way Dean was still regarding him.  He watched Ruby tying the last of the bedrolls onto Bones’ rump.  Sam was stomping out the fire’s embers.

“Okay, let’s go,” Sam said, coming back to Dean’s side.

“Careful,” Castiel told him as they raised Dean to his feet.  Dean’s legs bent to aid them; he bared his teeth and gave off a pained sound.  His brow was lined with sweat and he was panting by the time he was upright.

“I got ‘im,” Sam said, supporting Dean’s weight.  Castiel nodded and bent back down to pick up Jack.  Distantly, as they walked to the horses, he heard Sam say, “You’re gonna be fine.  I’ve seen you with worse.”

Dean let out a rough laugh.  “Damn right, you have.”  Sam tried to laugh, too.

It took the three of them to help Dean into his saddle.  Dean was doubled over, his hand on the bandana to keep pressure on his wound.  “Just keep riding south,” he told them.  “Got it?  Just straight south.”

Sam nodded, none of them acknowledging that Dean had only said it in the event he’d be unable to direct them anymore.

Castiel got astride and placed Jack back into the sash around his chest.  Sam and Ruby shared Bones’ saddle, her arms wrapped around Sam’s middle.  Sam pulled at the lines and set his horse forward.  Castiel did the same to Lincoln, and Chevy followed.

Dean swayed a little but managed to steady himself by gripping his saddle horn.  Castiel tried not to think about the way Dean continued to slump forward.

It was already daylight by the time they crossed the border into Oklahoma.  Despite Dean’s protests, they hadn’t been able to ride as hard as he wanted.  He kept swaying in his saddle and nearly toppled over at one point.  Now that it was light out, it was easy for Sam to see just how much color had drained from his brother’s face.  The bandana that Cas had fastened around his neck was soaked with blood.

Eventually, Dean stopped arguing altogether.  He was leaning into Chevy’s mane, practically laying on top of it.  If it wasn’t for the jerking motions he made with his head at times to keep himself awake, Sam would have thought he’d passed out.  Or worse.

With every empty mile, the anxiety twisting around Sam’s throat like a noose gripped tighter.  It was as if Ruby could sense it.  She would squeeze her arms around him and tell him it would be all right.  Sam looked back and nodded, giving her a tight smile.  He wanted to believe her, but nothing was all right.  Dean shouldn’t have even been injured.  It should have been him.

He wished Dean had never stepped in the way.  He should have anticipated it.  In a way, he had.  He just hadn’t thought Dean would be able to intercept the bullet in time.

And the only thing they could do now was find a town or a tent city, or even a farm.  But all Sam could see was tall grass and knolls for as far as the horizon stretched.  He hadn’t even seen a road or a railroad in hours.

Reluctantly, he pulled on Bones’ reins, halting him.  Behind him, Cas stopped Lincoln and Chevy followed in suit all on her own.  Dean hadn’t even attempted to give her a command.

“Why are we stopping?” Cas asked.

Sam squinted forward, past the white light of the morning sun.  He searched the horizon for any sign of life.  “Gimme a second,” he said.  He didn’t even see a rock with moss to point them toward civilization.

Behind him, he was aware of Cas steering Lincoln closer to Chevy.  “Here,” he whispered to Dean.  Sam glanced behind him just in time to see Cas offering his canteen.  Dean turned his head slightly, dark bruises smudging his eyes.  He shook his head.

“Dean, please,” Cas tried again.

Sam tore his eyes away, not wanting to know the answer.  If Dean denied a drink of water, it meant he knew he was done for.

“Sam, what are we gonna do?” Ruby asked.

Sam kept facing forward, his mind circling rapidly.  He swallowed down the boulder in his throat, praying for an answer to come to him.  All they could do was keep riding.  Either that or Cas could do his damndest to fix Dean right there, without any water or supplies.  Sam wasn’t certain which was more of a death sentence.

His entire body reacted when he heard Cas shout, “Dean!”  It was followed by a loud thump.  Sam knew what had happened before he even spun around.  Dean had slid out of his saddle.  He was on the grass, body crumpled, and Sam didn’t know if he was unconscious or dead.

“Dean!” he shouted.  Quickly, he dismounted Bones and rushed toward him.  Cas had slipped out of his saddle, too, and he was crouched at Dean’s side, one hand supporting Jack while the other felt for a pulse.

“He’s alive,” he reported, voice haggard and breathy with fear.

Sam helped him turn Dean onto his back.  Dean’s head lolled to the side.  His freckles were stark against waxy and blotchy skin.

“Cas, we can’t go on like this,” Sam said, his eyes glued to Dean.  He tried to keep his voice from choking.

“I know.”

“So—so, what d’we do?  I mean, is there—is there something you can give him?”

Cas shook his head, eyes darting back and forth in thought.

“Sam!” Ruby called.  She was still atop Bones.  “Sam, look!”

Sam whirled around to her.  She was pointing forward, toward something in the distance.  Hope sprung in Sam’s chest.  He followed her line of sight.

There was smoke on the horizon.  It was curling upward in a steady stream.  It wasn’t a smoke signal.  There was no pattern to it, and there weren’t any Indians in the Unassigned Lands.

“It’s a chimney,” he heard himself say.  He blinked, trying to convince himself it was real.  “How far would you say that is?  Five miles?”

When he looked back at Cas, Cas’ gaze flickered from the smoke, to Sam, and then back to Dean.

“Do you think he’ll make it?” Sam asked, fear clamping his gut.

Cas jutted out his jaw in determination.  “He has to.”

Sam couldn’t agree more—even though he had no idea what they’d find beneath that smoke.  The people there might not want to get involved, or it was possible they didn’t have any medicines.  Even if they did, it could already be too late.

But he had to stay positive.  He told himself, beyond all reason, that if they could only make it to that smoke, Dean would be fine.

He put his feet beneath him, staying crouched.  “Help me get him up.”

The two of them maneuvered him back onto Chevy, having to lay him across the saddle.  When he was situated, they rode toward the smoke.

It took them a half an hour before a settlement came into view.  It was a squat ranch house.  A wide fence wrapped around the property for several acres, and Sam spotted at least a dozen horses galloping around and grazing inside.  A few of them had foals on stilted legs at their sides.  A stable that was larger than the house sat toward the back of the property.

As they got closer, Sam saw the sign on the arch above the entrance gate read, Banes Ranch.

Before they could even clear the gate, the door to the house burst open.  A young man, probably just a few years shy of Sam, stomped out onto the porch, the butt of a rifle resting as a warning on his shoulder.

Sam yanked the reins, jerking Bones to a stop.  Cas stopped, too, and Chevy rushed on for a few more paces before slowing to a canter.  She turned as if to show the man the rider on her back.

The man tilted his face away from the rifle and assessed them.  His light eyes lingered on Dean momentarily before he shouted, “Who are you?”

“My name’s Sam,” Sam called back, placing a hand on his chest to indicate himself.  “We have an injured man.  We need help.  Please, we have nowhere else to go.”

Before the man could answer, a woman who looked to be the same age barreled through the door.  She skidded to a halt on the porch, her long skirt twisting around her legs.  Her eyes widened when she caught sight of Dean.

Sam saw her lips moving, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying.  Whatever it was, he was grateful, because the man lowered his rifle and rushed down the porch steps.  She followed after him.

“Let’s take him inside,” the man said.

Sam urged Bones forward until he was closer to the house.  Cas followed, and they both got to their feet as hurriedly as possible.  Ruby jumped off after Sam, but Sam was already next to Chevy.  The man helped him pull Dean off Chevy’s back.

“Thank you,” Sam said earnestly.  He hadn’t realized until that moment just how exhausted he was.  The last few days especially were beginning to take their toll.  But he wouldn’t be able to slow his heart until he knew Dean was safe.

The man took Dean’s feet and Sam held Dean up under his armpits.  Dean’s head was heavy against his chest.  He was nothing but deadweight.  They carried him toward the house.

In the meantime, Cas had passed Jack along to Ruby.  He hastened forward to walk in stride with them.  “He’s been shot,” he told their host.  “I’m a surgeon.  I need a place to remove the bullet.  Do you have any morphine?  Or cannabis?”

“Uh, yeah, I think,” the man said, a touch overwhelmed himself.  It seemed to be more empathy than anything else.  Sam considered how lucky they were to have stumbled upon such people.  As they ascended the porch steps, the man called over his shoulder, “Alicia, take care of their horses, alright?”

“Yeah, got it!” the girl, Alicia, called back.

Cas fell back to allow Sam and the man to clear the doorway.  He followed quickly on their heels, Ruby and the baby in tow.  Inside the house, another woman, older than the two others, stood in the kitchen.  There was a doorway leading to a back room at the far end of the house.  Near the kitchen, a paisley patterned curtain hung by a rope stretching from one side of the room to the other.  There was a single bed on its other side.

The woman came forward, directing them toward the bed.  “Set him down there,” she told them, holding the curtain back to grant them access.  Sam and the man went through and placed Dean down gently on the bed.  Dean was limp atop the coverlet.  The man stepped back, allowing for Cas to come through.

Looking down at Dean’s face, Sam thought back to Jo—and to Kelly.  They’d both lost too much blood.  Their skin had been just as colorless.

Cas checked Dean’s pulse again.  Under his breath, he hissed, “Damn it.”

Sam’s heart seized, fearing the worst.  He wanted to ask, but he didn’t want to know the answer to his question.

“His pulse is weakened.  I need to get the bullet out,” Cas said.  Sam’s sigh was only fractionally relieved.  Cas looked over his shoulder at their hosts.  “What supplies do you have?”

“Pretty sure we have some morphine,” the man said.  “And, uh—bandages.”

Cas straightened out and shrugged out of his duster.  “Bring them to me.  And I’ll need water—and knives, as small as you can find.”

The man nodded.  “Mom, get the medicine,” he said.  The woman disappeared around the curtain.  “I’ll get the knives.  And—uh, you—Sam?”  He was looking down at Sam, still kneeling over Dean.

Sam gave him his attention.

“The well’s outside the stable.”

“Got it,” Sam said, grateful for something to do.  He couldn’t just stand around while Dean was dying.  Briefly, he shared a look at Cas.  Cas barely paused in rolling up his sleeves to look back.

Sam nodded stiffly to him before he followed their host to the other side of the curtain.  As they walked, he said, “I don’t know how to thank you—uh?”

“Max,” the man told him.

“Max,” Sam repeated.  He didn’t know what else to say.  “Thank you.”

The two of them parted.  Max went to the kitchen on the other side of the house.  Sam sprinted out the door.

Chapter Text

September 1878
Lawrence, Kansas

Wild.

That’s what Hannah had called it.  She’d said the west was wild.  Castiel had gently reminded his sister that eastern Kansas could hardly be considered the frontier.  Still, she hadn’t been happy, and neither had their parents when Castiel told them upon his graduation from Lind Medical College that he was moving out of Chicago.  Out of Illinois altogether.  That he was going west to find work.

Wild.

Although Castiel had to admit, upon leaving the train depot and walking down Lawrence’s main street, there wasn’t much danger to write home about.  It seemed like a quiet small town on the cattle drovers’ trail, and not a very lively one at that.  It was much different than the bustling city streets he was used to.

But, according to an advertisement in the paper, the town’s previous doctor had passed away from consumption, and they were in need of someone to fill his spot.  Castiel only hoped he’d gotten there before anyone else had set up shop—especially a more seasoned doctor or a traveling business looking for a home base and willing to charge next to nothing for it.  He didn’t need the competition.

Suitcase still in hand, he peered around for the hotel that the train conductor at the depot had pointed him toward.  He spotted it a little ways down the street, on the other side of the passing buckboards and horses.  He stepped out onto the road, his thoughts consumed by a warm bath and a bed.

Perhaps that was why he hadn’t seen the stagecoach coming down the street.

It’d nearly plowed him over before his boot even hit the dirt when he stepped off the boardwalk.  Two large, muscled horses were pulling the black coach, which carried two men in the driver’s box.  One was immeasurably tall, long hair poking out of his hat.  The other had freckles that stood out in the late morning sun.  Neither man seemed to notice him standing there.

Castiel gave the appropriate city-dweller response to the situation.  He glared indignantly up at the driver, who still hadn’t spotted him.

“Sam, you good to take in the crate?  I’m gonna go return this to the stage house,” the driver said to the man next to him as he adjusted the reins in his hands.  His voice was as rough as gravel.

The shotgun, Sam apparently, shot the driver a look.  “C’mon, seriously.  Still?  When are you gonna do some of the heavy lifting?”

“When you’re not a rookie.  Hop to it.”

Sam stood up, stretching his legs.  He couldn’t have been older than eighteen but he was so tall that his shoulders blocked out the light of the sun and Castiel had to wince up at him.  It was right about then that Sam spotted him on the other side of the horses.

“Oh.  Mister?  Can we help you?”

Castiel blinked up at him.  Usually, when he glared at a driver in Chicago, they glared back.  They usually didn’t ask if Castiel required assistance.

He stood there dumbly.  “What?”

The driver had leaned over to get a better look, the movement attracting Castiel’s attention.  His eyes were stark green when their gazes met—greener than the fields the train had cut through on its way into Kansas.  Greener than Castiel had ever seen.

“You deaf?” the driver asked uncouthly.

Castiel tilted his head to the side at the question.  He tore his eyes away from the man, and then looked around to the building behind him.  He hadn’t even noticed he’d been standing in front of the bank.

“No,” he said, regarding the two men again.  “I’m a doctor.”

The driver smirked lopsidedly.  “What, a doctor can’t be deaf?”

Castiel opened his mouth but realized he had no answer.

Luckily, Sam saved him from having to respond by jumping down off the stage, the dust from the road puffing as his boots thumped it.  “You’re the new town doctor?” he asked as he walked around the horses.

Castiel shrugged.  “I’m hoping to be.”  He shook the hand Sam offered him.  “Castiel Novak.”

“Welcome to Lawrence,” Sam said.  “I’m Sam Winchester.  That’s my brother, Dean.”

Castiel nodded at him, not sure what to say next.  He was never very good with new people—which was perhaps a detriment to his profession, especially in a new town.  “Hello,” he told Sam before turning his eyes to the other brother.  “Hello, Dean.”

Dean gave a wave.  “Howdy.”

There was an awkward pause then, and Castiel wondered how he could extract himself from the situation.  Before him, Sam’s smile flickered and his hands went into the back pockets of his trousers, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them.

It was Dean who said, “Well, uh.  We’ll leave you to check out your new office, Doc.”

Castiel’s pulse leaped as he realized he wasn’t too sure where that was—or if it was still vacant.  He wondered if he ought to go into the bank and find out from whom he could rent the office.  That wasn’t something they taught him in school.

Maybe Hannah was right.  Maybe he should have stayed in Chicago where things were familiar.

“I, um—I don’t know where it is,” he admitted.  “I’ve—I just arrived in town.”

Both brothers’ eyes lit up, and Castiel didn’t know if they were taking pity on him.  But Sam said, “Hey, no worries.  Uh—Dean can show you where it is.”

Dean let out a sound of protest.  “Me?”

Sam shot him a look.  “Yeah.  I have to bring the crates in to Bobby, remember?  Boss?”

Well, they were certainly brothers.

Dean rolled his eyes.  “Fine.  I’ll show ya.”

Sam turned back to Castiel.  “Well, it was nice meeting you.  Guess I’ll see you around—uh, hopefully not too much,” he joked.

Castiel tried to give him a tight smile and a nod.  He watched as Sam went around to the carriage and began unloading it.  He was grateful he’d run into the Winchesters, the fact that they had almost run into him aside.

In fact, apart from reckless driving, this town didn’t seem so wild at all.  If the Winchesters were any indication, the people were generally kind.

Castiel walked toward the driver’s side and looked up at Dean.  As it started to get too weighty, he shifted his suitcase in front of him to hold it with both hands.  He wondered if he should check into the hotel first to put his luggage down, but he didn’t want to make Dean wait for him.  “Is the office far?”

Dean leaned over, resting his arm on his knee while he grinned down at Castiel.  The bright yellow sun backlit him.  He was handsome, in a dirty and unkempt kind of way.

“Just down the street,” Dean answered.  “Why don’t you hop up and we’ll get going?  Castiel, right?”

Castiel looked warily at the box.  He’d been inside a stage’s carriage before, but never up top.  He didn’t know how safe it was.  Still, he nodded.  “Yes,” he said and walked around to the other side.  As he moved in front of it, the young black mare pulling the stage snorted and stuck out her snout in his direction.  It startled him slightly, but it seemed a friendly enough gesture.  Castiel tried to return it by running his hand down her nose.

Dean watched the quick exchange.  Castiel could feel his eyes following him as he continued around to the other side of the stage.  He slid his luggage up first and then climbed—embarrassingly ungracefully—up into the shotgun seat.

By that time, Sam had finished unloading the crates, so Dean clicked his tongue to set the horses into motion.  The mare seemed to respond first and the other followed her lead.  The stage lurched smoothly as they started down the street.

“So, Doc,” Dean said conversationally, and Castiel couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were on the road now, looking out for pedestrians.  He only knew that because, as he then realized, his gaze was studying Dean’s profile.  He tore it away when Dean continued, “Where’re you coming from?”

Castiel idly watched the people on the street, as well as the buildings they passed so he could get a better idea of where everything was in this town.  “Chicago.”

Dean whistled.  “Fancy.”

“If you insist.”

“What makes a city boy move all the way to the middle of nowhere?”

Castiel shrugged.  “I wouldn’t call this the middle of nowhere.  You have a college, after all.”  Dean didn’t seem to have an argument for that, but he was still expecting an answer.  That was evident on his face—which Castiel was again studying.  He looked forward and answered, “Lawrence is in need of a doctor.  Or, at least, you were the last I checked.”

Dean pulled a frown.  “Yeah, I heard what happened to the last one.  Poor bastard—uh.  Or, y’know.  May the Lord keep him.”  Castiel snorted in a laugh, and Dean seemed rather surprised by that.  Which was fair because it had surprised Castiel, too.  Blinking himself right, Dean said, “Well, far as I know, no one else has beaten you here—so you might be sticking around.”

Castiel was relieved to hear it.

Dean looked at him sidelong, grinning again.  “If you think you can stick around, city boy.”

Castiel set his shoulders, trying not to be offended, but he feared Dean was right.  He hadn’t been in Lawrence for more than an hour and, already, he was wondering whether or not he should catch the next train home.

Not long after, they were pulling up to the building with the doctor’s office.  From the outside, the office looked small, just a single room that probably should have been a storefront instead of a medical establishment.  The decal on the window read, Dr. Ezekiel Eden, physician and surgeon.

Castiel wondered who he should talk to about getting his name on the door.  He looked back at Dean, meaning to thank him.  He didn’t expect to find the man hopping off the stage and onto the boardwalk.  Nor did he expect Dean to push through the door into the office.

He stuck his head back out and waved Castiel in.  “Looks pretty empty to me.  C’mon in.  What are you waiting for?”

Not knowing how else to respond, Castiel climbed off the stage, grabbed his suitcase, and followed Dean inside.

The office was rather sparse.  It looked like whoever owned the building had removed all the surgical tools and medicines so no one would attempt to break in.  The only things left inside were the tall apothecary hutch and the surgery table that was stained dark with blood.

“Home sweet home,” Dean said, folding his arms across his chest as he glanced around.  There was a door leading to another room in the back.  Castiel wondered if the former doctor had actually lived in the office.

“Speaking of,” Dean continued, attracting Castiel’s attention.  “You got anywhere to put that suitcase down or is it a permanent accessory?”

Castiel looked down at the luggage in his hand.  “Oh,” he said, lifting one shoulder.  “I expect I’ll stay at the hotel until I can find somewhere to live.”

Dean let out a disgusted sound.  “That mouse-infested hellhole?”

Castiel blinked.  No one had told him anything about mice.

Dean parked his hip against the apothecary and shrugged.  “I might know of a place up for rent.”

Castiel let out a breath.  “Are you the town’s welcoming committee?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean joked.  “Sorry, I forgot my sash at home.”

Castiel bit back a smile at that.  He looked Dean up and down, wondering what he might look like cleaned up.  Wondering if the trail dust and unshaved stubble hid or exacerbated his handsomeness.

“’Course, you could come with me and I can show it to you.”

Castiel’s eyes widened instantly, his pulse stuttering and then hammering.  Perhaps the west was wilder than he thought.

“I—”

Dean jumped, apparently realizing what he’d insinuated.  “For the rental!” he corrected in a rush.  “The, uh—.”  He rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes downcast.  A blush was reddening his ears.  “My mom’s been looking for a tenant for the stable house.  It’s, uh—nice.  A couple miles outside town.  Ten dollars a month.  You—you can come check it out.  If you’re interested.”

Castiel settled slightly.  His pulse was still irregular.  “Of course,” he said.  Dean’s offer processed in his mind.  He supposed he didn’t have any other prospects—and, he wasn’t entirely versed in small town real estate, but ten dollars seemed cheap compared to where he was coming from.

“I’d like that,” he said.  Then corrected, “To . . . check it out.”

The smile that lit Dean’s face was, no matter how Castiel tried to fight it, breathtaking.  His eyes sparkled with it.

“Well, all right,” he said, happiness licking his tone.  “Why don’t we get this place sorted first, and then we’ll head home?”  Castiel offered him a close-mouthed smile and nodded before Dean turned toward the door.  Dean held up a finger, adding, “But be careful.  The Talbots own this building—hell, they’re startin’ to own everything, seems like.  Might not be as fair with the rent, since you’re looking to start a practice.”

Castiel followed him back outside to the stage.  Behind him, he closed the door to his office.  “Well, then, I’ll just have to convince them that this town needs a doctor more than I need an office.”

Dean looked around at him, eyebrows arched, impressed.  He pulled down the corners of his mouth in an approving smile.  “You know what, Doc?  I’m startin’ to think you might stick it out here, after all.”

Castiel felt something proud and fond bloom in his chest as Dean climbed back up onto the stage.

He thought, maybe, he could use a little wild.

1887

It was late morning when Sam peeked in through the curtain to check up on Dean.  Dean was still asleep, laid out beneath the covers in Tasha Banes’ single bed, the white light of the sun rays streaming through the window beside him and bathing his cheeks.

Color had returned to his complexion and his skin had lost its waxy sheen.  A bandage was circling his neck and dressed down from his shoulder to wrap beneath his opposite arm.  A small red stain bled through the bandage where Cas had stitched up the wound.

Sam took in a deep breath, attempting to clear his head.  He knew Dean was on the mend.  He knew, given a few days of rest, his brother would be fine.  He also knew he wouldn’t be able to exhale until Dean woke up.

The room still smelled of metallic blood.

Sam’s eyes flickered away from Dean, to where Cas was slumped in a wooden chair next to the bed.  He was asleep, his head bowed and chin tucked into his chest.  His arm was resting on the bed, stretched out atop the blanket, palm upturned and fingers curled.  It was mere inches from where Dean’s hand was resting, palm down, fingers splayed as if reaching for Cas’.

Jack was in the room, too.  Tasha had emptied out the top drawer of her dresser so they could use it as a makeshift crib.  She’d swaddled Jack in fresh blankets in order to wash and dry the dirty ones they’d been using before.  The baby wasn’t making a fuss, so Sam figured he was probably asleep, too.

Sam wished he could do the same.  His limbs were heavy with exhaustion and his head pounded behind aching eyes.  But he was too antsy to sleep.  He’d rest once he knew Dean was awake.

Deciding not to disturb the three of them, he quietly walked out of the house.  The prairie cast a blinding glare in the heat of the sun, and for miles, all Sam could see was green grass and a cloudless blue sky.  Some horses were cantering inside the fence, their foals trotting in an attempt to keep up.

“Hey.”

Sam’s heart jumped slightly at the sound of Max’s voice.  He hadn’t seen him there, sitting on a chair on the porch, shielding himself from the brunt of the day’s heat.

“Hey,” Sam told him, settling.  He liked Max.  He liked all the Baneses.  He’d sat them down earlier and told them their story, and the family believed him.  They even offered shelter for as long as Dean needed to heal.  Tasha had gone into town, ten miles away, to pick them up fresh clothes and supplies so they didn’t have to risk being seen.  Sam was grateful.  He knew Dean would be, too.

He walked to the chair next to Max and plopped down in it, sighing from how good it felt to no longer be on his feet.  He took off his hat, the slight breeze a balm for his overheated scalp.

“How’s he doing?” Max asked, gesturing back toward the house.

Sam nodded, trying to show more confidence than he felt.  “Good.  Sleeping.”

Max hummed and squinted back out at the horses.  Their hooves pounded on the dirt.

“Thanks again,” Sam said, not knowing how else to fill the silence.  No matter how many times he said it, it didn’t feel like enough.

Snorting, Max joked, “Yeah, well, it’s impolite to turn away helpless white folks.  Especially the handsome ones.”

Sam let out a breath of laughter, directing it down at his lap.  He looked up, taking in their surroundings.  There wasn’t another settlement for miles.  He privately wondered how many acres the Baneses owned and how they came upon it.  He supposed, in the Unassigned Lands, it was enough to stake the land and call it your own.

“Why are you so far away from everything, anyway?” he asked, mostly to get his mind off his own troubles.  “I’m guessing that’s not great for business.”

“You’d be surprised how far people travel for a decent horse.  We have a reputation,” Max said proudly, but it wasn’t an answer.  He shrugged.  “Ma likes to keep her distance from people.  She . . . well.”  He stared off again, choosing his words.  “Our father was a soldier stationed in Georgia to keep the peace during Reconstruction.  That’s where he met Ma.  He was white.  I’m sure you can guess how the story goes.”

Sam nodded, giving Max his attention.

“The two of them fled, settled out here.  A few months later, me and Alicia were born.”

“And where’s your father now?” Sam asked.

“Been buried under the oak tree for the last twenty years,” was the answer.

Sam’s eyes snapped to Max in surprise and then softened to offer his condolences.  “I’m sorry.”

Max nodded, taking it in stride.  Before Sam could say anything else, there were footsteps on the dirt.  They both looked over to find Alicia, wiping the sweat off her brow with her sleeve, walking toward them.  Her boots clunked on the wood as she stepped onto the porch.  Sam stood up politely.

“Hey,” she greeted, resting her hands on her hips.  “Just got finished feeding your horses.”

Sam pushed a grateful expression.  “How are they?”

“Tired as hell,” she answered.  “But fine.  Your girl’s still in there with them.  Said she wanted to brush them.”

Sam’s smile turned more genuine, and the heat of the day became more of a comfortable warmth at the thought of Ruby.  He should check up on her, too.  She’d been through a lot—being kidnapped and used as a bargaining tool, and then having to run off with the three of them.  She’d likely never anticipated any of this, and that was Sam’s fault.  Still, he was happy she was there.  He was even happier hearing her being referred to as his girl.

“Thanks.  Really,” he told Alicia.  He’d been saying that so much, he feared it was beginning to sound disingenuous.  He looked between the twins, trying to make up a reason to excuse himself.  “I’m just gonna . . . uh.”

Max dismissed it with a wave.  Alicia chuckled, “Do what you gotta do, dude.”

He tried not to blush at that before putting his hat back on and hustling down the porch steps.  He winced in the sunlight on his way around the house.  The stable wasn’t far, and when he walked to it, he saw a sturdy oak tree in the near distance.  Sam eyed it for a moment, offering his respects to the man buried there, and continued through the stable’s doors.

A few horses were in their stalls on either side of the stable, and the stinging scent of hay and filth tickled Sam’s nose the moment he stepped inside.  Flies buzzed around irritably, causing some of the horses to snort and whip their tails around.  One flew around Sam’s head, and he swatted it away.

“C’mon, girl!” he heard Ruby complain from the back of the stable.  She was holding her palms up in surrender, one hand clasping a thick brush, as she tried to wrangle Chevy.  The horse was dodging her every attempt, flickering her mane and stepping backward each time Ruby got close.  Bones and Lincoln were in two nearby stalls, their noses sticking out as they idly looked on.

Ruby let out a frustrated sound when Chevy snorted at her.  Sam rushed up, wanting to settle the horse before she bucked.  “Whoa, easy,” he said, coming up behind Ruby and holding out his hands.

Chevy shook her head again before bowing it slightly.  Sam offered her a smile and reached forward to stroke her neck.  “Easy,” he whispered again.

Ruby gave a huff.  “Well, she definitely likes you a hell of a lot more than she likes me.”

Sam laughed lightly, looking over his shoulder at her.  She was tense, but he didn’t know if that was from Chevy or from the events of the day.  “Nah, she just takes a minute to get used to new people.”

Ruby’s shoulders eased somewhat at that.  He was glad he’d made her feel better.  Quickly, he turned back to Chevy and led her into the open stall.  Her hair was still matted, but he doubted she’d let Ruby brush her just yet.

“Here, come here,” he said to Ruby as he locked the stall.  She eyed him warily, unmoving.  He laughed and motioned her over.  “Come on.”  Reluctantly, she came over.  He reached down and pulled out some straw from the stack between the stalls.  Holding out his hand, he offered it to Ruby.

“Oh, Sam, I don’t know—,” she protested, backing up.

“Hey, just—trust me.”  He gave her beseeching eyes.  She paused, obviously deciding whether or not to follow along.  After a moment, she nodded and came forward again, taking the hay.

Relieved, Sam ran his hand down Chevy’s mane, trying to calm her.  Ruby winced slightly and held out her palm to the horse’s snout.  Chevy sniffed the straw unsurely but eventually started eating.  Ruby let out a relieved breath.

“See?  She likes you already,” Sam assured.

Ruby snorted sardonically.  “Doubt it.  She’s probably just hungry.”

Sam shrugged, not really able to argue.  He kept soothing Chevy, but his gaze was on Ruby.  The lines of her body were still held rigidly, showing her stress.  He asked, “So, uh—how are you doing?  With—you know, everything?”

Her mouth formed a thin line.  “Fine,” she said, then rolled her eyes and deflected, “probably better than Dean.”

Sam nodded.  He didn’t want to worry about Dean right now.  He was too worried about her.  “Yeah, but . . . you’ve been through a lot, too.”

He watched her swallow, her eyes on Chevy.  She seemed to be deep in thought.  He waited patiently, trying not to rush her.  After a long moment, she said, “Sam?”  Her voice was weighted and low.

Sam knitted his brows together, not understanding.  There were tears in her eyes.  “Hey, hey.  What is it?” he coaxed, turning fully toward her now.

The hay finished, she let her arm drop.  She looked down at her boots.  “This is all my fault.”

He stepped in and put his hands on her shoulders, turning her small frame toward him.  She moved easily, but her eyes were still downcast.  “What are you talking about, Ruby?”

He heard her sniffle.  “It is—I’m—Sam, there are things you don’t know,” she said.  “About me.”

Sam felt his heart rate kick up a notch.  His first instinct was to deny it.  “Ruby—”

“I’m not who I said I was,” she blurted out, like she could no longer hold it in.  “I mean, I am . . . Mostly everything I told you was true.  But, Sam . . .” Finally, she looked up at him.  There was something guilty in her eyes.  “Lucifer . . . I’m part of his gang.”

Sam went cold.  He stood still, letting her words process.

No.  No, that couldn’t be true . . .

His hands on her shoulders tensed into fists.  He pulled away, taking a few steps back.  “What?” he heard himself say through his teeth.

Ruby visibly tried to swallow down her emotion.  “Sam, I—Lucifer sent me to trick you, to get the baby.”  Some of her tears rolled down her cheeks.  “I didn’t have a choice, Sam.  I’m sorry.”

He shook his head quickly, wide eyes unblinking.  A pressure was building behind them.  Something twisted in his chest—anger and sadness warring for dominance.

Ruby shook her head, trying to collect herself.  “But then I met you and—talked to you.  And I couldn’t do it, Sam.  I swear, I tried to help you.  I tried to help you escape—but then Lucifer found me.  He said he’d kill me if I didn’t tell him how to find you.”  She took in a sharp breath through her tears.  “Sam, I’m so sorry.”

Sam tensed his jaw, not knowing what to believe.  Was all of it a lie?  Was she lying to him before, or was she lying to him now?  He couldn’t trust her.

He turned, not wanting her to see the emotion on his face.  He ran his hand down his mouth, doing his best to contain himself.  He nodded, not knowing what else to do.  As steadily as he could, he said, “You were just pretending.  This whole time, it was all about getting to Jack.”

“No,” he heard Ruby say behind him, her voice desperate.  “It was at first.  But then I got to know you—”

Bull.  She was lying again.  He rounded on her, his anger winning out.  “My brother almost died!” he roared, throwing out his arm to indicate the general direction of the house.

“I know,” she sobbed.  “Sam, I know.”

“You know?” he yelled, disgusted.  He couldn’t even look at her.  He never wanted to see her again.  “What the hell are you even still doing here, Ruby?”

She pulled in a shuddering breath.  A little steadier, she managed to say, “Because of you, Sam.  Don’t you get it?”

He shook his head.  “I don’t believe you.”  He could feel his chest cracking open.  Part of him wanted to console her, to wrap his arms around her until she stopped crying.

“It’s true,” she asserted.  “You don’t know what it’s like.  Lucifer stole me away from my home, my parents, when I was a kid!  He’s all I’ve ever known but . . . Sam, I hate him.  You don’t know what kinds of things he’s made me do, the things I’ve had to do to survive—”

Before he made the conscious decision to do so, he grabbed her shoulders again and whirled her around, slamming her back into the low wall between the stalls.  Chevy snorted and hooved at the dirt, but Sam barely heard her.  His eyes were boring into Ruby.  She looked afraid, and heartbroken, and pleading for forgiveness.

She looked like she was telling him the truth.

Despite his best efforts, Sam felt his will weakening.

“Sam,” she whispered.  He looked down between them.  Then, he ripped himself away.  She stayed pressed against the stall.  “I know you have no reason to believe me,” she said slowly, “but I’m telling the truth.  I don’t want to go back to Lucifer.”

“So, don’t,” he said, trying to sound harsh.  “But you can’t stay here.”

“I have nowhere else to go,” she said.  Swallowing, she asked, “Sam, please.  Let me stay with you.”

He scoffed.

“I know,” she said a little more forcefully.  “But I want to stay with you.  Sam, I . . . have feelings for you.”

His eyes snapped back up to her, hope blooming inside of him no matter how much he tried to stop it.  Maybe she was telling the truth . . .

“Please, don’t make me go back.”

He looked at her, really looked.  He didn’t know what to think, but he so badly wanted to trust her.  It would be so easy to let himself believe her.

She picked herself off the wall and held out her hand between them.  “Please, Sam.  Let me prove it to you.”  She stepped forward, placing her hand lightly on his chest.  He told himself it’d be better if he moved away.  When he didn’t, her touch became firmer.  She reached up with her other hand and wrapped it around the back of his skull.

He stared down into her eyes.  It would be for the best if he sent her away—but what if she was telling the truth?  What if they could escape Lucifer together?  What if they could one day leave all this behind?  What if they could be happy?

“Sam,” she begged softly.

He let himself believe her.  He leaned down quickly, their lips meeting.  The kiss was deep and eager.  She kissed back just as heatedly, her tongue sliding against his.  His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her in closer.  She reached up, her fingers twisting in the hair at the base of his neck.  He barely noticed when his hat fell off and landed on the hay.

Still kissing, he pressed her back against the stall.  Her grip on him tightened, making him lean down further into her.  His hands roamed her hips.

Vaguely, he heard Chevy give another snort.  But he was more tuned into the sounds Ruby was giving off . . .

Castiel barely left Dean’s bedside all day.  When Tasha returned from town around lunchtime, she managed to wrangle him away long enough to change into the new clothes she’d purchased.  They were a little loose, but they fit just fine.  When she tried to hand back the rest of the money she hadn’t used for supplies, he asked her to keep it.  She shook her head politely, telling him she wasn’t helping them because she expected payment.

Then, she made him eat some bread and honey for lunch.  He didn’t have much of an appetite, but he felt guilty saying no.  He felt guiltier when she insisted on feeding Jack so he could rest.

He was reluctant to let anyone else hold Jack, especially after the previous night, but he trusted Tasha and her children.  Besides, if they were planning on kidnapping the baby, he supposed there weren’t many places they could run.  There was nothing but grassland for miles.

Shortly after he finished eating, Sam, Ruby, and the twins came in for lunch.  They crowded around the table, chatting and munching on the bread.  Sam appeared more relaxed than Castiel had seen him in days, and he caught him sharing soft looks and gentle smiles with Ruby as they ate.  He didn’t think much of it.  He was just glad Sam wasn’t worried for Dean anymore.

Castiel was probably worried enough for the both of them, anyway—which was silly, he knew.  Dean was healing.  He’d be back on his feet in a day or two.  But he couldn’t shake the fact that, if Dean had died, Castiel would never have the chance to forgive him for being so quick to hand Jack over to Lucifer.

He understood the reasoning.  Sam had been threatened.  Dean would never allow Sam to get hurt.  But it was more than that.  Dean had been eager to get rid of Jack from the day he was born.  He hadn’t even considered Castiel’s feelings on the matter.

In truth, Castiel didn’t know if he ever could forgive him.

He excused himself from the table, leaving the others behind as Max’s laughter followed him to the other side of the curtain.  Dean was still asleep.  His bandages would need to be changed before nightfall, and Castiel would have to fashion a sling for his arm to take the weight off his shoulder.

He sat down heavily in the chair, letting out a breath.  He leaned forward and rubbed at his eyes, the red tinge of the sun behind his eyelids swirling.  He thought he might fall asleep again if he let himself relax.

“Cas?”

Castiel’s heart skipped.  He tore his hands away from his face, blinking away the vignette of darkness fading from the edges of his vision.  Dean was looking back at him, his green eyes owlish while they took in his surroundings.  Suddenly, every bit of animosity between them melted away, if only for a moment.  Castiel had never been more grateful in his life.

Dean sluggishly lifted himself up to his elbows, and the gritty, pained sound that came through his teeth knocked Castiel back into the moment.

Castiel closed his mouth and jumped out of the chair, landing on the edge of the bed.  “Dean?” he said, hardly able to believe it.  Without looking away from him, he called, “Sam!”

“What happened?” Dean said, allowing Castiel to help him into a sitting position.  His skin wasn’t cold to the touch anymore.  Castiel inspected him, ensuring that the color had returned fully to his cheeks and that the blood on his bandage wasn’t thickening.  He was fine.

“You collapsed.  You lost a few pints of blood, but I managed to stop it once I got the bullet out,” Castiel told him over the sound of chairs scraping and rushing footsteps.  “How are you feeling?”

Dean had been looking around, but his eyes snapped back to Castiel.  He seemed unsure of the answer himself.  Head swaying, his vision likely swimming, he appeared to be orienting himself.  He opened his mouth to answer, but then the curtain was yanked back.

Sam stood there, expression pinched with fear.  But then his gaze landed on Dean and the lines of his face evened out.  His eyes came alight.  “Dean!” he called, rushing in.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered, voice choked, as Sam practically fell to his knees next to the bed.  Sam’s grin stretched ear to ear.

Dean scanned his face.  “How are you?”

“How am I?” Sam laughed thickly.  “How the hell are you?”

Castiel glanced back to the curtain.  Ruby and the Baneses were hovering there, Jack still in Tasha’s arms.

“Fine,” Dean answered decisively, and wet his cracked lips.  He must have noticed the crowd that had formed because he suddenly seemed a little sheepish.  His shirt was still off, the bandage the only thing on his chest.  The amulets of his necklace sat against the white of the dressing.  The blankets were pooling on his lap.  “Where are we?”

“Oh, uh—,” Sam said, briefly glancing over his shoulder.  “Dean, this is Tasha, Max, and Alicia Banes.  They took us in so we could get you fixed up.”

Dean offered them a guarded, mannerly smile.  “Thanks,” he said gruffly.

“Yeah, no problem,” Max said politely while his mother and sister nodded.  “Proud to know you.”

“We’ll give you all some space,” Tasha said then, pointedly looking at her kids before turning away and heading for the kitchen.  The two of them followed her.  Ruby lingered for a moment until Sam shot her a nod.  She turned away to follow the others.

When the three of them were alone, Castiel refocused on Dean.  Perhaps, without an audience, he’d speak more freely.  “Really, Dean, how are you feeling?”

He hadn’t expected Dean’s reaction.  “I said, I’m fine,” he barked, expression frigid and shuttered.  He didn’t even look at him.

Castiel blinked, trying to right himself.  Immediately, his happiness was torn away.  He leaned back slightly without fully realizing he’d done so.

If Sam had noticed, he didn’t comment on it.  He said, “We were really worried for a second there, Dean.”

Dean dismissed it with a huff, but his demeanor was much less hostile toward his brother.  “How long was I out?”

“All morning,” Sam told him quickly.  Then, attentively, he offered, “Do you need anything?  Water?  Are you hungry?”

Dean shook his head.  “I’m fine, Sammy.  Just tired.  Don’t worry.”

Castiel barely heard any of it.  He was searching Dean’s profile.  His ears rang.

Suddenly, Ruby reappeared.  She beat back the curtain on her way inside.  Her expression was stony, full of concern.  All three of them looked at her in question.

“We have a problem,” she said.  The words dropped like a stone in Castiel’s stomach.  Her eyes flashed to the window over the dresser.

Both Castiel and Sam leaped up and rushed to the window.  At first, all Castiel saw was a dust cloud in the near distance.  He squinted, getting a better look at the riders.  Something cold stole over him, thinking it could be Lucifer.  But then Sam said, “Henriksen.”

In some ways, that was even worse.  Castiel steeled his jaw.  “How did he find us?”

“We don’t know he did,” Sam said.  “This is the only homestead for miles.  He could still be looking.”  With any hope, Sam was right.

“What’s going on?” Dean demanded from the bed.

Before they could answer, the Baneses emerged from the other room.  “Who is it?” Alicia asked.

“The U.S. Marshal that's after us,” Sam told her.

“Henriksen?” Dean said, blanching.  “Oh, you gotta be shitting me.”

“We have to go,” Castiel said.  He had no idea how they’d slip away without Henriksen and his men seeing them, especially with Dean in such a condition.  Perhaps not all of them had to run.  Maybe he could ride out alone.  He could draw the Marshal’s attention while the rest of them fled with Jack.

“No,” Tasha said, interrupting his thoughts.  “You have to hide.”

Castiel pinched his brow together.  “Where?”

Tasha and the twins shared a look, and Max and Alicia crossed back to the kitchen.  Castiel saw them moving the table and chairs quickly to the side.  Alicia lifted the rug that had been laid out beneath them.  The two of them lifted up a hatch in the floorboards.

Meanwhile, Tasha went over to Castiel and handed him the baby.  “The three of you and the baby can hide under the floor,” she instructed.  “It’ll be a squeeze, but you’ll manage.  Let us take care of the rest.”

“Wait, what about me?” Dean called.

“You’re in no condition to move.  You stay where you are.  And pray.”  She flapped her arms, trying to get them to move.  “Quickly, come on!”

Sam and Dean gave each other a weighted look, a silent conversation passing between them before Sam rushed toward the kitchen with Ruby.  Castiel stayed behind momentarily, Jack squirming in his arms.  If he tried to take Jack with him, there was a possibility the baby could cry.  They couldn’t risk it.

“Jack should stay with Dean,” he decided, already leaning down to deposit the child into Dean’s lap.

“What?” Dean growled.  “What for?”

Castiel gritted his teeth.  They didn’t have time for this.  “He doesn’t cry when you hold him.”

Dean grunted, but he didn’t argue.  Castiel made sure Dean had a hold on the baby before reluctantly letting him go.  He hurried to the kitchen, where Sam was lowering himself into the floor.  Alicia and Max were holding up the hatch.  Behind him, Castiel heard Tasha tell Dean, “Lay down.  Don’t make a sound.”  The curtain whispered against the rope it hung from as she closed it.

Once Sam was beneath the floor, Castiel peered down into the hatch.  The compartment’s floor was dirt, and it certainly was a tight squeeze, especially for a man of Sam’s height.  Castiel wasn’t certain he could fit.  He considered hiding with Dean behind the curtain, but there was no time for an argument.

He lowered himself down, trying his best to lay flat on the dirt.  His legs had to bend at an awkward angle, causing a strain in his ankle.  His shoulder was pushed up against the compartment’s wall, his other side was flattened against Sam’s.

Max and Alicia closed the hatch with a clatter, Castiel reflexively blinking against the impact.  The floor was less than an inch from his nose, and it was suddenly almost impossible to breathe.  He heard shuffling overhead, and then the lines of light filtered through the floorboards were taken away as the rug was set back in place.  He heard the Baneses arranging the furniture over them.

Castiel counted to five, timing his breath with the seconds.  He pulled in musty air through his nose and let it out through his mouth.  Next to him, Sam moved around slightly in discomfort.  Castiel heard both him and Ruby breathing, and it sounded far too loud.

And then all sound abruptly stopped when he heard boots on the porch outside.  He swallowed hard.

“Yeah, and the guy said he wouldn’t go higher than twenty dollars, can you believe that?” he heard Max say loudly from above, as though he were in mid-conversation.  “I told him, there was no way we were selling our best mare’s offspring for less than a hundred and—”

There was a knock on the front door.

“Who could that be?” Tasha said.

Alicia’s voice came next: “I dunno.  Let’s find out.”

There were footsteps above, followed by the door creaking open halfway.  A little further away now, Alicia said, “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Afternoon, Miss,” came the unmistakable sound of Henriksen’s hurried voice.  “U.S. Marshal, Victor Henriksen,” he said, no doubt pulling aside his coat to reveal his star.  “This is Deputy Marshal Reidy.”

“Afternoon,” came another man’s voice.

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw Sam and Ruby lift their arms and join hands.  He wondered how Dean was doing.

“Alicia, sweetheart, who’s at the door?” Tasha called.  Castiel heard both her and Max stand up, their chairs moving audibly on the rug.  They walked to the door as Alicia answered, “Marshals.”

“Marshals?” Tasha echoed, doing an incredible job at feigning shock.  “Well, good afternoon, Marshals.  How can we help?”

“We’re looking for three fugitives who escaped custody in Wichita two nights ago,” Henriksen said.

“Wichita?”  That was Max.  “That’s a long way from here.”

“There aren’t too many places to hide out in these parts,” Victor said.  There was the sound of rustling paper.  And then, “Have you seen any of these men?  Dean and Sam Winchester and Castiel Novak.”

There was a slight, thoughtful pause.  Tasha said, “They don’t look familiar.  We don’t get many visitors.  Speaking of, where are my manners?  Why don’t you two come inside?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Henriksen said.  Castiel’s heart was pounding.  The door opened fully, and two sets of footfalls reverberated through the floor.  The Baneses led the marshals into the kitchen.  Tasha said, “We’ve just been sitting down for lunch.  Can I offer you gentlemen any bread?  I think we’ve got some cheese around here if you’d like.”

“No, thank you, ma’am.  We won’t be long,” Victor said as he pulled out a chair.  All of them sat around the table.  Castiel was glad to hear he didn’t have plans on staying long.  It was a small mercy.

“You’re sure no one’s stopped by, right?” Henriksen asked.  “Strangers, I mean.”

“Not that I’ve seen.  Kids?”

“No,” Alicia and Max both answered.

Henriksen seemed to accept the answer.  “Well, could be that they slipped onto your land without you realizing.  You mind if my men look around?”

“Not at all,” Tasha answered.

“Great.  Reidy, go ahead.”

“Yes, sir,” the Deputy answered.  Castiel listened to him get up from his chair and head out the door.  He glanced at Sam, sharing a worried look.  He prayed Henriksen and his men didn’t know what their horses looked like.

“You know what, ma’am?” Henriksen said when Reidy was gone.  “I think I will take some of that bread.”

“My pleasure,” Tasha answered, standing up.

There was a lull of silence, no doubt full of Victor sizing up the house.  Castiel panicked, wondering if all their belongings were behind the curtain.

“So,” Henriksen said, causing Castiel’s adrenaline to pulse.  “Have any of you been off the property recently?”

“Yeah, Ma went into town this morning,” Max supplied.

“You don’t say,” Henriksen responded.  “You see any strangers on your errand?”

Tasha let out a soft laugh.  “Marshal, this is No Man’s Land.  There are always new strangers coming and going.  But, no, sir, I didn’t see any of those three men—at least, I don’t think I did.  You want honey for the bread?”

“No.  Thank you,” Henriksen declined.  There was another pause.  Castiel really wished he knew what was happening.

“What’s behind that curtain over there?” Henriksen asked.  Castiel closed his eyes tightly, dread pooling in his chest.  This was it.  They were found out.

“That’s our mother’s sleeping quarters,” Max answered coolly.  “It’s a small house.  Me and Alicia have the bedroom, so—we make due.”

Victor hummed, and Castiel wondered if he’d ask to see the other rooms.  It would be impolite, asking to go into a woman’s sleeping quarters.  But he wouldn’t put it past Henriksen.

Another pause, and then Henriksen hummed in satisfaction.  “I’ll be damned—that’s delicious,” he said, mouth sounding full.

“My daughter baked it,” Tasha said.

“Great work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Alicia told him.

There were footsteps from outside again, followed by the door opening.  “Sir?” came Reidy’s voice.  “We’re clear.”

Castiel told himself not to sigh in relief, no matter how much he wanted to.  He didn’t want to be heard.

“Great,” Victor said again.  The chair hushed against the rug as he stood.  “Well, sir, ladies—thank you for your time,” he said.  “If you happen to see any of these men, make sure to report it to the town sheriff.  He’ll get word to me.”

“Of course,” Tasha said.  And then, “Marshal?  That wanted poster said those men were kidnappers . . .”

“Yeah,” Henriksen confirmed.  “They stole him from his mother the day he was born.”

Castiel rolled his eyes.

The Baneses let out small gasps.  “That’s awful!” Alicia explained.

“What kind of men would do such a thing?” Max said, and Castiel had to admit, it was a nice touch, but he wished they hadn’t kept Henriksen longer than need be.  He wanted this to be over.  The pain in his ankle was starting to throb, but he didn’t dare shift his position.

“Men I’m looking to find,” Henriksen answered.  Castiel very badly wanted to shout to him that he was after the wrong people.  He should be after Lucifer.

“Good luck,” Tasha said.  “Let me get you two another loaf for the road.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Henriksen told her.  There were more shuffling noises, and then footsteps headed for the door.  Castiel held his breath, telling himself not to make a sound.  They were so close.  He feared Jack would take that very moment to begin crying.

The door opened.  There were more footfalls.  The door closed.  Distantly, Castiel heard Victor’s voice carrying from outside.  Momentarily, the thunderous beat of horse hooves filled his ears.

He counted—to five—past five—all the way to seventy-five.

The table and chairs were pulled away.  The rug was lifted, letting in blinding stripes of light across Castiel’s face and chest.  The hatch opened, and Castiel blinked up at Max and Alicia.

Max grinned.  “Welcome back,” he said, leaning down to offer a hand.

Castiel grasped his wrist and allowed himself to be pulled up.  There was a kink that had formed in his neck, and he thought maybe his spine had been on a pebble.  But he was alive and free.

“Thank you,” he told their hosts.

Tasha nodded, mouth in a stern line.  “He shouldn’t come back here again.  You should be safe.”

Castiel nodded, not knowing how else to show his gratitude.  As Sam and Ruby were hauled out from under the floor, he paced back to the curtain and pulled it to the side.  Dean was still laying down, Jack asleep on his chest.  Castiel allowed himself to breathe.

“That was close,” Dean said, propping himself up on one elbow.

Castiel let out a strained breath.  He was just glad it was over.  He went to the bed and quickly scooped Jack up, holding him close to his chest.  Dean’s expression dropped; his eyes hardened.

Castiel told himself it didn’t matter right now.  He cradled Jack a little tighter.

The next morning, Dean was feeling a little better.  His shoulder still throbbed and a sharp pain shot up his neck and down his chest every time he moved.  At certain points, he still became somewhat lightheaded.  He was still exhausted.  But he decided he was feeling better.

He decided that for a few reasons.  The first was due to the Banes’ hospitality.  He felt awful using their bed and eating their food without being able to contribute.  When he offered his help with preparing dinner the night before, he was ganged up on and told to stay in bed.  He just hoped Sam was pulling his weight enough for the two of them.

Another reason was Henriksen’s appearance the day before.  It was unlikely he’d come back, but Dean didn’t want to take that chance.  It was better to move on.

And then there was Cas.

It was mid-morning, after breakfast, when Cas came in with a makeshift sling for Dean’s arm.  Dean tried to brush him off by reiterating that he was fine, but Cas had only huffed and manhandled him into a sitting position.

The rest of the house was quiet—empty.  Everyone was busy outside with their chores.

Cas’ fingers brushed against Dean’s bare skin as he worked on placing the sling, and Dean had never been so on edge.  He bit down hard on his jaw and looked off to distract himself, but his eyes were attracted to Jack snuggled up in the dresser’s top drawer.  It didn’t ease his mind any.

Besides, purposefully attempting to not think about Cas’ touch only served to make him hyper-aware of it.  He’d always found solace in Cas’ hands.  The two of them had never been very good with words—but there were times when Dean was convinced that Cas’ touch alone could cure him of all pain.  There was an unspoken understanding between them when they touched.

But now, Dean wasn’t so sure.  All he felt in the graze of Cas’ knuckles was a chill down his spine.

The curtain was pulled back again and Sam peeked his head through.  “Hey,” Sam said, seeming pleased to find Dean awake.

Cas glanced over from his place on the edge of the bed to acknowledge him.  Dean grunted in response, not really in the mood for much else.  Sam paced over to the dresser and smiled down at Jack, met in return with a blank stare, before grabbing the wooden chair next to the bed and sitting in it.

Meanwhile, Cas tugged on the sling’s knot to tie it tighter.  It pulled and pinched at Dean’s skin.  “Ow!” Dean complained.  “What, are you trying to restrain me?”

Cas shot him an irritated, withering look before pulling at it again—but then he seemed to be done.  He dropped his hands back to his lap.  Dean was relieved, and he was mad that he was relieved.  Cas’ touch used to comfort him.

He brought his attention to Sam, who seemed to be deriving humor from the situation.  Dean scowled.

“So,” Sam said in that way he did when he was trying to get down to business.  “I think we should talk about our next move.”

“I agree,” Cas said, and at least that was something all of them could agree on.

“What were you thinking?” Dean asked, even though he was pretty sure he and Sam were already on the same page now that they knew just how far Lucifer would go to get Jack.

“Well,” Sam said, gesturing over to Dean, “the Baneses said we’re welcome here as long as we need.  But, give or take a few days—once you’re able—I think we head south.”

Cas tilted his head to the side, perplexed.  “Of course,” he said slowly, as though trying to suss out Sam’s words.  “Why wouldn’t we?”

Sam’s eyes flickered over to Dean; Dean looked back.  They tried to decide which one of them was going to break the news.  In the end, Sam sighed and said, “Cas . . . I don’t mean to Texas.”

Maybe Cas had anticipated that.  He stood up at once.  “What are you saying?”

Dean was a damn idiot for hoping Cas would ever go along with that plan.  He guessed, when it came to Cas, he never learned.

Sam gave his best puppy dog eyes as he looked up at Cas.  Gently, he said, “I think we need to hold off—just for a little while.  Until things die down.”

“Until things die down?” Cas echoed flatly.  “When will that be?”

How the hell were they supposed to know?  “Cas,” Dean tried to warn.

Cas ignored him.  “The entire reason we’re here is to get Jack to Kelly’s parents.”

“No, I know,” Sam said, and his touch was way too light.  Cas needed it drilled into his skull.

“Yeah, well, some other shit came up, Cas,” Dean told him.  “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a U.S. Marshal on our ass.”

Cas turned to him sharply.  “Yes, and he suspects we’re in Oklahoma.  How is staying here better than going to Texas?”

“Because there’s less law here,” Dean reasoned.  “Texas has got more sheriffs, town marshals, federal marshals—you name it.  We’ll have an easier time dodging all that here.”

“What about Lucifer?  He’s found us before.  He could have people here and we won’t know until it’s too late.”

Dean gave a frustrated sound.  He was way too tired to deal with this.

“Actually,” Sam piped up.  “We may have a way of spotting them.”

Both Dean and Cas looked over.  Dean shook his head.  “How?”

For a second, it looked like Sam regretted his decision to speak.  He deflated with a breath and admitted, “Ruby.”

“Ruby?” Dean asked, not understanding.

“Yeah,” Sam answered slowly.  His gaze shifted to the floor.  “She, uh—she told me she used to be one of Lucifer’s gang.”

Dean froze, shocked.  Without even thinking, he shared a look with Cas.  Cas appeared equally as surprised—and equally concerned.

“Come again?” Dean challenged.

“Sam,” Cas said, his fists tightening at his sides.

Sam held up his palm to placate them.  “Look, I know—but she explained everything.”

“Oh, she explained?” Dean yelled.  How could Sam be so stupid?  How could Dean?  He should have seen this coming.

“Yes,” Sam shot back defensively.  “Lucifer kidnapped her when she was a kid, just like he’s trying to do with Jack.  He forced her into this life.  She wants out.”

Cas’ expression scrunched in disbelief.  He shook his head back and forth.  “And you believe her?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Dean blinked, reading Sam’s face.  Something dawned on him.  “Holy shit,” he accused.  “You fucked her.”

Cas looked between the two of them quickly, like the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

Sam sat up straighter suddenly, alert.  “What?”  But he didn’t deny it.  “I don’t think that’s any of your—”

“You did.”  Dean scoffed.  For all his book learning, Sam was nothing but a lovestruck idiot, after all.  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, frustration slipping into ire.  That bitch.  “She’s playing you, Sam!” he shouted, trying to get it to stick in his brother's thick head.  “You’re sweet on her.  You know that.  I know that.  She knows it!  She’s using you.”

Sam shook his head, jaw clamped as he stared at the floor.  “No,” he said decisively.  “You saw how they treated her.  She’s just as much of a victim as we are.”

Dean stared at him hard.  He had no idea what to say to make Sam believe him.  But they needed to get rid of Ruby.  Once she was gone, Sam would come to his senses.  “I say we cut her loose.”

Sam let out a scoff, sounding affronted.

Cas took a charged step forward.  “No, it’s not good enough.  If we let her go, she’ll go right back to Lucifer and tell him where we are.”

Dean’s attention snapped toward Cas, and he sat up fractionally straighter as a reflex.  For a second, he really thought Cas was about to suggest killing the girl.

Then Cas finished, “We have to leave.  Now.  It isn’t safe.”

“Cas, come on.  Dean’s not ready,” Sam reasoned, stretching his arm out to indicate Dean with an upturned palm.

That was only part of the problem.  If he had to, Dean would suck it up, but there was another factor apart from his healing shoulder.  “And, besides, Lucifer might have already caught our trail.  If we leave, they could come here looking for us.  What about the Baneses?  We just let them come and kill them?”

Cas half-turned to Dean, his face pinched in confusion.  Had he even considered what might happen to the Banes family?  “Of course not,” he said, sounding just a touch too defensive.  He sighed, clearly collecting himself.  “But this is their home.  I doubt they’ll leave it.”

“Oh, now you’re concerned about people giving up their homes,” Dean jabbed, feeling his frustration mount.

Cas pulled up his shoulders.  “What do you suggest?” he challenged, but he looked like he already knew the answer.  Dean wanted Ruby to leave, but he didn’t want her to go alone.

He made himself keep eye contact, and said, “We give Jack to Lucifer.”

He knew Cas wouldn’t like it.  Cas let out something between a laugh and a scoff.  He jutted out his jaw and looked away.

“Dean, hang on,” Sam said.  Dean wasn’t interested in hearing the rest of that sentence.

“It’s the only way,” he said, holding out his hand to stop Sam.  “We give him what he wants, or he’s gonna keep coming for us.”

“He will still come for us!” Cas gritted out.

“You don’t know that,” Dean maintained.  “He said it himself—he’s after the kid.  We’re just in his way.”

Cas put his hands on his hips, his face still turned and his eyes still burning a hole into the wall.  “He is an innocent child,” he said slowly, stressing every word.

Dean thought back to the night Lucifer had found them.  He thought about what Lucifer said—about his vision for the world, about freedom.  He was a madman.  Everything bad that had happened to them was because of him.  Dean understood that.  He knew, logically, that the baby wasn’t to blame.  Lucifer and his followers were.  But the baby was the catalyst, and if Jack never came to them, none of this would have happened.  That was a fact.

“Maybe,” he allowed.  “But the people looking for him aren’t.  After everything that’s happened, what’s gonna make you realize that one kid’s life isn’t worth all these people getting hurt?  Or worse!  How many people are gonna have to die before it makes a difference, Cas?  Do you even care?”

Cas turned back to him abruptly.  Everything about him was cutting.  “What does that even mean?”

Something flared in Dean’s chest.  Did he really need to spell it out?  Was Cas really not getting it?  “You were gonna let Sam die!” he yelled.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam straighten out.  “Dean—,” he said gently, no doubt about to say something about how it was his choice.  Because that was crap.  Cas had been the one holding the baby.  Cas had been the one holding all the cards.

“Don’t, Sam,” Dean cut him off.

At the same time, Cas started speaking, “Is that really what you think?”

“I don’t know what to think!” Dean erupted.  “Please, Cas, tell me what to think—‘cause I’m having a hard time figuring it out!”

Cas seemed awfully ready with his argument.  “Lucifer wouldn’t have let us live.  You have to know that!  If we gave him Jack, he would have killed us all.  What would you like me to have done?”

Dean wondered if Cas came up with the logic after the fact.  “How about not gamble with Sam’s life?  How about hand the kid over and fight our way out—”

“We were out-numbered—”

“—and then get the kid back later!”

“You just said you wanted to take him to Lucifer!  Do you expect me to believe that?”

“I expect you to trust me like you promised you would instead of lying to me again!”

Cas went quiet, his lips parted as he stared Dean down with a mixture of hurt and disbelief.  Dean stared back, not even blinking, because Cas had no right to look at him like that.  He remembered Cas’ packed luggage in Kansas City.  Cas had been lying to him since they left Lawrence.

He also remembered that night at Charlie’s, when he’d woken up to empty blankets beside him and had been terrified Cas had left him.  Now, he wondered if that would have been so bad, after all.

The silence seemed to stretch on for minutes.  Distantly, Dean heard Sam take a breath.  “All right,” Sam said, trying for calm.  “Look, let’s—let’s just not do anything rash right now.”  Dean kept holding Cas’ eyes.  “We have some time to plan what we’re gonna do next, right?  So, let’s take a day or two to think and then put our heads together.”

He made it sound so simple, like there wasn’t a fundamental disagreement between Dean and Cas about pretty much everything.  Dean wanted them to be on the same page but, for that, he needed Cas to trust him.

He also needed Sam to trust him about Ruby, and that was next on his to-do list.  For right now, he needed to take care of their flight risk.

He kept his eyes on Cas, because he wasn’t wholly convinced that Cas wouldn’t disappear into thin air if he glanced away.  He said, “Sammy, can you give me and Cas some space?”

Cas bit down on his jaw.

Sam took a moment to answer, and Dean felt his eyes volleying between the two of them.  He stood up slowly and said, “Yeah, I’ll—uh, go see if our hosts need help with anything.”  He fit through the opening in the curtain.  Dean listened to his footsteps, and then to the sound of the front door opening and closing.

And then everything was quiet.  Some birds were chirping outside as the sunlight pooled in through the window, forming a rectangle of light on the floor.  A horse was neighing out in the run.  Dean barely heard any of it.  He waited, wondering if Cas was going to talk first, or if he’d have to.

In the opened drawer, Jack made a soft fussing sound.  Both of them ignored it.

The moments stretched on.  Dean guessed he’d have to bite the bullet and talk first.

“Cas, you gotta be honest with me,” he said.  Cas looked down at the floor.  Dean didn’t let it hinder him.  He asked, “Where were you going that night at Ellen’s?”

Cas let out a breath like he didn’t much appreciate being accused.  Dean already knew the answer to his question.  He just needed Cas to say it.

“The train depot,” Cas told the floor.

Dean ran his tongue across his teeth and nodded, trying to loosen the fist that had tightened around his lungs.  He didn’t anticipate how much it’d hurt to hear the truth.  “Okay,” he said.  “So, instead of going along with the plan, you decided to sneak off in the night.”

“Yes, Dean, because you weren’t listening,” Cas said, bringing his gaze up.  “It was your plan.  You didn’t even care about Jack’s safety.”

“I care about your safety!” Dean told him.  “I care about my family’s safety.  I mean, Cas—look at us.  We went along with your plan, and look where it got us.  Our lives are ruined.  We’re fugitives.  And look at all the people who got hurt.  Sam almost died.”  He worked his jaw, trying to decide whether or not to keep going, because part of him didn’t want to know if it made a difference.  “Cas, I almost died.”  He heard a fissure run through those words.  “Doesn’t that matter?”

Cas let his eyes fall closed.  He breathed in and whispered, “Dean . . . how—how can you even ask me that?”

There was a pressure building behind Dean’s eyes.  No matter how he tried to ignore it, it just kept stinging.  He looked at Cas and tried to figure out what had gotten lost between them, and when exactly they lost it.

All he knew was, he wanted to get it back.

“Cas, whatever you’re thinking right now—whatever you’re feeling,” he said softly.  He didn’t know how to put this gently: “He’s not your kid.  You get that, right?”  Cas didn’t open his eyes, but his lips pulled tighter.  “Even if you did get him down to Waco, you wouldn’t have been able to . . .” He licked his lips, trying to gather his thoughts.  “Cas, he doesn’t belong with you.  And you don’t belong with him.  You belong with—”

Dean didn’t know how he wanted to end that.

Us.

Yeah, Cas belonged with them.  Dean had tried so hard to make him see that.

Me.

Dean didn’t know how to love him any more than he did.  Maybe that was his own fault.

Cas opened his eyes.  He seemed to be holding his breath, waiting.

Dean felt the words rising in his chest, up his throat.  He should say them.  He should just say them.

They died on his tongue.

Cas sighed wearily.  Dean knew he missed his chance when Cas said, “Dean, I’m not giving up.  And I’m not giving Jack up to Lucifer.  I’m taking him to Texas—with or without you.”

Dean kind of figured he’d say that.  His eyes kept stinging.  He blinked rapidly, covering it with a nod down at his blankets.

He couldn’t make Cas stay because Cas didn’t want to stay.  And Dean couldn’t protect him anymore.  But he could still protect what was left of his family.

He guarded himself, told himself to be like stone.  He looked back up, meeting Cas’ waiting eyes, and didn’t allow an inch.  “I guess it’s without me.”

He regretted it the moment the words were out of his mouth—but he didn’t regret his decision.  Just that he couldn’t make Cas trust him.  He couldn’t make him want him.

For a second, Cas looked like he hadn’t expected that.  And he seemed as if he’d been pierced through the skin.  But then he carefully rearranged his features.  He didn’t argue.

“Then, that’s all there is,” he said.

Dean couldn’t even find the energy to be angry at Cas for not fighting harder.  He was just tired and empty.  He brought his gaze back down to his lap.

Cas lingered in place momentarily.  For a brief second, Dean allowed himself hope that Cas would change his mind.  But then Cas walked toward the dresser and scooped Jack out of the drawer.  In Dean’s peripheries, he saw Cas lean over to pick up his medical satchel and Jack’s belongings.

Dean was having a very hard time pulling in air.  The room spun dizzyingly.

Cas didn’t even look back before heading to the curtain.  He lifted his hand to draw it back, and something inside Dean lurched toward him.

“Cas, wait,” he said before he’d even realized he was going to.  It was just a reaction—because he didn’t know how to not fight.  But there was nothing to fight for.

Cas paused, his back to Dean.  His shoulders were slumped in the defeat they both felt.  It took him a second to look around, hope tentative on his face.

Dean’s eyes flitted around his face, taking him in.  He felt hollow down to his bones.

He reached around the back of his neck with his good arm and unclasped his necklace.  He could feel Cas watching him, dejected, as he brought it to his lap and slid the Anasazi amulet off.  He held out the chain, the bronze cross glinting in the light as it dangled.

“You’ll probably need this more than me,” he said, voice much smaller than he wanted it to be.

Cas just stared at him for a while, and Dean didn’t know what he was thinking.  And wasn’t that the whole problem?

His skin went numb when Cas walked forward and snatched the necklace out of his hand—quickly, like he’d touched fire.  Their knuckles hadn’t even brushed.

Cas bunched up the chain and put the necklace into his pocket.  And then he left.

With more finality than Sam, his footsteps sounded on the wood, and then there was the creak of the door opening.  Dean swallowed hard, fighting down the urge to call after him again.  The door slammed closed.

Chapter Text

They stayed at Banes Ranch for a little under a week.

Despite his best efforts, Dean was forced to spend the week in bed recuperating, whereas Sam helped Max with breaking in the young horses and Ruby aided Tasha and Alicia with the chores around the house and the stable.  Dean hated it.  He had no way of occupying his mind.  Even when he was able to get some fresh air by going for a walk, or sitting on the fence watching Sam and Max work while he and Alicia shouted out pointers, or exercised Baby, his thoughts still wandered.

He spent the better part of his time staring up at the ceiling, obsessively going over his last exchange with Cas.  Wondering if there was something he could have said differently to make Cas understand his side of things.  Wondering if he could have done anything at all to prevent this, or if this is where they’d been headed from the day they met.  Wondering where Cas was, if he was still alive, or if Lucifer had found him.  Wondering if he’d come back.

Dean tried not to think about it, tried to put on a smile and laugh until it almost felt real.  He thought he was probably fooling everyone just fine; even when Tasha bowed her head in prayer to say grace around the dinner table and Dean was reminded of Cas.  Even when he reached up to idly play with the chain around his neck and had a heart-seizing moment of panic that he’d lost it before remembering it was gone.  Even though, no matter what, Cas was always on his mind—an aching pulse at the base of his skull.

At least Henriksen hadn’t appeared again.  And, thankfully, Dean’s wound had lessened from a twisting, stabbing pain to a dull thud only when he moved his arm in certain ways.  He announced the night before that it was time for them to move on, and Sam didn’t give him an argument.

He did, however, banish Dean to the porch to “relax” while he and Max packed up the horses that morning.  Dean sat on the edge of the porch, his boots on the grass, shaded from the white morning light.  He tried not to pay any mind to the heat already rising up from the earth and baking the prairie in mirrored waves.  His hat was hanging off his knee.

He squinted out to the drive, watching as Max strapped the saddlebag over Chevy’s rump and Sam put his shotgun in the holster on Bones’ saddle.  The horses looked refreshed, and Dean was glad someone enjoyed the respite.  Or maybe not; Chevy was hoofing at the dirt as if itching to get going.  Like Dean, she obviously hadn’t liked being cooped up all day in a small room with nothing but her thoughts.

His gaze snagged on the group of women off to the side.  Alicia had her elbow propped casually on the pen’s fence as she listened to what Ruby was saying.  Tasha had Ruby’s hands in hers, and she was smiling kindly.  Ruby must have been thanking them for their hospitality—and Dean wasn’t buying it.  He ground his teeth as he watched her, looking out for any sign of deceit.  There was nothing, but he was sure he’d find it eventually.

Days ago, he’d resolved it was better to keep Ruby close.  At least, that way, he knew she couldn’t run back to Lucifer and put them in danger.  He knew he couldn’t keep that up forever and, eventually, he’d have to move on to stage two of his plan.

First, he had to figure out what the fuck stage two was.

Dean glanced down at the loose tobacco he’d measured out onto the delicate rolling paper between his hands.  He concentrated on rolling it, ignoring the bits of tobacco that fell out as his fingers shook.  He carefully brought it up to his lips to moisten the paper.  The tobacco slid out, coating his lap.

He grunted, annoyance turning into frustration and then apathy.  He tossed the paper to the side, where his other two failed attempts lay wasted, and brushed off his pants.

“Hey,” he heard.  Glancing up, he found Sam coming toward him, brow pinched curiously.  “What’s the matter?  Your shoulder acting up?”

Dean bristled.  Of course his shoulder was acting up.  Otherwise, he’d be able to roll his own damn quirlies.  He slapped his hands together to get the gritty bits of tobacco off of them and decided he wouldn’t give Sam a reason to stall their departure.  “I’m fine.”

“Maybe if you put the sling on—”

Hell, no.  “I said I’m good, Sam.”  Sam blew out his cheeks but appeared to bite back whatever else he had to nag Dean about.  Dean shoved his tobacco case back into his pocket.  “We ready to go?”

Sam nodded.  “Yeah, think so.”

Dean looked back over at Ruby, who was now embracing Alicia and Tasha in turn.  Max had joined them.  “How about Luciferette?”

“Dean,” Sam sighed, sounding fed up.  If he was fed up, he should try being Dean.  Watching the two of them make doe eyes at each other all week had made him want to hang himself.  “You said you’d give her a chance.”

“No, I said I wouldn’t give her the chance to run off and tell Lucifer where we are,” he corrected.

Sam hung his head, irritated, and rested one boot on the porch.  “Dean, we keep talking in circles, so can we just . . . not right now?”

Dean rolled his eyes while Sam wasn’t looking.

“How about we talk about Oklahoma City,” Sam suggested.

Dean didn’t like the sound of that.  “What’s there to talk about?” he asked, and he could hear how defensive he sounded already.  “That’s where we said we’d go for now.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam told him.  And Dean knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth: “But don’t you think we should be looking for Cas and Jack?”

Staring off, Dean ran his tongue over his teeth.  He really wished he hadn’t given up on his cigarettes so quickly.  Maybe he still had some of that chewing tobacco left, but that wasn’t as satisfying.  But Cas hated when he chewed plugs, and Dean almost wanted to do it in an act of defiance.

“Nah.”

Even if Dean wanted to go after him, they had no idea where Cas was.  He could have been anywhere.

Sam let out a weary breath.  As if reading Dean’s mind, he said, “We know he’s going to Waco.  I’m sure we could catch up with him.”

Dean expected this conversation to make his blood boil.  Instead, it made him want to go back to bed and bury himself under the blankets.  His limbs felt too heavy around him.  “No, Sam.  It was Cas’ choice to leave.  It’s better this way.”  He was just shy of believing that.

Sam thinned his lips like he didn’t believe it at all.  “It’s just,” he said, throwing up his hands in an aborted motion.  He puffed out a breath.  “He didn’t even say goodbye.”

Dean tensed his jaw.  He picked his hat off his knee and rolled it onto his head.  Sniffing, he got to his feet.  “Yeah, well, you know all he cares about these days is that kid.”

He wasn’t looking Sam in the face, but he saw the way Sam’s shoulders pulled back.  Luckily, before he could say anything, the Baneses walked up to them.  Dean pushed a smile onto his face.

“Now, you’re sure you don’t need another horse?” Tasha asked for what must have been the dozenth time.

“No, ma’am,” Dean told her.  “You’ve already done more than enough for us.”  Not wanting to take advantage was only part of the reason.  He didn’t want Ruby to have her own horse.  That’d only make it easier for her to slip away.  She’d ride with Sam.  “I don’t know how we’ll ever repay you.”

“How about by not getting caught by that Marshal?” Alicia joked, stepping in for a hug.  Dean hugged her in return, ignoring the pain it caused in his arm.

When she pulled back, Max clapped Dean on his good shoulder and said, “Yeah, and come visit again some time.  You livened up the place.”

Sam smiled gratefully.  “Deal,” he said.

The two of them said goodbye to the Baneses before heading for the horses.  It was a little bit of an effort getting astride with his shoulder complaining, but Dean got in his saddle just fine.  Under him, Chevy swayed impatiently, ready to go.

The Baneses waved them off.  Dean pointed Chevy’s nose southeast, toward Oklahoma City.

Castiel’s feet were calloused in his boots.  He spent the last few days walking instead of riding, because it was much too difficult to get in and out of his saddle with Jack across his chest.  After many failed attempts, he decided it was easier to go by foot, no matter how long and arduous the journey was.

Castiel mostly used Lincoln to hold the bags of supplies, food, and water.  He didn’t seem too happy about it.  He was built for speed, not to be a packhorse.  But Castiel was less concerned with Lincoln’s whinnies and snorts from being led by the reins and more concerned with Jack’s crying.  He hadn’t stopped wailing since they left the Banes’ ranch.

Since they left Sam and Dean.

He cried all night and morning, slept through the heat of the afternoon, and began crying again just in time to make camp.  Castiel hadn’t been counting, but he suspected he’d only slept six hours in total over the last four nights.  He had no idea what the issue was, either.  The child wasn’t hungry or wet; he didn’t have a fever.  He slept enough during the day to not be tired.

And yet, his cries echoed off the grasslands and knolls, the trees and the banks of the creeks.  Castiel thought they’d reach as far as the looming blue mountains on the distant horizon.  He wondered who they’d attract first: Lucifer or Henriksen.

Or Dean.

One night, when he’d managed to fall asleep, he’d dreamed that Dean had found him.  That, beyond all hope, Dean had changed his mind.  Castiel had been awoken by Jack’s cries—and Dean wasn’t there.  He wasn’t coming.  And Castiel really wished he would, because then maybe Dean could get the baby to stop crying.

On the sixth day since he left Dean, Castiel arrived in Oklahoma City.  Clusters of tents, for homes and businesses alike, were still set up on the outskirts of the city, as they were when people first began moving to the Unassigned Lands; however, the main street was built up with wooden structures.  There weren’t any boardwalks lining the street of the false front buildings, but Castiel did spot a general store and other honest businesses found in the bordering states.  There was even a church.

His plan was to link up with the Chisholm Trail and head down to Waco.  He knew the trail went through Oklahoma City, but he wasn’t certain of its path toward the south.  He’d have to find a caravan migrating through the territory or a group of cowhands headed back down to Texas.  Apart from showing him the way, there would be safety in numbers.  He wasn’t foolish enough to think he could get Jack to Texas all on his own.  He’d just have to keep to himself—which wouldn’t be an issue.

Dean always said Castiel had terrible people skills.  It hadn’t been a problem in nearly a decade; Castiel usually let Dean do the talking when they met new people.  Because Dean was charming and funny and never ran out of things to say, because he was good at reading people.  Because Castiel always felt a bit lost in a crowd, directionless, without him.

Pushing that from his mind, he tugged Lincoln down the street toward the hotel.  The sun had only been up for an hour or so, but people were already opening up the storefronts and restaurants.  As Castiel passed, he attracted a few wary looks, probably because Jack was crying again.  He wiggled against Castiel’s chest, and Castiel did little more than keep a hand under him to support his weight.

He'd given up on trying to get Jack to stop.  His eyes were dry and sore, his shoulders ached from the sling, his legs were spent of energy, and his feet were likely bleeding with how tender they felt.  Behind him, Lincoln was bowing his head as he trudged along.  They both needed refreshing—and Castiel sincerely hoped a night indoors would settle Jack down.  They could head for the Chisholm tomorrow.

And even if Jack didn’t stop right away, Castiel could sleep through the afternoon—in an actual bed—before the crying started up again.  He’d pay any price for that.

Across the street from the hotel, he tied Lincoln to a post next to the trough.  The water inside seemed a bit murky, but apparently Lincoln didn’t mind.  He immediately began drinking, causing Castiel to realize how parched his mouth and throat felt.  He turned, silently promising to get the horse food and a corral to stay in after he’d grabbed a few hours of sleep.

However, before he could move very far, he spotted a notice nailed to the post.  His own sketch stared back at him beneath the depictions of the Winchesters.  The wanted poster was a little crumpled from the wind, and one of the corners was torn.  It looked as if it had been rained on and then dried.  Dread clogged Castiel’s throat as he glanced around to ensure no one was eyeing him.  He hadn’t expected to see the wanted posters in Oklahoma.

Quickly, he tore the poster down, fully intending to crumple it up and dispose of it, but something stopped him.  He looked down at the sketch of Dean.  It wasn’t perfect.  His eyes were more slanted than they were in real life, his cheeks more rounded, and the sketch didn’t show the scar on his chin.  But the illustration was enough to conjure the real image in Castiel’s mind.  He could see the color green behind his eyes.

He folded up the poster and put it in the same pocket as the cross necklace Dean had given back to him.  He tried not to think about either item as he crossed the street to the two-story hotel.

The hotel’s restaurant was through the main doors, with the reception desk in front.  There were a few occupied tables, where waitstaff bustled around, serving breakfast to the customers, but the majority of the dining room was empty.  The chatter and clattering of utensils seemed to fall silent the moment Castiel walked through the door and Jack’s cries rebounded off the far wall.  The man behind the reception desk looked up at once, expression scandalized.

Castiel thinned his lips apologetically and tried to make a half-assed attempt at shushing Jack, but he really didn’t have the energy for it.  He paced toward the desk, rocking Jack as he went along.

“Good morning, sir,” the man behind the desk said, his eyes flickering to the baby before he trained them on Castiel.  He was a squat man, curly hair wild atop his head despite the clear attempt to tame it.  “How can I help you today?”

“I’d like to check in,” Castiel told him.  He slid his hand up the back of Jack’s head and pressed him closer to his chest, hoping to muffle the cries.  People were still staring.  Jack fisted at Castiel’s shirt and barely settled.  Castiel continued on regardless, “Now.  Preferably until tomorrow morning.”

The man shook his head, polite smile in place.  “Sorry, sir, but we don’t have anything right now.”

Castiel felt as if he’d collapse into a puddle on the floor.  He felt his expression shift in desperation.  “No,” he said, forlorn.  “You must have something.”

“I apologize,” the clerk said, “but we had a full house last night.  All the rooms are being cleaned at the moment.”

Castiel gnashed his teeth.  He looked at the dining room.  Maybe he could get something to eat while he waited.  “How—how long until they’re ready?” he asked.

“Not until this afternoon.”

Castiel let his eyes slip closed.  He had half a mind to keep them that way.  Maybe he could fall asleep standing up.  But the soles of his feet protested.  Jack kept crying.  “You don’t understand.  I need a room.”

“Check back in a few hours,” the man said unhelpfully.  “In the meantime, is there anything else I can do for you, mister?”

Castiel almost told him he could go hang himself, but he bit his tongue.  If he couldn’t sleep, he could at least find a way to the Chisholm.  Perhaps this man would have some information about that.

“Yes,” he sighed.  “I’m looking for passage south along the Chisholm.  Do you know of any wagon trains leaving town in the next day or so?”

The clerk sucked in a breath, and Castiel’s heart stuttered because he already knew he wouldn’t like whatever he heard next.  That seemed to be just his luck.  “Sorry again, sir, you just missed them.  A caravan came into town last night—hence the full rooms.  They left not two hours ago.”

Castiel wilted.  “Dammit,” he muttered.  He wondered if he could catch up with them.

“They’re pretty frequent this time of year, though,” the clerk assured, evidently taking pity on him.  But his next words gave Castiel no solace: “There should be another coming through in—oh, I’d say—a week or two.”

No.  Castiel couldn’t wait that long.  Even if he could, he shouldn’t stay in one place for such an extended time.  There was no telling when Lucifer or Henriksen would find him.  He had to meet up with the caravan that had left that morning—somehow.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.  The clerk nodded apologetically before Castiel turned away, ready to trek back out into the heat of the morning.

However, before he could make it two paces, he heard someone call to him, “Hey!  Guy?  Hell-o?”

Castiel glanced over at a nearby table in the dining room.  A man with thin, angular features and shoulder-length hair, the same whiskey-brown color as his sharp eyes, was waving him over.  A stern-faced, dark-skinned woman in a crimson blouse with a gold pendant around her neck sat tall across the table from him.  She was shooting the man a threatening glare like she was daring him to continue, but he didn’t even seem to notice.

Castiel knitted his brows together and cocked his head to the side, not sure if the man was actually addressing him.  However, when the man saw he had Castiel’s attention, he gestured for him to come over.  “Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you!  Come over here, will you?”

Blinking dumbly, Castiel walked toward their table.  “Um,” he said when he was close enough.  His eyes flickered back and forth unsurely, and he was aware of the hotel clerk looking on with mild interest.  He noticed the silver wedding rings adorning the man and woman’s fingers.  “Hello?”

“Well, hello!” the man said cheerfully.  Castiel glanced from him to the woman, who regarded Castiel like she wanted to light him on fire.  He was halfway convinced her stare could do just that if he looked back too long.  He refocused on the man and noticed that a scoop of strawberry ice cream was on a saucer in front of him.  The melted remnants of a second scoop were smeared on the plate, and he held a spoon in his fist.

“Not to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help but overhear you’re looking to hook up with the Chisholm,” the man said.

Hope sputtered in Castiel’s chest with the insane thought that this stranger could help him.  “Yes.  Why?  Do you know of a group headed to Texas?”

The man licked the back of his spoon as if he were trying to get more ice cream off of it.  “Sure do,” he said.  “That wagon train the clerk was telling you about?  We’re in it.”  Castiel must have looked taken aback, because the man waved dismissively and said, “Yeah, I know, we’re stragglers.  But they always say we’re leaving at six in the morning but we don’t actually move until at least seven.”  He laughed, “Can’t blame a man for wanting a nice breakfast at an actual table, right?”

Castiel didn’t know what to say to that.  He just kept staring.  However, the man didn’t seem to care.  He slouched down beneath the table and kicked out the chair next to him.  “Sit down, would you?  You’re making me nervous just standing there.”

Castiel couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat.  He’d been on his feet for the entirety of his life, it felt like.  He pulled out the chair the rest of the way and settled into it, trying not to groan as his muscles pulsed and relaxed.  Thankfully, Jack seemed to tire himself out somewhat.  He was still fussing, but the cries weren’t all that loud.  It was a blessing to Castiel’s headache.

The man scooped up some more ice cream.  It wasn’t even tantalizing, despite how hollow Castiel’s gut was.  He was far too tired to eat.

“So, what’s your name, bucko?” the man asked.

Castiel couldn’t tell him the truth, and not just because the name Castiel Novak was posted around every town from Kansas to Texas.  But, the last time he’d trusted a friendly stranger, he’d had to kill her.  Instead, he said the first thing that popped into his head: “Peterson.  Jim Peterson.”  He glanced down at Jack.  “And this is Jack . . . my son.”  The words had been a split-second decision, but it didn’t feel that way.  They felt natural, like he’d been meant to say them from the moment he first held Jack in Lawrence.

The man nodded, none-the-wiser.  “Nice to meet you, Jimmy.”  Castiel almost opened his mouth to correct him, but it didn’t matter.  Jim wasn’t even his real name.  Either way, the man was still talking.  “I’m Gabriel.  You can call me Gabe.  And this is my lady, Kali.”

Castiel tried to offer her a disarming smile.  “Hello.”

Kali didn’t seem won over.  She scowled, and inclined her chin slightly as she returned, “Hello.”

Castiel turned back to Gabe.  If he had information on how to join the caravan, Castiel would rather not waste any time.  “You said you’re headed to Texas?”

“Yup,” Gabe said.  “We got a wagon and everything.  We’re—.”  Whatever he was going to say, he never got to it.  He started coughing suddenly.  It was dry and hacking.  He formed a fist and beat against his chest, turning his head away and practically doubling over.  Kali sat a little straighter, her expression shifting from anger to concern.  She reached forward with both arms, letting her hands hover around her husband like he might fall over.

As the coughing slowed, Gabe lifted up one finger to indicate they should wait.  He sat up and blinked, shaking his head.  “Sorry about that,” he said, clearing his throat.  “Got a cold a few weeks ago.  Can’t seem to shake the damn thing.”

Castiel went still.  His gaze flashed to Kali, who looked back meaningfully.  For the first time, she didn’t seem to want to kill him.  Her eyes were softened, saddened.  She must have known the truth.  On some level, Gabriel must have known it, too.

“Anyway,” Gabe said, righting himself.  “Where in Texas are you headed, Jimmy?”

Castiel looked back at him, letting the moment pass.  “Dallas,” he lied.  “I’m starting a practice there.  I’m . . . a dentist.”

Gabe let out another jovial laugh, a slight cough on the tail end of it.  “Hoo, boy!  I’m lucky I ran into you!  I got this one tooth that’s been killing me.”

“It’s because you eat sweets for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” Kali scolded, voice cold.  Castiel regarded the pinkish puddle of melted ice cream on his plate.  He couldn’t disagree.

Gabe only waved it away.  “Well, anywho.  Now that we’re all friends—Jimmy, what d’you say about joining us on our wagon?”  Castiel didn’t know what he felt more: disbelief or joy.  Perhaps it was relief.

“Gabriel—,” Kali hissed.

“Relax,” Gabe told her, gesturing an upturned palm at Castiel.  “He’s got a baby!  What, do you think he’s some kind of outlaw?”  Gabe laughed.  Castiel, remembering the wanted poster folded in his pocket, tried to smile.  If they were on the caravan long, it was likely they weren’t up on the latest news.

Still, Kali regarded him suspiciously.

“So?” Gabe probed.  “A nickel a day to ride with us.  That seem fair?”

Castiel nodded, taking him up on the offer.  “Yes.  Thank you.”  He added, “And I have a horse.”

“Even better!” Gabe exclaimed.  “We can harness him up to the wagon, make it easier for the other two.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said again, not knowing how else to express his gratitude.  He just hoped they wouldn’t regret it the moment Jack began crying in earnest again.

Kali looked him up and down.  “Will your wife be joining us?” she asked pointedly.

Castiel shouldn’t have been so wrongfooted by the question.  He must have looked odd, a single man traveling with an infant.  “No,” he excused.  For this, it was best to tell the truth.  Or part of it.  “She passed.”

Kali’s eyes flashed with remorse.  Across from her, Gabe let out a pitying sound.

“I apologize,” Kali said stiffly.

Before Castiel could respond, Gabe cut in, “Sorry.  That’s a tough break.”

Castiel looked down at Jack again, thinking of Kelly.  He wished she could see her son—his large, blue eyes, how big he’d gotten in just under a month.  He wished Jack could grow up with his mother.

And then his mind turned to Dean.  Dean wasn’t dead, but Castiel had still lost him.  However, he couldn’t tell Gabe and Kali that.  He wasn’t certain how they’d react.

Instead, he again said, “Thank you.”

There was a beat of silence before Gabe slapped his palm on the tablecloth.  “Okay, then,” he said, again cheerful, “guess we better get out of here before the others leave without us.”

Castiel kept his eyes on Jack, who was at last quieting against his chest.  The baby’s eyes drooped tiredly.  If all went according to plan from there on out, their journey was almost over.  They were almost in Texas.

Two days after they left Banes Ranch, they arrived in Oklahoma City.  Sam urged Bones down the main street, following after Chevy among the traffic of town life.  They barely garnered any stares or curious glances, which was good.  He assumed a lot of people blew through this town on their way to settle elsewhere.  No one in the Unassigned Lands was bothered by strangers.  That gave them an advantage.

They pulled the horses to a post with a water trough on the side of the street across from the hotel.  Sam slid out of the saddle before turning around and lifting up his hands, helping Ruby down.  She smiled at him bashfully as he set her gently on the ground, and he tried to hide the heat in his cheeks.

Dean’s gruff voice broke the moment as he walked around the horses and said, “All right, I’m gonna head inside and get us a couple of rooms.  You two wait here.”  He said it pointedly, his eyes on Ruby until he turned away and stomped across the street.

Sam sighed after him, trying not to bristle.  Dean had been in a shitty mood all week, and Sam knew Ruby wasn’t the root cause of that.  As angry as Sam was that Cas had left without them, he understood.  It wasn’t the best plan, but Cas was doing what he thought was right.  Dean just preferred to be mad about it, because, if he wasn’t, he’d blame himself for letting Cas go.  The guilt would overcome him.

Even though Sam was pretty sure Dean already blamed himself.  The anger was just his defense against it.

“Your brother doesn’t trust me,” Ruby observed as she watched Dean.

Sam looked down at her, his lips thinning.  “He’ll come around,” Sam told her, and he hoped he was right.  Once Dean saw that Ruby was on their side, and once his mood passed, he’d warm up to her.  They just needed to ride out the storm until calmer waters settled around them.

If they ever settled.  Sam was beginning to doubt they would.  He’d been on the trail much longer in the past, but this journey seemed to be never-ending.  Thinking back, he hardly remembered when it had begun.  And now, other people were roped along with them, Ruby included.

“Hey, Ruby, I’m sorry,” he said, just wanting her to know.

She looked up at him, puzzled.  “For what?”

“For getting you into all this.”

“Whoa, Sam,” she said, turning to face him.  She brought up a tender hand to place on his elbow.  “I told you before, none of this is your fault, remember?  I’ve been in this way longer than you have.  If anything, it’s my fault for getting you into this.”

He shook his head, not wanting her to feel that way.  He thought about the day he’d met her in Lawrence.  Had he known she was one of Lucifer’s, that conversation would have gone a lot differently.  Still, he didn’t blame her.  “You were just doing what you had to to survive.”

She looked away, remorse-stricken.  “Yeah,” she told the dirt.  “But I still never should have done it.  I can never make that up to you, Sam—or your brother.  Maybe he’s right not to trust me.”

Swiftly, he placed his hand on top of hers.  “He isn’t,” he said, dipping his head to capture her eyes.

She didn’t seem all that convinced.  “Well,” she mused, “if I hadn’t, I would have never met you.”  She bit her lip in consideration.  “Maybe that’s one good thing to come out of this whole mess.”  Her voice went up at the end, like she was asking him.

He let out a breath of laughter down at his boots.  He nodded, pulse fluttering.  “Yeah,” he told her.  “Yeah, definitely a good thing.”

She pursed his lips, trying to fight back a smile.  Sam gave her hand a squeeze.  He was glad they’d had that talk.  It made him feel better, and he hoped she felt the same.

Dean stepped into the hotel.  It was a relatively small establishment for a town that had the word city in its name, but Dean hadn’t expected much from a glorified tent camp.  All he really wanted was a bed for a few nights while they figured out where to go next.

The reception desk was wedged between the stairwell and the dining room of the hotel’s restaurant.  The breakfast rush had ended, leaving a few stragglers finishing up their coffees and a clatter of dishes as the staff cleaned up.  The desk, however, was vacant.

Dean walked up to it anyway, folding his arms on the top and leaning into them.  A spike shot through his shoulder, but he gritted his teeth and pushed past it, like his father had always taught him to do with pain.

He let out a breath from deep within his lungs, half-relieved that he had a moment to himself and half-annoyed there wasn’t anyone there to get him a room.  He needed sleep—and food.  And whiskey.  Lots of whiskey.

Not necessarily in that order.

He waited a minute or so before glancing around, looking over his shoulder to the empty entranceway and casting his gaze to the waitstaff.  He blew out his cheeks and drummed his fingers on the desk impatiently.

“Hello, sir,” he heard a voice from the stairwell.  He looked up to find a nebbishy-looking man in a suit briskly descending the steps.  He must have been the clerk.  Finally.  Dean had almost been ready to rent a tent for the night instead.

“Apologies for the wait.  I hope you weren’t here too long,” the clerk said as he rounded the desk and stood behind it.

“Uh, no,” Dean said.  “It’s fine.”

The clerk offered a professional, phony smile.  “How can I help you today?”

“I need two rooms,” Dean told him, already fishing out his money clip from his pocket.  His knuckles brushed against his Anasazi pendant, securly tucked away, and he realized he ought to find a place to buy another chain for it.  He tried not to think too hard about what happened to the other one.

The clerk opened the ledger and plucked up a fountain pen.  “Excellent, sir.  We do have two rooms available.  And what name shall I reserve them under?”

Dean said the first name that came to mind: “Peterson.”

“Peterson,” the man said, jotting it down in the ledger.  “That’s very odd, Mr. Peterson.”

The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stood up in fear that the man didn’t believe him.  He hadn’t seen any wanted posters as they rode into town, but it’d be just his luck to be spotted.  He lifted his eyes, keeping calm.  “Why’s that odd?” he asked gruffly.

The clerk continued to write in the ledger.  “We had another Mr. Peterson here not three days ago,” he said.

Dean was happy the man was otherwise occupied, because he went rigid.  Before he could stop himself, he asked, “He, uh . . . he wasn’t traveling with a baby, was he?”

The clerk glanced up skeptically.  “Why, yes, he was.  Do you know him?”

Dean licked his lips, trying to feel any sensation at all.  His fingers and toes tingled.  “Cousin,” he managed to choke out.

The clerk hummed.  “Then, I guess you’ll be following him down to Texas?”

Dean’s eyes snapped back to the clerk, and for a second he thought he was being accused of something.  He settled himself and pulled a tight smile, not really answering either way.  He placed a few banknotes onto the desk to pay.

He thought about how Cas must have done the same a few days ago, standing right where Dean was standing, sleeping all alone in one of the hotel’s beds.  Dean felt a slithering sickness in his gut.  In a moment of desperation, he wanted to ask if he could stay in that same room, to sleep in that same bed.

He didn’t, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “And—how long did he stay here?”

“Oh, he didn’t,” the clerk said as he counted the money.  “He joined a wagon train headed south along the Chisholm.”

Dean swallowed down the rock that had formed in his throat, and he realized he hadn’t reacted.  He made himself nod, even though he couldn’t look the clerk in the eye.

Cas was probably halfway to Waco by now.

That was good.  Good for him.  He was getting what he wanted.

“Sign here, sir,” the clerk said, turning the ledger over to face Dean and holding out the pen.  Dean plucked it from his grip and reminded himself to sign the name Peterson.  He dropped the pen into the ledger’s binding.

“Thank you, Mr. Peterson,” the clerk said as he glanced over the signature.  “Your rooms are right up the stairs—numbers five and eight.  Will you be dining with us this evening?”

Dean had spaced out.  “What?” he asked before the question fully processed.  And then, “Oh, uh . . . Maybe.  I dunno.”  Maybe Sam and Ruby would want to have a romantic candlelight dinner that night, which kind of made Dean want to be sick again.  Either way, Dean wasn’t very hungry suddenly.

He did still want that whiskey, though.

“Well, let me know if you do—and if you should need anything else during your stay,” the clerk said.  “Just ask for Marv.  That’s me.”

“Great,” Dean thought he said, but he couldn’t really be sure.  He had a vague sense of moving, and then all of a sudden he was outside, blinking against the onslaught of sunlight.

Sam’s voice brought him back to himself.  “Dean?  You alright?”

Dean looked to the side, where Sam was standing in the shade next to the wall of the hotel.  Their saddlebags packed with their old, washed clothes and a few supplies the Baneses gave them were on the dirt next to his feet.  Ruby was nowhere in sight.

“Yeah,” Dean said, shaking his head.  He paced over, deciding not to tell Sam about Cas.  At best, that’d make Sam’s eyes go big with sympathy and pity; at worst, Sam would want to follow Cas’ trail.  Dean didn’t want either.

He glanced around, trying to catch sight of their companion.  For the last two days, he’d barely let Ruby out of his sight.  When he absolutely had to, he tried to take solace in the fact that Sam was watching her, even if Sam didn’t know he was spying on her.  But now, it seemed like she’d slipped away from him, too.

Dean’s pulse pounded with every second he didn’t see her.  “Where’s Ruby?”

Sam bent down and picked up their bags.  “Oh, she went to the telegraph office we saw on the way in,” he answered as if it were the most casual thing in the world.

“She what?” Dean yelled, visibly shocking Sam.  How the hell could Sam do that?  “You left her alone?  To send a telegram?  What the fuck are you thinking?”  Dean needed to find her.  She was probably sending a message to Lucifer telling him where they were.  He needed to intercept it before it was too late.

Sam, however, held out his palms, trying to placate Dean.  “Dean, relax.  It’s to her madame back in Wichita.”

Dean rolled his eyes.  Sam was such an idiot.  “Yeah, says her!” he argued, ignoring the pursed lips Sam shot his way.  “You get inside the hotel.  I’m gonna go find her.”  Without waiting for an answer, he marched past Sam, in the direction they’d ridden into town.  He didn’t remember seeing a telegraph office, but he was sure he could find it.

“Dean, come on!” Sam called after him, tone licked with both annoyance and a plea.  Without looking around, Dean waved him off and kept walking.  He heard Sam let out the sigh to end all sighs, and he was pretty sure they’d be arguing about this later.  But that was fine, as long as they weren’t dead!

He stomped down the street, squinting in the sun as his head swiveled from one side of the street to the other, looking for the telegraph office.  He paid no mind to the bustle of the people and animals around him.

When he finally came upon the telegraph office, he reached for the door handle, ready to yank it open.  However, the door swung open before he got the chance, and he was face to face with Ruby.  Damn it.  He deflated, knowing he was already too late.

She gave him a curious look as she stepped onto the street.  Dean stepped back to avoid brushing against her.  “Dean?” she asked innocently.  “What are you doing here?”

The corners of his mouth twisted downward.  “Funny, I was about to ask you the same question.”

She let out a breath, sounding agitated.  “It’s not like it’s any of your business,” she said curtly, “but I figured I should tell my madame back in Kansas that I wasn’t coming back and she should probably rent out my room to somebody else.”

Dean shook his head, wondering if that excuse really worked on people.  Apparently it did, because Sam had eaten it right up.  “That right?”

“Yes,” she gritted out, glowering up at him.  “It’s called common courtesy.  I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”  She shoved past him, heading in the direction of the hotel.

Dean wheeled around, eyes burning holes into the back of her head.  “You know, you ain’t fooling me!” he shouted, teeth bared.

She stopped, letting her arms swing around her as she turned.  “Oh, I’m not?” she mocked.

“No.”  Dean took a few charged steps for her.  “You may have Sam wrapped around your finger, but I got my eye on you.”

“Wow, intimidating,” she droned.  “That’d almost scare me if you weren’t so easy to cut loose.”

Dean ground his teeth and had to remind himself not to punch a girl.  But that was a low blow.  What the hell did Sam see in her?

“Look, trust me, don’t trust me, I don’t really give a shit,” she said, folding her arms over her chest.  “But did it ever occur to you that maybe I’m on your side?”

Dean doubted that.  Even on the off-chance she wasn’t on Lucifer’s side anymore, she wasn’t on theirs, either.  If anything, she was on her own side.  He wouldn’t let Sam get dragged into that.

She raised a brow, seeming like she was about to give him the business.  “Or that I could be useful?”

That was just laughable.  “Useful?”

“Yeah, useful.  As in, I rode with Lucifer’s gang for a long time.  I know how they think.  Don’t you think that could come in handy if they show up?”

“Yeah, could be, if I believed a word out of your whore mouth,” Dean shot back.

She stared daggers at him hard for a brief moment before throwing up her hands and turning away again.  She walked down the side of the street, her boots kicking up dust.

A few paces away, she stalled again.  “You know, if you don’t trust me,” she said, half-swiveling around to face him, “at least trust your brother—before you alienate him, too.  I mean, after all, he’s the only person you have left, right?”

Dean froze, her words hitting him like a bullet.  He wanted to stab her.

Instead, he stood stock still, watching her retreat down the street.

Small campfires flickered in the fading sunlight up and down the line of wagons and buckboards that stretched on for as far as the eye could see.  Castiel sat next to the fire he and Gabe had built next to their covered wagon.  It was his third night on the Chisholm, and he’d been told it would be another five until they reached the northern border into Texas.  Traveling in a caravan was slow, but it was certainly preferable to walking.

The mosquitos buzzed around in the heat of early June’s dusk.  Moths flapped their wings around the flames, some of them dipping too close and going up in a blaze.  Crickets were chirping in a continuous hum.

So far, the journey was peaceful.  There were over fifty wagons and coaches in their caravan, all of them filled with families and their animals intent on their pilgrimage to the south.  There was a rumor that, in a few days, they’d be passing through another town with a hotel, and Castiel couldn’t decide if that was a blessing or a curse.  He could probably do with a bath, and he’d need to buy more milk for Jack sooner rather than later.  But with every town they stopped in, whether for a night or an hour, he ran the risk of his hosts figuring out he wasn’t who he claimed he was.

Gabe and Kali had been generous to him, and he liked them well enough—despite the fact that Kali still hadn’t warmed up to him.  Gabe talked enough for the two of them, anyway.  He meant well, even though his words were often interrupted by a coughing fit.  Castiel tried to bite his tongue, but he was fairly certain he didn’t necessarily have to be a doctor to give his diagnosis in this particular case.

It was consumption.  Gabriel was in the earlier stages of it, but it was consumption nonetheless.  Castiel wanted to tell him to head west, toward a drier climate, instead of down to Texas.  He could probably live at least another year in Arizona or New Mexico.  The humidity in Dallas wouldn’t do him any favors.  Every time the words sat on Castiel’s tongue, he bit them back.  He reminded himself it was safer to keep up the lie, and there was no telling whether or not Gabe would take his advice, anyway.

It felt like a poor excuse.

Presently, Gabe and Kali were in the process of unpacking their bedrolls from the back of the wagon.  Castiel could hear them talking, the low murmur of their voices mixing with that of the people making camp nearby.  Lincoln, tied to a stake in the ground along with Gabriel’s two horses, grazed at the dried grass that surrounded them.  The sweet fragrance of cooking meat wafted on the breeze from the nearby chuckwagon.

Castiel kept to himself, leaning back against his bedroll with Jack sleeping soundly beside him on the grass.  The wanted poster was in his hands, the parchment creased from where it had been folded and the corners flapping slightly in the gusts that swept through the prairie.  The sun was drifting low on the horizon, offering only a gray light, and the orange glow of the campfire nearly made the paper translucent.

The lines and curves of Dean’s visage were muddled by the shadows, but Castiel continued to stare at it, anyway.  He wondered if there would ever be a time when the memory of Dean’s face had faded, and all he had to remember it by was the poster in his hands.  The thought caused a pinch in his chest.  He was still coming to terms with the fact that, in all probability, he’d never see Dean again.

He wondered what would fade first: the memory or the ache it caused.  The recollection or the love.

It didn’t seem plausible, forgetting his love for Dean.

“Whatcha got there, Jimmy?”

Castiel’s heart skipped a beat.  He quickly folded up the poster, attempting to make it seem casual.  He cleared his throat and prayed Gabe didn’t notice the flush on his cheeks.  “Nothing,” he said, shoving the poster back into his pocket.

Gabe’s brows were raised in humor.  Next to him, Kali eyed Castiel distrustfully from under her bonnet.  “Uh, okay, then,” Gabe said, plopping himself down on the grass on the other side of the fire.  “Keep your raunchy love letters to yourself, then.  Don’t bother sharing the fun with your old pal.”

In truth, Castiel was relieved by Gabriel’s assumption.  He pretended to huff as he leaned forward.  “It’s personal,” he excused.

Gabe looked like he was about to crack another joke, but he started coughing instead.  Castiel bit down on his jaw, his heart picking up in pace.  He watched Gabe lean back on his elbow under the pressure of the fit as he directed his coughs into his fist.  When it was over, Gabe reached into his breast pocket and took out his flask, downing a sip of whiskey.

Whiskey was a common remedy to ease the throat irritation caused by consumption.  Castiel had seen Gabe take sips from his flask frequently over the last few days.  It only strengthened his belief that Gabriel wasn’t as ignorant to his illness as he claimed.

“Whew, sorry ‘bout that,” Gabe said, catching his breath.

Castiel tried not to show too much pity in his eyes, but he couldn’t help it.  He looked down, licking his lips.  “I, um,” he said haltingly, deciding if he could get away with it.  His conscience pleaded with him to offer some kind of aid.  “I have some laudanum . . . if . . . if you think it would help.”

Gabe looked at him steadily for a beat too long before waving it away.  “Nah.  I’d rather get hopped up on whiskey for now.  Thanks for the offer though.  I’ll keep it in mind.”  He glanced up at Kali and winked.  “In case we ever wanna have a good time.”

Kali huffed and threw up her arms as if giving up.  “I’m taking a walk,” she announced.  Before she departed, she gave Castiel a frown.

Castiel pressed his lips together guiltily, watching her go.  When she was out of ear-shot, he said, “I don’t think she likes me very much.”

Gabe was idly poking at the fire with a stick, causing embers to puff up in the smoke.  “Nah,” he said.  “She’s prickly.  Takes her a second to play nice—but once she does, she’s as cuddly as a kitten.”

Castiel watched the embers rising upward before burning out, not really seeing them at all.  He thought of Dean.  “I knew someone like that,” he said.  Belatedly, he realized he’d used the past tense.

When he looked back up, Gabe was offering him sympathetic eyes.  “Your wife?” he asked.

My husband, Castiel thought.  Still, he nodded.

Gabe nodded back in solidarity.  “She buried back in Chicago?”

Castiel almost pulled a confused face, forgetting that he’d told Gabriel and Kali that he was traveling from Illinois.  “Yes,” he said.  “I suppose you can say . . . she’s the reason I’m going to Texas.”  It felt good, actually, that small truth, as misleading as it was.

However, it made Gabriel frown.  He sat back, swatting the stick against the grass.  The firelight reflected in his eyes.  “Yeah, I know all about that,” he mused.  “Leaving home behind because of a lady.”  He sniffed in order to stifle another cough.  Castiel waited patiently for him to continue.

When he did, he said, “That’s why me and Kali decided to leave New York—or, well, you know.  Why I decided.”  He let out a sardonic laugh and added in a conspiring whisper, “See, she’s not really mad at you at all, Jimbo.  It’s me she’s got a bone to pick with.”

Castiel frowned, his brow creasing.  “I don’t understand.  If she didn’t want to leave, why did you?”

“Ah,” Gabe dismissed, making it seem as if it were of little consequence.  Castiel heard the weight behind his tone, however.  “You know how it is.  Her family; my family.  Neither of them liked the idea of mixing the races.”  He rolled his eyes.  “So, we had to leave.”

Castiel supposed he hadn’t thought of that.  He could sympathize, in a way.  Perhaps Gabriel wouldn’t object to his relationship with Dean, after all.  But it was too late now.  Castiel said, “You can’t help who you fall in love with.”

Gabe snorted.  “You can say that again.”  He shrugged, his expression shifting into something more somber again.  “It’s tough on her—having to leave everything she knew, especially to be with a jackass like me.”

“You’re not a jackass,” Castiel told him sincerely, because it was true.  Despite his glib nature, Gabriel cared, from what Castiel had experienced.  “She must not think so, either.  She went with you, after all.”  Again, Dean crossed his mind.  Dean, who’d refused to follow him to Waco.  Dean, who’d rather return to Lawrence than stay with Jack.  Castiel wished Dean had decided differently.

“You’re luckier than you know.”

He felt Gabe regarding him for a moment, but the man didn’t say anything for a long time.  He grunted after a long while and said, “Yeah, well . . . guess it wasn’t too easy on me either.  But that’s love for ya.  You’ll cross any line for it.  Including state lines, huh?”

Castiel looked down at Jack.

He wished Dean felt the same.

“Yes,” he agreed, voice soft.

The tinkering of a bell sounded in the distance, immediately shifting the atmosphere.  Gabe sat up straighter, eyes alight.  “Dinner time!” he exclaimed.  “C’mon, Jimmy.  Better get going before the line gets too long.”

Castiel blinked, looking around at the others in the nearby camps standing up and brushing the grass off their clothes.  He hadn’t realized how dark it had gotten around them.  The stars hung overhead; the fires twinkled below.

He picked himself up to his feet and reached down again to scoop Jack up.  As he did, Gabe was saying, “Hey, here’s hoping they have some kind of fruit pie for dessert!”

Despite himself, Castiel smiled at that reminder of Dean.  Maybe, someday, pies would remind him of Gabriel instead.  He put Jack’s sling around his chest.  “I wouldn’t stake those odds.”

“True,” Gabriel said, pointing at him.  Castiel ambled after him toward the chuckwagon.  “Then, maybe when everyone falls asleep, we can go steal some sugar.”

“I’d rather not.”

“You know, when I first asked you to come with us, I really thought you’d be more fun.”  Gabe didn’t seem too broken up about the fact.  He slapped Castiel’s arm and quickly launched into, “Speaking of—I ever tell you about the time me and my brother snuck into the bakery on Houston Street and gorged ourselves on some poor couple’s wedding cake?  I swear we had no idea what it was for!  Almost ruined the whole wedding, but Michael had the bright idea to bake a new one.  Oh boy, let me tell you how that turned out . . .”

It had been five days since Ruby had sent the telegram to Wichita telling Dagon they were in Oklahoma City.  She’d probably get one hell of a filthy look from the woman when they finally arrived for taking so long to make contact—but it wasn’t like Ruby was out having fun.  She was working.

Well, maybe she was having a little bit of fun.  After all, she’d had to cozy up to men far uglier than Sam Winchester.  She wasn’t exactly complaining.

But she guessed the distinction didn’t matter.  Dagon wouldn’t be pleased with her either way.  She was just bitter Lucifer had sided with Ruby in gaining the Winchesters’ trust.  At least, she had been when Ruby last saw her in Kansas.

Ruby kind of still hoped she was.  She’d count that as a victory.

She also hoped the rest of her gang would get there soon, because the Winchesters were talking about moving on in the next day or two.  They were only in Oklahoma City to make whatever money they could at the saloon’s poker tables before finding a much smaller, much more secluded town to hole away in until “things settled down,” as Sam liked to put it.

The three of them were at a saloon the night one of the whores slipped a note to Ruby.  It was in Dagon’s handwriting, telling her where to meet.  Ruby didn’t give herself away by sighing in relief.  She made an excuse to leave, claiming she was tired and wanted to go back to the hotel, and kissed Sam on the cheek before departing.  Sam bought it easily enough.  Dean, on the other hand, eyed her skeptically before going back to his game.

Ruby walked down the street, the moon a hazy, brassy crescent as it hung among the clouds.  The air was still, pressing against her skin like a physical weight.  She could already feel beads of sweat collecting in her hair, and she supposed the springtime cool nights were a thing of the past.

Maybe, when all this was over, she’d go north to a cooler climate.  Or maybe Lucifer would want her to stay close from now on.  A balloon swelled in her chest at the mere possibility.

Near the end of the street, she turned the corner into an alleyway between the laundry and the ice cream shop.  Dagon was there, leaning against the wall, her boot propped up behind her as she inspected the dirt beneath her fingernails.  But the casual air was an illusion.  She was pissed.

Ruby gave her a sideways grin as she approached.  “Was starting to think you wouldn’t show up,” she taunted.

Dagon scowled and picked herself off the wall.  “Really?  And here I was thinking you’d sent us in the wrong direction so you could run off.”

She was still bitter, alright.  Ruby loved it.

“Yeah, right, and miss the look on your face when Lucifer asks me to ride with him from now on?”

Bristling, Dagon spat, “Do you have the child or not?”

“Not.”  Ruby crossed her arms over her chest.  “But I know where he is—headed down to Waco on the Chisholm.”

That earned her a scoff.  “So, we’re no closer to him than we were a month ago.  In fact, I think we might actually be further away,” she goaded.

Ruby didn’t let that hinder her.  “Not by my intel.”

“Oh, you mean you haven’t spent all this time with the Winchester boy on top of you?”

“Jealous?”

Another scowl.

Ruby dropped her arms, gusting out a sigh.  As much as she loved the verbal sparring, it was time to get down to business.  “I paid off one of the girls here.  She knows a john on the Chisholm wagon train—Nice fella.  Hates his wife, misses his mistress.  You get the picture.  Anyway, she’s been getting telegrams from him in every town the caravan stops in.”

“And?” Dagon asked impatiently.

“Novak and the kid are at the Texas border,” she said.  “Some one-horse town in the Red River Valley.”

Dagon nodded, mulling the information over.  “Good.  We have contacts in the area.  We’ll send word.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome.”

“You’re through here,” Dagon then ordered.  “Meet us outside of town tomorrow night.  That should give you plenty of time to dispose of the Winchesters.  We have no more use for them.”

Ruby tightened her lips.  She had no qualms about the elder brother, but it was almost a shame she’d have to kill Sam.  He was starting to grow on her.  But it was bound to end this way eventually.  “You got it.”

Dagon turned around quickly, not saying another word.  Watching her bleed into the shadows, Ruby took comfort in the fact that Dagon would have to report this back to Lucifer.  She’d probably gag on her own words, knowing Ruby was the reason they were ahead.  Good.  Let her choke.

A renewed spring in her step, Ruby spun around and started toward the mouth of the alley.  Maybe she’d treat herself to room service that night as she awaited Sam’s return.

Just before she reached the street, someone stepped into the alley, cutting her off.  It took her half a second to realize it was Dean Winchester.

Her skin went cold.

But probably not as cold as Dean’s eyes.

She heard the metal scrape of a hammer being pulled back.  Her gaze flashed down briefly, catching the Colt six-shooter held ready at Dean’s hip.

She looked up, over his shoulder.  Sam was behind him, jaw set but eyes betraying him.

Ruby took in a deep breath through her nose, preparing herself for what came next.

By early afternoon the next day, Castiel would be in Texas.  From there, it would be two more days until he reached Waco and found Kelly’s parents.  However, before he crossed the border, he’d have to spend one more night in the Unassigned Lands.

Their caravan stopped in an unnamed town along the Chisholm a few hours before sundown, and Castiel was looking forward to the privacy offered by his own room at the hotel and a roof over his and Jack’s head.  He wouldn’t object to a bath, either, but he used that money instead for renting out a stall for Lincoln in the local corral for the night.  He’d bathe once he got to Waco.  It was probably better that way—if he intended to make a good impression on Jack’s grandparents.

He checked them into a room quickly, ensuring to reserve a bed before the hotel became filled up with the other people in his caravan, before setting out to find the General Store.  He purchased more milk for Jack and some dried goods for the rest of the road ahead.  Then, he took Jack to one of the local restaurants and bought himself an overpriced dinner of steak and boiled potatoes.  The waitress fawned over Jack, and when she asked to hold him, Castiel’s fists tightened around his fork and knife.

However, the waitress seemed to drop the matter when he said no.  She likely wasn’t one of Lucifer’s gang, but he’d learned better than to trust strangers who took an interest in the baby.

Night had fallen by the time he trudged up the hotel’s staircase and made for his room down the hall.  Jack was still awake, his arms reaching up and waving around from inside the sling.  Castiel looked down at him gently, watching the baby move in jerking motions, learning how to use his limbs.

Over the last few days, some choking pressure had been slowly rising up Castiel’s throat.  It got worse with every day closer to Texas.  It was mingled with relief, of course, that their journey was nearly through and Jack would be where he belonged.  But he couldn’t help the melancholy that had crept in along the edges, no matter how he tried to push it away.

What if Castiel didn’t belong in Waco?  What if Jack’s grandparents didn’t want him there?  At least here, on the trail, he knew that he and Jack were supposed to be together.  He wasn’t certain what he’d do if that changed in Texas.  He worried Dean had been right: Jack wasn’t his son.

Even if he felt like he was.

A hacking cough sounded from down the hall, knocking Castiel out of his thoughts.  He brought his head up and squinted past the lantern-sconced corridor to find Gabriel opening a door to one of the rooms.  Castiel was relieved his companions had gotten a room for the night.  Gabriel’s complexion had turned somewhat sallow over the last few days, and his cough had worsened.  A dry bed might do him wonders.

“Gabe,” Castiel called, meaning simply to bid him goodnight.

Gabriel, fist still on the knob to his room, glanced over, and a smile lit up his face.  Even in the shadows of the flickering light, his eyes were swimming somewhat, which meant he’d taken one too many sips from his flask.

“Hey!” he coughed.  “I was wondering where you got to, Jimbo!”

Castiel reached his own room’s door.  He hovered outside it, facing Gabriel’s direction a few feet away.  “I’m glad to see you’ve got a room,” he said.

“Yeah, so am I,” Gabriel chortled.  “Imagine coming all this way and having to sleep out by the wagons—Anyway,” he waved his hand, “I’m not gonna keep you.  You must be exhausted.  I know I’m gonna knock out the second I hit the pillow.”

Castiel smiled at the thought.  He considered, maybe, he’d do the same.  “Of course,” he agreed, and was again about to say goodnight when he realized Kali wasn’t anywhere in sight.  He pinched his brow.  “Where’s Kali?”

Gabriel blew out his lips.  “Ah, out for a walk.  She’s pissed at me again.  She’ll be back in a few hours—always is.”

Castiel nodded somberly, knowing it wasn’t any of his business.  He wouldn’t ask.  After all, he knew all about fighting with one’s significant other.  No matter how bad the fight seemed, two people always found themselves back in each other’s arms if they were meant to be.

His eyes flickered downward momentarily, trying not to remember that he hadn’t been so lucky in the end.

“Well,” he said.  “Goodnight.”

“See ya in the morning,” Gabriel said.  His door creaked as he opened it.  “Bright and early, if you wanna join us for breakfast.”

Castiel thought he might like that.

“Nighty-night, Jimmy,” Gabriel said, disappearing into his room.  He bent over backward, sticking his head out of the threshold and added in a high-pitched voice, “Goodnight, Jack!”

Jack didn’t respond, but Castiel appreciated the gesture.  He watched Gabriel’s door shut before he pushed into his own room.

The room was dark beyond, and the floorboards whined under his boots when he searched blindly for the gas lantern.  It was placed on the bedside table, next to where the hotel attendant had deposited Castiel’s medical satchel and Jack’s belongings upon check-in.  With the flame alight, the tiny room came into view.

He placed Jack in his bundle on one side of the bed, and Jack kept looking up at him, kicking his legs.  Castiel smiled down at him, past the suffocation at the thought of having to let him go, and gently tickled the baby’s belly.  A reflex smile flashed on Jack’s mouth, and he continued to reach and kick.  He gave off soft noises that Castiel hoped were happy.

He left Jack on the bed, deciding not to linger on the fact that it was a double and therefore much too abundant of empty space.  He walked toward the window that overlooked the town.  The street was mostly empty, save for a few groups of people, and everything but the saloons was closed.  He breathed in the humid June air and cast his gaze toward the distance, where billows of shadowy clouds were looming.  They blocked out a section of stars and caught the light of the waning moon’s last sliver of white.

On the land, he caught a small, narrow glimpse of the Red River through the trees.  The water twinkled as it caught the starlight.  The valley beyond it still, barely a rustling of leaves in a breeze.  Castiel didn’t know why, but he thought back to Lawrence, to swaying with Dean in the dance hall.  It was a half-remembered memory.  The only thing he was sure of was the press of Dean’s chest against his, and Dean’s calloused fingers in his hand.

Castiel cleared his throat, willing the memory away.  He shrugged out of his duster, unbuckled his gun belt, and hung them on the hook next to the window.  He toed off his boots, grunting in the tenderness of his sore feet, and crouched down quickly to take the scalpel out from inside.

Back on the bed, Jack was letting out grunting sounds, deciding whether or not he wanted to cry.  Castiel sincerely hoped he wouldn’t.  Hoping to stave it off, he went to the bed and placed the scalpel on the stand, next to the lantern.  He laid down next to Jack, exhaustion already filling him up as he stretched out on the hard, uncomfortable mattress.

“I know,” he whispered, placing a hand on Jack’s stomach.  “It’s been a long . . . well, few weeks.  I’d like to tell you they won’t all be like this.  Life does have its boring moments.”  Jack cooed sagely, intently watching his curled fists as he beat them against the back of Castiel’s hand.  Castiel continued to muse, “Although, all things considered, they aren’t so bad.  At least, no one’s shooting at you when you’re bored.”

Jack took hold of one of his fingers with a weak grip.  Castiel curled the rest of his fingers into his palm without even thinking, letting Jack do what he wanted.

“We’ll be in Texas soon,” he said, voice low and muffled as he rested his cheek on his pillow.  He yawned widely, speaking into it.  “And you’ll meet your grandparents.  And I’ll . . . I’ll be there, too, Jack.  I promise.  I’ll make sure your father never finds you.”

He hoped.  He knew he couldn’t possibly promise such things, but it helped ease his nerves to say them aloud.  Maybe it was something of a prayer.

Maybe this was, too: “And . . . one day, perhaps, we’ll find Sam and Dean again.”  His throat was closing up.  “I know Sam would like that.  I’m sorry we left without saying goodbye to him, but . . . he would have stopped us.  It was better this way.”

That wasn’t the whole truth, but it made him feel like less of a coward.  It would have been too difficult to say goodbye to his friend.  It would feel too final.  Even if he never saw Dean again, a small piece of him clung to irrational hope that he would see Sam Winchester at least one more time.

He hoped Sam would forgive him for leaving with Jack.

He would try to make it up to him.  Castiel would tell Jack about the Winchesters one day.  Jack would grow and know their names, and he’d know what they did to protect him.  But only the good parts of the story.

A thought struck him.  “Until we see them again,” he said, fishing into his trouser pocket and taking out the cross necklace.  The bronze caught the firelight as it dangled.  He placed it among Jack’s bundle, making sure it was secure.

His throat felt scratched raw as he said, “Take this—to remember . . . them by.”  He hoped Jack wouldn’t need it to remember him by, too.  He hoped the Klines would let him stay.  But, if they didn’t, he could leave a piece of himself with Jack.

He withdrew his finger from Jack’s hold.  The baby’s eyes were drooping, and his small lips were pursing and smacking on the cusp of sleep.  Castiel could feel sleep coming for him, as well.  There was no use fighting it.

“Goodnight, Jack,” he whispered.  Then, he rolled over and blew the lantern’s flame out.  The room was plunged back into darkness.  Castiel fell asleep before his eyes adjusted.

He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep.  It felt like hours.  Surely, it must have been morning.  He could smell the smoke from the kitchen downstairs, likely cooking breakfast.  It lingered in his nostrils.  Jack was crying.

It was morning.  It had to be.  But, as consciousness sluggishly ebbed back in, Castiel realized the sun wasn’t shining red through his eyelids.  It was still pitch black.

The smoke got caught in his throat, and he was pulled fully awake by a cough.  He couldn’t quite seem to catch fresh air.  He gagged into his pillow, breathing in the musty scent until his lungs cleared.  Blearily, he looked up, blinking the world right.  It was still nighttime, and the room was filled up with swirling smoke.

Outside his door, he heard rushing footsteps and frantic, muffled yells.  Next to him, Jack was wailing.

Castiel’s eyes widened and his heart jumped when he realized what was happening.  The hotel was on fire.

He sprang out of bed, at once fully awake.  He scrambled to pull his boots back on before scooping Jack up.  The smoke was filling his head, and his eyes began to sting and water.  He was coughing again, lungs burning for oxygen.  He barely heard the loud shouts from the hallway.

They needed to get out.  He needed to get to the fire staircase.  There was one not too far from his room, past Gabriel's door.  He needed to get Jack to safety.

There was a thump at his door, loud and rattling, like someone had slammed into it.  Despite the heat from the flames he couldn’t see, his blood ran cold, and he realized too late that the sound was from a boot.

The door splintered as it was kicked in.  Three men crowded into the room, six-shooters held up.  They wore bandanas over their noses and mouths.

Castiel’s hold around Jack tightened.

“Hello, Doc,” the man in the front said.

Castiel steeled his jaw, his eyes flashing to his duster across the room, his gun belt hanging next to it.  He wondered if he could make it to his Derringer in time.

The man in front’s six-shooter clicked as he cocked it.  “Don’t try it,” he warned.

“Stay away from him,” Castiel growled, voice rough against the insidious smoke.

The man ignored the threat.  He nodded to his companions, and the two of them stepped forward.  Castiel remembered the scalpel on the nightstand.  Quickly, he swiped it up and lunged at one of the men, plunging it into his neck.  The man made an agonized, shocked sound as he dropped his gun.  His hand flew up to the scalpel’s handle sticking out of his neck.  He yanked it out, blood squirting out after it, and he yelled.  Still clutching the blade in his fist, he fell to the floor with a loud bang.

Castiel tried to go for the fallen weapon, but the second man grabbed him by the shirt.  The other one came forward, arms outstretched for the baby.  Jack’s cries filled the room as Castiel tried to turn away, to keep him in his arms despite the outlaw wrestling him out of them.

“No!” Castiel called as the second man forced him back.  “Jack!”  His hands scrambled to get him back.

And then a sharp pain struck the back of his head.  His vision whited out momentarily and the room spun.  He lost his balance and his knees gave out.  The second man had brought down the butt of his gun on Castiel’s skull.  He let go of Castiel’s shirt, letting him fall to the floor.

Castiel coughed and sputtered.  He tried to get to his feet with shaky hands and knees, but he didn’t know which way was up.  “Jack!” he heard himself call, but his own voice seemed very far away.  His ears were clogged up.  The pain in his head was raging.

He saw the two outlaws’ boots walking away, out the door.  Their images swam and doubled before his vision.  Distantly, he heard Jack’s wails echo and fade.  There was an orange, rampant glow on the opposite wall of the hallway.  None of it seemed real.  He must have been dreaming.

His hands were sticky.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew his palms were in the pool of blood of the man he’d killed.  The only other thing he knew was the heat.

His elbows gave out and he collapsed onto the floor.  He tried to lift his neck to look up.  He had to get Jack back.  He had to go after Lucifer’s men.

His gaze snagged on something on the floor.  The small bronze cross, its chain sprawled and tangled around it.  Castiel tried to grab it with a slow, trembling hand, but it was just out of reach.

Shadows were crowding into the corners of his vision.

He thought of Chicago.  Of the smoke clouds blocking the stars.  Of a world ablaze.  He thought he’d outrun the fire.

His last thought, just before the darkness overcame him, was that the flames had finally managed to catch up.

Chapter Text

“What did you tell her?”

Ruby’s expression remained neutral.  Dean stood over her, trying not to let on that he was kicking himself for not getting rid of her sooner.  Because she’d just led her gang right to Cas and Dean had practically allowed it.  And so did Sam—all because a pretty girl bat her eyelashes at him.

If anything happened to Cas, Dean would kill her.

In fact, he was close to doing just that already.  His fist tightened around the handle of the hunting knife he’d found in her boot when he’d searched her.  Her six-shooter was laying on the bed across the room, where Sam was leaning against the end board with his head hanging.

After they caught her, Dean brought her straight to the hotel.  She barely resisted, except for a few snarky comments and some wiggling, but he held her tightly by the arm and practically shoved her the entire way.  Sam had gone off looking for the Asian woman Ruby had met with, but he came back to the hotel with guilty eyes and empty hands.  Which meant—whatever Ruby had told her about Cas’ location—the rest of Lucifer’s gang knew it by now.

Dean needed to know the same thing.  He needed to get to Cas before they did.

He’d dragged the wooden chair out from the corner of the room and tied Ruby’s wrists to the armrests with ripped strips of the bed linens.  So far, he’d asked her the same question three times, and all she did was smirk up at him.

“I ain’t above striking a girl—especially if she’s a bitch,” he warned.

Ruby snorted, rolling her head.  “How noble of you,” she said.  He stayed quiet, trying to convey with his eyes how serious he was.  She seemed to take it as a joke.  “What, am I supposed to be intimidated?  Please.  I’ve hung around you two for weeks, remember?”

She nodded her chin behind Dean, indicating Sam.  “All he does is talk about his feelings.”  Sam lifted his eyes, his jaw tight.  She goaded, “And you’re even worse with the constant brooding.  ‘Oh, boo-hoo, my husband left me.’  You’d think he died.”

Dean’s upper lip curled in a snarl.  He tried to control just how badly he wanted to kill her.  Not just for Cas, but for using Sam.  Dean should have been looking out for him better instead of being so bent out of shape about Cas leaving.  Maybe she was right.

But then she shrugged her shoulders and mused, “Well, I mean, hey—I guess he will die now, right?”

That was it.

Dean lifted the knife and slashed a shallow line across her forearm.  She hissed and jumped, her fists tightening.  Behind him, he felt Sam startle.  Blood bloomed from the cut.

“Where the hell did you send them?” he yelled.

Teeth gritted, she glared up at him.  “It doesn’t matter,” she spat.  “You’ll never make it in time, anyway.”

“Try me.”  He cut another line, this time slower.  Ruby bit down harder.  “I’m just getting started.  Start talking or the next one’s deeper.”

He didn’t even know if he meant that.  Part of him wondered how far he’d take it if she didn’t actually talk.  He mostly just hoped he could scare her into giving up the information.  But, every time he looked at her, he saw Jo, he saw Mary, he saw the inside of a jail cell.  He saw Cas.

And then something dark and red and heated crept into his vision, long tendrils snaking down through his veins and into his heart.  And he knew he’d stop at nothing to keep Ruby from hurting anyone else he cared about.

He started again: “How do you know where he is?”

“I have my resources,” she assured.

“Then, tell me.”

She raised her brows, as if she pitied him.  “Fuck you, Dean.”

He guessed he really wasn’t above hitting a woman.  His palm stung when he drew it away.  Her cheek was red, and her head had turned to the side under the impact of his hand.  He’d honestly surprised himself.  Behind him, he felt Sam’s eyes on his back—big and sad but not objecting.

Sam was blaming himself, too.

Ruby breathed out, collecting herself.  She turned back with a smile.  “Fine,” she said.  “Since it won’t matter, anyway.  He was headed down the Chisholm on a wagon train.”

It wasn’t anything Dean didn’t already know.  “Where is he, specifically?”

“Some town just north of the Texas border.”

Finally.  They were getting somewhere.  “What town?”

“I don’t know.”

Dean slapped her again.  It was easier the second time, maybe even a little cathartic.

He thought maybe that one would leave a bruise.

“I don’t!” she snapped.

“I don’t believe you!”

“That’s not my problem, asshole!”

He brought the point of the knife to her face, high up on her cheekbone.  He let it hover there, the metal touching her skin.  “Wanna try that again?”

He heard Sam stand up abruptly.  Lowering the knife, Dean looked around.  Sam barely glanced back on the way out the door.  His shoulders were slumped in abject misery.

The strange, feral rage that had clawed at Dean’s insides turned cold.  Maybe he’d gone too far.  Sam shouldn’t have seen any of that.

He stepped back, shame curling in his gut.  He tucked the knife into his waistband.  “Don’t go anywhere,” he threatened.  Ruby rolled her eyes, both of them knowing she was secured to a chair.  He glared for good measure before following Sam out of the room.

Sam was in the hallway, his back against the wall.  He was looking down at his boots.  His hands were flat on the wood, like he was searching for something to hold on to.  Dean remembered when Sam was little—when he was scolded for getting into a fight at the schoolhouse, or when he mouthed off to Dad and got his ass whooped, or when Jessica Moore moved away with her parents to Oregon when they were eight.

He’d find Sam out back, leaning against the house, staring down at his shoes.  The same wretched look was always on his face, and it never failed to break Dean’s heart.

Dean sighed.  He closed the door softly behind him and joined Sam on the wall.  Neither of them said anything for a long moment.  Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to think of something to say to make Sam feel better.  The only thing he thought to do was ask Sam to wait in their second hotel room or go down to the saloon while Dean finished up.  But that wasn’t exactly comforting.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam said, voice low.  “I shoulda listened.  You were right about her.”

Dean nodded, unable to deny it.  He breathed in.  It was a little easier to do out in the hallway.  The air seemed cooler, fresher than it had been inside the room.  Maybe he was just projecting.

“Yeah, well—wish I wasn’t,” he said, and Sam would never know how much he actually meant that.  “But you’re not the first man who’s been duped by a woman, Sammy.”

“Yeah,” Sam whispered.  “But I really thought—”

Something inside the room crashed.  Both of them stood up from the wall immediately, sharing a panicked look.  They rushed back into the room, Dean tearing the door open and barreling in.  Sam was right on his heels.

The chair was on its side on the floor, one leg busted and the arms splintered.  The pieces of linen Dean had used for binding were discarded around it.  Dean’s eyes flashed to the bed.  Ruby had her six-shooter in her hands.  She pointed it at Dean’s head.

Before Dean could even react, Sam had shoved him to the floor on the other side of the bed for cover.  He jumped down after him.  Nearly at the same instant, a shot rang out from Ruby’s gun.  The bullet embedded itself in the wall.

Ruby cursed, but she must have known she was outnumbered now that she’d lost the element of surprise.  She dashed from the room, her running footsteps pounding down the hall.

“Son of bitch,” Dean hissed, recovering.  He got to his feet and pulled out his six-shooter, meaning to go after her.

Sam grabbed his arm, holding him back.  “No, Dean—don’t.  Let her go.”

Dean looked around, dumbfounded.  “What?  Why?”

“Because it doesn’t matter right now,” Sam reasoned.  “We need to go after Cas, remember?  We don’t have time to chase her.”

Dean knew it was best to prioritize, but he also knew that Ruby was there now and Cas was god-knows-where.  “She’ll get away!”

Sam clamped down on his jaw, eyes darkened with anger as he stared out to the hall.  “I know.  But there’s a better way to get back at her.  She told me herself: without Lucifer, she has nowhere to go.”

“Okay?” Dean said in a rush, shaking his head.  “And?”

“And, for the first time, we know where Lucifer’s going.  So . . .” Sam tipped his head to the side, letting it hang in the air between them.

Dean didn’t say anything.  He thought, maybe, whatever sharp, cruel rage that he’d felt had gotten inside Sam, too.  He knew exactly where his brother’s head was.  Only, Sam wanted revenge.  As for himself, Dean just wanted his life back.  He wanted his family safe.

But the road to both outcomes led in the same direction.

Sam wouldn’t find an argument when he spoke next.

“Let’s kill Lucifer.”

Ruby ran straight for the sheriff’s office.  There was no time to waste.

Just outside the door, she stopped to pull the tails of her shirt out from her skirt’s waistband.  She unbuttoned her collar, too, and quickly bent down to rip a tear in the bottom of the skirt.  She tousled her hair for good measure.

And then, voice frantic, she shouted, “Sheriff!”  She busted through the door, stumbling on the way in.  Two men were sitting around the desk, a bottle of whiskey and two filled tin cups between them.  Both stood up at once, their chairs audibly scraping against the floor.

“Oh, Sheriff!  Deputy!  Help!”

“It’s all right, ma’am,” the sheriff said as he walked around the desk.  She allowed him to take her by the shoulders while he led her toward the desk.

Ruby kept babbling, “Sheriff—there were these men.  They held me captive!  I—I only just managed to escape!  Oh, the things they made me do!”  She even managed to let a tear loose down her cheek, and she was awfully proud of herself for that.  The deputy stared at her, wide-eyed and stricken.

“Sit down, ma’am,” the sheriff said in a soothing—and pretty patronizing—tone.  He guided Ruby into the deputy’s chair, and she fell into it heavily.  Briefly, she eyed the whiskey, knowing better than to pour herself a drink no matter how much she wanted to.

The sheriff perched himself on the corner of his desk and looked down at her.  “You said a group of men jumped you?”

She sniffled and nodded.  The deputy took out a handkerchief from his pocket and politely offered it to her.  She dabbed at the corner of her eye.

“Where did this take place?” the sheriff questioned sternly.

“At the hotel,” she answered.  “But they’re gone now.  They took off when I ran—Oh.”  She let out a shaky breath.  “I apologize, Sheriff.  I’m a mess.”

He held up a hand, outwardly exuding patience, but she could feel the ripples of frustration coming off of him at the sight of her tears.  “It’s fine, ma’am.  You’ve been through an ordeal.  Tell me, do you know which way the men went?”

“Yes,” she said, letting the handkerchief fall to her lap.  She twisted it between her hands.  “South.  They mentioned something about the Chisholm, and—a town on the Texas border, I think?  I can’t be certain.”

The sheriff lifted his eyes to look at his deputy.  He nodded.  “We’ll round up a posse and find them.  Can you tell me what they looked like?”

Ruby pulled her brows together in concentration.  “Oh.  Uh . . . well, there were three of them.  Tall fellas.  And—it was the strangest thing.  They . . . well, they had a baby with them.”

She watched the sheriff’s eyes light up, dollar signs from the promise of reward money practically visible on his face.

Ruby brought the handkerchief back to her face, just in case she let a smile slip.

Two days later, Dean and Sam arrived in an unnamed town a few miles north of the Red River.  Dean figured this had to be the one.  This had to be where they’d find Cas—if he hadn’t moved on by now.

They’d ridden through the nights, only stopping for an hour or so to eat and catch a couple of minutes of shut-eye.  Along the way, they’d stopped in a few neighboring towns on the Chisholm in search of Cas and Jack, but so far they hadn’t turned up anything.  They were tired and hungry and filthy—and this town was the last stop before the Texas border.

Cas had to be there.

Dean didn’t know what he’d do if he wasn’t.

Just after sunrise, Dean steered their horses into the town limits.  He kept an eye out for a stable where they could rest Chevy and Bones for a while—but it didn’t look like they’d get any directions.  The street was completely empty.

Dean pulled on Chevy’s reins to bring her to a halt.  Next to him, Sam did the same.  They peered around.  The shops were all closed up.  A couple of buckboards sat abandoned on the side of the street.  Dean lifted his eyes from beneath the rim of his hat, looking above the false-front tops of the buildings.  In the near distance, a curl of black smoke was snaking up toward the blue sky.  He sniffed, a charred odor tickling his nose.

A sinking feeling told him that Lucifer and his crew had somehow managed to beat them there.  He tried to remember that was impossible—or at least improbable.  He and Sam had moved too fast.

“You smell that?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“Yeah,” Sam answered in a hush.  “You see that?”  He was pointing at the pillar of smoke.

Dean didn’t answer.  He squeezed his heels into Chevy’s side, sending her forward.  “C’mon, let’s find somewhere to put them and check it out.  And watch your back.”

They found a stable a few minutes later.  There wasn’t an attendant present, but half a dozen horses were in the stalls, and Dean tried to take that as a good sign.  Maybe—whatever happened to the town’s residents—they were planning on returning.

But that didn’t make him feel much better.  Because it all depended on what drove them out in the first place.

Dean dismounted.  He kept a wary eye on his surroundings, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, and his limbs coiled for a fight.  He took out his Colt, ensuring he had enough bullets loaded.

“Dean, look,” Sam said.  Dean glanced up immediately, following Sam’s line of sight.  At the end of the row, a horse was sticking its head out from its stall.  The creature’s pale blonde mane and flaxen coat were matted with trail dust.  Sam said, “Is that—?”

“Lincoln,” Dean confirmed.  He was sure of it.  He’d bought Cas that horse.

“Okay, so that’s good, right?” Sam asked, ever the optimist.  “That means Cas is here.”

Dean looked at him, trying not to let on the cold fist squeezing his insides.  Surely, Sam hadn’t forgotten that the town was empty.  But maybe Cas was with the townsfolk.  Maybe he and Jack were hiding out somewhere close.

Or maybe Lucifer got them.

“Yeah,” he said anyway, because maybe if Sam believed it, he could, too.

They put their horses in two stalls and rolled some hay barrels in for the animals to chew on before heading out.  Dean kept his gun in his hand; Sam had opted for his six-shooter.  They scanned the streets and alleyways for any threats while they moved in the direction of the smoke.

As they got closer, Dean could hear the sounds of men working—wood moving and shifting, boots walking.  There were some murmured voices.  The noises were coming from the adjacent street, where the pungent scent of smoke had become nearly oppressive.  Dean breathed it in with every inhale.  It was trapped by the humidity of the day, packed in against his skin.

The two of them stopped outside the General Store, where the two streets met.  He shared a look at Sam, seeing the tension in his brother’s shoulders, ready for anything.  Dean cocked his gun and nodded.

They whipped around the corner.

What must have been the entire town was crowded halfway down the street.  Most people were just standing around, watching whatever was beyond.  Dean could only imagine what that sight must have been.  From his vantage point, he saw at least half the street on the left side was decimated.  A few buildings had survived, scorch marks branding them.  One building, while still standing, was black and gutted.  The rest must have been reduced to ash.

Shit.  If Lucifer wasn’t here, the men Ruby sent after Cas certainly were.

Still, it was good to know the townspeople hadn’t fled.

Dean and Sam put their weapons away and walked into the crowd.

They pushed their way to the front, and even from a few rows back, Dean could see the decimation that had occurred.  Blackened rubble was in heaps in the places where at least three buildings once stood.  A few men and boys were sifting through it, overturning debris and grunting as they lifted heavy planks.  Bodies were being carried out on boards to join the others, draped in white linen, on the street where the undertaker was having them carted off.  One person had miraculously survived, blood on her forehead and an arm around a man’s shoulder as he helped her from the wreckage.

The men worked in near silence, like they thought it’d be disrespectful to speak in the wake of tragedy.

Dean followed Sam out of the mass of onlookers and toward the site of the wreckage, where two men were placing a badly burned body on the dirt in the line of others.  “Excuse me, mister?” Sam asked, catching one man’s attention.  He stood up and dusted off his hands.  The other man went back to the rubble.

“What the hell happened here?” Dean asked, his eyes on a man currently struggling for balance as he walked atop the shifting heap.

The man before them let out a sigh.  “The hotel caught fire a couple nights ago—took a few businesses down with it.  We’d finally managed to put the flames out last night.”

Dean swallowed as the man on the wreckage slipped and fell.  He turned his attention back when Sam asked, “Any survivors?”

“Oh, yeah.  Plenty,” was the answer, and that was a relief.  “They’re all at the courthouse.  Biggest building in town to keep them.  There’s some doctor there tending to the wounded.”

That was even more of a relief.  Dean leaned back, trying not to let it show under such tragic circumstances.  But he was willing to bet he knew who that doctor was.  He shared a look with Sam, who seemed equally reassured.

“Thank you,” Sam told the man.

The man nodded, squinting in the sun as he looked up at them.  “If you’re able, we could use a few more hands to help pick apart the wreckage.”

“Yeah,” Sam promised.  “You got it.”

The man turned away, getting back to work.

Dean allowed himself to exhale as he and Sam huddled together.  “All right, you stick here and help out,” he said.  “I’ll find the courthouse and let Cas know we’re in town.  Meet us there later.”

Sam was hardly looking at him.  He seemed distracted, mouth in a tight line as his eyes flitted about the scene behind Dean.  There was remorse about him.

“Sam,” Dean said, trying to snap him out of it.  He knew what Sam was thinking.  He was thinking about what happened with Ruby, about the part he’d played.  That wouldn’t do anyone any good.  He waited until he had Sam’s gaze to say, “This isn’t your fault.”

Sam dipped his head in a half nod, seeming just short of believing it.  Dean would get it through his thick skull soon, because he meant it.  It wasn’t Sam’s fault.  It was Ruby’s and Lucifer’s.  No one else’s.

For the moment, he needed to get to the courthouse.  His stomach was in knots at the thought of seeing Cas again, because he was still pissed at him for leaving.  He was fairly sure Cas was still angry for letting him go, too.  And there was a pretty good chance this reunion would end in a fistfight.  Dean was fine with that—just as long as he got to see Cas again.

He turned around, ready to set out, when something stopped him abruptly.  Two young men were passing him, carrying a board with a charred body on top.  If not for the shape of it, Dean wouldn’t have even known it was once a man.  The skin was gone, every inch of it carbonized and black.  Dean had never seen anything like it.  His gaze moved about the body until his eyes caught on something silver and familiarly shaped clutched in its fist.

He felt his breath stop.

Sam must have seen it, too, because he stepped forward.  From somewhere far away, Dean heard him say, “Hey, hang on a second.”  The two boys stopped walking, giving Sam curious looks as he went up to the body.  Hesitant hands reached for the wrist.  He lifted up the arm, and Dean heard the sound it made—like coal from the fireplace breaking apart.  Sam opened up the hand and pulled out the object.

Dean saw it resting in Sam’s palm—the handle still untarnished, the blade scratched and lined with a thin layer of soot.  A surgical scalpel.

Sam half-turned, his jaw set and eyes melancholy as they caught Dean’s.

And Dean thought it couldn’t be Cas.  Because how could Cas be at the courthouse and in front of them at the same time?  It didn’t make any sense.

“No, that’s not—,” Dean heard himself say, but he couldn’t finish the thought.  He couldn’t even think it.

Panic was rising inside him.  When the first entered the town, his fear had been steely.  Now, it choked him.

He tore his eyes away from the scalpel to the boys carrying the body.  “Where’d you find that body?”

“Over there,” one boy said, pointing back to the rubble.  “Toward the middle.”

Dean took off in that direction.  He heard Sam desperately call his name, and he was vaguely aware of Sam thanking the boys before running after him.

The wreckage was unsteady under Dean’s weight, the loose boards sliding and shifting.  It was harder to walk than he’d anticipated.

“Cas?” he called out, expecting an answer.  “Cas!”

His leg fell through a hole and he nearly got stuck.  His jeans tore slightly when he pulled it out and kept going.

He told himself not to be ridiculous, to stop getting worked up for no reason.  He should go to the courthouse.  Cas would be there.

But there was a disconnect between his mind and body.  He kept walking.

When he got to the general middle of the debris, he got down on his knees and picked up a singed board.  He tossed it out of the way, and did the same with the next, digging and digging.

“Dean!” he heard Sam say from somewhere to his left.  His head snapped over.  Sam was standing up, something held between his hands that he’d picked from the rubble.  It was a leather satchel, the material mostly blackened and brittle, but patches of the original tan color came through.

Before Dean knew it, he was standing up again and walking toward Sam.  His legs were moving without him even realizing it.  They felt numb as they carried him.  When he got closer, Sam opened the flap of the satchel and dug through it.

He wouldn’t find anything, Dean thought.  It was just a basic bag.  Common.  Many people had something just like it.  Cas had something like it.  He’d gotten it in Arkansas City.

He watched Sam pull out a vial of laudanum.  He looked up, eyes apologetic and wounded.

And Dean still didn’t understand.

But it was dawning on him.  Slowly.

There had to be an explanation.  That body couldn’t have been Cas.

He looked around wildly, searching for a sign among the devastation that Sam was wrong, that they were worried for no reason.

Something was glinting in the sunlight on one of the boards.

Dean walked toward it and crouched down.  He reached forward, his fingers feeling brittle, the skin around them stretched too tight over the bones.  When it was in his fist, he brought it up, a small weight swaying and twisting as gravity tugged on it.

He didn’t look around at Sam.  He couldn’t.  He couldn’t see the confirmation on Sam’s face.

Dean kept staring forward, watching the tiny bronze cross dangle from its chain.

Cas was buried at noon.  It was in the boot hill right outside of town, where a long trench had been dug to place the pine coffins in a row.  He’d been buried with eight other people, and the boxes were identical; Sam didn’t know which one was his.  Still, each of them had a marker over their graves and the local minister read a few verses from scripture over them.  He was a Baptist, and Sam hoped Cas would be all right with that.

A handful of townspeople came out for the service to pay their respects, but most of them remained in town to pull out the rest of the bodies from the hotel’s wreckage.  There’d be another burial service for them that evening.  Apparently, whatever was left of Cas’ wagon train had moved on yesterday.

Throughout the service, Sam had stood with his head bowed in prayer, his hat in his hands, and a pressure in his throat that wanted to burst out in either a scream or a sob if he allowed it.  Next to him, Dean remained still and silent, eyes blank as they stared ahead into nothingness, shoulders hunched, jaw slack, and skin pallid.  If he hadn’t been standing upright, people might have thought they’d have to bury him next.  He left right after the service without a word.  Sam stayed behind momentarily to pray for Cas, to ask his forgiveness, and to say goodbye.

When he got back into the town, the streets still smelled of scorched earth and decay.  Gray ash fluttered and swirled in the air whenever a breeze came through.  There were fewer onlookers around the scene of the fire than there had been in the morning, but volunteers were still overturning the wreckage and carrying out the dead.  Thankfully, there weren’t too many sheets lining the street this time.  Sam spied the undertakers wrapping up one of them for transport on a cart.

Dean wasn’t anywhere in sight, and Sam decided to find him later.  He probably wasn’t up for speaking with people at the moment, anyway.  Cas may have been gone, but Jack was still out there.  Lucifer’s gang had him.  They needed to move quickly to find him before they lost him for good.

Toward the end of the row, there was a brown-skinned woman sitting on the dirt next to one of the bodies.  People milled around her, intent on their purposes.  She remained still, eyes downcast on the lump beneath the white sheet.

Sam’s brow pinched together curiously.  She must have known the man she was sitting vigil beside, and Sam wondered if he had been a guest at the hotel.  Maybe she’d been a guest, too, and she might have seen something.  It was worth a try.

He paced toward her slowly, careful not to spook her upon his approach to the other side of the body.  “Excuse me, ma’am?” he asked softly, slipping his hat off his head again in respect.

The woman didn’t look up.  “I’m not speaking to the newspapers.”

“Oh, no,” he stammered a little.  He held his hand earnestly to his chest.  “I’m not from the papers.  My name’s Sam.  I’m trying to find someone who might have been in the fire.”

Confusion passed over her expression.  She lifted her head, eyes callous and suspicious as she looked him over.  It was clear she didn’t want to talk to him, but he didn’t know who else to ask.  He knelt down on one knee.  “I don’t mean to disturb you, but I’m hoping you might be able to help me.”

Her mouth went taut, and she let out a heavy breath through her nose.  For a second, it seemed like she might send him away, but she said, “Fine.”

Sam’s eyes flashed down to the body between them.  A man’s arm was sticking out from beneath the sheet, limp hand palm-up on the dirt.  He looked pretty intact, with soot and blood covering his skin.  He wasn’t burned completely like Cas had been.  “You knew him?” Sam asked.

The woman gave an impatient exhale.  “He was my husband.”

Sam nodded apologetically.  It didn’t seem like she wanted to talk about it.  Instead, he said, “I knew someone in the fire.  He was part of the wagon train that came through town.”

“So were we,” the woman said.

Sam’s eyes flashed with surprise.  He’d been told the caravan left, but it stood to reason that this woman would stay behind if her husband hadn’t yet been recovered.  “Really?  Then, maybe you saw him.  He was, uh—a tall guy, dark hair.  He was traveling with a baby.”

The guardedness in the woman’s eyes lessened somewhat.  “Jimmy?” she asked.  “Peterson.  I think that was his name.”

“Yeah!” Sam answered quickly, hope striking him.  He recalled the name Dean had checked them in under at the hotel in Oklahoma City.  He had no idea why he’d chosen that name, but it was the same one.  Jim Peterson.  That had to be Cas.  If this woman knew it, she might know what happened to Jack.  “You knew him?”

She nodded.  “Yes.  We met him in Oklahoma City.  Gabriel let him ride in our wagon.”

“That was very kind of you both,” Sam said gratefully.  He was glad to know Cas had at least two friends on the trail.

“Is that who you’re looking for?”

Sam’s gut turned sour.  He shook his head.  “No, he, uh . . . he’s dead.”  The woman didn’t say anything.  She looked down again.  “But I’m looking for the baby.  I think someone might have taken him, and that they started the fire.”

Again, she looked up in question.  “Why would anyone want the child?”

Sam scoffed out humorlessly.  “It’s kind of hard to explain.  But did you see anything last night?  Anyone suspicious in the hotel?”

She shook her head, and he could feel his hope draining.  “I wasn’t here when the fire started.  I was . . . out for a walk.”  She sounded woeful—maybe even a little guilty.  “When I returned, the hotel was already burning.  I saw a few people running out, but no one with a baby.”

Damn it.  Sam tried not to show his disappointment.  He didn’t need this woman to feel any guiltier on his account.  “Okay.  Thank you for your time, ma’am,” he said, knowing there was no way she could help him.  She’d already helped Cas enough.  Sam looked down at the body again and said, “And . . . thank you.  For helping C—Jimmy.”

When the woman scoffed, it sounded thick.  Her jaw was rigid.  With a fierceness, she said, “Don’t thank me.  It was my husband’s doing.”

Sam nodded again, thinning his lips.  “He seemed like a good man.”

“He was an idiot.”  Her eyes weren’t quite welling, but they were glistening with sadness.  Sam couldn’t imagine the pain this woman was in.

He couldn’t imagine Dean’s pain.

And it was his fault.  If he never let Ruby into their lives, she would have never been able to find out where Cas was.  Cas, this woman’s husband—all of them—were dead because of him.  He didn’t know how to make that right, but he could try.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said softly.

The woman looked down at her husband.  Quietly, she breathed out, “Thank you.”

Sam lingered a moment longer, hoping to be a comforting presence, before standing up and turning away.  He didn’t know who else he could question.  He could go back to the courthouse to talk to the survivors.  He and Dean had gone there that morning, but they left pretty quickly after Dean saw the unfamiliar doctor taking care of the wounded.  Whatever scrap of hope Dean had left in him had drained away.  But maybe Sam should give it another try.

Either that or he could go around to the nearby businesses to see if the locals had seen anything—but, if the fire had happened at night, he doubted anyone would have been in their shops.

He didn’t get far when a man stepped in front of his path.  A bandage was wrapped around his head, and there was a red stain from his wound on the material over his left eye.  His vest and shirtsleeves were layered in ash and his bowler hat was in his hand, hanging at his side.  “Pardon me, sir?” the man asked.

Sam stopped abruptly, sizing up the man.

He didn’t wait for an answer before gesturing behind Sam with his hat and saying, “Excuse me for eavesdropping, but you were questioning that woman about who might have started the fire?”

Sam stood up straighter, optimism tentatively blooming in his chest again.  “Yeah?”

“Well, I didn’t see them leave—especially with an infant, but I saw them come in,” the man said.  He pointed up to his forehead.  “I’m the clerk at the front desk.  They knocked me out when they arrived.  If I hadn’t come to in time, I would be dead.”

Sam nodded, trying to be sympathetic but really wanting the man to hurry up and tell him what he saw.  “Okay,” he said.  “These men—did you recognize them?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” the man told him, seeming both proud and harried.  “They’re a group of rustlers that come down from Kansas every cattle season to pray upon the herds on the trail.  They terrorize this town—and many of the neighboring towns, too!”

Sam tried not to give a sigh of relief.  If they were known outlaws, it was a strong possibility that someone knew where they were.  “Do you know where they make camp?”

The man shook his head.  “No camp.  These last few years, they’ve taken over an abandoned farm just across the river into Texas.”  He pointed in the general direction.  “Go southwest and you’ll no doubt come upon it.”

Sam placed his hand on the man’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes.  “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do,” the man told him, raising his chin.  “I hope you kill those ruffians.”

There was really nothing Sam wanted more.  “I will,” he promised.

Quickly, he turned and started walking.  Everything seemed so urgent suddenly, as if the outlaws were taking Jack away at that very moment.  They had to get to that farm before Lucifer arrived and absconded with the baby.

He needed to find Dean—and there was really only one place Sam knew he’d be on a day like this.  He walked until he came upon the saloon.

There weren’t many people inside, and Sam instantly found his brother standing in front of the bar.  Dean was leaning into the wood, his elbows holding him up as they dug into the counter.  He had a shot glass full of amber whiskey in one hand.  His other fist was clutched tight and, when Sam got closer, he saw a bronze glint of a chain poking out from his curled fingers.  A bottle of whiskey, mostly empty, was in front of him.

“Hey,” Sam said somberly when he slid up next to Dean.  He took off his hat and placed it on the bar.  Dean didn’t say anything.  He knocked back his shot, grimacing as he set the glass back down.  Sam eyed him, and then looked at the whiskey.  He wasn’t much for drinking his problems away.  He wasn’t like Dean, and he certainly wasn’t like their father.  But it had been one hell of a day.  “You got one for me?”

Dean shot him a sideways look but he didn’t seem all that concerned.  He might have been surprised but, really, it was layered with apathy.  When the saloon keeper looked over, Dean gestured for another glass.  The man picked one up from behind the bar and placed it down, nodding at Sam before he left.  There was a subdued look about him; in fact, the entire saloon was quiet but for low murmurs.  The entire town felt like a cemetery.

Dean poured them both a shot and downed his.  Sam picked his own glass up by two fingers and did the same, wincing and hissing at the burn down his throat.  He flipped his glass over on the bar, because they shouldn’t stand around getting drunk.  They had work to do.

Clearing his throat of the thickness the whiskey let behind, he said cautiously, “So, uh, I’ve been talking to some people—asking around about the fire.  I think I found us a lead on where they took Jack.”

He watched as Dean picked up the bottle.  He swayed a little.  The neck of the bottle clinked against the rim of the glass as he poured himself another drink.  His other fist had tightened, knuckles going red and white.  He kept staring forward, barely blinking.  “Yeah?”

It was the first word Sam had heard out of him in hours.  It was encouraging.  He hated seeing Dean like this; he had no idea how to shake him out of it.  But maybe getting Jack back would give him purpose.  Dean needed that.

Sam turned toward him, nodding.  “Yeah.  They’re just over the border.  Apparently at some farm.  I mean, hopefully Lucifer hasn’t gotten there yet but we’re running out of time.  We should leave soon.”

Dean held the glass to his mouth, its rim hovering close to his bottom lip.  He didn’t drink.  “I thought you wanted to kill Lucifer.”

“Yeah, I do,” Sam told him.  “And we will.  But, first we need to get Jack to safety.  Then we go after him.”

Dean titled his head back to drink.

Sam furrowed his brow, a cold and creeping sensation filling up his gut.  “Come on, we should get moving,” he said, pretending he didn’t already know what Dean’s answer was.  He hoped, if he stayed positive, Dean would go along with it.

The answer came anyway.

“Nah.”

His eyes widened.  He didn’t know why he was so stunned.  Sam guessed, deep down, if Dean had some reason to keep fighting, he would be okay.  But Dean was just giving up.  He didn’t even want revenge.

Dean never just gave up.

Horrified, Sam watched him tip the last of the whiskey into his glass.

“Dean, what d’you mean, no?” he asked, trying not to sound desperate.  He needed to get Dean out of this hole before it was too deep—before he followed Cas into the earth.  “We have to get Jack back.”

Dean scoffed out a bitter laugh.  “And why do we have to do that?”

Sam blinked.  “Because,” he said slowly.  There were a million reasons he could think of: like Jack was just a baby in need of saving, or like Sam needed to repent for the lives his mistake had cost, or like they couldn’t let Lucifer continue to roam free.  Maybe there was only one reason that Dean would respond to: “It’s what Cas wanted.”

A muscle in Dean’s jaw jumped.  He stared down at his drink, his fingers touching the rim. He twisted the corners of his mouth downward in what might have been a grimace.  “Cas is dead.”

Sam withered at the reminder.  “That isn’t Jack’s fault.”

He hadn’t expected Dean to react the way he did.  He turned quickly, eyes sharp.  He lashed out, “But Jack’s the reason!”  Everyone in the bar turned their eyes on them.

Sam looked around in a mixture of dread and embarrassment.  “That’s not true,” he tried.  “You want to blame someone, blame Ruby.  Hell, blame me for letting her into our lives.”  It’s what he deserved, but Dean apparently didn’t think so.

“Yeah, and why did she take advantage of you?  Because of the kid!” Dean yelled.  “Everything leads back to the damn kid!”

People were still looking at them.  Sam held up his hand to settle Dean.  He whispered, “Dean, please.  Calm—”

“Don’t, Sam!”  Dean shrugged away from Sam’s palm.  “Lucifer’s got Jack?  Fine.  He’s where he belongs.”

Sam let out a clipped breath.  “How can you say that?”

“Because I don’t wanna lose anyone else that I love!”  He went still for a moment, eyes flashing as his own words processed.  Sam dropped his shoulders in pity.  It was the first time Dean had used the word in front of him.  Sam only prayed Cas had gotten the chance to hear it, but he knew he probably hadn’t.

Dean recovered, licking his lips.  He said, “I ain’t losing you, Sam.”

Letting the moment pass, Sam looked down.  He swallowed hard and nodded.  He understood Dean’s fears, but he couldn’t abandon Jack, especially now.  He looked Dean in the eyes and said, “Dean.  I’m going with or without you.”

Dean’s expression turned hard.  He said, “No, you’re not.”  It felt like a command.  “So help me God, I will drug you and tie you to your saddle if I have to—but we’re leaving town.”

Sam bristled as he watched Dean drink the last of his whiskey.  Forcing calm, he said, “I can’t leave Jack—and you can’t either.  You’ll regret it.”

“No, what I regret is letting Cas leave.  I’m not letting you do the same.”  He put the glass down and shouldered past Sam toward the exit.

Sam didn’t pay any mind to the eyes on them as he followed Dean out.  “You won’t be able to stop me, Dean.  I’m getting Jack to Waco,” he said, trying to cut Dean off.  Dean opened the door and stepped outside.  “So, if you don’t want me to go alone, you’re gonna have to—”

Dean stopped short, and Sam very nearly ran right into him.  A moment of confusion passed over Sam before he had the sense to look up, and his stomach immediately dropped.

A group of men were lined up on the street, their weapons trained on the two of them.  One man stood before them.

“Sam and Dean Winchester,” Henriksen said, “I was starting to think the two of you were ghosts.”

Night was falling, and Dean barely even noticed.  All he knew was that he and Sam were behind bars—again.  Another jailhouse in another city, with Victor Henriksen glaring at them.  It might have been funny if Dean thought he’d ever be able to laugh again.

He was sitting in the cell next to Sam, the two of them squeezed onto a wooden board held up by chains on the wall.  It must have been there to serve as a bed for the drunk and disorderly to sleep themselves into sobriety before being cut loose.  But Dean didn’t really know how any grown man could fit on such a thing.  He and Sam were squeezed together, shoulder to toe, just sitting upright on it.

And the worst part of it all?  He wasn’t even drunk anymore.  It wore off hours ago.  When he first walked into the saloon, he’d been trying for a blackout.  He couldn’t even do that right.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time,” Henriksen said.  He was pacing back and forth outside the cell, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hat off.  There was curt irritation in his tone.  His deputy, Reidy, was leaning against the sheriff’s desk on the other side of the room, the cell’s keys hanging from his belt.

“Where’s Dr. Novak?”

Each time the question was posed, Dean’s teeth were set more and more on edge.  After hours of it, he considered the fact that Henriksen was lucky he’d taken away his gun—because Dean would shoot the next person who mentioned Cas’ name.

Sam let out a breath.  “And I’ll tell you again—he’s dead.  He died in the hotel fire.  We buried him this afternoon.”

Dean stared ahead, his dry eyes stinging.  He couldn’t really recall the last time he’d blinked, but it felt like too much of an effort.

He honestly didn’t know why Sam was bothering with the truth.  They’d be in chains and on a stage to Kansas tomorrow morning.  There was nothing they could do about that.  But Dean would take all the blame at the trial.  He’d tell the judge what he wanted to hear: that the baby was Bela’s, that Dean had stolen it for ransom, that he tricked Sam into believing it was someone else’s child.  He’d make sure his brother walked free, whether Sam liked it or not.  Sam could go home, stay with Mom.  As far as Dean was concerned, they could hang him.

“Uh-huh,” Henriksen droned.  He stopped pacing and placed his hands on his hips.  “Or Novak’s in the wind with the baby, held up somewhere right now waiting for the two of you to catch up.”

Dean blinked.  He’d had about enough of Victor’s smart mouth.  “Cas wasn’t waiting for us,” he said, and his voice sounded groggy—cracked open.

Sam’s head turned quickly, like he was surprised to hear Dean’s voice.  Henriksen’s brows popped.  “Oh, so he speaks after all!”

Dean shot him a look, but it probably wasn’t very menacing.  He could feel how dull and dead his eyes were.

“He and the baby left us about two weeks ago,” he said.

Victor fit the toe of his boot into the bottom rung of crisscrossing steel.  He bent his knee, folding his arms atop his thigh and leaning in.  “And why would he do that?”

Dean bit down on his jaw, remembering their fight.  He said simply, “Call it a difference of opinion.”

Henriksen’s eyes narrowed.  He stared at Dean for a long time, sizing him up.  “Mhm,” he hummed, leaning back.

“Look, Henriksen, we’re telling the truth,” Sam said in that overly-compassionate, earnest tone of his.  His forehead was probably lined above his best puppy dog eyes, the ones you just couldn’t say no to.

But Henriksen wasn’t buying it.  “Right, and I’m just supposed to believe the baby was fathered by the outlaw Nicholas Pike and you two are just trying to protect it?”

Sam shrugged out his hands.  “Yeah.”

“You got any idea how crazy that sounds?”

“It’s the truth,” Sam assured, like he could make Henriksen believe it if he said it enough.  But he must have known that wasn’t the case, because he continued, “Ask around town if you don’t believe us.  The people who burned down the hotel—the ones who took Jack—they’re part of Lucifer’s gang.”

“I ain’t callin’ him that,” Henriksen cut in.  Behind him, Reidy snorted.

Sam let out a hum, biting down whatever he was going to say.  He relented, “Fine.  Pike’s gang.  Whatever you wanna call him.  He’s the one behind this.”

Henriksen stayed still for a while, apparently considering Sam’s words.  And, for a brief moment, Dean actually thought Sam had gotten through to him.  But then Victor sighed and rubbed tiredly at his eyes.  “All right, I officially need a break,” he said.  He turned to Reidy.  “You watch them like a hawk, you understand?  They already escaped once.  I’m not taking any more chances.”

“You got it,” Reidy said.  He sat down on the desk chair, apparently settling in.

Sam sighed, giving up.  For now.

Henriksen shot them one more hard look before picking up his hat and exiting the jailhouse.

Dean slumped further against the wall, waiting for the inevitable hour when he and Sam were led out in shackles.

They were about half a day from the Texas border.  Ruby could practically taste her victory.  When she closed her eyes, she imagined Lucifer’s proud smile as he looked at her, his child in his arms.  That dream would be a reality soon enough, but Ruby could wait.  She prided herself on her patience.

The night after her meeting with the sheriff in Oklahoma City, she met up with Lucifer, Dagon, and the others that had accompanied them on their journey south.  Dagon had sneered out a laugh when Ruby confessed the Winchesters weren’t dead, but Lucifer seemed to accept her apology, especially when she told him about the precaution she’d taken.  With any luck, Marshal Henriksen had caught up with the brothers by now and they were on their way back to Lawrence.  If not, Ruby was ready for a fight.

The Winchesters would be outnumbered.  No matter what happened, they’d meet their end and Ruby would have a permanent place at her father’s side.

In fact, she kind of hoped she would see the Winchesters again.  She wanted her knife back.

As dusk fell, their group stopped to make camp for the night.  Lucifer’s tent had been set up along a twisting creek, where fireflies’ yellow light reflected on the trickling water.  He’d retired once the tent was erected, and he was only disturbed once when Brady went inside to give him a bowl of stew.

The rest of them were rolling out their bedding for the night.  On the outskirts of the group, Gerald was playing a sorrowful tune on the harmonica as he kept watch.

When she was finished setting up her sleeping arrangements, Ruby sat on her bedroll, attune to the aches and pains of being in the saddle all day thrumming through her body.  There were also the cuts and tender bruises that Dean Winchester had marred her with, which still smarted a little.  But she’d live.

She reached for her saddlebag and resituated it at the top of her bedding to use as a pillow.  She was about to pull off her boots when movement by the campfire caught her eyes.  It took a moment for her to realize the shadow poking at the embers was Dagon, who didn’t seem like she was settling in any time soon.

Ruby wanted to take satisfaction in that, because Dagon was probably still glum about not being the one to lead Lucifer to Jack.  But they were leaving for Texas at first light, and they really didn’t need some old broad slowing them down because she didn’t get enough sleep.

Huffing, Ruby got to her feet.  She weaved through the scattered bedrolls until she reached the campfire.  Dagon didn’t look up, but her shoulders tensed and bristled.  “What do you want?” she said.  The light of the fire flickered across her face, flames alight as they reflected yellow against her pupils.

“For you to go to sleep,” Ruby told her, cutting straight to the point.  “Gerald’s on watch, remember?”

“Oh, you’re not even in Lucifer’s inner circle yet and you’re giving out orders already?”  Dagon poked at the wood again, causing embers to scatter.

Ruby crossed her arms.  “If I have to.”

“The young are always so eager,” Dagon reproved.

Ruby rolled her eyes.  She should have never come over but, now that she had, she couldn’t just walk away.  And, frankly, she’d had enough of Dagon.  It was one thing to feel threatened by Ruby, but it was another thing entirely to keep Lucifer from his goals just to snub her.

“Is that what your problem is?” Ruby snapped.  “You hate me because you’re some bitter old hag?  Or because, when Lucifer gets his child, he’ll have me to thank and not you?  Please, tell me, because I’d love to know!”

Dagon snorted out a laugh.  She didn’t answer, like she thought she didn’t owe one.  All she did was shake her head.

Ruby kept staring at her, not backing down.

After a moment, Dagon pointed the tip of the twig to the spot next to her on the grass.  “Sit.”

Ruby didn’t sit.  Not for a few long moments.  Dagon remained quiet.  Sighing, Ruby uncrossed her arms and threw them up.  She sat.

For what felt like a full minute, she watched Dagon stoke the fire.  It hissed and rustled.  The crickets chirped.  Gerald’s song stopped and, a moment later, he started it back up again from the beginning.

Dagon said, “You know what will happen when Lucifer has the child, don’t you?”

Ruby shrugged.  She guessed she really hadn’t thought that far in advance.  All she was trying to do was get the kid.  Whatever happened next wasn’t her problem.

Dagon rolled her eyes like she’d expected as much.  “He’s going to groom him to be our leader some day—to take over when Lucifer dies.”

That didn’t actually explain why Dagon had such a chip on her shoulder.  Besides, that was years away.  She’d probably be dead by that time, so what did it matter to her?  “Okay.  And?”

“And,” Dagon said, “imagine it.  We’ll be expected to answer to some bratty, inexperienced child whose only claim to power is bearing Lucifer’s blood.  And yet, you all treat him like he’s our messiah.  Well, he isn’t.  All he’ll lead us to is the gallows, our hope of a better future with us.”

Ruby eyed her skeptically.  “That’s an awfully negative outlook.”  When Dagon scoffed, still not taking her seriously, Ruby continued, “No, I mean it.  He’s a baby, Dagon.  You don’t know what he’ll be like.”

“Precisely my point,” she said, suddenly turning her head to glower at Ruby.  “He’s young.  So are you.  You don’t understand, child.  You never lived it.  Gone are the days of the frontier.  Every piece of it is settled and farmed and tamed.  The railroad is making the country small, and more people will come, bringing the uptight ways of their world with them.  Lucifer’s hopes—my hopes—of what the world could look like are fading.”

Ruby tried not to look away, to keep meeting her eyes.  She wondered what Dagon saw in her.  Sure, Ruby believed Lucifer’s message of freedom and choice, but she knew it wasn’t attainable.  Society as a whole wouldn’t allow it.  Personally, she was fine not being a part of society.  Leave the tea parties and local elections to others.  They didn’t deserve freedom, anyway.

As if Dagon knew her thoughts, she let out a breath and looked back at the fire.  “We need a leader who can bring us that world, not run from the one before us.”

“And you think that’s you?” Ruby asked, because it wasn’t like Dagon was offering any solutions.  Dagon bristled again but didn’t answer.  It was clearly a sore subject, and she should just let it be; but she felt a slight tinge in her chest.  She couldn’t just let Dagon stew in her fears.  “Hey,” she said, “you have to trust that Lucifer knows what he’s doing.”

Dagon shook her head thoughtfully, staring off.  “Lucifer doesn’t know all.  He’s blinded by his desire for a son.”  It felt like blasphemy.

Whether Dagon liked it or not, Lucifer would have his child in a matter of hours.  It wasn’t up to her to decide.  Ruby said, “Okay.  So, then, the kid’ll be raised to be the leader.  If he’s shitty at it—Well, then you and me will just have to be there to tell him what to do.  You know, behind every strong man . . .”

Surprisingly, Dagon laughed.  It took Ruby aback, and it honestly took her a moment to realize what it was.  She didn’t even think she’d ever seen Dagon smile without a hint of ruefulness to it.  She blinked, stunned into silence.

Humor licking her tone, Dagon said, “Now you sound like Lilith.”

Ruby let those words settle against her skin.  The heat of the flames was beginning to sting her cheeks, and her back was chilled as night fell in earnest around them.  But those words sparked pride in her heart.  A fond, wistful smile came to her as she thought of Lilith.  She wished she had known her.

“What was she like?” she found herself asking, desperate for a morsel of information about the woman, fearful that Dagon would contradict the image of her Ruby had in her imagination.  That is, if Dagon answered at all.  Once the words were out of her mouth, Ruby didn’t expect her to.  She probably thought Ruby was just a silly little girl.

But Dagon exhaled in memory.  Her voice quieter, she said, “Fierce.”

Good.  Ruby had hoped she had been.

“Patient.  Intelligent.  She had a way of making people do exactly what she wanted.  And she was always working behind the scenes, never one to seek out credit,” Dagon went on.  “She had an attitude.  A bad one.”  She paused, poked the fire.  “In truth, you remind me of her.”

The longing was instantly overcome by shocked confusion.  Ruby found herself smiling.  “Hang on, was that a compliment?” she teased.

At once, Dagon put back on her prudish, superior air.  Her walls went back up—but not all the way.  And maybe Ruby found herself more willing to let Dagon in, too.

“It was an observation,” Dagon told her.  “Don’t make me vomit.”

Ruby laughed.  Dagon shook her head again, but in the flickering shadows of the fire, Ruby swore she saw a quick smile quirk on her lips.

Ruby climbed back to her feet and brushed off her palms.  “Get some sleep,” she said.  Dagon didn’t answer.  Turning, Ruby went back to her bedroll, passing at least three loudly snoring men on the way.  She pulled off her boots and laid back, staring up at the stars.

She could still feel echoes of a grin on the lines of her mouth.  Dagon’s words spun through her head.  She wondered if Lilith would be proud of her.

Tipping the brim of her hat over her eyes, she went to sleep.

The sun was rising outside the jail.  There weren’t any windows in the cell, but Sam saw the weak gray light filtering through the cracks in the boards of the jailhouse door.  He was laying back on the wooden plank that served as a cot, his legs hanging off the end.  Dean was sitting on the floor in the dusty corner, head tipped back against the wall as he stared into nothingness.  A few times, Sam had to watch him for a few seconds to make sure he was still breathing.

Sam wondered if Dean had even slept.  He’d only managed to grab a few hours himself, mainly because he was so exhausted.  The board wasn’t very comfortable, and it was making his back stiff.

True to his word, Reidy hadn’t budged an inch all night.  He didn’t sit still, either.  He kept pacing around the desk, hands on his waist and close to his gun belt, presumably to keep from falling asleep.  About an hour ago, another young deputy had come in to give Reidy a cup of coffee.  He sipped on it now, the keys of the cell still dangling at his side.

Sam really didn’t see a way out of this one.  They were as good as dead.

He wondered if Dean cared.  If he did, it was probably just for Sam’s sake.

The door opened, letting the birthing light spill across the floor.  All three of them looked over, watching as Henriksen paced into the jailhouse.  The door swung shut behind him with a rattling thud.  As he got closer, Reidy nodded to him, like he was trying to convey there hadn’t been a problem.  Henriksen didn’t acknowledge him.  His eyes were on Sam and Dean.

Slowly, Sam sat up and kicked his feet onto the floor.  He expected Dean to quip something sarcastic—a, How’d you sleep, Marshal? or a, Did you dream of me?

Dean remained quiet, face stony.

Henriksen was the first to break the silence.  “So,” he said conversationally.  He walked right up to the steel bars.  Sam thought he was going to tell them the coach that would transport them to Kansas was waiting outside.  Instead, he said, “I had a few interesting conversations last night.”

Sam blinked in surprise.  He sat up straighter.  Henriksen had actually listened to him?  He actually interviewed the witnesses?

Sam glanced over at Dean, sharing a hopeful look.  He turned his attention back to Henriksen.

“Talked to the hotel clerk.  He identified the men who started the fire as a few rustlers who live down by the river.  Asked around to some other locals and they told me about the same such men.  Apparently, they’ve been known to terrorize this town quite a bit.  So, that part of your story checks out.”

Sam swallowed and nodded, trying hard to stay wary.  He didn’t want to get too excited just for it all to crash back down.

Henriksen swiped his finger on a horizontal bar on the cell door.  When he pulled it back, he frowned at the dust on his finger.  He folded his arms behind his back and continued.

“But then, I talked to this other woman.  Said she was on the wagon train and her husband died in the fire.”

Sam clamped his jaw to keep himself from speaking.  He didn’t even want to so much as hum to show he was listening, fearful it might make Victor change his mind about whatever he was about to say.

“I showed her a sketch of Novak from the wanted poster.  She ID’d him—‘Course, she didn’t know who he really was, but she said he and the baby had been traveling with them.  She was shocked when I told her the child wasn’t his.”  He held up his finger again.  “Only one thing she was adamant about: I had the wrong man.”  He wagged that same finger.  “Swore up and down he treated that baby like it was his own.  Said he loved it like she’d never seen before.”

He let that hang in the air.  Sam wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say, how he was supposed to react.  He dared say, “Okay.  So, what—what does that mean?  Do you believe us?”

“No,” Henriksen answered immediately, matter-of-factly.  Sam withered.  “But—.”  Sam straightened up again.  “I’m willing to give this little story of yours a fair shot.  Provided you two stay in my sight at all times under armed guard.”

Sam felt a disbelieving smile tug at his cheeks.  He breathed out, a hint of a laugh on the tail end.  He looked over at Dean, who had sat up from his lean on the wall.  Dean watched Henriksen, optimism and skepticism warring on his features.

“Reidy, gimme the keys,” Henriksen said, holding out his palm.  It was like music to Sam’s ears.

Reidy paced over, taking the keys off his belt.  He asked, “You sure, boss?”

“No,” Henriksen said again.  The keys clunked and rattled between his hands as he located the one for the cell door.  When he stuck it into the lock, he said, “But by tomorrow, I’ll either have these two or Nicholas Pike in chains.  I’m bringing in an outlaw either way.  But I figure there’s only one way I can rescue an infant, too.  I call that a good day.”  The metal whined as he turned the key and the deadbolt disengaged.  “So, what the hell?”

The jail door swung open with a whine.  Somehow, the air smelled sweeter.

Henriksen stepped away from the door, but neither of them budged.  Not until he prompted, “Well?  Let’s get moving.”

The river water was muddy with sediment—red in color as it sluggishly churned out a current.  It wasn’t blood red, not like that color that dripped from his temple, the color that stained his shaking palm when he brought it away from his hairline.

A river of blood; a river of water.

There wasn’t much water, really.  It had mostly dried up in the heat, and it barely reached the banks.  It was an effort, climbing down to reach the water for a drink.  So he didn’t.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, either.

All he remembered was waking up to the flames licking up the wall.  The man he’d killed had his clothes ablaze, making everything smell of roasting meat.  The stench was still in Castiel’s nostrils, days after he’d stumbled out of the collapsing building.

Days?  Or maybe it was hours.  Weeks?

The pain in his head, sprouting from the back of his skull where he’d been buffaloed, was spreading its claws to the rest of his brain.  It clamped down hard, stifling his thoughts.  Pain was the only thing he felt—the sharpness in his head, the stinging on his skin, the twisting in his ankle as it dragged.  He bit down against it, but he couldn’t feel the tension in his jaw.  Everything else was numb.  Everything except the pain.

Every single breath felt as if it was raking up his insides.  They wheezed out of him.

Distantly, he heard the screech of a hawk.  It didn’t scare off the buzzards that had been circling up high for hours, black wings stretched as they rode the heatwaves.  He wondered what had died.

He hardly remembered reaching the Red River, but somehow, he had.  He didn’t even know if he was going in the right direction.  In fact, he didn’t even know which way was west or east, which path led south.  He didn’t know where north was, but he knew Dean was in that direction, far away.  Dean was true north.  Wherever that was.

The only thing Castiel knew for certain was that he needed to get Jack back.  He didn’t know where or how, or what he’d do without a weapon when he found the men who took him.  But he needed to find Jack.  He’d find the child even if it killed him.  It was the only reason he was still standing.

And then he wasn’t standing at all.  The world became a dizzying thing, devoid of all meaning, until he came to a rolling stop, landing face-down.  Belatedly, he realized his foot had slipped on loose sod.  It had sent him tumbling down the sloped riverbank, onto the cracked earth below.

He grunted while he put his arms under him, meaning to pick himself up.  He managed to flip himself over onto his back.  The movement nearly knocked the wind out of him.  He coughed and sputtered, and the air felt like knives coming up his throat.

When it subsided, he lay there, looking up at the hazy blue sky, air rattling out of him.  The world above was spinning.  His arm was slung over his stomach, and his other was sprawled outward.  He thought he felt water lapping against his fingers.  It seeped into his boot and pantleg, too.

He didn’t think it would rain.  The sky was too clear.  But, if it did, the water level would rise.  He’d drown if he didn’t move.  It was a strange thought: drowning instead of burning.  It almost didn’t seem right.

The vultures kept circling above.

He needed to get up.  He needed to find Jack.

It occurred to him that he was thirsty.  He was parched.

He was exhausted.

All his aches and pains thudded dully against his skin, almost like they were trying to break free of his body but were too lazy to make much of an effort.

He let his eyes slip closed and imagined what the water might feel like on his lips.  He imagined mustering his strength, getting up, continuing on.

He felt his thoughts start to lag, eventually dying away into a low whisper.  It felt nice.  There was a humming on his skin—no more pain.  It was relaxing.  It was like counting breaths until he fell asleep.

He thought of going north.

Chapter Text

Before they left town, Henriksen’s men had retrieved Chevy and Bones from the stable.  They rode out, flanked on all sides by the Deputy Marshals.  Henriksen was in front, just behind the group’s tracker.  He kept his jacket tucked behind his holstered six-shooter, like he was trying to remind Dean and Sam that he had no qualms about shooting them if they tried to escape.

Dean wouldn’t.  He wanted this to be over, even if it ended in a shootout with Lucifer’s gang.  And if he died in that shootout?  So be it.  If he didn’t—what did it really matter?

He didn’t think Sam would appreciate hearing that line of thinking, though, so he kept it to himself.

Their group arrived on the banks of the Red River at high noon, and Dean couldn’t help but remember where he’d been standing only a day ago.

It’d been a full day since they buried Cas.  It felt like a year, but at the same time, it felt like only a moment.  And it was beginning to feel real.  The knowledge scratched beneath the top layer of Dean’s skin as it settled: Cas was gone, and they were leaving the place where he was buried, probably never to return.

It was like losing him twice.

And what was Dean even riding toward?  If all went to plan, Lucifer and his gang would be on the next train to a penitentiary—or dead.  Jack would be in the care of Henriksen and his deputies, on the way to Waco.  And where would Dean go?  Home?  Back to Lawrence?  To an empty bed and an empty life?

Maybe he should go to Chicago first.  He’d at least have to write a letter to Cas’ sister to tell her what happened.  He didn’t even know what he’d say.

Your brother is dead.  I’m sorry.  

What else was there to say?

He’d only met the woman once three years ago, and she didn’t seem to like him.  He thought back to that time—when Hannah had arrived by railroad without warning to inform Cas that their mother had passed.  She asked him to go home, to be with the family.  Cas’ luggage had been packed and Dean understood—until Cas told him that he should rent out the stable house to someone else because he likely wouldn’t return.  It had something to do with a duty to his family, which Dean might have understood if he wasn’t Cas’ family, too.

Dean had shouted at him.  He’d told Cas to leave, to get out.  Back then, Cas knew what that really meant.  He knew Dean was asking him to stay.

That night was the first time they shared a bed.

The next morning, Cas told Hannah he wouldn’t accompany her back to Chicago.  She’d been angry.  Dean had heard their argument.  She warned Cas not to abandon his family and his home for one man.  But Cas had been resolute.

Dean should have known from that moment that he was in love with Cas.  He should have told Cas every day since.

But Cas had died thinking Dean hated him and Dean was stuck drafting a letter to Hannah in his head as his horse followed the others on the Texas-side of the river.  He barely had it in him to recognize the gravity of that.  They’d made it to Texas.  Cas hadn’t, but he’d been so close.

Your brother is dead.  I should have stopped him.  I’m sorry.

Up front, the tracker held up his hand, bringing his horse to a halt.  The other horses followed suit, and Dean was so lost in thought, he didn’t notice they were stalled until Chevy stopped moving.  He blinked, looking around.

“What d’you see?” Henriksen asked, warily scanning their surroundings.

Sam answered before the tracker could.  “Is that a body?”

The words made Dean snap to attention.  He squinted in the sunlight, following where Sam was looking.  A few yards upstream, a man was laying on the opposite riverbank, half of him in the brownish-pink stream.  He was unmoving, appearing almost flattened against the earth.

The men around him murmured, seeming to take precaution.  Dean didn’t see what the big deal was.  It was likely a prospector searching the river for precious stones or a cowboy who’d gotten trampled on the trail and washed up on the banks.  But, as he continued to look, he realized there was something familiar about the figure.

From a distance, he couldn’t see any facial features.  There was nothing defining about the man.  But Dean couldn’t shake the feeling once it’d taken hold.

It was impossible.  He was just seeing ghosts.

But he had to know.

He urged Chevy forward, ignoring Sam calling his name, ignoring Victor’s shout of, “Hey!”  He broke free of the group, pushing Chevy at full speed.

“Dean, it could be a trap!” Henriksen yelled after him, but it was lost in the rush of wind rattling against Dean’s ears.

He pulled the reins when he was level with the figure.  The skin and clothes were blackened with ash, and dark blood matted his face and hair—but Dean was certain.

“Cas!” he bellowed.  For the first time in twenty-four hours, he felt his own heartbeat.

Vaguely aware of the stampede of hooves following him, Dean clicked his tongue and steered Chevy’s reins toward the water.  She leaped down into the river, hooves splashing the water upon impact.  As they crossed, the water level came up to her rump at the deepest point.  Dean’s boots and pant legs got soaked, but he barely noticed.  He kept trying to determine whether or not Cas was breathing.

Dripping, Chevy ascended toward the other bank.  Dean didn’t even bring her to a stop before he slid from the saddle.  The water was up to his knees.  He fought to wade through it as quickly as he could, arms out for balance.

“Cas!”

Why wasn’t he answering?  Hope and dread clung to Dean like the sweat on his brow.

When he reached him, Dean dropped down to his knees in the shallow water.  He kept muttering Cas’ name as he collected him in his arms.  Cas’ body moved like a doll.  He was completely deadweight when Dean propped his head on his lap.

“Cas?  Cas!  Wake up,” Dean tried.  He patted Cas’ cheeks, waiting and praying for his blue eyes to flutter open.  Behind him, he heard more splashing as another horse and rider crossed the river.  He didn’t bother looking.

He leaned over to put his ear to Cas’ mouth.  Past the hammering of his own heart, he heard low, rasping intakes of breath.

Dean didn’t know what was going on inside of him.  There was relief, yes, and joy.  More joy than he could hold inside.  He thought he might vomit.  Because part of him felt this was a hallucination—that Cas would fade away at any moment, leaving Dean kneeling alone on the side of the river.  That feeling only became stronger when he realized Cas still wasn’t waking up.

A shadow blocked out the sun.  Dean looked up, finding Sam dismounting his horse.  Sam’s eyes were wide and full of fear.

“He’s alive, Sammy,” Dean said, hearing the tremor that ran through his own voice.

Sam let out a deflating breath.  “Thank god.”

Henriksen appeared, still astride, near them.  “I thought you said Novak was dead.”

“We thought he was,” Sam said, kneeling on Cas’ other side.

Dean kept trying to rouse him to no avail.  “C’mon, Cas, wake up.  Come on, sweetheart.”  It wasn’t working.  Cas started slipping off his lap.  Dean wrapped his arms around him tighter.  He looked up at Henriksen, not above begging.  “He needs help.”

Henriksen remained quiet for a moment, and Dean thought he’d say no.  But then, “Alright.”  He looked around at his men, waving them over.  “You men, hurry!  We have to transport him.”

Dean looked around wildly for Chevy, not spotting her in the throng of oncoming marshals.  He put his fingers into his mouth and whistled loudly.  A second later, he saw her gray mane bouncing as she splashed toward him.

“Help him up,” Dean said to Sam, and the two of them lifted Cas to his feet.  Cas hung between them, and Dean feared he really would die.  That they really would need to bury him.

A few of the deputies got off their horses and helped lift Cas onto Chevy’s back.  He swayed and tipped.  Sam raised his arms, fists tight around Cas’ clothes to hold him steady while Dean lifted himself into the saddle.  When he was situated, he wrapped a steadying arm around Cas’ middle and used his free hand to grab the reins.  Cas fell back against Dean’s chest, his head lolling, but Dean had a good enough hold on him.  He nodded down to Sam, letting him know it was okay to let go.  Hesitantly, Sam lowered his hands and backed away.

“You’re good, Cas,” Dean whispered into his ear, hoping beyond hope that Cas could hear him.  “I gotcha.  You’re gonna be just fine.”

Once all the men were back on their horses, Henriksen steered his mount around.  “Okay, let’s find a place to make camp.  C’mon!”  Instantly, splashing and horse hooves on sod and bedrock sounded.  Victor looked around to Dean, catching his eyes.  He promised, “We’ll take care of your friend.”

Dean bit down on his jaw, his arm pulling tighter around Cas.  He said, “He’s my husband.”

Victor’s eyes flashed with surprise, but it passed soon enough.  He nodded once sternly before pulling on his horse’s reins, sending it forward.

Dean glanced over at Sam, sharing a look before they both set off after Henriksen and the others.

Their group made camp a little further west from where they’d found Cas.  It was in a small dip between a few grassy knolls along the river’s edge, tucking them away just enough to be out of sight.  But, if Lucifer’s gang sent out any scouts to survey the area, Sam had no doubt they’d find them.  Which meant they were living on borrowed time.

After they settled, he and Henriksen rode out to find the farm Jack had been taken to—and Sam really hoped the hotel clerk’s information was good.  If it wasn’t, he and Dean would be in shackles by sundown.

Or maybe not.

Ever since they found Cas, Sam had noticed a reluctant change in Henriksen’s demeanor.  It wasn’t exactly trust, but maybe he was coming around to the idea that they were telling the truth.  After all, a man doesn’t pull himself from a fire and pass out on the side of a river, half-drowned, for no reason.  Sam guessed they had Cas to thank for halfway convincing Victor of their innocence.  And Sam would thank him.  Hopefully.

When they’d left camp, Cas had still been unconscious.  Dean hadn’t even offered to ride with them to scout out the farm.  He was worried that Cas might not survive, and so was Sam.  But there was work to be done, so all Sam could do for Cas was pray he’d last until morning.

He and Victor found the farm nestled beyond a copse of trees about a mile south of the river.  They tied their horses to a branch and snuck up to the edge of the trees, using the trunks for cover.  In the orange glow of the dying sun, Sam surveyed the rundown buildings—a small farmhouse, a barn with a hole in the roof, and a wooden silo stretching up over the top.  Whatever animals or crops that had once grown there were replaced by trampled tall grass and weeds.

Sam counted six horses reined to stakes in the ground toward the back of the property.  Three men and a woman with rifles were patrolling, each of them stalking a corner of the land.  There was no sign of Jack.  Still, it was a relief to know the outlaws were there, just as he promised Victor they would be.

“How many do you think are inside?” Henriksen whispered.

Sam squinted toward the farmhouse, looking out for any shadows moving inside.  He chewed on his lower lip when he didn’t see any.  “No idea.”

Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, the rumbling sound of a stampede bounced off the trees.  Sam looked for the source of the sound, finding a dust cloud being kicked up from the northeast.  He pulled his shoulders back, his body tensing.  He couldn’t see the riders just yet, but there were at least seven of them, and he was willing to bet he knew who was among them.

Sure enough, as they approached the farm, Sam recognized the three riders leading the party.  The Asian woman who had been there that night in Oklahoma City was one; Lucifer and Ruby were the others.  Sam’s fingers itched for his gun belt, his boots urging him forward to take out Lucifer now.

Now, before he could lay a hand on Jack.

Now, where Ruby could watch him die.

He bit down on his jaw, trying to stop his heart from hammering.

The outlaw on the northern part of the land spotted the group and waved them in.  The others on patrol left their posts to come over.  The horses slowed to a stop before them, and Lucifer exchanged words with the first patrolman, who gestured toward the house, saying something Sam couldn’t hear.

“That Pike?” Henriksen asked, and Sam had forgotten for a moment that he was even there.

Not taking his eyes off Lucifer, Sam nodded.  “Yeah,” he answered darkly.

Lucifer dismounted, and the patrolman took his horse’s reins.  Lucifer put both hands on the man’s shoulders and said something to him, and the man appeared as though he’d just been blessed by the Almighty.

Meanwhile, the others slid from their saddles, too.  Sam’s gaze shifted to Ruby as she gracefully landed on the grass.  Her petite form was tiny next to the size of her horse.   A strange mixture of resentment, shame, and sadness brewed inside of him at the sight of her.

Because of that, he almost missed the farmhouse’s door opening.  A man walked out, a bundle of blankets in his arms.  The unmistakable sound of crying was coming from within.

Sam had taken a step forward before he’d even realized it.  Victor stopped him by grabbing his sleeve and forcing him back behind the trunk.  He hissed, “Whoa, whoa, easy!”

Sam fisted his hands and reminded himself to breathe.  It was harder to do than it should have been, especially when the outlaw approached Lucifer and handed him the baby.  Lucifer peered down at the child in his arms.  He wasn’t smiling, but there was a pleased expression on his features, as if all was right with the world.

Sam wanted to shoot him.

He wanted Jack back—safe and whole.  He tried to focus on the fact that, for now, Jack wasn’t in any immediate danger.  Lucifer would likely stay at the farm for the night.  The baby wasn’t out of their grasps just yet.  They’d get him back.  They’d get him to safety and end this once and for all.  He made a silent promise, hoping that Jack could feel it.

Next to him, he heard Henriksen whisper, “I’ll be damned.  Looks like you and your brother weren’t as crazy as I thought, after all.”

Sam let out a shaky breath through his nose, forcing calm.  It was a relief to know Victor was on their side now.  “Yeah, well,” he said, “don’t count on that.  We’re still plenty crazy.”  He tried to smile.  “We’re just not outlaws.”

The joke fell flat, and Victor thinned his lips as he glanced back at the scene.  Lucifer was heading into the farmhouse, Jack still wailing in his arms.

“Let’s get back to camp and tell the others,” Henriksen said.  “We don’t know how long we have until they take off again.”

Sam nodded his agreement.

He didn’t expect Henriksen to add, “Looks like I’ll have to deputize you and your brother.”

Sam blinked at him, momentarily speechless.  “What?”

Henriksen shot him a look.  “What, you expected free reign?  No way.  You’re going in under my orders, with the jurisdiction of the United States government.”

Sam scoffed out a laugh.  “You mean, you’re covering your own ass?”

“And yours.  Unless you wanna end up in pen for murder if they don’t surrender easy?”  Sam had to admit, he really didn’t.  Taking his silence for an answer, Henriksen nodded curtly and cast his gaze back at the farm.  “Good.  You’re welcome.”

Ruby was still unsaddling her horse when Lucifer summoned them into the farmhouse.  She left at once, promptly forgetting about the saddle blanket and reins still harnessed to the animal.  She followed the others into the house, having to shoulder her way through the door to get inside the overcrowded main room.

Lucifer was seated at the head of the table, a plate of cheese, bread, and a bottle of wine set out before him.  The child was on the table, too, a blanket folded beneath him as he laid on his back.  His small, fat hands were waving through the air and his body squirmed from side-to-side.  A cloth nappy was wrapped around him, but he was bare besides that.

Everyone crowded around the table, waiting for Lucifer to speak.  But all eyes were on the baby being presented to them like Christ in the manger.

Whispers went through the group.  Ruby’s eyes landed on Dagon across the table.  Her arms were crossed against her chest.  Her mouth was pursed as she glowered at the child.

The legs of Lucifer’s chair scratched against the floor.  At once, the room went quiet.  Ruby’s attention snapped back to her father, watching carefully as he stood up.  He placed his hands on the table and leaned into them.  His eyes were fixed on the baby.  His expression was neutral, but there was a certain twinkle in his eyes.  Something like pride.  It was directed at Jack, but Ruby hoped some fraction of it was for her.

“We’ve all waited for this day,” Lucifer said after a long pause.  His voice was low, but the rest of the room was totally silent, everyone straining to hear his words.  He continued, “We’ve fought for it—for this chance, to bring my son home to us.”

He looked up, his gaze scanning the room.  It lingered on Ruby.  Her breath caught, heart seizing.  She didn’t know whether to meet Lucifer’s eyes or to look away in reverence.  Before she figured it out, his gaze moved on.  He stood up straighter, holding his arms out.

“But our task isn’t over,” he said.  “Far from it.  From now on, our lives are to be dedicated to ensuring the boy’s protection.  We will raise him, together, in our ways.  We will mold him—,” he fisted his hands, “teach him.”  He paced closer to the group, placing his hands on the shoulders of those nearest to him.  “And, through us, he will grow to be strong.  My friends, he will usher in our future.  He will lead our children, and our children’s children, and all those that seek out our cause.”

A few people murmured in agreement, others nodding.

Ruby glanced at Dagon.  Her frown had deepened, eyes darkening.

“I want to thank all of you for making this day possible,” Lucifer said.  “But, there is one among us who deserves the most gratitude.”

Ruby felt her chest clench, hope grabbing hold of her.  Lucifer was staring right at her.  She pulled in a breath, lips parting, as she realized he was talking about her.

“Daughter,” Lucifer said, stepping forward.  Ruby tried to stand tall, to keep her emotions in check.  Her pulse was dancing.  She froze as the others stepped back to allow Lucifer to reach her.  When he did, he lifted his hands, placing them tenderly on Ruby’s face.  She felt herself smiling up at him.  She thought she’d remember this moment for the rest of her life.

“You’ve sacrificed so much to bring my son to me,” he said.  “I won’t forget it.”

She didn’t know what to say—but she found she couldn’t speak at all.  Her throat was tight.  Her muscles trembled.  It was joy—and it was terror, because she never wanted to let her father down.  She feared, one day, she would.

“Which is why I want you to take guardianship of my son,” Lucifer said.

Ruby’s head jerked in surprise, all happiness crumbling away.  “Wh—what?” she said, not fully understanding.  He wanted her to raise Jack?  She didn’t know the first thing about children. She thought of the Winchesters and Novak, and wondered if she could care for the child with the same fierceness they had.  She doubted it.

And then she mentally kicked herself for the thought.  It felt like a betrayal.

“The boy needs a mother,” Lucifer told her.  “His well-being is up to all of us, but every decision will be yours to make.  I trust your judgement.”

She blinked up at him, not really knowing how to feel.  It was an honor, and to hear those words was bliss.  She’d won his trust and his favor.  But motherhood?  She wasn’t Lilith.  She’d fail.  She was better at fighting.

Before the gravity of the situation fully set in, Lucifer’s hands slipped away.  He went back to the table and scooped the baby up.  Jack fussed and kicked in his hold.  Cradling the child, Lucifer brought him over to Ruby, offering him to her.

Ruby understood it as an order.  She steeled herself and allowed Lucifer to pass Jack into her arms.  His heft was slightly weightier than the last time she’d held him.  He’d grown.  His eyes were more alert as they stared up at her.  He was able to lift his head.  Ruby had no idea what to do.  She looked up at Lucifer and gave him a smile she hoped looked convincing.  He offered a small smile in return and turned away.

Behind his back, Ruby caught Dagon’s eyes.  She silently tried to convey her discomfort.  Dagon seemed just as overwhelmed, but much angrier.

Lucifer picked his wine up from the table and held the glass aloft.  Despite the fact that no one else had anything to toast with, he said, “To Jack.  To my son.”

All around Ruby, the words were repeated.  But she couldn’t find her own voice.

Lucifer brought his glass to his mouth.  Before he could take a sip, Dagon let out a frustrated sound.  “Lucifer, this has gone far enough,” she said.

Ruby tensed, her eyes widening.  She shook her head, trying to recapture Dagon’s attention.  She kept chanting inside her head, willing Dagon to shut up.

Lucifer lowered his glass, his cool eyes sliding to Dagon.  The room went still, somehow quieter than before.  It was as if everyone was holding their breath.  Even the breeze outside had gone dead.

“Dagon,” he said.  “Is there something you wish to say?”

“Yes, there is,” she said, stomping closer to the table.  “This is ludicrous.  How can we expect the child to lead us when he’ll never understand what we’re fighting for?  And even if he could understand it, there’s no time.  We can’t sit around and wait for him to learn the ways of the new world.  We have to fight for the old one—to preserve our way of life before our chance is gone!”

Lucifer continued looking at her, his expression never shifting.  He remained quiet.  Ruby didn’t even dare to breathe.

“Have you forgotten what you set out to do all those years ago?” Dagon continued.  “What Lilith set out to do?  She would have never lost sight of our goal!  By doing this, you’re putting her memory to shame.  I won’t stand by and allow this.  If this is the path you choose, then I choose to leave.”  She glanced around the room.  “You’d all be smart to follow me.”

Dagon appeared to have finished.  No one else moved.  She waited, eyes searching every face, confidence dwindling.  To her own surprise, Ruby realized she felt bad for her.

Lucifer was the first to move.  He set his glass on the table and walked toward Dagon.  She went rigid, horror visibly seeping in as he towered over her.  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said, his eyes burning into her.  And then, he shifted his gaze to the men behind her.  He nodded.

The two men grabbed Dagon by the arms, holding tight.  They forced her to her knees.  She struggled, letting out a grunt, but was no match for their strength.  Ruby held Jack tighter, just needing something to grab onto.  She knew what came next.  And she knew she couldn’t stop it.

She didn’t even know if she wanted to.

Dagon glared up at Lucifer.

“I’m disappointed in you, Dagon,” Lucifer told her.  “You’ve served me well all these years.  But I can’t allow you to doubt me.  An example has to be made.”

He held out his palm expectantly.  Someone unholstered their six-shooter and handed it to him.  Ruby watched as Lucifer’s fingers curled around the weapon.  She had the urge to call out, to tell him to wait, to try to talk him out of it.  She bit her tongue and gathered the baby in closer, covering his ears from the sound of the gunshot that slammed through the small room.  Her shoulders jumped at the sound.  Jack began crying.

Dagon’s body was released.  It fell limply to the side, a hole in her head.  Blood poured out of it.

Lucifer handed the gun back and wiped his hands on his shirt, looking down blankly at the body.  Without a word, he turned around.  His eyes were hard as he clocked each face in the room, as if he was challenging anyone else to speak up.  No one did.

Ruby bounced Jack, trying to calm him.  She focused on the motion, doing her best to keep her every exhale from shaking.  She couldn’t look at Dagon’s body.  Every time she did, she saw herself lying there instead.

She guessed that meant she was now Lucifer’s most trusted soldier.  She thought this moment would feel different.  But all she could do was resolve to never let her father down.

Dean crouched down beside the river.  The cloth in his hands was sodden and dripping.  He wrung it out over the weak current, watching as the crimson droplets mixed with the pink hue of the river water.  He dumped the bowl of similarly color-tainted water in next.  The level of the river was a little higher now that they were further upstream.  It lapped against the banks, green grass plush, reeds bowing to the current, rocks smooth just beneath the surface as the water rushed over them.

Setting both materials to the side, he bent over more and splashed some water onto its face.  It felt gritty on his skin, the sediment not doing much to cleanse him.  The cross necklace slipped out from beneath his collar in the process.

He ran his palms over his eyes, down his mouth; he scrubbed at the back of his neck to cool himself down.  He knew he should probably shave.  He hadn’t since they left Oklahoma City and his beard was going from stubble to scruff.

Cas always preferred him clean-shaven.  Dean didn’t want his beard to be the first thing Cas saw when he woke up.

If he woke up.

Dean squeezed his eyes closed, forcing himself to breathe.  He told himself Cas would be fine—that he had to be.  If he died while they were still fighting, Dean would kill him.  If he died thinking Dean never came for him . . .

Quickly shaking that thought away before it could take root, Dean opened his eyes and refilled the bowl with water.  He slapped the cloth into it to soak.  Careful not to spill too much, he got to his feet and turned back toward camp.

Henriksen’s men were sitting around the fire, which had a small iron cauldron filled with stew on top.  The men were mostly silent, shoveling the food into their mouths from their bowls.  Others were finishing putting up their tents.  More patrolled the campsite, rifles out as they kept watch.

A few men around the campfire, Reidy among them, eyed Dean when he walked by, none of them saying anything.  Dean’s stomach growled emptily, but he didn’t know if he had much of an appetite.  Everything would taste like ash on his tongue.

He made for the tent at the back of the camp.  It was a small thing of canvas and rods, barely big enough for the bedroll that was inside.  Dean pulled back the flap and ducked inside, and he felt disappointment curling low in his gut at the sight of Cas still unconscious.  It was silly to think he would have miraculously woken up when Dean had stepped away.

Cas was laid out on the bedroll, a blanket tucked under his arms.  Dean had managed to mop up most of the blood from his face and neck, but it didn’t make him look much better.  He had cuts and scrapes on the apples of his cheeks and superficial burns on his jaw that were starting to blister, his stubble singed off in places.  His fingers were bruised.  There’d been a nasty, deep wound on the back of his head.

And those were only the injuries Dean could see.  Sam had said he thought Cas had breathed in too much smoke, that his lungs were damaged.  Dean didn’t know how to fix that.  He just prayed they’d heal on their own—because the only guy who could tell him what to do was currently comatose.

Dean tried to remember what he could from those times he’d helped Cas out in his office.  Burns needed to be kept clean and bandaged where they could.  If there was a head injury, check to make sure the pupils weren’t dilated—but he couldn’t remember if they were supposed to look bigger or smaller.  Cas’ seemed normal, so he guessed that was a good sign.

Maybe Cas would be okay.  He’d walked through flames before and came out the other side.  He’d breathed in hellfire and brimstone.  None of it could touch him.  He was impervious, divine.  At least, that’s what Dean had always thought and he hadn’t even realized it.

Dean placed the bowl of water next to Cas and tipped back to sit on the grass.  “All right, where were we?” he said clearly, because by some fool’s hope he thought that, if he talked enough, Cas would hear him.  Cas could follow his voice out of the darkness.

He wished he still had that damn dime novel to give him something substantial to say.  All he’d really been doing so far was thinking aloud.  He’d probably end up boring Cas to death.

He squeezed the excess water from the cloth into the bowl and leaned forward to dab it on the wound on Cas’ temple.  A blister there had opened up, causing blood and pus to ooze down into his hairline.

“Look at me, cleaning up your injuries for a change,” Dean told him.  “I bet, if you could see this, you’d be real smug right about now.”

Cas remained unresponsive, his eyelashes dark against his cheeks.  It took a moment for Dean to realize he was staring at Cas, taking him in.

All he’d been doing was talking.  Just rambling on about nothing and everything except the things that mattered.  Talking and talking and never once saying the things he should.

Dean swallowed, feeling the words rising up his throat.  His teeth clamped, trying to keep them from getting out—because, even alone, they were too hard to speak.  Too much to think.

But Cas deserved to know.  If by some miracle he could hear Dean, he deserved to listen to something that was worth coming back for.

When he opened his mouth, all that came out was a soft, barely there, “Cas?”

No answer.

There was a kind of pressure stinging behind his eyes and pounding in the dead-center of his forehead.  His body coiled and his skin numbed, like every muscle in him would begin trembling if given the chance.

“I . . . I think I better start explaining myself to you,” he said, hearing the fissures running through his voice—small, hairline cracks that ran jagged along the surface and deep below it.  His airways constricted.

He said, “I should have done that before—back at the ranch.  And I’m sorry I didn’t.  I’m sorry I just . . . watched you go.  I shouldn’t’a let you do that, Cas.”  He licked his lips, his throat suddenly dry.  “I blamed Jack for everything.  After Jo, I just . . . I was so mad, Cas.  And I blamed the kid for coming into our lives, for ruining everything.  But he didn’t, Cas.  I did.”

He laughed choppily, feeling his eyes start to well.  His vision became hazy.  “I mean, hell, if not for Jack, we would have still thought you died in that hotel.  We never would have found you.  And maybe that . . . maybe that’s what you’ve been trying to tell me.  That it’s not all bad.  That he’s just a kid, and none of it’s his fault.  And I know, okay?  I know Jack’s not the problem, but . . .”

He tore his gaze away from Cas’ face.  Even now, when Cas was unresponsive, it was easier to not look at him.

“I wanted to hate him.  Because I thought . . . I thought he was gonna take you away.  That you were gonna choose him, go live in Texas, make your own family.  And maybe you’d be right to.  Maybe that’d make you happy when I couldn’t.  But I was scared, Cas.  I thought you’d leave.”

He tried to wipe at his eyes.  A tear fell out and burst against the grass.  His temples were throbbing and his nose felt too hot.  He sniffled, trying to stop it, but it was no use.

“Guess I made damn sure you did,” he said, bitterness wrapping around his heart.  He felt suffocated.

Before he knew what he was doing, he picked Cas’ hand up from the blanket.  It moved limply.  He fit their palms together, feeling the dry warmth of Cas’.  He threaded his fingers between Cas’ and squeezed.  Cas didn’t squeeze back.  Dean hadn’t expected him to, but it still made his stomach roil.

“But I promise you, Cas, if you wake up, I will do anything to make it right,” he said.  “You wanna stay with the kid?  I will move my ass to Waco—or whatever I need to do.  I’ll make it work.  Anything you need, Cas.  I’ll do better.  I won’t be someone you gotta lie to to get what you deserve.  I—I won’t be something you wanna leave behind.  Just, please, you gotta wake up, Cas.”

He dipped forward, resting his forehead against Cas’ wrist between their conjoined hands.  He skewed his eyes shut—whispered, begged, “Please wake up.”

He took in a heavy breath, feeling it rattle on the way in and out.  With every passing moment, his hope fizzled into despair.  Cas couldn’t hear him.  Cas wouldn’t wake up.  He was leaving.

Something shifted.  He felt Cas’ fingers curl against his, their fingertips resting featherlight on Dean’s knuckles.

Dean pulled in a breath quickly, pulse jumping.  Hesitantly, fearfully, he lifted his forehead off the back of Cas’ hand.  He brought his eyes to Cas’ face.

Cas was blinking back at him.  His blue eyes were still focusing, their usual sharpness not yet present.  But Dean could hardly believe he was seeing them at all.

“Cas?”

Cas swallowed hard.  He squinted.  His voice low and rougher than usual, he eked out, “Hello, Dean.”

Dean was laughing.  He couldn’t help it.  It bubbled out of him from deep below, making all the heaviness float up and become airy.  He didn’t know what to say.

Cas looked around, his brows knitting together.  “What happened?”

Blinking back the tears in his eyes and clearing his throat from laughter, Dean said, “I was kinda hoping you’d tell me that.  We found you on the side of the river, no idea how you got there.  By all accounts, you should be dead.”  He felt the way his eyes were sparkling as they flittered around Cas’ features.  Cas was incredible.

He shook his head, like he was trying to rattle something into place.  “I don’t know, I—.”  He stopped short, something dawning on his expression.  Urgently, he said, “Dean, Lucifer has Jack.”

Dean placed his free hand on Cas’ chest, ensuring he wouldn’t spring up and hurt himself.  “I know,” he said.  “That’s why we’re here.  We got a lead on where the outlaws that took him might be.  Sam and Henriksen are out now scouting the location.”

Cas eyes narrowed further.  “Henriksen?”

Chuckling, Dean told him, “Yeah, you got a lot to catch up on.”

Cas seemed to settle, but only somewhat, and reluctantly.  He put his elbow under him and tried to sit up.  It made him cough loudly, then groan in discomfort.  Dean gave his hand a squeeze before letting it go.  He swiveled around, frantically searching for his canteen in his bag.  When he found it, he unscrewed the top and gave it to Cas.

“Take it easy,” he said.  “Here, drink this.”

Cas drank down the brackish water like he’d been walking through the desert for weeks.  He tipped his head back, throat bobbing as he gulped.  Small rivulets ran out from the side of his mouth and down his chin.  When he was done, he lowered the canteen and panted heavily.  “Thank you,” he said, voice still ragged.

Dean didn’t say anything to that.  His eyes were still glued on Cas in disbelief.  He really thought he was going to lose him for good.

Clearing his throat, Dean took back the canteen.  It was much lighter now, but that was fine.  He half-turned to put it in his bag.

“Dean,” Cas said, grunting as he sat up fully.  Dean looked back attentively, ready to do anything Cas needed him to.

“Yeah?  What’s wrong?”

Cas shook his head, nose curled in a grimace as he caught his breath.  It took a moment, but when he did, he looked back, holding Dean’s eyes.  Dean felt like Cas was staring into the very heart of him.

When Cas spoke again, he said, “We’re not perfect.  But of course you make me happy.”

Dean blinked as the words processed.  When he finally caught up, something in his chest cracked open.  As it spilled out, he felt warmth fill him to the brim.

Cas was still looking at him like he’d never expected to see Dean again.  And then he said, “I love you.”

Dean’s breath snagged.  Belatedly, he was aware that a slow smile had bloomed on his face.  The corners of it flickered—disbelief warring with amazement.  He wanted to prove to Cas that he could be worth those words.

He opened his mouth, the same sentiment ready on his tongue.

The tent flap opened.  “Dean?” Sam said.  Then, more alertly, “Cas?”

Cas turned to Sam.  Dean kept staring at his profile, at the way the tension had dropped from Cas’ shoulders.  There was a gentle smile on his face.  “Hello, Sam.”

As Dean came back to reality, Sam was ducking into the tent.  He knelt next to Dean, sitting back on his ankles.  “Holy crap.  I really thought—”

“So did I,” Cas told him matter-of-factly.  Sam let out a breath of laughter, his eyes flashing to Dean.

Then, Cas drew his attention to the tent flap again.  Dean looked over, finding Henriksen standing there.  He nodded once and greeted, “Dr. Novak.”

Cas gave him a sheepish smile.  “Hello.  I’m told a thank you is in order.”

Henriksen snorted.  “Don’t thank me yet.  How ‘bout you do once we get the baby back?”

Those words sparked hope in Dean’s chest.  He asked, “Did you find anything?”

Sam grinned.  “Yeah.  We found the farm.”  Then, forebodingly, he added, “Ruby’s with them.”

Shit.  That meant Lucifer was there, too.

Dean felt Cas’ eyes volleying between him and Sam.  He said, “I assume that’s something else I need to catch up on?”

Dean blew out his cheeks.  “Yeah, you could say that.”  But that was a concern for later.  Right now, they needed to focus on Jack.

“We counted at least twelve outlaws,” Henriksen reported.  “Might be a tough fight.”

“I’m going with you,” Cas said, leaving no room for argument, even though Dean wanted to.

Sam, however, didn’t seem to get the message.  “You sure you’re up for it?”

“Yes,” Cas answered at once, and it didn’t matter if he was being honest with himself.  They couldn’t stop him from getting to Jack.

“Okay, then,” Dean said, looking at each of them in turn.  “We’re gonna need an attack plan.”

Henriksen nodded in agreement.

Dean turned to Cas.  He said, “Let’s go get our kid back.”

Cas looked back at him, eyes soft and shining.  A gentle smile pulled on his lips.

The sun was a blood red line on the horizon when the scouts returned to the farm.

Gerald was sent to fetch Ruby, telling her they’d found something.  She followed him away from the barn, where the majority of their group had rolled out their bedding for the night.  Her shadow stretched far out in front of her as she walked to the men along the tree line.

The scouts had dismounted and were leading their horses by the reins.

“Hey,” Ruby greeted when she reached them, looking at them both expectantly.  “You found something?”

One of the men nodded.  “Yeah.  About a mile and a half from here, up by the river.  There’s a camp of U.S. Marshals.”

“Shit,” she hissed, turning away slightly to correct herself.  This was bad.  Henriksen was supposed to take the Winchesters away.  What the hell was he doing?  A thought struck her, causing her spine to rub cold.  “Were the Winchesters with them?”

The scouts stared back at her somberly.  She knew the answer before they nodded.

Great.  Henriksen had teamed up with the brothers.

She put her hands on her hips, trying really hard not to let her emotions show.  She’d been Lucifer’s number two for only a few hours, and already she’d let him down.

They needed to act fast, before the Winchesters had the chance.

“What should we do?” the scout asked.  Ruby regarded them both, and it dawned on her that they were looking to her for orders.  It should have caused a thrill through her.  All it caused was dread.

She pushed that away, because she had to.  She earned this.

“Okay,” she said, putting on her bravest face.  She swiveled back in the direction of the barn.  It was time to come up with a plan to bring to Lucifer.  Yeah, she’d messed up—but she’d come up with a solution.

“Follow me.”

Chapter Text

Castiel didn’t sleep much that night.  His thoughts wouldn’t allow it.  Physically, he was feeling better—either that or he was getting used to the dull thudding in the back of his head and the stinging of the burns on his face.  His sprained ankle wasn’t so tight anymore, but the soles of his feet remained tender and raw.  His throat scratched dryly, to the point where it hurt to speak.  No amount of water could quench it.

But all of those concerns fell to the wayside.  All night, he stared up at the ceiling of the tent, his mind turning around their plan to rescue Jack.  Castiel had his reservations—and it was likely they all might wind up dead.  In fact, it was more than a possibility, seeing as Dean wanted to go in guns blazing.

Castiel would have liked to prevent any more bloodshed if he could.  Especially if that blood belonged to a Winchester.  And especially if it put Jack in the crosshairs.

He could find the farm.  He could kill Lucifer and save Jack before the fighting started.  He could do his best.

Outside, the sun hadn’t yet risen.  The hazy crimson light of the campfire outside their tent was seeping through the canvas, lighting up the cramped inside with murky hues.  Dean was still asleep.  He’d squeezed his bedroll in next to Castiel’s and spread his wool blanket over the two of them.  But the night had been warm, and the blanket was mostly kicked off and tangled around Dean’s legs.  His face was smushed against the bedroll and his arm was slung across Castiel’s torso.

Castiel didn’t want to leave him.  But he had to.  It was best to go now, while it was still early, before the sun rose and any normal camp would rise with it.

Carefully, he sat up and lifted Dean’s arm off of him.  He hadn’t expected the movement to wake Dean up, but Dean must have not been sleeping very deeply, either.  He drew in a sharp breath and lifted his head, eyes bleary but open.  He glanced around as if expecting a fight.  When he didn’t find one, his focus landed on Castiel.  “Cas?” he grumbled.

Castiel tried to disarm him with a small smile, hoping it wasn’t too shaky.  Gingerly, he brushed Dean’s hair with his fingertips.  Crescents of dirt were still caked into his nail beds and tiny, red cuts and discolored burns were scattered on his knuckles.  “It’s not time yet,” he said, trying to coax Dean back into sleep.  “You should rest.”

Dean let his eyes fall heavily closed.  He dropped his head down and grunted.  “And, what?  You shouldn’t?” he said, sounding fractionally more awake.

Castiel didn’t know how to respond to that.  He sighed, letting his shoulders drop.  He couldn’t rest.  Jack needed him.  There was no telling when Lucifer planned on leaving the farm.  If Castiel didn’t move quickly, the child could be lost forever.

Dean rolled onto his side and opened his eyes again.  They were too shadowed to see, but Castiel kept his gaze.  He wished he could see the green of them.  “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Castiel answered like a knee-jerk reaction.  He tried to move past it for now.  Maybe, one day, he wouldn’t have to.  “I’m fine,” he said again, less quickly.

Dean dropped his eyes.  “Yeah.”  He was still unsettled, but he appeared trusting.  “You better be careful today,” he added, making it sound like a threat.

Castiel stilled his fingers on Dean’s scalp.  He wouldn’t make promises he couldn’t keep.  “You first.”

Dean scoffed.  Then, he reached into his collar, bringing out a thin chain with the bronze cross dangling from it.  It took a moment for Castiel to register what it was in the darkness, but when he did, he felt his lips part, surprised.  He thought the necklace had been destroyed in the fire.  He hadn’t expected to see it again.

“You want this?” Dean asked softly, his fingers toying with the cross.

Castiel felt something inside his gut settle at the sight of Dean wearing it again.  The cross had survived.  In a way, it felt like a miracle.  It felt like the Almighty Himself wanted them to win.  Maybe they were protected, after all, if only a little.

He placed both of his hands over Dean’s, enclosing the necklace in Dean’s fist.  “It’s yours,” he said.

Dean’s eyes flickered up to him.  He swallowed, averting his gaze, but he nodded.  Castiel knew he wanted to say something.  He could feel it behind Dean’s teeth, hear it in the way Dean inhaled.

“It’s yours, too, Cas,” Dean told him.  And then, “So am I.”

A smile pulled at Castiel’s mouth, awe blooming in his chest.  It was a quiet thing, and loud; too big but comfortable all at once.  And there was fear, too, that only one of them might last the day.  If that were true, he wanted it to be Dean.

He hoped he was worrying over nothing, and that when all this was over, they could find their way back to each other again.  And he hoped Dean could forgive him for the part he’d played.

Castiel squeezed Dean’s hand and echoed, “So am I.”  He let his hands fall away.

He wanted to tell Dean he loved him again, but it would sound too final.

In the darkness, Castiel saw the curve of Dean’s smile.  Dean laid down on his back again.  Castiel followed him, nowhere near as relaxed.  He felt stiff, eyes wide open, as he listened to Dean’s breaths.  He counted each one of them.

Silently, he picked himself up, ignoring the soreness and discomfort in his muscles.  He ducked out of the tent, pulling his suspenders over him while he went.

The camp was still, seemingly empty.  The marshals were all in their tents.  Castiel looked to the campfires scattered throughout the camp, with their flames leaping up to the vast blanket of stars and planets above.  Even at the distance, the heat tickled his face.  Smoke filtered up to the sky and combined into a pillar that cut a strip out of the milky way.  The fires had been going all night, adding to the warmth of the air.  Everything smelled of coal and flames.

He headed toward the river, ignoring the way his shadow stretched in front of him and danced in his path.  And maybe he wasn’t as healed up as he’d imagined, because his ankle was already beginning to act up.  He had to grind his teeth against the pain, refusing to limp.  It would take him a half hour to reach the farm where Jack was being held.  He was determined not to let any weakness in—not until the baby was safe.

He headed upstream, and his only company was the sound of the lapping current of the water and the far-off splashing of the small animals jumping into it.  Frogs croaked along the banks.  Cicadas chirped in the grass.  As he drew closer to the tree line surrounding the farm, he became aware of the doves singing their mournful tunes.

Sam had mentioned the farm was south of the river.  When Castiel reached the woods, he headed in that direction, where he no longer had the river to guide him.  He threaded through the trunks, the dried leaves whispering under his boots.  He didn’t know how long he’d been walking, but there were beads of sweat in his hair, and he was much more aware of the itching discomfort from the burns on his hands and face.  He’d made the mistake of scratching one on his temple, and immediately regretted it when he drew blood.

But he kept on until, through the trees, he saw the distant glow of firelight.  The lilt of a harmonica reached his ears.  Castiel paused, his hand gripping the cracked grooves of a trunk for support while he gathered his strength.  He didn’t know what he felt more of: relief for having reached his destination, or fear for what was coming next.

He closed his eyes tightly and counted to five, timing his breaths with each ticking second.  It did little to calm him down, so he focused on something else.  He imagined a town down south, one he’d never been to, and an elderly couple with a baby in their arms.  He imagined that baby growing up, playing in the fields, riding horses, going to school.

The image changed.  He pictured that same boy in a familiar homestead in Kansas.  He played hide-and-seek in a field of golden wheat.  He sat in Dean’s lap, eyes drooping and head lolling against Dean’s shoulder as he read to him.  He had a smile as bright as the day.

It was a nice dream.  It was one Castiel knew wouldn’t come true, but it spurred him on all the same.  He drew his hand away from the trunk, opened his eyes, and pulled his shoulders back.

He was bringing Jack home—whatever that meant.

Castiel broke through the trees.  The farm seemed relatively vacant.  All he saw were two watchmen sitting around a campfire, the silver harmonica glinting as the man continued to play it.  A few yards behind them, the farmhouse stood as a mass of shadow.  There were candles lit from within, their lights flickering against the curtains.

Quite suddenly, the harmonica music cut off.  “Hey!” one of the watchmen shouted.  They both sprang to their feet, scrambling to hold up their rifles.

“Stop right there!” the other called.  “I’ll shoot!”

Castiel didn’t stop.  He stalked up to the fire, letting his face come into view for the men.  Both of their eyes widened.  He didn’t recognize them, but they must have known who he was.

“I want to speak with Lucifer,” Castiel told them plainly.

The men stood still, apparently not knowing what to do.  They kept their weapons raised but quickly shared a look.

“What the hell’s going on out here?” Castiel heard a familiar voice call from the shadows outside the farmhouse.  He looked up, watching as the outline of a petite woman walked toward their group.  Ruby came into the glow of the fire.  A tilted smile was pressed onto her lips, the shadows playing on her face, as she regarded him.  “Castiel.  You’re supposed to be dead.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement near the barn.  Two other men came out, six-shooters in their hands.  It didn’t seem like anyone else was in the camp.

“My apologies,” Castiel told her.

She crossed her arms over her chest.  “Why aren’t you?”

He didn’t really know how to answer that question.  He opened his mouth and then closed it again.  He decided to move on: “I’m here to speak with Lucifer.”

Ruby leveled him with a look, not seeming to buy it.  She said, “Right.”  She bobbed her head, her hair bouncing around her face.  “You mean, you’re here for Jack?”

“Yes,” he answered at once.

“Too bad.  He’s not yours,” she shot back, and he couldn’t deny the sharpness that sliced through his gut.  He powered through it, nonetheless.

“I know.  I see now that I can’t keep him from Lucifer.  So . . . I want to take Lucifer up on his offer.  I’ll go with you.”

She didn’t outwardly react, but she did seem slightly thrown.  “Let me get this straight: you wanna join us?”

He bit down on his jaw, and he told himself this was for Jack.  “It’s the only way.”

She blinked at him, seemingly deciding whether or not she believed him.  Slowly, she asked, “So, you’d stay with him?  And raise him?  Like a father?”

Castiel nodded.

“Without any help?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, his head tilting as he tried to figure out what that meant.  “Help from who?”

Ruby shrugged.  “The Winchesters, for starters.”

Castiel’s pulse jumped, but he tried not to let it show.  Keeping his voice calm, he lied, “I haven’t seen Sam and Dean in weeks.”

She kept staring at him, remaining quiet.  The men behind her didn’t lower their weapons.

“I assume you haven’t, either, if you’re here,” he continued.  He thought it would be best to add, “When you left them . . . did you . . .?”  She raised her brows, prompting him to go on.  He asked, “Are they alive?”

Ruby let that hang in the air, and for a long second, he thought he’d laid it on too thick.  But then she snorted a laugh.  “Yeah.  They’re alive,” she said.

Castiel let his eyes fall closed for a moment, feigning relief.  When he opened them, Ruby was still staring at him hard.

But then she decided, “All right, Castiel.  I’ll take you to Lucifer.”  She glanced behind her, nodding to the men.  “Check him for weapons.”

Two of them stepped forward, not pausing to so much as question her.  That seemed like a far cry from the whore he’d met in Wichita, and even further from the woman being dragged into their camp by her hair and being held at gunpoint.  Something told him Ruby was no longer just another soldier in Lucifer’s army.  He supposed that made sense after delivering him his child.

He let the men manhandle him, grunting in pain when one of them exacerbated his tender muscles.  They went through his pockets and patted him down, but seemed satisfied that he wasn’t armed.

The men stepped back, giving Ruby the all clear.  But she continued to regard him with a critical eye.  Her gaze fell downward to his boots.  She stepped closer and knelt down.  Castiel felt her push her fingers into his boots, searching for the scalpel that he no longer had.  When she didn’t find it, she got to her feet and stepped back.

“Okay,” she said, nodding once.  “Let’s go, Doc.”

While Castiel followed her to the house, he assessed the farm.  Three horses stood asleep on the grass, and the four men behind them remained near the fire.  The barn appeared vacant, and he didn’t see another soul around.

He turned his gaze back to Ruby’s back when they reached the house.  She paused at the door, her hand on the knob, to glance over her shoulder at him.  She was still smirking at him, and Castiel wasn’t certain if she was trying to unnerve him.  He tried not to show that she was succeeding.  Or maybe she wasn’t.  He’d been unnerved all night.

“Hey, Lucifer,” Ruby said as they entered, tone almost taunting.  “Got someone here who wants to talk to you.”

The door opened to the soft glow of the kitchen.  He stepped inside after her, taking in the room.  Lucifer sat at the table, already dressed for the day.  The scraps of his breakfast sat on a plate in front of him, a fork and knife crossed on top.  Two candles were lit at the center of the table, their dripping wax pooling and solidifying on the wood.  A lantern hung from the wall between the torn-lace curtained windows.

But Castiel disregarded all of that.  His eyes immediately fell to the bundle of blankets in a wicker basket on the table.  Soft coos came from within, two tiny hands raised and swaying.  Castiel’s breath tripped, and at once all his aches and pains fell away.  Adrenaline rushed through his ears.

“Jack,” he said, taking a charged step forward.  Ruby held up her arm, blocking him off at the chest.  It was barely a barrier, but it stopped him in his tracks.  He reminded himself of the plan.

He lifted his gaze to meet Lucifer’s instead.  Lucifer was already looking at him, his expression cool.  He lifted his arms to rest his elbows on the table and pressed the tips of his fingers together, his hands almost folded in prayer.

Castiel felt a vein in his forehead pulse, but he attempted to keep the contempt out of his eyes.  Again, he thought of the plan—but it was taking more willpower than he’d imagined to not go for the knife and stab Lucifer in the heart.  He supposed that wouldn’t end well for him, but he was inclined not to care.

“Castiel,” Lucifer greeted, pulling him from his thoughts.  “Somehow I knew I’d see you again.”  He held a palm out to the chair beside him.  “Please.  Sit.”

Ruby dropped her arm, allowing him to pass.  Castiel cast her a glance before walking to the chair Lucifer had indicated.  On the way, he was able to look in on Jack.  When the baby blinked back at him, he let out another sound that Castiel chose to interpret as happy.  It almost felt like Jack recognized him.  Castiel sincerely hoped he did.  He fisted his hands at his sides, urging himself not to reach for Jack.

He turned his stare back to Lucifer and pulled out the chair.  Stiffly, he sat down.

Lucifer matched his gaze, and Castiel could still feel Ruby’s eyes on him, but he didn’t dare look away.

“Tell me, Castiel, why are you here?” Lucifer asked after a long time.

Castiel realized he’d been holding his breath.  He let it out slowly through his nose, hoping it didn’t sound as choppy as it felt.  Steadily as he could, he said, “Weeks ago, you made me an offer.  You said I could ride with you.  That I could stay with Jack.”

Lucifer hummed and nodded with interest.  “Yes, I remember.”

“I accept it,” Castiel told him.  “You can have Jack, just . . . allow me to stay with him.”

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, and Castiel thought of a serpent in a garden, its forked tongue hissing temptations.  And, for a brief moment, Castiel almost believed his own words.

“I see,” Lucifer said.  “Why?”

Castiel blinked.  His skin was raised, flesh cold despite the summer warmth.  “I promised his mother I’d protect him.  I intend to keep that promise.”

“Protect him from what?” Lucifer leaned back in his chair.  “From me?”

“Yes,” Castiel said bluntly.  “If I have to.  You said that was the deal, didn’t you?  That you raise him with your beliefs, and I raise him with his mother’s—and he’ll get to choose for himself.”

“That was the deal,” Lucifer said.  “Except . . . he has a new mother now.”

Castiel didn’t understand.  This wasn’t how he pictured this conversation.  He shook his head, trying to right himself.  “What?”

Lucifer lifted his hand, gesturing for Ruby.  “Ruby,” he beckoned.  She came forward, shoulders a little more slumped than before, and scooped Jack up out of the basket.  He kicked and fussed until she rocked him.

It was wrong.  It was all wrong.

Castiel thought back to when he’d first arrived at the farm, to what Ruby had asked him about raising Jack on his own.  He understood now.  She didn’t want to raise him.

“Her?” Castiel asked, his brows shooting up.  He glanced back at Ruby.  Her smile became tight.

“I’ve given Ruby the task of raising my son,” Lucifer said.  But then he stood up, the squeal of the chair legs too loud in the darkness of the kitchen.  He walked behind Castiel’s chair.  “But it doesn’t have to be like that.  Not if you tell me, Castiel—,” he leaned in, resting his palms on the table.  Castiel went rigid.  He kept facing forward, his skin crawling where Lucifer was hovering too close.  “. . . why you’re really here.”

Castiel tried to keep his breathing regulated, but his imagination got away from him.  He was convinced that Lucifer really knew what he was doing there.

“I told you—”

“You did, but it wasn’t the whole truth,” Lucifer cut him off.  He leaned away and walked back to the head of the table but didn’t sit down.  “I think you’re here because you knew I was right.  You don’t belong in some . . . simple cow town, living under someone else’s roof.  Not like the Winchesters.  No.”  He pressed his palms together and pointed at Castiel.  “I think something I said in your camp that night struck a chord.”

There was a lump in Castiel’s throat.  He thought of his sister’s sadness and his parents’ anger when he decided to leave Chicago.  He thought of the fire, of his childhood home in ruins, his family and neighbors trying to salvage what they could despite the fact that there was no point to it.  He remembered Dean’s face on the morning Castiel left the Baneses’ ranch.  He thought of his bed back in the stable house—the one that never felt like his, the one that he avoided when Dean was gone.

And maybe something Lucifer said had been right.  Maybe Castiel was reluctant to call a place, a person, home.  Maybe he was afraid it would all blow away like smoke.

But Dean Winchester wore a bronze cross around his neck, so maybe there were some things worth salvaging.  Maybe they’d be enough to rebuild.

“Or maybe not,” Lucifer said.

Castiel looked up at him.  Something in the outlaw’s face had shifted.  His cool demeanor had gone stony.

“Because, you see, Castiel,” he said, “I happen to know that the Winchesters and several U.S. Marshals are camped not far from here.  And I know you were with them.”

Castiel’s stomach was in knots.  In Ruby’s arms, Jack let out an unhappy grunt.

“My men left not long before you arrived here,” Lucifer went on.  “They’re on their way to your camp right now.  And, make no mistake, they won’t leave any survivors.  That includes the Winchesters.”

The front door opened, and two of the outlaws from outside came in.  One was holding out his rifle.  The other had his six-shooter ready.  Castiel jumped up by reflex, his chair toppling over behind him and clattering to the ground.

The men walked around the table and flanked him on either side.  They grabbed his arms, holding him securely.  He tried to yank free, but their grip tightened.  He stilled immediately when he felt the six-shooter shoved against his side.

“And you’ll join them soon enough,” Lucifer promised.

Across the table, Ruby was smiling again.  It was a gloating thing.  He scowled at her.

“I’m curious about one thing, though.  I’m assuming the marshals have a plan of attack—not that they’ll ever have the chance to enact it.  But what were you hoping to accomplish by coming here, Castiel?” Lucifer said.  “What are you supposed to be?  The diversion?”

Castiel’s eyes snapped back to him.  He watched the way the light from the lantern cast moving shadows on the outlaw’s face.  His eyes were shadowed, leaving nothing but two deep sockets resembling a skull.  Castiel reasoned, to Lucifer’s eyes, he must have looked much the same.

“No,” he gritted out, ensuring the word was spoken clearly.  He leaned in slightly, cold eyes boring into Lucifer.  “They are.”

There were footsteps outside of Dean’s tent.

Heavy boots crunched the dried grass, the metallic rattle of their spurs jingling faintly.  The sounds were so low, and Dean might not have heard them if he hadn’t been listening out.

He could picture it: at least half a dozen of Lucifer’s gang sneaking into the camp, their guns raised, their knives gripped tightly.  They were ready to shoot the marshals in their beds, ready to drag their blades against their enemies’ throats.  They came into a quiet camp, as silent as a grave, without anyone on watch.

Beneath his blanket, Dean tightened his fingers around his six-shooter.  The knife he’d taken off Ruby in Oklahoma City was stuffed into his boot.

He cracked an eye open.  A silhouette, illuminated by the firelight, was creeping around the outside of his tent, heading for the entrance flap.

His gun still under his blanket, he cocked the hammer as slowly and silently as possible.  Dean rolled onto his back and lifted his Colt out into the open.  He pointed it at the tent’s flap.  Holding his breath, he forced himself to be calm.

He counted to five.  He thought of Cas, who must have been at the farm by now.

The outlaw outside the tent had reached the flap.  Dean saw the shadow raise its hand slowly.  His finger rested on his trigger and he watched as the flap was pulled back.

The outlaw ducked inside, his eyes going big at the sight before him.  Dean fired a shot between his eyes.

The body barely had time to hit the ground before the camp erupted in gunshots and shouts.  The outlaws fired back, some of them running for cover behind the tents and horses after discovering their ambush was a trap.

Dean kicked his blankets off of his legs and jumped up.  He kept his gun at the ready and stepped over the outlaw’s body as he stuck his head out of the flap.  Daylight was only just breaking over the distant horizon, the stars blinking out in the purples and blues overhead as the hombre of vermillion consumed them.  By the dancing firelight, he saw there were already a couple of dead outlaws between the tents, and their horses had scattered.  Some of the tents were overturned, but from what Dean could see, there weren’t any dead marshals.

Galloping hooves pounded to his left, the sound reverberating through the dirt beneath his boots.  Dean looked over to find Sam on horseback, riding toward him.  Chevy was following his lead.

Sam’s six-shooter was in hand, and he fired off a round every now and again when he caught sight of an outlaw.  As the horses drew closer, Dean readied himself to go out in the open.

“Sam!” he called when his brother was in earshot, but it must have gotten lost in the crack of gunfire around them.  Sam slowed Bones to a trot, and Chevy did the same.  It was just slow enough for Dean to grab her reins and swing into the saddle.  Sam looked over his shoulder, making sure they were ready to go.

Dean gave him a nod before scanning the camp.  He caught sight of Henriksen barking orders at his men.

“Victor!” Dean shouted, gaining his attention.

Henriksen looked over at once.  He waved his arm, giving them the go-ahead to proceed.  “Go!” he called back.

Dean wheeled Chevy around, pointing her west.  Sam followed after.  Two more horses, carrying Reidy and another deputy marshal, came up on their right.  The remaining marshals stayed behind to keep Lucifer’s gang engaged.  From the looks of it, the majority of the gang was at the camp.  Dean figured there were only a handful of them left at the farm.

The four of them rode in that direction, toward Lucifer.

Novak’s words rang in her ears.  They made dread creep up her spine.

Ruby looked down at the baby in her arms, and it dawned on her that the Winchesters had been banking on their camp getting raided.  It would clear a path to the farm—to the child.

Her head snapped up, eyes wide as she caught Castiel’s, and he might as well have confirmed her suspicions.  He lifted his chin slightly, defiant despite the gun to his back.  Ruby turned to her father.  “Lucifer—”

A shot rang out from outside.

It was already too late.

Everyone in the room looked quickly to the door, as if they could see through it to the scene outside.  More shots followed.  Through the window, Ruby saw two of their own men using their horses for cover as they rushed toward the barn.  Their six-shooters were out.  Another gunshot sounded from the tree line and exploded on the dirt.

“It’s the Winchesters,” Ruby said hurriedly.  She didn’t know how many marshals they’d brought with them, but the farm was all but emptied out.  Two men couldn’t hold them off for long.  She placed Jack back inside the wicker basket on the table and pulled out her six-shooter.  “I’ll hold them off,” she told Lucifer.

He nodded, dismissing her with a wave.  “Take what you need.”

She started for the door, her gaze snagging on Novak.  He was standing up a little straighter, eyes more alert than before.  Ruby cursed herself.  From the second Novak entered the farm, she should have known this had been planned.  She thought it had been some kind of trick—but a trap?  She honestly didn’t think he and the Winchesters were that smart.

She’d prove to them that she was smarter.

They wouldn’t get away with it.  Not now.  Not when she’d just won Lucifer’s favor.  She wouldn’t let him down.

“Brady,” she said, eyes flickering to the man behind Castiel.  He was carrying a rifle, and it would serve them a hell of a lot better than a six-shooter.  “Come with me.”

For once, Brady didn’t give her a snide remark.  He obeyed immediately, following Ruby to the exit.  Of all things, that strengthened Ruby’s confidence.  If even Brady was smart enough to recognize her newfound authority, then it really wasn’t something she could let go of.  She’d win this shootout.  She had to.

When she reached it, she opened the door wide enough to stick her head out.  The two men had made it to the barn, currently using the doors as shields.  Every few seconds, one of them whipped around and fired off a blind shot.  Bullets were returned from the trees across the property.  They seemed to be coming from one spot.

Ruby scanned the expanse between the farmhouse and the barn.  It was a good five yards away with no cover in between.  But the barn was their best line of defense.  If the Winchesters wanted to get to the house, they’d have to make it past the barn.  Ruby could cut them off before they made it close to Lucifer and the baby.

They’d have to be fast.

“Okay,” she told Brady, cocking her gun.  “We need to get to the barn.  Go on my count—and shoot anything that moves.”  She glanced back at him to make sure he got the message.  He brought his rifle up, slapping the barrel into his opposite hand, to show he was ready.

Ruby swallowed, trying to bury the sick churning in her gut.  This was no time for fear.

“Ready?  One . . . two . . . now!”

She ripped the door open.  They ran from the house, the red light of the sunrise lighting up the browning grass in fiery shades.  More shots rang out from the barn as their two companions covered them.

A sudden cacophony came from the trees.  The marshals seemed to double down on their fire—but there was something else, too.  Hooves.

Two familiar horses—one black and one brown—broke through into the farm.  The Winchesters stayed low, crouching forward in their saddles, their six-shooters held out.  They sent shots toward the barn.

Ruby broke into a sprint, trying not to waste her breath to swear.

Behind her, Brady came to a halt and held out his rifle.  He fired, sending a shot toward Dean.  Dean ducked and jerked Chevy out of the way.

“Damn it, move, you idiot!” Ruby shouted over his shoulder.  That was a mistake.  When she turned forward, Sam was in her path.  He was riding right for her.

Ruby skidded to a stop, her heart seizing.  Her grip tightened on her gun in reflex, but it didn’t occur to her in that moment to raise it.  Sam was close.  She could see his eyes, his gaze latched onto hers.  And she knew she was dead.  He’d kill her.  He’d either shoot her or trample her.

But he didn’t do either of those things.

He ripped his eyes away and swerved Bones to the side, giving Ruby a wide breadth as he rode right past her.

She blinked, her body still coiled and panic still sitting in her throat.  She didn’t understand it.  He had a clear shot.  She should be dead.

Ruby glanced over her shoulder in time to see the Winchesters’ horses disappear behind the side of the farmhouse.  It occurred to her that, even now, Sam Winchester couldn’t bring himself to kill her.  Even now, she had an advantage over him.  She felt a smile twitch one side of her mouth upward.

That poor, lovestruck moron.  It was sweet, she supposed, in a perverse sort of way.  She kind of felt bad for him.

“Move!” she heard Brady shout as he ran past her.  It knocked Ruby out of her thoughts.

She rushed after him, the dirt around her flying up in buckshot blasts from the trees.  When they cleared the barn doors, she took a moment to catch her breath before spinning around to face her companions.  “You two, get up to the loft.  See if you can get a bird’s eye,” she ordered.  The two men jumped to follow her orders, making way to the ladder on the opposite side of the barn.

She whirled around to Brady, meaning to give him an order, too.  But he must not have been covered enough.  She jumped backward as a bullet ripped through his chest, knocking him down onto the dirt and straw.  His rifle fell from his grip, sliding toward her.

“Damn it!” she muttered at his motionless body.  She guessed she was alone in this fight.

Daylight was breaking in earnest outside, its warm light turning from crimson to pale honey as it came through the windows and spread out onto the floorboards.  The candles were still lit, forgotten on the table.  The oil lantern’s light was still dancing within the glass casing.

The grip around Castiel’s arm had tightened.  The outlaw’s fingers were putting bruises into the already tender skin.  His six-shooter was still shoved against Castiel’s ribs.

Castiel ignored him, putting all his focus on Lucifer.  Outside, gunshots continued to ring out.  Horses were whinnying frantically.  The sound of hooves thudded against the earth.  Inside the wicker basket, Jack was letting out small, disquiet whines.

“It’s a shame, really,” Lucifer said, his voice so low that Castiel nearly missed it among all the background noise.  It was the first thing either of them had said since Ruby left.  “You could have truly had a home with us, Castiel.  I’m sorry it had to come to this.”

Castiel’s gaze flickered down to the utensils on Lucifer’s plate.  They were close, but much too far away to reach with a gun pointed at him.  He wished he had his Derringer, or any weapon at all.

“I’m not,” he answered cuttingly.

Lucifer’s eyes flashed, and Castiel couldn’t tell if it was with surprise or fury.  He never found out.  The house’s door swung open and slammed hard against the wall.  Dean and Sam filled out the entrance, their six-shooters raised.

Castiel took the opportune moment.  He dove forward and grabbed the knife on Lucifer’s plate, flipped it over in his hand, and plunged it backward into the outlaw behind him.  He wasn’t sure what he hit.  In all likelihood, he got the man between the ribs, but even without hitting any organs, he got the desired effect.

The outlaw yelped in pain and doubled over, his gun clattering to the floor.  Castiel jumped out of the way just in time for Dean’s bullet to hit the man in the temple.  Jack’s cries ripped through the kitchen, even louder than the gunshot had been.  The body went down with a thud.  Castiel went for the abandoned six-shooter and got back to his feet.

He pointed the gun at Lucifer, and there was a disorienting moment when he realized Lucifer was no longer standing at the head of the table.  Jack’s wicker basket was gone, too.  Lucifer had scooped it up and retreated to the wall.  Behind him, the light coming through the window framed his shoulders.  He held the basket up, close to his chest, using the baby as a shield against the three guns trained on him.

Castiel gritted his teeth at the sight.  He stepped backward, joining Sam and Dean on the other side of the room.

“Put your weapons down,” Lucifer told them.  “We all know you won’t shoot while I have the child.”

“That so?” Dean said, voice hard.  He pulled back the hammer of his gun to emphasize his point.  But he was bluffing.

Lucifer pressed his lips together as if he truly pitied them.  “Then I’m afraid you’ll have to kill me.”

Hatred flared in Castiel, burning through his veins and turning white-hot in his chest.  He scanned the room, desperately searching for a solution before Jack got hurt.  He spotted it to Lucifer’s left.  It was a gamble, a dangerous game of chance.

He looked at Sam and Dean out of the corner of his eye.  They looked back quickly before returning their stares to Lucifer.  Castiel hoped they were ready to act.

He pulled the trigger, and rolled the dice.

The lantern next to the window erupted, the oil inside the well splattering onto the window’s lace curtain.  The fabric went up in flames.  Lucifer ducked away as the fire sprang onto his sleeve.  His hands flew up to shield his face on reflex, and the wicker basket dropped to the floor.  Jack’s cries hiccupped before starting up again even louder.

And then they were drowned out by the bang of a gunshot.  Sam’s bullet had hit Lucifer in the chest.  Lucifer stumbled backward, his spine hitting the wall.  His mouth was open, eyes shocked, as he slumped to the floor.  The fire on his shirt had spread, small flames licking at his collar and his face.  He went still.

Castiel sucked in a breath.  His heartbeat thundered.  The shot echoed in his ears.  Everything else sounded like it was coming up from underwater.  All of it had happened so quickly.

Slowly, his mind caught up.  Sensation ebbed back in, bringing with it the racket of Jack’s cries.  And the heat.  The flames on the curtain were springing along the wall now.  The entire house would go up in no time.

“We gotta move,” Dean said.

Even as he did, Castiel rushed forward to pick Jack up from the basket.  There were droplets of oil from the shattered lantern on his blankets, but thankfully none of them had ignited.  He pulled Jack in close to his chest to shield his eyes and muffle his wails, careful to keep the six-shooter in his hand pointed away from him.

“Cas!  Let’s go!”

Dean and Sam were already at the door.  Castiel cast one last look at Lucifer’s body.  The fire was blackening his skin.  There was the smell of cooking meat.  He turned quickly and followed the brothers out the door.

They stayed low as the sounds of gunshots sporadically sounded from inside the barn.  The deputies must have gotten inside.  Two men were on the loft above, their rifles trained out the window.

Dean held his six-shooter up.  “Sammy, take Cas and the kid around to the other side of the barn and head for the trees.  I’ll cover you.”

Both Castiel and Sam jerked their heads in Dean’s direction.  It was an insane plan, made worse by the stern set of Dean’s features.

“You’re gonna draw their fire?” Sam argued.  “Dean—”

“I’ll be fine.  We don’t have time for this,” Dean cut him off.  He grabbed Sam’s shoulder, his grip firm for a single moment before he pushed his brother away.  “Go.  Protect the baby.”

“Dean—,” Castiel tried, terror blocking his throat.

Dean didn’t listen.  He shot off in a sprint, heading right for the open space between the tree line and the barn.  He was already firing.  The snipers from the top of the barn returned fire.  Their bullets exploded on his heels as Dean zigzagged at full speed.

Sam hissed out a curse.  “Okay, c’mon, let’s move,” he said hurriedly, his fist twisting Castiel’s sleeve.  They rushed out of the shadow of the house, heading for the backside of the barn.  Every so often, Castiel glanced toward Dean.  He was still alive, taking cover behind a rotting post in the perimeter fence.  It was barely wide enough to protect him.

He disappeared from sight when they got to the back of the barn, and from there it was only a yard or so’s sprint to the trees.  The sun was hovering over the horizon by then, a white orb over the land.  The dawn sky was a cloudless cool blue.

Castiel’s ankle was throbbing.  He pushed himself as fast as he could, holding Jack close.  He fell a few strides behind Sam, but they both made it into the trees.

He slowed after clearing the first few trunks to shake out his leg.  He wanted to collapse.

Sam turned, checking both him and Jack for injury.  “You okay?”

Castiel realized his eyes were skewed shut against the pain and exhaustion.  He winced them open, keeping his jaw tight.  He nodded quickly, even though it was mostly a lie.

Sam took it in stride.  “Okay, let’s keep going.”  He kept his gun up as he moved slowly through the trees.

Castiel let out a reluctant breath, dreading walking again.  He readied himself and followed after Sam.

They walked for a few minutes, heading deeper into the woods.  Castiel simply followed Sam, not knowing where they were going.  All sense of direction was overpowered by his injuries.  Jack was still crying.

Behind them, something snapped.  It wasn’t a twig.  It was bigger—like a branch.

They both spun around, Sam’s gun going first, and relaxed as Chevy came in closer.  She snorted, shaking out her mane.  It dislodged some of the sticks and leaves tangled into it.

Sam let out a huff of laughter and shook his head.  Castiel settled, too, as relief washed over him.  Somehow, the sight of the horse made him feel safe.

“All right,” Sam said.  “I think this is a good spot.  You stay here with Chevy.  Don’t move.”

Castiel looked at him, brow pinching with concern.  “What are you gonna do?”

Sam checked the bullets in his gun.  He frowned.  “I’m going back to the farm before Dean gets his head blown off.”

The reminder heightened Castiel’s anxiety again.  He rocked Jack, trying to calm them both.

“We’ll meet you back here,” Sam ensured, like he could promise such things.

He paused, his gaze moving downward to the bundle in Castiel’s arms.  His expression shifted, eyes turning soft.  When he placed his hand on the back of Jack’s head, a small, serene smile came to his face.  Castiel felt his own lips turn upward at the sight.

Jack was safe.  Lucifer was gone.

When Sam’s hand fell away, his expression hardened.  He nodded once at Castiel and then rushed back from where they came.

Castiel looked around, watching him disappear through the trees.  He kept rocking Jack to no avail.  Chevy’s nose nudged his shoulder, and he brought his attention to her, trying to be comforted.

Dean kept his gun raised as he carefully paced through the farm.  The bramble and overgrown grass crunched under his boots, and the fire that had now overtaken the entire house was crackling and roaring.  The horses still tied up were causing a racket as they bucked and hooved at the earth.  He listened out for any other sounds—anything human.  There was nothing.

The two men that had been firing from the barn’s loft were dead, one of them hanging out of the window, arms dangling.  There was no sign of Reidy and the other deputy that had accompanied them.

There was a loud crashing sound behind him.  Dean whipped around, six-shooter first.  A wall in the house had buckled, causing the structure to collapse.  Plums of black smoke puffed up toward the pale blue sky, and a soft breeze swept up some of the smoke and embers, making them dance through the air.  The world smelled of fire.

Dean turned back around and walked toward the open door of the barn.  He took his time, one foot in front of the other, just in case any of Lucifer’s gang was left alive.  Two figures were face down on the hay inside.  Dean jerked his gun forward, but then he saw the blood pooling around them.  He also realized it was the deputies’ bodies.

He let out a hiss, cursing under his breath, and approached the bodies.  Another man was dead on the ground, and he looked like he had been for a while before the deputies came in.  The blood around him wasn’t spreading out.  He was bled dry.  Not like Reidy.

Dean crouched down and checked Reidy’s pulse.  He was dead, but the body was still warm.  That meant the killer was still alive.  Dean bet he knew who it was, too.

Ruby.

She was at the farm, and he wouldn’t be shocked if she’d somehow managed to find a way to stay alive.  She’d either fled after killing the deputies—shooting them in the back like a coward—or she was still there.  Dean cocked his gun, readying himself.  He realized he didn’t know how many bullets he had left—if he had any at all.  The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on edge.  His muscles tensed.

Behind him, hay crunched underfoot.

“You have my knife,” Ruby said.  There was the click of a hammer.  “I’d like it back now.”

Dean’s face hardened.  He looked over his shoulder, at the barrel of a six-shooter pointed at him, at Ruby.

If he were dying, he’d sure as hell get the last word.

“Come and get it, bitch.”

Dean didn’t wait.  He sprang up, diving behind a hay barrel.  Ruby’s bullet missed him by an inch.  It caught the straw, making the hay explode.  His hiding place wouldn’t last long.

He checked his ammo.  He was out.  His belt was empty, too.  “Son of a bitch,” he hissed, staying low.  Doing the only thing he could, he holstered his gun and pulled Ruby’s knife out of his belt.  He doubted he’d have the opportunity to get close enough, but at least it made him feel a little better.

He’d die with confidence, at the very least.  He’d die with his boots on.

“Oh, come on, Dean,” he heard Ruby taunt from the front of the barn.  “At least make it fun for me.”

Dean swallowed.  His grip tightened around the blade’s handle.

“No?” Ruby said.  She gusted out a dramatic sigh, and he could just about picture an eye roll.  “Fine, then.  Have it your way.”

There were footsteps.  Dean’s stomach clenched.  He reached into the collar of his shirt and pulled out the chain, Cas’ bronze cross pinched between his fingers.  He didn’t pray, exactly, but he hoped Cas was safe.  And Sam.  And Jack.  He hoped they’d be okay if he didn’t see them again.  He hoped Cas forgave him.

He hoped Cas knew he loved him.

Dean brought the cross to his lips, pretending it was Cas, before letting it drop.  It wasn’t Cas.  It wouldn’t do.  And fuck prayer.  Fuck hoping.  Dean would see them again.  He’d tell Cas what he should have a long time ago.

He was walking out of that barn.

His grip around the blade’s handle strengthened and he pulled back his shoulders, listening out for the ideal moment to strike.  Ruby was close.  She’d be ready.  So was he.

She was right on the other side of the hay barrel.  Dean could feel her presence looming there.  He jumped up, spinning around to face her in the process.  He used the momentum to build power behind his fist.  He swung the knife toward her chest.

Ruby jumped out of the way, one fist gripping his shirt for leverage.  She pushed him backward, leaping away at the same instant.

Dean cursed as he stumbled back.  So much for the element of surprise.

“Enough,” she yelled after steadying herself.  “It’s over, Dean.  After I kill you, I’m going after your puppy-dog-eyed brother, and the doc.  And then,” she extended her gun arm, pointing it at his heart, “I’m getting Lucifer and the kid back from that marshal.”

There was movement in the barn’s entrance.  Dean’s eyes flickered in that direction, just fast enough to find Sam there, his Wells, Fargo sawed-off ready in his hands.  Dean wouldn’t dare let the relief he felt flood through him.  Not yet.

He needed to keep Ruby distracted while Sam crept forward.  “Lucifer?” he said.  “Didn’t you read the papers?  Lucifer burned up with the farmhouse.  He’s dead.”

Ruby’s expression dropped.  Her horror barely dawned on her face before a deafening crack went through the air.  Dean breathed in, every muscle in his body going taut, as the hay around Ruby’s feet scattered.

Ruby jumped and whipped around.  She called out, “Sam!”  Dean didn’t know why.  He couldn’t tell if she was just surprised, or if she wanted to make herself sound like a damsel in need of a hero.  Whatever it was, Sam didn’t seem to even hear it.  He rushed forward the rest of the way and grabbed Ruby by the arms, forcing them behind her back.

She struggled in his hold, trying to break free.  Sam’s eyes were hard and his jaw was set as he wheeled her around to face Dean.

Dean barely even took a second to think.  He came forward, the knife tight in his grip, and plunged it into her gut.

Ruby let out a loud gasp, her eyes going wide, her lips parting.  Dean twisted the knife, ripping deeper into her.  She fell back, collapsing against Sam like the wall of the burning farmhouse.  Dean pulled the knife out, and Sam let her drop to the dirt.

She went down with a thud, landing on her back.  Her eyes stared up vacantly.  Pieces of straw were clumped into her hair.  She gave one more breath before stilling.

Dean looked down at her.  His fist was wet; it glistened with fresh blood.  He felt like his knees might give out.

It was over.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze to Sam.  Sam was already looking at him, a number of emotions playing inside the hazel of his eyes.  Anger and relief, remorse and resolve.  Dean really didn’t know what to say to make it better.

Maybe there weren’t any words.

Instead, Dean stepped over Ruby to reach his brother.  He threw his arms around Sam, fitting his chin over Sam’s shoulder.  He fisted his hands on Sam’s back and held him tightly.  He didn’t know how else to say thank you.  He knew Sam would have let Ruby live out the rest of miserable days, if only she’d fled.  If only she hadn’t tried to kill Dean.

Sam embraced him back.  Dean felt him melt into the hug, letting his guard down completely, like he knew he was safe now.

There was a memory from long ago, one Dean had often tried to forget.  It came upon him suddenly: a crying infant, a barn, a fire in the distance, a shotgun in his hands, a fresh body at his feet.

Maybe they were both safe.

“Guess you aren’t such a bad shotgun, after all,” Dean teased, his voice muffled against Sam’s shoulder.  He felt Sam’s laugh more than he heard it.

When the hug broke, Dean clapped Sam on the arm.  He averted his eyes, trying not to speak of the pride welling inside of him for his little brother.  Sam, that crying infant in the barn.

Sam was looking away, too, but his eyes were misty.  He sniffed and nodded rapidly.  “Okay,” he said in a tone that suggested there was still work to be done.  “You go find Cas and Jack.  They’re about two yards into the tree line.”  He pointed in a general direction.  “Chevy’s with them.”  Dean let out a relieved breath.

“I ran into Bones in the woods and tied him up.  Gonna get him and head back to camp,” Sam finished.  “With any luck, this is over.”

Dean nodded.  “With any luck,” he echoed.  He slapped Sam on the shoulder again and headed for the exit of the barn.  Sam followed after him, the two of them jogging toward the trees together.  Just before they reached it, Sam veered left.  Dean continued on straight, where Sam had said Cas would be.

He walked around the trunks for a few minutes, the leaves crunching under his feet.  He could hear Jack wailing in the distance and tried to follow the sound.  With every step, it only seemed further away.

“Cas?” he called out every now and again.  “Castiel?”

Jack’s cries were coming from every direction.  They bounced off the trees, echoed up to the canopy.

“Cas!”

Dean halted.  His heart was hammering against his ribs, and he could feel pressure coming up his throat.  He swallowed hard.  When that didn’t work to quell his panic, he skewed his eyes closed, listening out.  It didn’t really help.  He couldn’t pinpoint the sound.

Suddenly, the woods seemed vast and deep.

And then, “Dean?”

Dean’s eyes snapped open.

The call had come from the near distance—from the north.  It was a little easier to narrow down.

“Cas?”

“Dean!”

He followed the sound of Cas’ voice, weaving through the trees and the thicket.  Jack’s cries were growing louder and louder until Dean was certain he knew where they were coming from.

Through the trunks, he was able to make out Chevy’s outline.  Her black coat blended in slightly to the surroundings, but her salt and pepper tail and mane stood out.  And then there was Cas.  His back was turned, the fabric of his shirt stretched over his broad shoulders.  Dean felt the tension leave his body like water dripping from his skin.

“Cas,” he said.

Cas wheeled around.  Jack was a bundle in his arms, the baby squirming and his cries nearly deafening now that they weren’t muffled by distance.  Somehow, they were the sweetest sound Dean had ever heard.

Or maybe the second sweetest.  Because Cas dropped his shoulders, the stiffness falling from his expression.  He said softly, “Dean.”

Dean’s face split into a smile.  He walked faster to meet him, and Cas took a few stumbling steps forward.  He was still a little unsteady on his feet from the hotel fire, but it wasn’t anything a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix.  And, by God, they would get a good night’s sleep.

“Whoa, easy,” Dean said, grabbing Cas by the shoulders to keep him upright.  He quickly scanned Cas' face for any injury.  His burns were a little redder, and the scab on his temple had opened up again, but other than that he seemed to be in one piece.  “You okay?”

“I’m fine.  What happened?” Cas asked, overlooking Dean’s concern.

“All the outlaws at the farm are dead,” Dean reported.  He knew it shouldn’t have brought him as much satisfaction as it did.  But it was done.  They were safe.  They’d won.  Dean huffed out a laugh.  “I hated that plan.”

“It was your plan,” Cas reminded him, brows knitted together.

“Not all of it.  Not you going to Lucifer alone.”

Cas kept trying to shush Jack.  “It worked, didn’t it?” he said distracted, and Dean guessed he couldn’t argue with that.  Then, Cas glanced up as if he’d just remembered something.  Worriedly, he searched the empty space behind Dean.  “Where’s Sam?”

Dean nodded, quickly saying, “Good.  He went back to find Henriksen.  He’s good.”

“Good,” Cas breathed out.

But there was one of them who didn’t seem very good.  Jack was still crying loudly.  Dean looked down at him.  The baby’s face was bright red and wet.

Cas looked down, too.  As if reading Dean’s mind, he said, “I think he’s scared.  I can’t get him to stop.”

Dean lifted his eyes, meeting Cas’.  He didn’t know why he felt so nervous suddenly.  Maybe he was afraid Cas would say no.  Still, he asked, “Can—can I have ‘im?”

For a second, Cas seemed surprised.  But he rattled it away and they shuffled Jack into Dean’s arms.  And Dean realized he hadn’t been nervous about Cas rejecting him.  He was nervous that Jack wouldn’t settle down for him this time.  That Jack hated him now.

The baby was heavier than he had been a few weeks ago, and that caused a strange and sudden onslaught of emotion.  Dean’s chest cavity felt as if it was caving in with both despair and joy.  A breath punched out of him, landing somewhere between a laugh and a sob.  He was smiling as he cradled Jack close.

“He’s gotten so big,” he marveled.

He probably should have anticipated that.  It had been over two weeks since he’d last seen Jack.  It was expected that he’d grow in that time.  But something inside of Dean had expected him to stay the same—for no time to pass at all.  But it had, and Dean had missed out on it.  A new wave of guilt crashed into him.

Cas rested one hand on Jack’s head.  He placed his other over Dean’s, supporting Jack from the bottom.

Jack’s cries began to lessen, going from wails to grunts.  He wiggled closer to Dean’s chest, moving into the warmth of his body.  Dean had never expected such a thing would make him so damn happy.  The baby still trusted him, even when Dean didn’t deserve it.

As he stared down at Jack, he couldn’t believe there was a time when all he saw in that face was pain and fear.  That all he saw was the son of Lucifer.  But now Lucifer was dead, and Jack never belonged to him.  Not really.  He was Cas’.  He was theirs.

“I think he missed you,” Cas said as Jack’s crying faded.

Dean’s eyes were stinging.  Jack was getting heavier with every passing moment, his wiggles making him a little more difficult to hold—and Dean knew right then and there that the baby would grow up to be strong.  And he knew he would really like to see that.

“Yeah, well,” he said, voice raw, “I guess it wasn’t the same without him around.”  He looked back up at Cas and found a soft, barely-there smile tugging at the corners of Cas’ cracked lips.  His blue eyes were shining with it.

Dean’s throat felt dry.  He said, “They weren’t the same without you, either.”

Cas’ expression shifted into something achingly sweet.  “No?” he whispered.

Dean shook his head.  “No.  You know, Cas, I—”

I think I’ve taken a shine to you.

The words were on the tip of Dean’s tongue.  But they weren’t what he wanted to say.  And they weren’t what would make Cas stay with him.

If Dean had learned anything, it was that he needed to say them.  Cas deserved to hear them.  And he deserved to hear them before it was too late.

“I love you.”

The panic that had been inside of him suddenly broke like clouds on a humid day.  The pressure was gone.  The rain was cool and sweet.  He didn’t know why he’d battened down the hatches in the first place.

Cas let out a breath, his smile coming out in earnest.  “Dean,” he said again in that way of his.  The way that made it sound new—new and all his.

He leaned in over Jack, and Dean met him in a kiss.  It was a chaste thing.  Cas smelled of smoke and ash and sweat.  Dean never wanted the kiss to end.

Between them, Jack cooed as he drifted off to sleep.

Whatever remained of their campsite was packed up, the marshals’ horses were saddled, and the outlaws that were still alive were bound by the wrists, facing down a long walk to the nearest town where they could be officially charged and tried.

Sam sat atop Bones, a blanket knotted around his shoulder with Jack sleeping soundly inside.  He looked on as the marshals rounded up the prisoners in preparation to march.  Many of the deputies were already astride, and one held on to the rope connected the line of prisoners.  Victor was fitting his boot into his horse’s stirrup and swinging his legs over.

There was movement in Sam’s peripheries, and he looked over to find Chevy coming up on his left side.  Dean and Cas were on her back, Dean in front, the reins in his hands.  Sam offered them a nod, checking to make sure they were ready to go.  Dean didn’t answer but instead sat up a little straighter in an attempt to peer in on Jack.

“How’s he doing?”

Sam looked down at the baby cradled into his chest.  “Good,” he said simply.  “Sleeping.”  And he deserved it.  Jack had gone through quite the ordeal.  Sam sincerely hoped the remainder of his life would be much more peaceful.  He hoped Jack would be happy in Waco.  Sam liked to think he would be, but it was strange to think—after all they’d been through—he wouldn’t return to Lawrence with them.

Selfishly, Sam wanted to keep him.  He thought he’d lost enough today already—but this wasn’t about him.

He didn’t know if his thoughts were visible on his face, but he heard Cas ask, “How are you, Sam?”

Sam glanced at him, a little surprised by the question.  Cas was squinting at him, no hat on his head to block the sunlight.  Dean’s eyes flittered around Sam’s face, also waiting for an answer.

Sam shrugged, trying to play it off.  He didn’t have anything to complain about.  He was alive, and so were his brother and his friend.  He shouldn’t dwell on giving Jack up, right when they got him back.  And his thoughts shouldn’t stray back to Ruby, to her body at his feet, the way she’d tensed as he grabbed her right before she died.  It wasn’t a sight he’d soon forget, but he hoped the feelings inside of him would pass sooner than later.

He let out a breath, unable to keep up the act.  “Okay, I guess,” he gusted out, gesturing his hand out in an aborted motion.  He decided: “I’ll survive.”

Cas seemed to consider that.  He thinned his lips and nodded slowly, his gaze falling downward.  Dean kept looking at him as if trying to determine whether or not Sam was telling the truth.

Whatever the verdict was, Sam never heard it.  There was the sound of hooves on grass, and all three of them looked up to find Henriksen approaching.  “Looks like this is where we part ways,” he said.

“Looks like,” Dean answered.

“And you’re sure you don’t wanna head down to Waco with us?” Sam double-checked.  They’d asked Henriksen before, but he’d declined, even though it was clear he wanted to see this through.  Sam resolved to write to him from Waco, to let him know Jack was safe with his grandparents.

“Nah, there’s too much to do,” Victor said.  He nodded behind him at the group of prisoners.  “Gotta bring those assholes in.  And somebody’s gotta get that reward money off your heads.  You ask me, the amount was far more than any of you are worth.”

Sam let out a breath of laughter, his head dipping.  He heard Dean let out a quick burst of laughter, too, before saying, “Yeah, very funny.”

Henriksen kept on: “’Course, I’ll have to look into why the Talbots put that reward up in the first place.  I have my work cut out for me, thanks to you.”  Sam was at least glad to hear that.  If anyone could bring the Talbots down, it’d be Henriksen.

“We appreciate your efforts,” Cas told him earnestly.

“I’ll say,” Dean agreed.

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” Henriksen dismissed.  “Besides, I figure the three of you got that baby this far.  What’s a few extra miles?”

Somehow, the veiled compliment was enough to brighten Sam’s mood.  He glanced back down at Jack.  Maybe the baby would never know what they’d done for him, but Jack was alive and well because of them.  He’d grow into a man one day.  Sam counted himself fortunate to have at least a small part in the child’s life.

“Thanks, Victor,” Dean told him, nodding goodbye.  It was a shame they were on horseback.  Sam would have liked to shake the marshal’s hand.

Henriksen yanked on his mount’s reins, turning it around.  Before he got there fully, he paused, craning his neck to look at each of them in turn.  “I’d like to say I won’t ever see your ugly mugs again, but something tells me I will.”

“Sounds ominous,” Dean said.

Victor shot him a stern look.  He warned, “Depends on what you’re doing when I see you.”

Sam felt the corners on his mouth pull up at the joke.  He watched Victor’s horse turn away, cantering back to the group.  Henriksen rode to the front and whistled, signaling for his men to move out.  The last of the deputies swung into their saddles, and they started off slowly, the prisoners slumping as they walked behind.

It was time the three of them left, too.

Sam peered back over at Dean and Cas.  His arm tightened around Jack’s sling, holding the child close.

“So,” Dean said then, “next stop: Waco.”

Chapter Text

Warm yellow light was streaming in through the cracks between the shutters on the window.  It painted the floor of their hotel room in thin stripes, extending all the way to the bed.  Castiel blinked his eyes open, squinting in the sunlight at first.  He focused on the dust-glittered beams cutting across his outstretched arm on the mattress.

Dean was pressed against his back, breathing softly in his sleep.  His arms, which had held Castiel so tightly the night before, like a promise, had lessened their hold sometime in the night.  His chest rose and fell against Castiel’s spine.

They were both crowded on Dean’s side of the bed, sharing a pillow.  A wide breadth of empty space and cold sheets rested on the side of the bed closest to the window.  Castiel hadn’t remembered falling asleep like that.

He didn’t remember much about the previous night, if he was being honest.  After they left Henriksen, they went back to town to get Lincoln and purchased milk for Jack and medical supplies for their wounds at the General Store.  Afterward, they rode back across the river into Texas along the Chisholm, and he recalled passing through the remains of the Red River Station ghost town.  Castiel was bone-weary by the time they reached the birthing town of Belcherville, Texas.

He remembered Sam offering to take Jack for the night, stating that Castiel was in no condition and needed rest.  Castiel hadn’t argued.  He crawled into bed, and the last thing he remembered was Dean blowing out the candle and wrapping his arms around him.  He’d counted only one of Dean’s breaths before his thoughts dropped off.

Castiel had no idea how long he’d been asleep.  He felt as if it had been three days.  He couldn’t remember a time he’d slept so deeply or fallen asleep so quickly.  It was difficult to determine with the windows shuttered, but the sun looked high in the sky.  Outside, he heard the faint sounds of horses and people milling around the streets.  He thought he may have even heard a cowbell, signifying herders were blowing through town.

He wanted to go back to sleep.  His body felt heavy around him, content.  The weight of Dean’s arms was sturdy and sure.  Castiel was more comfortable than he’d been in recent memory, especially upon remembering that there weren’t any outlaws or lawmen on his heels.  They were safe.  Jack was safe.

Slowly, Castiel looked over his shoulder.  Dean’s eyelashes were crescents on his cheeks.  A strip of light illuminated the freckles on his nose, and his lips were slack as he breathed steadily.  Castiel felt something pluck at his heart at the sight of him—beautiful and rugged at once.  He thought, instead of dreaming, he’d rather watch Dean.

Carefully, he turned over in Dean’s arms.  Dean stirred slightly but not enough to wake up.  Castiel placed his head back on the pillow and left him to doze.  His gaze trailed along Dean’s face, taking in all the lines and curves.  His eyelids began to feel heavy after some time.

Trying to keep himself awake, he reached up and placed his palm gently on Dean’s cheek, his fingers curling at Dean’s ear.  The short hairs of Dean’s beard prickled his skin.  He swiped his thumb back and forth along his cheekbone.

Dean’s brows pinched slightly and his eyes squeezed.  His mouth twitched and closed, and Castiel brought his hand down to drag the pad of his thumb on Dean’s lip.

Dean hummed, waking up, and Castiel felt the vibration it caused.

His eyes blinked open, dazed.  Castiel took in the way the morning light played upon them.  Somehow, the green of his irises was both paled and made more vibrant.  Flecks of yellow were in them that day.

A slow smile tugged at one corner of Dean’s mouth.  “Mornin’, sweetheart,” he slurred, letting his eyes fall closed again.

“Good morning,” Castiel told him.

Dean yawned widely.  Into it, he asked, “What time is it?”

Without looking back at the window, Castiel said, “I’m not sure.  Late, I think.”

Dean hummed again but didn’t seem very concerned.  “And just how long have you been watching me sleep, you rascal?”

“Hours,” Castiel deadpanned.  “You drool.  It’s extremely unattractive.”

Dean snorted.

Reluctantly, Castiel withdrew his hand to scratch his jaw.  The burns there were healing, but they were beginning to itch.

“You alright?” Dean asked, fractionally more alert.  “You need any more of that petroleum jelly?”

Castiel forced himself to stop scratching and returned his palm to Dean’s cheek.  “No.  I’m fine,” he said.  He wondered if shaving might help, but part of him didn’t want to see just how bad the damage was underneath.  His skin didn’t feel overly burned, but all he could picture was a man he’d seen a few weeks after the fire in Chicago.  His face had been mutilated.  He supposed he should prepare for the worst until he could properly see himself in a mirror.

“They’re healing,” he told Dean with a sigh.  “But . . . I assume there will be scarring.”

Dean’s eyes flashed with worry, making Castiel’s stomach clench.  “How bad we talking?  A piece of old leather left in the sun?” he joked.

“Minimal,” Castiel corrected, “I hope.”

Dean hummed.  He inspected Castiel’s chin before declaring, “Doesn’t look too bad to me.  But maybe I’m biased.  You’re still the most handsome bastard I ever saw.”

That made Castiel feel better, but he considered perhaps that had been Dean’s goal.  Still, he looked away, trying to bite back a smile.  “You talk too much.”

Dean chuckled.  “All I’m saying is, I promise to still love you even if you look like an overcooked steak.”

Castiel laughed.  Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he thought, if Dean was joking.  He was probably overreacting.  But it was a nice reminder—that Dean loved him.  He never thought he’d hear those words.  He’s been prepared to go his whole life having never heard them, and now he wondered how he ever went without them.

Maybe he’d been a fool for not telling Dean sooner.  Much could have been prevented.

As Castiel met Dean’s gaze, the humor gradually faded from both of them.  Castiel thought back to Banes Ranch and to the weeks after, when he was certain he’d never see Dean again.  Certain that all he’d have to remember him by was a sketch on a poster.  He hadn’t allowed himself to feel the full brunt of that, but now that Dean was back with him, living such a life was unimaginable.

He brushed his thumb on Dean’s cheek again, hearing Dean’s breath snag under the touch.  He whispered, “What was I thinking?”

Dean appeared as if he didn’t understand.  Like he didn’t know that he was something precious.

“I should have never left you,” Castiel told him.  “Dean, I’m sorry.”

Under the heel of his palm, Dean’s jaw went tight.  He breathed in and said, “Cas, you weren’t the only one who didn’t like how that fight ended.”

“No, but you came after me.”

“Not soon enough,” Dean answered quickly.  “I shouldn’t have even had to.  I shoulda stopped you before you walked out the door.”

Castiel’s eyes dropped to Dean’s chin, but he really wasn’t seeing him.  He was staring back at all his regrets.  He didn’t want Dean to feel the same way.  “We were both,” he said, fishing for a word Dean might respond to, “jackasses.”

Dean laughed lightly.  And then, “Yeah.  Yeah, guess we were.”

A moment of silence fell between them.  Castiel wondered what Dean was thinking, and where they went from there.  He got his answer when Dean said, “But I learned my lesson.  I ain’t letting you go again.  And you know . . . I been thinking.  When we get down to Waco . . . maybe it would be a good idea to stay for a while.  You know, while the baby gets settled.”

Castiel’s eyes snapped back up, alert and hopeful.  It looked like Dean wasn’t finished speaking.

He said, “Or, you know . . . If you wanna stay longer . . . Well, we could buy some land.  We could put Sam on a train back home to stay with Mom.  And I could go back to Lawrence after the winter’s over.  I’ll ask Bobby for routes to Texas from now on so I could go back and forth.  If you—well, if you want that . . .”

Castiel’s heart had sped up.  He felt it thumping hard against his breastbone, in his throat, and in the soles of his feet.  He felt it in all the aches and pains his body had endured that no longer seemed so bad.

“We could work it out,” Dean went on, voice quivering with something Castiel could only determine as nervousness.  “You think you might . . . want that?”

He wanted nothing more.  It wasn’t a perfect plan, but like Dean said, they could work out the details.  “Dean,” he said breathlessly.  “Of course.”

Dean relaxed, as if he truly believed Castiel would reject him.  Still, his body was held taut.

“Do you?” Castiel worried.  The last thing he wanted was Dean to be unhappy, to let that fester and grow into resentment as the years wore on.  He feared Dean was only telling him what Castiel wanted to hear, and that he wasn’t okay with his own proposal.

But Dean nodded swiftly beneath Castiel’s palm.  “What?  Yeah.  Yeah, I just . . . want you to be happy.”  He offered a small, anxious smile.  Castiel didn’t know whether or not to believe him, but he certainly didn’t want Dean to sacrifice his own happiness for him.

“Dean, if that means you wouldn’t be—”

Dean flattened his palm on Castiel’s back, his embrace tightening.  It shut Castiel up.  “No, Cas, that’s not it.  I’m happy if we’re together, that’s all.”  Castiel’s pulse jumped and then settled.  Something in his chest felt too big.

He understood.  Dean just wanted to keep his family together.  But they wouldn’t be together this way—not all of them.

Castiel thought of the logistics of it.  Sam and Mary in Lawrence, Castiel in Waco, Dean going back and forth, the two of them still having to say goodbye every time they parted.  He didn’t want another empty bed.

In truth, Castiel didn’t know if the feeling blossoming inside of him was true—this feeling that he belonged with the Winchesters.  And with Dean.  But he knew it was where he wanted to be, and that Dean wanted him there, too.  Maybe that was the part that mattered.

“What if,” he said slowly, “when you go between Lawrence and Waco . . . I ride with you?”

Dean seemed surprised at that.  “I thought you didn’t like life on the trail, Cas.”

“I don’t,” Castiel ensured, “but I like being without you less.”

Dean stayed quiet for a second, his eyes alight.  “Then, I think we could work something out.”

Relief flooding him, a wide smile lit up Castiel’s face.  Dean breathed out shakily, and then he smiled back.  His eyes crinkled around their corners.  His face shone.

“Dean,” Castiel heard himself say.  He pressed his fingertips gently into Dean’s cheek and leaned forward, crashing their mouths together.  Dean’s laugh bubbled between them, and then he was kissing back.  He wrapped his arms around Dean.

“C’mere,” Dean said against Castiel’s mouth.  He crowded into him, causing Castiel to roll onto his back for Dean to lay on top of him.

Castiel framed Dean’s hips with his knees, aligning their bodies.  He carded his fingers through Dean’s hair, still gritty with trail dust.  He sank into the kiss, focusing on the press of Dean’s body, the way he moved his hands up and down Castiel’s sides.  Dean sighed contentedly into him, and Castiel parted his lips to let their tongues roll together.

Dean’s hips pressed down on him slightly, sending a pulse through Castiel’s groin.  He hummed against Dean’s mouth and lifted his body to meet him.  Dean kissed away from his mouth, carefully peppering Castiel’s cheeks and chin before moving down the column of his neck.  Castiel swallowed down the dryness in his throat and tilted his head back to give Dean more room.  He closed his eyes.

As Dean sucked on his throat, he began unbuttoning Castiel’s shirt.  Once he had the top few undone, he pushed the fabric to the side and dragged his lips along Castiel’s collarbone.  He licked a trail up Castiel’s chest with the flat of his tongue.  Castiel whispered Dean’s name, getting lost in the feeling.  His skin prickled and buzzed; his heart came alive in his chest.

Dean picked himself up, sitting back on Castiel’s thighs to unbutton his own shirt.  Castiel sat up and swiftly undid the last of his buttons, then shrugged out of the garment.  His eyes latched back on Dean when his shirt was discarded too, and he took in Dean’s chest, the cross pendant resting against it.  His vision snagged on the scar on Dean’s shoulder.  The gunshot wound had left behind twisted, discolored skin.

Before Castiel knew what he was doing, he touched his fingertips gingerly over the raised skin.  He heard Dean’s throat click, felt his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.  Dean’s hands framed Castiel’s jaw, lifting his face for their eyes to meet.  Castiel pressed his lips together, offering a small smile.  The corners of Dean’s mouth twitched upward.

Castiel put his other hand on Dean’s ribs and leaned down to kiss his stomach.  He listened to the panting, choked sounds Dean gave off as he lined his skin with his lips and tongue.  He felt Dean’s hand smooth down his torso, fingers going first when he cupped Castiel’s dick through his trousers.  Castiel’s spine wracked with a shiver.  He groaned, burying his nose into Dean’s chest.

Dean stroked his thumb slowly, teasing him until Castiel could feel his pulse thrumming in his legs, the same heartbeat pounding a rapid tattoo inside his chest.  Castiel gripped Dean’s thigh, pressing down his fingertips against the maddening sensation swelling inside of him, and he couldn’t take it anymore.

He rounded his hand on Dean’s shoulder and gently pushed him backward.  Dean went without argument, laying back against the foot of the bed, his hair brushing on the end board.  Castiel slid his legs out from beneath the covers and laid on top of him.

He pressed their lips together, dipping his tongue into Dean’s mouth.  Dean opened up to him, parting his lips and spreading his knees to slide their hips together.

They rolled into each other languidly, letting their bodies awaken to each other.  The room was growing hot, and Castiel felt sweat prickling on his lower back, in the crook of his elbow, on his collar.  Dean’s stomach was sticky, like honey, where they came together, and his mouth tasted just as sweet.  His arms were wrapped around Castiel’s body, his fingers digging into Castiel’s ribs, touch indelible.

He thought he could fall to pieces right there—and Dean would hold him together.

When they broke away from the kiss, Dean’s lips were swollen pink.  He blinked up at Castiel’s, eyes owlish and searching.  Castiel tried to catch his breath in the humid air between them.  His throat was dry, and every breath cracked it further.  The air came out choppily as their bodies moved, sending tremors through him.  He dug his knees into the mattress to press down more into Dean.

Dean moaned, his eyes fluttering.  “Cas,” he breathed, tongue darting out to wet his lips.  “Cas, I think I got an idea for that ointment.”

Castiel heard himself laugh.  “What?”  He slowed his body despite the way his dick protested and twitched.  Dean let out a little whine, unhappy about it as well.  Castiel dropped his head into Dean’s shoulder, nuzzling his nose into Dean’s throat.  He breathed in the scent of him and felt whole.  Dean cupped the scruff of his neck, patting him there twice.

When he caught his breath enough, Castiel said, voice muffled, “Are you asking me to fuck you?”

Dean swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against Castiel’s nose.  His beard scratched Castiel’s forehead.  “If you think you can spare some of the jelly,” he answered, voice light.

Castiel considered.  He pressed a chaste kiss to the crease in Dean's throat before drawing his face away.  Dean looked down at him, eyes dark and half-lidded.  “We can always pick up more later,” Castiel conspired.

Dean’s cheeks cracked into a lazy grin.  “You’re the doctor.”

Castiel forced himself off of Dean and swung his legs over the side of the bed.  He was still sore from the last few days, and his ankles ached tenderly just from standing up—but it was a good pain, almost close to pleasure as he walked toward Dean’s saddlebag on the chair.  He dug through it in search of the supplies they bought yesterday.

Behind him, there was the shushing of blankets as Dean got out of bed and took off his jeans.  Castiel dug a little deeper, a thrill going through him at the prospect of Dean being naked.  He couldn’t help himself from peeking over his shoulder as he continued his blind search.  The summer tan on Dean’s face hadn’t yet reached his legs, leaving fair skin covered by stark freckles.  Dean was bent over as he pulled his pants over his feet, but he must have sensed he was being watched.  He lifted his eyes, looking at Castiel through his lashes.  Another teasing grin spread on his face.

Castiel realized he’d stopped digging.  He could feel his pulse throughout his body.

Dean stood up, and Castiel let his eyes trail up and down his body; from Dean’s broad shoulders, the lines of his hips, the bow of his legs, his pink nipples, and his erection curling up to his stomach.  And a possessive feeling swept over him as he considered the fact that Dean was his.  No one else would ever get to see him like this again—and that was certainly a pity for the rest of the world.

“I gotta do all the work?” Dean chided.  He sauntered over, shoulders pulled back smugly.

Castiel straightened out, abandoning his search.  He turned into him, putting his hands on Dean’s hips, and despite his haughty demeanor, Dean shivered.  Castiel tilted his face toward him, putting his lips to Dean’s ear.  “Yes,” he said, keeping his voice low and dark.  “And you might want to go slow.”  He leaned back, gaze catching on Dean’s lips before flickering up to his eyes.  Dean seemed intrigued, but Castiel didn’t wait for him to ask why.

He knelt down in front of him, his grip tightening on Dean’s sides.  From above, Dean took in a sharp breath.  Castiel laid kisses to his hip bones and thighs.  He tongued at the constellation of freckles on Dean’s lower stomach.  He brushed his cheeks against the side of Dean’s dick.

Dean was alternating between giving off low grunts and choppy exhales.  His fingers carded through Castiel’s scalp, and as nice as it felt, it wasn’t where they were supposed to be.

“Start looking, Dean,” Castiel said, voice muffled against Dean’s skin.

“Wh—what?”

“The ointment,” Castiel reminded him.  He wrapped his lips around the tip of Dean’s cock.  Dean whined and pitched his hips slowly forward.  Castiel drew away quickly to stare up at him.  “Dean.”

“All right,” Dean conceded.  He picked up the saddlebag and started rifling through it.

Castiel brought his attention forward again.  He pushed down further onto Dean’s dick, toying at it with his tongue.  Dean’s breathing picked up again as he braced his knees.  He heard Dean mutter something to the effect of, “Unfair bastard—won’t even let me watch,” and shut him up by hollowing his cheeks.  He kept it up until Dean declared, “Found it!”  He tossed the saddlebag back onto the chair, holding up the tin of petroleum jelly.

Castiel pulled off of him and sat back on his ankles.  He blinked away the dizziness.  He felt as if he were both floating and stuck to the earth—or perhaps he was caught somewhere in the middle.  He was hyper-aware of his own body, but his mind was focused far too much on Dean’s.

He climbed to his feet, Dean reaching down to help him up.  And then Dean hooked a finger into the front of Castiel’s pants and pulled him in.  Castiel fell into him, sharing a filthy kiss while Dean undid his pants and pushed them down.  Castiel kicked out of them the rest of the way, and then he was stumbling back toward the bed, Dean’s arms around him, his arms around Dean, their chests shoved against each other, their knees knocking with every step.

Dean slowly guided him down to the pillows, one hand cupping the back of Castiel’s head.  Later, when he remembered it, Castiel would realize that was the first moment since they left Lawrence that he truly felt safe.

Dean crawled on top of him, aligning their bodies again.  Their ankles tangled together.  Castiel felt him press the tin into the palm of his hand.  Dean grabbed his opposite wrist and brought it to his mouth.  He kissed Castiel’s pulse point and the heel of his palm.  Castiel’s eyes widened, starstruck and chest aching, as he watched Dean suck on his fingers.

They came back shiny and slick, and Castiel reached both arms around Dean to uncap the ointment.  He scooped some out without looking, his gaze latched on Dean’s.  The green of his eyes were thin rings around his pupils.  His lips were plush and wet.  His face was flushed red.

Castiel reached lower and groped Dean’s ass, and Dean spread his legs.  He swiped his thumb against Dean’s rim, watching him shudder.  Dean moaned when Castiel slipped a finger inside.  He worked Dean open, taking his time, trying to ease Dean’s body back into the feel of his touch.  Dean stayed tense.

“Dean,” he breathed.

Dean rested his nose against the hollow of Castiel’s cheek.  His breath was hot when he whispered, “Cas.”

“I’m here, my love.”

Dean let out a stilted breath, his muscles relaxing.  Castiel pushed in deeper and added another finger.  Dean began rocking into him.  Castiel followed the motion, craving the friction.  Dean moved between his groin and his fingers.

When he removed his hands, he rolled them onto their sides.  Dean reached over him and grabbed the ointment, slicking up his hand to spread it on Castiel’s dick.  Castiel got lost in the feeling of Dean’s warm, calloused hand around him.  He skewed his eyes closed and bit down on his lower lip, trying to stave off his orgasm.  He didn’t know how long he’d last.

Dean must have sensed that.  He finished quickly and rolled over, putting his spine against Castiel’s chest.  He pressed his ass into Castiel’s groin, and it took all his willpower to not rut against Dean.  Castiel slid his knee between Dean’s and gripped Dean’s hip to steady him.  He put his lips to the ridge of Dean’s shoulder as he lined them up.

Dean keened out a low, prolonged sound as Castiel moved into him.  Castiel tensed himself, his breaths choppy, as he tried not to suppress the urge to pull out and snap back in.  He rounded his hand to rest on Dean’s torso.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean swore.

Castiel felt half-mad.  Every nerve in his body was alight, narrowing onto the feeling of Dean around him.  He thought he was saying something, but he wasn’t certain what.  But he heard Dean give a deep, breathy chuckle.

“All right, Cas,” he said, driving his body back.  “Come on—come—yeah.”

Their bodies crashed into each other, working into a rhythm.  Each time they came together, a moan burst out of Dean’s throat.  Castiel thumbed at Dean’s nipple and varied the speed of his thrusts.

“Love you,” Dean told him at one point, and it sounded like music.

“I love you,” Castiel said back, voice thick.

Dean craned his neck around, his nose bumping against Castiel’s.  He breathed out, his breath skirting across Castiel’s chin.  Castiel breathed in.  He locked their lips together, kissing down the deep sounds coming up from Dean’s throat.  Over his stomach, Dean’s hand blanketed Castiel’s, and he threaded their fingers together.

Their bodies continued to sway, and Castiel had to break away from Dean’s mouth to pull in bouts of air.  His lungs seemed as if they were filled with smoke.  His body was a struck match catching fire.  Dean’s grip tightened around his hand.  Castiel burned and burned.

Soon, Dean let go of his hand to stroke himself.  Bursts of broken grunts and short hums were coming out of him.  Castiel could feel Dean’s body tightening.  His own muscles were constricting, and his fingertips latched onto Dean’s chest, trying to hang on.  He dug his forehead into the back of Dean’s shoulder and gritted his teeth.

Heat was rolling through him.  The pitching of his hips quickened as he tried to chase it.  Distantly, he heard Dean eke his name, followed by a loud sound punching out of him.  Castiel wished he could see the look on Dean’s face as he came, but he could imagine it clearly enough.  His vision blanked until it was all he could see.

It sent him teetering.  He fell off the edge, and he continued falling, the world a dizzying blur of light and color around him.  All that mattered was that he was falling toward Dean.

Steadily, he became aware of the sweat lining his skin, of Dean’s back pressed against his chest, of the heady scent of him.  They slowed their movements, and all Castiel could hear was the sound of Dean’s breathing mixed with the rustle of the blankets beneath them.

Dean stopped moving first, and Castiel followed his lead.  They lay there for a few long moments, catching their breath.  The sunlight had moved a little westward, the shadows coming in from the shutters painting different parts of the floor than Castiel recalled.  The sound of a buckboard’s old wooden wheels thundered on the street below.

Castiel released a heavy breath.  He moved his hand up Dean’s chest to hook around his shoulder.  Dean hummed again, relaxing.  Castiel pressed a kiss to the back of Dean’s neck.

After a long second, Dean said, “I didn’t bring in any water in the pitcher last night.”  He let that hang in the air for a moment, but Castiel couldn’t exactly be bothered to care, even though one of them would have to find the hotel’s bathroom.

“That’s unfortunate,” he said.

Dean rumbled with a laugh.

Castiel drew away from him, hearing Dean groan softly in the process.  He rolled onto his back and sighed up at the ceiling, expelling whatever tension was left inside of him.  He felt lighter than he had in a long time.  But maybe that was just Dean’s effect.  The happiness rolled off Dean’s body in waves as he turned over and rested his head on Castiel’s shoulder.  His stomach was tacky with drying come against Castiel’s ribs.

“I think I could fall asleep again,” Castiel said.  He was still sticky, and the air inside the room was thick and stifling, but he didn’t mind it too much.  It enveloped them like a warm blanket.

“I could go for some food,” Dean said.

Food.  Castiel hadn’t even considered that possibility, but he supposed he could eat, too.  Of course, that meant venturing out into the world, which didn’t sit too well with him at the moment.  But it had to happen eventually.  Their journey wasn’t through yet, he told himself.  Even if it felt like it was.

The reminder caused a vast melancholy to ebb around the edges of his consciousness.  It felt like they should be going home now.  It felt like they should have their prize.  Wasn’t that how all of the heroes’ stories ended in Dean’s dime novels?

“Maybe we should eat,” Castiel said, trying to focus on what was left to do rather than the emotion behind it.  “And we should find Sam and Jack.  We’ll need to get on the trail again.”

Dean let out a noise that was somewhere between a hum of agreement and a dissatisfied grunt.  He hugged Castiel a little tighter.

“Yeah,” he said.  And then, “It’s kinda funny . . .”

Castiel pulled his brows together.  “What is?”

“I can’t picture what Jack’s grandparents look like.  Can you?”

It seemed like an odd question.  Castiel squinted up at the ceiling, trying to suss out Dean’s meaning.  He couldn’t.  “How could I?  I’ve never met them.”

“No, I know that,” Dean half-laughed.  “I just mean . . . When I think about getting to Waco and finding the Klines . . . All I see is Lawrence.”

Something wound its way around Castiel’s heart, knotting so tightly he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to pick it apart.

His imagination ran with the notion, no matter how he tried to stop it.  It conjured up images of a crib in the stable house, of a little boy kicking his small legs under the dinner table, of Jack sitting atop Dean’s lap on a stagecoach with reins in his tiny hands.  He imagined not having to leave Jack behind every time they rode back to Kansas.

“Forget it.  It’s stupid,” Dean said, brushing it off.

Castiel swallowed down the pressure in his throat.  When he spoke, his voice was a bit rougher than he wanted it to be.  “Well . . . we’ll be able to picture it all better once we meet the Klines.”

Maybe that was all he needed: to see them, to see the house and the town where Jack would grow up.  He told himself that was the case.  He knew it didn’t ring true.

Dean was silent for a moment.  “Yeah.”

“Dean,” Castiel blurted out, not knowing how to keep it in any longer.  “You do think they’ll let us be a part of Jack’s life, don’t you?”

There was another pause, and Castiel imagined Dean might say no.  Dean shifted, lifting his head to look up at him.  He frowned, seeming to consider the question.  “If they don’t, they must not know how much of a determined son of a bitch you are.  I’d like to see them try to stop you.”

Castiel slid his eyes to the side to stare at Dean.

“I’m serious,” Dean told him.  “Stop worrying so much, Cas.  We’re not losing anybody anymore.”

Maybe he was right.  Castiel tried to smile.  He told himself he didn’t know what the future looked like, but Dean and Sam would be there, and so would Jack.  It was enough.  “Okay,” he said.

“Okay,” Dean repeated.  He pressed a soft kiss to his lips, and Castiel accepted it easily.

Two days later, close to sundown, they arrived in Waco.  Sam had anticipated the town as being more rural than it was.  In fact, it was downright cosmopolitan.  Maybe Sam should have expected that.  The Texas cattle trade had been putting an influx of money into the town for decades, something that only grew when the railroad arrived.

As they rode through town, he gawked at the multi-floor buildings made of brick.  There was a grocery store, women in bonnets and men in suits on busy sidewalks, and even a jewelry store.  He always enjoyed going to urban towns that he’d never been to before, with all their culture and ideas and plans for the future.

Waco would be a good place, Sam considered, for a child to grow up.

However, his excitement did dwindle somewhat when they arrived at the hotel and were informed that there weren’t any rooms available.  Luckily, they were directed to a boarding house in town.  The proprietor was an older woman who greeted them with an exuberant smile, as if they were old friends.  Miss Baker fawned over Jack before showing them to their rooms and telling them to wash up for dinner in an hour.

Sam went back downstairs a little earlier, partly to see if he could make himself useful, and partly because his stomach was growling.  And partly because he didn’t want to be left alone with his thoughts, without even Jack to distract him, for another moment.

The long dinner table was already set with utensils and glass plates, and he couldn’t help but notice there were five places set.  He hadn’t seen any other guests in the house, but he supposed he’d find out for sure soon enough.  Mouth already watering, he let the sweet fragrance of cooking meat lead him into the quaint kitchen next to the dining room.

Even before he cleared the threshold, he heard someone clattering around inside the kitchen.  “Miss Baker?” he called, stepping through.  “I was wondering if there’s anything—Oh.”  He stopped short, letting his arms swing uselessly at his sides.

A woman was scooping the fried potatoes into a serving crock.  Her back was to Sam, brunette hair pulled into a bun at the top of her head.  She hadn’t reacted to him by turning around.  He supposed this was the fifth person joining them for dinner.

“Uh, sorry.  I was expecting—,” he began and quickly stopped himself when he realized the woman still wasn’t regarding him.  He glanced around the kitchen, only briefly spotting the sliced roast on the counter.  No one else was there.  Maybe he should find Miss Baker.

“Miss?” he asked.  Still nothing.  He pulled his brows together in question.  Slowly, not wanting to spook the woman, he inched closer and raised his hand.  “Excuse me, miss?”  He tapped the woman on the shoulder, hoping to gain her attention.

Immediately, she whirled around, the wooden spoon she’d been using to scrape the potatoes held menacingly in one tight fist like a weapon.  The skillet was still in the other.  Sam sprang back at the suddenness of it all, quickly holding both palms up in surrender.

“Whoa—sorry!” he called, a nervous chuckle coming after.

For a split second longer, the woman seemed as if she might pounce.  But then she settled, her expression softening as she lowered the spoon.  She even looked a little apologetic.  “Sorry,” she said, and Sam realized she was deaf.  He felt a little silly for not having figured that out sooner.  “I didn’t expect anyone to come in.”

He flushed, not really knowing what to do under the circumstances.  “No, it’s—uh, my mistake,” he tried, helplessly gesturing out with his hands.

The woman blinked at him.  Now that she wasn’t threatening to hit him with a spoon, Sam realized she was very attractive.  He mentally kicked himself for the thought, remembering the last time he’d met a pretty girl.  Though he was fairly certain this woman wasn’t secretly an outlaw using him to get to the baby, he couldn’t exactly be sure.  He thought it might be a long time before he trusted himself around women again.

He sincerely hoped that line of thinking wasn’t permanent.

The woman raised her brows expectantly.  “Did you . . . want something?” she asked bluntly.

Sam must have been staring.  “What?  No!  I was just looking for . . .” He didn’t know why he was still talking.  She couldn’t hear him, after all.

“Oh, well, I see you two have already met,” a voice said behind him.  The woman’s eyes flickered to the doorway, and Sam swiveled around to find Miss Baker there.  He tried not to breathe a sigh of relief, but he was still feeling a little flustered.

“Yeah,” he said, looking back to the woman.  He tried for a smile while he ran his hand through his hair, wondering if it looked a mess.  He probably needed a haircut.  However, the woman smiled back.  It was a small, close-mouthed thing, and maybe even a little shy.  But it was a smile.  “Kinda.”

Miss Baker walked further into the kitchen, placing herself between the two of them.  “Darling, this is Sam Winchester.  He’s one of the men staying with us for a couple of nights,” she said to the woman after placing her hand on her shoulder.  The woman looked right at her as she spoke.  Then, Miss Baker turned to him.  “This is Eileen.  She can’t hear, poor thing.”

His smile tightened, wondering whether or not showing empathy would offend.  “I got that.”

Miss Baker chuckled musically.  “Yeah, but she reads lips rather well, so don’t be afraid to talk normally.  Lord knows I do.  She’s been listening to this old crone blather on for—Eileen, how long have you been here now?”

“Almost three years,” Eileen supplied.

“Three years!  That’s right!” Miss Baker exclaimed.  “She came to me right off the boat from Ireland, just about—and I don’t know what I’d do without her.  Now, come, come, both of you.  We should get the food out to the table.”  She breezed toward the platter of roast, picked it up, and cast Sam another perky smile before squeezing by them into the dining room.

Sam was left feeling even more nervous than before, especially when he met Eileen’s eyes again.  She said, “It’s nice to meet you, Sam.”

He nodded.  “You, too.”

“You can take the potatoes,” she said quickly after and walked right past him.

Sam turned around to watch her go.  He blinked at the threshold, rattled his head in hopes of calming himself down from the entire incident, and then picked up the steaming crock of potatoes from the counter.

Dean and Cas were already in the dining room, seated on one side of the table.  Both of them had washed up and shaved and, if they were anything like Sam, they felt a hundred times more comfortable for it.

Miss Baker had dug out an old Moses basket and fresh linens for Jack that she claimed a previous guest had left behind.  It was placed on the chair next to Cas, Jack peering out from within.

“Oh, good, you put Sammy to work,” Dean teased as Sam placed the crock on the tablecloth.  Sam shot him an annoyed glare.  It only spurred Dean on.  “If you need an extra set of hands full time, I can just leave him here, Miss Baker.  It’s no trouble.”

“Very funny,” Sam muttered for appearances’ sake, but in all honesty, it was good to see Dean joking around again.

Seating herself at the head of the table, Miss Baker laughed pleasantly again.  “Oh, don’t tempt me!  We could do with something nice to look at around here.”  Sam’s eyes went wide with surprise at that, and he tried not to blush.  Miss Baker didn’t even seem to notice.  “And I told you: it’s Mildred.”

Recovering, Sam pulled out the chair across from Cas.  Eileen was already seated at the place next to him.  She glanced up at him, catching his eyes as he sat down.  He ducked his head politely and reminded himself about Ruby.

It wouldn’t matter, anyway.  Sam wasn’t staying in Waco long.  They’d leave in a few days.  Even if he did visit Jack again in the future, Waco was a metropolitan town full of many people.  He’d probably never see Eileen again.  And that was for the best.

Knocking him out of his thoughts, Miss Baker cleared her throat and held her palms out to either side of her.  Across the table, Dean took her hand in his own.  His other went into Cas’.

Next to him, Eileen took Mildred’s free hand, then held her opposite one out for Sam.  Sam looked down at it for a long pause, and told himself to stop being silly.  Whatever discomfort he was experiencing wasn’t Eileen’s fault.  It was his own.  He’d have to live with that, because Ruby and Lucifer might have been dead, but he wasn’t.

He took her hand, and could hardly hear Miss Baker’s prayer over the sound of his heart thudding in his eardrums.

When the prayer ended, Sam drew his hand away quickly, hoping his palm hadn’t been too sweaty.  He placed them both beneath the table and pressed them together, still able to feel the pressure of Eileen’s small hand against his.  He could also feel the unsure glances Eileen was casting his way.

Miss Baker stood up again to begin dishing out the slices of roast.  “Eat up, gentlemen.  Eileen, be a dear and pass the potatoes around.”

Across from Sam, Cas was unfolding his cloth napkin and placing it on his lap.  Dean looked at him sideways, a lopsided smirk on his face as his eyes flickered down to the napkin and then back up to Cas’ eyes in a playful manner.  Cas tried to scowl back at him, but the adoration was clear in his eyes.

It caused a bit of warmth to spread through Sam’s chest.  He felt a soft smile on his own face, but it turned sad as his eyes fell on the table.  He wondered if he’d ever have something like Dean and Cas did.

He really thought he’d been so close to it.

He realized the crock of potatoes was being offered to him.  He looked back at Eileen, who was scrunching her nose at him in what appeared to be curiosity mixed with concern.  He tried not to color as he gingerly took the dish from her and thanked her.  The smell of them reminded him that he was hungry.

As he was scooping them into his plate, Jack made a little whining noise across the table.  All three of their heads snapped over to him immediately.  Cas leaned in and readjusted the blankets.  Jack kept quiet, so Sam assumed he was fine.  But even after Cas had brought his eyes back to his plate, Dean remained looking in on the child like he wanted to ensure absolutely everything was alright before he could relax.

“Oh,” Miss Baker cooed as she sat back down.  Her spine was tall as she strained to look at Jack.  “How is he?”

Cas gave her a polite smile.  “Fine, thank you.”

“Probably just wanting to take a nap after that fresh milk you gave him,” Dean said while cutting into his meat.  “Thanks again, by the way.”

“Please, it was nothing,” she dismissed.  “I’m sure you three have your hands full, anyway.”  It sounded like she wanted to say more, like she wanted to pry.  Maybe she couldn’t help herself, because she paused before continuing, “You know, I was a bit surprised when the four of you showed up at my door.  It’s not every day you see men traveling with a baby.  Usually, it’s women bringing babies through this house—Oh, I don’t mean to offend.  It’s not that I mind hosting men, especially as fine as you three.  But we are used to women under this roof, aren’t we, Eileen?”

She tapped Eileen’s wrist at that, and it wasn’t until Eileen turned her way did Sam notice she’d been looking at him.

“Anyway,” Miss Baker went on.  “I suppose what I’m asking is . . . what brings you here?”

Sam wondered if they should lie, but that was stupid.  Lucifer was dead now.  His gang was either dead, disbanded, or arrested.  They didn’t need to lie.

It was Cas who spoke first: “The hotel was full.”

Miss Baker stared back at him, her mouth opening again like she didn’t know how to respond.  Sam suppressed a snort of laughter.  Next to him, Eileen did laugh.  It took him aback for a moment, his eyes flashing to her.  She looked back, humor in her gaze.  Sam didn’t know why, but it calmed him down.

“I think she means Waco,” Dean said around a mouthful of food.  He swallowed the lump before continuing, “We traveled down from Kansas to find the kid’s grandparents.”

“His mother was from Waco,” Cas elaborated.  “Before she passed, she asked us to bring him here so they could raise him.”

Miss Baker regarded them sweetly.  “That’s very kind of you.”

Dean hesitated for a moment, just the smallest hint of remorse in his voice when he said, “Thank you, ma’am.”

Sam thought they should ask Miss Baker about the Klines.  It wasn’t very likely she knew them, but it wasn’t impossible.  They’d planned to start their search for Kelly’s parents in the morning, but there was no reason they couldn’t jump right into it.  If nothing else, it would give him something productive to think about.

“Actually, maybe you can help us,” he said.  “You don’t happen to know the Kline family, do you?”

Miss Baker paused thoughtfully, seeming to dig deep.  Her lips tightened, but she eventually shook her head.  “The Klines.  Well, let’s see . . . I don’t think so.”

“Wait, did you say the Klines?” Eileen spoke up.  It surprised Sam.  It surprised him more when he looked at her and found she was already looking back.

“Uh, yeah.  Why, do you know them?” he asked, trying to speak slowly so she could read his lips.

Eileen shook her head.  “No, but I’ve heard of them.  They were in the papers a few months ago.”  She turned her attention to Mildred.  “Remember?  That old couple on the farm outside town?”

Miss Baker’s eyes lit up in recognition.  “Yes, I do.  I’d forgotten about that.  I apologize, boys, my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

Sam was barely listening.  His jaw had gone tight.  He shared a look with Dean, who seemed to be thinking the same thing as him.

“Eileen,” Sam said, placing his hand on her shoulder to make her look back at him.  He could feel dread clogging up his throat.  “Why had the Klines been in the newspaper?”

Eileen gave him a somber look.  She didn’t appear to want to break the news, but she said, “They’re dead.”

Sam had known what she was going to say before she’d even said it, but he’d been hoping he was wrong.

“Dead?” Cas said, voice low and nearly shaking.  “How?”

“How did they die?” Sam asked Eileen, as if it made a difference.  They were dead.  Jack was an orphan with nowhere to go.  They’d traveled all that way for nothing.

All Sam could do was pray the couple had died of natural causes.

“I’m not sure,” she said.  “I think it was a robbery gone wrong.”

Sam let his gaze fall to his lap.  He knew it hadn’t been a robbery.  It was Lucifer’s gang.  Maybe that was how they’d found out that Kelly had been in Lawrence in the first place.

He heard Dean let out a breath that sounded vaguely like a curse.  Sam brought his gaze up.  Cas, eyes large and sad, was looking into Jack’s cot.  Sam felt the same grief inside of him.  He was sorry for the Klines—parents and daughter alike—but his heart broke for Jack.

The baby looked back at them, having no idea how unfortunate his lot in life had been so far.

Sam wished life were fair.  He wished he could give that to Jack.

He couldn’t, but maybe Sam could give the child something.  There could be something in the house that belonged to Kelly, something that Jack could carry with him through his life.  He could know that his mother loved him and she was watching over him.  If nothing else, Jack deserved to see his home at least once in his life.

Sam looked back at Eileen.  He didn’t know what good it would do, but he asked, “Hey, Eileen?  Do you think you could point us in the direction of the farm?”

The farm wasn’t much to look at, especially now, with the broken chicken coop, the empty fields, and the barn that was mostly just a giant birdhouse.  But Dean could imagine what it must have been like in its prime, when Kelly was still growing up and her parents were strong enough to work the fields.  It must have been nice; homey.  Jack might have been happy there if things had gone to plan.

The morning Texas sun was already baking the clay as Dean wandered around the farm.  The grass brushed against his ankles, small burrs sticking to the bottoms of his jeans.  The land wasn’t overgrown just yet, but it was on its way, just like summer.  If no one came around to claim the land as their own, it would be thick with vegetation by the end of the season.

Briefly, Dean entertained the possibility of claiming the land for himself.  He had promised Cas they’d find a place in Waco—but he guessed that was a moot point now.  Jack wouldn’t be there any longer.

The baby twisted in Dean’s arms, causing him to tighten his hold around the sling.  He looked down at Jack, rocking him to get him to settle.  Jack cooed back innocently.  Dean couldn’t really look away.  He tried for a comforting smile, more for his own sake than Jack’s, but it was dimmer than he wanted it to be.

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Jack’s fate since last night when Eileen told them what had happened to the Klines.  There’d been something like a rock sitting in his gut all night.  He couldn’t shake the feeling.  Every time he tried, it grew bigger, until gravel closed up his throat.

Jack was supposed to be home, safe.  All this was supposed to be over by now.  Instead, it’d been over before it even started.  And still, Dean couldn’t say the journey had been a waste of time.  That’s what Sam had said last night when the three of them sat around the dinner table long after the meal ended.  “We came all this way . . .” he’d lamented, letting his voice trail off.

The statement had hung in the air.  It didn’t sound right to Dean.  In a way, he felt like he’d gained more than he’d lost.  He kept that thought to himself, though.  He knew Sam and Cas were grieving for Jack’s losses and they wouldn’t understand.  Hell, Dean barely understood it himself.

But they were left with a bigger question: What were they going to do with the kid?  None of them had any good ideas.

They could take him to an orphanage, like the original plan.  But Dean’s insides twisted at the very idea.

Besides, he thought he already knew the answer to the question.  All three of them were thinking it.  None of them were brave enough to say it out loud.

Jack started slipping in Dean’s hold again.  He was getting too heavy.  Readjusting him, Dean turned around and made for the house.  In the corner of his eyes, their horses were grazing where they were tied to the fence.  The panels of the old windmill creaked in the light breeze in the distance.  The front door was open when he reached it.  He could hear Sam and Cas’ muffled voices as they continued to search the house for any keepsake Jack might appreciate when he got older.

Ducking through the threshold, Dean blinked into the relative gray darkness of the house.  The sun glare was bouncing off the earth and following him in through the door and windows, but it was a little cooler inside.  He dipped his head to wipe the sweat off his temples with his shoulder, and grimaced a little when his gunshot wound flared angrily.

Sam and Cas weren’t in the kitchen or main room, but he heard Sam say something from the bedroom.  Inside, Sam was going through a trunk at the end of the bed that appeared to be full of blankets.  Cas was in front of the dresser, squinting at the locket he was holding aloft.  His other hand was at his side, and he was clutching a picture frame.

“Hey,” Dean said.  It felt a little strange to speak at a normal volume.  They’d all been whispering since they reached the farm.  It might have been out of respect.

Sam glanced over his shoulder, his eyes flickering to Jack.  He pressed his lips together in what could have been a smile, but it was tough to say.  There’d been a gloom about him for days now, and Dean didn’t know what to say to snap him out of it.

Cas looked over, too, gaze lingering on the baby while he exhaled deeply.

“Find anything?” Dean asked.

“Yes,” Cas said.  He put the locket down and brought up the picture frame.  Delicately, he held it between both hands, staring somberly down at the photograph before turning it around for Dean to see.  Kelly, a little younger than Dean had ever known her, was staring off to the side of the frame.  The exposure of the photograph blew out some of the lines of her face, and the sepia tone made her hair seem darker than Dean thought it actually was.  But it was a good picture.

Dean rocked Jack slowly back and forth, not really realizing he was doing it.  He didn’t know who he was trying to comfort, himself or the child.  “That’s good,” he said.  “It’s a good one.”

Cas gave a half-nod and lowered the frame again.

There was a soft thud as Sam closed the trunk.  He blew out his cheeks, slapping his hands to his knees to stand up.  “Other than that, there’s not much.”  He gestured outward.  “I mean, anything in this place could be an old family heirloom and we’d never know.”

Dean did a quick scan of the room.  There wasn’t much in the way of decorations, except for pictures of people Dean had never seen before.  There was a rocking chair in the corner of the room that looked pretty old, and it might have been in the family for a while, but it was impossible to transport without the stagecoach.  As for everything else, Sam was right.  They couldn’t possibly determine any item’s importance to the Klines.

“We shouldn’t take much anyway,” Cas said, eyes downcast and voice soft.  “We don’t know how much he’ll be able to keep . . . wherever he . . .” Wherever he ends up.

Sam’s eyes fell to the floor, too.

Dean was starting to feel a little too claustrophobic in that tiny bedroom.  The heaviness in his gut was making him nauseous.  He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, trying to muster his courage.

It was time they had this conversation.

“Yeah,” he said.  And then, “C’mon, let’s take a break.”  He didn’t wait for an answer before heading into the main room.  He pulled out one of the chairs at the table and sat down, relieved to be off his feet.  Jack’s weight was a little easier to bear now that he was resting on Dean’s thighs.  Dean’s shoulder throbbed dully, but he ignored it.

The other two slumped after him.  Sam leaned against the counter.  Cas sat in one of the chairs across the table.  He hung his head, miserably looking down at the picture on his lap.  Dean wondered if he was blaming himself for not getting here in time, which would be ridiculous.  The Klines were gone before Jack had even been born.  Dean watched him for a long while, trying to determine what Cas was thinking.

Sam cleared his throat.  He broke the silence.  “So . . . what now?”

It took a second for Cas to open his mouth.  He said, “I suppose . . . we can ask around town about orphanages.”  He sounded like he hated the idea.

Sam did, too.  “Yeah, but maybe he has other family?  Maybe an aunt or uncle.”

“No,” Cas said.  “Kelly never mentioned any siblings.”  He sighed.  “Jack—he doesn’t have anyone.”

Dean swallowed past the lump in his throat.  He looked down at the baby, letting Cas’ words wash over him.  But Cas was wrong.  Dean knew that plainly as the child stared back at him.

He lifted his chin and shrugged.  “He’s got us.”

Sam’s head snapped up.  Cas’ breath snagged, and when he looked over, Cas was staring at him—through him, into him—with hope.  It was nice to see that on him again.  Hope.  He wore it well.

Sam gave a breath of laughter.  In Dean’s peripheries, he saw him nod twice.  “Yeah,” he said, a smile in his tone.

They really had all been thinking it—right from the moment they heard about the Klines.  Maybe even before.

And maybe that was why, when Dean considered the last month, he didn’t regret a damn moment.  It had been for something.  It had been for this.

“Dean . . .” Cas said, and Dean never did figure out how Cas could always fit so much meaning behind one name.  It sounded like a question, and a statement, cautious optimism, and awe all at once.

They all knew that bringing Jack home, raising him—it would change everything.  But everything already had changed, and maybe for the better.  They could be a family.

Dean pictured it.  He imagined everyone where they were supposed to be.  He imagined them sticking together.

“We take him back to Lawrence.  Where he belongs,” Dean said, his eyes still latched on Cas’.  “I’m not giving him to a bunch of nuns.  Kelly didn’t want the Catholics raising him, anyway, remember?”  He quirked a grin.

Cas’ face broke into a smile.  His eyes sparkled happily.  The tightness in Dean’s gut disappeared.

Saying the words felt like a relief.  He hadn’t known why they’d been so scary in the first place.  Because Cas and Sam were happy.  As for Dean, he thought he was content.  He had Cas, and Sam, and the baby, and that was really all he needed.

“Okay,” Sam agreed.  The dark cloud that had been shadowing his expression these last few days brightened, if only somewhat.  He stood up out of his lean and said, “I’ll . . . go untie the horses.  We better go back into town and make sure we have enough baby supplies for the return trip.”

He was already planning, and he was likely planning well beyond the journey back to Kansas.  But Dean would take it a step at a time.

He had no idea if that was any indication of what kind of parents they’d be, but maybe they’d be alright.  Maybe the three of them could do this.  He told himself they could.

Sam walked out the door, his boots clacking against the wood until he stepped onto the grass.

Dean stood up, the movement making Jack let out a small sound that Dean hoped meant he approved of the new arrangement.

Cas stood, too, the picture frame still in hand.  They’d display it somewhere nice, maybe next to Jack’s crib.

Dean guessed he’d have to build a crib . . .

He reminded himself to go one step at a time.

He brought his attention back to Cas, recapturing his gaze—or, really, Cas hadn’t even looked away.

Dean told him, “Let’s go home.”

Cas’ smile softened into something aching and tender.  Dean figured, if he spent the rest of his life looking at that smile, he’d die a lucky man.

In his arms, Jack cooed.  Dean ripped his eyes away from Cas to look down at the baby.  “Yeah,” he said, “you, too, kid.”

Lawrence, Kansas
May 1892

“Castiel, do you think Mama liked her flowers?”

Castiel looked down at the boy whose hand was in his.  They walked through the woods, down the short path that had been cleared away years ago that led to and from Kelly’s grave.  Jack was looking up at him, blue eyes big and serious.  Dean always said that Jack learned how to be stoic from Castiel.  He said it wasn’t good for a boy his age to be so sincere all the time.

It was a statement Castiel wholly disagreed with, because Jack was filled with wonder and recklessness.  He supposed he’d learned those things from Dean.

Jack’s small, cuffed trouser clad legs hastened to keep up with the slow pace Castiel had set.  His other arm was curled around a polished wooden figure, a new toy that he hadn’t put down since he opened it days ago.  His mop of sandy brown hair had a cowlick at the back, and Castiel constantly had to sweep the long bangs out from Jack’s eyes.

“Yes, I do,” Castiel answered, and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.  “I think she liked them very much.”

Jack thinned his lips and nodded curtly, proud of himself.  He lowered his head to face forward.  Castiel stared at him for a moment longer, his eyes snagging on the chain around Jack’s neck, two bronze pendants resting against his chest.

When they cleared the tree line, Jack tugged on Castiel’s arm, taking him the direction of the horse pen.  Three horses were inside, Lincoln among them, his flaxen coat shimmering in the warm spring sun.  Castiel lifted Jack up and placed him down on top of the fence’s highest rung.  Jack kicked back and forth happily, content to watch the horses graze.  Castiel leaned into the fence with one arm, his other hand holding the back of Jack’s shirt so he wouldn’t fall.

The world around them smelled green—fresh grass and vibrant leaves mixed with pungent hay.  Idly, he scanned the property.  Not much had changed in the last five years, except the colony of bees buzzing around the box hives toward the back of the property.  In the four years since Dean had built them, they’d attempted to collect honey from them twice.  Despite Dean’s determination, they were badly stung both times.  But Castiel still appreciated the gesture, and he enjoyed watching the bees zigzag through the air as they worked.

Of course, there was one other glaring change on the homestead.  A section of trees on the other side of the pen had been chopped down to build another one-room house for Sam and his wife of two years.

After leaving Waco, Sam and Eileen had continued to correspond through letters.  The letters had been occasional for the first few months, and then became more frequent.  Dean would sometimes joke that Sam would sleep outside the post office awaiting them, but Dean was secretly proud of his brother.  As for Castiel, he’d been happy for Sam.  He knew Sam blamed himself for Ruby, and it was a relief to see his overall mood steadily improve as his relationship with Eileen grew.

Eileen moved to Lawrence shortly after Miss Baker passed away, and the two married.  She fit in well with their family, despite Mary’s teasing on how both of her sons ended up with Catholics.

Eileen was currently in front of the house, hanging sheets out to dry.  Her belly was swollen under her skirt, and they all eagerly awaited the birth in a couple of months.

It might be nice, Castiel considered, having a baby around the house again.  Jack would have a playmate.

His eyes swept toward the dirt road, willing a set of horses to emerge in a dust cloud.  It was early afternoon, which meant Sam and Dean were late.  Castiel was getting antsy, even though Jack didn’t seem to notice the tardiness.  He kept admiring the horses.

As though the Lord had heard his prayers, the distant sound of hooves filled the air.  Both Castiel and Jack’s heads swiveled to the road.  Two horses, one black and the other brown, appeared from the trees.  Their riders directed them through the archway onto the property.  The horses slowed into a trot as they approached the pen.

“Hello!” Jack called.  He let go of his hold around the fence on either side of him to raise one palm up in a wave.  It caused him to teeter somewhat, the wood of the fence rolling beneath him.  Having anticipated it, Castiel’s grip on the back of his shirt tightened.

As the horses came to a stop, Eileen walked over.  Sam waved hello to her before he slid out of his saddle to meet her.  His hand rested on her stomach as he leaned down for a kiss.

Meanwhile, Dean swung his leg over and dismounted Chevy.  “Hey,” he called once his boots were on the ground.  He tipped back his hat, letting it fall to hang over his back by the stampede string.

“For a second, I thought you’d gotten held up,” Castiel said while Dean approached.

Dean shot him a look as if asking Castiel to cut him some slack.  “What, and miss the big birthday?  No way!”  He came up behind Jack and grabbed him by the sides, lifting him off the fence with a grunt.  His shoulder still acted up some days, but he didn’t let it bother him at the moment.  Jack giggled as he was placed on Dean’s hip, feet dangling.  He put one arm around Dean’s neck while the other clutched his toy.

“You ready for some cake tonight, big guy?” Dean asked, bouncing Jack to get a better hold on him.

“Cake!” Jack exclaimed, a wide smile splitting his face.

Sam and Eileen joined them, and Sam ruffled Jack’s hair, making his bangs fall in front of his eyes.  Jack laughed, delighted.  Castiel sighed in defeat.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam greeted.  “We just talked to Bobby when we dropped off the stage.  Ellen and Jo got in last night.  They’re staying with him.”

“I heard,” Castiel said.  He was looking forward to seeing the two women again, even though the last time they visited two Christmases ago, they’d made him participate in a drinking competition from which he woke up the next morning feeling sicker than he ever had.  About a year prior to that incident, Castiel, Dean, and Sam had brought Jack to visit them in Kansas City, and Castiel had been pleased to know Jo hadn’t been lying in her letters.  She’d healed nicely from her gunshot wounds, though on certain bad days she still had to make use of her walking stick.  She seemed to have a good attitude about it, though, claiming the cane made her look “cool,” to which Dean seemed to agree.

“The three of them will be here for dinner,” Castiel added.  Then, thinning his lips, he went on, “And Rowena said she may not be able to make it, but she’ll try.”

Dean groaned.  “Jeez, she buys up the whole town and suddenly she’s too busy for a meal?”

True to his word, Victor Henriksen had gone to Lawrence in search of the Talbots, intent on charging them with reporting a false kidnapping.  However, the family had fled before he arrived.  No one knew for certain where they went, but rumor said they’d gone to England.

The last they’d heard from Henriksen, he was corresponding with detectives from Scotland Yard in the search.  The investigation into the family had turned up a number of crimes, including their connection to Lucifer and his outlaws.

It didn’t take long for Rowena to, bit by bit, purchase all the Talbots’ properties.  Her wealth had doubled, and the brothel’s madam soon became the most important person in Lawrence in what felt like overnight.

Castiel didn’t acknowledge Dean’s comment.  Instead, he went on, “And Charlie sent Jack a present.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dean asked, brows popping.

“Jack, show them.”

Jack presented his toy proudly.  The wooden figure resembled a man, but it wasn’t very anatomically proportional.  The limbs were much too long to depict a normal-sized man.  Sam’s brows pinched as he looked at the doll, but then something seemed to dawn on his face.

“What the hell is that thing, anyway?” Eileen asked, frowning.

“Yeah, and what’s with the eyes?” Dean agreed, staring down at the two black, glued on eyes.

“They’re beans,” Castiel reported.  “In her letter, Charlie said, if we were inclined to plant them, we should let the stalks grow tall so that Jack can find a giant.”

“Maybe then Dean could beat him up,” Eileen laughed, and Sam joined in.

Jack bounced.  “Yeah!” he shouted.  It was his favorite story.  He was always asking Dean to recount the heroic tale of when he slew a massive giant in order to protect him.  It was a completely embellished story, but Castiel had long since given up on telling him the man wasn’t really a mythical creature, and it was a boxing match, and Dean had only entered it for money.

Jack liked Dean’s version more.  It was a legend to the boy’s mind, as great as Wild Bill or Davy Crockett, as exciting as the tales Dean read to him from dime novels before they tucked Jack into bed in the room the Winchester brothers once shared.

“Very funny,” Dean grumbled.  He twisted, picking Jack up again by the armpits and pressing him against Sam’s chest.  “Take the damn kid and go inside.  Me and Cas’ll unsaddle the horses.”

“All right,” Sam said, heaving a little as he took on Jack’s weight.  He was getting too big and very soon they wouldn’t be able to lift him, Castiel realized with a certain pang of sadness.  But it was the kind of sadness that meant good things were to come.

Sam and Eileen walked toward the main house while Jack told them about the wildflowers he’d picked and placed on Kelly’s grave.  “Oh, yeah?  What color?” Castiel heard Sam say with rapt, exaggerated interest.  As they kept on, Jack’s response got lost to the breeze.

Dean grabbed Chevy’s reins and led her toward the barn.  Castiel did the same with Bones.  He glanced over his shoulder briefly and found Mary had come out of the house.  She was all smiles as she stood on her toes to kiss Sam’s cheek.

Jack said something that made the three adults laugh loudly.  An excited smile cracked his cheeks, the blue of his eyes alight, the sun lighting up the tips of his hair in a fiery halo.

“Oh, we stopped in on Max and Alicia on the way back,” Dean said, catching Castiel’s attention.  He looked forward, focusing on Dean as they cleared the barn doors.  “They say hi.”

Castiel nodded, his mouth pulling somberly.  “How are they?” he asked.  He’d been sorry to hear, months ago when they received the letter, that Tasha had come down with scarlet fever.  She was buried under the oak tree now, next to the twins’ father.  Castiel wondered, had he been there, if he could have helped her.  Perhaps Kelly’s death should have taught him differently about such things—or perhaps there were some things that would never change.

“Okay,” Dean said with a shrug.  He amended, “Good as can be expected.  They’re tough.”

They let the subject drop as they unsaddled the horses in silence.  When Castiel was done with Bones, he hefted up the saddle and brought it over to the side of the barn.  On the way, he remembered, “Oh, your mother bought a cake at the new bakery in town this morning.  But we’re supposed to pretend she baked it herself.  Although, I’m fairly certain Jack will catch on to the fact that the cake is larger than our oven—”

He was whirled around quite suddenly, his spine pushed back against the wall.  Dean kissed him fervently, deeply.  When the surprise wore off, Castiel kissed back.  He placed his hands on Dean’s shoulders, touch reverent as he pressed his fingertips into Dean’s sleeves to feel the muscles beneath.  Dean was squeezing his hips, and soft noises started coming from the back of his throat.

Castiel had missed him.

When the kiss slowly broke, Dean leaned back marginally.  His eyes were dark and hungry, staring down at Castiel’s lips.  He had trail dust on his skin and scruff on his cheeks, and he was every bit as magnificent as the day they first met.

Castiel bit back a smile and wondered if they could get away with disappearing for an hour.

“Have I told you recently just how much I’ve taken a shine to you?” Dean asked him.

Castiel hummed, feigning thought.  “Not in the last two weeks,” he teased despite the stuttering in his heart.  Barely a day went by anymore that Dean didn’t tell him he loved him, as though he didn’t want any chance to pass him by.

“Well, then I guess I better make up for lost time,” Dean said, leaning in for another kiss.  Castiel accepted it, this one easier, more languid but no less thrilling.

They stayed close when they parted, sharing the air between them.

“We better get inside,” Castiel said reluctantly.  “Everyone’s waiting.”

Dean nodded, half a moment more passing before he stepped away.  On his way to the rectangle of sunlight pooling in from outside the barn doors, Dean put his fingers into his mouth and whistled.  The horses stood to attention, ready to be led out to the pen to join the others.

Castiel followed Dean outside, into the world poised on the brink of summer.

END.