Use Your Illusions, Chapter Five

[wanderamaranth]

Title: Use Your Illusions
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): blasphemy, violence, language
Spoilers: Up to and including the promos for 6x19, "Mommy Dearest"
Pairing(s):  Dean/Cas, past Dean/Lisa
Authors: wanderamaranth  and quantum_witch

Summary: In trying to defeat Raphael’s armies, Castiel has employed a desperate and dangerous gambit which backfired in the worst way, and now must turn to the Winchesters for help. Meanwhile, Dean slowly comes to understand he doesn’t have all the time in the world to accept his 'stupid girly feelings'. And Sam finds himself, quite literally. Every possible wall comes tumbling down, for everyone.

 

<<Chapter Four

*~*~*~*~*

The room is black. Only the faint illumination of the flickering light bulb above his head breaks the darkness. From what Dean can make out, there are water stains on the floor and expanses of industrial-sized pipes overhead. But the details drawing Dean's true concern are the strips of duct tape biting into the flesh of his wrists and ankles, and the slightly splintery old wooden chair he's tied to. Shouting for help is useless, as he finds his mouth is also sealed with tape, tight enough he can't even open his lips to try and lick it loose.

Who the fuck ties a guy to a chair, in the middle of a dark empty warehouse, under a crappy light bulb, and then leaves? Psycho serial killers with a fetish for cheap mafia movies who've just popped out to sharpen the blades on their chainsaws, that's who.

Dean starts struggling in earnest now. If he can wiggle the crappy old chair a little more, something might snap and he can free himself—

But a doorway opens in the blackness, casting a long, dramatic silhouette of a man. The light is insanely bright for a moment then vanishes as the door is shut again. He doesn't even hear footsteps crossing the floor, but suddenly the man is in the circle of light where Dean sits. A muffled grunt of relief escapes his throat when he sees it's Castiel. Thank God, Cas, he thinks loudly, get me the fuck out of here!

Cas tilts his head, contemplating Dean's plight, his face cold. Dean starts to worry, and says, "Hey, c'mon Cas—", realizes his mouth is now duct-tape free, which is just weird but maybe it's angel mojo. Cas doesn't come closer or help in any other way, just stands there looking at him. Dean starts to fidget. And before he can say anything else, the light above sputters and sparks like it does whenever angels give off power. He's getting a little more worried now.

He only now notices that Cas isn't dressed right. His trenchcoat is missing, and so is his suit jacket. His feet are bare. And he just keeps staring, silent and still. Calmly, Cas' hands go to his belt, undo the buckle and slide the long leather strap from the loops. Dean swallows hard and whimpers, too panicked to protest. This scene is leading to a very bad conclusion, he knows it.

Cas pauses, belt in hand, and gives Dean a look of such utter disgust the hunter feels ashamed, though doesn't know what for.

Then Cas crouches down, lays the belt flat on the floor in a straight line, with the buckle pointed right at Dean. He stands and gives Dean another unfathomably dirty look, and nudges the belt with a bare toe. The belt shifts, shudders, twitches. It coils in upon itself, and when Dean blinks, it's gone and a snake lies in its place.

Why did it have to be snakes? he thinks with mild hysteria as the serpent meanders leisurely across the stained floor toward him. Dean jerks harder at the tape still binding his wrists and ankles, but it's not budging. The snake isn't huge, it's exactly the size of the belt, but it's still a damned snake. He lets out a shaky exclamation of fear as the snake twines up his leg, around his knees, across his belly and chest. Dean's panting whimpers don't even give it pause, for it drapes itself around his shoulders like it belongs there, and rests its diamond shaped head serenely above the handprint brand in his flesh.

When the snake stops moving, Dean takes a breath and begins to speak, though why he says the things he does, he has no freaking idea. "'Baby' is just a nickname, Cas. Like what Sammy and I say to each other. 'Bitch'. 'Jerk'. So… 'Baby'. Like a family name."

Throughout his babbling, Castiel continues staring, but at the words 'family name', his lips thin and his jaw clenches…

But if he'd intended to speak, Dean would never know because he woke with a jolt.

Goddamn. He'd spent the whole evening before this drinking himself half to death so he wouldn't think about the angel, then goes and has a fucking weird dream about him.

And now he couldn't get back to sleep, and it was still dark enough outside that the others wouldn't be awake yet. He didn't want to be alone with his thoughts right now, and drinking himself to sleep again was a really bad idea if the rolling in his gut was an indication. He had a kind of raw and gritty feeling to his brain, and knew that he'd never sleep unless he found a way to tire himself completely.

The two best ways he knew were beating the shit out of monsters – not an option at the moment, unless he wanted to die. Or he could beat on himself. Yeah, that was better.

He felt a little tacky from the night of drinking and passing out in his clothes, so he figured he could take care of business in the shower. He rolled out of the lumpy old bed in one of Bobby's many spare rooms, and started to strip.

While it did relax him physically, the emotional and mental crises he found himself spontaneously trying to sort out during that shower ought to have kept him awake for the next week. But he fell quickly into a dreamless sleep afterward, and didn't wake again until Sam pounded on his door several hours later to tell him they had a case.

Enoch, Utah

"I said they'll be here, and they'll be here."

Dean's eyes surveyed the room. He didn't doubt Bobby's word, but he was feeling anxious sitting around and waiting. They'd been called to Utah by one of Bobby's contacts; apparently the resort town of Lake Powell was lousy with portents and dead tourists. Thus far the local authorities had managed to keep the deaths under wraps, but that wasn't going to last long at the rate people were disappearing. Once all the visitors to the man-made lake caught wind and panicked, the chances for the hunters to find out what was happening slimmed considerably, and it was important that they find the monsters responsible and stop them quickly. Dean knew this, but he couldn't help feeling that this was an unnecessary side-trip, a distraction from the big rumble-to-come with Eve and Castiel's betrayal. The two things that had been eating Dean's brain, and that he still didn't know how to deal with.

They were over a hundred-fifty miles west in the town of Enoch (and if that wasn't a dead giveaway the apocalypse was nigh, then Dean wasn't having the gay crisis that was a long time coming) sitting in a honky-tonk waiting for Bobby's contact. The place was decked out; ropes and saddles lined one wall, posters from various western-themed movies another. It was the type of place that, prior to his trip to the actual Wild West, Dean would have loved. Still did, if he was being completely honest with himself, but he and complete honesty didn't have the best relationship at that moment.

It was packed. Warm bodies rubbed against one another in an age-old dance of casual desire and salacious intent. The table he and Bobby were huddled around was shoved in the corner, as far away from the press as they could get. Despite this, they still had tipsy patrons stumble into their conversations or hip-check their table.

Dean had turned down more than one offer for a drink. Hell, he'd turned down more than five, and they'd only been in the bar for a half hour. All the attention being paid to him was making him edgy. He still had too much on his mind, especially after the last night at Bobby's house. When his mind started to wander back to that shower, he twitched, and was certain people were noticing and somehow psychically knew he was internally fretting over his non-heteronormative fantasies. He felt even more certain Bobby knew, since the old bastard had started the ball rolling down that particular hill with his big fat mouth, aided and abetted by Dean's own jackass baby brother. He wanted to clobber them both for the emotional damage.

He grumbled and shifted in his seat. "I don't like this, Bobby. There's too many people."

The older hunter shrugged. He should have seemed out of place in the popular bar, but he blended seamlessly into the background, like a living, breathing prop. There was another curmudgeonly man in the opposite corner giving them the hairy eyeball, and Dean wondered cynically if he'd been paid by the owners of the establishment to set up there to give their theme a bit more verisimilitude, and now felt threatened by Bobby's presence.

"Son, it's near a tourist town and everyone knows something big's happening there, so it brings out the rubberneckers, and they all gotta drink somewhere. What'd you expect?"

"Hell, I don't know," Dean admitted. "Maybe I shoulda gone with Sam to meet the hunter-geeks. I feel like we're just pissing time away here. How're we supposed to find your buddies in this mess?"

"Vern said they'd be hard to miss. He's been hunting with a new guy. Big, I guess."

"Big?" Dean said. "That's the description you got? Big?"

Bobby nodded across the room. "I'd say it was good enough. Looks like that's them."

Big, Dean thought in silent apology to Bobby, was a perfectly adequate description as two men moved towards their table. One, about Dean's height, Bobby's age, and Castiel's build (damn it, he told himself he wasn't going to think about-!) stumbled through the crowd with winces and mumbled apologies. The man next to him, however, was a walking wall of muscle that veritably flowed through the bodies. Whereas some men his size would have used their mass to push and shove others out of their way, this man somehow maneuvered himself around them in a manner that was both graceful and intimidating as hell. When both men reached the table (the older man—Vern, Dean assumed—breathing heavily) Dean barely restrained a low whistle. The big guy was a trip.

Shaggy ginger hair brushed the nape of his neck, but was cropped close at the front in one of the most restrained mullets Dean had ever seen. On either side of his face, his mutton chops—if they could even be properly called that—were cut into elaborate swirling designs, extending from his temple down to his chin. A muscle shirt (the kind Arnold wore in the 80s, Dean thought) with careful placed slashes framed and displayed large expanses of bronzed skin stretched across ridiculously enormous, looping muscles. This shirt was tucked in (tucked in, seriously?) to a pair of jeans that were just about the tightest Dean had ever seen. (And Dean had watched The Song Remains the Same, okay, and he didn't know that jeans could come tighter than what Plant had been rocking at that show.)

"Geez, when you said big, Bobby, I didn't know that you meant he was going to be giving Gigantor a run for his money," Dean said, voice low.

"Hey Bobby," Vern said, snagging an unoccupied stool from a nearby table. Tired gray eyes met Dean's as he held out a hand to shake. "You must be Dean," he said. "Meetcha." They shook, and then Vern plopped onto the stool waved a hand towards the giant, "Bobby, Dean, this is Clay."

"Of course it is," Dean smirked. He held out his hand to the enormous man, and then realized how snide his comment had sounded. It wasn't very bright to be mouthing off to a man with enough mass to make pro-wrestlers envious. Clay didn't look insulted, though. In fact, he smirked back and held out his hand in return. This close, Dean could see that his nose was pierced—well, actually, the septum—with a captive bead ring. "I am pleased to meet you, Dean Winchester," he said, in a voice that was fathomlessly deep. His eyes—dark, nearly black-brown—focused on Dean with an almost unnerving intensity (an intensity he was only used to seeing in a certain someone he's definitely not thinking about).

Unaccountably flustered, Dean awkwardly shook Clay's hand and said, "Pull up a chair, man." The other man nodded, just once, slowly, and turned to do just that. Dean's gaze was drawn downward, and that was when he saw them.

They were beautiful. Quite possibly the most beautiful he'd ever seen. Delicately tooled leather in rich black and cognac comprised the shaft, which was ordinary enough, Dean supposed, but that lead down into what appeared to be soft crocodile skin, which stretched from the base of the heel to the very tip, and there, mounted right on the top...

"Dude, is that-?" Dean said, staring.

Clay grinned. His smile was just as large as the rest of him; it nearly encompassed his entire face. "Yes," he said, sounding amused and prideful, "it's a Cayman head. One on each boot. See?" He stretched, setting one cowboy-boot clad foot on top of the stool he'd brought over (how he was able to do this without busting a seam in his pants was anyone's guess) and gestured down. "Pretty damn cool, aren't they?"

"Hell, yes," Dean breathed.

After that there were no lingering traces of awkwardness. While Bobby and Vern talked about signs and portents and, hell, for all Dean knew, double rainbows, he and Clay found their way to the bar counter, where they played an impromptu version of hunter's "I never", checked out women, and discussed their favorite forms of weaponry.

It was good; in fact, it was great. Clay was an attentive listener, and if he was a bit slow in his answers sometimes, as if he had to think really hard before stringing together the words, well, not a big deal. It wasn't like most guys really sat around all that often and chatted anyways; he probably wasn't used to it. He'd mentioned that he'd spent a long time alone before meeting up with Vern, and being a hunter didn't exactly engender great people skills. Still, he had some wild hunting stories, he was buying the shots, and (perhaps most importantly) being in his presence didn't threaten Dean in the terrifying, emasculating way that even thinking about Cas seemed to create the past several days. He was a man, sitting with another man, speaking about and doing manly things.

He was not thinking about betrayals, not in the least. Not the ones from those he considered family, and certainly not the betrayals of his flesh, that had stirred to aroused awareness at the thought of—

And he was absolutely not thinking about the betrayals of his own mind, how it was whispering to him that maybe, just perhaps, he was being too hard on Castiel. About how when he'd been so panicked and desperate himself during the last apocalypse (and damn it, that should never be a phrase a guy has to consider; one had been more than enough, thanks) that he'd almost done some nearly unforgivable things, like turning away from family, like betraying their trust. Like saying yes to Michael to keep Lucifer from destroy the planet just to get it to end. Because he'd believed there was no other option…

"How about another round?" Dean rapped his knuckles on the counter and gave the bartender his most winning smile. He leered at her cleavage as she poured, and Clay continued to describe the large nest of shifters that he'd singlehandedly cleared out. This, Dean thought, is perfect.

Too bad Dean knew that he and honesty were on the outs; otherwise he might have believed himself.

*~*~*~*~*

Three hours, several hundred printouts, and more dusty tomes than he cared to recall later, and Sam was no closer to figuring out what the hell was happening in Lake Powell than he had been when they'd arrived.

He was sitting at an expansive table in the private library of the local hunter, a woman named Holly with close-cropped white-bleached blonde hair and a voice like pea-gravel being thrown at tin sheeting. She sat across from him, shit-kicker boots propped on another chair, chewing her bottom lip as she absently reached for the yogurt cup beside her. Sam was picking at his own (pineapple yogurt seeming just this side of wrong to him, but he was too polite to outright refuse it) as he flipped another page in yet another book. Two other hunters whose names he hadn't caught sat on the other side of the room, talking quietly.

"This is getting us nowhere, Sam," Holly said, tossing her book aside as if it weren't a precious, possibly irreplaceable piece of medieval literature. "What do you say we go out and inspect the death spot themselves? Maybe you'll pick up on something I missed out there."

"Yeah, I guess," Sam agreed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He liked researching usually, but it did feel as though, in this case, that he was missing a vital piece of information that would make everything snap into place. It was extremely frustrating; he knew the answer was just out of his grasp, taunting and teasing some corner of his mind. He had a feeling that once he realized what was going on he'd be feeling pretty dense for not having figured it out sooner.

Despite how much they looked, though, there seemed to be nothing to connect the three groups of deaths besides Holly's hunch and another definitely impending apocalypse. Maybe going back out to scenes would help. "Run me through the basics again before we go?"

"Sure." Holly stood, boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud, as she stretched for a map tacked up on the wall. Instead of carefully unpinning it, she ripped it down and tossed it in front of him. All four corners were tattered as if this was a common occurrence for the poor scrap of paper. "The bodies were found here," Holly leaned over and tapped a finger to the GPS printout, "here, and... here."

"And they were all the different?" Sam asked. "The bodies, I mean. They were all killed in the different manners, from site to site?"

"Yup," Holly sighed, flopping down a rolling leather chair. "I've been digging through lore for days and found nothing that connects the different styles, either. One group was burned, the second vivisected, and everyone in the third group's bones were ground to paste."

Sam winced.

"There's a ritualistic style to it, the bodies laid out in some kind of pattern, but nothing I've ever seen." She pulled out crime scene photos someone had wrangled from the police, aerial views to show the bodies and their positioning. "Four bodies in the first set, found on the 4th. Five in the second, found on the 10th. And three in the latest, on the 16th. We got no idea if more will show up. But if they do, it'll probably be like the others – next to a big old sinkhole."

Sam paused. "Wait… sinkhole?" he said, the small hair on the back of his neck rising. "Those common around here?"

"Not real common," Holly admitted, "but they're not unheard of, either."

"Show me where the sinkholes were in relation to the bodies?" Sam asked, fighting off his growing anxiety.

"Yeah," Holly gestured to the three pink highlighter circles on the map. "That's where the bodies were found, right? Well, the X's here beside them? Giant sinkholes."

"Fresh?"

"I guess looks like, which is strange in and of itself, but I'm not a real expert on..." Holly trailed off, then said, "You know something."

"I suspect something," Sam replied. He grabbed a piece of paper and pencil, studied the gruesome photos for a second then roughly sketched out the shape their bodies were posed in (his drawing skills hadn't improved over the years, but at least he could make a stick figure). When he'd done all three photos, he stared at them for a second. There was an itching in the back of his brain, but at least he knew it wasn't the wall in his head anymore. The shapes, they could have been numbers… Or letters, but it wouldn't be English.

He grabbed his laptop and searched online for alphabets with non-Latinized script. He quickly determined it was Hebrew and matched the body patterns to the letters. Bet, He, Mem, Vav, Tav. His hackles rose again, because that was too familiar. One more quick search and he knew the word, and after searching for Kabalistic magic, he knew the number of bodies fit a pattern as well. Four, five, three. The number of at least one particular beast.

His face must have shown he'd reached a conclusion, as Holly cleared her throat and said, "Care to share with the class now? What are we hunting?"

Shit, Sam thought. He knew exactly whom the hunters were targeting. He also knew that if they found him, they'd all die. There was just no way the average hunter was equipped to take on the Behemoth.

A deep breath, and he focused within himself, tuning in to Castiel on Angel Radio. (Dean's description of the way angels communicated one-on-one as being like CB radio was pretty accurate, actually. There were public signals, like an ordinary radio station: those were the ones that the majority of the angels used. Then there were private ones, like CB signals, that you could access with know-how and the proper equipment. Sam wasn't in any big hurry to tell his brother that. Dean was incorrigible enough and Sam didn't need a gleefully dubbed CB handle like 'Samantha Fivehead'.)

Cas, he thought, we've got a problem down here. A big one. He was loathe to actually think 'Behemoth' over the radio, because even though he'd taken what measures he remembered to ensure that their conversation was private, there was always the possibility that they could be overheard. B-i-g, he stressed, and hoped that the angel would get it.

His cell phone rang. An unfamiliar number flashed across the screen, but he answered anyways.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?"

"Cas," Sam breathed. "Lake Powell, Utah. Green house on the edge of—"

"Hello, Sam."

Holly, to her credit, didn't shriek at the sudden appearance of a stranger. She did pull out her gun and point it, albeit waveringly, at Castiel.

"It's okay! Holly, it's okay!" Sam said, hands held out towards the twitchy hunter. "He's a friend."

"Holy shit!" one of the random hunters said, his gun trained on Castiel as well. The other didn't say a word, but had pulled a machete and was gripping the handle like he was trying to decide where the best spot for a first strike would be.

"Just hold on, everyone. This is Cas, he's a friend of mine," Sam insisted. The two hunters on the opposite side of the room relaxed infinitesimally, but Holly stood her ground.

"He just appeared out of thin air, Sam," the woman said, as if Sam had missed that fact. "In my experience, things that just randomly appear out of thin air are not our friends!"

"He didn't randomly appear; he called and asked where we were," Sam said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. He tried to remember how rattled he'd been when Cas had first started popping in and out of his and Dean's motel rooms, but it seemed so long ago now, so distant. Cas had been their friend for longer than he'd been a creature to be frightened of, and it was hard to think of him as anything else.

"Really," Sam stepped forward and gently tipped the barrel of her gun downward, "It's fine. It's good. I just need to talk to him for a sec, okay?"

Still uncertain, but seemingly willing to trust him, Holly said, "Will he be able to help us take out whatever monster this is?"

"This monster's is a bit out of our league," Sam said. "Cas is more like our search-and-rescue guy. We need to get everyone on this hunt pulled off and brought back here, right now, and we need to slap stronger wards around your property."

Holly lost the tenseness of her body, her hands going limp at her sides. "Boys," she called to the hunters behind her, "Could you step into the kitchen for a little bit? Give Sam, me and his buddy here a moment to talk?"

There was a discontented grumble (only from one of the hunters, the skinny blond with long hair and a beanie; Sam couldn't recall the other guy saying a word at all) but both stood and shuffled out of the room.

"Sam Winchester," Holly said, once the two men were safely out of earshot, "I heard a rumor that you defeated the Devil himself. What could possibly scare you off a hunt?"

"The Behemoth," Castiel said, not as an answer to her question but as an inquiry towards Sam. "You're certain he's here?"

"Behemoth? That's the name of the Big Bad?" Holly interjected. "How do we kill it?"

"Where's Dean?" the angel asked, ignoring Holly.

"With another couple of hunters he and Bobby went to meet." Licking his lips, Sam thought, We need to get all the hunters that we can back here and ward this place.

Agreed, Castiel nodded. But Dean and Bobby are priority.

No argument here, Sam responded. Maybe before, when he was completely the human Sammy Winchester, he would have felt traces of guilt about placing his family's lives above those of others, but with the fall of the wall he'd become less concerned about humanity as a whole and more so on those closest to him

"Excuse me? Are either one of you going to fucking answer me?"

Sam looked back at the irate woman and was about to respond somewhat diplomatically when Castiel ruined it and said, "No."

"Oh hell no," Holly spit. "You did not...in my own...!" Stomping—literally stomping—her foot, Holly seethed, "I don't know who or what the fuck you think you are, but you just pop into my house and then start throwing orders around and you're not even going to have the decency to tell me what the hell is going on?"

"We don't have time for this," Cas growled, twirling towards the woman. He pressed two fingers to her forehead before she had a chance to lift her gun again. Her body slumped and he caught it, barely, and set her lolling frame on a nearby chair.

"Cas," Sam sighed, exasperated.

"I was not going to waste time on platitudes when Behemoth is in this town and Dean is about," Cas hissed. "Now where is he?"

"Bar about a hundred-fifty miles west of here. Are you—"

Sam never got to ask his question, though, because as soon as the vague directions were out of his mouth, the angel was gone.

"Damn it, Cas," he muttered, looking from the prone woman to the darkened doorway that led to her kitchen, wondering how he was going to explain Holly's unconsciousness to her other guests.

*~*~*~*~*

The thing about alcohol, Dean remembered much too late ('too late' being after who-knows-how-many shots), is that while it's often great for wiping out things you don't want to think about, there are times when it will be a tricky bitch by bubbling through your blood, twisting you around and making you obsess over exactly what it was you were drinking to forget.

He was experiencing one of those times.

Dean tried to focus on Clay, he really did. The enormous man's attitude was calm and understated; Dean thought that maybe if he hadn't drunk quite so much Clay might have been a grounding influence, perhaps kept him from his circular, obsessive brooding over Castiel. But he had drunk quite so much, and now he barely heard a word the other man said. All evening he'd found himself glancing at strangers and noticing things – dark messy hair here, blue eyes there, the stubble on damned near every man in the room – and taking yet another drink to chase away the longing that inevitably followed. Dean was even now tripping amongst thoughts of the angel and the aching, bone-deep confusion he now felt towards him.

And damn, was Dean confused.

The quick shower and wank would be simple and would soothe away the last of his irritability. Always worked before.

Dean stepped into the chipped old tub, slid the curtain closed and turned on the tap until the water was just this side of too hot. He was tired enough that every little detail of his surroundings stood out vividly. The spray pelted him in irregular streams, as one part of the shower head had holes mostly closed over with corrosion. The grout in the blue wall tiles was cracked in so many places it was barely there anymore. The soap was old and a little dried out, but at least it smelled pretty good. Irish Spring. He lathered up his hands with it, wiped languidly down his throat, both arms, up under his pits, and then slowly over his chest. Fingertips stroked on nipples until they were hard peaks. Hmm, nice. Soap bubbles slid down his stomach, dipped into his navel, soaked into his pubic hair and sluiced around his already hardening cock. Yeah, this was working.

Sighing heavily into the steam, Dean lathered his hands again, and slid one down his belly (not quite as flat as it used to be, getting old) and let his fingers thread through the rough hair, snagging and teasing. Fingers skimmed over his cock, now rigid and standing out eagerly. He looked down at it, and though he'd seen it a million and one times, it suddenly seemed to belong to someone else. His gut tingling oddly, he stroked it with just two fingers, as though mapping it. No, still his. But the feeling didn't quite leave. He gripped his cock, gliding his hand out and back slowly, watching as it appeared and disappeared between his fingers. It was pretty damned hot, looking at it like this, pretending it wasn't his.

Soon he couldn't ignore the aching in his groin, and just closed his eyes, the strokes growing rougher. Now his dick felt like his own again, but his hand didn't. God damn, he'd love to have someone else do this again, it'd been months since he'd gotten laid. The feel of a woman's hands or mouth or pussy around his dick was like nothing else. Women were soft and delicious, and men were… he had no idea, really. He didn't think it would be awful beyond words to be sucked off by a guy, a mouth was a mouth after all. But he didn't know about returning the favor. Not quite there yet.

Maybe handling another guy's dick wouldn't be horrible either. He knew his way around, at least, which was more than he knew when he first had sex with a woman. His thumb rubbed teasing circles over the head, while his other fingers ran along the ridge underneath, back to his balls, and forward again. Cock was nice, in its way, he supposed. He certainly didn't hate his own. Yeah, he could probably deal with jerking another guy off. Maybe.

Kissing… Hmm. His tongue flicked out to stroke his lips, and he instantly wished it was Cas' lips instead. Oh God, he was done for. Those lips were unbelievable, shouldn't belong to a guy, let alone an angel of the Lord. They were pure sin, especially combined with those fucking gorgeous blue eyes. God damn it…

His gut clenched tighter and his hand sped up, twisting and squeezing harder over the head of his cock. A soft groan passed his lips and it echoed very slightly in the room, letting his imagination turn it into someone else's voice. That voice shouldn't have affected him either, too deep and not remotely feminine, deeper even than his own voice. But every time Cas spoke it vibrated something inside Dean; he'd always thought it must be some weird angelic thing, though no one else seemed aware. Fuck it, fuck it…

Too hard to think now, the peak was so near. But suddenly he switched hands, letting his left take over pulling his dick desperately as his right trailed up his left arm to his shoulder, to the scar the angel had branded into his flesh…

His fingers sank into the mark and felt his cock spasm like it would leap off his body. Dean gasped at the strength of his orgasm, which went on and on, wracking him until he let go of his shoulder. God damn, he'd never actually tried that before. Apparently for good reason, since he could barely stand up. He turned toward the wall and braced himself. The wall was surprisingly cool in the steam, and he laid his cheek against it, trying to breathe his way through the shakes. Son of a bitch…

Castiel, you feathery bastard, what the hell have you done to me? he thought. Then hoped fervently he hadn't thought it loud enough to be overheard by said feathery bastard. Wincing with embarrassment, Dean washed the come down the drain, rinsed himself again, and stepped out of the shower. Still a little wobbly. And suddenly exhausted.

He fell asleep within seconds of hitting the sheets, and fortunately did not dream of Castiel nor get a visit from the angel. When he'd reawakened, he'd resolutely put thoughts of Ca—all thoughts of Cas—out of his mind. Thoughts wouldn't help, thoughts—

"Let the thoughts come," Clay whispered into Dean's ear, and that was odd, but Dean was in such a haze from his memories and the buzz of alcohol that he couldn't work out why. "More. Think on him and he will come. Just like you want him to, don't you?" Clay's breath was sticky-warm and laughing on the shell of Dean's ear, uncomfortable, but he still grunted his agreement. "I didn't think this would take so long," the big man continued. "You tolerate alcohol very well, Dean Winchester."

"Get away from him."

*~*~*~*~*

Dean Winchester, Castiel was beginning to think, might be more trouble than he was worth.

Sam had kept his promise to the angel; hours after he'd left Bobby's house, Sam had contacted him—voice tinged with a hint of amusement that Castiel didn't understand—that Dean would be fine, but to 'give him a few days'. Their conversation drifted from there, covering various angelic issues (it was a comfort to be able to speak frankly to someone about the war) and what Eve's motivation was now that she was loose upon the earth, but ended where it had begun.

You're certain Dean will not find my actions unforgivable? Castiel had asked, and Sam's reassurance had been warm, if tinged with exasperation.

I'm sure, Sam replied. Like I said, give him a few days. It's a lot for him to process.

Begrudgingly, Castiel had taken Sam's advice and stayed far away from the Singer house. There had been a moment the day after their confrontation when Dean's frantic thoughts had broken through his misery and he'd feared for the man's well-being. But the only thing Dean had been fighting was his traitorous body and brain, and in such a manner that Castiel trembled and closed his mind to him.

Following the revelation of Dean's disconcerted lust, Castiel threw himself into his duties as commander of his troops. Details that he'd normally delegate Castiel saw to personally, from planning to implementation; brothers and sisters amongst his soldiers that he'd not spoken directly to before found themselves meeting their leader for the first time. His inner circle noticed the changes, of course. It would be difficult for them not to. But they were good soldiers, and didn't question their commander.

Castiel wished that they would. It would be a sign the war wasn't pointless.

It was in the middle of said such mindless duties that Castiel received Sam's call of distress. They'd spoken, briefly, in the intervening time (not much more than a quick 'are you well?' and confirmation from each, despite how desperately Castiel had wanted to ask after Dean) but this was the first time Sam had requested his presence.

He wished it had been under different circumstances.

As he flew towards Enoch, Castiel shuffled through worst-case scenarios, trying to prepare himself for what he'd encounter once he'd found Dean. Past experience told him the man had an unfortunate tendency to find himself in the middle of the most precarious aspects of a hunt. He didn't dare to hope that this time would be any different.

It wasn't.

As soon as his vessel's feet touched the ground in Enoch, he knew Behemoth was close. Extremely close. His lungs clenched and a blinding pain splintered across his forehead; he was temporarily blinded. When his vision cleared, he was breathing heavily, feeling wretchedly human. Sweat beaded on his skin, rushing to the surface. He was bound to the earth, grounded. All of his power, that natural to him being an angel and that gathered from souls, was gone.

This was not good. It went beyond not good, past bad and straight into terrible. Swallowing hard, he fought a wave of fear for Dean's well-being and gathered his bearings. It appeared he was at the side of a dusty road. To the left, there was a line of cars and motorcycles; to his right, a small one-story building with rotting siding and a weather-beaten sign proudly proclaiming Now Air-Conditioned next to a flashing neon sign advertising beer.

I believe I have found the bar, Castiel said to Sam, hoping that he would still be able to communicate with the hunter. It seemed his was not completely powerless, because almost instantly he received an answer.

Great, Sam replied, and Castiel could feel his relief trickle through the connection. But why are you telling me this? Grab 'em and get back here.

I...can't, Castiel admitted, and alarm spiked through Sam as the angel grimly said, I think it would be best if you summoned Balthazar. Tell him everything you know. He will be able to assist us. To himself he thought, I hope, but Sam heard him anyways.

You hope? Cas, what's—is Dean ok? Bobby?

I do not know, Cas said, and abruptly shut off their communication. He could feel Sam pounding at the back of his brain, demanding entrance, but Castiel shoved aside his concerns and focused on what was in front of him. A couple stumbled out of the bar, clutching each other tightly and laughing uproariously. They brushed past the angel without a second glance.

A third patron followed behind them, slightly more cognizant. He paused in the doorway, holding it open. When Cas didn't immediately move forward, the man slurred, "Hey, you going in or what?"

"Yes." Cas took a deep breath and walked forward. "Yes, I'm going in."

The interior was poorly lit, the air thick with cigarette smoke. He squinted past the crowd, scanning the back walls and furthest corners; if he was lucky, Bobby and Dean would be there, innocent still as to the destructive presence very nearby.

Bobby he spotted quickly. An unfamiliar man sat across a tiny table from him, gesturing with condensed movements that would signal to those who knew how to look that he was more than capable of taking care of himself. Dean, however, wasn't there. Another quick scan of the bar didn't reveal the man to Castiel's presence. He squashed a small flare of panic.

Focus, he told himself. Another steadying deep breath, and he concentrated on the connection he had with Dean, the connection he'd not allowed himself to open since overhearing the hunter while he was in the throes.

Dean's thoughts were muddled, but definitely present. A half-turn to the right, and—there. His relief was extremely short-lived. Shock stiffened his body and he felt his vessel's heart race as he saw who—what-was seated on the stool next to Dean. There was no mistaking Behemoth for anything other than what he was. If sluggish flow of energy funneling upwards from the earth itself into the man hadn't been indication enough, the vessel's commanding presence would have been more than enough to make Castiel suspicious. Just as Eve had needed a specific type of vessel, so would Behemoth, and the corded muscles and barely-leashed physicality of the being next to Dean perfectly matched the beast's needs.

The angel watched in rising horror as Behemoth inched closer to Dean and leaned down towards his ear. He saw one of the vessel's massive hands stroke down Dean's back in a possessive, encouraging manner, saw Dean drowsily nod his approval at whatever was being whispered to him. Practical reasoning flew out of his head, and in a handful of seconds, he'd rudely elbowed his way through the thick crowd to directly behind Behemoth.

"Get away from him."

It was rash, Castiel knew. There was no internal debate, though, no small voice screaming at him the foolishness of his behavior. He could have gone to Bobby and his friend and shepherded them to safety before engaging himself in this confrontation, but it was likely the hunters wouldn't have listened to his pleas to remove themselves. He could have waited until Behemoth's attention was drawn elsewhere, could have slipped next to Dean then and pulled the hunter's arm over his shoulder and to try walking him out the door. Any of those situations had too many variables, though, too many opportunities for failure. There was only one way (in the few seconds he thought about it) to increase Dean's chances of walking out of this bar alive from absolutely none to unlikely.

Behemoth straightened very, very slowly. The patrons closest to their trio hushed their conversations, sensing something was amiss. A few titillated gasps filtered their way, but they were unimportant. Behemoth turned around. Dark, dark eyes, the color of rich, freshly composted leaves affix themselves on the angel. Their owner smiles.

"Castiel," Behemoth said, pacing his words slowly, "Good of you to make it."

"Cas?" Dean asked, turning around on his stool. He clutched the counter behind him for support as he swayed in his seat. "Whattaya doing here?"

"Dean, are you okay?" He took a step towards the human. "Are you-"

Behemoth, Castiel had always read, was a slow and ponderous creature, incapable of quick movement or thought, just like the earth itself. This was incorrect. Behemoth, as it turns out, was capable of swift movement. Especially when someone was doing something he didn't like.

With a fleet, single open-handed slap, Behemoth cracked Castiel across the face. The force of the impact sent his body careening sideways through tables, chairs, and patrons, until it finally slammed into the wall. Nausea swelled through him as he choked, trying to pull air into his lungs but unable to do more than gasp.

There were a few screams and the roar of a shotgun blast followed by a crunch that could only mean one thing. Castiel prayed the shooter had not been Bobby. The sound of many feet moving quickly thundered through the high-pitched whine that pierced his ears as the patrons panicked, stampeding out of the bar. He spit and gasped, but still couldn't pull in any oxygen; blindly, he reached for something to pull himself up, but felt only shattered wood and broken glass.

Dean was shouting his name somewhere above his head. Castiel opened his eyes and looked up. Behemoth stood between Dean and the angel, and he was holding the man back with one arm. Dean struggled, and Behemoth laughed.

"Dean, go," he said, struggling into an upright position. Dean fought harder against the beast, but he was no match for Behemoth sober, let alone as inebriated as he was. "Go!" Castiel bellowed. Behemoth laughed again.

"Your pet is not the brightest, is he Castiel?" Behemoth laughed again. "Probably does not know, even now, what it is he sat beside. But I suppose you did not choose him for his intelligence." With a flex of his fingers, he pushed Dean backwards. The man tumbled over a tipped stool and fell, hard, on his backside.

"You lying sack of shit!" he shouted from his spot on the ground, face red with fury. "You fucker! You sit here all night, acting like a goddamned hunter, but you're just a fucking monster whose been killing innocent people!" Dean pulled out his pistol from the back of his jeans and aimed at the Behemoth's head.

Behemoth sneered, "Right, you're so upset that I faked being human. That's your entire problem here." The monster rolled his eyes toward Castiel, grinned wide, and leered back at Dean. "Lie to yourself, Dean? It's pathetic. But it won't matter in a few minutes when I tear off your dream lover's wings and make him eat them."

"Dean, c'mere!" Castiel heard Bobby say, and though he couldn't see the man from his spot on the floor, he was glad of this proof that he was present. Bobby would get Dean out of the bar and to safety, once he knew what it was they faced. He was not a hero in the same manner that Dean was; Bobby was closer in temperament to himself and now Sam. He'd do what needed doing to protect his own, even at the cost of others.

Glass crunched under boots as Behemoth advanced towards him. He leaned down and, with one meaty hand grasped Castiel by the neck, thick fingers biting painfully into the soft flesh just under his ears. Standing smoothly, he lifted the angel's body and playfully shook him. Castiel gurgled, hands instinctively scratching at the pressure, but Behemoth held him tight.

"No!" Dean yelled, and unloaded a full magazine of bullets into the back of Behemoth's skull. The shells imbedded themselves partway into Behemoth's skull, sticking there like they'd hit thick mud. He grunted at the impact but barely twitched. "Leave him alone, you asshole, with your...cowboy boots and...big muscles and your goddamned piece of shit hairdo!" When the bullets were gone, he reached for another magazine.

Behemoth stood there chuckling. He shook his head and the flattened casings pinged to the ground. "Pathetic," Behemoth said. "Dean Winchester, you are the most transparently repressed man I've ever met. Considering my age, that's really saying something." Then he looked back at Castiel, grinned, and tossed him.

He flew across the room like a doll tossed by a petulant child, crashing into a wall covered with saddles. The impact snapped something within, and Castiel cried out in pain. He forced his eyes open wide and gritted out, "Dean, go!" again, as if the man would somehow decide to listen this time, even though Castiel had already demanded that very same thing twice before. The hunter just continued to say his name, over and over again, wet, broken denials.

"This is a waste of my time and talent," Behemoth lamented. "And I do not even have the reward of splitting you asunder at the end; Raphael wants that honor for himself."

Sam, Castiel thought desperately, Balthazar-!

Unable to coherently transmit words in any language, Castiel thought very deliberately about the scene of carnage before him: the strewn tables, dead patrons, the gash that had somehow gotten across Dean's brow.

"There will be no more of that," Behemoth sneered, lifting his foot and very deliberately grinding the heel of his boot into Castiel's slack palm.

"Keep your thoughts to yourself, angel."

"Please," Castiel said, hating that he was reduced to begging, but knowing he would do much more than beg to ensure Dean's safety. Was already planning on doing more. If Sam and Balthazar had received his last message, they would have been here by now; it was up to him to get the hunters out alive. "Let them go. All of them," he stressed. "Do that, and I will go with you."

Behemoth chuckled; Castiel was really starting to hate that laugh. "You'll come with me anyways," he said. "What sort of incentive is that?"

"No, no, no," Dean whispered and moved toward the angel. "No, you can't die and leave me again."

Castiel looked up at Dean, saw the naked fear on the man's face, the way his lower lip trembled, and mouthed his name. Their eyes met and held. Dean's pleaded with him, but Castiel didn't withdraw his words or say he was sorry, because he wasn't. If sacrificing himself kept Dean safe, he'd never be sorry for it.

There was a loud boom behind them as the bar's door blew inward, right off the hinges. It landed with a clap. Balthazar strode into the room, furiously spinning a prayer wheel. Sam Winchester strode in behind him, a short, slender staff in his hand.

Balthazar struck a pose, which was quite the feat while spinning a prayer wheel. Grousing, he said, "All right, we know this is all bollocks, you've flexed your ginormous muscles and made us swoon. Can we just walk away from this now, a little sorer and wiser? I know I'd like to keep my jacket clean."

Behemoth paid him no mind and instead stared at Sam. "Samael?" he asked. He gave one long, slow blink, then turned back to Castiel. "Agreed," he said. The beast grabbed Castiel by the shoulder and then the floor was buckling underneath him as he was swallowed by the earth.

*~*~*~*~*

The sound of the earth splitting was nearly supersonic. The concussive force knocked everyone down, half-conscious and groaning. Castiel had vanished. Dean's gut clenched in shame and horror as he forced himself back to conciousness, the full impact of his short-lived bromance with good ol' Clay sinking. Because of his fear and anger, Castiel had been at a monster's mercy, and had been wisked away to face his murderous asshole brother without any sort of backup whatsoever.

Clay wiped his hands off on his jeans, and turned toward the remaining angel. Balthazar was on his knees and gasping but awake; he looked terrified.

"Look, I know what Raphael really wants, and I know where it is. I'll get it for him, if he lets Castiel go." He babbled desperately, his hand clutching at his chest as if in genuine pain. Dean felt a ripple of surprise at Balthazar's display; he hadn't been certain how the other angel really felt about Castiel, but it seemed there was genuine concern there. "Tell Raphael, please. He can have it. Just… don't hurt Castiel."

Clay pondered this for a long moment. "Sure. I can take it to him and give him your message."

There was no promise in that statement, and Dean knew it. But what else could they do? Whatever it was that Raphael wanted couldn't be good, but he wasn't going to stop Balthazar when there was a chance they could save his friend. Castiel would certainly die if they didn't do something, whereas he might live a little longer if the archangel was mollified. Castiel living was the only choice.

Of course there was the possibility that giving Raphael what he wanted would end in Armageddon for real this time, but as long as Castiel was alive there was hope.

Balthazar glared at him, and the angel didn't have to say a word for Dean to know what he was thinking. Castiel had sacrificed himself again for the hunter. He could almost hear Balthazar say, When will you get the magnitude of the situation, you damn hairless ape? Bloody never. What he did say was, "I should smite you right now. I would, if I thought Cassie would ever forgive me for it."

Clay stood waiting, mostly patient. Balthazar turned away and sighed. "Look," he said to the Behemoth, "I can't get it while your power is hindering me. I'll have to walk down the street before I can wing myself away, just so you know why I'm leaving. Okay?"

The monster nodded, crossing his arms and leaning against a bar counter than looked like it had just barely survived an earthquake. Dean watched Balthazar sigh again and turn on his heel.

"You are all so very foolish," Clay said conversationally. "The things you do out of sentiment and emotion astound me."

Beside him, Sam groaned, and Dean looked over. Sammy would be fine, he told himself. He had to be; nothing else was an option. Bobby was still slack further on, and Dean looked away. He couldn't think of Bobby possibly being seriously hurt. Not right now.

Less than a minute later, Balthazar returned with a large long sack, which Clay took before he clapped his enormous meathook hands together and vanished into the same hole that had swallowed Cas.

Dean stood, reaching over to the other hunters to help them, but now that Balthazar had his full strength back... "Help these guys out, will ya?" Balthazar rolled his eyes but nodded, tapping each in turn (even Dean), healing them of any wounds and speeding their general recovery.

"Fine, we're all in one piece, I see. Now, if I'm not longer needed I'll be off to catch up with my fellow angels who don't want the earth to be destroyed, see if we can possibly find Raphael's hideout before he blows his Trumpet and kills us all, shall I?"

Dean gaped at the angel, and shouted, "What the hell did you do?"

Balthazar glowered. "I have given Castiel a fighting chance at not being ripped into shreds, that's what I did, you monkey. Try digging in that thick skull and see if a brain cell that isn't swimming in alcohol can be found, and tell it to get a goddamn clue. Goodbye." The angel winged away with a flutter than literally sounded pissed off.

Dean whipped his head around, as if desperate to find Castiel only buried in the rubble and not actually gone. Sam was at his side, gripping his shoulders, and shaking him until he met Sam's eyes.

"Dean, okay, it's bad. Balthazar may have bought us some time, but I really don't believe it's going to hold, so—"

"No shit?" Dean snapped, batting Sam's hands away and stumbled out of the decimated building, past Bobby and Vern who'd already escaped into the parking lot. He stopped to the Impala, flung open the trunk and started digging way in the back. A box, a very familiar box, was in his hand when he slammed the trunk shut and strode for the driver's door.

"No way in hell, Dean!" Sam yelled, running toward his brother. "No demons! No deals!"

Dean's eyes nearly seared Sam's flesh when he stared at him. "Shut the fuck up, and either help me find a crossroads or get the hell out of my way."

Chapter Six>>

*~*~*~*~*

Author's Notes:

The pattern Behemoth laid the bodies out in spells his name in Hebrew. For an idea of what the formation would look like, this is his name: 

בהמות

Dean's dream in which Castiel's belt turns into a snake is based loosely on the Staves of Moses and Aaron, which turned into snakes to convince the Egyptian Pharaoh the truth of Godly miracles. More info on them can be found here.

Enoch, Utah, and Lake Powell, Utah, are real towns, and their approximate distances apart are what we listed in the story. Another fun fact: Enoch really doesn't have any crossroads, at least from what we can tell on Google maps.

Lake Powell is a resort town at a man-made lake. Go here for more info.

The boots Clay the Behemoth wears are based on these.