Dean’s knees throbbed, ground down into the cold, unforgiving dirt like he was being punished. His jeans were caked with blood and ash, the stale scent of sulfur curling in his nostrils. Firelight flickered against the jagged ruins of the barn, throwing long shadows that danced like ghosts, and he could still taste smoke in the back of his throat.

It was Thursday night—he should’ve been home by now. Home. Pajama pants, a beer in hand, some shitty sitcom playing in the background while Sam read the kids to sleep, maybe Cas curled up somewhere quiet. But no. Instead, here he was—knuckles split open from punching through salt-stained wood, lips cracked from dry prayers muttered over and over to a heaven that hadn’t listened in years.

His hands were pressed together so tight the blood glued them at the creases, the crust of it dark and flaking. He’d prayed—begged—for what felt like hours, each plea sounding more like a curse than a prayer. Not a single wingbeat answered. Nothing but the soft, cruel hum of the fire eating away what little shelter they had left.

Sam was bleeding out in the next room—he could hear the shallow rattling breath, could feel the clock winding down. Cas was out of commission again, grace flickering like a dying lightbulb. Crowley? Out of the question. And heaven? Useless. Same as ever.

Dean wasn’t surprised. Just tired. Disgusted. His knees screamed as he rose, muscles stiff, exhaustion making him sway. His hands hovered over the fire, ready to stamp it out and walk back into the bloodbath, find some half-assed Hail Mary to bring Sammy back again—hell, he’d done worse.

That’s when he heard it.

A low flutter, like wings slicing through the air—not soft, not sweet, but heavy, like the world shivered just to make space.

Dean’s lips twisted into a snarl before he even turned. “You angels,” he spat, voice rough like gravel, “you’re really shitty at your jobs, you know that?”

He opened his eyes, expecting Gabriel maybe—Sam’s old celestial drinking buddy. Or even Balthazar, if God was feeling ironic.

But it wasn’t them.

You stood there instead. Wings stretched like shadows against the firelight. Too still, too ancient. Dean remembered the name—he’d heard Cas mention you once or twice, always with that same tight, reverent pride that never sat right on the angel’s shoulders. Castiel’s older sibling. Great.

Dean didn’t move for a moment. Just stared, jaw clenched, breath fogging in the cold night air. Then he stood up fully, the motion stiff, like his bones had to remember how.

He brushed the dust off his jacket lazily, but the look in his eyes was razor sharp. Like a man with nothing left to lose. Like a soldier with one bullet and no orders.

“Alright, birdy,” he growled, pulling the angel blade from his coat with slow finality, letting the firelight catch on the edge. “This can go one way or another.”

His grip tightened.

“Sammy—my brother—got a little too roughed up on that hunt. So here’s the deal.” He pointed the blade, not at you, but at the barn. At the dying heartbeat inside. “You give us one of those divine light shows—heal him up, slap a Band-Aid of heaven on it—and you walk out of here untouched.”

A pause. His voice dropped lower, darker.

“Don’t? And I swear to God, angel or not—I’ll find a way to kill you.”