Angel Unaware

Summary:

Poppie and her father mourned Dean four long months, but when he's pulled from the depths of hell with only a hand print shaped scar the hunters are thrust into the search for answers. What will happen when they come face to face with the Angel who pulled him out? And what is this blue light emanating from him?

A sisfic about Bobby Singer's daughter, CasxOFC.

Chapter One- Back in the Saddle Again

Ridin` the range once more

Totin` my old .44

Where you sleep out every night

And the only law is right

Back in the saddle again

September 18th, 2008

Poppie Singer nervously tweaked the cold metal of the engine. She methodically checked and rechecked her spark plugs, the intake valve, injector and alternator. Her car was fine, but she wasn't. A deep sigh escaped her lips before she gave the car one last glance, willing to find something new to fix. When her search came up fruitless, she carefully removed the prop and clicked the hood down. The car dipped under her weight smoothly as she turned to lean against it and let her eyes sweep lazily over the littered junk yard.

She felt her mind drift back to the night before, or maybe it was early morning. A strong energy had ripped through her chest and pulled her from a deep sleep. It pulled the air from her lungs and sounded like a choir of voices that cut through the silent night and directly into her as she sat upright in darkness. Dean Winchester lives.

"Pops?" A gruff voice pierced through the hot afternoon and caused her to snap harshly in its direction. A flash of blond and clank of metal gave way under her fear as her body tensed into the car for leverage. The same deep voice gave a throaty laugh as he approached, "It's just me, Poppie. Really me." His green eyes cruised over her body; tall, leaner then he remembered and wrapped just right in an aged white t-shirt that read 'Singer Salvage' in generously placed red letters. His fingers twitched a little as he fought the urge to just reach out and wrap his arms around her. Her ice blue eyes were wrapped in dark circles, the panic in them broke his weary heart.

"No," The woman who met him practically inch or inch felt her face fall slack at the very sight of him. "The… the voices." Dean stepped toward the woman, his brow creasing.

"What voices?" His eyes were dark with concern and Poppie's stiffened muscles leapt into action, a knife pulled from her pocket as she fought to connect the silver blade to this creature's neck.

"What are you?" She demanded, knocking him into a nearby car where his head landed hard against a dirty window. "I asked. What. Are. You?!" Her face was inches from this... Was it a shapeshifter? A ghoul? They had buried Dean instead of giving him a hunter's funeral. It could be anything and it would be their own damn fault. It even smelled exactly like the Dean she remembered; gun powder and whiskey.

He watched her face and as it twisted and studied his own. It had been decades for him, but she hardly looked any older. Skinnier, more exhausted maybe but, "How long?" She didn't have enough time to respond before another voice pulled her attention to the back porch of her home.

"Poppie Ann!" Bobby echoed against the vast lot of cars. "It's really him!" The sound of her father's voice stopped her dead, but she didn't release the man in her grasp until she saw the red line soaking through an old rag wrapped around his arm.

"Dean?" Her voice was weaker than before and disbelief dripped from her strangled word.

"The one and only." The hunter gave a cocky grin and pushed himself away from the car. Poppie moved her hands to clasp tightly around his arms, her eyes studying the man at arms-length in front of her. She recalled the hundred or so nights she had woken up in a cold sweat, the dreams of him leaching from her vision only as the harsh reality of his death filled it.

"Summer of 95. I saved you from that douche-clown and you confessed your overpowering sexual desire for me." Dean lifted his eyebrows and ran his arm around her waist, pulling her into him and smiling widely at the woman.

She almost didn't dare to move from that position or even blink. She couldn't remember falling asleep, but she was sure this couldn't be real. Dean Winchester was dead, ripped to shreds and dragged to hell four months ago, she had seen it. She helped bury his body. Wait a minute, what did he just say? She ripped from his embrace, a sour glare twisting her face. His smile didn't falter.

"Oh, my fucking god, Dean! I was sloshed! It was disgusting, you're disgusting and-"

"Relax, sweetheart. You know it has to be me, right?" He lifted his eyebrow again and Poppie punched him square in the gut. He doubled over as a pained grunt escaped his lips. The young Singer pulled him upright and snaked her arms tightly around his neck in an unexpected turn of emotion. She squeezed him so hard it choked the breath out of him faster than the solid punch she had just administered to his stomach.

He heard a soft, choking sound from his neck and she looked up with tear-filled eyes. "But how?"

"I don't know, but I intend to find out." Dean said with unquestionable determination, leading the woman he considered a sister toward the house. "How…" He stopped he wasn't sure how much to say, they couldn't know he remembered. None of them. "How long was I under?" They crossed the threshold of the kitchen; the stale scent of dust, old books and bourbon filled her nose. She looked over him with a sympathetic glance.

"About four months. It's September now. Same year."

"When's the last time you heard from Sammy, Pops?" Dean changed the subject, an edge to his voice that she couldn't miss. They walked the rest of the way into the study, and the older Winchester sat at Bobby's ancient computer.

"Any time we chased him down, he went further underground." It wasn't a lie and she hoped he didn't see through her, "He called last week though. He didn't say where he was, but he mentioned the Grand Canyon at some point. He was drunk, and sloppy." It also wasn't a lie. She pursed her lips and looked up into tense eyes with her own tensions pooling in the pit of her stomach. Her breath released when he seemed to move on.

"You got a phone on you?" Poppie slipped her cell phone out of her pocket and tossed it to him. Her Dad entered the room and handed out a round of beer.

"Crazy, ain't it? These boys just don't stay down." His intention was the lighten the mood, but they only stared at each other in utter disbelief. When Dean began dialing, she dared a look down his body. She had been certain to find some kind of reminder from his departure into Hell, but he looked as good as he had the morning he went under. Maybe better.

With a swimming head, Poppie made her way back into the kitchen, setting her beer onto the table. Her mind was still racing but she couldn't quite figure out how this had happened. Her elbows found the table as she leaned her weight onto them and placed her hands to rub over her temples. They had spent the past four months scouring every book at every library, internet databases and even badgered every hunter they had ever met, but they never came close to getting Dean back. It was impossible.

"We're going to get Sam, stay here and watch the phones." Bobby's weathered face popped into the kitchen doorway and pulled her from her thoughts.

"I'm not staying here." She stood up and started out, her fingers laced around the jagged edges of the car keys before Bobby or Dean had a chance to argue. The blond had made it to the sky blue Buick and started into the driver's seat out of habit when she stole a quick look at Dean from his place on the porch. Guilt racked her stomach as she thought of his four months down under. She tossed the keys at him. "Please don't crash?"

A few moments later, Dean gingerly regained his bearings at the wheel and sped off toward the location the phone operator had given him. Everyone's mind was turning, but no one spoke. Trees whizzed by as Poppie watched out the window from the backseat and passed the time trying to process the ridiculous situation she was in.

Dean died, and yet, here she was in the back seat as he drove them all to Sam. Who had also died. It was easy to figure out Sam's incredible recovery when Dean stalked guiltily back into Bobby's that day. When Lilith had cornered them and sent her hounds to collect Dean, it had seemed so final. Her stomach sunk with the realization that she may have to see another brother dragged into Hell with no way to protect him.

It was only recently she had started to accept the brothers absence as the new normal; the nightmares of Dean's death, waking up to remember he was gone. Poppie and her father had mourned him as their own and tried to live everyday with his wishes in mind. It was why Sam's ]had been so hard on her.

They pulled into an innocuous looking hotel and Poppie was relieved for a change of thought. The motel was nicer than their usual M.O. but Sam had always preferred a little more cushion. It didn't take much for them to bribe the tired receptionist and soon they walked the hallway.

Poppie's worry grew with each step. Dean and Bobby knocked on the door as she stood back a few steps, breath held tight and hand over the hilt of the knife hidden in her waist band.

"So, where is it?" A brunette clad in underwear and a tight undershirt opened the door. Bobby and Dean were silent as they shared a look. A cinderblock locked into Poppie's stomach and her vision blurred.

"Where is what?" Dean asked, leaning in to turn on the charm.

"The pizza it took three people to deliver?" Her sarcasm was thick, but it was the black aura emanating from her that had Poppie on the verge of puking. A black shadow seemed to seep from the half dressed woman. The young hunter rubbed her eyes and looked away, sure it was a trick of flickering hotel lighting and an incoming migraine.

"I think we have the wrong room."

"Dean?" The gigantic form took a step into the door way and froze, his muscles tight and still, ready to pounce at the next sound. Sam looked disheveled, his own body in a state of undress.

"Hey, Sammy." Dean said after he took two slow steps into the room. His younger brother's deer in headlights look vanished into a flash of anger as he jumped the newly free man with the closest weapon he could grab. Bobby jumped in to pull the boys a part, but Sam was adamant.

"What are you?"

"Like you didn't do this?" The older brother struggled to get the leg up, but four months of running and hunting gave the Sasquatch an advantage.

"Do what?!"

"Sam, we've both been through this already, it's really him!" Poppie finally spoke with a shaky voice as the shady woman excused herself from the room. Sam's brown eyes flashed to the previously unnoticed person in the entry way, and his muscles froze with unease. Dean noticed the shift in energy and he didn't like it.

"How?" Sam finally stuttered as he pulled away and Dean couldn't help but break out into an almost giddy grin, letting the strain between the two drop from his radar momentarily.

"I know I look fantastic, huh?" His words sounded like the shit-eating grin on his lips. The young Singer watched the interaction and relaxed in a way she hadn't in months. Something about the brother's reunion made the world feel a bit less cold and unforgiving.

Poppie Singer. Her head shot toward the still open hotel room door, and her eyes scanned the empty hallway.

"Did you guys hear-" She cut herself off when her name came again and no one budged. A magnetic pull shifted her weight and down the dimly lit corridor. Lights flashed as the voice returned, Poppie Singer, you must protect yourself. Stop Sam Winchester. It was coming from everywhere, but when Bobby's gruff accent pierced the hallway, the message stopped. "Poppie Ann?"

"Dad, did you hear that?" She continued to search.

"Hear what? The sound of my own voice trying to find your idjit ass? Yes, I did." He huffed under his breath about these damn-fool kids as she reentered behind him to a stand-off between the Winchesters. They argued but Poppie was too distracted to listen.

The room was full of energy, and the air was thick. She struggled to take it all into her lungs, but just as she adjusted, the thickness was sucked from the room and her stomach tried to go with it. Stars filled her vision as she hit the couch hard, the familiar black tunnel of unconsciousness threatening to consume her.

"Poppie?" Bobby jumped to her side, but she simply shook her head and the feeling was gone.

"I'm... I'm fine." She shot up from her place, "I just need some air. Who was that chick anyway, Sam?" Before he could answer, or anyone could protest, Poppie fled the motel. The contents of her stomach lurched onto the sidewalk with a disgusting splash, and her vision blurred as her balance shifted. Her hands hit the stone side walk right before she smashed her face into the cement.

The world continued to spin when she pulled herself back onto her feet and wiped her mouth onto her sleeve. Her mind crawled with regret, but her feet continued to pull her farther from the motel as fast as she could go. To a passerby she probably looked drunk off her ass and she shivered as she contemplated the idea that someone or thing may find her in this weakened state before she could lock herself into her backseat.

The blonde's shaky fingers pushed clumsily into her pocket, and she fought to pull the cell phone out before the darkness completely engulfed her vision.

The next flash of light held the pain of the wet asphalt as it connected with her head. Plastic cracked as her phone skidded onto the damp street, the pieces separating and rendering her last chance for help useless. She struggled to pull her hands under her abdomen to push herself up, but the weight was too much.

Someone please, please help me.

She begged as a bright blue light filled her vision and a thick, humid heat enveloped her body. She had always imagined that death would be cold, but it was so fitting that in her last moments the sensation she surrendered herself to was searing comfort.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING, RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING

Poppie threw herself up right, gasping for air. Soft fabric ripped as her hands violently pulled at the surface her body had been resting on. The scent of dust and bourbon bombarded her senses and pulled her eyes open. Dingy papered walls cradled her in an impossible relief. Her own dingy papered walls.

"Dad? Dad?!" She screamed, jumping out of the bed and running into the library, the sounds of the phones still blaring. Poppie remembered Dean, the hotel where Sammy was at…Did any of it really happen? Dean had been a recurrent subject in her dreams, but it had all seemed so real. The house was empty, but it was definitely her house. She attempted to shake the bugs from her mind, but when she did her shirt tugged at the motion, glued to her skin with a thick, sticky but familiar liquid. Her feet urgently pulled her toward the dusty mirror in the entry way. Half-dried blood stained her blond hair and whitened her skin even more in contrast. Slowly she lifted her fingers over a knot matted to her temple. She flinched, expecting pain to shoot from the wound, but when she gingerly peeled it from her skin, the area was completely unmarked.

Dark and clouded skies shown through the windows as the woman retraced her steps and into the kitchen. The oven read 10:01 PM, and she was sure she had lost an entire day. Her memory flashed blue warmth, but it was all she could recall from right before she blacked out. Panic filled her lungs instead of air, and for the first time in many years all she wanted was her Dad. Poppie pulled the still ringing phone off its holder, smashed her thumb onto the plunger, and hurriedly dialed his cell number.

"Uh. Hello?" His voice was raspy and incredulous as he answered the call from his own home phone.

"Dad?" Poppie betrayed her, the word coming out in three octaves.

"Poppie?! Where the hell are you? You can't possibly be in Sioux Falls right now." Bobby wide eyed his hotel room clock, showing it hadn't even been an hour since his daughter fled the hotel like a spooked cat.

"I am! I don't know how I got here but I'm covered in blood and I... I don't think it's mine. I mean, I think it's mine, but I'm not wounded. The last thing I remember is Dean walking on to the yard like he hadn't even been dead and going to find Sam. Then I woke up here and I must have lost an entire day. Where are you? I'm okay, but I'm freaked out." She finished while pulling at her shirt and struggling it over her head and the phone to rid herself of the horrific reminder.

"You haven't lost a day, you've barely been gone forty-five minutes. I'm coming home now." He flung himself up from the bed and grabbed his still packed bag, making for the boys' room across the hall. Before he reached the door, a loud shrill noise shook the building from inside the room. "Dean!?" He yelled, but no response, "Poppie, honey, I'm coming but there's something happening here. Please be safe, lock yourself in the safe room if you have to." The line went dead.

Finally taking a deep breath in, Poppie settled her thoughts while flipping on every light in the house. If something was going to come after her, she at least wanted to see it. Her fear pulled her toward the basement, but the flecks of blood that littered her chest pushed her up the stairs. If whatever had brought her here wanted her dead, she would be dust by now.

She went into her room, shutting and locking the heavy wooden door behind her. The life-long hunter covered the room in salt and made sure the devil's trap she had painted into the carpet was intact. When she was satisfied with her work, she peeled the rest of her clothes off and threw them onto the floor before going into her attached bathroom.

Her fingers found the light switch in the dark and when she flipped it on, she recoiled at her own reflection. She had seen the blood downstairs but a hand print wrapped around her shoulder made her want to scream. It was like she had been slapped by a hand shaped cattle brand, the edges lifted slightly, and the mark was bright pink. It wasn't placed the same as Dean's, it looked more like someone had cradled her. Poppie barely had the courage to run her thumb over the mark, almost afraid it would some how summon the creature, but her fingers slid over the mark gently. It didn't hurt like a fresh burn should.

Steam spilled from behind the shower door as she entered it. Shampoo and blood mixed as she took the time to massage every inch of her body until the water ran clear. It didn't take long to towel off and when she walked back in front of the mirror, the hand print stopped her again. Over the course of her shower some places had already started to fade into a fine white scar, like it had been healing for months.

She quickly dressed in one of her father's old t shirts and climbed into her newly ripped covers. A defeated sigh left her lips and she fingered the shreds of the quilt her grandmother had made before she was born. She rolled over and let her thoughts run wild, deciding that tonight she would sleep with her light on.

The Next Day.

Poppie scooted around the corner of the kitchen in a sleepy daze, her bones whined in protest as her muscles struggled to move their mass. Her father had called while she was asleep and left a message saying they were stopping by Pam's before heading home. But then Dean left another telling her the psychic's eyes had been burned out of her skull by something called a Castiel and they were staying until she woke up.

Evening had broken without any more news, and she calmed herself by remembering that both boys had already beaten death and that her father had hunted almost everything out there at least once. Her fingers dumbly followed their best recollection of how to brew a cup of coffee as her thoughts flitted drowsily. The scent of bitter caffeinated salvation filled her nose with hot hope. While she didn't have any bruises or cuts, her muscles were soft and hard to move. The warmth of the liquid passed over her lips and soothed the distraught woman.

She would start her research around creatures that could inject words into the mind. It hadn't sounded male or female, and she couldn't describe it in any particular way except it felt like her own thoughts manipulated by someone else. Next, she would look for something that left a hand print shaped scar on its victims. Was she a victim? It seemed like whatever they were dealing with, it saved her and Dean.

The sound of fluttering fabric in her father's study caused her muscles to tense and automatically pull the gun from the fake bottom of a kitchen drawer. Her toes inched closer to the doorway, her brain finally alert and ears open. The sight of an intruder sent her into a battle stance, "Who are you?" Her voice was strong and confident despite her growing fear and she was relieved that her muscles weren't shaking under the weight of the hand gun.

"I am Castiel. Do not be concerned, I mean you no harm."

She looked at him with narrowing eyes and took in the man in the raggedy trench coat. Hewas the one who hurt Pamela? The air around this man, this being, was as warm as the coffee she could still taste on her tongue. It was heavy, expectant, and she couldn't believe it but there was a beautiful shimmer of blue emanating from every angle of him. Involuntarily she shook her head, but the light stayed. "You're the one who brought me home last night. Why? How did we get back here so fast? How do you know where I live?"

"I am an Angel of the Lord." His voice rasped as if he hadn't used it in years, his arms stayed limply at his sides. Blue eyes watched her with an intensity that made her blood start to boil, she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

"You're... an Angel? Like a 'John 3:16' Angel?" She asked with less confidence and held her ground, inching back when he leaned in a little closer.

He nodded, "I spoke to you at the hotel."

"That was you?" She stopped and looked him over again, "The voices from the other night, too?"

"What voices?"

"What happened last night?" She countered. The light from him glittered like the bottom of a clear swimming pool. It refracted from subtle moves, changed constantly and almost vanished if you looked straight at him. It reminded her of the darkness that surrounded the girl in Sam's room.

"I had not yet found a vessel. Dean could not hear my true voice, so I attempted another avenue. When I realized I had overpowered you, I brought you home to rest. I healed your wounds when I found you."

"You burned Pamela's eyes from the inside out. Can you fix that, too?" At that she flashed a glance back to his face and suddenly became aware of how close she had gotten without noticing. Her fingers twitched around the trigger of her still outstretched gun.

"I cannot. Her injuries were caused by exposure to Angel grace, I warned her not to look." He spoke simply. "That gun won't hurt me."

"Call it a security blanket." Poppie said with a dry smile. She geared up for a fight, but Castiel just kept looking at her as if she was the unknown intruder in his home. She quirked her eyebrow, "Why are you here?"

"I have been tasked with keeping you safe." He spoke as if he was explaining the most obvious thing in the world.

"Since when?" She started to lower the weapon when the Angel's head whipped to the right and the sudden movement had the hunter aimed precisely at his chest.

"I must go. Heaven calls."

She started to protest but before she could open her mouth, the Angel was gone. After a moment she sighed and dropped the gun to her side. What were they getting into?