Bobby sighs, taking one last look down the hallway and shakes his head at the other Winchester he considers a son as well.

The hell's gotten into Sam? He sure as shit ain't acting like himself.

I'mana hafta set his ass straight. Sam, Sam, Sam…Boy… if ya only knew what Dean sacrificed for you. What he did FOR you.

Aw, Dean. Damn it. I love that boy sumthin fierce. Shoulda been me raisin' him not that bastard John.

And boy did John Winchester fuck Dean up bad.

I should really tell Dean how much I love'm. Much as he says he hates 'chick flick moments', he loves 'em. Jus' won't admit it a'course. He needs ta know though.

What a stupid old man ya are, Bobby. Yellin' at the kid about expressin' his feelings when all we've ever dun is try'n'get his damn high walls down enough to tell us how he feels. Damn it all, but I'm the biggest idjit of 'em all!

Shoulda taken those two from John the minute I saw the pained, soulful green eyes of a four-year-old with the world on his too tiny shoulders, holding his baby brother.

Bobby washes his face with his hands, the tips of his fingers tipping his cap up slightly. He can't walk down the path of 'what if'. He's done it before and all the good it did was illuminate his failures through the looking glass of a tipped up bottle.

Bobby readjusts his ball cap and thoughts to the here and now.

And there ain't nuthin good about now either.


Damn it, son, what ina hell has got ya now.

As if his heart couldn't break any more for Dean. The damn finest man Bobby has ever known. Better'n him. Better than John. Better'n Sam. Dean doesn't even know his worth. And that boy in no way deserves any of the agony life has heaped his way.

And then there's Cas…

Castiel Angel of The Lord. Bobby rolls eyes as far back as he can. Be damned if Cas didn't worm his way into Bobby's heart as well. Friggin' angel… Angel who just happens to need Dean as much as Dean needs him.


Cas and Dean.

"Double balls!"

Those two idjits are head over

heels, halo over wings for each other—hell they've been for a long damn time—and how the shit neither of'em figured it out, Bobby will never know.

Well, more like one knuckleheaded hunter who won't ADMIT—hells bells, ALLOW— himself to admit how he feels about Cas.

Bobby is fairly certain, actually 100% positive, Cas knows how Cas feels about Dean.

It's just Dean then. Stubborn, stubborn, pig-headed, selfless, self-loathing…



It hits Bobby like a ton a bricks: Dean doesn't think he's worthy of being loved; therefore the very idea that someone could, in fact, love him, is beyond comprehension. It doesn't even settle in as a possibility.

Fucking God damn you, John!

Only Dean. Dean who has so much love to give, thinks he is undeserving of the very love he so generously gives away.

Only Dean could make an 'Angel of the Lord' fall(more ways 'en'one) in love with him.

And only Dean could be completely oblivious about it while at the same time return the feeling wholeheartedly, but not understand it, then berate himself for it, deny it, and end up even more clueless.

And then suffer needlessly for it.

How'n'a'hell does the kid not know?!

Hell, everyone else knows! Heaven and Hell alike!

Shit. Hell. Does that mean JOHN KNOWS?!

An'if he does…Dean is gunna be ina world a…

No way. Even IF John knows, ain't shit he can do.


But how'n'a'hell are Cas and Dean the only two who DON'T know.


The whole damn lot of 'em.

Bobby rolls his eyes.

Bobby looks as Cas.

Bobby rolls his eyes again.

Fucking Cas.

Feathered idjit.

And be damned if that Halo ain't look'n'like a lost puppy. An'll bet the house he's reflectin'ona certain comment about a certain hunners feel'ns 'bout ' im

Bobby appraises Cas and snorts, amused at the befuddled expression the Angel probably has no idea he's making.

Damn feathered fool should jus tell Dean. Lord knows the poor damn kid needs someone to take care of 'im. That boy needs someone who can demolish his damn high walls and love him unconditionally in the way he needs it. And that is definitely Cas. Damn it all! Dean ain't even aware of how damned obvious he is when it comes ta how badly he needs Cas.

Bobby huffs as he walks over to the mini bar.

Castiel only 'hears' Bobby's thought of 'Cas' befuddled expression and how very amusing Bobby finds it', because Bobby is projecting very, very loudly. Stress, Castiel observes, before he finally severs his glare from the hallway, to fix it upon the elder hunter. Castiel, unable to reign in his wrath, bites out an icy, "You find this amusing?", with an upward inflection of disbelief, instead of the emotionless acknowledgement he had so hoped to portray. Embarrassing. Capillaries engorge and color his cheeks 'Annoying Red', (Dean's voice. ), against his will, so Castiel flips the script (Dean's voice again. ), narrowing stormy blues at Bobby's back, closing the gap between them before Bobby can finish his blink, Castiel imagines, and oh how that thought "amuses" Castiel to no end, as he now stands directly behind Bobby.

To his credit Bobby doesn't even flinch; he's far more concerned with seeking out that certain…


… bottle…

… or is decanter of old ass bourbon?

Whatever and who the hell cares what the damned thing is called!


There you are!

Bobby's fingers deftly dance over crystal until they flush out their query.

Castiel pouts at the distinct LACK of flinch, Castiel had hoped to achieve from Bobby.

Bobby, knowing Cas as well as he does, is absolutely positive he disappointed the angel when he didn't flinch. Bet that ruffled yer feathers! And so Bobby does what Bobby does best: ( 'Cept for drink and scold his boys a'course), roll his eyes. Got dang angels! 'Course Cas just hasta pop up on his ass. Cue eye roll.

Bobby rolls his eyes.

Not one to be deterred when it comes to flushing out his liquid prey, Bobby picks up that elusive bourbon, and removes its top. Holding the amber nectar in his right hand, heavy crystal top in his left, pissy angel on his six, Bobby gazes longingly at the decanters mate: a forlorn tumbler looking for all the world that its waiting
patiently for Bobby To Pour! Or not to pour!

You and me both.

Bobby pauses to mouth: Almost there, hunny at the now impatient tumbler before addressing said pissy angel on his six without turning around.

Bobby turns his head ever so slightly toward his right shoulder and bites out, "Hysterical, princess."

Castiel sighs heavily sensing the sarcasm. He turns his gaze upward, chin sticking out in a pout. "My apologies, Bobby. I… I'm just… beside myself…."

Bobby lays the crystal top down and snorts again.

Me too, Cas. But instead of saying that, Bobby donates the unchick-flick-y version of his thoughts, "No fucking shit." Bobby then pours himself a generous four fingers of…

Bobby closes his eyes, bringing the tumbler right under his nose. He inhales deeply, nose following the edge of the glass.

Oh yeah…

Bobby may drink cheap as shit hooch, but that don't mean he ain't a connoisseur of fine bourbon. No it does not.

My favorite… Maker's Mark. Oldest damn bourbon made still kicking.

The "Connoisseur" gives a silent 'thank you' to the Samuels Family on his exhale.

Comforted now by imbibe, Bobby softens and offers, "I know, Cas." Bobby opens his eyes and gently places the decanter back from whence it came, following it up with an appreciative taste of his ambrosia. Bobby tips the glass toward his mouth in preparation for yet another taste when he abruptly ceases the motion, suddenly—urgently—feeling the need to tell Cas that yes, Dean does requite Cas' feelings, "It's true, ya know."

A beat.

Bobby pokes further. "How Dean feels abo—"

Castiel abruptly cuts Bobby off, because Castiel just. Can't. Won't. Can't. Sparring thoughts torture him. I can't go there now. I cannot. Too much at stake. Dean's life. Dean's LIFE is at stake and I need to focus. I need to... I need to not even consider the possibility that Dean could...that Dean...that Dean might very well requite my love.

Castiel cannot, and will not, be distracted by futile hope. Matter settled. He begins to address Bobby once again, "I… I am… I will be going to Dean's room now. I need…"

I need... I need Dean. I need to lay on his bed… I… Father help me… I need my human. I need him so badly… How is this even possible? How have I fallen for him? Well I don't give a flying fucking rats ass how; I just am, damn it! Castiel smiles inwardly, amused his inner monologue, along with some conscious thought, continues sounding like Dean. Castiel musings are interrupted by a throat clearing, and he scrambles for purchase on a ledge he had no knowledge of stepping onto, and so he responds stupidly, "…for… for…"

"Guidance?" Bobby supplies, his eyebrows going up in that—smirk-sarcastic-gee-ya-think?—kinda way.

"Something like that, yes." Castiel leaves Bobby with a sad smile in farewell.

Bobby rolls his eyes again when he hears Cas' wings flap. Will he ever stop rolling them?

Not likely with these idjits.

"Okay… Let's have us a chat with Sam then…"Heaving a great sigh Bobby finishes the bourbon in a shot and decides to go in search of the youngest Winchester.

Bobby barely turns to head off when he pauses. He looks back at the bourbon remembering he never replaced the top.

Guess my mind is telling me something.

"Better listen then." He replaces the top, grabs two tumblers, and the bourbon, then heads off to find Sam.

"Hello and good morning, Dean! I trust you have slept well?" Rachel struts over to her…


Perhaps not.




Yes that will do nicely.

This worthless, pathetic…. filth… abomination—human—stole Castiel from her and ruined her life.

And the lives of her brothers and sisters.

So now it is Rachel's turn.

It's her turn to hurt—to destroy—Castiel for all the insurmountable pain he inflicted on their kind. On her.

And there is only one way, one delightful way, to hurt Castiel.

It has been said that a true warrior attacks not the body, but the heart.

Rachel is a true warrior.

Rachel is going to lay waste with angelic wrath the likes of which have never been seen. She is, after all, a woman scorned.

She will lay waste to Castiel by attacking his heart. His soul.

And she will accomplish this by annihilating, in the most profoundly agonizing way possible, The Righteous Man (ha!) Castiel raised from perdition.



Her Pet.

She slowly circles Dean, sizing up her prey; lips that elegantly coordinate with her Pet's blood snake up her face into an icy smirk.

"Oh don't tell me that the great Dean Winchester passed out from pain!" Rachel's tone turns mocking and she throws in a pout just for the hell of it. "Awww…. Poor, poor baby. Poor wittle Deanie Weenie. Did a wittle itsy bitsy girl like me hurt the big ol'mean Deanie Weenie wiff a wittle baby peepee? Huh, baby boy?"

Waiting for a reaction without receiving one sets her Grace boiling and she snaps, snarling out, "Well that really won't do at all!"

Furious, Rachel balls her fists at her sides. She roars savagely and stomps her navy colored, Steve Madden pump clad foot on the concrete floor, snapping the heel clean off. What are you? A petulant child? No! No I'm not! I'm not! Well now she really seems like one with all that inner whining. Whatever. Rachel flips her hair back and bends at the knees with a snarl as she snatches her broken heel—broken four inch stiletto heel—up from the concrete. She glares menacingly at the offending heel in her palm until an idea snaps her attention to the real object of her enmity.

A switch flips as she glowers at Dean, and just like that, Rachel regains her composure. She plucks a wayward strand of ash blonde hair from the lapel of her now
immaculate, expertly tailored, navy colored Armani suit. Rachel flicks the discourteous hair away with a sneer before she grabs the bottom of her suit jacket and tugs downward to straighten it out. "There. Much better."

Rachel considers the broken heel in her palm, gaze flicking between the heel and her Pet. Decision made, she maneuvers the heel until the sole is resting in her palm with the remainder of the heel jutting out between her pointer and middle fingers.

With a manic, gleeful grin Rachel backhands Dean, across the wounded left side of his face.

Rachel's broken heel is now impaled in Dean's left cheek.

Rachel laughs hysterically at Dean's beaten face now adorned with her heel. "Oh that's perfect… absolutely perfect!"

Licking her full lips, Rachel purrs with pleasure as she watches her Pet struggle toward consciousness. Her pupils dilate fully the more she stares at the broken human writhing in agony from such a small thing.

She licks her lips with anticipation, devouring every inch of Dean's decimated body.

Rachel is suddenly fascinated with the lake of Dean's blood lapping at her lopsided heels. Without a thought to spare she reverently removes her heels to stand barefoot in her Pet's blood.

Rachel wiggles her toes and groans sinfully, absolutely reveling in it.

Dean's head violently whips around and back with the force of Rachel's backhand. His breath comes out in short pants and hitching gasps with the unbelievable agony of being impaled.

With a heel.

In his already wounded face.

Dean's head hangs low, right eye blinking rapidly before he squeezes it shut tight.


Get a grip, ya pussy! Suck it up!

Dean swallows down a whimper and does just that.

Well, he gives it a good go anyways.

Craaaaaap. Now, what the so not awesome shit was that?

He attempts to runs his tongue over where the pain originates…

The fuck?

Dean can't close his mouth.

He tries. He really, really tries.

But he can't.

He just gapes as his jaw spasms and lips tremble.

Blood and saliva steadily run out of his mouth and over his bottom lip forming a long string with every excruciating and hard fought shallow gasp of breath.

Dean loses himself trying to find a coherent thought to latch onto. His mind just isn't working.

At all.

And he can't understand why he… why he… why everything is foggy one minute and clear the next.

He should know why.

Really, he should.

... fuh… focus….

… I's… I…I… sfff… tooff… tooff…. S'why…. Tuh… tooth!

Whaaa…. 's'okay… 'member….now…

The hunter finds lucidity, and runs his tongue over the mess in his cheek; which is exactly what he was trying to do in the first place.

Missing a couple teeth. Jus' peachy.

An… an…

… Is that a… a heel?! What in the….

What in the fuuuuuck…


The haze now dissipates completely unveiling a brutal assault of torment.

His right eye flutters open, stars immediately pricking the edges of his vision. He gasps sharply in pain and volleys an impressive set of expletives (well, at least it sounds like that in his head, though in reality it probably just sounds like an incoherent symphony of gags and choking baby babble) when he feels an intense building of pressure followed by a "pop" behind both his eyes. Bright red accompanied with intense warmth, swarm the already red tinted vision of Dean's right eye and Dean wastes no time in closing it. He moans in absolute utter agony, spitting out blood, a molar (or two), and more slurred curses alike.

A strong quake of nausea follows the wave of warmth spilling from his eyes and Dean convulses involuntarily at the sensation.

Rachel watches rapt.

There are times when Dean really and truly fucking hates his five senses.

Those moments when time stands eerily still and quiet. The calm before a thunderstorm on a hot and sticky summer night.

This may not be a thunderstorm, but it is oh so most definitely one of those times, and it is, without a doubt, a storm.

An utterly excruciating, crushing, Category 10, F-fucking-5-billion, decimating, annihilating, fucking goddamn MOTHERFUCKING STORM-OF-THE-CENTURY AGONIZING STORM.

You'd think Dean would be prepared by now, all things considered.

Namely Hell.


Okay… deep breath...

And here we go….

Core muscles reluctantly agree with Dean's urgent deep breath plea.

Or so he thought.

Apparently, the core muscles have deigned it an absolute necessity to inform him that attempting a deep breath, while convulsing, simply because capillaries in his eyes have burst due to a heel impaled in his cheek, and that he is, quite literally, crying tears of blood, is absolutely no reason to twist and shake the way he is. So they now vehemently refuse to ever agree with him again.

Tremendously poor judgment on Dean's behalf, and how DARE Dean defy the very muscles that help him do EVERYTHING—HELLOOOOOOOO—NOT ONE OF HIS BRIGHTER IDEAS.

Or so they say.


Right on cue the meat hook dashes in and happily fucks the hole in his side.

And it is then when Dean finally, finally snaps wide awake.

Wide awake to a throbbing, blindingly white hot pain in his left eye and cheek with torrent of blood pooling in his mouth so fast he gags and heaves out the blood. And of course—of fucking course!—the meat hook gets further in on the action, sadistic bitch that it is, widening its hole on Dean's torso.

Get it out! Get it out! Get it out! Now! Nownownownownownownownow! Want out now!

A new flood of warmth makes its escape, gushing down his hip and groin making him feel like he pissing himself.

And if that doesn't just send a lovely barrage of very unpleasant thoughts through Dean's mind.

Did I ALREADY piss myself? Is that why the concrete is wet?!

A hot tsunami of shame fills the hunter.


Absolutely fucking wonderful.

Oh hiiiiiii, (wish I was high) excruciating fucking God DAMN AGONY! SO FUCKING GOD DAMN GLAD YOU FUCKING SHOWED UP!



The meat hook slides through Dean nearly pulling out with the force of Dean's writhing body.

Oh God it feels disgusting! Get it out!

Dean almost gets his wish when the barbed end starts to work its way back in through Dean.

Rachel laughs and uses her power to help the barbed end slowly drag back through Dean, bumping his kidney along the way. Just when she has the hook almost out, she slowly drags it back along its path.

Dean's scream is that of a wounded animal about to die.

But he won't be granted as much.

No. He knows he's going to suffer a great deal.

Please make it stop! Please… peeeese… peeessss…..

Dean checks out before he can finish his thought.

Rachel is so fascinated she steps closer to her Pet and inhales. A rush of hot arousal floods her vessel. She feels her nipples harden and moisture in her lace thong. Unconsciously Rachel rubs her thighs together as she revels in her Pet's sweat and blood. Her pupils are blown wide and she very nearly licks the blood and sweat off her Pet's face.

Rachel gets a wicked idea. An idea that swells her Grace with wont. Plenty of time for that later. Oh yeeessss. Annnnnd, as it just so happens, Rachel has a couple friends who will be ecstatic for the chance to play with her Pet.