"So we hide?" Sam asked. "From both sides?"
"That's the only play we have right now," Henry said, leaning back against the vinyl seat.
"But it's going to be a pain in the ass. For angels, finding us is like tracking a neon sign in a pitch-black room. They don't need a map — they can lock onto your souls."
Dean's eyes darted to the rearview mirror.
"Well, what about you? You just turned four of Heaven's hitmen into charcoal and threw Zachariah into orbit. Can't you just use your angel mojo to cloak us?"
Henry let out a short, self-deprecating scoff. "It doesn't work like that, Dean," he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Yeah, angels can hide people from celestial radar. But I'm half-angel, and a brand-new one at that. I've got the raw voltage, not the operator's manual."
"I don't know the Enochian warding spells, and I definitely don't have the cosmic muscle to hide the two most important vessels in the universe from an Archangel."
Dean swore, slamming his palm against the wheel. "Awesome. So we're just sitting ducks until Michael or Lucifer decides to drop in and claim their meat suits?"
"Pretty much," Henry admitted. "Until we find a way to scramble their radar, we're exposed out here."
They drove on without a destination, figuring anywhere was better than staying put. Then a metallic THUD rocked the entire chassis.
The roof bowed inward with a crunch. Dean slammed on the brakes, tires shrieking as the car skidded onto the gravel shoulder and jerked to a halt.
"What the hell was that?!" Sam yelled, reaching for the shotgun at his feet.
"Someone just dropped in," Henry said, already pushing his door open.
He stepped out, the red glow of the taillights lighting up the dust kicking off the road. He looked over the roof of the Impala. Sprawled face-down across the dented metal, motionless, was a familiar crumpled figure in a battered tan trench coat.
Henry let out an incredulous laugh. "Well, look at that. Our trench coat angel's back."
"Cas?!" Dean shouted, scrambling out of the driver's side, staring at the unconscious angel. "Zachariah just said he got blown to bits!"
"Guess the bits fell back together," Henry muttered.
He grabbed Castiel by the lapels and hauled him off the roof, dragged him around to the side, yanked the rear door open, and shoved him into the back seat. He slammed the door and climbed back in, brushing the dust off his jacket.
"Alright, Dean, hit the gas," Henry said, patting the seat where the unconscious angel was slumped. "We got our trench coat baby. Let's get out of here before the rest of the choir catches up."
Dean didn't waste a second. He threw the Impala into drive and floored it, peeling onto the highway.
The Impala tore down the empty highway, nothing but the hum of the tires. In the back seat, Castiel groaned, his head rolling against the window.
His eyes snapped open, glowing celestial blue for a moment before dulling back to normal. He blinked, staring blankly at Henry beside him.
"Well," Henry said dryly. "Nice to see you decided to wake up, trench coat."
Castiel ignored the nickname, sitting bolt upright, looking around, his vessel rigid with panic. "Henry? Where are Sam and Dean?"
"We're right up here, Cas," Dean called from the driver's seat, catching him in the mirror.
Castiel slumped back against the seat with a heavy exhale.
"Good to have you back, buddy," Dean said, gripping the wheel.
"But that dickhead Zachariah told us you were dead. Said Heaven blew you to bits for trying to warn us about Lilith. You look pretty intact to me."
Castiel stared down at his hands, turning them over slowly, like he couldn't believe they were flesh and bone.
"Zachariah wasn't lying," he said, his voice dropping to a hollow whisper. "I was dead, Dean. I remember the Garrison tearing me apart. I remember ceasing to exist."
Sam turned around, brow furrowed. "Then how the hell are you sitting in this car right now?"
Castiel looked past Henry, out the window into the black sky, the impossibility of his own resurrection clearly weighing on him. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I didn't rebuild myself. I was brought back. Someone much more powerful put me back together."
Dean's grip tightened on the wheel, eyes flicking to the mirror. "Well, then give us some good news, Cas. Tell me you've got a way to hide from this mess, because you feathered dicks are the ones responsible for it. You didn't even try to stop the apocalypse."
Castiel looked down at his hands, expression heavy with bitter sorrow. He'd lost everything — his home, his family, his entire belief system.
"I know, Dean," he said, voice thick with regret. "I didn't expect my brethren to sacrifice millions of human lives just for the sake of a fight. I was naive."
"Yeah, well, join the club," Henry muttered. "So what's the play? Got a cloaking device hidden in that trench coat?"
Castiel met Dean's eyes in the mirror, then shifted his gaze to Sam, his expression hardening.
"I know a set of Enochian warding sigils. An ancient, closely guarded celestial script. If I apply it to you, it will mask your presence on the earthly plane completely — hide you from Heaven, from Hell, from Michael, from Lucifer himself. As long as you have the warding, no one will be able to find you."
"Wait," Sam said, turning around with a skeptical frown. "Apply it how? Like a tattoo?"
Castiel tilted his head, deadpan. "No, Sam. I mean I'm going to carve the sigils directly into your ribs."
A heavy silence fell over the car. Henry winced, leaning away from the angel.
Dean groaned, shifting gears as the Impala tore down the dark highway. "Awesome. That sounds completely painless. Just what I wanted for the end of the world — angelic bone graffiti."
*****
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