Dean struggled for a moment, caught in the dream, not sure if he was truly free. He blinked a few times and realized he was awake — awake, half-dressed, lying on the floor in Bobby’s living room, his jacket over his chest to keep him warm. Castiel stood at his feet. The angel smiled at him faintly, rumpled and homey as ever, looking nothing like one of the more powerful beings in the universe.

Dean got to his feet, bending to scoop up his t-shirt and pull it over his head. “Hey. Um. Thanks.” Castiel tilted his head, the familiar puzzled expression on his face. “For waking me,” Dean said, keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t wake Sam, who was stretched out on the sofa with a book open on his chest. “I was having a nightmare.”

Castiel’s mouth quirked a little. His smiles were never very wide. “Oh?”

“Yeah. There was this forest . . . hell, you don’t want me to bore you with my dreams. What’s going on?”

“I need to take you somewhere,” Castiel said.

“Do I need shoes?”

“No,” Castiel replied and touched Dean’s forehead with his first two fingers. When Dean opened his eyes again they were in what looked like an ordinary apartment. The neighborhood was quiet — there was no sound of sirens, not so much as a dog barking. The air smelled like cotton candy — or more like a cotton candy machine, hot sugar and metal. There was a man — dark-haired, maybe a few years older than Dean, tall and solid-looking — peering behind a long framed picture at a wall safe.

“Look,” Castiel said softly.

There was a stirring in the shadows of the apartment. “Castiel?” Dean said uncertainly. “What’s going on?”

The dark-haired man was attacked suddenly by two men in suits, one hulking and one slim, and Dean flinched as the first man was beaten down to his knees. Dean started towards them, to help the man, but Castiel stopped him with a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Cas, let me go!”

“We are not here.” Castiel put his hands back in his pockets.

Dean looked back at the scene, at the first man’s murder at the hands of the intruders. “How can we help him?”

“We cannot. We can only look.”

Dean inhaled to yell at him — why bring him here if he couldn’t help? — but stopped when he noticed the shine in Castiel’s eyes and the tear that rolled down his cheek. He put his hand on the angel’s back and Castiel gave him a grateful glance.

“Look,” said Castiel, and Dean watched the assailants put something small and grey into a briefcase and lock it away, then leave the man and their gun behind.

“We don’t have the authority to find murderers.”

“God will judge them,” Castiel said. “What we need is what they took. It’s precious beyond price. Find it, Dean, you must find it. It must be safe or another seal will be broken. ”

“Okay,” Dean said, and Castiel touched his forehead again and they were back in Bobby’s house, in the kitchen. Dean exhaled and grabbed the sink to steady himself. Traveling at the speed of thought would never be easy. “Who was he? He looked so ordinary.”

“Look for the name Joseph Temple in the morning.”

“Joseph Temple,” Dean said, supposing that was all the explanation he was going to get. “Okay.”

They looked at each other in the dark. There was still a tear track on Castiel’s face, and Dean reached over to gently wipe it away with his palm. Castiel watched his hand, and when he looked back at Dean there was warmth in those calm blue eyes.

“Sleep, Dean,” Castiel said softly. “No more bad dreams.”

“Wait,” Dean began, but Castiel touched Dean’s forehead again before he could go on. Dean opened his eyes to find he was back on the floor, under his jacket. Castiel was gone and it was morning.

Morning at Bobby’s, which meant sunshine through the curtains and the sound of Sam making coffee in the kitchen. Dean got up from the floor and rocked his head from side to side, wincing at the way his bones cracked. Sam looked out from the kitchen and said, “Bobby’s off already — something about a job in Oklahoma. Coffee’ll be ready in a sec.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “Hey, Sammy?”

“Yup?” said Sam from the kitchen, where he was dropping bread into the toaster.

“Did you, um, do you remember dreaming last night?”

Sam looked at him with a smirk. “Why? Was I talking in my sleep?”

“No, I’m just curious.”

“I dreamed about Miss October and some pudding, but that’s not appropriate breakfast conversation.” He got a jar of strawberry jam out of the fridge. “Do you want anything more for breakfast?”

“This is enough,” Dean said and poured himself a cup of coffee. “So are we joining Bobby?”