Dean was already halfway out of his chair, a beer forgotten in his hand. "Cas?"

Castiel stood in the doorway, coat dusty, hair disheveled, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. But his arms were cradled with impossible tenderness. A woman. Curled against his chest like a sleeping child.

Golden-green light pulsed beneath her skin in slow rhythm, barely visible beneath the tangle of dark hair and the gauzy white fabric she was wrapped in.

Sam set down his pen. "Is that...?"

Dean stepped closer, boots echoing on the concrete floor.

The woman stirred slightly, a soft, unconscious sound escaping her lips. The markings on her arms—vines and leaves, ancient and intricate—glowed brighter for a moment, then dimmed.

Castiel's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "I found her."

Dean stopped. Stared. Something cracked open in his chest that he didn't have a name for.