Meanwhile, somewhere else in Wyoming
Castiel had not slept either, for once grateful for the myriad distractions offered by the human form, the sensations one accustomed to mortality would have been able to just ignore – the prickle of newly-emerging stubble, the itch of unwashed clothes and cheap bedding, the twist in his stomach which, wheedling and insistent, reminded him that he hadn't eaten since Lawrence. The air in the room was thin, sour – sickbed air – too hot and close and heavy.
There were splashes of red in the sink – his own, thankfully. This time. The last he had not been as lucky, had stumbled back hard enough to attract attention. One more Brother he'd had to kill because Dean Winchester insisted on being a stupid, stubborn monkey (Cas wondered, briefly, why Michael had not yet destroyed him and could only conclude it would be like using a nuclear bomb to swat a single fly). Pinpricks and dribbles, a pattern he'd tried to make sense of the way one might examine the dregs in a teacup. The portents written there weren't good, but he hadn't really needed parlour tricks and superstitions to tell him that his future sucked. That part had been clear from the moment the Winchesters sprung Lucifer from his cage. Everything since was just waiting, and Castiel did not like to wait.
Case in point: Dean had stopped, finally, close enough that the waiting for Sam to arrive itched as much as the gritty feeling of dirty clothes and grimy, salt-tinged skin. He did not know whether this plan of theirs would even work - if he could still 'zap' with two, whether transporting an abomination in order to halt God's So-Called Will would be the straw that broke the camel's back and finally left him hollow - but if anyone could get through to Dean, could stop him making the stupidest in a long line of stupid decisions, then...
So he waited, took another drink, the glass sticky where he'd poured more whiskey over the table than into it. Sam would arrive, and one way or another this would end. Whether he would see how was, in the grand scheme of things, unimportant.