Master Post |
Part 1 |
Part 3 |
Part 2
Sam burst through the door he just watched some stranger drag Dean through. It opened to an alley, and he ran toward the street, shouting for Dean as he went, but there was no sign of his brother or of the man who had dragged him out of the bar. He got to the street and searched the sidewalk in both directions, but again, Dean was nowhere to be found. It was like he'd disappeared into thin air.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!" He shouted, sliding his hands through his hair. He saw a guy coming down the sidewalk and grabbed his arm.
"What the hell?" The guy tried to snatch his arm back. "Get your hands off me, buddy!"
Sam ignored him. "You didn't see a big black guy carrying another guy coming this way did you?"
The guy shoved Sam away. "No! Now leave me the hell alone, you crazy fuck."
Sam held up a hand, "I'm not-" but the guy was already moving down the sidewalk again after flipping him the bird.
"Ah, come on! Dean!" He shouted again. The people on the sidewalk glared and circled around him. "Sorry, sorry," he muttered and started walking back toward the alley and the bar door. "Dammit!"
His footsteps echoed lonely in the alley, and once he cleared the door back into the bar, he made a beeline for the table where he, Dean and Cas had been sitting. He hoped to find something that would give him a lead on who had taken Dean. The table hadn't been cleared yet; their three bottles still stood on the surface, puddles of condensation pooling at their bases. The bottle of whiskey had been opened, and there was a wet shot glass in the middle of the table next to two others that, upon further inspection, were dry.
Dean had been the only one drinking.
Sam picked up the glass and held it up to his nose. Nothing but the pungent smell of Jack Daniels. Collecting the three shot glasses and the opened bottle, Sam went to the bar.
In the time he'd taken to chase Dean and his captor out into the alley and further into the street, the bar had filled up, and now the patrons were lined up three deep along the end of the bar, waiting on service. Sam elbowed his way to the front of the line, smiling politely at the women he shoved out of the way, and growling at a few of the guys who thought to complain at his intrusion.
He slammed the bottle up on the hard wood of the bar and slapped the surface with his hand. It stung, but the way the bartender jumped at the clap of sound was more than satisfying. "Hey! What did you give my brother?"
The bartender frowned and muttered a barely discernible, "Fuck you, man," and Sam gave him a grim smile before jumping over the bar and shoving the guy up against the bar shelves.
"I realize you're a little swamped right now, but I really don't give a shit. You're gonna answer my questions, or I'm gonna beat you until you forget your own name. Get me?"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever man," they guy eked out from behind Sam's hand wrapped around his throat.
"Good. Now, when did you come on duty? Because you weren't the guy behind the bar when my brother and I got here."
"My shift started about thirty minutes ago, dude." The guy looked around for help, but Sam just pressed him more firmly against the shelves.
"Okay. So, thirty minutes. Where did the other guy go?"
"How the fuck should I know? He finished up his shift and left. Last I saw, he was headed across the bar with some shot glasses. I got busy behind the bar and haven't seen him since."
"What's his name?"
"What?"
Sam took a deep, calming breath. "I'm going with the possibility that it's this other bartender who made off with my brother, seeing as how I found a wet glass, a half gone bottle of booze, and two empty shot glasses where my brother and I were sitting. Since you just said you saw the guy with three glasses heading to my table, I'm guessing I'm right. So. What is this guy's name?"
The guy clenched his lips shut in mute resistance until Sam shook him by the collar. "Okay, okay! We call him Fael. He's never told us his real name."
Sam cocked his head threateningly.
"No! Really. I mean, he owns the place, has for years. But we, I mean, his employees, don't really know anything about him. Just...he goes by Fael." The bartender was looking around frantically now for some assistance.
"Fell," Sam said, "His name is Fell?"
"F-a-e-l. Fael," the guy said, "yeah." He cleared his throat.
Sam grew thoughtful, eyes squinted in concentration.
"Um, can ya let me go now? I mean, the shelves are biting into my ass, man, and I think I'm leaning on shattered glass."
Sam glanced down at the shelf and winced, then he let go and backed away from the bartender. "Sorry."
Carefully checking the condition of his ass, the bartender said absently, "Look. I'm sure your brother is fine. Fael's a bit of a loner and all, but he's not a bad guy. If he took your brother, then more than likely, your brother was going willingly, if you know what I mean."
Sam glared at him. "Are you trying to piss me off? Because it's working. And I see some glass that hasn't shattered yet."
"What? No! Just, well, Fael's not the guy who needs to snatch people."
Sam nodded. "Right. Well. How long you known this guy? A couple of years? I've know my brother my whole life. There's no way he's leaving a bar voluntarily with some strange dude without telling me. Where would they go?"
"Dude, who knows? Fael's not one for partyin' with his employees. None of us know where he lives."
"Everybody's got an address," Sam said.
"Well, if he does, he don't keep it here."
"Dammit." Sam rubbed his forehead. "Fine. Fine. I'll...shit." Shaking his head he muttered, "I'll have to find it another way."
"Whatever, just, could you do it away from here? You're freakin'' out the regulars."
Sam rolled his eyes and dug out some bills to pay the tab that he, Dean and Cas had run up. "Here. I'm settling up." He pulled out a pen and wrote his number on a napkin. "If you see Fael or my brother, call this number."
The bartender picked up the napkin, scanned the number written on it, then crumpled it into his pocket. "Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, dude."
Sam opened his mouth, ready to compel the guy a bit more, but then just shook his head before turning away and heading out of the bar.
The hinges squeaked behind him as the door shut. Standing under the awning, he sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves and just think about the situation. The rain that had been threatening when they all stopped in at the bar was pissing down onto the street, making the amber glow from the streetlight reflect in broken patterns from the asphalt. There were a few patrons of the street's bars staggering against each other and laughing in the rain. Sam shivered, inexplicably cold in the Mississippi summer humidity. "Dammit, Dean," he whispered, "What the hell were you thinking?"
He waited for several cars to go past him before ducking his head against the rain and heading to the Impala. The rain hitting the sidewalk covered nearly all the sounds of the night, so that even though he could see people laughing around him, he couldn't hear them. It was like walking in an echoing hell, no sound penetrating the sibilant hiss, and he was left alone with his racing thoughts. When he shut himself in the car, the silence was deafening.
The rustle of wind was the only warning he got before Cas spoke from the passenger seat. "Where is Dean?"
Sam leaned his head back against the headrest. "I have no clue, Cas. He just left with the bartender. No word about why or how long he'd be gone."
"You're worried about him," Cas stated, staring out the windshield.
"Well, yeah! I mean, he doesn't do this. Not since..."
"I know. It is not like him to disappear without word. That was more your thing." Cas turned and pinned Sam with that calm objective look, as though assassinating Sam's character was merely an afterthought, not worthy of noting.
"Oh. Okay. Wow." Sam shook his head, stunned. Then he said, "Sometimes I think you say things like that to see how I'll respond. I mean, I thought we were past you thinking of me as...what did you call me? An abomination."
Cas turned back to staring out the windshield. "I don't know what you mean."
"I think you've been around humanity too long, Cas." Sam shot him a glance out the corner of his eye. "You're getting far too good at lying." He turned back to the road. "You know exactly what I mean. Yes. I took off a few times a couple of years ago and didn't let anyone know where I was or why I was going. But I thought...I was told I was doing that for the right reasons." He slammed a fist down on the steering wheel and frowned. "I thought you understood that. Understood how damned sorry I am for...well, for everything." Here he turned to look at Cas, "But I guess not." Sighing, he finished, "Dean's not...he just left, Cas. Just walked out of the bar with some guy and didn't even turn back to tell me he was leaving."
Cas was quiet, thoughts shifting his brow into a frown and pursing his lips. Finally he turned to Sam. "I don't...I was not pointing out flaws, Sam. I was merely...making an observation-a comparison between you and your brother." He paused, then looked over at Sam. "You're not an abomination, Sam." A beat of silence, then, "I apologize if you feel maligned by my comment."
Sam shook his head. "I don't, not really. I'm just...I'm worried."
"That is understandable."
"What? You're not worried about him?"
Cas seemed to almost laugh. "It's Dean, Sam," he said fondly. "When am I not worried about him?"
"Hm. True. I used to wonder if he has some kind of Teflon that kept him out of trouble. I mean, with the way he...Ya know what? Never mind."
"He seems to spread himself quite thin; I have observed." Cas looked at him, confused.
They grew quiet, each staring out the windshield, thinking. Then Cas spoke. "What do you want to do?"
Sam sighed, then gave a click with his tongue and started the car. "I have the name of the guy who took Dean. We've still got to interview Chandra Massood's friend." He turned the car around and headed back toward the motel they'd agreed on. "We check into the motel; we regroup. Then we work the case."
*****
Dean opened his eyes to unfamiliar light. Used to the morning sounds of Sam in the shower singing some angst ridden alt or indy rock tune terribly off key or to the startling rustle of Cas' wings and the brush of wind against his face, the relative quiet of the morning confused him. He blinked and rubbed his eyes as he yawned himself awake.
He and Sam had gone straight to the bar when they got into town, having been on the road for more than ten hours from South Dakota, so he knew he wasn't in a hotel room. Of course, the lack of bags and Sam's computer told him he wasn't with his brother anymore as well.
He threw off the covers, soft warm bedclothes that he wondered at for a moment, and pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. That's when he noticed he was naked, or mostly naked. He still had on his boxers, but the rest of his clothes were gone. It wasn't every day that Dean woke up naked in a strange bed, but he'd done it a few times, thanks to some really good hooch and a hot chick or two-and there was the one time it was three-so he had routine in case such an event occurred. Granted, he hadn't had to use it for a while, but it wasn't like he could forget it.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair and glanced behind him at the girl he didn't know and would have to find a way to let down gently in the space of about 15 minutes.
He frowned. Pretty girl number one was not behind him.
Now he was awake. Turning back around to face the room, he took inventory of exactly where he was. The room was bright and welcoming, friendly even, but impersonal. Completely different from any of the hotels or motor inns he and Sam frequented. Though those say they're inviting they're really just convenient hovels for illicit activities. And while Dean may have used them for that purpose in the past, and more than likely will again in the future, he wouldn't ever go so far as to call those dank holes of iniquity warm.
Across from him, there was a dresser with a lamp and nothing else. The wall to his right had a closet door that was open. The closet was empty except for a random high heeled shoe and several empty hangers. Dean's clothes hung on a hanger on the back of the door. His boots were sitting neatly beside the open closet door. In the corner of that wall and the wall behind him, there stood a chest of drawers. There was a clock-a sunburst of brass surrounding a black face printed with roman numerals. Dean noticed that instead of a "IV" for four, the damn thing had "IIII." He shook his head at that bit of weirdness.
The wall behind him was a bank of windows. Floor to ceiling panes of clear glass let in the morning sunlight. He squinted his eyes against the brightness and turned back to the front of the room. His head started throbbing, reminding him of the events of the previous night.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered.
A knock at the door had him going for his gun, forgetting he was mostly naked. Before he could recover, the door opened and a low voice said, "I hope I'm not waking you up. You've been asleep about ten hours. I have breakfast." The door pushed open wider, and the guy Dean remembered from the bar came walking slowly into the room. "You don't exactly look like the kind of guy who eats breakfast regularly; more the coffee and a cigarette kind of guy, really."
Dean rolled his eyes. "I don't smoke," he said meaningfully. The thought of running from all the evil sons of bitches with his lungs at half capacity had him shaking his head. He looked over at his clothes hanging on the closet door, wishing he'd taken the time to put them on. Instead he was in his boxers with a strange man trying to serve him breakfast.
"Good to know. Anyway, I was making myself some eggs and toast, and I figured you'd like some. If not, I'll take this," he lifted the tray he was holding, "back downstairs."
Dean crossed his arms over his chest and glared, making no move to take the tray.
Fael sighed. "Fine. I'll just leave it here, in case you get hungry later," he said and put the tray on the dresser.
Before he let him leave, Dean wanted some answers. He narrowed his eyes at the guy in front of him. "Where are we? How did I get here?" Dean growled. "What do you want with me?" He figured Sam wasn't with him, and while that might make him nervous, it meant that there was someone out there who would be looking for him. Still, he had to be sure. "And where's Sam? You'd better not have done something to him, you son of a bitch."
Fael held up a hand. "Please. Refrain from the vulgarities. They hurt my ears. I've done nothing to your brother. He's very probably holed up somewhere with your other companion devising a way to find you." He smiled. "But they won't."
"Then you don't know Sammy."
Laughing, Fael shook his head. "Of course I don't." Sobering, he lowered his gaze to Dean. Then, quietly, "But I do know me. You're in my house, outside the city. I brought you here last night. As to why? Well, let's leave some answers for later, yes?" He stood and moved over to where Dean was standing. "Your brother isn't going to find you, Dean. No one will. Scream all you want, fight all you want. You can even try to escape. Trust me when I say you'll be wasting your time." He reached up and gave Dean a condescending pat on the cheek.
Dean tensed, but refused to flinch.
Fael quirked a knowing brow, then turned to go. "You should eat. Keep your strength up." One last parting glance before he exited, and "You're going to need it." Then the door snicked closed behind him.
Dean listened for the click of a lock, but heard nothing. Frowning, he stepped over to check the knob on the door, only to find it unlocked and the hallway empty.
"That's bizarre," he muttered, pulling back into the room and shutting the door.
He glanced over at the tray, hating the way his mouth watered at the sight of the food. He tried to remember the last time he'd eaten but could only conjure up vague memories of a foil-wrapped convenience store burrito he'd had the day before. He eyed the tray suspiciously, tempted, but couldn't put aside the thought that it had been trusting the guy with booze that got him kidnapped in the first place.
"Fuck this," he muttered, and swept the tray off the top of the dresser, watching the eggs and toast fly through the air to land in a mess on the floor. Giving the remains of his so called breakfast one last angry glare, he turned to the closet and pulled his clothes off the hanger and got dressed. Part of him really wanted to shower, but he hadn't got to the point of being able to smell himself yet-despite the long hours in the car without stopping-and he wasn't about to give his kidnapper the satisfaction. Especially when he caught sight of the fresh towel and other toiletries.
Shutting the closet door decisively, he checked his coat pocket for his phone, surprised to find it still there. Either this guy truly was an idiot, or there was a reason Dean still had his phone. He turned it on and thumbed through his contacts until he got to Sam's number. He tried calling and figured out why he still had his phone. The lack of signal bars seemed to mock him. "Dammit, you gotta be kidding me. Son of a bitch." Rolling his eyes, he shoved the phone back into his pocket.
He paced over to the window and scanned the yard-if it could be called that. Nothing but trees and sunlight surrounded the house. There was a small field of grass, maybe ten feet from the back wall to the edge of the trees, and it looked to go all around the house. He figured if he could get beyond the small patch of yard and into the forest, he could make a break for it. Find the nearest highway and head back into town.
He looked for a lock on the window and found it open, like the door, and wondered again at his kidnapper's lack of security. No locked doors; no locked windows. It was like he wanted Dean to try to escape. Well, wanted or not, Dean was going to oblige him. He pulled the window open and crawled through.
It was a short hop down to the ground, and he crouched in the shadow of the roof for a moment, making sure that the guy hadn't heard him climbing out of the house. Seeing no movement from inside the house, he took off across the yard. Not wanting to risk discovery, he kept a low profile, bent at the waist and moving stealthily through the shadows cast by the towering trees of the woods. He started to straighten up as he approached the edge of the woods, and just as he took the step to cross into the shadows of the trees, there was a flash of light, a loud crack of what he thought was thunder, and a searing pain in his head, that made him wince.
When he opened his eyes, he was back in the room, doors and windows closed, the tray of food neat and pristine and sitting on the dresser as though waiting for him to sit down and eat.
"What the hell?"
"I told you, Dean."
Dean spun around and stared, confused and not a little wary, at his kidnapper-who for goddamned sure hadn't been there a second ago. "Seriously. What the hell are you? And why have you brought me here!?"
His captor ignored the question. "You might as well settle in, Dean. You're going to be here for a while. Whether you like it or not." He pointed at the tray on the dresser. "If you're not hungry, that's one thing. But throwing your food like a howler monkey is rude. And it pisses me off."
They stared at each other for a moment. Finally, the man stood again. "Fine. I'll take this back down stairs, if you insist on being stubborn."
"I could eat," Dean said abruptly. "You didn't drug the food, did you?" he asked with a quick glare up at his captor, who was leaning against the edge of the dresser.
"No. Your breakfast is safe to eat."
"You mean like the whiskey last night?" Dean asked, taking the tray to the bed, so he could eat.
"I apologize for last night, though I did not drug you." He shrugged. "Not in the conventional sense."
"Whatever. I'm still here against my will, and you're the son of a bitch who brought me."
"Careful. Insult me again, and you'll see just how much of a 'son of a bitch' I can be."
Dean glanced up, mouth open for a cocky retort, but the hard, cold glint in his captor's eyes, and the stony set of his face shut Dean up.
"And I bet you don't remember my name."
Dean shrugged. "Does it really matter? You have to know, as soon as I'm outta here, you're dead. What do I care what your name is?"
"This is tiresome. You grow tiresome," the man sighed. "My name, again, is Fael." Dean started to speak again, but Fael waved a hand and shook his head. "Don't bother. Just," he headed for the door again. "Eat your breakfast."
Dean looked at the plate in front of him before picking up a fork and shoveling a bit eggs onto it for his first bite. Around the mouthful, he muttered, "Could use some coffee."
Fael chuckled. "Sorry. Don't drink it, so I don't keep it."
"And my gun," Dean said, glaring from under his brow.
Giving him a disinterested shrug, Fael said, "I have juice."
"Fuck you."
"Now, that's not very nice," Fael said, turning to him. "You have your clothes, but I'm afraid I'll be keeping the nickel plated .357. Not sure I trust you with that just yet."
"You're smarter than I thought, considering how you got me here. I figured kidnapping me just made you an idiot."
His captor cocked his head, eyes squinted as he considered Dean for a moment. Then he moved across the room to kneel in front Dean. "You know, Dean, that's not a nice word to use to describe someone."
In the back of Dean's mind was the niggling thought that he should be feeling threatened right then, but Dean wasn't about to let some stranger with an overdeveloped sense of political correctness get him worked up. "Really? Well, I'm not a nice guy."
Fael remained silent, letting his gaze take inventory of Dean's features. Dean sat passive under the examination, letting the guy look his fill. After several minutes, Fael stood and moved slowly to the bedroom door. Then the turned back to face Dean. "You've lived your life a certain way, Dean, and it's written all over you. In the lines of your face, the scars on your hands and the shadows in your eyes. But there are still things in this world which you will never understand." He opened the door, and said, voice low and-for the first time-menacing. "Don't make me be the one to teach you."
Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft snick. This time, Dean heard the lock turn.
*****
Sam sat at his computer, empty carry out containers opened on the table behind him. The smell of burnt coffee lingered in the air around him, and he glanced up at the pot he'd made the night before. The dregs sizzled dangerously in the bottom of the carafe, and he shook his head, surprised. He knew he had a tendency to get absorbed in research, a trait Dean had teased him about often, but it had been a few years since he'd gone at it all night with nothing to show for his efforts come the morning.
He took another look at the page he was looking at online, and frowned at its uselessness. Another dead end in a long series of fruitless searches. He and Cas had agreed last night that Sam should look for any information on the guy who had snatched Dean from the bar while Cas went after whatever was snatching up young women. That way, Cas with his angelic mojo would be the one who ended up confronting whatever evil thing they discovered, and Sam wouldn't have to deal with a potentially deadly creature on his own. Frustrated at the futility of his work, Sam blew out a sigh, hoping that Castiel, at least, had found a lead on the case, because it felt like he was just wasting time here at the hotel. There was no information on the guy who'd taken Dean out of the bar, no business license under the name the bartender had given him, no address, not even a driver's license. Hell, the guy just didn't exist! "Dammit, this is pointless," he said and rubbed a hand over his face.
Deciding he needed a break, Sam snatched up the carry out containers and threw them in the trashcan, then swiped up the crumbs and other bits of food from around where he'd been working. A suspicious crackle from the coffee maker was a welcome distraction. It had him up and slapping at the button to turn the machine off. He took out the carafe and ran some warm water into it to keep the sludge from cooking to the bottom of the pot.
Once he got everything cleaned up, he looked down at himself in disgust. Now that he'd picked up his mess, he noticed the stench. He took a tentative whiff of himself and realized he hadn't had a shower since he and Dean had left Bobby's. He thought getting clean might give him a fresh perspective, so he closed his computer and walked over to grab his shaving kit from his duffle.
He turned on the shower as hot as he could stand it to let the bathroom fill up with steam while he stripped out of his three day old clothes. Standing naked at the sink, he swiped a towel over the foggy mirror and stared at himself. Despite not having stopped along the way for basic hygiene, he didn't have too much beard growth on his face. He snorted out a breath, thanking his Campbell genes for not needing daily shaving. Dean, on the other hand, seemed to take after the Winchester side of the family and got downright hairy after a couple of days without shaving. Sam chuckled. Dean may make fun of him for being a sasquatch because of his height, but Dean was the one who got the fur.
Still, he was beginning to itch a little along his jaw line, so he let the steam in the room open up his pores while he brushed his teeth. Then, he lathered up his face and took his time, methodically shaving off what little bit of facial hair he'd accumulated over the last three days. When he was done, he stepped into the shower.
The heat and pressure of the water beat out the kinks in his shoulders from sitting hunched over the computer all night long, and he moaned softly as each cramp and ache seemed to just ebb away under the force of the water. After letting the water work its therapy on his tense body, he paid more attention to actually getting clean. A rigorous scrubbing of his scalp and hair, a quick wash with the hotel soap and a rough wash cloth that left his skin pink and squeaky clean and he was done. He turned off the shower tap and stepped out of the tub, dried off, then wrapped a towel around his waist and headed back into the room, rubbing his head with another towel.
"Hello, Sam," Cas said, and Sam nearly jumped out of his skin.
Relaxed and comfortable as he was, he hadn't noticed Cas standing quietly at the window. "Jesus, Cas! Warn a guy, next time you're coming!" Sam said and sped over to his duffle bag, rifling through it for some clothes.
"I apologize," Cas said quietly, and turned back to the window.
Sighing, Sam sat down on the bed, his previous urgency to get dressed abated. "It's okay," he said and finished toweling his hair. "Dean and I were going to talk to Chandra's friends today. Maybe we could get more information than the cops did when they interviewed them. You should see the descriptions these women gave. This guy is covering his tracks with some kind of mystical glamour or something. I thought maybe some straightforward yes or no questions would be a better tactic than the normal interrogation." He stopped toweling his hair and dropped it on the bed next to him. "Did you find out anything?
Cas looked over his shoulder at Sam, his eyes tracing over the tanned, damp skin still pink from the shower. Sam could almost feel the glide of Cas' gaze over his flesh. "Cas?"
"I found a name," Cas whispered. "Not that it helps any, but it's more than what we had before."
Sam's eyes went wide. "A name? Honestly, Cas, that's better than I expected for just one night. I thought maybe a location or a description, but a name is, honestly, a lot better than both of those." He stood up and tugged on a pair of cotton boxers beneath the towel, then yanked the towel off. Stepping into the jeans he'd pulled out of his duffle, he said, "At least with a name I can hunt down some identification, get an address." He sucked in a breath, pulling his torso taut to fasten the fly on his jeans, then put his hands on his hips. "So, what's the name?"
Cas came across the room to stand in front of Sam. "You said last night that I do things to see how you'll respond."
Sam caught an aborted movement out of the corner of his eye and focused there to see Cas' hand was curled into a fist. "Yeah," he said, curious.
"I..." Cas sighed, then looked up into Sam's eyes. "I sometimes wonder the same thing about you."
Frowning, Sam asked, "What do you mean?"
"Your brother and I," Cas started.
Sam rolled his eyes and turned back to the bed to snatch up his t-shirt. "Yes. I know. You and Dean have a profound bond." He tugged the shirt over his head and chest, jerking the material down around his waist. "You don't have to remind me," he said, running his hands over his damp hair, to push it off his face. Then he reached for the plaid button down.
"Yes, your brother and I share a connection, that's true. But he is not the only Winchester with whom I feel a closeness."
Sam paused in putting on his shirt. "What?"
Cas smiled, just a small lifting at the corners of his mouth, but the warmth in his eyes shone out brightly. "You are much like your brother, whether you like it or not. Neither of you think very much of yourselves."
"How do you mean?"
"He resisted the idea that he was anything special. Still does. Dean lives his life as though he's not worthy of reward. Everything he does is for others because he feels he deserves nothing. You are much the same. You, Sam Winchester, are as wracked with guilt as your martyred brother." He chuckled a bit. "You perhaps deserve that guilt more so than he does, but you are also so much stronger than the hosts of Heaven and Hell give you credit for."
Sam shrugged the shirt up over his shoulders and buttoned it as he sat down. "Oh. Well." He cleared his throat before glancing up at Cas. "I don't know about that."
"I do." Cas lifted his head, haughty and proud. "I once called you an abomination. I meant it, then. You were drowning in demon blood and trying to hide it. But you managed to harness Lucifer and save the world from the apocalypse. How can I think you are anything other than what you are?"
Sam nodded, thoughtful. "Okay. So what did you mean when you wondered if I do things to see how you'll respond?"
Cas turned away and went back to the window. "I am unaccustomed to seeing you unclothed. I was...surprised."
Sam smiled to himself. "So. You think I'm hot."
Cas turned frustrated eyes on him. "I don't know what that means."
"It's okay, Cas. I won't tell Dean."
"What does Dean have to do with it?" Cas asked confused.
"Oh," Sam said, startled. "I just...well, I thought you and Dean were, you know, you and Dean."
Cas shook his head. "You speak in redundancies. Sometimes I truly wonder if I will ever understand either one of you."
"You mean, you and Dean aren't together?"
"Of course not. I'm here with you. He's missing. How can he and I be together?"
"Cas," Sam chuckled, "I mean, are you and Dean, like, in a relationship?"
There was an audible sigh, and Sam went over to stand next to Cas. "It's okay if you are. That's cool. To be honest, we, Bobby and I, thought you and Dean were...close."
"We are close. We are not, however, in a relationship. Not as you would define it."
"You sound pissed."
"This is one aspect of humanity I simply do not understand. Your incessant need to quantify and define everything between individuals. Am I in a relationship with your brother? Yes. I've touched his soul. I know the very intimate and integral parts of him. I know what he is at the very core of his being. I know what he is made of and what he is capable of. But he will not share that with me willingly." Cas turned to Sam. "And I know you. In much the same way."
Sam laughed. "What? You've never touched my soul." Then soberly, "Have you?"
"No."
"I didn't think so."
Cas rolled his eyes. "But I know what you are without one. You could say I've felt the absence of your soul, and it was just as revealing."
"You mean before...when I was....not..."
"Yes."
"Oh."
Silence fell, and they both stared out the window for a moment. Then Sam asked, "So you and Dean aren't..."
"We are not."
There was a stiffness, a tension, in Cas that Sam had never seen in him before. He didn't know if it had always been there, and he just hadn't noticed it, or if it was something new. What he did know was that he wanted to be the one to ease it. He wanted Cas relaxed and comfortable, not on this edge of the unknown. He swallowed, the bitter lump of apprehension going down hard, and raised his hand to lay it on Cas' shoulder. "You want to, though," he said.
The tension drained away from Cas as though his strings to Heaven had been cut. "I want many things, Sam."
Sam's hand roved over to the middle of Cas's back, and rubbed gently. "Well, that's only human, I guess. And as much as you've been hanging out here, it was bound to rub off on you eventually."
"Hmm." Cas replied as he leaned into Sam's hand a bit. Then, as though remembering himself, he pulled away and sat down at the table. "Did you discover anything about the man who took Dean?"
Sam curled his fingers into his palm, missing Cas' warmth. He sighed, then looked over to where Cas was. "Oh. Well, I'm kind of in the same boat as you about that."
Cas frowned. "What do you mean?"
"All I have is a name." he pointed at the computer on the table. "Used it to search for business licenses and what not, but there's nothing. It's like this guy doesn't exist." Sam said, sitting down at the computer and booting it up.
"It is the same with missing women." Cas nodded.
"Still, it's frustrating. I mean, how many 'Fael's can there be?" he frowned at the screen, scanning through the search results. "It's not the most common of names, so it should stick out like a sore thumb, right?"
"Hm. It is a rather rare name. As such, I doubt there would be more than one in any given area. So I find it especially disconcerting that we've run across this name twice in our investigation."
Sam had been reading another fruitless Google search, so he was a bit out of it. "Hmm? What do you mean?"
"I mean, Sam, that the name I discovered in the case of the disappearing girls is also 'Fael'."
Sam stared up at him, computer search forgotten. "We need to talk to those women."
Cas lifted a brow. "I concur."
Sam stood and quickly closed his computer and tucked it into his duffel. "First on the list is Chandra's friend Lena. I got her address from the police reports." He snatched the keys from the nightstand and tossed his duffel over his shoulder. "You ready?" he asked, opening the door.
"Of course." Cas nodded and followed him out to the car. "Why is this Lena person first on the list, Sam?"
Sam started the car and pulled out onto the road before answering. "Because she was there when Chandra went missing. She gave a description to the cops, but it wasn't helpful. I'm thinking that fact that it wasn't helpful could be a clue. That none of the witnesses to the disappearances could give accurate descriptions is a lead."
"How so?" Cas asked, frowning.
"Well, maybe whoever it is is casting a glamour, or somehow messing with the perceptions of those around him. Or her." Sam replied, checking the signs for the street he needed to turn.
"That is a plausible idea. There are many individuals, however, that could be using this technique. It is not exactly difficult. Any witch or demon could do it, with the right resources."
Turning onto the street, Sam agreed. "I know. Which is why we need to talk to Lena. I think, the more info we pull from her, the closer we'll be to IDing this guy. I said as much to Dean last night, and he agreed with me." He banged his hand on the steering wheel. "Dammit. I wish he was here to help me with this."
Cas looked over at him, curious. "You think you can't do this on your own? Question a witness?"
"What?" Sam did a double take. "No. I just...these things always go more smoothly when it's me and Dean. I'm...well, I'm good with people. I know I can make them comfortable, but sometimes, when we're trying to get out the... I don't know....weird parts of the story, Dean's so much better at that than I am. He's blunt about it, and makes it all seem so...I guess the closest word is normal."
"He makes people willing to confess to things they would normally not admit to," Cas clarified. "The impossible doesn't seem so, when Dean is the one asking about it. I have seen him do this."
"Exactly. I can get them to trust us, but he can get them to talk." Sam said, turning left onto one of the streets he'd written down in his directions.
"Hm." Cas thought for a moment, looking out through the passenger window at the houses passing by. "I have found in my years with the two of you that people will accept what you present to the world as real. Dean knows what comprises his world, and therefore the world around him. The monsters and demons and angels...it is real to him, and therefore should be real to other people. When he speak to them, it is."
"It's not like it's not real to me, too, Cas." Sam whispered.
"But you don't think it needs to be so for others. Other hunters, yes. To the people you call normal, you don't think they should have to deal with the ugliness of your world. You think they're better off not knowing." Cas said, still staring out the window.
Sam cut a glance out the corner of his eye. "I don't know about that."
Cas pinned him with a stare. "I do. Dean's a realist, and believes that everyone should be as well. You're an idealist, Sam."
"Okay. I won't argue that."
Cas actually chuckled a bit, then turned back to staring out the window. "It's what makes the pair of you work so well together. And why you're so hard to destroy."
"And that is why," Sam said, "I'd feel more comfortable if Dean were with me on this. And when I find the guy who took him..." he trailed off, shaking his head.
"You and I both, Sam." Cas said.
Sam looked across the car at Cas, who turned slowly to meet his gaze. Seeing the truth of Cas' words in his eyes, Sam gave a nod. "Okay."
They rode in silence until Sam finally found Lena's house. He pulled to a stop across from a nice little bungalow. He took a deep breath and opened his door. "Ah, Cas. I think it would be best if you leave the talking to me."
"You think I am unfamiliar with the ways of interrogation?" Cas asked as they crossed the street.
"I think that you're calling it an interrogation means you really don't have a clue about how to get information from a source." Sam said, his forehead wrinkled with the effort not to insult an Angel. "It's going to be hard enough, getting her to trust me, but you..." He sighed. "You have a very blunt manner, Cas-worse than Dean's-and I'm not sure that's going to go over well."
"I see. This is a friendly discussion, meant as recon."
Sam smiled ruefully. "Yeah, sorry."
They stepped up onto the porch. "And you think I can't do friendly."
Sam shrugged and gave him an apologetic smile. "Uh, no?"
"Hmm." Just before Sam knocked on the door, Cas stated, "Then perhaps you are right. You should...do the talking."
"Right," Sam replied and knocked on the door.
Master Post |
Part 1 |
Part 3