FIC (SPN): Kicking Ass and Taking Names (Part I)
Fic Title: Kicking Ass and Taking Names
Author: blue_fjords
Fandom/Genre: SPN, case!fic
Pairing(s): Dean/Cas, pre-slash
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 13,000
Warnings: Takes place directly after "My Bloody Valentine," so spoilers through 5x14.
Summary: In which Dean discovers a cure for nightmares, Castiel learns a method of human communication, Sam makes a new little friend and Team Free Will gets its groove back after the events of "My Bloody Valentine."
A/N: Written for spn_reversebang. Thanks to mizra for making me a personalized banner, and being such a delight to work with! And many thanks to kel_reiley for the beta! This story was so very much fun to write. Check out the artwork once I add the link! In the meantime, the pic that inspired this story can be found here, and my special banner:
"Boiling Springs State College. Three mysterious deaths since the start of the semester."
Dean eyed Sam over his bowl of chili and absently prodded some beans with his spork. It was Sam's second day out of the panic room and he looked like shit. Dean sighed.
"Define 'mysterious'."
Sam nodded vigorously, overcompensating, and had to grip the back of a chair before folding his long body into a seat at Bobby's battered table. Bobby wordlessly handed him a cracked bowl and pushed the pot of chili across the wooden planks.
"No signs of violence, disease or anything. They just… stopped. Three healthy students, two 19-year-olds and a 20-year-old. No classes in common. The girl died sitting at her desk in her dorm room, one guy bought it in the mess hall, and the last guy keeled over a few feet from his truck."
Dean raised his eyebrows. "O-kaaaay. You've done a fair amount of research on this already."
Sam flushed and began scooping chili into his bowl, his eyes fixed on the beans. Dean took another bite of his own and tried not to make a face. Sam had helped Bobby make the chili, insisting on keeping it meatless, even though Cas had fluttered off somewhere just that morning and wouldn't eat Sam's chili anyhow. Dean noted the quiver of Sam's hand as he tore open a spork-and-napkin packet from Bobby's pilfered restaurant stash, and frowned. It was possibly Sam's aversion to blood that had stuck him with fake chili.
"Dude, you're shaking like a leaf. You sure you're up for this?" Dean asked. Sam tightened his grip on his spork.
"It's over the border in Nebraska, just a few hours' drive," Bobby said before Sam could even open his mouth.
Dean shot him a look. "Eager to get rid of us?"
Bobby shrugged his shoulders. "Sam needs to get back on the horse sometime. A little case unconnected to Horsemen or Apocalypses might be just the thing."
Dean grunted noncommittally. He wished Cas hadn't left that morning. They could have gone to Nebraska and given Sam a few more days at Bobby's. But one look at Sam nixed that idea. His shoulders were set and his lips were pursed, the very definition of Sam Winchester Determination. Dean sighed.
"Yeah, okay, we'll leave in the morning."
"I'm already packed," Sam said swiftly.
"Good for you. We're leaving in the morning," Dean reiterated. He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping a long screeeeeeck across the floor. "Good night, ladies."
He brought his bowl to the sink and tried to ignore the looks he was sure Sam and Bobby were exchanging. He hadn't finished his chili because it wasn't very good, not for any other reason, and they could shove it. Sam's the one they had to worry about, not him.
The door to the room Dean considered his own needed careful lifting and pressing to shut all the way, but Dean took his time with it until he was satisfied Sam and Bobby wouldn't be able to hear him on the phone.
"Cas? I'm in my room at Bobby's…" He could feel the change in atmosphere before he even finished speaking.
Cas also looked like shit. Dean sat down on the edge of the bed and massaged his forehead. The three of them looked as bad as they felt. They were screwed.
"Sam wants to go do a random case in Nebraska," he started. Cas just looked back at him, a hint of irritability seeping in around his usual unflappable demeanor. "So, do you think…?"
Cas tilted his head, a slight frown creasing his face. "Sam has worked out the demon blood. I already told you that this morning."
"You're absolutely sure? One hundred percent?"
Cas stiffened. "I can still find a demon taint, Dean, if there's one to be found. Your brother is one hundred percent Sam Winchester."
Fuck, awkward. "Sorry, Cas," Dean said after a moment. "Didn't mean to doubt you."
"Did you need anything else?" Cas asked, his voice clipped.
"You channeling your inner Mr. Belvedere now?" Dean's lips quirked into a half-smile. Cas just looked back at him. Or, not at him, his eyes skittered all around the room, eyelashes on camera-shutter mode. "Cas, do you - do you need to sleep?"
Cas shifted from foot to foot. "No."
Dean snorted. "You have ants in your pants, then? What's up with you?"
"There are no insects in my clothing, Dean. My feet are just doing this. It is perfectly natural. I have seen both you and Sam do this."
"When we're fucking tired. Come on, Cas, sit down." Dean startled even himself by reaching up and tugging on the trench coat. Cas fell forward with a huff. Dean's arms automatically caught him, and he thought for one brief moment that Cas was going to disappear in a wave of annoyance, but Cas surprised him by settling down beside him on the edge of the bed, their shoulders brushing.
"That does feel a little better."
"Your feet were tired." Dean yawned, jaws creaking, and fell back on the bed. Bobby had thin, old pillows, and Dean laced his fingers together behind his head for a little added cushioning. Cas joined him after a beat, eyeing Dean's hand placement. He steepled his fingers over his own chest instead. Dean raised his eyebrows. Cas sacked out in the bed next to him - a double, not especially accommodating for two men of their stature - was not precisely what he'd had in mind. It was weird, but not unwelcome. "You want to take off your coat and stay awhile?"
The trench coat wound up on him in lieu of a blanket. Dean was absurdly grateful. Sleeping under Cas's coat, though it belonged to Cas and smelled like him, felt a little less intimate than crawling under the covers together.
"Cas?"
"Yes, Dean?"
"Could you spare a day or two in your… mission… to help me and Sammy out with this case? I don't think it's anything too difficult, it's just, you know-"
"You are concerned about Sam's weakness and your own newfound apathy."
Dean winced. "Jesus, Cas. A little tact."
"Your idea of tact is to tell lies. This is not, in fact, what tact is."
Dean rolled his eyes and turned on his side, facing the wall. He tugged the coat a bit closer around him. "Whatever. You coming or not?"
"I will come with you. Tonight I shall rest here."
"Suit yourself," Dean mumbled, already fighting sleep. He braced himself for Cas to change his mind, but the heat from the angel's body was a welcome presence down his side and he soon fell into a fitful sleep.
He dreamed of Famine again. He'd almost welcome a dream of Hell to get a little variety from the cadaverous old man, but no dice. Famine's taunting face sent him tumbling into black holes, nothingness stretching out on all sides. He fell into the numbing cold of outer space, into a darkness that ate away at starlight. The stars shone brightly until the black hole of Dean snuffed them out. In the way of dreams, the stars were Sam, Bobby, Cas, a young boy he'd pulled from the water years before, a blonde woman with a beautiful smile who'd thanked him and touched his cheek, a high-schooler with wide, awestruck eyes - all swallowed up by Dean's gnawing emptiness.
The dreamscape changed, and he tumbled forward, falling until he wound up inside his own head: a blank, white cell.
"Hello!" he shouted. The sound died with no echo.
"There is nothing within you, Dean," Famine wheezed at him, from somewhere outside the cell. He began to cackle. "Nothing!" he taunted. "Nothing!"
Dean fell to his knees as the walls began to close in.
"You're empty, Dean!" Famine screeched. "EMPTY!"
The whiteness smothered him and he choked on nothingness.
A hand gripped his shoulder and he sat up, abruptly awake and gasping for air. The darkness coalesced into the familiar contours of his room at Bobby's. The hand burning into his shoulder, unerringly matched with its print on his bare skin, belonged to Cas.
"You were dreaming of Famine," Cas said with a note of disapproval.
"Trust me, Cas," Dean gasped out, "not by choice."
"Dean," Cas said, sitting up and tightening his grip on Dean's shoulder. "I pulled your soul out of Hell. I can see it in your eyes. You are not empty. You should not believe anything Famine told you."
Dean flushed heavily and wrenched his shoulder away. "Spying on my dreams again, Cas? That's not cool."
"I had no need to spy on your dreams to know what you were thinking."
It was a bit of a cosmic joke, Dean suspected, that the being who understood him the most was an emotionally-stunted non-human walking around in the body of a dude with preternaturally wide blue eyes. Not that his eyes had anything to do with anything.
"Yeah, well, don't go snooping around in my head," he muttered, plucking at the coat. There was a stain around where the left shoulder blade would be that hadn't disappeared. He scratched it with a blunt fingernail. "So, the eyes really are the windows to the soul, then?"
He glanced up at Cas and stiffened when the angel took his face in his hands and peered into his eyes, thumbs digging into his cheekbones.
"God, Cas!" he spluttered.
"I see you in there, one hundred percent Dean Winchester. I can see you as a four-year-old, at fifteen, at twenty-one, at thirty. I can see your doubts and fears, your loves and joys. Do not try to tell me you are an empty being. I pulled you from Hell. There will never be anyone else who knows you as I do. I have held your soul, your essence, and you are filled to overflowing with it."
Goosebumps dimpled Dean's skin and his breathing came in erratic gasps. His hands, which had immediately fastened around Cas's wrists, loosened their grip. All he could see were Cas's blue eyes, bright and burning, and dammit, he was falling again.
He awoke much more slowly the next time. A bird called outside the window, then burst into a twittering song. Dean opened his eyes in gradual increments. He was warm, and there were arms around him. He blinked and focused. His eyesight was filled with an Adam's apple and the open white collar of a dress shirt. Cas. Shit.
"Good morning, Dean."
He could feel the vibration of Cas's voice beneath his cheek. He closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, he was still lying in bed with another man, practically on top of him, practically cuddling, and was Cas actually stroking his neck, what the fuck? And what delusion had he been functioning under to think that sleeping beneath the trench coat would be less intimate? He reeked of Cas.
He sat up (calmly), took a couple of deep breaths (calmly), felt the creases from Cas's clothes on his own face (calmly), and said (very calmly), "You are never to breathe a word about this to anyone."
Cas blinked up at him. "About what, Dean?"
"About this! Us - sleeping togeth-" He stopped at the smirk on Cas's face. It was a little lopsided, as if he hadn't made the expression before. "You fuckwad. Cas, you just made a funny."
"It was not as difficult as I thought it would be."
Dean grinned despite himself, and Cas sat up, the very picture of the cat that got the canary. Dean slid off the bed and stretched, cracking his knuckles. He felt more well-rested than he had in months. Should get Cas to sleep with me every night. He shook his head and tossed the trench coat to Cas.
"Come along then, Jon Stewart. We're going to Nebraska."
He scooped up his duffle, the benefits of never unpacking, and wrenched the door open. Cas followed him down the stairs and into the kitchen. Sam looked up from his bowl of cereal.
"Hey, Cas. When'd you get in?"
"Last night," Cas replied. Dean busied himself at the counter, pouring his own bowl of Frosted Flakes and ignoring the look he knew Sam was shooting him. "I shall be accompanying you to Nebraska."
"Great!" Sam enthused.
Dean turned around quickly. "'Great!' You trying out for the Boiling Springs State College Cheerleading Team?"
"I was thinking of how we should approach this case," Sam directed at Cas, shifting his shoulders to block Dean from the conversation, "and I was thinking it would be easier with three people. You know, one of us goes as a student and the other two can be the FBI Agents. I think I should be the student."
"Hell no, you're not going alone," Dean interrupted, striding to the table and plunking his bowl down with a loud thud.
Sam rolled his eyes. "Do you have a fake badge, Cas?" he asked.
"Hey, I'm talking here!" Dean interrupted.
"Yes, Dean gave me a badge. Eddie Moscone, FBI," Cas said, reaching into his coat and pulling out the ID, right-side up. Dean snatched it out of his hand.
"Will you both fucking listen to me?" he yelled.
"Keep your voice down, Dean, Bobby's trying to sleep," Sam snapped at him.
"I don't want you going into this alone," he hissed in deference to their host's beauty rest. Sam rolled his eyes again. He keeps doing that, they're going to roll right out, and then we'll have to get one of those guide dogs, and who will be stuck picking up his shit? Dean 'Chump' Winchester, that's who!
"Dean. I can ride to Nebraska with Sam in one of Bobby's cars, and join you in the Impala on the outskirts of town. He will barely be alone at all," Cas said, taking back his badge and attempting to slide it back into his coat. He missed the pocket the first two times and frowned at the badge, as if he wanted to smite it right there.
"I'm a bit more concerned about when Sam will be impersonating a member of this thing's target audience for killing, Cas. He's still shaky." He stuck his finger under Sam's nose as Sam opened his mouth, no doubt to protest them talking about him in front of himself. "You're still shaky. Don't deny it."
"Remember what I told you last night, Dean," Cas reprimanded him, sliding the badge home at last.
Dean froze. The bit about seeing my soul? Or the bit about knowing me best? Cas inclined his head to Sam. Oh. The bit about Sammy being one hundred percent. And fuck, that's uncanny. Cas gave him one of his rare half-smiles.
Sam cleared his throat. "Not to interrupt your Hallmark moment here, but if we could get back to the case?" Dean scowled and Sam just talked right over him. "You don't get to make these decisions for me, Dean. I'm the youngest and the most believable student. And you and Cas will be able to get access to things that, maybe, Cas could figure out better than us."
Sam left unsaid that someone would need to go with Cas to keep him looking human. Now that was tact. He made sense, too, Dean had to grudgingly admit. Sam was the only one with college experience. Dean'd probably stick out like a sore thumb. He ignored the small pang of regret that thought garnered, and nodded with poor grace.
"Okay, Sammy, we'll try it your way at first. Get chummy with someone, see if you can connect the victims. Cas and I will see if we can't figure out what the hell it is we're facing."
The other two nodded and stood up. Dean had the distinct feeling that his approval of the team's deployment, as it were, was less than an afterthought. His shoulders twitched. It really wasn't a big deal. They split up to accomplish different tasks in a case all the time. He was worried about nothing. Hadn't Cas told him Sammy was fine? Yes, yes he had.
They hit the road soon after, Sam and Cas trailing Dean and the Impala in one of Bobby's better junkers. Dean turned up the radio and sang along all the way to Nebraska, trying to shake off a case of the heebie jeebies. They'd be fine. Fine.
***
Cas appeared beside him after they passed a sign on the highway declaring the town of Boiling Springs to be five miles away.
"Sam says that the motel closest to the college campus is called Boiling Rock Motor Lodge. He will see about staying on the campus itself."
Dean grunted.
"The town does not have a morgue," Cas continued. "The bodies are at a funeral home on the other side of town awaiting burial. We should inspect them right away."
Dean grunted again. Cas looked out the window. Dean glanced at him.
"You need to button your top button," he pointed out. "And straighten your tie."
Cas fumbled with his clothing, tugging things looser.
"Never mind, Cas, I'll do it when we stop," Dean said, reaching over with one hand to bat Cas's arms back down. "So do you know why everything around here is 'boiling' this or that?"
"Yes," Cas answered. There was a pause, in which Cas looked serene and Dean tapped the steering wheel.
"And?" Dean prompted.
"There are hot springs located nearby. The mother-in-law of the founder of this town bathed in them at the wrong time and her skin boiled. The founder named the town Boiling Springs in honor of his wife's mother. The 'Rock' belonging to our motel name is a rock near the springs. It is supposed to heat when the springs get very, very hot. In 1985, a small boy named Joshua Miller fried eggs on the Rock."
"Really?"
"According to a pamphlet," Cas reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a brochure, "I got from where we stopped for gas. It is called Fourteen Things to Do in Boiling Springs with Just Five Dollars."
Dean snorted. "Good one, Cas. Any other local legends in that thing?"
"No. Not even about the boiled alive mother-in-law."
"You're catching on to how humans think now," Dean said, grinning. "Okay, we're not looking for a lobstered old lady. Good to know."
"It is good to know," Cas agreed.
They pulled up outside the Boiling Point Funeral Home a few minutes later.
"Now that is not what I would name a place that houses the dead," Dean muttered as he straightened Cas's shirt and tie. "There. Now you're presentable," he continued, patting down Cas's chest before realizing what he was doing, and snatching his hands back. "Uh, anyway. Let me do the talking, Agent Moscone."
Cas gave him a long-suffering look, but gestured for him to lead the way. They were met at the door by a mousy little woman in a knit vest covered in appliqué farm animals.
"Good morning, ma'am," Dean said, assessing her with a brief smile as he took out his badge. "I'm Agent Alonzo Mosely, this is my partner, Eddie Moscone, of the FBI." His eyes slid to Cas, who proudly held out his badge for inspection, waving it practically under the woman's twitchy nose. Dean surreptitiously stepped on Cas's foot. "We understand that the bodies of the three students from the college are being held here? Would you mind leading us to them?"
"Oh, my goodness!" she squeaked at them. "The FBI! Which of you is Mulder and which is Scully?"
"I am Eddie Moscone and he is Alonzo Mosely," Cas replied, frowning. "It says so on our badges." He waved his again.
"Easy, Ed." Dean closed his fingers around Cas's hand. "Time to put the badge away now." He gave a little laugh that sounded more fake than Cheez Whiz. "He's never owned a TV, Ms…?"
"Trudy. Well, Gertrude, but I don't stand on formality." Her nose twitched again, and Dean belatedly realized he still had his hand covering Cas's hand. He dropped it as casually as possible.
"So, Trudy. The bodies, then?"
"Mercy! Yes. Those poor young people," she clucked. "Did you - did you want to examine them?" she asked, her voice hushed. "Because I could wheel all three into the Beauty Parlor. That's what we call the embalming room. It just sounds nicer."
"That it does, Trudy!" I am going to break something in my face with all these fake smiles. Cas was giving him a quite alarmed look, as if Dean had been replaced with a piece of moldy cheese. "All three at once sounds awesome," Dean managed through gritted teeth.
The 'Beauty Parlor' was aptly named, though Dean could live without the large photographs of made-up corpses displayed on the walls. It was pretty fucking creepy. Trudy dithered around after she brought the bodies in, chatting about the victims - two had lived in the area their whole lives, one had worked as a bagger at the A&P and once dropped a bottle of olive oil ("The extra virgin kind, you know, like Rachael Ray says to get?") while packing her bag and Trudy had slipped in it, one had a large mole on his right buttock ("You don't expect to see these things, but in this line of work, it's par for the course!"), and one had been teased about being-
She stopped, her face flaming. Dean looked up from the body of the female, cocking a brow at the cessation of noise.
"Teased about what, Trudy?"
"Well, I, I should really go, I've jabbered on too much," she stammered. Cas frowned at her.
"What are you hiding, woman?" he asked, a bit of his angelic presence shining through. Dean was a little impressed. Trudy practically fell to her knees.
"I would never - I'm a tolerant person! I think it's - it's terrible," she babbled. "Poor Roy," she shot them an imploring look and quailed at their stern faces. "Alright! Roy was a vegetarian!"
Dean blinked. "Dude, seriously? That was what people teased him about, not eating meat?"
Dean liked meat. He liked it a lot. People who didn't eat meat left more for him. He liked those people. Trudy gave him a strange look, probably for the 'dude.'
"Was his vegetarianism really that big a deal?"
"I suppose not," she answered slowly. "It's just, when the FBI is investigating a murder, you want to provide as much information as possible, you know. About weird things." Dean exchanged a quick look with Cas. He was doing his best to hide his 'humans are idiots who can't be trusted with a box of crayons' expression. "But I should have expected you to be more understanding," Trudy continued, nodding her head decisively. "What with your own situation."
"Our own situation?" Dean asked.
"Oh. Right." She winked. "Is 'don't ask, don't tell' for the FBI, too? That's a shame, but I'll keep your secret. Mum's the word." She mimed zipping her lips.
Dean's jaw dropped. A bzzzz sounded in the Beauty Parlor before he could form words, though, and Trudy turned to the door.
"Alrighty then! I'll leave you to it. There's a poor soul in need of some comforting in the sitting room." She made a smooshy little face that Dean surmised must be her 'cry on my shoulder' look. "You gentlemen feel free to take your time. Those poor dears," she added, clucking over the bodies one last time before bustling from the room and shutting the door behind her.
Dean stared at the door for a moment, then shook himself. "Cas, what-"
"Dean. There is something wrong with these bodies," Cas interrupted him. Cas was leaning over the body of Roy and frowning.
"I certainly hope there is," Dean muttered, "'cause we're kind of clueless with motive and cause of death and all that jazz."
"Do you recall the body whose soul had been stolen to feed Famine?" Cas asked, tapping Roy's forehead.
"Not something I'd forget," Dean replied, walking over to stand on the other side of the unfortunate Roy. "Did something attack their souls?"
"Yes. At least partly." Cas frowned and laid his hand flat on Roy's chest, half-closing his eyes.
"What do you mean?" Dean asked. Cas didn't answer him. "'I know what's going on, Dean, but I'm not going to answer. Just do as I say,'" Dean said in his Castiel-Angel-of-the-Lord voice. Cas didn't reply, but his fingers tightened on the sheet over Roy's heart. "Hey, Cas, who trims your fingernails? They do a bang-up job." Dean glanced up at Cas's face. Still nothing. "And how come you smell fresh as a daisy, huh? You been searching for God in Laundromats?" Dean waved his hand in front of Cas's face. One of his eyelids fluttered, then stilled. Dean sighed. "But what I was really wondering, Cas, was how many licks does it take to get to the tootsie in a Tootsie Pop?"
"I don't get that reference," Cas said, withdrawing his hand and wrinkling his nose in distaste.
"Dude, your face!" Dean exclaimed. He couldn't recall the last time he'd seen such a, cute was the first word he thought of, replaced hastily by non-intense, expression on Cas's face. "Does Roy's soul smell like an open sewer or something?"
"Yes," Cas replied. "I imagine the other two will be similarly afflicted." His eyes darted to the other two corpses and his jaw twitched. On anyone else, that would be akin to a full-body shudder. Dean reached across the corpse and laid a hand on Cas's upper arm.
"There any way I could help?" he offered.
"No. And I would not want you to come into contact with what remains of their souls. They are shrunken things, and eaten through with rot and disease."
"Awesome," Dean breathed. His hand unconsciously tightened on Cas's arm. "What could do that, do you know?"
Cas shook his head. "Its… signature, I suppose you would call it… has been corrupted. I will have to test the other two."
Dean let his arm drop, and Cas moved to the corpse of the young woman. Dean wandered over to another workbench with three shoeboxes on top, neatly labeled 'Roy Young,' 'Darren Montgomery,' and 'Millie Jeffries.' He opened the lid to Millie's box and peered inside.
The boxes contained pictures of the deceased and personal effects (earrings and a necklace for Millie, a gold watch for Darren and one of those handwoven bracelets for Roy) that their families had provided for the bodies' preparation for burial. There were lists of instructions and little tubs and tubes of makeup. And at the bottom of each box was a picture of each dead body where they'd been found.
Creepy. Dean had seen lots of crime scene photos over the years, countless gruesome acts. But these photos were just bizarre. For starters, they weren't at official crime scenes. There was no police tape, no numbered markers laying out clues. The funeral home had picked up each body. Dean could picture Trudy with a camera, trying for the best shot. They looked like they were sleeping. In fact, Roy, who'd been found by his truck, was lying down, head on his arms and legs slightly bent. He looked like he had laid down for a nap, not like he had fallen or collapsed. Millie was the same way, slumped over her desk, her computer still on, her phone laying inches from her hand. Her lower lip was glistening, as if someone had wiped off the drool for a picture. Dammit, Trudy.
A low moan issued from the direction of Darren's corpse and Dean jerked his head up. Cas was swaying on his feet. Dean got there just in time to catch him as he began to topple backwards.
"Cas!" he hissed. "What did you see? Are you okay?" He braced them with one leg between Cas's legs and the other jutting out behind him. Trudy chose that moment to return to the Beauty Parlor.
"Goodness!" she exclaimed. "Oh my. I can see you're busy, I'll just-"
"No, wait!" Dean shouted. He was definitely not embarrassed. He'd been in much more embarrassing situations before. He just couldn't think of any at the moment. "Trudy. First, roll that stool over here, will you?" He nodded his head at one of the round stools lined up at the workbenches along the wall. Trudy jumped at the note of command in his voice and got him a stool. He carefully lowered Cas onto it, sliding an arm around his waist to keep him from slumping off it. "Okay, now, this is very important. Who took the pictures of the bodies where they were found?"
Trudy blinked. "Why is that necessary, Agent Mosely?"
"I need to know if they were moved at all," Dean said, trying to get a hold of his patience. "Did you take the pictures?"
Trudy's forehead cleared. "Oh! Well, that would be Jonas, what took the pictures. It's… well, it's his hobby, see. He definitely wouldn't have moved them. Did you want to talk to him, Agent?"
"Yeah, that'd be great," Dean replied, just as Cas jerked in his arms, his eyelids fluttering open. "Can you run and get Jonas for us, Trudy?" he asked her, already turning back to Cas. He looked paler than he'd ever seen him. Dean was barely aware of Trudy mumbling her acquiescence and shutting the door behind her. "You with me again now, Cas?"
"Dean," Cas said slowly. His voice sounded scraped raw; he paused to clear his throat, then looked startled at the effect. Dean had never heard him clear his throat before. "Ah. I believe I have some idea of what we are looking for. It's a succubus, of a sort. I don't know why it is behaving like this, leaving the remnants of souls around, not to mention the lack of sexual activity, but it is a succubus."
"One of these days, I'd like us to get something harmless and cute - like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster," Dean sighed.
"Those are myths, Dean," Cas informed him. He sat up straighter on his stool, and Dean moved a step back, grumbling about what Cas could do with his myths. Cas's lips thinned. "Who is this Jonas you have sent Trudy to fetch?"
Dean retrieved the pictures and handed them over. "Dude who took these crime scene pics."
"Weren't no crime scene," a voice cut in, and they both looked to the door. Trudy bounced anxiously next to a huge man, maybe in his early twenties, who rivaled Sam in height, though he probably weighed fifty or so pounds more. He walked stiffly into the room, not bending his left knee at all. Looks like Central Casting's idea of Lurch, poor guy.
"Your local police didn't deem it one, that's true, but we're not ruling anything out," Dean said. "I'm glad, personally, that you took these pictures, otherwise we would have very little to work with." He flashed his we're-on-the-same-side-here smile and gave a conspiratorial wink. "I just have a couple questions for you. Think you can help me out?"
Jonas chewed on his lower lip and gave them each an assessing look. He nodded slowly.
"Great! Okay, the main thing is," and he held up each picture one at a time, "did you by any chance touch these bodies before you took their pictures? Maybe try to make them a bit more comfortable?"
"I watch them crime shows," Jonas said. He could give Cas a run for the money in the gruff voice department, and Dean shot a quick look at Cas. He was concentrating fully on Jonas. "I don't touch no dead bodies. Them people with the CSI's and all have to have clean bodies. I just take the pictures. Some day I'm gonna-"
"Well, Jonas answered your question! And now I need him to help me carry something heavy somewhere," Trudy interrupted, tugging on Jonas's sleeve.
"Someday you're going to what, Jonas?" Cas asked, ignoring her.
Jonas looked down at Trudy and carefully peeled her fingers from his sleeve. "Someday I'm gonna get one in a picture. An angel. An angel will be taking a soul to Heaven, and I'll see it with my camera. I wanna see an angel."
A silence descended on the room. Dean scrambled for something to say, assiduously avoiding Cas's gaze.
"He doesn't mean that," Trudy said finally.
"I don't not mean it," Jonas mumbled.
"I believe you could see an angel one day," Dean said carefully. "I believe in angels. I just have one more question for you, Jonas, okay?" He waited for the man to nod. "Can you recall anything unusual about these scenes? Maybe something that was common to all three of them?"
Jonas thought for a moment, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. "Not that I reckon," he said after a few moments of deep thought. "They each had their fancy phones nearby, but that weren't weird. They weren't the same color phones."
"What do you mean by nearby?" Dean asked, though it didn't sound like anything. His phone was in his pocket. Sam and Cas each had phones in their pockets, too.
"The boy in the chow hall had a phone right next to his fork on the table, the pretty girl had the phone on the desk next to her hand, and Veggie Roy had his phone under his cheek. You can't see it in the picture," Jonas said.
"Thank you, Jonas." Dean turned to look at Trudy. "Where are those phones now?"
"Well, with the families, of course!" She looked a little flustered. "We didn't know they'd be important!"
"It's okay, Trudy. We just need to cover all angles. Thank you both for your time." He shook Jonas's hand, and then took Trudy by the elbow, leading her away from Jonas as Cas approached him. "Can you tell me where the families are staying?"
Trudy babbled about funeral arrangements and out-of-town guests as she drew a little notepad from her pocket and began to copy down information. Dean listened with half an ear and watched Jonas and Cas out of the corner of his eye. Cas held out his hand, stiffly, but Dean felt a surge of pride in him anyway. Jonas shook it, and his eyes widened and lower lip trembled. Cas brought his other hand up to Jonas's forehead and touched it lightly with two fingers.
"And if there's anything else you need, you'll stop by, right, Agent Mosely?" Trudy asked, holding out a piece of paper.
"Ah, yes. Thanks again; you've been very helpful. You coming, Eddie?" he directed back over his shoulder at Cas.
The last glimpse Dean had of the Beauty Parlor was the beatific face of Jonas, photographer of the dead and wannabe angel stalker.
"What'd you tell that guy?" Dean asked Cas as they got back into the Impala. "Hold on," he mumbled as Cas opened his mouth, "I'm going to tell Sammy to meet us for lunch at the Boiling Brew - passed it earlier." He sent a quick text, then started the car. "Okay, shoot."
"Are you sure you are ready for me, Dean?" Cas asked with some asperity.
Dean grunted in response. The angel was learning sarcasm from somewhere, and it never ceased to cause Dean to rankle. Especially as he couldn't always tell what was sarcasm and what was general cluelessness.
"I did not say anything to Jonas," Cas said. "I allowed my Grace to brush his soul. That is all."
"You were sharing your Grace around?" Dean asked, wishing he didn't sound so jealous. His stomach clenched and he angrily told it to relax. It didn't listen.
"It is a normal part of being an angel." Cas was staring at him, as if he could hear his inner dialogue, though he had promised not to go snooping around in Dean's head. "When I first started walking amongst you, my Grace brushed each soul I saw, until I was able to figure out how to contain it."
"So you've soul-brushed lots of people." His stomach was winning this fight, and he sounded petulant now, too. Awesome.
Cas didn't answer, just stared across the benchseat at Dean. Dean had never been happier to reach a diner in his life. He shut the door with a bit more force than he intended and made his way to the diner door without waiting for Cas.
"Dean," Cas said at his elbow. There was no shaking him.
"Look, let's just forget-"
Cas silenced him by laying his hand on Dean's shoulder, right over the handprint mark. Warmth flooded him, and strength and peace and, Dean gulped, an emotion he would have to label love. Cas squeezed his shoulder.
"I do not forget, Dean. And I can assure you, I have never gone into Hell for anyone else before," Cas said dryly. "Shall we meet Sam now?"
"Yeah. Sure," Dean breathed out. He allowed himself a tiny smile, hiding it behind ducking his head and opening the door to the diner.
Sam was sitting by himself in a booth, books spread out on the table in front of him. He widened his eyes and nodded to the booth behind him as Dean and Cas approached. Dean rolled his eyes, but prevented Cas from sliding into the booth with Sam.
"Seriously, Sam? Isn't this a bit cloak-and-dagger?" he muttered, sitting down behind Sam. Cas hesitated, then sat across from him, his brow furrowed.
"I don't want them to associate me with you guys," Sam whispered back, picking up his glass and holding it loosely in front of his face.
"Like anyone would notice," Dean snorted softly. A waitress appeared at his booth.
"You two from the FBI?" she asked. She leaned slightly over the table, and Dean got a good look at her cleavage. "Would you like me to tell you the specials?"
He could practically feel Sam smirk behind him. "That'd be peachy-keen, Marcie," he said, reading her nametag. Trudy's got a big fucking mouth on her.
"We have a meatloaf sandwich and pickle salad, kielbasa and sauerkraut, and today is International Day so we have fish and chips. 'Chips' is British for French fries." She gave Dean a simpering smile and wiggled her shoulders in a way she clearly thought was seductive. "And the pie of the day is blueberry-apple. The apples are grown right here."
Jesus Christ, she's going to stuff my face in them. He focused his eyes on her face. "I can't say no to International Day, Marcie! And I'll take a piece of that pie." He nodded across at Cas. "He'll have a piece, too."
Her smile slipped a bit. "Anything to drink?" she asked brusquely.
"Do you truly have the best coffee in Nebraska?" Cas asked.
"What? No, it's lousy," she answered, narrowing her eyes at him.
"Then why do you advertise the best coffee in Nebraska at your dining establishment?"
"What my partner means," Dean interrupted them, "is that he'd like a glass of water. I would too, Marcie. Thanks." He grinned at her. She flounced back off to the kitchen. "Seriously, Cas?"
"I felt it was a legitimate question. And I should sit next to you; I can't hear Sam from over here." He made to get up.
"Fuck, no! Sit back down," Dean hissed at him. Sam was coughing in the booth behind him, trying to disguise a laugh. "Look, Cas, you only sit next to each other when you're - you know."
Cas looked at him blankly.
"Together," Dean clarified.
"We are together. This may have slipped your notice, Dean, but we are almost always together."
"Not that kind of together. Like, sleeping together." Dean's eyes widened as Cas opened his mouth. Shit, he's going to say it! He promised!
"You mean fornicating," Cas said instead. "Very well. I will sit on this side of the booth."
Dean heaved a sigh of relief. "Okay, Sammy," he said, gathering his thoughts, "we think we know what we're dealing with, more or less."
He quickly filled Sam in on the events of their trip to the funeral home, pausing only when Marcie plopped down two glasses of water, then a platter of fish and chips.
"Huh," Sam muttered, "a succubus. Hmmm. I haven't found anyone with much of a connection to all three of our victims. They've each had several of the same professors, but not at the same time. I spent most of the morning in the Dean's office, obtaining their records. I just met my host before coming here - I said I was thinking about transferring from another State school, and this guy's going to show me around campus and put me up for the night."
"What's his name?" Dean asked quickly.
"John Smiley. He sounds like a real serial killer."
"Humpf." Cas was eyeing his fries - chips. Maybe he should start ordering him full meals from time to time. Dean nudged the plate towards the center of the table. "Go on, try them."
"What?" Sam asked.
"Not you. I'm introducing Cas to the joys of potato deep-fried in sizzling hot oil."
Sam snorted.
"Shut up, Sam. He likes them. Right, Cas?"
"There is something about the crispness of the outer layer when paired with the soft, hot filling that is deeply satisfying." Cas licked his fingers. "And the salt."
"Yeah…" Dean watched him choose another fry and eat it in slow bites, his tongue darting out to catch the grains of salt. Marcie slammed down the plates of pie, and Dean jumped a bit in his seat.
"Cream?" she barked.
"Uh, yeah, that'd be nice, Marcie, thank you." Dean smiled up at her, and she softened a bit, spraying a large dollop of cream on top of his warm pie.
"And for the coffee aficionado?" she asked, not taking her eyes off Dean.
"I will have whatever he is having," Cas answered her, munching another fry. She gave him about half the amount of cream Dean got. "I do believe our waitress views me as sexual competition for you, Dean," Cas remarked as Marcie walked away again.
Dean choked on his first bite of pie.
"Dean! Are you okay?" Sam hissed from behind him.
"F-fine, Sammy," Dean managed to get out. He took a sip of his water. Cas blinked innocently up at him, then speared a bite of pie. Cream wound up dotting his chin, and dammit, did he do that on purpose?
"Anyhow," Sam said quietly, standing up and packing his books, "let me know what you find out on the phone connection. I'll call you tonight, okay? Hopefully I'll have some good stuff to share then."
"Be careful, Sam." Dean frowned at his pie. Maybe they'd have time to look into the background of this John Smiley character, too. Cas was eyeing his cream now. With a sigh, he pushed the plate into the center of the table. He took a bite of Cas's pie for compensation, and looked up to see Sam staring at him while he shrugged on his coat.
"Dude!" Sam exclaimed, then blushed, looking around to see if anyone had seen him slip up. He bent down with the pretence of tying his shoe. "You're sharing fries and pies!"
"Run on back to school, college boy," Dean mumbled around a mouthful of baked apple and blueberry, flaky crust, and sweet, melty cream. Cas snagged more of his cream. Sam just shook his head and slouched out of the diner. Marcie came by clutching the check.
"Your pie is very good, Marcie," Cas complimented her. "My partner will pay that, thank you."
Dean caught his eye as he fished out his wallet. He was going to have to leave a big tip, but it was worth it to see stoic doom-and-gloom Castiel hum around a forkful of pie, his eyes filled with amusement.
Now we just need to catch the bad guys and get out intact. Piece of… pie.
***
"And here's the bronzed tumble weed. It's not the only bronzed tumble weed in the state, but this is the only one with a plaque from Sons of the Pioneers. You know Sons of the Pioneers?" John Smiley took his first breath in what felt like hours, and Sam leapt at the chance.
"Singing group from the 1930s. But John, man, you got any recent stories going on here?" It was a clumsy segue, sure, but Sam was tired.
"Uh…" John shrugged uncertainly. "Um." He looked over his shoulder, scanning the afternoon shadows dappling the path behind them. "Do you get scared easily, Sam?" he asked in a loud whisper.
"Not at all!"
"Shhhh! Keep your voice down!" John stopped dead in his tracks. "What I am about to tell you, I have told no other living soul." He took a deep breath and pushed his glasses up. "My freshman year, I saw a pair of women's underpants floating across the quad. Swear to God."
He looked up at Sam. Sam looked down at him. "I heard people have died on campus recently," Sam said finally.
"Oh," John sighed. "That." He fiddled with the buttons of his plaid shirt, tugged the zipper of his jacket higher and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I didn't want to scare you off, see. You seem like a cool guy, despite, you know-" He made a gesture with his hand, encompassing all of Sam's being.
"Despite being what?" Sam asked, affronted. Do I have a sign on me now? Good for nothing Apocalypse starter and demon blood addict? Kick me!
"Old."
Sam burst out laughing. He laughed so hard his sides ached. After awhile John started to chuckle, too.
"How old are you, John?" Sam asked, catching his breath and wiping his eyes.
"Nineteen," John replied, grinning.
"Damn! I am old. And as one of your elders," he said, throwing an arm around John's shoulders, leading him to a handy bench and sitting them down, "I would like to request that you do tell me about the recent deaths on campus."
"Well, three of them actually took place right on campus," John started. His feet swung half an inch off the ground. "I guess you could say it was kind of creepy. They all had the same disease. I thought we should call the CDC, you know? Make sure none of us has what they had."
"That's a good idea," Sam said. John flushed.
"Well, maybe it was Dean Snyder's idea," he mumbled. "But I thought it made sense! Only the CDC is really busy, and it was a real pain to keep calling them, plus Atlanta's in a whole 'nother time zone, so Doc Herndon, he's over in Bigglesworth, that's fifteen miles away, he took samples of their blood and it was just blood, and Millie's parents, that's the girl who died, really wanted to bury her, get it over with, you know…"
Sam's foot started to tap. He couldn't help it. His watch showed 4:00. He'd spent almost three hours getting a tour of a campus that consisted of four buildings plus two large dormitories. That was it. John had talked non-stop, even during the occasional text to one of his friends. All these years with Dean has given me the patience of Job, I see that now. John must have seen something in his face, because he sped up his story.
"There wasn't anything weird about their blood! So those are the three who died on campus recently," John said hurriedly. "And at the end of last semester, Billy Herring and Lindsey Manning died in car accidents. We had a couple of sudden snowstorms, the wind was wicked, whiteout conditions, man."
"That's an awful lot of tragedy for such a small town," Sam commented, watching John closely.
"I guess so. Sandy Pinkerton found the first wreck, and she wrote a poem about it afterwards. 'Pink Snow,' she called it. It was a lot more gruesome than what the title makes you think." John pointed his toes and dragged them through the dirt. "You want a popsicle or something?"
Sam frowned. Five deaths in a pinprick town like this, and he asks if I want a damn popsicle? "John," he asked, choosing his words carefully, "how well did you know Billy Herring and Lindsey Manning?"
"Oh, since kindergarten. So, um, fourteen years now. Well, not anymore, as they're dead. Billy could burp the alphabet and Lindsey used to be way into Miley Cyrus." He stood up. "Come on, I haven't shown you my room yet! It has a view of Boiling Muck, those are the tar pits just outside of town." John pulled out his phone and began sending a text. "I'm just texting my mom to let her know an old man is staying in my room tonight. Ha-ha, that's a joke, see, she won't get scared or anything."
"Do you miss the people who died, John?" Sam asked.
"Sure. Millie was a fine soccer player, and the other guys - I forget, honestly, Sam." He essayed Sam with a little half-smile. "It's kind of weird, right? I should feel something more, but I don't." He brightened suddenly. "I know! I'll text Doc Herndon and tell him about it! Don't worry about the cost; I have an excellent deal. I could text all day!"
Sam glanced around the quad as John continued to prattle on. There was a woman out walking her dog. She seemed normal enough. A couple of students cut across the grass, backs bent under the weight of their backpacks. Everything looked… normal. John had been talking all afternoon. Maybe he just liked the sound of his own voice. Still, Sam vowed to keep an eye on him for the next few hours. He pulled out his phone and sent Dean a text of his own - ANYTHING RE PHONES? Dean answered quickly enough - @ HOTEL. GOING THRU PHONES NOW. U?
Sam's fingers tingled. He should tell Dean that he had a weird feeling about the town. But was it really all that strange? People died all the time. If anyone knew that, it was Sammy Winchester. There wasn't any need to hurry. After all - Boiling Muck - that's not something you see every day. Sam nodded at his screen. He'd keep an eye on John Smiley. He'd stick to the family motto of saving people and hunting things. If he let Dean in on it this early, he'd insist on taking over. Besides, he kind of wanted a popsicle. A pink one.
EVERYTHING NORMAL.
***
Part II Continues Here
Author: blue_fjords
Fandom/Genre: SPN, case!fic
Pairing(s): Dean/Cas, pre-slash
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 13,000
Warnings: Takes place directly after "My Bloody Valentine," so spoilers through 5x14.
Summary: In which Dean discovers a cure for nightmares, Castiel learns a method of human communication, Sam makes a new little friend and Team Free Will gets its groove back after the events of "My Bloody Valentine."
A/N: Written for spn_reversebang. Thanks to mizra for making me a personalized banner, and being such a delight to work with! And many thanks to kel_reiley for the beta! This story was so very much fun to write. Check out the artwork once I add the link! In the meantime, the pic that inspired this story can be found here, and my special banner:
"Boiling Springs State College. Three mysterious deaths since the start of the semester."
Dean eyed Sam over his bowl of chili and absently prodded some beans with his spork. It was Sam's second day out of the panic room and he looked like shit. Dean sighed.
"Define 'mysterious'."
Sam nodded vigorously, overcompensating, and had to grip the back of a chair before folding his long body into a seat at Bobby's battered table. Bobby wordlessly handed him a cracked bowl and pushed the pot of chili across the wooden planks.
"No signs of violence, disease or anything. They just… stopped. Three healthy students, two 19-year-olds and a 20-year-old. No classes in common. The girl died sitting at her desk in her dorm room, one guy bought it in the mess hall, and the last guy keeled over a few feet from his truck."
Dean raised his eyebrows. "O-kaaaay. You've done a fair amount of research on this already."
Sam flushed and began scooping chili into his bowl, his eyes fixed on the beans. Dean took another bite of his own and tried not to make a face. Sam had helped Bobby make the chili, insisting on keeping it meatless, even though Cas had fluttered off somewhere just that morning and wouldn't eat Sam's chili anyhow. Dean noted the quiver of Sam's hand as he tore open a spork-and-napkin packet from Bobby's pilfered restaurant stash, and frowned. It was possibly Sam's aversion to blood that had stuck him with fake chili.
"Dude, you're shaking like a leaf. You sure you're up for this?" Dean asked. Sam tightened his grip on his spork.
"It's over the border in Nebraska, just a few hours' drive," Bobby said before Sam could even open his mouth.
Dean shot him a look. "Eager to get rid of us?"
Bobby shrugged his shoulders. "Sam needs to get back on the horse sometime. A little case unconnected to Horsemen or Apocalypses might be just the thing."
Dean grunted noncommittally. He wished Cas hadn't left that morning. They could have gone to Nebraska and given Sam a few more days at Bobby's. But one look at Sam nixed that idea. His shoulders were set and his lips were pursed, the very definition of Sam Winchester Determination. Dean sighed.
"Yeah, okay, we'll leave in the morning."
"I'm already packed," Sam said swiftly.
"Good for you. We're leaving in the morning," Dean reiterated. He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping a long screeeeeeck across the floor. "Good night, ladies."
He brought his bowl to the sink and tried to ignore the looks he was sure Sam and Bobby were exchanging. He hadn't finished his chili because it wasn't very good, not for any other reason, and they could shove it. Sam's the one they had to worry about, not him.
The door to the room Dean considered his own needed careful lifting and pressing to shut all the way, but Dean took his time with it until he was satisfied Sam and Bobby wouldn't be able to hear him on the phone.
"Cas? I'm in my room at Bobby's…" He could feel the change in atmosphere before he even finished speaking.
Cas also looked like shit. Dean sat down on the edge of the bed and massaged his forehead. The three of them looked as bad as they felt. They were screwed.
"Sam wants to go do a random case in Nebraska," he started. Cas just looked back at him, a hint of irritability seeping in around his usual unflappable demeanor. "So, do you think…?"
Cas tilted his head, a slight frown creasing his face. "Sam has worked out the demon blood. I already told you that this morning."
"You're absolutely sure? One hundred percent?"
Cas stiffened. "I can still find a demon taint, Dean, if there's one to be found. Your brother is one hundred percent Sam Winchester."
Fuck, awkward. "Sorry, Cas," Dean said after a moment. "Didn't mean to doubt you."
"Did you need anything else?" Cas asked, his voice clipped.
"You channeling your inner Mr. Belvedere now?" Dean's lips quirked into a half-smile. Cas just looked back at him. Or, not at him, his eyes skittered all around the room, eyelashes on camera-shutter mode. "Cas, do you - do you need to sleep?"
Cas shifted from foot to foot. "No."
Dean snorted. "You have ants in your pants, then? What's up with you?"
"There are no insects in my clothing, Dean. My feet are just doing this. It is perfectly natural. I have seen both you and Sam do this."
"When we're fucking tired. Come on, Cas, sit down." Dean startled even himself by reaching up and tugging on the trench coat. Cas fell forward with a huff. Dean's arms automatically caught him, and he thought for one brief moment that Cas was going to disappear in a wave of annoyance, but Cas surprised him by settling down beside him on the edge of the bed, their shoulders brushing.
"That does feel a little better."
"Your feet were tired." Dean yawned, jaws creaking, and fell back on the bed. Bobby had thin, old pillows, and Dean laced his fingers together behind his head for a little added cushioning. Cas joined him after a beat, eyeing Dean's hand placement. He steepled his fingers over his own chest instead. Dean raised his eyebrows. Cas sacked out in the bed next to him - a double, not especially accommodating for two men of their stature - was not precisely what he'd had in mind. It was weird, but not unwelcome. "You want to take off your coat and stay awhile?"
The trench coat wound up on him in lieu of a blanket. Dean was absurdly grateful. Sleeping under Cas's coat, though it belonged to Cas and smelled like him, felt a little less intimate than crawling under the covers together.
"Cas?"
"Yes, Dean?"
"Could you spare a day or two in your… mission… to help me and Sammy out with this case? I don't think it's anything too difficult, it's just, you know-"
"You are concerned about Sam's weakness and your own newfound apathy."
Dean winced. "Jesus, Cas. A little tact."
"Your idea of tact is to tell lies. This is not, in fact, what tact is."
Dean rolled his eyes and turned on his side, facing the wall. He tugged the coat a bit closer around him. "Whatever. You coming or not?"
"I will come with you. Tonight I shall rest here."
"Suit yourself," Dean mumbled, already fighting sleep. He braced himself for Cas to change his mind, but the heat from the angel's body was a welcome presence down his side and he soon fell into a fitful sleep.
He dreamed of Famine again. He'd almost welcome a dream of Hell to get a little variety from the cadaverous old man, but no dice. Famine's taunting face sent him tumbling into black holes, nothingness stretching out on all sides. He fell into the numbing cold of outer space, into a darkness that ate away at starlight. The stars shone brightly until the black hole of Dean snuffed them out. In the way of dreams, the stars were Sam, Bobby, Cas, a young boy he'd pulled from the water years before, a blonde woman with a beautiful smile who'd thanked him and touched his cheek, a high-schooler with wide, awestruck eyes - all swallowed up by Dean's gnawing emptiness.
The dreamscape changed, and he tumbled forward, falling until he wound up inside his own head: a blank, white cell.
"Hello!" he shouted. The sound died with no echo.
"There is nothing within you, Dean," Famine wheezed at him, from somewhere outside the cell. He began to cackle. "Nothing!" he taunted. "Nothing!"
Dean fell to his knees as the walls began to close in.
"You're empty, Dean!" Famine screeched. "EMPTY!"
The whiteness smothered him and he choked on nothingness.
A hand gripped his shoulder and he sat up, abruptly awake and gasping for air. The darkness coalesced into the familiar contours of his room at Bobby's. The hand burning into his shoulder, unerringly matched with its print on his bare skin, belonged to Cas.
"You were dreaming of Famine," Cas said with a note of disapproval.
"Trust me, Cas," Dean gasped out, "not by choice."
"Dean," Cas said, sitting up and tightening his grip on Dean's shoulder. "I pulled your soul out of Hell. I can see it in your eyes. You are not empty. You should not believe anything Famine told you."
Dean flushed heavily and wrenched his shoulder away. "Spying on my dreams again, Cas? That's not cool."
"I had no need to spy on your dreams to know what you were thinking."
It was a bit of a cosmic joke, Dean suspected, that the being who understood him the most was an emotionally-stunted non-human walking around in the body of a dude with preternaturally wide blue eyes. Not that his eyes had anything to do with anything.
"Yeah, well, don't go snooping around in my head," he muttered, plucking at the coat. There was a stain around where the left shoulder blade would be that hadn't disappeared. He scratched it with a blunt fingernail. "So, the eyes really are the windows to the soul, then?"
He glanced up at Cas and stiffened when the angel took his face in his hands and peered into his eyes, thumbs digging into his cheekbones.
"God, Cas!" he spluttered.
"I see you in there, one hundred percent Dean Winchester. I can see you as a four-year-old, at fifteen, at twenty-one, at thirty. I can see your doubts and fears, your loves and joys. Do not try to tell me you are an empty being. I pulled you from Hell. There will never be anyone else who knows you as I do. I have held your soul, your essence, and you are filled to overflowing with it."
Goosebumps dimpled Dean's skin and his breathing came in erratic gasps. His hands, which had immediately fastened around Cas's wrists, loosened their grip. All he could see were Cas's blue eyes, bright and burning, and dammit, he was falling again.
He awoke much more slowly the next time. A bird called outside the window, then burst into a twittering song. Dean opened his eyes in gradual increments. He was warm, and there were arms around him. He blinked and focused. His eyesight was filled with an Adam's apple and the open white collar of a dress shirt. Cas. Shit.
"Good morning, Dean."
He could feel the vibration of Cas's voice beneath his cheek. He closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, he was still lying in bed with another man, practically on top of him, practically cuddling, and was Cas actually stroking his neck, what the fuck? And what delusion had he been functioning under to think that sleeping beneath the trench coat would be less intimate? He reeked of Cas.
He sat up (calmly), took a couple of deep breaths (calmly), felt the creases from Cas's clothes on his own face (calmly), and said (very calmly), "You are never to breathe a word about this to anyone."
Cas blinked up at him. "About what, Dean?"
"About this! Us - sleeping togeth-" He stopped at the smirk on Cas's face. It was a little lopsided, as if he hadn't made the expression before. "You fuckwad. Cas, you just made a funny."
"It was not as difficult as I thought it would be."
Dean grinned despite himself, and Cas sat up, the very picture of the cat that got the canary. Dean slid off the bed and stretched, cracking his knuckles. He felt more well-rested than he had in months. Should get Cas to sleep with me every night. He shook his head and tossed the trench coat to Cas.
"Come along then, Jon Stewart. We're going to Nebraska."
He scooped up his duffle, the benefits of never unpacking, and wrenched the door open. Cas followed him down the stairs and into the kitchen. Sam looked up from his bowl of cereal.
"Hey, Cas. When'd you get in?"
"Last night," Cas replied. Dean busied himself at the counter, pouring his own bowl of Frosted Flakes and ignoring the look he knew Sam was shooting him. "I shall be accompanying you to Nebraska."
"Great!" Sam enthused.
Dean turned around quickly. "'Great!' You trying out for the Boiling Springs State College Cheerleading Team?"
"I was thinking of how we should approach this case," Sam directed at Cas, shifting his shoulders to block Dean from the conversation, "and I was thinking it would be easier with three people. You know, one of us goes as a student and the other two can be the FBI Agents. I think I should be the student."
"Hell no, you're not going alone," Dean interrupted, striding to the table and plunking his bowl down with a loud thud.
Sam rolled his eyes. "Do you have a fake badge, Cas?" he asked.
"Hey, I'm talking here!" Dean interrupted.
"Yes, Dean gave me a badge. Eddie Moscone, FBI," Cas said, reaching into his coat and pulling out the ID, right-side up. Dean snatched it out of his hand.
"Will you both fucking listen to me?" he yelled.
"Keep your voice down, Dean, Bobby's trying to sleep," Sam snapped at him.
"I don't want you going into this alone," he hissed in deference to their host's beauty rest. Sam rolled his eyes again. He keeps doing that, they're going to roll right out, and then we'll have to get one of those guide dogs, and who will be stuck picking up his shit? Dean 'Chump' Winchester, that's who!
"Dean. I can ride to Nebraska with Sam in one of Bobby's cars, and join you in the Impala on the outskirts of town. He will barely be alone at all," Cas said, taking back his badge and attempting to slide it back into his coat. He missed the pocket the first two times and frowned at the badge, as if he wanted to smite it right there.
"I'm a bit more concerned about when Sam will be impersonating a member of this thing's target audience for killing, Cas. He's still shaky." He stuck his finger under Sam's nose as Sam opened his mouth, no doubt to protest them talking about him in front of himself. "You're still shaky. Don't deny it."
"Remember what I told you last night, Dean," Cas reprimanded him, sliding the badge home at last.
Dean froze. The bit about seeing my soul? Or the bit about knowing me best? Cas inclined his head to Sam. Oh. The bit about Sammy being one hundred percent. And fuck, that's uncanny. Cas gave him one of his rare half-smiles.
Sam cleared his throat. "Not to interrupt your Hallmark moment here, but if we could get back to the case?" Dean scowled and Sam just talked right over him. "You don't get to make these decisions for me, Dean. I'm the youngest and the most believable student. And you and Cas will be able to get access to things that, maybe, Cas could figure out better than us."
Sam left unsaid that someone would need to go with Cas to keep him looking human. Now that was tact. He made sense, too, Dean had to grudgingly admit. Sam was the only one with college experience. Dean'd probably stick out like a sore thumb. He ignored the small pang of regret that thought garnered, and nodded with poor grace.
"Okay, Sammy, we'll try it your way at first. Get chummy with someone, see if you can connect the victims. Cas and I will see if we can't figure out what the hell it is we're facing."
The other two nodded and stood up. Dean had the distinct feeling that his approval of the team's deployment, as it were, was less than an afterthought. His shoulders twitched. It really wasn't a big deal. They split up to accomplish different tasks in a case all the time. He was worried about nothing. Hadn't Cas told him Sammy was fine? Yes, yes he had.
They hit the road soon after, Sam and Cas trailing Dean and the Impala in one of Bobby's better junkers. Dean turned up the radio and sang along all the way to Nebraska, trying to shake off a case of the heebie jeebies. They'd be fine. Fine.
***
Cas appeared beside him after they passed a sign on the highway declaring the town of Boiling Springs to be five miles away.
"Sam says that the motel closest to the college campus is called Boiling Rock Motor Lodge. He will see about staying on the campus itself."
Dean grunted.
"The town does not have a morgue," Cas continued. "The bodies are at a funeral home on the other side of town awaiting burial. We should inspect them right away."
Dean grunted again. Cas looked out the window. Dean glanced at him.
"You need to button your top button," he pointed out. "And straighten your tie."
Cas fumbled with his clothing, tugging things looser.
"Never mind, Cas, I'll do it when we stop," Dean said, reaching over with one hand to bat Cas's arms back down. "So do you know why everything around here is 'boiling' this or that?"
"Yes," Cas answered. There was a pause, in which Cas looked serene and Dean tapped the steering wheel.
"And?" Dean prompted.
"There are hot springs located nearby. The mother-in-law of the founder of this town bathed in them at the wrong time and her skin boiled. The founder named the town Boiling Springs in honor of his wife's mother. The 'Rock' belonging to our motel name is a rock near the springs. It is supposed to heat when the springs get very, very hot. In 1985, a small boy named Joshua Miller fried eggs on the Rock."
"Really?"
"According to a pamphlet," Cas reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a brochure, "I got from where we stopped for gas. It is called Fourteen Things to Do in Boiling Springs with Just Five Dollars."
Dean snorted. "Good one, Cas. Any other local legends in that thing?"
"No. Not even about the boiled alive mother-in-law."
"You're catching on to how humans think now," Dean said, grinning. "Okay, we're not looking for a lobstered old lady. Good to know."
"It is good to know," Cas agreed.
They pulled up outside the Boiling Point Funeral Home a few minutes later.
"Now that is not what I would name a place that houses the dead," Dean muttered as he straightened Cas's shirt and tie. "There. Now you're presentable," he continued, patting down Cas's chest before realizing what he was doing, and snatching his hands back. "Uh, anyway. Let me do the talking, Agent Moscone."
Cas gave him a long-suffering look, but gestured for him to lead the way. They were met at the door by a mousy little woman in a knit vest covered in appliqué farm animals.
"Good morning, ma'am," Dean said, assessing her with a brief smile as he took out his badge. "I'm Agent Alonzo Mosely, this is my partner, Eddie Moscone, of the FBI." His eyes slid to Cas, who proudly held out his badge for inspection, waving it practically under the woman's twitchy nose. Dean surreptitiously stepped on Cas's foot. "We understand that the bodies of the three students from the college are being held here? Would you mind leading us to them?"
"Oh, my goodness!" she squeaked at them. "The FBI! Which of you is Mulder and which is Scully?"
"I am Eddie Moscone and he is Alonzo Mosely," Cas replied, frowning. "It says so on our badges." He waved his again.
"Easy, Ed." Dean closed his fingers around Cas's hand. "Time to put the badge away now." He gave a little laugh that sounded more fake than Cheez Whiz. "He's never owned a TV, Ms…?"
"Trudy. Well, Gertrude, but I don't stand on formality." Her nose twitched again, and Dean belatedly realized he still had his hand covering Cas's hand. He dropped it as casually as possible.
"So, Trudy. The bodies, then?"
"Mercy! Yes. Those poor young people," she clucked. "Did you - did you want to examine them?" she asked, her voice hushed. "Because I could wheel all three into the Beauty Parlor. That's what we call the embalming room. It just sounds nicer."
"That it does, Trudy!" I am going to break something in my face with all these fake smiles. Cas was giving him a quite alarmed look, as if Dean had been replaced with a piece of moldy cheese. "All three at once sounds awesome," Dean managed through gritted teeth.
The 'Beauty Parlor' was aptly named, though Dean could live without the large photographs of made-up corpses displayed on the walls. It was pretty fucking creepy. Trudy dithered around after she brought the bodies in, chatting about the victims - two had lived in the area their whole lives, one had worked as a bagger at the A&P and once dropped a bottle of olive oil ("The extra virgin kind, you know, like Rachael Ray says to get?") while packing her bag and Trudy had slipped in it, one had a large mole on his right buttock ("You don't expect to see these things, but in this line of work, it's par for the course!"), and one had been teased about being-
She stopped, her face flaming. Dean looked up from the body of the female, cocking a brow at the cessation of noise.
"Teased about what, Trudy?"
"Well, I, I should really go, I've jabbered on too much," she stammered. Cas frowned at her.
"What are you hiding, woman?" he asked, a bit of his angelic presence shining through. Dean was a little impressed. Trudy practically fell to her knees.
"I would never - I'm a tolerant person! I think it's - it's terrible," she babbled. "Poor Roy," she shot them an imploring look and quailed at their stern faces. "Alright! Roy was a vegetarian!"
Dean blinked. "Dude, seriously? That was what people teased him about, not eating meat?"
Dean liked meat. He liked it a lot. People who didn't eat meat left more for him. He liked those people. Trudy gave him a strange look, probably for the 'dude.'
"Was his vegetarianism really that big a deal?"
"I suppose not," she answered slowly. "It's just, when the FBI is investigating a murder, you want to provide as much information as possible, you know. About weird things." Dean exchanged a quick look with Cas. He was doing his best to hide his 'humans are idiots who can't be trusted with a box of crayons' expression. "But I should have expected you to be more understanding," Trudy continued, nodding her head decisively. "What with your own situation."
"Our own situation?" Dean asked.
"Oh. Right." She winked. "Is 'don't ask, don't tell' for the FBI, too? That's a shame, but I'll keep your secret. Mum's the word." She mimed zipping her lips.
Dean's jaw dropped. A bzzzz sounded in the Beauty Parlor before he could form words, though, and Trudy turned to the door.
"Alrighty then! I'll leave you to it. There's a poor soul in need of some comforting in the sitting room." She made a smooshy little face that Dean surmised must be her 'cry on my shoulder' look. "You gentlemen feel free to take your time. Those poor dears," she added, clucking over the bodies one last time before bustling from the room and shutting the door behind her.
Dean stared at the door for a moment, then shook himself. "Cas, what-"
"Dean. There is something wrong with these bodies," Cas interrupted him. Cas was leaning over the body of Roy and frowning.
"I certainly hope there is," Dean muttered, "'cause we're kind of clueless with motive and cause of death and all that jazz."
"Do you recall the body whose soul had been stolen to feed Famine?" Cas asked, tapping Roy's forehead.
"Not something I'd forget," Dean replied, walking over to stand on the other side of the unfortunate Roy. "Did something attack their souls?"
"Yes. At least partly." Cas frowned and laid his hand flat on Roy's chest, half-closing his eyes.
"What do you mean?" Dean asked. Cas didn't answer him. "'I know what's going on, Dean, but I'm not going to answer. Just do as I say,'" Dean said in his Castiel-Angel-of-the-Lord voice. Cas didn't reply, but his fingers tightened on the sheet over Roy's heart. "Hey, Cas, who trims your fingernails? They do a bang-up job." Dean glanced up at Cas's face. Still nothing. "And how come you smell fresh as a daisy, huh? You been searching for God in Laundromats?" Dean waved his hand in front of Cas's face. One of his eyelids fluttered, then stilled. Dean sighed. "But what I was really wondering, Cas, was how many licks does it take to get to the tootsie in a Tootsie Pop?"
"I don't get that reference," Cas said, withdrawing his hand and wrinkling his nose in distaste.
"Dude, your face!" Dean exclaimed. He couldn't recall the last time he'd seen such a, cute was the first word he thought of, replaced hastily by non-intense, expression on Cas's face. "Does Roy's soul smell like an open sewer or something?"
"Yes," Cas replied. "I imagine the other two will be similarly afflicted." His eyes darted to the other two corpses and his jaw twitched. On anyone else, that would be akin to a full-body shudder. Dean reached across the corpse and laid a hand on Cas's upper arm.
"There any way I could help?" he offered.
"No. And I would not want you to come into contact with what remains of their souls. They are shrunken things, and eaten through with rot and disease."
"Awesome," Dean breathed. His hand unconsciously tightened on Cas's arm. "What could do that, do you know?"
Cas shook his head. "Its… signature, I suppose you would call it… has been corrupted. I will have to test the other two."
Dean let his arm drop, and Cas moved to the corpse of the young woman. Dean wandered over to another workbench with three shoeboxes on top, neatly labeled 'Roy Young,' 'Darren Montgomery,' and 'Millie Jeffries.' He opened the lid to Millie's box and peered inside.
The boxes contained pictures of the deceased and personal effects (earrings and a necklace for Millie, a gold watch for Darren and one of those handwoven bracelets for Roy) that their families had provided for the bodies' preparation for burial. There were lists of instructions and little tubs and tubes of makeup. And at the bottom of each box was a picture of each dead body where they'd been found.
Creepy. Dean had seen lots of crime scene photos over the years, countless gruesome acts. But these photos were just bizarre. For starters, they weren't at official crime scenes. There was no police tape, no numbered markers laying out clues. The funeral home had picked up each body. Dean could picture Trudy with a camera, trying for the best shot. They looked like they were sleeping. In fact, Roy, who'd been found by his truck, was lying down, head on his arms and legs slightly bent. He looked like he had laid down for a nap, not like he had fallen or collapsed. Millie was the same way, slumped over her desk, her computer still on, her phone laying inches from her hand. Her lower lip was glistening, as if someone had wiped off the drool for a picture. Dammit, Trudy.
A low moan issued from the direction of Darren's corpse and Dean jerked his head up. Cas was swaying on his feet. Dean got there just in time to catch him as he began to topple backwards.
"Cas!" he hissed. "What did you see? Are you okay?" He braced them with one leg between Cas's legs and the other jutting out behind him. Trudy chose that moment to return to the Beauty Parlor.
"Goodness!" she exclaimed. "Oh my. I can see you're busy, I'll just-"
"No, wait!" Dean shouted. He was definitely not embarrassed. He'd been in much more embarrassing situations before. He just couldn't think of any at the moment. "Trudy. First, roll that stool over here, will you?" He nodded his head at one of the round stools lined up at the workbenches along the wall. Trudy jumped at the note of command in his voice and got him a stool. He carefully lowered Cas onto it, sliding an arm around his waist to keep him from slumping off it. "Okay, now, this is very important. Who took the pictures of the bodies where they were found?"
Trudy blinked. "Why is that necessary, Agent Mosely?"
"I need to know if they were moved at all," Dean said, trying to get a hold of his patience. "Did you take the pictures?"
Trudy's forehead cleared. "Oh! Well, that would be Jonas, what took the pictures. It's… well, it's his hobby, see. He definitely wouldn't have moved them. Did you want to talk to him, Agent?"
"Yeah, that'd be great," Dean replied, just as Cas jerked in his arms, his eyelids fluttering open. "Can you run and get Jonas for us, Trudy?" he asked her, already turning back to Cas. He looked paler than he'd ever seen him. Dean was barely aware of Trudy mumbling her acquiescence and shutting the door behind her. "You with me again now, Cas?"
"Dean," Cas said slowly. His voice sounded scraped raw; he paused to clear his throat, then looked startled at the effect. Dean had never heard him clear his throat before. "Ah. I believe I have some idea of what we are looking for. It's a succubus, of a sort. I don't know why it is behaving like this, leaving the remnants of souls around, not to mention the lack of sexual activity, but it is a succubus."
"One of these days, I'd like us to get something harmless and cute - like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster," Dean sighed.
"Those are myths, Dean," Cas informed him. He sat up straighter on his stool, and Dean moved a step back, grumbling about what Cas could do with his myths. Cas's lips thinned. "Who is this Jonas you have sent Trudy to fetch?"
Dean retrieved the pictures and handed them over. "Dude who took these crime scene pics."
"Weren't no crime scene," a voice cut in, and they both looked to the door. Trudy bounced anxiously next to a huge man, maybe in his early twenties, who rivaled Sam in height, though he probably weighed fifty or so pounds more. He walked stiffly into the room, not bending his left knee at all. Looks like Central Casting's idea of Lurch, poor guy.
"Your local police didn't deem it one, that's true, but we're not ruling anything out," Dean said. "I'm glad, personally, that you took these pictures, otherwise we would have very little to work with." He flashed his we're-on-the-same-side-here smile and gave a conspiratorial wink. "I just have a couple questions for you. Think you can help me out?"
Jonas chewed on his lower lip and gave them each an assessing look. He nodded slowly.
"Great! Okay, the main thing is," and he held up each picture one at a time, "did you by any chance touch these bodies before you took their pictures? Maybe try to make them a bit more comfortable?"
"I watch them crime shows," Jonas said. He could give Cas a run for the money in the gruff voice department, and Dean shot a quick look at Cas. He was concentrating fully on Jonas. "I don't touch no dead bodies. Them people with the CSI's and all have to have clean bodies. I just take the pictures. Some day I'm gonna-"
"Well, Jonas answered your question! And now I need him to help me carry something heavy somewhere," Trudy interrupted, tugging on Jonas's sleeve.
"Someday you're going to what, Jonas?" Cas asked, ignoring her.
Jonas looked down at Trudy and carefully peeled her fingers from his sleeve. "Someday I'm gonna get one in a picture. An angel. An angel will be taking a soul to Heaven, and I'll see it with my camera. I wanna see an angel."
A silence descended on the room. Dean scrambled for something to say, assiduously avoiding Cas's gaze.
"He doesn't mean that," Trudy said finally.
"I don't not mean it," Jonas mumbled.
"I believe you could see an angel one day," Dean said carefully. "I believe in angels. I just have one more question for you, Jonas, okay?" He waited for the man to nod. "Can you recall anything unusual about these scenes? Maybe something that was common to all three of them?"
Jonas thought for a moment, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. "Not that I reckon," he said after a few moments of deep thought. "They each had their fancy phones nearby, but that weren't weird. They weren't the same color phones."
"What do you mean by nearby?" Dean asked, though it didn't sound like anything. His phone was in his pocket. Sam and Cas each had phones in their pockets, too.
"The boy in the chow hall had a phone right next to his fork on the table, the pretty girl had the phone on the desk next to her hand, and Veggie Roy had his phone under his cheek. You can't see it in the picture," Jonas said.
"Thank you, Jonas." Dean turned to look at Trudy. "Where are those phones now?"
"Well, with the families, of course!" She looked a little flustered. "We didn't know they'd be important!"
"It's okay, Trudy. We just need to cover all angles. Thank you both for your time." He shook Jonas's hand, and then took Trudy by the elbow, leading her away from Jonas as Cas approached him. "Can you tell me where the families are staying?"
Trudy babbled about funeral arrangements and out-of-town guests as she drew a little notepad from her pocket and began to copy down information. Dean listened with half an ear and watched Jonas and Cas out of the corner of his eye. Cas held out his hand, stiffly, but Dean felt a surge of pride in him anyway. Jonas shook it, and his eyes widened and lower lip trembled. Cas brought his other hand up to Jonas's forehead and touched it lightly with two fingers.
"And if there's anything else you need, you'll stop by, right, Agent Mosely?" Trudy asked, holding out a piece of paper.
"Ah, yes. Thanks again; you've been very helpful. You coming, Eddie?" he directed back over his shoulder at Cas.
The last glimpse Dean had of the Beauty Parlor was the beatific face of Jonas, photographer of the dead and wannabe angel stalker.
"What'd you tell that guy?" Dean asked Cas as they got back into the Impala. "Hold on," he mumbled as Cas opened his mouth, "I'm going to tell Sammy to meet us for lunch at the Boiling Brew - passed it earlier." He sent a quick text, then started the car. "Okay, shoot."
"Are you sure you are ready for me, Dean?" Cas asked with some asperity.
Dean grunted in response. The angel was learning sarcasm from somewhere, and it never ceased to cause Dean to rankle. Especially as he couldn't always tell what was sarcasm and what was general cluelessness.
"I did not say anything to Jonas," Cas said. "I allowed my Grace to brush his soul. That is all."
"You were sharing your Grace around?" Dean asked, wishing he didn't sound so jealous. His stomach clenched and he angrily told it to relax. It didn't listen.
"It is a normal part of being an angel." Cas was staring at him, as if he could hear his inner dialogue, though he had promised not to go snooping around in Dean's head. "When I first started walking amongst you, my Grace brushed each soul I saw, until I was able to figure out how to contain it."
"So you've soul-brushed lots of people." His stomach was winning this fight, and he sounded petulant now, too. Awesome.
Cas didn't answer, just stared across the benchseat at Dean. Dean had never been happier to reach a diner in his life. He shut the door with a bit more force than he intended and made his way to the diner door without waiting for Cas.
"Dean," Cas said at his elbow. There was no shaking him.
"Look, let's just forget-"
Cas silenced him by laying his hand on Dean's shoulder, right over the handprint mark. Warmth flooded him, and strength and peace and, Dean gulped, an emotion he would have to label love. Cas squeezed his shoulder.
"I do not forget, Dean. And I can assure you, I have never gone into Hell for anyone else before," Cas said dryly. "Shall we meet Sam now?"
"Yeah. Sure," Dean breathed out. He allowed himself a tiny smile, hiding it behind ducking his head and opening the door to the diner.
Sam was sitting by himself in a booth, books spread out on the table in front of him. He widened his eyes and nodded to the booth behind him as Dean and Cas approached. Dean rolled his eyes, but prevented Cas from sliding into the booth with Sam.
"Seriously, Sam? Isn't this a bit cloak-and-dagger?" he muttered, sitting down behind Sam. Cas hesitated, then sat across from him, his brow furrowed.
"I don't want them to associate me with you guys," Sam whispered back, picking up his glass and holding it loosely in front of his face.
"Like anyone would notice," Dean snorted softly. A waitress appeared at his booth.
"You two from the FBI?" she asked. She leaned slightly over the table, and Dean got a good look at her cleavage. "Would you like me to tell you the specials?"
He could practically feel Sam smirk behind him. "That'd be peachy-keen, Marcie," he said, reading her nametag. Trudy's got a big fucking mouth on her.
"We have a meatloaf sandwich and pickle salad, kielbasa and sauerkraut, and today is International Day so we have fish and chips. 'Chips' is British for French fries." She gave Dean a simpering smile and wiggled her shoulders in a way she clearly thought was seductive. "And the pie of the day is blueberry-apple. The apples are grown right here."
Jesus Christ, she's going to stuff my face in them. He focused his eyes on her face. "I can't say no to International Day, Marcie! And I'll take a piece of that pie." He nodded across at Cas. "He'll have a piece, too."
Her smile slipped a bit. "Anything to drink?" she asked brusquely.
"Do you truly have the best coffee in Nebraska?" Cas asked.
"What? No, it's lousy," she answered, narrowing her eyes at him.
"Then why do you advertise the best coffee in Nebraska at your dining establishment?"
"What my partner means," Dean interrupted them, "is that he'd like a glass of water. I would too, Marcie. Thanks." He grinned at her. She flounced back off to the kitchen. "Seriously, Cas?"
"I felt it was a legitimate question. And I should sit next to you; I can't hear Sam from over here." He made to get up.
"Fuck, no! Sit back down," Dean hissed at him. Sam was coughing in the booth behind him, trying to disguise a laugh. "Look, Cas, you only sit next to each other when you're - you know."
Cas looked at him blankly.
"Together," Dean clarified.
"We are together. This may have slipped your notice, Dean, but we are almost always together."
"Not that kind of together. Like, sleeping together." Dean's eyes widened as Cas opened his mouth. Shit, he's going to say it! He promised!
"You mean fornicating," Cas said instead. "Very well. I will sit on this side of the booth."
Dean heaved a sigh of relief. "Okay, Sammy," he said, gathering his thoughts, "we think we know what we're dealing with, more or less."
He quickly filled Sam in on the events of their trip to the funeral home, pausing only when Marcie plopped down two glasses of water, then a platter of fish and chips.
"Huh," Sam muttered, "a succubus. Hmmm. I haven't found anyone with much of a connection to all three of our victims. They've each had several of the same professors, but not at the same time. I spent most of the morning in the Dean's office, obtaining their records. I just met my host before coming here - I said I was thinking about transferring from another State school, and this guy's going to show me around campus and put me up for the night."
"What's his name?" Dean asked quickly.
"John Smiley. He sounds like a real serial killer."
"Humpf." Cas was eyeing his fries - chips. Maybe he should start ordering him full meals from time to time. Dean nudged the plate towards the center of the table. "Go on, try them."
"What?" Sam asked.
"Not you. I'm introducing Cas to the joys of potato deep-fried in sizzling hot oil."
Sam snorted.
"Shut up, Sam. He likes them. Right, Cas?"
"There is something about the crispness of the outer layer when paired with the soft, hot filling that is deeply satisfying." Cas licked his fingers. "And the salt."
"Yeah…" Dean watched him choose another fry and eat it in slow bites, his tongue darting out to catch the grains of salt. Marcie slammed down the plates of pie, and Dean jumped a bit in his seat.
"Cream?" she barked.
"Uh, yeah, that'd be nice, Marcie, thank you." Dean smiled up at her, and she softened a bit, spraying a large dollop of cream on top of his warm pie.
"And for the coffee aficionado?" she asked, not taking her eyes off Dean.
"I will have whatever he is having," Cas answered her, munching another fry. She gave him about half the amount of cream Dean got. "I do believe our waitress views me as sexual competition for you, Dean," Cas remarked as Marcie walked away again.
Dean choked on his first bite of pie.
"Dean! Are you okay?" Sam hissed from behind him.
"F-fine, Sammy," Dean managed to get out. He took a sip of his water. Cas blinked innocently up at him, then speared a bite of pie. Cream wound up dotting his chin, and dammit, did he do that on purpose?
"Anyhow," Sam said quietly, standing up and packing his books, "let me know what you find out on the phone connection. I'll call you tonight, okay? Hopefully I'll have some good stuff to share then."
"Be careful, Sam." Dean frowned at his pie. Maybe they'd have time to look into the background of this John Smiley character, too. Cas was eyeing his cream now. With a sigh, he pushed the plate into the center of the table. He took a bite of Cas's pie for compensation, and looked up to see Sam staring at him while he shrugged on his coat.
"Dude!" Sam exclaimed, then blushed, looking around to see if anyone had seen him slip up. He bent down with the pretence of tying his shoe. "You're sharing fries and pies!"
"Run on back to school, college boy," Dean mumbled around a mouthful of baked apple and blueberry, flaky crust, and sweet, melty cream. Cas snagged more of his cream. Sam just shook his head and slouched out of the diner. Marcie came by clutching the check.
"Your pie is very good, Marcie," Cas complimented her. "My partner will pay that, thank you."
Dean caught his eye as he fished out his wallet. He was going to have to leave a big tip, but it was worth it to see stoic doom-and-gloom Castiel hum around a forkful of pie, his eyes filled with amusement.
Now we just need to catch the bad guys and get out intact. Piece of… pie.
***
"And here's the bronzed tumble weed. It's not the only bronzed tumble weed in the state, but this is the only one with a plaque from Sons of the Pioneers. You know Sons of the Pioneers?" John Smiley took his first breath in what felt like hours, and Sam leapt at the chance.
"Singing group from the 1930s. But John, man, you got any recent stories going on here?" It was a clumsy segue, sure, but Sam was tired.
"Uh…" John shrugged uncertainly. "Um." He looked over his shoulder, scanning the afternoon shadows dappling the path behind them. "Do you get scared easily, Sam?" he asked in a loud whisper.
"Not at all!"
"Shhhh! Keep your voice down!" John stopped dead in his tracks. "What I am about to tell you, I have told no other living soul." He took a deep breath and pushed his glasses up. "My freshman year, I saw a pair of women's underpants floating across the quad. Swear to God."
He looked up at Sam. Sam looked down at him. "I heard people have died on campus recently," Sam said finally.
"Oh," John sighed. "That." He fiddled with the buttons of his plaid shirt, tugged the zipper of his jacket higher and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I didn't want to scare you off, see. You seem like a cool guy, despite, you know-" He made a gesture with his hand, encompassing all of Sam's being.
"Despite being what?" Sam asked, affronted. Do I have a sign on me now? Good for nothing Apocalypse starter and demon blood addict? Kick me!
"Old."
Sam burst out laughing. He laughed so hard his sides ached. After awhile John started to chuckle, too.
"How old are you, John?" Sam asked, catching his breath and wiping his eyes.
"Nineteen," John replied, grinning.
"Damn! I am old. And as one of your elders," he said, throwing an arm around John's shoulders, leading him to a handy bench and sitting them down, "I would like to request that you do tell me about the recent deaths on campus."
"Well, three of them actually took place right on campus," John started. His feet swung half an inch off the ground. "I guess you could say it was kind of creepy. They all had the same disease. I thought we should call the CDC, you know? Make sure none of us has what they had."
"That's a good idea," Sam said. John flushed.
"Well, maybe it was Dean Snyder's idea," he mumbled. "But I thought it made sense! Only the CDC is really busy, and it was a real pain to keep calling them, plus Atlanta's in a whole 'nother time zone, so Doc Herndon, he's over in Bigglesworth, that's fifteen miles away, he took samples of their blood and it was just blood, and Millie's parents, that's the girl who died, really wanted to bury her, get it over with, you know…"
Sam's foot started to tap. He couldn't help it. His watch showed 4:00. He'd spent almost three hours getting a tour of a campus that consisted of four buildings plus two large dormitories. That was it. John had talked non-stop, even during the occasional text to one of his friends. All these years with Dean has given me the patience of Job, I see that now. John must have seen something in his face, because he sped up his story.
"There wasn't anything weird about their blood! So those are the three who died on campus recently," John said hurriedly. "And at the end of last semester, Billy Herring and Lindsey Manning died in car accidents. We had a couple of sudden snowstorms, the wind was wicked, whiteout conditions, man."
"That's an awful lot of tragedy for such a small town," Sam commented, watching John closely.
"I guess so. Sandy Pinkerton found the first wreck, and she wrote a poem about it afterwards. 'Pink Snow,' she called it. It was a lot more gruesome than what the title makes you think." John pointed his toes and dragged them through the dirt. "You want a popsicle or something?"
Sam frowned. Five deaths in a pinprick town like this, and he asks if I want a damn popsicle? "John," he asked, choosing his words carefully, "how well did you know Billy Herring and Lindsey Manning?"
"Oh, since kindergarten. So, um, fourteen years now. Well, not anymore, as they're dead. Billy could burp the alphabet and Lindsey used to be way into Miley Cyrus." He stood up. "Come on, I haven't shown you my room yet! It has a view of Boiling Muck, those are the tar pits just outside of town." John pulled out his phone and began sending a text. "I'm just texting my mom to let her know an old man is staying in my room tonight. Ha-ha, that's a joke, see, she won't get scared or anything."
"Do you miss the people who died, John?" Sam asked.
"Sure. Millie was a fine soccer player, and the other guys - I forget, honestly, Sam." He essayed Sam with a little half-smile. "It's kind of weird, right? I should feel something more, but I don't." He brightened suddenly. "I know! I'll text Doc Herndon and tell him about it! Don't worry about the cost; I have an excellent deal. I could text all day!"
Sam glanced around the quad as John continued to prattle on. There was a woman out walking her dog. She seemed normal enough. A couple of students cut across the grass, backs bent under the weight of their backpacks. Everything looked… normal. John had been talking all afternoon. Maybe he just liked the sound of his own voice. Still, Sam vowed to keep an eye on him for the next few hours. He pulled out his phone and sent Dean a text of his own - ANYTHING RE PHONES? Dean answered quickly enough - @ HOTEL. GOING THRU PHONES NOW. U?
Sam's fingers tingled. He should tell Dean that he had a weird feeling about the town. But was it really all that strange? People died all the time. If anyone knew that, it was Sammy Winchester. There wasn't any need to hurry. After all - Boiling Muck - that's not something you see every day. Sam nodded at his screen. He'd keep an eye on John Smiley. He'd stick to the family motto of saving people and hunting things. If he let Dean in on it this early, he'd insist on taking over. Besides, he kind of wanted a popsicle. A pink one.
EVERYTHING NORMAL.
***
Part II Continues Here