The Lonely Souls | Sam/Dean | NC-17 | 23317 words

[dragonspell]

Master Post | Part 2

Darkness had long since blanketed the small motel just east of Little Rock, insulating it from the workings of the outside world. A miniature paracosm behind a locked door, it seemingly existed outside of normal time. Ten miles away, beyond the tree line, vehicles zipped along a highway at the same pace as they would in the daylight, but here, off the beaten path, they existed in another reality.

Night had brought a chill to cut through the unseasonable heat wave smothering the area, a breeze whispering through the open window of the small room and billowing the white curtains. The pale sheets danced in the wind, following the beat of an unheard song. Castiel cocked his head at them, curious, and brushed his fingers against the threadbare fabric, feeling it catch on the callus of his borrowed thumb. They were fragile. Thin. Vulnerable. The coverings offered little protection from the elements-wind, sunlight, prying eyes-only the illusion of it, as if somehow a thin film between the occupants of the room and the rest of the world would keep trouble at bay. They were superficial at best.

It wasn’t that the curtains offered any sort of essential security but more that they allowed residents to believe that security existed. It was the basis of faith.

Sam and Dean had little use for faith, Castiel knew. At one point in their lives, they might have believed in something-the universe correcting itself somehow, the power of righteousness, even in the power of fathers, Heavenly or otherwise-but those ideals had long since been shattered, broken into scattered, tiny fragments like dropped porcelain dolls. Sam and Dean didn’t trust the empty promise that the curtains offered. They knew better.

It was out of character for the brothers to have left the window open, leaving the heaped lines of salt vulnerable to the whims of nature, but the artificial air had rumbled and creaked to a noisy death last night and the stifling heat had been too much for Dean to bear. He’d muttered a curse about ending up looking like the painted lizards of the motel walls as he’d opened the window. Sam had watched him do it. Castiel had watched them both.

A brief but no doubt welcome respite from the heat had come with night but its remnants could still be felt in the oppressive stillness of the area surrounding the small motel. The only thing that dared to move was the soft wind that tickled the curtains. Even the crickets were too exhausted to chirp.

Dean had surrendered to the heat last night, sprawled across his rented bed like a dog in the hot sun, limbs to the four corners. The beige sheets were still in place, but the outer blanket was wadded up under his feet, as even having it beneath him had been too much. From where he stood guard at the window, Castiel could still smell the faint scent of the sweat now dried on Dean’s skin and soaked into his clothes. It clung to the room like a shadow, a memory, and held in place by the stains on Dean’s shirt. The heat would have been more tolerable for the mortal condition if Dean had taken off his clothes but there was something inside of Dean that wouldn’t allow that. Something…broken.

If it was a physical wound-a scrape, a broken bone-Castiel could have wiped it away with only a thought. He wished he could-often thought about it. He’d wipe the slate clean as easily as he had the scars on Dean’s body-Tabula Rasa-but Dean’s wounds ran deeper than that. They weren’t so quick to wash away.

The brothers had driven into town just a little past seven, on the hunt for yet another creature. It was a front. For the past few weeks, Dean had been leaping at every shadow, real or imagined, chasing down oblivion. He wanted to pretend that nothing had been asked of him, wanted to remain ignorant of his destiny. So far, Sam was letting him.

As the clock had ticked away the hours, Castiel had watched the sleeping brothers, had watched Dean. Minute twitches feathered along Dean’s skin and Castiel wondered if they were shivers brought on by the night’s chill and Dean’s steadfast rejection of blankets, or if they were something more. Deeper. Castiel wouldn’t truly know about the temperature; he could guess, but it didn’t affect him the way that it did Dean. Castiel didn’t let the heat touch him. Sam, however, slept peacefully on, laid out on the other bed in soft, thin clothes, his own demons momentarily put to rest. Perhaps a dream, then. Dean had them often. Yet another symptom of Castiel’s failure.

Sam sighed in his sleep and turned his head, facing toward Dean but Castiel placed him out of mind, moving to Dean’s side. It wasn’t Sam Winchester that Castiel had come to see. That was a problem for another day.

To be completely truthful, there wasn’t any reason for him to be here at all. There was no pressing business with the Winchesters, no seals within reach, no pending battles. The Winchesters were caught up in the waiting game, so to say, with no urgent news that needed to be moved on-no instructions, no orders, nothing but a stark silence. Truth be told, Castiel was needed more in Heaven at this moment than he was in this small, quiet room painted with its maniac, grinning lizards. Somehow, though, someway, there was no place that Castiel would rather be.

This was…inconvenient. He frowned at Dean’s sleeping face. Everything was inconvenient. Inconceivable. Improper. Unseemingly.

Castiel quieted the litany of words in his head and leaned over Dean’s form, willing peace inside of himself and using it to cover Dean like the blankets he had foresworn, wrapping him in serenity. The small furl that had been building between Dean’s eyebrows smoothed and his twitching ceased.

An unpleasant dream then, Castiel thought-Dean’s memories getting the better of him again. It was hard to deny those in the defenselessness of sleep. Castiel wished he had a more delicate hand. Some of his more skilled brethren might be able to scoop out the more disturbing parts of Dean’s experiences, remove them as if they’d never happened, but Castiel knew that he would be as subtle as a large four-legged creature in a metaphorical china shop. He wouldn’t be doing anyone any favors.

Once again, he railed at his relative uselessness. A physical wound was easily taken care of; none of Dean’s wounds were where Castiel dared to touch.

…Touch. Castiel feathered his fingertips across Dean’s short hair, the light brush sending a shiver through him that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with sensations. Physicality. Everything came down to touch lately, to a queer urge to reach out as he’d never done before. He rarely touched anyone out of anything less than necessity, let alone completely extraneously. And voluntarily.

There was something about Dean, though. Something outside the norm that made Castiel’s thoughts tangle around themselves until he was uncertain what he was thinking at all. They’d tie themselves into a knot fit for Alexander. It was unsettling. Balthazar would have most likely ignored the complications and simply termed it a ‘crush.’

Balthazar had always been crude.

Castiel was drawn to Dean’s lips, a memory of Anna ghosting through his mind. What would it be like to touch as she had done? Had she enjoyed it? Had Dean? To what purpose? Physical touch was not unknown to Castiel, but he had never been possessed with such a desire to…explore. To question.

Sam sighed again, rolling fully onto his side and Castiel froze as Dean responded. Dean was always responsive to Sam’s movements-whether he knew it or not. From echoing soft sighs to following into mortal peril, Dean couldn’t help but answer Sam. Whenever he tried to do otherwise, he would drawn in like gravity, unable to resist settling back into Sam’s orbit. Sam had never been and never would be far from Dean’s mind, included as he was in Dean’s very sense of being. Since Dean had been risen, the brothers’ relationship had become a minefield full of secrets and half-truths, but still it endured. Dean clung to his brother like others clung to faith-Sam was Dean’s faith, his hope and salvation-and Sam revered Dean for it. It was the deep bond that the brothers shared, coupled with Dean’s particular brand of Winchester stubbornness, that made Castiel’s mission occasionally unpleasant.

Castiel squashed a surge of irritation. The brothers’ bond, fractured though it was, was one of the few things that they had left in the world. It would be petty of him to resent it. It was what made them Winchesters and Dean’s devotion was what made him Dean-part of the overall puzzle that Castiel spent an inordinate amount of time fixated on with no solution in sight.

Dean was still breathing slow and deep as Castiel studied him. Someday, Castiel hoped, that with enough self-reflection on the matter, he might be able to shake this…inconvenience.

There were more important events crying out for Castiel’s attention, battles to be won and wars to be fought. Yet, Castiel was here, with questions he had no business asking.



Dean panted, squirming against the metal cuffs that held his arms pinned above his head, chains clanking with each panicked jerk of his body. He was trapped-he knew it, his body knew it, the whole damn world knew it-and it wouldn’t be long until he’d lose anything resembling common sense. His pained grunt as he pulled on his restraints again turned into a breathless whimper.

The room that he was in was new but that didn’t mean much. It was always a game, throwing him off by doing something unexpected. The walls were a gray stone, barely visible except to his right where he could just make out the texture of pebbles mixed with cement. A chill hung in the air, and a damp, musty smell permeated the darkness. A basement, he figured. Or, at least the illusion of a basement. In the corner, he could make out what looked to be a set of stairs, wooden and worn in a dim electronic glow. A white washing machine stood between him and the potential freedom offered by the stairs.

Dean glanced down at the cement floor and bit his lip. That was definitely laundry surrounding him-sorted into whites and colors and darks, shirts and pants and goddamned underwear. Somebody must have been going for major creativity points or they really wanted to fuck with him this time.

It was a familiar scenario. Dean would wake up chained up, tied down, or just plain bound in a room-new or familiar, it didn’t make a difference-and he’d be given enough time to stew and really work himself up before they’d finally join him to bask in the fear and the sweat. Each time, Dean told himself that he wasn’t going to play the game but yet, each time, he caved.

Sometimes, it was just Him. Other times, he brought friends. Playmates. Watchers. It depended on his mood if he’d let them join or not. Alastair was a possessive son of a bitch.

Dean snorted, curling upward as he tried to push the shrill edge of terror back. Nothing but the best for the torture victims. Alastair also liked to wait until just before Dean thought he actually had a chance. Maybe if Dean tried harder, he could speed this up a little.

Except…were those laundry piles moving? And laughing… Dean sucked in a harsh gulp of air as a shirt tumbled off the white pile. The laughter was the creepiest thing about this. It sounded like kids-like kids playing. Jesus. “Stop fucking with me!” he shouted and the giggling stopped. But the laundry kept moving.

Dean jerked on the chain that held him suspended from the dark ceiling and stretched until his foot brushed against the closest basket. He kicked it, knocking it over, spilling the bright colors onto the cement floor like clown vomit, the plastic basket rolling harmlessly to the side.

The giggling started again. “Fuckers,” Dean snarled, struggling. It was just another head game. Just another mindfuck. And he was buying right into it. Sell him the fucking Golden Gate Bridge because he was buying, damn it! Useless panic coated his better sense and he thrashed mindlessly-no rhyme or reason, just the simple animalistic need to escape when there was no escape to be had.

All he had was time, ticking away in small increments as he waited for the “fun” to start, to be taken apart, piece by agonizing piece and Alastair loved this fucking game. Dean was-Dean was-

-Not in the room anymore. Floating in a haze of white, Dean blinked, wondering if he’d somehow found himself in a fabric softener commercial of if this was just another one of Alastair’s tricks. The setting was just one creep-ass teddy bear short of airing during Martha Stewart. He rubbed at his sore wrists only to find that they weren’t sore at all-it was all in his mind. A strange, inner peace was flowing through him, pushing back the lingering fear, filling him with warmth. It was like being held. Comforted. Loved. Bemused, Dean let himself exist in it, floating through the hazy clouds. Time had no meaning.

Until reality interrupted.

Consciousness flooded back, snapping Dean’s eyes open and propelling him upward, bringing him face-to face with a set of wide blue eyes. “Cas?” Dean muttered before he realized that he was staring at nothing but air, Castiel’s face an illusion of the dark. Dean shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his face. What a fucked-up dream…

He swung his legs over the bed, easing the hard line of his jeans digging into his stomach and straightening his shirt as it stuck to his skin. Dean didn’t know what he found more disturbing: the dream itself or the fact that he seemed to be associating Castiel-an angel and therefore, contrary to what Christian churchgoers the world over assumed, a complete dick regardless of his occasional bouts of usefulness and caring-with comfort. Enough to evidently recall Cas’s face after the dream had ended.

Dean groaned and stood. He fumbled for the flask he kept hidden in his bag and took a swallow, grimacing as the cheap liquor seared his throat. There wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to deal with his issues. He’d been screwed up before but now… Now they could pretty much write a book on him. Hell, he was a lifetime study.

He scratched his head as he moved to the window. The heat had finally broken. He could have kicked in the AC last night-would have if Sam hadn’t reminded him that it would have been charged to the room. Yesterday had been hot enough to fry eggs on pavement and Dean had felt as if he were a side of bacon sizzling on the burner.

The salt lines were still in place, piled along the sill. Dean shut the window and the cheap curtains flattened to the wall. Hopefully he and Sam wouldn’t feel like they were trapped in an oven in the morning.

They had a case tomorrow, some fucked-up shit that had brought them down to this little Podunk town in Arkansas, and Dean knew that he should get some sleep while he could. He’d been sleeping in fits and starts since Cas had dragged him back up-fuck, since even before he’d been dragged down-and sleeping was pretty much a luxury nowadays. Normally when he woke up in the middle of the night, jitters and a deep rooted fear of the monsters that lived in his head would keep him up until dawn. Tonight, it was just habit. He could still feel the easy peace from his dream, wanted to sink back down into it, but he kept feeling like he shouldn’t. Pure habit.

It was habit that pulled him to Sam’s bed, too. To make sure that he was still there, in the room with Dean. He stared down at Sam’s sleeping face, retracing the familiar lines and he had to reach out and touch them, just to make sure that this was real. He couldn’t trust that it was anymore. Sam stirred. “Dean?”

“Scoot over.” Dean lifted the thin sheet that Sam had over his waist and slipped in beside him, forcing Sam to shift to accommodate him on the bed. He wiggled into place, aligning his body to Sam’s from his knees to his shoulders, on his side so that he could still keep Sam in sight, and felt a tension he hadn’t known he had start to ease. Sam was real and here.

Sam stretched an arm underneath him, a solid presence that curled up over Dean’s back, hand resting on his side. A promise. “You alright? Sam asked, his hand rubbing over Dean’s bare arm.

The answer was always no-they both knew it-but Sam had to ask anyway. “Yeah.” Dean pressed his forehead against Sam’s shoulder and closed his eyes. Dean wanted skin to skin-Sam would keep him safe; they’d keep each other safe-but that would mean moving away. Wasn’t going to happen. “Fucking heat finally broke.” As soon as they’d crossed the county line, they’d been slowly baking in their own skins.

“Mmm,” Sam replied. He shifted and his other hand pressed against Dean’s hip. “Should take these off.” His fingers ran over the denim of Dean’s jeans, following the side seam. “Be more comfortable.”

Dean shrugged. “Later,” he said and felt himself start to drift back into the soft haze of his former dream. It was easy with Sam there. Sam kept the nightmares away. If Dean were smarter, he’d just give in and start out the night in Sam’s bed but pride kept him from asking. And Dean was afraid that if he grew to depend on it, one day it might not work.

“Okay.” Dean let himself relax against the bed, floating in the darkness until his limbs felt heavy with the pull of sleep. Just as he was about to nod off, warm lips pressed against the side of his face and, instinctively, Dean turned his head to respond to the soft touch. Sam shifted, leaning over him, his mouth aligning with Dean’s, his tongue casually licking at Dean’s lips until Dean let it inside. Dean exhaled, a buzz of arousal radiating through his body and raised his hand, griping Sam’s shoulder, rubbing it through Sam’s thin T-shirt. The tactile sensations grounded him, bringing an easy contentment. This was familiar territory.

Fingers trailed down Dean’s body, tracing the cloth lines of his shirt and reaching the waistband of his jeans. They popped the top button and pushed down the zipper, slipping inside. Dean bucked upward, breathing harder, and shivered as Sam separated the folds of his boxers to touch bare skin. “Like that?” Sam asked, his voice triggering another shiver down Dean’s spine.

Dean tilted his head upward, catching Sam’s mouth in another kiss, this one harder than before. He didn’t want to talk. Words, lately, only messed things up, got between them. Right now, Dean just wanted to forget. He tucked his own hand into Sam’s boxers, fingers wrapping around Sam’s half-hard dick. He stroked it, pulling gently, encouraging a full erection, and Sam broke off the kiss to pant against Dean’s neck.

Sam hissed, sucking air in between clenched teeth, and his touch roughened. One hand, previously gentle, shoved underneath Dean’s shirt, nails scratching down Dean’s skin, digging in and leaving marks. The other wrapped around Dean’s dick with a firm grip, starting up a hard rhythm. Dean winced but relaxed into it, willing himself to enjoy this, to take whatever Sam was giving. Sam’s teeth nipped across Dean’s throat and Dean knew that they were leaving marks.

This, too, was familiar. Reassuring. Sam always did this, after a girl or after a fight. It was his way of reminding Dean, of reminding himself. Dean did the same right back. Right now, Sam was erasing her and Dean allowed it, expected it, wanted it. It meant that Sam was still Sam, that Sam was still his fucked-up little brother. That Sam was still here. They were both alive-bruised, battered, and broken but still alive.

Sam’s hands gentled and his teeth left Dean’s skin. “Sorry,” he muttered, giving Dean an apologetic lick. Dean frowned. It was out of character for Sam to rein himself back in once he let go. A rush of anger pulsed through Dean’s veins. He wasn’t made of glass. He wasn’t going to break like some little china doll from some rough handling and he didn’t want excuses from Sam. He just wanted Sam to take. Dean fisted his hand in Sam’s hair, yanking on it and forcing Sam back into place. He kissed Sam again, his teeth catching on Sam’s lower lip and pulling at it, as he tightened his grip on Sam’s dick, hard and demanding. “Fuck,” Sam whispered, his hips rolling into Dean’s hand, losing control again.

There was no more gentleness between them, no more apologies, and no more courtesy. Just hard and brutal as Sam pressed Dean into the bed, holding Dean down with just his weight. Kisses had turned into bites and caresses into holds strong enough to bruise and Dean felt alive. Greedy for more, he squirmed underneath of Sam, fighting Sam’s grip not because he wanted to escape but just because he wanted to feel how tightly Sam would hold him down, feel how much Sam wanted him. A strange kind of intimacy bound them together, fierce and bruising but familiar.

In a matter of minutes, Dean was shuddering into Sam’s hand, his moan muffled by Sam’s mouth and Sam was right behind. Pleasure washed over Dean like a tidal wave only to ebb away and leave him sweaty and gasping, feeling as if he’d been swept out to sea and drowned beneath the waves. His muscles went lax, sinking into the bed, and he listened to Sam struggle to get his breathing back under control.

Sleep once again made Dean’s eyes heavy. He was ready to drift back into unconsciousness but he opened his eyes when Sam rolled off the bed. “Be right back,” Sam muttered, striding off into the bathroom. Dean watched him go, his head against the pillow, squinting when the bathroom light flickered. Sam tossed a thin towel at him, compliments of the motel, and Dean sighed as he rubbed it over his sticky skin. When he was done, he dropped it onto the floor, ignoring Sam’s huff of irritation, and rebuttoned his jeans.

Sam kicked the towel towards the bathroom and climbed back into bed with Dean.

The nightmares stayed away.



Castiel was aware of what the Winchester brothers did behind closed doors. He preferred not to think about it.

Standing outside room eight of the Gilled Lizard Motel and ignoring the events transpiring within, Castiel stared straight ahead at the moonlit horizon. The parking lot spread out before him, an ocean of black pavement parted by white lines, framed by the tree line of the surrounding forest. There were five vehicles in the parking lot, though only four rooms were occupied. Room three’s occupants had arrived in two different cars. They would also be leaving in two different cars and one would likely depart before dawn. The first had slunk in as if he was being watched, keeping his head low and his shoulders hunched while the other had strode about without a care in the world, her long coat swirling around her bare legs.

They were currently seeking comfort in each other though Castiel knew that only one would walk away happy with the exchange. The other would sneak back to the family that his gold ring belonged to. He’d resembled Dean, just in the face for he was slighter than Dean was. His mouth formed the exact same shape and once again, Castiel was reminded of Anna, of how she had looked with her lips pressed against Dean’s for only a brief second. Unfamiliar emotions had surfaced inside of him-a tangled mess that he would never be able to sort out.

He wasn’t Anna. He would never be Anna. To disobey as she had done was unthinkable. Yet something inside of him, some small, dangerous part, yearned to know what she knew. Desired to walk her path. Anna had always been braver than most.

Castiel tried to put it from his mind. He tried to think of other things but time and time again, he ended right back where he started with no answers and only questions. And a more uncomfortable awareness of what was happening behind the locked door and open window of room eight. He could hear soft gasps and the rustling of sheets moving together but Castiel told himself that it was just the wind. Even if it wasn’t (it wasn’t), then it was no concern of his. Dean and Sam Winchester were a means to an end. They were the knights on the chess board, driven by the hand of fate to sweep those before them. If they knew their place and fulfilled the roles given to them, then Castiel need not trouble himself with the details.

It was the details, however, that gave him pause. It was blasphemy to even think it but still Castiel did. He would dearly like to claim that it was Anna’s sin that tormented him but he knew that to be a falsehood. Anna was no more to blame for this new direction in his thoughts than the wind. This was Castiel’s own faults coming into the light of day.

Castiel had never known them before and they vexed him but he hoped that with enough self-reflection he would once again right himself. There were more important things for him to attend to and he had no time for such idle and confusing thoughts.

Laughter echoed across the flat plain of the parking lot, seemingly adrift on the soft wind. Castiel gazed from side to side and saw nothing, just the blackness of night and the same five vehicles as before, though he could feel something coming closer-something that didn’t quite exist in the physical realm. He reached out with more than just sight, he felt the soft tendrils of power, slippery and vague when he tried to grab a hold of them. They slipped away before he could identify them, blinking out of existence as if they’d never been and giving him only the lingering sensation of something old. Something ancient. Something…empty.

The door to room seven creaked open and a tall man of about thirty stepped out, his feet catching on the jamb. His eyes stared out into the night, glassy and unseeing and Castiel watched him curiously. The man took a slowly, shaky step off the sidewalk and onto the black pavement and then stopped. He shook his head, like a dog emerging from underwater, and swung himself around to face Castiel. “Who are-”

Castiel stared straight ahead at a tree, a hundred miles west of the motel, and pressed his hand to its bark. The man’s question finished in his head. -you?

Castiel didn’t know if he knew anymore.



Dean returned to the world of the living with the uncomfortable knowledge that his underwear had lodged itself in his ass sometime during the night and it might take a crowbar to get it free. That was, if he could peel his jeans off first. He groaned as he opened his eyes, feeling the heat sink on top of him like a heavy quilt. When he found the ambition to sit up, he was going to take a hammer to the fucking AC. It wouldn’t help but it might make him feel better.

“You up?” Sam asked and Dean could hear him spit into the sink. In a very odd way, it was a reassuring sound. Even when things had gotten bad when they were kids, Sam had always seemed to find time to brush his teeth. “You were out like a light, man.”

The bed creaked as Dean rolled to his feet. “Yeah. Just a…” He scrubbed at his hair and glanced around to find his bag. The clock on the nightstand glowed 9:22 and his stomach growled.

Sam rolled his eyes and spit again, running the water for a moment. Dean stripped off his sweat-crusted T-shirt and tossed it to the floor, snagging a fresh one out of his bag and dragging it over his head. When Dean looked up, Sam was watching him, his mouth in the same small frown that Dean had been catching on his face all too often lately. Dean had no idea what it meant besides the fact that it was starting to get under his skin like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He tugged at the edge of his shirt, settling it into place.

“So, the front page this morning was talking about the thefts again,” Sam said, heading to the dinette set and flipping through the papers like Dean hadn’t just caught him staring.

“Yeah?” They needed to find a laundromat soon. Dean only had one pair of jeans left. “What was it this time? The local supply of nickels to go along with the prized penny collection?” The thefts were one of the reasons why he and Sam had driven to Arkansas. They were always accompanied with reports odd noises in the night and absolutely no sign of breaking and entering.

“Garden gnomes.” Sam laughed as Dean mouthed the phrase, trying to figure out if he’d heard that right, and tossed the paper at him.

“The Hawker,” Dean read aloud. “Bizarre String of Thefts Continue. Garden gnomes are the latest objects to be targeted in the ongoing rash of thefts. The gnomes have disappeared out of four separate yards in the past two days… Who the fuck wants garden gnomes?” Dean glanced up at Sam. “Little fuckers are creepy.” He didn’t think he’d ever quite get over the instant flood of dread whenever he caught sight of one of the pointy-hat little bastards sitting in somebody’s yard. It wasn’t that he was scared, per se, it was more than he treasured certain body parts that gnomes were fond of attacking first. Dean had learned that the hard way when he and Dad had unearthed an entire nest of them sitting in some little old lady’s flower patch. He’d never been able to look at the goofy figurines in quite the same light.

Sam shrugged. “Garden gnomes, clocks, pennies, crystal figurines… If there’s a connection can’t see it.”

“What about that guy that disappeared?” Dean refolded the paper and tossed it on the bed. “He have something for gnomes?”

“Paul Sutter?” Sam quirked an eyebrow. “Dean, he was 87. I think he’s a little old to be sneaking around people’s yards.”

“Just saying.” Old men could be surprisingly spry at times. Dean pushed his jeans down over his hips and let them fall to the floor to slide on his last clean pair. Sam’s attention dropped immediately to Dean’s waist and at another time, Dean might have taken that as an invitation. His stomach growled again. Breakfast couldn’t wait. “I’m fucking starving.”

Sam rolled his eyes and turned back towards the articles on the table. “I think there’s a diner across the street.”



Nan’s Country Grill, home of spicy grilled catfish and the best quarter pounder bacon cheeseburger in the tri-county area, was not only just across the street but, after a quick chat with Nan, it also was a block away from the latest bit of town gossip. “Bluer than Bobby Jenkins’s eyes, swear to Jesus,” Nan had said, patting at her fire engine red curls. She’d started filling them in after giving them an earful about how unusual the heat wave was and how global warming was to blame. “Serves Lester right, all the boasting and bragging he did and using all that water-in this heat, too! Why, he’s only making the global warming worse, I tell you. I wouldn’t blame somebody for doing it, no siree, but I can tell you that’s not paint. No, that’s just not right. Grass shouldn’t be that color. It’s global warming, I tell you. Remember what I was saying about this heat wave? Well it’s all related. I don’t know much but I sure as Sunday know that. Just sucked all the life right out!” Dean had raised his eyebrows at Sam and Sam had shrugged back and the little bells attached to the front door had jingled on the way out. As far as leads went, it was worth a look.

Dean picked at his teeth as he and Sam headed east towards Plumview Road. He had no idea just how blue Bobby Jenkins’s eyes were but they’d have to be pretty damn blue to match Nan’s enthusiasm for the topic. “Son of a bitch…” Dean stopped just to the side of what had to be Lester Ward’s once perfect lawn, one hand reaching out the grab the neighbor fence. “It’s a Smurf crime scene.”

The green grass that used to be Lester Ward’s pride and joy was now awash with a radioactive blue-and wilting. Kneeling down, Sam pursed his lips as he picked a blade and held it up to the light. “It’s blue alright,” Sam said.

“Ya think?” Dean asked. Off on the other side of the property, an old man was leaning against a fence, yelling at a middle-aged woman in a handkerchief. Dean nudged Sam and gestured to the scene. “And it looks like Lester’s not happy about it.”

“I know it was you!” the old man shouted, banging his fist against the wooden barrier. “Don’t try to deny it! I know that you’ve had your eye on my lawn for quite some time, Matilda Davis!”

“Is that why you stole my laundry?” Matilda demanded, back and Dean’s eyebrows furled. Laundry? “You know that my business will be ruined! What gives you the right to break into my house?”

Lester pointed a finger and shook it at Matilda. “You painted my lawn blue! You killed my goddamned lawn! I’ll sue you!”

“You crazy old man, you painted it yourself! For the insurance money!” Matilda jabbed a finger over the fence. “And I’m calling Sheriff Bailey! He’ll know what to do you with you, Lester Ward! You crazy, laundry-stealing codger!”

“Dean,” Sam said, elbowing Dean in the side. “I don’t think this is paint.” Dean glanced at the blade of grass that Sam had snapped in two. “It’s blue inside.”

Lester screamed something at his neighbor, the words too high a register to be intelligible and Matilda’s voice rose to meet Lester’s. “So, maybe Neighbor Lady fed it something that it soaked up?”

“Over night? The entire lawn?” Sam leveled an eyebrow. “And I think it’s dying…” Sam held up the twin halves of grass. They were slowly curling in his fingers, the edges turning brown and Sam let them flutter to the ground, wiping his hands on his jeans. The grass was still shriveling as they hit the sidewalk.

“Okay, point,” Dean admitted, glancing between the dead grass and Sam’s hands. Sam would say something if he was, oh, being burned by radioactive Smurf blood, wouldn’t he? “But how does blue grass of the distinctively non-Kentucky variety fit in with missing gnomes?” Lester and his neighbor had apparently decided to agree that they hated each other because they were both stalking back to their houses. “Besides being friggin’ weird?” A front door slammed.

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. Trickster, maybe? Ward did take a lot of pride in his lawn.”

“But why gnomes? Little crystal statues of unicorns?” Dean pinched his fingers together to emphasis the small scale of the equine figurines. “Fucking pennies? There some asshole jerk in town that took pride in depriving the Federal Reserve?”

“Okay, maybe something else.” Sam glanced around, checking out the surrounding houses. “A…ghost with a sense of humor. Maybe.” Sam froze, pulling a face and then turned back to Dean. “Guy across the road.”

Dean blinked and turned to look across the street at the houses lined the sidewalk. A man was kneeling in the yard, seemingly bending over to inspect a line of flowers-except the flowers appeared to have been involved in the non-flower-related task of hanging the wash out to dry. The man held up a small scrap of lace that Dean sincerely hoped did not belong to him-though, the way that he was staring at it, Dean sincerely hoped that it didn’t belong to anyone else, either. “Oh, that’s not suspicious at all.”

Sam nodded as the guy hurriedly stuffed the lacey underwear into his pocket and made for his front door. “Look at the name,” Sam said, jerking his head at the mailbox. ‘Sutter’ was written down the side of the black box in silver letters.

The screen door banged shut behind the man as Dean trotted across the street, Sam following along behind him. In six steps, Dean was on the other side of the road and in twelve, he was taking the porch steps two at a time. He came to a stop on the deck and rapped sharply on the screen door, banging it against its frame. He glanced through the etched glass of the entry door behind the screen and listened to the panicked skittering inside the house. “Mr. Sutter?” he called, knocking again before digging in his pockets for a badge.

“Yes?” The steel entrance door opened and the man from outside appeared behind the screen, wiping at his mouth and a few days worth of graying stubble. Still wearing his pajamas, he hunched his shoulders and met Dean’s eyes for only a few brief seconds before flicking his gaze away. His hair stuck up at odd, random angles like he’d been encouraging it to defy gravity any way it could and didn’t own a comb.

Dean plastered on a perfunctory smile and flashed a badge at the man before pocketing it again. “My partner and I were hoping that we could ask you a few questions?” The man stared blankly at the space Dean’s badge had just occupied.

“Are you Dale Sutter?” Sam asked over Dean’s shoulder and the man swung his gaze to the left and up to see Sam.

“Uh…um, yeah,” Sutter replied, wiping at his mouth again.

“We’ve got a few questions about the disappearance of your grandfather?” Sam continued, wearing his best ‘we’re here to help’ face. “May we come in?”

“Oh, uh…sure.” Sutter stepped back away from the door, moving to the side as Dean grabbed the screen door, hearing it squeal on its hinges. “I’ve, uh, already gone over it with the sheriff…”

“We’re just recanvasing,” Dean said. “Trying to make sure nothing was missed.”

“Your grandfather disappeared five days ago?” Sam asked.

“Yeah.” Sutter scrubbed at his hair, pulling a few more tuffs out of place and sighed. “Uh, would you like to sit down?” He gestured at a red recliner and brown couch and inched towards them.

Following the prompting, Dean perched on the edge of the couch and leaned forward, his hands folded between his knees. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Sutter,” Sam said, sitting next to Dean, “could you please repeat what you told the police about Paul Sutter’s disappearance?”

“Well, uh…” Sutter sank into the recliner and wiped his palms on his pajama bottoms. “It was five nights ago. I’ve been, uh, living with Granddad, you know, just until I get back on my feet?” He glanced up at Dean again before his eyes skittered away to the mantle. A large vase, gray and decorated with streaks of blue sat in the center, surrounded by few pictures of Sutter when he was younger and others who had to have been of his parents and grandparents. “My wife, she took everything when we… And Granddad, well, he’s hasn’t been… He’s needed me around, you know? He could have wandered off or… Some days, he didn’t know where he was…”

“Alzheimer’s?” Dean asked and Sutter nodded, still staring at the vase. “It’s nice,” he said. Sutter jumped. “Antique?” Dean couldn’t have given a shit less about the vase, of course, but people tended to react well when you complemented their décor. It built a measure of trust despite being strangers with even stranger questions.

“Do you collect?” Sutter asked quietly, rubbing his palms on his thighs.

“Nah,” Dean answered and jabbed a thumb at Sam. “But this guy here, he’s just crazy about them. Aren’t you?” Sam swatted him away, his mouth firming to a thin line.

“Oh. It’s a family heirloom,” Sutter said, oblivious to Sam’s look of disapproval for putting him on the spot. “It’s been in the family for generations. My grandfather’s had it ever since I can remember… He got it from his father. I…suppose it might be mine now.” Sutter’s voice constricted. “I’m glad that it didn’t break. That night, it was on the floor when I… I thought it might have been broken, that he’d accidentally broken it, knocked it off the shelf during a fit or something, but no.”

“This was the night that your grandfather disappeared?” Dean asked.

“Yes.” Sutter rubbed his palms again. “That night, I heard some noises coming from downstairs so I’d thought that maybe he’d gotten up and had wandered away. He did that every now and then so I went down to check. But…”

“But?” Sam prompted.

“He wasn’t there,” Sutter finished on a rush. “When I found the vase on the rug, I went into the kitchen and the back door was open but he wasn’t there.” He dropped his eyes to the floor.

“You said you heard noises?” Sam asked. “Something that made you think that this wasn’t just your grandfather wandering away?” Sutter took a deep breath and Sam’s face slipped into an understanding frown. “Take your time, Mr. Sutter.”

“Bailey already thinks I’m crazy…” Sutter muttered. “Granddad wasn’t there but things were moving.” He met Dean in a head-on stare, the first bit of prolonged eye contact since he’d opened the door. “Pots, pans, cupboard doors…by themselves.”

“What, you mean like a Mary Poppins-thing?” Dean asked, visions of the kitchen cleaning up itself flashing through his mind.

“Except instead of music, there was laughing.” Sutter closed his eyes. “I can still hear it. In my head.”



Dean stabbed a french fry into the mound of ketchup on his plate, globbing it up and happily chewing. Sam watched him, envious over his salad but, hey, it wasn’t Dean that decided to order the rabbit food. Sam was once again on a healthy eating kick and Dean gave him about two days before he broke. As stubborn as Sam was, Dean knew that the allure of a thick, greasy burger would win him over. In the meantime… Dean shoved three fries into his mouth and smiled.

Sam dropped his eyes back to his salad. “The only real connection between the victims so far,” Sam said, “is the fact that they’re all located in the same area.”

“And the fact that they have some pretty bizarre hobbies,” Dean added. He still couldn’t get over the gnome thing. With their ceramic smiles and pointy little hats… He hated Travelocity on pure principle.

Sam let the jab go. “We need to check out the local lore see if there’s been anything in the area like this before. Tomorrow, we can talk with the other three victims.” Dean nodded, taking a bite out of his burger. After interviewing Dale Sutter, he and Sam had knocked on the doors of some of the victims and spent a lot of time sitting on various couches. “People’s possessions disappearing or possibly being vandalized… That’s, like, a karma thing.” Mrs. Lugera, former owner of the crystal unicorns, had been particularly broken up. She’d spent her life collecting them.

Dean chewed slowly, thinking. “Plus, there’s the creeptastic laughing.” Two more of the victims besides Sutter had mentioned that, giving them three for four at the moment and making it too much of a coincidence to ignore. Something was pushing at the back of Dean’s brain about the laughing but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. It just seemed as if he should know.

“Right.” Sam swirled his fork in the lettuce and stabbed a tomato. He was still eyeing Dean’s fries the way that other men sometimes viewed porn.

“Lacey, now, you come and sit right over here.” A little redheaded girl, her hair a straight blaze down her back, swung into the blue vinyl booth that Nan was pointing at, dropping her pink backpack on the floor. “And we’ll fix you up with a nice piece of apple pie, how about that?”

The little girl smiled sadly, her freckles curving around her cheeks. “Thanks, Grandma.”

Dean grinned as Nan headed towards the kitchen, waving a hand to catch her attention. “Hey, can I get one of those, too?” he asked.

“Sure thing, sugar.” Nan stopped with her hand on the double swinging doors. “Two?”

“Nah,” Dean said, turning his grin on Sam. “Sammy here’s on a diet. Just the one.” Sam rolled his eyes and stole one of Dean’s fries. “Hey!”

“You’re getting pie,” Sam retorted and shoved the fry into his mouth. He dropped his eyes pointedly to where the table was hiding Dean’s gut. “You don’t need it.”



The town itself was cut out of the wilderness, the forest beaten back by mankind’s determination, pushed beyond the original battle lines. Some day, the trees might regain their ground, but it would take winning the war to do so. The highway cut through the landscape like an ugly scar, traffic flowing without end, everyone needing to be somewhere else. Castiel glided across the night sky, surveying the long stretch of highway and the small town that grew off of it like a knot on a tree. Without the highway, the town wouldn’t survive but without the town, the highway would just go on.

There was no reason for him to be here, just as there hadn’t been the previous night or all the nights before that. There was just something inside of him that compelled him to keep coming back. It was a weakness, he knew, a flaw, and one that should not be able to exist. In a little while, he’d attempt to will it away, to think heavily and reject the sins that tempted him-but for now, he couldn’t deny the emptiness inside of him. It had been a long time since he had felt fulfilled, since he had thought his duty was enough. It was a step down a dangerous path. It only took a few steps to fall, to move from the light. He still couldn’t stop himself from giving up that ground. Dean Winchester made him feel…something. It wasn’t fulfillment in the Lord; it wasn’t satisfaction, but it was something-something besides the emptiness.

There was something out in the woods surrounding this town that echoed that emptiness. Something hollow. Something…lonely.

Castiel plunged out of the sky and dissipated, reappearing on the ground, standing before the surrounding woods. The branches of the trees arched toward the stars, interweaving with each other, casting faint shadows in the moonlight. The tall grass clung to his clothes, wet strands winding around his borrowed corporeal body. The loneliness that he had felt before called to him, bidding him closer, promising him an end to the feeling. Castiel shook it off, but felt it buzz around him like a fly.

There was something in the woods, and it was something that he had felt before. The emptiness was old, a wound that had never healed, and on the wind, was the faint sound of laughter. He tilted his head curiously. Theoretically, there could be some children playing in the woods but Castiel was certain that there wasn’t. There was something playing but it certainly wasn’t children.

The grass whispered as a small form moved through the field towards the edge of the woods, heading out of town and Castiel studied it. A young redheaded child emerged into the moonlight, her steps laden and stumbling. She walked in a straight line, always coming back to center when she tripped, as if she were being led. In a moment, Castiel was standing beside her, watching her plod her way to the trees, the same blank look on her face as the man from room seven.

He felt the pull again, heard the beckoning, and recognized it for the ancient magic it was. He shrugged it off like water off a duck and dropped a hand onto the girl’s shoulder. She snapped awake with a gasp, waking up from her dream, and stared around in panic before centering in on him. With a fearful whimper, she backed away and Castiel bid her peace. “You,” he said, “should not be here.”

When his hand lifted from her shoulder, the girl took flight, darting back through the grass towards town as quick as a robin. Castiel watched her go until she was a speck on the horizon, emerging onto a lit town road, and turned his attention back to the trees.

The call was stronger now, as if he’d been merely feeling the edges of it before. With the girl gone, he was at its epicenter. Castiel flickered to another plane and reappeared, this time just inside of the forest. It smelled of dust and incense and old magic. Pagans. The laughter from before was louder, surrounding him with a cackling mirth.

“Be silent,” Castiel ordered and the waves of laughter ceased, rippling outward. In the dead quiet, Castiel moved forward, stepping into the sway of the siren call. It served as a thought and nothing more. Perhaps it was curiosity that bid him closer. Or perhaps it was something much more complicated. He would merely see what was lurking in the trees and then he would return to Heaven. He would make sure that the brothers could handle it.

Castiel stepped over the sprawling roots of an oak. And pitched forward into blackness.



Master Post | Part 2