FIC: Wildfire, Part 2/?
Title: Wildfire, Part 2
Rating: R
Pairings: Pre-slash Dean/Castiel
Warnings: Slightly graphic violence, strong language
Summary: Dean Winchester is a simple young man, living his life quietly in Lawrence, Kansas, doing handyman jobs and working as a mechanic. His brother, Sam, is on his way to becoming a lawyer, and Dean couldn't be more proud. After his father's delusions following their mother's death, Sam deserves to be successful. But Dean's life is shattered after a call from a stranger on Sammy's cell phone and an angel appears in his back seat. After that, his father's old insanity spreads through Dean like wildfire... And it doesn't look so much like insanity, anymore.
The Winchesters are introduced to the Harvelles and Castiel is dead. Sort of.
Word count: ~8,000
Part 1
Bobby was a saint.
Dean had known it the second Bobby had pulled the tab on a beer and handed to Dean, saying, “I suppose you’ll be staying here for a while.”
Dean had nodded while Sam punched him in the shoulder. Dean had said, “Thanks,” in a gruff, manly way. Bobby grunted and sidled out of his kitchen.
“Don’t mention it. Really. Don’t.”
So, they didn’t.
Sam had called Jess, but she was ignoring him, still probably pissed that he had “run off” right after proposing to her. Dean had stared accusingly at Sam until his little bother had muttered, “I was gonna tell you that Sunday…” So, Dean let it go.
And Sam was still here.
It helped that it was in between semesters, and Sammy was as freaked out as Dean, and they clung to each other like ducklings and followed Bobby around like he was their mother duck.
Bobby took a few swings at them for it. Good-naturedly, of course.
And it all came down to the fact that Sam and Dean were commandeering the guest bedroom, Bobby was giving makeshift weapons lessons, and John Winchester’s old journal was on prominent display on the kitchen table.
**
“You need someone to teach you what I can’t,” Bobby said, sitting down heavily on the sagging couch next to Sam. Dean was thumbing through yet another demonology text, his eyebrows drawn together.
“Yeah, sure, Bobby,” said Dean absently. “Gimme a second with this.”
“No, boy, put that down. I’ve read it a million times, there’s nothing new there. I got news.”
Dean snapped the book shut and grinned. “News? Good news?”
Bobby snorted. “You could say that.”
Sam looked up from his dad’s journal, curious. “What is it?”
“I found a hunter brave enough, or dumb enough, to take a couple of walking, talking liabilities along on a hunt.”
Dean smiled and pulled his leather jacket off the back of the desk chair. He shrugged it on easily, adjusting the collar and letting his grin widen.
“What are we waiting for, then?”
**
When Bobby said they were heading to a sort of unofficial hunter headquarters. Dean hadn’t been expecting… this. Whatever this was.
The Roadhouse wasn’t some underground, dark and high-tech secret meeting place out of a spy movie. Though, after Bobby’s house, Dean should have known. The Roadhouse was plain, almost decrepit, and it looked like any other bar in a backwoods town in the Midwest.
Dean opened the door and let Bobby enter first. If any trigger-happy paranoid loonies were in there waiting, Bobby’d either take ‘em down or take the first bullet. Dean only felt a little bad about his logic.
“Ellen?” called Bobby, resting his hand on the polished bar top. “It’s Bobby!”
Dean frowned. “You didn’t tell me the hunter was a chick.”
Sam shushed him. A figure approached and called out in a soft, feminine voice, “Bobby?”
The figure rushed forward into the better-lit entryway and threw her arms around Bobby’s middle. “Bobby!” the girl squealed.
“He didn’t tell me it was a hot chick,” said Dean with a leer, and this time Sam elbowed him in the side. “What?”
“You must be a friend of Bobby’s,” said the girl, probably Ellen, shaking Dean’s hand. She shook Sam’s hand too, smiling prettily. “I’m Jo.” Not Ellen, evidently.
“So, who’s Ellen?” said Dean rudely, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I’m Ellen,” came from behind, and Dean spun around in surprise and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. “Good job distracting them, Jo.”
“Yeah, yeah, Mom. They’re cute.” The girl, Jo, bounced away from Sam and stepped into place next to her mother. It was obvious, as Dean looked carefully, that they were related, even without knowing it first. Same blonde hair, though Ellen’s was muted with age, and similar haircuts, even. Slim figures on them both, and Dean had no qualms admiring them. The girl, Jo, was clothed in a barely-there tank top and jean jacket with low-slung jeans. Her boots were plain but sturdy, and Dean could only approve of the appealing, and otherwise sensible, clothing. Her mother was wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and steel-toed work boots that looked like they would hurt like hell in a fight. Dean smiled charmingly.
“Bobby, didn’t you call and tell them to expect us?” Sam muttered, trying to step away from the gun warily. Ellen had it trained on him in a second.
“I spoke to Ash,” Bobby growled. “Ellen, put the damn gun down. You know it’s us. We walked right past the devil’s trap in the parking lot.”
Ellen grudgingly lowered her gun, swiping at the strands of hair that had settled in her eyes. “You can’t blame us for being too careful, Bobby. Weird things have been going down around here. More demons than I’d ever care to see. And Ash didn’t tell us you were coming.”
“That’s ‘cause Ash is probably still drunk,” muttered Bobby, but he strode over to Ellen and shook her hand with a smile on his face.
“This is stupid,” said Ellen, and she threw her arms around Bobby, a mirror of her daughter’s earlier actions. Bobby evidently agreed, and Dean was surprised he didn’t crack a few of Ellen’s ribs while they were at it.
**
A little while later, Dean and Sam stood awkwardly next to the bar. Jo sidled up next to them as Bobby and Ellen chatted.
“So, how old are you guys?” said Jo, grinning and angling her body so Dean could see down her thin tank top.
“Too old for you, I’m willing to bet,” said Dean, but he licked his lower lip suggestively anyway.
Sam frowned. “And I’m taken.”
Jo pouted and pulled away. “That’s not an answer, from either of you. I’m twenty, and that’s old enough for anyone.”
Attitude and sass. Dean liked Jo. “I’m twenty-six, for what it counts, and baby Sammy here is twenty-two.”
Gracing the boys with a smile, Jo revealed white, perfectly straight teeth. “Alright then,” she chirped, letting her hand rest on Dean’s forearm. The gesture did nothing for him, though, and he slapped the bar top definitively before pulling away.
“Yep,” he said, leaning away from Jo and closer to Sam.
In Dean’s peripheral vision, Sam made a pained expression and nudged Dean in the ribs. “Baby Sammy, huh?” he muttered. Dean shrugged.
Heavy steel-toed boots carried their owner towards the group, and Ellen held out a hand to Dean once she stood beside Jo.
“My name is Ellen Harvelle, and I see you’ve met my daughter. I’ll warn you, watch her. She’s only half the airhead she pretends to be.” Despite Ellen’s words, her arm slid comfortably around Jo’s shoulders and squeezed. Jo was grinning, and she leaned into the embrace. Ellen continued, “Bobby says Ash has a hunt.”
“That’s what we hope,” quipped Dean, shoving his hands into his pockets to recover form Ellen’s firm grip. He liked Ellen, and even flirtatious Jo had her charms, but he was hesitant to go gallivanting about, looking for trouble, with two girls. Even two badass chicks like these.
“Right,” Ellen mused, running her hand through thick hair. She looked over Dean’s shoulder sharply before turning her gaze back to the brothers. “Well, hold on a moment, boys. I’ve got just what you need.”
Dean stared after her when she passed him in order to go get whatever it was. Bobby had disappeared, and Jo went behind the counter and started wiping down glasses. The place was empty of customers, but it was barely noon, and there wasn’t much of a lunch special as far as Dean could see. He fidgeted with his leather jacket, and Sam pretended to be interested in his fingernails, or something.
Dean heard footsteps, and shook himself out of his lazy stupor. Ellen was approaching with a man by her side.
“The big one is Sam, and the little one is Dean,” introduced Ellen politely, and Dean huffed a little. He held out his hand anyway- straightening his shoulders to accentuate his own six foot, one inch frame, of course..
Rolling her eyes at Dean’s reaction, Ellen continued pleasantly, “Boys, this is my husband, Bill Harvelle. He’s the best goddamned hunter you’ll ever meet.”
Dean shook Bill’s hand firmly. Bill had a thin face, clean-shaven and even blonder than his wife. He looked sheepish at Ellen’s posturing, but his handshake was strong and his eyes were steady. Dean nodded. Bill returned the nod, and once Dean released the other man’s hand, Bill shoved it into his frayed jean’s pocket.
“From what I remember, your dad was the real expert, for a while there. I mourned the loss of a good hunter the day I heard he died.”
And there it was. Bill had known John. So had Ellen, probably, though Jo hadn’t even been born when John Winchester had bit the dust. Dean swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Sam spoke up for him.
“I’m sure our dad thought the best of you, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” And Dean could see how Sam had survived at Stanford, full of sweet words and smart thinking. Something warm that felt disturbingly like love surged in Dean’s chest, and he swallowed thickly before he vomited from the sappiness of it all.
“Yeah,” he added lamely, and shoved his hands back into his pockets. Bill grinned, still a little shy looking, and motioned for the two boys to follow him.
“Ash has a good hunt lined up, and some great info. Plus, I hear you’ve been messing with angels.” Dean bristled for some reason- he hadn’t been messing with angels. Or angel, for that matter.
“Yes, sir,” piped up Sam, and all love Dean felt for Sam quickly evaporated. What if spreading around the knowledge that angels existed wasn’t such a great idea? Sam wasn’t the only one with brains in the family, really. Sometimes Sam was the dumb one. Like not calling Jess back every five minutes. If Dean had a girlfriend that hot (and sweet, and kind, and yeah, maybe Dean had a little crush on the tiny blonde girl that had stolen Sammy’s heart) he would call her every goddamned chance he had after a fight until she picked up and talked to him.
Dean took a moment to size up Bill Harvelle. He was nothing like Bobby, and only marginally comparable to his own dad in stature, which Dean hadn’t expected. Bill was skinny and wiry, but mostly tall, as tall as or even taller than Sammy. He almost had to duck when they reached the back corridor and knocked on a grungy-looking door with a crudely painted sign nailed to it.
Bill pounded on the door relentlessly, and hollered, “Hey, Dr. Badass, wake up from the hangover-induced coma of yours and get out here.” Dean liked Bill.
A short and scrawny man poked his head out. Dean grimaced and said, “Aw, what the hell, man,” and turned away, hastily averting his gaze. The man was naked, pale, and covered in what Dean could only assume was orange Cheeto dust.
“Hello, gentlemen. What can I do you for?”
Bill grunted. “You said you had a hunt for us, Ash. Move your buck-naked, pasty white ass out here and help us out.”
“Guess I need my pants, huh?” asked Ash, and the door shut with a click. Dean coughed.
Sam was frowning, eyebrows knit together. “Is he always like that?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” said Bill, grinning. “But he’s a whiz with computers, and can connect the dots like no other motherfucker I’ve ever seen. He’s forged more than a few official documents in his time. Not to mention I own his ass.”
Dean nodded. He could mostly appreciate Ash’s admittedly dubious talents, but he still wished the guy had showered in the last three weeks before Dean had to deal with him.
The door swung open with a raspy creak, the sign crashing into the wall. Ash exited his quarters and walked down the hall at a brisk pace. From behind, Dean could see a mullet. He made eye contact with Sam, a blow to Dean’s composure, and he had to stuff his fist in his mouth before he cracked up. Sam wasn’t succeeding any better.
“Pretty simple stuff, guys,” Ash said, pulling a laptop out from under his arm and setting it on the bar. “Salt ‘n’ burn, mostly. There’s always the problem that it’s not the body that’s keeping Casper in this plane, but heck, Bill, you’re the expert. Go get ‘em.”
With a casual stretch and yawn, Ash attempted to saunter back down the corridor and back to his room. Bill snagged him by the collar of his tasseled jean vest and dragged Ash back to the bar.
“Now, now, Ash. I’ve got your tab behind the bar, and wouldn’t you hate it if I decided to collect today? I know you’re broke. But I also know you’ve got some pretty good info on our situation, here.”
Ash frowned. “I’m gonna need a beer to sit through all this.” Dean nodded and headed behind the counter. The myriad bottles of liquor were spread before him like presents on Christmas morning, but Dean forwent the heavy stuff and plucked a few bottles from the nearby fridge.
“Sammy? Bill?” Sam frowned and shook his head, but Bill nodded. Both Bill and Ash caught their beers with ease that only came from practice, and Dean twisted off his cap with a flourish before taking a huge gulp.
“I’ve been getting omens, and stuff,” started Ash. “But not normal omens. Weird ones. Well, normal ones, too, but after them, not so much.”
Bill leaned in, looking fascinated. “Like what, Ash?”
“Well…” Ash grumbled for a moment. “It sounds stupid. I’ve got running bets across the network on whether they’re just more speculation, tabloid-style, but I’ve also got word from some pretty serious hunters. Demons show up, trash a town, and next thing you know, they’re dead. Boom. Gone. No devil’s traps, no holy water splashed around, nothing. And no one’s ‘fessing up to it, either.”
“So? Someone’s being sneaky and found a new way to kill the bastards,” Dean muttered. He was itching to go on his first real hunt already. None of this speculating bullshit.
Hand raised, Bill shushed Dean. His steady gaze was focused intently upon Ash.
Noticing the attention, Ash continued, grim faced. “But any humans that survive? They don’t survive all the way.”
“What do you mean?” asked Bill, his clear hazel eyes narrowing. Dean wanted to groan. This was like pulling teeth, without anesthetic.
“I mean, mostly their eyes were burned out. Sometimes they had brain damage, or some bleeding out the ears, like someone had played a frequency high or loud enough to seriously do some harm. Man, and they were all freaked. I’ve got hunters from all over calling these in, and they all say the survivors have no idea who helped them, but that the demons weren’t the ones who hurt them. Or at least, they weren’t the ones doing the burning-and-damaging.”
Dean was impressed. Ash had managed to use mostly big-boy words in that little speech.
“But all they saw was a big, white light, or heard high pitched static squealing, or whatever,” said Ash, his brow furrowed. “And Bob- remember Bob, Bill? Big ass redneck, toughest son-of-a-bitch you ever seen?”
“I remember Bob,” said Bill, laughing. “He damn near took my eye out with a pentagram last time he came ‘round.”
Ash nodded. “Bob got his eyes burned out, but he ain’t complaining. He’s decided to drop hunting and go be a monk. In Nepal.” Ash said monk like it was worse than cow shit on his already shitty cowboy boots, and Nepal was a destination worse than Hell.
“Bob better not go to Nepal,” growled Bill. “He’s got a tab bigger’n yours, damn it.”
Ash shrugged. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” He sighed and ruffled his mullet. “And that’s all the messenger’s got for you boys today. If you want my advice, go for the salt ‘n’ burn. It’s probably going to be easier.”
Bill sighed as Ash sauntered off, laptop in hand. A moment of silence followed, and Dean leaned on the bar. His elbow squelched in something sticky and oozing, and he cursed.
“I guess we’d better find some demons, then,” said Bill, slumping onto a barstool near Dean. Dean frowned and scrubbed at his elbow with a napkin.
“Why? Ash said the salt ‘n’ whatever was a better option. Plus, I’m not letting Sammy go anywhere near where he’ll get his eyes burned out.”
Sammy snorted. “I’m a big boy, Dean. I can take care of myself.”
“You can hardly shoot a gun, and you’d let a bear bite your bits off if he said it was for the right reason,” snapped Dean, irritated. Sam looked like he was about to rise to the fight, but Bill cut in.
“Can it, you two. Grab your gear and get in the truck. We’ve got demons to hunt.”
And even if this was more than Dean wanted to get into, and more dangerous for Sam, his blood thrummed with the opportunity to finally hunt something, after days of studying and practicing with Bobby. Dean was nearly perfect at the Latin exorcism now, and could bless holy water in seconds flat. His aim was improving, if that was possible, and he had read textbooks until his eyes felt burnt out. He was ready for this.
**
Dean wasn’t ready for this.
“This” was a twelve-year-old girl, slumped in the chair before the two brothers. Dean had personally wrapped the duct tape around her shoulders while Sam had made sure the devil’s trap was intact. Bill had disappeared to the truck.
Dean stared at the girl, willing himself to see the evil creature inside her rather than the pigtails and cheap plastic charm bracelet dangling from her tiny wrists.
Bill entered the restaurant storeroom without fanfare, dumping his bag on the stainless steel counter.
“I don’t know if I can do this, man,” grumbled Dean. Sam’s head swiveled over to stare at him accusingly.
“You’re the one who was all gung-ho about this an hour ago, Dean.” But Sam’s resolute expression wavered when his gaze passed over the small figure in the center of the spray-paint trap.
Bill held a gallon of holy water in each hand, and he handed them to Sam and Dean before grabbing a Bible from the bag.
“Now, demon, you’ll tell us who’s been hunting you, and maybe we’ll play nice and exorcise you quickly,” said Bill calmly, and Dean stared as the girl raised her head a little. Her wide, bright blue eyes went straight to Dean, and he was struck by their similarity to Castiel’s. Which was dumb, because when had he noticed a dead angel’s eyes?
“Where’s my mommy?” whimpered the girl. Her lower lip trembled, and fat tears splashed down onto her corduroy pants. “I want to go home.”
“Demon, tell us who is hunting you,” snapped Bill, and he took a flash of holy water from his back pocket and splashed the demon full in the face.
Any doubts of the girl’s demonic passenger in Dean’s mind were expelled when the water made contact. The girl’s skin steamed and she screamed, throwing her head back, her breath coming out in sharp pants when the shriek died. Bill flicked again, and she screamed louder, longer, hurting Dean’s ears.
When the girl had tired of screaming, she let her head hang forward. All resemblance to Castiel’s eyes had vanished, the irises and whites now a deep, demonic black. Dean shivered.
“Fine,” spat the girl. “I’ll tell you.”
But when she simply panted, not speaking, for another full minute, Bill entered the devil’s trap and forced her mouth open.
“Tell us after holy water has burned out your throat, demon bitch,” he growled, and he thrust the flask into the demon’s mouth.
The flask gurgled as its last contents emptied into the demon’s throat. The girl screamed again, her mouth frothy with blood, and her gasps were weaker now, more pathetic.
Dean really wished the demon had been in some dumbass trucker’s body, but he knew that wasn’t fair.
“Fine,” whined the demon, tears still streaming down her face, mixing with the blood. “Fine. The angels have been hunting us. Okay? Okay. I told you. Now send me back to Hell.”
Bill was silent, but he showed no surprise at the demon’s confession.
“I wish I could kill you for good,” he said with finality, before opening the Bible. The demon threw back her head almost immediately. The black smoke poured violently from the child’s frame, and Dean watched in horror as bruises and what looked like particularly nasty broken bones revealed themselves all across the now-empty body. The girl slumped forward, gurgled once, blood spattering from her lips onto her sooty corduroy pants, and then was silent.
Dean felt like he was going to be sick. This wasn’t revenge. This was horrific.
**
“Angels, huh?” mused Bill nonchalantly, leaning against his trunk and wiping down the knife he’d used to scrape away the devil’s trap before leaving the storeroom. “Guess you guys weren’t just hallucinating your friendly visitors the other day.”
“You know about that?” asked Dean, lips tight. Sam kicked at the gravel, head hanging down.
“I know whatever Bobby’s told me, boy,” Bill laughed. Dean didn’t know if he could laugh, right then. Not after dragging the poor girl’s bloody and broken shell of a body into the restaurant and closing the blinds. He hoped someone would find her and bury her soon.
**
Dean dreamt of angels.
Or, more specifically, angel. Castiel.
Dean was sitting on a dock, fishing contentedly. It was the first time he’d ever dreamt of this place that he could remember, but he felt like he knew it intimately. It was late fall, even though in reality it was the end of summer, and Dean tugged his jacket tighter around him against the autumn chill.
That’s when Castiel popped his trench coat ass right in front of Dean’s view.
“Go away, Cas,” muttered Dean, waving the angel aside. Realizing whom he was seeing, Dean jumped up, his fishing pool falling to the dock with a wooden thunk.
“Cas!” he cried, and he only just resisted throwing his arms around the angel. Castiel stood awkwardly, staring intently at Dean like he was a puzzle Castiel couldn’t quite figure out.
“Dean,” he said simply, and Dean grinned.
“Man, it’s good to see you. Even as a figment of my imagination. And you’re dead. Or something. Do angels die?”
Castiel tilted his head. “Angels simply cease to be. Or, rather, they cease to be in this reality. Limbo, or Purgatory, is…” But Castiel stopped, and gave a tiny cough. Dean was comforted to see the remarkably human gesture. It seemed… Normal. More normal than Dean had thought Castiel was capable of.
“Dean,” started Castiel again. “I am not dead. I was, in a way, but I do not remember what happened during my absence. I woke up on a fishing boat in Nova Scotia. I am significantly weakened, and cannot travel to your location. I am only just strong enough to contact you in your dreams.”
“Try a phone next time, buddy,” said Dean, laughing, but he wasn’t making fun. He was too busy being relieved that the angel wasn’t, you know, dead.
Castiel didn’t laugh. He didn’t look offended, either. He simply stared at Dean and fidgeted with his loosened tie absently. Dean watched as a light breeze ruffled Castiel’s dark hair and disturbed his coat’s tan lapels.
“Who was that douche that took you out, anyway?” asked Dean, settling back into his comfortable fishing chair.
“You should not be so profane,” the angel chastised gently. He looked over the lake’s calm waters before speaking again. “It was Zachariah,” he said darkly. “He was not pleased that I took destiny into my own hands.”
“Yeah. Um, thanks for that, though. Seriously,” said Dean, and he smiled up at Castiel. Castiel looked uncomfortable. His right hand skittered over his tie, as if in an aborted attempt to adjust it. Dean watched as Castiel lowered it very slowly and stared at his own fingers, in a way that suggested Castiel had no idea why the offending hand was moving.
“This mode of communication is difficult, Dean. I would rather speak to you face to face.”
Dean sighed. “Nova Scotia is a ways away, Cas. I mean, I can get you on a plane, but we’ll have to pick you up. We’re staying at The Roadhouse, with Bill and Ellen Harvelle and Bobby. I’ll give you my number, and a credit card number, too.”
Pulling out a pen that Dean hadn’t known was in his pocket, Dean reached for Castiel’s hand. “C’mon, gimme,” he said, grinning again.
Castiel offered his hand hesitantly, and Dean scribbled his cell number on Castiel’s palm. He also took out his wallet, another surprise occupant of his pocket, and pulled out the fraudulent credit card Bobby had lent him. He wrote down the card number and security code on Castiel’s wrist, and blew on the ink to dry it.
If Castiel shivered, Dean pretended not to notice. Just like he hadn’t noticed the softness of Castiel’s palm, or the callous-free fingertips, or the neatly trimmed nails.
“Get here soon, Cas. Shit’s going down.”
Castiel nodded gravely. “Yes, Dean. ‘Shit’ is going down. I will be there as soon as I can. Dying has severely weakened me, of course.”
Dean felt like he was being mocked, somehow, but then Castiel had vanished and there was nothing to do but fish.
**
Dean woke up feeling pretty hungover, not to mention groggy. Sam was shaking him violently.
“Dude, you were out, like, cold. I couldn’t wake you,” he said worriedly.
Dean shrugged off Sam’s anxious hands and stood from the cot he had commandeered from Bill and Ellen Harvelle. Sam had wrestled him for the couch, and Dean had lost.
“Cas is around,” muttered Dean, pulling his boots on. Sam cocked an eyebrow.
“Dean, Castiel died,” he said slowly, as if questioning Dean’s sanity. God knows, Dean needed it questioned these days.
“Well, he’s back, somehow, and he’s weak. So I gave him my phone number and some money, and he’ll be here as soon as he-“
Dean was cut off by Sam’s sudden, shocked squeal.
“What?” he asked, grinning. “You sound like someone cut off your-“
“C-Cas…“ stuttered Sam, pointing over Dean’s shoulder.
Dean turned and jumped. Castiel was standing behind him, panting.
“Hey, hey, buddy, take it easy,” Dean said, catching Castiel by the shoulders and lowering him to the cot. Castiel didn’t protest, but he gave an undignified moan before settling onto the cot. “You shouldn’t scare people like that. Give a little warning, you know?” No response.
Dean shot a worried look at Sam from his position kneeling beside the now-unconscious angel. “Get Ellen, or Bobby,” he ordered, and Sam jumped to it.
“What did you do to yourself, Cas?” murmured Dean, brushing sweat-slicked hair back from Castiel’s flushed forehead tenderly. It seemed wrong, somehow, for an angel who could destroy a demon with a touch and teleport to have a fever. “And why are your angel buddies doing a hunter’s job?”
Dean jumped when Castiel answered, his gruff voice even raspier than Dean remembered. Dean had thought the angel was unconscious by then.
“My brethren are not my ‘buddies’, Dean.” And then Castiel was struck with a coughing fit, and Dean leapt to his bag and grabbed the flask of holy water.
“Drink up, man,” Dean said, and he thought, Better to be safe than sorry. Weak like this, Cas coulda been possessed, no problem.
But the holy water slid down Castiel’s throat smoothly and his breathing settled. Castiel let the flask fall from his lips and sighed.
“Thank you for the assisstance, Dean,” said Castiel, and he let his hand rest atop Dean’s when he passed the flask over. Dean blushed and pulled away.
“No problem, dude,” he mumbled. With more confidence, Dean continued. “What happened to catching a plane, or whatever?”
“I found the plane… Constraining. I did not enjoy the experience.” Castiel grimaced. “I had to buy a ticket and provide identification, which presented problems. I found my vessel’s wallet, however, and they allowed me to board the plane.”
Dean watched, almost amused, as Castiel struggled to describe his flight. Dean settled back onto his heels, hugging his knees to his chest, and he tucked the word “vessel” into the back of his mind for later questioning.
“And then they required seatbelts, which is ridiculous- if the plane crashed, seatbelts would not be of much assistance…” Castiel trailed off, and looked away from Dean.
“What, Cas?” asked Dean, wondering where the hell Sam was with Ellen.
“I found the inside of the plane disturbing. I could not breathe, and I felt as if the walls were pressing in. I have never been exposed to such an unpleasant physical sensation. I had to excuse myself to the restroom and gather the remnants of my grace to travel here.”
Dean stared blankly, and then let out a bark of laughter. “Dude, Cas, that was not smart. Some pilot is gonna be freakin’ out that he lost a passenger on his flight!”
Castiel frowned, and waved absently at Dean. “I’m sure it is not of much import…”
“Ha,” huffed Dean, still grinning. “More like a national security crisis. And I’m pretty sure you’re claustrophobic.”
“That is… Unfortunate,” conceded Castiel, “But I do not see why that matters now. I will not need to travel by plane again. I can already feel my grace returning.”
And it was true, Dean could see. The air practically crackled around Castiel as he stood, and his gaze was noticeably more distant as he surveyed the Roadhouse’s backroom and makeshift guest bedroom.
“I would like to speak to Robert Singer, and the people you mentioned in your dream,” said Castiel calmly, and Dean felt the moment between them slide away like water through his fingers. Dean sighed and nodded.
“Bill and Ellen’ll be excited to see you. And Jo won’t be able to help herself, you’re so cute,” said Dean, and he mentally punched himself for saying Castiel was cute. That was stupid.
Castiel tipped his head to one side, following Dean into the main bar area. “I do not believe I am ‘cute,’ even by human standards” he said, tugging at his rumpled trench coat. “But my aesthetic values are very different from a human’s, I would think.”
“Oh? How so?” asked Dean, sitting at the bar and waiting for Sam to bring someone around.
“For instance, angels judge beauty by the grace, or the soul, an angel or person possesses. You, Dean, would be extremely admired in Heaven. Your soul is the most beautiful I have seen on Earth-” Castiel stopped then, clamping his mouth shut and pursing his lips. A faint blush crept across his unshaven cheeks, and Dean swore he looked embarrassed. Hell, Dean was embarrassed.
“Well, that’s just great, I guess. I’ll have to avoid getting hit on by angel chicks, then,” joked Dean, but Castiel continued to stare anywhere but at Dean.
Dean sighed and gave up. Where the hell was Sam?
**
Dean settled onto a barstool next to Sam, bringing his lukewarm beer to his lips before sipping absently. The bar was open for business, and a small crowd had gathered. Castiel was busy being interrogated by Bill, and Dean was on edge. He had been almost unwilling to let Castiel wander off alone, but Sam had reminded him, y’know, that Castiel was a freaking angel of the Lord. Ellen had refused his offer to help bartend, and Jo was too busy flirting for tips to keep him entertained.
Sam fidgeted, first turning a bottle cap between agile fingers, then tugging at his too-long hair, and finally scratching at the bar top agitatedly. Dean scowled and slapped Sam’s hand away.
“You got something to say, just say it, Sam. And leave the bar alone, Ellen’ll kill you if you mess with it.”
Sam hesitated, and then opened his mouth. Closed it again, and took a breath.
“I want to go back to Stanford. Back to Jess.”
Dean frowned. “I thought you wanted to, you know, help out here. With me.”
Looking away, Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “I know, Dean, I know. And I do, but I have an interview on Monday, and a fiancée, and a life to get back to. I know you weren’t so happy about me leaving you in Lawrence in the first place, but my life at Stanford is important to me.” Sam took a deep breathe before plunging on. “You’ll always be my brother, and I love you, man, but I have to get out of here before it gets too heavy. I can’t do this.”
Dumbstruck, unable to protest, Dean was silent as Sam slid off his stool and lumbered away into the sparse crowd.
“So that’s what I get from saving your ass from demonic psychic freaks?” Dean shouted after Sam when he regains his voice. Several patrons turned and stared, obviously a little freaked out, and Dean raised his beer in acknowledgement. “Inside joke,” he explained, and turned to face the bar, his heart sinking.
“Do not worry about Sam, Dean.” Dean felt the words first rather than heard them, the breath skating over his ear and cheek. He turned to see Castiel’s face inches from his.
“Dude, personal space. Take a step back,” he said, frowning and ignoring his rapidly beating heart. Castiel nodded and stepped away.
“Is this preferable?” Castiel asked, surprisingly sincere, and Dean nodded once before turning back to his beer.
“Of course I’m gonna worry about Sammy,” he muttered. “He’s my little brother. I’ve been protecting him since he was six months old. Can’t help it.”
Castiel was silent, though he had moved to sit on the barstool, his hands splayed across the bartop.
“Any thoughts, Columbo?
“I believe I wish to try alcohol for the first time.”
Dean stared, then laughed. And then, as he called Ellen over, Dean realized that he was hanging out with an angel.
Desperate times, huh?
**
Castiel realized he did not like cars, either.
He had never felt this away about automobiles before his death and resurrection- assuming it had been a resurrection, though Castiel was at a loss for what else it might have been. None the less, Castiel’s recent experience with human air transportation had been less than pleasant, and it seemed to have carried over into ground travel, as well.
“Dude, Cas, take a deep breath,” admonished Dean, who was twisted around in his front seat to stare at Castiel. “It’s like you’ve never ridden in a car before.”
Castiel carefully regained control of his breathing before replying. He did not want to aggravate Dean unnecessarily. “My first interaction with a car occurred less than a week ago, with you. I am as unfamiliar with it as you would be with a phaeton.”
Dean raised an eyebrow and turned to face forward before pulling out of the parking lot. Sam was sleeping in the passenger seat, his cheek pressed against the glass, and Dean reached over and slapped the back of Sam’s head lightly.
Snorting, Sam entered consciousness. “Dean, what the hell?” he growled, and Castiel watched with fascination. The exchange of blows to show affection was a custom he was as unfamiliar with as he was unfamiliar with automobiles, but Castiel was being exposed to it nearly constantly in the presence of Dean and Sam Winchester. Castiel supposed he would become very familiar with the custom by the end of the drive.
“We’re like, an hour from Stanford. You’ve been napping like a bitch, and I only had Mr. Phaeton Freak back there to keep me company. I’m taking out my frustrations.” Castiel saw Dean’s smirk in the rearview mirror, and Castiel turned to gaze out at the passing California landscape, a small smile lurking on his vessel’s face. His face. Castiel was feeling particularly… possessive, if that was the word, of his vessel since his resurrection. It felt his now, in a way it hadn’t, before.
“Dean, a phaeton is a horse-drawn carriage. What does that have to do with Castiel?” Sam asked, confused, and Castiel let his smile grow as Dean grinned and remained silent on the matter. Castiel and Dean were developing in-jokes, as Sam had called them.
Castiel did not understand many in-jokes between the brothers. He had chastised Dean and Sam both for being profane and generally uncouth when they called each other “Jerk” and “Bitch,” but Sam had assured Castiel that it was out of affection, like the hitting.
Castiel was often confused by the Winchesters.
The leather seat was warm and sticky beneath Castiel’s palms, and while Castiel distantly felt the heat, the breeze streaming from the open windows, he registered it only faintly compared with Dean’s loud laughter and Sam’s soft chuckles. They seemed to take up his whole awareness, and Castiel felt his connection to Heaven weaken every passing second. Each huff of laughter was a blow to the bond, and yet Castiel did not leave, or seek Revelation. All sense of urgency, the constant drive of obedience and faith that had consumed him before (as there was now a before Dean and after Dean, Castiel liked to remind himself) had drained from his awareness without Castiel realizing.
Castiel did not miss the obedience or the faith. He felt as if he would miss the brothers’ laughter, the sticky leather seats, and the breeze, very much.
**
The Impala pulled alongside the curb in a not-good, not-bad neighborhood near the Stanford campus. Night was falling steadily, the warm air stagnant but not unpleasant. Dean didn’t get out, because there were no bags to help carry, and Sam looked about as uncomfortable as he could get. He smiled apologetically, and extended his hand to Castiel.
Dean watched as Castiel stared at the offered appendage for several agonizingly awkward seconds before hesitantly accepting it with his own. Sam shook it, grateful for the gesture, and walked around the Impala to Dean’s open window.
“Call me when you’re on the road. Let me know you’re safe, man. I’ll be worried.”
Scoffing, Dean looked down to stare at the cracked pavement next to Sam’s feet. “Whatever, man. Sure. I’ll keep you updated. Just for your pansy peace of mind.”
Sam grinned, his brown eyes warm and sincere. “Thanks, Dean. For everything. See you around. You, too, Castiel.”
Dean saw Castiel nod out of the corner of his eye, and he watched Sam’s retreating back mournfully. He was losing his brother, and a potential hunting partner, all at once. Not to mention some demon freak could find Sam, again, at any time…
Sam was already inside when Dean realized he should have given his brother the book of wards. Just in case. Couldn’t be too careful, right?
Castiel was already out of the car before had opened the driver’s side door.
“Must be nice, not having to use doors or anything,” joked Dean, but Castiel’s eyes were narrowed on the apartment complex, his mouth tight and serious.
“Something is amiss-“ the angel began, but Castiel was cut off by the tinkle of glass and a lick of flame escaping from a window two stories up.
Dean jumped into action, propelling himself across the street and through the door within seconds. Castiel was right behind him, and then his arm was in the tight grip of the angel’s. Dean felt a wrenching sensation in his gut before he was standing in the middle of an inferno, with Sam at its center, screaming his head off.
“Sammy!” Dean cried, and he ran forward and pulled Sam from the bed he had been writhing atop. Castiel placed his fingers on their foreheads, index and middle finger extended, but before Castiel could angel-whammy them out of there, Dean glanced upward and saw a burnt and blackened figure affixed to the ceiling horrifically.
Jess was dead, and Dean should have known.
**
Castiel was genuinely sorry that Jessica had died. Sam had obviously cared for her, and Dean had liked her, as well. Castiel felt regretful he had not met her. Unfortunately, his ability to travel through time was severely lacking, especially with his extended absence from Heaven, and Castiel had never liked messing with the space-time continuum in the first place.
Sam was cradling his head in his hands, elbows on his knees and butt on the curb, while policemen and firemen made their way frantically around the scene.
Dean was standing behind his brother, warding off curious looking bystanders with well-aimed glares and answering police officers’ questions with short and concise, “Fuck off”s.
Castiel found himself lacking a purpose in the center of this hive of activity and grief. In need of answers, and desiring some sort of confirmation that he was still welcome among the Host (though he rather doubted it), Castiel realized his only option was to seek Revelation. Castiel opened the back door of the Impala and slid in, securing it behind him.
His deep breathing did nothing to prepare him for the onslaught of the will of Heaven. It was furious, and yet cold, the faith beating into him harder than Castiel had ever experienced before. The feeling of drowning during Revelation that had plagued him from the beginning of his existence had doubled, no, tripled, and Castiel cried out in the empty car.
Zachariah. Azazel. Winchester. God. Uriel. Faith. Obedience. Grace. Fall.
Words spun around Castiel’s mind, a whirlwind of understanding and confusion simultaneously, and Castiel gathered his grace and wrenched himself apart from the Host’s collective consciousness forcibly, something he had never had to do before. The Host had always released him upon the completion of Revelation, but Castiel feared that if he had waited, the Host would never have released him.
But now he understood, a little more clearly, what was happening to him.
Castiel was startled when Dean opened the door on Castiel’s side of the seat and told him, “Move over.”
Obeying, Castiel scooted further down the bench seat and allowed Dean to situate himself.
“It’s a madhouse, and now they want Sam’s eyewitness account. I woulda told them to take it up their asses, but I’ve got an armory in the trunk and a glove compartment full of fake IDs, courtesy of Ash, so…” Dean trailed off, his fingernails scratching patterns into his denim-clad thighs. Castiel stared.
“I am becoming more removed from Heaven,” Castiel stated simply, and watched as Dean’s face transformed from confused to horrified.
“Dude! That’s not okay! You’ll, like, lose your angel mojo, or something, right?” Dean sounded frantic, and Castiel felt a warmth blossom in his abdomen. He wondered if this was the feeling a human had when someone cared for them.
“I cannot return to the Host. Not how it continues to be, now, in any case,” said Castiel, his every word sincere. “The chaos and misconstrued faith has turned into zealotry, and they demand my repentance for the act of disobedience I performed by aiding your brother.”
If Dean had looked horrified before, he now looked positively stricken with grief.
“Cas, you can’t do that. Not for me… Us. Not for us. You’ve known me, us, for less than a week. That’s like, preteen puppy love level of stupid.” Castiel supposed Dean was making an analogy between an adolescent’s tendency to commit before a real connection had been formed, but he did not appreciate the attempt.
“You make light of my death, I believe,” said Castiel, frowning. “I did not choose to be resurrected, separate from the Host, but I did choose to assist you and your brother. Do not presume that I do not understand, nor fully accept, the consequences of my choices.”
Sufficiently abashed, Dean looked away, a faint blush tinging his cheekbones. Castiel observed the way the flashing police lights outlined Dean’s profile, first in blue, then red, and then in darkness. Castiel watched the glare flash across feminine lashes, and full lips, and he wondered if this was what humanity felt like. Being so committed to the details, where before Castiel could almost comprehend the whole of creation, just as his brethren could. The details, however, were rather more beautiful when taken into, and out of, context.
“Why are you staring at me, Cas?” asked Dean, his voice soft but his eyes hard, and Castiel looked away.
“I was admiring…” Castiel had been about to say your face, but perceived at the last second that the honesty would not be appreciated. “Your soul. It is still very bright.” And this was true, and yet not true, for while Castiel had been mostly focusing on the physicality of Dean’s person, Dean’s incredible soul had been bubbling up around the edges, as brilliant as it ever was. The death of his brother’s girlfriend had not dampened the soul in the least.
“That’s still freakin’ weird, dude. Stop looking at my soul, it makes me feel naked,” grumbled Dean, embarrassed, and yet Castiel could not suppress a smile in response.
Seeming surprised by Castiel’s smile, Dean seemed to shake himself. “I’m gonna go get Sam. We’re gonna crash at a motel tonight, and then head out to… Somewhere. I don’t know.”
And with that, Castiel was left alone in the Impala, in more ways than one. Dean walked away, and Castiel felt the ever-present reassurance of his brothers and sisters of the Host pull farther and farther away. He felt humanity pressing down upon him, and it felt like Death himself, loneliness and despair and anger close behind. And then Castiel caught sight of a singed and weary Dean Winchester leading his brother back to the Impala, Sam’s cheeks streaked with tears. The brothers drew nearer, and humanity did not seem as lonely and desolate as it had a few moments before.
Castiel felt as if he could, perhaps, belong among a race that contained such men as the Winchesters.
**
“I want to hunt with you,” said Sam as soon as they pulled away from the apartment building and the chaos of city emergency response teams.
Dean glanced over at his brother. “You sure, Sam?” he said quietly.
“I’m sure,” Sam said firmly, and Dean caught the hard look in Sam’s eye. He knew that look. Dean had seen it in desperate, angry men all through his life. It was the look of someone who wasn’t heading down a particularly good road and knew it. It wasn’t a good look, but it got Sam on the road and by his side, and so Dean nodded and drove into the night, ignoring the growing sense of dread that festered in his gut.
He had an angel- an angel for now, Dean reminded himself, because damn it if Castiel wasn’t becoming more human by the second as far as Dean could tell-and his brother by his side, and Dean felt more prepared for this clusterfuck of a life than he had so far. Progress, Dean thought as he pulled into the motel parking lot. It’s all about progress.
TBC
Rating: R
Pairings: Pre-slash Dean/Castiel
Warnings: Slightly graphic violence, strong language
Summary: Dean Winchester is a simple young man, living his life quietly in Lawrence, Kansas, doing handyman jobs and working as a mechanic. His brother, Sam, is on his way to becoming a lawyer, and Dean couldn't be more proud. After his father's delusions following their mother's death, Sam deserves to be successful. But Dean's life is shattered after a call from a stranger on Sammy's cell phone and an angel appears in his back seat. After that, his father's old insanity spreads through Dean like wildfire... And it doesn't look so much like insanity, anymore.
The Winchesters are introduced to the Harvelles and Castiel is dead. Sort of.
Word count: ~8,000
Part 1
Bobby was a saint.
Dean had known it the second Bobby had pulled the tab on a beer and handed to Dean, saying, “I suppose you’ll be staying here for a while.”
Dean had nodded while Sam punched him in the shoulder. Dean had said, “Thanks,” in a gruff, manly way. Bobby grunted and sidled out of his kitchen.
“Don’t mention it. Really. Don’t.”
So, they didn’t.
Sam had called Jess, but she was ignoring him, still probably pissed that he had “run off” right after proposing to her. Dean had stared accusingly at Sam until his little bother had muttered, “I was gonna tell you that Sunday…” So, Dean let it go.
And Sam was still here.
It helped that it was in between semesters, and Sammy was as freaked out as Dean, and they clung to each other like ducklings and followed Bobby around like he was their mother duck.
Bobby took a few swings at them for it. Good-naturedly, of course.
And it all came down to the fact that Sam and Dean were commandeering the guest bedroom, Bobby was giving makeshift weapons lessons, and John Winchester’s old journal was on prominent display on the kitchen table.
**
“You need someone to teach you what I can’t,” Bobby said, sitting down heavily on the sagging couch next to Sam. Dean was thumbing through yet another demonology text, his eyebrows drawn together.
“Yeah, sure, Bobby,” said Dean absently. “Gimme a second with this.”
“No, boy, put that down. I’ve read it a million times, there’s nothing new there. I got news.”
Dean snapped the book shut and grinned. “News? Good news?”
Bobby snorted. “You could say that.”
Sam looked up from his dad’s journal, curious. “What is it?”
“I found a hunter brave enough, or dumb enough, to take a couple of walking, talking liabilities along on a hunt.”
Dean smiled and pulled his leather jacket off the back of the desk chair. He shrugged it on easily, adjusting the collar and letting his grin widen.
“What are we waiting for, then?”
**
When Bobby said they were heading to a sort of unofficial hunter headquarters. Dean hadn’t been expecting… this. Whatever this was.
The Roadhouse wasn’t some underground, dark and high-tech secret meeting place out of a spy movie. Though, after Bobby’s house, Dean should have known. The Roadhouse was plain, almost decrepit, and it looked like any other bar in a backwoods town in the Midwest.
Dean opened the door and let Bobby enter first. If any trigger-happy paranoid loonies were in there waiting, Bobby’d either take ‘em down or take the first bullet. Dean only felt a little bad about his logic.
“Ellen?” called Bobby, resting his hand on the polished bar top. “It’s Bobby!”
Dean frowned. “You didn’t tell me the hunter was a chick.”
Sam shushed him. A figure approached and called out in a soft, feminine voice, “Bobby?”
The figure rushed forward into the better-lit entryway and threw her arms around Bobby’s middle. “Bobby!” the girl squealed.
“He didn’t tell me it was a hot chick,” said Dean with a leer, and this time Sam elbowed him in the side. “What?”
“You must be a friend of Bobby’s,” said the girl, probably Ellen, shaking Dean’s hand. She shook Sam’s hand too, smiling prettily. “I’m Jo.” Not Ellen, evidently.
“So, who’s Ellen?” said Dean rudely, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I’m Ellen,” came from behind, and Dean spun around in surprise and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. “Good job distracting them, Jo.”
“Yeah, yeah, Mom. They’re cute.” The girl, Jo, bounced away from Sam and stepped into place next to her mother. It was obvious, as Dean looked carefully, that they were related, even without knowing it first. Same blonde hair, though Ellen’s was muted with age, and similar haircuts, even. Slim figures on them both, and Dean had no qualms admiring them. The girl, Jo, was clothed in a barely-there tank top and jean jacket with low-slung jeans. Her boots were plain but sturdy, and Dean could only approve of the appealing, and otherwise sensible, clothing. Her mother was wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and steel-toed work boots that looked like they would hurt like hell in a fight. Dean smiled charmingly.
“Bobby, didn’t you call and tell them to expect us?” Sam muttered, trying to step away from the gun warily. Ellen had it trained on him in a second.
“I spoke to Ash,” Bobby growled. “Ellen, put the damn gun down. You know it’s us. We walked right past the devil’s trap in the parking lot.”
Ellen grudgingly lowered her gun, swiping at the strands of hair that had settled in her eyes. “You can’t blame us for being too careful, Bobby. Weird things have been going down around here. More demons than I’d ever care to see. And Ash didn’t tell us you were coming.”
“That’s ‘cause Ash is probably still drunk,” muttered Bobby, but he strode over to Ellen and shook her hand with a smile on his face.
“This is stupid,” said Ellen, and she threw her arms around Bobby, a mirror of her daughter’s earlier actions. Bobby evidently agreed, and Dean was surprised he didn’t crack a few of Ellen’s ribs while they were at it.
**
A little while later, Dean and Sam stood awkwardly next to the bar. Jo sidled up next to them as Bobby and Ellen chatted.
“So, how old are you guys?” said Jo, grinning and angling her body so Dean could see down her thin tank top.
“Too old for you, I’m willing to bet,” said Dean, but he licked his lower lip suggestively anyway.
Sam frowned. “And I’m taken.”
Jo pouted and pulled away. “That’s not an answer, from either of you. I’m twenty, and that’s old enough for anyone.”
Attitude and sass. Dean liked Jo. “I’m twenty-six, for what it counts, and baby Sammy here is twenty-two.”
Gracing the boys with a smile, Jo revealed white, perfectly straight teeth. “Alright then,” she chirped, letting her hand rest on Dean’s forearm. The gesture did nothing for him, though, and he slapped the bar top definitively before pulling away.
“Yep,” he said, leaning away from Jo and closer to Sam.
In Dean’s peripheral vision, Sam made a pained expression and nudged Dean in the ribs. “Baby Sammy, huh?” he muttered. Dean shrugged.
Heavy steel-toed boots carried their owner towards the group, and Ellen held out a hand to Dean once she stood beside Jo.
“My name is Ellen Harvelle, and I see you’ve met my daughter. I’ll warn you, watch her. She’s only half the airhead she pretends to be.” Despite Ellen’s words, her arm slid comfortably around Jo’s shoulders and squeezed. Jo was grinning, and she leaned into the embrace. Ellen continued, “Bobby says Ash has a hunt.”
“That’s what we hope,” quipped Dean, shoving his hands into his pockets to recover form Ellen’s firm grip. He liked Ellen, and even flirtatious Jo had her charms, but he was hesitant to go gallivanting about, looking for trouble, with two girls. Even two badass chicks like these.
“Right,” Ellen mused, running her hand through thick hair. She looked over Dean’s shoulder sharply before turning her gaze back to the brothers. “Well, hold on a moment, boys. I’ve got just what you need.”
Dean stared after her when she passed him in order to go get whatever it was. Bobby had disappeared, and Jo went behind the counter and started wiping down glasses. The place was empty of customers, but it was barely noon, and there wasn’t much of a lunch special as far as Dean could see. He fidgeted with his leather jacket, and Sam pretended to be interested in his fingernails, or something.
Dean heard footsteps, and shook himself out of his lazy stupor. Ellen was approaching with a man by her side.
“The big one is Sam, and the little one is Dean,” introduced Ellen politely, and Dean huffed a little. He held out his hand anyway- straightening his shoulders to accentuate his own six foot, one inch frame, of course..
Rolling her eyes at Dean’s reaction, Ellen continued pleasantly, “Boys, this is my husband, Bill Harvelle. He’s the best goddamned hunter you’ll ever meet.”
Dean shook Bill’s hand firmly. Bill had a thin face, clean-shaven and even blonder than his wife. He looked sheepish at Ellen’s posturing, but his handshake was strong and his eyes were steady. Dean nodded. Bill returned the nod, and once Dean released the other man’s hand, Bill shoved it into his frayed jean’s pocket.
“From what I remember, your dad was the real expert, for a while there. I mourned the loss of a good hunter the day I heard he died.”
And there it was. Bill had known John. So had Ellen, probably, though Jo hadn’t even been born when John Winchester had bit the dust. Dean swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Sam spoke up for him.
“I’m sure our dad thought the best of you, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” And Dean could see how Sam had survived at Stanford, full of sweet words and smart thinking. Something warm that felt disturbingly like love surged in Dean’s chest, and he swallowed thickly before he vomited from the sappiness of it all.
“Yeah,” he added lamely, and shoved his hands back into his pockets. Bill grinned, still a little shy looking, and motioned for the two boys to follow him.
“Ash has a good hunt lined up, and some great info. Plus, I hear you’ve been messing with angels.” Dean bristled for some reason- he hadn’t been messing with angels. Or angel, for that matter.
“Yes, sir,” piped up Sam, and all love Dean felt for Sam quickly evaporated. What if spreading around the knowledge that angels existed wasn’t such a great idea? Sam wasn’t the only one with brains in the family, really. Sometimes Sam was the dumb one. Like not calling Jess back every five minutes. If Dean had a girlfriend that hot (and sweet, and kind, and yeah, maybe Dean had a little crush on the tiny blonde girl that had stolen Sammy’s heart) he would call her every goddamned chance he had after a fight until she picked up and talked to him.
Dean took a moment to size up Bill Harvelle. He was nothing like Bobby, and only marginally comparable to his own dad in stature, which Dean hadn’t expected. Bill was skinny and wiry, but mostly tall, as tall as or even taller than Sammy. He almost had to duck when they reached the back corridor and knocked on a grungy-looking door with a crudely painted sign nailed to it.
Bill pounded on the door relentlessly, and hollered, “Hey, Dr. Badass, wake up from the hangover-induced coma of yours and get out here.” Dean liked Bill.
A short and scrawny man poked his head out. Dean grimaced and said, “Aw, what the hell, man,” and turned away, hastily averting his gaze. The man was naked, pale, and covered in what Dean could only assume was orange Cheeto dust.
“Hello, gentlemen. What can I do you for?”
Bill grunted. “You said you had a hunt for us, Ash. Move your buck-naked, pasty white ass out here and help us out.”
“Guess I need my pants, huh?” asked Ash, and the door shut with a click. Dean coughed.
Sam was frowning, eyebrows knit together. “Is he always like that?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” said Bill, grinning. “But he’s a whiz with computers, and can connect the dots like no other motherfucker I’ve ever seen. He’s forged more than a few official documents in his time. Not to mention I own his ass.”
Dean nodded. He could mostly appreciate Ash’s admittedly dubious talents, but he still wished the guy had showered in the last three weeks before Dean had to deal with him.
The door swung open with a raspy creak, the sign crashing into the wall. Ash exited his quarters and walked down the hall at a brisk pace. From behind, Dean could see a mullet. He made eye contact with Sam, a blow to Dean’s composure, and he had to stuff his fist in his mouth before he cracked up. Sam wasn’t succeeding any better.
“Pretty simple stuff, guys,” Ash said, pulling a laptop out from under his arm and setting it on the bar. “Salt ‘n’ burn, mostly. There’s always the problem that it’s not the body that’s keeping Casper in this plane, but heck, Bill, you’re the expert. Go get ‘em.”
With a casual stretch and yawn, Ash attempted to saunter back down the corridor and back to his room. Bill snagged him by the collar of his tasseled jean vest and dragged Ash back to the bar.
“Now, now, Ash. I’ve got your tab behind the bar, and wouldn’t you hate it if I decided to collect today? I know you’re broke. But I also know you’ve got some pretty good info on our situation, here.”
Ash frowned. “I’m gonna need a beer to sit through all this.” Dean nodded and headed behind the counter. The myriad bottles of liquor were spread before him like presents on Christmas morning, but Dean forwent the heavy stuff and plucked a few bottles from the nearby fridge.
“Sammy? Bill?” Sam frowned and shook his head, but Bill nodded. Both Bill and Ash caught their beers with ease that only came from practice, and Dean twisted off his cap with a flourish before taking a huge gulp.
“I’ve been getting omens, and stuff,” started Ash. “But not normal omens. Weird ones. Well, normal ones, too, but after them, not so much.”
Bill leaned in, looking fascinated. “Like what, Ash?”
“Well…” Ash grumbled for a moment. “It sounds stupid. I’ve got running bets across the network on whether they’re just more speculation, tabloid-style, but I’ve also got word from some pretty serious hunters. Demons show up, trash a town, and next thing you know, they’re dead. Boom. Gone. No devil’s traps, no holy water splashed around, nothing. And no one’s ‘fessing up to it, either.”
“So? Someone’s being sneaky and found a new way to kill the bastards,” Dean muttered. He was itching to go on his first real hunt already. None of this speculating bullshit.
Hand raised, Bill shushed Dean. His steady gaze was focused intently upon Ash.
Noticing the attention, Ash continued, grim faced. “But any humans that survive? They don’t survive all the way.”
“What do you mean?” asked Bill, his clear hazel eyes narrowing. Dean wanted to groan. This was like pulling teeth, without anesthetic.
“I mean, mostly their eyes were burned out. Sometimes they had brain damage, or some bleeding out the ears, like someone had played a frequency high or loud enough to seriously do some harm. Man, and they were all freaked. I’ve got hunters from all over calling these in, and they all say the survivors have no idea who helped them, but that the demons weren’t the ones who hurt them. Or at least, they weren’t the ones doing the burning-and-damaging.”
Dean was impressed. Ash had managed to use mostly big-boy words in that little speech.
“But all they saw was a big, white light, or heard high pitched static squealing, or whatever,” said Ash, his brow furrowed. “And Bob- remember Bob, Bill? Big ass redneck, toughest son-of-a-bitch you ever seen?”
“I remember Bob,” said Bill, laughing. “He damn near took my eye out with a pentagram last time he came ‘round.”
Ash nodded. “Bob got his eyes burned out, but he ain’t complaining. He’s decided to drop hunting and go be a monk. In Nepal.” Ash said monk like it was worse than cow shit on his already shitty cowboy boots, and Nepal was a destination worse than Hell.
“Bob better not go to Nepal,” growled Bill. “He’s got a tab bigger’n yours, damn it.”
Ash shrugged. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” He sighed and ruffled his mullet. “And that’s all the messenger’s got for you boys today. If you want my advice, go for the salt ‘n’ burn. It’s probably going to be easier.”
Bill sighed as Ash sauntered off, laptop in hand. A moment of silence followed, and Dean leaned on the bar. His elbow squelched in something sticky and oozing, and he cursed.
“I guess we’d better find some demons, then,” said Bill, slumping onto a barstool near Dean. Dean frowned and scrubbed at his elbow with a napkin.
“Why? Ash said the salt ‘n’ whatever was a better option. Plus, I’m not letting Sammy go anywhere near where he’ll get his eyes burned out.”
Sammy snorted. “I’m a big boy, Dean. I can take care of myself.”
“You can hardly shoot a gun, and you’d let a bear bite your bits off if he said it was for the right reason,” snapped Dean, irritated. Sam looked like he was about to rise to the fight, but Bill cut in.
“Can it, you two. Grab your gear and get in the truck. We’ve got demons to hunt.”
And even if this was more than Dean wanted to get into, and more dangerous for Sam, his blood thrummed with the opportunity to finally hunt something, after days of studying and practicing with Bobby. Dean was nearly perfect at the Latin exorcism now, and could bless holy water in seconds flat. His aim was improving, if that was possible, and he had read textbooks until his eyes felt burnt out. He was ready for this.
**
Dean wasn’t ready for this.
“This” was a twelve-year-old girl, slumped in the chair before the two brothers. Dean had personally wrapped the duct tape around her shoulders while Sam had made sure the devil’s trap was intact. Bill had disappeared to the truck.
Dean stared at the girl, willing himself to see the evil creature inside her rather than the pigtails and cheap plastic charm bracelet dangling from her tiny wrists.
Bill entered the restaurant storeroom without fanfare, dumping his bag on the stainless steel counter.
“I don’t know if I can do this, man,” grumbled Dean. Sam’s head swiveled over to stare at him accusingly.
“You’re the one who was all gung-ho about this an hour ago, Dean.” But Sam’s resolute expression wavered when his gaze passed over the small figure in the center of the spray-paint trap.
Bill held a gallon of holy water in each hand, and he handed them to Sam and Dean before grabbing a Bible from the bag.
“Now, demon, you’ll tell us who’s been hunting you, and maybe we’ll play nice and exorcise you quickly,” said Bill calmly, and Dean stared as the girl raised her head a little. Her wide, bright blue eyes went straight to Dean, and he was struck by their similarity to Castiel’s. Which was dumb, because when had he noticed a dead angel’s eyes?
“Where’s my mommy?” whimpered the girl. Her lower lip trembled, and fat tears splashed down onto her corduroy pants. “I want to go home.”
“Demon, tell us who is hunting you,” snapped Bill, and he took a flash of holy water from his back pocket and splashed the demon full in the face.
Any doubts of the girl’s demonic passenger in Dean’s mind were expelled when the water made contact. The girl’s skin steamed and she screamed, throwing her head back, her breath coming out in sharp pants when the shriek died. Bill flicked again, and she screamed louder, longer, hurting Dean’s ears.
When the girl had tired of screaming, she let her head hang forward. All resemblance to Castiel’s eyes had vanished, the irises and whites now a deep, demonic black. Dean shivered.
“Fine,” spat the girl. “I’ll tell you.”
But when she simply panted, not speaking, for another full minute, Bill entered the devil’s trap and forced her mouth open.
“Tell us after holy water has burned out your throat, demon bitch,” he growled, and he thrust the flask into the demon’s mouth.
The flask gurgled as its last contents emptied into the demon’s throat. The girl screamed again, her mouth frothy with blood, and her gasps were weaker now, more pathetic.
Dean really wished the demon had been in some dumbass trucker’s body, but he knew that wasn’t fair.
“Fine,” whined the demon, tears still streaming down her face, mixing with the blood. “Fine. The angels have been hunting us. Okay? Okay. I told you. Now send me back to Hell.”
Bill was silent, but he showed no surprise at the demon’s confession.
“I wish I could kill you for good,” he said with finality, before opening the Bible. The demon threw back her head almost immediately. The black smoke poured violently from the child’s frame, and Dean watched in horror as bruises and what looked like particularly nasty broken bones revealed themselves all across the now-empty body. The girl slumped forward, gurgled once, blood spattering from her lips onto her sooty corduroy pants, and then was silent.
Dean felt like he was going to be sick. This wasn’t revenge. This was horrific.
**
“Angels, huh?” mused Bill nonchalantly, leaning against his trunk and wiping down the knife he’d used to scrape away the devil’s trap before leaving the storeroom. “Guess you guys weren’t just hallucinating your friendly visitors the other day.”
“You know about that?” asked Dean, lips tight. Sam kicked at the gravel, head hanging down.
“I know whatever Bobby’s told me, boy,” Bill laughed. Dean didn’t know if he could laugh, right then. Not after dragging the poor girl’s bloody and broken shell of a body into the restaurant and closing the blinds. He hoped someone would find her and bury her soon.
**
Dean dreamt of angels.
Or, more specifically, angel. Castiel.
Dean was sitting on a dock, fishing contentedly. It was the first time he’d ever dreamt of this place that he could remember, but he felt like he knew it intimately. It was late fall, even though in reality it was the end of summer, and Dean tugged his jacket tighter around him against the autumn chill.
That’s when Castiel popped his trench coat ass right in front of Dean’s view.
“Go away, Cas,” muttered Dean, waving the angel aside. Realizing whom he was seeing, Dean jumped up, his fishing pool falling to the dock with a wooden thunk.
“Cas!” he cried, and he only just resisted throwing his arms around the angel. Castiel stood awkwardly, staring intently at Dean like he was a puzzle Castiel couldn’t quite figure out.
“Dean,” he said simply, and Dean grinned.
“Man, it’s good to see you. Even as a figment of my imagination. And you’re dead. Or something. Do angels die?”
Castiel tilted his head. “Angels simply cease to be. Or, rather, they cease to be in this reality. Limbo, or Purgatory, is…” But Castiel stopped, and gave a tiny cough. Dean was comforted to see the remarkably human gesture. It seemed… Normal. More normal than Dean had thought Castiel was capable of.
“Dean,” started Castiel again. “I am not dead. I was, in a way, but I do not remember what happened during my absence. I woke up on a fishing boat in Nova Scotia. I am significantly weakened, and cannot travel to your location. I am only just strong enough to contact you in your dreams.”
“Try a phone next time, buddy,” said Dean, laughing, but he wasn’t making fun. He was too busy being relieved that the angel wasn’t, you know, dead.
Castiel didn’t laugh. He didn’t look offended, either. He simply stared at Dean and fidgeted with his loosened tie absently. Dean watched as a light breeze ruffled Castiel’s dark hair and disturbed his coat’s tan lapels.
“Who was that douche that took you out, anyway?” asked Dean, settling back into his comfortable fishing chair.
“You should not be so profane,” the angel chastised gently. He looked over the lake’s calm waters before speaking again. “It was Zachariah,” he said darkly. “He was not pleased that I took destiny into my own hands.”
“Yeah. Um, thanks for that, though. Seriously,” said Dean, and he smiled up at Castiel. Castiel looked uncomfortable. His right hand skittered over his tie, as if in an aborted attempt to adjust it. Dean watched as Castiel lowered it very slowly and stared at his own fingers, in a way that suggested Castiel had no idea why the offending hand was moving.
“This mode of communication is difficult, Dean. I would rather speak to you face to face.”
Dean sighed. “Nova Scotia is a ways away, Cas. I mean, I can get you on a plane, but we’ll have to pick you up. We’re staying at The Roadhouse, with Bill and Ellen Harvelle and Bobby. I’ll give you my number, and a credit card number, too.”
Pulling out a pen that Dean hadn’t known was in his pocket, Dean reached for Castiel’s hand. “C’mon, gimme,” he said, grinning again.
Castiel offered his hand hesitantly, and Dean scribbled his cell number on Castiel’s palm. He also took out his wallet, another surprise occupant of his pocket, and pulled out the fraudulent credit card Bobby had lent him. He wrote down the card number and security code on Castiel’s wrist, and blew on the ink to dry it.
If Castiel shivered, Dean pretended not to notice. Just like he hadn’t noticed the softness of Castiel’s palm, or the callous-free fingertips, or the neatly trimmed nails.
“Get here soon, Cas. Shit’s going down.”
Castiel nodded gravely. “Yes, Dean. ‘Shit’ is going down. I will be there as soon as I can. Dying has severely weakened me, of course.”
Dean felt like he was being mocked, somehow, but then Castiel had vanished and there was nothing to do but fish.
**
Dean woke up feeling pretty hungover, not to mention groggy. Sam was shaking him violently.
“Dude, you were out, like, cold. I couldn’t wake you,” he said worriedly.
Dean shrugged off Sam’s anxious hands and stood from the cot he had commandeered from Bill and Ellen Harvelle. Sam had wrestled him for the couch, and Dean had lost.
“Cas is around,” muttered Dean, pulling his boots on. Sam cocked an eyebrow.
“Dean, Castiel died,” he said slowly, as if questioning Dean’s sanity. God knows, Dean needed it questioned these days.
“Well, he’s back, somehow, and he’s weak. So I gave him my phone number and some money, and he’ll be here as soon as he-“
Dean was cut off by Sam’s sudden, shocked squeal.
“What?” he asked, grinning. “You sound like someone cut off your-“
“C-Cas…“ stuttered Sam, pointing over Dean’s shoulder.
Dean turned and jumped. Castiel was standing behind him, panting.
“Hey, hey, buddy, take it easy,” Dean said, catching Castiel by the shoulders and lowering him to the cot. Castiel didn’t protest, but he gave an undignified moan before settling onto the cot. “You shouldn’t scare people like that. Give a little warning, you know?” No response.
Dean shot a worried look at Sam from his position kneeling beside the now-unconscious angel. “Get Ellen, or Bobby,” he ordered, and Sam jumped to it.
“What did you do to yourself, Cas?” murmured Dean, brushing sweat-slicked hair back from Castiel’s flushed forehead tenderly. It seemed wrong, somehow, for an angel who could destroy a demon with a touch and teleport to have a fever. “And why are your angel buddies doing a hunter’s job?”
Dean jumped when Castiel answered, his gruff voice even raspier than Dean remembered. Dean had thought the angel was unconscious by then.
“My brethren are not my ‘buddies’, Dean.” And then Castiel was struck with a coughing fit, and Dean leapt to his bag and grabbed the flask of holy water.
“Drink up, man,” Dean said, and he thought, Better to be safe than sorry. Weak like this, Cas coulda been possessed, no problem.
But the holy water slid down Castiel’s throat smoothly and his breathing settled. Castiel let the flask fall from his lips and sighed.
“Thank you for the assisstance, Dean,” said Castiel, and he let his hand rest atop Dean’s when he passed the flask over. Dean blushed and pulled away.
“No problem, dude,” he mumbled. With more confidence, Dean continued. “What happened to catching a plane, or whatever?”
“I found the plane… Constraining. I did not enjoy the experience.” Castiel grimaced. “I had to buy a ticket and provide identification, which presented problems. I found my vessel’s wallet, however, and they allowed me to board the plane.”
Dean watched, almost amused, as Castiel struggled to describe his flight. Dean settled back onto his heels, hugging his knees to his chest, and he tucked the word “vessel” into the back of his mind for later questioning.
“And then they required seatbelts, which is ridiculous- if the plane crashed, seatbelts would not be of much assistance…” Castiel trailed off, and looked away from Dean.
“What, Cas?” asked Dean, wondering where the hell Sam was with Ellen.
“I found the inside of the plane disturbing. I could not breathe, and I felt as if the walls were pressing in. I have never been exposed to such an unpleasant physical sensation. I had to excuse myself to the restroom and gather the remnants of my grace to travel here.”
Dean stared blankly, and then let out a bark of laughter. “Dude, Cas, that was not smart. Some pilot is gonna be freakin’ out that he lost a passenger on his flight!”
Castiel frowned, and waved absently at Dean. “I’m sure it is not of much import…”
“Ha,” huffed Dean, still grinning. “More like a national security crisis. And I’m pretty sure you’re claustrophobic.”
“That is… Unfortunate,” conceded Castiel, “But I do not see why that matters now. I will not need to travel by plane again. I can already feel my grace returning.”
And it was true, Dean could see. The air practically crackled around Castiel as he stood, and his gaze was noticeably more distant as he surveyed the Roadhouse’s backroom and makeshift guest bedroom.
“I would like to speak to Robert Singer, and the people you mentioned in your dream,” said Castiel calmly, and Dean felt the moment between them slide away like water through his fingers. Dean sighed and nodded.
“Bill and Ellen’ll be excited to see you. And Jo won’t be able to help herself, you’re so cute,” said Dean, and he mentally punched himself for saying Castiel was cute. That was stupid.
Castiel tipped his head to one side, following Dean into the main bar area. “I do not believe I am ‘cute,’ even by human standards” he said, tugging at his rumpled trench coat. “But my aesthetic values are very different from a human’s, I would think.”
“Oh? How so?” asked Dean, sitting at the bar and waiting for Sam to bring someone around.
“For instance, angels judge beauty by the grace, or the soul, an angel or person possesses. You, Dean, would be extremely admired in Heaven. Your soul is the most beautiful I have seen on Earth-” Castiel stopped then, clamping his mouth shut and pursing his lips. A faint blush crept across his unshaven cheeks, and Dean swore he looked embarrassed. Hell, Dean was embarrassed.
“Well, that’s just great, I guess. I’ll have to avoid getting hit on by angel chicks, then,” joked Dean, but Castiel continued to stare anywhere but at Dean.
Dean sighed and gave up. Where the hell was Sam?
**
Dean settled onto a barstool next to Sam, bringing his lukewarm beer to his lips before sipping absently. The bar was open for business, and a small crowd had gathered. Castiel was busy being interrogated by Bill, and Dean was on edge. He had been almost unwilling to let Castiel wander off alone, but Sam had reminded him, y’know, that Castiel was a freaking angel of the Lord. Ellen had refused his offer to help bartend, and Jo was too busy flirting for tips to keep him entertained.
Sam fidgeted, first turning a bottle cap between agile fingers, then tugging at his too-long hair, and finally scratching at the bar top agitatedly. Dean scowled and slapped Sam’s hand away.
“You got something to say, just say it, Sam. And leave the bar alone, Ellen’ll kill you if you mess with it.”
Sam hesitated, and then opened his mouth. Closed it again, and took a breath.
“I want to go back to Stanford. Back to Jess.”
Dean frowned. “I thought you wanted to, you know, help out here. With me.”
Looking away, Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “I know, Dean, I know. And I do, but I have an interview on Monday, and a fiancée, and a life to get back to. I know you weren’t so happy about me leaving you in Lawrence in the first place, but my life at Stanford is important to me.” Sam took a deep breathe before plunging on. “You’ll always be my brother, and I love you, man, but I have to get out of here before it gets too heavy. I can’t do this.”
Dumbstruck, unable to protest, Dean was silent as Sam slid off his stool and lumbered away into the sparse crowd.
“So that’s what I get from saving your ass from demonic psychic freaks?” Dean shouted after Sam when he regains his voice. Several patrons turned and stared, obviously a little freaked out, and Dean raised his beer in acknowledgement. “Inside joke,” he explained, and turned to face the bar, his heart sinking.
“Do not worry about Sam, Dean.” Dean felt the words first rather than heard them, the breath skating over his ear and cheek. He turned to see Castiel’s face inches from his.
“Dude, personal space. Take a step back,” he said, frowning and ignoring his rapidly beating heart. Castiel nodded and stepped away.
“Is this preferable?” Castiel asked, surprisingly sincere, and Dean nodded once before turning back to his beer.
“Of course I’m gonna worry about Sammy,” he muttered. “He’s my little brother. I’ve been protecting him since he was six months old. Can’t help it.”
Castiel was silent, though he had moved to sit on the barstool, his hands splayed across the bartop.
“Any thoughts, Columbo?
“I believe I wish to try alcohol for the first time.”
Dean stared, then laughed. And then, as he called Ellen over, Dean realized that he was hanging out with an angel.
Desperate times, huh?
**
Castiel realized he did not like cars, either.
He had never felt this away about automobiles before his death and resurrection- assuming it had been a resurrection, though Castiel was at a loss for what else it might have been. None the less, Castiel’s recent experience with human air transportation had been less than pleasant, and it seemed to have carried over into ground travel, as well.
“Dude, Cas, take a deep breath,” admonished Dean, who was twisted around in his front seat to stare at Castiel. “It’s like you’ve never ridden in a car before.”
Castiel carefully regained control of his breathing before replying. He did not want to aggravate Dean unnecessarily. “My first interaction with a car occurred less than a week ago, with you. I am as unfamiliar with it as you would be with a phaeton.”
Dean raised an eyebrow and turned to face forward before pulling out of the parking lot. Sam was sleeping in the passenger seat, his cheek pressed against the glass, and Dean reached over and slapped the back of Sam’s head lightly.
Snorting, Sam entered consciousness. “Dean, what the hell?” he growled, and Castiel watched with fascination. The exchange of blows to show affection was a custom he was as unfamiliar with as he was unfamiliar with automobiles, but Castiel was being exposed to it nearly constantly in the presence of Dean and Sam Winchester. Castiel supposed he would become very familiar with the custom by the end of the drive.
“We’re like, an hour from Stanford. You’ve been napping like a bitch, and I only had Mr. Phaeton Freak back there to keep me company. I’m taking out my frustrations.” Castiel saw Dean’s smirk in the rearview mirror, and Castiel turned to gaze out at the passing California landscape, a small smile lurking on his vessel’s face. His face. Castiel was feeling particularly… possessive, if that was the word, of his vessel since his resurrection. It felt his now, in a way it hadn’t, before.
“Dean, a phaeton is a horse-drawn carriage. What does that have to do with Castiel?” Sam asked, confused, and Castiel let his smile grow as Dean grinned and remained silent on the matter. Castiel and Dean were developing in-jokes, as Sam had called them.
Castiel did not understand many in-jokes between the brothers. He had chastised Dean and Sam both for being profane and generally uncouth when they called each other “Jerk” and “Bitch,” but Sam had assured Castiel that it was out of affection, like the hitting.
Castiel was often confused by the Winchesters.
The leather seat was warm and sticky beneath Castiel’s palms, and while Castiel distantly felt the heat, the breeze streaming from the open windows, he registered it only faintly compared with Dean’s loud laughter and Sam’s soft chuckles. They seemed to take up his whole awareness, and Castiel felt his connection to Heaven weaken every passing second. Each huff of laughter was a blow to the bond, and yet Castiel did not leave, or seek Revelation. All sense of urgency, the constant drive of obedience and faith that had consumed him before (as there was now a before Dean and after Dean, Castiel liked to remind himself) had drained from his awareness without Castiel realizing.
Castiel did not miss the obedience or the faith. He felt as if he would miss the brothers’ laughter, the sticky leather seats, and the breeze, very much.
**
The Impala pulled alongside the curb in a not-good, not-bad neighborhood near the Stanford campus. Night was falling steadily, the warm air stagnant but not unpleasant. Dean didn’t get out, because there were no bags to help carry, and Sam looked about as uncomfortable as he could get. He smiled apologetically, and extended his hand to Castiel.
Dean watched as Castiel stared at the offered appendage for several agonizingly awkward seconds before hesitantly accepting it with his own. Sam shook it, grateful for the gesture, and walked around the Impala to Dean’s open window.
“Call me when you’re on the road. Let me know you’re safe, man. I’ll be worried.”
Scoffing, Dean looked down to stare at the cracked pavement next to Sam’s feet. “Whatever, man. Sure. I’ll keep you updated. Just for your pansy peace of mind.”
Sam grinned, his brown eyes warm and sincere. “Thanks, Dean. For everything. See you around. You, too, Castiel.”
Dean saw Castiel nod out of the corner of his eye, and he watched Sam’s retreating back mournfully. He was losing his brother, and a potential hunting partner, all at once. Not to mention some demon freak could find Sam, again, at any time…
Sam was already inside when Dean realized he should have given his brother the book of wards. Just in case. Couldn’t be too careful, right?
Castiel was already out of the car before had opened the driver’s side door.
“Must be nice, not having to use doors or anything,” joked Dean, but Castiel’s eyes were narrowed on the apartment complex, his mouth tight and serious.
“Something is amiss-“ the angel began, but Castiel was cut off by the tinkle of glass and a lick of flame escaping from a window two stories up.
Dean jumped into action, propelling himself across the street and through the door within seconds. Castiel was right behind him, and then his arm was in the tight grip of the angel’s. Dean felt a wrenching sensation in his gut before he was standing in the middle of an inferno, with Sam at its center, screaming his head off.
“Sammy!” Dean cried, and he ran forward and pulled Sam from the bed he had been writhing atop. Castiel placed his fingers on their foreheads, index and middle finger extended, but before Castiel could angel-whammy them out of there, Dean glanced upward and saw a burnt and blackened figure affixed to the ceiling horrifically.
Jess was dead, and Dean should have known.
**
Castiel was genuinely sorry that Jessica had died. Sam had obviously cared for her, and Dean had liked her, as well. Castiel felt regretful he had not met her. Unfortunately, his ability to travel through time was severely lacking, especially with his extended absence from Heaven, and Castiel had never liked messing with the space-time continuum in the first place.
Sam was cradling his head in his hands, elbows on his knees and butt on the curb, while policemen and firemen made their way frantically around the scene.
Dean was standing behind his brother, warding off curious looking bystanders with well-aimed glares and answering police officers’ questions with short and concise, “Fuck off”s.
Castiel found himself lacking a purpose in the center of this hive of activity and grief. In need of answers, and desiring some sort of confirmation that he was still welcome among the Host (though he rather doubted it), Castiel realized his only option was to seek Revelation. Castiel opened the back door of the Impala and slid in, securing it behind him.
His deep breathing did nothing to prepare him for the onslaught of the will of Heaven. It was furious, and yet cold, the faith beating into him harder than Castiel had ever experienced before. The feeling of drowning during Revelation that had plagued him from the beginning of his existence had doubled, no, tripled, and Castiel cried out in the empty car.
Zachariah. Azazel. Winchester. God. Uriel. Faith. Obedience. Grace. Fall.
Words spun around Castiel’s mind, a whirlwind of understanding and confusion simultaneously, and Castiel gathered his grace and wrenched himself apart from the Host’s collective consciousness forcibly, something he had never had to do before. The Host had always released him upon the completion of Revelation, but Castiel feared that if he had waited, the Host would never have released him.
But now he understood, a little more clearly, what was happening to him.
Castiel was startled when Dean opened the door on Castiel’s side of the seat and told him, “Move over.”
Obeying, Castiel scooted further down the bench seat and allowed Dean to situate himself.
“It’s a madhouse, and now they want Sam’s eyewitness account. I woulda told them to take it up their asses, but I’ve got an armory in the trunk and a glove compartment full of fake IDs, courtesy of Ash, so…” Dean trailed off, his fingernails scratching patterns into his denim-clad thighs. Castiel stared.
“I am becoming more removed from Heaven,” Castiel stated simply, and watched as Dean’s face transformed from confused to horrified.
“Dude! That’s not okay! You’ll, like, lose your angel mojo, or something, right?” Dean sounded frantic, and Castiel felt a warmth blossom in his abdomen. He wondered if this was the feeling a human had when someone cared for them.
“I cannot return to the Host. Not how it continues to be, now, in any case,” said Castiel, his every word sincere. “The chaos and misconstrued faith has turned into zealotry, and they demand my repentance for the act of disobedience I performed by aiding your brother.”
If Dean had looked horrified before, he now looked positively stricken with grief.
“Cas, you can’t do that. Not for me… Us. Not for us. You’ve known me, us, for less than a week. That’s like, preteen puppy love level of stupid.” Castiel supposed Dean was making an analogy between an adolescent’s tendency to commit before a real connection had been formed, but he did not appreciate the attempt.
“You make light of my death, I believe,” said Castiel, frowning. “I did not choose to be resurrected, separate from the Host, but I did choose to assist you and your brother. Do not presume that I do not understand, nor fully accept, the consequences of my choices.”
Sufficiently abashed, Dean looked away, a faint blush tinging his cheekbones. Castiel observed the way the flashing police lights outlined Dean’s profile, first in blue, then red, and then in darkness. Castiel watched the glare flash across feminine lashes, and full lips, and he wondered if this was what humanity felt like. Being so committed to the details, where before Castiel could almost comprehend the whole of creation, just as his brethren could. The details, however, were rather more beautiful when taken into, and out of, context.
“Why are you staring at me, Cas?” asked Dean, his voice soft but his eyes hard, and Castiel looked away.
“I was admiring…” Castiel had been about to say your face, but perceived at the last second that the honesty would not be appreciated. “Your soul. It is still very bright.” And this was true, and yet not true, for while Castiel had been mostly focusing on the physicality of Dean’s person, Dean’s incredible soul had been bubbling up around the edges, as brilliant as it ever was. The death of his brother’s girlfriend had not dampened the soul in the least.
“That’s still freakin’ weird, dude. Stop looking at my soul, it makes me feel naked,” grumbled Dean, embarrassed, and yet Castiel could not suppress a smile in response.
Seeming surprised by Castiel’s smile, Dean seemed to shake himself. “I’m gonna go get Sam. We’re gonna crash at a motel tonight, and then head out to… Somewhere. I don’t know.”
And with that, Castiel was left alone in the Impala, in more ways than one. Dean walked away, and Castiel felt the ever-present reassurance of his brothers and sisters of the Host pull farther and farther away. He felt humanity pressing down upon him, and it felt like Death himself, loneliness and despair and anger close behind. And then Castiel caught sight of a singed and weary Dean Winchester leading his brother back to the Impala, Sam’s cheeks streaked with tears. The brothers drew nearer, and humanity did not seem as lonely and desolate as it had a few moments before.
Castiel felt as if he could, perhaps, belong among a race that contained such men as the Winchesters.
**
“I want to hunt with you,” said Sam as soon as they pulled away from the apartment building and the chaos of city emergency response teams.
Dean glanced over at his brother. “You sure, Sam?” he said quietly.
“I’m sure,” Sam said firmly, and Dean caught the hard look in Sam’s eye. He knew that look. Dean had seen it in desperate, angry men all through his life. It was the look of someone who wasn’t heading down a particularly good road and knew it. It wasn’t a good look, but it got Sam on the road and by his side, and so Dean nodded and drove into the night, ignoring the growing sense of dread that festered in his gut.
He had an angel- an angel for now, Dean reminded himself, because damn it if Castiel wasn’t becoming more human by the second as far as Dean could tell-and his brother by his side, and Dean felt more prepared for this clusterfuck of a life than he had so far. Progress, Dean thought as he pulled into the motel parking lot. It’s all about progress.
TBC