Episode 11: Back in Black
Title: Back in Black
Masterpost: Supernatural: Redemption Road (for full series info, warnings, and disclaimer)
Author: takadainmate
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~18,000
Warnings: language, mild violence
Betas: nyoka and zatnikatel
Art: Chapter banner by geckoholic; digital sketch by danny_sama, which you can also find here; digital painting by slinkymilinky, which you can also find here; and digital painting by ammo, which you can also find here (art contains spoilers for the episode).
Summary: There are omens spreading out all along the Eastern seaboard, the disappearances in Galveston a tipping point, and Castiel is almost certain his dreams are omens too.
Note: If you haven't read the holiday specials, we highly recommend you check them out before continuing on, since they include important character/plot progression! Here they are in order: The Magic Faraway Tree | Where the Drifts Get Deeper | If the Fates Allow
Sometimes, even when he's awake, Castiel dreams.
These aren't dreams like at night, when everything is dark and buried and suffocating. They're lighter things, where he sees Dean and he sees himself, and they are something like content. At peace.
They've been on the road for days. They sleep under the stars sometimes, because it's too warm for the car, and they're too far from anywhere to find a bed. Dean fusses over Sam, who only needs to cough before his brother is asking if he's okay, if he needs more meds. Castiel watches the clouds and dreams of a home that was never as good as his memory of it, as the humans imagine it; Heaven was discipline and obedience and war, and everything was absolutes. On Earth, as in the reality of Heaven, nothing is - or ever was - absolute. This is what Castiel has come to learn. So he doesn't expect anything from Dean, but he finds he receives everything; Dean's soul is open to him as it hasn't been since Hell. He should have expected that this was how it would be - if Castiel could have ever imagined that he and Dean would move from anger and aggression to a kind of physicality Castiel has never known before. Dean is all or nothing, in everything he does.
As they sleep under the stars, Castiel turns his eyes to Dean and sees Dean looking back at him. There is want there, and Castiel feels it too, something heavy and deep. Sometimes they seek out each other's hands, or lay back to back. For warmth, Dean tells Sam when his brother grins at him in the mornings and finds them laying like that.
He and Dean argue, much of the time, and it is Sam who must intercede. Sam tells them to stop being childish and to get a goddamn room, even when they have a room, and Castiel wonders at the new calmness he can see in Sam's soul, as though the weight of everything that had happened to him had suddenly been taken away, lifted, relieved. There is nothing false in it, no influence other than Sam's own will, and Castiel is glad. In Dean, Castiel can find some selfish solace of his own, but he knows both Winchesters are far more worthy than he of peace.
But this balance the three of them have found feels wrong somehow, like it is a brittle thing, precarious and without foundation.
Endlessly, Castiel tells himself he can do nothing about the past, that he should move forward, but he can't make himself believe it. It is tethered to him as much as gravity to his body, as much as the ties that bind him to Dean and Dean to him.
In the day, under the warmth of the sun, Castiel dreams of being free from the weight of memory and guilt even when he knows he shouldn't. He did this to himself. He chose this.
At night he dreams of oceans and grasping hands and empty, dead eyes, and the dreams worsen as the three of them travel north along the coast, until Castiel's eyes ache from the lack of sleep. The dreams become more real, so that Castiel can taste the salt and the fear, and his eyes and his lungs burn, his skin dread-cold where slippery fingers grip at him and drag him down.
Dean is always there to wake him, to tell him it's just his subconscious being a bitch, but it's not. It's more than that. Castiel knows this.
There are omens spreading out all along the Eastern seaboard, the disappearances in Galveston a tipping point, and Castiel is almost certain his dreams are omens too. They are changed from the frantic memory of his time in Purgatory and worse, from before, when he pretended to the throne of godhood and everything he touched turned to dust.
Castiel feels drawn northwards, a tugging in his grace that is like seeking like. It makes him wonder if this is the angels' doing - the disappearances all across the globe. They are certainly capable of it. There is no logic to it though, not as an angel would understand it. There is no method to the omens or the disappearances that Castiel can see. He senses no angelic presence in the places they investigate, site after site of empty spaces left behind. No evidence, not even the lingering sense of evil that often imbues a place where something bad happens.
Then there is Meg, and he can't understand her involvement at all. He shivers at the memory of her touch, of the sigils that bound him. It makes his stomach turn to remember them, a strange sensation, and Castiel concentrates on that, on not throwing up, the nausea preferable to the memory of how the sigils had been used on him before, burning into his grace so that every second had been agony. Castiel doesn't know how long he was in Purgatory - time being meaningless when there is no end to it - but he knows it was too long. Any amount of time there would be too long, and sometimes it awes Castiel that Dean stepped willingly into that misery, and that he did it for him.
Dean notices his discomfort. Dean always notices now when something isn't right. Castiel suspects it's because Dean is always watching, that he has learned Castiel's body better even than Castiel has himself. Dean, Castiel is certain, is as wary of this fragile peace they've found being shattered as Castiel is.
In public, Dean places a hand on Castiel's shoulder, shoots him a small smile, and it is enough to quell the rising panic. When they are alone Dean runs his fingers through Castiel's hair and kisses his mouth. There is no time now for much more.
When Dean and Sam speak of Meg it is in low, hissed voices, and their conversations are short and clipped. Painful.
They see no further sign of demons. It is a relief, but also confusing. If not demons, if not one of the thousands of creatures Castiel knows inhabit the dark spaces of this world, then what?
Castiel thinks and thinks, turns over every possibility, every non-existent clue they've found, and comes up with nothing. It's frustrating.
"Maybe it's something new," Sam suggests.
"There is nothing new," Castiel argues. Without his Father, without Lucifer, without Eve, there can be no creation, nor any twisting of flesh into some new creature. There can only be something Castiel doesn't know, that he has never heard of. Something older than the angels, and that is the most frightening thought of all.
The change had been abrupt, like being thrown into a bath of cold water. The analogy is almost a literal one: as soon as Dean's car crossed the town limits, the rain poured down onto them, drumming against the hood, against the windows, against the roof, sudden enough and hard enough for Dean to exclaim, "Shit!" and to swerve the car almost off of the road.
From then on, the rain never stopped. It was like being submerged, lingering damp filling the air, clinging to Castiel's clothes, to the timbers of the motel they'd stopped at. Paint was peeling off of the walls, and a damp smell of mold and decay permeated everything, but it had been the only place they'd found still open.
This is a dying town; Castiel can see it in the empty shells of abandoned houses and run-down shops that line the streets, in the downward, tired gazes of the people who inhabit the town, in the absence of life. It reminds Castiel of Purgatory: a place between, one that's going nowhere, never changing, devoid of a future. Devoid of hope. It's not a comparison Castiel likes, and he turns around, away from the motel desk to the lobby's wide window. It's almost wall to ceiling, and Castiel can see why. The view is spectacular, opening out onto a beach of yellow-gray sand, the ocean not far beyond, tall, steel-colored waves crashing against the shoreline, white spray erupting from the impact blown by furious winds even higher into the air. It is nature, powerful and unforgiving, and Castiel finds himself entranced by it.
The sudden sound of wet coughing behind him startles Castiel. He turns sharply, and there's an old, grizzled man standing behind the counter looking at him warily.
"You lost?" the man asks. "You're a long way from the interstate here, kid."
Castiel frowns. He is not a child. The man meets his gaze evenly, almost challenging, and Castiel can't imagine why someone this aggressive and unwelcoming would ever want to work at an inn. But then Castiel has felt this same feeling of suspicion and hostility from everyone he has seen so far in this town. As Dean drove through the rain and the wind, Castiel gazed out of the window of the Impala and saw shadows watching them from behind curtains, an old couple stopped at a streetlight and staring at them like they were strange, unfamiliar things.
"I would like two rooms," Castiel tells the man behind the desk. There is an open book on the surface that looks like a register, but the man makes no move towards it.
"You want to stay?" he asks instead, disbelievingly.
Castiel is no expert, but he is fairly certain this is not normal behavior. He wishes Sam and Dean hadn't left him to deal with this on his own. As true as it might be that he needs to learn to interact with other humans than just them at some point, he would rather it wasn't with this particular human. There is something about him that sets Castiel on edge, some vague uneasiness, a feeling of power that doesn't sit with what Castiel can see: a human dying of liver disease who has lived in this town all his life. His hands shake and his face is sculpted, cut and marked by harsh sun and wild sea. His hair is gray and thinning. He stoops, moving slowly, as though it causes him pain, when he moves closer to the front desk to lean against it.
"Yes," Castiel replies. The man snorts, but does nothing more, and Castiel wonders if he should explain their cover story, as Dean calls it. They are journalists traveling along the coast looking into the history of these old, sometimes remote, towns. Castiel thinks it's unlikely anyone would believe three adult men were driving around together in the pursuit of purely historical research. As little as he knows about normal human behavior, Castiel comprehends that much. But he has no stomach for lies, and he's certain he would only confuse things anyway so he repeats, "I'd like two rooms."
The man looks at him like he's insane.
Castiel is certain he is doing this correctly.
He has cash in his pocket that Dean gave him, guidelines on the exact types of rooms he should ask for, and instructions to give a false name and sign any paperwork illegibly. He does not have instructions on how to deal with difficult humans who won't give him a room, who just stand and stare at him, arms crossed lazily, looking him up and down disapprovingly. It is not unlike being inspected by a superior. Castiel doesn't like to think of Heaven, so he doesn't. Instead, he concentrates on how his arms prickle with cold where his thin shirt fails to keep his half-human body warm. He hears the winds howling through the narrow gap between the doorframe and the door, the way the wind shakes the window glass in their frames and rain batters against the roof tiles.
The man shakes his head, but seems to have come to some kind of decision because he moves towards the rows of keys set into boxes against the wall as he says, "We don't get many visitors outside of tourist season." He scoffs. "Or during tourist season."
When he considers the shabbiness of the town, filled with closed-down, lifeless shops and decaying boats strung up on fraying ropes to rotting moorings, Castiel can see why. But he says nothing, and the man scowls at him, throwing the heavy keys down onto the desk.
"My best rooms," he announces. There are numbers engraved into large orange key-fobs that were perhaps once shaped like fish. Now they are chipped and scratched. "Second floor. There's no elevator."
The man offers no further instructions, nor does he ask for a name or any payment, simply waving Castiel away and disappearing through a doorway leading into what looks like an untidy, brown-hued kitchenette. From what Castiel can see, it's intensely ugly.
Watching the grizzled man's back shuffle away, the sense of wrongness is so strong that Castiel almost wants to leave, to get out of this motel and this town. To fly.
He stays, feet firmly planted on the garishly-patterned, muddied carpet. Dean will return shortly, and he will want to sleep after having driven for so many hours. Castiel has nowhere else to go anyway.
There are no reports of unusual weather, or of the storms that are battering the coastline.
Huge, ferocious waves run unchecked up the narrow beaches of the town, ripping at the seafront shops and houses, sometimes carrying them away. No one in the town seems alarmed by it, barely even seeming to notice as they walk by, collars pulled up and faces turned down. There is no life in this town, Castiel thinks again, and as he watches people pass under the window of the motel room, he wonders if the town has always been this way, or if something has happened.
There are no reports of new disappearances either, not in the outside world, nor from these half-soulless, wandering townspeople. Watching them makes Castiel feel cold, and not just because there is no heating in the room, and he hasn't put on the jacket Dean dug out of his duffle for him. There is a hollowness to everything: to the streets, empty of cars, to the shops, empty of customers, to the motel, empty of guests.
There is dust on the windowsill, a thin layer blanketing the room's only table. The air is stale, but Castiel has been unable to open any of the windows. He wonders how long it's been since anyone stayed in this room.
In the small kitchen area, Sam is attempting to make coffee, making disgusted noises at the mold he keeps finding on every surface and cup and spoon. There is no hot water.
"The library was shut down years ago," he says. "Dean, you got any matches?"
Bedsprings creak behind Castiel, and it occurs to him that he doesn't look forward to sleeping on these mattresses. "Here," Dean replies. He eyes the mold on the counter, hesitating before frowning at Sam.
"This isn't gonna make you ill again, is it?"
"Stop worrying," Sam sighs. "I've told you that a million times."
"It's really wet here," Dean points out, and Sam decides to ignore him, saying instead, "I couldn't find an internet connection anywhere either."
After a long moment spent staring at his brother with narrowed, suspicious eyes, Dean lets the matter drop. "My cell doesn't work." Dean doesn't sound so much concerned as irritated. "I wanted to call Bobby."
"Yeah, well, even if you could've I doubt there'd be anything about this town. No one I met would talk to me."
Dean snorts. "I get the feeling they don't like outsiders here."
Sam smirks. "I get the feeling they don't like each other either. There had to have been twenty people or something in the diner down the street, and it was silent. It was creepy as hell." Sam pauses. "Jesus, this place is gross. Cas, that guy said this was his best room?"
Sam is incredulous, and Castiel understands why. Of all the time he has spent with the Winchesters since the very first time he met them, this has to be the worst motel room he has ever seen. Nonetheless, "He did," Castiel confirms.
"It's weird," Dean says, turning to face Castiel, "that the guy at the reception didn't give you a price or ask for cash up front."
Castiel can feel Dean's eyes on him but he doesn't turn away from the window. The day is coming to a close, what little light there is fading from the heavy, gray sky. It's still raining, not so much torrential now as a hazy, fine, relentless cloud. Across the street an old woman is pulling the blinds down in her empty shop. Castiel is unable to even determine what it is she means to sell. What sign there was above the door has long since been weathered away, so that now all Castiel can make out is the curve of what was once a blue painted M. She moves slowly but with purpose, easily, as though her actions are automatic, well-practiced, and Castiel wonders if she does the same thing every day. He wonders how long she has been here.
In the outside world, following the road up the coast, in the villages and towns they'd passed through, there had been rumors, tales told of a summer town up past Little Egg Harbor that had drawn crowds of tourists for its warm beaches and its fresh seafood. The fishermen there were wealthy, there was an aquarium and a fairground, and everyone talked about how perfect it had been. The people were friendly and welcoming, the weather never failed to be anything but pleasant, mild even in winter, there was no trash on the beaches, the water was crystal blue and calm. Safe, they called the town, never once mentioning its name. Then it all stopped, the gossip said. It had been almost overnight; one minute there had been hoards of happy holidaymakers, the next there had been no one except the odd drifter who was never heard from again.
None of the people they talked to could remember when it had happened, only that it had.
This, Castiel is sure, is the place they'd been talking about.
"Cas?" Dean calls, and Castiel turns to him, sees that Dean's eyebrows are tented and concerned. Perhaps he was supposed to respond to Dean's observations, but Castiel has nothing to say.
"I asked you a question," Dean prompts. Castiel hadn't heard any question. In the kitchenette Sam has stopped tormenting the appliances, and he looks at Castiel too.
"Dude," Sam frowns. "You seem kind of out of it."
"I don't like this place," Castiel shrugs, because it's true. He's finding it hard to concentrate on anything other than the beach and the wind and the rain and the sea, and that makes no sense at all. Focus has never been a problem for Castiel before; in fact, it could be said that single-minded focus had been the problem.
And now, after everything, his main concern should be Dean and Sam, but it's not. Maybe he's just tired. Maybe he needs to sleep, or eat, or one of the other myriad things he must do to live now that he is falling again. It's frustrating, and it's tedious, and Castiel turns back to the window, to the storm outside. Once, he had the power to calm hurricanes, or to create them. He could have brought the sun.
Castiel is almost startled by Dean's hand wrapping lightly around his upper arm, his first instinct to lash out, to take the wrist and snap it, to disable the threat. A human instinct or millennia of military training, Castiel can't decide. But it's Dean. Dean is no threat, and Castiel tries to relax his muscles. He lets Dean turn him around, lets Dean shake him gently by the shoulders.
"Cas, man, are you in there?"
"I am," Castiel assures him. It's impossible to miss the doubt in Dean's expression.
"You'll tell me if something's wrong, right?"
"Many things are wrong," Castiel points out.
Dean closes his eyes, opens them again.
"I mean specifically. Here. Like, if you - I don't know - sense something."
"It's cold," Castiel tries to explain. "This town and the people here. They're empty." They remind Castiel of Reapers, the dead, the tortured souls of Hell, not yet so far gone to forget pain but far enough that their skin is imbued with sulfur, and their eyes are no longer human.
"What could've done that?" Sam asks. He sounds cautious, unsure, and Castiel knows he is wondering if perhaps this was Castiel's doing. A god would have such power.
Much of that time is unclear to Castiel, half-remembered, unsequential and confused. Confusing. But Castiel is sure he would recognize his own hand, and this is not it.
"I don't know," he replies.
Sam nods and goes back to fighting with the coffee maker, apparently satisfied. It still amazes Castiel that after everything Sam believes him so easily, without question.
Dean draws his attention again, with a light touch to the back of Castiel's hand.
"Just concentrate on me," he grins, then more seriously, "We'll get out of here as soon as we can. I don't like how out of it you are."
Castiel doesn't like it either, but they are here for a reason. Every instinct tells him that something is happening here, in this small, forgotten town, something that connects all the disappearances they have come across over the past few days traveling and finding nothing, no evidence, no connections, no clues.
It was a relief to finally find something, to be able to stop. As much as Castiel appreciates Dean's love for his car and driving, it has been a tedious, confining trial for him. Slow. Repetitive. Enforcing the realization of his limitations now, because where once he could have flown within the space of thought, now he must preserve his strength for when the shit hits the fan, as Dean says. And that means enduring hours spent in an enclosed space, the tedium of a never-ending road, the grating sound of a combustion engine, and the rumble of wheels on asphalt. He'll grow accustomed to it in time, he supposes.
To Dean, Castiel nods shortly. The failing light is casting strange shadows in the corners of the room, along the walls, like long fingers stretching out, reaching for them.
"You found somewhere safe to park your car," Castiel changes the subject.
The look Dean gives Castiel promises that this conversation isn't over, but he replies, "About as good as it's gonna get. She can take a little rain."
"A little rain?" Sam snorts. "My shoes were freaking swimming pools as soon as I stepped out the door. I'm not surprised the people in this town are all so damned miserable." He shakes his head. "I have no clue how we're going to find anything here."
With no means of research, no leads, no one who will speak to them, Castiel has to agree that Sam has a point.
"Maybe we can find a local newspaper," Dean suggests. "Or check out the local PD. There's gotta be something. We'll find it. We always do." Dean moves back to the bed, sitting down and leaning back to grab the remote. The television picture is grainy and the sound garbled. "We can start tomorrow. There's nothing we can do right now, so I'm taking the night off." He frowns at the television, leaning forward and surfing through the channels. Castiel has yet to discover what is so distracting about watching the television. He prefers to watch Dean, who argues with Sam about them never taking time off, and where they're going to eat the next day, and which channel they should turn to.
Outside, the rain continues to fall. The sea continues to churn, and something draws Castiel to look. It is an effort to keep his attention on Dean, and Castiel knows for certain that isn't right. He doesn't understand what it is he wants to see, or why he would ever want to look away from Dean.
"Cas," Dean says. "Come and sit down. You're making me nervous. Stupid fucking town. They don't even get cable."
Dean may have been joking about concentrating on him but that is exactly what Castiel does. He sits beside Dean, lets himself feel the warmth of his body, focuses on the brush of their hands, on the annoyance in Dean's eyes, in the soft, not-so-shy looks Dean shoots him.
Castiel accepts the coffee Sam makes him, a bitter, gritty drink that he forces himself to finish while he thinks longingly of Bobby Singer's more palatable brew. Sam shrugs apologetically at him as he settles himself on the other bed.
"You don't have to drink it," he says, but Castiel wants to, despite the taste. It's something Sam has made for him, and it's a distraction from the storm outside, which Castiel could almost swear is howling his name at him in the form of the moaning wind, screeching at him, angry. It reminds him of the fury of his brothers, their screams as he killed them. The coffee's warmth distracts Castiel from the chill that seems to seep into his body. Perhaps most importantly, it will allow Castiel to stay awake a little longer.
He tells Sam, "I don't mind it."
From the way Dean narrows his eyes, Castiel guesses he understands something of his motivations. But for once he makes no comment, and Castiel is grateful, because he knows that sooner or later he will have to sleep, and the reminder is never appreciated. He buries the thought in bad coffee, and Dean and Sam, and the chatter of the television, and ignores the creeping feeling of suffocation, of weight tying him down, of being trapped.
Castiel wakes suddenly, his eyes snapping open, his breath coming in heaving, stuttered gasps. There is sweat on his skin, and it's cold on his bare arms; it feels like rain as it rolls down his back. He shivers, concentrates on just breathing, on the feel of the scratchy sheets under him and wrapped around him. In the bed next to him Dean doesn't wake, and Castiel is glad for that. No matter how much Dean might deny it, he needs the sleep. Weeks, turning to months of dealing with Castiel and his endless, disturbed nights, and then of looking after Sam when he was so sick he could barely move, have gotten to Dean. Castiel sees it in the slow, weary way Dean wakes up every morning next to him, rubbing at bleary eyes. Somehow, he's always able to offer Castiel a smile, as though he's glad just for the fact that Castiel is still there.
It is a relief too that Castiel remembers nothing of the dream that woke him. There is only the lingering taste of salt in his mouth, and the memory of shadows and an icy coldness flowing through his veins. But that could just be some vague, subconscious awareness of the temperature of the room. Absently, Castiel wonders if perhaps he should have shared a bed with Dean after all. But Dean's exhaustion had bled out of his eyes, and Castiel had chivvied him into the other bed to sleep undisturbed, because there was too much noise in Castiel's head, too much wrong with this motel and this town, with the storm outside that sounds more and more unnatural the longer it rages. Castiel gave Dean promises of soon, and when we're away from here, and thankfully Dean had understood.
The steady beat of the rain never alters, and the crashing of the waves is like a metronome, a sickening repetition of swell and fall.
In the morning, Castiel decides, he will tell Dean these things. He will tell Dean how, despite knowing that all of these things are not right, Castiel is still drawn to them, feels as if he could stay in this town always, wants to go to the beach, follow the line of the water, and walk and walk forever. He wonders if this is how the residents of the town feel, if this is why they stay in this dying community. Somehow Castiel knows that whatever wants him here is out there, waiting, on the beachfront.
Carefully, silently, Castiel slides out of his bed and pads over to the window, taking one last look back at Dean. The room is almost pitch black, the streetlights lined up along the road outside broken, bent, smashed. There is no moon but there is still enough angel in Castiel for him to see with eyes other than just that of a human. Dean's rest is peaceful. Whatever Dean is dreaming of, it must be good because he's smiling into the pillow. Castiel might find it in himself to be jealous if he didn't know how much Dean needed to have at least some restful sleep, how much he deserves it. He smiles himself as he considers the possibility that Dean might be dreaming of the cabin in the Black Hills, of the hours spent pressed close, skin-to-skin, whispering to each other in the dark.
Like this, silent and still, Castiel can look all he wants. Dean is beautiful, both in his soul and in his body. His back curves into the mattress, the blankets pulled tightly around his shoulders. He breathes evenly, slowly, unconcerned. It is a fantasy, but Castiel would give almost anything for Dean to be this relaxed in his waking hours, for the lines of worry on his face to fade, for the weight of too much for too long to lift instead of being written in the hunched slope of his back. To take on the weight of the world, though, is as much a characteristic of Dean Winchester as his love for his brother or his need to save people.
It would be easy, Castiel thinks, to slide into bed beside Dean like he did in the cabin, and maybe, just for a little while, forget everything. The past. The future. Everything that's wrong between them. Everything that's wrong with the world; the supernatural too quiet except for these disappearances. These omens. But there are answers in the storm and the shadows that pull at Castiel, not so much curiosity as wanting to know if this - all the incidents they have been chasing these past weeks, all of the devastated faces of friends and relatives of the missing and the dead - are a result of Castiel's actions. If there is anything he can do to put it right.
He turns away, towards the window again, and it is like the loss of warmth. Suddenly everything is unfamiliar, as though Castiel had walked into a whole different room. Here he is alone.
There is a whispering that's more than the whistling of wind through cracks in the window frame, drafts under the door. And there is light; just a glimmer flickering in the distance, somewhere along the beachfront. Castiel can almost feel the heat of flames against the bare skin of his arms. The rain is still heavy and certainly any normal fire would've been put out almost instantly. He thinks he can hear it crackling, welcoming and familiar.
Without a second thought, Castiel flies, forgetting in that moment that flying is not as easy as it once was, forgetting in that moment that he is anything other than an Angel of the Lord. The sting of water being driven into his eyes, and the shocking cold of the surf covering his feet, the sudden exhaustion that fills him quickly reminds him. It's an exhaustion he has become too familiar with.
He stumbles in the wet sand, catching himself just in time to avoid falling face first onto the beach. He wouldn't want to ruin Dean's comfortable sweatpants, although Castiel can already feel the cold creep of water weighing down the fabric. His t-shirt is soaked, and he wonders what Dean will say when he returns. Perhaps he will have the strength to fix the clothes, but from the way his fingers and toes already ache from the cold, he doubts it.
How strange that he should worry about what Dean will think of his borrowed clothes when the shadows look almost solid here on the water's edge. When there is light, but it isn't warm. When Castiel can sense that there is someone behind him.
The voice that speaks is a woman's, silken yet still somehow sharp. She says, "I thought you'd come sooner."
Castiel doesn't recognize the voice so much as the strength and the anger behind it, but still he can't quite place it. Long ago, he thinks. He heard it long, long ago.
Turning slowly around, Castiel sees her, a veil covering her face, her long black dress caught up in the swirl and surge of the shallow tide around her feet like oil on the surface of water. The light comes from an aura of flame made up of green and yellow. A will-o'-the-wisp, humans used to call it, foolish fire. The oxidation of phosphine and methane, they say now.
Castiel finds himself saying, "I didn't remember this place." He still doesn't, but deep down, somehow, Castiel understands who this woman is and exactly what she is doing here. In the flickering ball of light he sees the past. He sees one of his brothers die.
"I suppose not," the woman says softly. She is entranced by the light even as she controls it, or at least tries to control it. Castiel knows well how impossible it is to impose even the strongest, most determined of wills upon nature. "I should have asked you to bring him back when you styled yourself divine." She sighs and steps back, her hands falling to her sides, defeated.
"I would have said no," Castiel tells her. He thinks he should be worried that he doesn't know what he's saying, but instead all he feels is detachment, like he's not really there. Like maybe he's still lying asleep back in that drab, pungent motel room.
"Why?" the woman demands. "He was your brother."
"It's not for me to resurrect the dead."
The woman laughs, and it's a cruel, sharp sound. She turns to him, and Castiel can see her eyes glimmering red. "Oh no. Not unless it's Dean Winchester, or one of those he cares about, then it is for you. Then you'll do it. Time and time again. Hypocrite," she spits venomously.
Castiel can't deny it, so he doesn't even try. "It doesn't change the fact that you can't bring him back," he says instead.
There is anger, revenge, hate and age-old weariness, loneliness, in her half-hidden eyes that Castiel finds he can't look away from. All of these things he's seen looking back at him, in the bathroom mirror, in windows, in his reflection on the surface of a lake, the sea, a bath, the film of water lingering on the uneven concrete of sidewalks after the rain.
"Perhaps not," she says, her voice a quiet undertone. "But I found something I know you'll be interested in."
When she looks up at Castiel her eyes are molten red, and suddenly he's not sure he wants to know what she has to say.
They eat breakfast in the only diner that's not boarded up. Sam takes one look at the exterior, dirty glass, peeling, ripped posters advertising boat trips around the harbor and the aquarium - from better times, Castiel guesses - and announces that they're all going to get food poisoning.
"You wouldn't want Cas to get sick, would you?" Sam demands of Dean, and he's only half teasing. It's probably not the best thing to say, because Dean is instantly inspecting Sam for signs of imminent illness.
"Do your coat up," Dean replies testily. "I wouldn't want him to starve, either."
Castiel can see in the way that Dean glances over at him that he's remembering when he had first brought Castiel back to Earth, when Castiel could splay a hand over his chest and feel the shape of every rib directly under his skin. He never felt hunger.
Now, too, Castiel would prefer not to eat, unsettled by his dreams and the shapes of shadows he catches out of the corner of his eye moving, straining for Dean and Sam, following them. He woke up suddenly with cold feet and the grittiness of sand between his teeth. There was a woman fading from his vision when his eyes snapped open. Of his dream, he remembers fire, which seems at odds with the rain and the storm they are currently hiding from beneath the awning of a closed-up gift shop across the street from the diner. There is a row of half-rotten dolls in the shop display, wearing ugly, frilly dresses and moldy, yellowed lace hats. Their eyes are black, gaping holes that Castiel imagines are watching him. Staring at him. Castiel remembers eyes like that from Purgatory and has to force himself to look away, to bring himself back to the present. He is free. There is nothing keeping him here. Except where there is.
He awoke tired, as though he hadn't slept at all. And worse, with that lethargic, drained feeling of having used his Grace, of having taken to flight.
It was just a dream, Castiel tells himself dismissively. That is what Dean is always telling him.
Standing close beside him, close enough to feel Dean's hand touching the back of his, Dean is saying, "It's not like we have a choice."
Sam doesn't look pleased to be following Dean across the street, jackets pulled up over their heads to try and shield them from the rain, and into the diner. Silence falls the second Dean opens the door, and the three of them stand there in the doorway awkwardly. No one greets them. The entire population at the diner stares at them.
Shaking off his surprise, and the rain from his jacket, Dean smiles openly and says, "Hi. Could we get a booth?"
He's looking at a woman standing beside the counter at the back of the diner. She's maybe forty, but it's hard to tell. She has the same worn, weathered look of the man in the motel. Her eyes are narrowed, looking each one of them up and down, lingering on Castiel for so long that Dean steps in front of him, blocking her view.
"We'd really love some coffee," he tries again, and this time - reluctantly - the waitress points them to a table in the corner, throws menus down on the surface when they've seated themselves. The room is still quiet, though there's a quiet murmuring around them now. Castiel hears the other patrons saying, "Who are they?" and "What are they doing here?" and "Do they know?"
Sam leans over the table of their booth and whispers, "They're still looking at us."
"Yeah. I can feel their freaking eyes on the back of my neck," Dean hisses back. Sitting next to him, Castiel thinks he understands for the first time what the phrase means. It's a knowledge, innate to his human senses, of being watched, like icy needles pricking at the edge of conscious thought. Outside, along the sidewalk and across the dilapidated buildings across the street, shadows stretch and curve and inch closer towards them. Sometimes Castiel thinks he can see shapes in them, like arms and hands and faces.
Or perhaps he's just lost his mind.
Their coffee arrives, steaming and thick black. It smells good after the musty motel room, and Castiel drinks without bothering with milk or sugar, forgetting that hot coffee burns. Suddenly his throat is on fire, his tongue feels as though it's swelling to fill his mouth, and his eyes are watering. He can hear Dean saying, "Shit, Cas. Drink some water. Here, here."
A glass is pressed against his lips, and Castiel feels the coolness of it. He drinks so quickly he almost chokes, all to the chorus of Sam swearing, "Holy fuck," and Dean encouraging him to, "Drink more. Slowly, Cas. Jesus Christ."
It seems like a long time until Castiel can open his eyes again and breathe without pain lancing down his throat.
The first thing he notices is that Dean has one hand on his back and the other holding a large glass of water, and he's looking at Castiel like he expects him to do something dramatic at any moment. Sam is mopping up spilt coffee and water from the surface of the table.
It's amazing, Castiel thinks, how something so simple as hot coffee could cause so much pain.
"I hope we've learned a valuable lesson here," Dean says carefully. He's trying for light-hearted, but his voice cracks over the words.
Castiel takes another sip of water and focuses on Dean's touch instead. It is unusual for him to show affection in public, and Castiel finds he takes pleasure in this physical indication of their involvement. Opposite them Sam is smiling smugly.
"Shut up," Dean snaps. Castiel is certain he'll take the hand away but he doesn't, not even when the waitress finally returns to take their orders. All through the time they wait for their meals, and Dean complains about the bad service, and that his coffee is empty, and that this place gives him the creeps, he keeps his hand firmly on Castiel's back. If he didn't need his hand to eat, Castiel is sure he would have left it there for the entire time they were seated.
When they leave the diner, to more hushed murmuring and suspicious looks, Dean stays close.
Episode 11: Back in Black (Continued)
Masterpost: Supernatural: Redemption Road (for full series info, warnings, and disclaimer)
Author: takadainmate
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~18,000
Warnings: language, mild violence
Betas: nyoka and zatnikatel
Art: Chapter banner by geckoholic; digital sketch by danny_sama, which you can also find here; digital painting by slinkymilinky, which you can also find here; and digital painting by ammo, which you can also find here (art contains spoilers for the episode).
Summary: There are omens spreading out all along the Eastern seaboard, the disappearances in Galveston a tipping point, and Castiel is almost certain his dreams are omens too.
Note: If you haven't read the holiday specials, we highly recommend you check them out before continuing on, since they include important character/plot progression! Here they are in order: The Magic Faraway Tree | Where the Drifts Get Deeper | If the Fates Allow
Sometimes, even when he's awake, Castiel dreams.
These aren't dreams like at night, when everything is dark and buried and suffocating. They're lighter things, where he sees Dean and he sees himself, and they are something like content. At peace.
They've been on the road for days. They sleep under the stars sometimes, because it's too warm for the car, and they're too far from anywhere to find a bed. Dean fusses over Sam, who only needs to cough before his brother is asking if he's okay, if he needs more meds. Castiel watches the clouds and dreams of a home that was never as good as his memory of it, as the humans imagine it; Heaven was discipline and obedience and war, and everything was absolutes. On Earth, as in the reality of Heaven, nothing is - or ever was - absolute. This is what Castiel has come to learn. So he doesn't expect anything from Dean, but he finds he receives everything; Dean's soul is open to him as it hasn't been since Hell. He should have expected that this was how it would be - if Castiel could have ever imagined that he and Dean would move from anger and aggression to a kind of physicality Castiel has never known before. Dean is all or nothing, in everything he does.
As they sleep under the stars, Castiel turns his eyes to Dean and sees Dean looking back at him. There is want there, and Castiel feels it too, something heavy and deep. Sometimes they seek out each other's hands, or lay back to back. For warmth, Dean tells Sam when his brother grins at him in the mornings and finds them laying like that.
He and Dean argue, much of the time, and it is Sam who must intercede. Sam tells them to stop being childish and to get a goddamn room, even when they have a room, and Castiel wonders at the new calmness he can see in Sam's soul, as though the weight of everything that had happened to him had suddenly been taken away, lifted, relieved. There is nothing false in it, no influence other than Sam's own will, and Castiel is glad. In Dean, Castiel can find some selfish solace of his own, but he knows both Winchesters are far more worthy than he of peace.
But this balance the three of them have found feels wrong somehow, like it is a brittle thing, precarious and without foundation.
Endlessly, Castiel tells himself he can do nothing about the past, that he should move forward, but he can't make himself believe it. It is tethered to him as much as gravity to his body, as much as the ties that bind him to Dean and Dean to him.
In the day, under the warmth of the sun, Castiel dreams of being free from the weight of memory and guilt even when he knows he shouldn't. He did this to himself. He chose this.
At night he dreams of oceans and grasping hands and empty, dead eyes, and the dreams worsen as the three of them travel north along the coast, until Castiel's eyes ache from the lack of sleep. The dreams become more real, so that Castiel can taste the salt and the fear, and his eyes and his lungs burn, his skin dread-cold where slippery fingers grip at him and drag him down.
Dean is always there to wake him, to tell him it's just his subconscious being a bitch, but it's not. It's more than that. Castiel knows this.
There are omens spreading out all along the Eastern seaboard, the disappearances in Galveston a tipping point, and Castiel is almost certain his dreams are omens too. They are changed from the frantic memory of his time in Purgatory and worse, from before, when he pretended to the throne of godhood and everything he touched turned to dust.
Castiel feels drawn northwards, a tugging in his grace that is like seeking like. It makes him wonder if this is the angels' doing - the disappearances all across the globe. They are certainly capable of it. There is no logic to it though, not as an angel would understand it. There is no method to the omens or the disappearances that Castiel can see. He senses no angelic presence in the places they investigate, site after site of empty spaces left behind. No evidence, not even the lingering sense of evil that often imbues a place where something bad happens.
Then there is Meg, and he can't understand her involvement at all. He shivers at the memory of her touch, of the sigils that bound him. It makes his stomach turn to remember them, a strange sensation, and Castiel concentrates on that, on not throwing up, the nausea preferable to the memory of how the sigils had been used on him before, burning into his grace so that every second had been agony. Castiel doesn't know how long he was in Purgatory - time being meaningless when there is no end to it - but he knows it was too long. Any amount of time there would be too long, and sometimes it awes Castiel that Dean stepped willingly into that misery, and that he did it for him.
Dean notices his discomfort. Dean always notices now when something isn't right. Castiel suspects it's because Dean is always watching, that he has learned Castiel's body better even than Castiel has himself. Dean, Castiel is certain, is as wary of this fragile peace they've found being shattered as Castiel is.
In public, Dean places a hand on Castiel's shoulder, shoots him a small smile, and it is enough to quell the rising panic. When they are alone Dean runs his fingers through Castiel's hair and kisses his mouth. There is no time now for much more.
When Dean and Sam speak of Meg it is in low, hissed voices, and their conversations are short and clipped. Painful.
They see no further sign of demons. It is a relief, but also confusing. If not demons, if not one of the thousands of creatures Castiel knows inhabit the dark spaces of this world, then what?
Castiel thinks and thinks, turns over every possibility, every non-existent clue they've found, and comes up with nothing. It's frustrating.
"Maybe it's something new," Sam suggests.
"There is nothing new," Castiel argues. Without his Father, without Lucifer, without Eve, there can be no creation, nor any twisting of flesh into some new creature. There can only be something Castiel doesn't know, that he has never heard of. Something older than the angels, and that is the most frightening thought of all.
The change had been abrupt, like being thrown into a bath of cold water. The analogy is almost a literal one: as soon as Dean's car crossed the town limits, the rain poured down onto them, drumming against the hood, against the windows, against the roof, sudden enough and hard enough for Dean to exclaim, "Shit!" and to swerve the car almost off of the road.
From then on, the rain never stopped. It was like being submerged, lingering damp filling the air, clinging to Castiel's clothes, to the timbers of the motel they'd stopped at. Paint was peeling off of the walls, and a damp smell of mold and decay permeated everything, but it had been the only place they'd found still open.
This is a dying town; Castiel can see it in the empty shells of abandoned houses and run-down shops that line the streets, in the downward, tired gazes of the people who inhabit the town, in the absence of life. It reminds Castiel of Purgatory: a place between, one that's going nowhere, never changing, devoid of a future. Devoid of hope. It's not a comparison Castiel likes, and he turns around, away from the motel desk to the lobby's wide window. It's almost wall to ceiling, and Castiel can see why. The view is spectacular, opening out onto a beach of yellow-gray sand, the ocean not far beyond, tall, steel-colored waves crashing against the shoreline, white spray erupting from the impact blown by furious winds even higher into the air. It is nature, powerful and unforgiving, and Castiel finds himself entranced by it.
The sudden sound of wet coughing behind him startles Castiel. He turns sharply, and there's an old, grizzled man standing behind the counter looking at him warily.
"You lost?" the man asks. "You're a long way from the interstate here, kid."
Castiel frowns. He is not a child. The man meets his gaze evenly, almost challenging, and Castiel can't imagine why someone this aggressive and unwelcoming would ever want to work at an inn. But then Castiel has felt this same feeling of suspicion and hostility from everyone he has seen so far in this town. As Dean drove through the rain and the wind, Castiel gazed out of the window of the Impala and saw shadows watching them from behind curtains, an old couple stopped at a streetlight and staring at them like they were strange, unfamiliar things.
"I would like two rooms," Castiel tells the man behind the desk. There is an open book on the surface that looks like a register, but the man makes no move towards it.
"You want to stay?" he asks instead, disbelievingly.
Castiel is no expert, but he is fairly certain this is not normal behavior. He wishes Sam and Dean hadn't left him to deal with this on his own. As true as it might be that he needs to learn to interact with other humans than just them at some point, he would rather it wasn't with this particular human. There is something about him that sets Castiel on edge, some vague uneasiness, a feeling of power that doesn't sit with what Castiel can see: a human dying of liver disease who has lived in this town all his life. His hands shake and his face is sculpted, cut and marked by harsh sun and wild sea. His hair is gray and thinning. He stoops, moving slowly, as though it causes him pain, when he moves closer to the front desk to lean against it.
"Yes," Castiel replies. The man snorts, but does nothing more, and Castiel wonders if he should explain their cover story, as Dean calls it. They are journalists traveling along the coast looking into the history of these old, sometimes remote, towns. Castiel thinks it's unlikely anyone would believe three adult men were driving around together in the pursuit of purely historical research. As little as he knows about normal human behavior, Castiel comprehends that much. But he has no stomach for lies, and he's certain he would only confuse things anyway so he repeats, "I'd like two rooms."
The man looks at him like he's insane.
Castiel is certain he is doing this correctly.
He has cash in his pocket that Dean gave him, guidelines on the exact types of rooms he should ask for, and instructions to give a false name and sign any paperwork illegibly. He does not have instructions on how to deal with difficult humans who won't give him a room, who just stand and stare at him, arms crossed lazily, looking him up and down disapprovingly. It is not unlike being inspected by a superior. Castiel doesn't like to think of Heaven, so he doesn't. Instead, he concentrates on how his arms prickle with cold where his thin shirt fails to keep his half-human body warm. He hears the winds howling through the narrow gap between the doorframe and the door, the way the wind shakes the window glass in their frames and rain batters against the roof tiles.
The man shakes his head, but seems to have come to some kind of decision because he moves towards the rows of keys set into boxes against the wall as he says, "We don't get many visitors outside of tourist season." He scoffs. "Or during tourist season."
When he considers the shabbiness of the town, filled with closed-down, lifeless shops and decaying boats strung up on fraying ropes to rotting moorings, Castiel can see why. But he says nothing, and the man scowls at him, throwing the heavy keys down onto the desk.
"My best rooms," he announces. There are numbers engraved into large orange key-fobs that were perhaps once shaped like fish. Now they are chipped and scratched. "Second floor. There's no elevator."
The man offers no further instructions, nor does he ask for a name or any payment, simply waving Castiel away and disappearing through a doorway leading into what looks like an untidy, brown-hued kitchenette. From what Castiel can see, it's intensely ugly.
Watching the grizzled man's back shuffle away, the sense of wrongness is so strong that Castiel almost wants to leave, to get out of this motel and this town. To fly.
He stays, feet firmly planted on the garishly-patterned, muddied carpet. Dean will return shortly, and he will want to sleep after having driven for so many hours. Castiel has nowhere else to go anyway.
There are no reports of unusual weather, or of the storms that are battering the coastline.
Huge, ferocious waves run unchecked up the narrow beaches of the town, ripping at the seafront shops and houses, sometimes carrying them away. No one in the town seems alarmed by it, barely even seeming to notice as they walk by, collars pulled up and faces turned down. There is no life in this town, Castiel thinks again, and as he watches people pass under the window of the motel room, he wonders if the town has always been this way, or if something has happened.
There are no reports of new disappearances either, not in the outside world, nor from these half-soulless, wandering townspeople. Watching them makes Castiel feel cold, and not just because there is no heating in the room, and he hasn't put on the jacket Dean dug out of his duffle for him. There is a hollowness to everything: to the streets, empty of cars, to the shops, empty of customers, to the motel, empty of guests.
There is dust on the windowsill, a thin layer blanketing the room's only table. The air is stale, but Castiel has been unable to open any of the windows. He wonders how long it's been since anyone stayed in this room.
In the small kitchen area, Sam is attempting to make coffee, making disgusted noises at the mold he keeps finding on every surface and cup and spoon. There is no hot water.
"The library was shut down years ago," he says. "Dean, you got any matches?"
Bedsprings creak behind Castiel, and it occurs to him that he doesn't look forward to sleeping on these mattresses. "Here," Dean replies. He eyes the mold on the counter, hesitating before frowning at Sam.
"This isn't gonna make you ill again, is it?"
"Stop worrying," Sam sighs. "I've told you that a million times."
"It's really wet here," Dean points out, and Sam decides to ignore him, saying instead, "I couldn't find an internet connection anywhere either."
After a long moment spent staring at his brother with narrowed, suspicious eyes, Dean lets the matter drop. "My cell doesn't work." Dean doesn't sound so much concerned as irritated. "I wanted to call Bobby."
"Yeah, well, even if you could've I doubt there'd be anything about this town. No one I met would talk to me."
Dean snorts. "I get the feeling they don't like outsiders here."
Sam smirks. "I get the feeling they don't like each other either. There had to have been twenty people or something in the diner down the street, and it was silent. It was creepy as hell." Sam pauses. "Jesus, this place is gross. Cas, that guy said this was his best room?"
Sam is incredulous, and Castiel understands why. Of all the time he has spent with the Winchesters since the very first time he met them, this has to be the worst motel room he has ever seen. Nonetheless, "He did," Castiel confirms.
"It's weird," Dean says, turning to face Castiel, "that the guy at the reception didn't give you a price or ask for cash up front."
Castiel can feel Dean's eyes on him but he doesn't turn away from the window. The day is coming to a close, what little light there is fading from the heavy, gray sky. It's still raining, not so much torrential now as a hazy, fine, relentless cloud. Across the street an old woman is pulling the blinds down in her empty shop. Castiel is unable to even determine what it is she means to sell. What sign there was above the door has long since been weathered away, so that now all Castiel can make out is the curve of what was once a blue painted M. She moves slowly but with purpose, easily, as though her actions are automatic, well-practiced, and Castiel wonders if she does the same thing every day. He wonders how long she has been here.
In the outside world, following the road up the coast, in the villages and towns they'd passed through, there had been rumors, tales told of a summer town up past Little Egg Harbor that had drawn crowds of tourists for its warm beaches and its fresh seafood. The fishermen there were wealthy, there was an aquarium and a fairground, and everyone talked about how perfect it had been. The people were friendly and welcoming, the weather never failed to be anything but pleasant, mild even in winter, there was no trash on the beaches, the water was crystal blue and calm. Safe, they called the town, never once mentioning its name. Then it all stopped, the gossip said. It had been almost overnight; one minute there had been hoards of happy holidaymakers, the next there had been no one except the odd drifter who was never heard from again.
None of the people they talked to could remember when it had happened, only that it had.
This, Castiel is sure, is the place they'd been talking about.
"Cas?" Dean calls, and Castiel turns to him, sees that Dean's eyebrows are tented and concerned. Perhaps he was supposed to respond to Dean's observations, but Castiel has nothing to say.
"I asked you a question," Dean prompts. Castiel hadn't heard any question. In the kitchenette Sam has stopped tormenting the appliances, and he looks at Castiel too.
"Dude," Sam frowns. "You seem kind of out of it."
"I don't like this place," Castiel shrugs, because it's true. He's finding it hard to concentrate on anything other than the beach and the wind and the rain and the sea, and that makes no sense at all. Focus has never been a problem for Castiel before; in fact, it could be said that single-minded focus had been the problem.
And now, after everything, his main concern should be Dean and Sam, but it's not. Maybe he's just tired. Maybe he needs to sleep, or eat, or one of the other myriad things he must do to live now that he is falling again. It's frustrating, and it's tedious, and Castiel turns back to the window, to the storm outside. Once, he had the power to calm hurricanes, or to create them. He could have brought the sun.
Castiel is almost startled by Dean's hand wrapping lightly around his upper arm, his first instinct to lash out, to take the wrist and snap it, to disable the threat. A human instinct or millennia of military training, Castiel can't decide. But it's Dean. Dean is no threat, and Castiel tries to relax his muscles. He lets Dean turn him around, lets Dean shake him gently by the shoulders.
"Cas, man, are you in there?"
"I am," Castiel assures him. It's impossible to miss the doubt in Dean's expression.
"You'll tell me if something's wrong, right?"
"Many things are wrong," Castiel points out.
Dean closes his eyes, opens them again.
"I mean specifically. Here. Like, if you - I don't know - sense something."
"It's cold," Castiel tries to explain. "This town and the people here. They're empty." They remind Castiel of Reapers, the dead, the tortured souls of Hell, not yet so far gone to forget pain but far enough that their skin is imbued with sulfur, and their eyes are no longer human.
"What could've done that?" Sam asks. He sounds cautious, unsure, and Castiel knows he is wondering if perhaps this was Castiel's doing. A god would have such power.
Much of that time is unclear to Castiel, half-remembered, unsequential and confused. Confusing. But Castiel is sure he would recognize his own hand, and this is not it.
"I don't know," he replies.
Sam nods and goes back to fighting with the coffee maker, apparently satisfied. It still amazes Castiel that after everything Sam believes him so easily, without question.
Dean draws his attention again, with a light touch to the back of Castiel's hand.
"Just concentrate on me," he grins, then more seriously, "We'll get out of here as soon as we can. I don't like how out of it you are."
Castiel doesn't like it either, but they are here for a reason. Every instinct tells him that something is happening here, in this small, forgotten town, something that connects all the disappearances they have come across over the past few days traveling and finding nothing, no evidence, no connections, no clues.
It was a relief to finally find something, to be able to stop. As much as Castiel appreciates Dean's love for his car and driving, it has been a tedious, confining trial for him. Slow. Repetitive. Enforcing the realization of his limitations now, because where once he could have flown within the space of thought, now he must preserve his strength for when the shit hits the fan, as Dean says. And that means enduring hours spent in an enclosed space, the tedium of a never-ending road, the grating sound of a combustion engine, and the rumble of wheels on asphalt. He'll grow accustomed to it in time, he supposes.
To Dean, Castiel nods shortly. The failing light is casting strange shadows in the corners of the room, along the walls, like long fingers stretching out, reaching for them.
"You found somewhere safe to park your car," Castiel changes the subject.
The look Dean gives Castiel promises that this conversation isn't over, but he replies, "About as good as it's gonna get. She can take a little rain."
"A little rain?" Sam snorts. "My shoes were freaking swimming pools as soon as I stepped out the door. I'm not surprised the people in this town are all so damned miserable." He shakes his head. "I have no clue how we're going to find anything here."
With no means of research, no leads, no one who will speak to them, Castiel has to agree that Sam has a point.
"Maybe we can find a local newspaper," Dean suggests. "Or check out the local PD. There's gotta be something. We'll find it. We always do." Dean moves back to the bed, sitting down and leaning back to grab the remote. The television picture is grainy and the sound garbled. "We can start tomorrow. There's nothing we can do right now, so I'm taking the night off." He frowns at the television, leaning forward and surfing through the channels. Castiel has yet to discover what is so distracting about watching the television. He prefers to watch Dean, who argues with Sam about them never taking time off, and where they're going to eat the next day, and which channel they should turn to.
Outside, the rain continues to fall. The sea continues to churn, and something draws Castiel to look. It is an effort to keep his attention on Dean, and Castiel knows for certain that isn't right. He doesn't understand what it is he wants to see, or why he would ever want to look away from Dean.
"Cas," Dean says. "Come and sit down. You're making me nervous. Stupid fucking town. They don't even get cable."
Dean may have been joking about concentrating on him but that is exactly what Castiel does. He sits beside Dean, lets himself feel the warmth of his body, focuses on the brush of their hands, on the annoyance in Dean's eyes, in the soft, not-so-shy looks Dean shoots him.
Castiel accepts the coffee Sam makes him, a bitter, gritty drink that he forces himself to finish while he thinks longingly of Bobby Singer's more palatable brew. Sam shrugs apologetically at him as he settles himself on the other bed.
"You don't have to drink it," he says, but Castiel wants to, despite the taste. It's something Sam has made for him, and it's a distraction from the storm outside, which Castiel could almost swear is howling his name at him in the form of the moaning wind, screeching at him, angry. It reminds him of the fury of his brothers, their screams as he killed them. The coffee's warmth distracts Castiel from the chill that seems to seep into his body. Perhaps most importantly, it will allow Castiel to stay awake a little longer.
He tells Sam, "I don't mind it."
From the way Dean narrows his eyes, Castiel guesses he understands something of his motivations. But for once he makes no comment, and Castiel is grateful, because he knows that sooner or later he will have to sleep, and the reminder is never appreciated. He buries the thought in bad coffee, and Dean and Sam, and the chatter of the television, and ignores the creeping feeling of suffocation, of weight tying him down, of being trapped.
Castiel wakes suddenly, his eyes snapping open, his breath coming in heaving, stuttered gasps. There is sweat on his skin, and it's cold on his bare arms; it feels like rain as it rolls down his back. He shivers, concentrates on just breathing, on the feel of the scratchy sheets under him and wrapped around him. In the bed next to him Dean doesn't wake, and Castiel is glad for that. No matter how much Dean might deny it, he needs the sleep. Weeks, turning to months of dealing with Castiel and his endless, disturbed nights, and then of looking after Sam when he was so sick he could barely move, have gotten to Dean. Castiel sees it in the slow, weary way Dean wakes up every morning next to him, rubbing at bleary eyes. Somehow, he's always able to offer Castiel a smile, as though he's glad just for the fact that Castiel is still there.
It is a relief too that Castiel remembers nothing of the dream that woke him. There is only the lingering taste of salt in his mouth, and the memory of shadows and an icy coldness flowing through his veins. But that could just be some vague, subconscious awareness of the temperature of the room. Absently, Castiel wonders if perhaps he should have shared a bed with Dean after all. But Dean's exhaustion had bled out of his eyes, and Castiel had chivvied him into the other bed to sleep undisturbed, because there was too much noise in Castiel's head, too much wrong with this motel and this town, with the storm outside that sounds more and more unnatural the longer it rages. Castiel gave Dean promises of soon, and when we're away from here, and thankfully Dean had understood.
The steady beat of the rain never alters, and the crashing of the waves is like a metronome, a sickening repetition of swell and fall.
In the morning, Castiel decides, he will tell Dean these things. He will tell Dean how, despite knowing that all of these things are not right, Castiel is still drawn to them, feels as if he could stay in this town always, wants to go to the beach, follow the line of the water, and walk and walk forever. He wonders if this is how the residents of the town feel, if this is why they stay in this dying community. Somehow Castiel knows that whatever wants him here is out there, waiting, on the beachfront.
Carefully, silently, Castiel slides out of his bed and pads over to the window, taking one last look back at Dean. The room is almost pitch black, the streetlights lined up along the road outside broken, bent, smashed. There is no moon but there is still enough angel in Castiel for him to see with eyes other than just that of a human. Dean's rest is peaceful. Whatever Dean is dreaming of, it must be good because he's smiling into the pillow. Castiel might find it in himself to be jealous if he didn't know how much Dean needed to have at least some restful sleep, how much he deserves it. He smiles himself as he considers the possibility that Dean might be dreaming of the cabin in the Black Hills, of the hours spent pressed close, skin-to-skin, whispering to each other in the dark.
Like this, silent and still, Castiel can look all he wants. Dean is beautiful, both in his soul and in his body. His back curves into the mattress, the blankets pulled tightly around his shoulders. He breathes evenly, slowly, unconcerned. It is a fantasy, but Castiel would give almost anything for Dean to be this relaxed in his waking hours, for the lines of worry on his face to fade, for the weight of too much for too long to lift instead of being written in the hunched slope of his back. To take on the weight of the world, though, is as much a characteristic of Dean Winchester as his love for his brother or his need to save people.
It would be easy, Castiel thinks, to slide into bed beside Dean like he did in the cabin, and maybe, just for a little while, forget everything. The past. The future. Everything that's wrong between them. Everything that's wrong with the world; the supernatural too quiet except for these disappearances. These omens. But there are answers in the storm and the shadows that pull at Castiel, not so much curiosity as wanting to know if this - all the incidents they have been chasing these past weeks, all of the devastated faces of friends and relatives of the missing and the dead - are a result of Castiel's actions. If there is anything he can do to put it right.
He turns away, towards the window again, and it is like the loss of warmth. Suddenly everything is unfamiliar, as though Castiel had walked into a whole different room. Here he is alone.
There is a whispering that's more than the whistling of wind through cracks in the window frame, drafts under the door. And there is light; just a glimmer flickering in the distance, somewhere along the beachfront. Castiel can almost feel the heat of flames against the bare skin of his arms. The rain is still heavy and certainly any normal fire would've been put out almost instantly. He thinks he can hear it crackling, welcoming and familiar.
Without a second thought, Castiel flies, forgetting in that moment that flying is not as easy as it once was, forgetting in that moment that he is anything other than an Angel of the Lord. The sting of water being driven into his eyes, and the shocking cold of the surf covering his feet, the sudden exhaustion that fills him quickly reminds him. It's an exhaustion he has become too familiar with.
He stumbles in the wet sand, catching himself just in time to avoid falling face first onto the beach. He wouldn't want to ruin Dean's comfortable sweatpants, although Castiel can already feel the cold creep of water weighing down the fabric. His t-shirt is soaked, and he wonders what Dean will say when he returns. Perhaps he will have the strength to fix the clothes, but from the way his fingers and toes already ache from the cold, he doubts it.
How strange that he should worry about what Dean will think of his borrowed clothes when the shadows look almost solid here on the water's edge. When there is light, but it isn't warm. When Castiel can sense that there is someone behind him.
The voice that speaks is a woman's, silken yet still somehow sharp. She says, "I thought you'd come sooner."
Castiel doesn't recognize the voice so much as the strength and the anger behind it, but still he can't quite place it. Long ago, he thinks. He heard it long, long ago.
Turning slowly around, Castiel sees her, a veil covering her face, her long black dress caught up in the swirl and surge of the shallow tide around her feet like oil on the surface of water. The light comes from an aura of flame made up of green and yellow. A will-o'-the-wisp, humans used to call it, foolish fire. The oxidation of phosphine and methane, they say now.
Castiel finds himself saying, "I didn't remember this place." He still doesn't, but deep down, somehow, Castiel understands who this woman is and exactly what she is doing here. In the flickering ball of light he sees the past. He sees one of his brothers die.
"I suppose not," the woman says softly. She is entranced by the light even as she controls it, or at least tries to control it. Castiel knows well how impossible it is to impose even the strongest, most determined of wills upon nature. "I should have asked you to bring him back when you styled yourself divine." She sighs and steps back, her hands falling to her sides, defeated.
"I would have said no," Castiel tells her. He thinks he should be worried that he doesn't know what he's saying, but instead all he feels is detachment, like he's not really there. Like maybe he's still lying asleep back in that drab, pungent motel room.
"Why?" the woman demands. "He was your brother."
"It's not for me to resurrect the dead."
The woman laughs, and it's a cruel, sharp sound. She turns to him, and Castiel can see her eyes glimmering red. "Oh no. Not unless it's Dean Winchester, or one of those he cares about, then it is for you. Then you'll do it. Time and time again. Hypocrite," she spits venomously.
Castiel can't deny it, so he doesn't even try. "It doesn't change the fact that you can't bring him back," he says instead.
There is anger, revenge, hate and age-old weariness, loneliness, in her half-hidden eyes that Castiel finds he can't look away from. All of these things he's seen looking back at him, in the bathroom mirror, in windows, in his reflection on the surface of a lake, the sea, a bath, the film of water lingering on the uneven concrete of sidewalks after the rain.
"Perhaps not," she says, her voice a quiet undertone. "But I found something I know you'll be interested in."
When she looks up at Castiel her eyes are molten red, and suddenly he's not sure he wants to know what she has to say.
They eat breakfast in the only diner that's not boarded up. Sam takes one look at the exterior, dirty glass, peeling, ripped posters advertising boat trips around the harbor and the aquarium - from better times, Castiel guesses - and announces that they're all going to get food poisoning.
"You wouldn't want Cas to get sick, would you?" Sam demands of Dean, and he's only half teasing. It's probably not the best thing to say, because Dean is instantly inspecting Sam for signs of imminent illness.
"Do your coat up," Dean replies testily. "I wouldn't want him to starve, either."
Castiel can see in the way that Dean glances over at him that he's remembering when he had first brought Castiel back to Earth, when Castiel could splay a hand over his chest and feel the shape of every rib directly under his skin. He never felt hunger.
Now, too, Castiel would prefer not to eat, unsettled by his dreams and the shapes of shadows he catches out of the corner of his eye moving, straining for Dean and Sam, following them. He woke up suddenly with cold feet and the grittiness of sand between his teeth. There was a woman fading from his vision when his eyes snapped open. Of his dream, he remembers fire, which seems at odds with the rain and the storm they are currently hiding from beneath the awning of a closed-up gift shop across the street from the diner. There is a row of half-rotten dolls in the shop display, wearing ugly, frilly dresses and moldy, yellowed lace hats. Their eyes are black, gaping holes that Castiel imagines are watching him. Staring at him. Castiel remembers eyes like that from Purgatory and has to force himself to look away, to bring himself back to the present. He is free. There is nothing keeping him here. Except where there is.
He awoke tired, as though he hadn't slept at all. And worse, with that lethargic, drained feeling of having used his Grace, of having taken to flight.
It was just a dream, Castiel tells himself dismissively. That is what Dean is always telling him.
Standing close beside him, close enough to feel Dean's hand touching the back of his, Dean is saying, "It's not like we have a choice."
Sam doesn't look pleased to be following Dean across the street, jackets pulled up over their heads to try and shield them from the rain, and into the diner. Silence falls the second Dean opens the door, and the three of them stand there in the doorway awkwardly. No one greets them. The entire population at the diner stares at them.
Shaking off his surprise, and the rain from his jacket, Dean smiles openly and says, "Hi. Could we get a booth?"
He's looking at a woman standing beside the counter at the back of the diner. She's maybe forty, but it's hard to tell. She has the same worn, weathered look of the man in the motel. Her eyes are narrowed, looking each one of them up and down, lingering on Castiel for so long that Dean steps in front of him, blocking her view.
"We'd really love some coffee," he tries again, and this time - reluctantly - the waitress points them to a table in the corner, throws menus down on the surface when they've seated themselves. The room is still quiet, though there's a quiet murmuring around them now. Castiel hears the other patrons saying, "Who are they?" and "What are they doing here?" and "Do they know?"
Sam leans over the table of their booth and whispers, "They're still looking at us."
"Yeah. I can feel their freaking eyes on the back of my neck," Dean hisses back. Sitting next to him, Castiel thinks he understands for the first time what the phrase means. It's a knowledge, innate to his human senses, of being watched, like icy needles pricking at the edge of conscious thought. Outside, along the sidewalk and across the dilapidated buildings across the street, shadows stretch and curve and inch closer towards them. Sometimes Castiel thinks he can see shapes in them, like arms and hands and faces.
Or perhaps he's just lost his mind.
Their coffee arrives, steaming and thick black. It smells good after the musty motel room, and Castiel drinks without bothering with milk or sugar, forgetting that hot coffee burns. Suddenly his throat is on fire, his tongue feels as though it's swelling to fill his mouth, and his eyes are watering. He can hear Dean saying, "Shit, Cas. Drink some water. Here, here."
A glass is pressed against his lips, and Castiel feels the coolness of it. He drinks so quickly he almost chokes, all to the chorus of Sam swearing, "Holy fuck," and Dean encouraging him to, "Drink more. Slowly, Cas. Jesus Christ."
It seems like a long time until Castiel can open his eyes again and breathe without pain lancing down his throat.
The first thing he notices is that Dean has one hand on his back and the other holding a large glass of water, and he's looking at Castiel like he expects him to do something dramatic at any moment. Sam is mopping up spilt coffee and water from the surface of the table.
It's amazing, Castiel thinks, how something so simple as hot coffee could cause so much pain.
"I hope we've learned a valuable lesson here," Dean says carefully. He's trying for light-hearted, but his voice cracks over the words.
Castiel takes another sip of water and focuses on Dean's touch instead. It is unusual for him to show affection in public, and Castiel finds he takes pleasure in this physical indication of their involvement. Opposite them Sam is smiling smugly.
"Shut up," Dean snaps. Castiel is certain he'll take the hand away but he doesn't, not even when the waitress finally returns to take their orders. All through the time they wait for their meals, and Dean complains about the bad service, and that his coffee is empty, and that this place gives him the creeps, he keeps his hand firmly on Castiel's back. If he didn't need his hand to eat, Castiel is sure he would have left it there for the entire time they were seated.
When they leave the diner, to more hushed murmuring and suspicious looks, Dean stays close.
Episode 11: Back in Black (Continued)