no more rain (2/2)
Sam's the first one up, stumbling out of the shower still groggy. It's not until he's pulling on a t-shirt and about to leave for coffee and takeout-sure, the hotel has free food, but none of it's greasy enough by Dean's standards-that he notices Castiel watching him intensely.
"Did you do that all night," he says, voice flat. Castiel shakes his head but Sam makes a face anyway before pulling the door closed behind him.
"Get me some donuts!" Dean shouts sleepily, demand muffled by his pillow.
Castiel considers this for a moment, then appears in the parking lot right in front of Sam who promptly throws the car keys at his face.
"Fucking Christ!"
"Dean would also like some donuts with his breakfast," says Castiel, handing the keys back to Sam.
"...Oh." Sam stares at the rapidly healing cut on Castiel's cheek. "What, are you his errand boy now?"
Castiel narrows his eyes. "No."
Grabbing the keys Sam gets in and starts the car, Impala rumbling to life as Castiel stands outside and watches him pull away-only to stop a few yards farther down.
Sam cranks down the window and sticks his head out. "Quit looking like a kicked cat and get in here."
Thankfully for Sam's nerves Castiel walks over instead of teleporting, car dipping as he climbs in the passenger side and reclines the seat as far as it can go, immediately readjusting it back upright until Sam stops complaining.
The radio stays off and doesn't seem inclined to do anything weird, implying that it's working again, but yesterday's put Sam off so they drive in a not quite awkward silence.
They stop at the first diner they see, and Sam's about to get out when Castiel speaks.
"Today's going to be difficult for all of us." His voice is quiet, serious, his eyes cast down as his hands lie limp in his lap.
Sam tenses. "What's wrong, Cas?"
"Nothing's wrong. I've been anticipating this," says Castiel, and Sam has to resist the urge to reach out and shake him.
"Look, I get that being obtuse is part of your thing, but you're starting to scare me, okay?"
Castiel looks at him, his expression almost amused. "Don't worry. This shouldn't be any more dangerous than anything you've already experienced." Castiel leans across and presses their hands together, holding firmly even as Sam starts back, and then there's something between their palms even though he never let go.
"I trust that you'll understand when the time comes," the angel says, and then he's gone, leaving Sam alone with a knight lying on his still-outstretched hand.
--
Dean's wide awake when Castiel shows up, standing over Sam's bed and alternating between brushing his teeth and clicking around on the laptop. Neither of them acknowledge each other-Dean looks up briefly when Castiel makes the chess set vanish with a wave of the hand, but that's it.
Dean steps around him on the way back to the bathroom, brushing past him not like something taken for granted but something more familiar, and maybe Castiel makes a point of not getting out of the way.
They work around each other like this, getting ready for when Sam gets back-or rather, Dean gets ready and Castiel stands there. Then there's the sound of footsteps outside; Castiel opens the door just as Sam knocks with an elbow, hands full with bags and trays. The brothers immediately pick up bantering as if they hadn't left off, but before Castiel can leave Sam shoves a cardboard cup of coffee at him.
"Try this."
"You didn't make it all foofy, did you?" Dean asks as Castiel takes it. "A warrior of God does not need foofy drinks."
Sam rolls his eyes. "No, Dean. But you know, I wouldn't be surprised if all angels had a sweet tooth, because-"
As they start arguing Castiel finishes the still-steaming coffee in one swallow, burning and healing himself as it goes down.
"What is the plan for today?"
The reaction he gets is a slightly baffled one, Dean's speech on the inherent sissiness of whipped cream trailing off around a mouthful of donut and egg sandwich as Sam just looks from his face to the now-empty cup and back.
"Well, we were going to check out that Fontenelle trail Janet mentioned, see if we could find any of the witches' stuff and get rid of it before they get rid of us," says Dean between bites.
"It's not even ten minutes from here," Sam adds, turning his laptop around to show the directions Dean looked up earlier.
"Then we should get going." Castiel throws the cup into the trash can without even trying to aim, and then before they can protest he's walking down the hall and Dean's yelling "Hey, wait!" after him.
"It's still way early-we have time!" Dean leans against the doorframe, affectionate exasperation apparent.
Castiel pauses, pulls something out of one of his pockets and stares at it for a good minute before putting it back. Just as Sam and Dean exchange a worried look, the angel turns.
"Do you have time for ice cream?" he asks carefully, like he's testing a hypothesis.
The brothers stare back at him, Sam because he's got the irrational feeling that this is a trap or something and Dean because seriously what the fuck is up with Cas these days.
"If this is you trying to say that Sam's right-"
"That is not relevant. Do you?"
"Um, no, dude," Dean says with a chuckle as he advances slowly, hands up. "That's for after. We haven't even gotten started."
Castiel's eyes go narrow, the thin line of his lips marginally more interested than irritated. "I see. Then what do you propose to do with your free time?"
Sam interjects then, all arms and knitted brows like he's talking to a group of five-year-olds. "How about we get out of the hallway?"
"Oh right, and apologize to all the people we've been inconveniencing. How many would you say there were, Cas? Fifty? One hundred?"
Castiel hesitates before answering, his frown suggesting a concern for Dean's sanity. "I haven't seen anybody."
Sam just huffs at that, shoving a duffel bag at Dean as he herds them outside.
Once they're standing around the Impala, heat waves making the parking lot shimmer, the conversation peters out; Castiel's impatient again (which is default angel mode, really, but that doesn't stop Dean complaining about it) and Sam has to admit that the concierge told him there's not much to do this time of year in Bellevue, so they might as well head down to the forest. Dean mopes a bit, putting in a tape of Deep Purple and cranking up the bass, but the way he drums the steering wheel and takes the turns a little too sharp is more than enough to tell Sam that it's just an act. Castiel, lying across the back seat and eyes fixed on the ceiling, doesn't notice or more likely doesn't care, the thrill of the hunt different for one of the hunted.
The road becomes bumpy as they pull up in front of Camp Logan Fontenelle, strewn with branches that crack beneath the wheels. After Dean finds a secluded place to park and rummage through the trunk, Sam insists on grabbing a trail map and reading aloud from it. Castiel quickly stops listening, Dean's snickering over some of the names decidedly predictable.
There is something dangerous in the way the trees reach up, bright green leaves fading early in the heat, limbs curling together to block out the cloudless sky. Dean pats his pistol before they head down the Indian trail, though whom the gesture is meant to reassure is unclear. Not many people are around, it being the middle of a weekday, and the ones they do see give them a wide berth thanks to the shotgun slung across Sam's back. Castiel walks ahead and when a young girl, no older than four, tries to approach him he stops, head cocked-but her father pulls her away, whispering hurriedly as he glances over his shoulder at Castiel's heavy clothing.
But the layers of Jimmy's old life isn't the only odd note; it's unsettling to see the angel stride down the wood and dirt path in the bright sunlight, as though it would be more natural for him to prowl through a forest long dead. The sense of being out of place just adds to the brothers' growing sense of unease, foreboding adding to their natural wariness.
Around them the ground starts to change, soft swells rising here and there. Castiel veers off suddenly, twigs snapping beneath his feet.
"Shit." Dean hurries after him with a quick look at Sam that says If anybody sees us we're dead, stopping short when Castiel doesn't step onto a mound but just stands there as if outside a door.
Sam and Dean can't understand what Castiel sees, can't understand the walls of freshly cut wood, the drying skins, the rising smoke that told the world that this was a home, once.
"There's nothing here. We need to go farther in," says Castiel, and he's moving again, coat flapping as he weaves among the trees.
The trees grow closer and older the deeper they go, summer grass blending into marshland as the temperature begins to drop. A gust of wind makes Dean glance around, never pausing because Sam's got his shotgun out now and there's something wrong but Castiel won't stop.
Then there's a tangle of roots in front of them, the remains of a vast oak stretching broken across their path. The angel reaches out and under, lifting the rotted trunk easily, and Sam can't hesitate when told to get the small bag lying there.
Dean almost doesn't have to look. "A hex bag."
"Their base is nearby." Castiel lets the tree fall again, the crash an echo of an echo.
"We're way off from where Janet said they grabbed her kid. Could this be a trap?" Sam's got the bag open-it's the same combination of ingredients as the talisman on Charlie's backpack.
Castiel gives him one of his hard, indecipherable looks. "No. They've moved." He turns to Dean, and Dean doesn't need any further prompting to flick open his lighter. Sam throws the bag down as it starts to burn, the smell of burning bone leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
"We should stay together now," Dean says as he pulls out his pistol, gesturing in a circle with his other hand. Sam nods and draws close. Castiel lingers by the tree for a moment, staring out over the water like he's waiting for something, before joining the Winchesters.
They’re back to back, holding their breath with guns ready, and just when Sam lets out a sigh Dean hears a loud thump ahead of him. Castiel breaks formation, vanishes, and it all goes to hell.
Sam’s gone somewhere and Dean follows the sounds of fighting through the woods, looking for the tan flash of Castiel’s coat, when suddenly there’s a high-pitched drone. He can barely hear it but even so it gets stronger and stronger, working its way into his bones like it’s been there before.
Just before he blacks out he realizes what it is.
Castiel’s screaming.
--
Dean wakes up with silver blurs in front of his eyes and the hard press of stone against his back. Still groggy, he tries to roll over, only to find himself trapped-
His vision and mind clear rapidly as adrenaline surges through him, makes him struggle against the wires spiderwebbed across the top of the cave. It's no good; the metal cuts into his shins and knuckles and refuses to bend.
There's a dip behind him that gives him just enough space to turn his head. The rock wall to his left is already a familiar sight but on his right is Castiel, suspended a few feet away with his eyes closed. Dean's throat hurts as he looks for signs of life, of breathing, before remembering that Castiel doesn't need to breathe but he does need to open his eyes goddamnit-
"Dean." The blue is almost luminescent in the dim light, and Dean breathes.
"Cas, you okay? That cut on your forehead, shouldn't it be healing?"
Castiel shifts, trench coat rustling as it bunches against the wires. "It's minor. Calm down. I've got this under control."
"Under control? Oh, sorry, it's hard for me to tell, what with us pasted to the roof of a cave by a bunch of fucking chicken wire!" Dean gives his arms an angry, useless shake.
"It's not just chicken wire. It has wards carved into it. If you focused you could see that," says Castiel, voice tight.
"Well, excuse me for focusing on trying to get down," Dean snaps. "Wait. Wards. You mean angel repellant." When Castiel doesn't answer he huffs, "Great. So it was a trap-where's Sam?"
He cranes his neck, the movement setting off a rattle that's quickly swallowed up by the damp. Sam's not with them.
"Cas, where's Sammy?"
"I don't know." There's something wary in the way Castiel says it, and if Dean could get in his face right now he would.
"Look pal, I thought we were past the hiding shit-"
A low chuckle interrupts Dean's fury and they both look down. Standing below them is a woman with long, wavy black hair and black clothes, her white face seeming to float against all the darkness.
"And here I was worried you two would be plotting your escape. I'm Martha," she says, voice sickly soft, "nice to meet you." Her eyes flash demon black, like holes in her head.
"She's not human," Dean grinds out, jerking against the wires and hissing as they bite into his skin. "I gathered as much," Castiel says dryly, motionless even as his weight drags him down, his face white where the sigil-marked metal is digging in.
Dean scoffs. "Not so sweet Martha Lorraine, huh?"
"Livingston," corrects Castiel.
"No, no, let the kid have his fun," the demon says, reaching up through the wire to stroke cold fingers along Dean's cheek. "And he's right, actually. I always was partial to the name Martha."
Castiel hasn't taken his eyes off her. "The children?"
"Oh, back there somewhere with all my other doodads," she says carelessly, gesturing deeper into the cave. "This place is awfully convenient."
"It's not really here," responds Castiel.
"What do you mean?" Dean blurts out, earning him a sharp look from the angel.
Martha chuckles. "Made it all myself, honey. When the ley gates have done their part, it's going to be like this never existed."
"And the witches you're powering?"
"Them? I can cut them off like that," a shrug and a snap of the fingers, then she bares her teeth at Dean in a mockery of a smile. "Just did."
Dean hates asking these kinds of questions, but it's not really like there's much else he can do right now. "Where are they?"
"Far away. I think some of them are overseas. They're not important right now." They're just humans comes through clearly.
"So, what, you're just going to leave them there?"
"Dean," Castiel says warningly.
"Dean," Martha rolls the name around in her mouth like a prize. "You're feisty!" She reaches up again to tap Dean on the nose. "Too bad you're not the one I want. I'll try to make your death not too painful, 'kay?"
She's got a knife out now, a long serrated one with stains on the handle that Dean doesn't want to think about. The blade's engravings look vaguely familiar, but Martha starts talking again and distracts him.
"You, on the other hand." She's standing directly under Castiel now, tapping the knife against her hip. "I do hope you remember me."
"All abominations look alike to me." The words are cold and flat.
Shaking her head, Martha lets out a short laugh. "Know what? I think you're lying, and I think you let yourself be caught. You wanted to be rid of one particular abomination. Me."
Castiel says nothing.
"Cas-" Dean stops, startled, when Castiel looks away from her, makes eye contact with him and looks furious.
"I will be rid of you," says Castiel, after a long pause.
"Yeah? Well, it's not looking good, what with you all warded and the blood addict not around to kick me out again."
"Blood-where's my brother?" Dean asks, voice barely controlled.
"Believe me, hon, if I had him you'd be the first to know," Martha says with disgust.
"Okay, just FYI, he's an ex-blood addict," Dean says, sarcasm leaching back into his voice to cover the relief. "And how do you know about him? Us?"
Martha's expression brightens at this, and she looks back at Castiel's stony gaze. "Why, angel, what a surprise. This is making everything so much more fun for me, you know."
She steps back, long coat swishing against her pants as she moves. Dean, busy watching her knife and trying to think of ways to fend off an attack, misses the way she tilts her head back and closes her eyes, throat moving jerkily as though there's something crawling around inside. When he looks back up it's to a demon's eyes and a man's voice.
"I'd just like to see my daughter again," says Jimmy, his voice coming quiet and wrecked through her sneering grin and oh this is wrong in so many ways.
"Stop that," Castiel says as Martha swallows and licks her lips.
Her eyes stay black but Jimmy's voice is gone. "You see," she says, as though Castiel never spoke, "there's a blind spring in this forest. Or rather, there will be once I wake it up. And before you ask, Dean," condescension spilling thick from her mouth, "that's a convergence of ley lines."
"You won't be able to build an altar." Castiel cuts her off, and if he's thinking of the man whose voice he's borrowing it doesn't show.
"Right, because I need a holy vessel to sacrifice. Too bad you're not wearing one." Martha snorts, amused by her own joke. "You know how hard those are to find these days? Didn't know what I almost had last time." She shakes her head. "Treated it like a milk run."
The words ring too loud in Dean's ears. "Pontiac. You've been following us."
"On the contrary! After I managed to drag myself back out of hell, the last thing I wanted to do was get near an angel again. But this featherbrain's been tracking me, and, well. How could I say no to such a gift?" She's twirling the knife as she talks, pausing every now and then to toy with the dangling belt of Castiel's trench coat.
Dean looks at Castiel's face, trying to find answers there but all he can see is the slow burn of anger.
"This is where it ends."
Electricity crackles along the wires, subtle and frightening, but Martha just throws her head back and laughs.
"You're damn right it is." She snaps her fingers again and suddenly she's joined by five women, all clearly human from the way they scream once their eyes adjust to the darkness. Martha takes away their voices without even looking, leaving them clutching wide-eyed at their throats as she brings the knife up close to Castiel's face, throat, eyes. "Girls, what you've done so far is grade school. Want to know one way you can be a real witch?" The women just stare, tear-streaked faces gone blank. "Defile the vessel of an angel."
Dean wants nothing more than to feel the bloody smack of his flesh against hers, to feel the cartilage of her nose crack as her smile disappears, but there's just hot white pain in front and cold wet hardness behind and he can't move, can't do anything but watch and this is always how it goes-
She cuts Castiel's arm free and the knife bites down, Jimmy’s dark cold blood filling the creases of his palm-
Dean’s screaming his name and then there’s a sound like thunder and it’s all happening fast, too fast-
Everything goes dark then light when Sam climbs through the cave’s mouth, and the shotgun is still smoking when he raises it and fires again into Castiel’s shoulder, tearing through more wire and suddenly the angel’s on the ground, crouched and free, the words spilling from his throat like it hurts.
“Mykmah a-yal prg de vaoan, ar quasb tybsbf, doalym od telokh,” Castiel growls, low and fierce, the witches silent with eyes wide as they stretch out of existence.
He turns to the demon, slamming his bloody hand against her forehead and Dean can hear the howl of exorcism, the burn of her destruction.
Then Sam's there, cutting Dean down as he mutters "I've got you" like it's something that needs to be said aloud, and Castiel's moving already, a trail of congealed blood leading toward the back of the cave. Dean tries to stand too quickly, staggers back into Sam's arms.
"Took you long enough," he says breathlessly. "Bitch."
Sam scoffs. "Where are the kids? ...Jerk."
"Back there, she said. Follow the red brick road." Dean points. The day is fading fast now and maybe it's just a trick of the light but it's starting to seem like the stones are crumbling, turning into dirt-
"Fuck!" Sam starts dragging Dean away, stumbling as Dean pushes him off and runs on his own. They dive through the collapsing entrance, Dean pulling Sam that final distance when the ground closes over his feet.
All that's left of the cave is a few stones here and there that look just a bit off, out of place somehow, but everything else seems untouched. It's a few long moments before they find themselves able to talk.
"Where were you?" Dean doesn't look up, his eyes flicking back and forth across the grass.
Sam starts to reach for his pocket, shakes his head. "Cas can explain. Where is he?" There's no sign of movement underground.
"Ah, he'll be fine. What's a bunch of dirt to an angel?" Dean shoots Sam a look, too quick for him to figure out what it means.
They fall silent again, staring at the too-smooth mud and listening as their breathing evens out. Sam bites his lip, about to say something, then Dean's cell phone rings. Dean opens it on autopilot, eyes still fixed on the ground.
"Hello?"
"Dean. Where are you?"
"Oh, Cas-Cas?!" Dean's fingers go white on the phone. "What-Cas, where are you?"
Castiel's answer-"In the hotel room with two children"-is almost lost beneath Sam's equally confused outburst; Dean turns his back, chops the air with his free hand as a signal to shut up. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a short breath. "We're still in the woods, waiting for you to bust out of the ground. What the hell, Cas?"
"That will be a very long wait. I'd suggest getting here quickly. The children are starting to wake up." His voice is quiet, hushed even, but the impatience of the cave hasn't left him.
There's only one thing Dean can think of to say to this. "I'm going to kill you."
"I doubt that. Get here soon."
Castiel hangs up, the dial tone loud enough for Sam to overhear, and Dean glares at the phone.
--
When they get back to the hotel, the kids-Charlie, luckily, and a girl that Janet should be able to identify, and it's too late now for the other ones still missing-are fast asleep, laid out on the bed closest to the door. Dean squints suspiciously at Castiel, standing in the corner next to the window, but the angel's face is stubbornly impassive.
Sam drops to his knees and checks the kids for injuries, large hands light and gentle. A quick nod tells Dean that they're fine, should be taken home as soon as possible.
"I'll do it. Get some rest," Sam says, and Dean's too tired to really protest. After he's left, carrying Charlie with one arm and the girl with the other, Dean pulls off his dirty t-shirt and flops down on the now-empty bed.
Dean stretches out, joints popping, and nuzzles his face into the pillow. After a few moments he opens his eyes, looks up, and frowns.
"You going to watch me sleep? Thought we were done with that. Why don't you go take your coat to the dry cleaner's or groom your wings or something-you know, take five."
Castiel looks down at his shoulder, and when he looks back up the Rorschach stains of Jimmy's blood are gone. He holds Dean's gaze, and Dean gets the feeling that the angel's trying to say something but it's in another language and he can't understand. Then he blinks once, straightens his back, and disappears without a word. Feeling slightly let down, Dean exhales, deliberately clears his mind, and slips into a light doze.
--
The snow reaches his ankles with each step closer to the edge, until there's just the cliff and the sky. The foreign heart in his chest is thudding, the air here is too thin, but the valley below is full of clouds and an ancient whispering that makes him think of home.
A dark stripe of thunder curls its way to the surface, and Castiel's reminded of Sam, of the demon blood shot through the boy like flawed marble; one wrong strike and so much would be lost. But Sam's not his responsibility, no. Nobody is. His responsibility is the welfare of mankind, of his Father's greatest creation, and if he happens to prize a few humans above others, then that's his prerogative. His choice.
Then there's a howling, a roar of wind and pain that says only We found you we found you we found you.
--
Sam's back too soon, the creak of his footsteps jerking Dean away from the edge of dreams. He's brought some deli sandwiches, and the crackle of butcher paper and the smell of mustard make Dean give up on his nap. It's better for the body to sleep at night, anyway, he tells himself as he pulls a chair back over to the small table and catches the sub half Sam tosses his way.
They eat in silence, Sam reading the back pages of a local newspaper between bites.
"You got a pen?"
Dean leans back, ignoring the way the leather sticks against his skin. "When was the last time we took a break? Went on vacation?" Sam looks at him in disbelief, and he shrugs. "It's summer, it's hot as fuck, we just came this close to being sliced and diced, and we saved some babies. I'd say we deserve a little something." But his body language's wrong now, almost too relaxed, like this is a test.
Sam studies him before answering. "It was Cas's idea," he says, pulling out the now-crumpled knight from his pocket and laying it on top of the obituaries. "He gave this to me this morning and said I'd understand when the time came." The quote's in a silly, pompous voice, and Dean cracks a grin.
"And did you?" He sits forward, elbows on the table as he picks his sandwich back up.
"We're all alive, aren't we?" Sam shakes his head. "All I figured out was to, you know, zig-zag like in chess and then I did my best to follow you all. Still don't really get why me, or why-"
The lights flicker, but it's just the curtains whirling, the lamps buffeted by the gust of Castiel's sudden reappearance. He finishes spinning away from some distant enemy, coat flaring and sword flashing, before narrowly missing Sam's chair and banging into the radiator, eyes wide and startled.
"Jesus, Cas!" Dean jumps to his feet, but Castiel's already got his bearings and is steadying himself with a hand on the windowpane, the glass vibrating.
"They've tracked me down again. Stayed in one place too long." The angel is breathing, actually breathing in loud rasping gulps of air, which is more unsettling than anything else. "I'll be in touch."
"Whoa, hold up." Dean takes a step toward him, and Sam gets to his feet. "What about ice cream after?"
Castiel sighs and looks at him, brow furrowed, like he's speaking in gibberish. "The longer I stay here, talking to you-" He shakes his head. "Call me."
Even when they don't blink they can't see him disappear. Dean pauses, shakes his head, and turns to see Sam making Bitchface No. 7, or maybe the Dean How Many Times Do I Have To Ask What Is Wrong With You face; they're pretty similar. Rolling his eyes, Dean crosses over to his bed and picks his duffel up off the floor, pulling clothes out of the bedside drawers and stuffing them in the bag haphazardly. There's a short silence, interrupted here and there by Sam's various and familiar sounds of disapproval.
"Okay, what? I can feel you still making that face." Dean doesn't turn around, just gives the bag's sticky zipper an angry yank.
"He's at war, Dean." Sam huffs, and Dean can hear him put his hands on his hips.
"So are we."
"You know, maybe you could try pulling your head out of your ass every now and then-"
With a scoff, Dean starts slamming the drawers shut. "Look who's talking." The top drawer won't close right, dog-eared phonebook pages muffling the bang Dean needs. At a loss, Sam lets the sullen tension drag out. They finish packing in silence, the shuffle of fabric against metal a poor substitute for conversation.
The sky outside is as grey as their moods and the oppressive heat has turned to a wind that rumbles around the Impala's frame-it's not cold but it's different. Dean puts in Led Zeppelin IV without bothering to rewind it from the last song; Sam undoes his seat belt to turn and dig around behind him for a hoodie, wriggling into it and hunching down.
About four hours later, they start seeing signs for a place called the Wilton Candy Kitchen. "We're going there," says Dean matter-of-factly. "Hand me a phone, Sam."
Castiel's voice comes through reedy and distant. "Hello, Dean. The signal doesn't seem to be very good this far away from the Earth's surface, so be quick."
Sam raises an eyebrow at the expression Dean makes, but Dean just brings the phone back to his ear and readjusts his one-handed grip on the steering wheel.
"We're going to be in Wilton, Iowa in another hour. Meet us at the Candy Kitchen."
"Okay." There's a crackle then the line goes dead. Dean flips the phone back to Sam and turns the tape over again for the fourth or fifth time in a row; Sam's this close to getting sick of it, but the clouds spreading ahead of them dim the sunlight and make Dean look older so he lets it go.
"Thinking about me baby and my happy home," sings Robert Plant. "Going, going down to Liverpool."
"What," Dean says.
"Jimmy likes this song," Castiel says behind them, and Dean nearly hits an oncoming semi.
"How-"
"I triangulated."
Sam tries to ignore Dean's sputtering and turns his face to the window in an effort to doze off, but the jangly '80s pop is too cheerful. His eyes are still open when the old restaurant comes into view, and Dean drops his griping in favor of deciding aloud what he might get.
"They're supposed to still use real Coke syrup-how does an ice cream float sound, guys?" His answer is a pair of shrugs. "Okay, that's one of the more annoying habits you've picked up on Earth, Cas. I bet he got it from you, Sam," Dean says with a note of thinly disguised pride. Sam just laughs over the clunk of the gearshift, still shaking his head as he opens the car door.
Castiel gets out slowly, pausing with his hand on the handle. The pattern of light is still there, but this new point is less bright than the others. "Dean, are you sure about this?"
"You're the one who was insisting on it before we even started the hunt." Dean shoves the keys into his pocket, swinging around to face Castiel. "If this is because we didn't save all of them-" He bites the inside of his cheek. "Charlie's fine."
Dean looks almost petulant, Castel thinks, like he's the boy in Bobby's photograph. His photograph now, that brief moment of life compressed into a few square inches. He inclines his head in acknowledgement and Sam lets out the breath he was holding.
"Don't worry, Sammy, you're still the queen bitch here. Girly moment's done," Dean says with a clap of his hands. "Let's go inside!"
Sam doesn't even try to look apologetic, shooting an indulgent smile at Dean as he waves Castiel on ahead of them. "You good?"
"I'm good."
--
If Sam didn't know better-and man, did he wish he didn't-he'd think that going inside the Wilton Candy Kitchen was like going inside one of Dean's sex fantasies. He's already decided what he'd like, despite knowing that his brother will just order whatever he wants for all of them, but Dean's still standing in front of the counter like he's steeling himself for receiving communion.
"Decide already-I'm starving over here!" Sam shouts over from the old-fashioned booth he and Castiel have settled into. The old man waiting for Dean's order chuckles, makes some suggestions that are politely ignored.
Dean puts his hands on the counter, licks his lips. "Three bowls of Rocky Road. Wait, scratch that, I'll have mine be a cone."
"What, I don't get one this time?"
"You'll just get it all over your hair," Dean retorts, laughing over Sam's protest of "That doesn't even make sense!"
Castiel, fingers resting interlocked on the marble tabletop between him and Sam, can feel the pressure of limestone transformed, the rocky veins heated to a dense singularity then chipped away, marked by small ideas and smaller lives. But the way Sam's face lights up when Dean brings the ice cream over, the way Dean responds with a smile; there is something more here, a love that lights up the heavens.
The angel ignores the bowl in front of him and pulls the Polaroid out of his pocket, lays it on the table. He studies Dean, watches the shifting muscles beneath the skin. Dean's beginning to wear around the edges, reaction times a fraction slower and bones a little dirtier, but in him Castiel can still see the life that is the light of all mankind.
"What's that, Cas?" Sam points his spoon at the photo, and reaches out to turn it in his direction. Dean looks over, blanches, and tries to snatch it away-but his reluctance to sacrifice the remains of his cone means he loses out to Castiel's agility, which leaves them with Castiel holding the photo up for everybody to see.
"You," Dean jabs a finger at Castiel. "Tell me where the hell you got that, and you," he hisses at an increasingly red-faced Sam, "Stop laughing right now or so help me God, I'll tell everybody about how whenever you kinda miss that douche Gabriel and won't admit it you watch that Casa Erotica DVD and-"
"T-That's a lie!" Sam splutters, shooting a panicked look at Castiel. The angel turns to him and considers this, expressionless for long enough to make Sam start seething, before returning his attention to Dean.
"Bobby made a gift of it to me after a conversation about fathers and sons. It seemed appropriate," Castiel says, showing him the note on the back.
Dean's all set to whine about how this means Bobby has more of these just waiting to be used as blackmail material goddammit, but the quiet look in Castiel's eyes makes him bite his lip. The handwriting is too familiar to care about, but the fact of the memento's survival hollows out his chest in a not entirely unpleasant way. Sam's calmed down, has taken the photo from Castiel and is turning it over in his hands like if he did that long enough he'd be able to remember the moment for himself.
"You had a bad cold," Dean says, glancing at him. "Spent the day all wrapped up in blankets and passed out in front of the TV." Sam chuckles quietly and passes the photo to his brother; he's here now, part of whatever this is and he tells himself that's what matters more.
When Dean's fingertips touch the Polaroid's white border the history of light threaded through the clouds and trees of the Midwest shifts, locks into place. The directionless buzzing becomes a steady hum, a song more of completion than belonging. Castiel could lose himself in this sound of life, so different from the battlefield that has become his home.
Finally, Dean looks up and into Castiel's eyes. "Thanks." He slides the photo back and that's it, the memory's been filed away. But it goes deeper, somewhere they don't need to talk about because the angel knows, can see the stream of longing, and he is warmed and is glad.
Sam starts cleaning up, piling Dean's dirty napkins in his bowl, and Dean reaches for Castiel's untouched ice cream.
"You gonna eat that?"
Sam snorts, starts laughing again. "Some things never change, do they?"
Castiel finds himself unwilling to disagree.
--
They open the door and walk out into a day that's turned damp and grey, with air that reminds Castiel of the moment before Creation.
"What's up with the weather?" Dean says as he tilts his head back and squints at the clouds. Sam starts to shrug in response, then catches himself.
"The witches; they were tapping earth magic, right? But now-" He glances over at Castiel for confirmation.
"Yes," the angel says, and the rain begins to fall.
It's like the sky's been sliced open beneath the rivers of Rahma and Al-Kawthar, empyrean waters sluicing across their upturned faces, and Dean lets out a whoop. His shirt's become a second skin, his wet hair is black against his scalp, and he looks radiant-all wide grin and green eyes and warm body and human. Castiel, watching this man, allows the rain to soak into his coat and squish around in his penny-loafers.
Sam fidgets, still standing dry under the awning. "And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely," Castiel tells him, low and quiet, and even now he can't help the breathless choking feeling that comes with being forgiven. He steps away from the building, gives his head a little shake, and breaks into a run as Dean claps and cheers after him.
"All men will be sailors then, until the sea shall free them," says the angel.
Dean turns, looks at him with surprise and a little bit of something else.
"I never took you for a Cohen fan."
"I'm not." The emphasis is subtle but unmistakable. Sam, over by the car, tries to say something but the rain's all they can hear. For a moment Dean thinks of Castiel-the full name heavy and unreal in his mind-all shadow and electricity, thinks of the something ancient and cold coiled inside that flesh, and drops his eyes from Jimmy's face.
End.
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