no more rain (1/2)
At first it seems like just another Winchester quirk, one of those peculiarities of the human race. But when it becomes a pattern, a thread easily followed-the same bright light of emotion found again and again in the folds, twists and overlays of perception-Castiel takes notice.
The road rolling away under them shines with the illusion of water, making Sam groan with frustration. Dean doesn't bother to look over; he knows that his brother is sprawled across the clammy leather, head almost hanging out the open window, and if he weren't driving he'd do the same. But even though they're both miserable from the heat-"Dude, if this was a newer car," Sam starts at one point, and Dean just turns up the radio until Springsteen shuts him up-Castiel senses that they're at peace, or as near to it as they can get these days.
Their latest hunt, another ghost who'd stuck around too long, hadn't gone too badly, even if said ghost had been an elephant that got its jollies from stomping on people. The only real injury had been when a stray dog adopted by the zoo, panicked by all the supernatural whatsit flying everywhere, flipped out and bit Castiel's foot, and even that was no big deal, fixable with just a blink. So Dean pulls over at the next diner they see and announces that they're all going to get ice cream, like he has after every other hunt this summer that hasn't had an unhappy ending. Which hasn't been that often, Castiel knows Dean is thinking-now, when he was driving, or later tonight, it all runs together sometimes for the angel-but seeing Sam perk up like a little kid at the prospect of ice cream pretty much always works as a distraction, and then Castiel is following them into the diner.
"Two cones and a bowl of chocolate cookie dough ice cream," Dean says with authority to the bored-looking girl at the register, ignoring Sam's patented long-suffering sigh. She can't be older than eighteen, and when Castiel tips her with some of Jimmy's money he quietly tells her to have faith, this job will be what pays for her to go to college and her life will change for the better. She stares at him disbelievingly, but puts together their order and rings it up with a faint smile on her face.
Dean rolls his eyes when Castiel finally makes his way to the wobbly round table Sam's claimed for them, holding a cone in each hand and cradling the bowl Dean got for him against his body.
Sam's considering saying something about how Dean's taste in flavors is surprisingly boring and maybe he could choose next time-it's always some kind of chocolate, what the hell-but he gave up complaining two or three weeks ago after Dean got really pissed and picked bacon ice cream at some weirdass place. It was worth it for the look on Dean's face. Maybe. And, honestly, this isn't too bad. When he opens his eyes again, lips and fingers sticky with sugar and nothing else on his mind, the first thing Sam sees is Castiel sitting there watching them, his own ice cream still untouched.
"Seriously, Cas," Sam says with a snort, "You don't have to let him get that stuff for you. We all know you're not going to eat it and it's just an excuse for Dean-"
"Yeah, you gonna finish that?" Dean says, smirking at Sam before reaching across the table, eyebrows raised as punctuation.
Castiel shrugs, one of many (too many, he thinks before he can stop, control the unease) human habits he's learned from the Winchesters. And so Dean slides the bowl towards himself like every other time, but Castiel's paying attention now and he can catch the familiar spark that ignites, that spreads fractal cracks through the dizzying gloom of time.
"Dean."
Both of them turn to look at the angel, Dean with a ridiculously big spoonful of chocolate almost in his mouth. Just then the ice cream starts melting rapidly, as though something had stopped it from doing so earlier and Dean's pretty sure he knows what that something is, dick, so he makes a show out of whining even though he knows Castiel will just ignore him.
And ignore him he does. "Why do you keep buying ice cream after successful hunts?"
Dean scoffs. "Uh, it's summer? It's hot? We deserve some kind of treat every now and then after the shit we've been through?" He takes a huge bite. "Didn't know I needed a reason, Cas," Dean finishes, though judging from the slightly disgusted expression on Sam's face Castiel's the only one who understood him clearly.
"No. I can't tell what it is, but there's something more. There is a pattern that has manifested; something is lighting up the heavens, and whenever I try to trace it I always return to these moments, to you." Castiel says this so earnestly Sam can't stop himself from snickering and earning a glare from Dean. His relaxed mood gone, Dean pushes the now-empty bowl away from him and stands up, chair squeaking with each movement.
"Jesus, Cas, it's just ice cream. Give me a break for once, will you?"
Sam frowns in apology at Castiel as he gets to his feet and follows Dean outside, leaving the angel to clean up what the brothers left behind.
By the time Castiel walks up to the Impala, Dean's drumming the steering wheel impatiently in time to Country Joe, the radio way too loud and Sam almost pathetically happy to see Castiel join them. As soon as Castiel closes the side door behind him Dean shifts into gear and takes off, wind thudding through the windows.
The awkward silence that lies beneath the music stays with them for miles. There's no other worthwhile hunts nearby, and they're not too far from spending a night or two at Bobby's, so what is there to talk about? Eventually the oppressive heat puts Sam to sleep and Castiel's stretched out in the back seat again, staring out at the fields of yellow and green rushing by, aware of Dean watching him, of everything in the world.
When the radio switches over to more poppy fare Dean moves to change the station, but in the rearview mirror he sees Castiel twist upright and lean forward slightly, so he lets Orbison keep singing about the lonely.
--
It's pushing midnight when they pull up in front of Bobby's house but there's still a few lights on inside, so Sam goes up and knocks while Dean and Castiel get all the luggage from the trunk. After a few minutes the lock clicks and Bobby opens the door, handing Sam a flask of holy water to pass around before he lets them in, shaking his head at the bags of unwashed laundry in Dean's arms.
"I'm trying to wind it down now, so any business you all want to take care of, save it for tomorrow." Sam mouths 'Same room?' to Dean, which Bobby ignores. "You know where everything is, go take care of yourselves and you better not break anything." Bobby says this last with an eye on Castiel, who had let fall the suitcases he was holding without checking the floor beneath. Castiel returns his gaze evenly, almost disapprovingly, and gets a shrug in response.
"Sure thing, Bobby," says Dean, tossing his laundry bags at Castiel before following Sam up the stairs.
Castiel catches the bags easily and looks at them with a curious expression, still not familiar with this place and unsure how to proceed, and he's about to drop them on top of the others when Bobby sighs and takes them from him.
"Here." He opens a door near the stairs and tosses the bags down into the basement. "Now you can go do...whatever it is you angels do at night."
Castiel frowns. "We do not have night-time rituals." His body language seems to indicate he's considering saying more, but after a few uncomfortable minutes Bobby just puts it down to the way the angel still hasn't quite bothered to learn how to carry himself in his vessel.
Stamping down his hunter instincts and ignoring that unnerving blue stare, Bobby rolls his eyes and sweeps an arm toward his study. "Care to join me for a nightcap?"
It's a rhetorical question, but Castiel misses the touch of sarcasm so he follows Bobby without hesitation. The only one who can move silently throughout the creaky house, Castiel feels the ages with every footstep, more information in each layer of grime than all of Bobby's books.
After settling down again behind his perpetually cluttered desk Bobby pours two shot glasses full of whiskey and holds one out to Castiel, who has stationed himself underneath the arch at the opposite end of the room. The windows are open now that the dark has brought a cool breeze to replace the summer day, and in the rich earth beyond the walls Castiel knows there is a richer dust concealed. But he has to concentrate, remind himself of his imposed limits, and crosses to take the offering.
Bobby watches, almost amused, as the angel retreats again, holding the drink like he doesn't know what to do with it. Sometimes Castiel seems like a wild animal that could be gentled, given time and care, but then he'll say or do something not even anywhere near-
"Why does Dean favor chocolate ice cream?" Castiel says, derailing Bobby's train of thought and proving his point at the same time.
"What?" Bobby snorts, gulps down his whiskey, and sets the empty tumbler down with a clunk. "What kind of heavenly question is that? And drink your moonshine, it's too good to waste."
Castiel eyes his glass suspiciously, turning it in his hands to watch the reflections in the deep brown liquid.
"There is no moonlight in this alcohol."
"I was joking, that's-" Bobby rolls his eyes at the angel's blank expression. "Never mind. Hopefully the boys'll teach you more Earth lingo while you're riding all over with them. Why are you doing that, anyway? Doesn't seem very angelic to me."
Castiel shrugs, less awkwardly this time, and copies Bobby in knocking the drink back.
"It was made with a dedication to duty, and that is good," he says sincerely, ignoring the weird look this earns him. "As for travelling with Dean and Sam, it is...entertaining."
Bobby snorts.
"Why aren't you just zapping yourself places? Seems like that would be a hell of a lot easier than putting up with them for days on end." The sound of bickering drifts down from above, and he sighs. "I mean, God knows I love them, but there ain't nothing could get me to stay in that car with them."
"I'm conserving my energy." From where Castiel is standing all he can see through the study window is junked cars and their long-gone pasts of care and love, both equally substantial only to him.
Bobby's gut says that's a lie, but the thing in front of him is fucking with every instinct he has and more, so he gives up and goes with it.
"For what? All this joyriding doesn't make it seem like you're very busy these days, I gotta say."
"I am always busy," Castiel says, as serious as ever, but Bobby just chuckles as he pours them each another drink.
Castiel stays standing near Bobby's desk this time, though his gaze is fixed on something outside that the man can't see. Stiffly formal in his eternally rumpled trench coat and ill-fitting Sunday best, somehow the angel seems a little less out of place in here among the disorganized relics than out in the world divided up by skyscrapers and telephone wires. But Bobby knows that, contained as his grace may be, Castiel is infinite.
It's at this moment Castiel chooses to clear his throat, another oddly human gesture. Bobby refocuses on his face, currently featuring as stern and majestic an expression as a human face can wear.
"You have not answered my question about ice cream," intones the angel.
Bobby sighs. Again.
"Seriously?" This shot disappears faster than the first. "You've been in his head-hell, you put the kid's goddamn life back together, and you have to ask about something like that?"
"It doesn't work that way." Castiel leaves it at that, casting his gaze up to the ceiling-the forest from which the house was born is growing there, hand-hewn support beams slowly decaying as generations walk underneath, abandonment rotting everything away, a graveyard where they stand-and Bobby looks up as well at the peeling plaster and sees nothing.
"Fine," huffs Bobby, "Be mysterious. And you should know by now there's no explaining us humans, so if you've been bugging Dean about this, quit it."
Castiel shifts, coat rustling against the wall like feathers, but remains quiet as Bobby fills his own glass a third time. The brothers have finally fallen asleep, and the only sounds now are that of human breath and earthly wind, indistinguishable to ears filled with grace.
"Memories," says Castiel suddenly. Bobby looks up at him in surprise, about to ask when the angel continues. "Being in a vessel limits me to seeing only memories of has been and will be. Dean-all I know of him is what I touched when raising him from Perdition and while in his dreams, and even that was not complete. Much had been-" A brief pause, and he looks uncomfortable. "Tainted. The majority of the humans I've encountered are as predictable as can be expected, but the Winchesters-" Another shrug, like he's practicing. "If there's any information that could help me better understand..." Castiel trails off again, his frustration audible now, and finishes his second drink without prompting, setting down the empty glass on a stack of precariously balanced books.
Bobby watches him carefully now-anybody else would be running their hands through their hair or pacing around or whatever, but the angel has no visual cues for Bobby to pick up on, permanently windswept hair untouched and body unnaturally still. He's staring, Bobby realizes, but Castiel meets his eyes without blinking. The room's atmosphere is verging on stifling when it hits him that this isn't so strange after all, that the space between words is familiar territory.
The Winchesters speak in silence and so Bobby had learnt the language.
With Castiel still staring at him, Bobby leans back behind his desk and pulls open drawer after drawer until he finds the small leather book, battered and worn like everything else John left behind. Flipping through the pages, he smiles at some of the photographs taped inside but doesn't stop going until he finds the one he's looking for. It falls out when he turns to the right place, and when he picks it up off the floor he notices that the corners are starting to rub away.
It's a Polaroid, though this has no sentimental meaning for Castiel-everything is long gone to him. Bobby glances at the picture one more time, then holds it up for Castiel to look at. But Castiel's eyes slide over it to the window, his raised hand interrupting Bobby's indignant question.
"Two-dimensional images are dead spots in my vision. I'd have to hold it to get any sense of what it is you want to show me." He sounds almost apologetic.
Bobby looks at him hard, but can't find any reason to disbelieve him and hands it over.
The dirty white plastic of the photograph's edges looks new against Castiel's fingertips somehow, and he holds it tenderly like a small book, the narrative clicking into place as the camera flashes: the ink activates, the square of chemicals is spat out into the sun and John's shaking it, watching the colors develop into Dean-seven years old and sporting a grin messy with ice cream-who's standing next to him now, still clutching his shotgun victoriously and leaning into the warm touch of his dad's hand, a hand that will be replaced by the mark of Castiel.
"Turn it over."
On the back is John's childlike handwriting, the cramped block letters saying only "1986, Omaha - Bullseye!"
Castiel looks at the penciled words-John sitting up long after the boys have gone to sleep, hunched over a table covered with rifle parts, the only light in the motel room from the street outside, limiting his words and writing carefully to avoid misspellings-then Bobby takes the photograph back and the image is gone.
The mood has changed in some subtle way Bobby isn't quite sure of, so he pauses before asking, "Does that help any?"
When the answer finally comes, it's just one word. "Yes."
This time Bobby's positive Castiel wants to say more, but whatever it is never comes. Castiel's quiet, breathing in time with the wind, his hands back in the trench coat's pockets and his shoulders squared tense. The angel's staring at the album as though he's trying to look at it, rather than through it, and Bobby has to resist the urge to hide it away.
"It was a gift to me, from when he still gave gifts." He doesn't know what good it's doing to, well, bare his soul like this-it's the only way he can think of to put it-but since he's got Castiel's attention again he continues. "Closest thing to family and all that, you know. And every father's gonna be proud of his sons."
At this Castiel withdraws without moving, eyes dimming.
"Balls," Bobby mutters.
He opens the book, leather creaking, finds the photograph again more quickly this time. And even though Castiel said it was a dead spot, somehow he can tell just what to expect, as if he wanted this, knew it was going to happen-Bobby can see that much, at least. There's no quizzical look when he waves Castiel closer; if anything, there's the beginning of a smile.
"Let me see your pockets," Bobby says gruffly, shaking his head when Castiel indicates the obvious ones on the sides. "Not secure. If I'm going to let you keep this, it better be someplace safe."
"I will not lose it," says Castiel, solemn like he's talking about a holy artifact (and maybe he is), but Bobby just reaches up and pulls open the coat, examining its lining the same way the angel's studying him.
At first Bobby decides on the left breast pocket, but then he remembers that first meeting, with the stabbing and everything, so never mind. But the right-
It's marked with a splash of red thread that's almost too bright against the dark brown lining, each stitch put there by someone who had no skill other than love.
Bobby stares at the embroidery for a moment, then slides the photo behind Jimmy Novak's name.
Castiel blinks down at him, body heat cool where it should be warm, reminding the hunter that this thing is not human.
"Thank you," Castiel says, affection in his voice, and he's a mass of contradictions bundled together, just like anyone else, so Bobby gives his head another shake and steps back.
The night breeze is cold now, bringing the promise of autumn into the room and making Bobby shiver. He checks the clock and groans involuntarily, the noise putting Castiel on alert.
"I was gonna go to bed hours ago. Idjit!" It's unclear whether this last is directed at himself or the angel, but Castiel relaxes anyway.
"There are things I should take care of." And he's gone, leaving Bobby alone with a few sheets of paper drifting to the floor.
--
The first thing Castiel hears when he returns, appearing in the middle of Bobby's dining room, is "-glue on the toilet seat!"
"Hiya, Cas!" Dean shouts from the kitchen, cutting off further complaints from Sam and sounding far too cheerful for being awake at this time in the morning.
Sam's sitting at the table glowering in Dean's general direction and doesn't seem like he's going to be particularly responsive, so Castiel turns to Bobby and tilts his head in question.
The most Bobby can do is mouth, rather frantically, "You don't want to know," then Dean's sweeping into the room, too obvious in bypassing Sam to wave a couple of newspaper clippings in the general vicinity of Castiel's face.
"There's something looks good in Nebraska-bunch of disappearances from this kids' camp and some trails nearby, one person says she saw something but the paper won't say what, just says she's traumatized. We're gonna check it out, okay?"
While Dean's explaining all this, Sam disappears into the kitchen; both Bobby and Castiel watch him take a box of pepper grounds and empty it into the bag of coffee Dean's left open on the counter. Dean clears his throat impatiently, and Castiel swings his attention back.
"That sounds worthwhile."
"Oh, well, high praise coming from you." Dean looks cynical, but his tone is sincere and Castiel nods, smile faint but unmistakable. Dean's expression softens, and he's about to reach out for Castiel's shoulder (he thinks he's being subtle but the angel knows his soul) when Sam comes back, shoving a mug of coffee into Dean's raised hand.
Dean gives his brother an annoyed look but doesn't set down the drink, cupping his hands around it to absorb the warmth.
"Anyway, uh, the stuff's already in the car, and we'll be ready to leave soon." Behind Dean, Castiel sees Bobby draw a finger across his throat.
"I'll meet you there."
Dean's grin falters. "Important angel business, huh?"
Castiel shrugs again-it comes more easily now-and vanishes.
--
He's underwater when the phone rings. He takes one last look at the ruins, reaches out his hands in blessing, and he's gone, the water churning back into place behind him.
The white cliffs tower above, the limestone radiating a steady calmness against his back and he feels small in a way that's not unwanted. There's salt drying on his uncovered skin, a dull burning sensation that means nothing to him.
"Hello, Dean."
The chuckle that comes through is tinny; he would find the cell phone's artificiality grating if it were not for the fact that he knows the man, understands him and loves him despite everything.
"Dude, you know my phone says you're out of range? I'm not even going to ask where you are, okay, but I wanted to let you know we should be at Bellevue in a couple of hours." Dean reels off the address of the hotel, speaking loudly as the rattle of the car radio threatens to drown him out.
"What happened to your radio?" There didn't seem to be any electronic voice phenomena, but Castiel can't allow himself to dismiss anything these days.
"Ugh, Sam did something that got it stuck on the worst station ever-" His voice rises on the last three words and Castiel can hear laughter start up that Dean resolutely ignores, though his tone veers towards decidedly petulant: "And when I tried to fix it there were...complications and now I can't turn it off." Sam's at the point of wheezing now, the sound crackling into Castiel's ear.
"That's unfortunate," Castiel says. Sam starts howling again and Dean just hangs up.
Castiel closes his phone, the click seeming too gentle a thing to be able to shut out such raucous humanity. He leans his head back until it hits the cool stone behind him, looking up at the spots of grey punctuating the faded blue sky. Jimmy's voice is soft inside him, a sleepy whisper of longing and regret to which Castiel has grown accustomed, attached even. The ocean nearby, rolling white on white, muffles the crack that comes when he spreads his wings and leaves the clouds behind.
--
He touches down briefly in Muncie, Indiana, hot summer air whipping around him as he lands. The parking lot is overgrown and the pavement has cracked, black fragments tilting up like glass shards. Choosing each step carefully, he finds his way to where the weeds are thickest. When he gets to the center, he considers kneeling but decides against it, arms stiff at his sides and coat flapping in the wind.
"Kýrie eléēson," says the angel, voice rolling out low and smooth like thunder. "Christé eléēson." The words are benediction and absolution, though the time for both has passed. "Kýrie eléēson."
"Absolve, Domine," he starts, then he swallows and ends up hurrying through the rest. As he comes to the end the words slow again, each one pulled out of his throat. "Mereantur evadere iudicium ultionis, et lucis aeternae beatitudine perfrui." The unspoken esiasch echoes around him, the plants rustling like the reed fields in Egypt all those years ago as he turns and begins walking back. The sky is clear here but he cannot stay, can never stay still for long.
There is always more to do, and so he moves on.
--
"Jesus f-I almost had a heart attack!" Sam clutches at his chest as he staggers away from the doorway, glaring at Castiel who still didn't seem to understand why appearing inches away from somebody's face-or had he been waiting on the other side of the door, because, weird-was such a big deal, and his brother obviously wasn't trying hard enough to teach his angel to be less of such a freaking creep sometimes. Said brother is, of course, currently laughing his ass off, so Sam turns around and snaps at him.
"Did you put him up to this, Dean?"
Dean snorts. "As if. Somehow I doubt pranks are really the domain of nerd angels."
Castiel considers the two of them, then lets the corners of his mouth curl up as he says slowly, "There is much you still do not know, Dean."
There's a pause, as though they're processing this, then Sam lets out a guffaw and immediately claps his hands over his mouth. Castiel just walks past him into the room, past Dean's stare, to stand by one of the beds, fingers trailing over the fake mahogany of the headboard.
There's something rough about the brothers that can't be disguised by a suit and tie, and they look out of place here against the almost garishly sleek surfaces that are someone's idea of presidential. Castiel doesn't think he looks wrong here because he knows he doesn't really belong anywhere right now.
Sam shifts uncomfortably in the silence and glances at Dean, as if to say He's your angel, you go. And though Dean answers with He's not mine, fuck off, he steps forward.
"Hey, uh, we were actually about to head out, if you hadn't noticed. So if you wanna-"
"Is the radio still broken?" Castiel asks without looking up from the engineered wood, the trees torn apart and threaded back together.
Dean rolls his eyes. "I think we've got more important things to worry about right now. Like, I don't know, whatever's going all Hansel and Gretel on us?"
"You are misremembering your lore," Castiel says disapprovingly, and Sam snorts.
"Not the point, Cas. But he's right, we really should get going if we don't want to interrupt our only witness during dinner."
Castiel's face is blank so Sam continues patiently: "Which means she'll get pissed at us, making her uncommunicative and therefore completely useless." He has to raise his voice at the end to cover Dean's muttered "But the FBI can do whatever it wants."
With a nod, Castiel disappears.
"What the-"
"How much do you want to bet he just zapped himself to the car? Lazy asshole," Dean says, the smirk on his face undermining his tone.
Sure enough, when they get there Castiel's already draped himself across the back seat-"I never agreed!" Sam shouts over the singsong of "You owe me a buck, Sammy!"-and the radio's playing something that Dean doesn't recognize.
"Dude, what is this?" Dean says at the same time Sam points out that that position can't be good for Castiel's back, and the angel just closes his eyes.
Dean tries to turn off the radio but nothing happens. Frowning, he puts on his seat belt and starts up the engine, glancing at Castiel in the rearview mirror.
"Get the tape box and put one in, I don't care what," he says, and Sam does so with an indulgent smile. The tape deck rejects Black Sabbath, but that one was old anyway so Sam tries another. After several perfectly good tapes have been spat back out, they look at each other-
"Seriously, what the fuck?"
"Hymns as sung by castrati. I've patched us through to the eighteenth century," comes the answer from behind him.
Before Dean can ask, Sam leans over and whispers a definition into his ear that makes him groan and hit his forehead on the steering wheel.
"No. No. We are not doing this."
Castiel's sigh lands somewhere between disgruntled and amused, but the music switches mid-aria to Neil Young's "Alabama."
Dean makes a face but doesn't comment further.
It's a half hour drive, and by the time they pull up in front of Janet Richman's house the same three songs have played enough times to make Dean and Sam maybe thoroughly hate Neil Young.
"I know what I'm getting Cas for Christmas," Dean grumbles as he gets out of the car. "A friggin' walkman."
Castiel slides up and away from his seat, exit as graceful as Sam's is awkward, and starts walking down the lawn.
"Hey, no!" Dean hisses. "Get back here!"
The angel stops but doesn't turn around, neck stiff with exasperation.
"I was under the impression that questioning witnesses was standard procedure," Castiel says, and Dean could swear that's sarcasm and he so does not have the time for this right now.
"Okay, no. We do the questioning, remember? You can just, I dunno, stand in the back and look all serious and intimidating and shit, like you always do. Don't open your mouth. Not after last time." Now Castiel turns, and that glare makes him feel like he's talking to a five-year-old. A five-year-old that is actually an angel as ancient as who even knows wearing the body of a thirty-something guy. Not for the first time, and definitely not for the last, he thinks: Our life is seriously fucking weird.
For whatever reason, though, Castiel listens, letting Sam and Dean walk ahead before following behind, the crunching of dry grass the only sign he's still there.
--
"Janet Richman?" When she nods, Dean and Sam flash their fake IDs. "FBI. I'm Agent Blackmore," Dean says. "This is Agent Glover," he jerks a thumb at Sam, "And Agent Lord." After a beat Castiel pulls out his own ID card-right side up this time, thankfully.
"I, I don't understand. I already talked to the police, and the newspaper, and none of them thought there was anything left to do." Janet stands behind her half-open door, regarding them with a mix of confusion and hope.
"Yes, well, there's been a string of similar kidnappings over in Papillion, so it seemed like we should check this out. Mind if we come in?" Dean gives her his trademark charming grin, and she smiles hesitantly back, stepping aside to let them through.
A quick study of her main hallway and living room tell the brothers most of what they need to know: the photographs are only of her and the missing boy-no father-and of the few artsy decorations there are, most are in crayon. They exchange a look before sitting in chairs opposite from the couch Janet's chosen. She's watching them nervously, alternating between tucking her dark brown hair behind her ears and fingering at some loose threads on her dress slacks.
"I know it must be hard for you, Ms. Richman, losing your only son," Sam says, the perfect picture of empathy. "If you could just tell us exactly what you saw that day?"
"I said I already-" Janet cuts herself off. Clenching her hands into fists, knuckles white against her thighs, she starts again in a monotone. "Charlie and I went to Fontenelle, to check out the Indian trail because he wanted to see the lodges. We were just coming up to the first one when there was this...sound, and then behind us there was," she pauses. "You're not going to believe this. They didn't."
"Try us," Dean says, as Sam smiles encouragingly. She glances briefly at Castiel, leaning against the entrance to the room and expressionless as usual, before continuing.
"It was Martha, Martha Livingston the PTA chair, and some other women I know from work and around town, and there was this, this." She looks nervous again. "Well, it looked like a cauldron, I guess. But then Martha said something and then I must have been knocked out, because I remember waking up," her breath catches. "When I woke up, Charlie was gone."
Sam grabs the box of tissues from the table next to him and hands it to Janet, but she just holds it tightly, eyes bright as she shakes her head and sniffles.
"It must have been something else, right? I mean, Martha would never-"
"I must see your son's room," Castiel interrupts, heading towards the stairs before any of them even have time to object.
Dean curses under his breath and leaps up to follow. "Sorry, he's still learning his way around," he calls over his shoulder, leaving Sam to reassure Janet that this is all perfectly reasonable behavior and she shouldn't be suspicious of Agent Lord at all.
Castiel's already found the right room when the rest of them get there, and he's making a mess of the toys and clothes left untouched. Just as Janet's about to run in and pull him away, Castiel straightens up, holding the straps of a small blue and yellow backpack in one hand.
"Look at this." Hanging from one of the keyrings is a bundle of feathers and bone, bound together with sinew.
Sam and Dean tense at the same time. From the look on Janet's face she has no idea what it is. They're going to avoid telling her if they can, because no parent wants to know that their child is-was-marked, targeted.
"Do you know where Charlie could have gotten that?" Dean asks, staying with Janet in the doorway and watching as his brother approaches Castiel (who raises the backpack higher so Sam doesn't have to hunch over) and picks up the talisman, examining it with caution.
"No, but he's always coming home from after-school care with all sorts of things, they do crafts." Flustered by Dean's hard stare, Janet doesn't notice that she's slipped into the present tense and he's not going to let her.
"Do you know who's in charge of that?"
"Um, it's-" Her eyes widen. "Martha. Martha's the one who watches them."
The look the brothers exchange tells Janet that they believe her, but really it means something more like Well, fuck.
"Thank you for your time, Ms. Richman," Castiel says carefully, the way people recite lines aloud, as he pockets the talisman. "We will contact you if we need anything further."
He leads them out of the house and Sam waves to Janet, leaving her standing worried on the steps, before leaning into Dean.
"Why wouldn't the police have at least listened to her about Martha being the kidnapper?"
"People tend to tune out once you start quoting Macbeth at them," Dean mutters back, anger beneath his facetious tone.
--
Dean fumes all the way back, grunting whenever Sam makes a particularly interesting point with his speculations.
"Bottom line is, we're dealing with witches."
"Well, yes," Sam says, looking about as resigned as he sounds.
"Goddamn it." Dean gives the steering wheel a thump. Though there's no real conviction behind the blasphemy, Castiel clears his throat from the back seat. Dean rolls his eyes and shoots a look at Sam, who carefully keeps his expression unreadable.
"Really, Cas? I'm pretty sure we've said other things worth complaining about, if you're gonna start up now."
"The line must be drawn somewhere," says Castiel with an air of finality that makes Dean shake his head.
"Fine, whatever." Then they're back at the hotel's parking lot and the brothers take the lead again, falling easily into the rhythm that marks their lives.
Castiel hangs back; he does not seem to be needed here, not with Dean rummaging through bags and calling out orders to Sam, who's cradling a phone against his ear with his shoulder as he boots up the laptop. When Dean disappears into the bathroom with an armful of clothes, Castiel's left to watch Sam hunched on one of the beds, legs hooked over the edge and face lit by the unnatural glow of the computer screen. He shifts, readying for flight, and the movement catches Sam's attention.
"Where you going?"
"Everywhere." It's the easiest answer.
Sam snorts, looking back down at the search results he's got open. "At least wait for Dean to come back out. He's going to think you're ditching this hunt if you just skip out without even leaving a note."
Castiel refrains from pointing out that he never actually agreed to work on this one. Instead, he stays where he is, both feet firmly on the floor. After a few moments Sam calls him over, gesturing for him to sit and pointing at the screen at the same time.
"What do you think of this?" It's an online forum for local mothers, specifically a thread in which there's a vacation trip of some sort being planned-elaborate maps, exhaustive packing lists that still seem vague somehow, and no mention of children. At all. After remarking on this for Castiel, because the angel's standing next to him now but obviously isn't planning on getting any closer, Sam glances up at the sound of the bathroom door opening. Castiel's eyes flick to meet Dean's then back down.
"Look for unusual incidents in the places highlighted on the maps," Castiel says, moving away towards the door when Sam nods and goes back to the search engines.
"How soon did they say the food would be here, Sam?" Dean's toweling off his hair (no shower, just a quick sink rinse to feel better) and looks much more natural-real-in faded cotton and denim.
"It's here now," says Castiel, opening the door suddenly and leaving the delivery boy with his fist raised.
"Dean. Your payment." Castiel stares at the boy-seventeen years old, nametag pin scuffed and unreadable but his name is John, he hates guns and misses his younger brother, buys bootleg cigarettes on weekends and will grow up to be disappointed with his life-until Dean comes over and shoves a couple of tens at him in exchange for the smiley-faced plastic bags. The angel sends him off with some more of Jimmy's rapidly dwindling money and a reminder that his mother loves him.
Sam takes one of the bags and pulls out two styrofoam cartons, putting one on the bedspread beside him and balancing the other on the knee not currently occupied by a laptop. Dean grabs up the first carton and sits down next to him, handing him a plastic fork and leaning in to see what's on the screen, fingers and lips already greasy with chicken wing residue.
Before Castiel can start looking restless again, Dean picks up the bag at his feet. "I got you some beer."
Castiel's lips quirk upward and he returns to the bed, settling down on Sam's other side with the six-pack of El Sol in his lap. He finishes a can with one long swallow and opens a second as Dean watches with the same affectionate amusement he often does.
"What have you found, Sam?" Castiel asks, voice muffled as he bends down to place the empty cans upright on the floor.
"Nothing big like cattle mutilations or anything, but all the map places I've checked so far have one thing in common: they've been having a drought for the past couple of months." Sam shrugs, taking another bite of his salad.
Castiel's eyes narrow. "Tell me exactly where these places are."
"There's this town in Maine I've never heard of called Waterside, then there's Yucatan, Mexico; Java, Indonesia; and the Salisbury Plain in England."
Dean laughs derisively. "What kind of trip is that? Did they just throw a whole bag of darts at a map?"
"No." Castiel sounds deadly serious, and Dean goes quiet. "Those are very deliberate choices; they all fall on intersections of the earth's ley lines."
"Whoa, hold on-you don't mean to tell me that those are for real? There's never been anything that corroborated their existence." Even Sam's most skeptical expression can't disguise his enthusiasm, making Dean nudge him in soft mockery. Castiel says nothing, just raises his eyebrows slightly and stares until Sam has the courtesy to look embarrassed.
Clearing his throat, Dean points at the screen. "Aren't these also all really old witching grounds? I mean, Stonehenge, that's gotta have some serious mojo attached to it."
"Yes. To connect and rejuvenate ley gates very high-level magic is required. Old magic."
Sam starts, almost dropping the laptop. "The missing children."
Castiel sighs, an oddly tired sound, and finishes a fourth beer. "Yes."
"That's why the weather's been the same everywhere we've gone, Dean-they're feeding on any kind of energy they can get to make this thing, and nature and children are the most powerful sources." Sam sounds excited that they've figured it out, but Dean's answer is a heartfelt groan.
"So, basically, we've got a convention of witches with the hots for little kids, anything in the air, and the whole world. Awesome."
"Coven," Sam insists, like that's what really matters here, but Dean doesn't care. He hates them, why should he bother to get it right?
"Stupid fucking witches," he says with feeling. "Stupid fucking witch convention."
He flops back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Sam's leg is warm against his own, each hit of the enter key shaking them both, and the spring of the bed as Castiel stands rolls them closer together then apart. Dean raises his head slightly, following Castiel's movement with his eyes as the angel crosses to the window, hand on the windowsill and back stiff like a sentry.
There's no curtains, just blinds, and the window isn't even open, but Dean could swear that he's hearing a rustling, maybe even the sound of feathers rasping against each other. Sam doesn't look up, though, and Castiel's not moving, even if something in the line of his shoulders tells Dean he wants to.
They're out there, his brothers. He can hear them, loud then quiet then too close to be real. He doesn't feel safe here, and if he's not safe then neither are the Winchesters. Slow and confining as Castiel's life may be now, it has become familiar to him, a regular comfort of the sort he once thought was eternal. He doesn't want to lose it again, even if he knows he must someday.
A creaking behind him means that Dean's gotten up as well (it's easy to tell them apart, they move differently) and is walking purposefully but without confidence.
"What are you looking at?" Dean bumps shoulders with Castiel as he peers out.
"Everything."
Dean chuckles, saying dryly, "Guess I'm more a small-picture kind of guy." He watches the cars and the flickering street lamps, the road scene that's the same wherever he goes.
Even at night the blacktop's still hot, heat radiating upwards until the waves disappear. The sound of Sam typing makes him not so much sleepy as at ease; he's heard it at night often enough now for it to become a sort of lullaby.
They stand there, conversation hanging as it always does, and Castiel's still tense, Dean can see it in the press of his lips.
"Does it rain in heaven?"
"No," Castiel says, and Dean doesn't know where to go next.
Whatever the mood was it's changed now. "I should go," says Castiel, like he's continuing something said before.
"Go where?" The aggressive undercurrent in Dean's voice makes Castiel finally turn and look at him.
"Someplace where I will not put you two in danger."
Dean, caught off guard by the blunt answer, glances away.
"We can handle ourselves, Cas. You're helping us on this hunt; if you go off and get killed, what good would that do us?" He can't get any closer so he tilts his head up, challenging the angel to step back to keep eye contact.
Castiel just raises his eyes, the same bright blue as always even in the shadow of his eyelashes.
"What good would it do for us to all get killed?"
"Humor me." Dean's eyes are dark, frustration tugging his smirk out of shape.
Castiel turns away, slipping his hands into his pockets and staring out the window again at the empty road.
"Sometimes I would play chess to pass the time," he says finally.
It takes Dean a couple of seconds to figure out what that was supposed to be an answer to, and when he does it's his turn to look away, to try and hide a smile.
"Well, Sam's your nerd-in-arms, so-" Sam chucks an empty beer can at him and promptly returns to pretending he hadn't been paying attention.
"Enochian chess." Castiel looks at him sidelong, lips quirking and Dean just has to laugh.
"Doesn't that take four players?" Sam asks from his bed, all pretense of research gone.
"I have enough experience for at least two," says Castiel in a masterpiece of understatement, his next blink causing a board and four sets of pieces to appear on the replica Oval Office desk.
Sam practically shoves his computer aside and jumps up, brimming with geeky interest, and Dean follows Castiel over-
"Okay what the fuck is that."
"An Enochian chess board." Castiel starts placing the pieces into teams on the board. "This is the field for Air, and these are the arrays of Air of Fire and Earth," he says in an aside to Sam.
"Yeah, no, that looks like someone decided to try and paint a seizure. And then threw up on it." Dean's circling the table, making face after face as he tries to focus his eyes on the squares and triangles of the board. "Jesus, those colors-is it radioactive? That looks radioactive."
Sam hisses, "Shut up, Dean," glaring at him like Castiel is revealing some incredibly important secret and he is just ruining the moment.
"I will teach you how to play. It might help if you took a seat, Dean," Castiel says, voice neutral even as amusement flits across his face.
Dean grimaces, but he pulls over one of the ostentatious suede chairs and slouches down in it. The rules quickly become nonsense, however, and even Sam clearly has difficulty following Castiel's explanations. The room's warm and dry, the rumble of Castiel's voice a comforting rhythm, and soon Dean finds himself jerking awake.
"I'm up! I'm up," he mutters, glancing around.
Sam snickers, unperturbed by Dean's dirty look. Castiel is staring at him, and Dean gets the uneasy feeling that the angel's looking through him, or maybe into him.
"Tomorrow will be a long day. You should sleep," Castiel says to Sam, his eyes still on Dean.
"C'mon, Dean." Sam shakes his hair out of his face as he unfolds himself from the chair, shooting a regretful glance at the aborted game as he heads to the bathroom.
It's late-early, the digital clock says-and Dean knows he's tired but he still can't shake the feeling that something's wrong, that he shouldn't close his eyes.
"Good night, Dean." Castiel hasn't moved, hasn't looked away.
"I," Dean pauses as Sam comes back. "Wait a sec, okay?" He grabs his toothbrush from the duffel, pointing it at Castiel as he backs away.
Castiel stays where he is, sitting straight in a way that's not tense but not relaxed either, the chess pieces he had carefully arranged left untouched. A can rests against his foot, the person who left it there currently snuffling against a thin hotel pillow. Even over the creaking of Sam's bed and the water running in the bathroom Castiel can hear Dean humming to himself.
Eventually the light beneath the door clicks off and Dean reemerges expecting to see Castiel's eyes fixed on him like there's some frigging angel magnet in his head, but the angel's watching the ceiling, head tilted back and eyes moving like he's searching for something.
"Where are you gonna go?"
"Wherever I need to."
Dean swallows his sigh and looks hard at Castiel.
"You're going to be here tomorrow." It's a statement, not a question, and Castiel doesn't answer, just gives him a half-smile.
Now he sighs, getting under his sheets and reaching for the bedside light. "Night, Cas," Dean says, his hand still on the switch.
Sam lets out a groan that sounds suspiciously like "Oh my God," but any further commentary is cut short by a pillow to the head.
When the light goes, so does Castiel.
--
He spends some time in Giza, hand on the cool stone of the lion's paw as he talks to the wandering dead and sends them home. When the wind picks up and his pockets grow heavy with sand, he moves, touches foreheads with the Father of Terror and bids it peace.
Next he's in a small grove of trees in Alaska, following a trail of blood-splashed rocks as ribbons of green light paint the night sky above him. The demon's riding a wolf when Castiel finds it, its muzzle deep in the stomach of its packmate. Its eyes flash black then Castiel drops down, grabbing the scruff of its neck and holding its mouth closed with an iron grip, burning its soul away. The wolf drops dead and Castiel's breathing from the exertion, the northern lights coloring everything with a sickly sheen. There's nothing worth staying for here.
Sometimes he goes between, where the air is neither cold nor dry because there is no air. The vacuum drags at him, his vessel, clothes and body pulled almost to the point of tearing, then he's out again. He always has to rest afterwards, listening to the flexing of his wings, checking for the snap of unreal bones. It would be easier to leave this flesh behind, move freely the way he used to-sweeping down on Jericho when he and his family were made of nothing but war cries and faith-but it's not time to let go yet.
He's about to set off again when there's a tug somewhere inside him, a tug that makes him think of the pain of helplessness.
Dean.
--
Dean's dreaming of Hell. The details are different but everything else is always the same because it's Hell and he doesn't want to die, doesn't want to go back, doesn't want his brother-
Sam's snoring hides the sound of fluttering but not Dean's soft whimpers and immediately Castiel's by his side, pressing cool fingers to his temple and bringing a brief peace.
The smell of sweat and brimstone lingers. Castiel knows that only one of them is here in this moment but the knowledge changes nothing. Looking at Dean he sees flashes of the forty-year siege, dead angels and dead eyes all around him. The air is stifling, the broken AC grinding like Alastair's hooks and chains, but Dean's breathing evenly, his blankets kicked off and wrongness buried down deep again.
Castiel sits at the table, picking up one of the rooks left on the board. All the pieces are still there, each Egyptian god rendered in miniature for lesser beings to manipulate. He rolls the rook in his hands, the stiff paper sticking to his fingers, but nothing happens and he sets it back down.
The sky outside is beginning to lighten, angel voices calling to him as the sun rises, and he stays.
part two | master post