Sound of the drums
Beatin' in my heart
The thunder of guns
Tore me apart
You've been – thunderstruck.
"Thunderstruck" by AC/DC
. . .
As an early sunset approaches, the Sandria Mountains glow the dark pink and red that give the mountain range its name – Sandria, watermelon. The colors and the seemingly endless horizon are as perfect as the warmth of the campfire on a brisk fall night and the coldness of the beer as the group of campers settle into their site west of Albuquerque, New Mexico. They sit, and joke, eat hot dogs cooked over the open fire, and argue about which of the American presidents would be last man standing in a knife fight to the death, given all the givens these history majors can conceive.
Just four friends having fun and relaxing before the end of another semester at the University of New Mexico.
Later, the former Boy Scout readies the camp site for the night; he smothers the fire, makes sure all the food is safely stashed in a car, and walks off into the bushes to drain his bladder. Hearing thunder, he wonders if one of the infrequent squalls is going to rush through tonight, knowing that meteorologists aren't always able to pick up localized disturbances.
A second thunder clap and a flash of light give the man a photograph that etches horror into his mind, a tall humanistic form appears in front of him, dark iridescent feathers cover the figure – but he's sure it's female. The edges of the feathers appear as sharp as razor blades, wings as wide as two pickup truck lengths. He sees the wings rise again and feels his skull splitting as the clap of thunder strikes over his ears. The concussive force deafens him, but he thinks he screams as talons as long as forearms tear into his flesh.
The other men scramble from the sleeping bags and tents, armed with flashlights and cell phones. They too hear the strange thunder, and they try to understand what is happening. It's a bird-thing with their friend skewered on talons, dangling as light flashes again. The monster's wings lift and they feel that final clap of thunder as the things lifts into the darkness above them.
. . .
Dean offers Castiel a half smile as they share one mirror in the crowded bathroom. Sam has the other mirror to himself, as he too fusses over his appearance. His hair is shorter than he likes and he's not used to it. Better than the frizz that scorching it had caused, Sam thinks. And closer to Castiel's in length than Dean's military regulation cropped locks. The suits he picked up in San Antonio for all three of them are shades of grays and blacks.
"Hmmm, maybe one of you should share this sink with me. If you keep staring at each other, we're never getting out of here," Sam teases. "Besides I've seen Dean spend hours trying to look perfect."
Dean shoots a wry grin at his brother. "Jealous, Sammy? 'Cause it don't matter how long you spend -perfection is going to escape you." Dean waggles his eyebrows at his younger brother to take the sting out of his words. "Don't feel bad, kiddo, not your fault you're uglier than me."
The Winchesters and their angel have been in Albuquerque less than a day, long enough to get settled into a two-bedroom suite at an extended stay hotel. They've recently found that it's better to let Sam put some space between him and waking up to his older brother and best friend intertwined, even if all they are doing is sleeping. George Mackey, author of ghost story books and owner of Paranormal Investigations of San Antonio, had called the boys about this case. His contact in New Mexico has arranged the lodging, so it is more upscale than the guys are used to, more comfortable, and not coming out of their pocket – or even on the credit of whichever scam is current.
No one but them needed to know the room with the one bed was for the two older men. Sam's room was the one with two queen-sized beds.
Dean checks his shave on his jawline and gives his collar, tie, and cuffs one last adjustment. Then he turns to check Castiel, tugging lightly on his tie so it hangs straight. "It's good to see you in a suit again. Kinda strange that it's not your holy tax accountant look, but still nice," Dean's voice is gravelly, and his breath catches slightly as he smoothes Cas's hair, resisting the urge to tangle his fingers in it and pull the angel closer.
As Sam steps out the bathroom, Castiel kicks the door shut and moves closer to Dean. His lips press a line of kisses across Dean's jaw toward his ear softly, but hungrily. Dean has been touching him all morning, helping him fix his tie, adjusting his holstered handgun around his waist, tucking in tags and straightening the collar with blunt fingers trailing on his neck, inadvertently driving the fallen angel crazy. Cas has held back because Sam was there. That is, until that catch Cas heard in Dean's breath shot like an electric current along Cas's nerves. He needs to hear it again, capture it with his mouth, feel Dean's professional façade melt under him.
Dean's back is pressed into the sink behind him, his hands on the sink holding him up, his knees buckling slightly as a whimper escapes and Cas drinks it in with his lips. Cas's strong arms are holding Dean up and his blue gaze is amused and smug as he looks at the man in his arms, just kissed lips plump and trembling, green eyes glazed with desire. He steps back. "Now you're perfect."
"Come'on guys. Get out of there," Sam begs as he bangs on the closed bathroom door. "We have an appointment at the University." Just as Sam goes to knock again, the door opens and Cas strolls out, looking pleased with himself. Sam quirks an eyebrow at his trembling older brother still holding himself up on the sink. "You okay, dude? You look, ummm…" Sam can't think of the word as he watches his brother pull himself back together. "…pornographic."
Damn, Dean muses, Cas all possessive and controlling is so hot that he feels like his brain has short-circuited. Just … hot damn. "Stop looking at me, Sammy."
Sam laughs, turns away and catches his friend's eyes. "You really want us taking him out like this? It's like dangling bait at every horny woman or man we'll meet today."
Cas gives that silent laugh that lights up his face. "We'll protect him, Sam. We won't let lechers steal him."
"I'm right here, guys. Right here in the room." Dean eyes the two men he loves more than life itself, accepting his embarrassment if it makes them both smile, but ready to dish out some tough love on them both. "And payback's a bitch best served cold."
. . .
Sam is driving the Impala, and Mumford and Sons "Sigh no more" is cranking out the speakers, ironically since the music made Dean, sitting in the navigator's seat, sigh like air escaping a punctured tire. Castiel has his head tilted, listening to the lyrics silently.
Love; it will not betray you
Dismay or enslave you, it will set you free
Be more like the man you were made to be.
There is a design, an alignment to cry
Of my heart to see,
The beauty of love as it was meant to be.
The younger Winchester thinks his older brother should reconsider all the macho hard-rock metal bands he insists on, if only to bring that delighted look to the angel's face – fallen angel, he corrects himself; friend, he adds. Sam has to admit he was as appalled as Dean by the thought of listening to hours of nature sounds when Cas had a chance to drive, but Dean over-reacted when he threw the cassettes out the car window between Roswell and Albuquerque.
As they drive onto the University of New Mexico's campus, the three men are met with depictions of the mascot. "Son-of-a-bitch." Dean's pointing, and using this start of conversation to reach over and turn off the music. "Sam, is that a frikkin' werewolf of some kind?"
Sam explains it's a lobo, a Mexican wolf, not a werewolf. He says it's the university's mascot, as he pulls up to the building that houses the liberal arts graduate programs. "This is where we are meeting the witnesses to the most recent attack," Sam says pointing with his chin. Plus, this is where we're meeting our contact with …" Sam reads from his notes. "The League of Western Fortean Intermediatists, umm, his name's Professor Price Campbell. He's a history professor here."
"Price … Campbell?" Dean interrupts. "Related?"
"Don't know," Sam answers, surprised at himself for not making that connection. "Probably not, Dean. Campbell's not an uncommon name."
As the three men unwind from the Impala, Sam tosses the keys to his brother, suddenly frowning. Wasn't it just two days ago Dean convinced a doctor to give him a brace instead of a cast. Dean sees his brother's measuring look, taking in the sweep to his knee, and the narrowing around his brother's hazel eyes, and decides it's a good time to go over the cover identities he's chosen.
Their cover is FBI. He and Sam are investigators, and Cas is the crime scene, forensics, guy. Their IDs read Sam Phillips, Cassidy Young, and Dean Shaw because Dean loves blending in the names of Styx with their own. "Just be the strong silent type, Cas," Dean reminds him. "Let me or Sam handle the questioning."
"I am not stupid, Dean." His angel says with soft menace. "Do not coddle me - or underestimate me."
Dean claps his hand on Cas's shoulder, turning him toward the building. "Wouldn't dream of it." Neither of the other men realizes that Dean has successfully deflected them from noticing, or mentioning, the lack of leg brace.
They are met in the foyer by Professor Price Campbell who leads the three men to a meeting room down the hall from his cramped office where books have claimed most of the space as their own. He's in his 60s – almost as tall as Sam, but at least 25 pounds lighter. More of his weight lies around his middle, reminding Dean of George Mackey. Older academics that are clued into the supernatural. Both pitching in how they can without becoming hunters. I could learn to really appreciate people like that, he thinks. No freak outs, no stumbling over amateurs.
The three students huddled around the table look like they haven't slept since the camping trip. Each of them makes eye contact briefly when introduced before refocusing on the coffee mugs cradled in the hands, looking slightly puzzled. Jonathan Patrick, John Battles, and Hank Emery are still in shock over losing their friend and fellow student, Donald Campbell.
"Campbell? You related to the deceased?" Sam raises his head from his notes and asks the professor.
"We all are," Professor Campbell says. "But we're researchers not hunters."
Price Campbell can see he has startled the Winchesters, and he goes on to explain that he is the Campbell Clan's connection to academia with far-flung family from around the country sending their next generation of researches to train under him, in one of the few programs in the country that ties history, anthropology, and comparative mythology together.
"Hear me out," he pleads with Dean, whose eyes are narrow and whose stance is menacing at this point. "Please, sit...please?"
Professor Campbell explains that this group doesn't know anything about what happened with the Winchester's mom, Mary Campbell-Winchester, with their grandfather, Samuel Campbell, or with their father.
"We called you here because people are dying, and you Winchesters are the best hunters out there. But, yeah, you don't need your cover stories with us. We know who and what you are," he says. "I'm your grandfather's younger brother. You boys are my great nephews."
Professor Campbell then turns his attention to Cas. "Not so much you, Cassidy Young. Matter of fact, the only partners we've heard these guys work with are Bobby Singer and an angel. And I know enough about Singer to know you aren't him." It is almost a question, but not quite.
The tension in the room mounts. The professor feels like he is locked in a cage with two agitated tigers. These young men are dangerous, he knows, and the rumors about them would make any sane person leery of crossing them.
The trio of cousins at the table is now looking up at the hunters, as though the pretense had weighed down their eyes before this. "Can we put aside the family connection, now? Can we talk about the case?" Professor Campbell practically begs.
Cas and Sam both turn their eyes towards Dean, waiting for his decision. He is the senior hunter.
Dean loosens his tie, shrugs out of his suit jacket, and spins a chair around to straddle it. No sense in wearing a costume if he doesn't need to. "Tell me about the attacks," he says, settling in to hear the details he needs to find and gank a monster. "Keep the conversation to the monster. I'm not here for some half-assed family reunion."