When he wakes up, Sam finds himself face to face with a complete stranger. The smaller man's blue eyes stare into his with an intensity that makes Sam nervous.
As if perceiving this, the other man stands and takes a step back. "Dean asked me to keep a close eye on you," he defended virtuously.
Sam works his mouth for a minute, because it's dry, he's confused, and he also has to find a way to sound polite with the next question. "That's nice," he decides on.
"Who's Dean?"
"Dean Winchester is your brother."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Sorry, buddy, but I don't have a brother. I'm an only child. Always have been, and I always will be," he looked away. "My parents are both dead."
"Condolences," came the deadpan reply that didn't sound at all sorry.
"Yeah, well, you and your friend must have me mixed up with somebody else." Something occurred to Sam: "Er, where is he then? If he wanted you to watch me . . ."
"He is hunting a witch that has hidden itself in the woods outside of town."
"Right," Sam swallowed; it wasn't politically correct to upset crazy people. "You know, since this all was a big mistake, I'm just going to find my way back to the dorms, and you can go help your buddy with that, ok?"
"You attended Stanford."
Sam was officially creeped out by the guy now, but he couldn't help but consider the crazy man harmless on further inspection. What self-respecting lunatic walked around in a suit and tie and that . . . that travesty of a trenchcoat. "That's right. How do you know that?"
"Stanford is roughly one-thousand, seventy-two point four miles from our current location," the man informed him instead of answering the question.
Sam gaped. What had he been drinking last night?
He was startled out of that train-of-thought by the loud burst of rock music emanating from the other guy's pocket. "Excuse me a moment," his new acquaintance offered politely, turning to answer his cell phone. Sam could only nod dimly at the man's back.
"Yes, Dean, he is awake . . . No, he appears not to know me either . . . I believe that you should proceed with all haste . . . No, that was not a joke . . . I see . . . Of course I will. Goodbye, Dean."
"Look, man," Sam finally found words. "I really and honestly don't have amnesia if that's what you're thinking. I know what year it is, and who the president is, and what my name is, and I know that I don't have a brother. I just partied a little too hard after the last midterm is all . . . and you know what, I don't have to explain this to you. I'm just going to go." Sam rolled and found his feet. There was a split second of dizziness as he made it upright, and the man moved in to catch his arm.
"Regardless, your brother has asked me to stay with you for your own safety."
"I don't have a brother!"
The man was staring at him out of those solemn blue eyes. "Your not-brother has asked me to stay with you for your own safety," he repeated.
"Look, man, I don't need your help."
"Then I will not attempt to assist you," the guy took a step back, releasing Sam's arm. There was a split second where Sam thought he might face-plant into the pavement, and he reached out to catch his companion's sleeve again. "Unless you seem to wish it," the man amended, slipping under his arm for support even though Sam had to have four-six-inches and who knew how many pounds on the guy. The corners of the man's mouth turned upwards. "Do not concern yourself; I am stronger than I look."
"So . . . this Dean guy is in charge? Ordering you around like this?" Sam grimaced as walking proved every bit as difficult as standing. "You have to do what he says?"
"Sort of, yes, and no-only when his brother is in peril," Sam's human crutch responded.
They were back to that. Sam gave a mental groan, but didn't push it. "Fine. Your Dean Winchester can have it his way . . . at least until I find a bus station."
"Very well," the man nodded.
"And what should I call you?"
"My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord-on . . . vacation at the moment."
"Right."
The bus station was a great idea. Only his wallet had been replaced with joke identification. Sam sat down hard on the bench outside to figure out what to do. He needed to call . . . call! He turned out his pockets, locating a cell phone. Not his-newer model, and the contact list . . . Sam's lip curled as he read the few names: Bobby, Castiel, Dean . . . Shaking his head, he dialed Nate. He frowned when the electronic voice reported it to be out-of-service. He tried Jessica with the same results. And gave Nate a second try on his regular phone since the man was infamous for forgetting about things like batteries.
"Your bus will leave in five minutes," the guy in the trenchcoat reported-Castiel. Sam hadn't seen him approach again after the guy had gone to inspect the vending machines more closely.
"I don't have enough money for a ticket."
"Oh." Castiel removed his wallet and took out a few bills. "Will this suffice?"
Sam stared. "Do angels of the Lord generally carry around this much cash?"
Castiel shrugged. "No, but Dean continues to ensure I have it on hand."
Sam rolled his eyes as he moved towards the ticket window. "I'll bet. You heard from him again?"
Castiel shook his head. "He is busy. He will call if he needs us."
Sam shrugged the other man off. "I'm good actually. Thanks for the loan. I'll pay you back ASAP. If you'll just give me an address that I can send a check too?"
"I do not have an address, and as you doubtless helped in acquiring the funds, it is only right to return them to you."
Sam blinked, paid for his ticket, and headed outside again. Castiel followed him like a well-trained dog. Thank goodness that the bus was here. "Well, thanks for everything, Castiel, but it looks like the bus is here, so this is goodbye, huh?" Sam glanced down. "I mean, you didn't buy yourself a ticket."
Castiel nodded sagely. "There's a stop in Veritas at 1:20. I will meet you there."
Sam turned again, but the guy was already gone.
He was simply stretching his legs, and considering whether or not he had the time to pick up a salad from the diner across the street with the change from his ticket. One moment, he was alone, and the next Castiel was striding towards him. "How did you get here?"
"Flew," Castiel explained succinctly. It had to be hyperbole. The guy just made good time on the interstate or something. Castiel frowned and tilted his head to the side. "You seem surprised."
"What are you doing here?"
"Your brother sent me to check on you," Castiel tilted his head the other way.
"I don't have a brother!"
Castiel tilted his head in the other direction. "Your not-brother sent me to check on you," he repeated as if with great patience for a particularly slow student. "I told you that I would meet you here. Have you forgotten? Is the amnesia degenerative?"
"What? No," Sam sputtered. "No, I . . ." Just how was he supposed to get mad at some poor guy who thought he was an angel and doing Sam's non-existent brother a favor? "I just thought you were going to help your friend," Sam finished weakly.
Castiel nodded. "With my assistance, Dean was able to pin the witch's location to a specific area. By now he will hopefully have engaged the witch in battle, although I would not count on it. Witches are notoriously difficult. In the meanwhile, he asked me to bring you this." Castiel held out a take-out bag from the diner that had been across the street from the last bus station. "I believe the burger and pie to be a joke," Castiel informed him. "There is a salad at the bottom."
"Er . . . thanks, Castiel," Sam took the bag awkwardly; it was still warm somehow. "But I'm fine, and I think you had better go back and help your friend. Sounds like he needs it."
"Your brother is quite capable; your peril tends to bring out his most efficient efforts."
"That's nice, Castiel," Sam cringed, withholding denial through sheer force-of-will. "But, look! The bus is here, and I'm going, so it's really okay."
"Stay safe, Sam," the man intoned.
"Yeah, sure. You too, buddy," Sam smiled, and climbed aboard the bus with relief. Castiel still stood in the doorway watching. Sam reached for an abandoned magazine, and when he next looked up the man was gone.
"Hey!" Sam called as the bus-driver moved to close the doors. "Sorry, I changed my mind, could you let me off?" With the biggest grin he could muster, he charmed his way off the bus and into a ticket exchange at the counter. It would be a longer trip, but it'd be so worth it.
Sam discovered that the year was 2010 via newspaper. Then his phone buzzed.
"Where are you, Samuel?" Castiel demanded in a righteous fury. Sam reconsidered the harmless label he had given the other man earlier. "You are not on the correct bus," the other man accused. "You tricked me."
Sam feels guilty although he can't quite work out why he should feel guilty about deceiving the creepy stalker. "I'm sorry, man."
"I am very disappointed in you," Castiel informed him. "But there is still time before your brother realizes that I have lost you." There is a distant thud at the other end of the line. "Give me your location."
"I don't know. Somewhere on the interstate?"
"There are numbers posted to mark stretches of highway, are there not?"
"Yeah, hang on a sec." Sam rattled off the next number. "But that won't do you any good, will-"
The bus skidded to a stop mere feet from a man that appeared out of nowhere. Sam's amazed that no one crashes into them. Mostly, because he's still trying to rationalize. There could not be an angel storming around the side of the bus. Right?
Castiel forced the bus doors open with a touch and climbed the steps. "Sam Winchester is getting off," he proclaimed loudly.
"Y-yeah," the bus-driver stuttered. "Sam Winchester, you're getting off."
Sam hastily gathered his jacket and paper. Ducking his head, he hurried up the aisle. Castiel grabbed the back of his shirt like Sam is a misbehaving child, making Sam's cheeks turn crimson.
"Dean would 'have my ass,' if he knew I lost you," the other man seethed, pulling Sam after him.
Sam ducked his head further. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. Then because he can't help it, he waved the newspaper helplessly. "Is it really 2010?"
"Yes."
"You're an angel?"
"Yes."
"That's my cell phone, and my wallet, and Nate already graduated?"
"Yes, yes, and narrowly. Partying is bad," Castiel finished virtuously. "As I have often told Dean."
"Dean's my brother?"
"Yes."
"Dude, I don't have a brother," Sam tried. He can take a lot on faith, but this? "My mom's dead, and my dad-well, he's not dead, and I'm sorry I lied to an angel, but he did take off and I haven't heard from him since. I just don't have any siblings."
Castiel sighed heavily, but any reply was interrupted by a blast of music and the angel dug out his phone. "Yes, Dean, I have Sam here with me . . . I did not lose him . . . I am not a crappy liar . . . no, I did not forget . . . shouldn't you be paying attention to the witch with fire?"
The sentiment is clear even if the words were muffled.
"Yes, Dean. Goodbye." Castiel hung up and yanked out a few strands of Sam's hair, making him yelp. "I must go. Do not move from this spot."
"Wait just a second," Sam yelled, grabbing the man's arm. He abruptly found himself falling, and then meeting the ground suddenly. "Why Winchesters never do as they're told . . ." Castiel muttered, steadying him.
"I just wanted to know why you pulled my hair," Sam whined.
"It's necessary to break the witch's hold on you," Castiel indicated the shadowy figure sending fireballs at a man in a leather jacket across the basement. Castiel moved to the eerie cauldron set-up and dropped his prize into the bowl before commencing a long litany in a dead-language. "You might try to help your brother," the angel suggested at an awkward pause.
Sam groaned. "Dude, I keep telling you, he's not my brother." But Sam still finds himself picking up a stick of firewood and inching around the basement walls.
Their arrival had not gone unnoticed. The witch grabbed the other guy—Dean—and pitched him at Castiel. It seemed to take both out of the fight as the collision knocks them into the wall and upsets the cauldron. She advanced and Sam swung his makeshift weapon, because he doesn't know what else to do at this point.
She caught it and spun him around. The wood is pressed across his throat, choking the life out of him. It feels strangely familiar.
"Hey! Ugly!" Sam sees Dean up again, poised above the makeshift altar.
"If you destroy it, your brother will never remember!" the witch cast Sam aside without a second thought, already moving towards Dean. "Never! Your brother as you knew him will be gone!"
The witch died in a column of her own fire. Whatever she'd been controlling hadn't liked it, Sam realized, pulling himself up to stare at Dean. At his brother.
"You ok, little brother?"
"I'm good," Sam waved, massaging his throat. "Bit stupid, don't you think?"
Dean's shoulders relaxed as he bent over Castiel. "Aww, come on, Sam. I knew she was lying."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "And if she wasn't? Dean, I spent most of today trying to convince Cas I didn't have a brother. What if it was permanent?"
Dean rolled his eyes as he heaved the angel upright. "Come on, Sam. You'll always be my brother . . . bitch."
"Jerk."