Title: Salt 'n Burn
Rating: PG-13 (swearing, violence)
Spoilers: Season 4
Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel
Rain splattered against the window of the murky motel room, casting scattered shadows in their wake along the dirty, cheap carpet. A fork of lightning lit up the room in sharp relief for an instant, silhouetting Dean as he stood over his open duffle, checking the rounds on his Glock. Chambers clear, he tucked it into his waistband against the small of his back and shrugged on a jacket. It wasn't his favorite, the beautiful leather one that was a token of his father, but he wasn't going to go out in that mess and ruin it.
Shoving the motel key into his pocket he made for the door, grabbing the sawed off shotgun he'd left on the other bed, a dark frown stealing briefly across his face as he passed the low wooden frame. Sam wasn't there; Sam rarely hung around these days, unless they were right on top of working a case. It had been bad before the whole pest-fest that was the Rising of the Witnesses, but now if they were together in the motel room more than five minutes Sam managed to vanish off to only God-knows-where, doing who-knows-what. It pissed him off that Sam didn't think to tell his older brother where he was going every damn night. You'd think being flung into Hell and snapped back like a rubber band would've changed a few things…guess not.
Grumbling to himself Dean yanked open the door, only just managing to suppress a jump and a curse when he came almost nose-to-nose with Castiel on the other side. The angel stood out in the pouring rain, completely impassive to the water sticking his vessel's hair to his face and soaking through the fugly trench coat that was quickly becoming the dude's signature thing in Dean's head.
Dean huffed irritably, edging past the obstacle in his way and hurrying over to his baby, fumbling with the keys and hurriedly sliding behind the wheel to escape the downpour. He wasn't surprised to find Castiel had zapped himself in to ride shotgun, although the staring was more than a little creepy. Dean shuddered as cold droplets trickled down his face from his brief exposure to the rain, revving up the Impala and listening to her growl with a small grin. He pulled clear of the parking lot and flipped on the wipers, glancing at the angel next to him out of the corner of his eye. Castiel watched the wipers move across the windshield with more fascination than it was really due.
They'd driven for ten minutes before Dean couldn't take it anymore. He cleared his throat pointedly. "So what's God want now? Gonna drop another Lucifer-sized bomb on me? Cause you know, I'm still kinda reelin' from the last one you threw in my face."
Castiel sat quietly for a few beats then slowly turned in his seat to face Dean. The movement was stiff and mechanical, his eyes staring with the kind of interest you usually see crack scientists give to dissected animals on those awful doc shows Sam used to like so much. "It is not a wise move to set out to subjugate this spirit without the aid of your brother. You should wait for his return."
Dean felt his jaw twitch as he slowed down for a stop sign. "I was saltin' and burnin' on my own for a damn long time while Sammy was off eating books and being a nerd. I think I can handle one little ghost, Cas."
Castiel's mouth pulled down in what Dean thought must be confusion (he was probably trying to figure out how one eats books, he seemed like a literal kind of guy) and Dean punched the gas as he pulled out onto the highway. The old farmhouse that was being haunted was a few miles down the freeway, off a private road that had seen better days and fewer potholes. Dean concentrated, leaning forward to see better out the wet glass before him to navigate the rough ground. The last thing he wanted was his baby's tires hurt. Castiel still sat there, scowling at him, but he did not speak again until Dean stopped the Impala a decent distance from the old stead.
"Dean," he said in a voice that Dean supposed was meant to brook no argument as he slipped out of the car to pop the trunk, "the remains of this spirit are below the earth. Are you going to dig them up in this weather and expect the spirit not to try and defend itself in any fashion?"
Dean ignored him for a bit, hunching over to protect his neck from the rain as he pulled out the tin of rock salt, his lighter, the bottle of lighter fluid and a shovel. He slammed the lid of the trunk down, patting his baby and turning around to almost run face-first into Castiel for the second time that night. Dean felt his heart leap up and lodge itself in his throat. Dude really needed to learn the meaning of 'personal space'.
"It's cool," he grunted out, shouldering past Castiel. He splashed through several growing puddles, the rain coming down as hard as it had all night. The unmarked grave was to the rear of the house, which was only accessible through a rickety old garden gate that he couldn't have hoped to fit his baby through. Castiel shadowed him at his heels, and Dean, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise, fought the urge to turn around and return the favor of getting in the angel's face.
The silence stretched between them as they arrived at the small, blackened mound of dirt that marked the bone ditch of their Monster-of-the-Week. Dean thrust the shovel into the soggy earth, grimacing as it pooled like sludge around his feet. He began to dig – or more accurately, to sling disgusting mud-missiles over his shoulder. He briefly contemplated pretending to 'accidentally' nail Castiel with one, but thought better of it. For the most part the angel seemed pretty indifferent, but Dean had seen how terrifying he could be during their last two face-to-face encounters.
He went on digging for awhile, one ear out for the sound of the banshee bitch coming to try and rip his face off. He stopped frequently to wipe the rain out of his eyes so he could see what the hell he was doing, and he almost would have forgotten Castiel's presence altogether if he hadn't been able to feel the guy's gaze boring into his back. Speaking of…
"I hope to Hell you don't have X-ray vision or anything," he snapped up at the angel who stood watching him like he was the most remarkable thing in the world, raising his voice so he could be heard over the wind, "cause while I can't blame you for wanting to check this out, it would be really creepy considering all you seem to do is stare."
Castiel tilted his head quizzically. "I do not understand that reference," he said, as though that should have been obvious (which Dean figured, yeah, it was), "and I have no need to check on the state of your body, Dean. When I raised you from perdition I was also charged the task of piecing your mortal container back together. This required extensive knowledge of human biology and of your unique physiology. If there was anything amiss with you, I would know."
Dean froze, shovel poised in motion over his shoulder. The mud-missile splattered to the ground by Castiel's feet unnoticed. "What did you just say?"
Castiel's expression was an approximation of annoyance. He repeated himself like he was speaking to a particularly slow child. "In order to restore your body to health I was required to know you on a cellular level. Every nerve, every vein, and every tissue in your body I am thoroughly familiar with."
Dean looked up at Castiel, torn between horror and amazement. He settled for a sneer. "That is fucking creepy, Cas. I mean it. TMI. I did not need to hear you say that. Especially since you're a guy."
"I fail to see how the sex of my vessel pertains to this discussion."
"Well you would," Dean muttered, fighting the urge to stick a tongue out childishly as the angel continued to frown down on his head. Castiel opened his mouth, but if he said something Dean didn't hear it: his ears were suddenly filled with that horrible noise only banshees could make. He felt his body jerk sharply at the shoulders and the mud made a squelching noise as he was ripped out of the slowly deepening hole he'd shoveled, sailing bodily through the gale to crash hard on his side across the clearing. He felt the sharp slap of rain assaulting his face and his teeth clicked together in agony, his tongue getting caught between and filling his mouth with the iron tang of blood.
He spat it out, already scrambling back to his feet, mouth pulling in disgust as he felt the wet muck seep into his socks. He must have left his boots behind in the grave when the bitch decided to make him into a paper airplane…
Dean didn't have long to dwell on it before she rushed him again, pale hair shimmering in the rain and that fucking sound issuing from her like nails on a friggin' chalkboard. He set his jaw and pulled the rock salt out of his pocket, flinging a liberal dose into her gaping mouth as he rushed past her, slipping and stumbling in the mud to reach the grave. He heard her shriek of pain and let a cocky grin eat across his face, nose-diving back into the ground. He snatched up his shovel and started digging like a madman, Castiel all but forgotten. When Dean got into mission-mode you better stay the hell out of his way!
The angel was still there, watching him with that neutrality that pissed off the hunter so much. He hadn't so much as twitched when the bitch decided to play ping-pong with him. He grit his teeth and kept digging, ignoring the ache in his side and the wailing that was swiftly coming closer again. He hoped he didn't have any cracked ribs.
His boots had vanished in the sludge and that just added another heaping of dammit to his shit pile, but he let out a triumphant "Haha!" when the unmistakable crack of metal splintering wood reached his ears. He smashed in the top of the pine box with gusto, impatiently shaking the water out of his eyes like a dog as he clambered back out of the grave.
This, of course, was when the banshee decided to make her comeback. Before Dean could blink he was face-first in the mud, spluttering and trying not to swallow a mouthful as he rolled over, the noise of the wind and the ghost pounding at his eardrums. He shuffle-crawled back towards the grave, jaw set in determination when she smashed him in his side again, sending him spinning like a barrel downriver.
"A little help here?" Dean half-shouted, half-snapped at the angel that still hadn't fucking moved. Castiel tilted his head a little, as if debating whether it was more fun to just stand and watch, before suddenly Dean's vision was filled with trench coat. Castiel calmly rooted through the pockets of Dean's jacket, as if there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about all this. He pulled out the lighter fluid and the lighter, plucking the tin of rock salt from Dean's chilled, filthy hand as he strolled back towards the grave. The screams of the banshee filled Dean's ears again as he watched the angel go about the salt 'n burn with a professionalism that, in any other circumstance Dean might have admired.
"It's all good," he spat angrily, wiping more mud from his face as he rolled away from a furious banshee's swipe, "'m cool, don't worry 'bout me. You just go on and burn the bitch, I can handle it fine…"
A hiss came clear across to Dean from where Castiel stood above the open grave, fire flickering up in his hands from the lighter. He gave Dean an unimpressed look that was only minutely exaggerated by the glow thrown onto his face, and lit the bitch a new one. She doubled over herself, writhing midair and screeching to a whole new tune and Dean let himself appreciate this one; she screamed herself out of existence until all that was left were a few wisps that gusted away with the wind.
Dean slumped back into the mud, letting out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He slowly lifted his head to glare at the angel, who still stood there like they were just sitting at a bus stop waiting for their ride.
Dean flipped him the bird. Castiel blinked, tilting his head again in that weird way of his. Dean gave up.
Dean dragged himself back to the Impala, holding a hand gingerly to his ribs with the shovel slung over his shoulder. Castiel paced just behind him like he was a kid on a field trip; studying everything Dean did with an academic interest. It annoyed the hell out of Dean.
"Thanks for that back there," he said sarcastically, dropping the shovel unceremoniously into the back of his baby and sliding into the front seat. He was dripping mud everywhere, which meant he was going to have to clean her out good so it wouldn't stain. He'd make Sammy do it. Big bro ganks the ghost, little bro cleans the mess, quid pro quo Clarice. "Some great help you turned out to be. Friggin' angels. What was your favorite part, when she punted my ass thirty feet or when she tried to kick my teeth out?"
Castiel stared at him blankly. "I did as you asked. I burned the bones of the spirit when you were unable to do so. Was that not an adequate provision of help?"
Dean wished the angel didn't talk that way. It was like having a conversation with Spock. "That's not what I'm talking about," he grit out between his teeth, hearing his baby purr to life as he started on the road back to the motel. "I know you said you weren't here to perch on my shoulder, Cas, but give me a little something here. I don't think the Man Upstairs had you bring me back so you could watch me get flung around like a chew toy."
"You are a skilled hunter. You should not require my assistance in order to do your job." He paused. "This is the reason I told you to wait for Sam."
"Yeah, yeah, no 'I told you so's," Dean turned on the radio, flicking through stations to try and find something decent. He cranked up the volume to signal it was the end of the conversation. "You can hop your ass back up to Heaven and tell the God-squad how much I suck now, Cas, sure they'd love to hear it."
Castiel did not leave, however, and they fell into a moody silence as Dean drove through the steady downpour, their faces cast into sharp contrasts of light and shadow by the Impala's headlights and the occasional streetlight flashing past through the darkness.
"Why do you do that?" Castiel finally spoke, a few minutes from the motel. Dean quirked an eyebrow but didn't turn to look at him. "Refer to me that way. 'Cas'."
Dean barely suppressed a snort. "I'm not going to call you 'Castiel'."
"It is my name."
"Not callin' you that." Castiel frowned at him, like Dean was being difficult on purpose – which he was, but that wasn't the point. "Look, dude. 'Castiel's a friggin' mouthful and I can't be bothered to remember all that. So it's 'Cas'." He was quiet for a moment as he parked the Impala, letting her engine run comfortingly around him as a new thought occurred to him. "That's…that's not against the rules or anything, right? Not breaking any Commandments, giving an angel a nickname? Blasphemy? Should I expect lightning to be hurled into my face?"
Castiel seemed to give it a lot of thought, like he was flipping through a bajillion books on rules stuffed into his head that he's sure the angels jizz themselves over. "No," he said at length, pinning Dean with that freaky stare. "No, it isn't."
Dean felt himself relax a little. He hadn't even realized how tense he was. Angel smiting wasn't something to take lightly, even if your name was Dean Winchester. "Cool," he said, turning off the car and high-tailing it to his motel room. Castiel beat him there, doing his 'I'm-here-but-now-I'm-not' shtick. "I think it should be against the rules for you to wear that damn thing, though. It makes you look like a flasher."
Castiel looked down in bewilderment at his trench coat, and Dean bit back a grin.