A/N: Sorry it starts off so slowly; it will pick up, I promise.
Five o'clock on a Sunday morning and Sam's already wide awake, busy doing his research thing and sipping coffee from a chipped, suspiciously off-white mug provided by the motel. The sound of his fingers pounding against the keyboard gnaws at Dean's hazy mind until he's awake enough to realize he's not getting back to sleep. Reluctantly he sits up, propping himself up against the pillows.
"'Morning," Sam calls. "Can you grab some breakfast? I hear there's some kind of morning buffet next door. With sausages and eggs."
Grab it yourself, douchebag, Dean wants to snap, but Sam looks like Hell, and he would know. With a small groan of protest Dean rolls over and slides out from under the sheets. Still dressed in jeans and a t-shirt from yesterday, he, too, looks haggard and worn. In the half-light of the quickly rising sun, his battle scars stand out pink against the tanned flesh of his arms and hands. He smooths down his shirt and yawns, stretching his arms toward the ceiling.
"I'm going, I'm going," he says defeatedly. He finds it strange; ever since Cas left, he's had less energy, less spirit burning inside him. It's like the entire world moves more slowly around him, and his own body moves like it's swimming through a river of viscous syrup. He shuffles toward the door, slips into his shoes without bothering to tie them.
"Wait," he says, pausing in the doorway. "You sure they're even open this early? Sam?"
Sam doesn't look up from the computer screen. He shrugs. "I guess you'll have to find out."
Dean gives him a long, exaggerated eye roll before marching out the door. He closes it behind him and slips his hands into his pockets. Outside, the fresh morning air slithers through his nostrils and burns the roof of his mouth. The strange coolness lifts his spirits, sooths his aching eyes. It ignites a spark of energy somewhere inside him, and he picks up his pace as he continues down the sidewalk, across the parking lot, and up toward the main road where there's already quite a bit of traffic.
Tendrils of sunlight spill through the trees far in the east. Dean can almost see the crest of the sun peeking over the treetops. He smiles to himself. It's not often he gets a moment to himself like this, to bask in the refreshing smells of morning. Though he's not really one to appreciate nature or anything, secretly he enjoys these moments of slow clarity.
Even this early in the morning people walk up and down the line of small mom-and-pop shops lining the main road, stopping to admire the knick-knacks displayed on the many windowsills. Dean passes by a clock shop (how much business does a clock shop actually get nowadays?), an old-fashioned candy store (reminds him of a place Dad used to take the brothers after he got home from a hunt), and, finally, the delicious smells of pancakes and sausages and bacon and all sorts of other things come wafting out of a small restaurant called "Heavenly Breakfast Buffet (Our food is heavenly, and our prices are even better)".
It brings to mind thoughts of Cas, and Dean feels his whole body deflate. He pushes it from his mind and pushes open the door, setting off a loud, electronic beep that scares the waiter aimlessly staring into space by the cash register. "HI," he yells, breathless. "S…sorry. I mean, welcome to Heavenly…yeah. Our food is, um, better, and our prices are, um heavenly!"
Dean grins and nods. "New here?" he asks.
The boy turns a bright shade of red and nods sheepishly. "First day," he admits. Straightening up, he asks, "How many?"
"Actually, could I get that to go?"
"Uh, yeah. How many, uh, do you want boxes? Or, like, a bag or something?"
"I guess I'll take four boxes, and you can hold the…bag. Nah, wait, make that five." Who knows how much Sam'll eat.
The boy ducks under the counter and bobs back up with five white take-out boxes. "I think that'll be, uh, twenty dollars?" He glances at the sign above him. "Yeah, twenty."
Dean fumbles for his wallet and pulls out one of a few shiny credit cards. Flashing a smile, he slides it across the counter. The boy catches his eye and turns an even deeper red.
"Thanks" – he glances down at the boy's nametag – "Danny," says Dean.
His breath always catches a little bit when he uses one of the cards, despite all the years he and Sam have used stolen credit. He feels his hand form into a fist as the boy slides the card through the register. But the machine beeps happily, and Dean exhales.
"Go ahead and sign the…the thing, right there, Mr. Thomson," the boy directs. Dean obliges, scrawling in a messy hand something that vaguely resembles the name on the card. He slips the card back in his wallet and gathers up the boxes in his arms. Embarrassed, he finds he can hardly carry them like this, let alone filled to bursting with food.
"On second thought, I think I'll take that bag," he sighs. The boy pulls a plastic bag from under the counter and puts it on top of Dean's pile of boxes.
"If you need help…"
"I don't." It may have come off a little harsher than he intended, because the boy stops smiling and gives Dean a very solemn look.
"Okay," he says quietly. He props his head up on his hand and returns to daydreaming.
Weird kid, Dean thinks. But not all that different from Sam at that age. He pokes his head around the corner and there it is: the buffet itself. It's a sight to behold, almost as long as the room in which it's housed and nearly as wide, too. Only a few people meander up and down its length, poking at sausages and fruit cups and pre-toasted toast. A few of the nearby tables are occupied, mostly by elderly men hiding behind newspapers. With a bounce to his step, Dean approaches the buffet.
And then he stops. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees something impossible. Cas? Was that…Castiel? He feels something crawling up his throat, clogging it. His eyes water; his mouth goes numb and dry.
You're just imagining things, again, he reassures himself. Besides, he can hardly see over the tower of boxes in his arms. But he closes his eyes, blinking back tears he didn't even know he had. For a moment he just stands there, motionless beside the buffet. Then, gathering courage, he dares open his eyes.
There's nothing there. Nothing whatsoever. Just a cheap print picture of Michaelangelo's David. He snorts. It shouldn't be funny, but for some reason it is. He'll have to tell Castiel he mistook David for him—
Don't think about Cas. Don't think about Cas. Cas is gone, get over it, dammit! Don't get fucking mental in the middle of a restaurant; people think you're crazy as it is.
Dean walks down the line, shoving whatever's closest to him into the boxes, then shoving the boxes into the bag. Despite himself he feels his heart heave inside his chest, feels his body growing weak, mind growing faint. Not here, not now!
He darts toward the nearest booth and collapses into it, letting the bag of boxes drop to the seat beside him. He told Sam the visions had stopped, that he didn't see Cas everywhere, in everything he did; nor did he hear him in every whisper, every word he spoke. But he did, and it terrified him more than anything.
Dean wipes sweat from his brow and out of the fog he sees the young waiter from before approaching him, a look of concern plastered on his face.
"Sir?" he says, leaning in close to Dean. Dean slides back toward the window instinctively. Great, now that damn kid sees me as some weak old man, passing out just by walking a couple of feet. Dammit.
Dean grins weakly. "Hey, I'm fine thanks. Uh, but a glass of ice water or something would be nice."
The boy gives him a worried smile. "No charge," he states, before disappearing into the kitchen.
All the morning energy he had felt just moments before had been drained out of him, leaving him an empty, exhausted shell. He glances back toward the buffet but sees nothing out of the ordinary. What were you expecting?
He checks to make sure the waiter isn't coming through the kitchen and sneaks out the side door. He walks around to the front, ducking down below the window, and walks briskly back to the motel room. The boxes bump against walls and against his thighs, but he doesn't really care at this point. He just needs to get out of there, as far as he can. He just needs space to think.
Sam's still typing away at supersonic speeds when Dean returns. "A little help here?" Dean snaps. Even with his foot shoved in the door, he can't slip through with all the boxes. Sam heaves himself up (it's like he hasn't moved an inch since Dean left) and overdramatically swings the door open for Dean.
"What's in the boxes?" he asks, letting the door slam shut.
Dean purses his lips. "Animal hearts and the blood of my enemies. I don't know, genius, take a wild guess."
Sam raises his hands defensively. "Hey, no need to go all bitchy on me. I'm just wondering why you have so many."
"Because your stomach is the size of a small child, Sam. And I'm not going back there for seconds."
"You seem upset. Did something happen?" Sam takes the bag from Dean's arms and sets it on the table, removing a box full of still steaming-hot sausages.
"No," Dean lies. He knows Sam can tell he's lying, but hopefully he'll overlook it in favor of concentrating on the food. Trying to change the subject, he asks, "Any word on Cas?"
Sam shakes his head. "Nope. Nothing. Sorry, Dean. Look, I know he was practically your best – well, only friend, but I think it's really time you moved on. Like you always tell me: focus on the job."
Dean's nostrils flare and in a fit of anger he pounds his fist on the table. "You don't talk about Cas like he's not coming back, you hear? Don't even think it. He's Cas. He won't abandon us. Not now. Not ever. We clear?"
"Okay, okay! Calm down. Just…if you want to talk or anything…"
"No." Dean forcefully pulls a box toward himself, effectively ending the conversation. Still frowning, he opens a box of French toast. It smells like cinnamon and butter; his stomach rumbles. Hungrily they both dive in, finishing off everything together within the hour.
