Deans first meeting with him was as most he makes on a hunt. The man kneels on the ground, skin sticky and discolored from the blood of the chestnut haired woman lying lifelessly in his arms. The mans gaze travels to the open wound on the woman's neck. He blinks slowly, then moves his eyes to Dean himself, who stood over him, a body of tightly held caution. The man's hopelessly blue eyes are blown wide with shock and pain, and Dean winces slightly at the intensity. That look is one he would never grow accustomed to, no matter how many different faces he witnessed it from.

Dean purposefully diverts his view to the decapitated head near the grating in the concrete. There is a trail of blood ribboning from the neck, leaving a record of the head's path when Dean had unceremoniously separated it from its host. Dean found this easier to look at than the man in front of him.

"What was it?"

The man's voice was all dry chalk dust and eerie calm. Calm is usually the last thing people are after the spontaneous decapitation show.

"Vampire," Dean spat in the direction of the unsheathed fangs. The man glanced at them briefly and seemed to take the answer as fact.

"And you were here to kill him because..."

"I'm a hunter," Dean recited automatically. The mans eyes narrowed in response, but not distrustfully. Dean took this as a positive sign.

"Look, I need you to tell me where you've been, what you've seen, anything weird..." he began, motioning his hands as he put the technical process in order out loud.

"Why?"

Dean turned and raised his eyebrow at the man seated below him. Was this guy really going to make him play twenty questions after Dean had just barely saved him from the depths of hell?

"Because," Dean said pointedly, "these things don't fly solo and home base is somewhere nearby."

The man's expression revealed a critical realization before he returned his gaze to the soulless body held loosely in his arms. His eyes softened for a moment into an almost imperceptible emotion, before slowly icing over as he slid the body to the cold concrete with the care of an angel. He moved to raise himself, shakily at first but with resolve as he straightened to his full height, just barely under Dean's own.

"I'm going with you," he demanded, dark brows knitted together, daring Dean to argue.

Oh, he dared.

"The hell you are," he shot back. "This is not a fucking tea party, princess. The dress code is not creepy business casual." He waved his arm, wildly gesturing at the man's bloody tie and trench-coat with the machete in his hand. A drop or two might have flown off the blade, but it was impossible to tell the direction with the red coating already splattered across everything nearby.

"You're taking me with you, or I'm not telling you where they are," the man vowed as he stepped towards Dean for emphasis. They were suddenly closer than what Dean considered "normal" for friendly conversation. His first thought was to take a step back, but he would be damned if he was going to look in any way intimidated by this small, bloody businessman.

"Do you understand what you're signing up," Dean growled, leaning into his scowl and pointing his machete at the corpse beside them.

"How could you think that I don't?"

The man's voice was level, but the edges were laced with anger, agony, or apathy . Dean could not tell which. Maybe it was all three.

This man had just witnessed someone, probably his wife or girlfriend, being murdered right in front of him.

Dean felt the air being pulled from his lungs as his hostility drained at the clouded emotions in the air. He wasn't cut out for this. He did not sign up for dealing with people. He signed up for destroying monsters. He raised is open hand to his forehead, rubbing and willing away the impending migraine he could sense approaching.

"Whatever, fine," he scoffed. "Let's go fulfill your death wish. But there's no way you're going anywhere looking like that."


Dean hammered away against his keyboard, searching for any clue he could find. He could hear the soft spray of the shower, from the bathroom. It had been some time since he had sent the man in there to clean himself up, but he knew there was plenty more to wash away besides the blood. Dean hoped he could find something, anything that would point him in the right direction before the man came out, but he knew there would be nothing.

There had been the girl behind the bakery, the guy by the auto-shop, another girl downtown, but nothing in common. There was nothing here to suggest it wasn't just random killings. And random killings make a trail hard to find.

This hard-head was his only lead.

He sighed and leaned back, tipping his chair. This job was already complicated enough without the blue eyed death wish mucking things up. Trauma can only excuse so much rude behavior. Most people are just grateful and ready to get away from him and anything else to do with the supernatural. This guy had some kind of crazy nerve imposing on Dean like this.

The sound of the tap faded into the quiet of the rest of the motel room. Dean shut the laptop with a soft, plastic snap and shoved his chair away from the small wooden table to face the door. It was going to take a bit of maneuvering to make the most of this situation.

The man walked out rubbing a white towel into his dark hair, the t-shirt and jeans Dean had loaned just a bit too baggy. He looked to be in this thirties, like a boring family man accountant. For the most part, he at least looked way better than when he'd went into the bathroom. Dean leaned over in his chair, ready to begin prying the information away from this salaryman.

"So, dude-"

"Castiel," interrupted the man, looking up from his furious towel wringing.

"Casawhatsit?" questioned Dean, frowning.

"Castiel. It is my name," he responded, dropping the towel into the nearby hamper, and turning to give Dean his full attention.

"Ooookay, Castiel," Dean said slowly, testing the odd name. Not that this his odd name mattered at all in this situation. "So-"

"And your name?" Castiel interrupted again. Dean rolled his eyes.

"It's Dean. Look are you going to give me the info or are we just going to dance all night?" he rushed, impatiently.

Castiel tiled his head slight, the effect quizzical. "Why would we dance? Does that help?"

Castiel's expression revealed that he was dead serious. Of course Dean had picked up a weirdo. This guy is awfully damn calm for all that he's seen tonight.

"Look just tell me what you know," Dean said, attempting to redirect the conversation to something productive once more.

"If I tell you, you'll just leave me behind," replied Castiel, managing to sound almost petulant despite his voice that Dean was convinced was composed of primarily gravel.

Dean exhaled slowly as he brought his hand back to his migraine, soothing his building frustration and composing himself to deal properly with this complication. Castiel just stared silently, his excessive patience upping his weirdness factor in Dean's eyes.

"My plan tonight is to get some rest tonight and go crashing the nest in the morning, when they're weak. You can come with me then," he explained. Castiel continued staring unflinchingly in Dean's direction, obviously unconvinced. Dean exhaled again and brought his eyes up to meet the chilling visage.

"Castiel, I will not go without you, but I need to make a plan," he said, with a sturdy gaze and practiced ease.

Castiel stayed still for a moment more, before his muscles visibly relaxed, his combative state loosened temporarily. Dean could now see the weariness in this man's body. The dark circles under his eyes suggested that not all of it was from the events tonight.

"I think what you are seeking may be at the hospital. There have been some..." Castiel hesitated. "Some strange occurrences."

"Such as?"

"Such as a depleted blood supply. I assume that is relevant to this issue." He paused considerately before continuing, "And I think that there might have been those there who held a grudge against me, enough to come after me tonight."

"Man, what the hell did you do to make people at a hospital angry at you?" Dean inquired, almost amused.

"It is not of import," Castiel insisted. Weirdness factor up another level.

"Well, whatever," Dean replied, eager to on and push his plan forward. "You can sleep in the bed. I can sleep on the couch after I get some basic outlines of what's going to happen tomorrow for us ready."

Castiel looked hesitant once again at Dean's suggestion.

"Look dude, you and I both know you need some sleep or you're going to collapse two feet outside of that door," Dean lectured, pointing his finger at the hotel room exit. "The least you can do is listen to me right now. I know what I'm doing here."

Castiel considered the words, and seemed to their points agreeable, as his muscles relaxed even farther. He glanced towards the bed, but turned back towards Dean before moving to sleep.

"Thank you, Dean, for saving my life," he announced, with pure sincerity dripping from his words.

"Uh, sure dude," stammered Dean, his big-man-in-charge persona faltering for a moment. Castiel nodded towards them then set off to bury himself in the blankets. Dean opened his laptop back up and tapping away at the keyboard, the sound of the keys soothing and agreeable.

Within minutes Castiel had given into the exhaustion that had plagued his body. Dean listened to the evening of Castiel's breath, the signs of a deep sleep. With that as his signal, Dean pried himself quietly from his chair and proceeded out the front door with only one short glance back to make sure he was unseen.


Clearly this hadn't been one of Dean's better thought out plans. He stood door of his motel room, machete clutched in one hand, his other hand hanging at his side with blood dripping from a sizable gash in his forearm. His body had definitely seen better days, but also worse for that matter. He was now faced with the decision of opening the door, or keeping his weapon in hand and ready to go. His foggy internal debate, however, was silenced by the door flinging itself open in front of him.

In the doorway opposite him stood Castiel, poised as though about to take flight, hair spreading itself out in a million different directions. Apparently he had just woken up. Good timing.

Castiel took once glance up and down to ascertain Dean's status, before setting his mouth in a hard line. He reached and pulled the machete from Dean's hands while simultaneous lifting his harm to drag it around his own shoulders. Castiel's thinner frame pressed up against Dean's own as he managed to shift most of their weight to himself, guiding Dean back into the motel and into the nearby chair. Dean relished in the relief of having all of his weight off of his leg.

"Do you have a first-aid kit?" requested, sounding business like. His voice and mannerisms told Dean that he was in control of this situation.

"In the car," Dean said, pulling his keys out of his pocket with his good hand. Castiel snatched them wordlessly and directed himself to the parking lot. Dean's lack of sleep and injuries felt heavy on his eyelids. His thoughts melted into each other, backed up behind a strong urge to retrieve his weapon.

"Dean, I'm going to need to to stay awake," urged Castiel, who had suddenly appeared in front of him again, with medical supplies in tow.

"Yeah yeah," Dean wheezed. "s'fine, happens all the time." Castiel frowned wordlessly, opting instead to move towards Dean's injuries. He grabbed Dean's good hand, shoving a patch of gauze into it and pressing it firmly to the gash on his other arm.

"Can you hold this here?" Castiel stressed putting slightly more pressure on Dean's hand.

"Yeah, I got it," Dean groaned. Dean felt the warmth of Castiel's hand leave his own as he moved to try to examine other injuries.

"Keep talking to me," Castiel commanded authoritatively, now moving with scissors to Dean's jeans to access his leg.

"Dude if you wanted my pants off all you had to do is say so," Dean jeered drowsily.

"This is easier and more efficient," Castiel pointed out matter of fact. No sense of humor on this one.

"Ruins my jeans though," Dean nagged down at Castiel ripping the fabric away from his legs.

"You could turn them into shorts," Castiel supplied helpfully.

"I don't do shorts," scowled Dean. "Nobody man has ever looked cool in shorts."

"And I'm sure looking cool is the biggest concern in your field," quipped Castiel. Was that sarcasm Dean detected?

"What do you know anyway?" Dean huffed, annoyed at the jab at his decision making.

"I know this," said Castiel, gesturing at Dean's body. "I am a doctor."

Oh, that would make sense, thought Dean. He wondered how that had not occurred to him before. He pondered what else he had missed the past few days. Clearly he was rusting a little if the results of this job had anything to say.

"You went without me," Castiel spoke, his voice even, but his displeasure obvious.

"Yeah, I did," started Dean, defensively. He didn't get paid enough for this. He didn't get paid at all.

"You lied to me," stated Castiel, now clearly accusatory even as he continued working without pause. With that, Dean felt his frustration with this clearly insane individual boiling over.

"Of course I lied to you," Dean snarled. "Are you really stupid or something? Did you think I was going to let you come with me to a nest of vampires? Do you know what would happen if I gave into your little temper tantrum? You would be dead, Castiel. You would be lying on the ground at the hospital with your neck ripped out. So yes, I lied to you. That's what I do, I lie." He felt his blood heating up, fueling his own anger. "Is this really so hard to understand? Do you want to be dead like that woman you were holding?"

"Lessen your pressure," directed Castiel, leaving Dean's leg to pull at the hand that Dean had unconsciously started pushing harder into the wound on his arm. Satisfied with Dean's compliance, he returned to his bandaging. Dean was left in the silence, working to steady his breath and control his temper. He barely knew this guy and he was somehow already completely under his skin.

"You're very kind," Castiel spoke softly, fastening clips to finish the bandage on Dean's leg.

Instantly, Dean's anger was let out like a deflating balloon, leaving behind some sort of confusion and unsatisfaction at Castiel's response to his outburst.

"Dude I don't think you have all your marbles," asserted Dean, eyebrows deepening into a grimace.

"Possibly not," admitted Castiel, and Dean could swear he could hear the corner of a smile tucked between those words.


Dean woke the near the morning the next day, soreness set into his bones, but all of his limbs functional. The bandaging was as professional as Castiel had claimed he was, and Dean was grateful for at least that. His guest however, had seemingly vacated the motel room in the night. All for the best, Dean though. It saved him the trouble of trying to get rid of the guy.

Dean felt his body creaking as he pulled himself out of the bed and gathered his things. There was little enough inside for him to carry out to his car. It seemed Castiel had put the medical supplies away himself before leaving. At least the guy was considerate in that regard.

Dean hauled his duffel onto his shoulder, walking out the door and closing of the motel room, ready to move on from this patchwork of a job. He popped the trunk often to toss the bag in, but stopped, noticing a foreign bag already there, invading his car's space.

Careful and suspicious of possibly dubious contents, he reached down and unzipped the strange bag. On the top of the contents was a plain white button down.

"I told you," Castiel assured from somewhere behind him. "I'm going with you."

Dean resisted the urge to turn around and punch his doctor, but just barely.