Summary: Slowly, dreading what he would see, Dean opened the tag on the suitcase that was supposed to be his: Dr. Castiel Novak, Monroe Street 47, Pennsylvania. "Fuck." - Dean picks up the wrong suitcase at the airport and only realizes once he's home.

Disclaimer: As usual, characters are not my own. Just borrowing them and gonna return them safe and sound once I'm done. Idea not mine either this time, but more on that at the end of the chapter.

On with the show!

Dean hated flying. But, unlucky for him, it was still the easiest and fastest way to travel, so he'd sucked it up, swallowed a few pills and tried to sleep through the whole trip.
But it hadn't worked this time.
He had been awake for all of it, turbulences and everything. His knuckles still ached from the hours spent anxiously gripping his seat's arm-rests.

And, to top it all off, his luggage was late. He had been waiting in front of the baggage claim for almost an hour now, staring blankly at the conveyor as it continued to spit out sweet fuck all. People around him were getting nervous too, tapping their feet and muttering in sharp tones, although there was really nothing anyone could do but continue waiting.

Time dragged on; the sun had long since sunk behind the terminal buildings on the horizon when the cases finally appeared. With the luck he'd had today, Dean expected his to be one of the last cases to appear, but by some miracle he found himself thanking a God he didn't believe in as he spotted it rounding the bend of the carousel first in line. He snatched up the handle and hurried off— it was late and the only thing he wanted right now was to get home, flop down on his bed and sleep for at least a week. Maybe two.

He switched the Impala's ignition and slumped forward in the driver's seat, forehead pressed against the wheel; sucked in the first deep breath he'd taken since he'd set foot on that plane. He let the sound of the engine's purring surround him as he sat there for a minute or two, breathing in the comforting smell of leather and motor oil. His baby had always been able to do wonders for his nerves. Before long the two of them were eating up tarmac, and the ride home was over sooner than he expected.

Struggling to keep his eyes open, Dean rummaged around for his door key, managing to miss the lock twice once he'd found it. Finally inside, he dumped everything in a heap on the bedroom floor and peeled off his clothes in record time. Flying always left him itching to shower and brush his teeth, to scrub off the lethargic unease that would cling to his skin long after his feet had hit solid ground. Clad in only a towel, he came back out of the bathroom to fetch his toothbrush; it's still packed, of course, idiot. He lifted his case onto the bed, put in the lock's combination and… nothing.

The case wouldn't open.

He checked the combination again, shook the case a bit. No dice.
Dean frowned. Why won't it open?
It was then that he saw the tag on the case. It was blue. His tag wasn't blue. His had been brown. He was sure of it.
Slowly, dreading what he would see, he opened the tag.

Dr. Castiel Novak
Monroe Street 47
Pennsylvania

"Fuck."

So, here we go. Another story. I am definitly starting too many at once, but oh well. I was too exited about this one to stop, so here it goes.

Huge thanks to Hanna (her tumblr here, go check her out she's awesome!) to whom I owe the story idea and the honour of having her as a beta (or more of a co-writer at this point) to this story. Thanks again!

Hope you liked it, more is on the way if you're interested. Tell me what you thought pretty pretty please? It would make my day.

Well, enough rambling. See ya!