Now that Claire is satisfied that Castiel isn't already a goner, she's forced to realize the crappiness of her current situation.
She's stuck, waiting for help, in an abandoned warehouse that smells like damp cardboard and rat piss, with the company of two unconscious men, possibly a dangerous supernatural creature she's never before encountered, and, probably, rats.
She shivers against the cool air, wraps her arms around her shoulders, and hopes the low scritch in the walls is the latter.
"Guess it's just me, you, and Run Away Ralph," she mutters to Castiel before screwing up her face in annoyance. She shouldn't have to do this hopeful, optimistic pep talk thing for him. "So looks like you went and got your angel butt dream-napped. Great job on the whole coming to catch up with me thing, by the way. But don't worry. Me and Dean, we're going to get you out of this. And when we do, you damn well better appreciate that I called that jackass for you."
She tracks his facial features as she speaks, but his slack jawed, closed-eyed expression remains the same.
"Anyway, look, Dean said to tell you whatever you're living out in that goofy brain of yours isn't the real deal. So whatever it is, don't buy into it, okay?"
Still nothing.
Claire glares at the warehouse's grimy, glass walls as she clenches and unclenches her fists in frustration.
She feels powerless.
Talking isn't going to do squat to stop Castiel from becoming nothing more than this Djinn's goddamn snack.
She needs to actually do something.
And, she decides, she can.
She grabs Castiel's arm and tugs at the sleeve of his overcoat until the angel blade falls loose. She drops to the floor to grab it and feels judgingly parental eyes piercing her from behind Castiel's firmly closed lids.
"Don't look at me like that. You're not..." Claire wraps her hand tightly around the hilt, "you're not my dad. Besides, not like you can use it. You're still in dreamland. Besides, I'll give it back."
She picks herself back up before scanning the entirety of the warehouse for anything else that might be useful.
There's not much, aside from several stacks of crumbling cardboard boxes and a few scattered stools, but, luckily, that's really all she needs.
XXX
The gentle rap on Claire's bedroom door is met with an annoyed huff followed by the sound of a drawer being slammed shut. "Go away, Dean."
"It's, uh, not Dean," Castiel says, uncertain who precisely he or Dean are to this particular version of Claire. He has a pretty strong suspicion from the pictures he's just seen, but she's calling Dean by name, so maybe he's wrong.
"Dad," Claire sounds a fraction less annoyed, and, yes, dad ,"Yes, I did my stupid English essay. Yes, I will be downstairs for breakfast and ready for you to take me to school like the good little ten year old you're treating me like. And, no, I will still not acknowledge 'Dean' as my father. What he did was unforgivable, and you know it."
"I agree that Randy did not deserve to die," Castiel starts before realizing that, most likely, Claire's grievances in this reality are a little more mundane.
Claire immediately pulls back her door and demands, "Um, what now? Who the hell is Randy?"
"Randy is...um..." Cas falters, knowing he needs to lie about this but finds that a plausible explanation is simply not forthcoming.
Fortunately, Dean reappears in the hallway and lightly punches his shoulder. "Come on, babe, do you really think this is about my books? That she's upset that I killed off a guy that isn't even a main character? Surprised you even remember him."
"Then, um, what is it about?" Cas asks, glancing hesitantly between Claire's wrathful glare and Dean's forced smile, feeling hopelessly lost.
"Un -frigging- believable," Claire's glare turns on him before she slams her door.
Seemingly undeterred by the clear signal to go away, Dean address the wood, "Kiddo, you still coming down for breakfast? Because chocolate chips can definitely still go in these pancakes."
"That for you or for me, Dean?" Claire spits out spitefully.
"Or I can do that pecan and blueberry thing you two weirdos like," Dean says as he starts tugging Cas down the stairs. "No? Okay. More for me and Dad then."
Once they reach the kitchen, Dean drops into a chair and puts his head on the table. "Teenagers, man. I can't do this anymore."
"She will not always be a teenager," Cas offers.
Dean huffs. "Lot of good that does me right now. I mean, I already apologized."
Cas, still uncertain what exactly has transpired, simply shrugs.
"But still got to deal with these yahoos she's been hanging out with for at least another year. Why can't she hang out with that Kevin brainiac again? Or even your nephew? What's his name Saman-something?"
"Samandriel?" Cas suggests.
"Yeah, him. Never would have pulled a gun on that kid."
Ah. Now Cas thinks that he has solved at least part of the puzzle. "You pulled a gun on one of Claire's friends?"
"Dude, you were there," Dean lifts his head before frowning at Cas. "You don't remember?"
"I do not."
Is he meant to? Are these memories he has truly forgotten or memories falsely constructed by the animator of this reality?
"Yesterday with that Dustin kid? Over here trying to con our straight-A girl scout into robbing the Gas N' Sip on Grove? You really don't remember?"
Cas, still musing, shakes his head.
"You feeling alright? You've been acting funny all morning."
Cas brushes Dean's hand away from his forehead before voicing what has clicked. "Dustin?"
That really is the name of Claire's friend, the boy who worked at The Weiner Hut. So this reality is, at least, made out of partial truths, dependent on his own memory. He can tell that much.
"Yeah, that's the guy, the guy I pulled my sawed-off on when he wouldn't leave after our Claire shot down his offer, clear as a bell, and he wouldn't get out of here. I'm not proud of it, but I can't undo it."
"But you did not pull the trigger?"
Dean's eyes shoot up and his voice turns defensive, "Of course, I didn't pull the damn trigger. The thing wasn't even loaded. I was just trying to scare the kid."
Cas nods. He had suspected as much.
This reality is not as dark as his own. Here, Dean is not a murderer. Here, Claire and Dean may be able to work out their differences.
He wonders, briefly, if this reality has been constructed for this purpose - preparing the rift created between these two. It is the way of angels to attempt fixing problems this way, after all.
However, while he is confident that a supernatural entity has created this reality, he has already ruled out angels. Not only because he would be able to sense their presence, in spite of his limited grace, but also because angel realities tend to be more complex and far less dependent on the truth.
Unfortunately, he's still left with the possibility of witches, demi-gods, and djinni, and he needs to figure out which, quickly.
Therefore, as Claire storms into the kitchen, glaring daggers at Dean, before pulling a box of cereal from the top of the refrigerator, Castiel takes what appears to be his own cell phone from the counter and starts scrolling through his contact list.
It is clear to him that neither Dean nor Claire are acquainted with hunting, but Sam still could be.
He's just found his number when Claire claps her hands on his shoulders. "Are you going to make me walk?"
"Hmm?"
"School, Dad. School. I only go to it every day."
She dangles the keys to the Lincoln over his shoulder and shakes them.
"School. Yes, of course."
XXX
Claire climbs onto the rickety stool before stretching the blade to the rope tethering Cas to the ceiling. "Okay, Castiel. I've got this."
But she's pretty sure she doesn't.
She's piled a stack of cardboard below him to break his fall in the hopes that celestial beings cannot be harmed by dropping onto hard concrete while unconscious.
But she's pretty skeptical about that.
She chews at her lip before starting to slowly saw into the rope. She's barely started when a sound to her back makes the hairs on her neck prickle.
She freezes before turning around slowly.
Dean stands in the open doorway looking at Castiel with no small degree of concern.
But the moment he catches Claire staring, however, the openness of his expression fades into something else.
"Need a hand? I got two."
Claire rolls her eyes. "Hilarious. Now get over here and make sure your boyfriend doesn't dent the floor."