Special thanks for the follows, favorites and reviews so far! SimplyNotHere also gets extra cookies for jumping online after several years just to write a review for me – it's great to be back my old friend! xoxo

Up In Arms
Dean is struggling to deal with Sam's passenger but the game face is more important. Set within Season 9, somewhere between Slumber Party and Heaven Can't Wait; Castiel is human and in hiding.

Bacon and eggs sure tasted damn good after a night of heavy drinking.

Dean Winchester practically inhaled the plate before him. Food rarely did him a disservice and when nursing a hangover, this was on par with a bacon cheeseburger. He'd consumed perhaps too great a quantity of beer and whiskey the previous night, trying to drink away how he felt about the fact that Sam unknowingly had angelic company.

Sam would be pissed if he found out. However, Dean was willing to make sure that never happened even if it killed him. He'd only agreed in the first place as Ezekiel had promised it was the only way to keep his brother alive while he slowly pieced him back together from the inside out. Dean was confident they could do it without the younger Winchester even knowing what was happening.

Speaking of Sam, the 30-year-old breezed in clad in navy sweatpants that would probably come to Dean's shoulders, a grey t-shirt clinging to his bough frame. The sweat patches and trainers told him his brother had been out for a run. Damn that kid was a freak.

He took a long slurp of coffee, sighing contentedly as the caffeinated liquid further disintegrated the pounding in his head.

"So get this, back in 1943 there was a string of killings over in Bloomfield, Iowa," Sam was saying, a stack of papers in one hand having just walked in with them. He put them on the counter as he poured himself a steaming cup before bringing it all over to the kitchen table. Dean assumed he'd done this research the previous night given his current post-run state. "The so-called perp was never found but interview records detail some peculiar stuff. Things like random items moving around victims' homes or vanishing."

Dean grunted in response, inviting Sasquatch to continue while he savored his breakfast. When the nerd was in research mode it was easier to just let him talk.

"Even one guy, Eli Patrick-Jones, husband of victim Sarah, claimed he saw a figure of a young woman. Then, similar incidents started popping up about 6 days ago. That's a 70-year gap almost to the day."

That caught Dean's attention. "You thinking a vengeful spirit that's, what, getting its kicks messing with people before killing them?" Dean managed through a mouthful.

"No obvious connection between the victims, past or present, but there's definitely something there. I reckon we should check it out."

Dean considered, shoveling down his last mouthful of food and washing it down with the last drop of coffee. It would feel good to take Baby out on the wide open road again. After their last job over in Illinois, his pride and joy had been making some weirder than usual noises so he'd spent the past week working on her. He was content she was now road-ready again; his concern now was his brother health. "How far?"

"A couple of hundred miles, if we leave now we can be there, checked in and ready to start by three."

"You feeling up to it? You know I'd rather you stay here until you're 100%." The trials had taken their toll which was the whole reason for the angel possession in the first place. He didn't particularly want to risk Sam's life when Ezekiel was already working at full power within him and, hell, that was on top of resurrecting Charlie.

"Dean, we've been holed up here long enough. We have a case and I'm fine," Sam insisted, nonchalantly sipping from his mug.

"Alright, fine," Dean replied, standing and stretching his arms above his head before heading to the door. "But take a shower first, you stink."

The hunter loosened his tie as he flopped back onto the thick navy sheets. Playing FBI Agents was fun and necessary but also draining, and not because of his hangover which had abated once they'd set off on the road. It was the acting, Agents Rutherford and Banks having to show law enforcement they were business, avoiding the awkward questions. Dean could never be an actor for a living.

He let out a long breath, feeling his muscles relax while Sam fussed around changing. Dean couldn't be bothered to take his fed suit off yet, savoring the opportunity to rest. After driving 6 hours to Bloomfield, finding a motel (Dean smirking at the name – Mustang Country), they'd hit the precinct to follow up on Sam's findings of vanishing possessions and murder victims. They had a few more leads to consider tomorrow, for now, Dean was exhausted and needed a minute.

The sudden collision of the pillow with his face ended that however, as he sat bolt upright giving the culprit a look that clearly said what the hell, man?

"Dude, we need an extension cable," Sam said, pulling a green shirt over his head. "This place has just the two sockets occupied by the bedside lamps."

"So?" Dean retorted, annoyed.

Sam shot him a deadpan glare. "Funnily enough Dean, laptops don't charge themselves and it's already getting dark out."

"You're a grown man, Sammy, pretty sure you can walk yourself down the street." Dean kicked the pillow that had assaulted him. It flew unceremoniously into the kitchenette, taking a mug with it which rolled before crashing to the floor. God, he needed a drink.

Sam moved to snatch up his pillow, obviously pissed off. "What the hell's wrong with you? You've been out of sorts all day and now you're being careless?"

"I'm fine, Sam," he shot back, taking his suit jacket off and starting to unbutton his shirt. He was not in the mood for this, his stomach was practically shouting at him.

"Yeah sure, and the copious amounts of alcohol you consume every night really show that."

Dean ignored him, scooping up his duffel bag and unzipping it, picking out his jeans and a t-shirt.

Sam pressed on. "Sometimes it's like you forget I can read you, Dean. Is this about the trials still? What's got you so wound up?"

"Nothing, Sam!" Dean lied through his teeth, stripping off his shirt and trousers. "I'm just tired, okay. Let's just go find a diner and get some food so then I can hit the sack. I'll clean the mess up later."

"Dean Winchester, you must avoid causing Sam significant stress."

The abrupt change in tone made Dean almost reach for the salt on instinct. He'd almost forgotten about his brother's shotgun driver. "Dammit Zeke, can't you shut his ass up?"

"I think we both know that would only make Sam all the more suspicious," the angel replied.

Dean rolled his eyes, stupid angels. "How's the internal repair going?"

"Like I said, if you avoid causing Sam significant stress the process will be faster."

Dean wanted to punch a wall. It was a dick move of Zeke to take control of Sam during a spat, even if he was trying to concentrate on healing him. "Whatever."

"What?"

Glancing up, his brother was back, Ezekiel having retreated undetected back within Sam's subconscious. He sighed, moving to hang his suit up. "Look, I'm sorry okay? I promise you I'm fine, it's you we should be worried about. If you want your damn charger lead we'll get one. You know I get cranky when I'm hungry, just don't give me a Snickers."

Sam didn't look convinced but said nothing back, his brows furrowed, nodding his head. The eldest knew he hadn't heard the last of this but at that moment he couldn't care less.

"Great. Now let's go get some grub before I eat a table," Dean announced, the lightness in his tone only half forced.

He still needed that drink.

You know when you tell yourself you'll aim for some fluff because there is too much angst in your life? Yeah NOPE. Sorry guys, apparently angst-ridden Dean is the only one talking. Please review and let me know what you think, I promise cookies!