Chapter Two
"Here."
Dean's world goes dark for a moment as his brother dumps an old horse blanket over his head. It doesn't have the greatest smell in the world, but it's warm and it cuts the chill that's started to set into his shivering limbs. "Thanks." He pulls the blanket more tightly around his wet clothes, then a takes a corner of it in hand and uses it to dry off the figure he's holding, carefully smoothing the coarse fabric over the angel's plasticized body with hands that shake.
"Close one, huh, Cas?" He says softly, fondly, dropping the corner and bringing the figure closer to his face to better examine.
It doesn't look as though the untimely dip in the well has had any ill-effects on the angel, now that Castiel has been dried off. Dean hadn't even stopped to think about it before throwing himself down into the hole after the angel. He hadn't bothered to consider how deep it might be or what else might be down there or what would happen if one of the ghosts should return while he was underwater. Now, with the figure back in his hands, he realizes just how stupid his actions were.
But he doesn't regret them for a moment.
Still clutching Cas, he looks up at Sam. His brother is standing stiffly, hands in his pockets as though he has just intruded on some sort of moment.
Which, Dean realizes, isn't entirely untrue. And when had that happened?
"We still need to do the salt and burn part of this salt and burn, huh?" He lightens the mood, grinning. At least his brother hasn't started with his teasing and his knowing glances again. Knowing what, exactly, Dean doesn't know himself.
Sam nods, rubbing at his stiff neck. "Yeah, there should be a family cemetery around the back. The records say they were both interred there."
"Alright," Dean sheds the blanket, ignoring for the moment his still wet clothes. Carefully, he places Cas back in his pocket, checking quickly to make sure that this time the figure is a little more secure. "Let's go."
The rest of the hunt goes entirely without excitement – which is exactly how the first half of the hunt should have gone. Neither ghost puts in another appearance, even when Dean sets their aged corpses alight and tired, battered, but successful, the brothers return to their motel room.
It's incredibly late – early? – when they tiredly flop into their respective beds, Sam only barely taking the time to kick off his shoes and Dean gently perching Cas in place on the bedside table. "Nearly lost you today, buddy," he whispers to the figure as he removes his own shoes. "Let's, uh, let's not do that again."
He grabs the angel and brings him closer. "Ever."
If Dean falls asleep with the figure clutched firmly in his hand, it's only because he's too tired to stick him back on the table.
* * *
Two more ghosts and a geographically misinformed kelpie later and the Winchesters aren't any closer to either returning Cas to normal or locating Lucifer. The devil, it seems, is just as good at hiding as the Antichrist, and no amount of news-scouring or phone calls to Bobby has done anything to rectify this.
The evening of their tangle with the kelpie, Sam suggests taking a break and visiting the local dive bar. It's unusual for his brother to be the one to suggest such a thing, but Dean is never one to turn down an excursion that promises pretty girls and booze.
Mick's is pretty standard as far as middle American bars go. It has just the right balance between welcome and standoffishness that accompanies its brethren in most other small towns. The music, if a little too country for the Winchesters' tastes, isn't loud enough to be an annoyance and there is just the right amount of people to keep the place lively.
Dean makes himself at home in a booth near the billiards table, scoping out the potential for a quick hustle while Sam grabs their drinks.
"Oh, he's cute."
Dean looks up at the pretty girl leaning casually over the table. She's exactly his type, which is to say pleasantly buxom, openly friendly and decidedly female. If her dark hair and blue eyes do anything for him, it's only because they suit her and most definitely not because they remind him of anyone else. "What?" He asks dumbly, before realizing that she's peering at the figure he's been unconsciously turning over in his hands. "Oh. Yeah, I guess."
"Can I see him?"
He hesitates. Since the fall down the well, no one's touched Cas except Dean and a part of him wants to keep it that way. But really, the angel could just be his – no pun intended – wingman here. If he just hands over the figure, he can probably get a number and a warm body to sleep with tonight.
Some part of his traitorous self can't help but ask if it's worth momentarily entrusting Cas to this stranger. This whole thing reminds him of the 'den of iniquity' he had dragged the angel to only a couple of weeks ago. While this girl is certainly no prostitute, the wide-eyed terror on Cas' face during his first encounter with that one at the brothel is the expression Dean imagines would be on his face right now. And he'd give anything to see that again.
"What, no introduction? You only want me for my toys?" Dean beams at the girl, casually sliding Castiel safely back into his pocket and out of sight. Only because he doesn't really need a wingman.
Fortunately, the girl laughs at this. Clearly she wasn't really all that interested in Castiel, it was just a line. "I'm Amelia."
He nearly winces at this, the irony of that name not lost on him. "Dean."
She opens her mouth to respond when Sam returns, sliding his brother's drink towards him as he scoots into his own seat, glancing at Amelia. "Hi."
"... and this is my brother, Sam. Sam, Amelia." Struck suddenly with an inexplicably overwhelming urge to get out of here, Dean rises. "I'll be right back."
If Amelia minds her first choice for the evening getting up and leaving the table, she seems perfectly mollified by his brother's presence, going so far as to take Dean's vacated seat to speak with Sam as he heads out to the parking lot.
Dean hates it when people sit on his car. The hood of the Impala is not a chair, nor is it for leaning on, but this is a peeve that he always seems to forget when it comes down to him doing the same thing. He does it now, leaning against the hood of the car casually, enjoying the slight bite of chill in the evening air. The bar itself casts off enough light that it's not truly dark out here, but if he looks up he can see the stars more clearly than in any city.
With a sigh, he pulls Cas out of his pocket and sets him down on the hood next to him. The silence between them is almost companionable, as though the angel is quiet by choice. Dean knows better and yet manages to pretend that this is just a lull in conversation, like so many they've had before, and that any minute now that grave, rough voice is going to tell him that Lucifer is up to something, that Dean has to save the world.
The figure, of course, says none of these things.
"Dammit, Cas," Dean breaks the silence, finally, lurching back up to his feet and whirling to stare at the figure. "You're in there somewhere, aren't you? I know you are! Fight it, man, use your Grace! Something!" He falls silent, expectant, watching the figure and hoping against all logical reason that any second now Cas – his Cas – is going to break free.
He doesn't.
Dean's next expletive is more of a sigh than anything else. "Fuck."
"Dean?"
Sam is manoeuvring his way towards him through the parking lot, no sign of Amelia. Knowing his brother, Dean thinks that probably he scared her away with his nerdiness or something. Not that Dean really cares though, it's entirely his brother's loss. He knew even before she came up to the table and asked to hold Cas that he wasn't really interested in picking up tonight anyway.
"Oh, hey," Sam, noticing the figure, moves towards it and before Dean can protest has scooped the angel up into his oversized hands and is fiddling with the knife that Castiel is still holding high, poised to stab. "Check it out, I grabbed one of those cocktail umbrellas and I think if we can pop the knife out it'll be really funny if – "
Castiel is snatched out of Sam's hands before he even realizes that Dean was reaching for him.
"Woah, Dean, I just – " The dark look in his brother's eyes is enough to shut Sam up completely.
* * *
Another nightmare interrupts Dean's sleep and although as much as he hates waking up sweaty and terrified, he's starting to get used to these night-time assaults on his subconscious. It's been weeks since the last time he did get a full night's sleep.
When he wakes from this one, panting and sore from where his flailing limbs have collided with furniture, his eyes are drawn not to Sam's bed as they so usually are, but instead to his bedside table. His heart stops, breath catching in his throat when he realizes that Cas is gone.
He sits up, quickly, peering around the room in the hopes of finding a trench coat-garbed stalker-angel watching from the shadows, but there isn't one.
Head whip-panning to the opposite side of the room, he realizes there's no Sam either. His heart sinks somewhere deep into his stomach as he takes in the room more thoroughly. There's no Cas, no Sam, just the mess he's made of his bed, pillows and sheets in a rumpled array strewn about him. He takes a deep, staggering breath and reaches for the pillow on the floor nearest him.
Underneath is Cas, apparently knocked off of the bedside table during his nightmare and the exhale Dean releases is full of relief.
He snatches the figure up immediately, clutching the angel tightly, a lifeline.
If he falls asleep with Castiel clutched in his hands, this time it's intentional.
* * *
Bobby leads them to - and joins them on – their next hunt. A man-witch, playing cards with peoples' years. The idea would naturally be enough to make Dean laugh, that is until he finds himself on the losing end of a poker game. Being somewhere in the vicinity of sixty is not funny, he realizes. Thankfully, as a hunter he's not expected to live that long.
That is, if he ever gets out of the mess that's landed him here in the first place.
All that there is between him and this, this unnaturally advanced old-person-itis is Sam and frankly the idea is terrifying. More worrisome than the thought of Dean stuck like this forever is the thought of Sam suffering the same fate for his benefit.
What had at one time also been a flicker of hope that Patrick, the man-witch could magic Castiel back into Castiel was lost almost as soon as it had appeared, the guy was a bigger dick than all of Cas' angel brethren put together.
Their brew to reverse Patrick's spell had gone awry with the toothpick Sam was supposed to have provided and as Dean scours the man's apartment in search of something – anything – that might possess even the tiniest morsel of the man's needed DNA, he finds himself cursing Cas. Blaming the angel for not being strong enough to break free, for not being here to fix this, to hold Patrick down while Dean deals him some punches.
"Dammit, Cas!" Dean's voice still surprises him, as it has been doing ever since his body's rapid aging. Even if he has to stay like this forever, he'll still probably never get used to hearing himself sound so very old. "Help a guy out here, man," He pulls the figure out of his pocket with arthritic hands that just ache. "Please? Please."
There. On the table. A half empty wine glass.
Surely... He lurches towards it, desperate, when the first spasm hits. It starts out as a mild pain that only serves to stop him in his tracks, then suddenly it blossoms outwards, radiating through his arms and shoulders, burning as his chest tightens uncontrollably. Chest, stomach, arms, neck, all a whirl of pain that brings Dean down to his knees. He hasn't felt anything like this since hell, since his chest cavity literally being ripped open and his heart physically being pulled from his body.
His heart.
"No, fuck no..." The half-eaten cheeseburger should have been the first indicator. The acid reflux was nothing compared to this horrible, burning agony searing through his veins. "Cas," he chokes, losing his grip on the figure, only barely hearing the sound of it hitting the floor when it drops.
He's dying.
Fuck, he's dying and he's never going to see his brother again. He's never going to see Bobby again.
And Cas, Cas is right. Fucking. There. And utterly useless. He can't help Dean any more than Dean can help himself and Dean doesn't know which part of that he's more angry about.
"Cas... Castiel," He reaches out, clawing for the figure, just barely wrapping his hand around it.
The pain is gone. Vanished. Vitality spreads through Dean's body, radiating from his chest outward. If the heart attack was like liquid fire, this reversal is its icy counterpart. When the last of the chilling transformation ends, Dean has Cas clutched tightly in his hands once more and plants a heavy kiss on the top of the figure's head.
"Ask me for a real one when you're bigger, buddy," He announces ecstatically, leaping back up to his feet with all the energy of his thirty-one years. "Dean Winchester is back in business!"
For good measure, he drops a second excited kiss on the angel before sliding Castiel backing into his pocket and racing for the door.
* * *
There had been no one to see Dean's moment of abandon and therefore it goes unmentioned when he is reunited with Bobby and Sam. The kiss seems to have broken a barrier of some sort, though. Now, more than ever, Dean wants his angel back to normal. Wants to know if Cas has been listening and watching this entire time, seeing the world from inside his pocket. Wants to kiss him for real and feel Cas' soft, inexperienced lips against his own.
The revelation should be surprising, but it's not. Dean knows he had almost kissed Castiel that night at the brothel. Then, he'd been plagued with fears that made him question himself, but now his conclusion is pretty simple.
He's not gay.
He's just really into Cas.
Who, if things continue the way they've been going, he is never going to properly see ever again.
"Hey, check this out: man killed in bear attack."
Sam's comment draws Dean out of his reverie, glancing up at his brother with a non-committal shrug and pursed lips. "So? Bears attack people, right? That's a thing."
"In his house?" The incredulous look on Sam's face is enough to bait Dean into peering over his shoulder at the laptop screen, which is how a day later they find themselves in Wellington, Ohio.
The hunt proves to be a mildly amusing one, anyway. A distraught widow claiming to have seen the Incredible Hulk off her husband. He and Sam flip on this one and Sam ends up doing the legwork while Dean stays in the motel room and "researches".
And damn, would he ever love to see Cas' real reaction to Lou Ferrigno ripping through his shirt and rampaging about in green.
Facing the Castiel figure towards the screen seems like it's as close as he's going to get for now anyway.
"Hey," Sam tosses his bag down as he enters, eyes flicking first to Dean, then to Cas. "I see you've been working hard, huh?"
Dean only grins, not bothering to hide his indiscretion. What had Sam expected anyway? Googling 'the Hulk killed my husband' doesn't really turn up the most credible search results. "Find anything?"
His brother shares his findings which Dean decides lean pretty far into the Hulk's favor.
"And I found something else at the scene," Sam reaches into his pocket, pulling out a wad of candy wrappers which he tosses down onto the table in front of him. Dean edges Cas away from this rainstorm of garbage.
"Sure looks like we're dealing with the Trickster, doesn't it?" Dean's jovial attitude and smile turn stormy as he flicks off the computer. "Good, because I've wanted to gank that mother since he killed me at the Mystery Spot."
Sam is silent for a moment, scooping the wrappers into a tidier pile. His eyes fall back on Cas. "Dean, I was thinking. What if we don't try to kill him this time?"
"Why? Because since the other times failed maybe by not killing him, the son of a bitch'll just die?"
"What if he can fix Cas?"
There's no hesitation, Sam just puts it all out on the table. And Dean would be lying if he said it wasn't a blow. It seems like the most logical thing in the world. The Trickster is one of the most powerful things in the cosmos. If the Antichrist is MIA and God's not feeling too charitable, then surely...
"Let's go."
Sam watches as his brother pulls on his coat, pockets Cas and heads for the door before opening his mouth to point out that they don't even know where the Trickster is before the police scanner answers for them.
Old paper mill on route 66.
Right.
* * *
Exciting and fun as getting to live within the world of Dr. Sexy MD is, Dean's already decided that he likes his TV to stay in the TV, thank you very much. Not that he's overly worried for himself, that is – though he wouldn't mind getting zapped into the Playboy channel – but for Cas. With each new incarnation of himself and Sam, he can't help but pat his pocket to ensure that the angel has followed him despite the wardrobe changes.
He's not sure how long the Trickster expects them to play along with his 'game', but he hopes that Castiel makes it through to the end.
So far so good anyway.
Their fourth incarnation seems to be some sort of stupid sitcom version of their lives. Glitzy, Hawaiian motel room – a showier version of the one they've been staying at in Wellington – and reflexively Dean jams a hand into his pocket, closing his fingers around Cas.
"Alright, I yield." Not the words they expected of the all too familiar man who bursts into the room, all smiles. "What have you got in your pocket there, Dean-o?" The Trickster is smiling but there is a hard glint in his eyes.
"I tried to tell you earlier, we need you to – "
"I didn't ask you, Sam." The Trickster eyes Dean greedily. "I asked Dean."
In a way, this is the moment of truth. What they've been working towards all this time, getting the Trickster to change Cas back to normal. Yet Dean can't help but hesitate, feeling both a little possessive and protective of his angel. His fingers tighten around the plastic, thumb rubbing what he hopes is soothingly over Cas' back.
"Dean? I'm waiting."
He sets his jaw and gently pulls Cas out of his pocket.
If he didn't know better, he would have said that he could see the Trickster's eyes widen in shock when he holds out the figure, fingers still wrapped possessively around it but allowing the demi-god a better look.
"What have you boys been getting yourselves into?"
To Dean's relief, he shows no sign of taking Castiel for himself, only eyeing him from a distance. "Something pretty big did this little number."
"The Antichrist," Sam supplies at the same time that Dean asks if the Trickster can help or not.
"Oh, I can fix this," he nods, "And I will, because who can let a brother suffer, am I right? But – " He inclines his head petulantly, "Because you haven't finished my game yet, I'm going to do this – "
Before Dean even realizes that his hands are empty, Cas, the real Cas, is standing next to him.
" - And then do this."
And like that, Cas is gone.
Dean is within inches of the Trickster's face immediately, already feeling bereft without the angel safely tucked away in his pocket. "What did you do to him?"
The Trickster only grins. "Oh, he's not part of the game, Dean-o. I just put him somewhere else."
Dean lunges, but the Trickster repels him with a smirk. "Play the game, boys. And if you play it right, you might find that you don't need your puppy dog angel bow-wow-ing at your heels. Plastic or otherwise."
With that, he's gone too and the Winchesters are forced to live through both an episode of CSI and Knight Rider before they see him again.
When they do, it takes all of Dean's self control not to punch the asshole in the face, especially since a quickly thought up and somewhat last ditch plan has him trapped in a ring of holy oil and completely at their mercy.
"Where is Cas?"
Gabriel, as the Trickster has revealed himself to be, scowls in defeat. Cas is returned to them, in his full, warm, fleshy, Jimmy Novak form, but Dean ignores him for the moment, focusing instead on the archangel before him.
When he leaves the warehouse, Gabriel still trapped inside – though not for long, given the triggered sprinkler system – Dean doesn't bother to look back to make sure Cas and his brother are following him out. He's pretty sure they are.
Except that when Sam joins him outside, Castiel does not. He's gone.
* * *
The angel doesn't return for two days and by then, Dean has resigned himself to the fact that he's fucked everything up. That Cas knows everything that happened when he was trapped in plastic and doesn't feel that way. That he doesn't know anything about what happened and things are merely back to normal for them.
For all that Dean's spent days praying for Cas to be back to normal, he doesn't want normal. He wants – and it takes a lot to admit this, even to himself – he wants more than normal.
So when Castiel appears in the motel parking lot where Dean is digging about in the backseat of the Impala for a misplaced shirt, he's resigned to bad news, an order from Heaven or some sort of other celestial rebuke.
What he doesn't expect is the sheer depth of emotion in the angel's bright, blue eyes. "Dean." Cas takes a step closer to where Dean leans half in the backseat of the car.
He straightens, gaze meeting Castiel's unflinchingly.
The angel plants himself within only a handful of inches of Dean's face, peering up at him through the slight difference in their heights. What might be faint amusement tugs at the corner of his lips, though his brow is furrowed with concentration. "I believe I was promised a kiss. When I'm bigger."
The angel hesitates.
"I'm bigger."