Dean finally woke up because of the smell. If there was a fire, he'd better look for Sammy and run. Where was he already...? He remembered a cluttered place, inside a warehouse that housed a few washing machines parts. In the back, they had found the real business where the art thief...
The smell was getting stronger. He didn't have time. Dean forced his eyes open and flailed his arms around. There was more wood on the wall than he remembered, and much more sunlight too. How long had he been out? His finger found a muscled arm and he clung to it:
"Come on Sam, we've gotta run, can't you smell the smoke?"
The arm was uncooperative and fought back:
"Stop it!"
It wasn't Sammy's voice, but it was definitely male, deeply so, so not Ruby's either, and certainly not Crowley's... Dean stopped and sat down. He had been lying on a small brown couch. In front of him was the source of the smoke smell, a mess of black stovepipes running to the ceiling, all coming from a little old open stove. There was wood on the floor, ready to be burned, it seemed. A man was kneeling next to it, glaring at Dean. Two foreign icy blue eyes were making their way into his soul. Dean was about to ask what all this was about when, finally, his brain kicked in.
He would have preferred it didn't. The minutes he had just spent were mercifully free from his brother's death memories. His face must have fallen because something changed in the stare he was still submitted to. It ceased being openly hostile. The eyes lost their focus. Then the head turned to the stove, leaving only a mass of dark unbrushed hair in Dean's line of sight.
Dean lay down, fighting the tears. He wasn't one for crying, especially not with an audience. But freezing his face wasn't helping, not really. It reminded him of Sammy's bitch faces, the ones he loved causing. Sam never cried either, even as a child. If he was upset, he would withdraw, and go read a book and Dean would tease him, like big brothers did, calling him a nerd, while he fixed them dinner. He had looked after Sammy his whole life and that was all for nothing.
He tried going to sleep again, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw Sam fall. Sometimes in slow motion, sometimes so quickly it raised a flow of adrenaline in Dean's system again, even though it was too late. He was trembling under the warm blanket he was under.
A new smell invaded his nostrils. Meat. He heard a small thump next to him:
"You like hamburgers? I made two. I would let you eat on the couch but I just cleaned it the other day."
Dean shook his head and looked behind him. There was a corner bench around a small table, like in diners. Dean wanted to say he wasn't hungry, that he was too upset but his body disagreed. So, he joined the man and took the offered burger. It was delicious, a moment of bliss, soon replaced by bitterness. Sam.
He looked at his host, who didn't look back. The man was pale, he had lines under his eyes and all his movements were very, very slow. Dean had a vague impression that he had heard the guy's name but it wasn't coming back. Well, time to be sociable a little:
"I'm Dean." No reaction. "Dean Winchester."
"I know."
Dean growled:
"And you are...?"
The man sighed and finally looked up:
"My name is Castiel. This is my home and I'm helping a friend hiding you like that. You got other questions?"
The tone was annoyed enough for Dean not to press it. The situation was clear, anyway, he was safe, his thigh hurt horribly and Sammy wasn't there. Although he wanted to know if they had found his body, he doubted that Castiel could tell him. The last mouthfuls of food were hard to swallow.
He got up, putting all his weight on his left leg, when he felt the floor sway. He grabbed the table and put a hand on his forehead. No, he didn't have a fever. He walked cautiously to the couch but Castiel spoke again, in this tired, toneless voice Dean was still not getting used to:
"Perhaps I could show you your room. It was easier to let you sleep in here the other day, but I'd appreciate to have my living room back."
While he opened a door next to the fridge, Dean wondered at the words "other day". How long had he been out?
This time when he felt the room rock, he saw the ceiling lamp move. It didn't feel like an earthquake and anyway, they were too far from California, weren't they? He had no idea where he was but he was sure Henricksen hadn't driven for more than a few hours before dropping him in here.
"I hope you're not seasick. It's normally quite calm but there's a lot of wind outside."
Dean followed Castiel in a small room with a twin bed tucked under a round window:
"What are you babbling about?"
Castiel opened the bed and patted a pillow:
"This is a barge. An old one at that. I don't own a car so this is how I travel."
"You mean a boat?"
"Yes, a boat on a canal. Or rivers, I have a very long itinerary... Only call me if it's important, I need to focus. We'll look at your wound tonight."
A freaking boat... Would it shield him from Crowley or from the FBI? Well, it had until now, it seemed. This Castiel guy didn't sound worried, although Dean could well imagine him staying stoic and maybe a little bored even during a shooting. It was like he didn't have a soul.
The bed swayed, softly, Dean went to sleep. When he woke up, some time later, he didn't move, just looked at the piece of sky he could see through the window. It was grey outside.
