The conversation began to dissolve once Cas and Constantine had fully laid out their plan. There was some more argumentative bantering, but nothing changed anyone's mind and soon hunger became an inviting distraction. The Winchesters wanted to leave, but Constantine insisted it'd be safest if everyone stayed at the millhouse until tomorrow. While folks scrounged through the fridge and pantry in search of snacks, Chas threw together a pasta dish to fill in the gaps in people's appetites.
After "dinner" Cas coached Constantine on what to say to Rachel. Once he had it all down and had started in on his first glass of bedtime whiskey, Constantine did some coaching of his own, in the hope Cas would stay "in character" when the time came.
"…and what do we like to say with that hand gesture, Castiel?"
Cas sighed.
"Up yours. 'Tosser.'"
"Can you try saying it like you mean it, though?"
Dean wandered over to them, balancing his own overfull glass of sleepin' whiskey.
"Cas," he said, "You should at least try to do the accent."
"I am 'bloody' trying."
"Come on," said Constantine "Chas does it better than that and he's American as they come."
"What?" said Chas, leaning in from the kitchen.
"Constantine is criticizing my 'sodding' British accent."
"Yikes," said Chas.
"Hey, Sam in there?" said Dean, "Figure we should hunt down our beds for the night."
"Yeah," said Chas. He waved Sam into the room.
"Guest rooms that way," said Constantine, pointing. The brothers nodded and ventured down the hall. Before they got too far, he added, "And boys? Don't go wandering and don't touch anything, okay?"
"There are things here that are volatile," Cas explained. To show willing, he added, "'Bloody dangerous,' that is."
"You know," said Chas as the Winchesters left, "This isn't okay. They know you're British, don't they?"
"What do you suggest we do about it, 'old son'?" Cas asked.
"Christ's sake," Constantine snapped, "You're an angel. Only been around since the bloody dawn of time, right? How can you possibly be this American?"
"I'm sorry," said Cas. After a beat he added, "Mate." Constantine groaned.
"Laryngitis," said Chas.
"Come again?" said Constantine.
"I'll tell them you have laryngitis," said Chas, "You—" he pointed at Cas, "—won't talk unless you have to, and then you'll whisper, and they won't hear your accent."
"Laryngitis," said Constantine, shaking his head, "I dunno, Chas. Doesn't exactly inspire faith."
"Yeah, well, it's more convincing than anything he's said since you started him on this 'bloody awful' impression."
"That's fair," said Cas somberly.
"Alright then," said Constantine, eyeing his nearly empty glass, "Laryngitis." He tossed back the last of the drink.
"So can angels get laryngitis," Chas asked Cas, "Or do we need to start training him to talk like you?"
"Rachel hasn't kept up with human languages for centuries. She makes heavy use of the Gift of Tongues when she spends time on Earth." Castiel's tone implied Rachel should feel bad about this. "She'd be lucky to guess he's speaking English, never mind the accent."
"Convenient," said Chas.
"Hey." It was the taller Winchester, leaning in the doorframe of the hallway he and his brother had just disappeared down, "Not sure how to ask this, but, do any of your guest rooms have beds without um, restraints?"
"Not that I know of," said Constantine, standing with his empty whiskey glass in hand. "We do a lot of exorcisms here. And have a lot of fun." He winked before heading into the kitchen to get a refill. Chas followed him.
In the kitchen Zed was finishing up a pencil drawing that nearly filled a page of her sketchbook: Black smoke swirling around an indistinct figure in a trenchcoat.
"Should I be worried?" said John, indicating the sketch.
"Yes," said Chas.
"Wasn't talking to you."
"Probably," said Zed, setting her pencil down. "Still don't know what this is, but it doesn't look good, does it?"
"Well, I wasn't going to say anything," John joked, "But now you've brought it up, the background could use a little work."
They both glared at him.
"This isn't funny, John," said Chas.
"What do you want from me then?" said John, "You expect me to call the whole operation off now? Have a little faith, mate!" He smiled, a bit manically, and stared Chas down until the ghost of a grin cracked his façade.
Chas sighed.
"Y'know," he said, "Pretty sure impersonating an angel's a new low, even for you."
"First time for everything, old son," said John, grabbing a bottle from the kitchen counter and refilling his glass, "You must know that by now."
"I dunno, John," said Chas, "Doesn't this whole thing seem a little too… convenient?"
"Stranger things…" John said, shrugging, "Right, luv?" Zed was being too quiet for his liking.
"Sure," she distantly, sketching the outline of a pair of wings in an unused corner of the page.
"I think I'm gonna head for bed," said Chas, "'Night." He left.
"'Night," said John.
"Me too," said Zed abruptly, dropping her pencil. She swept from the room without another word.
"'Night…" said John. He looked down at the sketchpad, examining the wings she'd abandoned. They weren't even attached to anything. Or anyone, for that matter. He couldn't say why, but this struck him as morbid and he took a healthy gulp of his drink to chase the feeling away before leaving kitchen.
Castiel was right where he'd left him on the couch, but clearly hadn't staid put the whole time: In his hands was an ornate wooden puzzle box, all sliding bits and tiny levers crammed together on an odd number of sides. The angel's head was bent in concentration as he turned it this way and that.
"Did I not tell you to not touch anything?"
"It's just a puzzle box, Constantine. If it could harm me, I'd be able to tell."
"Famous last words…" John muttered, rolling his eyes, "Think you're going to solve it, do you? It's not a normal puzzle box, you know. It changes. It doesn't like people trying to solve it."
"You've advised against leaving the millhouse before tomorrow and I don't sleep," Castiel replied.
John gave that a moment's thought. He shrugged.
"Fair enough," he conceded, "Just tell me if you get bored with that you won't touch anything else?"
"I don't believe I'm the one you should worry about," said Castiel. He looked up from the puzzle box and nodded at something behind John.
John turned to see one of the Winchesters leaned against a bookshelf, thumbing through an antique spellbook like he owned the place. It was that tall one—Sam, wasn't it?
"Oi! Put that down!"
Sam at least had the decency to look guilty, but—to John's indignation—did not put the book down.
"What? It's not one the 'volatile' things you were talking about."
"Oh everyone's an expert now, eh?" said John, glancing back at Castiel and his "harmless" box. "Blast how 'volatile' it is, it's not yours, so put it down."
"Hey!" Dean sauntered into the room, mostly-finished whiskey in hand, "What's going on in here? Do I have to separate you two?"
"Your brother seems to be struggling with the meaning of the words 'don't touch anything,'" said John. "Bit of a concern, that. Maybe you should have him tested or something."
"Dean," said Sam, "This book. It has the duplicity spell that had us driving around in circles, it's got wardings, exorcisms, location spells, and none of it is stuff I've seen before. If I could just get a couple of hours with it, I think—"
"See what I mean?" said John, pointing, "Like I'm not even here. It's not your bloody book, tosser!"
"Dean, come on," said Sam, "Help me out here."
"Well, Sammy, he's got a point." Dean took a sip of his whiskey. "I mean, how would you feel if he came back to the bunker with us and started touching your stuff?"
"Dean," said Sam.
"Sam," said Dean. He tossed back the remaining liquor in his glass. "Just put the book back."
Sam rolled his eyes but reluctantly put the book back on the shelf.
"Thank you," said John, "And don't think you're going to sneak it out again while I'm not looking either. You read the part about the anti-theft spell?"
"…yeah," said Sam, his shoulders slumping.
"Not worth it, is it?"
"…no."