After dropping Sam off at the motel and a quick change of costume, Dean and Castiel headed back out to the Impala and headed off in search of dinner.

Castiel remained pensive in the passenger seat, gazing out the window, Black Sabbath's Voodoo reverberating through the car's speakers (AC/DC's greatest hits had turned up missing shortly after the morning's venture to Biggerson's).

Dean eyed him for a while as they drove in relative silence.

"You good, Cas?"

Castiel turned his eyes forward after a moment, sighing heavily.

"I am sorry, Dean. I do not know what assistance I can be to you in my present condition."

Dean scowled at the angel. He didn't understand why Cas was always so self-effacing when he couldn't get his mojo up. "Cas," he sighed. "Look, man. You were trying to help. You got us a pretty good lead, too. Well, it doesn't make sense, but it was more than we had this morning, right? Sucks you got boned in the process, but don't bail out on us now. You'll get your mojo back."

Castiel nodded curtly, obviously still wallowing in self-pity.

"So what was your revelation, anyway? You know what we're dealing with yet?"

Castiel paused for a long moment. "I still cannot say for certain. The substance that we found at the house is unknown to me, and yet there is something familiar. The other component... eludes me."

The other component. Cas had said that the goop they found was sulfuric, and something else... but he hadn't said what.

"Guess that means we go about it the old-fashioned way. If Sammy doesn't find any lore on the net, tomorrow we head over to Sierra Nevada CC and commandeer their bio lab."

[XXXXXX]

Everything began to fall apart at the diner.

Dean pulled into the lot, easing the Impala into the spot beside a battered old Ford Ranchero.

"Come on, let's get this over with," Dean groused as he got out of the car. Castiel climbed out begrudgingly, following him into the restaurant.

The first clue that something was amiss was the flying mustard bottle that abruptly shattered on the door frame above Dean's head.

The second was the kitchen staff sword fighting with butter knives.

The thing that really gave it away, though, was the two burly, leather clad, heavily tattooed men in each other's faces at the bar, arguing with each other loudly in an outburst of song worthy of Rogers and Hammerstein.

"What the..." Dean gaped as he dodged an errant salad plate.

It was like a bad scene out of all the worst classic movies Dean had ever been forced to watch in his life, all crammed into one place. Thing singing bikers were ramping up their assault of each other into a legitimate fist fight, and there was food flying everywhere. He'd seen his fair share of riots, but this one really took the cake.

"Perhaps we should retreat," Castiel suggested, lingering in the vestibule.

Dean considered Cas's advice for a moment, then proceeded into the devolving chaos, dodging a fork that flew at his head like a guided missile.

Castiel sighed in consternation, resigning to follow close behind Dean.

"Sam?"

Dean froze. He knew that voice.

Taking cover behind the hostess's counter, Dean scanned the area quickly. It didn't take him long- through the kitchen, by the door that led out behind the restaurant, was an awkward, dorky, all too familiar face.

Garth, the wirey little weirdo he just couldn't bring himself to completely dislike, was ushering people out the back door, away from the chaos.

Castiel gave Dean a puzzled look, but followed when Dean started back through the kitchen, narrowly avoiding a misguided lunge from the bus boy as the cook parried.

"Garth," Dean whispered harshly." "What the hell are you doing in California?"

Garth, usually the talkative type, just shrugged, giving Dean a helpless look.

Odd.

Dean shook his head, then made sure everyone was clear, save those actively engaged in the weirdest riot in the history of ever, then pulled the fire alarm- setting off the sprinkler system.

It seemed to do the trick. The singing stopped abruptly and the condiments were no longer flying- even the cook and the bus boy had ceased their epic battle and were now eyeing each other in open confusion.

Dean pulled Castiel through the door after Garth before anyone decided that they should become a target.

[XXXXXX]

"What the hell was that?!" Dean clamored once they were clear of the door.

Garth shifted awkwardly, glancing at Castiel and raising an eyebrow.

Dean followed the young hunter's gaze and shook his head. "... Cas, this is Garth Fitzgerald. Garth, this is Cas- … a friend of mine." Garth was a decent enough guy, but he wasn't about to give him the whole "Angel of the Lord" shpiel.

"Greetings," Castiel nodded to the other man amicably.

"Mind explaining a few things? Like what happened in there, and what you're doing here? You on the rugaru case, too?"

Garth looked perplexed, but still said nothing, looking a little... embarrassed?

"Come on, man, what's with the silent treatment? You're not getting shy on me, are you?" Dean raised an eyebrow. The guy hadn't opened his mouth once other than to call out Sam's name, and he hadn't yet been assaulted by Garth's attack hug. Something smelled wrong.

Garth took a deep breath as though bracing himself.

"For sooth, I find myself elated in thy company. I know'st not what fell evil has't beseig'd this city, nor of what vile creature you speak, t'was a wendigo I sought."

Dean just stared at the younger man, speechless.

"Uh, what..." Dean tried, flabbergasted.

Garth shrugged, pulling a folded newspaper clipping from his pocket, offering it over.

Dean unfolded the clipping and scanned over it. It was the same article that had led Sam and himself to town.

"Nah, wasn't a wendigo. Turns out the dude's wife shot him to death after he went Hannibal on his best friend when he found out his wife was boning him. Wasn't a rugaru, either. Hell, we don't know what it was. What's up with the Shakespeare crap, anyway?"

Garth held up a finger, digging in his pocket again and pulling out a polaroid.

Dean took the photo and raised an eyebrow, showing it to Castiel.

The image showed a patch of unassuming grass and a bit of concrete sidewalk. What appeared to be bubbling up in one spot was some kind of ick that looked suspiciously like the goop they'd found at the Hopphner house.

"Lemme guess. You investigated, found this crap, not long after you sound like freakin' MacBeth?"

Garth shrugged.

"I officially hate this town. Remind me once this is all over never to come to California again."

"Dean, I think perhaps we should vacate the premises before the authorities arrive."

Garth stopped, staring first at Castiel, then at Dean.

"... It's a long freakin' story. Come on, Yoda. You can follow us back to the motel and we'll compare notes, but let's get out of here before this place turns into a shit-storm."

The three rounded the building to the parking lot where Dean stopped, a look of abject horror on his face.

"...Baby," he croaked miserably, looking utterly crestfallen.

All of the cars in the lot had in the last 10 minutes since they arrived had been painted bright pink- and the Impala was no exception.

"Oh baby, what happened to you..." Dean ran his hands over the hood of the car, speaking in soothing, comforting tones.

"Dean," Castiel intoned from the rear of the vehicle, pointing toward a storm drain in the middle of the lot.

Dean and Garth both cast a glance in the direction Cas was indicating, where the same bluish ichor was bubbling up lazily through the grate.

"Ah, screw this crap! And screw this case!"

(Note- While I find it hilarious to make Garth speak in iambic pentameter, I'm really not very good at writing it, so expect a lot of pantomiming from the little guy. Also, pink Impala. It really hurt to write that. Poor Dean!)