There was blood dripping down Dean's hand under his coat sleeve, a slow fall onto the ground. The alley was quiet and still. The angel banishing sigil that he had hastily drawn on the wall behind the dumpster remained un-activated.
As he had loaded his few purchases into the rear seat of the Impala, the cashier with the solid wooden crucifix appeared. She stepped out from a heavy fire door and tilted her head in that 'connecting to angel radio' way. Dean acted quickly, sliding on the frozen ground to the other side of the smelly food dumpster. By the time he had sliced his lower arm and crudely smudged the symbol onto the rough plastered wall with his fingertips, she had lit a cigarette and was grouching on her cell phone about being asked at the last minute to extend her shift at work. She wasn't an angel. Dean was part relieved and part bothered about his spidey-sense being out of whack.
What would he have done if she was an angel? One of Bartholomew's crew by her appearance, he could have blasted her across the planet, but then what? He tried to work out consequences. There were so many possibilities. He knew firsthand how small changes could delete possible futures. Making a decision was a huge responsibility. Angels were everywhere now, occupied by killing each other maybe, but Dean could cross paths with one or a bus full at any time.
If he asked Castiel to stay a while with him would that put the newly juiced up angel in danger? Should he try and pray to Castiel to stay away? If Cas called him again to tell him which bus he would arrive on, should he put him off?
There was a children's story in a book that he used to read to Lil'Sammy at night. They had lost the tattered book eventually. It had been left behind in some motel room, but the tale of the boy who cried wolf stuck in Dean's mind. The first time and the second time the boy said the wolf had come, the town rallied and hunted for the non-existent beast. But when the attention deprived lonely boy had called the third time, when the wolf was really attacking, no one came. If Dean sent Castiel away a third time, maybe he would never come back. Dean had turned his back on his friend in need twice, maybe a third rejection would be unforgivable, even if the risk this time would be told with honesty. Three strikes and you're out. He couldn't risk it. He'd take the other risk of angel attacks. He'd cut a swath through Purgatory so he could fight alongside Castiel. They would have each other's backs. Dean was as sure of that as he could be of anything now.
Dean wrapped his arm in a clean rag, loaded the car and drove back to the cabin. The state roads had been cleared of snow but the light fall that morning had coated the laneway to the shack in another frozen layer. The Impala was undefeatable and clung to the asphalt. Dean patted her flank like a well loved horse once she was parked around the side. He wished he had thought to bring her tarp from the garage. Nothing he could do now. It wouldn't be Baby's first time exposed to the elements.
Dean set up the battery lights either side of the sofa. He stoked up the stove embers and got a decent blaze going. The water was clean enough to wash. Dean took a brief cold shower using shampoo everywhere. He'd forgotten body wash. He was chilled when he emerged, rapidly dressing in as many layers as possible out of his duffel. He put a clean dressing on his knife wound. A Kleenex wiped the tumbler he had used the previous evening. The first finger of bourbon scorched his gut. It was a good burn, a familiar friend.
Trying not to think of Sam screaming under the angel's control, or lost in a dark limbo, proved impossible. To avoid thoughts of what Sam might be going through was like trying not a pick a scab or a hang nail. Dean had never asked Sam what it was like to be an occupied vessel, too concerned with figuring out what was up with Robo-Sam and then with the aftereffects of The Cage. Dean only had Jimmy's 'chained to a comet' and Donnie the vegetative ex-Raphael vessel to go by. If somehow they got the scheming assbutt out of Sammy, what condition would his brother be in? Dean gulped down glass after glass fighting to think of Busty Asian Babes' centerfold, Rhonda Hurley's panties, Carmelita's maracas, Castiel's hands, Dr Sexy in his boots and scrubs, what Charlie could be doing in Oz… but his mind wasn't listening and everything turned a circle and came back to Sam. Only when his head swam, blood pounding in his ears, body heavy with liquor did Dean finally tip his head back on the arm of the sofa and wish for nightmares of Hell.
He made an effort the next morning. There was another freezing shower and a change of clothes. Dean ate his energy bars like medicine and rehydrated to flush out some of the blood alcohol. When the Greyhound from Minneapolis pulled in, he was leaning on the side of the Impala across the street with his ankles crossed. He saw Castiel rise from a seat on the opposite side and walk down the center of the bus. He was taller than the other disembarking passengers, wearing a suit jacket, and Dean could see his hair was mussed, perhaps from leaning against the glass.
When the bus pulled away Castiel stood straight backed and every inch the garrison warrior. Dean licked his lips nervously. There had been something endearing about human Cas during the little time they had together. Then Castiel saw him. His face changed, eyes more open, corners of his lips turning up. He crossed the street with long distance eating strides, until he was toe to toe, invading Dean's personal space in a way that was both familiar and reassuring.
Castiel searched Dean's eyes, narrowing his own as if he was figuring him out all over again. He reached a hand out and cupped Dean's upper arm. His fingers pressed in offering support and concern. Castiel's lips moved into a compassionate smile, then he spoke low and kindly, "Hello Dean."
Dean gulped down over that damn golf ball in his throat and grabbed onto some of the solace Castiel's touch offered, "Hey Cas."