The store front glittered in the sunlight. The sign above the door read Dean Winchester: Warlock and below that in peeling letters Spells, Consultations, Divinations, and Dream Interpretations.
The man at the hotel's front desk had laughed when he asked for the address and muttered under his breath, "Not another one." Castiel had almost asked what he meant by such a statement, but after getting a whiff of the sharp, cheap liquor mingling with the man's coffee, thought better of it. Humans were complex. He had once seen a Neanderthal bludgeon another to death over a meal. The workings of this planet sometimes eluded him.
The front door was locked; the wards hummed loudly, a tune not unlike that of the Amazon river or the wind through a willow in August. The vibrations were set to a distinct frequency, the sigils carved into the dark wood of the door frame. None of this mattered. The building was not warded against the forces of heaven. The handle clicked softly when turned, and he stepped into the shop with ease. The air heavy with dust motes and spirit energy; there was a ghost nearby then. A bell rang in the loft, alerting the owner to his presence, but Castiel was too immersed in his surroundings to care. Shelves stacked with books lined the walls; a high table ran the length of one. The surface was littered with half-empty jars of grave dirt and poppy seed and dried chicken feet. Drawings of runes, a map of Chicago, and what looked like a family tree spanning millennia were tacked above it.
A sound behind him of soft feet on floorboards, he turned and met the eyes of a disheveled man in flannel pajama bottoms. On his left breast above his heart, there was an anti-possession symbol tattooed in solid black lines. In his hands, a glint of silver.
"Hey, buddy. We're closed." His voice was angry and heavy with sleep.
Castiel squinted the eyes of his vessel, taking in the image. "You are Dean Winchester?"
The silver inched up further until it was almost parallel with the man's thigh. Castiel could make out the short barrel of the gun. He found himself watching the muscles in the arms clench and unclench as the man tried to decide what to do. Out in the street, a car horn honked, a taxi angry that another had cut in front of him. The driver's wife was cheating on him with the butcher.
"Yeah. Normally I'd ask who you were, but I really don't give a shit, man. I'm closed on Sundays, and I have no idea how you got in here. So why don't you just go out the door you came in, and nobody gets hurt." The spirit energy shifted; a soul lurked on his right concealed by a shelf of frog's eyes.
"My name is Castiel Novak."
"Novak, that guy working with Sam?" Dean shifted from one foot to the other, holding the gun loosely at his side now. The weight in his legs distributed strangely, and Castiel wondered how that affected his balance.
"Yes. Your brother called me in as a consultant on the case."
"Uh-huh. That still doesn't explain what you're doing here or how you broke my wards."
"Detective Winchester believes that the case is linked with the Other Realm in some way. A likely explanation given the nature of the artifacts being stolen-"
"I've told Sam everything I know about the case. Listen, man. I've got a hangover, and the fact that you don't blink creeps me the fuck out. Let's do this some other time." Dean turned to climb the stairs again. "Put the wards back up on your way out."
"Did you have sexual relations with Dennis Subtle?" Dean tensed. This was the wrong thing to ask. When Dean turned back to face Castiel, he looked wary.
"What?"
"Your relationship with Dennis Subtle, it's why I am here." Dean came down the stairs and stopped an arm's length away from Castiel. He smelled faintly of whiskey and cigarette smoke, and his gait was strange for a man, a movement of hips not unlike the rotation of smaller solar systems.
"Who the fuck are you?"
Castiel met Dean's gaze, confused, and repeated slowly, "My name is Castiel Novak. I work with your brother Sam."
"No, see, it doesn't work like that," Dean said, pulling back the hammer of the pistol. "You break into my store at the crack of dawn asking me about my sex life. I gotta get a little bit more than a name, sweetheart."
"What would you like to know?"
The spirit now shimmered in a spot behind Dean's left ear. Castiel could hear the faint sound of laughter like it might have been two buildings over. "How you got in here for starters."
"Your warding is incomplete. The pine decreases the latent potency of the spell, and the Swahili word for harm is madhara." The spirit's laughter rang in the air. He could just make out the outline of a man.
"Never had problems before," Dean complained.
"I'm sure I wouldn't know," Castiel replied calmly.
"So why are you here, Agent Novak?"
"To ascertain the nature of your relationship with Dennis Subtle and how it relates to the Other Realm."
Dean sighed, a heavy noise like the weight that rested on his brother's shoulders, and reached his left hand up to twist at an amulet around his neck. It was a bronze effigy of some minor horned deity, and he paid it little mind. "I don't know how you know about that, but there's nothing going on with Dennis and me. Just one night, you know?" Castiel did not, but Dean was not seeking an answer; he felt sure. At least, not an answer to that question. "You're not going to leave, are you?"
"I have been sent here to-"
"Yeah, yeah. I heard you the first 15 times. Suit bullshit. Listen if you're going to hang around, I guess I'll be forced to make coffee. This hangover's not the only thing got me backed into a corner."