Warning: This chapter references to self harm of a minor character. I'm not sure if it would be enough to be triggering, which is why I'm including this warning, just to be safe. If you want to avoid that part, skip the next fews paragraphs after the line "Castiel winced and braced himself..." Also, I'm adding another trigger warning for torture.
CHAPTER 8
Thankfully, it didn't take terribly long for Castiel's hangover to subside. Not as long as he had feared that it would take, at least. He spent the first couple hours of the drive leaning against the back window with Sam's crumpled-up hoodie tucked between his head and the glass, keeping his eyes closed and trying to ignore the way that his head was pounding. After that, though, the headache began to disappear. It still bothered him, but it wasn't quite as painful as it had been before. He could open his eyes, at least, and the light was no longer bothering him.
Sam and Dean spent most of the time talking to each other – or, arguing, mostly, which seemed to be a common mode of communication with the two of them. They kept their voices down, though, which was very considerate. And Castiel liked to listen to them. They started off by fighting over what had likely killed the victims they were going to investigate. It was a difficult subject to fight about, considering that they both agreed that the deaths were likely caused by witches, but the two managed somehow. Castiel didn't think that it was serious, though. Neither one of them could make it more than a few minutes without laughing.
When Castiel finally felt well enough to sit up and join in the conversation, Dean and Sam were in the middle of what sounded like a deep discussion of whether vampires of ghosts were shittier. Sam was very clearly winning that one. He was better at arguing that Dean was, even if Dean was louder.
Castiel smiled to himself, and listened silently for another few minutes. It didn't take long for the argument to dissolve into Dean giving up and refusing to say anything, which led Sam to complain about how boring the drive was, and Dean suggested that Sam should stick his complaints into an undesirable region of his body.
During their last drive, Castiel had remained silent in the backseat for its entirety. Now, though, he cleared his throat, drawing the attention of both brothers. He shifted in his seat, feeling a bit uncomfortable about the way that the car was silent but for the low hum of the engine, but said, "I disagree with Sam. I find the drive to be endlessly fascinating."
"That's because you haven't made it a million times," Sam said, at the exact same moment that Dean said, "Ha! Two against one, bitch!"
Castiel was seated directly behind Dean, which meant that he was able to see it when Sam rolled his eyes. "Two against one, what? Since when is this a competition?"
"Since now," Dean said. "And Jimmy and I both think that the drive is awesome, which means that you're wrong, so shut your face."
Sam made a gesture toward Dean with the middle finger of his left hand, and Dean immediately made the same gesture in return, in a way that made Castiel think that it wasn't very complimentary. He frowned. He had seen Sam and Dean argue many times in the past few days, often enough that he no longer believed that their insults were meant in earnest. Even so, he decided to intervene.
"I don't understand how you could grow bored, even if you have seen these roads before," Castiel said. "Personally, I've found that there is much to look at."
"Like what?" Dean asked.
Castiel tilted his head, trying to recall the most interesting sights. "There were several men working with large machines about half an hour ago."
"Yeah, I saw that," Dean said, and snorted. "Traffic's always a bitch where there's construction."
"And the animals!" Castiel continued, with enthusiasm. "We have passed three farms so far, and I have thus far counted three cows, seven horses, two goats, and too many chickens for me to count during the short time it took us to pass their coops." And that was just during the time that he had had his eyes open; he was sure that there were many more than he had missed.
The last of which was particularly exciting. He had seen various farms while they had been driving to the Maison House, but today had been his first time ever seeing chickens, and he had gotten the chance to see them in such a large number. It was exhilarating. Although, it did make him wonder why his mind was capable of producing the names for animals that he didn't remember ever seeing, but he mostly pushed those thoughts aside, not wishing to ruin his good mood by thinking too hard about it.
In the front seat, Dean laughed. "Chickens?" he asked. "Really? That's how you get your kicks? Dude, we have got to get you out more."
Castiel frowned. "I am out," he said. "You are taking me to hunt a witch."
Dean nodded. "And thank god for that. Clearly you could use some excitement in your life if you're spazzing out about frickin' chickens."
Castiel's frown deepened, and he tilted his head further, giving Dean a confused look. He even glanced over at Sam, to see if Sam had any insight into what Dean meant, but Sam looked like he wasn't going to be a part of this conversation.
Finally, Castiel asked, "Nearly getting killed twice in the past week while saving both you and your brother from a ghost and a Vetala, respectively, was not enough excitement?"
"Touché," Dean said, and Castiel couldn't see his face, but he was still fairly certain that Dean was grinning. And even though Castiel did not have the slightest idea what Dean meant, he still found himself grinning back.
"Okay, don't try to sugarcoat this or anything, just give it to me straight," Dean said, suddenly turning down the radio and using the rearview mirror to glance back at Castiel. Castiel immediately snapped to attention, looking up to meet Dean's eyes. They had been driving for about four hours at this point. After their discussion about chickens and other interesting sights, Dean had turned on one of his cassettes, and the car had fallen into relative silence, filled only by the wails of the instruments and the screams of the singers. Now, though, the music had been turned down to the point where is nearly faded into the background, which made Castiel think that whatever information Dean was after, it was serious.
Castiel swallowed, nervously wondering what type of personal question Dean was going to ask, but after a moment, he took a deep breath and said, "Yes?"
Dean needed to look back at the road for a moment, but he barely seemed to glance at it before once again returning to staring at Castiel in the mirror. Castiel took another deep breath, trying to brace himself for whatever came next, and then Dean asked, "What do you think of AC/DC?"
Castiel's worry immediately shifted into confusion. He narrowed his eyes, waiting to see if Dean said anything more to clarify his question. He did not. After a moment, Castiel finally answered, "They're nice letters, I suppose. I'm not sure, I've never really thought too much about the alphabet."
"What?" Dean asked. In the passenger seat, Sam began laughing. Dean shook his head, then- "No, dude, this is AC/DC." He reached over and turned up the radio, where a man was currently screaming something about thunder. "Huh?" Dean asked, gesturing toward the radio again, like he wanted to be absolutely certain that Castiel caught his meaning.
Ah. That did make a bit more sense.
"Be careful how you answer," Sam said. "He might kick you out of the car if you get it wrong."
Oh. That was worrying. Castiel leaned forward in his seat so that he could try to look at Dean's face, to try to gauge what the answer should be.
Well, Dean was listening to the music, and this sounded like the same man who had been wailing from the radio for the past hour or so, so that must mean that he liked it, didn't it? Castiel decided to take a guess. "I think that it's wonderful?" he tried, hoping that that was correct.
Dean snorted. "Sam was joking, okay? I'm not going to kick you out if you don't like my music."
"Ah, I understand." Actually, Castiel didn't quite understand the Winchesters' tendency to say the opposite of what they meant, but at least he understood the fact that they tended to do that. He would just have to keep that in mind in the future. "In that case, I think that it is far to loud, and this man seems to do nothing but scream in a way that must be painful for his vocal chords."
"Geez," Dean groaned. "Tell me what you really feel, why don't you?"
Castiel blinked. "I just did."
""Yeah, I got that."
"Then why did you-?"
"Never mind, okay?" Dean said. "Everyone's a critic. You know what? Brian Johnson was an absolute friggin genius."
"That may be true," Castiel said, "but I don't understand how his IQ would be related to his musical ability."
"A musical genius, Jimmy!"
Castiel decided that he should just give up.
"You know," Sam suddenly said. "It's two against one now. Why don't we try looking for a different station for once? Maybe something that plays songs written sometime in the last decade."
"What, so we can play your teenybopper crap?" Dean scoffed. "No way, Sammy. My Zepplin and AC/DC are sacred."
Sam scowled and hit Dean in the arm. "That's not what I listen to."
"What was that?" Dean asked, reaching for the volume dial and turning it way up, then screaming over the noise, "I can't hear you! The music is too loud!"
"Bitch!" Sam screamed. Or, Castiel was reasonably sure that that had been what Sam had said. It was a bit difficult to say for sure, what with the volume of the screaming. Castiel was fairly sure that he was going to go deaf.
Dean just grinned, then turned his head to glance back at Castiel for a second.
"Don't worry," Dean called. "This stuff grows on you, just wait and see. We'll make a classic rock fan out of you yet!"
"Okay, stay calm," Dean told him in a low voice as they approached the house. Castiel thought that that would be difficult advice to follow, considering that the house was surrounded by police cars and covered in crime scene tape. Still, he took a deep breath and nodded and Dean, who nodded back encouragingly. "Keep to the back and let us do the talking," Dean continued. "They won't even realize that you don't have a badge."
"Alright," Castiel said, and tried not to let it show that he wasn't nearly as confident.
There had been a fourth murder during the drive down here. Sam hadn't been able to get any details, other than the fact that the newspaper described it as "suspicious". But considering that they were in a small town that didn't typically see much violence, they'd decided that it was safe to assume that this murder was related to the other three.
Sam and Dean led the way into the house, with Castiel following, trying to hide behind them slightly. He made a point of keeping his head up and attempting to act casual, as Sam had told him to do on the drive over here, but it was difficult to play the part, when part of his was certain that someone would point to him at any moment and call that he was an imposter.
It didn't help that he stood out even among Sam and Dean. He was wearing a pair of Dean's black pants and a white button up shirt that fit him fairly well, as well as a tie (which Dean had had to tie for him, as Castiel had been utterly unable to figure out how to do it correctly, even after Sam had repeatedly demonstrated it to him). But though Dean owned an extra suit coat that Castiel could have borrowed, it was slightly too large in the shoulders, just enough to make it clear that the jacket wasn't his. Sam and Dean had seemed confident that Castiel was dressed up enough that nobody would question the fact that he didn't wear a full suit. Castiel wasn't so sure.
They made it inside the house without any issue, though a police officer did approach them as they headed for the living room. Castiel nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the officer eyeing him suspiciously. Dean and Sam, however, hardly reacted. Instead, they simply reached into their coats and flipped open their badges.
"Agents Malcolm and Angus, FBI," Dean said, as the brothers held up their badges just long enough for the officer to get a glimpse of them, then slipped them back into their coats. "This is our specialist, Dr. Young. He's here to consult on this case."
"Bringing in a specialist, huh?" the officer asked, and grinned as he stepped aside to allow them into the room. "Good idea. This is like nothing I've ever seen before, to be honest. I wouldn't know where to begin."
"Why don't you let us go take a look?" Sam suggested. "We'll come find you if we need anything."
"Sure, no problem," the officer said, looking over at Sam for the first time, then doing a bit of a double take. "Woah, looks like you must've been in a pretty bad accident."
Castiel almost wasn't sure what the officer meant, until Sam reached up and lightly touched the bandage on his neck, which was still covering his stitched-up skin. "It's fine," Sam said simply, in a voice that made it clear that he didn't want the subject to continue.
The officer, though, didn't seem to pick up on that. "You sure you're cleared for active duty already? Neck wounds are a bitch, aren't they?"
"Why don't you let us take a look at the crime scene and do our jobs?" Dean snapped.
Castiel had thought that that would just make the officer angry, but it seemed to work. "Body's through that door," the officer said with a scowl, and then he walked away, muttering something under his breath about idiotic agents who think that they're better than everyone else.
And just like that, the three of them were alone in the crime scene.
"See?" Dean said in a low voice, grinning at Castiel. "They didn't even question it!"
"That's not my name," Castiel responded, then added, "Those were not any of our names."
"Shhh!" Dean hissed, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that nobody was around, then leaning closer to Castiel. "Make sure that you don't let anyone hear you say that, okay? And as far as the officers are concerned, yes, those are our names. You got that?"
Castiel nodded. "I apologize, Agent Malcolm," he said.
Dean clasped him on the shoulder, so apparently all was forgiven. "Don't mention it, Dr. Young," he said. "Now come on, let's go check out the body."
They weren't able to check out the body, after all. Not here, at least. The body had apparently already been transported to the nearest autopsy lab. Or, that was what Sam said had likely happened, at least, since the body was nowhere to be found. There was, however, an absolutely ridiculous amount of blood.
"This doesn't seem natural," Castiel said as he slowly looked around, staring at the various splatters that covered every surface of the room. He didn't even dare to leave the doorway, for fear of stepping on one of the splatters and contaminating the crime scene.
Sam, it seemed, didn't have the same concern. There was a small box near the doorway, containing pieces of some sort of fabric. Sam took two of them and pulled one over each of his shoes, then stepped into the room, being careful to avoid the worse of the blood. Dean, meanwhile, remained in the doorway with Castiel.
"Yeah," Dean said, rolling his eyes at Castiel, "I'd say that the fact that the blood is no longer inside her body is pretty unnatural."
"Actually, I'm fairly certain that bleeding itself is entirely natural, if unpleasant," Castiel corrected him, making Dean roll his eyes again. Castiel chose to ignore him, and instead pointed up toward the ceiling, where they could see the dried stains where a burst of blood had struck it. "I was referring to that, specifically. I can't imagine what could have caused her to bleed so dramatically."
"No EMF," Sam announced, holding up the small device. He must have drawn it from his pocket when Castiel hadn't been looking, because he tucked it away in his pocket now.
"Witches," Dean announced, loud enough that it made Castiel remember Dean's earlier words about volume, and he checked over his shoulder to ensure that they were truly alone. "I'm telling you, it's gotta be witches. They're always into the nasty deaths."
"Toss me some gloves," Sam said. There was another box sitting beside the first, this one containing rubber gloves, and Dean did as Sam said. Sam pulled them on, then bent down, being very careful to avoid getting blood on his suit as he did so. Castiel thought that it was a pointless hope, but Sam seemed well adept at keeping his clothes clean amidst messy crime scenes, as he somehow managed it.
Sam checked first under the couch and chairs, then though all the drawers of the small table, and finally behind the TV before he announced, "It is witches." He bent down, then pulled up a small brown leather bag.
"Wha-?" Castiel began to ask.
He didn't need to say anything more before Dean answered, "Hex bag. Witches use them to work their spells. Usually bad ones."
Sam nodded and slipped the bag into his pocket. "Now we just need to figure out if we're dealing with a whole coven, or if it's just one witch with a vendetta."
"You keep looking around," Dean told Sam. "I'll question the officer, see if there's any connection between the vics."
"Sounds good," Sam said, and headed back into the room. Dean turned and walked away. Nobody had told Castiel where he should go, so after a moment of indecision, he turned and followed after Dean.
"Hey, you," Dean called to the officer, making him glance up. "Any thoughts on whether this death is related to the other three this week?"
The officer frowned and shrugged. "They don't really look similar, but then, I don't know. We don't usually get this much crime up here." The man frowned, looking suddenly nervous and unsure, and Castiel found himself wondering whether or not he had ever had to work a murder case before. The man couldn't have been older than Sam or Dean, so he likely hadn't been an officer for long.
"Any connection between them all?" Dean asked. The officer frowned, and Dean elaborated, "Maybe they worked at the same place, frequented the same bar, all visited the same store?"
"Had some involvement with witchcraft or other dark arts?" Castiel added as another example.
The officer immediately looked at him. "Uh-"
"We're just trying to rule out all possibilities," Dean cut in smoothly. "Make sure that they weren't involved in anything that could get them into trouble."
The officer nodded, then froze. "Actually, there was this one lady," the officer said. "Malinda Honeywell, I think her name is. She got into some trouble a few weeks ago, something about killing the neighbor's cat. I got called in to drag her to the station; she started screaming that she'd been framed. She got pretty crazy in the end, kept going on about revenge and making people regret it. Then I don't know, she started going on about this magic stuff. I'm pretty sure she was high or something, because it didn't make any sense."
"High?" Castiel asked. "Like, her physical location? Did she climb on something?" Or, perhaps he should be asking Dean whether witches had the ability to fly.
The officer just stared at Castiel and didn't say a word.
"Did she have any connection to the victims?" Dean asked quickly.
The officer frowned, thinking that over. "I think that she babysat for the first woman who died. And I know that this victim and her went to some cooking class together, but I don't know about the others."
"Thanks for your time," Dean said, and turned to walk back toward Sam, hooking his arm around Castiel's to drag him along. As soon as they were far enough away, Dean bent his head toward Castiel's and whispered, "What do you want to bet that this Honeywell lady is our killer?" Castiel did not have the slightest idea what the odds were, nor did he have any money to bet, so he stayed silent. Which turned out to be a good decision, because a moment later, Dean continued, "And what the hell was with those questions? I told you to let me do the talking!"
Castiel hunched his shoulders defensively. "It helped us to get the information that we needed."
"Yeah, luckily. Things could have gotten so bad when you started talking about witchcraft, you know," Dean said. Then a second later, he laughed. "Oh my god, that guy's face was priceless. I think that you freaked him out big time!"
They had reached the door to the crime scene now. "What's up?" Sam asked as he came over to join them.
"Jimmy is officially never going to be allowed to join us for an investigation again," Dean announced.
But he was still laughing while he said it.
It turned out that every single one of the victims had been part of the cooking class that Malinda Honeywell was a part of.
"Sounds like a connection to me," Dean said as he tossed his duffle onto the nearest bed. They had spoken to the rest of the victims' families earlier that day, during which both Winchesters had insisted that Castiel not say anything, and Castiel had mostly listened. Now, they had decided to check into a motel room for the evening, so that they could get changed out into something a bit more comfortable. Sam was already digging through his bag, pulling out a couple different shirts and his brown jacket, and Dean quickly followed suit.
"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Especially with the other death."
Castiel nodded. They had discovered that there had been another member of the same class that had reached an unexpected end roughly a week earlier. He had fallen down a flight of stairs, which in and of itself wasn't suspicious. Coupled with the fact that the rest of the members were dying in such dramatic ways, though, Castiel was reasonably certain that that man's death was also involved somehow.
Dean made a face. "Anyone else in that class who's still alive?"
"One person," Sam said, pulling his jeans from the bag and yanking off his tie. "The teacher, Emmett Jackson."
Castiel frowned, walking over to sit on the edge of Sam's bed as he thought. "So, we should likely go speak to this Jackson, as he will likely be the next victim," Castiel said. "But-" He paused, considering. Sam seemed somewhat occupied with removing his button down shirt and pulling an undershirt on in its place, but he nodded for Castiel to continue, and after a moment, Castiel said, "Would it be better to go speak to Malinda Honeywell now, before she has the chance to try to hurt this man?"
"We still don't know for sure that she's the murderer, though," Sam pointed out, reaching for his flannel shirt now. He buttoned it up and pulled on his jacket, then began transferring his weapons from his suit coat to his brown jacket as he added, "We don't have a motive, for one."
"What about the story that the officer told us?" Castiel asked. "How she claimed that she was framed for killing her neighbor's pet?"
"I don't know," Sam said. "You think that she'd kill four people over something like that?"
"Witches are crazy," Dean suddenly said from behind Castiel. "Who knows why they do anything?"
"Sam's right, though," Castiel said, turning back to glance at Dean as he spoke. "We need to-"
His voice cut off.
Dean was also using this time to change out of his FBI costume, and unlike Sam, he wasn't done yet. He had removed his jacket and shirt, and as Castiel watched, he began shrugging on his own plaid shirt, but not before Castiel got a glimpse of his bare chest.
Dean was muscular, and had some sort of tattoo on the left side of his chest, which Castiel had noticed on Sam just a moment earlier, but hadn't paid much attention to. All in all, it shouldn't be anything weird. Privacy had been almost nonexistent at the men's shelter, and Castiel had seen a variety of men in various states of undress, so this shouldn't be any different.
The strange part, though, was that Castiel discovered that he enjoyed Dean's physical appearance. Maybe it was only because he only had a few weeks worth of memories to draw on, but for whatever reason, this was entirely unexpected, and for a moment, Castiel had no idea what to do.
Dean caught him looking. "What?" he demanded, then suddenly hurried to pull his shirt closed.
Castiel cleared his throat. "I was agreeing with Sam, about how we need to figure out what a possible motivation could be."
"Right," Dean said, then grabbed his jeans and jacket from the bed and stomped off toward the bathroom. "You guys figure out a plan, okay? I'm gonna get dressed." He then slammed the door without another word.
Castiel took a deep breath and focused his attention back on the case. "How should we formulate a plan?" he asked, looking over at Sam.
Sam was glancing back and forth between Castiel and the closed bathroom door, a very odd look on his face. For a moment, Castiel almost wondered if Sam had completely forgotten about the witches. But all he said was, "Why don't we head down to investigate Melinda Honeywell's house tonight? See if we can find anything witchy?"
"Good idea," Castiel said, then glanced down at the fancy clothes that he was currently wearing. "Should we dress in our FBI clothes again, and go 'interview' her?" he asked, making sure to make the quotations marks with his fingers.
Sam shook his head. "It's after eight o'clock, too late to pretend to be interviewing her," he said. "I say we just break in and see what we can find. Normally I'd say that we should just wait until tomorrow, but with four deaths in three days, I don't think we want to wait."
"Seems like every case we take nowadays is like that," Dean groused as he exited the bathroom. "It's always go go go with these things. Don't monsters ever take a break?"
"Apparently not," Sam said. He pulled out a gun and checked the magazine (Dean had taught Castiel that word) to make sure that he was loaded, then tucked the gun into the inside pocket of his jacket. "Should we get going?"
"You wanna change clothes first?" Dean asked, looking over at Castiel.
"I am fine," Castiel said, glancing down at himself. The shirt was fairly comfortable, and he had found that he quite liked the way that it looked on him, even more so than the plaid that he usually borrowed from Dean. The tie, however, was choking him slightly – Dean had tied it a bit too tightly this morning. Castiel reached up to loosen it, then decided to just remove it completely. Then, since there was no need to look as formal as he had this morning, he untucked his shirt, then reached up to undo the top button of his shirt. "Thank you for the offer, though," he added, looking over at Dean.
Dean was staring at him, the look on his face similar to the way that Castiel imagined that his own face had looked when he had caught Dean without a shirt.
Slowly, Castiel undid the second button. Dean's eyes didn't appear to leave his fingers the entire time.
That was… interesting, to say the least.
Sam cleared his throat, and both Dean and Castiel immediately turned toward him. "Let's get going," he said, drawing a blade and handing it over to Castiel, who nodded as he took it.
"Might want to grab a jacket," Dean added as he headed for the door.
Castiel nodded. "Thank you," he said, and opened Dean's duffle to pull one out. The one at the top of the bag was made of leather, and looked as good as any of the others, so Castiel pulled it out and started to pull it on.
Dean glanced back, then immediately shook his head. "Not that one," he said.
Castiel paused, one arm pulled through the sleeve already, frowning at Dean. "I thought that you suggested taking a jacket?"
"Any of them but that one," Dean said, and Castiel didn't quite understand, but he nodded and removed his arm from the sleeve, then carefully folded it and set it back down on the bed.
"I'm sorry," Castiel said, looking over at Dean. "I didn't realize that this one was special."
Dean instantly looked embarrassed. "It's not," he said, in a voice that was utterly unconvincing. "I just-" He didn't finish his statement.
Sam glanced at Dean, then at the jacket, a small frown on his face. "Hey, didn't that one used to belong to Dad?"
Dean's scowl increased dramatically, and he shook his head. "Shut up," he muttered. "You two are making way too big of a deal about a stupid jacket," he added, striding over to the bed and grabbing his dark brown jacket from the duffle, then shoving it into Castiel's hands. "Just put this on so that we can leave."
Castiel wanted to point out that Dean was the one who was making this into a big deal, but Sam caught his eye, then shook his head. He's weird about Dad, Sam mouthed, deliberately enough that Castiel could easily read it. And it was obvious that Sam wasn't entirely happy with this, but even so, he added, Don't ask.
Castiel nodded. Clearly there was more going on with Dean and his father than Castiel had known, and if Sam believed that it wasn't his business, then he wouldn't pry. Instead, he simply pulled the jacket that Dean had given him over his arms, and nodded. "I am ready," he said, and the three of them left.
Melinda Honeywell was not the killer.
She was already dead when the three of them arrived at her house.
The house had been completely dark when they'd arrived. Sam had led the way up to the house and easily picked the lock, and they had crept inside. Castiel had kept a tight hold on the knife the entire time, expecting the witch to jump out and curse them at any moment. He wasn't entirely sure how witch curses worked, but based on the ways that the victims had been killed, they didn't at all seem pleasant, and he was hoping that the witch wouldn't place a curse on any of the three of them.
Instead, they had found her lying at the bottom of the staircase, looking for all the world as though she had tripped and fallen. Given the circumstances, though, Castiel found that highly unlikely. And sure enough, it only took about five minutes of looking before they discovered the hex bag hidden beneath a loose floorboard.
"Okay, so if it's not her, then who?" Dean asked, and immediately answered his own question. "Who was that last guy? The one teaching the class?"
"Jackson Brown," Sam reminded him.
Dean nodded. "It's gotta be him," he said.
"Or there's some other connection with the victims, something that we haven't even thought of," Sam countered.
Dean frowned as if he had never thought of that, but after a moment he shrugged it off. "I say that it's that guy," he said. "Let's go try breaking into his house and see if it does any good."
"That sounds like the best possible plan," Castiel agreed. He looked down at Malinda's crumpled body. Her eyes were wide open, staring in front of her with a shocked expression. Something about that didn't seem right. He didn't quite know why, but still, he felt possessed to step forward and gently lower her eyelids, as if that would somehow help things. Sam and Dean didn't say a word.
"Alright, let's go," Castiel said, and took a step toward the doorway.
Then he collapsed.
He didn't know how it happened. One moment, he was perfectly fine, but suddenly it was as though his legs wouldn't support his weight. And his arms wouldn't work, either, so he couldn't push himself up. His ears were ringing, his eyesight going blurry, like the way it had been when he had been drunk, only so much worse.
His brain must have been affected as well, because it was several seconds before he realized that all of this was a terrifying thing. And even after realizing that, it was still a few seconds more before the fear struck him.
He vaguely heard cries that sounded like Sam and Dean's voices, and though the world was shifting in and out of focus, he still saw it when Dean and Sam collapsed beside him. That was what finally awakened his fear, and he tried to cry out, tried to push himself across the floor to get to them, to make sure that they were okay, but nothing was working, he couldn't make his body work.
Then he was unconscious.
There was something tied around Castiel's throat. It didn't restrict his breathing at all, but it was tight enough to be uncomfortable, and for some reason, it was the first thing that he noticed. It wasn't until a few seconds later that he realized that his wrists were tied to the arms of his chair.
He opened his eyes, and relaxed slightly when he realized that Sam and Dean were tied to chairs on either side of him. Having them both captives wasn't the best situation – it would've been vastly better if at least one of them were free, to come to their rescue – but this way, he could at least be certain that they were alive. Sam was tugging hard at his own binds, swearing under his breath as he did, looking far more awake and aware than Castiel felt. Dean was staring down at his bound wrists as if he hadn't quite figured out what was happening, blinking slowly as if he had only just awoken. And they each had a small leather bag tied tight around their throats. Castiel immediately recognized them as the same kinds of hex bags that had been found at both crime scenes.
That explained what the pressure around his throat was from, at least. Castiel glanced down, and sure enough, he could just barely see edge of the bag that was tied tight against his own neck. Castiel wasn't entirely sure what its purpose was, but he could already tell that it wouldn't be good.
"Just so you know," a male voice suddenly said from directly behind Castiel's chair, making him jump and spin his head around so that he could glare at the man smirking down at him, "I had a hex bag waiting for you in the parlor of my house as well. I would have caught you even if you had come after me directly, instead of trying to save poor Malinda."
"Who are you?" Castiel demanded.
It was Sam who answered. "Emmett Jackson," he practically spat. "Isn't it?"
"The one and only," the man – Jackson – said, his smile widening. He circled around the chairs slowly and came to stand in front of them, finally allowing Castiel to get a good look at him. He was older than expected, his hair a shocking white that contrasted sharply with his tanned skin. He was dressed simply, in a purple button down shirt and jeans, much to Castiel's surprise. He didn't know why, but somehow, his manner of speaking had led Castiel to believe that the man's costume would be much more elaborate. Instead, he looked like any random man of the street, if you ignored the long, silver blade that he casually twirled between his fingers.
For the first time, Castiel studied the room. He had looked around when he had first woken, but hadn't paid attention to anything besides the fact that Sam and Dean were alive, well, and also captives. Now, though, he realized that they were likely in a basement – he could see the stairs that led up to the first floor – and that this area was definitely a den of witchcraft. There was a table with a leather mat spread across it, with candles and symbols all around. There was even a human skull on a high shelf, watching them with its empty eye sockets. It was unsettling, but worse than that was the bowl of some mysterious liquid that sat on top of the leather mat, and Castiel turned back toward Jackson rather than staring at it any longer.
"So you were the one who killed those people," Sam said.
For a second, Jackson looked surprised, though Castiel couldn't tell if the emotion was genuine or faked. "Oh, don't tell me that you thought that Ms. Honeywell was the culprit," he said. "Please, that poor girl could barely manage to bake a cake without burning down the community center, let alone work any spells." He tilted his head, considering them. "You really didn't know that, did you? Maybe you weren't as big of threats as I had thought."
Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel could see Dean looking at him. Castiel turned his head slightly. Dean tugged on the rope binding his left wrist, showing that he had gotten it slightly loosened, then nodded at Jackson.
Castiel was fairly sure that he got the message.
"But why would you do something like this?" he demanded. "What was the purpose?"
Jackson turned to Castiel, as he had intended. "You have questions. What a coincidence, so do I."
On his other side, Castiel thought that he saw Sam manage to maneuver his knife from its hiding spot in his sleeve and into his hand.
"You used some sort of hex bag to knock us out," Castiel said quickly. "You knew that we would be in Malinda's house."
"I'd heard that you were asking questions about the recent deaths," Jackson said simply. "I knew what that meant."
"What does it mean?" Castiel asked. No response. Jackson began to turn away, to look toward Sam. Castiel cast him mind around for something to say, and landed on, "Why wouldn't you just kill us outright? Why bring us here?"
Jackson looked back to Castiel. "As I told you before, I have questions," he said.
That was better. Castiel was fairly certain that the Winchesters were making progress on the ropes, though he didn't dare to look at them and check, in case his movement made Jackson notice what they were doing. Instead, Castiel continued to stare Jackson straight in the eyes. "What questions?"
"How you found out about me in the first place, for one," Jackson said. "And how many other hunters know about me. Don't look so surprised," he added, in response to the expression that must have appeared on Castiel's face. "I could tell right away that you weren't FBI. You knew exactly what you were looking for. So I made sure that I was prepared. You have to think ahead if you're going to make it." He stepped closer to Castiel and grabbed the leather bag around his neck, his fist closing tightly around it. "Now, I advise you to answer my questions."
Finally, Castiel understood the purpose of the bags. "You will curse us if we do not answer you."
"I will curse you anyway," Jackson said. "You know that none of you will be getting out of here alive. But if you refuse to tell me what I want to know, then your deaths will be far more painful that you want them to be, and there are so many things that I can do to you before you die."
Castiel swallowed hard, suddenly feeling painfully aware of the way that his heart was beating fast and hard against his chest, but tried to keep his face neutral, so that Jackson wouldn't know that he had made Castiel afraid.
"Now," Jackson said, his voice soft, "answer me."
"We saw the news story on the Internet, and thought that the deaths sounded suspicious," Castiel said. He still didn't dare to look over at Sam or Dean, but he hoped that they were making progress. He wasn't entirely sure how long he could keep talking.
Jackson nodded, as though that had been what he had expected. "My fault, I suppose," he said. "I should've gone for a simpler spell, something that would kill without being detected. But no, I wanted to do better than that. I wanted to intimidate. In hindsight, a stupid decision, but what can you do?"
"But why kill them?" Castiel asked. "What did they do?"
Immediately, Jackson's eyes flashed with anger. "You don't seem to understand which one of us is asking the questions here."
Castiel was vaguely aware that he should be too terrified to function. Instead, though, it was as though the danger made his mind sharper, allowing him to focus completely on keeping Jackson's attention without getting anyone harmed. Even the angels' murmurs in his mind didn't distract him from the task.
Any moment where Jackson was still speaking to Castiel was a moment where he couldn't notice Sam and Dean's attempts to get himself free. If Jackson explained his motive, then that would give them an extra minute or two. So Castiel said, "I will answer anything you like, so long as you first explain why you killed those people."
Jackson gave a vicious tug on the hex bag, momentarily cutting off Castiel's oxygen. He choked, and for a single second, he wondered if this was how he would die, strangled to death in a strange witch's basement. Miraculously, though, Jackson released him after only a moment, and stepped back.
And even more miraculously, he answered.
"That Malinda twit grew suspicious after she took the fall for something that I did," Jackson said, his voice precise and empty of all emotion, as though he were speaking of something that didn't impact him in the slightest. "She shared her concerns with the other members of my class. It wasn't an issue at first – the whole town just believed that she was insane – but then they began to wonder, and to search, and they found things that they shouldn't have, and so they had to be killed."
Castiel opened his mouth, then closed it, trying to make sense of that explanation. After a moment, though, he thought that he understood. "You were the one who killed the neighbor's pet, likely for some sort of spell," he began slowly, reasoning the story out in his head as he spoke. "She somehow realized that it was you, and discovered your witchcraft. And then the rest of the class found out, so you killed them to preserve the secret?"
"Well, it didn't exactly preserve the secret, now did it?" Jackson said. "I was hoping that the first death would be enough to keep them quiet, but after that didn't work, I knew that I was going to have to go hide out somewhere else, anyway. The deaths were just punishment at that point."
Castiel nodded. That made sense, or as much sense as a motive for murder ever could, in the nonsensical way that murders thought.
"Now, your turn to finish giving me answers," Jackson said. He twirled the knife in his hands again, slowly this time. "How many of your other hunter friends know about me?"
Sam and Dean must have nearly freed themselves by now, right? "None," Castiel said, because he couldn't tell whether the truth or a lie would be more beneficial at that moment, so he thought that he may as well be honest.
Jackson shook his head. "Don't try to lie to me."
"It is not a lie."
"I don't believe you," Jackson said. "You expect me to believe that you don't have friends that know where you are right now, and who will come looking for you if you disappear?"
If Castiel had to guess, he would say that it was likely that Dean and Sam did have friends like that. There was Ellen, Ash, and Jo, to name a few, and Castiel thought that there were probably more friends whom the Winchesters had never mentioned to him. However, he didn't think that any of them knew where they were at the moment. He wasn't even sure how long it would take them to notice if the Winchesters went missing, considering that Castiel hadn't seen either Winchester talk to any of those people at all in the past week, so they didn't appear to stay in close contact.
"Let's test this," Jackson suddenly announced, holding up the knife. "Tell me the truth, and the pain will stop."
Castiel winced and braced himself, expecting to be stabbed at any moment. He wasn't. Instead, Jackson rolled up his sleeve, revealing a long line of horizontal scars. Castiel frowned, not understanding.
"I'll start with a small curse," Jackson promised, and smiled. "It's always better to begin small when one has time on their hands. It gives you a lot of time to build up to something far worse." Then he drew the knife sliced along his arm, creating another cut that ran parallel to the others. If the wound hurt him, it didn't show at all on his face. Instead, he merely walked over the bowl that was sitting on the table, and tilted his arm to allow the blood to pour into it as he began chanting in what Castiel instantly recognized as Latin.
"Dolor, descendē in hunc!" Jackson chanted slowly, his eyes closing and his voice taking on an almost lyrical quality. Excruciā virum." Pain, descend upon this man! Torture the man.
As with the spell that he had used to find the Winchesters, Castiel didn't know why he could understand the Latin being spoken, or where he could have possibly learned it. But that was far from his most pressing concern at the moment.
Jackson continued to chant.
"Devorā animum eum, sed non nocē corpori ei."
Devour his mind, but do not harm his body.
Dean and Sam were both sawing harder at the ropes than ever. Castiel wasn't sure if they knew Latin, and if they knew exactly what Jackson was doing. But maybe they were reacting to the fear in Castiel's face, or maybe they just knew that allowing Jackson to finish his spell wasn't a good idea. Castiel just hoped that one of them would free themselves in time.
"Facē virum captivum tuum."
Make the man your prisoner.
There was nothing that Castiel could do, and so he did not try. Instead, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, bracing himself to withstand whatever pain Jackson had in store for him.
It never came.
Instead, Dean began convulsing.
Castiel's eyes flew open the moment that he sensed Dean's movements beside him. Dean's teeth were gritted so tightly that he couldn't even make a sound, but his head was thrown back, so stiff that the veins in his neck seemed to be bulging out of his skin, his entire body seizing so hard that the chair's legs were bouncing off the ground, nearly knocking him over.
"Dean!" he heard Sam scream, and Castiel was fairly certain that he did the same. He couldn't tell, though. He was too busy yanking frantically at his bonds, trying to force himself free, to no avail. The more he struggled, the tighter the ropes seemed to hold him.
It seemed to go on and on, for far longer than Castiel could stand.
Then, finally, Jackson's chant stopped, and Dean sagged in his seat, eyes closed, his breathing hard.
"See, that's the thing about pain curses," Jackson said casually, as if they were having a calm conversation about something completely ordinary. "They can last for forever. See, if you do anything to actually injure the person you're cursing, then there's only so long that you can last before it eventually kills them. But if you just curse them with pain without actually doing anything to physically harm their body – well, then it can go on and on, without end, for however long I want it to."
"You- horrible man," Castiel spat, stumbling over the insult, because he couldn't think of a word strong enough to express the burning hatred that he felt for the man before him, so that would have to do.
"Do you want to change your answer?" Jackson asked, his voice still calm.
"Yes," Castiel said. Clearly Jackson expected for there to be some other hunter who would come attack them, and even though that wasn't the case, Castiel was willing to say anything if it would prevent Jackson from unleashing that torture on Dean again. "There are two hunters who know that we are here."
"Who?" Jackson demanded, his voice flat.
Castiel quickly cast his mind around. The first names that came to mind were those of the hunters at the Roadhouse, but he quickly discarded the idea of using those names. The last thing that he wanted to do was place real people in danger by causing Jackson to hunt them down.
"Well," Jackson prompted after a moment, his voice flat and sinister.
"Hester and Balthazar," Castiel said quickly, speaking the next names to pop into his head, without bothering to take the time to wonder where they had come from.
"And?" Jackson prompted again. When Castiel didn't say anything more, he asked, "Who are these two? How do you know them? Why do they know about me?"
"They're my... siblings," Castiel said. It seemed like a reasonable lie. Sam and Dean hunted together, so clearly it was a family thing, in many cases.
"And?" Jackson prompted again, then shook his head and moved his cut arm over the bowl again before Castiel got the chance to say anything more. "Perhaps another dose would be enough to make you more talkative."
"No!" Castiel shouted, but Jackson paid him no heed, just began his chant again.
Dean made a small, pained sound. Castiel found himself staring at Dean, terrified of watching, but also terrified of looking away. The spell clearly hadn't taken affect again yet, but it was only a matter of moments before that changed, Castiel was certain. Dean's eyes were closed, his hands twitching from the anticipation of pain, his breathing coming harder than before, like he was on the edge of panic.
Castiel could see the exact moment that the spell took affect, because Dean cried out, his body going taut, like a wire that was stretched nearly to the point of snapping.
That was also the exact moment that Sam finished cutting through the second rope.
Castiel had been too caught up in his worry over Dean that he hadn't even noticed that Sam had made so much progress with the knife, but somehow, Sam had managed to cut through both the rope holding his right arm to the chair and the rope tying his ankles to the chair legs. Sam didn't even bother trying to cut his left arm free, just threw himself at Jackson, dragging the chair behind him.
The two collided, the shock cutting off Jackson's words, and Dean's body instantly relaxed. Sam and Jackson were going at each other, and from his angle, Castiel couldn't see what was happening, only that the two of them both clutched their knives and were attempting to kill each other with them.
Again, Castiel tugged hard at the ropes, but he still couldn't get himself free. His mind was a whirlwind of panic, his thoughts a repeating chorus of fear that Sam would die, that Dean would be tortured again, that they were going to lose this battle.
Then Jackson collapsed, with Sam's knife buried in his chest, all the way up to the hilt.
Sam grabbed the knife and quickly pulled it from Jackson's body, then stabbed him again, and then a third time. Insurance, Castiel thought dimly, his mind lost in a rush of relief so strong that for a moment, he could barely manage to think anything else. Sam was making sure that Jackson was really dead, that he wouldn't be able to recover from this wound.
Sam grabbed the knife and wiped it quickly across Jackson's jeans, then jumped over the man's corpse in his hurry to get to Dean's side. He had finally managed to pull himself free from the last rope binding him to the chair, and so he had both hands free to work on cutting the hopes holding Dean in place. Doing so took only a moment, and then Sam's hands were instantly on Dean's shoulders, helping to support him. "Dean, are you okay?"
Dean head shifted slightly, and he let out a long breath before managing a nod. "I'm fine," he insisted, his voice too low and slurred for it to be entirely believable, but at least he no longer appeared to be experiencing the horrible pain that he had been suffering earlier. "I'm fine," Dean said again after a moment. "You should..." He swallowed and took a deep breath. "You should go cut Jimmy free."
"Don't worry about me," Castiel said quickly. "I am not in any danger. Make sure that Dean is okay before you free me."
Sam studied Dean's face for a long moment, then nodded and turned, making quick work of the ropes that held Castiel down. And despite his protests, Castiel had to admit that he was grateful that he had been freed so quickly. It meant that he could jump out of his seat and rush over to kneel on Dean's other side, to be certain that Dean was truly unharmed.
Dean's breathing was already easier, though he was still lying limply in his chair. Castiel touched Dean's shoulder, as Sam had done, his other hand moving to cup Dean's cheek. Dean's eyes were only half open, and Castiel carefully tilted Dean's face so that it was turned toward him, allowing him to search Dean's eyes for any sign that he was still in pain.
Dean looked exhausted, and his body still trembled slightly, but it did seem as though Jackson had told the truth when he'd said that he hadn't done anything to physically injure Dean. Even so, it was impossible for Castiel to stop himself from asking, "You're certain that you are alright? Really, truly certain?"
Dean groaned and nodded again, then pushed himself up so he was sitting straight, though the effort made the trembling in his arms worsen. Castiel quickly took his hand off Dean's shoulder and moved to his waist, trying to offer whatever assistance he could, to make it easier for him to remain upright.
His aid would have been much more helpful if he used both hands, but for some reason, Castiel didn't want to move his right hand from Dean's face.
Dean's head tilted to the side, almost as if he were pressing his cheek against Castiel's hand, which made Castiel think that he felt the same.
"Bastard did a number on me," Dean said, his voice slightly breathless. "But yeah, I'm fine. Not the worst torture I've ever been hit with."
That didn't make Castiel feel even the slightest bit better. Instead, all it did was make him think about how Dean and Sam both seemed to have extremely high pain tolerances, as evident by the way that Dean was already beginning to shake off the torture. And that made him wonder about how they had built up such a high pain threshold, and how painful Jackson's spell must have been, to cause Dean to react so strongly.
And there was the fact that the spell had been designed to do more than cause pain.
"Are you certain?" Castiel asked, then, "Do you feel… sane?" He wasn't sure how to phrase that question properly, but he had to ask it. He had to be sure that the spell had not gone on long enough to harm him permanently.
Judging by the way that Dean looked at him, he hadn't understood the meaning behind Jackson's words. Castiel thought that Sam might have, though, because he didn't seem surprised by the question. Instead, he was watching Dean's face carefully, like he was also waiting for an answer.
"What?" Dean asked looking confused for a moment, but still, he answered, "Yeah, I guess. As sane as normal, at least." His eyes flickered up to meet Castiel's, and a second later, Dean's hand reached up and closed around Castiel's wrist. "I mean it, I'm okay. Give me a couple of minutes to catch my breath and I'll be good as new."
Castiel studied Dean's face for a long moment, still searching for the slightest sign that Dean was lying. But, though it was clear that Dean was still struggling with the aftereffects of the curse, it was also equally clear that Dean was telling the truth. And Castiel supposed that he had to consider the possibility that there could be some sort of effect that Dean did not know about, but the longer that he stared, the more it seemed to him as though that wasn't the case.
And finally, Castiel could relax. He felt his entire body sag, the same way that Dean had gone limp after Jackson had ended the torture the first time. That seemed to be an apt comparison, actually. Castiel felt his relief as an actual, physical sensation, as though he had been the one that Jackson had been hurting with his curse, but now he was finally free from the pain.
"Stay still for a minute," Castiel urged him. "Take as much time as you need. Just allow yourself to recover."
Dean nodded, and squeezed Castiel's wrist lightly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel caught Sam staring at them, and looked away from Dean just long enough to get a better look at the younger Winchester's expression. It was similar to the way that Sam had looked at them earlier, after Dean had chosen to go change his clothes in the bathroom, only… stronger, somehow. Castiel wasn't sure how to describe it, to be honest, so he simply decided to ignore it.
Dean, however, caught sight of the look that Sam was giving them, then immediately stiffened. Castiel leaned forward, suddenly worried that the curse had had some sort of delayed effect that was only now affecting Dean, but that didn't appear to be the case. At least, Dean didn't look as though he were in pain. Instead, he dropped Castiel's wrist and sat up straighter, quickly lifting his head so that it no longer rested against Castiel's hand.
"I'm good enough," Dean said quickly, and tried to stand. "Come on, let's get back to the motel."
Despite his words, Dean clearly wasn't as recovered as he pretended to be. He stumbled the moment that he was on his feet, and would have fallen if both Castiel and Sam hadn't reached forward to steady him.
"Thanks," Dean grunted, and shifted closer to his brother. Sam nodded and wrapped his arm tighter around Dean's waist. Castiel's hands fell away.
Sam and Dean led the way out of the house, with Sam still supporting most of his brother's weight. Castiel trailed behind them, feeling strangely hurt, and not entirely certain why.
Dean didn't look back once during the entire time that they were walking, but Sam did. As they were walking up the basement stairs, Sam turned his head around and gave Castiel yet another one of those looks that Castiel was unable to interpret. And, just like before, Castiel chose to ignore it. Instead, he kept his eyes locked on the back of Dean's head, and slowly, Sam turned back around.
