Chapter 10

After a few days, he decides to check on the car.

There's no particular reason; things have been quiet lately, as if the monsters have sensed somebody on their trail and retreated underground for a while. He's spent the last two days following rumours, wild goose chases, until eventually he has to admit to himself that he has no idea what to do next except wait, hoping eventually the creatures' desire to feed will overcome their cautiousness.

Kate has ferried him around since the first day, never asking questions, and he is grateful but he knows it can't last much longer. Eventually she'll get curious, wonder why he's still in town, why he hasn't finished his business already and moved on. At least if he gets the car back he can find somewhere else to stay while he waits to wrap this case up.

He has no idea how long the car should take to fix. He knows Dean would spend days, weeks even, in the sweltering heat, lying down in the dry dust and fiddling with the undercarriage or hammering out dents and knocks in her body, but she's been through a lot worse than engine failure. Even if the mechanic isn't finished yet, at least he'll know how long it will take, sort out his affairs accordingly. Truth be told, he hates not knowing. He likes feeling in control of his own life, knowing exactly what will happen next, or at least having some rough idea. Being trapped here, dependent on someone else to drive him around, makes him feel suffocated, claustrophobic. Of course, he's still an angel, could still decide to disappear and reappear instantly on the other side of the country, but he took on the car and the responsibility that came with it.

He feels a little out of place at the garage in his suit and heavy coat. Around him the smell of diesel and chemicals permeates the air, and cars in various states of disrepair lie around, waiting to be worked on. He takes a few hesitant steps forward. There's nobody in sight; everyone is probably on their lunch break, he thinks, because it's typical that he would arrive at the one time that the place is deserted.

His eyes alight on the Impala, sat outside in the sun. Almost in a trance, he crosses the workroom, footsteps making ripples in the puddles of oil that glisten all the colours of the rainbow in the dim fluorescent lights. He steps outside, runs his fingers along her roof. The metal is warm to the touch, from the bright noon sun. Her bonnet is propped up, parts of the engine scattered around her in what appears to be a random order, but no doubt makes perfect sense to somebody, on a dirty piece of cloth laid out on the dusty ground. She's been worked on, recently. The engine still looks like a confusing mess of various parts, a mystery to him, but it's clear that whoever has been fixing her knows what he's doing.

He smiles softly to himself as he tilts his head downwards, peering through the windows. A sense of nostalgia fills him as he remembers.

Once upon a time, this car was driven all across America, loud rock music blaring out of the speakers. There was a man who used to sit in the drivers' seat, head tilted back as he belted out the same songs over and over, fingers drumming out a rhythm on the steering wheel. After his life changed, after the incident happened on that night so many years ago, this car became his new home; his island, his refuge. He lived here; spent many nights asleep against the leather seats. When he was younger he played on the floor, between the seats, and his father would constantly complain about the bits and pieces of toys that showed up weeks, months after he lost them.

Once upon a time, this man had a brother. He'd roll his eyes when the music came on, tut and shake his head when his brother turned the volume up high, but he'd always sing or hum along under his breath. Maybe the car never meant as much to him, but that doesn't mean he didn't wince when she suffered a particularly nasty injury, that he never came out to try and help his brother work on her, even if that only meant holding a wrench out, or fetching drinks, or listening as he was talked at incessantly.

Once upon a time he rode in this car with those two men. Sometimes in the back, where he could stare out of the window and watch the world rushing by in smudges of greens and browns and yellows, sometimes in the front passenger seat. That was his favourite; he could sit there with Dean, having long conversations about anything and everything. Dean would turn to look at him and flash him a smile that told him he was included, he was cared for, that he was part of the family now.

But that was then, and this is now, and the story's over.

The sound of footsteps in the workshop behind him reminds him that he only came here to check how long it would be until he can drive the Impala again. His fingers stop in their tracks where they have been absentmindedly trailing winding, complicated paths along the roof of the car, and almost sheepishly he withdraws his hand and steps back.

He has to admit he can see the appeal of a vehicle like her. Even for somebody who knows nothing about cars, he can appreciate the sleek curves, the way she shines in the sunlight. He's sure that, to anyone who knows anything about cars, there are plenty of reasons why this 1967 model Chevrolet Impala often turns heads in the street, but even to him she's beautiful. It's possible, likely even, that he's biased; the Winchesters' emotional attachment to this piece of metal and chrome has rubbed off a little on him, but the feeling is still there.

"She's a beauty, isn't she? She yours, then?"

He hadn't noticed the footsteps coming closer to him. There's someone behind him; out of the corner of his eye he can see a dark blue jumpsuit, stained with oil and grease, and knows this is probably the person who's been working on the car for the past few days. He wants to turn his head, reply to the question, but it's as if his whole body has frozen because that voice.

"I've always wanted one of these. Not often you see 'em around these days. People don't appreciate classic cars anymore. Damn shame, I always thought."

The man comes closer, crossing the distance between them in a few easy strides.

"Hey, man, you alright?"

It takes what feels like an eternity, but finally Castiel summons up the power to turn around, and even manages a feeble attempt at a casual, laid-back smile.

"Yes, it's mine," he says hoarsely, surprised he is even able to speak in anything resembling a normal voice.

"Well, you've got good taste, I'll say that."

He wipes his hand on a rag that he shoves back into his pocket, and extends a hand. When Castiel makes no move to shake it, he draws it back, but steps closer, wide eyes full of concern.

"Hey, you sure you're alright?"

Castiel manages a weak nod.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

The part of his brain that is still functioning normally has to smother the urge to point out that, if he had seen a ghost, he wouldn't be standing around looking shocked. He'd be reaching for salt, anything made of iron, and really, you of all people ought to know that.

Instead, however, he stands immobile, words failing him, because this is a sight he thought he'd seen for the last time all those months ago.

He never thought that he would ever look into the eyes of Dean Winchester again.