Chapter 26

Thoughts of Home

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd/ Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow/ Raze out the written troubles of the brain/ And, with some sweet oblivious antidote/ Cleans the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff/ Which weighs upon the heart?

William Shakespeare, Anthony and Cleopatra

"I feel like I need a shower," Dean said as they stepped back into Andrea's house. He knew he couldn't wash Lenko's leers off of him, but it would sure as hell make him feel better.

"You'll have to wait," Alan said from the kitchen doorway. "Andrea's giving Dana a bath." The man offered a small, apologetic smile.

Dean caught a glance at the clock on the wall. 8 p.m. It was probably a good time to catch Johnny before bed. "Alan, do you think it would be any problem for me to get on the computer for a video call?"

Alan smiled and shook his head. "You'll be fine. Trust me."

Dean nodded and slipped upstairs into Sam's bedroom to snag his brother's computer. Though Dean's had a webcam, the computer was older and had taken more of a beating than Sam's. When the camera worked, the picture generally sucked ass, and he wanted Johnny to see him as clearly as possible.

Deciding it was best to do this down in the office, which had become his temporary room in the suburban home, Dean carried the shiny, metallic computer carefully down the steps. He was so cautious with it that even Sammy would have been impressed. As he got the computer set-up, he gave Bobby a quick phone call to let him know he'd be using the video chat in a few moments.

He heard the familiar tones of the web chat screen loading and then trying to contact someone at Bobby's house. He could hear before he could see Cas clearing his throat, so he waited for the connection to show two clear screens of both those at Bobby's house and Dean in Illinois. It took a moment for the large black box on the screen to fill with an image of Cas and Johnny, but his focus had been so intent on waiting for the first sign of strawberry blond hair or unblinking blue eyes that Dean hadn't paid attention to his own little corner of the screen.

"Dean...?" Cas asked with a tilt of his head. "You look different."

That was when Dean remembered the damned make-up, and he was about to explain how mistreated he'd been when Johnny's little head tilted to the side and his expression turned critical at the man on the screen in front of him. At the miniature mirror image of the angel, Dean burst out laughing. "You can tell he's been spending his time with you." Cas tilted his head down to see Johnny's expression in the miniature image on their screen. The angel's lips quirked upward and transformed into a barely there smile. For once, Cas wasn't questioning whether or not Dean thought this was a good thing or feared he was taking something precious away from Dean by being there when he couldn't. Instead, he just looked incredibly pleased, for Cas at least, that Johnny had picked up a habit from him.

Dean smirked. "Well, as long as the kid doesn't start trying to disappear or fly, we'll be good." Johnny's lips spread into a small smile as he heard more of his father's voice and apparently realized that the make-up was just paint. Dean waved at his son.

"It appears Bobby did get the camera angled correctly. You can see Johnny?"

Dean nodded as Bobby griped in the background about not being a total idiot when it came to technology, "unlike some winged idjits."

"Has he found anything yet?" Dean asked as he watched the baby bounce on Cas's knee and tried to resist the urge to ask the angel to take him home to be with his boy before he went to sleep. He was going to have to get used to being away sometimes.

"Nothing conclusive, but he's still looking." Cas adjusted the now-giggling boy on his knee. "I think he is amused by your eye make-up. Is there a reason I'm unaware of that makes wearing that black paint more useful during a hunt?"

"It's all Sam and Andrea's fault. Apparently, I needed to look the part of someone who would be interested in Lenko's crazy collection."

"And this required a different hairstyle and eye make-up?"

"And painted nails," Dean said, showing the black digits, "apparently."

"This I've got to see," Bobby's voice said from wherever he'd been sitting. Dean saw the older hunter's face appear partly in front of the camera. In response, he scowled and showed him just two of his painted fingers. Two very select ones. It didn't stop Bobby from laughing and then admonishing Dean for the two finger salute with his son watching.

Johnny, naturally, had no idea what was going on, but his Daddy was laughing, Cas was chuckling, and his grandpa was guffawing. That seemed to be enough to make the boy erupt in belly laughs.

"Have you found anything yet, Bobby?"

"Well, considering it's only been two hours since you told me what the problem was, no. Not much. Though the curse of Robert Johnson's fate is supposed to be tied to one of two of his guitars. According to legend, it's either the guitar he was playing the night he died or the one with him in the most famous photographs of the man."

"I don't really care which one it is. I just know that the cursed guitar is the one I saw," Dean said.

"Yeah, well, the story of the curse is a little different depending on which guitar it is, Smartass." Dean knew his son didn't stand a chance. He was already envisioning Johnny's kindergarten teacher explaining to Dean that his son used very inappropriate language—oh, and the kid thought monsters were real.

"Well, what's the difference, Old Man?" Dean kept his mind on the conversation with Bobby and not on flowery pictures of the future that involved him sitting in a little half-chair in Johnny's future classroom, listening to some hot twenty-something woman who just won't stop flirting with him—this is his fantasy after all—explain that overall, Johnny's a good kid, just needs to keep his imagination and mouth in line.

"If the guitar is the one he was photographed with, the midnight rule is accurate. If it's the one he played the day he died, the person who touches it only has a matter of hours, and no one seems to agree on how many." Bobby gave Dean a pointed look that essentially told him not to cut him off and to try to be a little less obnoxious.

The look had little effect since the younger hunter was focused more on the consequences, but he successfully hid the cursing that followed at that prospect. He was prepared to ask more questions of his surrogate father when he watched as his son raised his right hand and left arm to his face and hid his eyes behind them. Apparently the serious conversation was cutting into his Daddy time and he was determined to get attention. It was a remarkable change from the little boy who was satisfied to cling onto any crumb of affection he could get. Already unable to deny Johnny anything, Dean quickly placed his own hands at his eyes and gave his boy a "Peekaboo" when they both revealed themselves.

"I'll get everyone here looking into it, too." Dean said before playing another round of Peekaboo with his son. This wasn't exactly all business at the moment, but this call wasn't supposed to be about business anyway. It was supposed to be his chance to see his boy before bed. "Hopefully we can get this all settled quickly."

Johnny tilted his head back so that he was looking at Cas as well. His hands went to his face, and he waited until he felt and half-saw Cas do the same. The angel looked mildly panicked for a moment before he lifted one hand to his eyes and uttered the obligatory. "Peekaboo." Johnny giggled and Dean watched as the baby instantly pressed his cheek to Cas's shirt. It gave Dean a clear view of the fact that once again, the angel was down to just his white dress shirt, which the man knew was only for a sense of normalcy; Dean had been reminded repeatedly over the years that Cas didn't actually experience excess heat from the suit and trenchcoat combo.

The angel was trying as hard as Dean to give Johnny a normal childhood, whether it meant dressing for appearances or playing a game of Peekaboo.

#

"Dean, I have the makeup and nail polish remover—" Andrea quickly stopped herself as she saw the hunter on the computer. She placed her hand over her mouth and gave him an apologetic look. "I didn't mean to interrupt," she said in a hushed voice.

"No worries," Dean said. "Though I still owe you big time for doing this to me." She gave a soft laugh and moved to Dean's side to set the cottonballs and removers on the futon at Dean's side. "Come over here into the screen. There are some people I'd like you to meet."

Andrea glanced at the computer to see a baby with reddish blond hair and wide green eyes trying to encourage his father to participate in another game of peekaboo. She saw the little boy's arm and felt something twist in her chest at the sight, but there was no doubt that Dean was a very good father for the little boy. It was fairly obvious from the pride in the man's voice that he didn't care that the little boy had either been born without or had lost his left hand, and she wouldn't have expected him to.

"That must be Johnny," she said with a grin. She looked to the man behind the little boy and realized that the descriptions in the books were far more accurate than her own imagination. This was obviously Castiel, angel of the Lord, but he looked like an ordinary man. He was good-looking, though differently so from someone like Dean, who was a bit more Hollywood handsome, and his eyes were a remarkable blue, which was clear even on the webcam. He had a thin frame and looked every bit the holy accountant described in the Supernatural books. And though she had read them and should have been expecting it, Andrea could not wrap her mind around the fact that he looked so very human. "And you must be Cas."

The rough-voiced man on the screen confirmed her suspicion and said that he was very glad to meet her, but she couldn't help but notice that Dean was now eying her strangely. She immediately realized her mistake. The hunter hadn't mentioned the angel once while he'd been at the house. She was fairly sure he hadn't even done so in passing, which meant there was no reason for Andrea to know who Castiel was. Even the average hunter, the ones that hadn't started out because of Dean and Sam saving their lives or hadn't discovered those books, didn't really know about Cas; the few that did only spoke of him as the weird guy that tagged around with the Winchesters.

"You are to blame for the black paint around his eyes," Castiel said.

"Yes I am," she said, trying to focus on her conversation with the angel rather than Dean's nearly palpable suspicion.

Andrea waved and made faces at the baby on the screen and did her very best to ignore how badly she had just screwed up. She had planned to explain after the case was over that she had been reading the Supernatural novels and knew aspects of Dean's life, Sam's as well, that he probably didn't want her to. It had to be awkward for the brothers to know that perfect strangers knew of some pretty intimate details of their lives. She could only imagine their reaction if they, or when they, realized the people they had saved read the books, too.

Dean proceeded to tell his son goodnight, but it was obvious to Andrea that he was distracted, and it was just as plain that he wanted her to stay so she could answer some questions. He very carefully closed the computer and set it to the side. It was almost as though he was moving his brother's prized toy out of the line of fire. She could only be grateful that he wasn't reaching for the nearest vial of holy water, though she thought she saw him eying up the letter opener on the desk.

"So, funny thing... I didn't mention Cas before. Neither did Sam. How exactly did you not only know about him, but knew him well enough that you almost seemed to recognize him?"

"I've been reading the Supernatural books." Dean looked confused. "By Carver Edlund?" When he still hadn't changed his expression, she tried, "Chuck Shurley?"

"I know the books, but last I checked, they didn't include Cas."

"They got a new run," Andrea said.

"And Chuck disappeared two years ago."

"The books continue to about a year and a half ago," Andrea said, watching the war of emotions in the man's eyes, even as every other part of his face tried to hold him back. "It's why I was uneasy with Sam at first. The most recent book had him watching on as you were bitten by a vampire."

"And if the books say that much about him, I bet they're not giving the most flattering description of me."

"You don't come out so bad, actually," Andrea said with a small, sympathetic smile. She placed her hand on his shoulder and gently rubbed at his collarbone with her thumb. "Only enough to let people understand that you are a stronger man than most."

Dean's jaw clenched a moment before he finally spoke. "You're talking about Hell?" She gave a sad nod. "Do you have any idea what this 'stronger man' did there?"

"After surviving for thirty years, going through horrible pain over and over, you took your chance at the one thing that offered you relief from the torture," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder and was pleased when it wasn't shaken away. "And you have spent the last four years-I'm guessing at the year and a half not included in the books-regretting it. And you're still here, fighting, saving people." She bent down and kissed him on the forehead like she would if he were her younger brother. "It would have broken a lesser man beyond repair."

That kiss and her final words seemed to undo him, and it looked as though he was losing the battle he'd been fighting against his internal turmoil. She knew he wouldn't want her to see. "I'll just... I'll go." He nodded numbly as she backed out of the doorway.

#

Johnny was asleep; he had gone to bed just a few moments ago. As he stood in the baby's nursery, Castiel found himself still smiling. The baby had picked up on one of his mannerisms, and it was probably the first of many that Johnny would acquire as he spent more time in the angel's care. It really shouldn't have been surprising since every book on child development told him this was common, but Castiel knew he was the first angel to get to experience a baby mimicking him because he was shaping what that child viewed as "normal" behavior.

He quietly slipped out of the room when something at his core told him that something was wrong with Dean. He had sensed some discomfort, some of the underlying guilt that happened whenever Dean thought about his time in Hell. Though it troubled Castiel, he knew better than to interrupt at moments like this. Dean never reacted well when he did. That fact had been the only thing that had kept him at Bobby's house earlier that evening when Dean had encountered the cursed guitar.

Cas could sense something similar coming from Sam moments later. He was not as attuned to the younger brother to be able to recognize just what was troubling Sam. He only barely understood from his previous experience what was bothering Dean.

Something had happened, though the angel couldn't guess what, to upset both brothers, and there was no justifiable reason he could find for why he should not go to see that they were unharmed. Yet he knew that both would rebuke any efforts—pathetic as they would surely be—on the angel's part to ask after their well being, and only Sam would appreciate the attempt. Dean had asked the angel to observe him as would be necessary to keep Johnny safe. Castiel doubted the hunter had any idea how difficult it was for his friend not to interfere when he realized something was wrong, Johnny or not.

Then Dean provided him with opportunity to help. The hunter had injured himself. It was not necessarily a severe injury, but it was, at the very least, something the angel could assist with and justify expressing a little concern for his friend. To the hunter, Castiel's worry would appear stilted and awkward at best, but it was at least genuine.

Quickly, the angel flew from Bobby's home to land back to earth in this plane at Dean's side. The hunter started, but after just a moment or two, he was again holding his eye and swearing.

Castiel found it quite surprising how different a bit of make-up and a change in how Dean's hair was styled could so alter his appearance. He had thought so when he had seen him on the computer screen, and it was no different in person. On the computer, the black-rimmed eyes had drawn the angel's attention to the green orbs, not that he had ever really had any trouble focusing on them. Honestly, he could not find the appeal in trying to add or take away to Dean's appearance with some black paint. Castiel might not have been human, but he was very well aware that Dean was a handsome man according to human standards, and he felt there was no more of a need to emphasize the man's eyes than there was to cover his freckles.

There was no need to, nor had the inky color succeeded to, improve upon the original. At best, the make-up merely drew the observer's attention to one of Dean's nicer features.

Now that the make-up seemed to be the source of Dean's pain, Castiel found he liked it even less than before. Stepping in close, the angel pressed his fingers to Dean's temple and took away the chemically caused irritation. The hunter looked immediately relieved. "I grabbed the wrong stuff. Apparently you do not use nail polish remover on your eyes."

"You are lucky you did not do more damage," Castiel said as he retrieved the bottle with the pink eye on the front and one of the cotton balls.

"What're you doing? I can do it."

"You are clearly too agitated," the angel said and he poured a small amount of the clearish liquid onto the white cotton. "Something happened that upset you."

"I ain't having this conversation, Dr. Phil," Dean said, leaning back as the angel moved his hand closer to his face.

"I hardly resemble a bald, Texan, TV psychiatrist."

Dean looked uneasy. "You said you, not your vessel."

Castiel met the eyes that, despite his efforts to stop the pain were a bit pink and watery, and placed the hand not holding the soggy piece of cotton at the back of Dean's head. "Jimmy told me that this body was mine now, so I may as well treat it as such."

"Right," Dean said, closing his eyes when he seemed to realize there was no way he was breaking free of the angel's strong hold on him, though he wasn't done trying to change the subject. "Then you and I can go to a brothel and pop your cherry without the guilt."

"No," Castiel said, letting more of his frustration show through than he had intended to do. That last attempt had been an utter disaster, and the angel had no desire to relive it. Cas couldn't help but snap at the reminder, not to mention that Dean was attempting to mask his troubles with his usual proficiency.

After the painful experience he had just undergone, Dean instinctively flinched when the cool liquid on the cotton touched his eye, but Castiel was careful as he swiped gently over first one eye and then the other. The substance that Andrea had provided for this purpose seemed to have done well, and thankfully, it was not causing Dean pain. "Much better than last time," the hunter said.

Castiel was careful, moving the cotton two, three times over each of the man's eyelids. That had been an aspect of human design he had never quite understood. It was clear just how vital eyesight was to humans, especially in the earliest days of their evolution when God was still waiting to see which of his earthbound creations would finally rise to the top. (At least, it had seemed that way. The angels who had taken hypothetical bets on Neanderthal or the humans had never really anticipated there to be a little co-mingling of the two, and most hadn't assumed that despite some muddied DNA, the humans would rise as the victors.) This thin, barely there piece of skin protecting such a vital organ seemed to be an almost fatal flaw, but as Castiel watched the eyes beneath flicker, muscles twitch, and lashes flutter, he could appreciate the appeal of something so delicate.

"I do not believe ethyl acetate was designed for use on the eyes," Castiel said as he cleaned the last of the stuff from Dean's right lid. The hunter remained tense as Castiel swiped the cotton ball over the man's other eye. "You were upset about something. Otherwise, you would not have made such a mistake." Dean's eyes didn't open, but his brows furrowed.

"That's twice today you've poked around in my head."

Castiel gently swiped his thumbs over the man's eyelids to remove any remaining liquid. For some reason, Dean's breath hitched, but considering his earlier experience with the nail polish remover, the angel was not shocked that his instincts still had him wary. "You asked me to monitor you for Johnny's sake."

"I don't know if you noticed, but Johnny's not here." Dean's left eye opened a tiny crack. "Are you done?"

Castiel nodded and moved his hand from the back of Dean's head. "You seem to assume that monitoring you is something I can switch on and off like a light. It takes time to get so strong of a connection, and it takes far longer to pull back."

Dean cleared his throat, and the angel could feel the man's breath warm against his face. "Speaking of pulling back..." the man said as his green eyes flitted over Castiel's face. "I think we had this talk before about personal space."

Taking a step away from his friend, this time the angel did not apologize as he usually had before. "Why is it that I am always the one who must move?" he asked, instead. "You could, as well." He knew, though, that Dean hated to be perceived as backing down. Even from a friend.

"You're usually the one doing the invading of my personal space. Only fair you should have to retreat. Like Germany." The hunter rubbed at his eyes. "Thanks, though. That stuff hurt like a son of a bitch."

Castiel inclined his head in acknowledgment of his friend's thanks.

"Guess I'm going to have to get used to you being able to pop up at any random time, at least until Johnny's at an age where he isn't hanging around so much or I'm so old I can't keep up."

"By then," Castiel said, "it will be next to impossible for me to get out of your head, as you put it." The angel crossed his arms in a matter he had often seen dean and Sam do when they were trying to get someone, usually one another, to talk. "It is why I can tell you are still troubled about something." Dean eyed him with irritation. To prove the point that he wouldn't be leaving, he took a seat on the bed-couch contraption that seemed to have served as Dean's bed.

"I don't know who you think you're dealing with here, Cas, but I don't do heart to heart chats."

"You protest, and grouse, and grumble, but eventually, yes, you do." The angel paused and decided he might as well use a low blow to try to get his friend to talk. "Something is causing you pain and bothering Sam as well."

"Sam?" Dean asked, looking confused. "But how would-Andrea must have confessed the same thing to him."

"'Confessed'?" the angel asked with a tilt of his head.

"Andrea has been reading the books, which Chuck is apparently publishing again." The hunter ran his hand over his face. "She knew who you were. That's how I realized. Then, she said the books are caught up to about the end of 2010. It's why she was weird about Sam. She's caught up to when he didn't have his soul."

Dean closed his eyes for a moment and muttered out a "Shit!" before turning toward the closed office door. "If she's told him, no wonder he's a mess."

The angel quickly stood and wrapped a hand around Dean's wrist. "I did not say he was a mess. I said he is bothered. And you will do your brother little good while you are trying to deal with your own emotions. I believe he realizes the same and is trying to process this information before he speaks with you. It would be wise of you to do likewise."

Dean frowned, but he stayed. That was a start.

#

When Sam came back from the kitchen with a piece of pizza-homemade; that Alan was a genius in the kitchen-he saw Andrea leaving the office with a worried look on her face.

"Andrea? Is something wrong?"

She looked up at him apologetically. "I let your brother know something I had planned to tell both of you after you were done with this hunt. I was afraid it would cause problems with your focus." She paused, wringing her hands together as she looked down from Sam's face to the floor. "I found the Supernatural books and have been reading them."

Sam smiled, trying to ease her mind. He wasn't thrilled about the intrusion into his privacy, but that was hardly her fault. She tracked them the only way that he knew how, and the books were ready-made for her to do it. "Please tell me you aren't a Dean slash Sam fan."

She turned bright red at that and shook her head. "That would be unbelievably weird."

"You're telling me. Brotherly love only goes so far." He took a bite of pizza and tried not to moan at how good it was, though Dean would probably have bitched about the number of veggies in comparison to meat that topped it.

"That wasn't the problem, though." Here is where Andrea quite possibly looked her guiltiest. "The books resumed printing. The most recent one involved vampires." She was looking at him as though that should have rung some bells, but it wasn't. He frowned as she said the next sentence. "Dean was turned." Chuck wasn't allowed to elaborate on the truth or invent new tales, if he was even the one doing the writing. For all Sam knew, it was Becky at the helm now that Chuck had vanished, and he could imagine her trying to cash in on the Twilight craze. He honestly hoped it was Becky who was doing the writing. At least then he might be able to pretend that what Andrea was saying hadn't happened.

"Andrea, are you sure the same author is writing these? Because, I think you can see, Dean's not a vampire."

"The style hasn't changed," she said. "And Dean wouldn't be. There was a cure. Sam Campbell had it."

Sam's eyes widened. His grandfather, who had abandoned them to Crowley's devices, had at one time saved Dean. Sam was having a hard time reconciling the many sides of the man whose name he'd inherited. Still, the hunter had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Dean had never so much as gotten close to being turned before. They made sure of that. They covered one another's backs. "Where was I during all of this?"

There seemed to be hope in Andrea's eyes at that, and suddenly, all the little pieces began to make sense. She hadn't been able to trust him until she saw him for herself. Both she and Lucas had been wary around him when he first arrived. They were both reading the books and were now to the point when Sam was soulless.

"I knew it wasn't you. You couldn't have possibly done that."

"Done what?"

"Let Dean be turned?"

"When you say 'let'-"

"You watched-or your imposter watched-Dean be turned."

Sam suddenly found it difficult to breath and got slightly sicker as he thought about it. "I just..." God, how an he even look at me? "I just watched?"

Andrea looked suspicious once again, but not in the way that she had when he'd first stepped out of the Impala. She was smart and realized that maybe it hadn't been an imposter, but perhaps something else. "Yes. The books haven't explained why."

"I can," Sam said, suddenly losing his appetite entirely. "My soul was still trapped with Lucifer and Michael. My body and brain were running things without much care for other people or society." He shuddered at the thought of having just watched his brother be turned into a vampire. And then it hit him. If Andrea and Lucas had managed to find the books, then it was just a matter of time before other people, people they had saved and protected, found them as well. If they hadn't already. All of the dirty details of his life, from the demon blood to Ruby to Lilith to Lucifer and now even what his soulless self had done, that was all out there for public consumption.

He was going to be sick.

"So it was, but wasn't you?"

"I guess you could say that." Sam ran a hand through his hair. "It isn't really easy to explain. I can try."

"No, Sam. I know that person I was reading about wasn't you, even if it was partly you, it wasn't the part of you that makes the man I instantly recognized when you got out of that car." She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I promise you, though, unless I don't hear from you for five or so years again, I won't pick up those books ever again."

The hunter nodded. "Thank you." Not that it would help all that much. Those books were destined to become the Winchester gospel, unless something had changed. But her words helped.