See part one for header notes.
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Dean jerked awake in surprise at the flash of the camera, and was hot on Sam's heels as he fled the room an instant later, wincing at the startled yelp behind him as Castiel toppled sideways and was startled into wakefulness with a thump of head on pillows.
He knew he had lost when Sam threw the camera across the room to the waiting hands of Kenshin, who took great delight in making it disappear into his jeans pocket, and Dean wasn't about to fight a dragon over a camera. He was impulsive, not stupid.
Sam, on the other hand, was completely fair game, and he tackled Sam to the floor with a sudden leap which caught his younger brother by surprise, expecting as he was for Dean to go after the camera and not the person and tickled until Sam whooped with laughter and yelled Uncle. He knew that Kenshin had pulled out the camera again, but couldn't rightly bring himself to care after he heard quiet laughter from the bedroom door as Sam squirmed to get away from the tickling fingers.
He abruptly rolled away from Sam, making sure to be well out of range of the Sasquatch's arms when Sam had recovered his breath enough to start contemplating revenge and retreated to the kitchen, knowing Sam wouldn't attack if he was holding the fridge hostage. Raguel had been happy to hear Castiel laugh as well, and he wasn't sure if he was happy because Raguel was happy, or if he was genuinely glad that the dour angel had been amused enough to laugh. Well, no, he was happy, but it would be nice to be able to separate out what he was feeling and what Raguel was feeling.
We can't, Raguel informed him. I've bonded with your soul, so what I feel, you feel, and vice-versa. It's how I was able to use my gift of fire through your mortal body, he added. Without that ability, Uriel would likely have killed you all and gone after your friends as well.
Dean swallowed at that confession, but resigned himself to it, dragging sandwich fixings from the fridge. It couldn't be any different to how he had been the rest of his life, surely, he thought as he spread mayo on sliced bread, needing something to occupy his hands and in the absence of weapons to clean, this would have to do. The angel had always been part of him and not knowing didn't mean that the angel had had less or more influence if what Raguel had told him in the last couple of days was true. He was rubbing his chest thoughtfully when Sam entered, intent to cause mayhem leaving his eyes as Dean handed him a pastrami sandwich.
He checked to make sure Sam was applying himself to the food before side-stepping him and handing an identical sandwich to Castiel and shooting a glare at the smirking Kenshin. "Shut up," he muttered. "Doesn't your teacher keep beer in this monastery?"
Kenshin shook his head. "Sake?" he asked instead, making Dean roll his eyes. "I would guess that is a no, that I would," he teased with a smile, keeping an eye on Castiel over Dean's shoulder.
Dean turned to see Castiel staring at the sandwich as if it had just spoken to him and made his way back across the room. "Pastrami, lettuce, tomato – Kenshin, your cucumber tried to eat me, by the way. It's gone to the dark side – on wheat bread with some low-fat mayonnaise thing that's supposed to be healthy but probably causes cancer or some shit."
Castiel looked from the sandwich to Dean, then back again as Sam appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, brows raised. "It's good," Sam told him with a smirk. "Just don't eat anything he actually has to cook, okay?"
Kenshin was back to smirking again, and Dean turned to him, brows raised in inquiry. "What?" he demanded.
Grinning up at him, Kenshin offered him a cup of sake, waiting for Dean to take it before sipping his own. "I was merely thinking, how the world will cope with three brothers Winchester, that I was." He settled back into his seat. "Who knows?" he added in quiet amusement, "The third one may be the sensible one."
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Danny frowned at Martin as the younger man answered his cell phone, puzzled by the way his face had gone from confused to relieved, to anxious. As the last took hold, Danny resolved the issue by lifting the phone from Martin's hands.
"Who is this?" he demanded, all too conscious he could have just pissed off the demon possessing Martin's father.
There was a snort of amusement. "Dean Winchester. You're Danny Taylor, right?"
Danny gaped slightly, then managed to get his voice to work. "Yeah," he agreed cautiously, apprehensive about speaking to a wanted felon, even if he did know for certain that the man was innocent, and vouched for by Viv of all people.
"Good. You need to listen carefully. Make notes if you have to, and your colleague Viv should be able to help. She's related to a friend of mine. I'm going to e-mail you a design for a tattoo. Or my brother is. Whatever. You make sure anyone who might be at risk if the deputy director shows up gets one done. It needs to go over the heart, and it needs to be the design we send exactly. Got that so far? No embellishments. Do not let the tattoo artist fiddle with the design."
Danny had scrabbled for a pen, to Martin's apparent consternation, then a yellow legal pad, and was scribbling furiously by this point. "Right," he agreed. "Tattoo. What does it do?"
There was a brief pause.
"C'mon, man, I'm from Cuba. My momma told me all sorts of stories."
Dean seemed to relent. "It stops you from getting possessed," he informed Danny. "The ink doesn't matter; it's the intent. And in a pinch, Sharpies work ok," he added, sounding like he spoke from experience.
That must be one hell of a story.
"You need holy water," he continued, barely waiting a beat, and Danny had to slip into shorthand to keep up. Not that he was likely to forget the instructions which could save his friend's life. "I've got some names of priests you can go see, and there're a couple of retired hunters working in New York I can put you in touch with. Most of all though, you need to make sure Martin moves. The demon's crossed the threshold too many times and it'll need a bigger cleansing than you have the time or skill for. Got that?"
Danny looked across the living room at his friend and nodded. "Already taken care of. We'll go get his stuff tomorrow and he can stay with me."
Martin turned to stare at him, the oddest expression on his face, but he turned away again before Danny could figure it out.
"Good," Dean told him. "Hendrickson told me he explained about using salt to ward thresholds. Make sure you do that whenever you're home. I'll try to get some goofer dust to you as well, or you can ask Viv. Her mom might let you have some. It's better than salt, particularly for demons. You have any questions, you call me. You got that? And do not leave Martin alone with his father. And if his father finds out where he is, you tell him Martin is protected by the guys who took out Azazel, and with or without the Colt he doesn't want to push his luck."
Danny blinked back the urge to snap off a salute and respond to the order with a "Yessir!" He wasn't even given the chance to offer a goodbye as the call ended, leaving him with the caller's number on Martin's cell. He scribbled it down quickly and turned to Martin.
"Instructions," he told him, waving the pad.
Martin blinked at him before snatching the pad and studying what he had written, frowning as he recognized Danny's standard note-taking scrawl. "They really think they can help?" he asked softly, hardly daring to believe that there may be a way out of his own personal nightmare.
Danny shrugged. "Sure sounds like it. And you're moving in here with me, in case you didn't quite catch that. We'll get your stuff from your apartment tomorrow, give your notice to your landlord and get you a PO Box to use for correspondence from the Bureau. Or you can have your mail delivered to the office if you don't want to risk your father using that to track you. Either way."
Hands shaking, Martin dropped the yellow legal pad onto Danny's coffee table and almost fell onto the sofa, arms wrapped around himself in a defensive posture. "I keep expecting to wake up and be back in his house in DC," he confessed, voice breaking. Danny sighed, sitting next to Martin and retrieving the pad to re-write the notes as something they could both read.
"Yeah, well, I don't think I've ever shared a dream with a colleague before, so while it wouldn't be the freakiest thing that'd happened in the last couple of days, it would be pretty high up there, so on the whole I'm going to say it's not a dream and the Winchester brothers, plus Agent Hendrickson, plus Detective Ballard, as well as two dragons, are on your side.
"Besides," he added in an amused tone, "Dean said to tell your father that the guys who killed Azazel were protecting you and that with or without the Colt he shouldn't push his luck." He frowned thoughtfully then, grinning, reached out and pinched Martin.
Martin yelped in pained surprise. "What the hell was that for?" he demanded, thumping Danny with a throw cushion.
Still grinning, Danny nodded. "You're not dreaming," he told the younger man. Martin stared at him like he had just landed on a broomstick for a long moment, then hit him again with the cushion for good measure.
"You're insane, man."
