At breakfast Dean could feel eyes on them. Between Castiel's extreme level smirk and Dean's inability to walk straight, he thought every other guest could tell how very much they had enjoyed their four poster duck down. Dean finally dug all those innuendos about spending a night away from the kids. Without the risk of Sam, or Lord forbid Crowley, sticking their noses in, the sex had been awesome. Who knew the nerdy little dude was so flexible?
When Dean lowered his butt gingerly onto his restaurant seat, Castiel preened like a cat. "Now I can see why Crowley calls you a kitten." Dean grumbled and ate his bacon and eggs.
He wasn't on the outs with Cas. Last night had been… well, awesome. The sounds and moans Castiel made had driven Dean wild. Dean chuffed thinking if they had been back in the Whitefish cabin, the bed there never would have survived it.
And this morning… Dean smiled around a mouthful of toast…Castiel in his black suit with his chambray button down and the freaking tie. Dean had staggered to the shower and taken his time getting a close clean shave for his Fed persona. When he came out Cas was tying the blue tie on backwards. Everything seemed to slot into place. Like the final turn of a Rubik cube or the final roll of the dial when cracking a safe. If Dean believed in destiny, which he didn't, being the poster boy for Free Will, then he would have had a sense of déjà vu rightness about that moment. And it was a Thursday.
Back on the road, Dean beat out the rhythm of eighties Metallica on the wheel. The sun shone and warmed the dark metal of the Impala. Dean shucked his jacket at their rest stop. He rolled down his window and rolled up his starched white shirt sleeve, letting his left elbow get a freckled tan. Castiel had his phone out for the early part, zooming and clicking with the camera ap. Then he took out his new (but very old Men of Letters) journalist jotter pad. Dean didn't disturb him as he made his scribbles.
They were at Moose Lake by noon. They found the school with no problems and headed up the street to Mr. Galton's condo. Dean double checked Cas was holding up his FBI badge the right way before he rapped on the door.
Mr. Galton was a wily fox. He made them press their identification against the glass and rang the division number on the card Dean passed over to him. While they waited Dean peered at what he could see of the neat simple home . Its owner was a bald elderly man, dressed for the golf course in tartan trousers and a beige long sleeved polo shirt.
Satisfied by speaking with their superior (Garth), Mr. Galton let them into his home, with a direction to take off their shoes. Dean didn't particularly care for homeowners who insisted on shoe removal. The number of times he had to chase a demon or flee a phantom in his socks didn't recommend it. However they needed Mr. Galton's help and pint of blood, so Dean compiled.
"This about Janey?" He asked as he took his seat on a straight backed armchair and gestured for Dean and Castiel to take the couch. Dean settled his briefcase of blood collection items by his leg.
The sound of Doberman claws on the other side of the kitchen door made Dean wet his lips to speak. "Yes Sir."
"Any progress on finding her killer, agent? You know they took my niece's heart?" Marcel leaned forward and peered at them.
"Yes Mr. Galton. We are following a lead that Jane's blood may have been the killer's target. The profile fits other unsolved cases. We would like to take a sample of your blood as her closest living relative." Dean pitched.
The Doberman whined making Dean clench his fists. Castiel shifted ever so slightly closer, offering support in a distinctly unprofessional manner.
"What does your partner have to say?" Mr. Galton's narrowed eyes told Dean he wasn't buying it. He didn't know yet, if it was just their pitch that had fallen flat or the whole FBI gig.
"Ahem, Agent Jones has laryngitis." Dean swallowed, "He is very dedicated to his casework."
Marcel Galton began to laugh, a wheezing, thigh slapping process that had Dean running through his CPR bullet points.
"Janey wasn't normal, Agent Page." Marcel said when he got his breath back. "Now I don't know if you are from Area 51, or that new Homeland Security division dealing with the angels, but I'd ask you not to insult my intelligence."
"Yes, sir." Dean agreed making a hasty change of plan. "Name's Dean. This is my partner Castiel. We are here looking for assistance relating to Jane's death. Anything you can tell us would help."
"Therefore you young men do not need my blood?" Marcel checked.
Dean shifted awkwardly in his seat. "About that."
"Let me lay it out for you, Dean. Jane was a super girl. She excelled in school. It was difficult for Misette raising that kid on her own back in Kentucky. The child's father would breeze in every few years and woo Misette all over again before disappearing. Funny thing was he never aged a day. He was a sly rooster. Then Jane grows up, sassy and bright. But she doesn't get a grey hair, doesn't get wrinkles on her face. I'd met my good wife Christine and moved up here, before Jane had to leave her hometown. She spent eight very happy years here with us and then moved on again."
Castiel had poked Dean with an elbow when the elderly gentleman spoke of Jane's father.
"You knew her father? His name?" It didn't really matter but Dean supposed Castiel wanted to know which of his brothers had been doing the rumpy pumpy.
Marcel laughed, "Called himself Tommy Atkins."
Dean huffed and nodded in unison with Jane's uncle. Castiel gave him the confused face. For Cas's benefit Dean said, "It's like an alias, used for a British soldier, like John Doe."
"Like Agents Jones and Page?" Marcel said drily, "Now why do you want my blood, boys?"
"Jane's father was an angel." Dean waited for an exclamation of shock or denial, but Marcel remained blank-faced. He guessed after recent events that his news wasn't a bombshell.
He got a note from Cas: Fornication with the human race was forbidden and the offspring of illicit unions abominations
"I am not reading that out," Dean hissed and crumpled the page, "Mr. Galton, Jane was the product of a forbidden love. Her kind, Nephilim, are extremely rare. You know of the night of the falling angels?"
"I'm old Dean, not senile."
"Right. That whole thing, it didn't just happen. It was caused, by another angel." Dean scrubbed over his jaw and leaned forward, "Mr. Galton… Marcel, Jane's heart was an ingredient in the formula."
"She was killed by a rogue angel," Marcel's voice was filled with regret or grief, "Her father claimed he would always look out for her."
"Well, in recent times, a lot of angels died, there was a kinda civil war up above. Perhaps he couldn't anymore." Dean reasoned.
"I don't think I want to know how you have that knowledge. I am guessing you require a donation from me, but how will that help? I am Jane's mother's brother, not her father's side."
"There is a way of reversing the process. Jane's heart was one of three components. We are seeking the elements corresponding to each. I can't explain the metaphysics of it, maybe Castiel could…"
"If he didn't have laryngitis," Marcel said with disbelieving sarcasm.
"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Your blood is close enough to Jane's."
"Should I have dialed 911 when you came to the door? Are you my grim reaper?" Marcel met Dean's eyes.
Dean gave the senior citizen the respect of keeping eye contact. "No sir. We need more blood than your physician would take for a blood test. I have a donor bag. We need it about three quarters full."
"And if I had said no to you son?"
"With respect, sir, I would have taken it."
"Thank you. I like a straight talker." Marcel rolled up his polo shirt sleeve. "I used to donate at the Red Cross. Would one of you bring me a glass of water?"
Castiel, who had no canine issues, braved the kitchen, while Dean swabbed the man's arm and found a vein.
The blood was slow to flow. Dean wasn't sure if it was an age thing. Marcel pointed Castiel to large frame containing a mount with apertures for six photographs. "Jane and Misette are in the bottom left photo. 1958. She was such a cutie. The top right is my Christine with Jane in 1999. Chris was not well there, but it was the last picture of the three of us."
"They were good looking women." Dean complemented.
"That they were. That they were." Marcel nodded. He sipped at his water until Dean had almost a pint.
"Thank you Mr. Galton." Dean pulled out the needle and put a band aid over the mark on his arm.
"It is a small sacrifice in a good cause."
Castiel appeared with a plate of cookies and a glass of iced tea.
"Thank you Castiel." Marcel took a cookie, "That was very thoughtful of you, and brave. Commodious normally frightens off all comers."
Castiel inclined his head.
"Will you stay and share the cookies, boys, and there is more iced tea?"
"No sir," Dean stood. "We need to be on our way. But thank you."
"I suppose I won't hear from you again." Marcel was misty eyed for a moment. "But I'll know if it worked, won't I? If the world tilts on its axis again."
"I guess so." Dean shook his hand. Castiel copied him.
"Then good luck to you. God bless your efforts."
Dean waited until they were off the porch to grumble about divinities that suck ass.
The briefcase with the blood of the blood of the nephilim was locked securely into the Impala's trunk.
"I guess we are doing this." Dean pronounced as confirmation of the successful collection of the first reversal component.
When he sat into the driver's seat, he got handed a note by Castiel who was wearing a worried frown You are now The Seeker.
"With all the crap that goes with the title I presume," Dean laughed drily and pulled away from the curb.