AN: This chapter is based on the iconic e 4.06 'Yellow Fever.' However, I've had to rewrite most of the episode. Some things I allude to won't make sense unless you've watched or rewatched it. It's an iconic ep for a reason, and I'm not doing it justice here. I just had so many other things to add! If your favorite part isn't in here, I'm sorry! I hope what I have makes up for it?
FYI, while most chapters up to this point have been between 4-5k, this is over 8k...so,grab a snack and get comfy y'all
They hadn't stopped running for almost a week.
Because that's what it was, not spending too many nights in motels, sleeping in the car unless Dean just drove all night. Sam dug up a recipe for super hex bags. Able to keep all sorts of nasties off their tails, they each had one in their pocket at all times. Dean went ahead and shoved one in the Impala's glove box. Every day they fought against the instincts honed their entire lives. Sam searched for possible cases and demon omens; Dean would then drive as far as possible in the opposite direction.
They'd crossed the Rocky Mountains a few times and bounced back and forth between the Ohio Valley and the Great Lakes. The Impala cruised through hail and thunderstorms, flash flooding, ridiculously high temperatures. The days went by in a blur of miles under their tires and late-night infomercials Dean could now quote verbatim. He didn't want to acknowledge that in the dead of night, unable to sleep and bored out of his mind, he felt increasingly lonely.
Cas hadn't shown back up. Not seeing the potentially evil ball-and-chain should have been a reprieve. But now that he was MIA, Dean was concerned about what Cas was up to out of sight. At least when Cas was around, he could keep an eye on him.
(He didn't want to admit that he missed the dry sarcasm.)
Over the weekend, Dean talked Sam into checking out a trio of random heart attacks in Colorado. He was surprised when Sam gave in so readily, but it turned out his brother had an ulterior motive. As soon as they opened the door to their room, Sam pushed Dean into the bathroom and shut the door, trapping him inside. Then, he propped a kitchen chair under the doorknob to prop it closed.
Dean beat on the door frantically. "Sam, come on, man, this isn't funny!"
You're right," Sam replied from the other side of the locked door, exhaustion making him snappy. "It's disgusting, dude! I don't know what your problem is, but you are NOT leaving that bathroom until you take a shower!"
"My hygiene is my business!" Dean complained, heart sinking.
"Not when a werewolf could smell you at five hundred yards!"
Sam is such a drama queen, Dean thought to himself, but when he smelled his armpit...okay, maybe Sam had a point. He was kinda ripe, like a month's worth of trash sitting in the hot summer sun ripe. He wrinkled his nose at himself.
Sam called out, "I'm going to get some suits. Take a fucking shower, or you'll blow our cover!"
"You better bring me some breakfast, jackass!"
Even with a door between them, Dean could feel the change in air pressure that meant he was getting a bitchface for the ages from Sam. "Do NOT let him leave the bathroom without cleaning up, Cas!" Then the hotel door slammed behind him.
Dean looked around the tiny bathroom and groaned. The wallpaper was peeling from the walls and the mirror was cracked. The sink basin, the tub, and the toilet were all the ugliest yellow he could ever imagine (was piss-mustard a color? Cause that's what it looked like) complete with watermarks and rust. And the thick, mildew smell, heavy enough it sat on the back of his tongue, was the cherry on this shitty sundae.
Dean tried to avoid touching any extra surfaces. However ugly the tiny bathroom was (he could barely turn around-Sam was going to have a field day), he was too desperate. He could feel the individual layers of grime making his skin prickle with irritation. The oily mess of his hair and his stiff clothes made him feel repugnant. He'd managed to stave off showering for a good run, but Dean was sort of glad Sam forced his hand.
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It's a shower. I like showers. If I make it as cold as possible, I won't get any awkward ideas.
"Hey, Cas. I, uh, I need to shower and uh….yeah, just don't look or anything okay?"
Nothing happened for a minute. He considered his request granted, so he stripped and hurried into the shower, taking a washcloth and the complimentary soap with him.
Initially, he'd been afraid of Ruby's warning coming true and Cas trying to kill him in the shower. Now, however, he was more fearful of getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar, so to speak. It's not like Dean's gotten laid since Hell, which made his skin itch in a whole different way.
Despite trying hard not to look at his dick or touch it any more than in a perfunctory manner, it didn't matter. Showers were usually Little Dean time, and it twitched in approval when Cas popped into his head, unbidden but not wholly unwelcome.
The little touches, those black clothes, the intensity of those eyes, that hair, that fucking voice...Dean's dick agreed with his initial reaction to the fallen angel: sex on a silver platter.
No, no, no. This is so not fair. Dean was stressed and horny; usually, he'd take matters into his own hands, but...well. It was one thing to imagine someone while you jerked off. It was very much when that person lived in your head.
Goddammit, am I supposed to become a monk or something? Cause that's not going to happen.
Dean thought for a second as he rinsed the soap suds off his body. Cas said he couldn't talk to me in my head. So, it probably means he can't read my mind, right? And the guy's kinda clueless, probably wouldn't even understand this is something that could be considered embarrassing…
Taking a chance, he stood under the spray and let his fingertips run over the smooth, wet skin of his abdomen and stomach. He took a moment to marvel at the utter lack of hunting scars. Casually, he let his callused fingertips trail down past his hip, lower and lower-
"Hello, Dean."
"Jesus Christ!" Dean yelped; he grabbed the shower curtain rod just in time to keep from braining himself on the tile wall.
A voice sounded from the other side of the opaque shower curtain. "No, it's Cas."
"Dude, I said not to...I'm showering, man, come on," Dean whined, his whole chest flushed red. That timing was too perfect, he didn't do that on purpose...right?
"I've, um, noticed that you've been concerned about your normal hygiene practices," Cas said haltingly. "I could use some of my grace to keep us in pristine condition."
Dean snorted at the phrasing. "I'm not a comic book, Cas; I like showering." He paused, then shrugged his shoulders under the spray. "Yes, okay, it freaked me out a little bit. I just didn't want you spying on my junk."
There was a thoughtful pause. "Would it ease your burden if I told you that I've already seen your 'junk?'"
Dean's head popped around the plastic curtain like a groundhog poking its head from its burrow. Cas had his hands in his coat pockets and was standing awkwardly in the tiny bathroom. Steam swirled around and through Cas as they stared at each other.
"What are you talking about?" Dean asked warily.
"I rebuilt your mortal form, Dean," Cas said simply. "After we escaped Hell," he added.
….CAS REBUILT MY DICK?
Dean blushed from the shoulder up to the tips of his ears. He could feel the heat radiating off of him-hot enough that any water that hit his skin probably evaporated immediately.
Cas cleared his throat. "I just wanted to make you aware of that option in the future." He disappeared.
Dean stood in the shower for a long while, thoughts circling the drain with the suds rinsed off of him. It was only when the hot water ran out, pouring over him like a bucket of ice water, that he got out. Luckily Sam was back with breakfast, two rental suits, and the hours to the coroner's office. Sam was also kind enough not to ask why Dean looked so shell-shocked.
Their victim, Frank O'Brian, apparently died of a heart attack.
'Apparently,' because the autopsy they had the coroner reluctantly perform showed his heart was perfectly healthy (Sam got a faceful of spleen juice for his troubles and Dean got to bask in his brother's misfortune). Frank's forearms were covered in strange abrasions-exactly like the pair of deaths the next town over. They agreed that Frank and the other guys were supernaturally connected.
That's when things started to get a little weird. Well, weird for a guy who's hunted monsters his whole life.
Dean was paranoid, more than usual. He couldn't walk through a crowd of teens around his car because they looked too shady. Sitting in a witness's place, he almost pissed himself when a giant ass snake crawled right over his lap (he might have had that reaction anyways-Indy had the right idea- but still).
On the way to their hotel, he refused to go over the speed limit because he was scared of getting pulled over and arrested. He had to drive around the block because he couldn't make the left hand turn into the hotel's parking lot, afraid they'd get into a fatal accident.
At 20 miles per hour.
Things were weird, he could admit, but seeing the EMF in Sam's pocket going off when it pointed at him? That was a whole new goddamn ballgame.
Once they (safely) parked at the hotel, Sam left Dean and walked around the corner to call Bobby for a second opinion. Dean was supposed to go up to their motel room. Instead, he lingered in the car and put on his Survivor tape. He hoped the familiar music would ground his wildly increasing anxiety.
He listened to the whole side B, watching the glorious morning colors break out through the trees. When his world was a mix of the last fleeting tendrils of night and pink sunrise, Cas appeared next to him. Despite jumping high enough to brush his head against the ceiling of the car, Dean didn't scream. He counted that as a win.
Dean flipped the tape to his side A and plastered on a carefree smile. "It's a classic band, Cas. You gotta sing along, it's the law."
Cas's eyes darted from the tape deck to Dean. In the low light, they seemed to glow slightly; he shook his head. "I can't. I don't want to use my true voice and hurt you again."
And yet, by the time Sam returned to the car after the sun had risen, Dean had Cas carefully warbling the chorus to Eye of the Tiger (though Sam completely missed the show). After hearing Cas's human vocal range, Dean conceded that his true voice's ear-piercing, glass-shattering effect was a better listening experience.
"Jeez, Cas, I thought angels were supposed to be good at singing?"
Cas crossed his arms. "In my true form, yes. In this vessel?" He sighed heavily in defeat; the discovery seemed to upset him more than he wanted to admit.
Shaking his head in bitter disappointment, Dean hopped out of the car when Sam appeared next to him with a box of donuts. He showed his brother the angry red scratches that had appeared on his forearms. They itched horribly, and he didn't think slapping some calamine lotion on them would do the trick.
Dean cut to the quick. "Alright, what'd Bobby have to say?"
"Um, well, you're not going to like it." Sam handed him the box, but Dean threw it on the car seat, unable to think about eating anything. His brother openly balked at Dean's lack of appetite. After schooling his features, Sam continued. "Bobby thinks it's ghost sickness."
Cas materialized next to them. "Ghost sickness? Is that a curse?"
"I have no idea what that is," Dean admitted, scratching his arm.
"Right. Certain cultures believed that the dead carried diseases that could infect the living. That's why people stopped showing bodies in their parlors and started showing them at funeral homes. That's why 'parlors' changed to 'living rooms.' Anyways, um, symptoms are: you get anxious, scared, terrified…" Sam ran a hand through his hair. "and then your heart stops."
Cas moved slightly closer to Dean's side, lips pursed in concern.
Dean dropped his head in his hands. "Like our vic and the other two guys in Maumee?"
"Yeah," Sam shuffled his stance, so the toe of his shoe touched the toe of Dean's boot. "Is this something you can help with, Cas?"
"I can't remove this curse, no," Cas said regretfully to the ground.
Dean threw his hands up. "This makes no sense. We haven't dealt with a ghost in weeks!"
"Don't think you caught it from a ghost," Sam explained. "Once the ghost infects the first person, it spreads like any virus. Frank died first, then the two guys in Maumee almost half a day later. But get this: over the weekend, Frank met them at a softball tournament."
"Okay, Frank was clearly Patient Zero, our own Outbreak monkey." Dean scowled. "But why am I sick when you got hit with spleen juice from his corpse during the autopsy?"
"Yeah, um." Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back. "So, Bobby and I have a theory that this sickness infects people of a certain personality type." When Dean motioned for him to continue, he huffed. "They were all guys who used fear as a weapon. So, they were basically dicks."
Dean gawked at him. "You're saying a ghost thinks I'm a dick?"
"I'd describe your personality as obstinate and recalcitrant before I described you as a sexual organ," Cas rumbled helpfully.
Dean could tell Sam was biting the inside of his cheek so he wouldn't laugh.
"I'm definitely not whatever you just called me," Dean argued.
Cas had the audacity to raise that eyebrow at him. "You're saying you're not bullheaded with a problem respecting authority figures?"
Dean opened his mouth to object but then thought for a second and nodded. "Yeah, okay, maybe, but you know what? That's not the point." He turned back to his brother. "How long do we have, doc?"
"24 hours-" Dean groaned dramatically-"but if we gank the ghost, the curse is lifted."
Dean crossed his arms over his chest, hoping to stop the urge to scratch at the marks. "So we gotta find a ghost that has a grudge against Frank. Great."
"Not we," Sam corrected. "Me. Unfortunately, ghost sickness comes with some nasty side effects, and hallucinations are just the tip of the iceberg. You're gonna blow our cover if you start having a bad trip while talking to a witness."
"I'm already dealing with a vivid enough hallucination. I don't want more," Dean agreed.
Cas clenched his jaw but said nothing.
Sam patted Dean's shoulder. "So, just head upstairs and chill. I'm sure there's some soap opera you've been meaning to catch up on, right?"
"Um…" Sudden dread squeezed his stomach so hard he didn't even bitch about Sam's crack at him. Dean bit his lip and said quietly, "Our room's on the fourth floor." When Sam just shrugged in confusion, Dean added meekly. "It's high."
With a long-suffering sigh, Sam nodded. "I'll move us to the first."
Watching TV was not the soothing experience Dean hoped it would be.
For starters, he couldn't watch the black-and-white reruns of Julia Child's cooking segments; he hid behind his hands the whole episode. "Alcohol and sharp instruments do not mix, Julia," he whined when she took a sip of the cooking brandy, butcher knife in hand.
Find, maybe a movie? After channel surfing, found an old classic slasher movie. However, he panicked at the idea of dying at the hands of a crazed zombie while in the middle of sex, and that hit too many current issue buttons for him to handle.
Alright, fine. Time to bring out the big guns.
Under normal circumstances, golf would be the last thing he'd willingly watch, but he figured there was nothing scary about it. When a man shot his ball into the sandpit, Dean was assaulted with a vivid mental movie of the man getting dragged underneath by the tentacles of a Graboid from the Tremors movie.
Okay, TV is not happening. Dean shut it off and then rummaged through Sam's duffel bag. His brother kept a few basic lore books in there: one on creatures and an old tome on ghost legends. While the internet was usually faster, it paid to be prepared.
Well, being pretty's not getting me anywhere, so I might as well be useful.
While it did have some information about ghost sickness, Dean was having a hard time concentrating. His eyes just kept crawling over the same two-page spread repeatedly. His leg was bouncing under the desk and he was tapping the tabletop with his left hand. Words like 'ticking time bomb' jumped out at him, but nothing else was sinking in.
Unfortunately, the book included monochromatic paintings of people in the throes of agony as they died. Bright red explosions from their chests showed Dean in no uncertain terms what would happen to him if they didn't resolve this curse in time.
One of the people in the pictures, a man throwing up blood, turned towards Dean. His eyes were black and horns protruded from his forehead. He looked like Cas, and he grinned a bloody grin.
"Tick-Tock, Dean," Cas's doppelganger whispered with glee. Dean leaped backward out of his chair, rubbing his eyes and looking again. The picture had returned to normal.
A hand on his shoulder caused Dean to whip around to see another Cas. He let out a scared moan before he could stop it. Babbling, Dean jerked away from him. "I can't deal with this. I can't deal with you, shit, I…" he pressed the heel of his palm into his chest, over his heart, the pressure helping slightly.
When Cas tried to move towards him, Dean sidestepped him. "Stay away from me!" Dean pleaded. He held his hands up. "You scare the fuck out of me. I have no idea what you're planning, and I can't-"
Cas straightened up to his full height. Despite being a few inches shorter, he had the air of someone taller than a skyscraper. "Why are you afraid of me?" He demanded, trying to hide the hurt under his terse words. "I've done nothing to make you fear me, Dean. I'm on your side. Haven't I proven that time and time again? By saving your life, the life of your brother, repeatedly?"
Dean moved back, unable to look Cas in the eye, scratching at the marks. "Ruby said you were Lucifer's right-hand man. We couldn't find any lore to prove either way. What if you're evil and plan on using me to burn down the world?"
That was the wrong thing to say. Before he knew it, his back hit the wall, not slammed but firmly pushed. Cas pressed against him, his forearm across Dean's chest to hold him there. Cas's stoicism was replaced by a mixture of disgust and disappointment. "Why would you believe an abomination's word over mine?" He growled dangerously.
Dean sucked in a scared gasp. "Cas, please, stop!"
They froze; Dean glanced at Cas's chapped lips and unconsciously licked his own. He awkwardly chuckled. "Normally, I'd be into the manhandling, but, uh, gonna need a raincheck."
Cas's brow furrowed. He stepped back, letting Dean go but carefully watching him.
Despite shaking knees and sweat on his brow, Dean managed to answer him. "I'm a Winchester; the only luck we have is bad! If an angel were going to save me, of course, it would be the worst one of the bunch."
Without saying anything, Cas walked to the window and glanced outside. Taking a breath, he turned back to Dean with determination. "You need to know why I was sent to Hell."
"It doesn't matter-"
"It does matter," Cas pressed. "Because you need to understand who I am and what I'm capable of doing. Otherwise, your paranoia is going to kill us both. Sit."
Dean slumped down at one end while Cas grabbed him a beer. He passed it to Dean before he sat next to him, perched on the edge of the cushion. Cas's hands were clasped in his lap and he seemed to ponder how to start.
Dean used the ring on his right hand to pop the metal cap off the beer; then, he tossed it onto the coffee table in front of them. The urge to crawl away from Cas's presence was almost overpowering. He focused on the cold, carbonated beer as a distraction and kicked his feet up onto the table.
"After Lucifer's rebellion, a few other angels and I were stationed on Earth to watch over humanity. We were to observe and offer guidance to those chosen by God but nothing else. We were to keep our watch until the Archangel's vessels were born. Then, Michael would defeat Lucifer, and Paradise would come to Earth.
"A few thousand years ago, an old woman noticed me outside her home. Though she couldn't afford to, she offered me food, purely out of kindness. I'd never been seen by a human who wasn't specifically chosen by God for some divine purpose. I took her up on her offer out of curiosity. When I revealed what I was, I was expecting supplication."
He paused and let out a little huff. "Oh, how naive I was. She became angry and bitter. She wanted to know why I allowed her children to die of illness and her neighbors of calamity. I could heal with a touch. Why wouldn't I help those who needed it? I couldn't defend myself against her accusations."
Dean snorted, fingers scratching at the marks on his arm. "Someone's grandma put you in your place?"
Cas scowled but ignored him. "Angels follow the letter of the law, but not the spirit of it. That sort of intuition is not innate to our kind. I thought her words were a test of my faith and my understanding of my purpose. She could see me after all. Maybe watching over humanity did require a hands-on approach. If that were the case, then I would oblige."
"So, I walked amongst you for millennia, healing the sick and dying. Saved lives cut short by the cruelty of others. Some humans I smote because their evil was too insidious. I only managed it because there were angels loyal to me. Some turned a blind eye, some like Samandriel and Inais actively helped.
"Heaven was frantic to find me. As time went on, the angels that had helped me were re-educated, then sent after me. There were several skirmishes. Sometimes...I had to kill some of my siblings; I regretted it every time. I was only arrested two hundred years ago when Heaven sent my entire former garrison after me."
Dean's eyes grew wide, and he held up a finger. "Wait a second. Your big bad crime was running around on Earth like a divine Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman?"
Cas said tonelessly, "Disobedience is treason."
"But you were helping us!"
"I was interfering," Cas corrected automatically, like a trained response. "There is no reason good enough for doubt. An angel must act on faith. I was self-righteous, too proud and narcissistic to see the chaos I was sowing. In the end, I was branded the same as Lucifer. He was cast out for hating humans, and I was cast out for loving them too much."
"Jesus, Cas." Dean shook his head in disgust.
Cas glanced sideways at him. "No, he had nothing to do with what happened."
Dean had to fight to roll his eyes. "So, then what happened? You get a trial, at least?"
"No trial. I was, however, told the truth about Heaven's Plan-that Paradise on Earth required the extinction of humanity. Then my wings were broken, and I was thrown into Hell with extreme prejudice." He rolled his shoulders slightly and grimaced. Could he still feel them, even now that he was a hitchhiker in Dean's brain?
"What happened to you was bullshit, Cas," Dean assured him. "You saved people. You cared. That's the important part here, buddy," he said and drink his beer.
Cas turned his body slightly so he was not facing Dean. "My last vessel, James, was a man of faith; he prayed for this, Dean. He wanted to do God's work in as literal a sense as possible. He left behind his wife Amelia and his daughter Claire, the people he loved most in this world." Cas cleared his throat, and Dean could tell he was trying to keep his voice steady.
"Remember when I said that each angel has a specific bloodline for vessels? Well, if an angel Falls, it's standard procedure to cleanse that bloodline so if that angel escapes Hell they fade without a vessel. I thought it was a brutal but necessary precaution until it happened to me."
Dean's eyes were wide and his mouth was agape in horror. "No, come on, they didn't…."
"James trusted me, Dean. And now the only thing left of the Novaks and their kin are the memories he left behind."
Cas was resolutely looking at the floor between his feet. Dean noticed his eyes grow red-rimmed and misty with self-loathing and heartbreak.
Dean couldn't help himself. Despite the curse trying to pull him back, Dean put his feet down and threw an arm over Cas's (surprisingly solid for a hallucination) shoulders. The curse was clawing at his gut, but he was able to ignore it because Cas was hurting and he hated it.
"Cas," he said firmly. Dean leaned his head over enough to catch Cas's eye. "That is not your fault."
"Yes, it was. Heaven was afraid of another uprising. Zachariah reached out to me while I was in Hell and told me himself what I had 'forced Heaven to do.'"
"What else could they do to you?" Dean asked, morbidly curious.
"About a century after I was cast into Hell, Heaven helped fan the spread of a plague. The 1918 Spanish Flu killed over 50 million around the world. They took two for every one we had helped. An eye for an eye. In the grand scheme of things, they made sure my crusade had ultimately amounted to nothing."
Dean's heart was pounding hard enough in his chest to hurt. This angel had been beaten down, cast from his only home, for helping humans. And after all that, here he was, once again trying to save humanity. Cas looked so dejected in front of him, shoulders slumped and brows furrowed in remembered pain and betrayal.
"Not to put too fine a point on it, but I think your previous bosses are grade A dick-weasels, Cas. And I'd be more than willing to tell them that to their faces."
Cas let out a humorless, dry chuckle. "I wouldn't have to be persuaded to agree with you."
"So, you don't want to just stop this whole thing out of the kindness of your heart." When Cas's face snapped up to his and stared at him with indignation, Dean course-corrected. "I mean, you do, obviously, but ruining the Plan also fucks Heaven over one last time, right? You want to give them the celestial middle finger."
"An angel of the Lord should not be petty." He didn't refute it, interesting.
Dean scoffed. "Good thing you're not one anymore." He upended his beer and finished it in one smooth swallow. "After all that, you're allowed a grudge."
The thud of the empty bottle on the wooden coffee table felt like the smack of a gavel at a trial. Dean knew Cas's story-what would his verdict be for the fallen angel?
On the same page, Cas let Dean's eyes and asked quietly, "Am I the monster you thought I was?"
Before Dean could answer, the jingle of keys against the lock announced Sam's arrival. His brother had returned with a bag of food and not great news.
Frank's wife, Jesse, had died twenty years ago, and the anniversary was two days before Frank died. According to the county clerk's records, she had been discovered dead in a motel room a few towns over from an apparent suicide. Unfortunately, she had been cremated and was probably not their ghost.
Cas disappeared when Sam walked in. Dean needed time to process his words. Currently, there was nothing to prove Cas's story, but he still warred internally. Part of him, driven mainly by the curse, was suspect of everything and anything. Cas's heartbroken expression was eating up at him in a different way, though.
Something large and hard lodged itself in Dean's throat. He ran to the sink, coughing and hacking until he threw up a wood chip. "What the fuck-?"
Sam was morbidly excited. "Dude, we've been ignoring the biggest clue we have-you! This sickness is trying to tell us something."
Dean moaned. "I don't wanna be a clue. Especially one that throws up wood chips."
He was over this curse in every way imaginable.
The Cassidy and Sons lumber mill outside of Rock Ridge was desolate and dismal. The place was nothing but rusted equipment, woodchips, sawdust, and dark shadows that the noon sunlight couldn't penetrate. Dean had seen creepy places his entire life, been in even creepier ones compared to an old lumberyard. But he didn't have a fear curse running through his veins back then. He begged Sam to let him wait in the car, but Sam refused.
"I need back-up, and I can't use Cas myself, so we're both going in, Dean!"
He never had to shotgun half a bottle of whiskey to get his nerves under control before going hunting; guess there was a first time for everything. When Sam tried to hand him his gun, Dean blanched at it. "Oh, hell no. It could go off! I'll man the flashlight," Dean offered.
After finding Frank's wedding ring and drawings of Jesse in the old employee break room, they found a ghost. The man was taller than Sam, dressed in a gray jumpsuit, and hiding from them in the corner of the room. When Sam shouted for him to turn around, he charged them. His skin was covered in red wounds and-
Dean ran.
He literally couldn't help it. He left his brother behind to deal with an angry ghost alone as he hauled ass through the lumber mill. Not his proudest moment. Nor was when Sam stumbled out to the car, and he was hiding behind it like a little kid. This curse is fucking mortifying.
Luckily, Sam had a good head on his shoulders and managed to grab the employee ID. Their ghost was named Luther Garland. The plot was getting thicker, but the picture wasn't any clearer.
Dean hated this town so much right now. Stupid small town with their stupid secrets.
They found Luther's older brother in a local retirement home. He told them what had happened to Luther. The giant of a man had a crush on the mill's receptionist, Frank's wife, Jesse. When she disappeared, Frank thought Luther was responsible.
Dean could understand why Luther would curse Frank. Despite being innocent, he'd been road-hauled with a chain up and down the road outside his place of employment until he was 'past dead.' Secretly, Dean thought Frank deserved his comeuppance. What he didn't agree with was being forced to experience Luther's death in slow motion.
"Alright. So these marks are road rash, and Luther probably swallowed some wood chips. Fine. Let's burn his bones and get me healthy." When Sam paused next to the passenger door, a pinched expression on his face, Dean blurted out, "What, Sam?"
"Burning his bones isn't going to work, Dean," Sam cautiously explained. "Luther was road-hauled. His remains are everywhere outside that mill, and we'll never find them all in time. We'll have to figure out something else."
Dean pressed a hand to his chest. It was an automatic motion, along with the unconscious scratching of the marks on his forearms. "You know what, I'm fucking over this."
When he tried to step away, Sam called out. "Dean, what are you going?"
"What are we doing, Sam?"
The blunt question made Sam raise an eyebrow, but he humored his brother. "Hunting a ghost. So we can gank it, and you don't die of ghost sickness."
"Exactly. And it's that kind of bullshit that has made our lives a living Hell, and that's why everything sucks!"
Dean was on such a roll he barely remembered the monologue that came spewing out of his mouth. Things he never thought he'd admit to, packed away under layers of bravado and a sense of duty. He laid out the whole embarrassing picture of how, exactly, their lives sucked. Sam, for the most part, watched this meltdown with bemusement. Damn him.
"I'm done with the hellhounds and the ghost sickness and the fucking apocalypse. And I'm done with the hallucinangel on my fucking shoulder! I'm over all of it!"
Dean chucked the Impala's keys to Sam and walked away.
Not wanting to deal with traffic or other people, Dean decided to cut through town back to their hotel room. As he walked down a darkened side street, a familiar growl snapped him out of his thoughts. He slowly turned, and holy shit, there was a hellhound right behind him.
His heart was painfully beating in his chest, and he couldn't breathe. Same large teeth, ugly face, the same stench of sulfur and brimstone on its breath.
It snarled at him again, and Dean only had a second to think, Since when do hellhounds wear tiny pink bows? Before it launched itself at him, nipping at his heels the whole way as he ran for his life.
When Sam returned to their room later, Dean was on the end of his bed, wearing his sweat-drenched suit and hyperventilating. Unsure what to do about his brother's increasing volatility, Sam called Bobby for help.
The shower was fraught with danger so Dean just used a wet washcloth to clean himself up. Once dressed, he debated if chugging the beers in the fridge would help or hinder things. He only had a few hours left. Luckily, Bobby agreed to meet Sam at the lumber mill. He had faith they'd come up with something. He kinda had to.
"Dean, you sure you're gonna be okay?" Sam worried.
Dean waved him off. "Go, meet with Bobby, get me healthy already!"
"Keep an eye on him, Cas. Just ride out the trip, Dean. You'll be fine. I'll call you." Sam was gone, and Dean was alone. He tried to watch some old Gumby movies on the TV to fill the silence. Somehow, he managed some zen and was fairly calm-until the sounds of the door being broken in by snarling hellhounds almost made him faint.
What he wasn't expecting was the town's sheriff to barge in and try to kill him. He knew of Luther's actual cause of death but didn't want to arrest his buddy Frank for 'a mistake.' The sleeves on his dress shirt were stained with blood and his eyes were wild; he was sick, too. When he attacked Dean, the hunter barely put up a fight, not willing to hurt someone even in his terrified state.
Dean shoved him back, but the old man hit the floor and died. Dean watched the life leave the Sheriff's eyes. He staggered back to the wall, hand over his mouth, eyes wide. He was next.
He was next.
He draped a blanket over the body and sat on the end of his bed. His fingers tried to scratch the marks, but he'd bitten his nails down too far, and they offered no relief. The scratch was getting worse, and there was whispering around him now.
Alone and terrified, this is how you go. Just like you always knew, the whispering said.
He clasped his hands tightly together and didn't bother to hold back the tears.
"Dean?" He looked up, and Cas crouched down in front of Dean, their eyes almost level. Cas reached up and gently palmed Dean's left cheek. Unable to help himself, Dean leaned to the touch ever so slightly. His eyes fluttered shut for a second. "Oh Dean," Cas intoned quietly. "It's time."
He froze. "Time?"
Cas's hand moved to cradle his jaw, and then his fingers gripped him hard. His blunt fingers bit into Dean's cheek and jawline hard enough to bruise. "You've had your hour in the yard. Time to come back to your cell." Cas's eyes rolled back until only white eyes stared back at him.
Dean scrambled off the bed, away from the manic smile and white eyes. "You're not real!" He spat. When he turned around, the white-eyed Cas became a familiar little girl in a pink dress.
"Dean, it's me, Lilith!" She tutted and waved her finger at him. "Did you really think an angel would help you escape? Ruby was right; Sam really is the brains between you two. At least Sam will have a decent hunting partner now. Time to come home, Dean. We've missed you, and you have a job to do."
Dean's heart was hammering in agony, and he collapsed to his knees. He groaned in pain. "Go away, go away, you're not real. Not real…"
"You were so close, too!" Lilith stomped her foot in mock anger. "It was only two months up here, but your little jailbreak wasted twenty years of hard work. We'll have to have twice as much fun when we get you home, won't we? Alastair will be so excited! You were his favorite, you know."
Lilith's smirking form abruptly dissolved like a ghost struck with an iron crowbar. Another Cas strode forward and stopped in front of Dean. Dean jerked back from him. "Stay away from me!"
This Cas kneeled in front of Dean, his eyes soft. "That wasn't me, Dean, I promise." He reached out and put his left hand on Dean's shoulder, and placed his right over where the handprint lay. Though there were a few layers of fabric separating the touch, Dean could almost feel the warmth emanating from it.
"You have to calm down. You can't give in."
"Why do you care?" Dean lashed out against the warmth of Cas's presence. "You should be happy, right? I die; you get to use my carcass as the vessel you wanted all along."
"Originally, yes, you were a means to an end," Cas slowly admitted. "But as I've gotten to know you and Sam, I don't want anything to happen to you. To either of you. So, no, I don't want to be in here alone. Even if I don't understand what you're thinking half the time."
Dean coughed a few times, hard enough to rattle his ribs. It was getting hard to breathe. Sam better hurry up, the pain was like an anvil on his chest, and his breathing was shallow.
"You need to let me in, Dean."
It was such an asinine statement Dean barked out a laugh. "What are you-? You're already in my head. What more do you want?"
"Dean," Cas said, frustrated. "I don't have the grace to dampen your consciousness. Do you truly think me attempting to move your body against your will when you're cursed to die from terror is a good plan?"
"How are you still this bitchy when I'm literally dying?" He hoped the snark would distract Cas from whatever he was suggesting. His stomach was in knots, and sweat trailed down his face, but...he couldn't let Cas in like that, could he?
Cas pulled his arms back and studied Dean's pale face. He gently brushed a sweaty lock of hair from his forehead. Dean had to fight hard to not fall into that trap again and lean into the touch. His heart was battering away at his defenses; Dean wondered if his ribs would have bruises.
"Dean, do you know what 'Castiel' means?" Confused by this random question, Dean shook his head and sucked in a pained breath as he tried to stay calm. Maybe Cas was trying to distract him from the pain in his chest?
"It translates to 'shield of God.' When you called me Cas, you removed God from a Fallen Angel's name. I had to laugh at the time but I now appreciate that simple truth."
Dean's heart was beating so violently he thought he saw it beating through his skin, cartoon-style. Cas reached out and placed his open right hand against Dean's chest, over his terrified heart. Hesitantly, Dean laid his hand on top of Cas's, the dulled horns of his amulet poking his wrist.
Cas leaned in and locked eyes with Dean's bloodshot ones. He spoke calmly yet firmly. "You need to let me in. Let me help. Let me be your shield, Dean."
Any reservations on the tip of his tongue fled like a flock of birds scared into flight. Dean squeezed Cas's hand and nodded. "Fine. Can we save the Hallmark?" When Cas just squinted at him, Dean coughed. "So, in, like, just my heart? Could you slow it down, help me ride this out so Sam has a chance?"
"I can try, but are you sure?" Angels, always with the consent.
Dean gave him a pained grin. "I trust you, Cas, for whatever reason."
"Being on death's door is a pretty good motivator," Cas said. He closed his eyes, but Dean cleared his throat and managed to wink at him.
"Don't go breaking my heart, Cas."
Cas solemnly nodded. "I'll endeavor not to."
Cas closed his eyes, and this time when he disappeared, he kind of passed into Dean, like a ghost. Dean's chest was suddenly full of this warmth, like a sunbeam hugging him under his skin. It was disconcerting but oddly comforting at the same time.
"Come on, Cas, don't let us die," he whispered to himself. He felt what could only be described as gentle touches along his heart, like a hand stroking down the back of a frightened animal.
Come on, Sam, Bobby, hurry up! His heart was pounding with less intensity and he could breathe easier. It felt like he was sucking in oxygen through humid air rather than tar.
The time on his wrist watch struck 8 am, 48 hours since he was cursed and his deadline. He collapsed onto the dirty floor with the feeling of a bubble bursting around him. Dean gasped loudly, greedily sucking in lungfuls of fresh air. Looking down, his forearms were healed entirely, the infernal itch gone.
Thank god, Sam came through. With monumental effort, Dean rolled onto his back, limp and sweaty but alive. "Go team," he joked weakly.
For an unknown amount of time, Dean lay there with his eyes closed basking in his return to normalcy. His skin prickled along his neck, a giveaway that someone was watching him. Cas was kneeling next to him. In those blue eyes was relief, but also a fondness Dean hadn't entirely expected.
He gave Cas a thumbs up and a crooked smile. "Always gotta play the hero, huh?"
"Someone has to, clearly you can't do it." Cas held out his hand and pulled Dean up into a sitting position. Their faces were mere inches apart, yet there was a tension in that small space that wasn't there before.
Dean ran his thumb over his lips and Cas followed the movement with dark eyes. "Dean…?"
Dean's phone went off in his pocket. It was Sam calling frantically to make sure he was alive.
"Hey, Sammy, I'm fine." Dean grinned as he patted Cas's shoulder. "Never better."
Outside of the quarry on the edge of the lumber mill, under the bright sunlight and cloudless blue sky, Dean grabbed a few beers out of their old green cooler. He handed one to Sam; Bobby shook his head-unwilling to drink and drive. "You're shitting me. You guys road-hauled a ghost with a chain so you could scare it to death?"
"An iron chain etched with spellwork," Sam clarified, nodding towards Bobby. "Still pretty brutal, though, but it was the only thing that scared Luther."
"You sure you're back to one hundred percent?" Bobby asked seriously. "I mean, this line of work gets awful scary sometimes."
Dean bristled at his ball-breaking tone. "Wanna hunt? I'll hunt anything. Let's go." His enthusiasm only prompted Bobby and Sam to laugh at him.
After a moment, Bobby pointedly looked at his brother. "Sam also asked me to do some extra digging into the angel in your outfield."
Dean snorted, almost inhaling beer into his lungs. "For god's sake, why do you have to make it sound like that?"
"Like what?" That was a trap a mile wide, and Dean knew better than to go near it.
"Whatever, what did you find?"
"Can't verify Ruby's claims about Cas," Sam admitted into his beer.
"I poked around all the angel lore I could find," Bobby explained. He pulled from his pocket a ragged notepad and flipped to a dog-eared page covered in blocky cursive. "He's in there. 'The Angel of Thursday, a watcher of humanity and the Angel of the Downtrodden.'"
"So, not exactly the Hannibal Lecter of Heaven," Sam summed up.
Dean's smile was infectious as he let out a sigh of relief. "That's awesome! In fact, I think introductions are in order."
He grabbed Bobby's shoulder, and the old hunter jumped when Cas appeared leaning against the side of the Impala next to Dean. Sam, who had his upper arm touching Dean's shoulder, leaned forward to witness the moment.
"As long as I'm touching you, you can interact with him," Dean reminded him. "Bobby, Cas. Cas, Bobby."
Bobby nodded and held out his hand. "It's good to meet you." Cas studied the hand offered to him; after a few seconds, he grabbed it and shook firmly.
"And I, you. Dean thinks highly of you."
"As he oughta, with how many times I've bailed his ass out the fire."
Cas cocked his head. "You too?"
That made Bobby laugh. "Well, I gotta head out. You boys take care." As he walked around to the driver's side of his car, he pointed to the place Cas invisibly stood. "That includes you, too, Cas. It's good to have a face to the name. Y'all stay under the radar. Call me if you need me."
The brothers waved to him as he got into his rusty, trusty Chevelle and headed back home to South Dakota. Soon, the dust kicked up from his tires dissipated from the air.
Taking a few steps forward, Cas stopped in front of Sam. "I understand why you were distrustful of me. But you must understand that I stood against Lucifer. Never for him. I was cast down because Heaven didn't want me to help those that needed it. Yes, I had to kill some of my siblings, and I'm not proud of it. However, I would do it all again."
Sam contemplated Cas and the righteous conviction in his words. "Thanks for telling me, Cas."
"Would it be correct to say you and I are now on the 'same page,' Sam?"
Sam laughed at the actual air quotes. He raised his beer up in a toast. "Yeah, Cas, we're good."
Dean cleared his throat to catch their attention. "I hate to be a Debbie Downer here, but before we start skipping down this yellow brick road, we need to figure out why Ruby lied about Cas."
Sam scratched his jaw. "Ruby might not have lied, exactly," he hedged. "She did say it was a rumor she'd heard. Is there a point in shooting the messenger?"
Dean turned to his brother and scowled. "Yes, there's a point. Even if she just maliciously exaggerated what she heard about Cas, she's a demon and still up to something."
"Maybe she assumed my questionable history would stir up enough doubt to drive you two apart. Divide and conquer," Cas suggested.
He and Dean both turned towards Sam, who didn't speak immediately as he was chewing on his lip. He tapped his fingers on his bottle for a moment before he drained it.
"Guess we'll have to find out for ourselves what she's up to, won't we?"
AN: Y'all...you have no idea how much I ANGSTED over this chapter! I knew Cas's backstory was going to be a big deal, but I almost triggered a panic attack. I love this Cas that I've created, but I was so worried about not getting the nuance Cas has in the show. I hope you liked his story.
Next time, some soothing TFW shenanigans as a cool down!