There was something arresting about Castiel. There was no other way to put it. It wasn't in his face; worn, in a tired kind of way; the heaviness about his shoulders as though his too-big trenchcoat weighed more than it should. It wasn't anything in his body, or his dark, windswept hair, but something vital, like the soul of him burning from within.

He was quick to slip his hands in his pockets; attentive as a host; offered to bring tea, and they waited at an old, scarred table in the kitchen. Sam saw that Dean had slipped quickly into a camaraderie with the Kline, asking softball questions that Castiel answered with a quiet intensity, staring unwaveringly at the kettle, which let out its low continuous hiss. "Mind if I use the bathroom?" Sam asked.

"Of course not," Castiel said. "It's down the hall, to the right." Sam stood up; nodded awkwardly, with a friendly smile, but the polite gesture was lost on Castiel, who was still watching the kettle. Sam walked down the hall. He peeked into the bathroom, which was right where Castiel had said; door half-open. Nothing amiss. He went further, on the lookout for anything witchy, anything that spoke of magic. Nothing. A set of stairs led to the upper floor; Sam took them two at a time, feet pressed close to the banister to avoid the middle of the steps; in an old house like this, stairs were bound to creak, worse where the support was less.

The upper floor was more of the same. Many empty rooms; unused, that is, but filled with piles of books. Not magical. It was fiction; some old, some with new dust jackets; boxes and boxes. It would take too long to look through it all. Sam took the EMF meter from his pocket, turned it on and ran it ahead of him. Nothing.

In one room he saw an old man sitting on a bed, reading. Sam hid the meter behind him, turning it off in one motion. The man hadn't noticed him. He was engrossed in his story. Round glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose; a grin playing over his mousey face. Sam slipped down the hall. There was one more door. Closed, but unlocked. Sam touched the glass doorknob. There was a quick jolt of static against his palm. Opened it, and saw—

—nothing. The room was empty. Grimed, painted walls. A sagging ceiling, stained with water. Sam stared inside.

He could smell the old smell that wasn't must; too alive for that; the walls were probably being eaten away. The whole house seemed near collapse. He stepped away. Swung the door shut, carefully, with a click. Wiped his sweaty hand against his jeans. Put the EMF meter back into his pocket and went downstairs.

/

When Sam came down, the tea was done. Three cups of steaming liquid sat in an old china set; silver rims that had been worn away by time. Three bags of Lipton, red paper tags resting on the saucers.

Castiel was sitting across the table, staring at his brother without blinking. Dean was animated, vibrant; leaning forward, explaining the Impala. Obviously he'd decided there wasn't anything else to ask about the case. He didn't seem fazed by Castiel's rudeness, or weirdness, or whatever it was; he was staring back, just as intensely. Even when Castiel raised his cup to his mouth, he didn't break eye contact.

Sam slipped into the seat beside his brother and dragged his teacup toward him. Maybe these Klines weren't witches. They just weren't normal. He knew how stuff like that could turn into rumor. Castiel seemed like an okay guy; and the EMF meter hadn't gone off.

Sam took a polite sip of tea. It was tasteless, and hot; Castiel hadn't put any sugar in.

"Sam," Castiel said, when Dean paused for a second. He turned his head, looked over at Sam. "Your brother says you're an academic."

"Uh, well," Sam hedged, on the spot. "Only as a hobby," he demurred. "Do you have any sugar?"

Castiel got up and rummaged through a cabinet. "I've been meaning to go into Arkham to visit the library. Unfortunately, I'm not currently in possession of a car. Dean was saying I might join you tomorrow?"

Sam looked over at Dean, a silent question on his face. Dean shrugged sheepishly.

"Uh, sure, man," Sam said. "What time should we pick you up?"

"Nine would be fine," Castiel said. "I don't want to impinge on your morning."

He brought the sugar bowl over to Sam. A tarnished spoon in his other hand.

"I think you cut yourself," Sam said; Castiel followed his gaze. A thin score of red, like a paper cut, crossed the side of one finger.

"Oh," Castiel said, too forceful, with an exaggerated smile. "Silly me." He nodded to Sam, and wiped his hand on the edge of his trenchcoat, leaving a small, dark stain behind.

Sam opened the sugar bowl. The grains of sugar lay in a white heap; when he poured them into his tea they made a soft sound, like sand.

/

"So I'm guessing you didn't find anything," Dean said as he swung the Impala in a curve to face the end of the drive. It had gotten truly dark in the time they'd been indoors, and above them the sky was unutturably vast, pinned in place by the flanks of the mountains. The stars were a cold glitter like coins fallen from a purse; the waxing moon bright.

"Nothing. An old guy, maybe Castiel's father, was reading in one of the bedrooms. He's some kind of a hoarder; there were books everywhere. It all seemed to be fiction. No grimoirs; no EMF."

"Should probably come back, take a look at their cattle," Dean said. He glanced out, beyond them; the herd was nothing but a dark shape in the distance.

"Yeah," Sam said. He paused. Opened the glovebox and pulled out his journal, turning to the pages he'd gathered on Dunwich. "Maybe we've been looking at this all wrong. Maybe there aren't any witches, or vampires, or demons. Maybe there's a curse. It could explain how empty this town is."

"It's a small farming town," Dean said. "Plenty of reasons for it to be empty that aren't a curse."

"You really think that?" Sam said skeptically.

"Hell no. There's something hinky here. What've you got on the stones?"

"Nothing."

"What?" Dean glanced over, surprised.

"It wasn't in any of the lore I gathered. I mean there was a lot, I guess I just missed it," Sam said, though he liked to believe he was good enough at research that he wouldn't've missed a mention of stone monuments from time immemorial.

He scrawled a note in the margin. —sᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴄɪʀᴄʟᴇs. He'd check it out tomorrow.

/

"Hey Dean, wake up."

Dean opened his eyes, glared at Sam blearily. "M'havin my beauty sleep," he said.

"Yeah," Sam said with a smile. "I noticed. It's 8:30, man. We've gotta get going if we're gonna meet Castiel in time."

Dean sat up, grumbling. "My back is killing me," he said. "I hate this damn mattress." He grabbed his clothes to freshen up while Sam wandered back downstairs, plugging in his computer where he could keep an eye on it. He'd already eaten, but he fried an egg for his brother. Dean came down a few minutes later, scarfed it down, and they were off only ten minutes later than Sam had intended.

Castiel was standing by the end of his drive when they came up, with an old battered backpack. He didn't seem offended by being made to wait, and slid into the Impala's back seat, shoving the backpack to the side next to him. He said a perfunctory hello to each Winchester, nodding his head toward each, and then subsided into a silence that lasted the first half of the trip. It ended easily, in a discussion of the tapes Dean had put on, and then after that they were talking more generally; about the town. "Do you know anything about those stone circles?" Sam asked.

"The ones on the hills?" Castiel said. He nodded. "They've always been there."

"Seems like the kind of place that would get in the news a lot," Sam said.

"No, not really," Castiel said. He shrugged. "I mean, we've got our stories. But no one's ever come to a scientific consensus."

When they reached the library in Arkham, Dean let them out at the door while he drove to park on the side. Castiel held his backpack in a two-handed grip while Sam asked him what he'd brought along.

"Notes," Castiel said easily. "Research. Things I might need." The three walked into the library together, and it was Castiel who asked, politely, to read the Latin translation of the Necronomicon housed in Arkham's library.

Sam felt a moment of unease. True, it had been diluted into a tourist attraction, and what magical significance it had was to all accounts an incomplete jumble—but it was a magical text. "You mind if I take a look at it with you?" he asked.

"Not at all," Castiel said.

The book was brought out, and Sam and Castiel put on latex gloves.

"Nah, I'll let them do their thing," Dean said, waving off the librarian's offer of the same. "But, uh—if you have any information on the stone circles in Dunwich I'd love to take a look at that."

Sam caught Dean's eye as his brother followed the librarian away, quickly touching base; a moment later he was focused on the book, which Castiel was peering down at, reading under his breath in oddly pronounced Latin. It took Sam a moment to realize it reminded him of ancient Latin; not that he'd heard much of that spoken, since no one alive knew exactly how it had sounded. Castiel was reading slowly, carefully. Putting space between each word. It was the section that talked of the return of the Old Ones. "Nor is it to be thought," Castiel said—or rather its equivalent, in Latin— "that man is either the oldest or the last of earth's masters, or that the common bulk of life and substance walks alone. The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but between them, They walk serene and primal, undimensioned and to us unseen." He paused, and seemed to notice that Sam was following along.

"Have you ever wondered what Alhazred meant, in writing this?" he said.

"I think plenty of people have," Sam said. "Whatever it is—it's something people shouldn't touch," he said.

"I agree," Castiel said. "Books of prophecy are dangerous things."

Sam glanced over at him. "Prophecy?"

"What else?" Castiel said. He read: "Man rules now where They ruled once; They shall soon rule where man rules now. After summer is winter, and after winter summer. They wait patient and potent, for here shall They reign again."

"Yeah," Sam said, uncomfortable. "I guess. You really believe it?"

"Don't you?"

Sam looked down at the book. It wouldn't curse anyone who touched it. There was no ghost tied to its pages, no spell woven into its ink. Even the strange language it had originally been written in had been translated with no ill effects, by Dee and others. Still… "I do."

.

.

.