5 - Dying For So Long

Of all the ways to die, bleeding to death was probably the best one. Not when you barfing it up with a bunch of needles, but otherwise it was surprisingly okay. Dean wished he didn't know he had a preference in deaths, but at this point, he had to choose a side. Bleeding to death was basically getting tired and cold, and slipping out. Compared to other methods of death, it was relatively peaceful. Being beaten to death, mauled to death, and stabbed were probably the worst. It was a lot of pain and horror, and who needed that?

Dean was also aware the pills he took in the bathroom may have had a bit more flare on them than he anticipated, but hey - that was a risk you took. Especially with uppers. But he was functional and here, and almost not cold, and his head had that kind of helium balloon feeling he liked a lot. Sure, it still felt like he'd swallowed a whole bunch of knives, but not as many as before. He had to focus, stay on task, and probably drink a ton of Gatorade once he had the chance. He'd bled out so much in his life he should have been able to set up his own saline drip by now. Maybe carry it around in the trunk.

Focus. He had to focus. Sam was already looking at him funny.

Considering there had been two gunshots in their room, Dean half expected to open the door and find a bunch of SWAT guys waiting for them. But the parking lot remained fairly empty. The Impala, a well used Toyota he figured to be the clerk's car, and the car that stuck out like the sorest thumb ever: a sleek black GT Roadster. Dean let out a low whistle. "Holy fuck, the taste of this woman."

"Consider how she made it," Sam replied.

Of course he had to be a buzzkill. But he was right, as he usually was. Dean had to look at the sportscar and imagine how many deaths it cost. Suddenly it wasn't attractive anymore.

Since it was a car built for speed, it didn't have a lot of places to hide things. They found her phone in the glove box, and a few hex bags of unknown power. Sam was of the opinion they should get rid of them, because all they needed was another witch taking advantage of ready-made weapons, and it was a fair point. They also found some charms, a couple of half-empty bottles of essential oils, and thirty-two hundred dollars in cash taped beneath the driver's seat. "What the fuck ..?" Dean asked, staring at it. He'd counted it twice, because he wasn't sure if this was a hallucination or not.

"Emergency fund?" Sam suggested. "In case she came up to an unexpected tollbooth?"

Dean sighed, wondering if this was the most cash he'd ever held in his hands. "I didn't realize I could hate her more."

"She didn't sound like a big fan of ours either."

The trunk was ridiculously small, but they found a bag containing what they guessed to be some emergency hex bag supplies, and they took that for themselves. They might have use for it sooner rather than later.

There was no point in sticking around. They'd fought the witch and won - barely - and had set the room on fire. You'd think cops would be rolling up any minute. Dean felt terrible leaving such a sweet car in this shitty lot, but he had no choice in the matter. He also had no choice in not driving, as Sam had refused to let him considering he lost so much blood. Dean knew the actual reason was that he knew he'd taken some pills, and wasn't risking it. Honestly, it was all fair. That helium balloon feeling in his head was starting to wear off, and he knew he was in for a hell of a crash within the next hour or so.

While Sam drove, Dean looked through her phone. She hadn't locked it, and why would she? She was a hitwitch and could kill anyone as soon as look at them. Maybe she figured, if you were good enough to get her phone, you could have it.

She had no one in her contacts, which made Dean wonder if this was a burner phone, the kind you could get rid of easily, or if Rowena's reaction was typical of most witches, and Katie didn't have any friends.

Which reminded him - harlot was such a pretty word. Why did it have such negative connotations? It sounded like it could be a flower or something.

Okay, focus. The phone was the important thing here.

He searched the phone for anything, and thought he hit the jackpot when he found her text messages, but then he started reading them. "How good are you at sudoku?"

Sam gave him a funny look out of the corner of his eye. "Excuse me?"

"Her messages are all in code."

He waited until they were at a stoplight to take the phone from him and look at it himself. "Huh. I didn't know there were any apps available with this kind of encryption."

Dean nodded, really not sure what Sam was talking about. But he didn't care either, hence going along with it. "Could it be some sort of witchy thing?"

Sam handed him back the phone with a frown. "What witchy thing? I've never heard of casting a spell in binary code."

It took him a minute, but Dean got it - computer language. Zero one zero. Which didn't apply because the number he was looking at right now had no zeroes, and only one one.

But it ate at the back of his mind. There was some kind of spooky thing with numbers, right? He read about it. Was it in one of Bobby's books? He was pretty sure it was. He thought about it as he scrolled through text messages, hoping he'd find some with words.

Finally, Dean remembered. "Numerology."

Sam gave him that look again. "What?"

"The spooky thing with numbers. Numerology."

Sam sighed and shook his head. "That's not really a spooky thing. It's just another type of fortune-telling. Breaking down letters into numbers that supposedly have an influence on your life."

"Still, that could be what she's using."

"The other person would have to know of numerology too."

"Yeah." Dean felt like Sam wasn't thinking this through. Also, he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. The crash was hitting earlier and harder than he expected. Well, he had lost a lot of blood. It was probably stupid to think there'd be no consequences to that. "They knew there was such a thing as a hitwitch. I don't think knowing numerology is such a big deal to them."

Sam grimaced, a sign that Dean recognized as very close to capitulation. He didn't want to admit Dean may have had a point, so he was going to pretend to be mulling it over. It was okay. Dean did the same thing to Sam sometimes too.

They were now at another fleabag motel, this one free of fire and dead witches, and Dean let Sam do the check-in, because he wasn't a hundred percent sure he'd manage to stay upright through the whole thing. He was getting cold again, and his limbs felt like they were full of sand. Drugs could only get you so far when your tank was completely empty.

Once that was done, Dean was able to get himself to the room on his own, but that was pretty much when he ran out of string. He threw himself down on the first bed, so it didn't look like he collapsed, but Sam didn't buy it. "You okay?"

Dean gave him a thumb's up. "Just tired."

Sam let out a deep, disappointed sigh. "I told you we should go to the hospital."

"I'm fine, just need some sleep." At least he hoped that was true. Dean honestly didn't know anymore, and didn't care.

It seemed like he closed his eyes for one second, and then it was all dark and quiet.

Dean walked to the bunker kitchen, hoping he remembered to do some shopping before he left. Oh shit, did he? One time, a job took over two weeks, and they came back to find foreign organisms growing in the fridge. Not good, and also, horrifying to clean out. You would have thought holy water would help, but it didn't. Flamethrower would have been better.

He walked past Cas sitting at a small table in the kitchen. "Hey Cas," he said.

"Hello, Dean. Feeling better?"

That made him pause and turn back around. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"Sam was really worried about you, and so was I. Blood loss is no small thing in a human."

He stared at him a moment, and then the penny dropped. "Oh shit. This isn't a dream - you're doing that dreamwalking thing again, aren't you?"

He nodded. He looked like his old self in the dreamscape, but there was a tiredness to his eyes that was new, and his normally neat black hair was mussed. He was recovering from the "mad dog" spell Rowena had hit him with, but he had a ways to go. "If you want to call it that, yes."

"I didn't think you were strong enough to do that. You're not hurting yourself, are you?"

"No. This isn't something that requires much energy on my part."

Dean sat at the table, in the only other chair available. This was still weird, even though Cas had done this a handful of times over the years. "I'm sorry Sammy called you."

"It wasn't only because of you. He needed help with the cipher."

"Oh, the code thing? It wasn't numerology based?"

Cas smiled faintly. "No, but you weren't far off. It was a numerical substitution cipher. From what I can tell, this Katie person was very paranoid. The decrypted messages seem to be coordinates and partial addresses."

Dean nodded, before realizing what Cas was inadvertently saying. "How long have I been out?"

"From what I gather, a few hours. I'm sorry I can't be there to heal you."

"Hey, I had to deal with this shit before you. I'll be okay. Just need some sleep."

Cas cocked his head at him, in a way that was its own unspoken comment at this point. "Dean."

"I'm cool, dude, really. It hardly feels like I was barfing up needles."

Cas winced in a show of empathy. "Witches can be horrifying."

"And also hitmen, which is a new one on me."

"Many creatures could be, if they had no moral qualms about it. Angels even, though I would hope not."

"It doesn't make a lot of sense. What's going on here, not angels as hitmen, because I can totally see how that would work."

Cas dipped his head, accepting that. "Preying on the weak is, I'm afraid, a timeless sin."

"Still makes you furious."

"Of course."

Dean briefly wondered if the fridge had a beer in it, and suddenly one appeared on the table in front of him. He would never get used to how weird this all was.

"It's not a communication style most humans are accustomed to."

It took Dean a second, but he realized he had never said that part out loud. "Oh fuck, that's right. You can read my mind in here."

"Technically, "in here" is your mind, so of course I can."

Dean grabbed the beer, and was surprised at how cold it was. This dream thought of everything. "So why can't I read yours?"

"Because our minds are only one way compatible. This isn't my true form, and the mind of my true form would most likely vaporize yours."

Dean scoffed. "You have an excuse for everything."

Cas raised an eyebrow at him, but it was clear Dean was joking, and it got a smile out of him. Honestly, Cas looked better than he had before they left the bunker, so that was something. "Thank you," Cas said, although Dean didn't say it. "I think the rest and the peace have done me some good. I still feel like I should come join you."

"Absolutely fucking not," Dean replied. "We need you a hundred percent. Believe me, Sam and I can handle this. We took out the hitwitch, didn't we?"

Again the head tilt. "Dean."

"A win is a win, even if you were one second away from being counted out."

Cas sat back, with the smallest of sighs. "Even after all these years, you remain a baffling puzzle."

Dean shrugged. "Thank you?"

Cas shook his head, but he still smiled, and that felt like a win to Dean. If he could still be a confusing mess to an ageless energy being, that was an accomplishment, right? He decided it was, and no one was going to convince him otherwise.

"You are ridiculous," Cas said, with a kind of weary affection.

"Why does everyone keep telling me that?"

He sat forward, putting his hands on the table. "You need to go easy on yourself. The fact that death hasn't stuck so far doesn't mean it never will."

"I'll make you a deal. I'll take it easy if you will. Okay?"

Dean saw a great deal of skepticism in his eyes, but he said, "Deal. Now wake up and get some fluids."

Like it was a command - and maybe it was - Dean opened his eyes, and found himself staring up at a white stucco ceiling. But he realized it wasn't only Cas that woke him up, but a knock on the door.

He sat up to see Sam approaching the door with his gun out. "Identify yourself," he said, raising the weapon level to the door. If someone tried to break it down, they'd catch a bullet in the gut first.

"I'm a friend, Shirani sent me," a woman said. Her voice was unfamiliar.

"Uh huh. Did you think that would work?" Sam asked.

"She told me to tell you that it wasn't your fault."

"What wasn't?"

"She said you'd know. Sorry it's so vague, but that's all she'd tell me. You know how psychics can be."

Dean had fallen asleep in his coat, so it was nothing for him to pull out his own gun and center it on the door. She might be able to avoid one shot, but not two.

Sam unlocked the door, but still hadn't put his gun away. Standing on the doorstep was a petite woman with short brown hair, with some sort of tattoo on the side of her neck. It kind of looked like vines, but it was hard to say from here.

She held up her hands, and said, "I'm not armed. I swear, I'm friendly."

Sam lowered his gun, but his body language was still tense. "If you are, be honest. Who are you, and why are you here?"

"I'm Lyla, and I've known Shirani for years. She's a friend, and I think we may have the same enemy. It's not only the homeless dying in Tacoma. It's other supernaturals as well, peaceful ones who wouldn't harm anyone."

"And you know that how?" Sam asked.

"Because I'm on that list," she said. She turned her head slightly, and the light turned her pupils into pure silver.

Oh shit. She was a shapeshifter.