Chapter 3
It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to hear at. It's like cracks inside of you, like there are these fault lines where things don't meet up right, like the cracks in the hull of a ship. Brings you down eventually.
Tuesday. Something of his taste found in the pile of newspapers and Dean was almost excited. Downright anticipating. He gathered information and everything he could find and wrote down notes on a tattered pad of notepaper that wore the logo of his current home. Ten missing children during the past five years. None of them found, neither alive, nor dead. Barely noticeable the pattern behind it, but after several calls and internet research all of those children disappeared on one and the same playground. Barely believable people still let their children play there.
He finished a last note, ripped the paper off its pad and pushed it little gently in the bag of his dark blue, ragged jeans. With a jump he got up and grabbed for his stuff that was packed into his olive green dufflebag the same way the notes were.
Castiel observed the unsettled motions and withdrew the urge to ask. It looked like departure, still he wasn't initiated, nor invited. Not even informed. A millstone around the neck of a Winchester wasn't even close to amusing. It was as if you were the pip of a fruit, you belong, but are wholly unwanted.
His few belongings packed together, Dean threw a last look through the room and as if he just now remembered, it landed on the angel with saying all the things.
„You can't stay here." he gave and threw the door shut behind himself. Cutting through silence like a blade, that was the first time for the past couple of days Dean had even talked to him. And Cas was overcome with the feeling that Dean hated him. He couldn't understand it, though. The initial thankfulness over the rescue from hell had been replaced by contempt way too fast. No matter how often he was explained, Dean still didn't seem to understand, that it was okay to wear a human vessel when you are an angel.
And despite this, Castiel didn't have another choice anymore. He couldn't go back, he couldn't go out, he couldn't go anywhere. And Jimmy had left them long ago. There was no one else inside him anymore, no more than complete emptiness and a tiny offspring, which threatened to engross everything. Day by day it kept growing and became something Castiel had never wanted this way. Becoming human had never been an option, even when now the only, inevitable future. Never had he had a choice, an own will. And now he had a will that couldn't make the choice.
The key turned and brought the Impala to halt. A new home gave the parking space for his most valuable belonging and built itself up in front of him, with lemon yellow painted walls and green window frames and the obligatory lucent sign. Around twelve rooms, he reckoned, the reception right in the middle with a big blue framed entrance. Behind it a white counter and the pretty young looking blond receptionist. A couple of plants in big pots improved the space around the entrance and tried to distract from cracks and peeling painting and all the other damages the building showed by the second look.
Hardly a hint of wind developed, when he landed on the grey asphalt soft and unseen and took a look around. A red Mustang and two trucks. Left garbage. Building. For him all of those establishments looked identical. Either of them had its own style you could surely fight upon, but nevertheless they were all the same. But the sense behind those housings was hardly anything else than an anonymous chance of a cheap bed.
He did a few careful steps along the big, almost empty parking lot and stopped. For a moment he thought about it, but for tribute to his tiredness he caved in. His hand grabbed for the vehicle's shiny chromed handle and opened it. He sank down on the smoothly cushioned leather inside and closed the door with often heard creak of the old, poorly oiled hinges. Under no attention Dean's uncanny body language. He had neither expected him, nor had he asked for it, but a small voice inside him spoke another language than his face. Maybe it wouldn't be bad to have a partner in this case, even when this particular partner probably would have been his last choice.
Dean would never admit it, but the safety he felt with the angel's presence replaced the wish for his absence far too often, and he didn't like the way it happened more and more. Stoically he fought against accustoming himself to Castiel in whatever way. Ever fibre of him bristled up against the things he barely had power over. He didn't like it. He didn't like it, but he didn't seem to have a choice. The dog has won. And a softer look won back his face.
He gave a short nod in Castiel's direction, with overwrought eye contact that said more than any words of any language and probably would have burned and frozen the air at the same time, if that was possible. Strained and barely united, the silent agreement over working together pushed the air into both their unsteady lungs, more cutting and uncomfortable than lively and relaxing.