Not everyone made it to the hospital, Sam discovered.
Not everyone tried.
The door to the camera shop opened quietly on its hinges as Sam pushed his way in. He scanned the interior of the store once, quickly, and his eyes fell on a man lying halfway between the counter and the door. He was wearing a business shirt and a sweater vest. Perhaps he'd been trying to run. Sam glanced at the wall of camera bags and the bag laying not inches from the dead man's hand. Perhaps he'd been caught dead doing his job.
The muscle in Sam's jaw twitched. It wasn't that hard to imagine, really. Doing your job right up until the end, surrendering not to the enemy, but to the fight. The weight of guilt pressed against Sam's chest, but he blinked it away.
With apologies skirting on his tongue, he took the man by the forearms and dragged him out of the shop, struggling with the door as he came to it. The body seemed heavier than it should have. Sam got a vision of himself doing just this, carrying the dead and the combined weight of their hopes, dreams, and futures, endlessly, endlessly over blasted plains. He scowled as his hands went clammy and swallowed down his dread. Hell existed. Such a thing might happen.
Sam set the man up against the outside wall, taking care to make him look like he was resting there by choice. He set the man's hands one over the other in his lap. It was stupid, really. Like anyone would notice or care. Even as he did it, Sam couldn't explain the impulse, only that it felt like the right thing to do. Bring out yer dead, and all. That, and he couldn't quite imagine rifling through the shop while the dead clerk was still there, slowly rotting away. Not able to protect what had been entrusted to him. He'd leave him with that dignity at least.
Satisfied, Sam darted back inside and started his search.
There wasn't much to the store, all told. What with the Internet and digital cameras, why would there be? Some glass counters held the new merchandise for sale. A solid counter with a cash register was built parallel to the door, so someone could watch customers as they came and went. Behind that, the photo processing machine and against the right wall, a small fridge. Jackpot. Film keeps better in the cold, which he knew for the same reason he knew half the shit he did: endless hours of Jeopardy as a kid. Trebek ended an era when he shaved the stache, and Sam still hadn't quite forgiven him, even if he was over throwing popcorn at the TV.
The top few shelves of the fridge thankfully held rolls of film in their white and green boxes, just like Sam imagined—modern antiques preserved for the few ardent acolytes for whom the process is part of the result, the art is in the making. Sam slid open the door and grabbed two rolls. His gaze touched on a brown bag and can of Coke on the bottom shelf, and he slid the door shut with a little more effort than needed.
Finding the film wasn't the problem. The problem was doing something with it, turning it from useless film to a useful photograph. It took a few minutes of tossing open drawers and scattering curses and papers like autumn leaves before Sam found what he was looking for.
Not that it helped actually. You would think that a smart person with a user's manual could actually operate the intended to device. Sam could translate Latin on the fly now, piece together Ancient Greek, and was making headway on fucking Coptic, but this, apparently, was testing his skills. He held the processing lab manual in one hand and tapped at the controls on the screen with the other. Three empty film canisters lined the side of the machine—dead, light-exposed soldiers keeping watch over attempt number four. Sam's bright blue hazmat gloves lay discarded on the floor clean across the room.
He squinted at the screen, read the directions again, and jabbed at the buttons cautiously. For God's sake, it was a machine and he had the directions. He held his breath, listening for some evidence that the beast was finally going to run the film and for the love of God just develop the damn roll. A progress bar popped up on the screen, and a small motor clicked into gear. Thank—
"Sam."
He shrieked, sounding halfway like a girl, and flailed. The manual dropped. Canisters scattered.
Sam whirled, his heart pounding, adrenaline rushing through his limbs.
"Gabriel?" He gasped, fight or flight instinct still stretching his senses tight. A clenched fist hung in the air.
The thin line of a frown marred the archangel's face as he looked down.
"Since when can you . . . without all the—" Sam made a gesture of fireworks exploding and stared up, looking a little gob smacked.
Despite the seriousness of his expression, Gabriel let a smirk touch his lips. "Theatrics? Since always," he replied easily. Which prompted a few questions that Sam was gonna save for later. Gabriel sought his companion's eyes, with simmering urgency. "Sam, we have to go."
Sam frowned at that. Go? He turned to look at the processing lab, humming away, and the progress bar just reaching 50 percent. "But I just got this running. It should only take a couple of minu—"
"There isn't—" Gabriel's strong voice cut him off. And then nothing.
Sam rotated on the little stool and peered up at the angel's sudden silence. He was staring straight ahead, towards the front of the shop and out into the road. He didn't blink. Didn't twitch. If he even breathed, it was so slight and controlled a motion as to slip under perception. His stillness and focus were razor sharp.
Sam chanced cutting himself on them. "Gabriel?" His tone was hushed. He might as well have not existed for all the reply he got.
With a swiftness and precision born from millennia of combat, the archangel suddenly made for the door. His gaze never left the road, yet he swerved around the film lab effortlessly. Stepped and vaulted the counter with one arm, never breaking his stalking stride. His motion had the flow of a dancer, the balanced grace of an acrobat, and the heavy power of a great cat. His right hand opened and then clasped closed around the hilt of a sword that he summoned from folds of light warping reality.
A Gladius Hispaniensis, a beautiful deadly weapon of art—a match in all ways to its owner. Blue flames like butterflies swarmed up and down the blade. The aura that Gabriel held so tightly in check roared outward like blossoming fire until his presence and power filled the small, weak walls of the photo shop.
The front door punched out and off its hinges ahead of Gabriel's advance. He spun, without missing a step, and raised the sword to point at Sam.
"Don't try to help. And do not look." Anger laced the archangel's words, issued with a royal bearing.
At some point Sam had gotten to his feet. "What?" Confused fear flashed cold in his veins, and he felt the angel's glare slice into him. "Wh— Gabriel!" Sam rounded the lab and started to weave around the counter.
Gabriel turned. Everything erupted.
Flashbulbs went off, bright, white hot blinding, and then exploded. From inside the counters, from the walls, flashes and sharp reports. Sam flinched on instinct and ducked as the lights overhead sparked and burst. He crouched behind the counter, shielding his face from a spray of glass, unable to see anything but the dark blue clouds that swam in his vision, edged by the yellow of his hazmat suit.
That had, of course, been Gabriel's plan.
Struck suddenly by the heavy silence, Sam lowered his arms and shook off the shards. Angry indignation spiked quick and burning from his gut, and he turned to peer over the counter, just as he'd been told not to. He didn't need to be managed any more than he needed help taking a piss. He blinked furiously and was just able to make out Gabriel's dark form standing in the middle of the street, objects—birds—flapping and raining down around him.
Don't try to help. And do not look.
He heard the words again, but differently, colored with an emotion more complex than fury. Sam fell back down, breathing heavily, and tried to think. His hands flexed, empty. More precisely, weaponless. The yawning space in his chest shot with a stabbing pain, and his body curved around it. Panic. Panic that he was out here alone. Panic that his best true weapon was gone, his power ripped from his being. They should have gotten the Impala through the checkpoint. At least then he'd have gun, at least then he'd have—
The floor began to shake.
Sam stared down, eyes widening, as tiny bits of broken glass tinkled like cracking ice across the floor. Before he could really hear it, he could feel it. A deep thundering that rolled through the earth and into his body, vibrating the empty cavities within him. It was an invasion beyond his control, and that alone conjured a primal dread.
The vibration became sound. An approaching train, an avalanche. Stone on stone clacking and beating, roaring from the violence of earth's making. Sam swallowed hard and was unable to feel it for the calamity that swept all around, shaking what was left of the store to destruction.
The first thought he could manage was that this had to be the demon. The second was that Gabriel went out to face it alone.
The roaring peaked to a painful concussiveness. Something screamed. And the thunder rolled on.
Sam grabbed the edge of the counter and swung himself up to standing. His eyes caught a trailing cloud of black smoke and lifting bodies of birds, but that was all. The street was empty, and for a second all Sam could do was stare at the spot where Gabriel had been, his heart battering furiously against his ribs. Before reason could recommend a course, he was covering the distance to the door in long lopes. Momentum carried him out onto the sidewalk, and he peered up and down the street, raking a hand through his hair, mouthing the archangel's name.
Somewhere, not too far off, tearing metal broke the quiet with a tortured wail. Then a crash. Stone breaking. The skies darkened with flocks: blackbirds, crows, even owls pulled from their slumber by the force of Gabriel's being. They shifted and dodged through the air, moving in time with the forces of the battle below and screaming their calls with noisy abandon. Sam's eyes darted, searching for the source. For the length of two heartbeats, he stood rooted to the spot. He needed a weapon.
Another crack of breaking building made Sam flinch, and he swiped a hand over his face as he tried to think over top of the riotous demands of his body to act. The image of a church spire flashed through his mind. On the drive in, he remembered seeing one. In old towns like this, churches were still often the tallest buildings around, and he remembered the shape of it against the skyline. It might not be much, but a church would have holy water, and that was better than nothing. He could be a distraction maybe. Give Gabriel an edge. What he couldn't do was just stand around, waiting for an outcome, waiting to see if everyone came back through the door alive. He used to pray for them, but that was kinda pointless anymore.
Focused and energized merely by having a plan, Sam ran out into the road, spinning, searching for the church spire he'd seen. There were only mixed-use stores and apartments of equal height, all blocking his view. He cursed and started trotting down the block. Then turned onto a crossroad to bring himself further east. The roads were an obstacle course of cars. Many were simply abandoned. Some people, though, must have died with their foot on the gas, because cars were wrapped around poles or smashed through the sides of offices and stores. Post-Apocalyptic really was the right term, after needed I am Legend when you lived it?
Heavy rattles of thunder pounded out from the north, shaking the ground. Sam stopped in the middle of the street to listen, straining to see anything of the fight that was going on. A dust cloud blew out into the road, and he startled when a car sailed through the air and into the second storey of a building across the way. Harmonic howling followed, filling the air with broken chords of agony. Sam stumbled and cried out as he tried to run away from the source, from the pain, and he clamped his hands over his ears in a desperate attempt to block it out. His bones heard it anyway, shivering with a flourish of agony he could not have described. Like his flesh wanted to separate, his bones seep through to the outside. Spikes of pain lanced through his eyes and into his skull.
Sam ran ragged for an alleyway, heaving. Be safe. Be small. Hide! His lizard brain shouted short, undeniable advice, and though the supernatural sound could reach him no matter how dark his surroundings, he flung himself into a sheltered space anyway, sank low next to a Dumpster, and shook. Uncontrolled tears of pain slipped down his cheeks, as he squeezed, squeezed everything in. Curled in his knees, crushed his hands to his ears, and tried desperately to become not worth noticing.
The howling cut off as suddenly as it had started.
Sam's huge, gasping breaths became the sound of wind tunnels in his ears. His bones settled back in their places, and slowly, delicately, he removed his hands. Still shaking, he pushed himself to his feet. The thundering had stopped as well, and a pregnant, awful silence settled over the town instead. Sam edged along the rough brick wall and peeked out, harboring a faint hope that he'd see a black figure and blue sword swaggering down the street.
Empty.
He glanced up and, from this angle, could see the very top of a church tower. Hope like a lighting match flared in his chest. If he'd given it any thought, he might've laughed. A whole pool of holy water might just piss off whatever this demon was, if he was lucky. Any amount he was likely to find would be insufficient at best. And yet unarmed and impotent was worse.
Vulnerability stuck like slime on his skin. He could feel it, the weakness of it, the way it made his stomach turn. It felt like weeks, alone, in a cold room sheltering a pain the shape of Dean's name. Like the weight of a shovel in his hand. Like an empty night and a full moon and a crossroads in the country where no demon would deign to tread its feet. Like his own voice filling the car with jokes left half-unsaid in the moments just after he remembered.
If holy water was all there was, then Sam would have his holy water.
In defiance of his size, Sam could slip quick and quiet when it counted. It was all about balance and the right burst of strength, well-timed. He gave himself a second to check his surroundings. The air smelled normal, offering no warnings through either a whiff of a demon's sulfur or the blend of leaves and ink that carried in Gabriel's wake. Sam held his breath and let his eyes fall shut so he could listen. The trees barely whispered against themselves. The birds soaring overhead were quiet. There hadn't been a crack or crush of impact since the unearthly screaming.
He took a steadying breath, eyed his path, and then ran. Half-crouched so he could drop quickly behind one of the cars if needed, Sam moved with springing, easy steps. He kept checking the road, all awareness focused on perceiving signs of danger.
He crossed three blocks this way, cautious and tense. And then slid into a thin alleyway to check his progress. The church steeple was almost directly overhead. He calculated two or three more blocks to go. A rapid heartbeat accompanied the deep draughts of his breathing. Where are they? The silence had become deafening, and the longer it stretched, the tighter the muscles in Sam's shoulders became. At some point, there would be breaking.
The cold bricks of the building scraped Sam's cheek as he edged to the end of the alley for a look. The grinding of gravel under his shoes bounced loudly through the space around him, and he winced. Nothing to the left. Nothing to the right.
Sam coiled himself. I am a leaf on the wind.
And everything went terribly wrong.
Something cold and hard snapped across his chest, knocking him backward. Arms, or things like them, clamped on from behind, crushing his ribs. His breath rushed out, killing any possibility of a shout. He jerked, pressed his arms out against the bonds. In panic, struggled wildly, kicked out, and was lifted off the concrete. A jet black point, a daggerlike talon arched high into the air. Sam's eyes shot wide. And then it stabbed, driving the sharp point into his shoulder. Sam bucked and tried to writhe away from the pain. It burned like acid crawling through his body, and he finally found the breath to cry out, a raw ripping sound.
A desperate thrash, and he fell, landing heavily on the hard ground. His head cracked on the stone with a violence that made him see stars. The arms and carapacelike needles fled, or he thought they did. All Sam could see was the sidewalk in front of his eyes, growing darker. Strange sickness churned his belly. Hot flashes swept up his arms and down his legs, leaving him at once feverish and chilled. And his limbs were heavy, so heavy. Sam pushed weakly against the ground, but he couldn't so much as roll himself over.
He concentrated on drawing air in, out. Then blackness.
Dimly, Sam became aware of hands on his body, gently rolling him onto his back. A low-pitched voice shouted something unintelligible, like Charlie Brown's teacher, and Sam scowled. Pain lanced up his back, and he grunted as he tried to move.
The fuzzy voice resolved into Castiel's. "Dean!" he called. And Sam was sure this was a repeat from before.
Sam blinked and managed to focus on Cas's hovering face. Man, his eyes were blue. Really, really blue. Pretty blue. Ocean blue.
"Sam?" the angel asked.
A groan and a blink was all he could manage as a reply. The world slowly started to settle and put its pieces back together.
"Can you sit up?" Castiel's voice was soft as he slid an arm beneath Sam's shoulders and adjusted him into a sitting position. Too fast, ohhh, God, too fast. Sam grunted and fought the urge to be sick. Stupid angel.
Running steps pounded down the pavement toward them. Had to be Dean. Sam turned to face him too quickly, wavered, and gripped Cas's arm to find his balance.
"Sammy?" Dean asked with that worried voice Sam really couldn't stand.
Sam blinked a bit drunkenly and forced a slight grin, swallowing back bile. "Hey."
Clearly it wasn't as convincing as he'd hoped, because Dean exchanged a look with Cas, and then Castiel was lifting Sam to his feet—could've lifted him off his feet if he'd wanted to, which was weird in someone shorter than you are. Sam tottered, woozy, and by degrees loosened his vise grip on Cas's arm as the seconds in which he didn't fall over mounted and his stomach settled.
Dean was staring at Castiel hard. Not angry just . . . communicating something in the small gestures and fleeting language of emotion they shared. He swallowed and looked back at Sam. "What happened?"
Good question. Sam started to shake the fogginess from his head and stopped abruptly, before he knocked himself on his ass. Dean and Cas both shot a hand out to steady him.
"I, uh. I was trying to get to the church for some holy water. I- I checked the road. And, I dunno. Something attacked me."
Castiel's eyes widened to alarming saucers. "Did you see it?"
Sam frowned at the note of fear. "No . . . it came from behind. It . . ." He remembered the distinct shape of the talon and clutched quickly at his left shoulder, trying to see.
"It what?" Dean demanded, moving closer.
Sam tore his eyes up to meet his brother's. "It stabbed me, with . . . with something."
He tried to find the spot, but Dean smacked his clumsy fingers out of the way. With a huff, Sam submitted to the inspection, looking over at Castiel instead of watching his brother's all too worried face. Dean found the slice in the hazmat suit and ripped it a little wider. Same with Sam's shirt underneath. Angry red blood screamed against the white fabric. And then Dean slowed, his violence giving way to a tender assessment. He touched at the edge of the wound, and Sam flinched. Dean glanced up to read the expression on Sam's face, trying to see just how much that'd hurt. Sam did his best to counsel the hitch of his breathing and his pained grimace.
"It's a puncture wound, all right," Dean grumbled, backing off. "But pretty small. Didn't hit anything major." Still, he scowled and turned reluctantly to Cas.
Castiel looked calmly back, and with a slight lift of his head offered an open invitation to whatever it was Dean hesitated to say.
Dean licked his lower lip, pressed his eyes shut, and breathed out brittle words. "Is he sick?" he asked, and then looked at Sam.
Oh. Oh, God. Sam's stomach dropped, and he felt his hands go cold. He hadn't—thought to . . . Cas stepped right up next to him, and he didn't move. Couldn't move, because all he could do was quiver slightly at the possibility. All those people . . . They shouldn't have come here, he'd said they shouldn't have come to this God damned town. But Dean never listened, so fucking righteous— Sam cut off his tirade, burying it under his fear. Terrified, he found his eyes drawn to Castiel, trying to read his fate in the creases of the celestial's brow. Cas's gaze passed quickly over Sam's face and traveled down. He looked disconcertingly impersonal. Castiel squinted and leaned in closer, his eyes raking back and forth in echo of Gabriel's earlier examination of Sam's diseased soul.
"Cas," Dean uttered the name with fear and hope.
Sam felt the angel's gaze separating his fibers and digging for the seeds. Slowly, Castiel straightened and looked at Dean. "I don't think so," he intoned.
Dean's eyebrows hitched, and Sam frowned.
"You don't think so?" Dean repeated, flicking looks between them.
"I . . . can't be sure." Castiel frowned and glanced at Sam. "I don't think he's been infected. There's so much . . . darkness," he said the word with a wince, "that I can't make out one taint from another." He avoided glancing at Sam a second time.
Dean sighed long and deep and paced himself in a circle.
"I'm sorry," Cas said softly, toward his lover's back.
It was difficult to decide how to react to that. You might not have a deadly virus, but it's hard to tell because you're so fucked up to begin with. Sam couldn't even be angry at him, because Cas was kind of letting him off lightly, all things considered. Hell, everyone was letting him off lightly, end of the world and all. Some things were worth punishment, getting yelled at for and beat to shit for, and maybe that was the shoe he kept expecting to drop.
Sam watched his brother for a moment, then turned his attention the angel's way. He felt a burn in his gut and a strange jelly-looseness in his legs. The world seemed to tip. Maybe he had a concussion? He should have Dean do a check, he thought. That would be good. That would be smart. The words came out differently. "Cas, where's Gabriel?"
Cas's gaze didn't move from Dean's agitated pacing. "Chasing Asag. He followed him out of town and into a plane beyond, but he lost him." He looked at Sam. "He is still searching."
Dean stopped suddenly and jabbed a finger in Castiel's direction. "Well you tell him to look harder. We're gonna kill that demon sonuvabitch. There is not gonna be another town like this!"
The angel gave Sam an uncertain look before he replied. "Dean, this was . . . extremely dangerous, you coming here. I should never have let you. You are both lucky to be alive."
"Are you saying we let this go? Hope Gabriel can deal with it? He's a nice guy, Cas, and he kicks some major ass. But no way, man. This is my planet. And now?" Dean motioned in Sam's direction, weariness and the combined horrors of the day alighting into a bitter fury. "Now, this is personal. I am not—"
"Dean . . ."
"No!"
"Dean!" Cas swept in close until Dean had no choice but to look him in the eye. And then they were caught in one of those long soul gazes of theirs, all tension and passion, until Dean relented, sagged, and brushed a weary hand over his face.
Cas stepped back, making space. He wasn't always as oblivious about Dean's personal space as he liked to make out. Sam couldn't help but smirk a little at the way Cas handled his brother. Castiel caught the expression and returned a subtle, small grin of his own.
"We need a plan," Cas declared. Which given the sophistication of what he called "a plan" was pretty sorry commentary.
Dean rested his clenched fists against his hips for a moment, and let his anger pour out onto the ground with impatience. When he'd recovered, he glanced up at his angel, a quiet, affectionate smile settling on his face.
"I suppose you have one to share with the class?"
A slight smile back. "I do."
Then Dean nodded his agreement and huffed a little laugh. When Cas held out his hand, Dean took it like they were high school sweethearts. Then with a touch to Sam's arm, Castiel loosed a bit of power and sent them shivering on angel wings to a destination of his choosing.
XXX
Turned out the destination wasn't that far, and not nearly as extravagant as one of Gabriel's.
Sam and Dean slowly angled themselves toward Castiel, sweeping their eyes around the interior of the house they'd fluttered into.
"And this is . . ." Dean began, still holding Cas's hand.
"The home of Erik and Angela Talbot," the angel replied calmly.
"Who are?"
"Dead at Hanover General."
Dean nodded, like that was a normal thing to say. "Which, I guess, means—"
"This place is empty," Sam cut in. His words fell hollow on the freshly vacuumed carpet.
Castiel swung his eyes toward Dean, and Dean offered a half-hearted grin of support. Cas could've picked anywhere. He chose some place they wouldn't have to clear dead bodies out of first. A guy could do worse. He squeezed on Cas's hand and then glanced at Sam, who was still looking a little off.
Dean grimaced at his brother. "Sit down before you fall down."
Sam's shoulders squared, and he spun carefully in Dean's direction, like he was standing on ice. "I'm fine."
"Bullshit."
"Dean—"
"Sit!" Dean glared through Sam's huff and turned his back on Sam's Bitchface For Advice He Didn't Want to Hear. He heard the couch squish under his brother's bulk, smirked, and tugged Cas toward the kitchen.
From the sofa he heard, "Where're you—"
"Makin' dinner," Dean called back. He felt his brother's face scrunch up. Moral Indignation Sourpuss #4.
"Dean, that's—"
"They ain't using it, Sammy."And since they weren't, somebody damn well should.
A few steps and then they were in the kitchen, out of sight from the living room sofa. With a sigh and heavy adjustment of his shoulders, Dean let Castiel's hand drop and turned to contemplate him. The angel returned an expectant look but said nothing. Waited while anger and fear and worry flicked in small movements across Dean's face. So much reflected through so little. He looked at Cas with something like pleading, something like determination, then something like regret. And eventually finding nothing to say, opened the fridge instead. As he catalogued the contents, he heard Cas step away toward the dining room and part of him clenched, knowing that Cas was gonna disappear like he'd been doing lately. Then he heard him return, and exhaled in relief.
The Talbots must've just gone shopping, Dean thought idly. Full gallon of milk. Dozen eggs. He shoved aside some peppers and broccoli and felt his eyes go wide. If stomachs could applaud, his would have. Maybe hopped up and done a little hula. Instead, a stupid, silly smile plastered itself on his face, and he lifted his find out of the fridge like he was thieving Mayan gold.
"Ohh . . ." he purred with a little laugh, deeply pleased, and faced Cas. Who had taken off his coat and was looking amused and shockingly adorable standing in the middle of a suburban kitchen with his arms hanging at his sides like he didn't know they were attached. Transfixed, Dean's smile only deepened, and he forgot what it was he was doing.
Castiel's gaze moved questioningly down toward Dean's hands,and Dean nearly jolted when his wits came back, looking down himself.
"You have meat," Cas observed.
Dean convulsed with a laugh and gave his angel a chiding, loving look. "Steaks." He separated the two plastic-wrapped trays and held them up for inspection. "Two inch-thick, prime cut, Angus rib eyes," he announced proudly.
Castiel adopted a mildly impressed look, which didn't quite reach his eyes. Dean just shook his head, turned, and tossed the steaks on the counter. "Tonight, we eat like kings."
Unlike Sam, who couldn't boil frickin water, Cas was a surprisingly efficient sous-chef, doubly so given that he didn't generally care to eat. If Dean called for salt, he got salt. If he asked for a tablespoon of salt, he got a tablespoon of salt poured right in his hand. Probably down to the grain. When Dean needed a pot or a knife, it was on hand, and not once did he have to stop short to keep from body-checking Castiel into a counter.
Together they'd managed to improvise a cheesy broccoli thing that Dean figured Sam would eat 'cause it was "healthy" and some boxed mashed potatoes with cheese and garlic 'cause that shit was good and Dean didn't care what anyone thought, lumps were a bug and not a feature. And then the steaks, which oh no no, you did not just broil. Just plain like that. These steaks were wrapped in bacon, "'Cause everything is better with bacon," Dean had insisted. Castiel applied himself to the task like an Egyptian priest.
Before long, everything was done and smelling insanely delicious.
For the first time since they'd entered the kitchen, Dean and Cas's bodies collided, albeit gently. Castiel peered over Dean's shoulder at the resting steaks with an air of dubious judgment.
"What?" Dean glanced over at him.
"That cannot be good for you."
He looked serious unto grim, and Dean could help but chuckle, a lightness filling his spirit like sometimes only a good meal could.
"C'mon Cas, sin a little," he laughed, smiling, wriggling suggestively. And then stopped dead of a chill as he felt Castiel tense.
Fuck.
The angel retreated, and Dean spun, heart dropping, dreadful and cold.
"Cas . . ." He could be so stupid sometimes, so thoughtless.
But Castiel's mind was elsewhere, on bright lights and dark blood and sin, and he kept melting backward out of the room. He was gonna leave. Dean's heart pounded painfully as panic sliced cold down his body.
He did the only thing he could do. Before Cas could get much further, before he remembered he could fly, Dean caught him by the arm. "Cas, I'm sorry, I-I didn't mean it like that. You know I didn't."
There were moods in which you didn't so much as touch Castiel, much less grab. They'd been finding that out the hard way, crashing against each other in the dark. Sometimes after a bad night, Dean had those moods too, so he knew, but shit, he couldn't just let him vanish.
Castiel's gaze froze on Dean's hand wrapped around his arm. And the only movement from either of them was a slight tremor Cas couldn't control.
"I'm sorry," Dean said again, and slowly loosened his grip. His pulse pounded in his ears.
In a show of rising control, Castiel didn't jerk his arm back. Just let it fall and offered his companion a raw look of pain before that, too, slipped safely away.
Uneasily, they stared. It was a dumb comment, and they both knew it, but it wasn't like Cas tried to have flashbacks. Resentment made it worse for them both, so they stared to avoid it. And then Dean forced a sarcastic grin and small laugh.
"Y'know, your boyfriend can be kinda an asshole," he said frankly, looking away and then chancing a glance back.
Castiel was rubbing his arm where Dean'd grabbed him like it hurt. He noticed his own action and stopped. After a moment of considering silence, "He makes up for it."
Dean's eyebrow of biting sarcasm leapt to attention. "Oh, yeah?" He fought against smiling. "Must be one hell of a lay."
Cas's gaze slid sideways, and he looked away, not quite able to hide the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Dean waited a moment longer and then turned to finish up, kicking himself and trying not to curse inside so loudly that Cas might hear him. As he grabbed the full plates, one for him, one for Sam, he felt Cas's hand on his shoulder. Then warm breath and a kiss on the back of his neck. His eyes fell shut, and he sighed out the tension aching in his back.
Dean carried dinner to the living room to find Sam at the tail end of turning the couch into a sofa bed. He stopped, hovering like a lost waiter, because that kinda ruined the whole eating at the coffee table concept.
Sam tossed a pillow at the head of the fold out bed and then glanced at him. "They had a daughter," he announced, and looked pointedly at the stairs to the second floor. Realities neither of them quite wanted to talk about moved like dancing ghosts between them. Sam put on a fictitious, wry look instead and manufactured a derisive laugh. "And dude, I am not sleeping in a room that pink."
Sam came around the sofa bed and took one of the plates that was growing heavy in Dean's hand. Dean let his brother pass and followed him to the little dining table in the partial room between the kitchen and living room. Cas watched from the doorway, wary of proximity to others. He returned Dean's grin with a small one of his own. He'd be okay, just needed a little time.
"Did it have ponies?" Dean asked his brother, sitting.
"Hearts," Sam deadpanned.
Dean tsked. "Lame."
"Yeah."
Sam looked down at his plate, and for second Dean thought he might refuse to eat what for them counted as a damn feast. Instead, his brother chuckled—a genuine laugh.
"What?" Dean scowled and sat up straighter, peering over.
"Nothing." Sam said innocently enough, smiling until his dimples showed. He picked up a knife and fork. "Martha."