Hunting in roses

by Lanevra

Sam has just about had enough of the atmosphere in the Bunker and decides that a new case might be just the thing. ... The story was written in late '16/early '17.

Hunting in roses

He's made some big mistakes in his life and he's messed up a few things. These included consorting with demons, getting addicted to demon blood, lying to Dean, and last but not least, of course, letting Lucifer out of his cage. Still, he didn't think he deserved such a huge punishment for all that. Really, it was the injustice of the universe that he was stuck in the suddenly tiny Bunker, a six and a half foot tall lightning rod placed exactly between an angry Dean and an equally angry Castiel.

Whatever was between them, it was almost as bad as Castiel betraying them. Cheap whiskey bottles were piled in a dark corner behind a trash can, covered by a garbage bag. And Castiel had taken the plasma from the living room to his room so he wouldn't have to leave it too often. Plain and simple, he walked past Sam one morning with the foot-long TV under one arm and the wires in the other, said hello, and then ducked into his room, and since it was six in the morning and he was just heading to the bathroom, he could barely see the road, he couldn't even muster a protest. He actually didn't quite care that he was going to lose the TV, he'd put what he wanted on the computer, but then Dean sniffled softly. Which added another little unspoken quarrel to their very quiet household.

The case was therefore an absolute necessity, without which they would have gone mad. And he wasn't going to argue about accepting it. He simply tossed one file on the table in front of Dean, who was sitting in the kitchen to the sound of his favorite rock songs, and the other he tossed from the doorway of Castiel's room right into the angel's lap. All this without a word of explanation, just stating that they were leaving in an hour.

And they were.

°°0°°

A large sign above the town's name proclaimed 'Welcome to the Garden of Eden full of roses!' and below it in smaller letters 'The most romantic town in the States'.

He smiled wryly inwardly.

He couldn't even count the number of times he had read somewhere that this one city in particular was the most romantic city in the world, and downright a mecca for all lovers. Only to have it usually turn out to be haunted by a vengeful ghost, a feral werewolf, a pack of vampires, a witch who enjoyed carving out the hearts of teenagers, and countless other monsters of all kinds. If he were to compile a blog guide to the scariest places in the states, all those love towns would be at the top of the list.

"Something's not right in this town," Castiel broke the silence that had lasted several hours.

Dean jerked in surprise, and Sam dropped his cell phone in his lap, wondering where he was trying to find any available places in the local motels. As usual, they were out of luck and some sort of festival was going on. Oh no...! A pie festival. He already knew there was no way his brother, no matter what mood he was in, was going to miss attending a pie festival.

"They already do in the towns we go to for work, Cas," Dean told him sourly, taking the next turn so sharply it sent Sam flying against the Impala's door, "So where to?"

He shot his brother a brief, disapproving look. As if it wasn't bad enough that their car had no airbags at all, Den had to cut corners with it like a madman.

"You should see the turn into the parking lot in a minute. The Field Rose Motel... what in the world is that name?" He didn't dare insert a comment and shake his head, "I don't know how many or what kind of rooms they have there. Their website was made by a dilettante to say the least."

"Okay," Dean rumbled neutrally, and this time in an orderly fashion, he slowly turned around a huge rose bush with the motel's name sign still in front of it.

The parking lot was small and full. This time Dean's driving skills were working, even if they were sometimes unnecessarily violent. There was no way Sam would have been able to drive into the spot where he'd slid the Impala in without scuffing the paint. The only question was how he'd drive it tomorrow, if he was the one who got the lot. Even worse, how Castiel would drive it, because he was capable of not only scraping the paint, but also smashing the bumpers and crushing the doors. If Dean doesn't want to get up, he'll have to volunteer, loudly and without giving anyone a chance to protest, to go get the food. He'd rather be the one to destroy the car than Castiel. Dean didn't need another reason to be mad at him,and what's more, Sam himself didn't need Dean to be even more pissed off.

"Hopefully they'll have hot water running here," Dean commented before opening the door and climbing out into the parking lot.

Castiel immediately followed suit from the back seat as he... opened the door straight into a huge rose bush.

There was no way he could squeeze through there without tearing his flannel on the huge thorns sticking up almost dangerously from the cumin of the bush, as well as from its branches even around the huge, pink flowers themselves.

He frowned a little and looked closer.

He dared to say that he had a fairly extensive knowledge of plants, especially those that were poisonous to either humans or monsters, plants used in magic, and medicinal plants - usually each belonging to at least two of the above groups - but he also knew a little about garden and ornamental plants. And he'd never seen this kind of shrub rose before, not even in a book. Large, ornamental flowers mostly meant small and sparse thorns too, because the essence of rose breeding was to achieve the largest, most colourful flowers, a pleasing fragrance and to reduce the number of thorns to a minimum. All of these ideally together.

He ran his fingers over the petals of the nearest flower.

"Are you coming or do you still want to pick a seedling, Samantha?" bellowed Dean at him.

He gave him a sour look.

"I'm coming."

He shuffled across the driver's seat to the open door, successfully slamming his knee on the steering wheel, of course, or the reason he hated sitting in the back seat so much. Except, of course, for the fact that his feet never fit in it. And slipped out into the car park.

Dean had managed to pull their luggage out while he was investigating the bush, so he shoved his in his hand, and Castiel managed to move a little to the side and start exploring the grey evening sky as if there was nothing more interesting in the area. He did this often, almost every time he got out of the bunker and had a chance to stop and look up for a moment. He suspected that Angel was doing it in an attempt to keep an eye on Heaven, though it probably wasn't even possible for him. If Heaven was up there somewhere, then it was either very far from Earth, in a parallel universe, or at a frequency that humans were unable to pick up in any way. It would be interesting to ask Castiel about this when the opportunity arose.

Leaving the consideration of the sky aside, he slung his bag over his shoulder and strode with Dean to the reception desk.

The other two rose bushes just inside the entrance were hard to miss, given that their branches were encroaching on the door and threatening again. He frowned at them. It was nice to decorate a motel by its name, a sombrero like that on the walls or old shotgun shells were fine, but nothing was to be overdone.

"Good one. Do you have any more rooms?" Dean asked, leaning against the front desk.

The older woman on the other side leaned over to the computer and at a rate of one finger a minute, the "I'll vomit if I find it" method, began tapping away at the keyboard. Suddenly he had a pretty good idea who did the website for the hotel and a compulsive need to ask if he could redesign it for them. A few extra bucks would be handy. And if they had to be on stakeout on this case, or investigate for two hours tops, he might even have time for that.

"We've got one triple room and two doubles," she finally gave them the very comforting news.

"He'll take the triple," he said before Dean did.

"I'd rather have two doubles," Castiel corrected him, much to his surprise, which he expressed with a look, "I'll pay for it," he added towards them, pulling a crumpled wad of bills out of his pocket, just about enough to cover the two nights he usually ordered in motels, and placing them on the table.

The receptionist looked at Castiel, then at the bills, then at him and Dean. He took a breath to talk the angel out of it. It was pointless for him to spend money that, besides, he wasn't even sure where Castiel had gotten it, and that was why it could be dangerous. But Dean had beaten him to it.

"Two doubles," he said coolly, but the way he clutched the keys to the Impala made it clear that he was definitely not as calm as he looked.

The woman just shrugged, tossing the two room keys on the counter and grabbing all of Castiel's bills off the counter, only to return a few pennies. Possibly a little less than she had, but he didn't say anything in response. The golden rule was that if you didn't know where your money came from, you'd better never defend yourself against its theft.

So after the receptionist had stolen her fair share, she gave them a few basic documents to sign, not even a driver's license or other form of ID. He quickly sketched his name, as did Dean, then checked with a glance to make sure Castiel hadn't gotten his wrong this time. Surprisingly, no, he was getting better at the little things.

Since Angel still had a pen in his hand, and Dean wasn't having any of it, he grabbed both keys off the counter and very happily stepped outside into the cool air. Yes, even inside the front desk they had an overabundance of roses and rose patterned things. He fervently hoped they wouldn't also have rose-patterned linens and a flower-shaped soap dish in the bathroom. That wouldn't get Dean out of there by a pair of oxen. Sometimes it was really hard to believe how his thirty-year-old brother could get away with running soapy boats down a swollen sink.

Though probably not today, as he judged when he saw him walk out the reception door. He was as taut as a crossbow string.

He was quite glad he'd taken the keys himself, because he couldn't imagine what Dean would have done or said if Cas had stood in front of him, as he had in front of Sam, and held up his hand in mute request for his key.

"Here," he dropped it into his palm and smiled, "but you could have slept with us. It would have been more comfortable and cheaper."

"Yes, I could have, but why?" asked Castiel in a stiff voice, with a very clear sense of angelic condescension in the background, "Because I'm the angel who doesn't need to sleep so he can spend the whole night standing in the corner?" He leaned closer and, though it seemed impossible given his height, gave Sam the impression that he was suddenly somewhere above him, leaning down from a great height, "Did it occur to you that I want my own room so I can have my own privacy? That I want my own bed, my own bathroom, and maybe even my own television? Or that my entire existence so far, longer than your human brain can even process, doesn't culminate in this moment, standing here with you two in a spitty parking lot outside a cheap motel?"

He shuddered. A sudden blast of cold enveloped him as if a fierce but nonexistent wind had risen, bringing with it a whole snowdrift... the middle of spring... in Iva. There could be no doubt that the weather was unlikely to be the cause of the unpleasant frost. In defense, but also in an attempt to calm Castiel's anger, he held both hands up and tried to smile more. It wasn't easy with the suddenly stiff muscles in his face.

"Okay, all right, Cas. You want your own room, you have your own room, and you'll have it whenever you ask for it. No problem, man, okay?"

Castiel didn't answer, not that he was expecting an answer at all, shooting one glance at a scowling Dean, turning on his heel and striding briskly toward his door. He frowned behind his retreating back.

This was going beyond all bounds. Castiel was one of the most patient people, and indeed angels, he'd ever known. He couldn't count the number of times Dean had reprimanded him in his role as big brother and the angel had taken it literally without blinking, then apologized with genuine contrition and asked what he could do to atone for his transgression. And in doing so... well, in doing so, he could have sent Dean to his proper limits with a word and then just disappeared. Best case scenario. Worse case? They were still only human, and Sam was well aware that holy oil or not, getting an angel to do something he didn't want to do was nearly impossible. Because in the end, there was always the worst case scenario of him just leaving his vessel and materializing in his true form on this plane of existence. Then they, plus a few hundred people in the immediate area, could only wait about three seconds before their bodies evaporated in a flood of light.

So if Castiel raised his voice in threat, it was serious. Probably more serious than he'd originally thought, meaning no trivial argument between him and Dean, but something really serious.

"What's wrong with him?" he asked, turning to, what else but his brother.

"How the hell should I know!" Dean snapped at him snarling, as irritated as Castiel was, and snatched the room keys from his hand.

Just as he had sent Castiel off with a look earlier, he did the same with Dean, who took a step in the exact opposite direction. There was no doubt that this was serious and that something had happened between Dean and Castiel. Not a stupid argument. Something far more.

He inhaled through his nose and exhaled slowly through his mouth to regain his lost composure, mentally preparing himself for a battle with Dean over his secret that he simply couldn't win, and caught up to his brother.

"Because it's you."

The lock on the door clicked, and Dean opened it sharply wide before turning to him, frowning.

"I just don't know anything," he snapped a second time, storming angrily into the darkened room, smelling as usual of cheap cleaning products and even cheaper air freshener probably crammed into the air conditioner.

He walked in behind him and closed the door behind them so they would have privacy and their eventual argument wouldn't be heard until they reached the reception desk.

"If you confide in anyone, it's always you, even though you're permanently suffering from emotional constipation. And it's pretty clear," he dropped his bag of belongings on the floor and waved a slight hand towards the room Castiel was in, "that he did it too, and for some reason it pissed you off. So just tell me, what is it with you and Castiel?"

"There's nothing between us!" Dean exclaimed with unusual defensiveness, "And I don't know what's eating that angel! It could be anything. A hole in the ozone layer, a stray puppy he heard about on the news... He slept badly! His feathers are ruffling or he's got angel shit! I don't know! I'm not his wife to know everything about him!"

Even though Dean was talking angrily, still none of what he was saying was the worst thing he'd heard from him, and most importantly, it wasn't directed in his direction at all. No, it was self-accusing anger. Anger at his own actions, which he either considered wrong or cowardly or just too desperate to fit his idea of a real man who couldn't be brought down or even touched by anything. There was nothing he could do about Dean's anger like that. There was only one option, to wait for him to burn out and, which he wasn't happy about, for his brother to fold and reveal what was on his mind himself.

So he kept his calm and his distance, and promised himself that he would do so in the future. And probably from Castiel, too. At least until he solves the case.

"Noted," he relented for the second time in barely ten minutes, but at least this time he kept his dignity and didn't, literally, get a cold shower. He simply turned to his bag and bent down to begin removing the computer and their journals from it. He could feel Dean's silent presence very clearly behind his back, but he pretended not to notice it at all. It was as if nothing had happened, no one had raised their voice, and a few rooms away, there was no angry angel. He knew with certainty that it would work, and it did.

Dean let out a deep breath, his sudden relaxation was downright palpable, then mumbled something about going to the bathroom and the next thing he knew the door was slamming behind him as well. He glanced over his shoulder at the incriminating floral papered door and sighed.

His hand wandered into his pants pocket, and he pulled out a rubber band from there, pulling his hair into a ponytail in one practiced motion so it wouldn't get in the way of his computer work. And to be ready for the case meeting, because as he suspected, it was going to be long and fraught with tension.

°°0°°

He turned the cold water tap on all the way and watched the water flow. It hummed uncomfortably loud for his aching head. Damn it! He shouldn't have driven so many hours without rest when he was hungover. Or he should have had a drink to cheer himself up before the trip. Or he should stop drinking so much. Hehe! I don't think that's gonna happen. He amused himself in his mind.

He scooped up a palmful of ice water and dipped his face into it. The cold water stung, especially in his eyes and chapped lips, but it was refreshing. Then, letting the water escape between his palms, he leaned back against the sink and looked in the mirror, looking... well, not exactly good, but usable. He raked through his hair, leaving it damp and brushed up. That would cool his aching head long enough to survive the case chatter and sit through it... next to Case. Maybe without his stomach clenching and twinges of nervousness running through his body. The damn tremor that had him squeezing the steering wheel the whole way here, drumming his fingers against it, gritting his teeth and rubbing his knees together like he was some horny hooker. And he wasn't! He wasn't hard, just because Cas was in the back seat... okay, maybe a little, but that was his anger. All that adrenaline and blood rushing furiously through his body. It just happened all the time.

He turned off the water and wiped his hands on his shirt. He was ready for anything.

He opened the bathroom door and the first thing his eyes fell on was Cas standing next to the table. In his lost trenchcoat, haughtily erect and looking so... so... kissable. Ugh, that was a terrible look. And the horrible, upsetting feeling of knowing she couldn't touch him. Yeah, that was what was really bugging him right now. Not some blackmail, not the way Cas was mad at him, but the need to hold him. He felt so incredibly stupid. When was the last time he'd wanted something as pathetic as a proper, strong hug from someone? He couldn't remember if he ever had. No, hell, he'd never really wanted one, not even with Lissa. He liked those moments in front of the TV when he threw his arm around her shoulders and tolerated it quite calmly if she snuggled up to him after sex or snuggled into his side in bed, but he'd never... no, he'd never wanted it the other way around. That was until Cas.

He wanted to feel warm again.

Oh, shit! He wasn't allowed to think about that. He'd forbidden himself, firmly and emphatically, and the prohibition sounded in his head pretty much like something his dad would say. And it still carried weight. With his voice sounding exactly right in his thoughts, he pulled a chair up to the table and sat down on it. If Angel hadn't done it by now, he was simply out of luck, he would be standing. Or Cas could sit on his lap. God, it would be so great if the angel sat on his lap. He could breathe in that perfectly clean scent of his again... feel his body against his... Damn it. Don't think about it, Dean, don't think about it. You had all this and you lost it through your own cowardice. If you don't have the balls to be yourself in front of your family, you just lose everything. That was a given. If only he'd given Cas another chance...

He went crazy. He could clearly feel the intense stare in his back. He turned slightly over his shoulder and met the bright blue eyes burning a hole from the side of his head.

"Good of you to show up, Dean," Sam said with a slight sneer, as if perhaps he'd spent a month in the bathroom, "Did you read the file I gave you?"

"What file?" He asked with a frown, since he only vaguely remembered Sam tossing something like a folder on the table next to his drink glass before he left. He'd left it lying there without opening it.

"Yes," came a simple, short, quiet voice beside him.

"Okay, I'll repeat that for Dean," Sam said, turning to him a laptop whose screen showed pictures of five people obviously pulled from hospital charts, "There have been five cases of people suddenly losing consciousness here in the city in the last less than two months. They happened in different places and at different times. Some were at home, others at work, one woman had just picked up her son from a midday workout and never left her car. According to medical reports, there are no obvious signs of assault or injury on their bodies..."

"We'll have to check that for ourselves," he growled half to himself.

"Exactly," his brother nodded his head, "The doctors don't know what to look for, we do, but I'd trust them on one thing. Neither of them are unconscious. Technically, they're not conscious, but it's not any kind of classic coma, just in a phase of rem sleep from which they've failed to awaken by any available means."

"Genie?" He suggested. It was the first thing that came to his mind.

"I thought about him, but all the victims made it to the hospital, or at least five of them. How would he feed on them? And why would he have so many of them? He's been feeding on one for weeks, why have five?"

"Unless it's one of the doctors," he put forward a theory that had just popped into his head, "He can disguise himself as one and still have access to tasty morsels."

"I accept that, but why did one of the victims wake up?" Sam questioned, enlarging one of the photographs. It was a man in his mid-forties, with nothing extraordinary about him. He was starting to go a little bald and could lose a few pounds, but otherwise just nothing. Not that it had any bearing on whether a genie or some other monster would want to eat him. He didn't often see that monsters had any particular taste in whether people were small, big, skinny, fat, bald, or hirsute. Rather, they usually cared about the quality of the internal organs. Yeah, yeah, a fat man's heart was just as good as a skinny man's, according to the werewolf. But one thing all the monsters had in common was that they didn't just take a bite out of each other's mouths. They didn't. It took a fucking lot of effort, putting one's own life on the line to take their food, ideally before they had time to die.

"Then it won't be a genie," he reasoned aloud, leaning down to his bag strewn on the ground. He had energy drinks tucked in his pocket. They were horrible shit that tasted like those awful carnival lollipops that you ate once in disgust and washed down with beer, and then felt a second time when they were crushing out of your throat somewhere behind a noisy attraction, but they helped him get over his hangover.

He pulled out a can of the warm drink and opened it.

"If you drink that now, you won't sleep all night," Sam warned him.

"Shut up, you mama hen," he muttered back, taking a deep drink, enduring his brother's disapproving look, "I think I'm going to throw up before... But what about the witch?"

"Witches don't curse randomly, and I haven't found any obvious connection between the victims yet. Most importantly, again, why would she leave Mr. Clint alone?"

"The curse didn't have to be broken by the same witch who cast it," Cas echoed calmly, causing Dean to jerk and stiffen as he tried his best not to turn and look at him.

"You mean his wife?" Sam asked, more of a rhetorical question.

He could feel the angel behind his back nod. Somehow, in some fucking mysterious way, his image literally appeared before his eyes, tilting his head just the slightest bit in a nod and then raising it again, his eyes... those damn bright eyes glittering blue. His breath hitched in his throat, tensing even more than when Cas had spoken and clutched the can.

He heard the unpleasantly loud screech of aluminum, and he forced his grip to loosen. He could squeeze the can just as easily as if it were made of fine paper, and he really didn't care about having its over-sweetened contents all in his lap. All he had were these one pair of comfortable pants that hadn't been washed in two weeks, so they finally stopped smelling like disinfectant and cheap soap. Oh, shit! He was sweating them anyway, because as soon as the grip loosened, his hand started shaking and a few drops of caffeinated sugar water landed on his knee.

Fucking work! He couldn't even shoot with that or...

He jerked sharply as he suddenly felt something warm on his back and the smell of pie entered his nose. He craned his head to the window to see if by any chance it was open and the smell from the nearest diner or stand was wafting through. It wasn't, the smell was just coming from nowhere. Damn it, but still... He'd like a pie. God, a sweet pie, smelling like the ones he remembered from his childhood and... Castiel? Weird, but accurate. Pie on clean grass after a rain. He was probably already hallucinating from mixing booze and that energy shit.

He shook his head and shuffled a little in his chair. The heat didn't subside and actually, without meaning to, caused his stiffness to simply disappear. He sipped his drink and slouched. More relaxed than a moment ago, he even managed to cast a brief glance over at Cas.

"Yes. His wife could be part of the coven here, as could any of the other victims' relatives. Other witches are often tempted to break up other people's covens through relatives of witches they have feuds with," the angel elaborated his agreement.

"Wait, you think there's a whole coven of witches operating here?" He didn't hold back and asked Case directly, which was perhaps the first time he'd actually spoken to him since their discussion in the kitchen. Damn. That was weird, even the way Cas slowly turned his head to him and tilted it to the side.

"I feel like the laws of nature don't work the way they should in this town. The presence of Nemeton or some other place dedicated to witches would clarify my feelings."

"Wow... the filth is probably picking up steam here," he muttered to himself, taking another sip of his anergeta. The sacred places of the witch covens were usually a pile of old and new bones, at best some animals, rotting and dried organs, again at best just animal and all sorts of other disgusting shit and bodily fluids of all kinds. As for Nemeton, some good place in the form of a big tree and a congregation of good druids... Yeah, he thought that was a children's story.

"If that were the case, the composition of the victims would point to a mixed coven. Those are rare," Sam argued.

"In this day and age, they are. They weren't before."

It was hard to object to such a simple statement from Angel.

"I hate to say it, but I take witchcraft as the first working version. All in favor?" He asked, glancing first at Sam and then briefly at Castiel. He got no disapproval from either, so he was going to wrap this up. His head was hurting more than it had a few minutes ago, and the strange smell, coupled with the heat from the broken air conditioning, was starting to put him to sleep even through the empty energy drink can.

"Fine. The Order of the Phoenix meeting is dissolved and I'm going to bed," he concluded quite, short and decisive, and rose from his seat, leaving the two there without turning around. His steps headed straight for the bathroom.

He needed to... He needed a cold shower, to be away from Case and get some sleep. Yeah, that was exactly what he needed if he was going to make this thing work.

He closed the door behind him and... the sudden cold had him completely paralyzed. It was as if he'd fallen out of an imaginary bubble of tropical warmth and straight into the Acretic cold. Damn it! He shivered and pulled his flannel close to his body. Yeah, right, like wrapping himself in a shirt was going to do any good. Don't be such a sissy, Dean, he admonished himself, letting go of the ends of the shirt he was pulling to himself.

Winter was, after all, what he so fervently desired, so he should enjoy it accordingly.

°°0°°

His younger fucking brother, also called Sam by his friends, was absolutely right again. He lay there, listening to him snore, unable to sleep. Insomnia seemed to have become his faithful dog of late. He wasn't even trying to sleep anymore. Only it was damn infuriating.

He quietly got out of bed so as not to wake Sam, grabbed his jacket, and just as quietly slammed the door behind him. The night was warm, he might as well go to the bar and not disturb Sam with his return. Or just buy a carton of beer across the street, squat down against the wall and drink while he watched the cars go by. Yeah, the neon sign shining through the rose bushes proclaiming 'Non-stop convenience store' was like the holy grail. But his attention was immediately drawn to a very different light. Much smaller, but still more appealing. Just a thin strip of light shining through the curtains of Cas' room.

Slowly, he made his way in that direction. He stopped at the window, so that he could see in but not be seen, and peered in.

Cas was sitting on the bed, fully dressed, even including his trench coat, a large can of peanuts in honey laid on his lap, watching a small television hanging in the corner of the room. He looked so damn cool. He just sat there and stared at the TV.

That hurt.

He clenched his hand into a fist and gritted his teeth. For a while there, it had seemed... before they'd gotten here, that he was in as bad a shape as Dean himself, so now he should be suffering from some kind of angelic insomnia instead... What the fuck was he looking at that was so interesting that it even helped him forget? He asked himself, looking out a little more to see the TV that was on... Stupid late night reality show. Who the hell cared to watch sleeping people anyway?! Yeah, Case probably did, he had some special kink for that.

He walked briskly, and angrily, to the door of the room and knocked.

He didn't hear Case come to the door. He'd never heard him until he'd spoken right behind his back, and it didn't matter that he couldn't carry anymore. He probably had special plush covers on his shoes. Or the devil knew how he did it. Still, even though he hadn't expected to hear him, he froze in surprise when Cas's face suddenly appeared in front of him. And he had no bloody idea what he should say.

"Hi," came out hoarsely. Saying hello was basic, wasn't it? He hadn't even counted how many slaps he'd earned from his dad and Booby as a kid just for not saying hello. Even people you're mad at deserve a hello. Hey, hey, hey, hey! Demons too, say hello and goodbye before you slit their throats.

"Dean," Castiel said calmly, neutrally, almost distantly, standing in the doorway to the room.

"Can I come in?" He asked, leaning his hand against the door. He already had some experience in getting where he wanted to go, but trying to half-forcibly open the door to Angel's room was like trying to push away a Chinese wall with his own strength. It was clear to him that if Cas didn't want to let him in, he simply wouldn't be able to get in and he wouldn't be able to... what exactly? Talk, I guess. Hell yeah, he wanted to talk. Who knew Dean would suddenly be so eager to talk about feelings and other shit with an angel who sometimes didn't say more than 'Good morning' and 'Good night' in a day. Sometimes not even that.

"I'm not sure I want to let you in," Cas said after a brief pause to think, but before Dean could say anything or react, he actually stepped back from the door and opened it enough to let them into the room.

The door knocked behind him and Castiel stepped around it, putting at least three steps of distance between them. Damn him! He, who couldn't understand that standing in the bathroom doorway and staring at someone while brushing his teeth was not only rude, but more importantly, creepy?

"Why are you here, Dean?" He asked, repeating his name for the second time in a short time. I'm sure he was doing it on purpose. He had to know that every time he did, a shiver ran nicely over Dean's body from his toes to his nose.

"I just want to know how long you're going to be mad at me?" He asked... well, something he didn't really want to ask, to be honest. He just couldn't help it. Not when he saw how damn condescending Cas was looking. Yeah, okay, fine, he was right to want him to tell Sam about their relationship. He deserved better than to be some dirty late night secret. Damn it, it was Cas! It was just the way he forced it... like a spoiled hysteric.

"As an angel, I can stay angry for hundreds of years."

He chuckled. Amazingly funny, he did. He was in the mood for a joke at the moment.

"Well, that's not going to pay off, honey, because I'm not going to live that long," he snapped, more vehemently than he actually wanted to, but also with satisfaction, because it must have taken the wind out of his sails.

"It doesn't matter. Your soul is as eternal as mine," he said simply, which in turn took away any strength Dean had to defend himself, at least until Cas continued, "And I'm not... angry. I don't want to be angry," he clarified, emphasizing the last word as something very important, "but I'm not sure how to... stop being angry."

"Cas..."

He didn't get to speak as the angel took a step forward, closing the distance that separated them. Finally.

"I miss being able to talk to you, to touch you, to be with you. I think I miss your very presence. But I also feel... wronged and offended that you're ashamed of me, even though I understand that some of my past actions deserve to make a man like you ashamed of me."

He blinked. What the fuck...? The very last thing he would ever do in his life was actually be ashamed of Castiel. He was an angel, for God's sake! Okay, okay, most angels were nice sons of bitches he wouldn't lean his bike against, but not Cas. Sure, he was a bit of a weirdo and a dork, but it didn't matter. Not to him. He looked like a shallow jerk at times, chasing after every pretty skirt that had pretty legs peeking out of it, or staring at cleavage like a twelve-year-old, and he knew he looked like one, but he wasn't. Like Lisa. He was in love with her, in a way, different from Cas, but he wasn't with her because she was beautiful - though beautiful she really was - but because she was just her. That was what mattered.

"I'm not ashamed of you," he denied, emphatically, as he'd hoped. Although, who knew... maybe there was real shame in his voice, only it wasn't the shame associated with Cas. Gods, it never was. He was ashamed of himself, of his cowardice and inability to be himself. Whatever that meant. Whatever it meant he was as gay as the noonday sun.

Castiel tilted his head slightly to the side, looking at him with his bright blue eyes, which yes, were definitely peering into his mind, searching for a lie. He didn't move his gaze. He didn't like it, in fact he hated it when Angel could see through his lies, because he didn't want Cas to know when he was saying he was fine even when he wasn't, but this time he made an exception. He let him. Without speaking, returning his gaze without blinking, hands clenched tightly into fists.

"Then; is it because of my vessel?" Cas asked the next question, briefly glancing down at his body, "That's male and you've never lusted after another man. Would you rather I had a female body? Would it be easier for you to tell Sam about us then?"

The first answer he had on his tongue was that it would be a hell of a lot easier if Cas was a woman. He wouldn't be mired in shit like contemplating his own sexuality instead of enjoying sex. But at the same time, no, definitely not...

"You can't just change your body," he argued. Not because he didn't know he could change a body, so much as because he didn't like the idea of changing Castiel's vessel at all.

Of course Cas didn't get it. How could he either.

"Actually, I can, Dean. There's nothing real keeping me in this vessel, except... nostalgia," he added with a strange tone in his voice that, yeah, definitely sounded nostalgic, "I could find a female vessel, but I wouldn't like to do it. This body belongs to me and me alone. I don't have to share it with anyone else and that's not something an angel is lucky enough to have. But I'm..." He shook his head slightly, his eyes flicking away briefly, just as he did when he was trying to express something he was having trouble saying, "willing to consider getting a female vessel if that's what you want."

"I don't want you to have another body, Cas, I..." He fell silent. He simply couldn't, and in fact didn't want to, express out loud what was really making him dread the moment Sam found out about them. It was something he was embarrassed about. Damn! He was embarrassed to say that he was afraid he'd be a weak faggot if anyone found out he was sleeping with a man, because he could see quite clearly... it was completely in front of his eyes... the way the angel would tilt his head to one side and then, in his deep voice, full of conviction so strong it was impossible to argue with him, say something like 'homosexuality is not a sin' or 'God surely has more important things to worry about than who people have sex with' or some other similarly important bullshit. He's heard it from him before. Exactly that. Exactly those two things, even if it was just a comment on a discussion between politicians at the time.

Then he'd add something about Sam being understanding and not having any objections and hell, he'd be right. Sammy was so understanding sometimes it was scary. A paragon of all socially accepted virtues with a well hidden dark side. Yeah, that was his little brother, the one he shouldn't have kept anything from, the one he shouldn't have been ashamed of, but he was. He didn't want to drop in value in his eyes, but he didn't want to lose Case either. What more they had between them than friendship.

"I'll tell him," came out of his mouth to his own surprise, "Before we finish this case, I'll tell Sam about you and me."

Cas tilted his head to the side, and two wrinkles formed between his eyebrows... pretty cute wrinkles.

"You give me your word?" He asked very seriously, ridiculously serious considering they were in a musty smelling motel room, it was one in the morning, and a super censored sex under the covers was currently playing on the TV above them. It was a curious situation, but he found himself nodding.

"Yeah, you got it." If that was what he wanted, then she'd give it to him.

There was a moment's hesitation, another flash of blue eyes, before Castiel smiled widely and unadulterated. Literally, he beamed, only the silhouette of wings and the hideously burning eyes on his side, missing. No, okay, he wasn't glowing that much, but Dean was sure he could sense his joy and contentment. And the warmth spreading throughout his body, along with the smell of pie that must have seeped through the air conditioning to them. He really needed to know where they baked them. Right now was the perfect time for a slice.

"I believe you, Dean," he repeated his name, this time as a caress that made him smile stupidly.

His smile lasted for a moment and then it was suddenly awkward. They were still in the motel room. Still on the screen above Cas ran the night camera shot showing a moving ass looming under the thin blanket. And yeah, they still had half the night ahead of them and empty hands. Just embarrassing. Enough that even Cas's glow faded and Angel shifted indecisively from foot to foot.

"So does this mean we're... a couple again?", Cas broke the oppressive silence with a question that added to the awkwardness of the whole situation.

He blinked. Ha! More like he should have asked if they ever started being a couple. Officially. They probably had, sometime while groping each other on the couch back at the bunker and smoking at the workbench. That's when they started being a couple. Or maybe it was the first time they had a fight. They were a couple, I'm sure they were.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"In that case, I'd like to try what people call make-up sex," Castiel said again, as seriously as if he were planning a strategy to fight the hellish hordes swarming over them during some future apocalypse.

He heard the telltale thud, that was when two huge rocks he hadn't even known were there fell out of his stomach and out of his heart, and then he suddenly felt free. He laughed. Make-up sex! Hell yeah, he'd definitely want that one.

"I was beginning to worry that neither of us was going to suggest it," he said, relieved, taking two steps and pulling Case into a kiss by the lapels of his suit coat.

°°0°°

The cell phone on the nightstand started beeping. Blindly, he turned off the alarm and stretched to notice immediately that something was wrong. Something important was missing from the room. What, he figured about five seconds later. He hadn't heard Dean's profanity and mumbling from his half-sleep complaining about Sam's supposedly annoying habit of getting up at six in the morning. He turned his head to look at Dean's messy and obviously empty bed.

It would be really weird for Dan to get up that early. Far more likely he hadn't been able to get back to sleep after pouring all his energy drink into himself the night before, so he'd gone to a bar sometime in the middle of the night and hadn't come back from it. Or he'd be stuck in the bed of some random woman he met that night.

He didn't pick the best time to go out at night. Other times, he had enough self-control to stay sober for at least the first night after arriving at the motel and not seek out the dubious company of equally dubious women. It wasn't up to him to complain, though; he was too used to his brother's behavior for that, and it actually gave him a chance to get up in peace without Dean commenting on everything he was doing.

He made his way to the bathroom without having to close the door handle behind him and having to be very quiet. And he could even get a quiet workout in. Sort of, at least, because the door squeaked open just as he was in the middle of the slamming. He paused for only a few seconds, just one brief glance out of the corner of his eye toward the door to make sure it was really Dean, and then continued smoothly.

"Morning, sunshine," Dean greeted him in an unusually cheerful manner, setting the large white box down on the table and placing a paper bag on a chair nearby, "Trying to catch a hernia?" He prodded him immediately, dropping into the chair and opening the box.

"Trying... to... never... have... it," he replied between counts, vehemently trying not to look at the rather disgusting picture of Dean each time, who was literally stuffing an entire donut into one of his cheeks, making him resemble a half-eaten hamster. He couldn't help it, but the way his brother ate always reminded him of animals. He tore meat off the bones like a crocodile, stuffed donuts in his cheeks like a hamster, and approached vegetables like a spoiled goat.

He finished his last exercise, swung himself to his feet and sucked on the T-shirt he'd pulled on provisionally before going to take a shower.

"Where have you been all night?" He asked, though he knew he was probably going to regret it. It wasn't uncommon for a question like that to be followed by a half hour or more of Dean describing his entire evening. Sometimes in such detail that he could have written it up and had a hit on some literary pornography forum. The saddest part was that he knew more about Dean's sex life than he knew about his own.

"Nowhere," Dean replied, replacing the face he'd stuffed his second donut into, just lucky he'd managed to swallow the first one, "I got up early and ran to get breakfast. Want one?" he invited, pushing the box more towards the edge of the table to offer him a deep fried instant guide to clogged blood vessels, covered in a thick layer of chocolate or strawberry frosting or sprinkled with sugar.

"No thanks. But you could have brought me coffee," he stated with mild remorse.

"I did. There's some rabbit food in your bag and that crap called a soy milk latte," Dean motioned to the bag.

He raised an eyebrow in surprise and opened the bag to actually find what Dean had said. A salad from the refrigerated case at the convenience store, the kind with croutons and chicken and eggs on top, half of a packaged whole wheat bread, and a cup of drink next to it. He probably wouldn't have chosen those first two things for breakfast, at least not today, but he'd quite happily trade the real latte for the instant slop he'd otherwise have to make. And hey, for Dean, it was an impressive feat of self-sacrifice for something like this to occur. He usually claimed to be embarrassed to even stand by the same treasures and pay to buy them together, especially when Sam found out he'd gained more weight than was healthy and was trying to lose it.

He pulled out his latte, opened it and took a sip. It was pretty good. Not perfect, but beyond the usual small-town proportions, because as much as they made really great pies in small towns - Dean was certainly right about that - and even better salads of fresh vegetables and fruit, or had really great cheeses, they almost never managed to make a real latte. He was quite happy with that.

He glanced at Dean, who helpfully took out his salad and put it in its place at the opposite chair. He already knew this one. It was Dean's way of apologizing for the way he'd flipped out yesterday.

"You didn't have to bring all this to me as an apology. I'm not mad at you," he said bluntly, knowing full well that he'd caused Dean to choke slightly on his donut.

"I'm not apologizing. I was just out and about and didn't want you to starve to death, dumbass. That's what older brothers do," he huffed, grabbing the coffee Sam had placed on the table earlier and taking a sip. His expression instantly turned to absolute disgust, but he didn't comment on it beyond an eloquent glance upwards. He returned it, no doubt no less eloquently.

"Since I've been able to accept solid food, you've been bribing me with food almost every time I get angry, Dean. First it was fudge, then Nutella sandwiches, then beer, and finally your favorite pies. And now this," he held up the salad bowl, "You didn't have to bring me anything, I'm really not mad."

"If I really wanted to bribe you, I'd give you a donut. Salad is more like torture."

And they were back to yesterday, including Dean frowning and focusing his attention solely on the donuts. He told himself he wasn't going to address it because there was no point. He turned to his bag and pulled out a towel.

"I'm going to take a shower. Then we'll decide where to go first, the hospital or the victims' families," he called over his shoulder as he made his way to the bathroom.

"Aren't you going to say we need to talk?" Dean asked him once he was in the bathroom doorway.

He turned to him and raised his eyebrows in question.

"No, I've given up trying to pry anything out of you," he admitted honestly, not that he wasn't still pissed that something was going on with Dean, but there really wasn't any point, "If I try, you get mad, we'll argue and read each other old mistakes, so we'll both end up pissed. I'm tired of this, Dean. I know something's going on and I know you're keeping something from me, but I also know I'm gonna find out sooner or later anyway. Either way. We have a case, and it's important. Saving people, remember?" he added, giving Dean a moment to say something, when he didn't he closed the bathroom door behind him and left him there with his calorie bomb.

The water was surprisingly bearable, he even almost got scalded only once and that was really luxurious for a motel. The problem came when he tried to turn the tap and turn off the water. The faucet was probably rusted and as it got wet, it slipped. He wasn't going to soak his towel or his clothes, but Dean's... he definitely wasn't going to need it this morning anyway.

He climbed out of the shower, leaving it running the whole time, wrapped the towel around his waist and opened the door to call out to Dean. He was only a short distance away before he heard voices from the next room.

"... I tried, but there was no opportunity," Dean said.

"You said you'd tell him this morning," Castiel replied in a clearly reproachful tone.

"I'm saying I tried," through the opening between the doors he saw a piece of Dean, and more importantly the exaggerated gesture in which he threw up his hands, "but he told me he didn't want to talk to me about it. Perhaps for the first time in his life, Sam doesn't want to talk about something, and... it must be this. I have to wait for another opportunity."

"Why can't you just tell him?"

"It's... complicated, Cas."

"You people make your lives more complicated than they are by choice."

"Yeah, I see where you're going with this. I'll tell him, okay?" Dean said, seemingly firmly, whereupon he stepped forward, towards Castiel, hidden from Sam's view by the half-closed bathroom door. The silence that followed was strange. What could the two of them be doing in there in such silence?

He waited a few minutes to see if anything happened. When the call didn't continue or seem like Angel was going to leave or that the two were planning to sit down at the table, he slowly backed back into the room, closing the door carefully behind him, and walked over to the bathroom. Dean must have thought he was taking a shower and that was why he couldn't hear them, and Castiel had to give all his attention solely to Dean or he would have noticed him. He was glad that hadn't happened. He certainly wasn't going to run out on them and demand an answer, that would no doubt just result in an argument and nothing more.

One flush must have alerted everyone in the next room that he was about to come out. Which he promptly did. Quite calmly, as if he heard nothing and knew nothing. What made it all the more surprising was that he found Dean and Castiel on exactly opposite sides of the room, as if they had suddenly jumped away from each other and then run off to their respective sides of the room.

"Hey Cas," he smiled briefly at Angel before turning to Dean, "Can I borrow your towel? The shower won't close, it's stuck and the tap is slippery. You don't need it now anyway and it will be dry by tonight."

"Sure, no problem," Dean said with false ease, throwing the towel at him, "Cas suggested going to the hospital to see the victims and the relatives who'll be there, and we could pop over to the Clint's and ask around. See the crime scenes and then we'd meet up at the hospital."

He glanced briefly at Castiel, who was watching Dean unblinkingly, then nodded.

"Good plan. FBI or disease control?"

"Whichever we're more likely to get eaten."

"Okay, fine," he agreed, waving the towel to indicate what he was going to do, and went back into the bathroom.

The tap went in well when it was no longer slipping under his hands and he placed Dean's wet towel on the towel dryer that was there. Then he frowned at them.

Despite his resolve not to ask and not to bring it up, he just couldn't take his mind off the conversation Dean and Castiel were having.

What could have been the secret they were keeping from him? It couldn't be anything really serious, after all, there was no apocalypse moving the world at the moment. Nothing that could threaten their lives, other than a perfectly ordinary hunt, where of course both he and Dean could die. But after all they'd already survived, and with Angel having the power to heal any injuries, it seemed unlikely that either of them would just die. Caution was still in order, he would never dare not be vigilant and expect even a shot in the back, but he had to rationally admit that they had a big advantage over the other hunters.

So it had to be something of a personal nature. He couldn't think of what, except perhaps that they wanted to throw him out of the Bunker, which wouldn't make sense. Sometimes they got on each other's nerves in that small, enclosed, windowless space, and submarine sickness haunted them, but mostly they got along fine. Just three days ago, he and Castiel had watched movies in the evening and, even though he was visibly upset about something, they'd been... well, reasonable to the man himself. About the same as always. He couldn't imagine that Angel could put on such a front, offering friendship and a smile without meaning it. So no, this was downright stupid.

Maybe they'd finally confessed their feelings to each other and resolved their never-ending sexual-romantic tension, which would've made for a novel-length Reason and Emotion. But something like that was really ridiculously impossible! The two of them were never able to pull their heads out of their asses and look at each other properly. Dean was too locked in the shell of what it meant to be a real man to admit that loving another man wouldn't make him any less of a 'guy'. And Castiel was... Sam honestly had no idea if Angel was even capable of loving in a romantic-sexual way.

He had sex, once when he was 'human', that was it. And even then he didn't really show any active interest in sex, or indeed in women or men. He'd kept a good eye on him back then, when they'd visit a bar together or maybe just walk down the street. He didn't look at anyone longer than was strictly necessary to get a good look, and his eyes didn't wander over women's boobs or asses. In fact, he couldn't even imagine a being the size of a skyscraper, made up of pure energy, having a sexual interest in humans. Unless of course they were in human bodies, then he saw the potential in accepting the purely instinctual urges of the human body.

The two of them together was an unrealistic idea, and yet even if - he paused mentally, his thoughts darkening - it would be bad. It was a family curse that their relationships ended in disaster. At best, heartbreak and a shattered soul, and at worst, the death of the one either of the Winchesters loved. She couldn't defy that curse, try as she might and that he did. Dean had tried, too. They couldn't escape. The possibility that something would happen to one of them... that he would lose one of them, was almost inevitable and thus terrifying.

He was sure now that he had to know if this suspicion of his was correct or, as he hoped, wrong. It was with that resolve, too, that half an hour later, already in his suit, fake badge in his pocket, and salad on his lap, he got into the Impala. Everything was exactly as it always was. Dean was muttering under his beard about how he was a bad driver in his suit shoes, and Castiel had settled into the back seat, center, as he always did, so that he could be clearly seen in the rearview mirror looking out the window with a lost look. Simply nothing special.

Sometime halfway to the hospital and after he finished his salad, he gave up trying to make out anything of the two's faces. In fact, it was ridiculous to even try. Hard enough they'd just been throwing amorous glances at each other and giving each other cute nicknames. Neither of them were the right type for it.

Dean swerved the car around two huge rose bushes into the hospital parking lot. Though his thoughts were still with Dean and Castiel, he couldn't help but notice the bushes. They were far from the first ones he'd seen on his way through town. There were rose bushes with large pink blossoms growing in perhaps every garden and along the streets. If any city really deserved the nickname 'City of Roses', this one surprisingly did.

"It will take us at least a whole morning to go round all the places. Can you make it here on your own, Cas?" asked Dean as he neatly slipped into one of the vacant seats and pulled up.

"I'll be fine," Castiel said, stepping out from behind the cars without another word. He didn't even turn around and headed straight for the hospital entrance.

"Nice talking to you again," Dean growled and started the car again.

"When you two argue, it always makes you even more articulate than usual," he pointed out, subtly reminding him of whatever argument the two had with each other, as well as the secret that had obviously caused the argument.

"We don't argue."

"From where I'm standing, it looked different."

"Okay, you're right," Dean acknowledged, shooting him a vague look shortly after, "We were arguing a bit, but we've worked it out."

"That's good," he appreciated, pausing for a moment before continuing, "This morning when I interrupted you, were you going to tell me what you were arguing about?"

"Noooo!" Dean trailed off dismissively, but did so too quickly, "It's nothing I want to discuss with you just yet. Just a little thing."

"If it's a trifle, can I at least know what it was?" He asked, whereupon he held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture, "And I swear I won't try to talk to you about it anymore."

Dean paused, looking hesitant to continue. He flexed the leather of the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white and then let go again, apparently forcibly restraining himself by taking one hand completely off the wheel so he could show what a dude he was, that he could take corners lightly with only one hand on the wheel.

"You know how the serial killer trial is in California right now? He's not a demon or any other monster, just a guy who went crazy and killed five women."

Sam nodded in agreement.

"I know, we looked into it and found it's not our case."

"Yeah, so they're suggesting the death penalty for him, of course. I think it's the right thing to do, people like them should be sent to hell as soon as possible. Cas," he waved his hand as he emphasized what he was about to say, "they say that the death penalty can be seen as revenge and that in turn can be a sin. There, that's it."

He blinked, unsure if Dean was serious or if it was an excuse. As an excuse, it was too deep for him, though not because he couldn't understand it or hadn't thought about something so serious, but because he flat out refused to discuss it. He'd always maintained that they had enough otherworldly shit to think about around them to still be dealing with earthly ones. In Castiel's case, on the other hand, he didn't wonder a bit. He certainly had a penchant for philosophizing.

"Well... I have to admit, I never thought you of all people would be dealing with such a serious moral dilemma," he admitted, still taken aback.

"I don't deal! But you know what it's like to talk to Cas. You're watching the news in peace, he says something, you answer him, he answers you, and before long you're talking about the meaning of life and shit like that."

"Yeah, I know," he had to admit that Dean was definitely right about that. He couldn't even count the times they'd gone from a completely ordinary topic, like Castiel's unintriguing question about why milk cartons had people's faces on them with 'Wanted' written on them, to something as complicated as a debate about the effect of human perception on the very existence of reality and its form.

The question was, could that be why they were arguing? Probably not, given the morning's conversation he had overheard.

"Sometimes after a conversation with him, one feels like an idiot and begins to reconsider even one's long-term positions. Still, I don't understand why you couldn't have told me yesterday? It's not an apocalyptic secret," he added with a dose of humor, but quite deliberately provocative.

"Because I knew you'd want to talk about it. Tell me what you think about it," Dean stated, pausing for just a moment before turning his gaze to Sam and raising one eyebrow, "Go ahead, tell me your brother is someone who approves of murder. I'll handle it."

"Why do you automatically think I'm against the death penalty?" He asked quite honestly, "I'm just saying that it should only be handed out in cases where the offense is something truly brutal. Murder coupled with torture. Rape and premeditated murder of a child and other particularly horrible crimes. I should add that I would certainly want to be arrested and tried in a state where the death penalty is not allowed."

"Do you think we deserve the death penalty?!" Dean asked in surprise.

"Dean, we've killed so many people over the years, or citizens of the United States, that we wouldn't be in the serial killer hall of fame, they'd have to build their own museum for us. And you know I know something about this."

Dean gave a half-amused chuckle. He always had plenty of jokes and comments to make about Sam's hobby of collecting information on serial killers... well, at least it was fitting this time.

"I thought for all this hippie stuff, like abolishing the death penalty, better conditions for farm animals... gay marriage... What?" asked Dean sharply, probably must have put a twinkle on Sam's face that he didn't even realize, "I read the internet diaries and watch the news. I'm not a retarded Neanderthal living in a cave!"

He shook his head and straight up forced himself to put on a neutral face.

"Long story short; I'm not into all the 'hippie stuff' just because I eat vegetable salads. I'm not for abolishing the death penalty. Yes, I think farm animals could be raised more humanely. And definitely yes, I'm all for gay couples getting married, even church weddings. Plus, that last point no longer applies. According to a federal high court ruling, preventing same-sex marriage has no basis in law and is therefore unconstitutional. This automatically makes gay marriage legal in all countries of the federation."

"Yeah so that was the reason Trump was so vocal on that talk show we watched last Thursday. He looked like an angry baboon! How his cheeks puffed out!" With a laugh, he indicated chubby cheeks. From anyone else, that would be an insult coupled with the expression of a political opinion. From Dean? Just the observation of a twelve-year-old who doesn't give a damn about anything like politics.

"Yeah. He sure wasn't too happy about it," he agreed neutrally, more or less closing the debate. Like everyone, he liked to swear about politics from time to time, but talking about it with Dean was... well, as he'd mentioned earlier, like talking about it with a twelve-year-old.

Dean understood, and they drove on in silence. His brother didn't seem to want to continue any conversation, so he looked out the window at the... absolutely endless row of houses surrounded by rose bush fences. Perhaps there must have been a city ordinance here mandating the planting of a rose bush in front of the front entrance.

"It should be here by now," he broke the silence with an important piece of information, gesturing with his hand to one of the entrances they were passing.

"You mean the entrance with the roses next to it?" Dean asked with a sneer in his voice.

"Funny," he peeled a glance at him, "Just pull over here and we'll find the right number."

Dean pulled the Impala up to the curb.

He got out and looked around.

The bushes with the big flowers shielded a good view even for him, they were so tall, and if it weren't for the bright blue shell in the shape of a dog house, with a dog on top holding the house number, he probably would have simply missed the Clint's house.

They ran across the street and then plunged through the decorative gate into the pink fence.

"Bloody hell they don't poke their eye out here," Dean muttered irritably as he managed to catch his sleeve on a thorn. It wasn't even a surprise that instead of gingerly straightening his sleeve, he simply yanked it angrily and tore the edge of it, which he then commented on with a rude curse. He rolled his eyes at his behavior and instead ran briskly up the stairs to the door. Without thinking, he reached towards the bell, catching himself on the pink thorns. It was uncomfortable, and after one unsuccessful attempt to wrestle the fabric of his shirt from the tip of the thorn, he tugged at it as well, pulling one long thread from the hem.

"Phew!" Dean chuckled at his side, reaching over to the bell.

"Shut up," he growled.

Before Dean could answer him, the door swung open, and they both put on a professional face and pulled out their badges to show them to the woman who answered the door. She was considerably younger than Clint, maybe even under thirty, tall and slender with auburn hair and a wide, smiling mouth.

"Yes, gentlemen?"

"Agents Wood and Morgan, FBI, ma'am. Could we talk to you for a moment about that little incident that happened to your husband recently?"

The woman blinked, tensed, and opened the door a crack. The usual reaction people had to the presence of the police and the FBI in particular, even people who were completely innocent and hadn't the slightest idea what kind of monsters were lurking around them.

"My husband is fine now and the doctors said they don't know what happened to him. We don't know either."

"Of course, ma'am, but there are four other people in the hospital who are in the same condition as your husband was. He's the only one who came to. Anything you can tell us might help the others," he tried to appeal to his conscience.

"Since when does the FBI investigate that someone went into a coma."

"Well, ma'am we," Dean began with one of his smiles, "are working with the Bureau of Disease Control. Not that there's anything wrong with your husband, of course, but the circumstances... they're suspicious. And I'm sure you can help us."

Mrs. Clint looked hesitant, but stepped back from the door and motioned for them to enter. He stepped through the door and slid his eyes unobtrusively over the frames. Every witch's home was marked in some way, a pentagram or other magical symbol on the front door. The first and very definite clue that a witch lived somewhere. Not necessarily the kind that ripped out people's insides with a snap of a finger or sacrificed them to the old gods, but definitely someone who knew magic. There was nothing here. The door was a beautiful, bright shade of green and probably very carefully maintained. A fresh coat of paint at least once a quarter.

"Do we have guests, darling?" came from the room to his left, and Mr. Clint came out of it. He actually looked like a stocky man with an impossibly wide smile. Like some kind of fairy elf. That in itself seemed suspicious, given their work.

"Not exactly guests, dear. They're FBI agents."

"Wood and Morgan, Mr. Clint. We'd like to ask you about the circumstances of the illness that befell you a few weeks ago. Can we talk?"

"Of course, gentlemen. Come and sit in the living room. Jenny, make the agents some tea, please."

"I'll help you," Dean offered immediately, affixing another charming smile. Sometimes his compulsive need to flirt wasn't so bad. He remembered more than one occasion when it had helped them get information he would have otherwise spent days finding out. Of course, if he was flirting with a woman who, judging by the scythe-like gaze she shot him and the tightly pursed lips, was clearly not interested and even before her own husband, it could do more harm than good. He gave Mrs. Clint and Dean a slightly disapproving look, which of course his brother did not even notice, and then was forced to attend to Mr. Clint, who took him amiably by the elbow and pushed him into the sitting-room.

"I'll be glad to do anything to help these other people. Only I don't know what to say to you," Mr. Clint reasoned as he led him to the sofa.

He sat down on it and looked around. His first glance wandered to the fireplace. An open fire was an important element in magical rituals, and most witches, if they owned a fireplace, used it to burn herbs, cast magical spells, and brew potions. It left a noticeable, usually half-washed trail of multicoloured smoke on the hearth. This fireplace did look used, but it was just usually blackened and dirty. Nor did he see anything anywhere that looked suspicious. Crystals, statues, anything potentially magical or even cursed.

"For starters, can you tell me what actually happened?" He turned his attention to Mr. Clint.

"As far as I'm concerned, nothing interesting," Mr. Clint uttered, sitting down in the chair opposite, "I've been at work... I've been a teacher at the local high school for fifteen years... and I went out to lunch. The last thing I remember was getting nauseous before I walked in and then waking up in the hospital."

"When you got sick, do you remember anything unusual? A strange smell, like sulfur? A cold sensation? A strange sound? Anything..."

"No, I'm sorry, I don't remember anything like that."

"And your wife, did she find anything strange at home during your illness? Something like really disgusting garbage, to be exact? The kind that she would have told you about," he tried to gently suggest if there was some kind of magical pouch in the house. He didn't even seem to hesitate as he shook his head again.

"Definitely nothing weird, but we don't rummage through the trash much. Do you think there was anything in it?" He asked, this time with concern, "I read about a serial killer who killed with poison. Do you think someone like that tried to poison me? Maybe... I don't know... slip us some poisoned food in a convenience store cart. Because that's exactly what that guy I read about did."

"I can assure you, Mr. Clint, that our office certainly doesn't think there's a serial killer on the loose," he said with great conviction, for one thing, no one had died yet, and for another, if there was something on the loose, it probably wasn't human.

"Are you sure? I don't want anything to happen to my wife. If he poisoned me, he might..."

"Like I said, it's a certainty. No serial killer," he repeated more emphatically, but that didn't seem to convince Mr. Clint.

He took another breath, probably to start on the serial killer again, when to Sam's relief, Dean walked into the room, cell phone in hand.

"Hey, a colleague called to say we need to go," his brother rescued him from the noose that was slowly tightening around him, "Thank you, Mr. Clint, for inviting us, and thank you Jenny for the coffee, even though we didn't have any," he thanked the woman who had appeared behind him with a tray, "But we really need to go. Mr. Morgan..." He let his voice trail off and tossed his head towards the door.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Clint, ma'am. Goodbye," he greeted them both and hurried after Dean, who had already left the house.

He caught up with him somewhere in the middle of the path to the gate, but said nothing because he felt he was being watched. One slight glance over his shoulder as he held the gate was all it took to see both Mr. and Mrs. Clint looking out the front window. They perceived that he had noticed them and quickly drew the curtains. The expression they wore before they disappeared behind his flowered curtain wasn't as cheerful and friendly as they had tried to put on half a minute ago.

"Cas called from the hospital. One of the victims has been dabbling a bit in the occult," Dean said as he stopped a few feet from the gate, well screened by the thick pink fence, "Nothing that Cas said was really dangerous that every other fake psychic wouldn't do," his fingers indicated the quotation marks around the word, "So unless she happened to have done something horrible, she won't be involved."

"Is that why you pulled us out?" He asked casually, not that he wasn't grateful.

"Besides the fact that you were in trouble and Jenny obviously didn't like me..."

"Don't be surprised if you're making eyes at her while her husband is half a foot away from you," he snapped, earning himself an annoyed look for it, of course.

"...Plus, I wanted to try something," Dean continued as if he hadn't interrupted him, pulling an EM reader out of his pocket. He switched it on and it responded immediately. The needle didn't shoot anywhere near the red numbers, but it got high enough to get attention. He'd seen readings that low before in places where ghosts were.

The only problem was that no matter which way Dean turned it, the signal was still present. It did fluctuate, but it was so faint that it didn't mean anything. It was as if they were surrounded on all sides by supernatural energy. It could only mean one thing; the signal was being interfered with by something very human and therefore very non-supernatural. For example, poorly shielded power lines.

It wasn't like they hadn't encountered it at least a hundred times before.

He glanced around, but he didn't see high voltage anywhere nearby. Even that didn't mean anything yet.

"Poorly stripped power lines?" He suggested half-questioningly, shrugging, "We've encountered that before, Dean."

"Or we were too quick to blame everything on the witches. And you know that took a lot of strength to say," he emphasized his words with a raised finger, "Numbers blew up in there as I turned it on in the kitchen. In here too and I bet if we go a little further, it'll be in there too," he declared and walked towards the next entrance.

He followed him to the next entrance where Dean started the EM meter again and pointed it straight at the gate. There were clear readings here, though again it could only be the exposed wiring. Nevertheless, Dean gave him a truly triumphant look, as if he'd just solved the case. He couldn't answer that except with a shrug.

"A? What's the point?"

"The milkman's ghost is running the place," Dean said, pleased with himself, which again only raised more questions from Sam, which he made clear with his expression, "I've read about it in the files. Sometime around the year forty, in a place just like this, people started dying of a strange poisoning. Various places around town, all of them were found to have electromagnetic interference, as if a ghost was running rampant, but there was none. Twelve people died before one hunter realized it was the ghost of a milkman attached to milk bottles... Three of them were left with blood that got there when his colleague beat him to death. This looks exactly the same."

It was true that this case was a bit like the one Dean had mentioned, but if you tried and really believed, you could find connections between things that couldn't possibly be related.

"That's an interesting case, but I doubt the same thing is happening here. For example, because milk delivery isn't very popular these days. They probably don't have it here. People buy the boxed stuff."

"Damn, I hadn't thought of that," he sighed wryly, his vision of an easily solved case probably just crumbled, "But it could be something like that."

"Maybe so," he conceded, mostly because it was a basic mistake to automatically dismiss all but one theory without enough provable facts.

"It sure is," Dean pointed out, stepping out onto the road, toward the Impala, "because there are definitely some strange things going on in this town."

"Do you have the same suspicions as Cas?" He asked amusedly as he reached for the handle on the door.

"No, I definitely don't have any hunches," Dean retorted, his voice wavering for a moment just as something passed over his face before he grinned and pointed a finger towards the Clint's house, "But I know for a fact that a cute little fella in a sweater can't get a hot bone like Jenny without black magic behind it."

The stinging comment about Mr. Clint being only six years older than Dean himself burned on his tongue, but he kept it to himself. If only because for now his brother seemed quite calm, unlike yesterday, and he didn't want to poke a wasp's nest with a stick that would break easily and not yield anything important.

"Someday I'd like to know which woman you don't find sexy."

"Big Bertha," Dean replied immediately, without hesitation, "The U.S. Women's Hot Dog Eating Champion. She weighs a hundred and ten pounds, has the cheeks of a bulldog, and casually eats ten hot dogs for breakfast. You can't look at her, but I admire her stomach. If I had one like hers, I'd quit hunting and go into professional hamburger eating."

He talked about something as disgusting as a contest to eat... anything, with such enthusiasm on his face, as if it were the most fun thing in the world. Sam had a barely suppressed urge to vomit at the mere sight of footage of such a pastime. He could totally smell all the grease, over-salted sauces and over-salted pickles rolling out of his mouth as he did so... no. He shuddered inwardly. He didn't even want to think about it. It was horrifying.

"Sometimes your thoughts really scare me, Dean," he confessed with complete sincerity, his face contorted into a disgusted expression, or rather, a reflection of the true depth of disgust he felt, "We'd better change the subject; now where?"

"To school? Not far from it, two of the five victims were affected. Maybe it's something there," Dean suggested quite logically.

He nodded in agreement and slid into the Impala.

°°0°°

Hospitals were places filled with human sadness and pain, but also hope, determination and joy. Few places on earth have the true essence of humanity been so crystal clear as in a hospital, and even more so at the bedsides of those whose lives were coming to an end. It was then that all the walls created by the human mind fell down, and sometimes for the first time in their lives, their soul was reflected in their faces and in their behaviour. Good people, with a clear, pure soul, achieved peace and reconciliation in the last days. The others, who were expecting hell, counted their last minutes with fear of what was to come.

This time he was not here to watch humanity, as he had done several times before. He had a pretty clear assignment here, and that was to solve a case. But that couldn't stop him from trying to ease the suffering of all those human bodies whose pain was like an uncomfortable itch on Grace's wings.

He unwound them and lifted them high to the ceiling.

He let them stretch out in all directions, through the walls of the hospital, over all the machines that were suspended from them, even though it burned a little uncomfortably, and left a gentle bar of their light to fall on every sick person in the building. The truth was, even without the power from Heaven, he would have had enough energy to heal every sick person in this building. It would take time, it would exhaust him, but he could do it. But at the same time, he would never do it. The natural order of things had to be preserved. The people had to suffer sickness, pain and old age because they had chosen this path for themselves ages ago and nothing and no one, especially not Heaven and its angels, could deny them the greatest gift of the Father that humans had been given. Free will.

He walked over to the hospital reception desk and placed his hands on it.

"Hello, I'm Agent..." he began to recite the formula he had learned as the plates were thrown in front of him.

"Fill this out and then take a seat," the woman behind the counter instructed him without looking up from the computer she was punching something into.

Confused, he pulled the folders together and looked down at the paper pinned to them. At the top, they asked for his name, then his insurance number, and underneath, to describe his predicament. Only he had no trouble. His vessel was perfectly healthy, and he had even managed not to damage it in the last two months. And even if it had been damaged, he didn't need medical treatment.

He pushed the plates and the form a little apart.

"I don't need medical treatment. I'm an FBI agent investigating a case of mysterious coma slips. I'd like to see the victims."

The nurse finally looked at him and frowned. As he had been instructed, when people didn't believe him, he was supposed to prove himself with his fake ID. He pulled them out of his pocket and showed them to the woman, as he had several times before. She slid her gaze to them, frowning even more, but shaking her head slightly as she did so.

"I'll have to call the chief and ask him if I can let you in. It'll take a while. He's not here, so take a seat for now," she motioned with her hand to the corner where the seats and vending machines were.

"Okay. I'll wait," he nodded and moved to the seats.

He looked around them hesitantly. There was a problem he often solved when he came to a place like this. He knew that sitting down was considered polite, while standing up was inappropriate, but for some reason he was having trouble choosing where to sit. In the middle of the seat, so no one else would likely sit next to him? On the edge of it, so at least two people would sit next to him? Did he want someone to sit next to him? Sometimes he did welcome the proximity of people, as long as they were good and decent people, but other times he couldn't stand it, and without his wings he couldn't simply disappear and find relief in some desolate place.

Eventually he decided it would be safer to sit in the middle of the seat. He did so, leaning back and placing his hands on his knees.

He listened to himself.

Physical sounds, such as the footsteps of people on the upper floor, the beeping, whistling and humming of hospital machines, or the hissing of fluorescent lights on the ceiling, reached his human ears, and several prayers reached his actual ears. People were asking for relief from their own pain and the pain of people close to them. They prayed for the gates of Heaven to be opened and for them to be accepted in the Father's infinite grace. Some longed only for hope or for a little peace and comfort.

Slowly, he pulled the wings through the ceiling to the upper floor and left them spread out across the upper floor. He could feel nurses and hospital visitors passing through them, which was not pleasant, but he intended to bear it. He was going to take it. Their touch could soothe the pain of the patients who lay upstairs and so it was okay. So he felt it was okay. The irony of it all was that just a few years ago, he wouldn't have thought of trying to help those people. It wasn't his job then, because he was created and lived as a soldier of Heaven. Then so many things happened, especially the loss of his wings, followed by lingering, literally eternal pain. And with it, compassion for anyone who suffered as he did.

"Agent," the nurse who had been talking to him at the counter stood over him, "The doctor has given permission for you to see the patients, if their relatives agree. They all have someone here today. I'll take you to them."

"Thank you," he nodded, standing up and slowly pulling the wings towards him. He folded them as close to his vessel as he could, so that not the slightest twinge of pain or grief would distract him from now on. The tingling and discomfort still remained on his wings, and it was certain that he would have to wash them with his Grace after leaving the hospital, but it was bearable. Now it was his job to investigate.

He allowed the nurse a two step head start before following her down the corridor to the lift and then up to the first floor. The next corridor led past mostly open rooms to the last four of them.

"Here... And the next three rooms. We've got them all together. Have fun," she added, a decidedly socially inappropriate remark, and moved away down the corridor.

He gave her a brief parting glance while he wondered why he felt so bitter and disappointed, then entered the first room.

There he was greeted by an old woman sitting by her sleeping husband's bedside. She was a kind soul, ready for an early departure to Heaven, who was pining over her husband's fate. She was very willing to talk to Castiel. She told him more than he asked, including telling him about the knee problems her husband was having. Unfortunately, none of what she revealed was helpful, even though she gave him detailed answers to the list of questions he was supposed to ask everyone. Strange smells, strange sounds, cold places, strange symbols. The woman had seen none of it.

Asking her husband was also an option, only he didn't dare enter his dreams unless he was sure it was safe. He did, however, ask for permission to at least touch the man, which he got.

He walked over to his bed and looked at him with every pair of his eyes. Each one scanned one of the layers of energy that swirled around the prone body. He saw every tiny scar on his body, every broken and then healed bone, as well as the countless signs of age that plagued the old man's organs. He also saw something extra, magic or energy that he was unable to pinpoint. It seemed too faint and elusive. He had yet to touch it. Perhaps then he would be able to find out more.

He picked up one human hand and two of his real ones and placed them on the man's body. He could feel his myriad of major and minor aches and pains, especially his dried and cracked knee joints and one crumbling vertebrae. Again, something elusive slipped through his fingers. If he was forced to decide what it was, he'd certainly say it was a curse, but he couldn't even guess where it came from or what it was supposed to cause, other than the apparent peaceful slumber the man was trapped in. He couldn't wake him, couldn't get answers from him, but he could at least relieve his pain.

He moved one of his real hands to his spine first. With one touch, using barely a shred of his strength, he healed the vertebrae, followed by both knees. It was certain that he would never need the cane leaning against the bedpost again.

In the next room it was exactly the same, only the woman sitting at her friend's bedside was much younger. He got no answer to his questions from her either, and her friend's condition was exactly the same as that of the old man in the first room. Had it not been for the fact that the men had different faces, he would have thought he was looking at the same person. The same yarn of peaceful dreams enveloped their minds, and the same strange, curse-like energy rested on their bodies.

He didn't get to the next room at all. He barely had time to say he was an FB agent before the father of the girl lying on the bed threw him out in a rather indiscriminate manner and slammed the door in his face. He blinked several times at the thin, white-painted wood, considering whether he should find a way to get in, but then found it pointless. From what little he could glimpse with his real eyes, it looked like the girl was in the same state as the others.

A visit to the last room seemed pointless at first, but being systematic and careful, he stood at the last door and knocked on it.

"Come in," a man's voice invited him from behind the door.

This room was a little different than the others, certainly because of the less than ten year old boy who was sitting in a chair tucked under the TV, playing some sort of game on his cell phone by the sound of it.

"Hello."

"Hello," the man who had been keeping watch by the bed greeted him, rising to approach him and offer him his hand, "Davis... you're the FBI agent, right?"

He hesitantly accepted the man's hand and gave it a slight squeeze. He'd never understood the human habit of touching each other in greeting, even if it made everyone involved uncomfortable.

"Yes, I am," he acknowledged the lie with a small nod.

"I heard old Richardson shouting and swearing. I suppose he didn't even let you in. He hasn't let anyone near his daughter since it happened. Not even her boyfriend. I don't think it's doing her any good."

He had no idea what to say to that, so he resorted to a learned script.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions, if I may."

"Sure, why not."

"On the day this happened to your wife, did you notice anything unusual? Any strange smells? Strange sounds? Cold spots in your house? Unusual symbols? Anything that seemed strange to you?" He recited a prearranged list of questions without once hesitating, which only achieved to confuse the man. Probably. He definitely looked confused.

"Are you looking for ghosts or witches?" He asked in return. He didn't sound entirely serious... probably... either way, just knowing the real reason for the strange questions intrigued Castiel.

Tilting his head to the side, he turned the gaze of a few of his eyes to the woman lying on the bed, leaving the other few pairs fixed on the man. The aura around the woman was the same as around all the other victims, though to be sure he would have to come closer and look at her with all his eyes.

Davis's was perfectly ordinary, not distinctive in any way, but not dulled either. His was the soul of a simple and honest man who would probably never seek out anything supernatural.

"They're just routine questions," he replied as Dean told him to answer if anyone found his questions odd.

"My wife loves all this occult stuff and it kinda sounded like something out of her stories. But whatever," Davis shook his head and sighed, "I didn't notice any of that. I was at work at the time. She was supposed to pick John up from practice. When she didn't, his coach called her cell first and then me. I came to pick up my son, saw her car in the parking lot and her in it, sleeping. That's it. No smells or symbols or anything else weird."

"She should have brought me a pie," the boy said from his seat.

"I told you there was no pie," his father replied sternly.

"But mamma promised to bring me Mrs. Clint's."

The name was familiar to him. She was the first and only victim to wake up. There were no coincidences. Coincidence was a human concept. This reality worked along preconceived lines that tangled and untangled themselves again. Making sense of them, understanding cause and effect, was something the angels, himself, could do far more easily than humans, so he knew it wasn't coincidence, or as Dean would say 'Something damn suspicious was going on here.'

"Oh, John..." Mr. Davis sighed, but instead of saying anything to his son he turned to Castiel, "My wife was in the same class as Jenny Clint and when her husband first got sick she went to see her. They had become friends and were going to bake cakes together for tomorrow's feast. Jenny's cakes will be on one of the booths. It's funny that it happened to Jenna's husband first and now to my Clara."

"We'll do everything we can to help your wife," he recited another learned phrase, and it seemed to actually help, as Davis smiled gratefully at him, and thanked him for his efforts besides.

There wasn't much he could say to add to his thanks, for there was nothing to thank him for so far. He bade him good-bye and went out in front of the room.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Dean's number. It only took ten seconds before the line connected and Dean answered.

"Hey Cas. Anything new?"

"Dean. I've been to all the victims and talked to their relatives."

"A?"

"If I had to judge," he paused, frowned, and tried again to consider what he felt when he touched the victims, "I'd say it might be some kind of curse."

"You got any suspects in there?"

"Yes and no," he answered hesitantly, casting a brief glance at the door behind him, "The last of the victims, the... soccer mom," he used the term Dean had used on the way here, was interested in the occult. I don't think it's her fault though. She's not a witch. But there's another woman she knew who already has a connection to the case and might..."

"Hey, I think I've got something here," Dean interrupted, probably because of the sound of the EM meter going off in the background, "Can your theory wait a few more hours until lunch?"

"Yes, it will wait, but I think you should..."

"Okay, honey, let's pick you up at the hospital and talk over a meal," Dean concluded their conversation without letting him finish, cutting the call short.

"...You'd better be careful when you're at the Clint house," he finished into the now silent speaker of his cell phone.

He didn't know why he did it, but he did it often. It was strangely satisfying to be able to finish out loud what was on his mind when others interrupted him, and that Dean in particular interrupted him a lot. Right now he had far more on his mind to tell him than just information about the case. He wanted to ask if he had talked to Sam yet.

Frowning, he returned the phone to his pocket and strode toward the elevator.

In the morning, as Dean left his room, he vowed that the first thing he would do when he got back to his would be to talk to his brother and explain everything. He offered to walk him home. It involved himself, and it felt right and human to be there, but Dean insisted it would be easier if he told him first. He didn't quite understand his claim. Whenever he'd seen on television that a love affair had come to light, it was either by accident or that the two of them had announced together to others that they were a couple. The latter was admittedly less common, but more logical and, in his opinion, more honest.

If people would just learn to say what they thought and felt out loud... if Dean could learn to do that, so many things would be easier.

He went outside for some fresh air.

Staying in the hospital was daunting. Outside, he could sit on a bench and at least spread his wings a little, exposing them to the sun. He didn't feel the same warmth through them that he felt on the face of his vessel, but some of the sun's spectrum that broke through the atmosphere did touch his wings and managed to ease a little of the uncomfortable feeling that remained on them after his visit to the hospital.

He could also try to find the reason why this city seemed so strange to him. Unnatural was a better term. Something here was not as it should be. Something that was ever-present, so commonplace and ordinary that even his attention had missed it.

He looked at the things around him with every pair of his eyes, including the human ones, but everything seemed normal at first glance. There were a few cars standing in a small parking lot, a sidewalk next to the road with a person walking along it now and then, and the road itself with little traffic. A picture of a small town he'd seen so many times he couldn't count. In fact, he had seen it exactly three hundred and twenty-eight times. Yet... yet there just had to be something here that irritated his sense of the order in which the world worked and it really annoyed him that he hadn't been able to figure it out. He was sure that his inability was due to the limitations that came with being squeezed into his vessel, and he was equally sure that being able to get out, stretch and be himself, would have taken little to understand. The only problem was that if he did, there wouldn't even be a reason to understand anything anymore, because everything around him would simply cease to exist.

A frustrating paradox indeed.

The sound of the horn cut through the pleasant hum of the wind mixed with the singing of birds and the buzzing of insects. He hadn't realized how much time had passed. It flowed past him like a swift river just at its source, leaving almost no trace.

"Hey, Cas, get in, I'm hungry and I'm not waiting another minute to eat," Dean called to him from the driver's seat.

He stood up, pulling his wings tightly together and slid into the back seat, leaving aside the fact that Dean would have to wait with the food anyway until they got to a snack place, since they didn't seem to have any food to go.

"Did you learn anything, Cas?" asked Sam, turning to look over his shoulder.

He took a breath to answer, but was cut off.

"Not until the food. My stomach is completely empty and I certainly don't want to digest new information about the case," Dean cut off their conversation and turned the car out of the parking lot.

He looked from one person to the other. They both looked very calm and content, at least at first glance. He lifted one of the wings and wrapped it tightly around Dean, the very tip of it lightly touching Sam as well. With that, he could clearly feel Dean's utter 'ease' and hunger, all only slightly tinged with anxiety. And from Sam, comfort and his usual rational calm.

He pulled the wing back

He could have been wrong. Misinterpreting their emotions, it wouldn't be the first time, but he was confident he hadn't been wrong this time. It was clear that the two of them hadn't spoken, and Sam continued to not have the slightest clue.

He leaned back in his seat and turned all heads to the window. If nothing else, he could continue to watch the city around him and try to figure out why he felt so bad about it and get rid of the unpleasant anger that had settled suffocatingly somewhere in the back of his vessel's throat.

He didn't get much time to regain his lost composure, as Dean pulled up just outside the hospital at the entrance of a small diner.

Moments later they were sitting inside, in one of the booths by the window, ordering their food. Well, Dean and Sam had ordered their food, Castiel had only briefly, as a matter of decent human manners, thanked the young waitress for the offer and said nothing. He wasn't in the mood to try to eat anything, the food had no real taste anyway, the kind he remembered from those few months of humanity. It was just a collection of atoms and molecules forming burnt fats and carcinogens, unnecessarily high in salt and chemical preservatives. The only thing he had a taste for, even now, was the jar of chili sauce set on the table, but in Dean's words, it wasn't normal for a man to order a cup of vanilla ice cream and empty that jar into it. He didn't understand why. He'd paid for it.

"Can we discuss the case now, or do we have to wait until His Majesty has eaten?" Sam asked, raising his eyebrows high.

"I'm tensely listening," Dean replied half-mouthed, because the waitress had just placed a glass of Coke in front of him and he smiled broadly at her, "Thank you... Daisy."

"You're welcome. If you need anything, just call me. Susan," the waitress leaned over to their table and crossed one arm right in front of him - her only goal was to get as close to Dean as she could, and Castiel seemed not to even see her, "don't call. He's a grouch. Enjoy your meal," she added with another wide, unnatural smile before moving away.

"You just can't let it go for five minutes, can you Dean?" Sam sighed at something Dean had just done, only it wasn't clear to Castiel what it was, "Like today... I was seriously wondering if Clint would notice your flirting and kick us out of the house."

Flirting? He turned to look at the waitress who was serving other guests at the far counter and looked at her closely. Not her soul, which was mostly uninteresting, but her body. He had to admit that she was a pretty good example of the ideal God had created for human women and therefore probably 'Dean's type', but he wasn't sure. He had no idea what 'Dean's type' was because, although he had known every minute of his life from his first breath until now, he had never observed that Dean had any particular preference for a certain look in women.

"What? I'm not doing anything! I'm definitely not flirting..." Dean objected offended, and suddenly, without warning, put his hand on his thigh, not even turning his gaze to him as he did so. He continued to stare at Sam and grinned ruefully.

Castiel looked down at the palm that rested, half covered by his coat, high on his leg and probably inappropriately close to his crotch. Definitely inappropriately close, because the way Dean rubbed the flesh of his thigh sent a pleasurable sensation to his groin, and his vessel responded immediately to the intense contact.

"You're doing this unconsciously. It's a compulsion you can't resist," Sam continued emphatically, pointing a finger at Dean.

Dean didn't seem to realize it as he accompanied each of his brother's words by running his thumb over Castiel's thigh. And with each touch, he could feel more blood rushing ever faster to his cock, which was already bucking against the fabric of his underwear. He had no doubt that having an erection in the middle of the day in a public diner was inappropriate. Several times Dean or Sam had reminded him that it was. Which was why it was puzzling why Dean was touching him at all. His grip, the way his fingers rubbed the fabric of his pants practically at his groin, must have been done with the intention of arousing him.

The lingering anger towards Dean slowly faded into confusion.

"Yeah, Freud, you're absolutely right," Dean snorted, finally putting his hand away.

The sudden loss of contact was almost as uncomfortable as the half-hard erection. And his confusion about the whole situation only increased. His anger quickly returned, perhaps even intensified. It was as if the Vessel's frustration, had managed to fuel his own, genuine irritation. He'd probably given in too much to the feelings of his body in the weeks he and Dean had frequent sexual contact.

He decided to let it go. To keep space between his vessel's perceptions and his own. The world around him suddenly seemed less harshly real, the touch of the leather couch behind his back less tangible, and his erection less bothersome. He could easily ignore it entirely. Still, his annoyance at Dean's failure to speak to his brother lingered and could not be ignored.

"Are we going back on the case or are you going to continue with your psychoanalysis?"

Sam rolled his eyes and threw his hands up.

"Whatever you want," Sam said in a defeated manner, "But first I need to take a leak," he added, standing up.

"I saw the ladies over there on the right," Dean informed him, pointing him in the direction of the ladies room.

Sam frowned at him but said nothing and of course headed for the men's room, disappearing into the doorway as well. They were alone, just him and Dean. No doubt a good opportunity to ask a question he almost certainly already knew the answer to, but wanted to hear it for himself.

"Have you talked to Sam yet?" He asked directly, no human diatribe.

Dean turned to him and frowned, lips pressed together as if he didn't want to answer. Which he finally didn't, because a waitress appeared above them, three plates in her hands. One on which was Dean's burger and fries, which she placed in front of his seat, and two others belonging to Sam - a veggie burger and a garnish on a separate plate.

"Quick service. I like that," Dean smiled again at the waitress as she placed the plate in front of him.

"I hurried it along in the kitchen," she replied helpfully, leaning across the table again in a way that made it look like no one was sitting between her and Dean at all. She did it so bluntly and abruptly that she brushed against Castiel's fiery wings. It was unexpected even for him. He had them pulled as tightly against his vessel as possible, but he didn't regret the touch. Nor did he feel sorry for the waitress, who straightened up red-faced, suddenly stiff and pale in the face because she had touched the true wrath of God. He barely noticed her whispered apology and was very glad when she disappeared from their table.

"What came over her nose?" Dean asked, looking over his shoulder at the retreating woman.

He could tell very accurately what had 'crossed the woman's nose', but he wasn't going to bother explaining.

"You didn't answer my question, Dean."

Dean's shoulders tensed noticeably and the movement of his hand towards the ketchup bottle was stiff, but he didn't look up from his plate or give up his intention to make not fries with ketchup but ketchup with fries.

"No, not yet," he admitted lightly, picking up his burger, "I've been going through crime scenes and interviewing people in the area all morning. There hasn't been a quiet moment or an opportunity. I'll do it this afternoon... or evening, OK, honey?"

"No, that's not 'OK'," he refused firmly, frowning, "You promised last night you'd do it in the morning. This morning you said you'd talk to him in the morning and now you're saying you'll do it in the evening. I'm beginning to wonder if you even plan to do it."

"You don't take my word for it?" Dean asked irritably, turning a scowl on his face, "And think damn well what you're going to say to me now."

"Of course I take your word for it," he replied immediately, without thinking, because he really did have absolute faith in Dean and his word, but at the same time he felt when a man was in a bind, which was right now, "But I don't know what to make of your behavior. It's inconsistent. It confuses me," he admitted with a thoughtful frown, "I understand your concerns about discussing this with your brother, which is why I offered to stand by your side during this. As I always do. You declined. You wanted to talk to him alone, but so far you haven't. It's as if you wish to keep our relationship a secret from him forever, yet you have no problem touching me intimately in front of him."

"Damn it, Cas! Can't you let a guy eat in peace?! You're worse than a woman!" Dean interrupted, rudely and, more importantly, loudly enough that several of the nearest seated guests turned on them.

The shouting alone was nothing compared to the palpable anger that brushed Castiel's wings even though they were folded behind his back, out of Dean's reach. She shuddered and winced spontaneously, still irritated from his visit to the hospital. He moved them as far away from Dean as he could, even if it meant folding them in the alley between the booth and the bar. Better that than touching the man at his side with them now, because even the slightest touch irritated his rising anger. He felt... wronged. He had a demand, a logical, natural demand that he was sure any ordinary man would have, and he couldn't understand why Dean wasn't willing to meet it.

He pursed his lips and looked ahead at the unsightly painting of a pink tree that was hung on the opposite wall. Far more satisfying than looking at Dean right now with either of his pairs of eyes. Not even the sharp intake of breath and gnashing of teeth that echoed beside him made him turn around.

"Stop making one of your offended faces and," Dean growled, shoving a plate of Sam's fries in front of him, "take the fries. You look like an exotic when everyone's eating around you and you're just sitting there staring at the wall."

He shot him a look of human eyes, only briefly, before turning away to watch the painting again.

"I'm not making offended faces," he countered firmly, but uncharacteristically.

"Fine, you don't do that," Dean snapped, and went no further.

A few seconds later, Sam returned to their table and sat across from him, blocking his view of the unaesthetic painting. As soon as he sat down, he ran his gaze over their faces and then the table, his eyes lingering on the plate of fries in front of Castiel.

"Are those my fries?" He asked, his eyebrows slightly raised and his hand half raised to take them back.

"I didn't eat them," he responded immediately, moving them over to Sam's plate.

"No, feel free to take them, I don't mind, it would just be nice if you asked first."

"Of course, Sam," he nodded, obviously not mentioning that he wasn't the one who had taken his food.

"So... Back to the case. What do you got, Cas?"

He glanced briefly with human eyes at Dean, bent over his food and just taking a large bite. As far as he could tell, it didn't look like they'd just had an argument, and given that Sam hadn't said anything and was minding his own food, he probably wasn't wrong about that.

He looked away. A new wave of anger hit him, his fiery wings fluttering a little. He felt it very well, and so he gripped them even tighter. He would attend to the case. A routine, a precise set of rules and a goal. No thinking or questioning. That was reassuring to him. Though, in retrospect, he cursed the domination of the Archangels a hundred times over, who had made Heaven a place shackled by rules, he sometimes desperately missed the discipline that had once reigned in Heaven. He especially craved it when he spent so much time with the Winchesters.

"The victims weren't attacked by any supernatural creature I knew. I think it's more like a curse."

"Invoked by the spirit of the milkman?" Dean asked, quite incoherent to his words in his opinion.

"Ghosts can't cast curses," Sam countered logically.

"So far," Dean pointed out, "we haven't encountered a ghost that can. Maybe it's a new thing."

"You're fixated on the ghost theory."

"Yeah, because I'm afraid it's a witch," Dean grumbled, shaking himself in obvious disgust, "Some kind of disgusting foul-mouthed witch. And I found definite signs of elevated EM levels in the Clint house."

"The last victim, Clara Davis, knew Clint's wife," speaking of the Clints, he pointed out the obvious connection.

"Is she the wannabe psychic?" Dean asked, but didn't look up at him, calmly scooping ketchup chips from the edge of his plate.

"Yes, it's her."

"She could have switched to a higher caliber, tried it on Clint first, then the others, and then gotten out of hand," Sam suggested a fairly logical option, only the fact that Castiel didn't see any magic in Clara Davis spoke against it, "If that's the case, and her first victim woke up, maybe by cursing herself, the curse will fade and eventually disappear in the others. It wouldn't be the first time that had happened and it was probably the best solution, maybe better than trying to break the curse. These people aren't acutely concerned for their lives, and if the caster herself is the last victim..." She threw up her hand and shrugged.

"One witch doesn't explain my bad feeling about this town."

"I know you see far more than we do, but even your feeling isn't something to build on. We need concrete clues too," Sam reminded.

"Tomorrow we'll go to the Davis house and look for signs of some magic being practiced. Preferably for a spell book, if he has one," Dean decided, then placed a paper flyer on the table, "But first, we'll take the morning off," he tapped his ring on the flyer, "You didn't think I'd overlook that, did you?"

"No, I wouldn't dream of it," Sam said in the exact tone he was never sure if his words were meant as a joke or not.

He glanced at the flyer Dean was still holding up on the table with a finger smeared with ketchup and grease and concluded that Sam's words had to be sarcasm. As Dean had said countless times, if he had more time or a little vacation time between hunts, he'd visit all the pie festivals. Surely, then, he couldn't miss the one that was being held tomorrow, to which he was enticed by a colorful flyer with a picture of a cut pie. He noticed several of these on trees and lampposts as they passed through town.

"Big Pie Day?" He read the headline and frowned thoughtfully, "If it's Big Pie Day, will there be a big pie?"

"Oh, I certainly hope so!" Dean boomed in satisfaction, whereupon he turned to him and leaned in a little, "Shall we go there together for one of their specials, Cas? I bet they'll have something like rose petal pie or some other such crap."

He frowned, trying to make sense of Dean's behavior. Just a minute ago he'd been angry and now he was inviting him in for pie. No amount of food, not even Dean's favorite pie or his favorite chili sauce, could solve the problem that stood between them in the form of Sam. It was just a pointless waste of words.

"No, Dean. I want to look around the city tomorrow and find out what's bothering me about it," he simply refused. Going out and looking for the cause of his strange feeling was far more productive than standing outside at the pastry stalls he wasn't eating and watching Dean chatting merrily with an oblivious Sam.

"Okay, whatever," Dean replied with a slight shrug and went back to his burger.

"Okay, that's settled. We'll stay here until at least the day after tomorrow, and if things don't change, we'll try to come up with a theory other than the witch. Is everyone in agreement?" He asked, sliding his gaze from one to the other.

He didn't have anything to say, so he just remained silent, well aware that Sam would interpret that as agreement and Dean would probably do the same, or else he was silent because he had another bite of food in his mouth.

"Okay, everyone agrees, so enjoy," Sam said, seemingly belatedly, sliding his plate of chips across the table to him, "Take them, I'm not going to eat them all anyway."

He nodded appreciatively, but didn't do so, just looked most of his eyes out the window while he let a few others rest on the room's occupants just in case, and once again pondered why he didn't like this town. And Dean. Dean, as always.

°°0°°

He felt a warmth that brought with it a calmness, but also a strange tingling all over his body. It was like touching something intangible while his eyes were blinded by the bright light. He should be afraid. Fuck, he should be scared shitless, and he should be reaching for the nearest potential weapon... to defend himself... only he felt neither fear nor the desire to fight. He didn't want to, even though he had a feeling he wasn't alone in the white light. Something or someone was leaning towards him. He was getting closer and closer. His eyes glowed gold and blue and turquoise. They were so close...

Dean... Dean...

"Dean?"

He opened his eyes sharply and reached for the knife tucked under the pillow. By the time he held it, and was already pulling it out, he only just noticed that the person leaning over him, hand resting on his shoulder, was Cas.

"Fuck, Cas!" He growled half-loudly, not wanting to wake Sam, who was sleeping on the other bed, "What did I tell you about stalking on people in their sleep!"

"I wasn't stalking you, Dean. I want to talk to you," Angel demanded, straightening up and backing away from the door.

He frowned at him. What the hell was going on? It was night, something like two in the morning, as the blinking alarm clock announced. Shit! He'd finally managed to fall asleep and now Cas was waking him up. That was... that was infuriating. He was exhausted. Tired to death from the pressure he'd been feeling all day. He tried to look normal, smile and joke around. Because that was okay, because that way Sam wouldn't know anything. And at the same time, he was trying with all his might to find the right moment to say something. It just wasn't so fucking easy! Every time he, already, said something, the words died on his tongue and then festered there for hours. And Cas wasn't helping with his insistence.

He needed to sleep.

"Can't it wait till morning?" He muttered wearily, rubbing his face.

Angel didn't answer, but his face, illuminated by the neon light coming through the curtains, answered very clearly. Tiredly, then, he threw his legs off the bed, shoved them into his shoes, and stood up. Castiel opened the door to his room, indicating for him to come out. Kysele grinned at him.

The night air was fine in that it woke him up a bit for their conversation

"So what's up, Cas?" he asked tiredly, leaning against the wall next to the door. He wasn't going to get upset, wasn't even going to relive their mutual heartbreaks. He was just going to get through this.

"I've been thinking," Angel uttered calmly, his deep, sonorous voice, his blue eyes glinting at him, which was quite strange considering it was night, "I don't think my insistence that you talk to Sam makes any sense."

He straightened in surprise and blinked. This was the exact opposite of what he'd expected. Oh, shit! Why did Angel have to be so confusing?

"You didn't keep your word, and I don't think you will."

"Damn it, Cas, I really tried. I just..." The words died in his mouth again, and this time they didn't leave just the taste of plain rot as much as they did of shit mixed with manure and then set on fire with gasoline. Fuck! No, he hadn't kept his words and there was nothing to back it up. Blathering on about the lack of opportunity or the day passing so quickly was just alibis. He was just a cowardly bastard, that's all there was to it.

"It's okay, I'm not mad at you for it. My anger didn't lead anywhere. Nor did my trying to get you to be honest with your brother lead anywhere. It made me realize that nothing I do or say really matters. All that matters is that I'm here, by your side, the way I've always been, the way I want to be, and the way you need me to be, Dean. I love you, and I can say," he shook his head slightly, his gaze briefly moving away, not lifting it to Dean again, "that I love you unconditionally. That's all, Dean. I'm sorry I woke you up," he added, plain and simple, as if he were talking about the weather, and turned to leave.

What the hell...? He couldn't drag him out of bed at one in the morning, dump this shit on him, and then just walk off down the middle! He knew he'd fucked up pretty bad, but this just wasn't happening! Goddamn it, he didn't deserve that. He didn't want it!

He grabbed Castiel's forearm and pulled him to him. Angel didn't put up the slightest resistance, if he did it would be like turning a firmly cemented road sign.

"Not this! You can't act so condescending and then just fucking go lie down in front of the TV again!" He shouted angrily. As always, his own guilt, fear and shame, turned to anger. Sometimes it made him feel like some stupid animal himself, cornered by a few words.

Cas didn't try to pull away or make any sort of defense, instead he took two steps towards him, so that he not only invaded his personal space, he almost touched his chest with his own.

"I'm not condescending Dean, you'd know if I was. I'm just tired of your anger. It makes my wings hurt."

"What, wings..." It fell out of him, and the hand the angel was holding dropped by itself beside his side. Angels didn't have wings! Okay then... of course they had some wings. After all, he had seen them, and by all accounts they could have been burned. But it wasn't as if they were still present. They were more like a throwing knife or something. She was here for a while, and then she wasn't. She couldn't have been here all the time, because that... that would be weird. Disturbing in a lot of ways, especially the fact that he might have stepped in them and hurt Cas. Could she hurt him by stepping on his astral wings? Hell, I guess so, since he was talking about hurting him.

"It doesn't matter," Angel said softly, sounding like damn velvet and warm fire and all those other stupid similes like that, "What matters is that you know that if you don't want to talk to Sam, I won't force you to or tell him myself, but you should realize that no matter what you've ever kept from him, he's always found out eventually. And then everything just got worse."

He had nothing to say to that, and certainly couldn't argue back in any way. It was the crystal clear and painful truth. Running away from the problem, as was his habit, only ended up making a small inconvenience an infinitely large burden. And finally something that brought him to his knees.

"I'll talk to him tomorrow. I swear," he said as firmly as he had decided to handle the whole thing. Just break it while he still could and deal with the consequences.

"If that's what you want..." Cas let his voice trail off, head cocked to the side.

"Yeah, I do. I shouldn't lie to Sam, and it's not fair to you either. I'll do it. Hell, I'll just do it," he said in an ever so firm voice, hoping his courage wouldn't leave him by morning. Damn the job! She might. Why wouldn't she. He was more cowardly in these things than anyone he'd ever known. Emotionally clogged like a football stadium toilet during a game, that was how Sam had once put it, and he'd been right. Damn right! He had to prove to himself that he could do this.

He grabbed Castiel around the waist and pulled him close. He hesitated too long before doing anything, because Cas lightly braced his palms against his forearms and tried to pull away. He didn't let him do it. He caught the back of his head and leaned in. He breathed in the smell of cleanliness and ozone. It could drown out even the damn rose smell that hovered over this whole town. She was introducing Case. She was him, and she was more wonderful than the smell of freshly baked pie. He dove deeply into her as Angel kissed her, tasting her as she slipped her tongue between his lips. It tasted so damn good, like no other kiss.

This was worth everything. He'd sacrifice his entire reputation as a guy for this. Just for this damn little thing, which he'd only considered a pleasant distraction before. He was just completely fucked up! Lost! In love like a teenage girl.

He pulled away from Case abruptly and took a deep breath of fresh air. At least he tried to, but the smell and the pies, they were just everywhere. He breathed in the scent as he ran the tip of his nose down Castiel's neck, over his cheek and into his tousled hair, which, in addition to the angel scent itself, also smelled a little like his own shampoo. It made him groan and rub his hips against Case. Somehow, the fact that some of it clung to Cas was almost unhealthily irritating.

"Damn it, Cas... we need to get to our room. Someone might see us in here," he pointed out that they were right on the street. Sure, it was night and they were in a parking lot surrounded by roses, but still... He wasn't the shy type, but if sex in public, at least somewhere where one could properly lean.

Cas pulled away from him, so that alone perfectly ruined the whole perfectly developing atmosphere, then when he took a step back and tilted his head to the side, it was literally like driving a nail between Dean's legs. A huge banner that said 'Kick it out yourself today' with an exclamation point at the end.

'I want to walk the whole city and its environs. It'll take me the rest of the night and probably all of tomorrow," Cas explained why he'd actually dragged himself away, which was a straight up ice shower for his dick, "You should go back to bed."

"I'm not tired, not anymore. I'll come with you," he suggested, not really knowing why. He didn't feel like sleeping anymore, he would never refuse a drink, but he needed to dissipate the heat he felt all over his body that was making his head feel weird.

"This is unnecessary. You need to sleep, I don't. Good night, Dean," Castiel said softly, running his hand lightly up his arm to his fingers as if he were afraid to kiss him goodbye and then simply turning on his heel.

"Hey, wait, you can't just...!" he shouted after the retreating angel, though he knew it was only a token protest. Even though Cas couldn't move when he wanted to anymore, no one could keep up with him. He'd have to trot all the way.

Fuck.

He had a hundred urges to kick the nearest dumpster, if only his shoelaces were tied. Oh, shit! He shuddered and ran his hands over his shaking arms. As soon as Cas was gone, so was the feeling of warmth, and it hit him full on that there was a pretty cold wind blowing and he was standing outside in nothing but sweatpants and a t-shirt. He was cold. Silently cursing his stupidity in not putting on his jacket and then threatening to accompany Angel on his walk, he turned and happily climbed into the motel room and then his bed.

°°0°°

He stared at the huge cake and drooled. Damn it! How did they even bake this thing? An oven this big couldn't exist. And they certainly couldn't cram a pie the size of... what the hell was it? He glanced at the sign under the pie. Two meters and six centimeters in diameter. I hear it's even a local record. Wow! He wanted that pie, wanted it badly, even though he knew he wouldn't eat it in a week.

"Can we go get something to eat now, Dean? I'm starving and I'm tired of standing here looking at... pie," Sam snorted cranky, sounding quite a bit like he was twelve again and didn't want to go pet the goats in Santa's village.

"Shut up. It's a masterpiece, can't you see that? If Cas was here..." He paused, just for a moment, during which he felt his stomach drop a little, "he'd appreciate it," he finished, a lot less effusively.

Yeah, if his angel was here, I'm sure he wouldn't mind standing around for hours looking at the cake on display. He wouldn't mind standing in line in the evening while they cut and sold this magnificent work of art. And he probably wouldn't make sour faces like Sam.

"But Cas isn't here."

Of course the angel wasn't here, he'd left to go sightseeing, so to speak, because he just didn't want to be in their company. And whose fault was that? Well, whose? Dean's, of course. Unconsciously, he clenched his hand into a fist until it hurt. It was going to take more courage than he had right now to find the right situation... no, shit, create the right situation and then just spill the beans to Sam. When he does, Cas will come back and everything will be fine.

"I understand why you eat cakes, but I'll never understand why you enjoy looking at them. It's just a piece of dough with filling," Sam continued to spoil the day as best he could.

"You'd rather be breaking into the Davises' house and going through their drawers this time of year?"

"Um... Yes?" Sam replied with a small question at the end and a clear sneer in his voice, "That's our job, after all. A job we have to do before any of the victims die, or at the very least, more are added. If Davis is the witch who cursed the others, we can come back here and have that giant pie."

"No one's life is on the line, Sam. It can wait until the afternoon," he waved it off, "Now we're here, it's nice and they've got pies, so how about we make it a fun morning. Just you, me and Baby. We'll chat and drink..." ...he let it go to waste. He didn't even know the last time they'd done that. They bought food and beer, parked the Impala on the side of the road and... talked about nothing.

"You want to sit down with a beer and... talk?" asked Sam, visibly incredulous, as if he were suggesting they go skydiving. Hell, he wasn't suggesting anything like that. It was just a fucking conversation, about fucking feelings, which would make him a fucking faggot, thank you very much for your consideration, Sam.

"Yeah! Yeah! Why are you so surprised? I mean, we're always talking about... something... some thing, usually work-related... but we can talk about other things. Like that... what was her name?" He snapped his fingers and frowned in a pleading effort to remember the name, "Mendy? Meridit?"

"Madison," Sam corrected him, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly in a smile, "But I commend you, you were close," he patted him on the back, "Nothing to talk about. She's probably in a dorm room somewhere in Oregon right now, with a bunch of friends by one arm and a cute sophomore boyfriend by the other, and she's almost forgotten about that 'mature man'," he made the quotation marks clearly obvious on the words mature and man.

"Since when the hell are you a mature man?" He exclaimed spontaneously.

"I'd guess since I crossed thirty?" Sam suggested.

"We're not old!" he objected to the veiled accusation.

"When you're twenty, everyone's old, Dean," Sam assured him with a lingering amused smile to which he could only respond with a smirk, "And I actually... didn't mind. It was quite flattering."

He laughed. Immediately, the look on his brother's face made everything clear.

"You taught her some serious piggy-backing, huh?"

"No!" Sam exclaimed quite loudly, and he could have sworn to God he saw his ears turn a little red under his hair, "I didn't teach her any... piggy banks. Dean!"

"That's okay. I can tell you on behalf of the rest of the male population that isn't chaste and honorable like you and Steve Rogers, and especially," he held up his fingers emphatically, "her future husband, that we consider the guys who do this job to be badasses. For that is what a man must be devoted to and have a holy patience for. I tried it too, but I must say that afterwards I happily ran away into the arms of a luscious forty-something."

"Are you finished, or do I have a pornographic insert to come?" Sam asked, his eyebrows arched high up in one of his slightly irritating ant man expressions.

He grinned back, because he was absolutely fine with that.

"Depends on if you'll give a few to spare as well, though I know your supplies are very limited," he said with feigned condescension, then, of course, considered, "I'm serious. Well, since we're off to such a good start..." He let that ring out before he could slap something like 'let's have some brotherly time together' and similar bullshit that was otherwise coming from Sam.

Sam became no less serious and gave him a long, searching look before he smiled again and nodded.

"All right, then. We can just... talk," he finally agreed, easy and relaxed.

"Really?" He blurted out in surprise, because... damn! The icy hand of panic stroked the back of his neck lightly. Sam had just agreed to a stupid conversation over a beer, and even that was enough to make the worst scenarios play out in his head. Of his brother laughing hysterically and pointing his finger at him, screaming that he was a little faggot. Or Sam staring in disbelief, then grinning in disgust, saying something like she wanted nothing more to do with him and that's not what Dad would want, and then walking away. Of course he knew nothing like that would happen. Sam would never say or do anything like that. It wasn't like him at all, but... it was hard to shake those thoughts.

"Sure, Dean. I'll grab a drink and meet you at the car."

"Okay," he nodded, gesticulating towards the booths, "I'll get the food," he added, completely unnecessarily. He faked a perfect fake smile even as his jaw twitched and bile suddenly pushed out of his stomach. Dude! Relax! He wasn't going to sacrifice his life to save the world, he was just going to tell his brother that he had a serious connection. Oh, God... dying for a higher purpose was easier than this.

"Breathe, Dean, just breathe," he muttered to himself as he led Sam's tall figure through the crowd to the fresh cider stands. It couldn't be something alcoholic, could it? Like, sneaking a bottle of cheap whiskey out of a convenience store? No, certainly not, how could he hope for such welcome support? He sighed inwardly and rubbed his hands together. They were unusually moist. Damn! He wiped them on his shirt. Breathing was a good idea, so he held onto it while he found his way to one of the stalls and overlooked the pies on offer.

Yeah, that helped a little. He couldn't decide which one to buy for the first round because it... Fuck, no way! The amusement quite reliably banished much of his anxiety. They really did have rose petal cakes here. Hey, but why not?

He ordered two pieces from the guy at the stand and moved with them skillfully through the crowd to the Impala.

He leaned against the car and shoved his hands in his pockets. He certainly wouldn't call it peace, but it was a weary resignation. Things were just going to happen now. He'd say something, Sam would say something, and then life would go on, just like it always did. Now he was just stuck in a deadlock. In that he had to admit that Cas was right, even if he didn't share his opinion that it needed to be dealt with. He hadn't shared it until recently, he corrected himself mentally.

After it dawned on him how much he was hurting Angel by keeping their relationship a secret from Sam, and how hard Cas was trying, despite himself, he realized that it couldn't go on like this. If he was going to fall in the shit, it was now. Right here, right now! I mean, in a minute... probably when Sam gets here. Any minute now, probably... ideally, please, before he runs out of courage. No, probably not. Time passed him by awfully slowly. The anxiety hadn't returned, but the restlessness had definitely set in. Where the hell was Sam? Was he squeezing the apple juice himself? Sadly, he had to conclude that it might as well have been true. He could see him quite clearly at some huge medieval stone press - who the hell knew how to make cider anyway - turning the crank and pressing his own apple juice. He was a big enough freak to actually do that sort of thing.

Absentmindedly, he stuck his finger into the still-warm pie and licked it. Hey! That was really pretty good! He could smell apples and pears, but there was more to it. Some kind of taste that felt a little like a lady's perfume on his palate and nose, but it wasn't unpleasant. He tore off a piece and popped it into his mouth. This time he could fully enjoy the taste and the crisp consistency of the dough and the wet filling, as well as the slightly unusual crunch of the flower petals baked into the filling.

He picked up the whole pie and took a big bite. He hummed in satisfaction. If Sam wasn't here, he was simply out of luck and they wouldn't be able to enjoy this divine treat together, because Dean certainly wasn't going to wait for him. He took another bite and another. The sweetness of the cake was so amazing that it literally seeped into his brain and made him feel strangely... dazed?

No, that wasn't right. Fuck, that wasn't even remotely okay! His eyelids suddenly ached and felt heavy and swollen, like he hadn't slept in days. His fingers were going numb fast. He dropped the damn pie on the floor and opened his mouth. He spat the two bites he had stuffed in it onto the pavement. Curse or rohypnol? He didn't know which, but it had to be in the pie.

He bent over to try to stick his finger down his throat and throw up, but all that happened was that he suddenly found himself on the ground. He had no idea how or when, he just lay on the road and saw the sky overcast above him. He could feel something warm trickling down his temple, seeping into his skull and making him tired. Yeah, he was tired.

He just wanted to sleep.

°°0°°

He tossed the nibble into the bin whose contents were destined for composting. He thought it was a very good idea to use all the plant waste from this festival as fertilizer for the local orchards. If more people, but especially cities and companies, were so responsible, one problem threatening to destroy humanity could be solved. Not all the evil in the world was done by the monsters he and Dean hunted, a lot of it was the fault of ordinary people. In fact, most of it.

He shoved the paper bag with two more apples into his pocket and grabbed two discarded ciders from the bench. Dean would surely grumble that he'd brought him something like that, but a little vitamin in fresh juice couldn't hurt. Well, maybe... sometimes he was reminded a lot of old cars that would die after two or three meters of driving when filled with eco gas. No, his brother probably wouldn't survive more than a few days on a 'rabbit diet', but the cider really wouldn't kill him.

He slowly made his way through the crowd to the Impala parked just down the street, away from the main action of the festival, considering what Dean wanted to say to him as he did so.

In person, Dean wanting to talk was something so unusual that it made Sam uneasy. He could hardly console himself enough with the thought that there was nothing more behind it than an attempt to clean up the stale routine of their brotherly relationship a little. That was downright stupid. If anyone was even considering that maybe it wasn't the healthiest thing to just walk around quietly while they were locked in the bunker, talking more or less only about cases and the movie currently running on TV now and then, it was Sam himself, not Dean. He was desperately fixated on the fact that the right guy was a silent hero with guns low on his waist, just like the ones cut out of his beloved westerns. If he had decided to break his silence voluntarily, it was something serious, and the news that he was dying of cancer was certainly not it, given Castiel.

Castiel. He couldn't help feeling that what Dean was about to tell him was about Castiel. So many unspoken and spoken things in his brother's life were about this one particular angel that he couldn't even count them anymore. That was why the idea of the two of them sleeping together wasn't strange in the least, just simply arousing concern on so many levels. Starting with the curse of House Winchester and the fact of how it could disrupt all future hunts, ending with. It's no coincidence that romantic relationships in the military or between police forces were governed by very strict rules.

After all, maybe that was what Dean wanted to talk about. He just thought of Castiel more and differently than he felt was right and needed to vent somehow. It wasn't going to be an easy conversation, but he was determined to make it work and be able to explain to Dean why he wasn't 'gay' just because he had some deep feelings for another man and, if he did as well as he hoped, then the tension of the last few weeks could be a thing of the past.

He worked his way through the crowd and made his way to the open road, where he could already see the Impala. Dean was nowhere to be seen around. He walked up to the car and set the cups down on the hood, noticing one portion of pie sitting on the far side of the roof.

He immediately became alert because it wasn't normal. Not only would Dean generally not leave food, he especially wouldn't leave pie, especially not leave the place where they were to meet unless absolutely necessary. His hyperactivity might have him hanging onto a nearby no trespassing sign on a dead end street, but he'd never go so far that Sam couldn't find him with one glance.

Slowly, he walked around the car.

"Dean!" He shouted as he rushed over to his brother's body.

He dropped down beside Dean on the hard asphalt of the road and leaned in close, close enough to hear his breathing, his hand automatically resting on his heaving chest. He was alive, and other than the wound on his head, he wasn't bleeding or injured in any way. He cupped his face in his hands and turned his head to the side so he could see the bloody gash better. Dean's hair was obviously glued together and wet with fresh blood, probably all the way to the back of his head, but that was mostly meaningless. The wounds on his head bled perhaps the most of all, and this one in particular was small and could have been caused by Dean hitting himself on the ground in a fall.

"Dean, can you hear me! Dean!" He called loudly, lightly slapping his brother's face, "Wake up!"

It was almost no use. Dean did mumble something indistinct, but he didn't have the presence of mind to wake up. In fact, he looked like a sleeper someone was trying in vain to wake up, and he was somewhere between dreaming and waking. Just like the victims in their case. He couldn't say he was surprised. Almost every time they investigated a case, one of them got so close to their prey that it was dangerous. This time it was Dean.

He pushed down the fear that churned in his stomach and turned Dean's head from side to side as he searched his neck or scalp for signs of assault. Bite marks, puncture wounds, odd marks, burns, just anything. He did the same with the top of his head, and then all the exposed parts of his body. There was nothing suspicious anywhere.

He began a hurried search of Dean's pockets, looking mostly for magical pouches or amulets. He found a cell phone, dirty handkerchiefs, gum wrappers, and other clutter Dean usually carried in his pockets, but nothing magical or otherwise supernatural. He scanned his surroundings with equal care. This time looking for magical symbols, remnants of ectoplasm, anything that might explain Dean's condition, but all he found was a pie flattened on the floor and two large spit out bites.

Since he couldn't find anything supernatural, he was left with two options. Get him in the car and take him to a motel or call an ambulance and have him taken to the hospital. He was pretty sure the doctors couldn't help him, on the other hand, since Castiel was somewhere far away, he needed someone to take care of his brother.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

°°0°°

He looked at his phone.

It had been almost an hour since he'd called Castiel and told him Dean was in the hospital. The only, simple answer he'd gotten was one word and that was 'I'll be there'.

It would have been nice if he'd bothered to say where he was, what he was doing or at least, probably most importantly, when he thought he'd arrive. She needed his help here and now, not so much with Dean, who lay peacefully on the bed, but with the case. He was on his own, and if he didn't lean into it hard and figure out what was going on, his brother might as well stay unconscious for the rest of his life.

He ran his eyes over Dean. He'd seen his brother hurt and sick so many times that he had the image perfectly etched in his mind. He knew the pale and sunken cheeks, the high fevers and sweaty forehead; he'd seen Dean cut, slashed, stabbed, shot, burned and with strange symbols in the form of tattoos all over his body. He knew his wounds as well as his own and felt them that way, so he knew what it was like to be poisoned by a witch, to break an arm hunting a ghost, or to try to heal vampire bites that never healed properly.

This time, however, Dean fell out perfectly calmly, almost content in fact, given that he was smiling and snoring slightly. If it weren't for the slightly swollen wound on his forehead, there wouldn't even be a reason to keep him in the hospital. Which was exactly what made it all the more disturbing to see him.

He got up from the uncomfortably low chair he had pulled up next to Dean's bed, ruffled his hair, and walked out into the hallway.

There was no point in sitting by his bed, and he found it easier to think outside in the hallway. He leaned against the wall and raked his hair again.

What did they really know?

He grinned a little to himself. When he quickly summed it up in his head, it was mostly nothing. In less than the last two months, five people had fallen asleep in this city. Three men and two women who at first glance had nothing to do with each other. Two of the men were rather middle aged, one of the men was in his seventies, one of the women was a seventeen year old student, and the last was a mother of less than thirty. The first victim was Clint and he was also the only one who had come to by this point. The others remained unconscious, their condition not getting worse but not better either. It was as if they were doomed to sleep forever.

He frowned and folded his arms across his chest, resting his foot against the wall. What were their theories?

Castiel's investigation was pointing towards a curse, while Dean had quite vehemently insisted on a ghost, which in the end proved unlikely, as the last victim had been practicing amateur occultism and had been in contact with the first victim. Witchcraft made it to the top of their list. For it was not at all exceptional that an amateur witch, drawing her magic mainly from internet sites where the real thing was at most the creation of good luck bags, had stumbled upon something real and sometimes powerful. Most often it was cursed objects or remnants of witchcraft lexicons, if not the actual spell lexicon of some long-dead witch. With something like that, an ignorant person could do more damage around them than a truly cruel and ruthless witch. He didn't know the consequences of his actions, nor did he believe that after saying a few words and throwing some herbs about the fires, anything could actually happen. Playing witches was a modern trend.

That was why he was so sympathetic to the theory that the very last victim, Clara Davis, had cursed the other victims and after she had inadvertently cursed herself-or maybe it was the last step of the spell she had cast-the others had begun to awaken. Again, nothing unusual. With the death of the witch or her own curse, many of her spells slowly dissipated as she lost contact with the energy of the witch herself. This could especially happen to an ordinary person who had never done real witchcraft before.

It all made sense and was logical until it affected Dean as well. It didn't fit into the pattern that was forming before their eyes. So it was clear that Sam was wrong about everything and the only way to find out the truth was to start from the beginning. With or without Castiel's help.

He peeled himself away from the walls, ready to head for the car and then the hotel, when the missing angel emerged from the elevator. He had a hundred urges to pounce on him where he'd been for so long, but he put it off not only because maybe Castiel knew how to help Dean-there was still hope that he wasn't the next victim in line, even if only a tiny one-but also because it was plain to see how quickly he'd rushed here. His hair was more disheveled than usual and his eyes were wide open and disproportionately bright, as they always were when he was upset. In some strange way, he was certain that then a piece of the angel's true, purely energetic dimension was reflected in the blue irises of his vessel.

"Dean?" Castiel asked as soon as he stood in front of him.

"He's inside," he motioned with his head toward the door of the room.

Castiel was inside and at Dean's bedside in an instant. He leaned his hand against the frame and peered inside at Angel, who placed his palm on his brother's forehead and closed his eyes. Countless times he had seen him reveal curses, sickness, and the nature of things that reached beyond the perception of normal people. Therefore, he waited anxiously to see what the verdict would be.

In the end, he didn't even have to ask. The look Castiel gave him when he finally opened his eyes said it all. Dean had just become part of the case.

Damn it! He cursed ghostly, turning away, his gaze only briefly catching Cas' tiny touch as he healed Dean's wound, and then he was too far down the hallway to see anything. He was angrier than usual when something like this happened, and he knew full well why.

He hit the button in the elevator.

Dean and Castiel had... something between them. A secret, something unspoken, a relationship, just something neither of them were going to tell him let alone be willing to discuss. They pretty much shut him out. They'd dealt with something just between themselves, angry at each other for a while, then not, then not again, and in between they'd been irritable and unfocused on anything and the case in particular. If he had to hunt alone, that was fine. He could do that quite easily, and it certainly wouldn't be the first time, but he didn't have the chance or the strength to solve the case alone, plus watch his brother, who was about as focused as a kid in a candy store, plus keep an eye on a moody angel. It was clear to him that he couldn't do it, it was just that the knowledge didn't change the guilt. And, of course, the anger focused on himself as strongly as it did on Castiel and Dean.

He walked past the hospital reception and out, heading across the parking lot to the Impala parked on the side of the road. He needed to get to the motel, to his computer, and find out what the hell was going on as soon as possible. And he was going to do it as soon as possible, even if it meant staying awake and reading every damn line that had been written about this town, its history, and its people. There had to be an answer in there somewhere.

"Sam?" Castiel's voice echoed behind them as he shoved the keys into the Impala's door.

He turned sharply to face him, frowning.

"Go back to Dean and keep an eye on him," he ordered. Hospitals were never the safest place for a hunter, which was why he rarely ended up in them, so if he was going to leave him there, it was better if Castiel stayed with him. Definitely safer.

"I want to help you."

"Really, Cas? Suddenly you really want to find out what's going on in this town?" He asked abruptly, and yes, sarcastically, just as he'd intended, and moved closer to Angel, who stood motionless by the rose bushes shading the parking lot, shoulders slumped down in sadness and shame.

"Yes, of course I want to," he replied gently, his voice low and contrite, "It's the only way I can help Dean, because I can't help him myself."

"There might not have been a reason to help him in the first place if you two had been concentrating on the case instead of... I don't know what," he threw up his hands helplessly, "There's something between you, some secret I'm not supposed to be privy to. You haven't spoken to me at all for the past few days for sure, and Dean has been nothing but irritable all the time. I was hoping that the case would distract you, but instead you just didn't focus on it. I don't have the time to investigate, to keep an eye on you two because you're incapable of doing your job and still wondering what you're hiding from me."

"I understand, Sam, and I'm sorry," Angel bowed his head humbly.

"I don't want your apologies, I want to know what's going on between you two?"

"I can't tell you that. It's not just my secret, and I promised Dean I wouldn't tell you anything," Castiel uttered seriously, still humble, but firm nonetheless.

He had given up beforehand. While Dean, with a little hard pressure and shouting and the knowledge that he wouldn't be talking to him for a long time afterwards, could be forced to confide, even if he didn't want to, he had no chance of getting anything out of Castiel. Maybe by some extensive subterfuge, but not by direct questioning. That was when the angel simply shut up and remained silent no matter what the man said to him. Like a stone statue.

"Fine! I'm not going to go into that because I don't have time for it," he concluded firmly, considering he had nothing to say, and turned to go back to the Impala when a boy on a bike whizzed past him.

He hadn't heard him coming, as annoyed as he was, so he barely had time to jump aside and avoid a collision. His arm hurt sharply. When he picked it up and looked at it, a large thorn from the pink fence around the parking lot was embedded in it. He pulled the thorn out of his skin with a low hiss on his lips. A large drop of blood spurted from the wound and began to trickle down to his sleeve. With a sigh, he raised his hand to his mouth and licked the blood away.

"Damn kids," he cursed to himself as he sucked the wound between his lips and began to lick the oozing blood from it.

A movement to his right side caught his attention. It was Castiel, reaching out to heal such a simple little thing as the wound on the back of his hand.

"It's just a scratch from a thorn... Rose," he finished slowly in sudden realization.

Quite oblivious to something as trivial as a wound on his hand, he looked around. They were everywhere. Not just behind his back, but they were also wrapping around every tree in the street. They were growing in the playground on the opposite side. They were rampant in the gardens of the houses, even just in the crevices of the sidewalk. As far as he could see, there were only roses.

No other flower or plant, except the great trees, stood a chance against their power. He had seen towns on the roads overflowing with flowers, grown by the people there to give their particular little town something of interest, but he had never, not once, seen anything but one kind of plant to be seen in the whole town. A very specific and special kind of rose.

"It's the roses. Those roses!" He waved his hand around, causing Castiel to look around, "Have you seen any flowers in this city, anywhere, other than rose bushes?"

Castiel slowly turned his gaze to him, frowning thoughtfully before shaking his head slightly.

"Didn't see," Angel replied, whereupon he reached out and touched the rose bush behind Sam's back. He ran his fingertips lightly over it, a frown on his face, "I know the molecular formula of every plant in this century, and this rose is not one of them. It has been magically altered. I can't believe I didn't notice it before."

"Well, that's what happens when you get distracted by personal problems while investigating," he didn't forgive the acerbic remark, "I still don't understand how the roses are connected to the victims. It wouldn't be their smell or touch, everyone in this town would be affected, including me," he held up his injured hand and frowned, "They must have come into contact with them some other way, maybe... maybe they ate them," he realized suddenly, remembering the large sign he had seen in the marketplace, inviting people to sample a special rose petal cake. Something Dean couldn't resist.

"Eaten? I don't understand why a person would eat roses, even if it was Dean," Cas wondered.

"Doesn't matter, now we have to find out where the roses came from. We'll check the local paper, I'm sure there'll be a mention of when they first appeared in town. It's an unusual species that the townspeople must have noticed. There'll be a madman who's found out everything he can about the roses. Get in!" He urged, heading for the driver's door.

"What about Dean? Shouldn't one of us guard him?"

"He'll be safe here," at least that's what he hoped, but he didn't say it out loud, "The main thing we need to do is stop whatever's going on here and wake him up. So get in."

Slipping into the driver's seat, Castiel slid in beside him - started the car and turned it back toward the hotel.

°°0°°

Sam was right. If he hadn't been distracted, he might have discovered the magical roses sooner, and if he hadn't wandered aimlessly through the city, preferring to keep an eye on Dean as was his mission, he might have prevented the curse. Now they had to hurry and figure out how to help Dean and the others as quickly as possible. His primordial wings twitched slightly, pain shooting up his back and radiating into the vessel, whose back muscles tensed violently. He had the urge to spread his wings and get himself and Sam into the motel with one mighty flap of them. But it was impossible. There were no more of them, and he couldn't be on hand at any time when Dean's... or Sam, was in any danger. That was why he was so afraid to leave the hospital. It took him forever to get there, even running as fast as his vessel could, and it would take him the same amount of time to get back to the hospital without a car from the motel.

Something like that didn't seem to bother Sam, though, because he jumped out of the Impala energetically and dashed for the door to their motel room. He followed a little reluctantly, still being dragged back to the hospital, but at the same time determined to help Sam.

He slammed the door behind him and hesitated.

Sam was already sitting at his open computer, his fingers tapping rapidly on the keyboard. Everything around him, except for the sound of tapping keys, was very quiet without Dean. No one asked what Sam was doing or how he was doing or when he was going to be done. It occurred to him, very briefly, that he should ask himself, but there was no point in asking questions and thus interrupting Sam's work, so he remained standing quietly outside the door. His wings, however, trembled nervously, especially the wings of anger. He could feel them spontaneously expanding behind his back in anticipation of battle, or at least the opportunity to burn something or someone to the ground. He forcefully pulled them back to his vessel so as not to disturb Sam unnecessarily with their influence.

"Here's something, right on the city's website," Sam spoke up after a very short time, "The roses that grow in the city are a strange, endemic variety that first appeared on the eastern edge of the city about twelve years ago. It grows extremely fast and is not easy to get rid of. Yeah, so it definitely sounds like it's been enchanted," he shook his head in agreement, looking up briefly at Castiel, "For us, that means we have a time span of some twelve to fifteen years before which something must have happened here. Another clue to the witch who's responsible or whatever," the man just seemed to be talking out loud like he was used to when Dean was here, so he didn't see any reason to answer and Sam didn't require it. He leaned back down to the computer again and continued working for a few more minutes before lifting his head again and tapping on the screen.

"I went through the crimes and strange events of that time. I don't have anything out of the ordinary, certainly nothing that looks like witch rampages or demonic omens. A quiet town. There's only one murder. A woman stabs her drunken husband and... Missing high school student," his hand moved as he probably clicked through the article, "Allison Born, a gifted musician and sixteen-year-old student, left for school in the morning and when she didn't come home that evening, her parents called the police. Her body was never found, nor was it determined what happened to her. Her parents didn't think she had run away from home because she was trouble-free, sweet and looking forward to the town's annual festival, which was to be held less than a month after her disappearance, where she was scheduled to perform a cello solo. There's a photo of her along with her music teacher and best friend Jenny... Holy crap! That's Mr. and Mrs. Clint. Twelve years younger, but it's definitely them!"

"Then Jenny Clint could be the witch we're looking for."

"Definitely," Sam nodded, getting up from the computer, "A virgin sacrifice like that is a pretty surefire way to gain power from a pagan god. And I'll be very happy to ask Clint who she summoned," he muttered as he was already walking past him out the door and back to his car.

His fiery wings fluttered and twitched again. Once he had a clear target, something he could direct his and God's wrath at with all righteous force, he had to reach deep into his self-control to keep his wings close. Given the chance, he'd have them unfurled in an instant and with them, in all their glory, flapping behind his back and curling around the ankles of his vessel, he'd appear before Jenny Clint and force her to cut Dean down before he burned her to the ground. Only, without the ability to fly, he could do nothing but sit next to Sam and sit all the way to the Clint house.

Wings pulled tightly against his body, almost burning even himself. He could feel them on the back of his vessel, like hot torrents. The other wings pulled themselves closer to his body for so long that he finally couldn't stand it and had to let the fiery wings unfurl. He wasn't going to let them touch Sam, so he wrapped them tightly around himself. If he were himself, there would be no better shield for him, but this way it just suffocated him.

It wasn't surprising that when they pulled up to the Clint house and he was finally able to step out of the cramped car, he let the wings spread almost to their full length around him. Not only was he relieved to be rid of their heat and to straighten their gnarled bones and bent flaming feathers, he was also satisfied by the sudden silence that fell over the area as all the animals fled from his wrath. At times like this, he felt like a warrior of Heaven again, with a clear mission, directed towards the greater good, even if it was only Dean.

Sam ran up the stairs to the entrance of the house and something shiny flickered in his left hand. A knife, no doubt, which remained hidden behind its wooden frame thanks to the way he stood in front of the door. It looked like he wasn't going to confront the witch immediately. He couldn't say he agreed with his decision, but he didn't go against it either. He stood half a step behind him and raised his wings of anger above him, covering the entire front of the house and its side walls with them. He had no doubt that the people inside felt their influence, and was pleased when a woman whose face was pale and eyes wide open half opened to them.

"Hello, Mrs. Clint. Agent Morgan, we spoke yesterday. This is my other colleague. Can we ask you a few more questions?" Sam asked kindly.

"I don't think so. Sorry, but come back another time," she shooed him away and tried to slam the door in Sam's face.

Castiel set his hand against the flimsy wood of the door. He felt the slightest pressure as the woman tried with all her might to slam the door shut. She didn't stand the slightest chance against him. He pushed lightly and, ignoring Sam's plan, just got in. The human woman began to back away from him as soon as he took the first step over the threshold. He found it quite amusing. He picked up one of the wings and wrapped it slowly around her. He saw her start to shiver, but she didn't retreat any further. She could feel that there was something behind her back that could hurt her, though she couldn't see it.

"We know the truth, witch. Remove your curse from Dean and the others."

"I... I don't know what you're talking about!"

"We know about Allison Born's disappearance and that it's somehow connected to you and the roses that grow all over town. It'll be easier if you cooperate," Sam said, still unnecessarily helpful for Castiel's taste. She turned one of her heads towards him and squinted most of her eyes. It was only because of this that he noticed the man who emerged from the room before he spoke, managing to move his other wing into his path just in time. While he couldn't physically stop him, if he passed him or touched him, it would definitely make him back off. It was also enough to make the man freeze in the doorway.

"Jenny... Oh Jenny," the man uttered in a way that he wasn't sure if he was expressing concern for his wife and therefore speaking to them or if he was speaking directly to his wife. He couldn't tell from the man's expression, voice, or attitude, try as he might, he couldn't and wouldn't touch him with Grace's wing because he was universally indifferent to what the man thought or wanted. He demanded that the witch release Dean from the curse. Nothing else mattered.

Please, Jenn, tell them. Maybe they can help us. You know she's scared of them," the man insisted in a voice full of emotion that made sense now. So he spoke not to them, but to his wife, trying to persuade her to reveal her accomplice. He certainly approved of that, so he gave the frightened woman a little more space by pulling his wing aside.

"Is there a third person involved?" Sam's gaze flicked from the man to the woman and back again.

"You won't believe us," the woman stated, her voice seeming more hopeless than anything else. He squinted his eyes as he watched her closely. People betrayed lies and deception even with their bodies. He might... no, he should be able to tell without Grace's wings, but he couldn't. He turned for Sam, whom he knew far more and could already guess what he was feeling and what was going through his mind. He seemed calm and open to hearing the woman out. He decided to trust his judgment and pulled both fiery wings down to his body.

"Try us. I've been through so much that I'll probably never encounter anything I don't believe."

"It's Allison," the woman replied in a surprising assertion, "She's the one who made me do everything. I swear, I would never hurt anyone. You have to trust me. I'm not an evil person or... a witch."

He blinked not only his human eyes, but many of the other eyes as well. He was almost certain the woman wasn't lying, but he didn't know how sincere her pity was. Slowly, with some effort, he unzipped Grace's wing and reached for her with one of its outermost edges, ready to flinch away if he encountered a lie or something worse. Of course, her pity was like a cold shower stinging his glowing feathers, not unlike shards of ice, and thus undoubtedly sincere. He pulled his wing back again and stepped back, closer to Sam.

"She's not lying to us, and she's sincere even in her regret," he informed him simply.

"All right," Sam spoke slowly, and by the slightest flash, put his knife back in his belt, "I guess we should sit down and you can tell us everything, don't you agree? Every detail, even if it seems crazy and unrealistic to you, is that clear?"

"Yes... if you can help us, we'll tell everything," Clint assured him as he put his arm around his wife, and then they walked into the living room together. Sam followed them, and Castiel was the last to go.

He paused in the doorway, the only escape route to the exit, and again slowly gave both pairs of his wings free rein. He left the Wrath wings behind, but he wrapped them around the room so that nothing and no one could get out or in without burning themselves against their glowing surface, and then spread the Grace wings in front of them. Their soft light illuminated the interior of the room, surely completely removing the heat of anger from the other pair.

"Start from the beginning, that is, from the moment Allison went missing," Sam urged them as he sat down in the chair across from the sofa where the Clint's had settled.

"It happened thirteen years ago," the woman began to tell him, eyes lowered to her hands in a clear gesture of regret that he wouldn't even have to feel as a gentle gust on his wings, all he had to do was look with human eyes, "Back when I was... when we were both in high school. We were best friends, the kind of life and death friends who did everything together and would never leave each other. We sang and played in the school choir together, but most importantly, we were in the same advanced music club."

"I know that. Your husband was a professor there at the time. I saw the photo in the paper and read the article about Allison's disappearance. Did your marriage have anything to do with Allison's disappearance?"

"Yes, but not in the way you're thinking," Clint argued, "Jenny and I didn't have a relationship at the time because I would never do something so unethical as start a relationship with a student of mine, and a high school student at that. yes, given what happened, it would probably be pointless to deny that there were feelings involved."

"That's true," the woman agreed, finally looking up from her hands, "Jeremy was just our teacher at the time, but Allison and I... stupidly, we both fell in love with him. For a while it seemed like it would ruin our friendship, but then we got over it. I thought everything was fine until we just stumbled upon that... stupid book in the library!" She raised her voice in anger and her husband squeezed her hand tightly, which he had been clutching in his hands the whole time, "It was full of what looked like magic. We tried a few of them, of course, and..."

"She actually worked," Sam finished for her, "Did you want better grades? All you had to do was tie a few ingredients in a bag and slip it to the teacher. Did you need more money? You uttered a few Latin words over a coin, tossed it into the well, and suddenly found a bulging wallet on the ground. Am I right?"

"That's exactly what it was," she nodded, "It seemed like harmless fun until one day after school we went to this abandoned house on the east end of town with the book and a bottle of wine. I don't even know which one of us found the spell or which one of us thought to try it, all I remember is Allison going to call Jeremy from the booth, and me stirring the roses into the wine, and then the way we made bets on which one of us was Jeremy's true love before we both took a sip. The next thing I knew, I fell asleep and woke up again, but only me. Jeremy was there, and Allison was... she was already dead."

"Mr. Clint?" Sam looked up at the man.

"I came to their call and found them lying on the ground. I was still able to help Jenny, but not Allison."

"And then you did what? Left her body there?" Sam asked, his eyes sliding from one to the other.

"No... we..." the woman took a long breath, seemingly unable to continue.

"We buried her there in the garden," her husband finished for her.

"Just like that?"

"What else were we supposed to do?" Mrs. Clint looked at Sam again, "How were we supposed to explain what Allison and I were doing there? No one would have believed us. Magic? They'd think we were trying to kill ourselves or something worse. And Jeremy would've gotten involved, too. It was better if Allison just disappeared..." She fell silent, her words coming out into the void, "until she somehow came back two months ago."

"Like a ghost."

"I don't know if she was a ghost. She looked almost real," the woman half-rejected, which was surprising, because ghosts rarely looked real after so long, for with each year that separated the wandering soul from her death, she lost tiny pieces of herself. It made her reel in an endless pain that even she couldn't describe, and thus in a rage that made such lost souls kill or even just haunt the living.

"She hasn't aged a year. She was Allison as she was then... no, actually, she wasn't. She looked like my friend, but she wasn't her. She was... evil. She wanted me to help her. She said if I didn't, something would happen to Jeremy... He got sick the next day. Then when she reappeared, I promised to help her. She asked me to put roses in the food for the people she chose. I knew what would happen to them, but I couldn't help it. I'm sorry," she still showed genuine regret, not only did he smell of her, but he was sure she looked guilty too, "At the time I was willing to do anything she asked me to do just to get Jeremy well again."

He squinted. He could, purely empirically, understand that out of love, a real deep emotion that bound her soul to her husband's, she was capable of committing many things, even things that would darken the soul. He had seen it many times in the millennia he had watched humanity, and he had been a part of it even more during the last time he had been on Earth, yet... He could never quite understand it, perhaps until now. He saw a human woman before him, defenseless, with no real malice behind her actions, and so she had committed no sin for which she deserved punishment from Heaven, yet he still longed to crush her in his hands. So deep was the anger that now boiled within him.

He took two steps closer to the seated couple, slowly withdrawing Grace's wings, letting the heat of his fiery wings brush lightly against them both once more.

"Whatever, including the fact that you have prepared the same fate that befell your friend for Dean," he said simply, without trying to add any semblance of humanity to his voice or expression, knowing full well as he did so that it made him sound, as people would say, condescending and cold.

"Who is Dean?" The woman asked, much to his annoyance.

"Agent Wood. He's also my brother and the latest victim. He's lying in the hospital now like the others and the doctors don't know what to do. They don't know how to deal with a curse or a ghost, but with your help, we do." Sam rose from the couch, firm and determined, "Do you still have the book?"

The woman nodded.

"The first thing you do is give it to me."

The woman nodded a second time, then stood up and headed out of the room.

Only with great reluctance did she move the sash out of the way so she could walk past it towards the staircase. He followed her with several of his eyes until she disappeared into the upper floor, and even then he threaded the edges of his wings into the upper floor. He couldn't tell exactly where the woman was, but he could still sense her, and that reassured him that she wouldn't try to escape.

"And you tell us where the house is in whose garden you buried Allison's body, and where exactly you buried her, if you remember..."

"I'll write... you," the man nodded, and merely walked over to a nearby table from which he took a piece of paper from a note pad and a pen.

He looked away from it slightly, human or not, when he noticed the woman coming back, carrying a magic-filled object with her. He felt it as she lightly brushed the edges of his quill as she entered the room. He slid his human gaze and a few of his eyes to it. The woman was holding a large sized book, rather thin for a wizard's lexicon, but definitely laced with magic. The overflowing blue-black energy rippled around its entire surface and emanated from within it as well.

"I found the spell we used all those years ago," the woman muttered as she ran her hand over the charred covers, ending at a bright pink strip of paper protruding from the top of the book.

"This might help us. Thank you." Sam reached for the book.

Castiel frowned slightly as the woman hesitated before placing the lexicon in Sam's outstretched hands. Just to be sure, he looked at her closely again, but saw no magic permeating her body, only the faint gray puffs that now hovered around her hands.

"Can you... destroy the book?" The man asked, handing Sam the paper with the address clearly visible on it, "Because we tried. Really hard, but it couldn't be torn, burned, and when we threw it in the river..."

"She turned up in the house again," his wife added for him.

"It's not easy to destroy a magical object. We may not be able to do it, but," he tapped his hand on the book, "I know of a place to store it. I promise it won't hurt anyone else."

"Just make sure it's gone forever," the woman said, taking two steps back in what looked like fear of the book itself resting in Sam's hands. He cocked his head to the side, watching her with human eyes and one of his own. He was increasingly certain she hadn't cursed Dean with malice. Therefore, he should have forgiveness for her, but he couldn't find a shred of it in himself. He could only fail to punish her for what she had done and shift his attention to the task at hand.

"I can guarantee you that," Sam promised as he strode to the door, followed by both Clint's and Castiel walking last, "I want you to stay in the house until I call you. And, just in case, stay in the same room together and take all the salt you can find. If Allison should happen to show up again, I want you to dump a circle of salt on the floor and stay in it. Is that clear?"

"Could she come back?" The man asked.

"I don't think so. Not during the day, that doesn't happen, but a sure thing," Sam said as he opened the front door, "Just do as I say."

He noticed the double nod, of course, but didn't pay much attention to it. Instead, he pushed past the three people and out onto the front porch. He considered talking further with the Clintons an absurd waste of time, and being in their house and presence sent an uncomfortable tightening in the muscles of his vessel that was only a reflection of his inner turmoil. His Wings of Wrath were still fluttering, ready to burn someone, but the target was lost. Dealing with the ghost and the curse he was spreading around him was quite different than justly punishing the sinners and the witch. Stray souls wandering this world, trapped beyond the reach of what they desired, Heaven, were not to blame for their actions, just as a man whose mind was darkened could not be blamed for them. Such were the rules of Heaven and of God.

"Cas."

He turned to him and cocked his head to the side.

"Then," he tossed him a book, which Castiel caught deftly, "I'll drive, and you read the spell they used. I have no idea if destroying the ghost will be enough or if we'll be faced with another problem... breaking the curse."

He glanced down at the book. Its binding flashed purple and sparkled, and the sparks burned into the fingers of his human hands, though they were not visible to human eyes. He reached out a second pair of hands and squeezed it tightly. Against his power, the spells with which the book was encased held no great weight, and the lexicon had no choice but to yield to his will. His grip tightened.

When the time came, he would relish the opportunity to destroy it, but for now, with it folded under his arm, he quickly made his way to Sam.

::::

I had long hoped that I would be able to finish this story after all these years. In vain, of course. The good news is that I managed to write a sequel, albeit a short one. As for this story... I'll add a short summary of the rest of the story to keep you in the loop.

...

Sam and Castiel go to the scene of the teen in question's mortification, after the usual "duel" they send her to the truth of God. Unfortunately, it won't break the curse, for only a kiss "out of true love" can break it. It works perfectly for all the patients, except of course for Dean there is no one to kiss him, or at least that's what Sam thinks. That's when Castiel, despite his promise to Dean, tells the truth about the two of them and tries to see if his kiss will work. Guess what? Yes, it does. End of story and sequel next time.