Cas' first night in the men's shelter was a strange and terrible affair. He was tired. He had spent the day in the library -the only place with free computers- doing the research that Sam would have done were he here. He was tired now. He could not hunt down the demon tonight. Instead he followed the man from the front desk to a bed that was suddenly his. It was in a room full of other beds, all just the same. It was a dismal place, bare and grey; but it was heated, he would not freeze.
"Hey," an elderly man, slumped with some spinal deformity, occupied the bed next to him.
"Hello," said Castiel.
"Welcome to purgatory man, limbo. The place between places."
"I've been to purgatory," said Castiel, "this is not purgatory."
"Right."
The man looked him over, eyes lingering on the ruined tie that hung limply around Cas' neck.
"So, what, you some kind of business man?"
"No. I was an angel of he lord. Until recently." Castiel forgot to lie.
The older man rolled his eyes. "Always get stuck with the crazy ones." He muttered, "Goddamn loony bin in here and I'm the only one who's sane," then turned away.
Left to himself, Castiel slipped out of his coat, loosened his tie. He stripped down to his boxers, then put on the pajamas the man from the front desk had given him.
Since he had lost his grace, he had never paused to notice the lightness of his shoulders. He realized he missed the heavy, soft, warmth of his wings, the sense that he had worth that no one else could see.
He laid down. The bed was hard, the blanket rough. As he tried to sleep he found something prodded him, keeping him awake. It might have been the fact that he missed Dean more than he missed his wings. It might have been the fact that he would never see the hunter again. It might have been the fact that he could still feel the ghost of pressure on his shoulder where Dean had touched him. It might have been the fact that the pillow was too thin. He didn't know.
When at last sleep took him, he dreamed sweet and desperate dreams. He dreamed about the Castiel that had died with his grace. An angel whose voice shattered glass, whose form burned eyes and ruined minds. He dreamed that he was that angel, and Dean, Dean was his old self. That hunter who'd stick a knife in some ancient evil and come away smiling, who'd take his pain with a shot of whiskey. He dreamed that he had that man in his power, in his hands, and he molded him like the clay from which his kind was made. It was a good dream and it was over too quickly.
It was his stomach that woke him. It reminded him, with a low, impatient growl, that it had not been fed in two days. Not since breakfast with Sam and Dean –with Dean. The food at the shelter was bad, but not unbearable. There was a thick, glue-like oatmeal that Castiel found to slake his apatite. He was still trying to lick it off the roof of his mouth when the bent-over old man came to sit next to him.
"Morning Angel-boy," he mumbled.
"It is."
"What?"
"Morning."
"Anyone ever tell you you're annoying as hell?" The man asked, ripping off a piece of burnt toast with his teeth.
"I've been told." Cas thought of Dean.
"I figured."
They ate in silence after that, all the better because Castiel found his breakfast had a bad habit of sticking his mouth closed. Today, he decided, he would find that demon. So far it had taken four girls, all virgins. It suddenly came into Castiel's mind that all this time the had been imagining killing he thing with the knife. The knife he didn't have.
He sighed into his oatmeal. He would have to exorcize it then. If he could just get it into a devil's trap he knew the exorcism by heart. But how would he even began to subdue it?
He realized that all this time, when he imagined hunting, he imagined hunting with the Winchesters, with friends to aid him, with a well stocked arsenal in the trunk. With Dean's smile of satisfaction when the deed was done. It wasn't so now. Now it was just Castiel, with not even a butter knife for his defense.
Nevertheless, today was the day. Castiel pushed back from the table, swallowing with effort the last bite of his oatmeal.
"Where are you going?" The old man looked up at him.
"I have a job to do," said Cas.
It wasn't that Dean had given up hope. He still hoped, he always hoped. But it had been two days. Sam said they had no choice. There was still a demon in Joyful Valley and it wasn't going to stop killing just because Cas was gone. Besides, when had loss ever stopped Dean?
So they left the hotel, and Dean was less worried than he would have been that Cas would come back and not know where they'd gone. Still, the back seat seemed so empty. He thought about the last drive he'd taken with Cas. All he'd asked was to use the bathroom. Why had Dean been so frustrated?
At last, Sam broke the silence. "Dean," at his name, the hunter started.
"What?"
"Okay, this whole Cas thing, I think we need to talk about this."
"What's there to talk about?"
Sam sighed. "It's just, you're taking it way harder than you usually do these things."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean felt a twinge of defensiveness come into his voice.
"Look, I miss Cas too, don't get me wrong, I'm sorry he left, but maybe, maybe it's not all bad."
Dean raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
"It's just us again Dean. No angels, no destiny, just us. Hunting. And Cas, I mean, I hate to say it, but since he lost his mojo, he's just a guy. A guy with a history of lying to us, and screwing over. Maybe this isn't the end of the world, Dean."
Silence was quick to fill the space between them, a space which heated to he point where nothing, even silence, could exist there. It seemed to sizzle and smoke in the void between the driver and passenger seats.
This time, it was Dean who spoke first. "How could you say that?" It was very nearly a whisper.
Sam did not at first respond.
"How could you say that, after everything he did for us?" Dean pressed further. "After all this time, Sam?"
"Dean, come on."
"Cas would have died for us."
"He would have gotten us killed."
"You don't know that!" Dean was driving erratically now, pushing ninety miles an hour on the narrow road. Thank God the place was vacant.
"Why are you defending him like this?" Sam demanded, "If I didn't know any better I'd think you were in love with the guy."
Dean's voice caught in his throat. He tried to force it out, desperately. It wouldn't come, traitorous thing.
"Dean?"
"You're an idiot Sam." He managed.
Joyful Valley appeared on the horizon like a blessing. As soon as they pulled into the dead-looking downtown, they left Sam and Dean in the car and FBI agents, Smith and Johnson made their way to the police station to ask about some dead girls. Smith and Johnson's relationship was strictly professional, no fighting.
"Well I'm afraid you two are too late." The police chief smiled.
"What?" Agent 'Smith' –Sam- demanded.
"We caught the guy. Yesterday. He turned himself in actually. Total nut job, said demons made him do it."
The two agents exchanged a glance.
"We need to talk to him, now," said 'Johnson'.
The police chief shrugged. He showed the two FBI men through to the cells. All but one of them was empty and that one was barely occupied by the cowering murderer.
"Caleb Pollard?" Agent 'Smith' was the first into the cell. The man looked up.
"We'd like to ask you a few questions." Said 'Johnson'.
"You're just going to call me crazy like all the rest." The murderer mumbled.
"How about you let us hear you out first?" 'Smith' leaned against the wall.
The cowering prisoner sighed, fidgeted, did everything but answer. Finally he seemed to put his thoughts into words.
"Demon. There was a demon inside me. It was the one who killed those girls it said- it said it liked the taste of virgins. The taste. Jesus. It made me do such horrible things…"
Both agents seemed to perk up.
"But, the demon, it's not in you right now, is it?" 'Smith' pressed further.
"No. It's out of me. This guy, he got it out."
"Guy?"
"This homeless looking guy. Trench coat. I don't know, he didn't exactly leave his number."
'Johnson' looked as if someone had just punched him in the gut. He looked to his partner who said nothing but pursed his lips a little.
"Do you know where he is?" 'Johnson's voice shook.
"No," the man was both apologetic and a bit put off. "The cops were saying he must have left town. They looked everywhere for him."
'Johnson' didn't even excuse himself to his partner, just walked out.
"Damn it." 'Smith' muttered, and followed him out.
Caleb, the murderer, could hear them arguing in the hall.
"It's Cas, it has to be Cas!"
"I know. But what do you want to do about it?"
"To go after him, Sam, what do you think?"
"Go after him? You don't even know which direction he left in. We live in a big country, Dean, and right now, we're smack in the middle of it."
"So? We're hunters, we can track things. If Cas is hunting now it's not like he's undercover."
"We?"
"No, you're right, not we. I'm going alone."
"Dean,"
"No. I get it, you don't trust him now that he's not useful you don't care, but guess what, I do. I'm going to find him and drag his ass back here. You can sit pretty in the motel."
"Fine, Dean."
'Smith' and 'Johnson' said no more. One set of feet stormed out of the police station. A minute or so later, another left. Slowly.