A/N: I hope that you'll enjoy this chapter of WtH and I'm still working on the third chapter of Titanium. I'm also going back to edit its previous chapters, so keep an eye open for changes :) ALSO: I wrote in the spoilers-warning that Cas and Crowley had been the ones to open purgatory, when I meant Raphael and Crowley.
Welcome to Heartbreak
Written by oneofyourfrenchgirls
Part 2: Dirty Old Man
Castiel likes to watch.
After millennia of observing, it comes naturally. A skilful warrior needs to know what he's facing, and he watches for weakness, one weak spot that will surely bring his enemy down. Castiel is old, but inexperienced with the human beings on Earth. He doesn't really understand the mental aspects of being human - he can understand the physical urges: sex, food, sleep and hygiene. He does understand that, because he was human for just a little while before his latest death.
Castiel watches his favourite human; sees how Dean drinks and lies with curvy women and brawly men, how he only eats when Sam is watching. Castiel sees all this and knows that something is wrong. He can't make out what, exactly, because he long since stopped invading Dean's dreams and thoughts. He hasn't done such a thing ever since Dean yelled at him for mind-raping him. It's an awful term that Castiel doesn't want to hear again.
"What?" Dean grumbles as they drive back towards their motel. He looks tired - Sam is already asleep by his side, snoring and drooling - and the car smells of burnt hair and ashes. They both know that this is going to be a long night, a night of staring at the TV and chugging liquor, as it has been for about a week now.
"Will you still not tell me where you went last weekend?" (Weekend is a rather new word for Castiel. In Heaven, words are more abstract than on Earth, and he likes to use his newly learnt words frequently.)
"Dude, I told you. I went for a ride."
Castiel watches a lot, and he knows that he saw the Impala outside the park where they were camping last week. He knows that Dean is lying, because he listens as well and he can tell which tone Dean uses when he's lying these days. His voice gets a little higher, a little drained as if he knows that he's going to be found out soon enough. Castiel doesn't call him on it, not tonight.
When they get back to the motel, Dean gives Sam a wake-up shove and heads inside without another word. Castiel remains in the backseat until Sam wakes up properly, looking in the rear view mirror and offering a goodnight wave.
"If you don't mind, may I spend the night?"
Sam looks surprised, but he only clears his throat and nods. "Sure, Cas. I can, uh, ask for a cot."
"No need," Castiel answers before Sam can head down to the reception desk. They get inside the room and finds that Dean has already begun his private party, not even bothering with a glass.
"No shower tonight?" Sam asks Dean, but his older brother merely grunts, and Castiel knows that Dean is running on fumes. Prioritising has never been the human kind's strongest skill, but Dean takes this to a new level. He rather hunts and has sex than eat and shower; he spares his energy in the wrong places just so that he can get up in the morning.
Castiel sits down by the wriggly table in the kitchenette, pretends to eat a box of left-over Chinese from this afternoon, fumbling with the chop sticks in the way that makes Dean snort. ('You can smite people by snapping your fingers, but you can't eat with a couple o' sticks', to which Castiel had just left the room so that he didn't smite Dean.)
He doesn't watch Sam go to bed, but he can tell when the youngest Winchester falls asleep. A heavy slumber after a day's of honest work, but Dean remains restless and antsy on his side of the room. The TV isn't even on, it's just Dean drinking and tapping his fingers on his thigh in an inaudible rhythm. His eyes look red even from here, and Castiel gets up to take care of his charge.
This isn't the first time that Castiel chooses to help Dean fall asleep, and it will probably not be the last, but it calls for extreme situations for Castiel to do so. He knows how it upsets Dean, he understands - on a theoretic level - that Dean likes his control, likes to control every single cell of his body.
"Sleep, Dean," he whispers and presses his fingers to Dean's cheek. He can feel bone under his fingertips, hard but easily broken, and he can't resist the urge to caress over it with his thumb. These human urges - the impulses, the need to touch - hasn't gone away, probably never will, because it's still pleasant. Even if he can now heal and smite again, has the powers of a warrior once again, the touch of another being is pleasant and welcome.
Castiel takes the bottle and hides it under the bed; helps Dean pull off his damp and muddy boots. He sits on the side of the bed and watches. Time goes by and it feels slow, the way it only ever does below Heaven, above Hell, but he doesn't mind. There isn't enough time in the world for Castiel to watch Dean Winchester, asleep or not.
Sam finds them a hunt just a few towns over, tells Castiel eagerly to just zap them there over day and then they can return to this little hole. Dean doesn't look all too happy about being zapped, muttering about his bowel movements, and Castiel hesitates. Sam rolls his eyes, shuts his laptop shut and heads out to the car.
Dean and Castiel stare at each other, none really sure what Sam meant by walking out on them like that, and Dean startles when the motel door is opened again. The younger Winchester scowls, makes his face contort into an ugly grimace, and packs his stuff together.
"Dean, come on. If we leave now, we'll be there by dinner."
"Man, can't we eat first?" Dean complains, probably because the burgers at the diner across the street are small enough to fit in his palm. Castiel suspects that Sam knows this too, because his scowl deepens into what Dean likes to call a 'bitch face'.
"Fine. Just. Ugh. Just pack your things together so we can go immediately afterwards."
"Yeah, yeah."
Castiel helps by throwing the take-out food away, checking under the beds and in the bathroom for things that shouldn't be left behind. When he's done, he follows Dean across the road while Sam checks out. The sun is high in the sky and the outdoor seating is full of people having lunch. Castiel thinks he can hear seagulls, but it must be his imagination. There isn't any water beyond the public pool down the Main Road.
"Hello, boys," the waitress greets them as soon as they step inside. "Mind sitting inside? I don't think we've got much room left out there."
"No problem," Dean assures her with a grin. Castiel has watched Dean long enough to know that no matter how old, how ugly or how young the waitresses are, they are always hit on. It might be some kind of policy that Dean has adapted: always flirt with the waitress. Maybe it's because she is the one to bring the food, but Castiel doesn't think that's the case. Dean never hits on waiters, even though his bisexuality isn't hidden.
Sam catches up with them only a minute later, sliding into the booth and immediately shrugging off his flannel shirt. Castiel receives a pointed look from the younger brother, and knows what it means. He shrugs out of his coat and suit jacket, inspects his clothing to make sure that he doesn't have the same kind of perspiration spots in his armpits as Sam does.
"What can I get you boys?" the waitress asks, returning with a small notepad.
Her hair is fiery red and her eyes are bright green, almost grey, and Castiel compares her hair to the vessel of his sister. Anael's hair had had the same colour, but this woman has her long lengths put in a braid that almost reaches the small of her back. He compares her eyes to Dean's. Castiel dares a glance in the man's way, deciding already then that he prefers the dark green that only Dean has to the waitress' watery green.
"And you, darling?" she looks straight at him, and Castiel sends the brothers a look.
Dean steps in, always ready to help out, grin wide, "He'll have the pancakes."
"Strawberries and cream or syrup?"
"Strawberries," Sam butts in before Dean can tell her to bring both, even though Castiel has tried syrup and did most certainly not like it. The sugary taste and the way it stuck to his teeth made an uncomfortable combo that he doesn't want to experience again.
Once she's gone, leaving their coffee cups filled to the brim, Sam hands Dean the newspaper in which he had found their next hunt. "I'd say werewolf, but the lunar cycle is all wrong. I can't think of any other thing that'd leave wolf-like bite marks in a place like this."
Sam is right - it looks like a werewolf, even to Castiel, because no normal canine would be able to make its way inside of a five-star hotel, in the middle of a busy city. Of course, as Sam pointed out, the lunar cycle is wrong.
"The heart?" Dean asks, eyes searching the article but not reading.
"It doesn't say."
Dean looks pale and thin all of a sudden, his hand shaking ever so slightly as he brings his coffee cup up to his mouth. He gulps it down, not caring about the way it obviously burns in his throat. Sam stares, jaw slack, and Castiel has to look away.
They arrive in the small city in the late evening, parking in a parking house near the hotel where the man was slaughtered. Castiel steals a glance towards the brothers as they change into expensive rental suits, expertly hopping into their pants and buttoning their shirts behind the car. He can't help but think that this is something they've done many times before - changing clothes behind cars in public places, not bothered by the thought of anyone seeing their naked skin, not bothered by each other.
Castiel thinks that it might be impossible for the brothers to feel uncomfortable in each others' presence.
"You ready?" Dean asks when they're dressed, as if they had been waiting for the angel for quite some time.
"Yes," Castiel replies dryly. He thinks that he should go back to Heaven, make sure everything is in order still, and because he doesn't actually have a role in this scheme. It's just going to be Sam and Dean this time, investigating and bringing their gathered facts to him afterwards.
"Okay, so. See yah." Dean gives Sam a small look before they part ways, Castiel following Sam for once.
Sam only gives an awkward wave before Castiel zaps them to the downtown hospital. They head to the morgue immediately, using the elevator to get downstairs, Sam only speaking up once the metal doors have slid closed.
"So, you're Special Agent DiNozzo," Sam says, voice tight. He obviously disapproves of their fake names. "Just flash the badge when I do and let me do the talking. No truth-telling or explaining."
Apparently, Dean has told Sam about Castiel's lousy job as FBI agent. To his defence, he had still been new to human interaction back then. He knows better than to explain the real situation and his real beliefs, knows that you have to lie to get what you want. He knows that now.
Luckily for them, the doctor that went through their victim's autopsy is not a big fan of TV, and their identities remain undiscovered. They are given time with the corpse after Castiel presses two fingers to the man's greasy forehead, just because the man just wouldn't leave, letting him fall into unconsciousness right there on the cold floor. He hopes that the man will wake up in an hour or so, because the air is chilly and humans fall into sickness easily.
"Well, it could be a werewolf," Sam mutters as he pokes around on the stiff body. "Most of the heart is gone, and these bite marks..."
Castiel leans closer, not bothering with the latex gloves that Sam has forced onto his large hands, inspecting the wounds closer. Indeed, it looks like canine bites and scratches, long lines of open skin over the man's chest and big pieces of flesh gone from his thighs and abdomen. It could be a regular wolf, maybe a lion or a gigantic hound, but Castiel suspects that this isn't the case.
No, Castiel knows what killed this man.
"What's your guess?" Sam asks, fighting to get the too-small plastic gloves off of his hands.
"Hellhounds."
They check into the five-star hotel in which their victim was murdered, using another set of ID's but leaving their rental suits on. Castiel stays in the background as Sam talks his way into getting the room next to their vic's. Castiel hears him speak about superstition and favourite rooms, and the young man behind the reception desk only nods and smiles.
They take another elevator, this time upwards, and Castiel finds that he doesn't like the sensation. It's too different from flying, so contained and slow, very limited in its ways. Sam doesn't seem to mind their snail-pace, just discreetly checks himself in the mirror-clad walls and fixes his too-long hair. Personally, Castiel thinks nothing of the younger Winchester's hair, not beyond the practical point, and he knows that he's just echoing Dean's words.
"This is us," Sam says when they reach the right door, but he doesn't open it. Instead, they lean against the wall and waits.
One minute, two minutes, and Castiel gets just as restless as Sam. Here on Earth, time passes too slow and too fast at once, because time is limited here and it flows in such an unnatural way compared to Heaven and Hell. Ten minutes later, they're both walking down the hall to find the room of their victim's.
It isn't hard to find, being just down the corridor and a 'do not disturb'-sign hangs on the door handle. Castiel unlocks it with a swipe of his hand, making the tiny lamp flash green on the lock. Castiel can't figure out how Dean got inside here, but the man is full of surprises that go beyond even angels.
Sam has his gun out when they sneak inside, hearing no sound beyond their own footsteps as the door closes behind them. Castiel notes that this is a much bigger room - a nicer room - than what the Winchesters usually bothers with. The floor isn't covered by a mat, just bright wood under their shoes; and there is no obvious theme, just light greys and warm beige. There's an actual drawing on the wall in the living room, hanging right above a crinkling fireplace.
They aren't alone, and Sam is only milliseconds away from shooting when they see who it is. Castiel closes his hand around Sam's arm, forcing it down and preventing any gunshots. They can't attract any attention from the staff or other hotel guests - not if they want to handle this on their own.
Dean is sitting in a chair, not bound by ropes or cuffs, but by the mind of one of the demons in the room. His chest is heaving, maybe after yelling and struggling, and Castiel feels a surge of anger towards the disgusting creature holding him there. Of course, the demons aren't just any demons. They are on, what Dean would call, the A-list.
Crowley's favourite pets.
A sound comes from the bathroom, and the King of Hell himself steps out with a smug look on his face. He looks honestly surprised to see them there, walking up behind Dean and leaning on the back of the chair. Dean looks to the side, stares stubbornly through the window. Castiel is about to open his mouth, demand to know what is going on here, but Sam beats him to it.
"Let him go," he spits out, fishing out his flask of holy water. "What have you done to him? Let him go!"
"Oh, shut up," Crowley says with a tired sigh. "We've just been talking, haven't we?"
Dean doesn't answer, his fingers clutching to the armrests so harshly that his knuckles are turning white. Castiel wants to know what has been said between the two - what possibly could be said - but he would rather hear it from Dean, once they've gotten him out of his restraints and the demon's clutches.
"Really," Crowley promises. He puts his hands in the air, an act to show his innocence, but those hands have sinned one too many times to be of any reassurance. "If Dean wishes to tell you, he will. If he doesn't, then, well. That's your problem."
"Let him go," Sam repeats darkly. Castiel removes his hands from the pockets of his trench coat, ready to attack any minute now. These demons may be good warriors, but their motives are weak compared to Castiel's.
"Yes, let him go," Crowley agrees impatiently.
Dean almost falls out of the chair when he's let go, hurrying over to Sam's side and gasping for air as though his oxygen supply had been affected as well. Crowley smirks, gives Dean a pointed look - the kind of look that an angel of the Lord will never understand - before disappearing into thin air. His subordinates remain a second longer before following, leaving a stench of sulphur behind.
"You okay?" Sam asks his brother, running his hands all over Dean's unharmed body. He's shoved away almost immediately, but he doesn't seem hurt by it. Instead, he exhales in relief and says, "What the fuck, Dean?"
"Tell me 'bout it," Dean agrees.
When they get to their appointed room, Castiel lies.
He claims that he is going to Heaven for the night, try to find out what Crowley is doing topside, but he remains in the hotel room, invisible. He suspects that Dean can feel him, somewhat, maybe feels that Castiel is still close by, but he doesn't say anything aloud.
He watches the brothers as they go through their usual routines, not once speaking about Crowley or anything job-related. Instead, they draw perfect salt lines by the windows and the door, takes long showers under the generous spray of hot water and Dean creeps under the covers while Sam is eating his third bag of peanuts.
There is only one bed, a wide and long double, but Castiel knows that neither brother cares. They have shared smaller beds, shared tighter areas with fewer clothes and still stay unaffected.
When Sam slips in under the comforter, the bed looks – for once – proportional to his gigantic body. Castiel leans closer, because he can tell that Sam is mentally preparing himself in order to talk with his brother.
"Do you remember when I came back?" Sam asks, tentatively, voice small and shoulders stiff. Castiel thinks about fleeing, just this once, because he can't stand to see the look on Dean's face at Sam's words.
"What about it?" Dean grinds out.
"We promised each other not to keep any more secrets. We, uh, we said that we'd talk. More. Talk more." Sam stumbles over his words nervously, clearly afraid to scare his sibling away but also determined to let it out. They need this, they do, but Castiel can almost feel the burn in Dean's chest.
"It's not lethal," Dean mumbles, "he's just trying to talk me into, uh, a deal."
Castiel can't imagine what Crowley would want from Dean. The only reason he can think of is Crowley wanting the Righteous Man back on his rack, maybe holding a knife and cutting up beautiful souls. Castiel knows many angels that would like Dean to come up to Heaven, bless them with the shine of his soul, but demons can't appreciate this the same way. They can't.
"He tied you to a chair and, what, talked to you?" Sam's voice goes up slightly at the end of the question, a clear sign that he doesn't believe that one second. "Then, uh. What kind of deal are we talking here?"
"No souls," Dean mutters and slides down further in the bed. He disappears down under the comforter, but Sam only tugs it away from his brother's face. "It doesn't matter anyway. Not gonna do anything."
"It matters," Sam insists. "What is it that he can offer us? What does he want from you, if he doesn't want your soul?"
Dean squirms, refusing to look at his brother. Castiel has to smother the inclination he feels to get to Dean's side, just sit by him and watch. He wants to sit by Sam's side as well, listen to the younger brother in the way that no one ever does, but his wish to be by Dean's side is larger than the need to understand and console.
"I thought he was messin' with me at first," Dean confesses after a moment of silence. "He came for me a week ago. Y'know, when I said I'd been for a ride, after the poltergeist."
"I knew you lied," Sam says, and there's a boyish smile on his face.
"Shut up." Dean slaps Sam's arm half-heartedly, clearly not in the mood for any kind of smugness. "Anyway, he said we could help each other out. With the leviathans."
Castiel feels a tug in his stomach at the mention of leviathans, thinking of how his brother's vessel had burst like an overfull mosquito, making it rain black and red. Raphael may not have been Castiel's favourite brother – far from it – but they were brothers, once, nonetheless, despite wrong choices.
"Yeah, the new devil isn't very fond of the new monsters. Who'da thought."
"So he wants to help us slay monsters, or...?"
"Help each other," Dean corrects.
"That's it? I, uh, I know that it's not the smartest to make deals or work with demons, but, Dean... These leviathans, we don't even know how to kill them!"
"Shut up, Sam. Just go to sleep and we'll pretend it didn't happen tomorrow morning."
"You—just – ugh. Fine. Jerk."
"Bitch."
The lights go out and the brothers shifts in the dark, trying to find restful positions. Castiel stays in the room, wondering what it is that Dean isn't telling them. Crowley isn't known for any deals 'too good to be true', because his catches are always obvious to all parties.
Castiel stays in the corner of his room until early morning, not at ease with leaving the brothers unguarded in a night such as this. When the sun comes up, painting the sky orange and red, he leaves to Heaven in search for answers.
To Be Continued
A/N: Feel free to comment and leave critisism :) (For those of you who haven't gotten replies to your reviews yet, I'm going to answer them tonight. Thank you so much!)