CHAPTER EIGHT
Dean gawped at Castiel as if he'd suddenly just dropped out of the sky. Which was perfectly understandable, since he had.
Sam would later recall his big brother's expression with amusement: it went from devastation to disbelief to glee to annoyance to relief to resignation to denial to anger then back to disbelief, as the urge to grab Castiel in a vise-like manly hug warred with the urge to punch him in the face for giving them all such a fright. It was like watching half a dozen hamsters fighting inside a Dean mask. It was like watching a toddler who'd been asked to choose only one out of too many types of candy. If Dean was a computer, he'd have been showing a dialog box reading 'IT LOOKS LIKE YOU'VE JUST FOUND YOUR FRIEND WHOM YOU THOUGHT WAS DEAD. DO YOU WANT TO: [BURST INTO TEARS] [BEAT THE CRAP OUT OF HIM] [SHOOT SOMETHING]?, and probably have smoke pouring out of every port.
"Holy shit and Satan's toilet tissue, boy," breathed Bobby, "What the fuck happened to you? We thought you'd been reduced to a smear round the S-bend."
"I apologise for causing you concern," Castiel replied with his usual gravelly gravity, "The Leviathans were... more powerful than I had realised. They were most reluctant to return to Purgatory. I'm afraid I had to exert my grace strenuously to ensure that they were most definitely returned there, and the gateway was locked." He looked back at what was left of the house. "I am sorry about your house, Bobby," the angel looked regretful, "But I deemed it wise to use as much force as I could possibly muster in order to ensure that the Leviathans were returned to Purgatory without risking the escape of one or more."
Sam couldn't stop the smile that bloomed on his face. "Nuke it from orbit; it's the only way to be sure."
Castiel stared hard at him. "I recognise that from a movie that Dean insisted I watch. Has the explosion caused damage to your wall again?" he asked anxiously. "I shall restore it for you immediately..."
"It's okay, Cas, that was me," Sam assured him. "But seriously, what happened to you?"
"I was caught in the recoil from the forcible closure of the doorway to Purgatory," explained the untidy angel. "I'm afraid that the... backlash imparted more altitude than I was anticipating."
Bobby looked philosophical. "Well, the place was well overdue for paintin' inside and out," he shrugged, as the first approaching sirens became audible, "Now I got no excuse not to do a proper job of it."
Castiel shrugged, and his clothing tidied itself. "You kept my coat safe," he said seriously to Dean, who was still clutching the trench coat.
"Meeeeeep," went Dean.
"I am grateful for that," Castiel told him, "It may well have been irretrievably damaged in my confrontation with the Leviathans."
Dean unspeakingly looked down at the coat, then handed it to Castiel. After a moment, he handed over the toilet roll centre too. Castiel accepted both with grave thanks.
"Meeeeeep," went Dean.
"Dean?" Bobby queried gently, "Are you all right, son?"
"Were you injured in the explosion, Dean?" asked Castiel with concern, peering at Dean with the Patented Eye-Sex Stare Of Doom.
"I think he's just had a shock," Sam assured them, clapping Dean on the shoulder, "It was a very loud explosion."
Castiel cocked his head sideways. "That is not surprising," he commented, as the first Sheriff's office car came speeding through the gates. "Perhaps now that the emergency services are arriving, we should ask the paramedics to examine him..."
"Cas," smiled Sam, "I think he's got all the therapy he needs standing right in front of him."
"Cas," Dean finally managed to say something intelligible.
"Yes, Dean?" answered the angel.
"Do not EVER do anything like that again," Dean instructed, with what came perilously close to infringing on the Sam Winchester Bitchface™ brand.
"I will not," Castiel promised.
"Because if you do, I will hunt you down."
"Yes, Dean."
"I will hunt you down, and I will make you sorry."
"Yes, Dean."
"I mean it, Cas, you ever scare the shit out of me like that again, I will hunt you down and kick what's left of your feathery ass until you go 'Ow'."
"Yes, Dean."
"Seriously, you get yourself killed doing something that stupid, I will find a way to bring you back just so I can kill you myself."
"Yes, Dean."
"After I kick your ass."
"Yes, Dean."
"Then I'll bring you back again to kick your ass some more."
"Yes, Dean."
"Yours will not be the first angelic ass I've kicked."
"Yes, Dean."
"I will let you live just long enough to make sure you know all you need to know about pie."
'Yes, Dean."
"Then, it's the ol' kickaroo for you, pal."
"Yes, Dean."
Bobby and Sam spoke to the fire department and the Sheriff's officers, while the paramedics attempted to examine the man who was clearly traumatised since he was agitated and kept gibbering – thankfully, his friend was on had to help keep him calm. Bobby described the strange noises the plumbing had made during the day, the terrible rumbling that presaged the explosion, and their flight from the house just in time. One of the firefighters nodded; it was clearly a case of a malfunction with the sewer system, it had happened before. It would be best for Mr Singer, his dogs, his nephews and their friend to leave, until the area could be examined and determined to be safe from any further noxious or explosive emissions. They would also prepare an incident report, of which Mr Singer would need a copy should he decide to pursue the civic water authority for negligence in the maintenance of its sewage infrastructure.
Bobby thanked them for their efforts, and pulled out his cell to start looking for short term accommodation when the Widow Witherspoon came bustling up the driveway with an expression of horror on her face.
"Oh, your house, Mr Singer!" she wailed, clutching at Bobby's arm, "Your house! Your poor house!"
"It was just the house, Mrs Witherspoon," Bobby patted her hand solicitously, "A house can be rebuilt. Nobody got hurt, that's what's important."
"You nephew, Mr Singer!" she gasped when she saw the paramedics attempting to deal with Dean, "The poor boy!"
"He's just had a bit of a fright, Mrs Witherspoon," Bobby assured her, "He'll be fine."
"Oh, but where will you go? What will you do?" she quavered.
"We will make do, Mrs Witherspoon," he told her firmly, "We will figure something out."
"Oh, but you must stay with me, at least tonight!" Mrs Witherspoon declared. "The house is definitely spacious enough, since the children have flown the nest and Mr Witherspoon is passed on."
"Mrs Witherspoon, we wouldn't dream of imposing..." Bobby began.
She would hear none of it. "It is the neighbourly thing to do, Mr Singer," she told him, drawing herself to her full height of about five foot nothing, "The neighbourly thing to do! What sort of a Christian would I be if I turned away my neighbours, homeless and hungry as night is falling, at their time of need?"
"Well, we've got at least another hour until sunset," began Sam, "And there are apartments in town that would be..."
Mrs Witherspoon set off determinedly towards her place, with a firm grip on Bobby's arm. He trailed along after her, a bemused barge under tow by a small but very determined tugboat.
"I suggest that we follow," intoned Castiel, "Since the Widow Witherspoon seems intent on abducting Bobby."
"We better go," agreed Sam, as Dean finally escaped from the paramedics, "We do not want to leave him alone with that woman."
Castiel stared hard after her. "Mrs Witherspoon's intentions are honourable," he announced. "She wishes to offer Bobby, and us, hospitality until such time as he can make other arrangements."
"Well, okay, then," Sam grudgingly agreed. "But we gotta stay sharp, in case she's planning on trying to take advantage of Bobby..."
"She is thinking about roast chicken," Castiel went on, "Mentally calculating whether the bird she has in the refrigerator will be large enough, and how many potatoes she will need to peel."
"Roast chicken?" Dean asked casually. "With roast potatoes?"
Castiel nodded. "She is now thinking about how many eggs she will need to make a pie of adequate size," he said.
"Pie?" Dean smiled hopefully.
"Peach," Castiel confirmed. "She is thinking that she will ask Sam to pick them, because he will be able to reach the fruit she would need to get the ladder for."
"I like the way her mind works," declared Dean. "What else is she thinking about that pie?"
"She is thinking about how many peaches it will take to make adequate filling," Castiel elaborated, "So that she can use her largest pie dish, the blue ceramic one."
"Gotta love a mind that works like that," grinned Dean.
"She is thinking about how it would be good to make a double batch of pie filling," Castiel added, "So that it will be readily available to make more pie."
"Mrs Witherspoon is clearly a lady with her priorities straight," Dean nodded approvingly.
"Her husband enjoyed her peach pie," Castiel informed them, "And she hopes that Bobby will like it too."
"I'm guessing she's a totally fantastic cook," Dean anticipated happily.
"She is wondering how large a slice Bobby would like for a first serving," said Castiel.
"All she has to do is ask," sighed Dean dreamily.
"She is wondering whether he would like cream or ice cream with his pie," said Castiel.
"She might be a crazy old bat, but Mrs Witherspoon is all right," Dean decided.
"She is wondering if he would enjoying having pie filling licked from his..."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" shrieked Sam, breaking into a run. "Hang on, Bobby!" he shouted, "We're coming to save you!"
oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo
"This is ridiculous!" protested Dean as he lay on the Widow Witherspoon's sofa wrapped in a blanket.
"It is for your own good," Castiel said firmly, putting down a steaming mug. "Drink this."
Dean sniffed suspiciously at it. "What is that?" he demanded.
"Sweet tea," replied Castiel. "Mrs Witherspoon says it's very good for the nervous shock from which you are suffering."
"I'm not suffering from nervous shock!" contradicted Dean, "I'm fine!"
"That was not the professional opinion of the paramedics who attended to you," Castiel told him sternly.
"You were gibbering, bro," Sam pointed out, "And you went 'meeeeep'."
"I am not suffering from nervous shock!" insisted Dean petulantly.
"Yet you are apparently still agitated," Castiel pointed out, "One of the symptoms. And you have a history of being blasé about your own injuries and illnesses, so we must dismiss your opinion as unobjective."
"He's got a point," nodded Sam, "And you did look kinda pale when Cas fell out of the sky."
"Well of COURSE I looked pale!" shot back Dean, "I thought he was DEAD!"
"Which is a logical explanation for you suffering from nervous shock," said Castiel.
"I'M NOT SUFFERING FROM... oh, God," sighed Dean. "This blanket has cat hair on it."
"The patient must be kept warm," intoned Castiel. "Mrs Witherspoon was a nurse in her younger days, and she was quite specific about that."
"Patient? Patient?" Dean glared at Castiel, while Sam didn't even try to hide his smile, "When did I suddenly become a patient?"
"When you began to suffer from nervous shock," Castiel answered... patiently. "You must be kept warm and comfortable, and reassured. Since it was my fault that you have suffered from this condition, I wish to do all that I can to assist you to recover, to make amends." He fixed Dean with what was probably meant to be a benevolent expression. "I am fine, Dean, I am not dead, nor do I anticipate being dead at any time in the immediate future. I promise you that I will do my very best to remain not dead."
"That's..." Dean glared daggers at Sam, who was openly laughing, "That's... very reassuring, Cas. Thank you."
Castiel looked pleased. "You are welcome, Dean," he smiled, "Now, drink your tea before it gets cold."
"Anything else that Widow Kinkyspoon has prescribed for the poor incapacitated invalid?" Dean grumped, resignedly sipping at his tea. "Some chicken soup, perhaps? A lullaby to soothe me to sleep? A gentle hand swept tenderly across my furrowed brow?"
"Mrs Witherspoon did warn that insomnia can result following nervous shock, and that if you have trouble sleeping, a cup of hot chocolate followed by a back rub can be of..."
Dean snorted tea out of his nose, and Sam chuckled.
"Gah!" spluttered Dean. "Creepy pervy angel! Are you EVER going to learn about personal space?"
Castiel cocked his head. "If you would find that intrusive, having your hair brushed is also deemed to be..."
Sam laughed alound at Dean's expression. "Hey, Cas, you need to borrow my hairbrush? I bet Mrs Witherspoon has some lavender oil you could use."
"That would be useful," Castiel nodded, "Scalp massage is also a useful therapy for relaxation in cases of..."
"Nobody is getting within six feet of me!" yowled Dean, "Not with a brush, not with any stinky flower oil, and not with any creepy ideas about massage, beause I AM NOT SUFFERING FROM NERVOUS SHOCK, ALL RIGHT? I AM NOT STRESSED AND I AM NOT TENSE AND I DO NOT NEED TO RELAX!"
"What the hell are you idjits doin' in here?" demanded Bobby, frowning as he entered the living room. Sam could only wheeze and point, while Dean choked and attempted to squirm away from Castiel's attempts to pat him on the back.
"Dean is being a most uncooperative patient," Castiel informed Bobby, with just a hint of reproach in his voice. "I wish to help him recover from the terrible shock that I gave him earlier today, yet he is being resistant to any potentially beneficial treatment strategies most helpfully suggested by Mrs Witherspoon."
Bobby glowered at the eldest Winchester. "Get with the program, boy," he instructed, "Because startin' tomorrow, Operation Salvage Singer Salvage begins, and I'll need you on deck, so you'd better be recovered."
"But I'm not suffering from nervous shock!" Dean shrieked in outrage.
"Good. Whatever Feathers here is doin' must be workin'." Satisfied, Bobby turned to leave the room. "So you just do whatever he tells you, or I'll send Mrs Witherspoon in to deal with you instead, and she worked in the public health system for forty years and will not tolerate any nonsense..."
"Meeeeeeep!" went Dean, eyes wide with horror, as Sam burst into laughter again.
Castiel looked resolute. "I shall prepare more tea," he told Bobby, turning to pat Dean reassuringly on the shoulder, "And I am certain that he will get through this sudden relapse in time to assist you tomorrow."
Dean moaned in defeat, and slumped back onto the sofa. The cushions had cat hair on them too.
"If my proximity makes you uncomfortable, shall I ask Mrs Witherspoon to come and tuck you in?" asked Castiel solicitously. "She says that it is a very reassuring gesture to make to someone who has suffered a nervous shock."
"Never mind, bro," grinned Sam, "If you ask nicely, maybe she'll massage you with pie filling."
Dean let out a strangled gasp and pulled the blanket over his head. A muffled voice informed Sam:
"I hate you."
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