"What are you so happy about?"
"Nothing, Sammy. The pie—it's just really good."
It wasn't the pie. It was the kiss still burning on his cheek.
"I found articles at the library about the case. Turns out in 1974 a teenage boy living with his parents attempted to murder them both. The father got away and ran to the police, but not before the son mutilated and killed the mother.
"How pleasant. What happened to the son?"
"He was beaten to death in prison a few years later."
"So there's no chance it's his ghost?"
"Nope. The occupants of the house said they've heard distinctly female screams and crying."
"So mommy dearest hasn't left home, and now she's slicing up any dudes living in the house as revenge?"
"Not just any guys, only the sons of the people living in the house. Not the fathers, or extended family. Only the sons."
"Should be a typical salt and burn though, right?"
"If only," Sam shook his head, Dean looked disappointedly at his empty pie dish. "She was uh—how do I put this nicely? She wasn't whole when they found her. And they never found all the pieces."
Dean cringed.
"Great, we have to play hide and ghost seek. Find the missing body part."
"Yeah, well lucky for us the house is empty."
"To the graveyard to toast the puzzle, and then to the house to find the missing pieces and make a pretty picture," Dean looked out the dirty motel window. He could see his breath when he'd been out with Cas earlier, it was far later and colder now. The ground would be hard to dig in, and his fingers would be frozen at the end of the night. "Well, let's go."
They shrugged on their coats and left.
Somewhere during that freezing night, taking a break perched on a headstone, his hands shoved his pockets trying to regain feeling, his numb fingers fiddled with square of cardstock. He smiled and remembered the way the explosion looked in Cas's eyes.
"Who shoves an ear down a vent?"
"Who doesn't notice an ear shoved down a vent for thirty odd years?"
"Seriously. Dibs on the shower!" Sam bounded towards the motel room bathroom and firmly shut and locked to door.
"Dammit, Sam." Dean was covered in dirt, and dust. He smelled like earth, gun powder, and sweat. He was too tired to care. The sound of trucks on the highway outside, the steady stream of the shower raining on the cheap pvc tub, and the rhythmic thumping of a couple in another room lulled Dean asleep.
He held his arms out, like a child pretending he was an airplane. Hands floating over the tops of the golden grasses. He could hear the stream in the distance. His body followed the sound, the field stopped abruptly at the edge of the water. He pulled off his clothes and slid into the cool stream. It felt like being surrounded by silk blowing in the wind. He let the current gently pull his body. The serenity was unparalleled. He was at peace. His soul felt like it was filled with the cool, clear water.
something scraped against his leg. Then his back. It was sharp, and hot. It wrapped around his leg, the water boiled. It dragged him under. He felt his soul burst like a water balloon. His lungs followed suit. He opened his mouth to scream, it filled with something salty and coppery. It boiled the flesh from his lips. It scalded this throat. It filled his stomach. He couldn't take it anymore. There were claws slicing through his muscles. Hot knives in butter. His bones burned inside his flesh. He wanted to die. He begged for it. He couldn't take the heat. Something grabbed him. Something like a vice gripped his shoulder. The cool stream reached around him, and pulled him. It reached into his soul and quenched the fire in his bones. His lungs filled with air. He screamed for real this time.
"Dean!" Sam was shaking his sweat soaked brother, begging him to stop sobbing, to wake up.
Dean felt like he was in the bottom of the hole he crawled out of in the desert. His brother looked frantic. Dean had stopped screaming, but he was shaking.
"Dean, what is it? What's wrong?"
"It was just a dream, Sammy." He pushed his brother off. He had fallen asleep still dressed.
"Talk to me."
He grabbed his jacket.
"Dean, please."
The door shut sharply.
It had been dusk when they'd returned. But now the sky was inky black, threatening to rain.
He was shaking still. He walked. He walked past a store. Past a school. Past houses. To a park. His body collapsed on a bench.
"Castiel," he looked towards the heavy clouds. "Cas, please."
The rain started to fall. The soft pattering covered the rustle of wings.
"Dean."
"Why did you save me from hell?" he tried not to sound bitter, but it came out as a coarse growl.
"You know why."
"Why you, out of all the angels and arc angels, so many of them stronger than you, why were you chosen?"
"I volunteered," Castiel's voice was flat and even.
"you what?" For the first time they looked at each other. There was anger in the greens and sadness in the blues.
"I have been watching over you, Dean. I have been watching over you since your mother died."
"Swell fucking job you did as a guardian angel," there was venom in his voice.
"I was not a guardian. I merely took interest in your destiny. You were destined for more than hell."
"You left me there for four months. Forty years in Hell."
"You seem to not realize I went to Hell. Through Hell. For you."
"Why." It wasn't a question, it was a demand.
"I told you."
"How is my destiny so different from anyone elses?"
"Your soul…to put it simply, is a Faberge Egg in a chicken coup. It is unlike anything I have seen. You are destined for so much more."
"I'm sorry."
Water streamed down their faces, Dean couldn't tell if he was crying or not. Castiel watched the rough man wash away in the rain.
"There is nothing to be sorry for," Castiel's hand found its way to Dean's shaking one. Water brimmed eyes stared at him. "I'd do it again."
"What?"
"I would go to Hell again for you," Castiel's unblinking eyes looked into Dean's.
"Cas—"
"Stop. I am bringing you home, Dean. We will talk again when you are not so distraught."
Dean blinked and they were in the motel room. Sam was gone.
"Undress," the angel commanded.
"Whoa, that's pretty forward for an angel of the lord, Cas."
"You're wet. You must undress and get in bed," he paused, "Or I will make you."
It was a threat. Castiel's jaw was set, his mouth pressed into a hard line. Dean's numb fingers fumbled with the zipper on his jacket. He was soaked all the way through; his shirt clung to his freezing body. Shivering, he stopped at the fly of his jeans. He looked nervously at Cas.
"Dean, you have bore yourself to strangers."
"You're different," his cheeks flushed red.
"I don't understand."
"Just give me some privacy, okay dude?"
Castiel obeyed, and turned and faced the ugly wallpaper. There was the sound of pants unzipping. The heavy wet rub of denim over skin. A body sliding into a bed. Castiel turned to face the hunter again. He walked to the bed. Dean looked like a child, the covers pulled up to his chin, his eyes wide with nerves. Castiel had never seen the hunter nervous, in all the years he had watched the man, nothing had bothered him like this. A slim hand reached out and ran a finger through Dean's hair, it was gentle, affectionate. Not at all the tone Cas had used before.
"Goodnight, Dean."
The lights went out, and the hand was gone.