Dean cursed, fumbling through his wallet as the bus driver stared at him impatiently. The hospital had outfitted him with some new threads since his old ones were apparently soaked through with blood and gore. The jeans were so short the tops of his socks peeked out from under the cuffs, but the plain black t-shirt fit well enough. Unfortunately, the little cash he did have seemed to have suffered the same fate as his beloved blue jeans- the bills were practically unreadable, not to mention utterly gross. Dean gave up after several minutes of exasperatedly rejecting each and every dollar, waving a frustrated hand at the driver, who rolled his eyes and drove off in a cloud of exhaust.
Am I still dead? Did I end up in friggin purgatory instead of hell? Thankfully the town was backwards enough to still have a pay phone. Dean stumbled over, still not quite trusting his legs. It was at least ten degrees hotter inside the booth than outside, and Dean could feel a light film of perspiration forming on his upper lip as he dialed Bobby Singer's number. Thank God blood spatter doesn't affect quarters.
The phone rang three times before an ornery "What?" sounded in the background.
"Heya Bobby, it's Dean. Listen, I'm a little stuck for transportation right now. Uhh do you think you could come down to… Morris County, Nebraska? I'll explain when I get there. Shit's complicated."
"No fucking way," Bobby breathed.
"The hell do you mean?" Dean pinched the bridge of his nose exasperatedly. "Look, I know it's inconvenient but I'm kinda screwed here."
"What I mean…" Bobby spoke slowly and carefully. Dean could picture him lowering into a saggy chair, a shot of whisky close at hand. "Is that last I heard, you'd up and vanished. With hellhounds on your tail."
"Sam called you?" Dean wiped a bead of sweat that was threatening to fall into his eye. Glass-encased building in direct sunlight. Great idea.
"Yeah. And that's the last I heard of him, too. You've got some 'splainin to do, boy."
Dean's hand curled around the receiver. He resisted the urge to punch the walls of the phone booth. "Bobby, I swear this is not some demonic trap. You can test me all you want later. All I know is that I was a devil dog chew toy, and then I woke up in a hospital. Please, man. I need your help."
A familiar rumble sounded in the background.
"The hell? Dean, is that you?" Bobby's voice was more distant, as if he'd put down the phone to go look out the window.
"Bobby? Listen to me. I am standing in a friggin furnace in the middle of Nowhere USA. Whatever's out there is isn't-"
"Shit!" A loud crash, followed by another garbled yell from Bobby. Then silence. Dean slumped against the wall, feeling the heat of the sun magnified by the glass. He slid down to the floor, cupping his head in his hands. This can't be happening.
"Bobby?" He whispered, afraid of what might answer.
The receiver crackled to life.
"Dean?" The voice was full of exhaustion and pain. The call fritzed in and out. "Are you… there?" Too gravelly to be Bobby.
"Cas?"
A rush of static that must have been a sigh. "Yes."
"What did you do?" Dean no longer felt the stifling heat. He was cold and hard, unforgiving.
"Come quickly." The voice was getting weaker, farther away. "Help…me."
The line went dead.
Dean stared blankly at the phone in his hand until a tone sounded and a robotic female voice reminded him to either make a call or hang up. He chose the latter, heaving himself off the floor and stumbling outside. His head felt heavy, stuffed with cotton. Sam was gone and he was back. That could only mean one thing. Dean was tempted to find a crossroads right then and there, dig a hole, cram his soul in a box and wait for some demon to snatch it up, switch places with his brother and make the world right again. He had no right to do this to me. The memory of Cas' voice stopped him. He'd sounded so… helpless. Like when they'd first met. A lonely, confused boy with little knowledge of his true place in the universe. Destined for greatness, Dean thought sarcastically. The bitterness of Cas' transformation had stayed with him, a harsh aftertaste in the back of his throat. He never answered, not once, after he angel-ed up. Left me to die… Now he's begging me for help. That's rich. Still, the phone call sent doubts wriggling down Dean's spine. Cas might have answers, could help him save Sam. Reluctantly, Dean stuck out his thumb and waited.
It was dark by the time Dean arrived in South Dakota, stinking of exhaust and stale cigarette smoke. He waved half-heartedly at the trucker who had driven in silence the last four hours, pausing only for a brief piss by the roadside. Dean could see Bobby illuminated by the light spilling out of the kitchen window, his forehead creased with worry. He prepared himself for a battery of tests; silver, holy water, iron, salt. Instead, Bobby placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"I think you'd best come inside quick."
The scent of char and decay overpowered the typical dust-and-oil odor of Bobby's home. A form lay huddled on the living room couch under Bobby's least scratchy blanket. It made no move as Dean approached, nor did it stir as he peeled back the cover.
The thing sprawled before him wasn't Castiel. Or even Cas. It couldn't be. The angel had been powerful, white-hot strength surging from every pore. Nigh invincible. The boy was fragile, sure, the way people tend to be after they spend most of their lives in an institution. He'd still had a spark though. The steely determination that would flare in his eyes when he talked about what he heard and felt. How it was real. This hideous, broken, creature on the other hand… Its flesh was waxy pale with a slight grayish-green tinge and smelled like it was rotting from the inside. The lips were shriveled, darkening at the edges. Dean tried not to think how rough and chapped they'd felt against his own all those years ago. He's not that person anymore. Maybe he never was. He reached out a cautious hand and brushed the angel's forehead. Hot and sticky, like dough. For a minute Dean was afraid the skin would slough away at his touch.
"Dammit Cas," he whispered. "What the hell happened to you?"
"So he hasn't moved at all?" Dean sat in a kitchen chair, feet resting on the table.
"Nope." Bobby sighed and shot him a disproving glare as he handed Dean a beer. "Drove up while I was talkin' to you on the phone."
"Wait, he drove. In the Impala?" Dean nearly choked.
"Mhmmmm. Musta only been a couple feet though. Usually I can hear that engine coming for miles. It was like he appeared in the goddamn driveway. Started mumbling something about needing to talk to you. Clocked me over the head when I wouldn't let him in right away. Funny, I think he apologized as I was going down. Anyhow, I came to about a minute later and he was passed out on the floor next to the phone. Ran all the usual tests on him of course, but they came back negative. Figured you'd show up eventually so I bunked him on the couch and waited. Didn't take long. Now talk. You can start with what the hell he is cuz I ain't never heard of anything like this. "
Dean wiped the foam clinging stubbornly to his lip and began at the beginning. He gave Bobby a basic rundown of the past ten years. The old hunter mostly sat and listened, nodding or shaking his head incredulously. His eyes darkened when Dean mentioned the deal, but the only other outward sign of his displeasure was the dents his fingers made in the beer can.
"Shit," he breathed when the tale was finally over. "Sounds like somebody saved your ass from the Pit. I'm thinking your angel pal over here definitely has something to do with that." Bobby chuckled wryly, removing his cap and scratching his head. "Angels. You boys always do manage to get right in the middle of it."
Dean picked at the tab moodily, swinging it back and forth until it popped off with a satisfying little crunch. "What about Sam, Bobby? You don't think his disappearance has Demon Deal written all over it?" He poked his finger into the mouth of the can, testing the new, sharp edge he'd created.
Bobby shrugged. "We can't say for certain until he wakes up." He jerked his thumb back towards the living room. "I hate to say it, but I think for now we'll just have to wait and see."
Dean rubbed a grimy hand over his eyes, the grit and dust from the road finally catching up with him. "How are we supposed to help him?"
"No problem. Just let me check my angel first-aid manual. Oh wait." Dean was relieved to hear the usual sarcasm creep back into Bobby's voice. It helped him pretend, just for a second, that things were getting back to normal. He allowed himself to be shooed upstairs for a shower and a couple hours in the sack.
Dean woke the next morning with a vague, sick feeling in his chest. Twisted shadows danced in the corner of his mind, lurking somewhere in the subconscious. Dean couldn't remember his dreams.