an: So, this took a bit longer than normal for delivery, sorry.
I promise smoochy faces in the next chapter to make up for it.
Dean knocked on the door, because that was the polite thing to do, even in these sorts of situations. The only notable difference between this and any other occasion was the fact that he had a gun openly visible in his grip. But he was sure that no one would be answering his knocking.
He was sure, because death was just a feeling that you grew accustomed to. It wasn't a smell, or the cues from tell-tale blood splatters (that were much too violently smeared about for any one person to survive). No. It was a prickle up the back of your spine, and a weight that settled somewhere in that back of your mind, in a place that was always aware of your own mortality and sensed the tangible threat. It was a cold warning that was unmistakable once you knew it.
And there was death in this house.
No one answered his intrusion into the frightfully silent morning.
Dean tried the handle, and wasn't at all surprised to see that the thing wasn't locked. There was more blood inside and the stink of death was stronger than ever. It smelled like a slaughter house, all raw meat and spilled guts. And Dean felt lucky that the warmth of spring had yet to reach this far North, because heat combined with all the raw violence would have been enough to turn the bodies to rot and the pie in Dean's stomach would have made a comeback.
From the sight in the lounge, he would have estimated the body count at three, but unless he actually found that many separate skulls he wouldn't have put money on it. The identifiable bits looked human, if that counted for anything. And at least one had been male if the hairy left arm/torso combo on the rug counted for anything. It all looked fresh, no more than two days must have passed since whoever had been minced. Though minced would have indicated clean cuts, and the ragged edges and splintered bones looked a lot more like the men had been torn apart, or something else even less precise.
It was enough. Dean knew he was too late to speak to Kaleb. Someone had gotten here before him, and even if under other circumstances, a slaughter like this would have been something inexplicably horrible… sometimes violent deaths had a way with catching up to people, and hunters more so than average men. They sort of courted their own deaths, and they all knew that they would leave this world in a bad way whenever they did.
Without any proper respect for the dead, Dean knew he only had one thing left to do: rifle through the man's belongings and see if anything looked like what Sam was hoping to find. Most hunters kept journals, and with any luck, Kaleb would be nothing short of average. Maybe he kept all his angelic studies neatly typed out and left in an obvious location. That would be nice. He clicked the safety on, tucked his beretta down the back of his jeans and started looking.
Eventually someone would find this hell of a mess, so Dean did his best to avoid leaving finger prints; folding the edge of his jacket around a hand to open cabinets and desk drawers. The hunter's belongings didn't look touched, whoever had done the killing didn't seem to have been interested in looting, so there was still that hope of finding a journal or something else useful - but for the life of him, Dean didn't know where it had been hidden.
He started looking for a panic room, or a library or some such place like where Bobby kept his important documents. What he found instead was the short barrel of a Lupara shotgun leveled at his face. It was hardly more than two inches of steel poking out from a well worn sandalwood stalk, and at such a close range Dean knew that he couldn't pray for the bullet scatter to go wide and miss him. He would be lucky if there was enough left to use his dental records for identification. Happy thoughts.
Dean grew still, the kind of still that was almost impossible for anyone other than marble statues, or perhaps rabbits found in the headlights of oncoming SUVs. He let his eyes slide down the butchered barrel to settle on the face of his attacker.
There were cold grey-green eyes, the color of frosted sage or brittle steel. Those eyes were the first thing Dean saw, wide and wild eyes, panicked but very determined. The next thing to factor into his assessment of the situation was that he was looking down into those eyes. His attacker was shorter than him by almost a whole head, and more importantly, although it was almost an afterthought, was that it was a girl. Her hair was dark and very short, though it had been left longer on the top, long enough that Dean imagined that on a better day she may have spiked it up into one of those trendy, girly Mohawks that he never knew exactly how to feel about. She wore what must have once been a white t-shirt and black jeans slung low on hips that were more than generous. Her feet were bare and showed evidence of the same injuries and dark blood splatters that had soaked through most of her shirt and one side of her neck.
Dean couldn't put any specific age to the girl, but she was old enough to make the rise and fall of her firm breasts enticing and gave Dean a few interesting ideas, but more importantly, she was definitely still young enough that he felt dirty for entertaining such thoughts. Men had gone to jail for less.
"Whoa. Easy there, princess." He said evenly.
"Put your hands on your head and back up." Her voice was soft like wind rustling through leaves, her words damaged and halting. Dean noticed the bruising on her neck; just visible through the dried blood, now that he knew what to look for. Someone had attempted to strangle her.
His hands slowly went to the top of his head, fingers weaving together in an all too familiar gesture. "I'm not looking for trouble."
"I said back the fuck up." The barrel of her gun brushed against the tip of his nose and he did as he was told. Paranormal monsters were one thing, but an angry little girl with a gun was a different story all together. He didn't think he could just make a grab for the shotgun and punch her while keeping a clear conscious.
"Just calm down." He exited the hallway, going back to the limb strewn living room and making an effort not to trip over anything squishy.
She followed him, a rolling gait to her unapologetic hips and Dean could see a glimpse of gauze on one side and the black lines of a tattoo where her shirt didn't quiet meet her belt on the other. He recognized the simple markings; he had the same design over his own heart. But she seemed a little young to be rocking an anti-possession charm.
"Who are you and what are you looking for?" She took up a stance with her back to a wall, where she could easily watch him. She looked tired and definitely injured, there was a trickle of fresh blood on her left forearm, but she kept the gun level.
Despite the fact that she was threatening him with a firearm, Dean decided that he liked her. She was like a tiny heroine from a video game come to stand before him after some serious survival horror, button mashing hell.
"Look, I'm a friend of Kaleb's-"
"Like hell you are. My dad would have mentioned a pretty boy like you. Now tell me who you are or I will pump you so full of lead you'll be able to use your dick as a pencil."
Yeah, he definitely liked her, but more than ever he wanted that gun aimed somewhere else. Apparently the old hunter Sam had sent him to talk to had a kid. It did explain why she was holding her sawed-off like she knew what she was doing. It sort of made them, what, coworkers? Maybe this was one of those rare instances where honesty was a good idea. "I'm a hunter... Like your dad. Name's Dean."
Her pale eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Dean. Fine. What are you doing here?"
"Hey, looks to me like you might need some help." He waggled an elbow at the carnage around him.
"Yeah, you're a little late for that." The nose of her gun dipped down just a hair. "Now tell me what you were looking for."
"I'm working a case. I came to talk to Kaleb. He was supposed to have some information that could help." And that was almost a complete truth.
She stared at him like she was trying to look into his soul. He didn't waver under her scrutiny, but raised an eyebrow in anticipation. Apparently he passed some sort of test because she let the gun fall one handed to her side, the muscles in her left arm jumping now that they had a chance to relax. She winced and slumped slightly against the wall. "Dean," she said his name slowly, like she was readying to say something else, but then just shook her head and somehow managed to look more worn.
"What happened here?" He took his hands from his head now that they had reached some sort of understanding.
"Ghouls." was the simple explanation. She didn't need to say anymore, but she kept going; the words starting to spill from her. "I came home late last night... they were- were feeding on what was left of Dad and Joshua and-" her gun hand came to her mouth to stifle a pained noise.
Dean couldn't let any girl, from jailbait to grandmother just stand alone and cry surrounded by the dismembered bits of her family. "Hey-" All he managed was one word and one step closer and her gun swung back to him in a quick, mechanical movement, this time pointed at his stomach.
Her eyes were rimmed in red now, unspent tears shining in the angled morning light coming in through the window beside her. "Listen, fucker, I don't know you and you don't come any closer, got it?"
"Jesus Christ, kid. Calm down. I'm not gunna' hurt you." He had raised his hands again, holding them palm out and hoping that she somehow got the idea that he really wasn't any danger to her.
She sniffled, her cute, lightly freckled nose wrinkling slightly. "Dean?" Something slid across her eyes, a little light of recognition breaking through her hard and defensive mask. "Are you one of John's boys?"
He stiffened slightly.
"You are… I can see it in your jaw." She lowered her gun again. "And your eyes." The gun thudded against the floor. "He used to come around now and then. Dad always sent me to bed early, didn't like me spending time with his hunting buddies. 'Specially not John. Keep clear of that John Winchester, he told me. Man is a stubborn son of a bitch and dangerous as hell, with the disposition of a fucking hurricane. John's always looking for trouble… but my dad trusted him." She stepped away from the wall, still watching him, but the caution was ebbing away. "I used to sneak down the hall, hide in the kitchen and listen to them talk. John… he always spoke well of his boys."
Dean swallowed thickly. Apparently Kaleb had known his dad- and, surprisingly, somehow John had managed not to completely ostracize himself just this once.
"How are you at first aid, Dean?"
"I… I can hold my own." He relaxed finally, or at least, as much as anyone could in a room like this.
"I fixed up my side as best as I cold, but-" she half turned and Dean saw the source of the blood that was still dripping down her arm. The back of her shirt was shredded, thick blood sticking it to her shoulder.
He followed her to the bathroom. It was surprisingly untouched by the violence in the rest of the house. Dean patched her up as best as he could with half a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a roll of gauze, managing to keep the fact that he had a shirtless girl sitting in front of him innocent as a physically possible.
She sat on the counter, her back to him and he could see in the mirror that her pale blue bra had black lace in the front. It was pointedly more interesting than the teeth marks on her back, but the open wound demanded his attention more. She hardly made a noise, but it must have hurt like hell. Dean tried to talk to her through it; it kept them both a little distracted.
Her name was Adelaide, but she went by Andy. Apparently she had seventeen years to call her very own (a fact that made Dean feel only marginally less like a creeper) and she had, up until sometime the night before been the youngest of Kaleb Elias' three kids. She was the only girl, and now the only kid left at all. She had managed to gank the two ghouls she found in the house, if only because they had been so distracted with eating her family that she had taken them by surprise.
By the time Dean got her cleaned up and taped up she was crying. He awkwardly held her for a while and she let him. Losing your family was enough to earn anyone a hug. He rocked her gently, and said soft things, the sort of crap that he had heard Sam say too many times to people who were falling apart in the face of whatever horror had reared it face that day. The whole while Dean found himself wondering how two ghouls had managed to take down a seasoned hunter, his full grown boys (presumably also in the family business) only to be fucked up by a little girl not even old enough to get into an R rated movie on her own. She was hard as nails, Dean had seen the determination when they met with her gun between them, but she was still just a kid.
She rested her head against his shoulder, sucking in soft breaths and getting her shakes in line. "Sorry- I don't normally- It's just been a long night." She mumbled into his jacket.
"Hey, don't." He gently gave her a squeeze, careful of her shoulder and lower back and the thickly tapped gauze. "Don't apologize."
It was a slow breath that she drew, a last attempt to get all the horror under control. "You said you came to talk to Dad."
"Yeah, but that's not really importation now. Maybe we should call the police, or get you to a hospital-" He trailed off, withering slightly under the look that she was giving him from beneath her dark lashes. She had a point with that glair. What the hell would they tell the police, or medics for that matter? How do you easily explain disturbingly human teeth marks, or hand shaped bruises on a teenage girl's neck without inviting a full on police investigation. Not to mention if police came into this mess it would be even more difficult to explain the parts of people strewn about the house. Ah, the gloriously complicated life or a hunter- or hunter in training as was Andy's case. Though if taking on two ghouls wasn't some kind of epic trial by fire, Dean didn't know what was at this point.
"Look, I need to help. Let me help." She sat up, seemingly unable to feel embarrassed at the fact that she was just in jeans and a bra in front of a man that she did not know. "You can't just pass me off to the fuzz and leave me here with... all this!"
"Uh, I'm not taking you anywhere with me. I mean, I can give you a ride to a bus stop or something but-"
"I'm not asking you to adopt me, you ass. But if you needed to talk to m-my dad," she only trembled the slightest bit. "I'm the closest thing you're going to get."
Dean took his arms from around her, finding a towel hanging on the back of the door and wrapped it around her shoulders, hiding away her breasts (which really were perfect- if Dean had to pick a word to describe them).
"All right." He sat on the edge of the tub, putting some space between them because today had gone downhill quickly and he needed the air. "Your dad, he's supposed to be some sort of expert on Angels. I need to know what he knew."
"Angels?" She raised one careful brow and Dean got a sinking feeling. He had never believed in the feathery bastards before he actually saw one in the flesh. They had to still be nothing more than myths and legends to everyone else. What if Kaleb had never shared his knowledge with his kids, or worse, what if Sam had been grossly misinformed and the old hunter had no idea about Angels or heaven and the war- and the only thing that Dean had managed to do with his weekend was find a traumatized girl and the remnants of her family.
"Yeah." He grinned weakly. "Did he keep a journal or anything?"
"A journal about Angels." She tried to clarify.
"Does that sound as crazy as I think it does?"
Andy looked away, eyes sliding to the half open door and the hallway beyond and she hunched her shoulders. "Dad was always- he kept talking about-" her pale eyes closed tightly. "It was a war… Angels and demons and all kinds of shit that wasn't supposed to be real- all things considered. I mean, with everything else that is trying to kill us it would be nice to believe that there is something good in the world. Something like Angels."
Dean thought of Cas. "If it makes any difference- I believe in them."
She made a soft, amused sound, peeking over at him. "Do you?"
"Don't laugh, but yeah, I do. In fact, I've got one riding shotgun with me. Dropped him off at the church in town before driving up here. And my kid brother is dating one… I think."
"Dating an Angel?" She almost smiled. "Is that allowed?"
"You know what? I don't think it is." He managed to sort of smile back. "But as long as they're happy, I'm staying out of it."
"Dad kept a journal, he kept a few of them." She pulled her soft pink towel tighter around her shoulders and that strangely determined expression was back. "You can have them, but you've got to help me with something."
Dean didn't like making deals with people he didn't know, but she was a bit of a mess, and call him chauvinist, but he had always had a soft spot for damsels in distress. "Tell me what you need."
She struggled for a moment, trying to force the words out. "Help me salt and burn what's left of them. I need to know they're at rest."
"No problem." He gave her a genuine smile. He was sort of planning to do it anyways, even if she hadn't asked. There was no point in taking risks.
She closed her eyes again, looking relieved and just plain tired. "Thanks."
Dean stayed close while she went to a relatively clean and safe looking side of the house to pack up whatever she thought she might need. She wouldn't be staying, and she also didn't seem interested in telling Dean where she planned to go after this. From a box in the vegetable drawer of the refrigerator she presented three hand bound journals. The petite girl also managed to pull out of the kitchen pantry a collection of books that resembled toms Bobby would have kept, as well as what must have amounted to her father's arsenal. Guns, holy water, ammo, knives, they all went into a bag with her books. She was packing up her life, and all Dean could do was watch.
"Is that everything?" He really wished Sam was here. He was sure there were appropriate words, protocol even that was supposed to be followed in these sorts of situations.
She gave a terse nod, one bag slung over each thin shoulder. Andy glanced towards the living room again, where all that remained of her family had been scattered like so many broken toys, and her lower lips started to tremble.
"Hey," he gently bumped one of her elbows with his own. "Go wait outside. I'll take care of this." He nodded back to the carnage that managed to stay just out of sight.
An argument formed on her lips, but there was pain in her eyes and she buckled, looking down at her now shod feet. She nodded again, quick and almost harsh before leaving though the back door.
Dean did the dirty work, there was no sense in making the girl handle the remains.
It took longer than he had thought it would, but there were more pieces that he had originally assumed there would be. Some had teeth marks, others were just broken, unidentifiable bits of flesh. He piled them on the compost heap out back and doused it all with a canister of salt and a bottle of lighter fluid.
There were last rights, gentle sorts of prayers normally reserved for priests to say over dear people who had passed- not for tired hunters to say over the bodies of people who may or may not have been good men. Dean said them just the same and hoped that these men rested well.
By the time Dean made it back to the car, Andy was gone. Distantly there came the rumble of a motorcycle and he could see the dust trail billowing down the road in its wake. He stood there dumbly for a few breaths, and just let her go. Her father's journals were resting on the hood of his car, their worn pages ruffling in a light breeze that had finally picked up. He sighed, scooped them up and went to go fetch Cas. He wasn't positive how much time had passed since he left the man behind, but it was long enough. Mass should have let up by now, and hopefully the Angel had not decided to run away with any of the practitioners or taken any vows or something else equally regrettable.
He found his Angel sitting in the back of the chapel, his head bowed in prayer, shoulders smooth and relaxed, and Dean was unsure as to exactly when he had mentally started to refer to Cas as his, but there was a definite ring to it. He settled himself down beside the praying man, willing to wait until he was done communing or whatever it was that had him so still and occupied.
Cas shuttered like a sudden chill had risen, shaking him from his supplication. He turned to look at Dean, his piercing eyes too wide. "What have you done?"
Immediately Dean looked over his own clothes, worried that he had not managed to get the Elias family's blood off of him. He was clean, but that didn't seem to factor into the look being drilled through him. "What?"
The Angel's hands came up and ghosted over Dean's shoulders and down his arms, almost like Cas was afraid to touch him. "What have you done?" He repeated and it was no longer a gentle request- it was a demand laced with anger.
Dean cast a quick look around the cavernous room. There were a few people lingering in corners and doorways, happily chatting, paying no mind at all to the two men sitting shoulder to shoulder.
"Not here." He stood, getting away from Cas' halting, hesitant hands. "Come on, let's go. We'll talk about it in the car." He had no problem at all telling Cas what happened, but he wasn't about to do it with so many witnesses.
Cas reached out and grabbed his arm to stop him from walking away, but jerked back as if the contact had burned. His gaze narrowed, switching in an instant from that wild panic to something far more focused and caustic. "You cannot be here."
Dean reflexively touched the spot where Cas had grabbed him, for some reason feeling very much like a scolded child. "What?"
"This is hallowed ground." Cas stood now too and the air around them stirred like before a lightning storm, prickling with so much electricity. "You cannot be here."
"Cas, calm down- let's take it outside." People were looking at them now; curiosity mixed with annoyance at the irreverence and raised voices.
"Don't speak to me with his words." The Angel had squared his shoulders, managing to make himself look bigger somehow. "Get out of Dean and get out of this church."
"Get out of-?" Dean took another step back. "The fuck, Cas?" He winced and lowered his voice, not liking how it echoed. "It's me- just me. No one else in here, I promise."
"You do not have permission to call me Cas."
"Outside. Now." Dean left the church walking backwards, it was awkward as hell, and he almost knocked down a small old woman in a large white hat, but he needed to keep an eye on Cas to make sure he was coming too. Not needed, actually. The Angel was following him like a furious storm cloud, looking as if there were nothing in all of heaven or hell that could have stolen his attention at that moment. The tall church windows had started to rattle, almost like a large truck was passing on the road or the preemptive gales of an oncoming typhoon had suddenly risen. All Dean could think about was the first night he had met the Angel and when the man had spoke it had managed to shatter the windshield of Sam's car.
Cas followed him all the way to the property line, forcing him back until his boots scuffed on the black asphalt.
"Just calm down." He tried his most reasonable voice. "It's fine. I'm me."
"I said get out of him." Cas' voice was new now, something darker and deeper, with the wrath of heaven in his lungs.
"Listen to me, Cas. I'm the only one in here. Me, Dean,"
"Don't lie to me. I know it's you in there. I can feel your filth on him." He bore his teeth in a way that was very far from any human expression that Dean had seen. "I may not be as strong as I once was, but I am stronger than when last we met and I will find a way to cast you out."
And strangely those words felt a lot more threatening than the gun that had been leveled at him only an hour ago. Dean fumbled for the flask he kept in his jacket pocket, taking out the beaten, silver canister and holding it high.
"Holy water, Cas." He opened the flask, very aware that they were in a small town, surrounded by church goers. "I'm not possessed." He growled out, trying to keep his words low, hoping that no one could hear him but the Angel, because Dean did not need a bunch a religious nuts gathering pitchforks and torches or whatever normal people did when faced with possessed men.
The mouthful of holy water went down without a hitch and for some reason that sort of surprised Dean. The way Cas was looking at him, so much anger and certainty, he almost expected it to burn. "See? It's alright."
Cas had stopped walking, cocking his head to one side but not losing an ounce of that righteous anger. "I will only give you one more chance to get out of him."
"Christ, Cas- I'm not possessed." He wanted to yell it, but it came out in a sort of pained hiss instead.
The distance between them vanished as the Angel of the Lord suddenly rushed forward, crowding Dean like he had never once heard of personal space. He pressed one hand to Dean's forehead, the other to his shoulder and pushed him back a few more steps until they crashed roughly into a parked car. Now, Cas was strong, stronger than most people Dean had met, but even still he forced the hunter backwards without the slightest sign of effort. The Angel's hands were hot where they gripped him, not in a way that burned or anything dramatic like that, just fever hot, sweaty and unpleasant.
"If you force me to hurt him, I will find a way to destroy you." Cas' words slid over him, his breath just as hot as his hands. "I swear I will."
More often than he would like, Dean found himself at a loss for anything to say when confronted by Cas. Dean had almost perfect aim, what many would consider devastatingly good looks and a smart mouth that never knew when to quit. Those were the glorious attributes he had been born with, and very rarely did those inherent skills fail him. But since the night he met Cas, it seemed that all his wise ass remarks had fled and he was left grasping for words. This was indisputably one of those times.
Dean knew without a doubt that he wasn't possessed, however the idea that Cas would defend him so vehemently if he was- well it was nice… in an unexpected, might need to get a restraining order, maybe this is getting a little too serious, sort of way. But those aren't the sorts of things you just say to a guy giving off that level of crazy.
"Cas, I told you-"
"Don't lie to me." The Angel shook him slightly, fingers digging in painfully as he throttled the hunter. "I can smell you on him."
"Look, I went to go see a man named Kaleb." He whispered roughly. "He was dead when I go there. I did a quick salt and burn, I touched things while I was there- maybe that's what you're smelling." There had been more than your average share of violence in that house. It was possible it had somehow rubbed off on Dean. Not in a way that was perceptible to him, but perhaps to a creature more angelic and pure, that sort of bad juju might leave a trace.
"Is everything alright, boys?" A man had edged close to them, emerging into the edge of Dean's line of sight. He wore a suit and he must have been pushing fifty by the looks of his sun worn face and salt and pepper hair with matching moustache. But this was ranch country, and even if the man was old, he was solid, all weathered muscle and leathered skin. He looked like he was ready to step in and sort these boys out if he needed to.
"Everything's dandy." Dean growled, struggling against the hand pressing his forehead back. "He just gets a little handsy sometimes." He licked his lips, lowering his voice again until almost no sound at all managed to escape. "Let me up, Cas."
"Don't call me that. He's the only one allowed to call me that. Now get out."
"I'm he- him- I'm me. It's just me."
But Cas wasn't listening anymore, it was possible that he had never started. He was speaking in that weirdo language that Dean had heard come out of Gabriel. Not the thunderous, earsplitting version, but the softer rolling one that was eight kinds of unnatural sounding. It was rough and gentle, gorgeous and horrifying. He didn't need to know what the words meant. Dean understood the canter, the emotion behind them.
It was an exorcism.
Cas was trying to exorcise him.
The rolling sounds the Angel made were so painfully beautiful that Dean felt his throat clenching tight and his was threatening to pound its way free if his chest. God damned tears were stinging his eyes. It was not a particularly masculine moment, but luckily it was also short lived. Apparently holy exorcisms were faster to run through than the traditional Latin ones that Dean used. The twisting, beating words died and Cas' eyes narrowed expectantly, his breaths anxious and fast.
It was the holy water all over again. Dean had half expected something exciting to come spilling out of him and it was almost disappointing when abso-fucking-lutly nothing happened.
Something broke, it folded, it collapsed and came apart.
The fire went out of Castiel like it had been doused in a flood. The man practically went limp where he stood, sagging against Dean.
"Cas?" Dean gripped him by his shoulders, trying to straighten him. He managed to lift the Angel up enough to see how pale his face had become. "Hey, you alright?"
"What have you done, Dean?"
"I told you. I was in a bad place and I-"
"I know his smell. He found you. I-I should have been …with …you." Cas' head lolled back, turning skyward and his skin was as white as the clouds reflected in his eyes. He went ragdoll limp, completely unconscious and would have been sprawled out in the grass if it weren't for Dean.
People were crowding them now.
People tended to do that when they saw someone faint, which was more annoying than helpful in his line of work.
"Is he alright?"
"What happened?"
"Does anyone know CPR?"
Questions flew through the air and Dean did his best to block them out. "He's fine." He heard himself repeating the lie over and over again. He honestly had no good reason to believe that the Angel was anywhere close to fine, but a man had to have hope.
"It's just low blood sugar." Which was a much larger lie, but it was better than saying that the sleeping man was an ex-Angel who had probably used up whatever Grace he had left from a jumpstart two days back when Dean had let him touch his soul. Things like that never went over well.
He ended up with unwanted help as he carried Cas back into the church, laying him on a pew. Some well meaning old lady insisted that Dean wake the Angel enough to get a piece of butterscotch candy in him, the whole time explaining that she always kept a handful of them in her purse for just such occasions. It took a bit of coaxing, but they got him lucid enough to get the sliver of amber candy in his mouth without him choking on it.
Even though Dean doubted that the rapidly supplied Werther's Original had any hand it, a short while later Cas' eyes fluttered open, though they looked hoary, their normal intensity and brightness spent. The flock of little, old women seemed relieved by his stirring, one of them demanding that Castiel drink a little paper cup full of water (which he did without question, though his hands shook enough that the movement was difficult), while the other silver haired ladies busied themselves with tittering over how sweet Dean was, taking such good care of his friend. Such a nice young man. And handsome too. And wouldn't he be just perfect for your granddaughter, Muriel?
"Thanks, ladies." Dean said loud enough to cut through their buzzing chatter. He shot them an award winning smile which sent half of them giggling (the other half must have had cataracts or something else and just couldn't see him well enough to appreciate it). "We appreciate all your help." He managed to take the slightly crumpled cup from Cas' hands. "But we've got to get going."
The Angel was unsteady on his feet, like a drunk stumbling from a bar- all disjointed movements and chaotic steps. Dean got an arm around his poor friend and helped him out of the church. They walked to the car side by side, the whole while Cas making weak noises like he wanted to talk but could not summon the words. Dean settled him into the passenger seat, crouching down at his side, holding onto the door for balance.
"Hey, you gunna be alright?" He was looking up at the Angel, trying to make eye contact and failing miserably. "Dude, I'm down here." Cas pointedly looked elsewhere and it was almost funny. "Are we ok? I mean, you know I'm me now, right? Just me?"
He made a soft noise that could be mistaken for an affirmative.
"I'm not possessed."
Cas only repeated that noise, it rapidly losing any sort of meaning that it might have had.
"You still in there?" He paused but didn't even get that confirmatory sigh. "Earth to Cas. Hey… Want me to call your brother?"
There was an injured sigh followed by a full body shudder that looked positively painful.
"His plane should have landed by now. I can call him." It wasn't a threat. If there was any chance that the smaller Angel could explain what was going on and somehow fix it, Dean would make that call in a hot second.
That's when he noticed the bit of blood on the corner of Cas' mouth, that oddly too dark color that was so easy to identify.
"Fucking- Cas." Dean was on his feet, scampering to the driver's side. Forget Gabriel. Whatever help he might have been able to give was on a more long term basis and Cas needed help now. Dean was half way to the little white hospital off of the main street before Cas clumsily grabbed his sleeve.
"Fine." He breathed out the word in his rough voice.
Dean almost slammed the breaks, shooting a high-strung look at the man beside him. "You're not fine, you're flopping around like a God damned Muppet and bleeding out your face."
"I bit my cheek."
And that was somehow funny enough that Dean choked out a laugh. "Bit your- Dude, you scared the shit out of me."
"It was not my intent." He groaned, seeming to still be struggling to get the thoughts past his lips. "I'm not feeling well."
"You're kidding." The words came to be more sarcastic than he intended as he pulled over onto the side of the road in a haphazard semblance of parallel parking.
"I do not think I am capable, but I can try if you wish."
"No. It's- it's fine." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Does this mean we're ok?"
"I can still smell him on you," it came out as a moaning sigh, but not the pleasant sort. "Like a cancer." He spat out the last word.
"Him who?"
Cas finally made some very unpleasant eye contact, still as pale as snow drift. "I cannot and will not speak his name."
"Oh, that's- that's helpful." He said thickly. "Are you at least going to take a break from chasing me around with your booming voice and trying to cast the demons out?"
"I assessed the situation poorly. I'm sorry if I frightened you." He legitimately wheezed at the end of that.
"Dude, I wasn't afraid."
He let his eyes close, his face pinched like he was in pain. "You said I scared the shit out of you… which I am assuming was meant as a metaphor and not to be taken literally."
Dean let his head thud against the steering wheel and he knew that it was likely that he had earned himself an interesting burse just below his hairline. "You're killing me… and I don't mean that literally."
"What did you do when you left me at the church, Dean?" Cas spoke with uncertainty – almost like a child, scared of the response.
He lifted his head slowly and told him what happened at Kaleb's- told about Andy pulling a gun on him and her handing over her father's journals- though he pointedly left out any description of her flawless breasts. Even though Cas didn't seem like the jealous sort, there was really no need to test that theory. He also avoided telling the Angel precisely why they had crossed two state lines for a stack of journals, other than the simple excuse that Sam had asked him to.
"Ghouls?" Cas' eyes couldn't be bothered to open and perhaps that was something that Dean should worry about.
"Yeah." He agreed softly.
"Did you actually see their remains?"
"There wasn't enough left to fill an Easter basket." And wasn't that a charming mental image that Dean immediately regretted forming.
"A mere child reduced two ghouls to nothing more than pieces?" His gruff voice was dragging with the weight of his skepticism.
"She wasn't just a child, Cas." The insinuation was insulting. "Her Dad was a hunter."
"As the child of a hunter yourself, at her age would you have been able to destroy two monsters to the point that you could no longer distinguish them from the remains of three adults? Was there really so little left?"
"What are you trying to say, Cas?" Dean was bristling. He didn't want to be defensive, but there were lots of things he had no control over and there was no point in fighting all of them. He had learned years ago when to pick his battles.
"I am saying that you don't smell like ghouls."
Lunch time had not even rolled around yet and already things had settled somewhere around rock bottom. It didn't bode well for the long term forecast.
"Dude, I saw the teeth marks on her." The timber of his voice had risen without his permission. "If you're saying she pulled a fast one on me, you're wrong. Something ate her family- and something tried to eat her."
"Your story fails to explain the smell." As he spoke that little line of blood grew longer, reaching his chin.
"The house just reeked of corpses, and I washed it off. Yeah, it was nasty as hell, but it's nothing new. What smell are you talking about?"
"His smell."
"God, not again." He grimaced. "Who the fuck do you keep talking about, you cryptic bastard?"
Cas opened his mouth, but instead of speaking he lurched forward, curling around himself and dry heaving, sounding like something in him had broken.
"Whoa- hey, no!" Dean was grateful that he had somehow neglected to put on his seatbelt for once. He rolled from the car and went running around to the side, dodging a passing Toyota and throwing wide Cas' door. He helped the Angel lean out over the road, because Bobby would throw a shit fit if they got puke in one of his cars. There was another bout of heaving followed by a whimper, but that pitiful sound was the only thing that actually managed to come out of him.
Dean kept rubbing Cas' shoulder after the spell had passed, making small, concentric circles that were meant to be comforting. He hoped they were comforting, but this was the first time he had ever attempted something like this. Years ago when Sam had endeavored to use whisky as an entrance to manhood and ended up blackout-sick on the floor of their motel room, Dean had done little more than laugh at him. It felt infinitely better to be half holding Cas against his shoulder while the man trembled and made rough, tearing sounds in the back of his throat.
"Hey, you're gunna' be ok. Just breathe."
"S-stop asking me." The words were torn from his lungs on the heels of another desolate whimper. "I'm not-" and Dean could see the tracks of very legitimate tears staining Cas' very pale cheeks. "I can't-"
"I get it." He shushed the Angel, suddenly realizing that when Cas said that he couldn't talk about what was going on- all those times that he had awkwardly waltzed away from Dean's questions- he wasn't being cagey or ambiguous. He really, physically, couldn't talk about it.
"I get it." Dean repeated, softer this time, pressing his lips to Cas' temple, feeling the heat of a fever hammering off of him. "We won't talk about it." He kissed Cas' hair, tasting sweat. "Come on, I'm too fucking tired to make it back to Bobby's and you're falling apart."
Blue eyes forced themselves open, looking inquiringly at Dean as if he were suddenly speaking Farsi.
"Motel." He said slowly. "Columbus." He forced a grin that was more grimace than geniality. "They've got beds and showers- if we're lucky."
"Showers?" Cas whispered like a failing inquisition.
"Hot ones." Dean grinned.
And the suggestive eyebrow waggle was completely wasted on the half cognizant Angel. He only nodded in an unhinged sort of way, pulling himself from the cradle of Dean's arms and settling back in his seat.
They didn't even need to go as far as Columbus. Dean found a place just on the edge of town called Fiddler Creek Cabins. The room was cheap, had two twin beds and running water, basically it was the Promised Land. Cas was out like a light, hardly waking enough to get his legs beneath him and Dean had to practically drag the sleeping Angel to their room, rolling him onto the bed with the denim quilt, saving the calico one for himself.
The shower was small and steamy and Dean scrubbed of at least two layer of skin in an attempt to remove whatever stink that clung to him in ways only an Angel seemed capable of noticing. He redressed into a pair of clean jeans that he had thought to toss in his duffle- hoping that it would be enough for Cas to get over his sacrosanct protector act.
He wanted to get a few hours of sleep. Sioux Falls was about a ten hour drive and he deserved at least a brief nap to recharge. He'd earned as much, he'd worked his ass of this morning. However, Dean found himself more than unusually awake.
Something was wrong with Castiel- something big and bad enough to make him physically ill if he tried to talk about it. Dean hadn't seen anything quite like that in a long time- if ever- but he was having a hard time remembering things. Hundreds of old hunts and a lifetime of jumbled lore were rioting through his mind in utter chaos and it was impossible to concentrate on the big picture when he was being bombarded by each singular moment.
Sam would know what to do. Sam with his stupid laptop would just roll his eyes at his brother, pull his best bitch-face and do his internet voodoo that he did so well. He would know what sort of thing had gotten into Cas in such a bad way- and they could all just move on with their damn lives. But Sam wasn't here, and despite Dean's cell phone laying out on the little side table beneath the window, he knew he couldn't just ring him up and ask for help.
Oh, Sam would do it alright if asked. He was just as ready to help Dean at the drop of a hat as Dean was to help him.
But it was a simple matter of pride that kept Dean Winchester from reaching for his phone.
He was an adult. He had to at least make an attempt at helping himself and his… boyfriend before calling the cavalry.
There was a new thought dancing through his mind, this one far more distracting than it should be.
Was Cas his boyfriend?
It was a legitimate question- albeit one that made him feel like a sixteen year old girl. Dean hadn't actually dated anyone in… well, in a long time. Singular nights didn't count and he honestly couldn't remember the last stable relationship that he had been in. And that should have been hint enough that maybe Dean wasn't made for this sort of thing.
But that was a whole separate bag of cats.
One problem at a time.
He ducked back out to the car, pulling Kaleb's journals from the back seat and settling onto his bed. Maybe there would be some answers hidden in their depths- or maybe all that reading would just put Dean to sleep. It was a win-win scenario and he could handle those sorts of odds.
As it turned out, Kaleb had been even more anal about his note keeping than John. Apparently he had also been a paranoid son a bitch and felt that using any normal English linguistics system would have made it too easy to read if his notes ever fell into the wrong hands.
Dean stared woefully at the ciphers and it made his brain hurt.
Most of the marks didn't even look like real letters. He groaned in disgust and tossed the journals into his duffle. Problems for later, because, yeah- he needed one more thing to toss onto that pile.
Dean had made his attempt; simple and short lived as it was. He grabbed his pone and it rang through to Sam's voice mail.
"Sammy, stop playing with your dolls and give me a call back. I've got a problem out here." He tried to make sure not to let too much urgency bleed into those words. He needed to talk to his kid brother, but he didn't want to really freak him out by leaving a panicky message either. The phone was flipped closed and Dean rolled over, burying his face in the overly fluffy pillow, attempting to smother himself into unconsciousness.
Sweet, dark, dreamless unconsciousness.
Sleep.
That's what he needed.
That's what he couldn't find.
He ended up alternately watching an episode of Doctor Sexy, M.D. on the small TV in the corner, and gazing wistfully at the man sleeping restlessly in the other bed.
The things that Gabe needed to know about his little brother felt connected to whatever had set Cas off back in the church. Dean had no proof, mind you, just a gut feeling- and he generally trusted those, they almost never left him down. There was no mystery for him lurking in this mess. It was all a jumble of why Cas fell from heaven, why he was being chased by Fallen Angels, why he thought that Dean was possessed, with a healthy dash of apocalyptic rumors of war- a war that was none of Dean's business, which he wanted nothing more than to avoid like a plague.
On top of all that, there was the niggling memory of Cas holding him down in the back of the Impala, dispassionately mentioning that those Denariun/former Angels weren't just after Cas' squirrely little self, but apparently they had been gunning for Dean as well… for at least a year. It wasn't a notion that he wanted to entertain.
A hunter being hunted was about as far from a good day as anyone in this line of business got.
He could just say 'fuck all' and walk away. Away from this very distant war… away from Cas. Dean could go right back to hunting like none of this had ever happened. He could do his best to forget.
He had visions of wayside bars, drinking his weight in gasoline masquerading as booze, doing his upmost to rid himself of the very solid memories of eyes more blue than anything ever meant to exist in this world- of warm hands- rough stubble- of a painfully awkward laugh than was far more infectious than it had any right to be.
Sure… he could just leave all that without a single moment's hesitation. Turn his back on this strangely dependant Angel (because splitting from his codependent brother years before had ended so well for everyone- an encore would be just amazing right about now) and just resume his normal fucked up life- praying (if he actually put any weight in that sort of thing) that whatever war everyone was all up in arms about, somehow never managed to catch up with him… or anyone he cared about.
It was such a startlingly piss poor solution that it sent giddy laughter scrambling up his throat and his chest hurt from holding it back.
He knew he would stay.
It had never really been an option otherwise.
It was hardwired into him like the color of his eyes, and his tolerance for pain and the limit of how fast he could run.
Dean found his footing just long enough to move from his bed to Cas'.
Now, a twin bed isn't considered roomy to anyone over the age of five or over the height of roughly one meter, but right now that wasn't important. Dean wrapped himself around the restlessly sleeping Angel, sliding half under him and offering up his chest as a pillow. It worked like a panacea, Cas' fitful movements slowed and that little wrinkle between his eyes smoothed out as he settled into a deeper sleep atop Dean.
It was warmer here, tucked up beside his Angel and Dean finally felt sleep creeping up on him, stealing away his sordid thoughts like a proverbial thief in the night. He didn't know how yet, but he would find a way to help Cas, a way that didn't involve directly asking- because as was evident from the incident back in the car- that wasn't going to fly.
But the how didn't matter as much as it could, as much as it should. He had Kaleb's journals, a wizkid of a little brother who had never really failed at anything in his life and a stubborn streak wider than the damned Mississippi River. Where there's a will there's a way, and all that shit.
He curled slightly, kissing the Angel's head for the second time that day and as he closed his eyes he wondered why it wasn't something that he did more often.