A/N: whew, sorry that took so long! it was a very long chapter and tbh i hit a block in the middle but luckily my friend michelle beta'd for me and she really helped me through it :D
anyway i promise i'm not abandoning my other fics i'm just really super-absorbed in this one rn and probably will be for some time
also, no sam pov in this chapter, sorry. i do love sam though i promise jfkdal;fjdka
CASTIEL
Dean stood there for several seconds, his moody, contemplative gaze focused on something far away. Castiel prompted, "What are we going to do? Should we just tell him again?"
"What, and have him go 50 First Dates on us? No, it's not worth it. Let's just give the Trickster what he wants." He looked uncharacteristically resigned as he took another swig from the bottle he was holding. Perhaps his unusually submissive behavior was a result of the drink in his hand. "We'll figure this out. What else did he say, anyway?"
"Just more about how he's 'doing this for us,' or something," said Castiel dismissively. He hesitated, reluctant to say what was on his mind. It seemed like it would make him sound weak, but he did not know who else to ask. "Dean, I don't understand why he's taking such an interest in us. Why is he doing this? Why us?"
"I dunno, Cas," said Dean wearily. "I mean, he's always had this creepy laser fixation on me and Sam. Did Sam tell you what he did last time?" Castiel shook his head. Dean grimaced. "Back when he was trying to keep me from serving time in the pit, the jackass showed up out of the blue and trapped him in Groundhog Day." Castiel's brow furrowed as an image of Sam locked in a room full of angry groundhogs for twenty-four hours appeared in his mind's eye before Dean explained, "Basically he was stuck in a loop, living the same day over and over, except every day I died a different way." Castiel frowned, unable to see how this was in any way related to groundhogs. "It was to show him that he couldn't save me. The bastard killed me over and over—probably drove Sam clear out to Crazy Town—just to teach him a goddamn lesson."
Castiel was silent for a moment, imagining what that must have been like for Sam, a man who would give his own life for his brother's in a heartbeat. Castiel had heard of how Sam had run himself ragged searching for a way to resurrect Dean, how he had even tried to trade places with his brother. It must have been torture, waking up every day knowing he was going to see Dean die and being unable to stop it. He felt a pang of something he couldn't identify when he realized that, now that Sam's memories had been altered, he would remember not the repeated deaths of Dean, but of Castiel himself. Unable to fully comprehend what this meant for their relationship, his thoughts moved away, back to the Trickster. "But what is the point?" he asked, frustrated. "What does he gain from doing this?"
"Just for shits and giggles, far as I can tell," replied Dean darkly.
They were both silent for a minute as Dean downed some more whiskey. He supposed, in a twisted sort of way, this was the Trickster's way of expressing that he cared. He had said he was trying to help, after all. But how? How does this help us? What is he expecting us to do?
Dean cleared his throat and turned abruptly for the door. "We should probably get back inside before Sam gets suspicious."
"Dean, wait," said Castiel, placing a hand on the man's—angel's, he corrected himself—arm as he remembered something he had to ask. "What—what do you normally… do in the morning?" he asked hesitantly.
"Do?" repeated Dean, eyebrows raised skeptically.
"Yes. You know—your 'morning routine.' How does it… I mean, what should I do?"
"Well, for starters," said Dean, giving Castiel's coat a tug as he looked him over critically, "change your clothes. You can only wear the same pair of pants so many days in a row. And I hate to break it to you, but that coat's probably not gonna do much for you besides get in the way."
Castiel looked down self-consciously at the trench coat he was so fond of. He liked this coat; he'd gotten used to wearing it, and taking it off now would be like tearing away a chunk of his vessel. He looked stubbornly back up at Dean. "I can fend for myself with or without this coat," he said coldly.
Dean looked for a moment like he was going to argue, and perhaps it was the lingering effects of the whiskey in his hand that caused him to abandon it, because he just shrugged. "Whatever. You might want to take a shower before you change, though."
"A shower?" repeated Castiel, his stony expression replaced almost immediately by one of uneasiness. A vague concept of the place where humans clean themselves came to mind, but he had no knowledge of how it functioned. "Can you—can you show me how? I don't—"
"Are you kidding? I'm not going in there with you," said Dean incredulously, turning quickly for the door and opening it. It might've been Castiel's imagination, but he could've sworn he saw the hunter's cheeks flush. "Just get in there, strip, turn the faucet, and scrub. It's not that hard, Cas."
Inside, Sam had cleared some of the bottles off the table and was eating one of the omelets he'd made. "Everything okay?" he asked, his eyes flicking up from his breakfast.
"Yes. Dean just needed to 'sober up,'" said Castiel, only half-certain he was using the slang phrase correctly.
Sam, apparently, believed him, because he said nothing more on the subject. "That other omelet's for you," he said, jerking his head towards the counter where the other omelet was sitting on a plate.
Castiel, who did not think the omelet looked particularly appetizing but did not know how to say so inoffensively, just nodded. "I need to take a shower and change my clothes," he announced before turning towards the bathroom. He hesitated halfway to the door, remembering that he would need clothes to change into, and made instead for the small duffle bag at the foot of the bed he'd slept in. It was filled with clean clothes, folded neatly one on top of another. Were these Dean's clothes? Perhaps they were. They certainly looked like things Dean would wear: shirts in greens, browns, grays, and blues; ragged, faded jeans; flannel button-ups; even boxers, buried under the small stack of pants. Castiel cautiously picked through them, pulling out a pair of jeans, boxers, a black T-shirt, and a plaid button-up. Finally, still feeling ill at ease, he slipped into the bathroom, closed the door behind him, and quickly began to peel off his clothes.
He'd never paid much close attention to his vessel's physical condition before, considering that this was the first time he'd seen his own borrowed form without clothing. Jimmy Novak had been fairly well-built, he supposed. He'd always been a healthy man. Slimmer than Dean, certainly, and not quite as… rough-around-the-edges, but there was a wiry leanness there that spoke of endurance and hidden strength. Vaguely, Castiel wondered where Jimmy's soul was now. It certainly wasn't in here anymore. Perhaps he was "strapped" to Dean now?
Despite his lack of knowledge of his vessel's uncovered appearance, he knew that the red mark seared onto his shoulder had not been there prior to his first encounter with the Trickster. Dean's handprint, he realized as he examined the broad palm splayed across his skin. Whatever his memories said, this body had been to Hell and had been dragged back to earth by an angel with hands the exact shape and size of Dean's. The tattoo, as well, was new, the anti-possession symbol black against the pale skin of his chest. There were also scars on his hands and arms and chest that didn't belong to Jimmy Novak. He wasn't looking at his vessel anymore; he was looking at the shell of a life-long hunter. Maybe Sam was right—maybe it was only his and Dean's memories that had been changed…
It took him a while to figure out how the faucets worked. At first, a torrent of freezing water had cascaded down over his head, causing him to jump back so quickly in shock that he nearly fell. "Dean!" he'd shouted. "The water is very cold!"
Dean, of course, had yelled back something along the lines of "So turn the other damn faucet, Goldilocks!"
Eventually Castiel managed to figure out how the faucets worked and, after about a minute, the water had reached a blissfully warm temperature. The humid, steamy atmosphere and the hot rain on his back made a very conductive environment for thinking, he found. He didn't know how long he stood there, enveloped in the water's embrace with his eyes closed. The heat of the place seemed to make up for the cold gap he'd felt in place of his missing grace, and for a while, he could simply stand and forget that outside that room, there were real problems to face. Out there was a half-drunk Dean with grace that had never belonged to him. Out there was a clueless Sam who thought Castiel was his older brother. Out there was his entire garrison, fooled into believing that Dean, not Cas, was their little soldier of Heaven.
His eyes opened and he dully regarded the tiled wall before him. He was worried about Dean. The elder Winchester wasn't handling their situation very well, it seemed. If there was one thing he'd learned from observing human culture, it was that whenever they drank alcohol, bad things were far more likely to happen. He wasn't entirely clear on its effects on Dean since Dean seemed far less susceptible to them, but he knew they weren't good. If he kept this up, it was only going to end badly—and it would also probably bankrupt a great many liquor stores, Castiel realized. He resolved to speak with Dean about it later.
In the meantime, he began to realize that there was more to cleaning himself than simply standing under the water, and it probably had something to do with the "scrubbing" Dean mentioned. In Heaven, the only kind of cleaning the angels needed was to groom each other's wings, but down below it was evidently more complex. Sam had left his soap and shampoo sitting on the ledge of the bathtub, and it didn't take Castiel long to work out how to properly use both, though he found that the washing of his hair went by much less painfully when he kept his eyes closed.
He stood there for a while afterwards, still mulling things over. This Trickster fellow seemed suspiciously familiar. Castiel had certainly heard of the creature and had acknowledged his existence many years ago, but meeting him in person… He reminded Castiel of someone whom he could not place, someone so distant in his memory that they probably hadn't spoken in millennia. He scoured the recesses of his mind, searching for the name that matched the personality and could've sworn he almost reached it when—
Bang bang bang. "Cas, hurry it up in there, would ya? We got stuff to do!"
Castiel's eyes flew open. He hadn't even realized he'd closed them again.
-x-
DEAN
Dean would later regret to admit that he'd eaten the other omelet while Cas was in the shower. It wasn't hunger that made him eat it—he supposed angels didn't get hungry—but rather the fact that he wasn't hungry. It was too weird to be up in the morning without a growling stomach, especially since he hadn't had any dinner the night before. Not eating anything would've felt like… well, like abandoning his humanity, he supposed. So, while Sam had gone out jogging, Dean had, after several longing glances towards the steaming dish, sat down at the table and enjoyed Sam's half-assed cooking while the water in the shower rained on.
The effects of the alcohol had all but worn off, leaving him with a bit of a haze in his mind, but nothing more. He was getting flashbacks again—short, sharp, painful reminders of what Cas had put a stop to. His fists clenched. The TV, he found, didn't do much to distract him from them, but it helped.
Dean looked up from a shampoo commercial when he heard the door click open and was in for a shock. Cas had traded his usual suit, backwards tie, etc. for a true hunter's uniform. He looked like somebody else, standing in the doorway in torn-up jeans, the sleeves of the plaid button-up rolled up to his elbows like Dean had done so many times. They looked like he had literally pulled an outfit from Dean's suitcase, but they seemed to fit his thinner form like they were made for him.
"Hey, look at you," said Dean with a grin, standing from his seat and walking over. "You kinda look the part now. How d'you feel?"
Cas was silent for a moment before his gaze slid to Dean's. "They smell like you," he said simply, with that confused, how-did-I-end-up-here face. He began to unroll his trench coat, which had been balled up in his hands.
Dean wasn't sure how to respond to that. He laughed nervously and said, "Right, okay, Copper. Well, listen, we should probably get started on training you up, so uh… Let's go out to the car. I'll show you how to use a gun."
Cas nodded, pulling the coat on, but otherwise didn't respond. He looked a little more like himself now, but it was still weird to see the guy in jeans. Joining Dean at the door, he held out a set of keys. "I'm assuming we'll need these," he said.
Dean took a moment to check his pockets to find that he didn't have his own keys. Of course you don't have your own keys, said a voice in the back of his head very reminiscent of Bobby's. You're an angel, dumbass. Angels don't drive. "Yeah, thanks, Cas," he said, taking the keys. Sometimes he forgot how much Cas had already learned from watching them.
Dean was just about to pull a shotgun out of the back when he heard labored breath and jogging footsteps growing nearer. Afraid that a passing stranger might just freak at the sight of the archaic arsenal of half-rusted weapons compressed into the currently wide-open trunk, he looked sharply around only to see that it was Sam, just finishing his morning run.
"Hey," he puffed, stopping by the car and casting the open trunk a puzzled look. "What're you guys doing?"
Dean fumbled for a credible lie for a moment before managing, "Cas was just gonna practice his shooting."
"What, here? In the middle of the town, are you crazy?" asked Sam in a low voice, stepping closer as if the nearly-empty parking lot was filled with crowds of suspicious people. Dean wasn't accustomed to seeing his little brother give his best bitch-face to Cas instead of him. Neither, apparently, was Cas, whose brow furrowed as he attempted to come up with an answer. Sam didn't let him though; he forged on, saying, "Anyway, I don't think we should stay long. As soon as I take a shower, we're putting this place in our rear-view mirror."
He was addressing Cas, but it was Dean who protested: "Wait, what? Why?"
"I don't see why it's any of your business," snapped Sam, his eyes suddenly fierce as he rounded on Dean. "Why are you hanging around so much lately, anyway? I thought you said your superiors had you on a tight leash. Don't you have something better to do, like, I dunno, finding Lilith or something?"
This took a moment to register with Dean, who raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "Excuse me?" Sam didn't say anything, just glared resolutely back at him. Dean was feeling a little more comfortable now that that look was turned on him, though the conditions for receiving it this time were new to him. "You telling me to scram?"
"No," replied Sam in a more reasonable tone, and to his credit, he looked a little guilty for a second there. "I just want to know why you're suddenly so interested in our daily lives. You haven't exactly made a habit of playing baby-sitter until now."
"Got nothing to do," lied Dean. He was sure Uriel would have yet another "mission" for him as soon as he went back upstairs, but he wasn't exactly keen on doing that. "Why, am I freaking you out?"
"Yes," Sam retorted, so bluntly that Dean almost took a step back. "Look, just—give us some space, alright?"
Dean stood there for a moment without speaking a word, unsure of what to do. He didn't want to leave—Cas might need him. And he definitely didn't want to go report to his dick of a drill sergeant unless he absolutely had to.
"Sam, I really don't mind—" Cas started to say.
Dean shook his head. He'd made up his mind. "No, it's alright," he said without looking at Cas, still a little unsettled by the fact that his own brother was telling him to beat it. "I'll just—" And he disappeared.
He wasn't entirely sure where he was aiming—he just sort of concentrated on Heaven as he took flight. The surroundings that replaced the motel parking lot, though, were entirely unexpected.
Maybe it was because he still had a human mind, whether he was an angel or not. Maybe it was just his perception of things. Whatever it was, the white fog he'd seen before was gone, replaced with what looked like the interior of a militaristic dorm room. It was long and rectangular, with either wall lined with bunk beds that didn't appear to have any specific decorations or personality of any kind—just the same gray bedspread from one to the next. And in the room was a single figure, sitting pensively on the edge of a bed. It looked up when Dean appeared.
For a second, all he could do was stare. If he concentrated, he could see the human face of some goofy kid—someone barely over twenty, probably still living in his mom's basement or something. But the ethereal glow and the sheer magnificence behind it seemed to outshine what he could see of its face. Samandriel. The name appeared in his mind like it had always been there. This guy—Dean assumed he was a guy, at least—was an angel, too, but not as powerful as Uriel or Zachariah. And, judging by the fact that his angel…ness seemed to be showing through the shadow of a human, he hadn't manifested in his vessel yet.
"Dean," said Samandriel calmly, looking evenly up at him. His voice wasn't menacing or intimidating in any way—in fact, it didn't seem to speak of any sort of inner power at all, but was rather soft and kind. "Where've you been? We've been worried about you."
He was speaking in Enochian, Dean realized, but it was much easier to understand here than on Earth—probably something to do with the reception, he thought flippantly. That line threw Dean off, though. Angels were worried about him? The only angel who'd ever seemed to give a damn about him until this point was Cas, and half the time he felt like it was only because he had to. "I—'we'?" repeated Dean, very confused and unable to come up with an answer to the question. He felt like Cas in a strip club. Where the hell am I and what am I supposed to be doing?
Samandriel looked a little concerned at that. "Us," he said, as if Dean should know exactly what he was talking about. Of course, if his memories had been hijacked by the Trickster too, then from his point of view, Dean should know. "Your garrison."
Oh. "Right. Yeah, well, you know, I've just been… downstairs, I guess," replied Dean, shrugging and swinging his arms idly. "Samandriel," he added, as if testing how the name sounded.
"After all these years of calling me 'Andy,' you finally decide to be formal?" asked Samandriel in what might've been surprise. Angelic emotion were so vague to Dean he could barely tell one from another.
"Right—Andy, right. Sorry." Good thing I didn't call you "Sam."
There was a pause. "So what made you come back?" asked Andy as a change of subject, amusement coloring his otherwise gray tone. "Uriel didn't call you."
Apparently the whole not-going-back-to-Heaven-unless-he-had-to thing was a running gag. "You could say I was chased back by a territorial moose," he replied, only half-joking.
Andy looked puzzled at this. "A… moose?"
"Not an actual moose," said Dean, struggling against the urge to roll his eyes. He'd almost forgotten the amount of experience angels had with making jokes. "Where's everybody else, anyway?" he asked, looking around the empty room. He could recall Cas mentioning angels plural in his "garrison."
Andy looked like he was still trying to figure out the moose comment. "Working," he answered. "Balthazar, Hester, and Inias are on supervision. Uriel is on a mission. I was told to wait here in case you showed up."
None of those names meant anything to Dean. "And?"
Andy tilted his head slightly in a manner so like Cas that Dean had to wonder if it was a trademark of all angels. "And make sure you didn't leave before Uriel got back. He doesn't want you spending too much time with the Winchesters." Apparently spotting Dean's protest just as it was about to be formed, he added, "He thinks you've grown too fond of them lately and wants to remind you where your loyalties should lie."
Dean did roll his eyes this time, his frustration evident by the tension in his brow. Great. Fucking great. Chuckles had put him on house arrest for something he couldn't even remember doing. Part of him wondered—if the Trickster hadn't switched their places, would Cas be going through this instead? Did Cas care enough to show it like Dean evidently had, enough to get Uriel worried about his loyalties? A sudden surge of affection for Cas rose in Dean's chest as he remembered what the former-angel had confessed to him after they'd wasted Samhain. Of course he would.
Unbidden, another question surfaced: Would Cas stay with them more if he wasn't so constantly dragged back up here?
Andy must've read Dean's expression, because he proposed, "Why don't we go for a walk? Stretch your wings, talk to a few people…?"
Dean was surprised. This didn't sound like something a typical angel would suggest, especially given the circumstances. He'd half-expected the guy to simply sit and gaze silently off into the distance, like Cas so often did. "Don't we have to stay here?" he asked.
An uncharacteristic hint of mischief sparked in Andy's eyes. "Uriel said I had to keep an eye on you. He didn't say I had to confine you."
Dean grinned in spite of himself. He was starting to like this guy. "Andy," said Dean, clapping his hand on the shoulder of the other angel, who smiled in response, "I like the way you think."
"I don't agree with all your views," confessed Andy as he stood, making for the door, "but I'm with you on one thing: Uriel is a…" he paused, as if he wasn't sure how to use the term, "…dick." He turned to Dean, a questioning look on his face. "Did I get that right? Human slang can be very confusing."
Dean almost laughed. "Yeah, you definitely got it right."
The outside of the room didn't seem to match the inside. Bright light flooded the place, illuminating a garden so lush and brightly colored Dean could've sworn it came straight out of a Disney movie. It was like a greenhouse, but comfortably cool. The smell of flowers was so chokingly strong that he almost gagged on his first whiff. Andy, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice; he inhaled deeply and let it out in a long sigh, clearly satisfied with his surroundings. Despite the smell and the fact that it looked like someone had spilled a bucket of melted crayons across his line of vision, he had to admit it had a generally relaxing atmosphere. Everything was quiet and calm, and even as he looked, the colors seemed to dull slightly to a level that was easier on his eyes. Looking around a second time, he decided he kinda liked it.
There didn't appear to be anything living within sight other than the plants—not even insects, surprisingly. But their solitude wasn't looming or ominous. It was… peaceful. Eternal paradise. He believed it.
Andy led the way, forging along a narrow dirt path without any apparent destination in mind. Dean followed, lagging behind slightly as he took in the scenery. He wasn't generally one to appreciate nature, but it had been a while since he'd done this, simply walking—no mission, no bar, no cab to a chick's place… If there was anywhere to be purposeless, this was it.
"You'll have to talk to him eventually," said Andy after a few minutes of silence, not facing Dean.
Dean didn't bother pretending he didn't know who Andy was talking about. He thought for a second, putting off answering the question he could hear disguised under the statement. "I know," he admitted finally, with a falsely cheerful shrug. "Don't care."
The other angel must've known him better than he thought, because he looked at Dean now, his eyes concerned. "Everyone in the garrison knows what Uriel said to you, Dean," he said, not unkindly. "We all heard it."
Dean grimaced. "Angel radio on open broadcast?" he said grimly. "Fantastic. Glad to know privacy is so valued to you feathery assholes."
It was a token to Andy's patience that he didn't look the slightest bit hurt at this. Instead, he held Dean's gaze steadily—and uncannily so; Dean was used to Cas staring at him, but this just felt weird. "It's okay if you felt afraid, Dean," he said gently. "You're not the only one that messes up. Remember when Balthazar got so angry because he lost a game of poker to the Trickster that Mt. St. Helens erupted?"
Dean didn't remember because he'd never been an angel before yesterday, but he didn't say as much. Who knows what Andy would think of him if he tried to tell him what had really happened? Instead of answering, he changed the subject: "What do you know about the Trickster?"
"Not much," he admitted. Then he added, "You met him once."
"I did?"
"Yes—at least, you told me you did. You said you had a few drinks with him. You thought he was funny."
Dean gritted his teeth for a moment, biting back a violently creative curse. Of course the Trickster would fucking flatter himself in his own modified memories. "Well, I must've been pretty drunk, cause I don't remember a thing," said Dean, trying to keep the tension out of his tone.
Andy must've noticed his forced chuckle. "Are you alright?" he asked, looking over at him again.
"Yeah, I'm fine," said Dean quickly, giving what he hoped was a small, convincing smile.
After another minute or two, they ran into a creek. A small wooden bridge led the way over it, but instead of crossing the waters, Andy turned and began to meander down the shore, his bare feet treading in the shallow water. Dean trailed after him, stunned by the clarity of the gentle current. Still he could see nothing living—no fish or birds or anything; just healthy green leaves dragged by the current and smooth, rounded pebbles of all different hues. As they trekked, he listened to the soft babbling of the brook splashing over stones. He could've sworn he could hear voices in it, like the Enochian whispers that constantly accompanied his thoughts.
After another minute, he realized he could hear voices. They were growing clearer with each step, chattering as cheerfully as the water next to them. He looked up and saw them: two other angels, one obviously male judging by its vessel and the other… well, Dean couldn't tell. The first one had short, cropped black hair, dark eyes, and haughty features. Also, the fact that he was wearing a suit while sitting in the middle of the creek didn't seem to bother him. Eremiel. The second one, though, wasn't even like Andy—it didn't have a shadow of a human to go by; it was just pure, genderless, shining white light. David.
David was sitting on a rock, slightly raised above Eremiel's level, and was running his (Dean assumed he was a dude, since his name was David) glowing fingers through Eremiel's feathered charcoal-gray wings, which were visible and sparkling with drops of water. As Dean and Andy approached, they stopped talking and looked around. Dean couldn't read an expression on David—just a general mood, an aura of emotion that went from warm and friendly to stiff and uncomfortable in almost an instant. And Eremiel—well, Dean could read his face, and it was just downright nasty. His lip curled at the sight of Dean, like he'd just laid eyes on some really fucked-up road-kill.
Andy stopped in his tracks. "Maybe we should go," he muttered uncertainly, eyeing the pair, but Dean remained rooted to the spot, his usual stubbornness rising to the challenge.
"Oh, sorry," snapped Dean sarcastically, ignoring the instincts that were telling him how much higher Eremiel was than him on the food chain. "I hope we weren't interrupting your little birdbath session."
To his satisfaction, David's long strokes faltered and ceased for a moment in a disgruntled, slightly embarrassed manner. Eremiel's sneer, however, only deepened. "No, not at all," he said in a dangerously soft tone, giving his wings an impatient jerk as if reminding David to continue. "I was just telling David how much more entertaining it would've been if you had lit up that town like a supernova."
David seemed even more uncomfortable at that remark, but he said nothing to defend Dean. Beneath his obvious nervousness was an unmistakable undercurrent of both pity and cold disgust, as though he couldn't decide which one he felt more. "You know what?" Dean snarled, taking a step closer with his shoulders set. "I'm sick of this. I'm sick of all of you gossiping about me like a group of girls before prom night, because I think I did a pretty damn good job down there. I might've almost blown the whole population sky-high, but I still stopped the seal being broken, didn't I? Since when do you dicks with wings even care about a town full of 'mud-monkeys', anyway?"
Eremiel sat up a little straighter with a disbelieving scoff. "You don't get it, do you? Uriel doesn't want to nail your wings up because of some town full of low-lifes." Dean saw Andy stiffen out of the corner of his eye, leaving him to wonder what "nail your wings up" was an expression for. He'd have to ask Cas about it later. "Uriel's pissed because you didn't level the town. You wasted your time chasing devil's spawn practically to Hell and back when you could've just smote the entire place and saved some time." He paused to let that sink in before continuing, "Why do you think Uriel had Zachariah charge up your angel grace so much you couldn't hold it back? He wanted you to let it loose."
Dean was rigid with tension, stunned speechless for a moment by the sheer douchebaggery of what he'd just heard. Uriel's pissed because you didn't level the whole town. That was what his whole "screw-up" was about? The fact that he didn't blow a few thousand innocent lives off the map?! And the grace—Uriel had done that on purpose? Without even telling him? He was so pissed he could hardly think straight. That conniving son of a bitch. I'm gonna kill him.
"Dean, come on," said Andy quietly, tugging on the sleeve of Dean's coat. Dean, who was glaring mutinously at Eremiel, was eventually coaxed away by Andy, who had to grab his arm and practically drag him back.
"That fucktruck," Dean muttered, shoulders hunched and expression stormy. "I'm gonna stab him in the throat, I swear to God…"
Andy looked alarmed before Dean remembered that swearing on the Big Guy was a pretty huge deal up here. "You shouldn't say things like that, Dean," he said. "He's family."
"No, he's—" Dean started to say in a raised voice, but he stopped himself, lowering his tone to a growling mutter. "No, he's not." None of these creatures were his family. They were Cas's family, not his. Sam was his family, and no one else.
Dean stewed in silence as they headed back along the creek. He didn't need to ask why Eremiel and David had acted that way; he was scraping bottom right now, so low in the hierarchy that there probably wasn't even a name for his rank (and all because he'd tried to keep a cap on his fucking "divine wrath"). He was proving to be a crap angel so far according to their standards, so he wasn't surprised the others didn't want to associate with him. That didn't stop him being pissed, though. Here was this asshole, acting all high-and-mighty just for the hell of it. There was nothing Dean hated more. Well, he did hate sneaky bastards just as much, which he supposed Uriel and Zachariah both qualified as.
After a while, his stream of brooding ran dry, and he glanced over at Andy. So far, this kid was proving to be the only one who genuinely cared about him—besides Cas, of course, but Cas was on temporary leave. "Why are you friends with me, Andy?" he asked, sincerely curious.
Once again, the other angel seemed to have read his mind. "You have a good heart, Dean," he said gently. "I always liked that about you. Too much heart was always a problem for you, I think, but…" He shrugged. "And I wasn't exactly looked up to when I was assigned to your garrison, but you were the first one to talk to me, and the only one to ever accept me." He cast Dean a small, slightly abashed smile before moving on. "I don't think it matters, anyway. I wouldn't have had the courage to do what you did, but I think it was the right thing to do regardless. You stopped the seal from breaking without killing innocent lives—that's worth something, even if half the folks up here don't think so."
Dean was inexplicably reminded of Bobby—of a much softer, kitten-like version of Bobby. Despite what Sam apparently thought of him as an angel, Dean didn't mind what other people remembered of him at the moment. He didn't seem half-bad, according to Andy—and too much heart, in his opinion, was never a problem. "Thanks, Andy," he said, realizing he'd needed that. "You're a good guy."
He felt a little better about the incident now, but he found he still couldn't stop thinking about it. What had they even been doing? Preening, he realized, the smooth strokes of David's fingers reminding him of a bird straightening its own feathers. Dean couldn't help thinking that David must've been Eremiel's bitch, if he was going to sit around grooming the other dude's wings all day.
Why is it even necessary for angels to groom their own wings? he found himself wondering. Cas seemed capable of cleaning himself up after a nasty fight. The question was hanging on his lips when he remembered that, from Andy's point of view, Dean was supposed to already know the answer. He'd have to be very careful about what he asked the other angel. Shit. He found himself wishing that Cas was giving him the heavenly tour instead of Andy. That would make this way easier.
Inevitably, his mind strayed back to Eremiel and David, and this time, the question slipped before he could wonder whether it was safe to ask or not: "Hey, how come I can sort of see your vessel, but I couldn't see David's?"
As soon as the question was out of his mouth, he was expecting Andy to give him another one of those worried looks and ask if he was okay. Instead, as they passed over the small wooden bridge crossing the creek, he remarked, "I'm surprised you haven't asked about my vessel sooner. I only just visited him last night." He sounded kind of proud of himself, like it was a big deal or something. "David hasn't made contact with a vessel yet, since he hasn't needed to. I just talked to mine, but I'm not still using him, so that's why you can only 'sort of' see him."
"What's his name?" asked Dean. He couldn't help feeling a little stiff towards the whole 'vessel' thing; Cas had said his vessel had "prayed for this," but it still seemed cruel to him. Suddenly an angel just takes you for a joy ride, gives you a really traumatic experience to remember it by, and then drops you off with nothing more than the lingering threat that it might be back. It was better than demon possession, he supposed, since angels weren't likely to get your mug-shot on the evening news, but it still seemed pretty twisted to Dean.
"Alfie," answered Andy, fondness softening his expression and tone. "He's a good kid. He works at one of those places where humans go to get food."
"A restaurant?" supplied Dean.
"Yeah." His gaze darkened. "Last night, he… he was going to commit suicide. So I talked to him. I convinced him not to. Gave him new purpose."
"Well, yeah, can't have your vessel going and offing himself," said Dean, a little harsher than he intended. "That'd be too inconvenient, right?"
"Only archangels have true vessels, Dean, you know that," replied Andy, again with that remarkable amount of patience. "I know I could've taken anyone who could hear my voice. But Alfie… I didn't want to see him dead. I didn't want to see that heart of his wasted, not when he had so much to live for."
Dean found himself without words as he felt a sudden swell of appreciation for the angel by his side. He realized that maybe, just maybe, not all angels were dicks. This one, at least, seemed to care about humanity—which was probably why he was looked down on so much by the others. His compassion made him weak; that's how they saw it, at least.
His thoughts were interrupted as he became aware that he and Andy were once again no longer alone. Another angel was striding towards them in the opposite direction further down the path, this one in a vessel. As it approached, Dean realized that it was in fact a she—a she with wavy blond hair, a white dress, and a pair of honey-gold wings, the longest feathers of which trailed on the ground behind her. Ruth. Jesus Christ, she was gorgeous. And she, unlike Eremiel and David, called out to them both by name, smiling in a friendly way as they neared.
"Hello, Ruth," said Andy once they'd gotten close enough to speak in casual tones. "I see you've found a vessel. Are you on duty?"
"Not at the moment. Rachel took over for me," she said. Her voice was kind, but strong; Dean got the impression that she could be a real piece of work if she wanted to. She looked to Dean, her chocolate-brown eyes cool and analytical, with just a hint of mischief. "I think this is the first time I've seen your vessel. He's not bad, for a human. Where'd you get him?" As she spoke, she reached up, running a hand experimentally through his hair and touching his face. He thought for the first time that maybe he didn't mind angels' skewed concept of personal space.
Dean wasn't quite sure how to answer that question, since he'd had this "vessel" as long as he could remember. Instead of answering, he looked her up and down (again) and remarked with a cocky sort of smile, "Yours isn't so bad, either."
"You're cute," she said dryly, withdrawing her hand, "but I'm your sister." With one last quirk of an eyebrow, she departed, brushing his shoulder with her wing in a teasing sort of way.
Dean turned as she went, watching her hips swaying as she walked, framed between those golden feathers. Without warning, Andy punched him in the arm, and he recoiled with a yelp. "What was that for?" Dean barked defensively.
"You're disgusting, Dean," said Andy, but he was trying not to laugh.
-x-
CASTIEL
Castiel had struggled for a moment to conceal the sudden inner burst of panic at Dean's departure. He'd been left alone the day before, but this was different somehow. This time he couldn't just tell Sam what was going on. Whatever he had to figure out while Dean was gone, he had to figure out all on his own.
"Why do you want to leave so soon?" he'd asked Sam. "Don't you—we—usually… 'stick around', perhaps visit a bar or…?" To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure what other options there were since he'd only ever seen Dean at a bar or pub of some form, and rarely anywhere else unless he was working.
"Normally I'd be game for that, especially after a job like this, but… I dunno. Something about this place, about last night… I'd rather just get out, as soon as possible. We can stop somewhere once we've put a hundred miles or so behind us," Sam had explained with a sigh as he'd closed the trunk. His frown had deepened. "Do you have any idea what's up with Dean?" he'd asked suddenly. "He's been weird lately, even for an angel. It's like he's guarding us or something."
Castiel had nearly blurted out what the Trickster had done to them before remembering the reasons why he'd been advised not to. After a brief but intense internal struggle, he'd tried his best for an innocent shrug. "No idea," he'd said, trying to imitate Dean's loose body language and casual, carefree tone.
Sam had eyed him strangely for a moment, making him nervous. Had he gotten the movement wrong? Did it seem too deliberate? But Sam had just turned and headed back into the motel room.
They had packed their things—Castiel locating what he determined to be his very own cell phone and wallet—and paid the motel manager. Castiel couldn't say how grateful he'd felt when Sam offered to drive because Castiel had "looked tired." And he was tired—he hadn't gotten much sleep, and what he had gotten hadn't been very restful.
He was used to the powerful, rumbling snarl of the Impala's engine, but the roar as it came to life had still shocked him to the point that he jumped in surprise, his pulse suddenly racing. Once he'd gotten over the initial surprise, though, he found it was somewhat… satisfying. To not only hear the purring engine but feel it thrumming through the seat, through the soles of his feet—it was like it was alive somehow, some kind of angry beast trapped within metal walls, just waiting to be released to extract its revenge. He was starting to see why Dean liked it so much—in a rugged, steely kind of way, the car was sort of beautiful. And the smell—somehow, after all those years it had endured, it still had that musky aroma of old leather: Dean's scent.
Everything about the car said Dean all over it. How could Sam sit there, so relaxed, with Castiel in the passenger's seat instead of Dean? It felt wrong.
He hadn't meant to doze in the car, but the growl of the engine was very soothing. Before he knew it, two hours had gone by and he was suddenly unsticking his face from the window.
"Sleep good?" asked Sam as Castiel sat up, rubbing his eyes.
"Yes," he replied, though his thoughts were still fuzzy with the clinging cobwebs of exhaustion. The feeling gradually faded, and soon he was more alert than ever, watching the landscape roll past the windows. He was only half-aware of the music playing through the speakers; it was Dean's kind of music, not his, though he had to admit it was growing on him—mostly just because it reminded him of Dean.
Castiel slowly became conscious of a yawning feeling in his stomach. It was almost painful, like something was shifting or clenching. The feeling intensified until, about an hour later, he heard—above the roar of the engine and the soft beat of the radio—a low growling sort of sound that seemed to coincide with a particularly strange sensation in his gut.
Sam looked over in surprise. "Was—was that you?" he asked in disbelief.
"I'm not sure," he replied, perplexed. "My stomach hurts. Does that have anything to do with it?"
"Cas, have you had anything to eat since yesterday morning?"
Castiel blinked. He hadn't thought of that—then again, he hadn't needed to eat until yesterday afternoon. "No," he said truthfully.
"What happened to the other omelet I made?" asked Sam in surprise. "There were two empty plates on the—" He broke off when Castiel shrugged. "Damn it, I bet it was Dean… Alright, I guess we'll stop somewhere," Sam acquiesced. "Next exit, we'll find a diner or something."
About half an hour later, they were sitting at a table, Castiel enjoying a hamburger and Sam a salad. Sam was reading the local newspaper—checking for potential cases, Castiel assumed. Castiel, who'd finished first, had practically licked his plate clean and was feeling comfortably full. His vessel, apparently, greatly enjoyed hamburgers.
He'd been thinking while he ate, thinking about the last few hours. There was something that needed to be done, something he'd need Dean's help to accomplish. "I'll be right back," he told Sam. "I've just got to step outside for a moment." Sam nodded but didn't question it, too absorbed in his paper.
Castiel left the restaurant and made instinctively for the Impala. He was beginning to associate the car with a feeling of security—a sort of portable safe haven, he supposed. He halted by the car, leaning back against the side and craning his head skyward. "Dean," he said quietly, a little reluctant to be praying to the former-human. "Dean, are you there?"
He started to get worried when Dean didn't appear right away, but before long he heard the familiar rush of flapping wings and turned to see Dean standing by the hood. "Do not be afraid, young Castiel," he said in a slightly mocking tone. "It is I, Angel Dean."
"That's not funny," said Castiel moodily, standing up.
Dean ignored him, looking over the Impala with a critical eye. "She looks okay. I take it Sam saved you the mercy of driving?" Castiel nodded. Dean muttered something that sounded like "Thank God" before lifting his gaze and looking around the parking lot. "Where is Gigantor, anyway?"
"Inside," said Castiel, nodding his head towards the diner. "But that isn't important. Dean, I need you to teach me how to drive." Dean stared at him with his you've-got-to-be-joking face, but Castiel, who'd been thinking about this, said quickly, "It won't be difficult. Angels can do a sort of… information transfer, through touch. All you have to d—"
"It doesn't work like that, Cas," said Dean, looking impatient but refusing to meet the other's gaze. "I can give you facts and directions, but I can't just zap pure instinct into your head. That comes with experience."
Castiel bristled as a portion of his pent-up frustration began to bubble up. "Do you think I don't know that, Dean?" he snarled dangerously, suddenly furious as he started slowly forward. "Do you think, just because I'm a human now, that I don't remember the past thousands of years I've spent as an angel? You don't need to tell me how the process works like you're some kind of expert after one day! I know!" He was standing right in front of Dean now, glaring into the angel's stunned green eyes. His voice dropped back down to a growl. "Whatever you might be now, Dean, remember that I was the one who led the siege for forty years just to get to you. I was the one who sewed your broken soul back together using threads of my own grace. I was the one who grabbed you by the shoulder and carried you out of Hell!"
In the ringing silence that followed Castiel's outraged roar, he could've heard a pin drop on the other side of the parking lot. He was half-expecting Dean to remind him of "personal space," but to his immense satisfaction, Dean actually shrank back a little, his indignant gaze dropping guiltily. "M'sorry, Cas," he muttered.
The tension eased from Castiel's shoulders, the anger draining from his face. "It's okay," he said, letting out a long sigh through flared nostrils. "Now teach me how to drive."
Dean still looked reluctant, and Castiel could only imagine all the different scenarios he was picturing in which Castiel crashed his precious Impala. So he waited, his blue gaze as steady and persistent as ever, until finally Dean, reaching his hand up to Castiel's face, snapped, "Fine. But if you wreck my baby, I will smite your ass."
He felt the tips of Dean's fingers on his forehead and suddenly found a new pocket of instructions and details on how to operate the Impala. His brow furrowed. The information was all relevant, but it was jumbled and confused like it had been hastily thrown together. There were bits of things concerning the mechanisms under the car's hood, like what to do if he heard a specific noise or what to check if something started smoking, but they seemed to have been thrown in last-minute. Even when he sorted through everything, only the most basic commands were immediately understandable—he'd have to go through each of the others individually and try to make sense of it all.
"You look confused," said Dean uncertainly. "Did I give you something confusing?"
"No, it's fine, it's just… I need to think." He leaned back against the side of the Impala's hood and began to sift through what he'd just been told. You place the key in the ignition, turn it, the car starts, buckle your seatbelt because if you don't Sam will yell at you, adjust the radio because Sam's music is crap—
"Oh, fuck—Cas, I gotta—" started Dean suddenly, but before he could finish his sentence, his wings were out and he was gone. Castiel was starting to understand why Dean got so annoyed whenever Castiel came and went without a sound.
Before he could return his concentration to his previous devices, however, the door to the diner opened, and out walked Sam, looking uncomfortable. Directly behind him followed Ruby.
Castiel stood up again. It was the first time he had laid eyes on her without being able to see her true face. She looked… pretty, he supposed. It didn't stop him from being wary, though; he knew Ruby's history, had seen what she and Sam had gotten up to during the dark hours of the night. She wasn't welcome here, and he let as much show on his face.
"Don't look at me like that, Castiel," she said sharply, catching his expression. It caught him off-guard, being addressed by her without even a hint of fear in her eyes. "I've just got some info, and then I'm gone."
"What is it?" asked Sam, showing genuine interest.
"I'm hearing a few whispers. A girl named Anna Milton escaped from a locked ward yesterday." Anna Milton, thought Castiel, eyes narrowing in thought. Where had he heard that name? "The demons seem pretty keen on finding her. Apparently some real heavy-hitters turned out for the Easter-egg hunt."
Sam cast a glance at Castiel, as if he expected the other man to protest. "Why? Who is she?"
"No idea," said Anna, eyebrows raised in a carefree expression, similar to the one Castiel saw on Dean's face after he'd had too many drinks. "But I'm thinking that she's important, cause the orders are to capture her alive."
Sam's eyebrows went up. Castiel remained silent, thinking. Why did this girl's name seem to ring pleasantly in his ears? He felt nostalgia tied to it somehow, but could not figure out how. And how could she be so vital, whoever she was, that the demons would want her alive? They wouldn't want that unless she had something they wanted—information, most likely, though unique abilities were also possible…
"I just figured that whatever the deal is, you might want to find this girl before the demons do," added Ruby.
Castiel must've still looked distrustful, because Sam said to him, "Look, maybe we should check it out."
Castiel was silent for a long moment, gazing evenly at Ruby, who was glancing between him and Sam with a suspiciously impassive expression. He wanted to look into it—his curiosity about this "Anna" girl was really getting to him—but at the same time, he did not trust Ruby in the slightest. "I'm not sure we should," he said, addressing Sam even as he continued to watch Ruby.
She looked mildly offended, her dark eyes turning to chips of stone. "I'm just delivering the news. You can do whatever you want with it. As far as I'm concerned, I told you. I'm done." She turned to go, but Sam stopped her.
"Wait, Ruby—this hospital Anna escaped from. Got a name?"