"Your room is on the fourth floor, sir," the bored motel clerk handed Dean a plastic key. The familiar insignia of a single feather was branded into the backside; this place was government property.
"Thanks." he pocketed the card, trying to bury his disgust. The clerk nodded, and went back to checking her nails.
The hallway was completely empty. It reminded Dean of something he couldn't quite place, the wind from outside fluttering the moth-eaten curtains along the windows. The floor was stained and dark, and the walls looked about to crumble where they stood.
"Friggin' creep show," Dean muttered to himself. He found the elevator as quickly as he could. He jabbed at the button angrily. This day couldn't possibly go worse for him; stuck in a storm, broken down car, and no where near closer to finding the agents that killed Mom. He sucked in a frustrated breath as the elevator dinged meekly, signalling it's return.
The doors slid open. There, in the corner of the elevator, was the man from before. He didn't even glance at Dean as he slipped into the room. He just focused on a spot on the ceiling, eyebrows knitted in evident concentration.
Dean had never felt more awkward in his life. He supposed he should have hated the man, as he was working for the government, but all he could feel was a sort of detached curiosity. Who was he? Why was he searching for that...Balthazar, was it? Odd name. But then, the woman agent had called him "Castiel", which sounded like a flower product. Dean snorted despite himself, giggling at his own joke.
"Is this your floor?" Dean jumped at the voice. The man was pointing to the doors of the elevator, which had come to a screeching halt. The flickering display above the sliding doors read "Floor Four" in neon and black. Funny, mused Dean. I hadn't even noticed.
"Uh, yeah," Dean flashed his signature smile, but faltered when he noticed the cold expression on Castiel's face. Clearly he wasn't looking to make friends here, and Dean felt a spark of rebellious indignation at the look. Well, tough luck for Chuckles over here, he smirked. Dean Winchester don't play nice.
He thrust his hand out, leaving his grin up and hoping it came over as cocky and carefree as possible.
"Dean, by the way," he said, holding the doors open as he leaned against them. "Dean, uh, Lee."
Castiel took his hand stiffly, and offered a slight quirk of a smile.
"Castiel."
"Nice to meet you, Cass."
"I didn't say Cass. I said–"
"I know what you said, buddy," Dean laughed. "I ain't about to choke out that mouthful every time I say your name."
Castiel blinked, and adjusted his tie with a vacant look of confusion. He seemed to pop out of his stupor, however, when Dean clapped him on the shoulder and left the elevator with a jaunty wave.
"Be seeing you, Cass," he called as the doors slithered shut.
"Yeah," Cass said to himself. "Be seeing you, Dean."
...
Two shotguns, loaded with rock salt. White chalk. Iron blade, silver blade, four stakes, a sharpened spear. Axe. Dead man's blood. Regular automatic.
Dean took a swig of whiskey. All across the motel bed, the contents of his life glittered under lamplight. He had to be prepared. There were things out there in the dark, things beside the government agents. Things he couldn't explain.
Although all he really cared about right now was getting some sleep, then getting the hell out of this town. He'd called Bobby shortly after finding his room, explaining his situation.
"Alright, ya idjit, don't get yer panties in a twist," Bobby had snapped over the phone. "I sent word ahead to Ellen and the boys, they know the delay. Just don't come whining to me when you lose those agents you been trailin'."
"Yeah, yeah, Bobby, I got you," Dean sighed, rubbing his jaw wearily. It had been a long day. "Tell Ellen to send Jo to take care of that vamp nest. She's got the balls to do it, if anyone does,"
"The hell I will! The woman will eat me alive if she finds out. I'll just get Rufus off his lazy ass and he'll get it wrapped up. Y'all just keep after those agents, boy. Don't worry." Bobby sounded suddenly very old, and the sound of a beer being cracked open was distant but sure. "Sam and Jess came over after you called, y'know."
"Oh." Dean gulped. "Right. And...?"
Bobby snorted, and took a swig.
"Sammy's one lucky bastard." Dean could almost see Bobby's exasperated eye-roll. "But he's got trouble written all over him. All of you do. Damn Winchesters."
"I'll call you from the Roadhouse, Bobby," Dean hung up before the older hunter could argue.
It was almost daylight. Dean rubbed sleep from his eyes. No, he couldn't rest. He had to work. There were things he needed to get straight.
The agent he had been looking for his entire life was named Azazel.
That was all Dean knew. He remembered flashes, snippets, cold voices. Southern accents. That was it. Azazel was spoke of in a sort of fearful reverence by all, his legendary feats more like violence then the work of a hero.
"That man does bad things," Ellen had snarled.
"Evil. God, he's just...evil, y'know?" Chuck had warned.
You stay the hell away from him, you idjit," Bobby had snapped.
Dean wasn't afraid of Azazel, though. And the bastard was only a few towns south according to his sources.
He drained the bottle of the last drop of whiskey, tossed it back onto the rumpled sheets, grabbed the smallest weapon, and headed out to get a bite to eat.
...
Castiel was always quiet. He hated the constant awkward silence that followed him, he really did, but honest to God he had no idea what to say sometimes.
"Wow, Cassie, you can really spoil a mood now, can't you?" Balthazar had always chided him. Gabriel said the same thing too, and had always regarded him with a sort of patronizing patience.
Poor Castiel, innocent Castiel, naive, Castiel. Their words meant well, but behind them he saw their pity. He's just so lost sometimes.
Well damn it all if he wanted to prove them wrong.
He slid unevenly into the bar as he always had. He had a way, Castiel. A way of entering a room without anyone ever noticing he was there. It was extremely helpful, especially now with Heaven always on the watch.
Heaven. The new government even had a fake-sounding name. They were liars, the lot of them.
"So," came the voice of the waitress. "Can I get you anything, sweetheart?"
Castiel blinked, and automatically tried to avoid "The Deathstare" as Gabriel had affectionately called it. He had a habit of looking too hard.
"Just a coffee," he answered, unsmiling. The waitress looked perplexed, almost as if she expected him to flirt.
"Oh. Okay. You call me if you need anything else, got it?" she wandered off, her cheeks a little red.
Castiel's mind drifted back towards thoughts of Heaven. They must know where Balthazar was. They had to. It was all a hoax, their search and their deal.
The woman. Anna. He didn't trust her. His coffee came, and he stared at it emptily, thoughts of the red-head swirling blindly in his mind. She was hiding something.
And there was no way he was going to work for her. No way. She'd already given him a neat Manila folder, a little plastic cell phone, and a gun he had no idea how to use.
"Kill the man called Winchester," she'd said with a smile that sent shivers up Castiel's spine. "Kill him and we'll help you find your friend."
Castiel found that his coffee was starting to go cold. He sipped it dully, hunched over in his chair, trying to avoid any looks from the rather scrappy-looking bar goers. The last thing he needed was any distractions. Digging into the pocket of his trench-coat, he pulled out the cell phone. Running a finger along the raised bumps of the keys, he frowned.
He didn't even know any Winchesters, let alone where to find one. And what if he killed the wrong one? Would Anna enlist another wanderer to kill him, leave him in an unmarked grave? Castiel didn't want to think about the consequences.
"Cass?"
Castiel almost dropped the phone in shock. That voice, he'd heard it somewhere.
"Shit! It is you!" Dean Lee was walking over, a broad smile on his face. His short cinnamon hair was sticky with mist, and he waved joyfully as Castiel noticed him, elbowing his way through the crowd.
"Oh. Hello, Dean."
"Well don't pee yourself, dude. I'm not that exciting." Dean pulled out the chair across from him, and flopped down in it. His dark green eyes flicked momentarily to the object in Castiel's hand, and they widened dramatically. "Holy...is that a phone, Cass? Where the hell did you get that?"
"It is not of import," Castiel said hurriedly, scrambling to shove the phone back into his pocket.
Dean was smirking. He signaled for a drink, and leaned in conspiratorially towards Castiel.
"You talk like an old geezer," he said brightly.
"You smell like beer," Castiel found himself saying before he could stop himself. He blushed, cursing in his head. "I mean, I didn't–"
"Dude, chill," Dean seemed to find this all very amusing. "Only joking."
"Ah."
A not entirely uncomfortable silence befell the two. The waitress returned with Dean's drink, giving him a lustful wink. She gave Castiel a look of pity. He sighed inwardly.
...
Dean found himself watching Cass. The man seemed almost permanently perplexed about something, his expression always blank or questioning. His blue eyes looked at Dean with all the intensity of a friggin' laser beam, and Dean would be lying if he said it didn't creep the crap out of him. But still, Cass had an air of...something. That something made Dean really want to see him smile.
"Okay, so how about we play a few drinking games? Loosen that tie up, huh?" he raised his glass with what he hoped was a jaunty grin. "'Cause seriosuly, dude. You look like a tax accountant."
"What is a tax accountant?" Cass asked, tilting his head. He took a slow sip of coffee.
Jesus, the guy must have been a shut-in.
"Y'know. Dude who...um...accounts taxes?"
"You don't know." Cass raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, gimme a break. It ain't exactly 2012 and all is well in America, so I'm not really caught up on that corporate mumb-jumbo." He took a loud swig of beer. It gave his brain a nice, warm fuzz.
But Cass just looked down at the table, mumbling something about "work to do". He was out of his chair in seconds, and starting to wander towards the door, when Dean grabbed his arm.
"Hey, wait! Sit awhile. I'm bored, man. This town blows."
But Cass just looked at him sadly. The blue of his eyes was suddenly darker, suddenly deeper.
"I am sorry, Dean. It would be best if you stay out of my way."
And he pushed away, suddenly disappearing into the crowd.
Dean blinked. This was new. People didn't just walk out on Dean Winchester. No, they were usually entranced in his charm, his grace, his...oh, who was he kidding? Dean knew he was damn good-looking, and that was why people liked him.
He sighed, and turned back towards the table. There, draped across the pushed-back chair, was Cass' beige trench-coat. The idiot had forgotten it in his rush to "do work" (whatever that meant).
He tried to ignore it–he really did. He flirted with the waitress, ordered another beer. Picked a fight with a redneck, and returned to the seat only to find curiosity flooding him.
"Oh, screw it." Dean reached across the table, and dragged the coat towards him. It was surprisingly heavy–the pockets were weighed down with something.
He scattered the contents on the table, guilt nibbling on the edges of his mind. But he pushed it aside, and squinted through the slight tipsy haze at Cass' belongings.
It wasn't much–the cell phone he'd had earlier, a crumpled folder, and what was definitely an illegal firearm. Dean put the gun back quickly, hoping nobody had spotted it. That would be rich.
There was also a faded photograph, laminated. The color had long since seeped back into the flimsy plastic, but Dean could just make out three faces.
One was familiar. Dark, just-out-of-bed hair, blue eyes, a disgruntled look. Definitely Cass. Although the picture had clearly been taken years ago, he could already see the seriousness in the man's face, the slight frown.
The other two, Dean couldn't recognize. A short, brown-haired man to the right of Cass had his arm thrown up in sort of a mock salute, his tongue sticking out, and his face screwed into a silly, cross-eyed look. The man to the left of Cass was trying very hard to hold in a smile–he was much older than the other two, at least a decade. The blonde hair was already showing signs of gray, and his face was lined slightly, as if time had suddenly caught up with him. He had an arm slung casually over Cass' shoulder, a mischevious glint in his eye.
Dean flipped the picture over. There, scrawled over the back, was a message in pen.
Novak bros. and B. April 24, 2007.
He put the photo back carefully, with a twinge of...what was it? Pity? Amusement? No. Melancholy, he decided. Cass had had a life. Friends. Someone to snap this shot and embarass the crap out of him. All Dean had was an alcoholic dad who died, and a brother whom he missed more every day.
Next to the photo, the folder had shifted open.
Dean nearly choked on his beer as he read the paper inside.
Kill Winchester.
...