There's no reason to be afraid
Cause if they black out the sun
And your blood turns to dust
I'll follow you into your grave
A menace a monster
The thing that haunts your dreams
A nightmare, my comfort
I'll thrive on all your tears.
"Menace" by Crown the Empire
Castiel held tight to Dean's jacket. It was soft and leather, worn down by years, and his nails dug little indents into the fabric. The kiss broken, he sucked a breath of fresh air through battered lungs.
He was supposed to be dead. All signs led to a bullet crashing through his chest and slamming into his heart, but here he lay, inches from Dean's face. The blood on his back (warm and saturated through the thin fabric of his shirt) was not his.
In a moment, Castiel would stand and see the splayed body of Balthazar, eyes still open and glazed with shock, full of untimely awareness of what was and what would soon be. In a moment, Dean would take Castiel's hand in his own warm fingers, and lead him at a half-sprint to where the Impala still parked. In a moment, they'd careen from the parking lot, the door to room 42 still left slightly ajar, the TV softly playing, a framed painting fallen to the ashen floor.
But for now, Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel, fingers curling through his hair, and whispered things that Castiel could not possibly comprehend.
...
The road was silent. If the radio had not been playing (a constant of warm fuzz and cold crackles), Dean wouldn't know what to do with his ears.
Castiel wanted to sit in the back, as he always did, saying loudly that "Sam's seat should belong to Sam", but Dean would have nothing of it, and so Cass sat somewhat rigidly beside him, carefully wiping blood from his own face.
He wasn't that great with words, but Dean Winchester was a man of well-played actions. He placed his free-hand over Cass', and gave it a light squeeze.
In response, Castiel paused, and sent a small, weary smile towards Dean.
They went on like this for several miles, a faded town and a McDonald's lazily passing by the Impala's steamed windows. Squeeze. Smile. Radio. Silence.
Finally–"He wasn't always like that, you know,"
Dean frowned, swerving a bit as he turned to face Cass.
"Balthazar was a good man, once. He was nice to me."
If he wanted to say anything else, he left it unsaid. Dean felt his hand give a slight squeeze back, and he turned back to the road.
"I know, man. I know."
Smile. Radio.
"And I'll explain everything. Heaven's plans. Just...may we stop and eat here?" Cass gestured out the window towards a beaten green road sign, advertising the nearest town. "I have not eaten since..."
Silence.
"Yeah, it's cool, Cass," Dean said quickly, before the sentence could be finished (he saw, in his head, fading headlights seen through crashing rain). "Hey, you'll finally get to try a cheeseburger. They're friggin' delicious."
Smile. Radio.
"Thank you," Castiel was yawning as he said it, his hand already slipping from Dean's careful grip. He closed his eyes.
Before he fell asleep, he mumbled something so quiet Dean thought for a moment he did not hear it at all.
"Love you, Dean."
Silence.
...
The "family restaurant" wasn't so much of a restaurant, and more of a bar with a few lopsided, scrubbed tables and a stack of kid's menus by the door. The place was full, however, the late-night crew of rowdy teens, small families, and lonely drunks crowding the dusty space.
Castiel led Dean to a small booth towards the back. He still held Dean's hand, and sleep had made his hair stick up in strange places. Dean suppressed the urge to giggle.
They slid into the booth. For a moment, the intoxicating smell of food and alcohol and Castiel made Dean dizzy, and he thought maybe he would transform into a teenage girl on the spot. Reddening, he grabbed a folded menu from the rickety metal holder, and thrust it out to Cass' side of the table.
"Here," he said, a little too loudly. "You choose a drink, or something."
Castiel raised an eyebrow as he fingered through the menu.
"Dean Winchester isn't hungry?" He questioned, mock surprise evident on his face. "You don't see that every day."
Dean pouted, giving Cass' outstretched hand another squeeze.
"And look, you're finally learning humor!"
The waitress, a short, pale woman with orange hair yanked back in a ponytail, swung by their table looking beat.
"What'll it be?" She sighed, without looking at them. Her name-tag, slightly askew, read "Charlie B."
"Um..." Castiel frowned awkwardly down at his menu. "I think I'll have a lemonade." He smiled up at Dean.
"Oh, c'mon, Kitty Cass!" Dean scoffed. "Lemonade? Seriously? Don't you want something, I dunno, stronger?"
At this, blue eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Oh, you do not want to see me drunk."
The waitress cleared her throat. Her eyes were flicking almost imperceptibly between the two of them, her eyebrows rising so far up, Dean was sure they would soon disappear into her fiery hairline. Suddenly, she cracked a wide grin, stowing her notebook in her apron pocket.
"Well, frak me twice and call me a Cylon!" She slammed her palms on the table. "You're..." she made a gesture with her hands that involved somewhat intense interlocking. "...y'know, together, aren't you?"
Dean nearly choked.
"What?" He replied, dumbly. Charlie the waitress rolled her eyes, instead turning to address Cass.
"He's cute. I think you should keep him." She smiled in an almost motherly way. Reaching back into her apron pocket, she pulled a Sharpie, and reached out to scribble something on Castiel's arm. Her fingernails were painted blue. "Anyway, if you ever need someone to talk to, about, y'know," she gestured between them again. "Being like this, just call me or my partner." She placed the Sharpie back into her apron, raised her hand in a strange, four-fingered wave, and saluted solemly. "Peace out, bitches."
With that, she skipped off to get Cass' lemonade, giggling quietly to herself.
Dean turned to gape at Castiel.
With a sigh, he shook his head, and returned to perusing the faded menu for a decent burger.
...
The motel manager stared impassively down at the body on his floor. A fly or two flickered lazily about, and he scratched a rash growing steadily on his elbow.
The boss would not be pleased about this. Not only had Balthazar allowed Winchester to escape without telling the whereabouts of his younger brother, but he'd let his muddled emotions stand in the way of finally finishing off Novak. It was the classic spy mishap: Balthazar had fallen for his target.
"Bunch of dumbasses," the manager kicked out a sneaker towards Balthazar's already clenched hand. "What a freaking mess."
He wondered idly whether the boss would kill him, or simply demote him again for this. He wasn't personally involved in the Angel Blue case, but he was somewhat implicated in the less-than-desirable outcome. With a scoff, he muttered to himself. He should have just shot Novak when he came in, and directed Balthazar to handle the Winchesters.
He managed to roll the body into the tight, cockroach-infested closet, his rash flaking slightly as he brushed up against the plaster wall. Standing with a creak of bones, he straightened the painting (without a second glance; that thing was creepy) and flicked the TV off.
He should have probably called the boss by now. John Winchester's sons were priority number one. Novak was a loose end to cut. He dug into his pocket, pulling out a cracked, ancient mobile phone. He hadn't had reason to use it in years, and as he punched the number in the skin of his dark feather tattoo stretched taut and raw.
On the second ring, there was an answer.
"Michael?" said the motel manager. "We have a situation."
...
The food came quickly, Charlie Bradbury sending them smirking winks. Castiel looked suddenly tired–as if all the events of the past night had suddenly slammed into him, punched him in the face. Dean, however, didn't want to leave without an explanation.
"Look, you have to tell me, Cass," he said, quietly. "This is my family we're talking about. Why'd they kill Mom and Jess? Why're they after Sam?"
Castiel's blue eyes were dark, vacant.
"It's John Winchester," he said. Took a sip of his lemonade, ice sliding down his fingers. "John Winchester needed money. Testing was the easiest way."
Dean set down his cheeseburger, the restaurant music loud and unappealing to his ears. In the corner, two men sat with bent heads, talking in hushed voices. Once or twice, the one in the baseball cap would glance up, sent a steely eyed look towards Castiel. It unnerved Dean.
"I don't get it. Testing? What testing?"
"Heaven wasn't always government, Dean. We had presidents, you know," Castiel replied with a dull sigh and a roll of his eyes. "Did you not pay attention at school?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm an idiot. C'mon, Cass, more important issues. About the testing." He waved his hands, frustrated. In the corner, the man in the hat flagged down Charlie for a beer. The man with his back turned (he was tall, with long-ish hair) also ordered a drink. The music scraped on. Charlie sauntered off. Castiel looked distracted, by continued.
"They were a small research facility, aimed at genetic mutations. My father was on the original board, with a man named Michael, and a man named John Winchester."
(In his head, Dean remembered his father's careful distaste of all things scientific. "Cars, hunting, family," he'd say. "I don't need anything else to deal with.")
"Your father was a flawed man. He was suspicious, and didn't want to expand research past animal testings. Eventually, he lost the trust of Michael, and his only option left was to do something drastic."
Dean's heart was a rapid machine.
"What? Was it Sam? Was it me? Did my Dad kill someone? What?"
At this, Castiel raised his eyes to stare at Dean, the same "I-can-see-through-you" stare he'd received in an elevator, months ago. In a bar, hours after that. In a warehouse, in front of a gun.
"You aren't going to like this at all, Dean," he said, sadly. His face was drawn, his fingers twiddling idly with the lemonade straw.
Dean's head was already pounding. The men in the corner drank, and talked. Charlie sang off-key to the crackly radio music, her head swaying back and forth. Castiel's straw was red-and-white striped. His eyes were blue-and-white, and in them Dean could see his own pale face.
He swallowed.
"Go ahead, Cass," he said. "Tell me."
...
Heaven Research Corps. Twenty-two years previously...
Azazel cast a sidelong look at Winchester. The man's face was drawn, anxious, lines of defeat like trenches in his skin.
He fumbled with his clipboard and pen. Stared at the door. Inside, the sound of a child crying over-ran the sound of the quiet machines, the disconcertingly constant hum of the medical equipment.
Azazel patted Winchester's arm, in what he hoped was a comforting manner.
"Don't you worry, Johnny," he said, with a smile. "Sammy's gonna be a-okay."
...
A/N: OH AUGH SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE here have my soul in exchange.
Love you all. For everything. If anyone is confused, please note I was high off of Nutella when I wrote this. Or you could send me a PM with your questions/suggestions/complaints.
Quickly: I have been awarded a national writing medal! The ceremony is in New York City! *flails* Now if only I could get Misha Collins to be my "plus one"...
Thanks and lots of love,
-chaoswalking