Previously: Castiel and Bobby kill Virgil, and Castiel protects his home from Angels other than himself. Castiel maintains contact with Dean by phone and questions demons by himself to locate Crowley and the Colt. Until Dean stops answering the calls...
This chapter takes place in season 5 episode 4.
oOo
Leave a message
« Leave your name, number and nightmare at the tone. »
Dean's voice covers the grass swishing and the hum of a car driving away. Always the same words.
"It's Castiel again. You already know my phone number. Celestial beings don't sleep, we can't have nightmares."
I have no idea what are the rules regarding messages left on the voicemail, I've never had the occasion to ask Dean or Bobby. This is the thirty-second time I've obliged to this vocal instruction. With every failed phone call that goes to Dean's recorded voice, my frustration and concern grow.
"I'm still in Missouri, looking for you. The people I questioned on the roads gave me no useful information."
The road, marked by two central yellow lines, extends to the skyline, bathed in shades of orange. No sign of the Impala. A truck starts to loom in the distance.
"If you're in danger, all you have to do is pray to me. I'll find you immediately."
That's what I should have told him the second I carved the concealing seal on his ribs. If anything happened to him, as I fear, it's way too late now to let him know this.
"Pick up your phone, Dean. Please. I'm worried about you."
« Your message cannot be saved, » an emotionless female voice interrupts me. « Voicemail memory is full. »
It's nightfall by the time I call Dean's number again for the twentieth time, and the same voice always delivers the same brief message.
No longer needing to look at the phone screen, I push the green button to dial the number as I walk along the road. A car races by on the road, its wheels slicing through the puddles like arrows. The streetlights flickering on bathe the soggy pavement in a golden sheen.
I'm not too far from the next city. There, I'll resume my interrogations and try to find anyone who might have seen Dean over the past few days.
« Voicemail memory is… Cas? What the hell? »
The recorded female voice has been replaced by Dean's unique voice. I come to a halt on the side of the road, pressing the phone harder against my ear.
"Dean?"
« Damn. I bet you're the reason why I got 87 missed calls and 22 messages in my voicemail. »
Hard to tell if it's exasperation or amusement I hear in his voice.
"You weren't answering my calls. Bobby and I were worried."
A muffled laugh. Footsteps echoing, then the sound of a door opening and closing.
« Mother hens, that's what you are, both of you. I was out hunting and my phone broke. I had to wait to get a new one in town. »
My shoes are starting to get wet - the soil is soggy beneath my feet. Car headlights flash into the night, growing and splashing me with light as they rush past.
"You could at least have called me from a phone booth or prayed to me. In these Apocalyptic days, I need to know where you are at all times."
« Hey, you think you're my mom or what? »
"No, I'm not your mother."
« No shit, Sherlock. »
« You have exactly five minutes left on your card. »
Another voice talks over Dean's, just as robotic and cold as the one that told me the voicemail is full. So now I only have five minutes to talk to Dean, after so many hours trying to reach him?
What stupid Human conceived a communication system with a countdown?
"Dean," I say sternly. "I need to tell you about my new plan, and I don't have much time."
A thumping sound. A soft fabric rustle, then a door slamming.
« Okay, go on. Impress me. »
"I'm not so sure you'll be impressed. This is your plan, actually. Bobby told me about the idea you shared with him."
« Huh? What idea? »
"At the hospital. You told him about your strategy to kill Lucifer…"
A heavy sigh sends a flurry of crackling noises through the transmission.
« You can't be serious. »
"I'm very serious."
« Cas, I was just trying to cheer him up and let him think we're not screwed up yet! I told him a bunch of crap, I don't even remember what! »
"It's not a… bunch of crap, as you say. Finding the Colt to kill Lucifer is suicidal, yes, but not such an absurd idea. From what I heard, a demon currently has it. If I can find the demon, we'll acquire the Colt and then we can kill Lucifer."
« We're talking about the Colt, right? I mean, as in THE Colt? »
There's some kind of high, gliding sound behind Dean's voice, but I can't quite identify it. Even more so when, once again, an engine's roar amplifies as headlights flash in the distance, splashing the road with light.
"We are."
« Well, that doesn't make any sense. I mean, why would the demons keep a gun around that– »
Dean's voice is lost in the growing, thundering roar, and the rest of his sentence gets drowned out as the truck drives past me.
"What? Did—"
The truck drives away with the noise, but it's too late. I couldn't hear what he was saying. Perhaps I should fly out of here and find a more convenient location for this phone conversation. But chances are that the call will cut out during the flight, and more importantly, that my last few remaining minutes will pass before I can relay and obtain the most vital information.
"I didn't—I didn't get that."
« You have exactly three minutes remaining. »
The female metallic voice joins Dean's clear laughter. Three minutes? There's no way two minutes passed already since her last notice! I still didn't get to explain my strategy, my information, and I don't even know Dean's exact location! Should the call end now, I'll have no way of contacting or finding him!
« You know, it's kind of funny. Talking to a messenger of God on a cellphone. It's, you know, like watching a Hell's Angel ride a moped. »
"This isn't funny, Dean! The voice says I'm almost out of minutes!"
« Okay, all right. I'm—I'm telling you, Cas, the mooks have melted down the gun by now. »
"Well, I hear differently."
The information I received from the demons is true. I have enough experience in this area to be absolutely sure. Their terror was real, and so was what they told me.
Dean doesn't need to know how I obtained the information, though. I would like him to never have to hear about torture again, especially after what I put him through when I was obeying orders.
"And if it's true and if you are still set on the insane task of killing the devil, this is how we do it."
« Okay. Where do we start? »
His voice softened, as though resigned. Which is a good thing, considering I only have seconds left, which isn't enough to convince him if he decides to be stubborn.
First, I need to locate him on Earth. Face-to-face conversation without the minute countdown limitation will be more convenient.
"Where are you now?"
« Kansas City… Century Hotel, room 113. »
"I'll be there immediately."
« Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, no, no! » his voice interrupts just as I was about to hang up, sounding clearly displeased. « Come on, man! I just drove like sixteen hours straight, okay? I'm human. And there's stuff I got to do. »
"What stuff?"
« Eat, for example. In this case, sleep. I just need like four hours once in a while, okay? »
Ah. The restrictions of organic life, essential to the survival of most of the Lord's creations. My siblings and I never quite understood what the point was, yet Dean recently preached their benefits to me.
"Yes," I say reluctantly.
Four hours. Since it's currently almost 2 AM, this would push back to 6 AM planning our strategy and tracking Crowley and the Colt.
It isn't ideal but I have no other choice. I no longer have my healing powers, which could have satisfied Dean's organic needs and made things go faster.
« Okay, so, you can pop in tomorrow morning. »
"Yes. I'll just…"
From the dial tone now in my ear, and the screen on my phone displaying the number of deducted minutes, it's obvious that Dean just hung up on me. He didn't even bother to say goodbye, or notify me that he was about to hang up. Which is exactly what he reproached me of doing on my first calls.
I can't help but find his behavior offensive and incoherent.
"… wait here, then."
Only a distant owl's hoot replies to my words that Dean didn't care to listen to.
Four hours. In all fairness, that's only a very short time span, insignificant compared to the thousands, millions of years I've spent standing still, watching the human species evolve on the ground. I shouldn't be so upset and impatient about waiting four hours.
From the moment I laid my hand on the righteous man's soul in Hell and invested a vessel to interact with him, everything I believed in has been shattered, all my convictions crumbled one after the other. Even the way I perceive time has changed. The year I've spent trying to stop the Apocalypse and save Dean Winchester has been the longest and most challenging of my life.
These four hours waiting for Dean to be sufficiently rested stretch out proportionally with my impatience as I count down each second. A night breeze whispers through the trees and the mist gradually clears. The horizon still doesn't lighten, even though the appointed hour is drawing closer.
There are only a few minutes left to wait, and the seconds seem to be growing longer and longer, feeling like eternity.
Finally, the four hours have passed and I can spread my wings, leaving the Jefferson City area with a strong flap to reach Kansas City in a split second. It doesn't take me much longer to find the Century Hotel, nestled at a crossroads between four churches of various branches of Christianity.
However, when I arrive in room 113 as agreed, Zachariah's unique aura greets me like a slap in the face, flooding the space and instantly putting me on my guard. I struggle to keep my seething Grace from forging my blade in my forearm vein when I realize that my former superior's eyes are closed and that he hasn't even spotted me. He has two fingers pressed against Dean's forehead, who seems to be in a deep sleep, eyelids twitching.
For a fleeting moment, I'm struck with pure terror when I remember Cain, tears streaming down his face, praying and crying out Camael's name as I methodically wiped his memory. Is Zachariah ripping out his memories like I once did under his command? I barely manage to resorb my aura and shift my vessel into an invisible dimension when Zachariah removes his fingers and opens his eyes.
Just in time. He didn't see me.
I know all too well the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes as he straightens his back and smoothes down his tie knot, looking down on the righteous man. The sudden, brutal urge to drive my blade through his heart is very tempting.
Inhaling sharply, Dean arches his back on the bed before scrambling to his feet, staggering like a sleepwalker with closed eyes and ragged breathing, under my former superior's mocking gaze. Only when he reaches the sink do his eyes snap open, and he looks confused for a second, before his eyes turn to Zachariah.
"Oh, well, if it isn't the ghost of Christmas screw you."
I can't help unclenching my wings, filled with relief. Dean looks as if he still has all of his memory and personality, judging by how insolent and hostile his tone of voice sounds. I don't know what I would have done otherwise.
"Enough, Dean," Zachariah murmurs soothingly. "Enough. You saw it, right? You saw what happens. You're the only person who can prove the devil wrong. Just say yes."
"How do I know that this whole thing isn't one of your tricks? Huh? Some angel's hocus-pocus?"
"The time for tricks is over."
Oblivious to my invisible presence, Zachariah steps forward, staring at Dean like a preying wolf.
"Give yourself to Michael. Say yes and we can strike. Before Lucifer gets to Sam. Before billions die."
Dean is only a couple of feet away. I could snatch him out of here immediately, get him to safety, away from Zachariah. Or I could just stab Zachariah in the back. I could bring an end to his schemes, to the poisonous words he's whispering in Dean's ear to lead him to perdition. It would be so easy.
But preventing Dean from making his own choices, even bad ones, wouldn't that deny him his free will, and do exactly what I've always accused the Archangels, the Council and God Himself of? Is Dean really fighting Zachariah's and Michael's demands out of his own free will, or because I've been pressurizing him to do so?
When faced with a choice to make in my absence, will he take the easy way out by yielding, or will he stand by my side against Fate, Hell and Heaven?
Dean takes a step forward. I hold my breath and dampen my aura as much as I can as he walks around Zachariah and stops right in front of me.
He can't see me. I know he can't feel my presence either. I can see the range of emotions on his face in great detail. Terror. Guilt. Doubt. All intertwined in his eyes' green shades.
"Nah," he says, then turns to face Zachariah again.
The carefree tone in his voice contradicts the torment I saw in his eyes. Zachariah is as bewildered as I am, judging by the dejected way he mutters back that "nah" in disbelief.
"You telling me you haven't learned your lesson?"
"Oh, I've learned a lesson, all right. Just not the one you wanted to teach."
With bravery and insolence, Dean is defying an Angel. More importantly, he chose the right path by himself, with no influence, despite pressure and threats. Only the righteous man I saved from Hell, who rebels against the role destiny wants to impose on him, can do so.
I have my answer. I shouldn't have doubted him for a second.
Dean deserves my absolute trust and devotion. I was right to defy Heaven for him. This is why I turned my back on my family and all those cruel orders. Because he showed me the way.
"Well, I'll just have to teach it again!" hurls Zachariah, his aura blazing with anger. "Because I got you now, boy!"
It's time to take Dean to safety, in spite of his intestinal transit. Surely constipation is better than what Zachariah has in store for him. I quickly place my hand on Dean's shoulder, as Zachariah strides menacingly towards him. A single wingbeat is enough to sweep away my former superior's furious voice, along with the wooden floor and hotel room furniture. In a split second, the room's light is replaced by the streetlamps lining the roadside where I've been waiting for the last four hours.
Dean's muffled heartbeat fills the sudden silence as I let go of his shoulder and re-enter physical reality, once again visible to mortal eyes. With a level of satisfaction I've rarely experienced, I tuck my wings behind my back and watch him spin around to meet my gaze. Relief and joy light up his face when he sees me, and I can confidently say that no Human has ever looked at a celestial being this way since the dawn of Humanity.
I achieved in one year what God never could obtain from Adam and Eve or their children, what threats and punishments from the Garrison failed to wrest from Pharaoh. A Human's entire trust, devoid of fear and out of his own free will.
Dean knowingly sided with me and is now defying all of Heaven with me. That's more than I've ever dared to hope for.
"That's pretty nice timing, Cas."
His voice sounds hoarse, almost breathless.
"We had an appointment," I say.
A smile brushes his lips, the kind I've never seen before. A smile I wouldn't know how to describe, but it sends a thrill of joy through my Grace.
Taking a step forward, thus breaking the personal space rule he imposed himself, Dean lays a firm hand on my shoulder and looks deeper into my eyes.
"Don't ever change."
His soul shimmers in his green eyes, revealing its magnificence. A soul I came so close to losing but will never again leave unguarded. My devotion goes to him.
The warmth of his hand is gone sooner than I would have liked, and our eye contact breaks when Dean lowers his head to reach into his jacket's inner pocket.
Had I known Dean was in danger and that Zachariah had somehow located him, I would have stayed with him to watch over his sleep. I thought it would be safer for him if I stayed away, considering that the Garrison's soldiers are after me, but clearly I was wrong.
I won't make that mistake again. From now on I'll never leave Dean alone.
"How did Zachariah find you?"
"Long story. Let's just stay away from Jehovah's Witnesses from now on, okay?"
Jehovah's Witnesses… Anpiel did mention that Raphael and Zachariah had been using them as spies and informers. Traveling alone is likely to get more risky for Dean. Sam doesn't even realize he isn't safe wherever he is.
It's getting increasingly dangerous. Michael and Lucifer are certainly growing impatient and might resort to more sophisticated methods. We need to find the Colt now, before it's too late.
Just as I was about to ask what this lesson was that Zachariah wanted to teach him and what he was doing in his mind, Dean flips open his phone with a snap and presses the buttons, the look in his eyes hardening.
"What are you doing?"
"Something I should have done in the first place," he replies, bringing the phone up to his ear.
Tucking his other hand into his jeans pocket, he turns around and all I can see is the back of his neck and jawline. Under the starry sky which is starting to grow paler with dawn's first rays, his figure is nimbed in the streetlamp's golden halo.
I don't even need to strain my hearing to catch the ringing tone, sounding once, twice, three times, and then a familiar voice.
« Hello? »
The tension in Dean's shoulders slightly eases.
"Sam. It's me."
Silence at the end of the line. Dean shoots me a sidelong glance, before focusing his attention back on the road - a car's headlights sweep across the asphalt in the distance, a speck of light following the yellow lines.
Why is he calling Sam, when he wouldn't even talk about his younger brother when I mentioned him?
I guess Sam is wondering the same thing, judging by the uneasy way he's clearing his throat.
« Dean? What do you want? »
"I changed my mind," Dean blurts out in a hoarse, harsh voice.
« Huh, what? »
Dean pulls his hand out of his pocket and takes a deep breath, smoothing his hand over his face.
"Everything I said earlier? All that crap about how we're each other's weakest points, how we're better off as far away from each other as possible? Forget it. I was wrong and I'm sorry."
Dean takes a few steps away and a silence stretches out, letting the car roar past before fading away.
« Are you alright? » Sam's voice finally says, laced with disbelief. « What happened? »
Dean turns around, letting out a short, croaky laugh empty of joy.
"Let's just say I've seen how the future turns out if Biff gets the Almanac."
« What? »
"Never mind, I'll explain. I never should have let you go, Sammy, and I won't make that mistake again. We'll meet at noon at meeting place number 7."
« … You're really serious about this. »
That wasn't a question, but Dean nods all the same even though Sam can't see him.
"Don't be late."
And with these words, he lowers the phone and presses the red button. A car drives by while the streetlights fade in the dawn's glow, and his eyes are still fixed on the screen as it turns black again. The trees look even darker without the artificial lights lining the road.
"This is a good thing," I say, stepping closer. "Reconciling with Sam. You are stronger together, you protect each other, that's what I've noticed in my study of Prophet Chuck's Winchester Gospel. But why the sudden change?"
My voice seems to shake Dean out of his reflections, and he clears his throat, pocketing his phone again.
"I'll explain it all to you once I've got breakfast in my stomach," he says, looking around more carefully. "I'm starving. Where are we? And more importantly, where the hell is my car?"
oOo
"Mmmh… You'f got no itchea whatsh you're mishing, Cash."
I wonder how Dean manages to speak any words at all with his mouth so full, chewing loudly with his cheeks bulging with food. His fork skids with a screech on the plate as he slices a piece of pancake dripping with maple syrup. Gulping down his mouthful somehow, he slurps two gulps of coffee, dipping his lips into the cup, before holding out his fork to me.
"Here, have a taste."
"No thank you. I told you, I don't get the point of food except for your species' survival. It doesn't matter whether the nutrients are flavorful or not."
"Come on, Cas, just a bite. You'll see, it's delicious, just like an orgasm in your mouth."
He doesn't seem to care that the syrup is dripping onto the table, and he brings the fork closer to my lips, a mischievous gleam in his green eyes.
"This is anatomically impossible."
Dean raises his eyebrows high on his forehead, and I know that expression well enough by now to realize that he won't stop until I indulge his whim.
Fine. One bite. Whatever makes him happy.
Rolling my eyes to convey my reluctance, I open my mouth and pick the soft piece of pancake between my lips, pulling it off the fork. And under Dean's scrutiny, I mash it with my teeth to a paste that combines with my saliva to create a mush. My taste buds kick in even though I'm not enjoying it. The process might be interesting from a biological point of view, but it's tedious and pointless. A waste of energy and time just for some flavors.
I've never quite understood why so many Angels like food cooked by Humans so much. I guess they just have time to waste.
As for the new sensations my vessel allowed me to experience, my preference would definitely be for fornication rather than food ingestion. Ejaculating into Dean's hand was infinitely more pleasant than any food I've ever eaten, but it's an observation I can't say aloud, having sworn never to mention it to anyone.
"So?" Dean asks, cutting into his fried egg whose pierced yolk spills onto the plate and coats the bacon. "S'good, huh?"
"Edible," I say flatly, swallowing the mush.
Dean doesn't need to know that I'll be disintegrating it the moment it reaches my stomach, so I won't have to go through the whole digestion process.
Dean's smile fades as he chews his egg and bacon and wipes the grease off his lips with the paper napkin. He frowns thoughtfully and looks up to meet my gaze.
"Cas… Did you know Sam is supposed to be Lucifer's vessel?"
Oh. So he found out. It had to happen eventually.
I confirm with a nod. No need to tell him that I've known about this for a very long time, long before the Cage has been opened.
"Son of a bitch," Dean sighs wearily. "I fucking knew it. Why the hell didn't you tell us?"
Resting my elbows on the table, I lean forward, defying the personal space rule.
"What difference would it have made? I wanted to spare you as long as possible."
There's a brief flash of indignation in his eyes, soon replaced by a weary kind of defeatism.
"Your brothers are never gonna leave Sam and me alone, huh?"
With a surge of compassion, I silently shake my head. If only I'd rejected the Council's authority earlier and killed Azazel with my own hands when I had the chance, Dean would have lived a happy, ordinary life.
I helped place the curse on the Winchester brothers, and I'll do everything I can to undo it and save them.
"Did Zachariah tell you?" I ask, squinting.
Dean tilts his head back to down his cup of coffee, his Adam's apple bobbing with every gulp.
"Nope," he says, placing the cup back on the table. "Sam called me last night. He said the devil himself is harassing him in his dreams, trying to convince him to let himself be possessed."
Repressing a yawn, he pokes his second pancake with the fork.
"And just when I was falling asleep again, Zachariah launched me into the future. Let me tell you, the minute I get the Impala back, I'm going to take a nap in the back seat. I'm knackered."
"In the future?"
"Yeah. 2014, post-apocalyptic future infested with the Croatoan virus. Lucifer was possessing Sam, and you'd lost all your mojo. You were a mess, by the way."
This is absurd. And downright impossible.
"Dean," I speak slowly. "It is impossible to travel to the future."
Dean looks up like he's just been slapped in the face, staring at me intently.
"Say that again?"
I lean back in my chair. What's obvious to me, and to every celestial being, is clearly not for Dean. How many more things I take for granted are totally unknown to him, and vice versa?
"Time travel only applies from the present to the past. It is impossible to jump to a time line that has not yet been created."
The furrow of skin between his eyebrows deepens and Dean shakes his head and leans forward, tapping the sticky syrup-stained table with the tip of his finger.
"No. No, it was real. Everything Zachariah showed me, I lived it, I felt the pain, it was all true. I didn't dream it. If it wasn't the future, then what was it, huh?"
I avert my eyes, gazing at the Oscar's classic diner. This early in the morning, there are only three other sleepy-looking customers sitting at the tables and one at the counter. There's music in the air and the smell of grilled bread and coffee. On the wall, almost pressed to the ceiling, a TV screen displays what seems to be a swimming sports program with no sound.
Zachariah was bent over Dean with two fingers pressed to his temple when I got to the hotel room. It isn't hard to deduce what he was doing to him, now that I know what Dean saw, or rather thought he saw.
"It was most likely an illusion, a fake memory planted directly in your mind."
Dean opens his mouth like he's about to object but shuts it again. He narrows his eyes, still looking unconvinced, but willing to consider what would have struck any ordinary Human as impossible.
"An illusion… You mean like a Djinn's?"
"This is an insulting comparison. Even the most unskilled and lowest-ranking Angel in Heaven can produce illusions infinitely more realistic than anything a Djinn can do. I'm an expert in illusions and memories myself, and Zachariah is nowhere near my level. Had you watched very carefully, you would probably have spotted a few minor imperfections in the world he showed you."
Dean clenches his fist on the table, his eyes growing angry.
"Goddamn it. Son of a bitch screwed me over."
I nod approvingly at the more than fitting insult.
"I guess he was trying to convince you to say yes to Michael by playing on your deepest fears, painting a future where everything you fear most comes true."
"Everything I fear most, huh…" he mumbles.
Suddenly, I'm tempted to reach out and probe Zachariah's fake memory for myself. I'd be curious to see what Zachariah perceived in Dean, what fears he identified, how he sought to make him abandon all hope of fighting against Fate. But his mind has been already violated once today, and I would hate to inflict another intrusion on him in such a short space of time.
A vibration on the table draws our attention - Dean's phone, placed next to his plate, just buzzed in with a message. I did read in my phone's manual that this is one of the features available, but I don't really understand how it works or what the point is. Why send a text message when it's so easy to get an immediate verbal response to your questions?
"Ah," says Dean as he flips his phone open. "That's the hunter Bobby sent to Kansas City to get my car. He says he's close to Jefferson City and asks where we are exactly."
He taps the buttons and tucks his phone back into his inside jacket pocket.
"I hope he hasn't bruised my baby to get her here," he sighs, glancing nervously at the windows. "I've got the keys with me, but Bobby says he won't need them. If I find so much as a scratch on the car…"
"Do you know him?"
Dean takes a sip from his orange juice glass and shakes his head, eyes still focused on the entrance.
"No, he's a new hunter from what I hear. Garth Fitzgerald. With the Witnesses rising stuff, we've lost so many hunters across the country that I hope the ones we're recruiting to replace them are tough enough for the job."
It's better not to tell him that, with the Apocalypse coming, hunting down the supernatural with guns and machetes will soon be as pointless as trying to stop the tide rising with a lump of sand. No need to add pessimism to our desperate situation.
Dean's plate and glass have been empty for some time and the swimming on the TV screen has been replaced by two women chatting excitedly, when Dean stands up so abruptly that his chair loudly scrapes the tiled floor.
"Son of a bitch!" he gasps, eyes widening in shock.
"Dean?"
Rather than answering, Dean frantically rummages through his wallet and slaps a crumpled bill on the table before rushing to the exit. I have no choice but to follow him outside, walking as fast as I can without using my wings.
It's now full daylight with no clouds to veil the pure blue sky. And there, in the process of pulling up to five parking spaces, a large vehicle is transporting Dean's car on some kind of platform. Petrified and clutching his own hair, Dean watches the operation.
"My baby on a tow truck," I hear him mutter brokenly as I join him, "this is my worst nightmare…"
The tow truck, since that's how this large vehicle is called, comes to a halt with a high-pitched squeal and blower-like sound. The door opens, and a man wearing sunglasses jumps out, his boots hitting the ground with a clack.
"That you, Garth?" Dean barks as he strides to him, pointing at the car. "No one told me you'd bring back my car in a freaking tow truck!"
Though Dean's tone was harsh, the newcomer is smiling broadly.
"Garth Fitzgerald the fourth, at your service! I'm delivering a car forgotten next to a hotel!" Taking off his sunglasses, he gestures with his thumb at the engine behind him. "Nice tow truck, heh? My cousin lent it to me for the morning, I told him I'm helping out a friend."
Then, snapping his fingers, he points both index fingers at Dean. There is a gleeful sparkle in his eyes, and somehow it reminds me of Samandriel's unranked Cherubs.
"You must be Dean, right? It's always a pleasure to meet fellow supernatural hunters!"
Totally discarding the personal space rule, Garth fondly pats Dean on the shoulder.
"I'm here for you if you need anything like this again, that's what friends are for."
Then, turning to me, he raises his eyebrows, replacing his sunglasses on his long nose.
"You're a hunter, too?"
I glance at Dean to know what to say, but he's too busy inspecting his car while circling the tow truck.
"Something like that, yes. I am a… demon-hunting specialist."
Garth whistles in awe and eagerly draws out his phone.
"Cool! That's a great skill to have right now, with all the demon invasion going on. I assisted an exorcism once and was given the basics, but I still have a lot to learn. Here, let's exchange numbers so we can keep in touch. What's your name?"
I have no choice but to take out my phone and try to remember how to add a new contact.
"My name is Castiel, but I won't be able to call you. My minutes ran out last night."
Garth leans closer to glance above my shoulder.
"You're using pre-paid cards? I can give you a new one if you want, I always carry a bunch of them around just in case."
This new contact might turn out to be quite useful for improving my skills in human tools.
oOo
In the next chapter
"Wait, let me get this straight… You've never pooped? I mean, never ever?"
"No, Dean. I've never defecated and have no intention of doing so. Not even to please you."