Author's Note: What's this? An update in the afternoon? Why, yes, it's the very special I'm Sick And Stuck on the Couch Update! I hope you all enjoy!

"If you breathe wrong, I'm running you through in an instant. An instant."

Castiel had gotten tired of rolling his eyes, but he still did it internally when Dean dropped another threat meant to keep him in line.

"Dean, he gets it. I get it. At this point, the Impala gets it. We literally all get it." Sam leaned between the front seats to look at his brother. "We've been driving for forty minutes, I have to pee, you want a Red Bull—it's one stop. No one's gonna die."

Castiel and Dean glared at each other across the center console for a while, but Dean eventually scoffed and got out, Sam following shortly behind. Castiel considered doing the same, but he was too distracted by the monstrosities on his feet. Two on each because, as if the 'socks' hadn't been torture enough, they had made him put 'shoes' on.

"We are going in, getting snacks, hitting the head, and coming back out," Dean explained through the open window, emphasizing every word. "You stay where we can see you."

Scratching his ankle, Castiel ignored the order and turned his attention to the building, though there wasn't much he could determine from glass doors and a black and yellow sign. He wasn't sure what kind of general a Dollar General was, but he found it suspicious they would name a store for goods after a military rank if it were truly innocuous.

"Come on," Sam coaxed, opening the passenger side door.

Keeping a defensive front, Castiel climbed out and immediately took the lead—it wasn't like they were going to give him their backs—examining everything in sight. He slowed when he approached the door, looking for a way to open it, but it slid aside on its own. So, they have someone hidden somewhere watching for patrons, and when you approach, they open the door remotely. That meant he had no idea when and where he was being watched; he would have to assume it was always and everywhere.

He stepped through another set of remote-controlled doors, and he took as many notes in as short of a time as he could. The flickering of the fluorescent lights made his eyes hurt, and the cluttered aisles provided entirely too many places for people to sneak up on him, but also for him to hide in. He saw a female at a table directly in front of him, digging through a basket, and then another female was behind a counter to his left in a black shirt, standing across from a man who was placing his items on the counter. He couldn't figure out what the store was supposed to supply; he saw food to his right, but the table with the first woman had dozens of random things, and beyond that were aisles with anything from pillows to boxes to cords to—

"Anything you want to look at?" Sam murmured quietly, presumably to keep the resident humans from hearing.

"If there is, I'll look myself." Castiel stepped away from the brothers, ignoring the collection of food as he was certain he couldn't learn anything from that. He ducked into an aisle close to that section, however, and quickly found himself surrounded by a variety of items that, in general, had dogs and cats on them. Some of it appeared to be food—Dean had told him about SPAM, so cans of dog and cat meat made sense—but it was different from the other food aisles, and he didn't understand the sparkling, crinkling things or sticks or indented pillows.

"We are here for snacks," Dean hissed.

"Just let him look around for a second," Sam countered, equally quiet.

Castiel indicated the shelves. "Is this not snacks? You said you eat SPAM from a can. Why can't you eat this the same way?"

Dean gave him an unimpressed look, one brow sharply arched. "Believe it or not, I'm not a dog, so I'm not going to eat dog food, thanks."

"Uh…" Sam glanced at his brother but quickly looked back at Castiel, and he seemed to understand something Dean didn't. "Did you think this was… food made of dogs and cats instead of for dogs and cats?"

Castiel squinted. "Why would you feed an animal?" He immediately realized the stupidity of his question and tried to cover it up. "Obviously, you feed livestock, but I do not see food for cattle in these aisles, and I've never known humans to breed herds of cats and dogs."

Sam slowly shook his head. "Uh, no. We don't eat cats and dogs. They're pets." He gestured toward the wall of cans. "We feed them, and…" he pointed past Castiel to the collection of colorful items that had been baffling the angel, "…we play with them."

I am profoundly confused. "Why would you have an animal for a slave? What task can it do for you?"

"Pets aren't slaves, Cas." Dean glanced over his shoulder, leaning slightly to make sure no one was around. "People get pets to be, you know, companions. You live together, play together, snuggle together… I don't know, they're just pets. They're little, furry friends."

It took two seconds, but Castiel processed the words, and when he did, he was furious. When that market hand said I would make a good pet, that's what he meant? He had been livid when he thought it was a reference to slavery, but it was even more inciting to know the man had been insinuating Castiel would make a good in-home companion—a little, furry friend.

"Hey." Dean growled, taking a step forward. "That counts as breathing wrong."

Castiel glared for another moment, suppressing the heat in his chest and hiding the trembling in his body by quickly continuing down the aisle. He passed things referred to as 'detergents,' and there were plastic bins with holes in the sides, which was stupid because it defeated the purpose of a bin. He threw his brain into processing the different items—there was something that looked like a head of hair on a stick, and it was called a 'mop,' and he was admittedly curious about that—instead of processing things in the past. Wanting to kill the market hand wouldn't help him in the here and now.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" Sam sounded like he genuinely wanted to be helpful. "I can explain some of this stuff if you've never seen it before…"

"I wouldn't trust your explanations, anyway." Castiel went around the corner, taking in more items—brightly colored writing utensils, things made for sticking, paper for construction—before continuing to another that held items with seemingly no use or value whatsoever, at which point he screeched to a halt. "That is a block of wood."

"Uh, yes. It's sort of—"

"It says 'Live, Laugh, Love.'" Castiel looked from the square to the taller hunter. "Why?"

Dean snickered, seeming to thoroughly enjoy the angel's attempts to understand the depth of humanity's stupidity, but Sam tried to be helpful. Or at least, Castiel thought he was trying to be helpful. He failed regardless, so it didn't really matter either way, but it seemed an attempt was made.

"It's just for decoration. You put it on a shelf or… or maybe on a table with some flowers or something." Sam lifted his hands slightly, and he seemed to also think it was stupid, but not a strange or out-of-place stupid. More like an idiotic, roll-your-eyes stupid.

Castiel looked at the flowing letters again. "Do you forget to do those things if you aren't constantly reminded?" He seriously doubted that was the case—how could one forget to be alive?—but he wasn't sure what else the purpose could be.

"No, it's just… I don't know, people like it." Sam picked it up, struggling to explain as he turned it over in his hands. "It's like this light blue color, you know, so it might go with the theme of your kitchen. Like if you have a lot of blue colors. So, you want to decorate with blue, and you're like, 'Oh, living and laughing and loving are nice things. I'll put this little square on my counter where everyone can see.'"

Castiel stared at him, deadpan. "That was the best lie you could come up with?"

Dean started cackling, causing Sam to reach back and shove him, and then Sam put the wooden block back on the shelf. "You should be able to tell, based on how stupid of a lie it would be, that it's not a lie."

"You—" Castiel stopped, considering the notion. It really would be a ridiculous lie to tell, and the brothers had proven themselves craftier than that. "It's irrelevant."

Sam opened his mouth, but Dean butted in before he could speak. "Can we get snacks now?"

"Yes," Sam sighed, rubbing his face. "I think we've done enough exploring for our first excursion into the world, so let's get what we came for and go."

Castiel gave them both dirty looks, though he used a slightly different one for each brother, and then he started making his way to the food. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up to have his back exposed to them constantly, but he couldn't appear weak or afraid, and there was no way they would be willing to switch positions.

They moved through the food aisles, and Castiel recognized some items or, even if the item was foreign, he recognized the flavors and names. Sam checked with Dean multiple times before going off somewhere to relieve himself—hopefully a facility and not just on the ground, but Castiel really didn't know what the Dollar General offered. While Sam was gone, Dean and Castiel stood before a wall of drinks, and Dean eventually convinced him to pick out something other than water. He chose a Coca-Cola, and Dean got one of the Red Bulls before grabbing a bottle like Castiel's with an excuse of, 'You're gonna be freaked out by the fizz, so I'll get one for myself to prove it's not killing you.' Castiel had glared suspiciously but said nothing, remaining silent through the rest of their walk through the store and up to the front, where Sam rejoined them and Dean advised they would make payment.

"Ma'am, this receipt is from four months ago, and the box has clearly been used," the woman behind the counter was saying when they approached.

"I want my money back. Look at this huge grease spot on the bottom." She pointed inside the patterned box of tan and purple and green. "I can't use this!"

"It wouldn't have had anything in it while on our shelves that would have been greasy, and you made the purchase more than thirty days ago." Behind the counter, the middle-aged woman with dozens of tiny braids pointed to a slip of paper on the counter. "It states the refund policy on the receipt. There's nothing I can do."

Letting out a loud, scoffing noise of frustration and something Castiel couldn't identify but knew he didn't like, the blonde pointed to the box again. "Do you see this stain? It's disgusting, and I can't use this box. I want my money back."

Dean rolled his eyes, annoyed, and Sam stepped toward the interaction, clearly not interested in letting the situation work itself out. Castiel was mildly interested in that, of course, but he was growing progressively more interested in the woman still standing at the table by the entrance, filling her cart with dozens of copies of the same items.

"Cas, don't—"

Castiel jerked his arm away when Dean grabbed his elbow, and he was confident the hunter wouldn't make a scene in front of civilians, so he walked up to the young woman and bluntly asked, "Why are you getting so many of the same thing?"

Startling, the woman reached up and grabbed at her ear, pulling something out as she smiled up at him. "Oh, sorry!" Her eyes were outlined in pink, and it was weird. "I didn't hear you. What did you say?"

Suspicious as to how she didn't hear him when he was right behind her, but figuring she did have something in her ear, he nodded toward the bright yellow cart. "Why are you getting so many of the same thing?"

"Oh!" Smiling, she gestured toward a sign on the table. "It's all 90% off. They do a crazy sale like this once a year, so I come and buy as much as I can to—"

"Yeah," Dean interrupted, chuckling a bit nervously. "Everyone loves it when there's a sale and things are 90% cheaper than they normally are." He made brief eye contact with Castiel.

They are being offered for less than they are worth, then, which enables larger purchases. You can get several of an item but still pay what you would have paid for just one. Blue eyes traveled from the somewhat blemished face to the cart, frowning at its contents. "How many babies do you have?"

"Oh, I don't have any. No. Nuh-uh." She shook her head, one hand wandering to her stomach, and she seemed truly disturbed by the idea of bearing children, which was strange because she was female and it was, essentially, her only purpose in the continuation of the species. "None of this is for me. Food banks always need baby products and feminine products because they're expensive, and people don't generally have the money to buy extra, and they also don't tend to come across that kind of thing when cleaning out their pantry, you know?"

I am growing progressively more confused.

"So, when there's a sale like this, and I can get a whole bunch of stuff for, like, a dollar apiece, I get a whole bunch and make a donation. There's also…" she started digging through the cart, "…bottles of soap, shoelaces, chargers, Tupperware…"

Castiel opened his mouth as she flashed another smile—which she needed to stop doing, because it was getting weird—but Dean once again cut in.

"That's a really nice thing to do. Because food banks provide necessities for people who maybe can't afford it, and food banks don't buy all that stuff themselves. They buy some, and people donate the rest, and then they give it to people who need it, and it's a good thing." Dean cleared his throat, rocking on his heels. "Obviously we all know this. I'm just saying, you know…"

"Riiight…" the woman seemed confused and a little suspicious, but her lips parted in another smile after two seconds of bewildered staring, and she nodded. "I keep an eye out for clearance sales is what I'm saying."

Castiel quirked a brow. "You are rich, then. You have excessive money, so you put it back into the system."

Dean lifted a hand to his face, letting out a sound that was almost a groan.

"Um, I mean, I'm privileged, definitely. We're not rich, but, you know, we're middle class. We're doing fine. But I still live at home, and I'm trying to get my own place, and it's so expensive, so I don't really have extra money to buy stuff at full price, and I try to save where I can, so…" She stammered for a few moments. "I mean, I'm not—"

"What do you get out of it, then?" Castiel questioned, keeping his eyes on her but aware of the argument at the counter getting louder. "There must be some reason you're delegating funds for housing toward things for other people."

"Cas." Dean put a hand on the angel's shoulder, which Castiel immediately shoved off. "Sorry. He's just a little…"

"No, it's okay!" She held up her hands and then started to pick at her fingers as she answered. "I do it because I want to help, and I believe it's what God wants me to do. I believe it's what I should do—what everyone one should do if they're in a position where they can—and… I like how it feels, too. That's not why I do it, but it makes me feel… accomplished, I guess? Like I'm putting an opportunity for something good to happen out in the world instead of just… taking all the good for myself?"

Castiel nodded, understanding, and went to speak, but Dean once again interrupted. It was getting annoying, and Castiel suspected the hunter was trying to keep him from having a genuine interaction because there was something he didn't want Castiel to know.

"Hey, we all feel good when we do good things." Dean looked over his shoulder at a particularly loud shout followed by the blonde woman storming out of the store with her greasy box. "I guess it feels good to do crap like that, too. They must get something out of it."

Laughing, the girl with the full cart picked at her fingers some more. "Right?"

"Heh, well, thanks for telling my buddy what you were up to. He's a little…" Dean made a face and gesture, and Castiel didn't know what it meant, but he knew it was offensive.

"That's okay. Everybody's a little…" she mimicked the facial expression Dean had made.

Dean chuckled. "Not like him. Trust me."

Castiel glared. "You're making my desire to hurt you stronger than usual."

Laughing, the short-haired woman quickly covered her mouth and turned away. "Sorry, uh—yeah, on that note, I'm gonna put my headphone back in. Have a great day!"

Dean also laughed, but the second the girl looked away, he gave Castiel a threatening look that clearly said the angel was supposed to shut his mouth and walk away now. Normally, Castiel would bristle at the idea of obedience, but he had gathered a lot of information, and he needed time to analyze it before he could ask more questions, so he acquiesced.

They walked back over to the counter just as Sam was sarcastically saying, "…obviously left her essential oil collection in it and stained the bottom."

"Hey, I don't get paid for my opinion," the woman with the braids said, lifting one hand dismissively while the other ran the item over something that did something. Castiel had no idea what, but it beeped, so it did something, he was sure. "That's gonna be $19.81."

Dean fished his wallet from his pocket and tossed three bills on the counter. "One for the stuff, one for you having to deal with that… lady, and one for the girl's food bank haul. No, it's not optional. Just take it." He gave a two-fingered salute and walked out the door before there could be any kind of response.

Why, Castiel didn't know, because it seemed like the kind of thing that would have a positive response, and wouldn't Dean want to be on the receiving end of that? Wasn't that the good feeling they were talking about?

"Thank you," Sam said softly, grabbing the bags and drinks, one of which he handed to Castiel. "Have a nice day."

Castiel took the bottle and gave the counter woman a side eye before following Sam out. He twisted the lid and heard a faint hiss, removing the cap to sniff the contents as he continued to ruminate on the information he had gathered. There was—it burns. He crinkled his nose.

"I told you so," Dean snarked, leaning on the car with his arms folded on the roof, his own cola open in his hand.

"Mm." Castiel lifted the drink and took a miniscule sip. Interesting…

Sam hovered by the Impala, but when Castiel didn't move to get in, he took the initiative and grabbed the passenger side door. "Do you have any questions?"

"No." Castiel spent another moment savoring the sensation in his mouth and took another drink. "It's fairly easy to interpret what I saw."

"Really?" Sam asked. "Well, what did you get out of your first Dollar General trip?"

Castiel glowered. "Wouldn't you like to know." He grabbed the partially open door and got into his seat, not putting on his belt but only minimally resisting when Dean reached over to do it for him. Eventually, the car fell silent, and then the music started. It meant nothing to Castiel beyond the fact it only played while traveling or during movies. He didn't understand half of the metaphors and allegories they used, and he had other things to think about, anyway.

So, the positive reinforcement enables selfless actions that help the species, as a whole, survive. It was an evolutionary mechanism, and it made sense. Given how often the human race nearly wiped itself out, it would need some kind of instinct or predisposition to help the weaker members of the species because the humans at the top of the food chain wouldn't be able to procreate enough to keep from extinction.

"Your motive for, ah, assisting me was the positive feeling you got from it, then."

Sam's voice came from the back seat, confused. "What?"

"I think the more important question is, 'Why does doing nice thing make us feel good in the first place?'" Dean smirked—Castiel tried to ignore it and keep staring out the window, but it was there in his peripherals—and his face clearly said he had been waiting for this. "Would I stop going out of my way to cheer Sam up if I didn't enjoy it? Maybe. Maybe I would only do it when it was easy and convenient. Who knows? But why do I enjoy cheering Sam up when he's having a bad day? Why do I like to make him laugh?"

Castiel glared, realizing he should have considered the theory at length before starting a discussion. It could be a cyclical phenomenon. It feels good to receive, and causing the good feeling by being on the giving end of the transaction also feels good. They continue to give and receive, and the species thrives as a result. He shifted in his seat, scratching his foot. That requires a lot of… he wasn't sure what to call it …to feel good about making someone else feel good. It also doesn't make sense to enjoy causing laughter, as laughter provides no benefit. There had to be a catch, right? They were animals. It had to be an instinct, not a choice, but it would take more in-depth analysis to figure out exactly what purpose it served. Hmm…

"If you even blink wrong, I will drop you on the spot."

"Dean."

Castiel looked around at the mostly white, two-story structures lining either side of the unmarked blacktop. It had been a while since he saw a normal human dwelling, but it didn't look like much had changed since then; walls, squarish shapes, and a roof.

"Okay, so this is a weird one because, in this case, the family actually believes the death is supernatural." Sam was saying, one hand resting in his jacket pocket as he walked on Castiel's right. "They're posting—or the mom's posting, anyway—about all these theories and signs that point to demonic activity."

Honestly, Castiel didn't pay much attention to what was said, distracted by the devilish things on his feet and the squealing miniatures running around the houses across the street. Strange, brightly colored plastic, wheeled contraptions lying on their sides, some kind of net tied to a frame… it was all very unusual.

"…don't always accept a normal cause of death even when it's very clearly that," Sam was saying. "This is especially true with suicides, but if there's a chance it's a monster, we can't afford to ignore it."

"Mmhmm." Castiel continued to look around, taking in the evenly spaced properties and the abundance of vehicles that came in different colors and shapes for no apparent reason. His eyes wandered as they made their way up to the house he assumed contained the victim's family, nearly running into Dean when the man suddenly stopped at the door to knock on it.

Castiel blinked. "What are you doing?"

Dean looked over his shoulder, confused. "Knocking?"

"Yes, you do that as you enter." Or at least, Dean had always knocked while opening the door to Castiel's cell. "You don't stop and stand there."

"Dude. It's someone else's house. We can't just let ourselves in."

Castiel quirked his brow and opened his mouth, but he was cut off by the door swinging inward.

"Oh," the woman breathed, eyes tired and bloodshot, dark hair in a tangled braid over her shoulder. "You must be Robert." She extended her hand toward Dean.

Dean reached out his own, and they lifted each other hands up and down. "I'm John, actually. He's Robert," he pointed over his shoulder at Sam and then shifted to Castiel, "and this is our friend, Jimmy."

"We're not friends," Castiel snapped.

But the disheveled woman didn't notice, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Oh, I… that's right, I was speaking with…" she pointed to Sam, "…um, you, Robert."

Sam spoke in that same soft tone he used when trying to win Castiel's cooperation. "I hope it's okay we came here first. You said the service would be over by noon, and we were hoping we could ask some questions and see Bethany's room before we go to the bridge?"

"Yes, I… uh…" Breathing shakily, the woman stepped back and extended her arm inside. "Sorry, I'm… not myself."

Smiling kindly, Sam stepped over the threshold, and Castiel didn't miss the way Sam taking the lead meant Dean shifted his attention Castiel. "Don't worry about it, Dahlia. You're going through a lot."

Castiel didn't bother glaring as he passed Dean and went into the house, quickly letting their voices fade into the background as he examined. Everything was in disarray, toys scattered over the floor and blankets tangled around a small human on the couch. He saw a basket against the wall overflowing with clothes, through an archway there were dirty dishes piling up… well, everywhere. Crumpled tissues were spread over the floor at one end of the couch, a brightly colored movie was playing on the television, and everything seemed to be a general state of… not right. Off, though he didn't know why or how. He had never really gone inside a human dwelling before, so he didn't know what they were supposed to look like, but he imagined organization and cleanliness facilitated better survival.

It seems the primary female is failing at her job. Castiel glanced the other way and spied some stairs. He needed no one's approval, so he went over to them. It makes sense the mother—and whole family unit, really—would be upset. They need their pack bonds to survive. He ascended gradually, taking in everything around him; the somewhat spongy floors, the olive walls, the red oak banister, the colorful pictures on the wall. They're smiling in all of these. He got to the top and began walking down the hall. Sam and Dean can't chase after me without making the woman suspicious. He saw a pink and purple name hanging on a white door to his left—that's the victim—and pushed the cracked door, finding a bright world of yellow walls and white furniture with pink and purple accents scattered throughout.

"Castiel!" came a harsh whisper from behind.

Unperturbed, Castiel went to the dresser and leaned forward, examining the photographs framed on the surface and stuck to the wall. She—the only person who showed up in every one—was smiling brightly. One had her was with a boy her age, and another showed her with the small boy from downstairs, and in yet another, she was with both that boy and a different boy who was close to her age but not the first boy. One with two females her age, one with the woman who answered the door and a man—her father, perhaps?—and several more.

"You can't just run off." Sam continued in a rough whisper.

"It seems to be supernatural in origin," was Castiel's disinterested response.

Sam didn't respond at first. "And… why is that?"

"Look." Castiel indicated the pictures and shifted his right foot, utterly loathing the sensation of fibers on his skin. "She's happy. She wouldn't end her own life if she was happy, so something must have killed her."

Sam inhaled. "That's… not necessarily the case."

Castiel scowled but waited to see what Sam's logic would be.

"Lots of people who commit suicide look happy." It was clear Sam was choosing his words carefully. "Sudden or uncharacteristic levels of happiness can actually be a huge red flag saying someone is going to kill themselves."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." Castiel gave Sam a look, silently asking if the hunter really thought he would believe such a story. "If you want to die, you can't also be happy. They're mutually exclusive."

Pressing his lips together, Sam continued to exercise caution and stayed silent for several seconds, which was good because Castiel was getting angry. "Remember—" Sam glanced over his shoulder at the open door, keeping his voice low, "—remember when we got back from the market the second time? After the tattoo?"

Suspicious, Castiel offered a single nod.

"You were drugged up and miserable, and you had just been through something awful, but you were really happy to see your bed, weren't you?"

Castiel swallowed, cheeks warming slightly. He hadn't realized he had been so obvious.

"Your eyes lit up, and you stopped fighting us to walk to it." Despite an almost fond tone in his voice, Sam kept a serious expression. "You fell face first into the sheets and practically melted, letting out this happy, contented, humming noise."

Castiel was growing progressively more embarrassed, eyes averting for a split second before he forced them back. Don't look away.

"Your bed made you happy," Sam continued, "but it didn't fix the situation, did it? It didn't take away the negative feelings, and it didn't fix the chemicals in your body." He gave a sympathetic smile. "It didn't keep you from giving up two weeks later."

Dropping his gaze, Castiel thought for a moment and then looked back at the photos. "But I didn't look like that."

"No, you didn't, but the concept carries." Sam shrugged, but it wasn't dismissive. It was… something else. "She also could have faked it. She didn't want her family to worry, she thought she could handle it, she…" He waved vaguely, implying they could insert any number of scenarios.

Disturbed, Castiel let his gaze drift back across the pictures. I suppose… if they can put on a false face to manipulate their victims… they could do the same for other reasons. His brow furrowed, and he didn't like the twisting sensation in his gut. "So… she just…"

"Well, I had to leave, but Dean is still talking to Mrs. Fields." Sam exhaled, looking around the room. "Let's just investigate up here, and don't wander off again."

Castiel spat a single syllable—an old, Enochian curse—and started sifting through the contents of the room. He examined the flowery bedspread, and while the presence of stuffed, animal-shaped toys confused him, it didn't tell him anything about the victim. He put a knee on the mattress and reached across to touch the wall. Normally, he would have been able to sense supernatural energies the second he walked in, but… maybe he was weaker than he thought. Maybe there were charms or hex bags in the walls he couldn't sense.

"You're not gonna find anything."

Castiel didn't let himself startle, calmly turning toward the open door and waiting for Sam to engage the scruffy teen standing there in a grungy outfit.

"Are you David?" Sam asked, gently lowering the lid to a jewelry box. "Your mother mentioned you in her emails to me."

David—if it was truly him—crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, a mixture of irritation and crushing fatigue in his eyes. "Bethany killed herself."

Sam turned and gave his complete, undivided attention to the adolescent. "You seem very sure of that."

Scoffing, David rolled his eyes, a not-so-subtle sheen glistening in the light. "Bee needed help. She needed—" He stopped, gripping his upper arms and clearly trying to calm himself, though Castiel wasn't sure why. From Castiel's perspective, David didn't know Sam, so it made sense to assault him if he was angry. "She wasn't okay. She got bullied at school and church. She didn't feel good about herself. She hated how she looked. And she tried to tell Mom." He blinked, a tear slipping down his cheek before he could turn his head, breathing carefully.

Sam didn't interrupt, and he didn't get any closer or further away. He just stood there, focused and listening, waiting to hear whatever came next.

"Mom just said pray it away. Over and over." David sneered and tried to calm himself again, scratching at his pierced ear. "Like that was gonna fix it." He sniffed and leaned back to look down the hall, but it wasn't like he was afraid of being caught. He almost wanted to be caught; wanted to scream at the woman talking to Dean downstairs. And he couldn't look Sam or Castiel in the eye. "She was so close. Two months, and she was going to turn eighteen, and then she could get meds. I work at a grocery store, and she was going to have her prescriptions filled at their pharmacy, and I was going to get them for her and sneak them home, and—" His voice broke, and he screwed his eyes shut.

Sam didn't react right away, but he soon stepped away from the dresser and approached the door. "So, you believe your mother is trying to deal with… guilt or a sense of responsibility by blaming it on something supernatural?"

"No, she's just stupid." David reached up and shielded his eyes, breathing carefully. "She's completely delusional. She really thinks it was demons. That something possessed my sister and made her jump." He dropped his hand, sniffing as another tear fell from his jawline. "And it wasn't. It just wasn't."

Nodding slowly, Sam did a much better job of processing the influx of information than Castiel, who was just staring without a single actionable thought. "What does your father think?"

"Tch. I'll eat my tongue ring the day Dad finally stands up to Mom. I don't know if he's delusional like she is or if he's just too much of a coward to tell her the truth, but he didn't do anything for Bee. Not anything I ever knew about." David ran a hand through his thin, short hair.

Sam remained thoughtful, his expression so… open and sincere, like he really cared about what the boy was saying beyond its ability to help him determine whether this was a hunt. "You don't believe the way your parents do, then. You don't think there was anyth—"

"No, I don't believe the way they do." David looked up at Sam with fire in his eyes. "Because I'm actually a Christian. They are something so far on the other end of the spectrum we can't even see each other from where we're standing." He wiped his face, trying to use his fingerless gloves to soak up the moisture on his cheeks. "Mom's a total narcissist. She genuinely believes she can do no wrong—she is not capable of being wrong—so when there's consequences for the negligence and manipulation and lies, it's just Satan attacking her because he does that to good, strong Christians like her. It's just trials and tribulations. 'When you see one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.'"

Castiel had no idea what that meant, but the sheer disgust permeating David's voice evoked a visceral reaction. It was like he could feel an anger that wasn't his based purely on the venom reaching his ears. Like he could imagine Michael abandoning Anna and refusing to take responsibility in the same way, but that didn't make sense because that had never happened. It couldn't happen. But he felt as if it could, or would, or had, or…

"That…" Sam took a breath and let it out slowly. "That really sucks. How are you feeling about all this? I mean, feeling about yourself, you know. Not who you blame, but how you cope."

David's lips pulled up in the corner, his gaze trailing away from Sam's face, and he shrugged. "I'll see her again someday."

Castiel, somehow, had enough understanding of humanity not to explain Heaven was not what the young man thought it was.

"She feels better now. I just wish… I could feel better, too." David sniffed, rolling his shoulders and dabbing the dampness on his face. "But someone has to be here for Benji. Mom and Dad are braindead nematodes. I don't want to know what would happen to his mental health if I left him alone with them." He shook his head, breathing deep a few times to collect himself before leaning back and looking both ways down the hall. "Sorry, didn't mean to…"

"No, it's fine." Sam smiled and reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a small tablet and pen before scratching something down and giving the sheet to David. "Here. If you ever need anything… even just to talk." He smiled a little more. "If your mom finds out, just tell her you wanted to have my number in case there was any more demon activity to report."

David hesitated but took the paper, huffing out a weak laugh. "Sorry she made you drive all the way out here." He stared at the number for a moment and then folded the paper, slipping it into his pocket as he looked up at Sam again. "But I guess, if you're here, that means you really do investigate… stuff?"

"So much stuff. You wouldn't even believe the stuff." Sam laughed softly, which prompted David to do the same. "I have been doing this a long time, and I'll tell you there are things out there that…" he exhaled, shaking his head, "…but I'm not naïve. I know there isn't always a boogeyman to blame the bad stuff on."

David's lips twitched, like he was trying to force a smile but couldn't. "I gotta go make dinner. You do whatever you gotta do to make your investigation look legit. I just didn't want you wasting your time."

"I appreciate that. We'll snoop around while my brother talks to your mom." Sam moved back toward the dresser, lifting the lid to the jewelry box he had been looking through earlier.

"Sure. Nice to meet you, uh… Robert, I think she said?"

"It's Sam, actually. But, uh, let's keep that between us." Lips pulled up in a mischievous grin. "Paranormal investigations aren't really something you want your legal name on, you know?"

David gave a nod, visibly braced himself, and disappeared into the hall, presumably to go downstairs and feign civility with the woman he so clearly detested.

"Geeze." Sam sighed softly, staring down at the gold necklaces. "I wish I could do more than just give him my number." He shook his head and then went right back to investigating.

Why, Castiel didn't know, because it seemed Sam had been correct about the lack of a supernatural element. Castiel elected not to return to his own investigation, instead sliding into a more comfortable position on the edge of the bed with his hands in his lap.

I don't understand. He didn't understand why the whole family didn't share the same belief system, and he didn't understand how people with such vastly different perspectives could share a roof without it resulting in homicide. He had seen so much bloodshed fueled by the blind hatred of humanity. Even when they didn't have something against each other personally—even when all they wanted was land or money or power for themselves; when they didn't like the color of someone's skin or the shape of their eyes or the accent they spoke with—they were ruthless. It wasn't possible that, when there were emotions and instincts and chemical reactions in their brains getting involved, they could somehow coexist. It just wasn't.

"Castiel?"

Castiel slowly shifted his gaze to Sam, glaring wordlessly.

"Are you…?" Sam moved his mouth, lowering a golden necklace back into the box, and his expression shifted to one of understanding. "Is it feeling sorry? Or is it something different?"

Blinking, Castiel spent several seconds confused, but then he remembered how he wound up on this potential hunt in the first place. He had accused Sam of feeling sorry for him, and Sam tried to explain the concept of sympathy before asking him if he wanted to feel it. He let his eyes drift down to the pinkish carpet. "I don't know," he whispered.

Because he really didn't. He still had the earlier sensation of imagining his own siblings, but there was something else, and he didn't know what it was. He felt… a thing… but he wasn't familiar and had no idea how to identify what it was, what it meant, or where it came from. He could feel a sort of… tightness in his chest… and a discomfort that didn't quite reach the point of an ache. His stomach felt… off. Not pain, not sickness, not hunger, just… not right. His throat was doing… a different thing… and…

"Castiel?"

He shook his head.

"Okay. If you have any questions or…" Sam exhaled. "Just let me know."

Castiel stared at the floor.

"You planned this."

Dean tossed a confused look to his right. "Planned what?"

Castiel curled up against the passenger side door, gripping the denim jacket they had given him. "You told those people what to say and how to act."

Dean shifted his gaze between road and passenger, anger surprisingly absent. "What did we tell them to say?" he asked, entirely nonconfrontational.

"Everything." Castiel shifted, like he was trying to get as far away from the brothers as he could without jumping onto the highway. "I assume you wrote a script."

Dean pursed his lips. "Seems like a lot of work." He turned in his seat, checking his blind spot before he merged into the passing lane. "Why isn't it possible it was real?"

"Because," the angel hissed, "humans do not feel those things naturally."

"Hmm." Dean feigned innocence and confusion. "If humans don't feel that stuff naturally, how do we know what phrases and expressions to use? Like, who taught us how to fake it?"

Tensing, Castiel pushed himself against the door a little harder. "If you know the pain and how it feels, why would you repeatedly inflict it on each other?" He was angry, as always, but there was a subtle tone of genuine confusion.

Sam leaned against the back of Dean's seat, trying to join the conversation while staying out of Castiel's space. "Remember when I said people are made up of everything inside them? How Dean and I can be different but the same?" He paused, and there was no response, but he continued as if there had been. "Some humans are made up of hatred and greed, so they don't care if they cause pain. Some people are made up of love and generosity, so they go out of their way to ease pain. Some people are made up of delusions and fear that keep them from realizing they're inflicting pain in the first place. Most of us are a mix of all of those things, so sometimes we get it right, and sometimes we get it wrong." He took a breath. "Everyone is a mix of so, so, so many different things, all in different amounts, and people grow and change. I'm not the Sam I was five years ago. I'll never be that Sam again, even if I decide to go back to those beliefs and opinions, because I can't just forget who I was in between those two points in my life."

Castiel clenched his jaw. "That explains the perpetual chaos humanity wallows in."

Sam didn't argue. "It can get pretty awful, yeah."

Silence fell over the Impala, and it wasn't entirely uncomfortable. It wasn't easy—it was heavy with intense thought and the weight of the topic—but it wasn't negative. Considering Castiel was in the car, that fact, in and of itself, was a miracle.

Author's Note: This chapter of Rehearsing Tragedies has been brought to you by I Needed to Vent about My Dad's Older Sister while using Her Narcissism to Explore the Complexities of the Human Mind, Morals, and Emotions. Castiel is finding out the world is made of gray far more than it is ever made of black and white, and it's breaking his brain. In the next chapter, he requests 'an internet device' to start doing his own research on humanity, and... things happen. Get ready to cry.