Chapter Text
The first realization he remembers having is that the stars are oddly bright from where he lies sprawled on his back. The second, of course, is that there are troubling sounds coming from some vague point to his left. He supposes that's fair—vision and auditory processes are usually the first thing people make sense of when they wake.
He knows that much, at least.
Not much else, though.
When he pushes himself up on his elbows, he blinks at the sight before him. He doesn't know anything about himself, but he has some preconceived notion that the sight waiting for him isn't...good. A man in a dull, tan trenchcoat is currently fighting off another man who appears to be attacking him valiantly.
There's a flash of silver, the most horrible sound of bones snapping, and he watches a blue-eyed man stab someone through their face, tip to hilt, right up through the chin.
He doesn't realize he's on his feet with intentions to help—because, obviously that's the rational route to be taking here—until those blue eyes snap up to land on him and the body falls to the grass with a dull thump.
There's a tense moment where they just stare, sizing each other up, not moving an inch.
"Who are you?" Blue-Eyes stands to full height, finally moving, dark eyebrows pushing together as he frowns.
"Good question," he replies. "I don't actually know the answer to that. Who are you?"
Blue eyes narrow. "I am equally unqualified to answer that question."
Sighing, he looks away from blue-eyes, staring down at the overly still body on the ground. "Know him?"
"No, I don't. He attacked me."
"Right. Yeah, I saw."
There's another tense silence, and he forces himself to look away from the body. He doesn't feel bad, exactly, just mostly confused. Amnesia is probably the leading cause in that emotion, he supposes; not remembering shit is undoubtedly the most confused a person can get. He has a base knowledge of the world, he knows that, but that's about it.
He knows what amnesia is, he knows killing people isn't the best personality trait, and he knows that he should probably be a lot more wary than he feels.
He also knows that he'd been seconds from helping a random stranger kill someone off bare instinct, but what he doesn't know is why.
"Do you remember anything?" blue-eyes asks, holding his palms out in warning as he takes one short step closer.
"Not shit, actually. And I'm guessing you don't either, so we both somehow lost our memories."
"It would seem so."
Sighing, he shrugs internally and decides to go with his gut. It's about all he has right now. "Alright," he says, striding forward to peer at the man closer, eyes scanning his body, "I'm also going to take a shot in the dark and assume we're on the same team. You got a phone on you?"
Blue-Eyes watches him with an air of suspicion, but uses his free hand to search his pockets. After a moment, he holds up a phone. "Yes. Why?"
"Check your contacts, messages, calls. Anything you can find," he replies.
Blue-eyes does. "There is a list of contacts. On speed dial, I have a picture of—" Blue-Eyes pauses, glancing up to look at him briefly. "—you. Your name is Dean."
"Oh," he says lightly, "is it?"
"Yes. The only other on speed dial is a long-haired man named Sam. No last names."
"Well, let's be glad you're the type to put pictures with your contacts. Dean. D-ean . Yeah, okay, I can work with that." He—Dean—starts patting himself down, searching for his own phone. "Aha, here we go. Let's see what your—"
"Castiel," Blue-Eyes interrupts, eyes fixated on his phone. "I have one conversation with a blond youth named Claire. One of the messages she sent is locked. It says my name is Castiel."
Dean grunts quietly and shuffles a little closer, peering down at the screen of Blue-Eyes' phone. Well, Castiel, actually. He may not know much, but he's pretty sure that Castiel is a weird name. Whatever, who is he to judge? Dean is pretty bland.
"Yeah, you're Castiel. I have you in my speed dial, too. Well, it's Cass. Wait. C-A-S-S." Dean squints at his own phone, more confusion setting up shop in the throb at his temple. "Where did I get an extra S? Apparently, I'm a dumbass."
"Is Sam in your speed dial as well?" Castiel asks carefully, eyes flickering hesitantly to the phone in Dean's hand.
Dean rolls his eyes. "Just get over here, man. We can compare notes, see where we're at."
Castiel obliges, dropping his hand with the blade to his side, moving to stand at Dean's shoulder, his own phone on display. They cross-check their contacts, and sure enough, it's mostly the same. There are a few that Dean has that Castiel doesn't, but their speed dial is exactly the same, except Cas has pictures for his.
Dean pokes at the screen until the picture next to his name enlarges as much as it will go. He purses his lips as he studies his own face—according to Castiel, anyway. Until he can find a mirror, he'll just have to choose to trust him. Surprisingly, it's not that hard to do, all things considered.
The photo isn't the best quality and it's taken from a weird angle, almost like Castiel had snapped it from over Dean's shoulder, catching him as he turned around to look. But Dean has green eyes and light brown hair and a pretty nice face, over all.
"May I look at the call list, or are you planning to stare at yourself all night?" Castiel asks flatly.
Dean scowls. "Oh, like you aren't curious."
Rolling his eyes, Castiel clicks away from the photo and checks the call list. It's bare, not a call saved. No voicemails, only one message locked—though, by the emotional content, Dean figures that Castiel had saved it for sentimental reasons. There's no recent internet history, no little memos in the notepad app, and nothing that gives much concrete information.
"You?" Castiel prompts.
Dean's phone on the other hand… Where Castiel's held next to nothing, all deleted, Dean seems to have kept most of everything. His call list is long and full. He has three missed calls from Cass and five from Sam. Some calls to someone named Jody , three back-to-back calls from Claire, one that had been returned literally two minutes later. No call lasts longer than five minutes.
His messages are less of a goldmine. Two threads; one for Castiel, one for Sam. Castiel reaches out to click on his own name, but Dean bats his hand away, doing it himself. That earns him an arch look.
"Well, that's not good." Dean tips the phone towards Castiel. "Your last message to me was: Dean, do not meet up with Sam. It's a trap."
Castiel is silent for a moment, then he says, "What is the last thing Sam said to you?"
"Oh," Dean mutters, fumbling to swipe to his message thread with the mysterious Sam. He blinks rapidly as he stares at the message. "Well, things just took a turn for the worst."
Castiel snatches the phone with a rough growl that dips even lower than the pitch of his voice, which Dean is also fairly certain isn't normal, but who is he to tell a guy how to talk. Narrowing his eyes, Castiel mouths the words to himself, then—appropriately, in Dean's opinion—he frowns at the screen.
"Dean, when I find you, I'm going to kill you. And Cas, too, for good measure," Castiel reads off slowly, his eyebrows furrowing.
"Welp, Sam's obviously someone we want to avoid if at all possible," Dean mutters, snatching the phone back and re-reading the words warily.
Castiel hums quietly. "I'd say so."
Dean grunts and scrolls through his phone to go over the rest of the information. There aren't any other message threads, and his messages with Cas and Sam only hold the last conversations within the last three hours. He only has two pictures in his gallery—one of him and the man named Sam sitting at a table with a couple of beers and a smile; one of Sam and Cas standing in what appears to be a gun range, looking at the camera in equal parts exasperation and amusement. His internet history shows a lot of porn, of many varieties, and Dean clears his throat as he quickly clicks away.
"So, we know our names, we know that you and I are close, and we know some guy with a lot of hair wants to kill us," Dean lists off, frowning at the screen.
Castiel hums and starts walking away, his eyes fixated over Dean's shoulder. He doesn't appear to be listening to Dean, which is just great, really.
Dean heaves a sigh and turns around, not entirely sure what the best route is to take. With no other options, he follows Castiel farther into the field, or out of it—he has no idea where he is.
Castiel abruptly comes to a halt, freezing in his tracks, his head bent down. Dean can feel a sense of dread settle on him, the first real worry he can remember feeling, and he slowly approaches Castiel's back. He quickly understands why Castiel stopped.
"Woah," Dean breathes out, slowly lowering his phone as he stares out at the line of bodies all slumped over on the ground. There's dried blood on the grass, limbs sprawling or curling from rigor mortis, and grotesque wounds from what appears to be stabbing. "Dude, are we...serial killers?"
Castiel is silent for a moment, then he swallows thickly and says, "We have no proof that we did this."
Dean snorts. "Right, we're just the last two alive amongst—what, nine bodies? Jesus."
"Twelve," Castiel corrects. He makes a small sound of frustration. "This is...not good."
"Yeah, you can say that again. If—if we are serial killers, that means that Sam is, too. Which means that we are screwed if he finds us."
"We need to go."
"Yeah, we really do," Dean agrees quickly, his gaze flicking to the phone in his hand. "Hey, you got a pen? Anything to write with?"
Wordlessly, Castiel pats his pockets, then looks up with a gesture that even those with no memory can't misinterpret. Right, Dean thinks, why would a serial killer have a pen?
Castiel sends him an inquisitive look when he starts checking himself for anything to write with, only to come up empty. He finds a set of keys that do nothing for him currently. And he does find a folded piece of yellowing paper with an address scribbled messily in the top right corner. Dean casts his gaze to the bodies littered in the field, his first strike of disgust—that he can recall—hitting him in waves.
"What are you doing?" Castiel asks calmly as Dean side-steps over to the closest body with his face screwed up.
Dean gags as he bends down and starts checking the pockets with shaky hands. "Oh, this is so gross. This is—oh god, this is nasty."
"What are we looking for?" Castiel moves to the next body and goes through the pockets in what has to be solidarity, but there isn't any disdain on his face, not bothered in the least with stealing from corpses, like maybe he does it every day. And who knows; maybe he does, maybe Dean helps him do it.
"A pen, marker, pencil. Something to write with. We need these numbers from my phone," Dean mumbles, nose wrinkling when the body beneath his hand squishes in. Ugh, bloating.
Castiel doesn't say anything else, just continues to search. He only breaks his quiet when he finally locates a pen and holds it up. "Found it. Here."
Dean removes his hands from the fifth body instantly, shuffling towards the sixth where Castiel offers him the pen. He hunches forward and presses the paper against his thigh, smoothing it out and using the thick muscle as a stable surface. He writes each number carefully, putting the contact name beside the digits.
Once every number is recorded, Dean folds the paper back up and slips it into a different pocket. It's as he goes to remove his hand that he feels it. Something solid and heavy, sitting innocuously in what feels like the lining of his jacket. It turns out to be an inside pocket, a thing he discovers when he feels his way inside and pulls out whatever the object is.
Only to immediately fling it away with a yelp.
"Jesus, what the hell?" Dean blurts, grimacing at the gun lying casually in the grass, looking all for the world like it's not a murder weapon. "Oh man, I really think we're serial killers."
Castiel stares at the gun, then looks up at Dean with an arched eyebrow. "If that's the case, then we're probably in more trouble than...say, a regular person would be if they had amnesia. I believe the gun will come in handy at some point."
"That makes a worrying amount of sense." Dean takes a deep breath and holds it, just staring at the gun. It's a pistol with engravings and two cream-colored side-grips, but that's about all he knows about it. He releases the breath as his lungs burn. "Yeah, okay, I'll take the gun, but I have zero idea how to use the damn thing."
Castiel grasps the opening of his trenchcoat, pulling it back to reveal the strange blade from earlier, the handle poking out of his pocket. "I didn't know how to use this either, but it saved my life. Take the gun."
"Fair enough," Dean allows, warily stepping forward to duck down and scoop up the gun.
He knows to check the safety at least, and he nearly has a stroke when he sees that it's off. Fuck, what kind of psychopath is he? He flicks it on and carefully tucks it into his belt, pointed as far away from his body as it'll go, hidden once he lets his jacket ease back over it. Once the gun is put away, he feels mildly better. Only mildly, though.
"You want to get rid of the phones," Castiel concludes suddenly, holding his out.
Dean clears his throat. "Well, yeah. We don't know what this Sam guy can do. I mean, hell, if he can do even half of what we apparently can, then he's very dangerous. I don't think we should risk it."
"That's very smart."
"I'm getting the feeling that I wasn't usually the brains of the operation."
"That doesn't seem fair. If you're being smart without your memories, then it only makes sense that you were even smarter with them." Castiel pauses and narrows his eyes. "Then again, I have no knowledge of anything in our past, so we could both be idiots for all I know."
Dean rolls his eyes and waggles his fingers at Castiel, waiting for the phone. Once in hand, he goes about removing the batteries and stomping them with his heel. He isn't sure if that counts as properly ditching the phones, but he figures that leaving them in pieces in a random field certainly works. It's only when he feels properly satisfied that he looks up.
Castiel is just watching him with an oddly serene look on his face, as if they're doing yoga.
For a split second, Dean despises that expression. This isn't exactly a calm situation; if anything, this is the perfect time for panicking. But Castiel doesn't appear to be doing that, which means Dean has to keep it together, too. He adds competitive to the list of things he's learning about himself.
Of course, when sirens suddenly start wailing in the distance, the peace on Castiel's face shatters, and Dean finds himself missing it. They can't both panic, not now. Someone has to keep a cool head.
"Okay, okay, that's—that's definitely the cops," Dean mutters, his voice cracking with stress, and he's definitely not calm. "We need to—"
"Leave. Now." Castiel whirls around, trenchcoat flapping dramatically in a move that seems natural and unpractised. Motion memory, possibly.
"Uh, Castiel? Cas?" Dean stumbles after him, his eyes widening as he realizes what direction Castiel is marching towards. "Dude, you're heading straight to the cops. What part of 'we are probably serial killers' did you not understand?"
"The cops have to be coming from somewhere, but without a doubt, they're on a road. We just have to evade them and find the closest town," Castiel tells him, his stride never faltering.
Dean falls into step beside him, gaping at the side of his face, his arms spread in the universal declaration of what the everloving fuck? "We're in a fucking field, Cas! How do we evade cops? You're insane. This is—this is just great. I have no idea who I am, who you are, but just my luck...I'm fucking stuck with a guy who's literally nuts!"
"Do you see that underbrush up there?" Castiel asks, grasping Dean's shoulder and pointing into the awaiting darkness like he might actually be able to see what the fuck is out there. "I think I see a car. Even if it doesn't work, we can hide there until the cops are officially gone."
Dean squints into the blotty darkness. "How the fuck do you see that? I can't see shit."
"It's actually very clear. Perhaps I have honed night-vision."
"Yeah, because that makes sense. Well, if you do, that means you're probably a terrifying killer after all."
"We can't confirm that."
"No, and we can't deny it either."
"Why don't we work out what we're going to do before we start worrying about whether we're a team of serial killers?" Castiel mutters, his eyes scanning the darkness, so vividly blue that they almost glow.
Dean opens his mouth to argue, because he's pretty sure that working out whether they kill people together is really fucking important, but he snaps it shut when the distant sounds of...something reaches them. It's almost a fwapping noise, like a very large fan on the highest setting. It sounds like a…
"Jesus Christ!" Dean bellows, tipping his head back to watch the helicopter soar over their heads. "Who the fuck are we?"
A spotlight comes on ahead of them, and Castiel digs his nails into Dean's shoulder.
"Run!" Castiel shouts and breaks away, pushing himself into a full sprint.
Dean doesn't really have to be told twice, nor does he need to be advised to avoid the spotlight. Though, that's not really a struggle; he just follows Castiel, who seems a natural at clinging to the shadows untouched by the overly bright beam of light. He runs so far and so fast that his lungs and legs are on fire by the time Castiel leads them to a hill they apparently now need to climb.
At least the helicopter seems farther away.
It's not until they reach the peak of the hill with Dean's wheezing gasps as a soundtrack that he finally understands what Castiel meant about the car. It's parked off road, surrounded by trees and covered with as many leaves and limbs as whoever owned it could find. All Dean can make out in the darkness is his warped reflection in the silver rims of the back tire that Castiel has them duck behind.
More cop cars go by, sirens blaring, lights on a blue loop. Castiel has his hand on Dean's elbow, keeping him in place, and Dean's just doing his best not to pass out. They'd cleared that field so quickly that it's a wonder they hadn't flown. Castiel isn't even winded, which is just...weird.
After a few moments, the flow of cop cars come to an abrupt end, continuing up the winding road towards the opening to the field. Castiel drops his hand and reaches up to open the door, turning to Dean and sweeping his hand out in offering, a long-suffering eyebrow cocking at Dean's flat expression.
They've known each other for less than an hour, and Dean's already seconds from thumping him.
"Can you hotwire a car?" Dean hisses doubtfully.
"No," Castiel admits. "I don't suppose you happen to have the knowledge already?"
Dean scowls at him. "Obviously I fucking don't!"
Lips tightening in displeasure, Castiel jabs a finger towards the open door. "Just get in. We'll figure it out from there."
Dean clicks his tongue to convey that he doesn't like Castiel's tone, but does as he's told, only for the simple fact that he has no other plan. He squirms into the car, sliding up in the leather seat, and frowns when Castiel shuts the door after him. The leaves and limbs start disappearing as Castiel pulls them away, and once the car must be free to move, he slides in behind the wheel, releasing a soft sigh.
"So, what next, fearless leader?" Dean asks sarcastically, crossing his arms and waiting.
Except, well...Castiel looks really fucking stressed out. He leans forward to press his forehead to the steering wheel, exhaling heavily through his nose, and he doesn't answer. After the silence stretches into uncomfortable territory, Dean takes his first spin on the shame train since waking up.
The thing is, Dean doesn't really know Castiel. But then again...he doesn't know himself either. What he does know is that they're in this together, and they're probably going to need each other to make it out of this mess alive. So no, Dean doesn't really find any pleasure in seeing Castiel have what might be a mental breakdown or a quick nap.
He doesn't know enough about himself to figure out how he'd usually approach this situation. However, his feelings aren't exactly nonexistent. It must be him, just him—memories be damned, like maybe the feelings are sourced from his very self, from his soul or some shit—because there's a strong sense of yearning just to help. Like before, when he'd first woken up and his first instinct had been to help a complete stranger with too-blue eyes.
With nothing else to go on, he reaches out and does what feels right, pressing his palm to Castiel's shoulder, a steady weight. Almost instantly, the tension bleeds out of his frame, and Dean blinks when Castiel turns to look at him.
"I am a weary soul," Castiel murmurs.
Dean rubs his thumb over the fabric of the trenchcoat at Castiel's shoulder. "I'm...sorry?"
"Feelings are very...exhausting," Castiel informs him quietly. "It's heavy, almost. Draining. I'm learning that I'm a person who feels tired very often."
"Could just be the running," Dean suggests awkwardly. "We'll find somewhere to sleep, even if it is just in the car. It's gonna be alright."
Castiel hums and picks his head up, eyes flicking over the dashboard with a small frown. "Look in the glove compartment. There might be something important there."
And just like that, the moment is gone. Dean drops his hand and ignores the odd flickering of disappointment in his mind to do as he's asked. The glove compartment, however, is locked.
"Who locks a glove compartment?" Dean mumbles, eyebrows drawing together.
"Someone with something to hide," Castiel replies slowly, fumbling around for something. He eventually finds it and hums triumphantly when the dull overhead light clicks on. "It could be our car."
Dean nods. "Hate to think we've got shit to hide, but yeah. Remember the keys I found?"
"Try them," Castiel says quietly.
Dean warily scoops out the keys he'd been so quick to cast aside as useless earlier. He fiddles with them, lips tipping down as he considers them; he's not sure if he even wants the keys to work. He's got a sneaking suspicion that whatever is in that glove compartment is only going to add to his Serial Killer Theory.
Of course, after trying what must be the key to the car, the second key slides in and opens the glove compartment with ease. They both instantly move forward, peering in curiously. Dean has to dig out the… What is that; wallets? He passes a couple to Castiel, then opens a few himself.
They're not wallets. They're fucking fake FBI badges.
"What did I tell you?" Dean snaps, flipping through the stash of faux FBI identities frantically. "We couldn't have been normal, could we? Of—"
"Dean, most of these are you and Sam," Castiel interrupts. "I've found four that must be me, but that is all. Perhaps I don't often pose as an agent?"
"I have no idea." Dean sighs and starts digging in the glove compartment yet again. "I can't remember."
Castiel makes a small sound of frustration. "This doesn't necessarily mean we kill people, Dean. What if we just...scam people?"
"Says the guy who's already stabbed someone," Dean mutters, frowning at the various pieces of charms he pulls from the compartment. Maybe they're into, like, protective trinkets or some shit?
"That was self-defense," Castiel grits out. He huffs loudly and snatches one of the charms. "That's not of import, currently. We should check the trunk. At the very least, there may be other clothes to change into. We're both covered in blood."
Dean shoots him a flat look. "Two words: Serial. Killers. Dude, we are not getting outta this."
"Yes," Castiel says firmly, "we are. Now, give me the keys. We should find some place to stay out of sight. I'm sure there is a motel close to here that we can stop at and check the trunk."
"Sure," Dean agrees distractedly, passing over the keys without looking. He keeps digging through the glove compartment, only to freeze when he pulls out a little stack of credit cards. "Jesus, I'd say we hit the jackpot, but this is yet another crime on top of all the killing. Take a look at this."
Castiel puts the key in, but doesn't turn it, eyeing the credit cards Dean waves in his face. "Sam could possibly find us if we attempted to use those."
"A last resort," Dean compromises.
"Very well," Castiel allows, then turns the key.
The engine roars to life with a smooth growl, rumbling loud, finely tuned and full of power. It's so amazing that Dean jolts and nearly drops all the cards in his hands, and Castiel simply blinks.
"Oh dude, this has to be my car," Dean blurts, listening to the purr of the engine. "Do you hear that? Holy shit, that is nice. God, I hope this is my car. Or our car, whatever."
"It does sound...good," Castiel agrees slowly, clearing his throat as he puts it in reverse and starts backing them to the road. He swings them around slowly and starts driving away from the field, the engine growling the entire way.
"We good on gas?" Dean asks, leaning over to try and look at the gas gauge.
Castiel hums. "It's full."
"Well, serial killers or not, at least we're not the kind of monsters who don't give a fuck about their car."
"Small mercies."
Dean snorts. "So, we go to the closest motel and—"
"No, not the closest. That's too obvious, don't you think? We need to go somewhere in town, but not too close to the—to where we woke."
"Right, they'll think we'll bail, but sticking around can throw 'em off, Sam included...hopefully. We can't use the credit cards, not here. We can sleep in the car until morning, then put as much distance between us and that fucking field."
Castiel nods. "I agree."
The trunk is… Well.
"Great, so we're in a cult, too," Dean mutters, staring at the wide variety of...whatever it is that's in their (or, at least he's assuming it's theirs) trunk.
Castiel doesn't seem to know what to say for a long moment. "Maybe?" he suggests awkwardly.
Dean wrinkles his nose. "Look at this shit? You got weird ass symbols, crazy ass weapons, even some crap that looks like it belongs in a TV show about, I dunno, supernatural shit or something."
"There are clothes, at least," Castiel says with only a bit of relief. He's a little thrown by the trunk too, Dean can tell. "It's an emergency bag."
"Looks like," Dean agrees, picking through the contents of the bag while Castiel holds it out. "Got some clothes that should fit, bathroom stuff, even a little bit of money. Hey, we might be able to get a couple of rooms after all. I think we deserve it, and honestly, we both could probably use a shower."
Castiel frowns slightly. "We can share and save some money. But we should get showers, yes. Then, tomorrow, we take as much money from those cards as we can and leave immediately after."
"Sounds like a plan to me." Dean flicks his gaze down at himself, grimacing at the blood stains all over him, then surveys Castiel's less than pristine state, but he's at least passable. "Alright, you go get the room while I lock this trunk up. I would say we burn all this shit, but—"
"I doubt we'd forgive us if we suddenly obtained our memories. I don't think we should inconvenience ourselves anymore than we have to."
"Even if we're serial killers in a cult?"
Castiel sends him a flat look as he digs out all the cash in the bag. "Even then," he says seriously, then turns and walks off.
Dean shakes his head and turns back to the trunk. It's so bizarre. There's weapons out the ass, trinkets that can only belong to the delusional people who believe in cults, an odd abundance of salt... Hell, Dean isn't even sure if there's a spare tire beneath all this shit, and he's not willing to find out. He just shakes his head and lightly pushes the shotgun holding the trunk open with one finger, jerking his hand back just in time as the trunk slams shut. He shudders and locks it, refraining from throwing away the key.
Waiting for Castiel to return, Dean crosses his arms and scans the shadowed motel parking lot. It's practically empty outside of two other cars besides the one he's desperately pleased is his and Castiel's, even if it is full of weird shit. There's no sounds coming from the inside of the rooms, nothing to hear outside, and Dean still feels unsettled.
He hears the door scrape back open as Castiel ducks back out of the lobby. Instantly, that unsettled feeling eases slightly, which Dean supposes is fair. It makes sense in his mind, at least.
"Got the room?" Dean asks.
Castiel nods. "One-zero-six. Follow me."
Dean does, adjusting the bag on his shoulder as Castiel leads them to their room and flicks on the light. The door to room 106 opens with a horrifying creak, but Dean figures that's a good thing—if someone comes in to kill them in their sleep, at least they'll have warning. The room itself is shitty. There's a distinct odor that Dean somehow recognizes as burritos and sex; how he knows that without memories, he'll never know, but all he can do is hope that those scents weren't intermingled at the same time. The bed is in the middle of the left wall, two little stands on either side, a lamp on both. The TV is large and shaped like a box, propped on a dresser with flaking wood and broken handles. Then there's a door to what must be the bathroom.
Castiel stops in the doorway, then heaves a sigh as he pushes himself inside. Dean follows him and shuts the door, involuntarily wrinkling his nose as the smell of burritos and sex get stronger.
"Now I understand why it was so inexpensive," Castiel mutters, stopping at the foot of the bed and looking around with a frown.
"It'll be fine for now, Cas," Dean says flippantly, distractedly sitting the bag on the bed and pulling out the clothes. "Here, look, go take a shower. I don't think these clothes are yours; they don't really seem your style. But you should fit into them."
Castiel takes the clothes. "They look like yours."
"They probably are."
"Why aren't there clothes packed for me?"
"You probably just wear my clothes," Dean says easily, flicking his gaze over Castiel's form.
"Okay." Castiel seems to accept that and turns away, only to pause and look over his shoulder. "Do you think you used to call me Cas?"
Dean blinks. "Oh, shit, I didn't realize I'd been doing that. I mean, I guess? Probably. Castiel's a mouthful, isn't it? Do you mind?"
"No," Castiel replies. "I like it."
"Cool," Dean says simply.
With that, Castiel turns away and heads into the shower, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. Dean keeps pulling clothes out, finding him his own outfit to change into after his turn in the shower. The water starts running, and Dean sighs as he looks around the room again.
There's a large mirror behind the TV, connected to the dresser, and Dean freezes when he catches sight of his reflection. It's the first time he's properly seeing himself and he's a little stunned by what he sees. He hadn't expected himself to be so...pretty.
He tucks the clothes under his arm and draws closer to the mirror, leaning in to appraise his face. It's a very nice face, if he does say so himself. Nice, strong jaw; pink, pouty lips; a nose perfect for his face; eyes so green that he blinks in surprise at the sight; and, to top it all off, he's got a light smattering of freckles that seems to bring it all together.
Jesus, he's actually freaking pretty.
Dean figures that he'd have to be to tolerate being around Castiel. He's pretty in his own way—a sharp jaw with the perfect amount of scruff, lips a pale pink, oh-so-full cheekbones that aren't too much but just enough, and eyes so blue that Dean's still convinced they glow. And his hair is a monstrosity, yet it's so effortlessly enticing that Dean kinda envies him. Though, his own hair isn't anything to scoff at; simple as it is, it fits him well.
Dean continues to stare at himself in the mirror, gently approving his own face, and that's how Castiel finds him when he comes out of the shower.
"This again?" Castiel asks flatly.
Dean doesn't even glance away from his reflection, just flips Castiel off. "Shut up, I'm just getting used to my own face. You should look at yourself, man. Come here, I promise you'll like what you see."
Castiel sighs but moves to stand beside him. Dean looks at him through the mirror, blinking slightly to see him in form-fitting attire. Gone is the trenchcoat and suit getup; he's now dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans that are a bit too tight around his thighs. It looks better on him.
"I look fine," Castiel says after a moment. His eyes flick to Dean, scanning his features while Dean watches on curiously. "You look nice."
Dean snorts. "Way to undersell it, Cas. Admit it, we're hot dudes. That almost makes up for the serial killer thing. Almost."
At that, Castiel's lips twitch up into a small smile, the first that Dean's ever seen, and it's pretty, too.
"Just go take a shower, Dean," he murmurs.
"Fair point," Dean replies easily. "Hey, I wonder what I look like naked. How much you wanna bet that I got freckles on my dick?"
"Dean, we have thirty-seven dollars. I don't think it'd be wise to bet anything."
"Yeah, I'll give you that."
Dean heads off to the shower while Castiel sighs like he's been saddled with an idiot—which, rude. Still, for as playful as he'd been, Dean is entirely serious about wondering what he looks like naked. It feels kinda weird to see his body for the first time, but he doubts he'll care if— when —he gets his memories back.
He feels instantly better once he strips out of the dirty clothes. There's blood and dirt all over him, but underneath all that, he looks really good. His freckles do spawn all over him and he's got a good body. There's a softness around his midsection that suggests he doesn't eat very healthy, but the slight pudge is kind of cute. His legs bow out, which is kinda strange, but they somehow bring the whole ensemble together to make him hot.
Good for him.
He gets in the shower and uses the same tiny shampoo and soapbar Castiel had, scrubbing his body as clean as he can get it, watching the water swirl—a brownish-pink from the blood—down the drain. It's not until the water runs clear that he gets out the shower and pats himself down with the too-small towel, not nearly dry enough to be shoving himself into clothes, but he manages.
And, just like that, he's clean. It's almost surreal how amazing that feels, as if he's an entirely new person, which seems to fit in his current predicament really well. He heads back out, poking his head into the room before just barging out.
Castiel is still standing in front of the mirror.
Dean snorts, and Castiel jolts like he's been slapped. He turns towards Dean and clears his throat. "Shut up," he rumbles, one hundred percent caught.
"Not saying a word." Dean smiles widely. "Good news, I was right. There are freckles on my dick. Significantly less, though."
"Ah," Castiel says, his tone suggesting that he has no idea what else he's supposed to say. He instantly changes the subject. "We should decide where we're going before we sleep."
Dean bobs his head and backtracks to the bathroom to grab his jacket, pushing the rest of his ruined clothes onto the neat pile Castiel had left behind. He digs around in the pockets for that slip of paper with the phone numbers and address, then he throws his jacket to the floor carelessly and moves over to the bed to flop down on the left side, closest to the door. He pats the open space beside him.
"Yeah, I've already got an idea about that," Dean assures him. He pats the bed again. "Come look."
Castiel abandons his perch in front of the mirror to sink in the open spot beside Dean, mimicking his relaxed position uncertainly. "What is it?"
"I found this in my pocket, remember? Now, I wrote the numbers, but the address was already there. It's a start, right?" Dean looks at Castiel expectantly.
"I have no idea how to get there."
"There's a map in the glove compartment."
Castiel hums. "Okay. I think it might be helpful, at least. We'll need to be careful."
"And we need to max out those credit cards before we skip town. The money is going to be necessary."
"As much as I don't like it, we don't seem to have another choice."
"No, I don't think we do, but at least we have a plan."
"Yes, we do. Good job, Dean."
From someone else, that would probably sound patronizing, but Castiel looks like he means that praise, so Dean offers him a smile. "Alright, now we can sleep."
He hops up from the bed and cuts on his lamp before moving to cut the lightswitch off, bathing the room in mostly darkness outside of the glow from the lamp. Castiel blinks at the swift change, and he looks like he wants to say something, but Dean just moves back over and turns his side of the covers down. He motions for Castiel to do the same, which he does, after a moment. Then they both stand there and glance between the downturned covers and each other for an awkward pause.
"I'm not actually tired," Castiel admits, looking slightly chagrined, like saying that makes him a bad person or something.
"You probably will be when you actually lay down and relax." Dean rolls his eyes and climbs into bed, stuffing himself under the covers. He blows out a deep breath and taps the bed where Castiel is meant to lay down. "Dude, seriously, you need to get some sleep, at least. I know you're stressed and confused, because I am too, but we gotta take care of ourselves if we want to stay alive."
Castiel's shoulders slump like a petulant child's would from being forced into bed. He breathes heavily, but slips under the cover, not saying a word when Dean smiles at him. Reaching up to switch the lamp off, Dean bathes the room in darkness.
Suddenly, in the dark, the severity of the situation settles around Dean like the pressing silence of the room. The sink in the bathroom drip, drip, drips into the quiet, and Dean blinks slowly as his eyes adjust. Castiel is a tense line beside him, the perfect opposite of relaxation, but he exudes a gentle heat that Dean appreciates—the room is really cold. They don't touch at all, but he doesn't doubt that they'll seek out warmth from each other at some point in the night if the heater doesn't kick on here soon.
"Do you think we're doing anything like we usually do when our memories are intact?" Castiel murmurs softly, his voice a near whisper.
Dean hums. "Maybe? Can't be sure. I'm pretty sure we're just doing the best with what we have."
"Perhaps," Castiel says softly, then falls silent.
Dean does his best to relax, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, his hands threaded together over the blankets covering his stomach. His eyes have adjusted, but there's nothing to really look at, to focus on—there is a strange blot on the ceiling that's probably a stain, so Dean stares unseeingly at that for a long time. Castiel continues to lay rigid beside him, warm but not at all inviting.
"Cas, man, you gotta relax," Dean mutters, huffing quietly and turning his head to stare at the outline of Castiel's face. "You're making me tense."
"I'm just—just stressed, as you said." Castiel clears his throat and shifts slightly, but that, if anything, only makes him seem more uncomfortable. "I'm not sure how to do this."
"What, sleep?" Dean blurts, his eyebrows furrowing.
Castiel makes a small sound of frustration. "No. Relax," he corrects sharply.
Dean blinks. "Oh. O...kay. Well, it might help if you—here, turn towards me." Castiel does, slowly. Dean waits until he can make out some of the features of his face, then speaks. "Now, close your eyes, and try to think of—I dunno, good things, I guess. Rainbows? Fluffy clouds? Just—just overall good things in general."
"Good things," Castiel repeats flatly, like the mere idea is completely ludicrous.
"Yeah, or try counting sheep."
"Sheep? That seems pointless."
"Kinda is," Dean admits. He waits, but Castiel still doesn't seem to be settling, so he tries a different tactic—the same one he'd used in the car, following his instincts. Reaching out slowly, he lays his hand on Castiel's arm, just below the sleeve of his shirt, lightly rubbing his thumb in soothing circles. "Is this bothering you?"
Castiel relaxes slowly in increments, sighing quiet and slow. "The opposite. Thank you."
Dean smiles slightly. "No problem, man. Goodnight, Castiel."
"Goodnight, Dean."