Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Empty is a fathomless void. Castiel is here, and everywhere, and nowhere. But Dean Winchester, his charge for over a decade of the most tumultuous years in the history of the world, the universe, is safe. He did all he could. And now, he's done. 

Castiel thinks he might even be alright with it. He thinks of Dean's face, the way his mouth trembled when he said, 'don't do this, Cas,' those words meaning something else entirely, like 'don't leave again,' or 'I'd rather have you,' or 'don't ever change,' or even…

He's so, so tired. He closes his eyes, he thinks.

He also thinks, perhaps, he hears something.

Hm. Let's try that again…

-

He wakes up, turns over in bed to wrap blankets tighter around himself, and dozes. The room is pleasantly cool, the air conditioning unit kicking on in the window providing comforting background noise. When he opens his eyes, he sees the ugliest floral wallpaper he's ever laid eyes on.

He sits up. He's in a motel room. He's alone. And he doesn't know anything. 

There are some bags at the small table across from the bed, so he looks through them first. He finds clothes - all that seem to be for him, or someone else his size - toothbrush, toothpaste, a few other toiletries. Deeper down, in a false bottom of the bag there's a gun. It feels… not completely foreign in his hands. There's other strange things, too: licenses and credit cards and other documents, featuring his face - he checks in the tiny bathroom mirror to make sure - but different names and too many titles for one man to have. There's rock salt and charms and some old looking tomes depicting the occult, magic, and other things that he knows the identity of, but without any specific memory attached to them.

He puts everything back in a rush and goes hunting for his wallet. It's in a pair of jeans discarded on the cigarette burned carpet, but the license there says Emmanuel Allen and somehow, that doesn't feel right, either. He also finds more credit cards with names that aren't his, and a suspicious wad of cash.

He sits on the bed and thinks. He closes his eyes, trying to remember where he was, who he was, but it all escapes his mind like sand through his fingers. There's moments where he thinks wait, what about -? and then it's gone. It's frustrating enough that after a few minutes, he gives up. There's only one thing that jumps out to him, a raspy voice saying don't do this, Cas. He looks up, almost expecting the owner of the voice to be in the same room, but he's still alone.

"Cas," he says to himself. "I'm… Cas." He feels something when he says it. It feels both correct and misplaced, a perfect fit and badly sized. He frowns at the bag, then glances around.

He sees a phone on the bedside table. He takes it off the charger and flips it open. Thursday, April 10th, 2003. There's a message from an unknown number.

poltergeist in bozrah.

He should view it as a weird text sent to the wrong person. Instead he's standing up, gathering his things. In the discarded jeans pocket he finds a key ring, and when he leaves the motel room he spots a car that seems… familiar. His key unlocks the door. He tosses his belongings inside, frowns, and goes to the office.

"I'm checking out," he tells the man behind the desk. He hands the motel key over. "Do you have any atlases or maps?" The man nods and heads to the back, coming out with a thick book and charging Cas six fifty for it. He pays with the cash. "Thanks. By the way. Where are we?"

The clerk frowns at him. "Pontiac." That also strikes Cas, but he’s not sure why. 

"Thanks." He heads back to his car, flips open the book until he finds pages depicting Illinois. He traces his fingers over state routes and highways, moving east. Connecticut, Bozrah. Bingo.

Keeping the book open on the passenger seat, he starts the car. He doesn't remember driving, but he pulls out of the parking spot and onto the lonely two lane road and gets going, anyhow.

Chapter Text

John texts him about a possible poltergeist case in Connecticut and leaves him to it, says he'll be down in Texas longer than expected. Dean knows he's being pushed away after that past stunt he pulled, but he's not Sam. He says yes sir and takes the Impala and seethes all the way up the coast in the privacy of his own car.

Before Sam left for college, things had been tense. His brother had only grown more discontent with their lifestyle as he grew up; upset with their dad moving them around, the way he wanted unquestioning loyalty without providing an explanation for what he was doing or where he was going, for being unable to be a father. Dean had done his best to mediate, but they were both so stubborn. He ended up giving Sam a ride to the greyhound station after one last explosive argument where Sam had shoved his full ride to Stanford in John's face. 

Dean had never really got Sam's desire for the apple pie life, but he understood John's adamance that if Sam left he could never come back, even less.

The burned bridges left his little brother bitter and unwilling to even call Dean as the months rolled on. Suddenly going from raising and sharing everything with his brother to never even hearing his voice… maybe it made him a little less willing to ask 'how high?' every time their dad said jump, which was how he found himself sent on an increasing number of solo hunts, sometimes going weeks without so much as a text from John.

Whatever. Texas was sweltering this time of year anyway. 

Dean sneaks into the town hall they have under guise of being a maintenance worker - whatever was bothering the citizens here, it had rattled the radiator right off the wall, the increased levels of steam apparently burning the janitor and boiling his insides. Fun stuff. 

“Should’ve switched to electric, that’s what I was always telling them,” says Deb, the secretary of the little municipal building as she leads Dean into the boiler room. “They’re always trying to save money around here, not that I can blame them, what with the new building going up next month."

“You seem to be taking this awfully well,” Dean says neutrally, hoisting his bag up his shoulder. Deb shrugs and unlocks a door for him.

“This building’s been around since the eighteenth century, and it’s been full of ghosts as long as I can remember.”

“Really?”

“Cold spots, mostly, footsteps, when you’re alone at night. No one likes to believe me, but what else would explain this?” 

Dean smiles and doesn’t tell her that she’s right. “Well, whatever it is, I’ll do my best to get to the bottom of it.” 

“Yeah, that’s what the last guy said, too. Have fun.” Before Dean could ask what that meant, Deb was walking back the way she had come. 

Left to his own devices, Dean starts poking around at the old files left to succumb to mold and mildew down here, eventually pulling out his EMF detector to see if he can grab anything. He hears something suspicious, only to see a pile of rats off in a cobweb coated corner, but when he compiles the audio on his device later, he does catch something: Fourth Society . That, of course, doesn’t spark any recognition in Dean’s mind, so that means he’s going to the library. His favorite.

-

“What do you mean someone checked it out already?” The librarian on the other side of the desk shrugs helplessly.

“Sorry, they just came by about an hour or two ago, took out a lot of books about local history. He even signed up for a library card.” The man frowns a little, then adds, “he was kind of strange.”

“How so?”

The man waves his hand. “I don’t know, I gave him the form to register for a card and he was just staring at it for the longest time. Like he couldn’t remember his address. But it checked out, so.” 

Dean doesn’t ask where the mystery man lives, instead he just hides out behind some stacks until the librarian heads off to help a group of women find their next book club read. He slips behind the desk and after a bit of shuffling around, digs out a half sheet of paper with blocky, blotchy letters filling out the registration questions. The man’s name is Emmanuel Allen, and he’s living at 514 North Haven Road. He gets out of the library before he’s spotted and walks to the car. 

514 is a house with a for sale sign on it, and no one inside that Dean can tell. Across the way, however, is the motel that he’s staying at. 

He’s sitting in front of his own room, watching the other two that are occupied, when his cell rings.

“Hello?”

“How’s the case going?” It’s dad.

“Alright, I guess. Apparently the town hall has a long history of being haunted.” He swallows, debating whether to bring this up or not. “Do you know if anyone else has sights on this place?”

“What do you mean?” 

“I think there’s another hunter on this case already. He’s been to the building, took out the books I was gonna use for my research.” 

“Haven’t heard anything like that, no. Got a name?”

“The only one I got was Emmanuel Allen. Don’t know if it’s an alias or not, though. He’s at the same motel I am, I think.” 

“See what you can find out without getting him involved, at least until I run his name around a few circles.” 

“Yes sir.” He thinks it's overkill, but the line goes dead before he can think of bringing that up as a counterpoint. No one comes out of the motel for another hour, and it’s getting dark. Dean turns back around toward the center of town, wondering if he can get more clues from the site of the haunting. 

-

The poltergeist is more active at night, of course. And it’s a huge dick, of course. He feels his skull throb where he’s been thrown into a filing cabinet and grunts, struggling to straighten up and find wherever the hell his shotgun went. 

The specter is milky white and partially translucent, some old man that died centuries ago. Dean flings some loose salt at him to keep him at bay, but his flashlight went skittering off to a far corner, and aside from that one ray of light, he’s pretty much blind. 

Just as his hands close around his gun the ghost is in his face again, cold fingers holding his throat and dragging him up the wall. He gasps, chest constricting, and thinks If I die right now I’m going to be so pissed.

There’s some other force that wrests his shotgun out of his grip, and he’s too weak to fight it. He wonders if there was another ghost, but instead the shot goes off and the specter disappears. Arms catch him as he staggers and tries to breathe normally again.

“Are you alright?” he doesn’t recognize the voice. It’s dark and low. Hands are straightening Dean up and he shakes them off, taking the offered shotgun back. He can just make out a figure, but there’s still no light in this part of the basement.

“Who are you?”

He just makes out the figure tipping his head to the side. “I believe a thank you is the usual way to react to someone who just saved you from a ghost.”

Dean snorts. “Well, we've obviously never met, have we? Talk.” 

“Not here. Who knows when that thing will be back. Come on.” Dean frowns, but he fumbles for another round of rock salt rounds, cocks his gun, and makes his way out of the darkness, picking up his flashlight as he goes. They sneak out of the town hall. Dean sees his Impala and one of the other cars that had been at the motel that afternoon. An old Lincoln. “Did you do any research on that spirit?”

“Couldn’t. Someone took out the books before I got the chance,” Dean says. 

“I believe his identity is Joshua Matthews. He was a founder of the Fourth Society, which founded this place. From what I could tell, his attacks get more aggravated whenever the citizens here make plans to move the town hall.”

Dean thinks he remembers Deb talking about a new building getting erected. “Okay, do we know where his body is?”

The other man points to the gates of a small communal garden connected to the building. “There’s an old plaque there. I couldn’t find any record of him in the cemeteries in the surrounding area. I think part of the reason he’s so agitated is this building is acting as his final resting place.” 

Dean twists his mouth. There’s still not much light out here, the town too small and safe to need motion sensor lights and the street lamps are planted farther away. He clicks his flashlight on and points it at the other man. They’re about the same height, the same age. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt. 

“You a hunter?” he asks.

The other man nods. 

“Is your name Emmanuel?”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m nosy,” Dean says. Maybe he’s still a little upset he needed to get saved by this guy, that John’s not here, that Sam’s probably living it up at school and here he is, alone, would’ve maybe been dead if this guy hadn’t also been snooping around. “How come I haven’t seen you before?”

“It’s a big country,” the man says. “I guess I’m new.” He fumbles in his pocket and digs out a key, walking over to the trunk of his car. “Did you want to help me dig up this body or not?”

Dean snorts. Clicks the flashlight off and goes around to his own trunk for his own shovel. “Yeah. Fine.” 

Emmanuel’s guess was right on the money. He guards Dean while he pours lighter fluid and salt on the corpse and lights it up, the specter unable to do more than try to swipe at them between the rock salt rounds. It’s always been easier to hunt as a pair. 

He wipes his hands on his jeans and even though he doesn’t want to, his body is aching from the beating he got earlier and he takes Emmanuel’s hand to haul himself out of the hole easier. 

Since the garden is so public, they make half an effort to cover their tracks. Hopefully Deb and the other employees will just think some dumbass teenagers were messing around in here, versus actual grave desecration. 

“Thanks for your help,” Emmanuel says. Dean has reservations that's the man’s real name. He was smart enough to know the identity of the ghost and his grave after a few hours of research; surely he’d know better to put his real name on a public record. He doesn't really look like an Emmanuel, either, for whatever that's worth.

“Thanks for the save,” Dean manages. “Where you heading next?”

“Not sure. Where I’m needed. I’ll have to return those books first, though.” 

“Put them in the return slot. Probably don’t want to show your face in town.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “People are gonna notice that first thing and you don’t want anyone putting two and two together.” Which is pretty obvious to him, he doesn’t know why he needs to tell this guy.

The man gives him a small smile. “Good idea.” He pauses then, wavering. Dean waits for him to say something, but the man shakes his head. “I guess I’ll see you around, Dean.” 

It’s only after Emmanuel drives off that he realizes he never told the man his name. When he gets back to the motel, the other hunter’s car isn’t there, and the clerk said he just left.

Chapter Text

Dean’s leafing through a few local papers he picked up when his phone rings again. “Hello?”

“No word on an Emmanuel Allen.”

“Figured as much.”

“What about the case?”

Dean hesitates, just for a second. “Yeah, we wrapped that up quick.”

“We?”

“He was in the same place at the same time. He said he was new to the business.” 

He can hear John breathe out through his nose over the receiver. “Dean…”

“Look, he was already on the site when I got there, what else was I supposed to do?”

“Do you have any idea where he’s going?”

“Nah. Said he didn’t know. Looked like he was driving a Lincoln Continental, though. 1970s. Tan.”

“Did you get the plates?” Dean’s tempted to roll his eyes. Did he get the plates. He rattles off the combination of letters and numbers and John says he’s gonna keep looking into it. 

“You know, it could just be a coincidence,” Dean offers. “If the guy’s new to hunting, he probably went through some shit he doesn’t wanna talk about.”

“You really believe that?” Dean sighs.

“Worth a shot.”

“Well, since you’re done with that hunt either way, you can get moving. I found something…” Dean glances at the possible banshee case that was probably benevolent anyway, and flips the newspaper closed.

Vampiric cattle have got to be one of the stupidest hunts he has ever been on, but even with the glowing red eyes and love of blood, they’re not exactly challenging. The worst part was trudging around in the northern part of Arkansas, trying not to get a sunburn. After that there’s a few routine salt and burns, and he and dad meet up in Arizona for a case of possessed objects that had gotten scattered far and wide from an estate sale, and that burns through most of the month. Despite having the plates Emmanuel doesn’t turn back up again, or at least John doesn’t mention it, and Dean’s not going to ask. 

There is one time, though. It was a little after the fourth of July and they’re in Minnesota and dad wanted to pull over to a town called New Canton to ‘check on something’. Dean remembers going to middle school here, maybe seventh grade. He and Sam spent way too much time and money at a rinky-dink arcade and pool hall half a mile from school where Dean actually started to get good at playing. He only remembers the place because he had gotten his nose broken for the first time after winning against a group of drunk college kids home for Thanksgiving break. 

John made friends with the owner, which wasn’t that strange in hindsight, considering he and his brother probably weren’t allowed in the half of the building that didn’t have crane machines and cheap plastic prizes to win, and he’s dragged inside. 

“I’m surprised you made it out here, thought you got someone else to look into that problem.” Dean’s still not clear on what the problem is, something about a few regulars going missing and turning up a few days later without their hands. 

“Someone else?” John asks. He’s leaning up against the counter in a way that seems casual if you didn’t know him. 

“Yeah, came in here, what was that, Tuesday? Said he had a text saying to come here, figured it was from you.”

“What’d the guy look like?” Dean asks. John’s eyes slide over to him, but he doesn’t return it.

“Young, your age, little shorter. Dark hair.” 

“Driving a Lincoln? Tan?”

“Think so.” 

“Funny,” John says, humorlessly. “He finished everything up?”

“Yep. Weird guy, but no one else has gone missing, so.” He shrugs. 

John’s silent for the first hundred miles. Then he shuts off the radio. “Dean.” He looks at him, in the way that he’s asking his son to tell him something, that he knows already and if he doesn’t fess up, things are gonna be worse.

“I only asked ‘cause I had a feeling.” Dean defends. 

“He said he got a text.”

“I didn’t even know we were coming out here till yesterday,” he says. “Sir.” He doesn’t make a habit of lying to his dad. Not about important stuff, anyway. The only exceptions were usually when it came to Sam. He had known about Stanford for months without saying anything to John. But this isn’t like that. John’s dark eyes slide across his face, and he hopefully realizes it too, because then he punches the radio back on, and doesn’t say anything else.

They go on a few more hunts before John hears about an apparent lead that’s too important for Dean to come with. He takes his things and heads off in the truck he bought a few years ago, and Dean entertains the thought that he might come back for about a week, kicking around in a motel room with sticky walls and loud neighbors before he decides, fuck it, John knows his number. 

Anyway, he calls Pastor Jim because maybe he’s bored, and he hears about what might be a kappa or a water spirit or something in Oregon and decides sure, why not. 

“By the way, you hear about that up and comer hunter?” Dean asks as he’s packing up his stuff.

“No. Who?” 

“I got the name Emmanuel Allen. Drives an old Lincoln, about my age, dark hair, light eyes. He and I ended up working the same case with a poltergeist a few months back. He said he was new to the whole thing.”

Pastor Jim makes a noise. “Yeah, I think I might’ve. Not by that name though. He went after a pack of werewolves in Nebraska the other month.”

Dean stills. “Alone?”

“I know, crazy son of a gun, right? That’s what I heard, anyway. The other hunters he came across said his name was something else, though. Shorter. Kaz? Nah, not that.”

“And he survived?”

“Don’t know if he survived, just heard he was going. Haven’t heard anything either way.” Dean swore. “I know. Too late to do anything now.” 

“If that idiot just got absorbed into the pack…” Dean knew that’s how a lot of hunters went. Either they died fighting one of these monsters or they ended up getting turned, which was even worse. There was no way he was going after a pack on his own, but maybe he’d put some feelers out… He frowned. No, that was stupid. Guy either got smart enough to stay away until he had back up, or he was dead. Or a werewolf, in which case he’d be dead sooner or later. 

He does his best to shake off the thought of this probably dead hunter and asks Pastor Jim about the details of the case in Oregon, and Blue Earth, and whatever else. Their conversation is winding down but Dean’s curiosity is just under the surface, so he forces another question. “How’d you hear about this guy anyway? Thought you mostly stayed in state these days.”

“There’s other hunters out there besides you, me, and John, you know,” he says lightly. “I always told John to introduce you, in case anything ever happened, but…” he sighed. “You should ask him sometime. The Harvelle’s used to be good friends, and life’s too short to hold a grudge - against your fellow hunters, anyway.” The comment has Dean’s eyebrows ticking up in surprise, but he just files the information away for later and gets going.

Chapter Text

Cas gets texts sometimes, from a number he never recognizes, telling him about a hunt. He knows to get them from other sources - paranormal blogs or the newspaper, usually - but he always tries the texts. They’ve all been legitimate cases, though none of them have actually gone any further in providing information about who he is, or how this became his life. 

The pack of werewolves were difficult. He had needed some help from a few hunters in the area in order to track them. They both warn him it was too late now, too close to the height of their power, but Cas pressed on. He had found their location when one of them attacked him and left him for dead. 

“Did they bite you?” The two hunters in question were a couple, and they had brought him back to a rather normal looking house a few towns away to patch him up. They said they had an idea he'd be too stupid to listen to him and would need some rescuing; Cas suspects the burning in his gut is more related to shame than the beating he got.

“Looks fine, you got lucky.” The woman, Tamara, had looked for any bites. “I don’t know how you made it, but…” She and her husband, a man named Issac, share a glance. 

“I need to go back out there. Before they turn and hurt any more people.” 

“Maybe they gave you a concussion,” the man says. “Look, we get it, but the only thing you’re going to accomplish by going out now is just getting yourself killed. Or worse.” The couple has a look that suggests they’re not above restraining Cas if he chooses to leave anyhow, so he relents. Tamara makes him tea, asks him how he takes it.

“I don’t know,” he says. He’s never had tea, or he doesn’t remember having tea - probably the same thing, really. She just rolls her eyes.

“Americans,” she tsks. Gives him a strong English Breakfast with a splash of milk and a teaspoon of sugar. It’s alright, he thinks. Issac gives him a beer with dinner that he likes a bit more. After dinner he sits at the table awkwardly until Tamara says he can make himself useful and help wash up. He likes being made useful, and scrubbing the plates and cutlery is rhythmic and mundane in a way hunting isn’t. 

He is shown to a white room, devoid of any decoration that suggests personality. When he opens a dresser drawer, he finds a handful of framed photographs of Issac and Tamara and a daughter. The bedroom door opens and Cas slams the drawer shut.

“Just checking to see if you needed a towel,” Isaac says, putting it on the bed. He looks at Cas, the dresser. 

“Sorry, I was just - I’m sorry.” Cas says. “I can - I shouldn’t have looked.” 

Issac just sighs. “We didn’t even see them coming, you know. Never had an idea that sort of thing was out there, and by the time we did.” He doesn’t cry, but his face crumbles in on itself. He’s still staring at the drawer. “We thought about moving, but.” He shrugs. “After that, Tamara and I, we thought we could either keep trying to go on like normal, or we could make sure that never happened to anyone else.” He finally looks at Cas. “Is that why you’re out here, trying to track down werewolves on your own?” 

Cas wonders if he has a family out there that’s looking for him, but he has no idea. Any time he’s sat down and tried to concentrate on his past he isn’t given any more information. Presumably, if someone out there knows him and is still alive, they’re looking for him. Maybe they're hunters, too. If they ever track him down, he could get some answers. “I know I can protect people, doing what I do,” is what he says, “that’s all that matters.” 

“You gotta live, too, you know,” Isaac says, “to know what you’re risking your life to protect.” Cas nods, but doesn’t say anything else. Isaac shuts the door. Cas waits until his footsteps fade down the hall. He showers, puts on an old shirt and fresh boxers, and crawls into bed. He tries to picture what this room looked like before. If he had one. He falls asleep.

“Looking good,” Tamara says when he reappears in the morning. He asks if he can try a different kind of tea today, and she smiles and fixes him something that has to be steeped. He likes the smell of it. She says it’s earl grey and lavender. She doesn’t put milk or sugar in it, and he likes it better than what he had last night, even more than the beer Isaac had given him. 

They both say he heals fast, and suggest that he can stick around and plan to come with them when they take down the pack a week from now. Cas says he’ll think about it. They give him their phone numbers and take Cas back to where he had parked his car. 

He spends the rest of the day looking for more genuine silver at some antique shops around the area. He sharpens a letter opener into a dagger point. It’s not an ideal weapon, but a backup is always appreciated. By the time night falls he’s ready.

Their hideout was a grungy, abandoned warehouse that might have once been a manufacturing center in the small town. There were five total in the pack, and the element of surprise worked to dispatch two of them before he was discovered and held down.

“Thought you killed this one,” one of them growls to the other; their claws had come out, along with the super strength, but they weren’t yet transformed. “He looks fine to me.” Cas had been feeling fine, though he has the sneaking suspicion his right arm is torn from its socket now. He struggles and kicks, only to feel those claws against his belly, tearing open his shirt. 

“Well, if killing him don’t work, turning him might. Hunters hate that.” The moon broke through the clouds and the shattered windows of the warehouse and the humans completed their shift into hulking beasts, eyes glowing in the dimness. Cas rolls out from under their grip, lunging for his gun. He gets off another shot in one of them before he's barreled into, hitting the brick wall of the building. There were fangs that rip through his clothes, displaying more of his skin to be torn into. Hot saliva is dripping onto his face, guttural breaths fanning his cheek as the creature leans in close. 

Cas feels his body panicking, struggling for breath, struggling to not get crushed under the weight of the beast . Struggling to not die. His mind registers these facts from somewhere else, like it's just a passive observer. Maybe he's dead already and his soul is watching what's about to become of his body.

He gets a grip on himself - and his body gets enough leverage - to reach his arm up, hand outstretched like he's going to pet the head of the werewolf. 

Close your eyes, he thinks, or someone thinks. He does. 

There’s something that wells up inside of him, burning so hot it freezes. It feels like something’s tearing him open from the inside, but he’s powerless to stop it. There’s a long, continuous flash of white, growing brighter until he can see the delicate capillaries threading along his eyelids, impressions burned into his retinas even when the light fades. 

He opens his eyes. 

The werewolves that were attacking him are slumped to the side, all dead. 

Cas edges out from beneath the one that pinned him. Their glowing eyes aren’t there within the mass of fur. He doesn’t see any eyes at all. 

He leaves without calling Tamara or Isaac. He gets into his car and drives without any idea where he's going, drives until his car is running on fumes and he finds a 24-hour rest stop to fuel up again. In the early light of the morning he goes to the rest stop bathroom and strips out of the bloody remains of his shirt. He notes that his shoulder feels fine, and in the grubby mirror he doesn't see the scratches he knew he obtained last night. They had said he healed fast, but he stares at the torn shirt lined with blood stains and thinks back to the civilians he helped, how their injuries lingered stubbornly for days or weeks. He balls the shirt up and shoves it in the restroom's industrial sized garbage can. Wets paper towels and drops them in the can until he can't see the clothing anymore.

He puts on a new shirt and keeps driving.

Any attempts to repeat what… that had been just make him feel silly. He tries to find an answer in any library that looks big enough to have something useful, and he reads things that suggest witches, but that doesn’t seem right, either. Magic usually requires some sort of crafting for a spell. What he did had just… happened. He stumbles across a few suspicious web pages suggesting psychics, which seem closer, but he’s yet to see any evidence a psychic can do that. 

Another month passes and he gets a new text: crater lake lodge. 

He hikes it up to Oregon and resolutely doesn’t think about what he did that can burn out the eyes of a lycanthrope.

Chapter Text

“I don’t believe it.” Dean doesn’t mean to say it out loud. He looks at the man in the suit, a tan overcoat thrown over his shoulders because of the rain that’s perpetually falling in this part of the country, at the badge he’s fiddling with. 

The man turns, and Dean takes close stock of him because it’s light out, this time. He doesn’t have black hair, but it’s edging that way. There's five o'clock shadow shading his jawline, and his eyes aren’t just light, they’re blue. A piercing, cerulean blue that’s so striking they almost seem fake. He stomps up to him.

“Hello Dean.” the man says. Dean remembers that he still hasn’t told this man his name, and he still doesn’t know his. He bristles.

“Don’t remember doing the formal introductions.” The man tips his head.

“Really? I could’ve sworn we did.” 

“Yeah, nice try. What about you, Emmanuel?” 

“Actually it’s Shane Bergara,” he shows off his Fish and Wildlife service badge. “Are you here about the drownings?”

“No, I’m here for the friggin’ tooth fairy.” The man merely nods, like that’s a completely possible occurrence. Never mind that conceivably it could be; Dean hasn’t had any human interaction that lasted longer than ten minutes in the last few weeks and it’s definitely showing. 

“Tell me if I can help with that, I just have to interview the park ranger -” he's moving away until Dean grabs the man by the shoulder and whirls him back around. They both seem surprised at the contact, but Dean presses on.

“What are you doing here?”

“I told you.”

“No, I mean - we’re both here, at the same time? That doesn’t seem weird to you?”

“I thought you were investigating the tooth fairy.” Dean wants to scream.

“That was a joke.”

“Oh.” The man doesn’t say anything else. 

“Okay. First of all, running into another hunter on a case, that’s one thing, but two times in a few months? Do you want to know how often I’ve seen other hunters on the same case? Once a year, maybe, and never the same one twice. And you knew my name before I gave it, even though I’ve never heard of you or know of anyone else who has. Except, somehow, through the grapevine, I found out you were facing off against a pack of werewolves?”

The man’s face twitches. “Yes, that was a strange experience.”

Dean gets further into his space, wanting to be intimidating. “What’s your deal, okay?”

“I was given a tip to come to this location.”

“By who?”

“I don’t know. And my name,” he licks his lips, “it’s Cas.”

“Cas. Like, as in Cassandra?” he says, forcing a smile.

“Probably not.” He squints. “Are you sure you never introduced yourself to me before?”

“Positive.”

“Interesting.” He fiddles with his fake badge for another moment. “Well, I wanted to talk to the park rangers before tonight, so…”

“Oh no you don’t. I got put on this case. The only person who’s going to be interviewing anyone is me.” 

“I don’t believe hunters operate under the same jurisdiction as other groups, Dean,” Cas says reasonably, “I don’t think a particular hunt can get assigned to one person.” 

“Well, I’m calling dibs, here and now.” 

Cas licks his lips again. “We could just do it together. I imagine making sure neither of us drown before solving this would be best done if we work on this at the same time.” 

Dean crossed his arms. “No fuckin’ way.”

-

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Dean hadn’t wanted to work with this guy, really he didn’t, but the park ranger had chosen that moment to come out of his office and if they both didn’t go with being partners for the agency then things would’ve fallen apart before they had even started. Dean was caught between splitting up for the other interviews and not trusting Cas as far as he could throw him, so they end up going together to interview the family whose sister and boyfriend went out to the lake one night and never came back. 

They don’t get much information, but at the end of the interview, Cas leans forward and puts his hand on the mother’s knee. “My partner and I are very sorry this happened, Mrs. Hanson. Please know we’re going to do everything we can to give you answers.”

“Do you have any idea what this is?” she asked tearfully. Cas slides a box of tissues closer to her.

“We have a few theories, but we can’t compromise the investigation until we know for certain, I’m sorry. What I can tell you is that this isn’t the first time something of this caliber has happened in the area.” He fixes her with those unreal eyes. “Mrs. Hanson, once we finish this investigation, we’re confident that whatever happened to Kate and Matthew will never happen to anyone else.” Mrs. Hanson nods, mouth trembling, and her husband pulls her closer to him. 

“What was that?” Dean asks, when they get outside.

“Hm?”

“That whole speech back there.”

“I was comforting the witness. She lost her daughter.” 

“Yeah but, usually you can just say ‘sorry for your loss’, move on…” It’s what John had always done when they sat down to interview people who were more directly invested in the case. 

Cas frowns. They’re in front of the Hanson's vacation lake house. This isn’t actually Crater Lake, but a less popular offshoot about fifteen miles southwest. The water is strangely clear, for being so far up north. “They deserve compassion, Dean. They’ll probably never know what really happened to their daughter, and that’s going to follow them for the rest of their lives. If my words can offer any type of comfort to them… I have to try, right?”

“Jeez, okay, Dr. Phil,” Dean says. “I’m going back to the motel to change, then I’m gonna see what I can find at the library back in town.” 

Cas nods. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Not gonna change out of the monkey suit?” the other man glances down, shrugs. He still has the trench coat on, but he isn’t huddled into it against the cold rain and whipping wind that’s been persisting all day like Dean is. Dean rolls his eyes and heads to the car. When he glances in the rearview mirror, Cas is still staring out at the lake like it has all the answers they need.

-

Cas is writing something down as he goes through old newspapers on microfiche. Dean’s still not entirely sure about the guy, but at least he doesn’t have to stare at the tiny, faded text for hours on end looking for something. He sits back after a while and frowns. “It could be underwater caves,” he says.

Dean spins around the tome he’s been flipping through that shows the small pagan sect of early settlers and their practice of ritualistic drownings. “Dude, it’s not underwater caves.”

Cas squints at the passage. “You might be right.”

“I’m always right.” 

-

The still active group of pagans responsible for the ritualistic killings to prevent rampant tourism was, actually, a curve ball. They’re tied back to back on an old rickety dock. “Technically the sacrifices are supposed to be a couple, but I suppose you’re partners, in a way. Our god doesn’t discriminate.” 

Dean scowls. “Oh for fuck’s s-”

They’re pushed into the water before he can finish his sentence. 

-

Cas had felt Dean wriggling around with a small blade, but they had only gotten their hands untied and falling in had jostled the knife from Dean’s grip, falling down to the lake floor. They could propel themselves with their arms, somewhat, but they keep knocking into each other, their feet making abortive kicks in the water. Dean manages to get ahold of the algae encrusted dock and haul his head up for a breath of air, but Cas isn't so lucky.

He doesn't know how long he can hold his breath, but from the panicked way Dean had been kicking, it isn't very long. His chest is contracted painfully and his lungs burn, but he is able to refuse to take a breath, anyway. In the distance, he can see a shapeless blob making its way towards them. Dean’s hand grips his hair painfully and pulls him out of the water. He takes a breath. 

“Don’t go drowning on me while we’re still tied together!” He hisses. Cas obediently huddles around the dock’s beam with Dean. It creaks ominously. “Got any bright ideas?” Through the slats he can see the cult members shuffling around, looking for them, the waves lapping against the wood masking their voices.

“We could try to make the dock collapse and see if the lake monster eats the cultists too?” He shakes the pole and it gives a promising creak.” Dean purses his lips. 

“Yeah, okay.” 

The creature is fast, but not especially smart, and he and Dean have enough upper body strength to haul themselves slightly higher than where the creature is coming at them full speed - it hits the support beam head on and Dean and Cas pull back, plunged back under the cold water in time to watch the group of cultists come down into the water with them. 

The monster is distracted, but the only caveat is Dean and Cas are still tied together by the ankles without any easy way to get out of the water. Dean’s instinctual fear of drowning kicks in and he tugs uselessly at the ropes, then his boots. Cas sees what he’s doing and pulls off his own footwear, and there’s just enough of a gap that Dean slips one foot free, then another, quickly swimming up to the surface. Cas is about to follow him when something tugs at him. He turns back to see the monster, a fathomless ink cloud with emerging teeth stained with the leftover clothes and viscera of the cultists. It snaps its jaw around his calf and Cas howls in pain, kicking it in its approximation of its nose. 

Before the monster can bite off his leg, a shot goes off and slices through the water, then another two rounds. The creature goes limp and Cas painfully extricates himself, blood pooling into the water. He grabs at the sandpapery texture of a fin and breaks the surface. 

“You’re a real Mark Spitz, Cas,” Dean says, leaning against a rock, gun in his lap. 

Cas squints up at him. “Who?”

“Just get the body up here.” 

Dean shivers even as the body of the monster burns; it shrivels and curls up, spitting out black smoke that smells like rotting meat. Dean looks down at his leg. “Shit! I didn’t think it got you that bad.”

Cas looks down at the blood oozing from his leg. “It’ll heal.”

“Not without going gangrene man, we gotta patch that up.” Cas frowns and walks down to the lake, ignoring Dean’s protests. He takes off his sock and dips his foot in the water. When he pulls it out, there’s a line of teeth marks deep-set and bruising, but it doesn’t even look like they’ve broken skin. He puts his sock back on and goes back to Dean, who looks more upset from the fact that he’s wearing a soggy sock than anything.

"See? It's fine."

“You’re a weird one, Cas.” 

“Says the man using the body of a dead god to warm his hands up.” 

“It’s chilly,” Dean says, petulant. 

Dean adamantly refuses to get his Impala’s leather seats wet so Cas drives them back to the motel they both coincidentally ended up staying at. They change clothes, and Cas is about to lay down when he hears a knock.

“There’s a diner about five miles back that’s open 24 hours,” Dean says.

Cas squints. “Do you need a ride?” Dean rolls his eyes.

“I’m asking you to come with me, Cas.” 

“Oh.” He has no reason to come, he’s not particularly hungry. To be honest, he never feels particularly hungry. “Alright.”

-

Dean watches Cas read the menu like it has all the answers to life, the universe, and everything while he sips his coffee. He gets a burger, and Cas gets a slightly different type of burger, so Dean doesn’t accuse him of copying. 

“You were right,” Dean says, watching as Cas takes the first unsure bite of his food before he begins devouring it with a gusto that Dean could only match on a good day. 

“Hm?”

“If we weren’t on the case together one of us would’ve probably just drowned.”

“Or gotten eaten,” Cas adds. 

“Or that. Cheers.” He holds up his coffee cup. Cas stares at it for a prolonged moment before bumping his burger against the ceramic. “...Okay.” He wipes off the mayo and ketchup residue with a napkin. He doesn’t know, exactly, what to talk about with Cas. His people skills are still feeling rusty, and something about the other man doesn’t invite the easy to drum up, cheap charm he uses on coeds in sleepy college towns he passes through. 

Then again, Cas doesn’t seem to need small talk. He finishes his burger faster than Dean. “Jeez man, when was the last time you ate?”

“I don’t remember.” 

“Ran out of money, huh.” Cas stares at him. “What do you do? Hustle pool a bit? Work odd jobs?” 

“I have some credit cards -” Dean laughs.

“Hah, seemed too much of an angel for that scheme.” Cas shrugs. “Are any of them still good?”

“Most of them hit their limits, one of them is always good, though.” He digs out a wallet and holds up a black card. The name on the plastic says E. Musk. 

“Hm, lucky.” 

“What do you do, when they run out?”

“Apply for more, I guess. Sometimes I’ll hang around for a couple of months, get a job at an auto shop.”

“For cars?”

“Yeah. I like ‘em, good with ‘em, too. What about you? That Lincoln is a piece of work, man,” he says.

“I just… got it, I guess. I like the color.”

“Camel hide is a good color?” 

“A bit less conspicuous than blue or green. We are listing favorite colors, are we not?” It’s a ridiculous idea to get from their conversation, and Dean’s tempted to label it as Cas’s way of being pointlessly obtuse, but he’s getting the sneaking suspicion that’s just how Cas is. Painfully earnest and painfully awkward. 

He laughs, then decides he’s got nowhere else to go and apparently nothing better to talk about. “Yeah, I like green, too. But why tan? And don’t say it’s ‘cause it brings out your eyes.”

“Alright,” Cas says, then doesn’t say anything else. Dean laughs again. Whether Cas means to or not, he has decent comedic timing. 

-

“Give me your phone,” Dean says. After dinner Cas had driven them back to the lake to pick up Dean’s car. They both had the smart idea to put their cell phones in plastic bags before going for a midnight swim, so at least Dean just has a pair of shoes to replace.

“Why?”

“Just do it.” Cas digs through his pockets and hands it over. Dean punches his number in and texts himself from Cas’s phone. “There. If you need me, or something.” 

“Oh. Thanks.” 

“Guys like us have to stick together, right?” Cas nods solemnly. “Don’t suppose you know where you’re going this time?” Dean asks. Just then Cas’s phone flashes with another message. They read it together.

wendigo in benewah

“That’s your tip line?” Dean asks. He sees the previous text was crater lake lodge. Nothing else.

“Yes.” 

“Not very specific, is it?” Dean tilts his head, thinking. “If it’s a wendigo, it’s probably a mountain range in the northwest. You got an atlas or something?” Cas points to the backseat and Dean digs it out, starts flipping through the pages. He moves it over to show Cas a map of Idaho, pointing at Benewah county in the northern corner. “No need to thank me,” he says, grinning. His sense of direction and proclivity to remember weird names is probably one of his most refined skills when it comes to hunting, besides his aim.

“Thanks.” Cas takes the book and starts reading, thumb holding down the page Dean showed him. 

“You can go up US 97 North, could probably get there by morning if you wanted to drive straight through.”

“Did you want to come with me, Dean?” Cas asks. The headlights from the car are still on, illuminating Dean’s Impala, the residual light throwing them both in sharp relief. Dean’s knee-jerk reaction is to say no. Dad’s still out… chasing whatever it is he’s been chasing for the past twenty years, and he’s only gotten a text confirming the man was going to be gone ‘longer than expected’, which was obviously pretty expected by now. Maybe if things were different he’d be heading south to drop by Sam’s dorm, but he hasn’t heard from his brother in even longer, and as far as he knows this area of Oregon is clean, aside from the cult thing. 

“Wendigos are pretty nasty,” Dean admits, “pain in the ass to try and take down on your own. But lucky for you, I got nothing going on.”

“I don’t believe I’ve fought a wendigo before.”

“You ever MacGyver a flamethrower with some bug spray and a lighter? It’s great.” He checks his watch. “You wanna sleep?” 

Cas shakes his head.

“Alright. I’ll call you where to meet me.”

“But we’re both leaving at the same time.”

“Yeah, Cas, and I’ve seen you drive. I’m getting in first. See you in nine hours.” He shuts the door and heads over to his own car. He’s wide awake, from the near death experience, the coffee, the four hours he had gotten in during the afternoon. He waves as he passes Cas on his way back to the motel to grab his stuff and get going, eyes trailing up to the rear view mirror to see Cas right behind him the whole way.

-

They gank a wendigo and save a few hikers while they’re at it, and Cas does, in fact, get to MacGyver a flamethrower out of some bug spray and a lighter. He also enjoys it quite a bit. 

They’re doing their post-win meal at another greasy spoon when Dean gets a call from John. “Got a salt and burn in South Dakota. Rapid city. How soon can you be there?”

Dean checks his watch. “Fourteen hours?” 

“See you at the usual place.” He hangs up. Suddenly Cas’s social skills don’t seem so abysmal. 

“Well, duty calls I guess,” he says, smiling. He drains his coffee and gets up with a stretch. Cas follows him. “Where are you going?”

“Am I following you?” Dean frowns. John might ask what Dean’s been up to the last few weeks, and quite frankly, he’s not sure how much detail he’s going to divulge. 

“Not this time, man. My, uh - dad’s meeting me. I don’t think it’s a job that’s gonna need a third, you know? It’ll get crowded.” 

“Oh. I see.” Cas sits back down. 

“Besides, there’s probably more stuff going on here, might be worth sticking around for a couple of days. Or you could go hiking, you know. See the sights in the daylight without worrying about becoming monster chow.” Cas looks up at him, perpetually chapped lips stretching up into a tiny smile, like for all of Cas’s innocence and sometimes… awe-inspiring levels of naivety, he knows Dean’s just trying to make him feel better and he appreciates the gesture. 

“Of course. Goodbye, Dean.”

“Bye Cas. Keep in touch.” He waves and heads out of the diner. Cas, from his booth, waves back.

Chapter Text

“Cas.”

“Dean. How are you?”

“Never better. Listen, I’m in Florida. I’ve been getting a lot of weird reports of, I don’t know, swamp gas, will o’ the wisp - there’s so much lore here it’s honestly making my head spin.”

“I’m in Louisiana. I can try to finish up here and -”

“Nah, don’t do that. I’ve just been trying to get some research done and wasn’t sure if you heard anything. I can text you some of the newspaper articles.”

“I’m at a café right now. Tell me the name and I’ll look them up. I was doing some stuff in a bog in Massachusetts, but I don’t know if they’re similar up there.”

“Hey, worth a shot, right?”

-

“...And then it ended up being the wife the whole time.” 

“How could someone do that to their whole family?”

“I don’t know, man, in this line of work, you see stuff. Really ugly, gross, nasty stuff. Speaking of, the bodies -”

“You can gross me out all you want but I’m still going to eat this pizza.” 

-

“Hello Dean.”

“Cas? Hey man, it’s like, one in the morning.”

“It is? Where are you?”

“Doing a Jersey Devil case in friggin’ New Jersey, obviously. Where are you?”

“California. There’s a haunted movie theater. I finally got to see Attack of the Clones.” 

“Ugh, out of all the Star Wars movies to be your first one, it had to be that one. A theater was still playing it?”

“No, but I figured out how to run the projector after I got rid of the ghost. I told the owner I was a psychic and he just let me in.”

“Are you - eating something right now?”

“Apparently popcorn is really inexpensive to make, I don’t know why they charge so much when you see movies, but I just helped myself. I think they have Spider-man in here, too.” 

“Yeah, watch that one next. You’re more a Peter Parker than an Anakin, I bet. All we need is a pair of glasses. Maybe some red and blue spandex.”

“You sound tired, Dean,” 

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock. I was out in the woods all day and here you are making a social call.”

“I should hang up.”

“In a minute. In Clone Wars, what did you think when Anakin goes back to Tatooine for his mom and…”

-

“Hello Dean.”

“Well, hello to you, too. Sorry I didn’t pick up last night, got hung up with that weird monster Big Bird thing. What’s up?”

“I got another text.”

“From a girl?”

“...I mean the text could be coming from a woman.”

“What’s it say, Cas.”

“There’s vampires, hiding out in New York.”

“Thought they were in San Francisco.”

“No, the text says -”

“Never mind, Cas. Your mystery admirer got their facts wrong, vampires are extinct. No one’s hunted them in a long time.”

“Or no one’s lived to tell us about it.”

“Well if that’s true, what makes you think you can handle them?”

“These messages haven’t been wrong yet, Dean.”

“They don’t exactly give you a lot to go on, either. Could be something else - plenty of monsters drink blood, eat people. Maybe it’s a ghoul.”

“Do you know what could kill a vampire?” 

“...Yeah, yeah. Let me see what I can dig up.” 

-

“They were vampires.”

“Shit, really?”

“Would I lie to you, Dean?”

“If you’re lying about this I’m gonna be pissed. Jesus, Cas, we’re gonna have to tell people about this. Wait. Are you okay? You’re not bleeding out in a back alley somewhere, are you?”

“I’m fine, Dean. I even have some… evidence.”

“Gross.”

“I can see if I can tell other hunters. I know a few.”

“Yeah. I know a few, too. Sit tight and I can dig up their contact info. Just, go easy on my name, alright? Dad would probably have something to say if he found out I knew you were looking at a possible vampire case and didn’t tell him.”

“I understand.”  

-

Dean thinks about what Pastor Jim had told him back in the summer, about other hunters and the name Harvelle. 

He tries to wait for John to be in a good mood before he asks, ends up waiting a while. They’ve driven down south enough that it’s not snowing anymore, and he figures that’s as good as it's going to get.

“You know, we never really work with other hunters,” he starts. 

“Hm?”

“I mean, when you leave to follow some leads, you’re with other people, right?”

“Sometimes. Why do you ask?”

“Pastor Jim just mentioned some old friends of yours.”

“Old friends,” John repeats, dubious. “Why were you talking to Pastor Jim?”

Dean shrugs. “I needed something to do and he had a case for me. This was a while ago.” 

“And you’re only telling me now?”

“What’s there to tell? He just mentioned it in passing.” It’s still too cold to roll the window down, but Dean’s sorely tempted, just to get some air in the car. “You know, in case something happens.”

“What could happen?”

“I don’t know. Anything, you know what’s out there as well as I do. It would be nice if,” he bites his lip, hard. “Never mind. It was a stupid idea anyway.” 

Dad’s quiet for the length of time it takes him to exit the highway and get onto the interstate. “I appreciate the concern, Dean, but getting a whole group of hunters in on our business - it’ll just complicate things. Draw attention to ourselves. You know what I mean?”

“Yes sir.” 

-

He calls Pastor Jim when he’s driving to meet up with John at the local college library. “Hey Dean, how are you?”

“Good. Listen, I was thinking about what we talked about a few months ago. I was telling Dad and he… didn’t take it well.” 

“You know, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“I just - I think maybe it’d be good to have the names of a couple other hunters in case - just in case, you know? If I asked, could we keep it between us?” This was a gamble. On the one hand, Pastor Jim looked after him and Sam a couple of times when they were young and John left for long stretches, and he viewed the man more as an uncle because of it. On the other, John didn’t trust easily, and Dean wasn’t sure if this whole conversation wouldn't find its way back to John anyway. 

He hears Pastor Jim sigh on the other end of the line. “I can give you one number. Ellen Harvelle. She and John - and her husband - used to be real close. Had a falling out, couldn’t convince him to go back and make things right.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“Can I ask why you’re suddenly interested in making friends with other hunters now?”

Dean swallows. He wants to talk about Cas’s theory about vampires, but he hasn’t brought that up to John yet and doesn’t know how directly he wants to present the whole spiel. “I met another hunter on a case and, uh, I’m just rethinking a few things, is all.”

“I see, wanting to go to college like your brother?”

“No! No, nothing like that, honest. Just like. The stuff we deal with - maybe it would be better to have a community of sorts, let people in on what’s going on, you know?” 

“I see. Yeah, hold on. Let me get her number.” 

-

Dean gives Cas the information for Pastor Jim, Ellen Harvelle, and Bobby Singer. They’re all smart enough to guess that Cas got their numbers from Dean, but he tells Cas to not name drop him anyway. Hopefully stuff will filter down to John without his name being attached. He’s left itchy and irritable and wrong, though; keeping stuff from his dad like this is something Sam did, and even then, Sam usually would tell Dean. Dean’s not the one used to having his own secrets to keep.

Maybe it wouldn’t matter. Maybe he could just tell his dad that he and Cas kept running into each other, and for as weird as the guy could be, he was good at hunting, and it was… nice, he supposed, to have someone his own age. Sure, it wasn’t like the guy had similar taste in books and movies (since he apparently popped into the world fully formed without having seen a single Star Wars movie, Jesus ) but there was something about him that Dean was bound to like, and wasn’t that enough?

Dean kept his mouth shut and followed his dad to Ohio on another job.

Chapter Text

“So, Columbus?” Dean asks. Cas doesn’t jump from surprise, which is a bit of a disappointment. 

“Dean.” He turns from his seat and Dean puts out a hand. Case shakes it, looking pleased as pie when Dean pulls up a chair and settles into it. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you too, buddy. What brings you here?”

“Another text. I know it’s a shapeshifter, but looking at the possible crimes they’ve committed, it might be a family of them. What about you?”

“Dad says it’s a poltergeist, but in a city this big I bet there’s plenty of nasties between us to share.” He wasn’t expecting to see Cas in person, and for some reason he has to put some conscious effort into tamping down his smile. “Did you get to spread word that Buffy’s not out of a job?”

Cas frowns.

“The vampires, Cas.”

“Oh. Yes. Your friends aren’t very friendly.” 

“No. No they’re not. Did they believe you?” 

“I think so. One of them, Ellen, said she knew some hunters who specialized in them that would want to be made aware.” 

“Good, that’s good.” He still hasn’t called Ellen. He’s thought about it, but figures he’d want a proper reason before reaching out. There was probably bad blood between her and John, and he didn’t need to get pulled into it if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. “Hey, I need to start doing some research, but uh, you wanna get lunch in a few hours, catch up or whatever?”

"Of course.” 

He ends up searching through the stacks for an open computer for a good ten minutes. Just when he’s about to drop himself in front of one, a woman tugs out the seat and moves to sit down. “Whoa, I was gonna use that.”

She looks up at him, dark eyes giving him a ‘no bullshit’ look that he can’t help but like, even if she’s stealing his spot. “I think we both got here about the same time,” she replies, sinking into the chair and crossing her legs.

She’s cute, but not cute enough to trawl the rest of the library for a spot. “Look,” he says.

“Cassie,” she says, throwing her arm over the back of the chair to really show that she's settling in. “I have a name, you know, and it’s not ‘look’.” She logs on and pulls up an internet browser. 

“Alright. Cassie. We’re both busy people, I just need to do some research before my next… class.” 

She raises an eyebrow. “You go here?”

“Do you?” 

She smirks and proudly displays her Ohio State crew neck, which doesn’t really ‘prove’ anything except for the fact that she has a nice figure, and downloads a file. 

“Tell you what,” she says, “let me print this out, and the computer’s all yours.” He’s tempted to agree, but the edge of playfulness that’s been threading through the conversation and the way she keeps stealing glances at him gives Dean the impression that she’s not really annoyed with him.

“That could work, then maybe we can see what you’re doing after class?” She looks up at him again, mouth opening like she’s going to shoot off a retort before she gives him another once over. Her dubious expression is morphing more into a smirk. It’s a reaction he gets a lot. 

“Hmm. Alright.” She hits the ‘print’ option on the paper that's displayed and stands up. “Watch my spot,” she says, brushing against him as she moves past, “don’t want anyone taking it.” Dean tries not to react, but it's a losing battle. 

He gets the computer after she leaves, and her number, too. He texts Cas they have to get lunch on a different day.

-

Dad says they’re going to be staying in Columbus for the foreseeable future. They move into a rental house that none of the students have snatched up and Dean gets a job at a nearby garage. His night with Cassie goes well and they end up going out a few more times. Cas is around, too, and he sees him when Cassie’s in class or at her job. More than once he sits through the same movie twice because Cas goes to any movie Dean suggests, and Cassie has similar taste in blockbusters as Dean does. 

Cassie calls him one night asking if he’s free and he tells her he’s on his way to meet Cas for some drinks, says she can always come along if she wants. 

Instead she laughs and tells him he’s dating two people. She hangs up before Dean can argue against what is very obviously a joke.

He ends up staring at Cas as they eat and chat and drink and he wonders why Cassie would say that, and if she met anything by it, and why that even bothers him. He’s a good looking guy, and he’s had his fair share of comments by people who were just complimenting him and other people trying to make him uncomfortable. It stopped bothering him by the time he was sixteen - you couldn't have a freak out every time some random asshole tried to imply something and even Dean had to admit to himself he had the bone structure befitting an NSYNC reject. His kind-of girlfriend making the comments versus some guy at a trucker stop was new, but not entirely unexpected.

Still. He knew he and Cas hung out a lot. He didn't think it was too much, not attached at the hip like he and Sam used to be, but Sam's his brother, which is different. Cas is just some guy he goes to the movies with and eats with. It shouldn't matter. 

Dean keeps thinking about it. He sits and looks at Cas, whose face is cut by the neon lights flashing in the window they’re sitting by, features playing out in interesting and new ways in the red and blue and shadow, and he wonders.

Then Cas tries a gin and tonic that Dean orders for him, and he gags at the taste, and his scrunched up face is so funny Dean laughs and laughs and forgets to feel weird because it's just Cas.

-

The weather gets nice enough that Dean decides to sit out on the quad. He doesn’t have any research to do, but it’s Sunday and the shop is closed and Cassie said she wanted to finish up a paper before going out, so he decides it’s as good a place to wait as any.

Cas strolls on by, because they kept crossing paths when they were randomly crossing through the country, so being in the same city means he just runs into the other guy at least once a week. Apparently the arts building had a pottery show going on. He shows Dean a thumb-sized medallion with a hole and cord threaded through the top of it. Cas says he liked it and is gonna string it up on his rearview mirror. It has a butter-yellow bee stained on the inside of it, where someone's finger pressed into the clay to make a slight divot.

Dean shows Cas the bad cut he got on his last hunt, the skin pink and puckered along the jagged red slice in his palm, perpendicular to his love line.

"I told you to be careful,” Cas says, frowning, tucking the medallion into his pocket.

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t always stop me from getting hurt.” 

Cas reaches forward, holding Dean's hand in both of his own, thumb brushing along the cut. Dean wants to pull back almost as much as he doesn't want to move at all. He watches Cas caress that aching part of him and only manages to jerk back because Cassie of all people is coming up to them.

Her eyes slide across the two of them, and Dean wants to say they’re not doing anything, even though, really, they weren’t doing anything, and there’s nothing to defend. Cas has met Cassie before, so he smiles and talks to her for a minute, asking about her class and the paper she’s working at. Dean watches their back and forth like a tennis match until Cas gets up and tells them he’ll see them around. 

He and Cassie hold hands as he walks her to his car. His sliced up palm barely burns against hers.

-

Cassie doesn’t mention Cas and they keep going out. Dean isn’t sure what, exactly, Cas is still doing in Columbus. He figured out the shapeshifter thing a few weeks ago, and even John seems to be thinking they should be moving on soon. Cas doesn’t mention any hunts, and Dean doesn’t bring them up either. They talk about movies, and the strange music collection Cas is amassing for his car that Dean can’t listen to for more than about twenty minutes. They meet up for drinks or he'll pair him up with one of Cassie's friends so the four of them can go out or they'll just sit on the quad and watch the students pass by.

Dean had thought friends were things he doesn't get to have anymore. Hunters have sources and allies, but not friends. 

"Are we friends?" he asks abruptly. Cas couldn't get into the gin and tonics but they're both lukewarm on Ketel One. Dean's been hitting it hard enough that he bums a cigarette off a girl passing by and starts smoking at the tiny outdoor table they commandeered.

"Obviously," Cas says. Cas is so rarely blasé and confident when it comes to his relationships with other people - Dean's seen him practically crawl up the walls to get away from girls that want his number, and none of Cassie's friends have scored either. "Aren't we?"

Dean thinks about it. All the friends he tried to make, when he was still trying, were never going to understand his life, the things he's seen. But Cas had. It was different than John or Sam or the older, grizzled hunter types he met in passing. He could text Cas because he was bored, and they could drive around and he would listen to Cas rant about whatever was on the top 40s that week and Dean would put up with it because then he could lecture Cas about Led Zeppelin and how Bon Jovi was actually pretty okay, actually, and Cas read but didn't make Dean feel stupid just because he obviously read less, and in between all of that they could gank a monster of the week together, too. Cas knew him and had his back.

"Yeah," Dean says, taking another drag of his stolen cigarette. "Obviously."

Chapter Text

There's a text burning a hole in Cas's pocket - only in the proverbial sense - but he does his research at the campus library and doesn't actually leave just yet. He doesn't know why.

(He absolutely knows why.)

He doesn't remember anything before that motel room in Pontiac, so maybe he's wrong, but he feels like he didn't have friends. Or at least, not like how he's friends with Dean. The man is prickly and exaggerated and flashy and he's dragging Cas out to things more than Cas might want to go, but Dean’s with him so it’s fine, he thinks, if he goes out and talks to strangers and sees things that he wouldn’t otherwise. Cas talks and Dean listens; he always listens, even when he's pretending that he has better things to do than hear Cas's numerous opinions on honeybees (the Ohio State Agricultural branch has some hives that Cas has snuck in to look at more than once.)

Isaac had told him he had to live, to make hunting worth it. The words have been swimming around in the back of his brain for months. He thinks about him and Tamara and the daughter that was killed. He thinks about family. About love. He isn’t sure he has those things, knows what they are. 

“You think it’s weird that we’re the only ones not studying anything?” Dean asks, startling Cas from his thoughts. There’s a bench in one corner that they've commandeered. It gives them a vantage point of students laying out on the grass or walking to class. Dean says he likes the people watching. Cas likes the birds that periodically perch on the edge of a nearby fountain.

“There’s no guarantee every student here is studying,” Cas says. There’s a group of young men playing hacky sack a stone’s’ throw away. Dean laughs.

“It’s weird being here so long,” Dean adds. “Haven’t stuck around in one place since I was in high school, and never a city this big.”

“Me neither,” Cas says, since he can only remember about a year back. 

“My brother went to college,” For a moment, Dean looks caught, like he wasn’t expecting to say that. 

“You have a brother?”

“Uh. Yeah. His name’s Sam. He’s younger than me. Pain in the ass.” Dean chews on his lip. “He uh, the hunting life didn’t really agree with him. He got a full ride and decided to strike it out on his own.” 

“It’s a hard life,” Cas says. “Do you see him?”

“Nah.” Dean fiddles with the ring on his finger, spins it around his knuckle. “Dropped him off at a bus station and uh. That was it. He and dad argued, you know. Real bad. About him leaving us and everything. Kind of ruined the whole thing. So, uh. Yeah.” He coughs. “Dad apparently swings up there once in a while, to check in on him. Not that Sammy knows that.” 

“College is only four years, Dean.”

“Yeah well, he made his choice. Whatever makes him happy, I guess.” It’s warm, but Dean’s still wearing the too-big leather jacket Cas always sees him in. He hunkers down into the clothing, watching the students. Cas looks out and wonders if any of them in particular resemble Dean’s brother. “It’s his birthday next week.”

“You could call him.” Cas wonders, idly, when his own birthday is. When he reads through the paper for possible hunts, he sees horoscopes predicting how the week will go based on your sign. They’re not real, like other divining rituals, but he thinks they’re fun to look at, anyway. Maybe he’s a Sagittarius. “Or just send him a card.” 

“Maybe.” Dean says. They sit in silence until Dean can’t seem to take it. “Well, what about you?” he asks him. “Got any siblings?” 

Cas has no clue. “No,” he says. Dean snorts.

“Only child? Yeah, that explains it.”

-

Cas spends more downtime in between hunts. He reads things beside the paper and tomes on witchcraft. Wandering out from the campus library, he ends up in lecture halls, sits in the back and listens to professors talk about biology or philosophy. Gender studies and math. He finds a big hall that shows foreign films every Tuesday at three o’clock. He doesn’t pick up on everything, but he tries. 

The exposure to different things is helpful in learning what he likes, what he feels. He has words and models for things he didn’t before. He can think things like: spending time with Dean is like perfect weather and taking the first bite of your meal when you remember you're actually very hungry and peeling back your clothes to realize there's no cuts, no pain, just improbably perfect skin. 

His observation can go to other people, too. He likes them. People. Preferably when they’re nice. They don’t elicit the same reaction that Dean does, but he enjoys it all the same. The librarian at the help desk who can process his obtuse requests, the people he saves, Cassie and the friends she brings along that try to talk to him.

"You like him, don't you?" one of them asks. She’s been dancing against him and he’s been standing there in order to make sure no one bothers her, as Dean had explained to him once. She's pointing at where Dean and Cassie are wrapped up close to each other. Dean's hand in his girlfriend's hair as they whisper together and kiss and swap back and forth while moving on the dance floor of the bar they’re in.

"Dean?"

"Yeah. You're definitely not into me."

He blinks. "Dean's my friend." She frowns up at him. Her name’s Beth, she’s known Cassie since they both started school and they live together in an apartment off campus. She’s studying English and wears a lot of eyeliner. She gives him a look similar to the one he gives to family members who lost a loved one in a supernatural attack.

"I know, I'm sorry. It's probably hard to watch them like this."

Cas doesn't think it's hard to watch them. He thinks he and Cassie spend about the same amount of time with Dean. They both get his attention. Cas doesn't get… that, but maybe that's alright. He shrugs at Cassie's friend, but her frown deepens.

She drags Cas over to the bar for some drinks and he goes right along. They talk about her classes, and the books she’s been reading. Cas recently found out that you could buy books on cassette tape and listen to them while driving. He tells Beth about this exciting revelation, but she apparently already knew that.  

Cas doesn’t think he’s drunk, but he’s been drinking a lot and when Beth tries to show him how to dance he goes along with it. It’s sweaty and uncoordinated and there are people bumping into him, but it’s fun. 

“Cas, hey, Cas.” Dean slings an arm around his shoulder once Beth leaves to go to the bathroom. “Can’t believe you’re still standing, man, you really packed those shots away, huh?” Cas shrugs. “Cassie and I were gonna head back to her place. How are you and Beth doing?”

“I like her, we were talking about this book where -”

“Alright, cool.” Dean pats his shoulder and moves away. “Meet me out front in five with Beth, we can just go together. I don’t want you driving, anyway.” 

Cassie sits shotgun and puts her head on Dean's shoulder as he drives. The roads are dark and nearly abandoned so they cruise along the main drag, Dean's left hand is on the wheel, free hand dangling. Cassie reaches out and takes it, entwines their fingers together. He whispers something to her, she says something back. Dean laughs.

Cas stares at where Dean and Cassie are connected, where they touch because they both like it and want to and because that seems to be the norm in any romantic relationship. Did he do that with anyone before?

“Have fun,” Dean tells him and Beth when they get into the apartment. They go to Cassie’s room and lock the door behind them. 

Beth looks at him. “Well,” she says, turning down the hall. “Come on.” Cas follows her into her bedroom. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m turning on some music before I hear that. Got any requests?” She has a boom box sitting on her dresser with a stack of CDs next to it. “Please don’t say Metallica.”

“What’s wrong with Metallica?” He gets closer to her and starts poking through the albums. She lets him. 

“Because it’s 2004? I like Dean, but he needs to update his music tastes.” Cas makes a note of interest and holds up an album. Beth’s eyebrows raise a tick. “Really?” 

“I’ve only listened to her second album, but I liked it a lot.” 

Beth grins. “A man of fine taste, I see.” She pops Tidal in the player and music starts rolling in. “She’s weird, but in a good way, you know? Experimental, and not as angry-sounding as Alanis Morrissette, so you can actually chill out and listen to her.” Cas agrees. “Okay, now that we have that,” she digs through what looks to be a sock and underwear drawer until she pulls out a little canvas bag. She unzips it and shows the contents to Cas. “Want some?” 

-

Dean has to leave early to make his shift at the garage, so he gets Cas and piles them into the car. He gives him a bagel from a shop close to Cas’s motel. It’s warm from the toaster and slathered in cream cheese. Cas decides he likes bagels. 

“Dude, you reek,” Dean says, shutting the door and starting the car.

“It’s the pot, I imagine,” Cas says, still chewing. Dean laughs.

“Really absorbing the culture, huh, college boy?” Cas shrugs. “So, what about you and Beth?”

“Beth is fun. She likes Fiona Apple.” Dean turns to look at him, one hand on the steering wheel, another straightening the pair of sunglasses he haphazardly put on.

“...Seriously?”

“She had her first album, I didn’t realize how much I was missing out on.” Cas nods to himself. “She really did deserve that award for Sleep to Dream.” 

“Jesus. You did not talk about fuckin’ Fiona Apple with this chick you’re trying to bang, Cas!” 

“But we both like her. And Destiny’s Child.”

Dean sighs like Cas lined a protective barrier with sugar instead of salt. “I know you like them, Cas, but it’s just - they’re not.” He huffs. “Dudes aren’t supposed to be into those sorta things, you get me?” Cas just frowns at him. “It’s just, you know. Kinda gay.” 

“If men are supposed to like women, wouldn’t it make more sense to like female performers?” 

“Listen, there’s a difference between watching Britney Spears dancing in some skintight spandex on MTV and saying she’s your personal life coach, okay?” Cas just keeps staring at him. Sometimes Dean tells him about stuff that he should and should not like, and Cas can never really understand why, despite asking questions to parse out the answer. The same thing happened last week when he and Dean were trawling through a thrift shop together and he spotted a turtleneck that looked to be his size.

After another moment of prolonged eye contact, Dean sighs in defeat. “Whatever. So what else did you do?”

“We talked about trying to expand our tastes in media to listen to voices beyond the patriarchal system that favors White male mediocrity.” He thinks. “We did say Weezer is still pretty good, though.” 

“So did you two hook up or what?” Cas tilts his head. Being around college students, he’s come to realize ‘hook up’ can mean basically whatever you want it to mean.

“I told you what we did.” The rising sun comes through the car, and a stripe of it is heating up Cas’s thigh even as they drive.

“So you didn’t have sex? I thought you were into her.” 

“I like her.” Cas takes another bite of his bagel. “But not like that, I guess.” He figured out eventually that Cassie brought her single friends along, and some of them were disappointed that their interactions with Cas stayed platonic, but he never felt anything more towards any of them. Maybe if he knew them for longer stretches of time, if they had the long term sort of relationship he had with Dean… he could only speculate. “Why? Is that a problem?” 

Dean’s face is inscrutable - or maybe that’s because the sun is behind Cas’s head and it hurts to look that way. “I, uh. I mean. Hey man, as long as you’re cool with it, I’m cool with it.” 

“Sure,” Cas says. Dean pulls into the motel parking lot and Cas gets out. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Yeah, I’ll - keep in touch.” He smiles, but the expression is off. Maybe he’s hungover.

“Bye Dean.” He waves. Dean drives off.

-

Dean gets home from his shift at the garage and John’s at the rental house, takes a look at him before turning away to the bag he’s filling up with clothes. He says they’re moving on the day after tomorrow and to start packing. 

Dean feels a well of disappointment rise in him; pushes it down viciously like he always does. He knows better than to argue. It never got him and Sam anywhere, but he dreads the thought of having to tell Cassie. She had asked him, a few times, about why he moved so often, and some of the very-obviously-not-normal childhood stories he had. He had always dodged them, but. Well. He knows how he feels about Cassie is more than how he’s felt about any other girl he’s ever dated. She’s smart, and funny, and doesn’t take any of his shit. Sometimes he thinks about if this was his life. If he just worked at a garage and after graduating he and Cassie would move in together. And maybe Cas would shack up somewhere and they could go out on hunts like it was a weekend fishing trip, and he’d come home and have something normal, something happy. 

He packs up what he can and goes back to Cassie’s apartment that night. He says the thing he says to every woman he’s been with until he suddenly has to get out of town: it’s not working out and it’s not her, it’s him. He doesn’t know why he expects someone like Cassie to believe it.

Cassie stares at him, like she's reading his face. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah.” 

She sighs, walks to her desk and sits on the edge of it. Her mouth is twisted like she’s reevaluating what she’s seeing. "...You know it's… alright, don't you? Like, you don’t have to lie to me."

"Lie about what?"

"You’re dumping me ‘cause you like him." 

Dean doesn't get what she's implying for a second. Then her meaning crashes down with an intense clarity. "What? That's not - no. No way."

Cassie squints, doubtful. "You sure? It seems pretty obvious to me. You two are together as often as you and I are."

"I'm not fucking Cas."

"Good. I didn't peg you for a cheater."

"I'm! Cassie, this is not the point of this conversation." 

She puts her hands up defensively. "I'm just saying, Dean! I know you probably didn't grow up in places were people were out and proud, but it's better here, you know? College towns are like that."

"Okay, not that I'm even entertaining that crackpot theory, but how would that even work, Cassie? I like women," He feels his face turning red, sweat creeping down his neck.

“Does Cas?” Dean’s mouth snaps shut. "I mean, he doesn't like any of my friends. Not like that."

Dean thinks about that morning. He was pushing back a headache and he and Cas were laughing and then - then they weren’t laughing. And Cas was looking at him. He had said he was cool with it, you know, don’t ask don’t tell, right? And then he had work, and then he had to talk with John and then he was here, and he had been so ready to never think about that ever again and Cassie dragged it out of him, and now she’s looking at him like she can see - see something Dean can’t. Or maybe something he just doesn’t want to - no , he thinks. No. Don’t even go there .

Cassie scoffs. “Whatever. You can like women. You can like men and women at the same time, Dean. It's not that weird."

He's so busy trying to convince both Cassie and himself that this conversation is so not going to happen that her blatant casualness about it throws him for a loop. "I - it isn't?"

"Yeah, really. I mean some people are gonna be assholes about it, and I’m not exactly thrilled that’s how we’re ending things, but if you like him, and he likes you…" She shrugs.

"And you're cool with it?"

"I mean I'm trying not to be a jerk - this looks like it’s kind of a big deal for you," she says, crossing her arms, "I’m pissed we’re breaking up, don’t get me wrong, but after seeing what my parents dealt with from being together back home… it's shitty, judging people for who they love.” She huffs, running her hands through her hair, shaking it out. Neither of them say anything for a minute. “Actually, um, I think I have something I can give you… yeah. Here." She digs out a book from one of her desk drawers and hands it over. "Part of my gender and sexuality class last term. Maybe you'll get some use out of it."

"Thanks," he says, because he can’t think of what else to say. It's a blue book with 'The trouble with nature' on the front, with more text along the bottom of the cover. It doesn't look how he'd expect it to, a book that has information about… that sort of thing. He tucks it inside his jacket to keep it out of sight. “Listen, Cassie, I…”

He wants to say something else, like how she knew this apparent thing that may or may not be true, if other people can tell. If Cas can tell, but he doesn't.

Instead he gets back on track and tells her why he’s really leaving. What he and his dad actually do for work, because that’s the truth, and he wants her to know. 

Somehow she takes he and Cas being secret lovers worlds better than him hunting supernatural creatures. She kicks him out for ‘making fun of her’ and tells him to delete her number.

He keeps the book.

Chapter Text

Dean doesn’t see Cas for a while after that. He and John end up hunting after a creature that could be a vampire. If John’s expecting a reaction he doesn’t get one. It turns out it’s one of the old men in the old folk’s home that turns into a ball of light, of all things. Dean doesn’t know how a goddamn orb is able to siphon off blood of its victims, but they kill the guy in his human form and that seems to do it. 

He had texted Cas that they were leaving, and Cas had said he found a hunt somewhere else, but Dean hasn’t responded. He wonders what Cassie will think, he and Cas just going out of state at the same time. They’re not together, obviously, but it looks like it is from the outside and Dean can’t stop focusing on what other people are going to say. He’ll probably never see Cassie again, so it shouldn’t matter. 

It definitely matters. 

When John’s asleep - the kind of sleep he gets from a lot of Jack and Johnny - he thumbs through the book she gave him. He has to make his brain work more than it wants to this late at night to get some of the arguments, but he does get it. He thinks. 

-

Cas starts writing in a journal. Dean had mentioned, in passing, his dad kept a meticulously annotated journal full of his notes from cases and lore books. He thinks it could be useful, but he goes out and buys one after Beth shows him her ‘mixed media’ project; full of scraps of recipes and poetry and passages from books combined and pressed in between her handwritten notes and pictures cut from magazines and old polaroids. The information laid out in patchwork in a way that becomes art. 

His journal mentions some of the hunts, lore he spots - especially ones relating to the so-far one off lightning strike he pulled off - but mostly it’s mundane stuff. Little anecdotes of random conversations or acts of kindness. Songs on the radio the DJ named that he likes. Food he enjoys, drinks he absolutely will never order again. He writes about the few months he spent in Columbus, wonders about college life, decides it wasn’t really the college that made him want to stay.

The journal stays in his glove box and he buys a disposable camera at a rest stop overlooking a valley in the Appalachian mountains. That's the first picture. He has 26 shots left.

Cas takes care of the case that was texted to him, and in a moment of bravery he hits the number to see if he can find out who’s on the other end. It rings and rings and rings. Cas is pretty sure there should be a voice coming on to tell him to leave a message, or maybe even a series of beeps that the number's been disconnected, but he puts it in the passenger seat of his car and it’s still ringing five miles down the road. He hangs up. 

He pokes around Pontiac because it's the only lead her really has. He tries to find records for a man named Cas - or a man whose first or last name starts with CAS, KAS, KAZ, any mixture he can think of. He digs up addresses and phone numbers but there’s nothing that possibly leads back to him. 

Once, though. He’s in a supermarket looking at an array of apples; red, green, tawny-gold, pink. He doesn’t know which ones he likes. 

“Amelia, sweetie, which ones do you want?” His hand stills. It’s one of dozens of voices he can hear at any moment, and as he listens in on the conversation, he isn’t sure why he’s picking up on it, until he realizes the man speaking sounds unnervingly like him. Not exact - not as deep, he thinks. He turns around and sees double. Dark hair, blue eyes, same face and stature. It’s like staring into a mirror. 

He’s with a woman who must be his wife. By their feet is a young girl, maybe four or so. She tugs on the man’s pant leg and he scoops her up, kissing her cheek and making her laugh. 

He hides out of sight as they finish their shopping trip, and carefully trails them home. He sits in his car and debates ringing the doorbell. But what would he even say? 

Instead he uses their license plate and a fake FBI badge to look up the man’s identity. He spends two weeks learning everything he can about the man and his family - but he’s an only child. Even the hospital he was born in doesn't house any records that suggest a secret twin that had been sent out for adoption. Other records he digs out for his parents don’t even hint at anything amiss. 

Is he missing? Did he lose his memory on a hunt? Is there another hunter out there wondering where he got to, thinking he’s dead? He looks up monsters that can mess with memory, but the only fact uniting them indicates that he would have been dead by now. There’s evidence of more nebulous forces, things that could warp reality, but none of it illuminates why there’s a man that looks like him with no apparent relation. 

The Novaks don't have a dog, but their neighbors do, and Jimmy usually ends up petting it or throwing a stick when he goes out to get the mail. There's no suggestion of those silvery, reflective eyes that are a calling card for a shapeshifter, either.

Revenants could explain his lack of memory, but he doesn't think he has died - and the silver knife agrees with him. Doppelgangers are another possibility, but nowhere does it mention your double having their own life independent of your own. There’s the thought, then, that he’s the doppelganger, the one who appeared from nothing for no discernable reason. 

In a last ditch effort, he ‘bumps into’ Jimmy Novak when the man is walking from his office to a nearby sandwich shop for lunch. Jimmy drops the wallet he was holding and Cas picks it up.

“Oh, thanks,” Jimmy takes it and glances up at his own face. He frowns, blinks. “I - oh. That’s so…” He gestures vaguely between the two of them, but there’s no note of recognition or fear that a secret’s been uncovered. Usually when that happens, people tend to bolt, or attack you. Jimmy’s just confused. 

“Yeah, wow,” Cas echoes, as though he can’t believe it either. He fakes a laugh. “You’re not gonna believe this. I’m on a road trip to visit some friends, I just stopped to stretch my legs.” Jimmy’s still staring. “You’re not adopted are you?” he jokes. He planned what he was going to say in the mirror that morning, copying the playful banter Dean can effortlessly call up with cashiers and servers.

“No, are - sorry, I keep staring. Well, I was heading in." He gestures weakly at the shop door. "You… wanna get lunch together?" 

He has lunch with Jimmy Novak, who’s as average as his snooping had told him. Nice man, religious, but to his knowledge not aware of anything more other-worldly than the transubstantiation of the eucharist. He talks about his family, showing Cas pictures, and Cas tries to make up some life of his own. He falters and just describes Columbus, describes Dean, the people he met that almost became friends. 

“You can always stay longer,” Jimmy tells him. “I bet Amelia would get a kick out of it.” 

Cas smiles, the theory of the doppelganger coming back, his mind running it over and over like his tongue does when his lip is split; a compulsion he can’t stop. 

“Sorry, I have to keep going. But if I ever swing back here I’ll look you up.” They shake hands, and the world doesn’t shatter or implode at two improbable forces touching. Jimmy goes back to work, and Cas gets back to his car and leaves Pontiac behind him. 

Giving up on the existential crisis rapidly approaching, Cas goes to the beach. He feels tired, but keeps pushing and pushing and eventually he hits the east coast without having to stop for sleep. He thinks, vaguely, you shouldn’t be able to do that. 

His tongue wets his bottom lip where his teeth have bit through the flesh, not leaving it alone.

There's a siren in Maryland dooming small sailing boats trying to dock into port. It makes him think of Greek mythology, and the philosophy classes he snuck into back at Ohio State. There was a day when the professor was talking about the ship of Theseus, about how much of an object can be replaced before it becomes something new altogether. Cas takes care of the siren. He finds the water is warm enough to go swimming, just barely. He floats on the briny blue-green water and stares up at the sun until his eyes water. 

When he starts swimming back to shore, his foot knocks painfully against a rock. There's heat along his skin that tells him he probably cut it open, but when he gets to the shallows, there's nothing there.

He stares at the uncut skin of his right foot and spies an oil-slick rainbow sticking out of the sand, a mussel shell that’s been split into a shard. He rinses it in the lapping waves and digs the sharp edge into the skin of his foot and drags, hard. The skin tears open and blood wells to the surface, mingling with the sand and salt water.

He stares at it. He doesn't know if he should be thinking something in particular; what runs through your mind when you're in pain? He thinks, that hurt. 

The blood stops. Water washes away the blood and reveals skin that was never broken.

He wipes his mouth with a hand, tastes the brine and feels sand in the bristles of a five o'clock shadow that he's never shaved. The cut on his lip isn’t there anymore. He thinks: you can’t go into the same river twice, and that twists something deep inside of him in a new kind of agony.

"I'm Cas," he says. He digs the shell into the flesh of his arm only to watch it heal over in less than a minute. "I'm Cas," he says, diving back into the water and ducking his head underneath, counting up to one hundred and back without needing to resurface for air. 

When he does he thinks he's hyperventilating. He bobs in the waves and scrabbles on top of a surface breaker coated in seaweed and barnacles. His hands and knees are torn up from the rough edges, but it doesn't matter, does it? "I'm…" he pants, "I…"

He doesn't remember crying. He cries, anyway.

Chapter Text

He and John are trying to see if a string of robberies are a run of the mill cat burglar or something more nefarious. The fact that in the midst of the usual cash, electronics, and jewelry an old book collector’s grimoire had also been taken has Dean thinking witches. John’s posing as an FBI agent to dig through the police files, while Dean has to go to the club the book collector spent a lot of his time.

Apparently, the guy liked gentlemen’s clubs that catered more towards… other gentlemen. 

“Come on,” a guy who’s wearing actual goddamn leather pants and not much else is leaning way too close, “let me buy you a drink.”

“I just wanted to know about Leonard Gein, man, not that I’m not flattered.” He can feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck and it's not just from the heat of the club. He had been able to ignore the roving stares long enough to find the man his mark spent the most… time with. His name was Ian. He was tall, blonde, and seemed way too interested in Dean. 

Dean had already flashed his badge, explained his was on the clock, but Ian was just taking that as a challenge. Dean weighed his options: he could either play bad cop and hope information was more forthcoming, or he could flirt enough to get him talking - or maybe just to get Ian out of the bar so Dean could physically intimidate him into being cooperative. Both meant he had to talk to the guy, though. He didn’t think he could dredge up his charming personality when he was getting this much attention put on him. 

“Oh, I could keep flattering you all night,” the man says, leaning even closer. 

Dean suddenly wished he did have a drink. This guy was taller than him, looming overhead, and he couldn’t get away until he got the info he needed. He was getting flashbacks to ‘95 when John left him in charge of Sam for three months and he had to find a way to get enough cash to stay in the rental house. He remembers feeling small. Defenseless even if he could kick most men’s asses even back then. The only thing saving him from giving away his nerves was probably the fact that they were still out in the open, still around people. Safe, if only for now.

Dean’s phone goes off and he holds back an ‘oh thank god’ as he answers it, but it’s a near thing. “Hello?”

“Dean?”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Hey, Cas? That you?” He hears breathing on the other line. “...Cas? Hey, talk to me, you alright?” 

“I don’t - I shouldn’t have called. I’m so-”

“No, don’t hang up. What’s wrong?” There’s static on the other end. Dean sends Ian an embarrassed smile and crosses through the crowds of dancers into the bathroom. It’s slightly quieter in here. “Cas?” 

“I… I don’t…  Sorry. I didn’t know who else I could talk to.” 

“You on a case right now?”

“No, I finished it. It’s not that. I shouldn’t have called. I’m going to hang up.”

“Cas, slow down. You called for a reason. What’s happening. Did something hurt you?” His previous trepidation around Ian is replaced with worry for what Cas is up to, wherever he is.

“No.”

Dean doesn’t want to ask. He stares at the paint-flecked mirror above the sink “...You hurt yourself?” 

Cas doesn’t say anything for a minute. The club seems to go quiet as he strains his ears to listen.

“...I got better.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck, man. Okay. Shit, uh, where are you?”

“Maryland.” 

“Okay. Okay, um. I’m in Mass. I can - I’m working right now, but -”

“You’re busy.”

“It’s fine,” Dean says, running a hand through his hair. “Look, um. Dad and I think a grimoire got stolen and we’re trying to track it down. Maybe you can swing up, and, I don’t know. Help us out.”

“You don’t have to watch me.”

Dean bites back a rebuttal that he definitely does . “No, you’re just gonna be another pair of eyes. Book’s probably halfway across the state by now, and if it’s a magical artifact, a witch probably has it. You know witches are a bitch to deal with on your own.” 

“What about your father?”

“Dad? Eh, that article’s gotten around, we’ll just… make it seem like you showed up or something. I’ll vouch for you.” Dean could tell John the truth, probably; that Cas is going through a rough patch and could use some people to be with him, not to mention he’s a good hunter with an impressive track record. 

“...Text me the coordinates.”

“Coordinates? It’s bumfuck, Massachusetts, dude.”

“I’m not familiar with that town.” 

Dean snorts. “Yeah, I’ll text you. Just uh. Stay in touch, yeah? And don’t - don’t… Just call if you need me.”  

“I will. Thank you, Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you’ll be thanking me when you’re pouring over estate catalogues to track this thing.” He licks his lips. “See you soon, Cas.” 

Ian’s still at the bar when he comes out. “Trouble in paradise?” 

Dean grins at him. He can tell it’s not a particularly nice grin. “My boyfriend got hurt at work, just wanted to tell me about it.” 

Ian actually does back off when he thinks he’s in a committed relationship with Cas. Dean doesn’t think about that, just gets the info he needs and heads back to the motel. 

-

Cas texts Dean the next morning, telling him he just got into town. Dean texts back that he and John are going to be at the local historical society and to wander in like he has no clue he and John were gonna be there. He deletes the conversation - not like John makes a habit of going through his phone, but still. 

They’ve been sifting through dry transfer records of Leonard Gein and a bunch of other old guys who like to get immersed in the colored history of Lynnfield and blah, blah, blah. 

Dean notices Cas first. He tamps down whatever initial reaction he would’ve given and instead just nudges John and nods his head to where the younger man is peeling off an overcoat, shaking out his dark hair and wiping his boots on the carpet. It’s not the entrance Dean had been hoping for. 

“Do we know him?” John asks.

“Uh, yeah. That’s Cas, the hunter I ran into a few times. Think he was in Columbus around the same time we were.”

“For that banshee case, yeah. I tried digging into it but I found out he had already finished it.” John squints at him. “He’s not what I was expecting.” 

Before Dean can ask what John was expecting, Cas comes over to them. He seems to debate what to say for a moment, before settling on a rather underwhelming, “hello.” 

“Cas,” Dean returns, feeling kind of ridiculous. 

“Don’t think we met before, not properly anyway,” John says, standing up to shake Cas’s hand. He kicks Dean in the shin and Dean shoots up to shake Cas’s hand even though they did formal introductions sometime last year. “Why’re you here?”

Cas sniffs. “Heard about some burglaries in town. In addition to expensive items being stolen, it appears a book on magic rituals was taken as well.”

“Yes, Leonard Gein. He was murdered, tool. The only one of the victims who ended up dead.” 

“Would you two like me to assist you on the case?” Cas asks, tipping his head. Dean holds his breath.

“No, we got it handled. Right, Dean? Besides, three of us… it’d just rouse suspicion. I’m sure there’s something else you can handle.” 

Dean tries not to look deflated. He hopes Cas can see the silent apology in his eyes, but Cas just takes something out from the back pocket of his jeans.

“Understandable. Though I think you’d be interested in hearing about Georgetown.”

“And what’s in Georgetown?” John asks. 

“Unless you two have already located Leonard Gein’s book, I do believe something with that amount of power may have already made its way there.” He unfolds what turns out to be a news blog that had been printed out. He slides it over the table and Dean bites down a smile. 

Georgetown family happy over mysterious reappearance of missing woman.

“From what I was able to find online, I don’t believe this woman was found by lucky happenstance,” Cas says. “My theory is that book somehow made its way up north, and was used to reanimate the dead.” John says nothing, reading the article. Dean whistles. “Obviously you two have already started the case,” he continues, “but I think we could benefit from working together. Presumably a witch is responsible, and I believe they are… a bitch to deal with on your own?” 

Dean bites back a laugh.

“Fine. Dean and I are finishing up here and we can meet you.” He carelessly slides the article back to Cas and carries on pursuing his book like Cas’s revelation is no big deal. Cas stands there for a second, as though expecting more than a curt dismissal. He glances at Dean.

Dean winks at him and nods his head to get him moving, and Cas takes off again. 

-

John has Dean pose as a reporter for some fluffy magazine trying to do a feel good piece on the family in question. The Gillepse household is an old colonial that was probably standing for over a hundred years. They welcome him in and give him tea. He doesn’t drink it.

The younger sister, Cheryl, is a reserved blonde woman a little younger than Dean. She keeps looking at the miraculous reappearing sister, Heather, like she could disappear at any moment. Dean keeps his eyes trained on the deer mounted over the fireplace, eyes black and glassy like marbles. "That's our dad's," Heather says. She's taller, more brunette, and plucky. "He's a hunter."

"Impressive," he says, looking at the other antlers and animal pelts that are decorating the living room.

"What about you, Dwayne? Do you hunt?" Cheryl asks. Dean prefers Heather.

"Can't say that I do." He makes a show out of pulling out a pad and paper to take notes. "So, do you mind telling me what happened? From the beginning."

Heather tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Sure. Let's see… well, it's a weird story. I was just in my room one night, which I guess was six months ago, and then suddenly I’m walking on a road at night all on my own.” She looks completely normal, happy. “I recognized the sign post for Roger’s farm and managed to get home. I knocked on the door and I thought Cheryl was gonna have a heart attack or something!” Cheryl smiles thinly. Dean's expression is probably similar.

“Your parents must be ecstatic.”

“Oh, we um. Haven’t told them yet,” Cheryl says. 

“Yeah, we thought it could be like. A surprise?” Heather says.

“You don’t think they’d want to hear you came back?” 

Heather shrugs, glancing at Cheryl. “They um. Didn’t take Heather being gone well, as you can understand. I was able to get them tickets to Paris as an anniversary gift. It was the first time I had seen them smile, since, you know. It’s expensive to get a phone call over there and I didn’t want them cutting their vacation short. They really needed it.” 

“Right. Nothing like Notre Dame to calm your nerves over a missing kid.”

Heather shifts in her seat. Cheryl’s eyes stay unwavering on him. 

The good thing about old houses like this is that it’s pretty easy to break in. The bad thing is that the houses are noisy as hell. Dean hears a creak upstairs and has to drop the damn coffee on the floor to distract the sisters enough that they don’t go up there. 

"So what are your plans now? Going to college?" Heather frowns.

"No, why would I do that?"

Dean shrugs. "You're young, got a new lease on life."

Heather shakes her head, still smiling big. "No, that's not for me. I just want to be with Cheryl. She missed me, you know?" She elbows her sister and for a moment, Cheryl's face clears up. Dean can see the family resemblance when they smile together, like there's some inside joke only they know. 

He feels a sudden pull inside him so acute he has to hold back a wince. He misses Sam.

Cheryl leads him to the door after the interview. “So when do you think the article will be out?”

Dean shrugs. "It depends on what my editor says. I’m hoping we can shoot for something next month?”

“Did I get your business card?” Dean makes a show of patting his pockets and looking embarrassed.

“You know, I might have actually forgotten to get some more before I came here. I can always swing by if you want?” 

“Sure.” Dean stalls for another minute or two, asking about the sights that Georgetown has to offer, before finally trudging down the steps of the house and getting into his car. 

When he gets back to the motel, John tells him he couldn’t find the grimoire - if she had it in the first place - but he found plenty of other strange books on the occult that someone who was merely interested wouldn’t have had. 

“Where’s your partner in crime?” John asks, flipping through his journal. 

“He’s not -” His phone chimes in his pocket. John gives him a look Dean resolutely does not try to figure out the meaning of. “He says he’s at a coffee place back on King street looking over his notes. Apparently Cheryl purchased the Gillepse family house a few months back.” 

“How does a twenty year old waitress have enough money to buy a house.” 

“He texted ‘bank collateral?’” He looks up at John. “Same question.” 

“No,” John stands up, shrugging into his jacket. “If she has collateral, three guesses where she got that from. Come on, let’s go talk to him.”

-

The barista’s name is Marcus, and he’s rather talkative. Cas knows that sometimes the man at the bar ends up knowing a lot of details that are pertinent information for a case, but he’s not quite sure how often that’s reality and how much of it is just what the writers of Law and Order: SVU want him to believe. Or if it applies if it’s at a café that just so happens to have bar stools and a counter to sit at.

Cas has only had coffee hot, and maybe with cream in it if he’s feeling adventurous. Marcus tells him he ought to have it iced since it’s eighty degrees out, full humidity. 

Cas sips cold coffee through a straw and tries to surreptitiously ask more questions about the Gillepse family until John and Dean arrive. Dean gets coffee, hot, and John doesn’t get anything.

Cas gets the feeling John doesn’t care much for him - or his iced coffee, either, for some reason. Dean’s watching the two compare notes like they’re caged animals, or engaged in a game of ping pong. 

“We just don’t know how she’s selling off these items,” John says.

“She must have an accomplice,” Cas says. Dean asks if she had any close friends. 

“Another girl around their age. The three of them were friends it sounds like,” Cas says. “She moved out of state for college.”

“There should be a record of what school she ended up at in one of the papers,” John says. “Anything else?” Cas shakes his head. “Alright. I need to make some calls. Follow up on that.” He doesn’t say anything to Dean, who watches his dad walk out as though he’s going to be called at the last moment. Instead he and Cas are together, alone.

Cas stares at his drink. “I don’t know how I feel about caramel.” 

“Dude. Iced coffee. Really?” He looks at the glass. 

“Marcus recommended it.”

“Who’s -” Cas points at the barista who’s helping a couple of teenagers at the register. “Oh.”

“Do you want to try it?” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Did you get the name of the third wheeler?” 

“Denise Cunnginham.” 

“Cool. Let’s see where she ended up and pretend to be an old classmate or something.” He taps his fingers on the tabletop. Doesn’t move. “Um,” he says.

“Yes?”

“Are you…” He coughs. “How’re you feeling?”

“Alright.”

“And, you -” Dean huffs. “You didn’t sound alright a few days ago. What’s going on, man? Really?” His eyes look at Cas’s hands, trailing up his arms before locking on his face. Cas knows any damage he’s inflicted on his body is long gone, though it’s disturbing that Dean can guess where those injuries may have been. 

“It’s hard to explain,” Cas says. He’s met a few hunters now, talked to more, thanks to Dean giving him some contact information, and if Cas has only learned one thing about them, it’s that hunters don’t take kindly to people that may be part of the supernatural themselves. Using benign magic, maybe. The things he did without knowing how? Not so much. 

Dean stares at him. When he doesn’t offer up any other explanation, he just grunts and swipes the glass from Cas’s side of the table. He takes a sip - doesn’t use the straw. 

“I think a mocha one would be better," Cas muses. Maybe next time.

“Come on, Pike Place, let’s get moving.”

Chapter Text

Denise went to UCLA. Which meant that she probably wasn’t sneaking back to her home town on a whim to help Heather and Cheryl do… whatever it is that they wanted to do. 

“Yeah, I couldn’t get out of that town fast enough. New England isn’t as liberal as it likes to think it is,” she tells him.

“What made you decide to leave?”

Denise pauses. He can hear how her hands flex on the phone, shifting it around. “Before, um. There was a girl I was friends with. Her and her sister, actually. I went out with her a couple of times.”

Dean blinks. “Like, as a date.”

“You got a problem with that?”

“No, just clarifying. La vie bohème and, uh. All that jazz.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t know. I guess I was pissed at my boyfriend, and we were always close, and she just swooped in after he dumped me and I thought why not? We were best friends.”

“Does it always work like that?”

“I don’t know, it worked for us. Until, um. People found out. High school was - it fucking sucked, okay? No one wants to sit with you when they find out you suddenly became a dyke, or like. Whatever. I didn’t care. I knew I wasn’t going to be sticking around. But uh. When I told Heather, she… She didn’t take it well. We kept getting into fights. I told her she could’ve just come with me, or applied to colleges over on the west coast, but she couldn’t leave her sister. Like, Cheryl’s an adult, pretty much. It would’ve been fine. Neither of her parents liked us, anyhow, and I’d bet my money Cheryl ends up batting for the other team too, you know what I mean?” She scoffs. “She kept third wheeling on our dates enough.”

“Right.”

“Well, anyway. We kept fighting, I booked my plane ticket out to California, and we broke up. Haven’t heard from either of them since. Um. My uh, my mom though. She told me about Heather.”

“What about her?”

“She ran away, like six months ago? Everyone thought she died. I was thinking maybe she was trying to get out here - like if her parents disowned her or something. But I never heard anything, tried to call her, but her phone was disconnected.”

“Did you know she’s back?”

“Um, yeah I did. From my mom, again. I uh. I called Cheryl, asked how she was. She said Heather didn’t want to speak to me anymore. I wrote a letter, just like, I wanted to know she was alright. We had this blow up argument the night before I left and she got really upset. I was worried she would… I don't know. But I guess she must still be pissed at me. Didn’t send anything back.”

“Do you think Cheryl was ever jealous of the two of you?”

“I don’t know, maybe? Cheryl was always like, too emo for me. We’d all hang out together growing up.”

“Do you think Cheryl was ever interested in weird stuff? Maybe the occult?”

“Seriously? Who are you again?”

“Denise, come on, it's Mike Eles?" He flips through a copy of the class of 2003 yearbook to get to the group shots. "You know, from Key Club? I just want to make sure Heather really is alright. Just like you."

He hears her sigh. “Right, yeah… Listen, dude. I don’t know. When we were all together we’d do stupid teenager shit. Going for drives late at night. Sneaking around Roger’s farm by their house. Uh. I think she did have some tarot cards, you know, do some astrology shit… She had some weird books in her room, too, but it wasn’t any more of a thing than her obsession with Dashboard Confessional, so I didn’t take note of it. I think she knew I didn’t like it so she wouldn’t bring it around.”

“She didn’t want to upset you?”

“Or she had a crush on me and was trying to be nice, I dunno.”

“Alright. Thanks for your time, Denise.” 

“Yeah. Just uh. Just make sure they’re both doing alright. I remember… I moved here in middle school, right? And Heather and Cheryl like - they had friends, but it felt like all they really had were each other, and I guess they both liked me enough to let me into their little group but, uh. I’m worried that they’re back to not having any friends, anymore. Now that I’m gone. So. Yeah.”

“Okay, we’ll keep an eye out.” Dean hangs up the phone. Cas is flipping through a book. His fingers trail down the lines of words like he's caressing the pages. "You know, Heather mentioned she came to on a road a few miles from her house."

Cas looks at him, brow furrowed. "Did you want to look at it?" Dean quirks an eyebrow at him. Cas shuts the book and stands up.

Roger’s Farm is actually a little red barn that acts as a storefront, and not much of a farm at all. There are peaches and sweet corn out in stalls. They cruise past it like they're taking a lazy summer drive, windows down, arms dangling against the heated metal.

"Are we looking for anything in particular?" Cas asks. Dean takes a turn down a windy road that's more dirt than anything. 

"Dunno. You'd think if someone just appears from the ether it would give off some weird mojo or something, right?" They circle back to the little farmhouse and try out other sprawling routes. Dean isn't sure what he's expecting to see, if anything at all.

Cas leans forward in his seat. "What about up here?" Dean was about to give up on the idea, so at the suggestion he pulls the car to the side and shuts it off.

Cas gets out, walking to the four way intersection like something’s leading him there. The foliage is pretty dense, but there's no rustling in the bushes like Dean expects. Not even the buzz of cicadas. 

"Crossroads can be places of power," Cas says. He's looking at the trees, the dirt. 

"The power to get lost?"

"More like a threshold. I was… reading about places of liminality,” he says, distracted. “Apparently they have the potential to reach beyond our current understanding, creating new realities. I believe airports can accomplish similar feats."

"Whatever that means. So does reaching beyond our current understanding mean you can tell me why we stopped?"

Cas turns in a circle. "Do you see any area where the dirt has been disturbed?"

"Uh." Dean squints. Bends down slightly to get a more level view. "There?"

Cas goes to the spot Dean's pointing at - almost exactly in the middle, where no cars would drive over. He bends down and starts digging with his hands. The lack of rain means the dirt is more akin to dust, clouds of ocher colored earth coming up around him. Two minutes later he holds out a small container 

"Found some buried treasure?" Dean comes over and takes a look. The box is an old decorative tin. When Cas flips the latch open, he sees a picture of Cheryl cut out from her yearbook. There's a small draw-string bag and what looks to be a rib bone stuck inside. "What the hell is this?"

"I don't know," Cas says. He stands up and passes the box to Dean. "Magic, I'm assuming. A dark kind."

"What gave it away, the friggin' mystery body parts?"

"That's too small a rib bone to belong to a human, Dean."

"That doesn't make me feel better. Actually, the fact that you know that makes me feel worse." He slams the box shut. "Let's bring this to John, unless you got another episode of Miss Cleo rattling around up there."

"Who?"

Dean sighs. "Never mind."

-

He assumes that John would be happy about the additional clue - whatever this is, it suggests that there is magic afoot, and maybe they can figure out what kind.

But when Dean shows John the box, his dad’s eyes go dark. “This is bad,” he says. “Where did you find this?”

“At a crossroads. Heather said she walked home after she reappeared, so we took a drive around and found this buried.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about that?”

Dean’s train of thought sputters and cuts out, the anger at his dad’s reaction throwing him. “I, uh, didn’t think of it at the time. When I spoke to their friend they talked about a store they would hang out at. It just jogged my memory.”

John slams the lid of the box shut. “Damnit, Dean, you can’t just ‘let things’ jog your memory. Were you even paying attention when you interviewed her?”

“Of course I was - she was being squirrely and talking over Heather. Their friend Denise even admitted that she and Heather dated in high school before breaking up, and Heather was all cut up about it. Cas said crossroads are places of power - maybe this is part of a ritual she used to find her and keep their little family together?” He glances at Cas for some back up, but John moves and Dean’s eyes flick back to his dad.

“And where did Cas learn about that?”

“I read,” Cas says, either not picking up at the tense atmosphere or ignoring it.

“Right.” 

“Listen,” Dean says, getting flashbacks to when he and Sam and John would be pouring over a tough case and he’d have to play mediator, “we have all the pieces, we just have to put them together.”

“No,” John says, taking the box and his journal and walking across the room. “You’re not taking this seriously, Dean. This is stuff you’re not equipped to mess with.”

“Wh - Dad!”

“Stay here,” he orders him. Dean feels the air deflate out of him. “I’m going to finish this.” He stares at Cas. “And you should get going. Make yourself useful somewhere else.” He takes a duffel bag and walks out of the room. Dean watches him go, listens for the car to start up and drive off. He grinds his teeth, whirling around just to see Cas looking over the notes John had left behind - the things his dad was going to tell him so they could finish the case together.

“What the fuck are you doing? You heard him.” 

“I did.” He flips a piece of paper and reads it. Dean stomps over and gathers the pages up into his hand.

“He said go, Cas. Leave.” 

Cas looks at him, blue eyes stormy. “He’s not my father, Dean.” 

“Yeah, well - I’m his son. And he’s pissed at me because of that stunt you pulled.”

“We found a clue to the case. He shouldn’t have gotten upset with you because he found out about a detail two hours later than he wanted.”

“I should’ve remembered! It’s clearly important. Now he thinks I’m some sort of idiot.” 

“You’re not an idiot, Dean.”

“Might as well be.” Cas sinks into the rickety chair that John had been in when they came back to the motel, and Dean wants to throttle him. Cas nods at the papers crumpled in Dean’s’ fist.

“Those are copies of different ledgers from art dealers and pawn shops around New England. Your father found that quite a few of the valuables stolen were sold off, and the money was dumped into Cheryl’s account, presumably to pay for her family’s house.”

“Okay, so she’s Catwoman in her spare time, big deal.”

“ She’s not. She just found someone to make it happen.” He frowns. “Dean, what do you know about demonology?”

“Demon - dude, what the fuck? I bring you up here because you went Girl, Interrupted on me and then you just take us on some weird side quest that pissed my dad off.” 

“That box had demonic magic written all over it. It even felt evil. I think your father just wanted you out of the picture because he doesn’t want you to come into contact with those forces.” He tips his head. “Has he ever kicked you off a case before and not tell you what happened?”

Dean wants to stay angry. Maybe he still is. He wants to kick Cas out and mull over his mistakes until John comes back. Apologize, wait for the next hunt so he can prove to his dad he’s not a fuck up. 

But.

Every time they’re on a case together and he screws it up, John usually doesn’t tell him how it ended. He sulks in a room or at a bar for a day or two, and John comes back and they pack it up and blow town. Doesn’t say anything. When that happened, Sam would suggest looking through their dad’s notes to find out what or who the culprit was, but Dean always vetoed the idea, said they didn’t have the right to know if dad didn’t want to talk about it. But he always wondered. 

He bites his lip. Slowly sits down in the other chair at the table. Puts the papers on the cheap plastic top, spread out. “Okay,” he says, “what do you think happened?”

-

The only reason John doesn't threaten to shoot Cas, Dean thinks, is because they get to the Gillespie house just in time to save him.

They're in the basement of the house. Somehow, it isn’t as charming as the ye olde New England farmhouse that’s on the floor above. This is rough, cobbled stone, cold and lined with older hunting equipment left to rust next to a few chest freezers. Which are leaking a questionable looking substance. Awesome.

They ease down the basement steps without being heard. There’s an ominous, unnatural wind blowing through the room, whipping his jacket around and blowing Cas’s dark hair into a messy flurry of strands that frame his face. 

Cheryl’s in the center of the storm, arm out and  holding John against the wall. Heather’s standing by one of the open chest freezes, crying and screaming at her sister to stop.

“I can’t!” Cheryl yells, dragging John up the wall until his feet are scrabbling against the stone. “Can’t you see? He’s going to take you away from me!” 

“Like Denise? Like mom and dad?” 

"They weren't good for you! They were gonna leave you anyway!"

Dean edges along the perimeter of the room, gun trained on Cheryl. As he gets closer to Heather he peers into the open freezer. He sees ice crystals stained red, denim and plaid curled up. Guess their parents weren’t in Paris after all. 

“Just admit it, Cheryl! I died, okay? I died because I wanted to and I wasn’t supposed to come back.” Through her tears, Heather notices Dean. She turns and lunges for his gun. He’s caught off guard enough that she yanks it, shot going wild.

Cheryl's magic sends Dean flying against the wall, and he ducks into a crouch to recover. When he looks up, Heather is pointing the gun at her own temple, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t want this, Cheryl, please.” 

For a moment, that seems to break through. Cheryl's hands drop, and John falls to the floor. Dean tries to crawl towards him. Cheryl eyes the movement and pins him against the leaking freezer. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Cas by his dad's side. 

“This is just like before,” Cheryl's voice is pitched low, dangerous. “You’re trying to leave! Again!” 

“I just wanted us to be sisters,” Heather pleads. “Not this - this fucked up, codependent bullshit! I had dreams! Denise and I were gonna -” She sobs. “Why do you have to ruin everything for me?”

The wind speeds up, and it’s like the air is sucked out of the room. 

“Shut up!”

“It’s true! You’re just jealous! You’re so fucking obsessed that you brought me back to life just to control me! Just - just let me go before I do it for you.” 

Cheryl’s face goes dark. “Fine,” she spits, and her hand comes up again and shoves hard. Heather goes flying - not against the wall or the freezer, but across the room, landing hard right on the stone steps that lead into the basement. The gun falls from Heather’s hand. She doesn’t get back up. The four of them watch as blood pools under Heather’s head. 

Abruptly, the wind flowing through the room stops. “Heather?” Cheryl talks a step forward, then another. “H-Heather, this isn’t funny. I -” She rushes over, jostling her sister. There’s more blood, and her head lolls in a way that only means one thing. Cheryl screams. 

Dean gets up. John’s standing next to him, shotgun recovered from somewhere and aimed at Cheryl. 

She is a witch, after all, that much was obvious. One that murdered and stole to try and get her sister back in her life. She's an unhinged monster, same as all the rest.

Dean’s throat tightens up watching her cradle her dead sister’s body. She lets out a sob and his insides twist.

John cocks the shotgun. Cheryl gives him a withering glare, looking every bit the petulant drama queen. “Well? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” 

“Where’s the book?” 

She wipes her face messily with a sleeve. “My sister’s body isn’t even fucking cold, and you’re on a treasure hunt?” 

“Answer the question.” 

"Cheryl. We can work this out," it's the first time Dean's heard Cas speak. Cheryl glares at him. 

"How?" she asks. "How the fuck is this going to work out?" 

"We don't have to kill you," John says. She rolls her eyes.

"I'm dying either way. Know where I'm going, too." Her eyes squeeze shut for a second and another tear leaks out. "Fuck." She scans the room. Dean’s unarmed, and Cas must've stashed his weapon. Cas is watching her with an inscrutable expression. 

Cheryl lunges over Heather’s body, picks up Dean's pistol that was dropped. Cas moves forward. 

“Stop!” John shouts.

“Don’t -” Cas starts.

She shoves the gun in her mouth and pulls the trigger. 

-

Dean wants to burn down the whole fucking house. John makes them search for the grimoire first. His dad takes a collection of occult books and then tells him to finish the job. When he gets outside, Cas is there.

Dean looks at him; he looks as miserable as Dean feels. 

Wordlessly, they go to the Impala. Dean pops the trunk and they grab salt, gasoline, a box of matches. Dean opens the freezers and salts the parents, the sisters. The gas makes his eye water. He feels a headache pounding behind his eyes by the time they’re done. They hike back up the stairs. Dean lights the entire row of matches, staring down at the basement. He tosses it in and the fire starts immediately. 

By the time they get outside there’s roils of black smoke coming out from the basement windows. John’s long gone. 

He sits against the hood of the car and stares. Cas joins him. “We should probably call the fire department, “ he says.

“We’ll call on the way back.” Neither of them move.

“At least your father is alright.” Dean scoffs.

“Yeah. He’ll probably chew me out for interfering and bringing you with me.” 

"Your father seems difficult to please," Cas says at length.

"You can't exactly excuse mistakes, dealing with this stuff. One wrong move and you're dead."

"I don’t think it had to end this way. Maybe if none of us meddled…”

“Then what? Sounds like she just brought her sister back ‘cause she couldn’t deal. Made some sort of, what, demonic ritual thingy to get some witchy powers and quick riches? She killed her parents.” 

“Maybe she could have been helped.”

“Don’t tell me you feel sorry for her? She messed with shit she shouldn’t have messed with.” Dean thought about laying them out more properly than how they died entwined and soaked in each other's blood, but it didn't really matter, in the end.

“She probably thought she had a good reason. Wouldn’t you go to extreme lengths for your family?” 

He would. He doesn’t like that Cas has a point. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"It fucking means something and you fucking know it," Dean says, shoving his hands into his pockets. "What the fuck do you know about what we've been through? You know, family is all we got. I've never heard you talk about yours."

He knows he's being unfair - it's not like he's an open book when it comes to his family life, but it's a knee-jerk reaction. People that complain about John's parenting style were usually the same people that made Dean's life harder. Overly concerned teachers in a town he was blowing through, parents of friends Sam made, people who thought he and his brother needed professional help. It didn't exactly leave Dean open to discussing his business with others.

"I don't have one," Cas says. The growing fire plays across his face, going between orange-red and shadow. "Do you remember that time I called you?"

"...that's the reason we're here," Dean admits, shuffling his feet.

"I - I overreacted or. Something. I'm not sure, but…" Cas chews on his lip. Looks over at Dean, all torn up. "Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell anyone else?"

Dean inclines his head. "Alright."

"I don't… remember anything."

"What, like a bad soap opera twist?"

"I woke up in a motel room in… April last year. I had clothes and fake IDs. I had weapons for hunting. I knew how to hunt monsters, but… that's it. I don't know who I am, how I got there." His mouth twists. "I don't even know if my name is Cas."

"Do you know if anyone's looking for you?"

"If they are, they haven't found me yet." Cas worries his lip for a moment. "The city I woke up in… there's a man there who looks like me. I ran across him on accident."

"And is he -"

"He's just a man. Normal wife and daughter. Normal job. No signs that I'm a lost twin or anything. I just -" The windows in the house shatter as the flames lick up to the floors above. "What if it's more than a coincidence?"

Dean can feel the way the air is heating up, smoke spilling out of the windows, the wooden supports crumbling under the flames. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” 

-

Cas calls about the fire while they’re driving away. The motel is fifteen minutes across town. They don't go there yet.

Dean has a half empty pack of cigarettes buried in the glove box. He lights one up as they drive. He tries not to think, can't help it. Decides that it’s easier to think about Cas than the dead family they’re leaving behind. He didn’t even pull a trigger and he feels worse about this hunt than he has in a long time. 

Cas’s case doesn't sound like doppelgangers or anything else. Witchcraft, maybe, but even that doesn't seem to explain it. "Say you're like Heather,” he starts, talking a turn onto the main drag and tapping ash out of the rolled down window. “You get raised by some magic mumbo jumbo or whatever. Usually whoever did the raising makes contact pretty damn quick. You've been driving around for over a year at this point, nada. And this evil clone -"

"I'm the one with presumably illegal firearms in a car that's registered to a fake name, Dean. I'm probably the evil clone."

"Okay. Fair point." He pauses. "Is that why you got freaked out? You're afraid you're, what, gonna go dark side or something?"

"No. I don't know. It's just." Cas sighs. "Why can't I remember anything? All the articles I've read about amnesia suggest it's short term. Eventually stuff should come back. Something. Anything. But there's - it's like a black hole. If I was just a hunter who got his memory wiped, why has no one heard of me?"

Dean wonders if he should be worried, too. Whatever is affecting Cas is probably big. Bigger than anything he’s ever dealt with. He glances at Cas, who’s just fiddling with his cell phone, looking out the window. He looks like a man to him. Sometimes hunting partner. His friend. 

Can monsters even do long cons? Probably, Dean thinks. Probably not all of them, though.

"Well. You woke up with stuff to go hunting with. Going around ganking monsters hasn't helped your memory. Why d’you keep doing it? You could've just gone to some random podunk town and settled in. Made new memories." 

"I," Cas pauses. "I knew there were supernatural creatures in the world. I knew that most of them hurt people. I couldn't just - not do something about it."

"And why's that?" Dean turns onto a road where there’s a reservoir on one side, forest on the other. They go on for a few miles in silence. Dean takes another drag and tosses the butt out of the window, digs in his pockets for gum and chews that next. He can see a large plume of smoke across the water.

"People are good. Or at least, they don't deserve to die. Not by something they don't know exists, or don't know how to fight against. I couldn't just... stop in good conscience."

Dean reaches over and claps him on the shoulder. "Alright, well. Your morality compass seems to be in check to me."

"That's it?"

Dean sighs. "Look, man, I'm sorry. I wish I could tell you something else, but. You're a good guy, Cas. And a good hunter, too, for what it's worth. I'm uh. Glad you convinced me to go back to that house. Dad could've gotten hurt if we didn't, you know?"

“I guess.” Dean thinks about their phone call that started this whole mess, and he turns the bend sharper then he means to.

“Listen. I get it - it sounds horrible. No idea who you are or where you came from. If you have a family or not. But uh,” he swallows, “you’re doing good out there, Cas, alright? I mean, I know we make a good team when we’re together. So uh. If what happened to you before - if you feel that way again. Just call me, okay? Promise you call instead of doing that.” He flicks his gaze over to Cas, who’s watching him with an unreadable expression. “Promise me.”

“I promise, Dean.” 

“Okay. Good.” He checks his watch. “Guess we can head back.” 

-

He doesn’t bring Cas into the room, doesn’t want him dealing with John. Instead he says goodbye and hints that maybe he should make himself scarce as soon as possible, just in case his dad wants to scare him away or something. 

John’s scribbling something in his journal when Dean opens the door, puts his hands in his pockets. All coiled up for a fight. “It’s all set. We might wanna leave before word spreads about the fire.” 

John doesn’t say anything. Dean watches him from the corner of his eye as he starts packing up his clothes, rolling up the clean ones and stuffing the dirty stuff to one side of his bag. He grabs his toothbrush, toothpaste, the other things he has on the bathroom counter all neat and tidy. 

He’s done packing up and John’s still writing in his journal. “Dad?” he walks closer, but John slams the book shut before he can see what’s being written. 

“You need to head to Minneapolis. Old friend of mine contacted me about some missing children. He should call you with the address as you get closer.” 

Dean blinks. “Okay, are you coming too?”

“No, I need to follow up on the books here.” There it is. Dean grabs his duffel, scans the room for anything else before walking to the door. 

“Dad, I’m sorry about -”

“Dean.” John pulls a book towards him and opens it, reads through a paragraph. Dean shifts on his feet. His dad finally looks at him. “You know I only want what’s best for you, right?”

“Um, yeah. ‘Course.” 

John nods. “You should be careful about who you’re spending your time with.” Dean could ask if he’s referring to Cas, but he’d be wasting his breath.

“Is there something wrong with him?” he asks instead. 

“You said he was new to hunting.” 

“That’s right.”

“Someone new to this world shouldn’t know so much about dark magic.” He points at the box that was buried at the crossroads. “You didn’t know about that until today, did you?”

“No sir.” 

He stands still, waiting to see if John will say anything else. His dad turns back to the books. “Get going. You’re burning daylight.” 

Dean swallows. Nods, though his dad doesn’t see it. He leaves the motel room, puts his bag in the car. There’s no other car in the parking lot aside from his dad’s.

He’s on US 1 south for about ten miles before his cell rings. “Hello?”

“How did he take it?”

He realizes it’s not John’s friend like he thought. “Okay, I guess. Told me to get my ass over to Minneapolis for a case.” He sucks his teeth. “Said I should watch myself around you.”

“Maybe he’s right.”

Maybe he is right. Dean trusts his dad’s judgement about 90 percent of the time. When he doesn’t, he’s smart enough to not say anything. But instead of hanging up, he rolls his eyes. “Man, shut up. Where are you?”

“Cambridge.” 

“Got anything going on?”

“...Not at the moment.” 

The sun’s going to set in another hour or so. He sees a sign for Government Center and gets into the exit lane. “You ever get around to trying that Irish car bomb thing I told you about?”

“No, Dean.” 

“Get into Boston and follow the signs for Faneuil Hall. I’ll meet you there.” He hangs up, sits in traffic, spends twenty minutes talking Cas through the absurdly confusing Bostonian street signs. 

Cas hates Guinness more than he hates gin and tonics, but he chokes down the pint and Dean drinks enough to block out the burning Gillespie house and the look in John’s eyes and the thought of his brother until it’s just him and Cas stumbling down Market street and arguing over whose car to sleep in. 

"I'm fucked up," he says, leaning against his car - it was closest - and trying to find his keys. He can't. He puts his forehead against the cool metal. "Ugh."

"Yeah," Cas echoes. His voice is deep and right next to Dean's ear. He turns his head towards it. 

"Cas," He slowly twists so his back is against the car. Cas is pressed up against his side. 

"Dean."

Dean tries to remember what he was going to say. Can't. He closes his eyes and zones out enough that he's resting his head on Cas's shoulder. "'M gonna be so hungover tomorrow."

"You think so?"

"I can feel it starting." He moves a hand up to wiggle at his forehead. "Right here."

Cas turns, touches Dean's temples before he can loll back against the car. He opens one eye to watch Cas. He looks like he's concentrating all his energy on his brow bone. His fingers are warmer than the cool metal of the car. His ring and pinkie fingers are embedded in his hair. 

"What're you doin' Cas?"

"Trying to cure your hangover." Dean blinks slowly.

"Fuckin' nerd." He digs in his pockets again and finds his keys this time. He shakily unlocks the door. "I call backseat." He crawls in and shuts the door. Kicks off his boots. Stares at the roof of the car. Cas gets in the front and does the same thing.

"Do you sleep in your car often?"

Dean shrugs. Remembers Cas can't see him. "I dunno. More'n mos' people… if there's no money or no motel. Boston's, um. 'Spensive. You know?"

"Those drinks were expensive."

"Fuck yeah they were." He sits up, takes off his jacket and bundles it up as a pillow. "Night, Cas."

"Goodnight. I'll watch over you."

"Pfft. Nerd." He passes out almost immediately.

A cop passes by around five in the morning and tells them to get going. Dean finds a Dunkin Donuts that's open early enough and uses the bathroom to brush his teeth. Usually a night spent sleeping in his car means cramped legs, a crick in his neck, and dealing with whatever setback made him sleep in the car in the first place. Staring at his reflection, he feels surprisingly okay.

Cas gets an iced mocha this time around and a breakfast sandwich. Dean gets a large hot coffee and a sandwich and two chocolate glazed. They eat on the drive to wherever Cas parked. Dean gives him the second doughnut. 

"I still didn't get a call from dad's friend," he says. "But we can head over that way." They had already discussed the case last night before they had gotten too drunk. Cas said he would come, if Dean wanted. "Maybe stop in Chicago."

"I've never been to Chicago." He licks chocolate frosting off his fingers. Dean watches him suck at his thumb, wipe the residue away on a napkin. “Are you sure it’s alright if I come with you?”

Dean sips at his coffee. It’s burning hot and tastes watered down. “Yeah, why not?” Cas gives him a look that very clearly illustrates that they both know there are reasons for why not. But Dean’s happy to ignore them. “Come on, morning traffic’s gonna start soon and I wanna get outta here before then.” 

They stop in Chicago. Dean had been before, a few times. Cas takes them to the Art Institute because it's free the first Saturday of every month. They stop in front of that bigass painting made up of dots that the kids from Ferris Bueller stared at. Dean buys the postcard, scrawls out a message. Debates sending it. He makes them eat deep dish pizza and laughs at the journey Cas’s face goes through when he realizes the sauce is cold. 

"We should go to a Cub's game," Dean says. He realizes that all the things he and Cas are doing are Cas's first time - or as good as, if he can't remember anything. 

It's early in the season and tickets are cheap, even though they're pretty crappy seats. Dean spends most of the game explaining how it works. By the fifth inning Cas mostly knows when to cheer, starts clapping along when Sweet Caroline gets pumped out over the speakers. Dean wonders where Cas came from, what he left behind. If there's a family like his apparent lookalike or if it's a burned out house like the Gillespie family, like his.

Maybe one day he'll get a call and fly off to wherever and that'll be that. In the months between them working together, Dean liked the fact that Cas was a hunter, like him. Getting dumped by Cassie still stung when he thought about her, and leaving towns or friends or girls he liked sucked. But they were all rooted to that town, that state, that month he passed by. Cas isn't locked in like that. He can follow him anywhere, untethered, apparently unburdened by his past. 

They spend too much on beer and the Cubs lose anyway. As they're walking out to the parking lot, he gets a call from John's friend and he gets a proper address of where to go. They drive through the night and this time they split a room - cities are expensive after all.

He stares up at the stained popcorn ceiling, light from the highway coming through a crack in the curtains. Cas is breathing deeply in the next bed. Dean turns to face that way, but it's too dark to see anything. 

He falls asleep like that, tilted towards Cas and listening to him breathe.

Chapter Text

Cas sticks with Dean for a few weeks. The thing in Minneapolis is a Rawhead, stealing children, hiding in the dark corners of abandoned buildings. He got to use a taser for the (presumably) first time.

They don’t make any other big stops on the way. It’s mostly business. A ghost in Wyoming, some banshee in Oklahoma. They ride through Austin on their way to a haunting in Corpus Christi and Dean pulls up to some strange sculpture made up of junk, sprawling and glittering in the summer sun. Cas gets a new disposable camera at a gas station across the road and takes a picture. Maybe he can put it in his journal.

They don’t talk about John, or the Gillespie family, or Cas’s lack of memories. Cas catches Dean staring at his phone, thumb pressing buttons to go through menu options. Once or twice he heads to the bathroom and Cas can vaguely hear him talking to someone through the door, and whenever they finish a case, he has a new one ready as if pulled from thin air. 

Cas doesn’t know much about family, but he’s run into enough of them and seen amalgamations on TV. He has the creeping suspicion that what John and Dean have is off-kilter. He can only think of a sergeant running a battalion made up of one lone soldier. The fact that Dean is still gutted over Sam leaving but is so reluctant to actually talk to him sounds like something else, something beyond Dean’s pride and more to do with how John viewed Sam’s temporary status as a college student full blown abandonment.

They talk about what music to listen to and if the thing that's making dogs disappear around Tallahassee is a monster or just an alligator on the loose and what they're going to eat and where to stop for the night, but they absolutely don’t talk about that. Cas knows Dean, which means he knows better than to try.

They're in the northeast corner of Nebraska. It’s the middle of summer and the air conditioning in Cas’s car leaves something to be desired. There’s a long stretch of road between soybean farms and unoccupied fields where people keep dying, and the town that the road runs through seems to have a higher rate of mental illness than anywhere else in the Midwest. 

“I don’t get it,” Dean says, leaning back in the chair. “There’s usually a type of victim that a monster goes for, or some type of pattern. This is just people dying over and over again.” It looks like the deaths started back during the Dust Bowl, or maybe even earlier, but that’s all the library documented.

Cas flips a page of his notes. “Some people would probably surmise our jobs as nothing but that.”

Dean huffs. “Timeline’s not consistent, either, smartass.”

There were spotty instances of individuals being found dead in a one square mile of land. Sometimes it’s one a year, other times it’s six months, and others there ends up being years in between. None of them are car accidents, either. The victims just end up collapsing in the field or on the side of a road somewhere, getting found at some point in the future. 

The sky is blue and cloudless when they leave the library after another fruitless search through the archives. “I’m gonna head back to the field, just in case we missed something,” Dean says with a sigh. Their last search was fruitless. They’ve been kicking around for almost a week without finding out anything about the case. “You coming?”

“Of course.”

Dean has a pair of aviators in the car’s glove compartment that he tosses to Cas, sliding another pair on before he pulls out of the parking lot. “What I don’t get is the funny farm thing.”

“The what?”

“The fact that half this town has a few screws loose. There’s four thousand people here, max, and a mental institute’s right down the road. And then with this monster or - whatever it is. Every family we talked to said the victims were hearing things before they died, and some of them had to just go to that institute.” 

“There was nothing in the hospital records. They all died of starvation, dehydration, or exhaustion.”

“Yeah, even if they were young and perfectly healthy before. It’s like they just - went crazy and gave up.” 

The only thing they had concluded were those that were hospitalized seemed to last longer than victims who were out in the open, but the end was the same, and the cycle was left to repeat itself over and over again. 

Cas hums, and they drive back to that stretch of road and field. Dean calls it ground zero. 

There’s not a lot of traffic out here - it’s just a two lane road people use to get from one town to another. The only thing around is a tiny dairy farm about a mile back that sells ice cream, and a fall fair that sets up two miles the opposite way. “I mean, maybe people wander down here, and whatever it is sticks to ‘em?” Dean pulls off the road and they get out.

“That’s possible. Whatever is affecting people, it’s not instantaneous.” He looks at the ground, but it’s all clover and slightly overgrown grass. Dean kicks up some loose gravel by the road’s shoulder.

“And it’s definitely not some pagan sacrifice bullshit?”

“The main group that traveled to this town at the turn of the century were from England. It’s possible, but most ritualistic practices died out there centuries ago.”

“Eh, that’s never stopped ‘em before. Were you expecting to get sacrificed to a shark monster in Oregon? Because I wasn’t.”

“Fair point.”

They keep their heads down, searching for anything strange. The wide open space of the plains makes the world shrink down to just the two of them. When Cas looks up to stretch his neck it feels like he can look out all the way to the west coast, the air shimmering from the heat the road gives off until Cas swears he sees the Pacific off in the distance. 

Dean walks to the car and gets a bottle of water. Chugs half of it and pours the rest down the back of his neck, the grey cotton of his t-shirt going dark. “Fuck, it’s hot.” 

Cas thinks he might break a sweat soon. Maybe. 

“Come on, get some water in ya before you pass out.” He waves another bottle at Cas and starts walking towards him. Halfway through he stumbles over something, glances down. “Uh, Cas?”

Getting closer, Cas can see something round under the clover. Dean ducks down and starts tearing up the dirt. After a minute they see the top half of a skull, picked clean and dust-stained. 

“Huh,” Dean says, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Think this is the culprit?” Cas twists his mouth. 

“I suppose it must be.” 

They can’t dig up the bones and burn them in broad daylight, even if the road’s practically a formality for all the traffic it gets. Dean spends a few minutes trying to find a stone to use as a marker, can’t, so he digs out an axe from the trunk and swings it into the dirt a foot in front of the body. 

“Won’t someone come see why there’s an axe in the middle of nowhere?”

“It’ll look like a stick from the road. ‘Sides, figured it’d blend in better than the bright red gas tank.” 

Cas has his doubts, but there really isn’t anyone else on the road. They get in the car and go back to the motel in the next town over. Dean goes to the bathroom to answer the phone, and when he emerges he says they can go to Nevada next. 

They get back to the road once it’s dark out. Find the body and Dean’s axe. They salt and burn the bones. No specter comes out to attack them for it, and they don’t suddenly go insane, either. 

Through the flames, Dean shoots him a grin. “Ta-da,” he says, victorious.

Cas smiles back, but this doesn’t feel like the clean break he gets at the end of most hunts. 

-

They finish up the hunt in Nevada and hop over one state to Arizona. It’s so hot Cas feels like he can’t breathe. Not that he needs to, he thinks bitterly, but he likes it. Dean complains nonstop, shirts clinging to him, the ice cream he perpetually shovels into his mouth between interviews melting in sticky rivers of chocolate vanilla swirl down his wrist. By the time they’re done with an alleged chupacabra that was actually a hoax by some college kids home for summer break, he has a new sunburst of freckles across his left cheek from days of driving with the driver side window down. Their motel has a pool, so they end up kicking around for an extra day. 

They’re getting breakfast before they leave when Dean looks up at him. “Huh?” he asks, mouth full of bacon.

“I didn’t say anything,” Cas says, taking a sip of coffee - iced. It’s ninety-seven out and even Dean looks like he’s regretting his choice of ordering his hot.

“Oh.” Dean furrows his eyebrows, tilting his head like he’s trying to listen for something, but gives up on it. They go in their seperate cars and take 93 north until it splits into route 50. When they meet up again nine hours later, Dean keeps looking over his shoulder. 

-

Dean stuffs the rest of his clothes in the machine. Sniffs the collar of his t-shirt, frowns, and peels that off and throws it in, too. He fumbles in some quarters and it rumbles to life. He tries to suppress a yawn, eyes tearing up. 

Cas is in his underwear, resting an open Terry Pratchett novel on his crossed legs. He’s watching Dean. “You’re tired.”

“Stake outs are boring.” And the adrenaline rush of chasing down a pair of ghouls and almost getting his throat ripped out had long since faded. He’s been dragging his ass through this hunt a bit, and he knows it. Doesn’t mean he’s gonna admit to it, though. 

“You can go back to the motel, if you want. I can finish these.”

“Gonna fold my underwear, too?” Cas shrugs.

“If you really wanted me to,” Dean scoffs and sits down next to Cas, watching the dark clothes go ‘round and ‘round, the rhythmic pounding of the washers soothing him enough to close his eyes. 

Something like a whisper ghosts past his ear. He sits up, looks at Cas, who just turns a page in his book. He keeps watching, waiting to see if Cas will look back and grin, confirm that it was just him messing with Dean. He doesn’t, just keeps on reading. It’s a weird image, seeing Cas in his underwear. Usually the laundry runs were something he did on his own - while Sam was in school, or when John stopped over in between hunts and left him his dirt and blood stained clothes to clean up. A couple of times his brother would be with him. He’d be reading too, or just trying to annoy Dean to death, depending on how old he was at the time. 

But Cas is very obviously not Sam. 

“You don’t have a lot of scars, you know,” Dean says. Cas looks at him. He forgets where he was going with that. “Um. You know. For a hunter.” 

“Neither do you.”

Dean gestures to his chest, where there’s a few thin lines here and there. More on his back, other gashes on his thighs. Some of them are so old that you don’t notice them unless you’re actively looking. “Can’t damage the goods.” 

“Hm.” 

Dean almost nods off a few more times, but there’s that noise again, like someone whispering both next to his head and in another room. It’s close and indistinct. Fucking annoying. He wonders if it’s some type of tinnitus. One too many shots let off in close range. Figures he’d go crazy because of his fucked up ears instead of going down in a blaze of glory. 

-

It’s a few weeks later. Dean’s stripping his guns, facing the window. Cas is flipping through a book. 

“Stop.” Cas glances over, but Dean’s attention is on his weapons, so he assumes he’s just talking to a piece of equipment. “Seriously? What the fuck.” His shoulders pull tighter until he whips his head around. “Shut up!” 

Cas blinks at him. “I didn’t say anything, Dean.”

“You did! Just now!” Cas shakes his head. “Is this some twisted mind game -”

“Dean. Listen.” They stare at each other. A motel room door opens and slams shut. There’s birds outside the window, chirping. Dean’s throat clicks when he swallows, green eyes closed off and suspicious.

His shoulders hunch and he looks behind him. “Wh -” He glances back at Cas. “...I’m guessing you didn’t hear that?” 

“No, Dean.” 

They stare at each other for a moment.

“Well,” Dean says, clicking his handgun back into place. “Fuck.”

-

It hadn’t been obvious, at first, or frequent. Sometimes you hear stuff that isn’t there - his dad raised him to be paranoid, alright? But it’s getting worse. The voice isn’t distinct, but it’s louder than it was before.

At night he’s started to have dreams. Mostly normal, except for a shadowy figure lurking somewhere out of reach. Watching like a voyeur. It might be getting closer, but Dean’s not sure. 

He insists he can finish the hunt they’re on and he does, pointedly ignoring the concerned, soulful gaze Cas keeps fixing him with. 

They get back to Nebraska and Dean stomps around ground zero. The clover’s charred from where they burnt the body. He sifts through the ash and dirt, trying to see if they missed anything. He doesn’t think they did, but he pours a bit more salt and gas on the area and lights it up, anyway.

“Maybe the land’s cursed?” Cas says. They’re at an internet café the two of them camped out next to each other to see if they can find anything useful. “Walking in it is like a trip mine.”

“Then why aren’t you hearing freaky shit? It only seems to affect one person at a time. Then they kick the bucket and some other poor bastard goes nuts next.” Cas gives him that look again, the one that says he’s kicking his puppy or wrenching his still-beating heart out from his chest and crushing it in his fist. “What?” he snarls, fixing Cas with a scowl. The dreams are getting more vivid, and he didn’t get much sleep last night. Or the night before. It’s definitely showing. 

They pour over old newspaper articles, scan different web forums and search about the town’s history. Dean’s eyelids feel like sandpaper. They even go back to interview some of the victims’ family members again. They find the same shit they found last time: absolutely nothing.

Dean hates taking sleep aids, but he pops an expired Valium he kept in the medkit and tries to get some rest.

In his dream he’s in a long corridor that gets smaller and smaller, like it’s Alice in Wonderland. There’s some tan cape going into the light and he’s running to catch it. Behind him is an ink-black figure with glowing sockets. “Get away from me!” he yells at it.

“Go back,” it says, voice circling him like a dark cloud. “Go back, take me back,” Dean trips over air and lands on top of the skeleton in the field. The creature descends and sinks beneath him. He feels icy tendrils grabbing at him - wrapping around his leg, his wrists, his neck, trying to pull him under. “I can end this if you take me back -”

He wakes up because Cas is shaking him. “Dean, Dean.” He sits up, rubs a hand over his face. Cas puts a hand on his jaw to make him look his way. “You have a bruise,” he tells him, fingers trailing down to touch his neck. 

“Fuck.” He hunches in on himself. Cas rubs his back and he’s too tired to do anything but let him. “What the fuck is this thing?”

“I wish I knew.” Dean didn’t sleep enough. He feels a headache pounding behind his eyes. He’s so tired. “Do you think we should call your dad? Maybe he can help.”

“Dad gave me this hunt because he thought it was easy. Can’t come crawling back and tell him I couldn’t do it.” He rubs his face again. “Doesn’t even know you’re out here with me. No, we can do this.”

“Dean, I don’t think -”

“Damnit, Cas, no. No fucking way. I can’t - can’t tell him I couldn’t -” He shuts his eyes, heart thumping in his chest like something is in there, trying to squeeze it.

“What about someone else?” Cas suggests. “Another hunter who can help research this. Maybe we need another pair of eyes.” 

Dean sucks his teeth, tired mind struggling to think of options. He’s slumped against Cas, cool air on his feverish skin. The air conditioning unit is rattling on one side, Cas breathing on his other. For a moment, he can trick himself into thinking he’s okay.

Take me back, says a voice, like needles in his brain, and he jolts. “Dean?”

He groans, curling up into himself. He has an idea, likes it only slightly more than talking to his dad. 

“Yeah,” he says into his hands. “I know someone else.”

Sioux Falls is less than two hundred miles from here. 

Chapter Text

Dean’s run across a fair amount of hunters in the twenty-plus years since his house went up in flames, his mom and any hope of having a normal life along with it. Most of them are older, surly, not a fan of shaving on the regular. Dad didn’t care for most of them, or just used them for intel or supplies. Either way, they didn’t have much use for a kid, and they tended to leave faint impressions on his memory. They were dad’s friends, dad’s contacts. 

Not Bobby, though. He might have started that way, but Bobby must’ve had some secret soft spot in him for a pair of scrappy smartasses that came up to his hip. For all the mouthing off and complaining he liked to do, even Sam got excited when dad dropped them off at ‘uncle Bobby’s’. There was a collection of occult knowledge in his house that was unparalleled, and having an actual bedroom to sleep in wasn’t bad, either. He’d fix up junkers, or just break them more to get at the viable parts. He’s pretty sure Bobby was the one that taught him the rules of baseball, football, and soccer. Definitely kicked or tossed around a ball more than John ever did. 

He’s so exhausted from the drive over that seeing Singer’s Salvage Yard pop up almost brings tears to his eyes. He hasn’t spoken to Bobby since before Sam left for Stanford. Some argument between him and John that he never gleaned the full details of. He can only hope that Bobby can push that aside to help Dean. He shuts off the car, hands trembling. Cas is right behind him. 

“Okay,” he says, cracking his back. His vertebrae pops and the car engine ticks and Cas’s feet crunch on the gravel and he hears something else right in his ear. The bruises around his neck hurt. “Okay,” he says again, “Bobby stopped - well, dad stopped talkin’ to ‘im. So he might, uh. He might just slam the door in my face. But, you know. Worth a shot. Did you get the stuff?” 

Cas holds up a case of Margiekugel’s lager that he got at a gas station just outside of town, as per Dean’s instruction. 

Dean takes it and walks up the steps, knocking on the door and trying not to twitch too much. 

Bobby’s in a trucker cap and t-shirt, oil-stained flannel over that. He looks like he’s staring at a ghost. 

“I uh, know it’s ten in the morning,” Dean says, holding up the case of beer, “but I figured, hey, five o’clock somewhere, right?” Bobby’s not laughing, and Dean’s cocksure smile falls. 

He’s not expecting Bobby to put both hands on his shoulders, looking him up and down like he’s trying to memorize his face. “You’ve grown up, Dean,” he says. “It’s so good to see you.” He pulls him into a hug, and Dean returns it with the arm not holding onto the beer. 

“It’s good to see you too, Bobby,” he has to tamp down the ‘crying like a pussy’ impulse. When he pulls away, Bobby’s eyes are on Cas, back in that shrewd, calculating mode Dean’s used to.

“What’s going on? Is it John?” 

“Uh, no. He’s fine. It’s me.” 

-

Bobby keeps glancing at Cas, but he seems to have decided that he’s second priority compared to what’s bothering Dean. The pair of them go through the case, Dean’s symptoms, and his imminent chance of dying if they can’t figure out what the creature is and how to kill it. Bobby ends up cracking open one of the beers. 

“You didn’t call your dad?” 

Cas actually answers that one. “John assigned the hunt to Dean in the first place.”

“He put you into this mess, he should be the one to take you out of it - not that I’m turning you away, ‘course.”

“I think a case I ended up helping the two of them on left things…” Cas glances at Dean, doesn’t finish his sentence. 

Bobby snorts. “You telling me John got all pissed off about another hunter getting into his business? Doesn’t surprise me. And you two’ve been working together?”

Dean shrugs. “Sometimes. Cas started hunting a little while ago and we ran into each other when I was working solo.” 

At the mention of his name, Bobby nods, slowly. “Oh yeah, I remember you. The informant. Never could figure out how you got my number.” Dean smiles a little. From Bobby’s tone, the man wasn’t exactly surprised. “Alright, get me any notes you took on this sucker, let’s see what we can dig up.” 

-

Dean’s not much use as a researcher when he’s at the top of his game, and he’s far from that right now. He spends most of the day flipping pages and seeing if any depictions in the various monster encyclopedias match the strange figure he’s seeing in his dreams. He consciously ignores any noises that aren’t Bobby or Cas’s voices, not wanting to look crazy even if he feels it.

“You said this town was full of Anglo-Saxon founders?” Bobby asks, about twelve hours after they started research.

“Yes,” Cas says. 

Bobby sniffs. “Yeah, alright. I think I got good news and bad news.”

“I’m listening,” Dean says, leaning back on the couch and shutting his eyes.

“I think I know what it is. It’s an evil entity called a Kuri, native to England. It’s sort of like an evil spirit. Potentially demonic. It haunts abandoned graves where people keeled over and when you walk by one, it attaches itself to ya. Follows you around, whispers to you, gives you nightmares, physical manifestations, drives the person insane and tells the host they can stop the torture if they go back to where they found the spirit. Usually at that point you’re too crazy to think ahead and you end up dying of exposure or dehydration looking for the original gravesite, and then the Kuri drags you to hell, presumably.” 

“Jeez, tell me the good news,” Dean snipes.

“Alright, we know what it is,” Cas says, “how do we get rid of it?”

“That’s the bad news. I don’t know if you can.” Dean sits up. 

“What?”

“It’s an obscure figure, but the stories are consistent, and none of them have any hint of what can stop this thing.”

“So I just… go crazy and die in a field somewhere?” Dean asks. 

“No, you damn idjit. You think we’re just gonna sit here watching you lose it? We’re gonna try to get it off’a you. If it is a demonic spirit like the lore says, we already know where to start.”

Dean looks over at Cas. The other man gives him a solemn nod.

“Okay,” Dean says. “Let’s get this started.” 

-

Dean knows about demons - they exist, they’re powerful, and he knows better than to mess with them up close. He thinks his dad may have been going after them before, but he kept his mouth shut when it came to those cases. Bobby is a little more forthcoming, and a lot of his knowledge stems around demons specifically. 

“We can try a Key of Solomon - devil’s trap,” Bobby says, pulling a book down from a towering pile and showing off a page of circles and lines, full of incomprehensible sigils.

“What’s it do?” Dean asks.

“Traps a demon inside, renders them powerless.”

“And it works?”

“On demons, yeah. Don’t know if it’ll work on your parasite, but it’s worth a shot.” He thrusts the book into Dean’s hands before going over to a fireplace that acts as an alcove for more books versus an actual place to warm up, pulls out a bucket and gives it to Cas.

“What is this for?” he asks. Inside Dean can see thick sticks of schoolyard chalk. 

“Gotta draw it. Right over there should work.” He points to a section of wood flooring that isn’t covered by rugs or furniture. They stand there for a moment. “What? You think I’m getting on my knees and doing art class if I don’t have to? Get to work. I’ll supervise.” 

Cas glances at Dean, but heads over to start drawing circles.

-

The devil’s trap doesn’t work. Neither does salt or holy water, or an exorcism. Dean hasn’t slept in about forty hours, hasn't had a proper amount of sleep in over a week. The candles Bobby lit as part of some random ass ritual are flickering in front of his tired eyes. An icy force prods him hard in the ribs and he jolts up, realizes he was falling asleep, almost cries in frustration because he can’t. 

They keep trying spells and whatever else Bobby throws at him. It gets harder to distinguish their voices from the Kuri murmuring, then talking, then screaming nigh-constantly in his ear.

Cas brings him water, food, practically has to feed him because he can’t concentrate on anything. Bobby doesn’t say anything, not to him, but he has a sinking feeling that this thing is unkillable. He needs to call Sam, his dad. 

“You can call them if you want, but you’re not going to die,” he realizes he’s been mumbling out loud when Cas responds to him.

“You don’t know that,” he says. Cas forced him to take some pain meds to deal with the migraine he has, but his head is still pulsing painfully like his brain just wants to give up. 

"Take me b̸a̵c̵k̶,” that voice says. It’s getting louder. 

“Fuck off,” he bites outs, clapping his hands over his ears. “Shut up! ”

“Take me back, take me b̸a̵c̵k̶,̸ ̶t̵a̶k̴e̸ ̸m̴e̶ ̶b̸a̵c̶k̸,̶ ̶I̷ ̵c̴a̷n̸ ̵e̵n̸d̷ ̷t̶h̶i̸s̷ ̸i̷f̶ ̵y̷o̵u̶ ̶t̸a̸k̶e̶ ̸m̶e̷ ̶b̴a̴c̵k̵,̵ ̶back to where you f̶o̷u̵n̸d̷ ̷m̸e̵,̵ ̸t̵a̸k̸e̶ ̴m̶e̴ ̷-̵”̸ ̶ 

"Leave me the fuck alone!"

It doesn’t end, it’s not stopping. Dean growls just to hear something that isn’t this stupid fucking voice in his head. He feels something shaking him and he fights back, kicking his legs against the Kuri. He’s being pushed down onto the dirty floor, something looming over him, crushing him.

“No! Stop - stop I can’t -”

“Dean, Dean it’s me. It’s Cas. You have to focus, you have to fight this thing.” Dean opens his eyes, but instead of seeing his friend he sees the Kuri, no longer in shadow, but in startling clarity; a mutilated corpse, empty, black eye sockets and a wide open mouth. He screams again. He thinks he’s crying. He starts thrashing harder. “Dean!”

“It’s not, it’s not - you’re -”

"̶̯̑T̷̟̯͒ḁ̸̌k̴̞͛̂e̴͖̾ ̷̬̻̚m̷̪̈ĕ̵̬̲ ̶̧̱͌b̵͍̑͌ͅa̴̧͝c̸͖̘̈́k̷̬̍͝,̸̫͓͐ ̵͇̿͠I̷̼̽'̵̲̱̏͠l̶̯̊͠l̶̨̧̒ ̵̮͐s̷̹̄̎ṯ̵̲͠ö̷̜̻́̇p̶̌ͅ ̷͙̈͊t̸̻̓h̵͙̙͑i̶̲̓s̷̩̳͌ ̴̹̌͋i̸͖͉͌f̷̻̝ ̷̭͙͗ỹ̴̡̮o̷̢͍͑u̷̟̮͌̑ ̸̢̻̓t̶͇͆a̷̲̱̎k̶̛͚ȩ̷̡̐̉ ̵͙̻͗m̵̪͔̊e̸͉̅̽͜ ̵͍̘̊b̶͕͜a̷̧̾c̴͓͕̀k̶̰̿̓-̶̭̚"̵̯̿̂

“It’s an illusion, Dean, it’s just me. I’m trying to help you.” 

“Get off of me!” He manages to roll over, kicking out at the Kuri and whipping his head around. He gets to the door of Bobby’s house, falls down the front steps and pulls fruitlessly on the door to his car.

It’s locked, fuck, why is it locked? Where are his keys? Why can’t he find his keys? 

“Take me back, take me back, t̷̡̹͉͔́͘̚a̷̧͕̼̓̑̔ḳ̸̇͐͌̇̚e̸̤͎̿ ̶̧̳̰͛̽̅̍͂m̶̛̖̮e̵̫̝̯̪̅̃͐͒ ̵͙͍̬͒̿̑̚͝b̴̡̲͔̆͜ǎ̴̦c̵̢͍̾k̵͓̼̩̼̒̚ ̸̳̼̉̚͜t̵̫͍̋̉͂̉á̵̢̖̦̽͋̐͐k̵̳̗̹̽͑̽̃̚ȇ̴̩̰͈̰̺̑͝ ̸͎̗̙͕̙̇̂̀m̶͓͛̑͋̚e̸̟̪̻͒̄̈͜ ̶̦͐̊͝b̷͚̈́̈́̍̕a̶͓͗͠c̶͉̩͑̏͊͝k̴͔̖̙̍͒͊ ̸͈̃͆̌̏͠t̷̡̫̝̄á̷̟̭̱͕̊̒̎͆ͅḵ̶͕̳͊̂͒ė̴̝͎̞̗ ̶͚͖̳̮̳͊̓̈́͑͝m̴̛͈͈͒̈́̚͘e̴̜̎ ̴̫̖̃̉̓̈̂b̶̛̦͔͖͙̈́a̶̫̝̿͝c̴̞̭̭͓̈́̇͑̍͜ḳ̶̮̰̻̰̕̚̕ t̴̻͋̔a̵̻͈̭͖̮̥̱̫̫̱̫̱̽̐̊̇̉̚̕ķ̴̡̨̪͓̮̤͙͈͙̲͈̰̭̿͝ͅe̵̫̐̎̇̀͊͐̈́̄̕͝m̶̹̜̤͉̻̗̖̤̄̾͋̓̈́͗̈̃̈́̈̔̆͘͜͝e̵̛̤̥̮͇͂̒͛̑͛̕͝͝͝b̸̟̫̖͕̖͉̤͔͕͉̺̠̝̐͋̏̓̃͘̚ä̶̦͕̮̟̱͓̻́͗ç̷̪͐͛̎͊̄̊̆̕͝k̸̜̭͒̾̏̾̐̈́̍̔̂̔͛͝͝t̵̨̡̜͚̖͙̳͙̜̼͇̉̾͊̄͑͘͝ä̶̛̛͎̝̹̜̩́͂͛̒͆̀͑̅̈́̃̃͒͘͝ķ̵̨̨̠̙̦̻̟̥̘̪̺̯̜̠͋̈͒͐͜Ẹ̷̛̪̆͊̈̅̇̈́̌̎͗̓̈́̇̿̉ͅM̵̨̢̠̯͎̰̝͎͙͉͈̈͐ͅE̷͖̾B̸̨̾͐͘Ą̸̧͉͙̰̝̳̌̑̿͆̓̕C̷̨͈͍͓̻̝̠̮͖̤͉͛̄͒̓̅͊͐̚͠ͅͅÇ̶̖̬̘̹̭̰̝͉̝̜̐͆̑̚Ķ̸̙̲̺̬̣̌̏̑̈́̉̆͌̑T̴̜̰͕͇̪̭̮̘͕̳A̵̭̮͓͔͚̜̦͕̭̫̭̱̘͙̯͑̽̄̃͆̽̊̓̋̒͂̽̀̄̈́͑̇͜ͅĶ̵̡̗͚̞̤̦̮̗͝Ě̴͓͓̰̻͓͒̈́̓͋̅̀̓͛̽̏̋̎̓̽̉̍͠M̸̛̩̮͖̦̝̗͖͈̦̱̫̯̞̰̯͚̒͌͆̄̈́̔̏͜E̸̡̳̘͈̫̳̪̠͔͑͐̓̆͐̚̕̚͘͠B̷͇̾͊̈́͊͋̆̿͛̊̆̚͝Ą̷̡̯̝̙͖̦̟̝͖̣͖͚̮̘̦͑̿̎̿̎͊͆̄́̎͛͜͝ͅC̷̛̻̖̾̃̈̾̆̈́̋͆̔̃͛͆̎̍͐̍̾͝K̵̡̧̡̡̻͈̥̩̯̝̻̗̖̞̝̮̰̘̒͆̄̊̉̽͊̈̄̔͑͐̊̏̉̋͝T̵͎̤̖̼̟̩̞̘͚̳̞͎̣͙̪̰͕͛̆͜A̵̩̻̥͍̜̖͉͍̖̭̻̺͕͛̐̀̈̊̋͜͜K̷̡̳͛̾̚Ȅ̶̡̙̪̺̻͖̦͕͈͇̰̞͕͍͙̍̿̿̈́̑̈̅͜͜M̶̛͖͕̣͛͒͊͛͗͒̄͆̏̌̿̅̃̓͌͌͝ͅĘ̸̡̫̥͓̱̙̍͂̈́͂̐̇̉̉̓̃͘̚̚͜͠ͅ-̷̼̤̦̩̈́̓̊̾̀͆̇̒͌̒̄͊̕͝-̵͔̼̊̋͂͆̑̕̚͘-̶̙̯̘͔̊̌̂̈͗̆̓̎̒̚͠

He looks over his shoulder and sees two decaying forms right behind him.

He screams. 

There’s a pain in the back of his head and the world goes dark.

Chapter Text

Cas is grateful Bobby was the one who knocked Dean out. He doesn’t think he could have done it, even if Dean gave him a split lip and knocked the wind out of him with all the thrashing. 

Bobby ties his hands and feet, gently puts him in the backseat of Cas’s car. They drive back to Nebraska. 

“So what’s our plan?” Cas asks. Bobby shakes his head, digs out his phone. There’s no music on in the car, and it’s quiet enough he can hear John Winchester’s voice asking the caller to leave a message. 

“Goddamnit John, it’s me. You sent your son on a wild goose chase with a Kuri, and he got the damn thing stuck to ‘im. Driving down to Nebraska so we can try an’ see if this thing can even be killed before Dean ends up completely crazy or dead. Just - call us or meet us there. It’s serious.” He hangs up and shoves his phone back in his pocket, glancing at Dean from the rearview mirror. 

“Should we call his brother?” 

Bobby frowns. “You know ‘bout Sam?”

“Dean told me.”

“Huh. Guess you two are close, then.” He’s still looking at Dean. “Sam wouldn’t be able to help Dean.”

“Wouldn’t he want to know?”

Bobby finally glances at him. “We’ll see if we can draw this monster out, first. None of our other attempts have been working because the damn thing isn’t even on this plane, not really. The only time it’ll manifest is gonna be right near the end. If we can get at it then…” Cas nods, hands tight on the steering wheel. 

“You think it’ll work? Dean - he’ll pull through, right?” 

“Let’s worry about getting back to wherever he picked that thing up.” Cas swallows, his insides clenching up into a Gordian knot of nerves. All they have to do is kill the monster, he thinks. This is just like any other hunt, except instead of Dean making jokes and swinging weapons into a sphinx or a banshee, he’s the victim who needs some eleventh hour miracle. They’ve pulled that off before, Cas tells himself, he can do it this time. 

This is the first time he finds himself longing for whatever nebulous powers he seems to possess. He doesn’t know what they are or how to even manifest them. He thinks they worked when he was hunting those werewolves as a defense mechanism; the same way that all his injuries heal up ridiculously fast. But they’ve never worked when it comes to saving civilians. There’s no evidence that they’ll work to save Dean, either. 

“It should’ve been me,” he says, “he only stumbled over the grave because he was trying to make sure I didn’t get thirsty.” It’s a stupid reason. Dean was there, trying to be nice, trying to share because it’s an easy, silent way to show he cares. Dean would probably pull his own teeth out before he admitted to valuing Cas’s friendship, but he could split a basket of fries or toss him a spare pair of socks when he ran out. Something simple, easy, no words involved. 

“If it were you back there, Dean would be up here, saying the same exact thing, and you know it,” Bobby tells him. It’s true, he knows it is. But if it were Cas, then maybe he would have been fine already. “Hunting is dangerous.” 

“I know. It’s just…” What can Cas say? That all of his best memories, the few that he’s accrued, are because Dean went out of his way to take him someplace, show him something? That Dean saying he was a good person made it easier for him to deal with the unnatural essence inside of him that he couldn’t explain? “...He’s my friend,” is what he settles on. It doesn’t sound right to him, it doesn’t encapsulate everything he feels about the man dying in his backseat, but he doesn’t have the right to say anything else. 

“We’re gonna do our best to fix this,” Bobby promises him. Cas doesn’t say anything, and they drive the next hundred miles in silence.

-

It’s high noon when they get to the field, but the sky is overcast and there’s fog in the distance. The road is as abandoned as ever. He and Bobby try to get Dean out of the car, and the man wakes up, cries out. They can see mottled bruises forming across his collar bones, up his arms. Bobby loosens the restraints at his ankles and Dean almost takes off again. They have to hold him close, looping their arms in his and dragging him towards the burnt patch of clover where the last body was. 

“Let me go! Please,” Dean’s begging them. Bobby and their own research had indicated that near the end, the victim would hallucinate horrible, hellish faces on people, possibly to drive them away from getting help. Feeling Dean struggling against him is breaking him open, and Bobby’s grim face suggests he feels the same.

They stand at the spot of the burnt body. Dean goes limp, and the dead weight drags Cas to the ground. He holds him there and Bobby runs back to the car, grabbing a whole host of different weapons. Cas thinks, please. Let me save him. I need him. The fog shrouds them in an otherworldly gray blanket. He sees Dean’s panting breaths turning into clouds of mist in the air, even though it’s July. 

Bobby comes back, shotgun cocked, walking in a circle around them. “I think it’s starting to manifest. Dean? It’s me, Bobby. You see it?” 

“I can’t - I have to -” Dean makes more garbled starts to words, and Cas looks down at Dean’s face, at his eyes glossed over and flicking around the field. He glances up at Cas and shrinks away, thrashes again. Cas holds him closer, trying to shush him. “Please, make it stop, make it stop -” 

“Dean, do you see it?” he asks. He can’t tell if his arms are shaking because of fear or how tightly he’s holding onto the other man. It’s like the sun is eclipsed. He can barely see the car now it’s so dark and enshrouded with mist. 

Dean jerks an arm out and points, his body trembling. “Stop! Make it stop! I can’t - oh shit shit shit -”

Cas looks, and at first, he can’t see anything. But Dean’s dying, and instead of allowing that to happen he tells himself he’s strong enough to fight this Kuri, and he makes himself see, focusing his eyes until he feels he's going cross-eyed, until something shifts.

There’s an outline of nothingness. An absence of light that makes their dim surroundings look like a bright summer day in comparison. He points. “There! Bobby!” Bobby takes aim and fires at it. Nothing happens. “Try something else!” He keeps pointing, and Bobby splashes holy water and salt and shoots from a handgun loaded with silver bullets, but nothing happens. He starts chanting a prayer, something in Latin. The Kuri is closing in on them and Dean screams. 

No, Cas thinks, it’s not ending like this. He feels something inside him, shifting, crawling up. “Shut your eyes,” he says.

“What?” Bobby turns back to look at him. 

“Shut your eyes!” Dean’s still begging for it to end, or for death, and isn’t listening. Cas turns his head into his stomach to keep him safe, and reaches out a hand, shutting his eyes himself and thinking, please.

He feels something touch his hand, something cold that leaks malicious, evil intent into his skin. Please, please, please -

The creature draws back. There’s a shrieking sound that’s more like shattering glass and electronic feedback, pitching itself higher and higher until it bursts. Cas feels cold air blow against him. 

The unnatural white light fades, only to be replaced by weak sunlight. He opens one eye, then another. 

The field is back, the overcast sky providing shadow without the oppressive darkness that had once been there. The fog is gone. Bobby’s looking around, realizing the same thing.

Dean doesn’t move. Cas pulls him from where he had tucked his head against his stomach. Dean’s eyes are closed, his body limp. With the hand he used to banish the Kuri, he feels for a pulse. 

It’s there, strong and steady, slowed down because Dean’s just asleep. He breathes out. Clutches Dean tight.

“He’s alive,” he says. He looks over his shoulder and sees that Bobby has his gun trained on him, right between the eyes. 

“What the hell are you?” 

Cas laughs. His hands are still holding Dean's face; they're shaking. “I have no idea.” 

-

Bobby drives them back to his house. Cas cradles Dean’s body in the back seat. It’s obvious that Bobby doesn’t want him touching Dean, but from what he knows of the older man he's practical enough to not start a fight. Yet. 

“Now, I’m only letting you back into the car because whatever you are, you’re probably not a demon. But there’s plenty of other things that I haven’t narrowed down yet, so start talking.”

“It’s a bit of a long story.”

“We got ninety minutes till we’re back in Sioux Falls. We got time.”

It takes Cas about twenty minutes to surmise what he knows. He keeps flicking his eyes down to Dean, making sure he’s still asleep. His chest is rising and falling, head on Cas’s thighs. He has an arm over Dean to hold him steady when Bobby makes sharp turns or sudden stops. 

“I wish I knew more,” Cas finishes, “I wish I -” He stops. At this moment, he’s nothing but grateful for the weird life he’s been dealt. If it weren’t for these strange powers, Dean would’ve been dead. “I just want to help people,” he says instead.

Bobby grunts. “You ducked in and out of that Devil’s trap and drank holy water without flinching.”

“Holy water?”

“I put some in the beer whenever I have visitors.” His eyes are on him in the rearview mirror. “Seem to handle the silver just fine, too, and the prayers. Tamara and Isaac, two hunters I’ve talked to, they said they helped you when you were hunting a group of werewolves.”

“That’s right.”

“They said when they finally got to their den a week after, they were all dead. Eyes burned out of their sockets. Was that you?” Cas nods. “Huh.” 

“Do you know?” Cas asks, “what I am?”

“No fucking clue. Monsters usually don’t go around hunting and saving people.” 

“Maybe I’m not a monster.”

“What are you, then?”

Cas doesn’t have an answer. Doesn’t even have a clue. He says nothing.

Dean wakes up about ten minutes later, stretching and curling into himself, then realizing where he is and quickly sitting up. “Did we do it?” he asks, looking at Cas, then Bobby, then back at Cas again.

“How do you feel?” Bobby asks.

Dean rolls his neck and slides over to the other window, stretching his legs out as much as he can. “Like I got run over by a truck, but, uh. Alright enough. Tired as hell. What happened? I think I was hallucinating you two were that Kuri freak and I tried to run away. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“You kicked Cas around,” Dean looks at Cas, who shrugs. He’s already healed. 

“We took you back to that field and the Kuri manifested.” Bobby’s looking at him. Cas stares back at the reflection, knowing this is it. Dean won’t care that Cas saved his life if it’s because he’s some strange entity. 

“Yeah, then what? You gank him?” 

“Cas got it,” Bobby says, pulling up to a stop light. “Killed it just before it got you. You should’ve seen it.” 

“Really?” Dean gives him a hundred watt grin. It’s absolutely beautiful. “Thanks, Cas. Knew I could count on you.”

They stop for lunch, because Dean hadn’t eaten much when he was being mentally raked over the coals by the Kuri. The dessert menu has pie. He makes Cas get a slice, too, and halfway through they swap so Dean can try the blueberry and Cas can try the strawberry rhubarb. Bobby watches the pair of them like hawks. 

It’s early evening when they get back to Bobby’s place. Dean’s tired, but in good spirits. “Maybe tomorrow we can go over the Impala,” he’s saying to Bobby. “She definitely needs an oil change, and I’ve been meaning to swap out her brake pads for the past thousand miles.” 

“You’re planning on hanging around?” Bobby’s question makes Dean stop at the threshold of the house.

“Well, uh - only if you want. We just. Didn’t really get a chance to catch up, you know? What with me losing it and all.” 

Bobby cuffs Dean on the back of the head in a way that’s obviously playful. “‘Course you can stay, Dean. Who do you take me for?” 

Dean brightens up again before looking at Cas. “What about you, Cas? Lots of research to do here, you know. You can update your diary.” Bobby glances at him.

“I chronicle various hunts and other details in a journal,” he explains.

“And puts ticket stubs and pictures of Justin Timberlake in there to ogle later,” Dean teases, “that makes it a diary.” 

“Of course, Dean,” he says flatly. 

Before Bobby can tell them to shut up like he looks like he’s gearing up to, a powerful engine roars up to the house. Turning to look, he sees a familiar truck, and a familiar man coming out. 

Dean’s expression is closed off as his father approaches. “Hey, dad.”

“Dean.” He comes up to him, looking at him up and down. “You alright?”

“Yeah, we’re all okay.” John claps him on the shoulder and Dean manages a smile. 

“Sounds like I overestimated your skills, sending you out there,” he says. 

“It was - just needed a little help, is all,” Dean says awkwardly. 

“You didn’t call me.” 

Dean’s silent. Bobby coughs, leaning against the doorway of his house. “My place is pretty close. They needed some info, figured we could handle it.” 

Cas knows John and Bobby had parted under heated circumstances, and all of that tension seems to be carrying on over the looks they’re levelling at one another. 

Then John’s dark eyes slide over to Cas. He’s frozen for a moment. “Uh, hello,” he manages.

“Was Cas staying with you?” he asks.

“He and Dean have been hunting together,” Bobby says. “He’s the one who killed the Kuri. Dean would’ve died without him.” 

“Really, now. Suppose we owe you our thanks, then.” John’s voice doesn’t sound like the relieved gratitude Dean expressed in the car. 

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says, eyes tight, “owe you one.” 

John slaps Dean’s shoulder again. “Alright, if the thing’s gone and you're all okay, let’s get going.”

“Hold on now,” Bobby says, straightening up. “He was almost dead meat two hours ago, and now you’re ushering him back on the road?”

“Bobby, it’s okay,” Dean’s tone is all business, like when he runs over a plan with Cas that he finds distasteful, but knows they have to go through with anyway. “I’m all cured, aren’t I? Trust me, it’s fine.”

“Oh, I trust you just fine, it’s your dad I’m worried about.” John frowns. 

“What are you trying to say?”

“The same damn thing I told you last time, John. This is Dean we’re talking about, you know, your son?”

“I’m always grateful for your help Bobby,” John says stiffly, “but you should know better than to start talking about how I raise my kids.”

“Yeah, exactly, your kid , not your workhorse. At least let him rest for a few hours. The world will survive without him for that long.”

“Bobby, really it’s fine -” Dean argues, more for mediation than anything else. John grabs him by the arm and his mouth snaps shut. 

“Dean and I are leaving,” John says, “Dean, get your things.” Dean freezes, glancing between John and Bobby. “Now." That pushes him into action, and he moves into the house, between Bobby and Cas. 

“Wouldn’t it be prudent to discuss the case together before you leave?” Cas asks, squinting. Both men give him looks that give Cas the impression that they’re thinking rather insulting things about his intelligence. 

John speaks first. “We’re needed elsewhere. It’s a war out there, but it seems like I’m the only one who realizes it.” 

“War,” Bobby scoffs. “Remember who came to see who in the beginning, John.”

“That was a long time ago.” His eyes flick to Cas. “I’m glad Dean’s okay. If I had realized what it was, I would’ve steered him clear of it.” He squints. “To my knowledge, nothing can actually kill a Kuri. But you managed it.” 

Cas stares back at John. “I suppose we all can’t know everything,” he says at length. 

“I’m ready,” Dean says, emerging with a packed duffle.

With a lingering look at Cas, John nods at Dean. “Come on.” Both Winchesters start heading down the steps.

“Dean,” Cas starts. As soon as he speaks he knows it’s a mistake. “You know you don’t have to go with John - not if you don’t want to.” He’s distinctly aware that he doesn’t want him to. 

“I told you to be careful with this one,” John tells his son. He’s looking at Cas like he’s filing something away for later. 

The look Dean aims at him is different. There’s a flash of pain before something callous clamps down over it. “Yes sir," he tells his father, still looking at Cas. Then he turns and walks down Bobby’s steps behind John.

Cas watches Dean head to his car. He tosses his bag into the back and opens the driver’s side door. For a split second, Cas catches another glimpse of Dean's green eyes - clear, alive, exhausted.

Then he gets in the car and backs out of Bobby’s driveway, following John’s truck. 

Cas thinks he won’t see Dean for a good long while.

Chapter Text

Cas remembers an English class he snuck into back in Ohio. How an event horizon, used by physicists to describe the nature of black holes, quickly got tossed over to the humanities side to describe a point of no return. Someone knows about him now, and while Cas doesn’t think he’s hit the moment where he can’t go back, he doesn’t particularly like where he’s ended up, either: Standing with his back to an experienced hunter watching Dean’s car drive off to parts unknown, fighting the creeping sensation that he was meant to be an outcast in a subworld of outcasts, second fiddle, last place.

“I suppose you want me out of your sight,” Cas says, feeling Bobby’s eyes digging into his back. He wonders if he’ll have to fight off hunters now that Bobby knows the truth about him. 

“Why’d I want that?”

“I’m some mysterious... abomination and Dean isn’t here to encourage you to be nice.” He turns around. Bobby’s expression is scrupulous, but beyond that, Cas doesn’t know what he’s thinking. 

“If you think I’m gonna be nice to ya just ‘cause of Dean,” he finally says, “you don’t know me from Adam.” 

“I suppose not.”

The man flicks his cap up and rubs at his forehead before heading into the house. He makes a motion that has Cas following him in.

“Why’d you help Dean?”

“He’s my friend,” he says without thinking.

“That’s it?”

“We’ve spent a decent amount of time together, over the past year.”

“I noticed.”

“I wouldn’t want him to be hurt, or die.” He also adds, “I wouldn’t want anyone to meet that sort of fate, for what it’s worth.” 

Bobby opens one of the packed desk drawers in the entryway. “You might not be entirely human, and if you step one toe out of line I will shoot you,” he says, gesturing to the gun at his hip. 

“I haven’t been shot before,” Cas says, “but I don’t know what good it’ll do.” 

“You wanna find out?”

“Not… particularly.” 

Bobby snorts. “Monster or not, you’re a good hunter. You’re probably the only reason that Dean survived.” He lets out a sigh, before levelling Cas with a weighted look. “What d’ya say we figure something out?” 

“What sort of -” He flinches back when Bobby throws a vial of holy water on him. It does nothing. “- something?” He wipes a hand down his face. “I thought you said I wasn’t a demon.”

“I said you probably weren’t a demon. Here.” He hands him a strange looking dagger. “It’s a welded piece - blessed silver on one side, blessed iron on the other. Go on” 

Cas frowns. Well. In for a penny, and however that saying goes.

“...You might want to watch this.” He cuts his palm, blood welling up from the cut. He waits a few seconds, then wipes it away with his sleeve. His skin is clear. 

“...Well. shit.” 

“Mm.”

Bobby takes Cas’s hand, turns it this way and that, but it’s just his skin, injury free. 

“Okay, that? Not the faintest fucking idea. Any other tricks up your sleeve?”

“If there are, I’ll be just as surprised as you.”

He scoffs. “Figures.”

“Do you... have any idea what I am?”

”Not now, no, but I know some places we can start." He moves further into the house, starts opening drawers and piling objects on the dresser. "When you called about the vampires, I put some feelers out. No one has seen or heard of you before last year. Either you landed here fully formed by some shit I don't understand, or you got some sort of deal done."

Cas sees a small bone and a drawstring bag go into a box. "Is that what I think it is?"

"This? It's for summoning a crossroads demon. Make all your dreams come true at the price of one measly soul and an eternity in hell." He shakes the contents before holding it out to Cas. "Got a picture?" Cas finds one of his fake licenses in his wallet and tosses it in. Bobby shuts the lid.

"So I'm going to make a deal?" he asks, taking the box. 

"I don't recommend it, no. We're gonna ask them if you already made a deal. If this whole situation," Bobby waves his hands as though to imply that all of Cas is a situation, "was done in exchange for your soul, we'll be able to find out."

"And if not?"

"We'll worry about it when we get there. Get in the truck."

South Dakota is full of crossroads. They drive to a rather desolate looking one and park on the edge of a soybean field. Bobby stands against the door and tells Cas to put the box in the ground. He does. The sun beats down overhead and the roadside weeds sway back and forth. He doesn't see anyone until the second time he turns around.

“Well, well, well. Two for the price of one?” There’s a young man standing a stone’s throw from Cas. He’s a blond in a sharp, three-piece suit, tailored to fit him perfectly. There’s something about him that makes Cas want to recoil or fight back, and the indecision warring in his body makes him nauseous. 

“Just pretty boy over here,” Bobby says from against the truck, “I’m just his ride.” 

The thing at the crossroads gets closer to Cas, eyeing him up like he’s seen people do to him at bars. 

Unlike strangers at bars, the demon looks at him like it can see through to the other side of his skull. 

“Interesting,” is all it says. “So, what can I help you with? Money? Power? True love? A better car?” Bobby rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything.

“I was told you make demon deals in exchange for souls.” 

“You heard right.”

“Did I... already make a deal?” The demon’s circling walk around Cas pauses for a step. 

“Don’t tell me you forgot about our lovely time together,” it says sweetly. The words make Cas’s blood freeze. The demon gets closer, and Cas tries to jerk back when the thing takes his chin in his hand, turning him this way and that. “Although you don’t look very familiar… if you make a deal now, of course, I can see if you had another one in competition.” Cas pulls back enough and the demon’s hand falls back to its side.  

“I’ve seen what your deals do, I don’t need one.” The demon’s eyes brighten, before the human irises slide away to blood red.

“Ohh, yes , I think I caught glimpses of you a few months ago. There was that heartbroken sister who wanted her precious sibling back, wasn’t it? I had fun gathering heirlooms to get hocked at sales for her. Lovely time of year to be topside.” It grins meanly. “Though I’ll admit, I had even more fun dragging her back to hell with me.” 

Something fights to claw up Cas’s throat. “Answer the question.” His words echo despite the empty expanse of land. The demon frowns, blinks, human eyes back in place.

“Let me make a call. Don’t wander.” The demon vanishes. 

Cas stares at Bobby, who shrugs helplessly. Cas can feel his heart pounding; he supposes demons would be unpleasant to be around, but they make his skin crawl in a way that other creatures have yet to manage. 

“Miss me?” says a voice from behind him. He whirls around. “No one holds your contract."

"So my soul is still intact."

It gives Cas another once over. "Is that what you think is rattling around in there?" It smiles again. Takes a step forward.

"You know, then? Who I am?" Cas can’t bear to say what. 

The demon tsks. "All these questions, and yet I'm not getting a single thing in return."

"Maybe I want to know who I'm working with before I commit."

"Oh, I think you know plenty. Are you sure I can’t tempt you into anything else? I bet I could drag that poor girl up here, give her a second chance on your behalf.” 

Cas scowls. “No.” 

The demon pouts. “Not very fun, are you?” It sighs, sticking its hands in the trouser pockets of the suit. “Going once, going twice…” Cas clenches his fists and says nothing. “Well, I’m a very busy man, just ring me up when you do need something.” It winks, and blinks out again. It doesn’t come back.

Cas stares at Bobby, then marches over to the truck, getting in the passenger seat. “That was pointless,” he says, slamming the door shut as Bobby gets in and starts the engine.

“It’s called the process of elimination, smartass,” Bobby says, driving back the way they had come. “Now we know you’re not a demon, and you didn’t seem to have any deal made to get to this point.”

“So what do we know?”

Bobby scratches his beard. “Hard to say. From what you’ve told me, what I’ve seen, I have nothing to compare it to. But some of your abilities… they sound psychic." Cas frowns. Psychics were an odd case, not as bound by characteristics like monsters were. "It's not a perfect fit, but it's the best option we got."

"Great. How is that supposed to help me?"

"Is the back talking Dean's fault or were you always like this?"

"It was probably Dean," Cas says, sighing. "Please tell me about the psychic option."

"Well, lucky for you, I have some of those on speed dial.” He holds up his phone. “I’m doing this on the contingency that you’re not hiding anything from me.” 

“Nothing that I can remember.” 

Bobby nods, slowly, and dials a number on his phone. He can hear a woman’s voice pick up on the other end. “Hey, Pamela,” he says, “got a wandering soul I think you could be of assistance to.”

Chapter Text

Pamela Barnes, ‘best psychic in the state’, lives about half an hour away in the actual city of Sioux Falls in a neat little two story. She has dark hair and a wide smile, and she’s waiting at the door when they pull up. She gives Bobby a hug, then turns to Cas. “So, this is our guy, huh? I thought you’d be taller.”

Cas looks down at his body like he hasn’t been walking around in it for years. “I believe this is average height for most American men.” Her smile grows even wider.

“Ooh, Bobby, you really brought me a treat this time.”

Cas sticks out his hand, something he eventually figured out was common practice - but Pamela just gives him a hug. And a pinch on the ass - which definitely isn’t. When he jumps she laughs, long and low.

“Behave,” Bobby warns her, without any real heat. She invites them in and shuts the door.

Unlike Bobby, her house looks normal. Clean, albeit with more candles and dream catchers hanging around than what TV sitcoms tell him is typical décor. Bobby doesn’t say anything as they’re led through the house. Cas feels pinned between the two of them. A bug in a framed collection. “Um, thanks for seeing us on short notice."

“Short notice?” She hands the two of them beer from her fridge and has them sit in a circle in her living room. “Oh no, I felt you as soon as you got in.”

“Got in where?”

“State lines,” she waves lazily at him as she sits in a chair. “You’ve got a, you know, aura about you, ‘bout the size of Disneyland.”

“Bad aura?” Bobby asks.

“No, that’s the thing. It’s very… neutral. Like a big ol’ blank slate. Sometimes I feel things. Bad things,” she looks pointedly at Bobby. “Been feeling them more the last year or so, and this is very different.”

“I don’t suppose you ever feel waves of good things,” Cas mumbles. 

“Well, so far you’re just confirming what we already knew; Cas here is a freak of nature,” Bobby says unsanctimoneously. “We were hoping you could help narrow down what kind.” Pamela has dark eyes, kind but shrewd, framed by smoky eyeliner. She’s still staring as Bobby recounts all the pertinent details to Cas’s case. 

“Huh,” is all she says, leaning back in her chair. She contemplates the ceiling for a moment. “Sounds like… something, alright. You really are the whole package, aren’t you?” 

“I suppose that’s one way to put it.” 

“So what do we do?” Bobby asks.  

Pamela just shrugs. “I can do some readings, see if we could orchestrate a type of séance. But that usually works best if the point of contention isn’t right here drinking my beer. Typically I’m talking to spirits, doing tarot readings, birth charts, you know. Psychic stuff?”

“Bobby said some of my abilities could hint at being psychic. I’m not sure if my lack of memory is impacting skills that I have.” 

Pamela quirks her mouth. “Could be. Being psychic is like saying you got a pet dog - there’s a thousand different breeds out there. I’ve heard about some really powerful psychics being able to use telekinesis. Some can apparently even create fire with their mind, though I’ve never run across either in real life."

"Any of them able to smite an evil spirit with their mind?"

"Hm. Maybe you can do some sort of souped up mental exorcism.” 

“And the spontaneous healing?” 

“...Reality warping?” Bobby and Cas stare at her. “Just a guess - like I said, I’ve heard rumors of that sort of thing. No clue if it’s true, but hey. Gift horse, mouth, right?”

Cas squints. “You’re giving me a horse?”

Pamela and Bobby share a look.

“What about hypnosis?” Bobby suggests. “You’ve mentioned that before. Would be a lot easier tryin’ to figure out what Cas here is if he could remember it himself.” 

Pamela frowns. “Normally I’d be open to it, but…” She glances at Cas. “That’s assuming that those memories aren’t preventing something even worse from jumping out. No offense.” 

Cas is more disappointed than offended. "...None taken.” 

“Just for right now,” she says. “You’re a bit of a wild card. Maybe if we can get a better understanding of your gifts, and you can get a better handle on those powers, then unleashing however many years of repressed memories won’t risk us, I don’t know, levelling my house. Okay?” Cas nods, and Bobby agrees, albeit reluctantly. 

“Okay.” She stands up and walks over to a bookshelf. In between some brightly colored books with eye catching titles like ‘Astrology and You’ and ‘Occultism 101’ there’s some innocuous black tomes kept near the bottom shelf. Pamela takes them out and puts them on the coffee table. “While Bobby tries to narrow down what’s going on with your whole… issue over here, we can try to see if the psychic link holds any water.”

“How?”

“When you get better at this stuff, this power, you get a feel for it. Sometimes I’m phoning it in,” she says with a wink, “but I know how my body feels when I’m actually channeling things, or predicting how a person’s future is going to go. Not to go all new age on you, but it’s like... focusing the alien powers of the universe into your mind. Forcing yourself to be a cosmic radio.” She brings her hands together like she’s finishing a meditation.

“I don’t know how much of me can do any type of channeling,” he admits.

“When you killed those werewolves and the Kuri, what did it feel like?”

Cas frowns, thinking, casting his mind back. “The first time, it wasn’t really… deliberate. I thought I was going to die, and I heard this suggestion to close my eyes. Um. It was like this powerful wave clawing out of me, going through my hand… It didn’t feel good, or bad, or anything. Just powerful. Bright white.” 

“And the second time?”

“That was more focused. None of our ideas were working - I didn’t even know if I could use these - powers like that,” he says, glancing at Bobby, then down at his hands. “I just thought I couldn’t let him - let Dean die, and whatever this is, it had to be strong enough to destroy the Kuri. And I was right.” He clasps his hands together, flexing his fingers. “I remember not being able to see it, at first.” 

“It’s invisible unless you’re being haunted by it,” Bobby explains, “Never caught a glimpse of it.” 

“I... don’t know if this is the same thing, but I remember thinking, if only I could see it, we could fight it.” He swallows. “So I just made myself see it.”

“How?”

“It was like… like that voice that told me to close my eyes the first time - like I became the voice?” 

“Does this voice come to you a lot?” Bobby asks, raising an eyebrow. Cas winces.

“Maybe voice is a strong word. It was - something. In my head. Something you want to listen to, but not a compulsion. I know I could say no if I wanted to, but it felt more like. I don’t know. Friendly advice. Does that make sense?” 

Bobby looks like he's had about enough of the psychic discussion already, but Pamela looks excited.

“It absolutely makes sense. What we need to do is channel your powers - think of it as grinding out a pathway so you can use them consistently. It’s all probably coming from the same source. One way it’s manifesting is as a defense mechanism, for yourself or others. The other seems to be more of a general way that most psychics can use. Focusing, seeing things that are invisible, taking in messages from the universe.” 

“Taking in messages from the universe,” Bobby says, dubious, “does it call collect, too?”

“Whatever you want to call it. Come on, Bobby, I listen to your demonology lectures and you let me get all hippie-dippy on you, it’s a trade off.” She turns her attention back to Cas. “I think we can try it. Focused meditation can help, among other things. I’ll make up a regime. Psychic boot camp, you and me.” 

“That sounds… exciting.” Pamela slaps his knee.

“That’s the spirit!” 

“And you’re alright… having Cas here?” Pamela’s gaze makes Cas think she’s trying to use her powers to see under his clothes.

“Oh, it won’t be a problem. No problem at all.” 

Cas gets his meager belongings into the house while Pamela and Bobby talk in the living room. Cas had been briefly worried that Pamela’s guest room was a fabricated location, but he is given one, and makes quick work of unpacking. 

“Alright, I’m gonna check up on you in a couple of days,” Bobby says at the doorway. Cas nods. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt because Pamela thinks you won’t be any trouble and she hasn’t led me wrong yet. But if anything happens -”

“You’re going to shoot me.”

“For all the good it’ll do,” he grumbles. “Right. Take care of yourself.” He ducks out of sight. Cas hears him heading down the stairs. 

Pamela calls him down a while later. She made pasta for dinner. He tells her it's very good, which is true, and that he hasn't had a homemade meal in about a year, which is true and, from the look she gives him, a fact that evokes pity.

"So, blue eyes, let's get this sleepover started." She points her fork at him. 

"Is that where we talk about boys and braid hair?" he asks, which is what Dean says whenever they get into territory that might evoke ‘feelings’.

Pamela laughs. "I meant getting to know each other. But we can talk about boys if you want."

"Maybe later," he says, mind still lingering on Dean. "Um. So. What do you do when you're not, um."

"Babysitting you?" She pours wine for them and takes a sip of hers.

"In as many words."

"Well, usually I'll do readings for clients, seances too. I advertise in magazines, blogs and stuff. Plus word of mouth "

"And it's all real?"

"It's real, alright. Though it's debatable how truthful I am with the clients. Just because I'm psychic doesn't mean I can dodge customer service - you gotta read people, as much as your read their birth charts, you know?"

Cas tries the wine for himself and struggles not to make a face. It has a weight to it, and a strange flavor he wasn’t expecting - he might not be a 'wine person'. "I don't know how good I am at reading people," he admits. 

"Well, sometimes you see someone come in, and you can tell they want you to confirm something they already believe is true. Or they're having an awful month and they just want some good news." She pauses to chew her food. "'Course if it's talking with the dead, sometimes they just moved on and there's nothing there to talk with. But that's not always comforting so," She spreads her hands and smiles at him. "Now don't go spreading that around, you hear me?"

"Promise."

"Good."

He remembers the last time he stayed at someone's house and he washes the dishes after dinner. Pamela combs through her book shelf and hands him a small stack. "Try to read as much as you can. There's a lot of new age theory - some of it's bullshit, but even the hokey stuff gives you an idea of opening yourself up to this natural power and channeling it. They can probably describe it better than I can."

"Is that what we'll be doing tomorrow?"

Pamela shakes her head. "Not quite. We're gonna go slow. You ever try yoga?"

Cas reads the books in bed, makes notes in his journal. He doesn't know if this is going to work - Pamela seems more convinced than he does - but her enthusiasm is a nicer thing to align himself with than the discomfiting idea that he's just some monstrous time bomb waiting to go off.

-

Pamela is very happy to learn that for a newbie, Cas is extremely flexible. And a fast learner - he isn't sure that her hands 'guiding' him into the right pose is necessary after the third hour.

There's a lot of breathing, too. Concentrating on his breaths makes him notice it - and amplifies the fact that he doesn't have to do it - and working on moving past that takes longer.

They eat lunch, Cas reads some more, she takes him to the grocery store and shows him how to work the grill to make chicken and some roast vegetables.

"Does this have anything to do with being a psychic?" he asks. She tosses him an apron.

"Nah. Figured it was a skillset you needed to learn."

They do more guided meditation before bed, and Cas feels his mind empty of thoughts. When he opens his eyes, he realizes he spent nearly an hour with a completely clear mind. "Wow," he says. It makes him feel oddly buoyant, that he can go somewhere without the burden of whatever this is - whoever he is - clinging to him.

"Not bad," Pamela tells him.

There's more theory, more meditation, more yoga, and more impromptu cooking classes. Bobby calls Pamela at least once a day, presumably to make sure Cas isn’t causing trouble or turning into a murderous entity of some sort. She always updates him on what they’re doing with a smile and a wink aimed at Cas, conspiring and friendly. 

When Pamela has clients over he goes out for a run to keep his body moving, or he’ll sit at the top of the stairs and listen to the performance she gives to the different visitors. She’s studious and steady when it comes to teaching him to open his mind, but she's witty and happy the rest of the time; always joking, flirting, asking about different points in his life.

He finishes telling her about going to see the second largest ball of twine when she goes, "You must really like Dean." 

"Oh. Well. Yes."

"Like…?" She raises her eyebrows meaningfully. 

He shrugs. 

"Oh come on . You never thought about you and him -"

"It's not exactly something I have much experience with." Pamela's silence goads him to say, "there were… opportunities, with other people. But it never felt right."

"It feels right with him?" A lot of things feel right with Dean that don’t feel right with other people. There are reasons for it, Cas is sure, and he doesn’t really question it. Looking at his connection with Dean head-on is a bit like staring directly into the sun. 

"It would be, but I don't think he likes me in that way." 

"Hmm. You know, I think we're getting into the ‘talking about boys’ portion of our sleepover." She moves aside the lunch plates and leaves the room, coming back with a deck of cards. "You know what would go well with that?" She puts them on the table.

"Those work?" Cas asks.

"Kind of. Part of it is in divining the meaning - people will analyze their results to see what they wanna see. But it's not completely off its mark, either." She grins at him. "The day before Bobby dropped you off I was doing my own readings and I kept drawing two of cups."

She has Cas put his hands on the tarot cards, tells him to concentrate, pushing his energy into the objects he's touching. She takes them back and shuffles them. “Let me do the ye olde Celtic Cross reading for you. Really get an idea of what’s going on.” 

She lays out nine cards, five of them forming a plus sign and four more in a column to the side. She flips over the center one, the card is titled The High Priestess. “This is where you are right now.”

“Which is?”

“The cards build on each other, but I’m thinking it’s letting us know you gotta get back in touch with your mojo - which, hey, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” The next card she takes from the pile, flipping it on top of the center one. “Ten of Cups. There - this can help or hinder you.”

“Which one?” 

“That might depend on you, but it’s facing you, so that makes me think of family - maybe not a literal one, mind you. This one here,” she flips it over, “is your subconscious.” It’s the Five of Cups.

The image depicts a robed man crying at a river bank. Pamela frowns. “You may have lost something, and you’re still grieving over it.” She taps the illustrated river. “But there’s new things ahead. This card is your past, and this is your future,” Pamela says, pointing to both cards on either side of the High Priestess. The ‘past’ one is the Devil, and the ‘future’ card is The Tower. “Ooh.”

“What?”

“Whatever happened in your past,” Pamela says, “it was trapping you. Oppressive. Maybe you did it to yourself, maybe someone was doing it to you. And your future… this always means a big change. Like big with a capital ‘B’.” 

“Could be a good thing.”

“It could. Though in conjunction with the devil… I wonder if this indicates that something from your past is going to catch up to you. I’m not sure - just a thought.” Cas frowns. “Let’s keep going. This is your conscious desire.” It’s Knight of Pentacles. “Okay, okay. Hard worker, hopefully reaping some reward in the process. Reliable.” 

“I suppose that’s accurate.” 

“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” Pamela moves onto the column of cards. “This one on the bottom is how you’re approaching this over here,” she gestures to the six cards in the middle. 

“The Hierophant?”

“The reversed Hierophant - basically, fight the man. No established rules. You’re going to question the status quo. This one above it represents your environment - friends, colleagues.” That one is The Lovers. Pamela raises her eyebrows at him. “Anyone in mind?” she teases.

“Lovers only implies me and one other person.”

“Not always. It’s not even guaranteed to be a romantic relationship. But it’s one with good communication.” She gestures between The Lovers and the Hierophant. “The two of these are meant to interact together. If they’re in conflict, that means you have more bumps in the road. Hopefully whoever your ‘lover’ is destined to be is someone who can make it up as they go just like you can." She claps her hands, rubs them together. “Okay, this one is my favorite. It’s something you need to know about that you’re not yet aware of - a type of guidance for right now." She turns over the card. "Judgement.” 

“What does that mean?”

“You’re at a crossroads, a big one. Cosmic-sized. And there’s reassurance that you’re ready for it, or you can at least learn on the way.” She gives him a thumbs up. "The universe has faith in you, Cas. Always a good sign."

“These cards seem to have a lot of confidence in me.” 

“And they haven’t led me wrong yet."

"What does the last one mean?"

"The last one shows the distant future, where all the energies are going and flowing towards. Drum roll please,” she flips the card over. Frowns. “Huh.” It’s the Seven of Cups, reversed. “Well, if it were facing you, I’d say the world is your oyster.”

“Does the opposite mean I’ll be out of options?”

“Not exactly… Both ways usually suggest a lot of different paths are open to you, but when it's upright, it typically means that there’s some wishful thinking going into it - illusions of grandeur. If it’s reversed it means you’re going to be more level-minded about whatever you pick.”

Cas senses Pamela struggling over something. “But..?” 

She sighs, drumming her fingers on the table. “Okay, well. Like I said, tarot isn’t an exact science - these cards can have different meanings depending on who’s doing the reading, where you are, who you are. But usually, whenever I draw it, it’s like the universe doesn’t wanna give me a straight answer. It’s like a big ‘results unclear, ask again later.’ In other words, we don’t know for sure.” 

“So do these tell us anything?”

She tilts her head. “Well, your other cards indicate that things are changing, and you and your lover here are gonna do things your own way. So maybe there’s so much change that we don’t know what the far future will look like yet.” 

Cas stares at the cards. Based on illustration alone, the devil should unnerve him the most, but the one below the center, the man weeping by the water, bothers him. He picks it up and looks at the illustration. “I feel like there’s so much that I can’t remember - so much that was important. Might still be important. What if I can’t get that back?”

“Well, the high priestess and judgement can both suggest some big revelation is coming,” she offers.

“What if it’s too late at that point?” 

“Listen, Cas. The cards are just as much focused internally as they are externally. Some of this stuff is good for predicting, but other times it just gives you a better idea of what you’re thinking about. Maybe this reading is just trying to show that, yeah, a lot happened before, maybe stuff you’ll never know, or not know for a long while, but that’s okay. There’s plenty of good to mix in with the bad.” 

“I suppose.” He worries his lip. “It’s just - this, all this stuff… what if we’re going down the wrong path? You keep talking about the universe like it can reach out and communicate directly to us."

"Can't it?" Pamela gathers up the cards, shuffling them again.

"Life is sticky and random and any higher power out there probably has better things to do than watch us play cards." She nods at the shuffled pile and after a second he starts laying out his own reading in the same manner Pamela showed him. 

"My mom was a psychic, you know,” Pamela says, watching him. “Real powerful stuff. She wrote horoscope columns and traveled around, did a few house cleansings and was a secretary the rest of the time, but everything I learned I got from her. I never thought I'd get those abilities, though. It apparently tends to skip a generation.”

Cas flips over the cards in the same order as before. His eyes widen. The same reading is there, down to the last card. He looks at Pamela, but she has a smile on her face like she was expecting it. 

“But I grew up in it, I wanted it so badly. And then one day, it happened.” Her eyes flick up to him. “I think you can manipulate stuff, Cas.”

“Is that what this is?”

“I shuffled the cards. And there’s no doubles. Check if you don’t believe me.” Cas sifts through the deck and realizes she’s right. “Life puts you on a certain path, but with enough finessing, you can side step it a little bit." She sits back in her chair. “I think that's what you're doing. Straying from whatever path you were given, getting something new. Even the universe agrees with me."

"Something better?"

"Well, that might be up to you. Do you think you are?"

Cas looks at the image of the devil, the crying man, the seven cups spilling over. "I hope so."

Chapter Text

They’re drinking coffee the next morning and Cas is practicing a bit of ‘morning mindfulness‘, as Pamela calls it, when he feels something almost like a chill trying to work its way up his spine. He looks out the kitchen window, Pamela copying the motion.

“Is someone coming over?” he asks. She shoots him a grin and gets up from the table.

“Bingo.” She opens the door, and a second later one of Bobby’s clunkers comes down the road. 

“Is that how I felt coming in?”

“More powerful. Nearly knocked me off my chair while I was doing a reading for a client. Thought it was an earthquake or something at first - she really believes me now, though, so I can’t be too upset.”

Bobby comes up the steps and Pamela pulls the screen door open for him. 

“How’re things?” he asks them. Takes the coffee Pamela offers and sits at the table. 

“Good,” Pamela says. “We got a lot of foundational groundwork covered, and the universe seems surprisingly consistent when it comes to this guy. He even felt you coming the same time I did.” 

“We have not tried to exorcise anything, in case you were wondering,” Cas adds. Bobby rolls his eyes.

“Yeah. Doesn’t surprise me. Any chance Cas here can take his spiritual succession course on the road?” 

“Do you have a hunt for me?”

“Nah, just got a contact that wanted me to swing by and do a trade off. I found some sources that cover deities across different mythologies. Really obscure stuff - maybe you’re some pagan god in disguise. It’d explain the possible immortality schtick you got going on. I’d go myself, but there’s been some bizarre sacrifices happening over state lines that some hunters wanted my opinion on. Between dead bodies and books I had to prioritize.”

“Must’ve torn you up inside,” Pamela teases.

Bobby adds, “I got a rendezvous point. It’s a gathering spot for hunters, should be a quick in and out if you wanna make the drive.”

Cas furrows his eyebrows. “You trust me with your books?”

“I mean you could take ‘em if you wanted to translate from Hellenistic Greek.” At Cas’s blank look, Bobby smirks, just a bit. “That’s what I thought. ‘Sides, I think you already know the proprietor.” 

-

Cas doesn’t want to be negative or ‘invite those kinds of forces into his psyche’, as Pamela’s self help books tell him, but he’s starting to get sick of Nebraska. Bobby gave him directions to somewhere near the dead center of the state, a place called the Roadhouse. He also gave him a pointed look and said it was full of hunters, so it was a good idea to tone down whatever peace and love vibes Pamela was bestowing upon him. “Some of them will do rituals or work with psychics, some of them will pull out the pyres and pitchforks. Best not to tempt fate.”

The building is hiding within an outcropping of trees. It looks dusty, run down. There’s four cars in the front. He goes inside, sees a sparse group of presumably hunters at some tables. A jukebox in the corner is playing REO Speedwagon. Everyone in the bar turns to look at him, and they keep on looking when they don’t recognize him. 

Cas gives a slight nod at the room at large and makes his way over to the bar. 

“You lost?” A petite blonde woman brings a tray of glasses behind the bar. 

“Is this the Roadhouse?”

“Yeah. Who’re you?”

“A hunter. I’m here for Bobby Singer - he has some books he wants to trade.” She squints at him. 

“I’ll be back.” She goes off behind some double doors behind the bar. Cas taps at the wood, resolutely avoiding anyone’s gaze.

The bartender comes back with an older woman and a man in a sleeveless vest. “So,” the older woman says, “you’re Cas, huh?”

“Cas?” says the bartender. 

“That is my name,” he says. “Bobby Singer sent me. He said I could meet with another contact here - Ash?” 

“Yo!” The man raises his hand, coming forward. Cas holds his hand out to shake the contact - instead Ash slaps his palm. Cas stares at it, frowning. He slides over to Cas’s side of the bar and sits down. “You got the goods?”

“I have books.” 

“Well don’t keep me waitin’! I’ve only heard about these things. I’ve been makin’ a database, you know, different monsters, creatures, et cetera. I need all the lore I can get.”

Cas takes a pair of tomes from beneath the jacket he wore into the bar, hands them over. “For a journal?”

“Nah man, journals are so 1994. I’m going digital.” 

“Ash here is our regular crack scientist,” says the older woman.

“Too kind, Ellen. Be right back.” Ash disappears to the back again.

“Ellen Harvelle?” Cas asks. He thought the raspy voice sounded familiar.

“That’s my name.” She comes forward. This time she shakes Cas’s hand in the normal way. “Never thought I’d see you in the flesh.” 

“You know this guy?” asks the bartender.

“Yeah, remember that whole thing with Gordon Walker last year? He was the one who caused the fuss in the first place.” 

Cas assumes Gordon is another hunter and just shrugs. “I found some information that I wanted to spread around to other hunters. I was told you were a good person to call.” Ellen huffs.

“That what Bobby tell you?”

“No. I didn’t hear about you from him.” They stare at each other for a moment. The younger woman clears her throat.

“You want a drink?” she asks. 

-

"Okay, we got the basics down," Pamela says. Ash had given him some other books as an exchange and he gave them to Bobby before heading back to Pamela’s. Yesterday he had been able to heal her from a self-inflicted cut. Just a scratch, but it closed up like it had never happened. That makes Cas feel better, that he can heal not just himself and not only in dire circumstances. “But I think we can aim for a little push.”

She fills the tea kettle up and switches it on. "This is a technique I use when I have to get serious about some spiritual awakening.”

"I’m ready," Cas says. Pamela grabs a jar from the top shelf in the cabinet, fishing out some dry, brown clumps and putting it into two mugs. "Is that some sort of drink?"

She laughs, taking the pot off just as the kettle begins whistling. She fills up their mugs. "Yep. A little psychotropic to help get us nice and open. You ever try them before?" He shakes his head. "Hm. Might have put a little too much in for a first timer then…eh, nah, it should be fine." She gives him a mug. "Come on."

They get situated on yoga mats out in Pamela's yard. She brings out her boombox and puts on some indistinct ocean noises to give them something to focus on. Once the tea cools enough Cas takes a sip, scrunching his nose at the bitter, earthy taste.

"Yeah, best to chug it." Cas tries to gulp it down as quickly as possible. When he looks up Pamela is fishing out the larger pieces of mushrooms and eating them. Cas copies her lead until the cup is empty.

"Now what?"

"Mm, takes up to an hour to take effect. So let's start a session. Come on." They face each other, drawing in breaths from deep in the belly. They mirror each other as they sit and breathe, Cas's mind doing its best to empty itself.

"This is going to help you change your perspective," Pamela says, "sometimes it’s hard to take yourself out of the mindset of being a normal person - since that’s what we are, most of the time. But there’s a lot of other shit going around out there, and we need to be able to conceptualize it. Just concentrate on being open to what happens. Let it happen, don't dwell on negativity or anxiety. Breathe with me… in… out… in… out… in…"

-

Cas stares at the oak tree overhead. Its leaves stretch out like hands, branches framing the sun. "This is beautiful," he says.

"Mhm."

"It feels like the best place in the whole earth," Pamela giggles. His hand stretches past the yoga mat and lands on the cool grass. He feels each individual strand tickle along his palm and forgets how to speak, caught up in the motion, the connection between him and the blades of grass.

"Do you - how do you feel?" Pamela asks. Cas doesn't rush his answer. Lets it linger in the air like the summer breeze that's gently touching the leaves, the grass, his hair. 

"Good. It's good. It's like - we just get caught up doing so much, all the time. And now it's like I can be here and just be here. I mean, does the tree think? Do plants think?"

"Maybe. But like. In a way that’s different from how we think. It's so alien we couldn't even like - picture it."

"Whoa."

"I know!" Pamela giggles again. "It's just - wow." She devolves into laughs and Cas can't help but join in until they're laughing over something, something... well. It doesn't matter. He finally comes down with a sigh. Pamela wipes at her eyes, blowing out breath.

"So like - you, Cas."

"Uh-huh."

"Your, um. Abilities."

"Oh. Yeah." He takes his hand from the grass and moves it up, tracing the swirling pattern that comes from the sunlight gaping through the green canopy above him. "You know, it's funny - when I think about what I can do, it's like. A lot. Powerful. But it doesn't feel like anything either, you know? Not good. Not bad."

"Neutral."

"Yeah. Well like. Also no? It just feels like… me. An extension of me - myself. But that's also the point."

Pamela hums lazily. “You are your powers,” she says. “Everything you can do is already built into you.” 

A leaf flutters down and lands on Cas's stomach. He touches the waxy exterior. The veins are like his veins which in turn are like the veins of every person, the veins of every plant.

"Because that's how people are. No one starts good or bad. Things happen and they go and make their choices or backtrack or rehab- no. Uh. Relapse. Yeah. But. I think I'm a blank slate. I can… can choose. And the thing inside me. This part of me, it's the same. It's waiting for me to decide what type of person to be."

"What type of person are you, Cas?"

Cas hums, keeps humming until he's in tune with the rolling waves playing behind him on the speaker. Stops. "I wanna - I wanna help people. And things. I want to love and be loved and be happy - not. All the time. Because suffering is a part of life too and I want to live life." He laughs. "Wow. I'm talking a lot."

"Some people talk a lot on this stuff." He sits up after thinking about moving for twenty minutes. Twenty seconds? Time doesn't really exist, if you think about it. He looks at Pamela. 

"This is amazing. Thank you for being here and showing this to me and helping me and making me food and doing tarot readings."

Her pupils are blown so wide her irises look black, all the way around until the white sclera of her eyes. "You're welcome."

He lays back down and lets the sun come to him. He remembers textbook diagrams of sun rays and how they always looked like little ocean waves, imagining he can feel the heat ebbing and flowing as the minutes tick by. A tide pulling and pushing, a breeze moving one way then another. He melts into the mat, into the grass, into the earth. He thinks he falls asleep.

Cas pokes his head up when Pamela budges him with her foot. She gives him a glass of water. "Thanks," he says, drinking. It tastes like a fresh spring stream. He tells her as much and she laughs.

"Still got a bit of a high, huh?"

"I guess so."

She helps him up and they eat omelets and toast for dinner. "So - what do you think?"

"I feel… good. Like... I'm connected with everyone. Like I could love everyone, too." He frowns. "Is this how you're so happy all the time?"

"Nah. That's just my personality."

"Oh. I see. I mean. It makes sense. You're very beautiful. Inside and out."

"Is that so?" Cas nods. Pamela’s eyes are still overly dark and she has a way of moving about her that seems vague, dreamlike. Cas likes watching her. "Listen, there's this other thing I'll do with people when we're high - well, you know, a little high. You don't have to, though. It just looks like you might like it."

"What is it?" Pamela tells him. His body flushes with delight - he can't trudge up embarrassment right now. "Oh. I don't know if I'll be any good at it."

"I can teach you."

Cas thinks about it. "Alright."

-

Cas wakes up to birdsong outside the window, sunlight peeking in. The window of his guest bedroom faces south. He opens his eyes, realizes he’s not in the guest bedroom. Or alone. “Huh,” he says. 

“I probably should’ve given us a smaller dose,” Pamela says. She gets up on her elbow, squints at him. “How are you, sunshine?”

“Good. Um.” He stares, realizes they’re both naked.

“Did we do anything we regret?” she asks. Cas thinks about it. 

“Does this… change anything?”

“Do you want it to change anything?” 

He shakes his head slowly, nervously, but Pamela’s expression doesn’t change. She’s still smiling.

“Alright, then it doesn’t change.” 

“Okay.” He sits up. Nods. “Okay,” he says it a bit more confidently. “Did you. Um. Was it…” He frowns. “I’m not sure what questions I should ask.”

Pamela laughs. “Back to the regularly scheduled Cas, I see.” She pinches his cheek, the one on his face this time, and slides out of bed. “It was fun,” she says, going to her dresser. She pulls on a tank top, some underwear and shorts. “You pick up on that like you pick up on yoga. And you’re just as flexible.” Cas doesn’t think he can sweat, but he feels himself blush. “You want some breakfast?”

“Please.”

-

Cas feels Bobby coming down the street and waits at the steps for him.

“Great,” he says, “another one of ya.”

“Do you need something?”

“Pamela says you’re doing well, she’s taught you most of the foundational stuff. Says you healed her, too.” Cas nods. “I have a poltergeist case up north. You’re coming with me. I wanna see if you can get rid of it without almost dying first. Pack your bag.” 

Driving with Bobby doesn’t have the same friendly air that it does with Dean, or Pamela either, whenever they would drive down to the store for food. Cas isn’t sure if Bobby is just tolerating him because of the belief in the greater good, or because Dean likes him. Pamela said under his rough exterior he was a sweet guy. 

Bobby did the research before picking up Cas, so there’s no usual rigamarole of interviewing witnesses and doing archival research. “The ghost tends to appear over their own grave in the cemetery, which is convenient. We’ll dig her up and you can try to get rid of her. If that doesn’t work we’ll just salt and burn her.” 

“Even if I sustained injuries from the poltergeist, it wouldn’t kill me.”

“It probably wouldn’t kill you. We don’t know how invincible you are yet, and I’m gonna save that for the next round of lab tests if you don’t mind.” 

They dig up the body just after sunset and pour lighter fluid and salt on the skeleton. Bobby leans against a nearby gavestone and takes pulls from his flask, Cas sits in the grass. 

Cas feels that strange chill run through his body, colder and more unsettling than the premonition he got from Bobby’s arrival. Then, very suddenly, he’s not in the grass anymore. The ghost shoves him against the tombstone, a shriek making his ears ring. Ice cold fingers are pressing against his throat. 

A shot goes off and the specter disappears for a moment. Cas straightens up. 

“Look alive!” Bobby yells at him. Cas whips his head around, hands flexing. The ghost isn’t  visible yet, but he knows it's there, shimmering somewhere just out of the material plane. He clenches his jaw and holds his hand out, facing southeast.

When the milky-white apparition appears, it’s right in front of him. It approaches, and he backs up step by step, biding time. He thinks about a force that belongs to him, is him, that’s bigger than maybe he’ll ever understand. 

The ghost swipes at him, and he stumbles over another gravestone. 

“Wait!” he tells Bobby. “I can do this!” And he can. He knows he’s stronger than the spirit. 

Just when the ghost rears back to land another blow, he sees a white light emerge from his outstretched hand. 

This is my body, he thinks, and it’s the conduit of my power. I can handle it. It’s made for me. 

His eyes water at the brightness until he's forced to shut his eyes against it. He feels ice cold fingers trying to grab him, and then even that stops. The spirit is gone with another agonizing shriek. It doesn’t come back, not even when Bobby dangles a lit matchbook into the hole, taunting. He tosses it in to be safe and they watch the bones burn into ash. 

The drive back is silent. Dark. They get McDonald’s, and the fries seem to perk Bobby up enough that he tells Cas about having to watch Sam and Dean when they were kids. “Probably ‘cause I’m one of the only hunters with a house, and I’m as paranoid as John is,” he says.

“Dean was worried you wouldn’t want to see him.” Dean liked all things greasy and salty, but fast food was a bit of a rarity because eating in the Impala was ‘asking for trouble’. It seems weirdly charming to be doing it now. 

“He’s always taking the blame for John’s choices,” Bobby says. “That falling out was between me and his dad. He was always - well, you’ve seen them. You know how it is.” 

“Is that why Sam left for school, you think?”

“Probably a damn good reason, if not the defining one. Sam was different - maybe because he was just a baby when the whole thing started and John became a hunter. You ever hear that story?” 

“Bits and pieces. Their mom died a… highly unusual death.” Dean had alluded to the events, here and there. Stilted fragments that merely suggested a picture instead of making it up properly. It wasn’t like Cas had any tragic backstory he could share in return.

“That’s a generous way of putting it. He saw it, you know. Dean. Four years old. He wouldn’t talk for a while after it, either. But Sam was too young to remember. Never understood why they were fighting so hard. And, you know John. He loves his kids, but…” Bobby shakes his head, doesn’t say anything else for a couple miles of highway. “Sam always struck me as more analytical. He liked the books I had - the ones I’d let him get into, at least. He never saw things in black and white like his dad does.”

“Black and white?”

Bobby scrunches his face up. “I hate to pull out Pamela’s new age crap, but the world’s a big place. There’s contingencies and mysterious shit and things we have no sense for. Even when it comes to what we hunt.” 

“That’s why you didn’t kill me straight away. When you found out I wasn’t… normal.” He doesn’t want to say ‘not human’, even if that seems to be his and Bobby’s working theory at the moment.

“Well, I ain’t stupid, neither. Not gonna shoot something if I don’t know it’s gonna get killed.” He sniffs. “No offense.” 

“Do you ever wonder -” Cas stops. Frowns.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s stupid.”

“More stupid than a semi-retired hunter deciding to babysit some psychic prodigy?” 

Cas stares at the road. “One time I found what I thought was a hunt. There were teenage girls going missing in southern California, most of them around this bus stop. I thought it was a ghost or something. Did research, stakeouts.” He looks over at Bobby. “It was just a man, in the end. I alerted the authorities, of course. He… he told me what he did to them.”

“You kill him?”

“No.” Cas doesn’t admit that he wanted to, that if he was just a human hunter without anything to prove, he might have. “But I just wonder why - why does every monster hurt people? Humans are so… varied in what they can do, good or bad, but monsters...”

“Monsters ain’t human. That’s kind of the point.”

“I guess.”

Bobby sighs. “Not that I’m much for the philosophy of good and evil, but what you went through? Happens more often than hunters like to admit. A lot of us seem to forget what people are capable of.”

“Do you think the reverse is true? There are some monsters that are… okay?”

"Listen. Monsters are monsters. Nasty, selfish brutes. 99 percent of them will chew your heart out and like it. But you get in this business long enough, you see things." Cas tilts his head. "Y'know, a banshee that just warns people of someone in their family dying, that's all. Or a ghost that ends up saving the family that respects the home they're sharing. Shapeshifters that fly under the radar to live like humans. Heard some rumors about vegetarian vampires or whatever the hell it's called, runnin’ around the northwest."

"And you think… I'm that type."

Bobby points a finger at him. "I'm giving you the chance to prove you can be that type. Hone your powers. Become an amazing hunter."

"So long as other hunters don't find out."

Bobby shrugs. "It is what it is. Not everyone is as cute and cuddly as I am."

Cas eats the rest of his fries in silence. 

Chapter Text

Pamela has some clients coming in throughout the day, so Cas takes a run before the weather gets too cold. Then he drives down to the pharmacy to get his photos developed, spends a quiet afternoon filling in details of his journal, pasting in pictures. He finds a candid of himself that he didn’t take - out in a forest somewhere, dated three months back. The one before was at the Cubs game Dean took him to, two thirds the field and the stands, one third Dean caught in a freeze frame, cheering at a ball that went into the crowd. That means Dean probably stole the camera out of his bag and got a picture of him while they were in Milwaukee. He puts them side by side in his journal. 

Bobby brings him out on a few more hunts, relatively local - as in, within the tri-state area - and all low level monsters. It’s not perfect, sometimes he fumbles or loses his concentration, but it’s getting easier. Bobby even lets him heal a gash on his leg when a harpy takes a swipe at him.

It gets cold in South Dakota, the oak tree in Pamela’s backyard slowly turns brown. He wakes up one morning and his breath fogs the entire time he’s on a run, cold air stinging his lungs. 

When he gets back his phone has a text: demon in grays chapel. 

He debates whether to up and leave or not. He figures out Grays Chapel is in North Carolina and prints out some newspaper articles from the library that mention strange crop failings that put a damper on the local fall festival. Others about unusual weather patterns. Then he takes it all to Bobby’s.

“Does this number ever text you good news?” Bobby asks, clicking through the conversation thread. 

"It shows me places I can go where I’m needed. Where I can prevent others from dying."

"Quite an optimist," Bobby says. He hands the phone back to Cas and flips through the research he brought with him. "Demons are the worst thing around, you know. That crossroads fella was a used car salesman. Most of the rest are more like telekinetic WWE champions."

Cas nods. 

"I'm saying you could get killed, dumbass."

"I went after the vampires in New York. Those weren't easy targets, either. I can't just turn down these hunts for no good reason."

"The good reason is not letting any of those bastards drag you back to hell with them!" 

"You could come with me," Cas says. Bobby just rubs at his forehead, pushing his cap up with the motion.

"The Carolinas are far, Cas."

"I can drive."

"You're really gonna go, aren't you?" Cas nods again. Bobby takes the printouts from Cas's hand. "I'm not tagging along. But let me show you how to wrangle one of these bastards. It's like trying to make napalm at home with adult supervision, but hey. Your funeral."

Cas packs a bag the next day.

"Leaving so soon?" Pamela asks, leaning in the doorway of the guest room. 

"It has been about three months."

"And I won't ever find a better house guest. Or a cuter one, either. Care for a drawn out goodbye?'' 

"Does that mean what I think it means?" Pamela smirks. "I'm flattered, but no thank you."

She laughs. "Shame. So. back out into the great unknown, huh?"

"I couldn't have done this without you, Pamela."

"Oh please. You had those ruby slippers all along, Dorothy." Cas squints at her. "I’m saying everything you need, you already have. Just remember that this is your power. You own it."

Cas nods, then goes, "I don't know when I'll be back."

"So long as you do come back. And look me up when you do.” Her eyes brighten. “Maybe you'll even find your ‘lover’ out there. Or run into them again," Pamela adds, catching Cas's smile. He finishes shoving in his clothes and grabs his journal next, flipping through the pages, looking at monsters and mythology and memories of things he’s tried, that he loves. “It’s him, isn’t it?” 

“I think so,” he says. Then adds, “But, um. Don't tell Bobby. Or probably anyone, for that matter."

"I won't tell if I can see what he looks like. You and Bobby love that guy, and I don’t even know if he’s my type.”

“I think any handsome man is your type,” he says, good-naturedly. She laughs again.

“Just let me confirm what I already know, then." Cas flips through his journal again and shows her the picture. She whistles. 

“Oh, he's hotter than I thought."

"He is rather attractive."

"Mm, attractive doesn't even begin to cover it. If you don't go after him I will." She elbows Cas in the side. "He's the one, huh? The guy you're all hung up on?" He looks at Pamela, thinking of how to respond.

"We're friends, aren't we?" he asks.

She scoffs. "I'd sure as hell hope so, blue eyes."

"Dean is my friend too," he tries to explain, "But with him... I feel a - a connection with him. It's hard to describe, but things are just better when he and I are together. Does that make sense?"

"Sounds like love," she says warmly. "Go get 'im, tiger. Just uh," she licks her lips, "if you two do end up as a matching set. Tell him I'd be up for an invite, alright?"

Cas shuts his journal and puts it into his bag. Hoists it over his shoulder. "Bye, Pamela. I'll be in touch."

"See that you are, handsome," she winks at him before pulling him in for a hug. 

-

It's at the tail-end of November and Dean ends up in Montana, still attached to John. As a kid he would have to push down the desire to see his dad again, act as his defender when Sam got mad about him missing a birthday or school thing. Now he’s stuck thinking about space. Someplace wide open, where he wouldn’t have to shrink and fold and condense himself so that he’s not constantly bumping against John like a piece of jagged stone on granite. He tries, he’s always trying to follow orders. Sometimes he’s a disappointment, anyway.

There are bodies piling up in a sparsely populated county in the north of the state. There's no snow yet, but Dean layers up against the cold. He's in a cafe to get some working internet and he hears two guys behind him chatting about the mysterious deaths.

When he turns around to open up a conversation he has to concentrate on not calling out Cas's name. It's stupid, the guy doesn't look like Cas unless you described him in the most perfunctory, police-lineup of ways. Shy of six feet, nearly-black hair, eyes like the sky. He smiles with a white, neat row of teeth, showing laugh lines. 

The guy ends up noticing and coming over to talk to him. Dean makes an absolute embarrassment of himself and has this guy who doesn’t look like Cas outright grinning at him. 

Cas doesn’t grin like that, Dean thinks - so big and open, so exaggerated it’s almost fake.

He doesn't glean anything useful from the conversation, anyway.

He sees the guy again, a few days later. Eyes plucked out by carrion birds, blood soaked and dried out into his shirt, pants, a dusting of snow around him slowly turning red. He notices that the victim and Cas wear the same boots.

Dean throws up in the grass. He hasn't vomited on a case in about five years. John tells him to get it together.

The creature is based on some dumbass chainmail story about a ghost girl who may or may not have existed in real life. The man who typed it up got attacked by his own creation and they take out the author, ghost, and the computer in one fell swoop. No other deaths are reported. John talks about the case in the same analytical way Sam would, before his brother got sick of the whole thing. Dean wants to talk about something, anything else. He'd listen to Cas's bizarre mashup of bubblegum pop, 90s alt and 80s new wave bullshit mixtapes instead of this.

He has nightmares about the guy's body, how he went from grinning to that quiet, violent death out in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t Cas - Dean doesn’t know where Cas is, but he’s probably fine. 

In the nightmares, Dean only sees Cas. 

-

He and John part ways about a week after the thing in Montana. Dean ends up caught between being relieved and being lonely. He drives down the west coast, fights a small nest of harpies and has to give himself stitches.

When he emerges from the bathroom, sore and feeling like he closed himself up too tightly, there's a missed call from his dad. It’s a short message, telling him to head east towards Georgia because he owes an old friend a favor and he can’t look into it himself. It's a four or five day drive, a near clear cut across the country. He should get going. 

He goes to a bar instead. Thinks about taking a girl back to the motel except he doesn’t think his injuries would take it. He can’t even play a decent game of pool without the wound twinging and he loses forty bucks he could’ve used. After the loss he gives up, walks back to his room and passes out.

He has that nightmare again, Cas’s bright blue eyes replaced with black pits streaming blood. He wakes up sweating despite the cold room and piles himself into the Impala. Fishing through the glovebox, he grabs his half empty carton and smokes a cigarette. Stares at his phone.

It’s late. If he calls he’s going to look stupid. He calls anyway. 

“ Hello?”

“Cas?” Dean blinks. “What are you doing up?” 

“I could ask you the same question.” 

Dean hadn’t really thought about what he’d say when the line clicked over to a voicemail. He definitely hadn’t formulated a plan when it came to Cas actually picking up. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admits. “You?”

“I was reading.” 

“For business or pleasure?”

“The latter. It’s, um. For a case.”

“You wanna share with the class?” There’s a heavy pause on the other end. Dean knows what that means. “Come on, man. How bad can it be? Killer clowns? Haunted stripper pole? Actually that one might not be so -”

“It’s a demon,” Cas says.

Dean coughs. “Demons? You found a demon?”

“Not exactly. I’m trying to hunt one.” 

“What? A demon - Cas that’s like. Serious shit. I mean, even I haven’t dealt with demons. You sure they even exist?” 

“I’m sure. I got a text about it.” 

He groans. “Damnit, Cas, you can’t just follow around some mysterious number that isn’t attached to anybody! I mean, who do you think is on the other end of the line?” 

There’s a palpable silence on Cas’s end.  “I honestly try not to think about it.” 

Dean finishes his cigarette and tosses it out the window. “Well. Where is it?” 

"I… don't think you should come, Dean."

"Bullshit. I'm great company and you know it. 'Sides, who else is gonna watch your back?" He shakes the carton and debates smoking another one. "How'd you even get involved in this stuff, man?"

"Do you remember the Gillespie family in Massachusetts?"

Dean frowns and lights up another cigarette, stuffing the box back into the glove compartment. "Try not to."

"She didn't use magic to bring her sister back to life or get those stolen valuables. She just summoned a crossroads demon to do it for her."

"Oh, ‘just summoned a crossroads demon’, of course, no biggie. Are there fuckin’ boulevard demons too?"

"She sold her soul to bring her sister back. The limit is ten years, traditionally. And then the demon comes to collect."

The smoke mixes with the puffs of mist he gives off as he talks out into the motel lot. "So when she died, she…"

"Her soul was damned to hell." He pauses. "Presumably the other sister is in heaven, barring any egregious moral failings."

It’s not a comforting thought. "And that's what you wanna fight."

"No. Bobby told me those were the easy demons. This one isn't making deals. Presumably it's stronger, too."

Dean stares at his phone for a second. It’s Cas’s number. He puts it back to his ear. “Bobby.”

“Yes, remember, with the Kuri incident -”

“I fucking know who Bobby is, Cas! He just - look. Just tell me where you are, man. We can figure this shit out.” He rubs at his head, taking another drag. “Don’t go messing with shit you can’t handle.” 

“I’m sorry, Dean - it’s just. I think I have to do it alone.” Dean can hear Cas’s hesitancy, the weight of words he isn’t saying. It’s like the phone call he got in that gay bar where Cas admitted he hurt himself. This time around he’s running headfirst into a suicide mission. “It’s just - I have to find answers to this myself.” 

“Oh fuck off. Don’t make me try to track down your ass. You know I will.” 

“I’ll call you. If there’s any trouble. I promise.” 

“Yeah, sure, give me a call while you’re bleeding out in an alley somewhere. I’ll make sure I’m right over.” He hits the ‘end call’ button and tosses his phone on the other side of the car. It rings a minute later, he ignores it, finishes his cigarette, and heads back to bed. 

-

Dean has a fitful four more hours before getting up and starting his drive. He feels like someone taped sandpaper to the inside of his eyelids, and the gas station coffee isn’t helping. He calls Bobby when he hits desert because there's nothing else to look at.

"You let him go after a demon?” he starts once he hears the line click over. “Alone?!"

"Well good morning to you, princess."

“Now’s not the time, Bobby. He’s gonna get himself killed!” 

“What do you think I told him? He was insistent about following that damn mystery number, so I just gave him all the info I could.” 

“And you didn’t go with him?”

“Dean, if I ran after every hunter punching above his weight to help ‘em out of a bad decision I couldn’t talk ‘em out of, then I would’ve been six feet under before John even met me,” he tells him, voice dry as the sand he’s driving through. Dean’s struck dumb for a moment.

“Can you at least tell me where he is?” 

There’s a pause. “If he didn’t tell you, maybe he doesn’t want you gettin’ involved.”

“Bobby, come on! He’s a good hunter, but I don’t think your crash course in demonology is gonna be enough. I didn’t even know demons were 100% real until last night!”

“Oh, they’re real, alright. Why do you think John came to me in the first place?”  

Dean swallows. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He hears the other man scoff. “I shouldn’t have said anything. That’s something to bring up with John.”

Dean laughs louder and meaner than he means to. He rubs his eyes. “Yeah, ‘cause I’m sure that’ll go great.” If John wasn’t forthcoming about where he was going, what he was doing, then Dean knew better than to ask.

Bobby sighs. “ I can’t tell you everything, but Cas was staying up here after you left with your dad. We, uh, we think he might be somethin’ special.”

“Yeah, you ever let the guy talk about French New Wave? Special doesn’t even begin to cover it.” 

“I mean like a psychic, dumbass.” 

“Oh. Wait - ‘we’ ?” 

“I have connections. I’ve been going on hunts with him in the area and he’s getting better at, you know, all of it. I guess he figured he was ready. I have more confidence in him than some other people that’ve passed through here.” 

“A psychic?” Dean wrinkles his nose. He’s run across mystics and things like that. Some of them were helpful, most of them weren’t. “Is he like. Turning into a witch?” 

“Psychics can become witches, or magic users, but all their power comes from themselves, not any spell casting. They’re not the same.”

“Yeah, well, the two aren’t mutually exclusive, either, and they always seem to cause trouble for me.”

“Not all of them. If they’re being helpful or mindin’ their own business, you won’t have a cause to find them out, now will you?”

Dean frowns. He doesn’t like it either way. “I guess. So what, you hooked him up with Professor X and now he’s ready to fight the Juggernaut?” 

“I’m saying that I didn’t force him there, Dean. And it might work out. There are hunters out there who have subdued demons and lived. Hunters you’ve met, even.” 

“Yeah, well, excuse me for not wanting to risk it.” He keeps driving. Bobby doesn’t say anything else, and after a while Dean wonders if he had hung up. 

“If you want, you can swing by here. Cas said he’d come back when he finished up.”

“I got a thing in Georgia,” Dean says. “Probably meeting up with dad after, so um. Maybe another time.” Bobby snorts.

“Alright. Take care of yourself, Dean. Call me if you need anything.” 

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah. You too, Bobby.” He hangs up and rubs at his eyes again, the sun blaring bright through his sunglasses. He rolls the window down and starts digging through his box for another tape. 

-

He gets a text from Cas once he gets into Atlanta. It just says that he made it to his location and he’s doing some research. Dean doesn’t reply, can’t think of anything to say that isn’t just a blistering insult. At least when John leaves he doesn’t tell Dean what he’s hunting, and sometimes Dean can convince himself that it’s something routine. Safe. Or as safe as this life gets. Cas doesn’t give him the luxury.

Dean’s off his game and he knows it, and from the look his dad’s friend is shooting him, it’s pretty obvious. He’s even more irritable than usual, keeps checking his phone. A blonde in a skin tight halter top buys him a drink and he doesn’t even go home with her, not to mention that he nearly gets ganked by the gross swamp monster that’s been infesting people’s septic tank. He has to run his clothes through the washer twice to get rid of the smell. 

He and Cas apparently finish their cases about the same time. 

It's done. Is what Cas texts him.

Cas calls a few hours later. Dean lets it ring. He knows it's a shitty thing to do. He also knows if he picks up he'd just tear Cas a new one through the phone.

“Hi Dean,” he hears, Cas's voice tinny and strange through the speaker. “I got rid of the demon. It was… possessing someone. I’m helping her out, making sure she’s okay. I don’t know when I’ll be done, but I’ll probably go to Sioux Falls right after. So, if you want to - I mean. You know where to find me. Hope things are going well for you too. Um. Bye.” 

Dean sighs, plays the message again, wanting to distrust Cas being alright after all that. "Idiot," he says, relieved.

He goes back to the bar in town for a celebratory drink after clearing things up with the contact. That same blonde woman is there. They go back to his motel and that’s that. Monster dead, civilians saved, a roll in the hay with a hot local, and Cas isn’t bleeding out in a back room somewhere. Wins all around. 

He blows out of town the next day. Thinks about going to Bobby’s, but lands in Iowa instead. 

John calls or shoots a text to him with more cases, and he criss-crosses the country with nothing but his car and tapes for company. He gets over the demon thing and picks up the next time Cas calls, but the other man doesn’t say much about how that fared. Cas calls him other times, and Dean appreciates the conversation, but Cas is not particularly forthcoming on anything; he talks about a hunt he finished, never where he’s heading to. If he does, it’s just Bobby’s. 

Dean thinks about going back to Sioux Falls himself. Talks himself out of it each time. Feels like it’d be showing his hand too much - coming up there for no reason other than seeing Cas again. 

He spends Christmas freezing his ass off in an old graveyard outside of Albany while a hundred year old Scrooge tries to give him blunt force trauma for digging up his bones. He spends New Year’s Eve getting drunk. 

It’s a little bar in a little one stoplight town, but it’s pretty jammed full anyway. He meant to slide a drink down to the girl with long blonde hair and a skin tight sweater when the bartender decides to make conversation. She’s cute and she knows it, plump lips pulled into a perpetual smirk. 

“Any plans besides all this?” she asks, sending out beers to all the regulars and still making eye contact with Dean. “You’re not from ‘round here, I’d remember you if you were.”

“Nah, just passing through. Thought tomorrow I’d sleep in and get going, I guess.” 

“Sleeping in with anyone in particular?” Dean doesn’t immediately take the bait, and the woman slides her eyes to a few seats down. “Her, right?” She nods at the blonde woman who has noticed Dean by now. She shoots him a wink and the bartender sighs. “Figures. Blondes really do have more fun.”

“Whoa, hey. I don’t discriminate,” Dean says. The bartender gives him a dry look that still seems a little fond despite it all. “It’s just, uh.” 

Something in his face must change, because her sardonic look tilts towards sympathetic. “Ah. Brunette ex, huh?” 

Cassie wasn’t exactly a brunette, Dean thinks, and she didn’t have those blue eyes, either. “Yeah,” he says instead. “Sorry.” 

She gives him another beer and makes something red with a lime wedge in it, holds it up. “Have fun,” she says, before walking it down to the blonde. The two talk for a second, and glance over at Dean. 

The blonde is named Christine, and she’s not as fun as the bartender. She does have an apartment nearby, though, so they pound back drinks and stumble home. Dean sleeps in and wakes up in time for a second round and breakfast in bed. Christine gives him her number, but doesn't seem too upset when he says he’s heading out of town. 

Dean goes down to Virginia, closer to the coast so he doesn’t have to deal with the heavy snow in the Appalachian mountains. There’s a feel-good story about a high school girl who was presumed dead who shows up back home again. Dean hates the feeling of deja vu he gets from the case, hates that he can’t just let it be a miracle. 

He does his interviews, thinks the girl’s friends are off, and watches her house that night. Turns out the Lazarus case was murdered by her so-called friends, and they want to finish the job. The girl’s boyfriend is the only helpful one, saying they committed the murder down by the local river, a few miles into the woods. Dean spends hours chipping away at ice in the shallows, but there’s no body. It could’ve washed away, or been dumped in the woods, but all of Dean’s research points to a Revenant; a ghost that doesn’t know its dead. And there’s only two ways to get rid of those. 

He barges into her house with a silver knife, but all she wanted to do was kill the friends that killed her. She finishes stabbing her boyfriend and she looks at him, before fading into nothing. Dean wipes away his prints and leaves the cops to find out about that one.

The next day he’s in West Virginia, driving along the Kanawha river. The station he stops at for gas has a rack of postcards. He finds one with a statue of the moth man and grins stupidly at the cashier, who is significantly less amused than he is. He buys the postcard, a sheet of stamps, a bag of M&Ms, and a new carton of Marlboro Reds.

He spends his birthday buying a new set of tires and installing them in a motel parking lot. His phone rings just when he comes back from taking his baby for a spin. 

“Hello?”

“Dean?” It’s Cas. “How are you?”

“Good. Just finished some TLC on Baby. What’s up?” 

“Nothing. How was that -”

“It was a Revenant. Shitty case. The thing that kept her here was revenge on the people that killed her in the first place. No survivors.” He’s just glad John didn’t send him on that case - he doesn’t want to think about what he’d say if he found out how it ended.

“Oh. I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah, well. What’s dead should stay dead. Law of the universe or something. You on another hunt?”

“Not yet. I found some books I thought Bobby could use, so I stopped by. I um. Also wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”

Dean stills. He doesn’t talk about his birthday. Birthdays were kid stuff - he remembers going to those kiddie indoor playground places with arcades attached, getting store bought servings of cake and playing video games all night. But that was when John stuck around - somewhat. As the years went on, he and Sam would do something, even if that ‘something’ was just buying drinks that were better than the bottom shelf, but Sam was gone, too. The last time his dad had contacted him was two weeks ago. He only knew he was still alive because Pastor Jim had said he met with him the other day. 

“Who told you it was my birthday?”

“No one. Bobby has it marked on his calendar. I told him he should call you, but he said it was weird.”

“It is weird, Cas,” he says, rearranging the various tools he has in his kit. “But, uh. Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

They talk some more. Cas says he went to Arizona and got to see the Coyote Buttes ravine, walk around sandstone structures that look like sand being blown by the wind. “It’s to the northeast of the Grand Canyon, so not as many people visit it.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to the Grand Canyon,” Dean says, “Guess nothing’s ever out there, though. Never had reason to stop for too long.” 

“We could,” Cas says. “ I was reading about the Havasu Falls. It’s still protected by the Havasupai tribe that lives there. You have to take a mule to see it. If you can get a permit.”  

“A permit, huh? I don’t know - it’s just a stupid kid idea anyway,” Like acknowledging his birthday. “Probably not meant to happen.” 

“You don’t need a reason to go there, you know,” Cas argues, “you can go because you want to.” 

“Huh. Why don’t we go for your birthday, then? Make it like a gift.” 

“...I don’t know when my birthday is, Dean.”  

“Shit.” Dean winces. “I mean. You have a guess?” 

“I’m definitely a Sagittarius,” Cas says. “Though an argument could be made for a Libra.” 

“Well, may as well pick a day.” 

“And then we can go to the Grand Canyon?”

Dean stares out at the parking lot. There’s rust on the car in the other spot, broken glass on the road, scrub brush clustered around old traffic signs and weathered telephone poles. It’s about as far from a National Park as he can get. “Sure, Cas. Why not.” 

Chapter Text

Cas knows there’s a demon in town as soon as he gets off the exit. It’s a palpable feeling of dread, hanging over him like a muggy summer day. 

The text doesn’t give him much to go on, and the town’s name is misleading. Grays Chapel has many different chapels and buildings with the name of the town, and he’s unsure which one it could be. He spends some days in the library, trying to culminate a list. 

The main church in town is a Methodist one built a few decades ago. He stops by, feigning interest in joining, but nothing about the church’s history sticks out to him. 

“So, is this the town’s namesake?” he asks. 

“Oh, no,” says the overly friendly parishioner that had taken it upon himself to give him a tour of the building. “There was a little one room chapel that was built years and years ago. About 1700. We got plans to fix it up and everything - it’s a historical landmark, after all.”

“Where is it?” 

“Oh, it’s not open for services.”

“Sure, of course. I just... like to take pictures of old sites.”

“Further out in the woods,” he replies, a tad suspicious.  “Northwest of here.” 

Cas keeps making small talk so that the last thing the stranger remembers isn’t him asking for the location of an old church that he can maybe desecrate. Then he heads back to the library. He finds some older maps of the county that give him a rough idea of where the church is. He also finds that it was established and consecrated in 1705 by the Italian and Spanish ships that settled in the area. He drives out to the town’s border and pokes around the side streets and winding gravel paths. It takes him almost an hour, but he finds it. An old, somewhat derelict chapel, partially shaded by some old trees. He parks his car and walks up to the building.

The stone steps are worn, and there’s been some evidence of graffiti, old beer bottles, white paint that’s been hastily slapped on to cover up tagging. The front doors are boarded shut, but with old planks of plywood that are warped from age and exposure. He grabs a hammer and flashlight from his trunk and takes out the nails, forces open the door, and ducks inside. 

There’s about a dozen pews, a lot of dust, harsh shadows as only a sliver of light comes through the shuttered windows. There’s an altar and some toppled candelabra, bibles tossed around the floor. Cas shines his flashlight around, but doesn’t see anything eye-catching. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for, if anything. There’s no evidence of human deaths that could be caused by a demon, but there are definite signs one is here. If it isn’t killing people, what else is it doing? 

He finishes checking out the chapel and heads back to the car. He takes out his phone. He had texted Dean and Bobby when he had arrived in town. Bobby had replied to ‘keep him posted’, and Dean hadn’t replied at all. 

He goes back to that number. There’s no other clue - there never is. Cas thinks about calling, or texting back, for all the good it’ll do. There’s also the possibility that this time, whatever it is will answer. 

He drives back to his motel to plan his next move.

-

Pamela talks to him over the phone, tells him that he can try using a pendulum to get a better idea of where the demon is. She had given him one, along with a myriad of other ‘young mystic tools’. 

“It’s just spinning in a circle,” he tells her, once he sets everything up. 

“Slowly, or -?”

“No. Fast. Very, very fast.” 

“...I think that means it’s too much for you, champ, ” she says, a little concerned.

“I can handle it.”

“Ugh. For someone with no memories you really do sound like such a typical man sometimes, Cas.” 

“You and Bobby can’t come. I can’t pull another hunter in on this. You know as soon as the demon was gone they’d try getting rid of me, too.” She doesn’t say anything to that. 

“If the demon isn’t killing people just yet,” she says, “it must be looking for something. Do you have any idea what?”

“No clue. I think it’s something to deal with that old chapel, but there’s nothing actually in the building anymore.” 

“Maybe anything valuable is locked up in a case somewhere,” Pamela muses. 

“Could be. I think I’ll look into that, thanks Pamela.” 

“Cas - just - be careful, okay?” 

“I will. I’ll be back as soon as I finish.” He hangs up and goes back to the library. 

-

The library didn’t have anything of interest, but the town hall is only a block away. He pokes around, and when a receptionist asks if he needs any help, he asks if they have a museum in town.

She laughs. “Us? Nah, not in another building, at least. We have a couple’a things down in the east wing, though. Through those doors.” She points. 

The ‘east wing’ is a long hallway, with a few infographic posters and old photographs. There are some glass cases, pieces of stone of old buildings, rusted skeleton keys, paintings of the town. As Cas wanders further into the display he gets a feeling at the base of his spine. It culminates in a vague tingling sensation as he stops in front of a glass case that holds an old knife. The blade is an old, double-edged dagger that wavers into a sharp point, and the hilt and its sheath are decorated with finely molded leather, all of it laid on an intricately patterned fabric. The placard describes it as the possible knife of one of the original settlers in the town, with the marksmanship similar to that of late Renaissance weapons. The blade has something in Latin engraved on it, but Cas isn’t sure what the translation is.

There’s nothing else of interest in the little museum, and all of the cases look like they’re merely locked with a key. He walks back to the main room. “Find everything?” the receptionist asks.

“Yes, thank you. Are you open tomorrow?” 

“Sunday? Nope. Did you need something…?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing important. I can come back another day.” He spots a sign and starts walking towards what’s presumably the ‘west wing’.

“Exit’s the other way,” she says.

“Oh. Um. Bathroom?” 

“My mistake.” She’s still smiling when Cas turns the corner. The men’s restroom copies the other hallway of the building, and he leaves one of the windows slightly ajar before leaving.

-

He waits until that night to head back. He isn’t especially skilled at breaking and entering. Apparently it isn't a skill baked into him like his occult knowledge. Dean had griped about it more than once. The town is small and quiet, and the parking lot didn’t have any parked cars, so Cas assumes there aren’t any nighttime security guards.  

The bathroom window is still cracked. He opens it the rest of the way and heaves himself into the building, lowering it shut again. There’s no telltale beeping of a security system as he creeps into the hallway, either. 

Moonlight is just starting to fade from the windows, providing a hint of light. He goes back to the display case with the knife. 

“I should’ve asked Dean to teach me lockpicking,” he mumbles, digging out the hunting knife from his belt. He smashes the hilt of it to the glass and it shatters. Carefully moving aside the larger pieces, he takes out the dagger. 

“I thought you were coming back another day.” Cas turns to the hall entrance. The receptionist is standing there, smiling at him. 

Cas stares at her, mouth agape. “Um,” he starts, “I suppose if I say ‘this isn’t what it looks like’, you’re not going to believe me.”

“Nope. Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?”

Cas flexes the grip on the weapon. “It’s - it sounds crazy, but there’s something in this town. Something bad. And I think it wants… this.” 

She walks closer, mouth quirking like she’s deep in thought. “Why would you think that?” 

Holding the knife, Cas can feel the sensation of something, but it’s clouded over by that oppressive force of energy that’s been covering the whole town. In fact, it feels even stronger than before. “I don’t know,” he says, slowly. “Why don’t you tell me?” 

The girl’s eyes flash black. Her smile stretches wide. “Aw, you stole my thunder. I was really hoping for a big reveal.” She tosses her hand out and Cas flies down the hall, dropping the knife as he’s slammed against the wall. It’s like a dozen appendages - hands, weights, ropes - all forcing him in place. She saunters over, picking up the weapon and turning it this way and that. “Whoever made this stupid display knew this was important. The case is warded to heaven and back. I figured my only hope was to have some dumb hunter come wandering by and get it for me, and here you are.” 

“It’s just a knife,” he says, pulling at the energy trapping him. The demon squints at him and gestures again, reinforcing the hold. 

“You know, that’s what I thought, too. But hey, orders are orders.” She taps the blade against her chin. “It’s older than you’d think, though. The rumor is it’s imbued with special powers.” Cas forces his attention on the bonds and wrenches free. He starts to stand, only for the demon to force him to his knees. It’s stronger than he had expected, and he grudgingly wishes he had some back up waiting for him. “Apparently… it can kill anything.” The demon kneels in front of him, and the blade slowly traces along his cheek. “I don’t know what the hell you are, but I bet it can kill you, too.”

“Doubtful,” Cas says. 

“You almost had me fooled, you know. Thought you were a hapless little human that wanted to fight some monsters, till I took a closer look.” The demon frowns. Leans in closer. “Maybe I won’t kill you. I think… that I have some friends who would be very interested in learning all about you.” 

Cas doesn’t bother replying. His powers work best when he concentrates, and focusing on a demon taunting him isn’t helpful.

“Aw, trying to break through?” It laughs, standing up. “You’re not dealing with a random foot soldier of hell, you know. A little pep talk isn’t gonna work against me.” She gestures to her body. “This one tried to fight me, too. I can still hear her scream, actually. Deep inside. It’s cute.” 

Cas jerks his arm free. The demon takes a step back. “What do you think you’re -”

He uses his powers to shove the demon back, and it slides down the expanse of the hall. He gets up and rushes it, making a grab for the knife. The demon dodges out from under him, making him spin around just in time for it to land a kick to his gut. He staggers back. 

“Enough messing around,” the demon says, raising a hand. But Cas is ready for it. He anchors his body to the floor, and the demon’s power whips across him, tossing the display cases and knocking posters from the wall. He doesn’t move. 

The demon flexes its hand on the knife, eyes Cas, the door, the windows. Cas lunges before it can make a decision, and they grapple for the weapon, knocking over the rest of the furniture. 

“What the hell are you?” the demon snarls, another telekinetic attack blocked. Cas feels a power coursing through him, as though he’s about to land that killing blow, but instead of flowing just to the exit point, it’s a cloud around him. He feels strong. Unstoppable. 

“You tell me,” he answers, making another grab for the knife.

The demon dodges again and Cas blocks its attack, then the next one. He’s backed into the wall, and the third strike lands. The demon shoves the knife deep under his ribs and twists before pulling out and backing away. Cas pants, waiting for the crushing pain to sneak in, waiting to die. He blindly feels for the wound.

He glances down. Presses on the red stain in his shirt. It feels… fine. He can already feel his skin and muscle knitting itself back together The demon is looking at him like it's just realizing the same thing. 

“...Are we sure that’s the right knife?” he asks at length. It snarls at him and comes forward again. 

He reaches out, finally able to pin the demon down. Maybe he can exorcise it if he can keep it still. “ Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” he begins. “ Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo, omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te - ” 

The demon screams and fights against his hold, breaking out to slash at him again. He pushes the demon, physically this time, and it smashes against the display cases, glass shattering under its weight.

The demon swipes its tongue over a bloody lip. “If you keep pushing me,” it breathes out, “then I’m just gonna kill her.” It twirls the knife around and points it at her stolen body’s stomach. “You wouldn’t want that, would you? Killing a poor, innocent civilian? Who knows,” the demon’s true eyes flash again, “it might just mean you’re as bad as me.”

Cas stills. ”You could be lying.”

“Could be. Do you wanna take that chance?” 

He breathes out, trying to think. Other monsters he could destroy. He needs to separate this demon from the host, but if he keeps doing an exorcism, it’s just going to kill the human. As far as he knows, it's not like he can whip up a devil's trap out of thin air. 

“...Fine,” he bites out. The demon laughs. 

“Smart boy.” It lifts up the hand holding the dagger, and starts to swing down.

Pull it out, something, somewhere says. Pull it apart . Cas doesn’t know what that means, but he reaches out just as the blade sinks into flesh, and then the demon throws its head back, black smoke billowing out of its nose, eyes, mouth. It drops the blade. The body sinks to the floor. Cas realizes he’s dragging the demon out of its host. For a moment, he swears he can see both of them. Something human, something not, mixed and jumbled together like oil and water, convoluted and wrong. He’s just separating what shouldn’t have been mixed together in the first place. 

The last of the smoke leaves the woman’s body, and Cas is left staring at a roiling black cloud. He tries to focus on banishing it, destroying it, but this time, his powers slide right through it like he’s cutting through a cloud. 

I can do this, he thinks. I can. The mist swirls and jabs at him, coming closer to his face, that malicious force bearing down on him. He can hold onto the demon, but he can’t seem to do much else, or send it back to where it came from. 

A cough snaps his attention to the side. The woman on the ground twitches. 

His lack of focus is all the demon needs to break free of his grip. He flinches back, seeing the dark mist loom over him. He can feel it leak inside of him, black smoke congealing into something like hot blood, all of it forcing itself down his throat. He knows he doesn't need air, but he's choking, trying to gasp at something clean that won't come. Cas shakes his head, wanting to fight it, gain back control, but he can’t - he can’t -

The mist crawls out of him. As he’s gasping for breath, he sees it vanish into the vents of the building. He staggers up, wondering where it would go to now, who it would infect. 

He takes a step towards the main hall when he hears a noise.

“H-Help…” It’s the receptionist. He goes to her, carefully turning her. “It hurts...”

“It’s okay, it’s going to be okay,” Cas says. There’s blood on her shirt. He puts his hand there even as the woman flinches away in pain. It’s just a stab wound, he thinks. More than anything he’s healed on someone else, but it should be fine. “You were being possessed,” he explains, the blood staining his palm. “The demon is gone now. It’s over.” She’s crying, and clinging to herself. “What’s your name?”

“T-Taylor. Is it - I - I can’t -”

He pulls his hand away and touches the hem of her shirt. “I’m checking this cut,” he tells her, “okay?” She nods, and Cas lifts up the clothing, wiping away what he can. The skin underneath is bruised, but otherwise unharmed. “Are you injured anywhere else?”

“I don’t know…” 

“That’s okay, I’ll help you. Come on, let’s get you out of here.” Cas puts her arm over his shoulder and another around her waist, starts moving out of the building.

“I… I stabbed you,” she says.

“I’ve had worse,” Cas says. His eyes catch on the knife on the floor. He awkwardly bends down. There’s still blood on the blade. He tucks it into an interior pocket of his jacket and packs Taylor into the car, starts driving back towards town. “I think there’s a hospital a few miles from here.”

“Okay.”

“How long were you…” 

She sniffs. “What month is it?”

“December. Early December. We’re in North Carolina.” She starts crying again. Cas reaches into his glove box, shuffling around until he finds a handful of drive-thru napkins. He passes them over. 

“T-Two months…” 

“Do you have a family? We can contact them.” She nods, but doesn’t say anything else for the next few mile markers. Cas thinks about the abhorrent wrongness of that demon trying to enter him, thinks about feeling that way for two months - a prisoner in your own body. 

“I had to watch.” Cas jerks in his seat at her voice. “In my own body. I kept - trying to fight it. And when I couldn’t… I just… tried to ignore the things…” She wipes her eyes. “If I fought harder -”

“That was a powerful entity, Taylor. You’re not a bad person because you couldn’t force out a demon that was possessing you.”

“Then - why didn’t it possess you?” 

Cas doesn’t know. He thinks that it might be because whatever he is, it doesn’t mesh with whatever the demon is. Something incompatible. “I hunt these things,” he tells her instead. “There are ways to protect yourself.”

“Great, nice to know now.” She dries her eyes and they finish the drive to the hospital in silence. Cas has to help Taylor fill out paperwork, her brain scrambled, her hands shaking too much. They get her into triage and she’s wheeled away. Cas waits in the lobby, watching the crowds of people coming in and others who are leaving, the doctors, nurses, CNAs passing through. He scrubs his hands, makes sure her blood is out from under his nails and the webbing between his fingers.

It’s late when one of the nurses comes by to let him know that he can see Taylor tomorrow. He goes back to his motel and calls Bobby. 

“So let me get this straight,” he says, “you found out you can lasso a demon with your bare hands like a goddamn psychic cowboy -”

“That’s a rather colorful analogy,” Cas manages. 

“Well it sounds like a rather colorful thing that happened.” 

“I’m not sure what happened. It was like… When I first felt that compulsion to close my eyes. It told me to - seperate the human and demon. The two didn’t belong together, so I just… set things right.” 

“Huh. Okay. But you couldn’t destroy the demon outright.”

“Not without putting it back in the host, I don’t think. I didn’t want a human dead because of me. I’m sorry.” 

“You did the right thing,” Bobby says. “Saved the girl, got the knife.”

“Not sure what good the knife is. The demon stabbed me with it. It didn’t do anything.” 

“Well, you’re hardly a litmus test for that, Cas. You can bring it back here and we’ll see what to make of it. If this demon has a boss that wanted it - it can’t be good.” 

“I guess. I don’t know when exactly I’ll be back.”

“What d’you mean?”

“The girl is terrified out of her mind, Bobby. She’s physically going to be fine, but she was possessed for two months. Her family is in Vermont. I was told I could see her tomorrow.”

“And what are you gonna do for her?”

Cas frowns, staring at the knife that’s laid out on the table. “I don’t know. I told her I had a way to stop getting possessed. I thought, maybe -”

“Oh, okay, I get it. You made a promise and now I have to stay up all night to see how you can set up some portable anti-possession contraption, is that it?”

“Well…” 

He hears a sigh. “You’re running my research trade offs for the next month, idjit. Let me see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Bobby. Really.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You’re as bad as Sam and Dean when they were kids, I swear.” He grumbles a bit more and hangs up. Cas looks at his phone, and dials Dean’s number. It rings and rings. 

“Hey -”

“Hi Dean -”

“This is Dean. Leave a message.” Cas frowns.

“Hi Dean,” he begins again. “I got rid of the demon. It was… possessing someone. I’m helping her out, making sure she’s okay. I don’t know when I’ll be done, but I’ll probably go to Sioux Falls right after. So, if you want to - I mean. You know where to find me. Hope things are going well for you too. Um. Bye.”

-

Bobby texts him in the morning telling him to check his email. He packs up his stuff and gets to an open computer at the library. The email attached has a picture. Cas prints it and brings it to the hospital.

Taylor looks better than last night. She looks tired, her hair matted on the side she was sleeping on, puffed up in wild curls on the other, makeup smeared. But she’s not crying, and not actively posing as a demon’s host, so Cas counts it as better. 

“I uh. Brought you something.” He sets down a coffee cup and a muffin. 

“Thanks.” She takes the cup but doesn’t drink anything. He slowly sinks into a seat.

“I can take you back to your parents, if you like. Or pay for a bus ticket. Whichever you prefer.”

She doesn’t react. “Demons exist,” she says. “I was meant to be studying for the SATs while demons exist. And - other things, too?” He nods. “You fight ‘em?” He nods again. She takes a sip of her drink. “I… I didn’t tell the psychiatrist that. I didn’t want to end up somewhere.” 

“Probably for the best,” Cas says with a sigh. “You’re not crazy, Taylor. Even if you might feel like it.” 

“My mom’s kinda like that - superstitious, goes to church every Sunday, but this, I mean. How do you just - go on. Knowing this stuff? How do you -” She runs a hand over her face. “If I go back. Make up some... I don’t know. Bullshit story about running off with a boyfriend or getting hooked on drugs or - whatever. How do I know that I’m gonna be safe? That my family’s gonna be safe?”

Cas unfolds the paper Bobby sent him and shows it to Taylor. “There are sigils,” he says. “Rituals. I can tell you about them. Things like salt and holy water that repel demons and other monsters. Protections you can put up around the house without your parents knowing. This here should work as an anti-possession charm. You can make it into a piece of jewelry. Keep it on you at all times.”

Taylor laughs. “ Just a piece of jewelry? No way. I’m getting that shit fucking tattooed across my back. Can’t take off a tat.” Cas blinks, stares at the sigil. Back at Taylor.

“...Once you get checked out, I think I could arrange that.” 

-

The tattoo is raw against his hip where the denim and his belt digs in. “In a way, the tattoo probably sells it,” Taylor says. “To my parents, I mean. They always thought I was little miss perfect, so…” 

“This wasn’t your fault,” Cas tells her, “none of it was.”

“I know. But, hey, gotta make it work for me, right?” It’s the first time he sees Taylor smile in the three days they’ve been sharing his car, so he doesn’t argue. They get to Vermont the next day, and Taylor rehearses what she’s going to say to her parents on the drive up. He drops her off further down the street. “I can walk you up, if you want,” he says.

“No. Um. Probably not. Not if I’m going with the crazy boyfriend story.” She smiles nervously. “But um. Do you mind just - hanging around for a little bit? Just in case… I don’t know. I’m being stupid, aren’t I?”

“I can stay. I think I can sense demons - I sensed the one in North Carolina. I can make sure nothing like that is up here.” Her smile gets more genuine.

“Thank you, Cas. Seriously - I don’t know what would’ve happened if you. Um.” She takes a breath. “You’re special, too, aren’t you?” He looks at her. “I mean, I felt the demon - stab me. I felt like I was dying. And you - the doctors said I just had some cuts and scrapes, but… you saved me.” 

Cas nods. Taylor leans over and hugs him tight. After a moment, he returns it. 

“Talk about a guardian angel,” she jokes. “If you wanna find me when I do my college orientation…”

“I’ll be around.”

She laughs, then pats her hair down, looking at her reflection in Cas’s rearview mirror. “Okay. Showtime, huh?”

“Call if you need anything.” 

“I will. Thanks. Again. And um. Take care of yourself, okay?” She gets out of the car and shuts the door, hand lingering on the handle for a moment before she walks away. Cas watches her, and in the distance he sees her go up to a house, knock on the door. A woman opens it. Cas hears the scream even from a block away, and they both envelope each other in tight hugs. Taylor doesn’t even look back before the door closes. 

Cas stays in the area, but he doesn’t notice anything amiss. Not in the papers, and not in his mind. Taylor texts him the next morning telling him her parents finished yelling at her and are taking her out for breakfast. He drives to Sioux Falls.

Bobby takes pictures of the knife and sketches out the symbols on the hilt. “I don’t know what that demon meant - looks about 17th century to me. Could make an argument for some sort of esoteric Medieval design, based on the shape. And it said it could kill anything?”

“Demons are known for lying, aren’t they?” 

“Not as much as you’d hope - didn’t lie about possessing that poor girl, did it?” Bobby considers the knife for a moment. “Well. Why don’t you hold onto it. I can research from the notes - try using it out in the field and see if anything comes of it.” Bobby hands him the blade and Cas reluctantly sticks it in his holster. “Now, in the meantime…” 

-

Cas drops by the Roadhouse a few more times with new books and a copy of the knife’s studies for Ash to look into. Ellen tolerates him, and the bartender - Ellen’s daughter named Jo - makes small talk with him sometimes. 

He’s waiting for Ash to get back with his most recent findings when he gets a text. 

“Who’s that?” Jo asks, rinsing out some beer glasses. 

phantom in old bliss.

“Just a case,” Cas says. Phantom. Well. Beats demons, he supposes. 

-

There are a few types of Old Bliss in the country. Cas assumes it's the one in Oklahoma. He makes a pit stop in Tulsa and grabs a local newspaper that mentions a man named Seth Richardson, CEO of a fledgling computer company, dead in his home from strange causes. He keeps going. 

He interviews Seth’s family and decides that it probably isn’t a haunted house issue. His wife, Vicky, mentions something about Seth having problems at work, so he heads to his office next.

He’s in an elevator heading up to the man’s floor when Cas feels a tingle up his spine. Over the last several months he’s gotten better at differentiating people he’s familiar with versus threats. This is something Cas hasn’t consciously felt before, but it’s like seeing the back of his own head - he has a pretty good idea of who’s near him. The elevator doors open and he’s proven right. 

There’s Dean. He feels himself smiling, lips pulling wider than they usually do. “Dean,” he says. “It’s good to see you.”

“Hey Cas,” Dean’s eyes are wide, then they narrow slightly, like he’s expecting something else.  Cas knows they didn’t part under the best of circumstances, but that doesn’t matter. They’re both here now, aren’t they? After a moment, Dean gets on the elevator. “You, uh. You look good.” Another office worker squeezes in with them and they stay silent until they go down two floors, the worker leaves, and they’re alone again.  “Are you here about the, uh, you know,” Dean makes a gesture.  

“Yes. I talked to the family. I was about to talk with his coworkers.”

“Huh. Talked to the coworkers, was gonna head over to see the family.” Cas nods. “Guess we’re tag teaming this one.” 

“I missed that.” 

Dean cracks a smile, rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, come on lone ranger, let’s go.” 

Chapter Text

Another head of the company named Aaron Groff dies next, with a rather haggard looking VP named Mike poised to take over the business. Dean does some more digging and corners an IT guy that quit, figures out that the ghost was most likely the vengeful spirit of a part-time engineer that made the company’s supposed lightning in a bottle, didn’t get any credit, and was murdered by his own bosses when he threatened to go somewhere else with his idea. 

The ghost is angry at its sudden death, but it’s not very powerful, being so new. The harder part is figuring out where the guy’s buried - the victim’s wife thinks Dean and Cas are a new group of corporate spies, and she refuses to talk to them when they try to contact her. They trail the slimy VP and a few days later spot the guy frantically trying to dig up the body of his ex employee for some trade secrets that got buried with him.

Cas feels sorry for the man who died - less so for his greedy boss - who tries to shoot both of them when they get closer. The ghost appears and that convinces Mike-the-VP to get going. They salt and burn the corpse until the ghost vanishes, taking his schematics with him. 

Dean watches him from the other side of the pit, face flashing between dark and smoke and flame.

“Don’t know why there was so much fuss over some blueprints,” Dean says, shoveling some dirt on the burnt out husk and heading back to the car, “The phones we have now are fine - as soon as they started about a ‘front facing camera’ I thought I was gonna fall asleep.”

Cas grimaces. “I suppose that man's business going down will have to be payment enough for murder.” 

"Yeah, well. Sometimes that's what happens. Good people die, bad guys go free." Dean drops the shovel into his trunk and wipes his hands on his jeans. “Wanna get wasted?”

-

Cas follows Dean to a bar, gets out of the car. “You weren’t going to change, first?” Cas asks.

“What am I, getting ready for a date?”

“You’re covered in grave dirt and I think we both smell like gasoline.” Dean grins.

“It’s a part of my charm. ‘Sides, everyone in there will just think it was a barbecue.” 

It’s a bit slow - being a Tuesday night might have something to do with it - and there aren’t many women around. Dean does a turn to survey the environment before jerking his head to a booth in the back. 

Dean watches him drink. He was watching him the whole case, too. But he doesn’t say anything. Not until he pounds back three beers in quick succession and clumsily grabs a fourth.

"So," Dean says, "how 'bout a toast?"

"We didn't do a toast before -"

"My buddy's first time slaying a demon and not getting torn to bits," he clinks his drink to Cas's and chugs half of it in one go. "What's your secret, huh?"

Cas isn’t sure if this is a premonition, but he has a sudden bad feeling. "What do you mean?"

"'Cause I heard you got something special up your sleeve." Cas pauses. Dean catches it and smirks. “Something so special you didn’t wanna tell me.” 

“I…” Cas swallows and drinks his own beer, biding his time. “Bobby told you?”

“Why? Anyone else ‘sides me know?”

“Just the psychic I’ve been working with.” Dean scoffs.

“Working with. What the hell do you work on with a psychic? Reading palms?” 

“Pamela prefers tarot cards.” At the mention of a woman’s name, Dean looks up at him.

“Pamela, huh? What’s she like? A loveable grandma, or did she not brush into the octogenarian stage of life yet?”

Cas frowns. He thinks Dean is trying to be funny, but the joke isn’t landing. “She’s about our age,” he admits. “She lives not too far from Bobby’s. She helps with meditation and opening one’s mind. She’s very nice.”

“Oh. A hippie. Figures. She put the moves on you, yet? Put on some Pink Floyd and pull out the good kush or somethin’?”

“It was mushrooms, actually,” Cas says. Dean chokes on his beer. “You shouldn’t be mean - you’ve never met her. I think you two would get along, actually.”

“Yeah, we are getting back to the ‘mushrooms, actually’ bit - and I don’t think any two-bit fortune teller has ever gotten along with me.” 

“I told her about you and showed her a picture. She said the three of us could get together and - why are you looking at me like that?” Dean’s holding in a laugh. He fights it for another minute before he puts his head down between his arms and lets it go, shoulders shaking.

He comes back up a second later, wiping at his eyes. “I wanted to be pissed off at you for turning into a mutant and going off to fight demons, but I really wasn’t expecting this side gig of getting hit on by a psychedelics dealer with EVP.” 

“I thought about telling you,” Cas admits. “It’s just - you’re…” He shifts in his seat.

Dean’s good mood vanishes again. “I’m what?”

“You’re a bit of a shoot first ask questions later kind of person, Dean,” Cas tries. “It works for a hunter, but - Bobby told me some hunters would rather start a witch hunt with a psychic than work with one.” Not to mention the other unexplainable phenomenon that goes beyond the realms of a measly psychic channel.

Dean’s face does something - Cas can only think of it as shuttering, like blinds in a window closing up. Security gates crashing into place. “Huh,” he says. “That’s me, isn’t it? Don’t think, just do it.”

“I didn’t mean it like that -”

“Right. My mistake.” Dean finishes the rest of his beer and stands up, chair scraping against the floor. “Well, it’s been fun, Cas.” 

“Where are you going?”

Dean shoots him a look over his shoulder. “You got those mystic powers - you figure it out.” He wanders out of the bar. Cas thinks he probably shouldn’t be driving, but he’s heard enough of Dean’s stories to know that, unfortunately, four beers wouldn’t be enough to cause any real trouble.

Cas slowly finishes his second beer and goes up to close their tab out. “What’s wrong?” the bartender asks, taking his card, “your boyfriend get pissed at you for not putting out?” 

“He went ahead to get a motel room,” he says blandly, taking the card back from the man’s limp fingers. “Have a nice night.”

-

Cas doesn’t look for Dean - he wants to, but he doesn’t think it will do much good. Instead he takes his clothes to a laundromat, reads, goes back to his motel and watches TV. He doesn’t sleep.

It’s around nine in the morning when there’s a knock on the door. He ignores the tingle up his back as he opens it. Dean’s there, because of course he is. He looks like he hasn’t slept either.

“So, a psychic, huh?” he says, inviting himself in. He shoves a grease stained paper bag at Cas. 

“That is still the term, isn’t it?”

“Smartass.” He flops down on the foot of Cas’s bed. “Psychic can mean a ton of shit. What kind are you?”

Cas puts the bag on the tiny TV stand next to the door. “Why do you need to know?”

“You said I shoot first, ask questions later. I’m mixing up the order.” He takes a sip of coffee from a to-go cup like it’s a challenge. “You got a problem with that?” 

“Dean, I’m sorry, I just meant -” a ball of Cas’s rolled up socks hit him in the face.

“So we can cross prophetic visions and telekinesis off the list. Can you set shit on fire?” 

Cas picks up the socks and tosses them at Dean, who catches them and drops them back into Cas’s duffle on the floor. Cas leans against the wall and thinks.

“I can’t predict the future,” he says, “but I can sense things… like. Auras.” 

“You’re fucking with me.”

“I sensed the demon that I was going after. It was… powerful, though, so I couldn’t exactly pin down where it was until it was right on top of me.”

“Phrasing, man.” 

“I sensed you, too.” 

“ Phrasing,” he repeats. “Seriously? Me? What’s that like?”

“It’s - I mean the radius is pretty small,” Cas says. “It’s just a little tingle that goes up the back of my spine.” 

Dean frowns. “I don’t need any part of you tingling when it comes to me.” 

Cas shrugs. “I can do it for Pamela and Bobby, too - since I spent so much time with them.” Dean groans. 

“Bobby? Eugh, that mental image is even worse.” He reaches his hand out and Cas passes him the bag. He takes out a rolled up breakfast burrito and gestures at Cas to take his own. “Okay. So you’re like a metal detector for people and demons. Anything else?” 

“Uh,” Cas had thought about what he would say to Dean, how he’d explain himself, but talking to the Dean in his head is much different than the Dean in front of him that’s tiredly eating greasy to-go food on his bed. “When I was fighting the demon I was able to… separate the host and the demonic spirit,” he admits. “Like pulling apart oil and water.” 

Dean stops chewing. “So your freaky Jedi mind trick powers means that you can just kill demons?”

“No. I can’t kill them when they’re just - it’s like a cloud of black smoke, swirling around. All hatred and evil, but it’s like the Kuri - not of this plane. I couldn’t do much with it, I had to let it go.”

“You let a demon go? ”

Cas winces. He didn’t like it, either, but he wasn’t sure what else he could do at the time. He didn’t want to leave Taylor in case the demon just took possession of her again, and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to attract the demon if the knife turned out to be a dud. “It was only in that town because it was looking for something,” he explains. “I took it with me - I figured if it finds another host it might just chase me down, but it’s been months. Maybe it went back to hell?”

Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then points at him. “I’m never leaving you alone again.” He shoves the rest of his breakfast into his mouth, gets up, paces around the tiny room. Shakes his head. After a minute he turns around. “That has got to be the stupidest idea - how did you know it wasn’t gonna possess you ?”

Cas didn’t know - and he wasn’t sure how much more he wanted to admit to Dean. “Bobby and I did some research about different sigils. We found things that could trap a demon, but he designed another sigil that can keep demons out.”

“So you just - what? Have a magic charm bracelet? You gonna give me a matching one?”

“Well... The girl who was possessed pointed out that you could tattoo it on your body, so it wouldn’t come off or get lost.” Dean’s eyes slide from Cas’s face down his frame.

“...You have a tattoo?” 

Cas nods. “Do you want to see it?”

Dean twitches a shoulder. “I mean,” he lets out a nervous huff of air, “always thought about getting some ink done, you know.”

Cas unbuckles his jeans and tugs the waistband down. 

“Whoa, uh -” Dean looks for a split second, then looks at Cas’s face, behind him at the wall, then back at his hip. He swallows. “There?” 

“I didn’t want it to be easy to spot,” 

“Yeah, I can see that. And that’s supposed to - stop a demon from taking your body out for a spin?”

Cas shrugs, buckling his pants again. “That’s what Bobby thought. The demon didn’t try,” he lies, “so I don’t know if  it will work on the field. But I trust Bobby.”

“Guess so. I’ll just, uh, leave you to test that theory, huh?” Cas waits for Dean to ask another question about his powers, but he doesn’t. Instead he mentions a possible lead for a case in Arkansas. “It’s only a few hours from here. I don’t think it’ll be difficult, so you know. If Bobby and your psychic master are expecting you - I can do it on my own, it’s just -”

“Dean,” Cas interrupts, “I’d love to go on a hunt with you.”

Dean blinks. “Pfft, alright. Let’s get moving then.”

-

Bobby calls Cas’s phone while they’re looking up leads the old fashioned way - this library only has one computer and the kid with the dungeons and dragons t-shirt isn’t letting anyone even look at it for too long. 

“Does Bobby need you for something?” Dean asks. 

“He just wants me to go to the usual spot for some intel -”

“- the ‘usual spot’? There some secret book club you guys started?”

“No,” Cas says, “though that does sound more fun.”

“You can go. I mean. That kid has to get tired of forum trolling eventually, right?” the boy seems to hear him, his glare hyperfocusing on where Dean and Cas have their books spread out.

“It can wait.” 

It takes them another three days to crack the case - it’s woodland faeries, of all things - and Dean keeps looking at Cas the whole time like he expects him to vanish into thin air. 

Apparently there are good fae and bad fae, and the ones that are making people disappear and causing structural damage in houses get captured by the ‘good’ fair folk. Dean grumbles about the lack of a fight, but they don’t really have enough materials or man power to take down the twenty something magical creatures that seem to be rather earnest about not getting involved in human affairs, so the case resolves itself. 

“You can come, if you want,” Cas offers. “Bobby has some books he’s running with this other researcher. He works out of a roadhouse that a bunch of hunters frequent.” 

“Huh. A roadhouse for hunters. A hunter run it?”

Cas nods. “Her name’s Ellen Harvelle, you gave me her number last year.” Dean pauses.

“She uh, ever mention me?”

“No. Nor your father. I never said how I got her information.” 

“Okay. Uh. Sure. Why not.” 

-

Dean’s in a bad mood: between the weird resolution of the faerie case and the lack of sleep - he has to drink to stop that one persistent nightmare from coming through, but then the hangover the next morning leaves him feeling like hell warmed over. 

They make a stop at Bobby’s and Dean watches Cas trudge up the stairs and knock on the door. Bobby doesn’t hug him or anything, but their level of familiarity is surreal when six months ago, the guy had been studying Cas like a hawk. 

He watches their book swap with some amusement - until Bobby starts loading some manila folders into his arms. “What’re these?” 

“The knife Cas has. It’s what the demon wanted. We’re tryna figure out why.” Dean eyes the holster at Cas’s hip. He had shown Dean the knife when he asked. It looked old and a bit hoity-toity, but nothing world endingly powerful. He understands why Bobby would just send him with drawings of the thing instead of passing it around like a hot potato, but the fact that Cas is walking around with the potential equivalent of demon catnip strapped to his hip does not improve his mood, either.

“Oh yeah, before I forget,” Bobby adds, going off to a side room. He comes back with a small velvet bag and puts it on top of the stack of books in Cas’s hands. Dean tucks the folders under his arm and opens up the pouch. He groans. 

“Seriously, Bobby?”

“Don’t whine at me, Dean - hunting’s dangerous enough. If you and Cas wanna go gallivanting off together then you better put those charms to use - I mean it.”

“What are they?” Cas asks, as Dean starts drawing out the bracelets and necklaces one by one. 

“Evil eye, cat’s eye shell, elephant hair - I’m taking this one -” he straps a brown bracelet onto the wrist not wearing his watch and pockets a nazar charm. 

“This too,” Bobby says, digging out a pendant and holding it out to Dean. It’s the same sigil that Cas got tattooed on his hip. 

Dean eyes it. “They’re really out there, huh? Demons?” He slowly takes it and puts it over his neck, hidden under his shirt. The cord’s shorter than the one for the amulet, so they’re not bumping together, at least. 

“They’re real,” Bobby answers. “Rare, but out there. Usually I’ll see a handful of demonic cases a year in this country, if that. But,” he sniffs. “Just take the damn things, will you?” 

Cas heads to the car to start packing up the various tomes and notes Bobby gave them. Dean watches from the window.

“You look like shit, by the way,” Bobby says, rustling around with something somewhere behind Dean.

“Thanks, Bobby. Missed you, too.”

“Bad case?”

“Nah. It’s nothing. Just - need more sleep.” 

“...You hearing things again?”

“No - no it’s not the Kuri. Just good ol’ fashioned nightmares. Really, Bobby. I can feel you staring at the back of my head.”

“It’s my house, I can look where I want,” he grumbles. Cas has slipped into the driver's seat. He’s carefully tying charms around the rearview mirror of his car. 

“Cas is really a psychic, huh?” Dean asks, as Cas struggles through tying a knot with the leather cord. “You sure that’s all he is?”

“Why do you ask?”

“He’s just - the amnesia is weird, Bobby, even you gotta admit that.” Cas puts one of the pendants around his neck and smiles at his reflection. “I just - I just feel like he’s not tellin’ me everything.”

“You’re not exactly an open book yourself, you know,” Bobby says, “not that I’m blamin’ you. Hunters aren’t the sharing and caring types. Cas can tell you when he’s ready.” 

“Yeah. I guess.” Dean turns away from the window. “Seriously, though - a psychic?”

“Your dad saw a psychic, you know,” Bobby said, “she told ‘im what he needed to hear - something evil killed Mary. The supernatural exists, got him started on the road to where he is now.”

Dean frowns. “...He never told me that. Do you know -”

“Never gave me a name, it was just something he said in passing, years ago. I just mean don’t write the guy off because he has some brand new, fuck off powers. Could be useful.” 

Cas comes back into the house. He has a silver sator square hanging from his neck and the remaining stack of bracelets on both his wrists, like he couldn’t decide which ones to choose. “Do we need anything else?”

Bobby glances at Dean. “Nah, you two get going. Tell Ellen I said hi.” 

-

The Roadhouse isn’t far, in the grand scheme of things. Cas shows him its location in his atlas.

They’re about halfway there when Cas’s phone rings. It's Dean. “Pull off at the next exit. This place has stupidly good fried chicken.” 

“You’re hungry?”

“Dude. Have you met me? I’m always hungry.” 

Cas finds Dean’s car and follows it to a little diner. He can smell frying oil as soon as they get inside. Dean looks like he’s in his own culinary element and already has his order ready to go by the time Cas sits down. 

The food is good, Dean looks happy eating it. Cas thinks the energy is good for him - he still looks tired from the morning, like he just woke up and hasn’t had any coffee yet. 

“So.” Dean wipes his hands with a napkin, passing it between his hands until it's a crumpled up ball. “We got reading auras, exorcising demons - anything else?”

“Are you going to throw things at me again?”

“Maybe.”

Cas tugs at the bracelets - they all feel too new against his skin, his body not used to them. “I suppose I have some telekinetic abilities.” 

“Seriously?” Cas nods. “You can move shit with your brain?” Cas nods again, taking a bite of chicken.

“When I was fighting that demon, it could move me, but… so could I.”

“Bend something, then,” Dean says. 

“What?”

“You can push a demon into a fuckin’ wall, you can bend some piece of metal. Here.” He takes an unused spoon from the place setting and holds it up. “Bend it.” 

“Dean, I don’t think -”

“Are you gonna make the windows explode or something?” Cas frowns. He thinks his control has gotten a lot better. Once when he was practicing with Pamela, he shattered all the lightbulbs in her house. That was a long, painful day at the hardware store.

“I don’t think so.” Then again, demons and ghosts were big targets compared to one measly spoon. And shoving something away probably took less finesse than bending an inanimate object.

Dean scoffs. “Well?” He holds the spoon closer to Cas’s face until he nearly goes cross eyed. He leans back and stares at it, and stares, and stares, until he’s not really looking at a spoon anymore, he’s just looking at what it could become. It’s a malleable thing that Cas can influence.

He glares at it and thinks, Dean thinks I can do it. If I could bend it with my bare hands, why can’t I do it like this? And he keeps thinking that until he feels his pulse beating in his temple and Dean starts to look bored and then - it rattles in Dean’s hand. 

And it bends. Ninety degrees, towards Dean. Cas stops there, pulling back and taking a centering breath. Dean glances around to make sure nobody noticed before observing the spoon, turning it in his hand. 

Cas watches him warily, unsure if that was impressive enough for Dean or if the other man just wanted this as a confirmation that Cas was too much for him. Too strange, too monstrous, too Other -

“There is no spoon,” Dean says suddenly, a big grin on his face.

Cas squints. “What?”

“You know, the psychic kids in the Oracle’s apartment? The Matrix? ” At Cas’s continued stare, he groans. “Dude! I told you about The Matrix like, twenty times. It was playing at that drive-in we kept passing when we were working that case in Utah and you said you’d check out the movie? It has Keanu Reeves! Carrie-Anne Moss in a leather tank top! And it’s all philosophical and shit. It’s like the perfect movie for you.” 

“Oh - yes. I think that was about the time you - with the Kuri.”

“I almost die like, every week, Cas. No excuse not to watch Theodore Logan turn into a sci-fi action hero who knows kung-fu.” He observes the spoon again before shoving it into a jacket pocket. 

-

They finish lunch and get to the Roadhouse a few hours later. It’s a grungy bar in the middle of nowhere. 

"Hm. I was thinking more along the lines of ‘batcave’, you know?” he tells Cas. There’s a few hunters sitting at tables when they come in - all of them immediately turning to stare. They turn back pretty quickly, though. Cas must be a regular, these days.

And to prove it, a petite blonde turns from the jukebox - Air Supply, Dean thinks, really? - she has a face that looks like it wants to be tough, but it breaks when her eyes go to Cas. 

She walks over. “Hey. Long time no see.” She looks at Dean. “This your friend?”

“Yes - Jo, meet Dean.” He smiles at her and holds out a hand. She grips it way too hard. 

“Pleasure,” she says, before slipping behind the bar. “What’ll you have?” 

Dean nurses his beer and listens to the overplayed 80s hits, trying to listen in on what the other hunters are saying. Cas seems to have a routine with Jo - he tells her a bit about the hunts, then asks to speak with ‘Ash’. She serves a few more drinks and ducks behind a service door. 

“Well, well, well,” a man with a goddamn actual mullet says, trailing out of the door behind Jo. Cas smiles at him. “Back at last. Find anything interesting this time?” 

“Yes.” He slams a collection of books on the bar, the noise loud enough a few hunters turn to stare. Cas pulls the manila folders out of his jacket and hands them to the guy Dean assumes is Ash. “There was a demon in North Carolina.” If the noise drew stares, the word ‘demon’ makes the bar to go silent. 

“A demon?” Ash asks. “How the hell did you come across one of those?”

“I didn’t - I learnt it from a source. It wanted that,” Ash is flipping through the sketches of Cas’s knife. “Apparently it’s a powerful weapon.” 

Ash whistles. “And where is it now?”

“In a safe place,” Dean says, not liking the continued stares Cas is getting. Ash looks at him for the first time.

“Who’re you?”

“A friend.” 

“Cas’s friend? Oh - Dean, right? Nice to finally meet you, man.” Ash tries to give him a high five. Dean raises an eyebrow. “Huh. Y’know, Cas made you seem nicer.” 

“He likes to play to my best qualities.” 

“Ash?” An older woman walks through the service door, holding a box. “Do you know where we put the -” She surveys the scene she walked in on: Cas with a spread of occult books and everyone in the bar staring at him with interest. “Oh hell. What does Bobby want now?”

“Hi, Ellen,” Cas says, “the same as usual.”

“And a demon knife.” Ash shows her the picture. Dean watches Ellen Harvelle’s face pinch before turning to Jo.

“Jo, try to see if you can find the case of Sam Adam’s.”

“But mom -”

“ Now, Jo.” She passes her the box and Jo gapes at Ellen for a minute before going to the back - she isn’t exactly stomping, but it’s close. She leans over the bar to get into Cas’s face. “What the hell is a matter with you? I appreciate the intel, and it keeps Ash busy, but demons?” 

“It wasn’t a demon knife,” Cas explains again, “a demon was after it. I got to it first.”

She lets out a laugh. “Great. Now that demon is gonna be on its way here, looking for it.” 

“That was months ago,” Dean says. Ellen’s eyes slide to him and he steels himself. “Cas made sure the demon wasn’t coming after him or the knife. It’s been three months, no dice.” 

“And who the hell’re you, coming here and telling me demons are no big deal?”

“I’m not saying that, uh. Ma’am. Just, uh.” Her glare hardens. “It’s Dean - my name’s Dean. I hunt with Cas, sometimes.” 

Her face doesn’t get friendlier, but it changes. “Dean. You got a little brother?”

“...Yeah?”

“You’re John Winchester’s boy, aren’t you?” 

He tilts his chin up. “I am.” 

She goes further down the bar and pours herself a shot of something clear. Downs it without flinching. “Your dad still kickin’?”

“When I talked to him last week.” 

“Figures.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ellen doesn’t answer. She looks between him and Cas. “Keep the demon shit outta here, you got it? Ash has a room, you know. You can discuss that crap back there.” Cas gathers up his books and Ash motions them to follow him. 

“That went well,” Dean whispers. 

“She didn’t kick us out,” Cas whispers back. 

Dean watches Cas and Ash exchange notes, but it’s all theoretical. Weird forms of magic, dead languages, deities, cults. Dean likes practical knowledge. What can kill something, how to solve a problem. He just lounges on the ratty futon while the two of them have their little team huddle.

Eventually they finish up, and head back to the main hall, Cas with a new collection of obscure texts. Ellen is still behind the bar, and Dean’s shoulders hitch up when she calls out to them.

“What is it?” Cas asks. Ellen stares at them both, again, like she’s reading something. 

“You boys going to Louisiana?” 

“Uh,” Dean glances at Cas. “Could be. Why?”

She turns and picks up a folder stacked behind the bar. “Some strange disappearances, suicides with no motive - all in one little town.” She holds it out and Dean takes it. “Think you can handle it?”

“We can try,” Cas says. 

Ellen nods. “Call when you finish it.” She turns from them and busies herself wiping out clean glasses. “Oh, Cas.” She plucks out a piece of paper and passes it over. “Looks like you got yourself an admirer.” 

Cas frowns, opening the notebook paper. 

“Heard you came passing through,” Dean reads, “if you have any further tips, call. Gordon.” 

“Hunter that specializes in vampires,” Ellen says. “He thought they were extinct till Cas called with the news. He kept pestering me for sources.” 

“I don’t have any news about vampires,” Cas says, tucking the paper away. Ellen frowns, shrugs.

“That’s what I figured. Alright. Get on, now.” 

Dean takes a deep breath once they get outside. “That was - uncomfortable.” 

“I think Ellen is just protective of her daughter,” Cas says, walking to their cars. “She told me her dad died in a hunt - I don’t think Ellen wants her to get mixed up in all of that.” 

“Yeah, well. Good luck doing that in a roadhouse packed with friggin’ hunters.” He flips open the folder. “You wanna get going, or -? I mean. If you want. I can do this on my own if you, uh.” Cas sidles next to him to read the newspaper clippings, the circled maps, pictures of dead or missing. Dean can practically feel his breath ghosting past his ear.

“Sure, we can go. Right now?”

“Uh, yeah? Yeah. We can get there by tonight and get a room.”

“Alright. Meet you there.”

Cas gets in his car. Dean gets into his, starts the engine, turns on the radio. Cas pulls away. Dean taps his fingers against the steering wheel and breathes, just breathes, before driving off. 

Chapter Text

They get a motel room just off route four. “Hey - Lucky, Louisiana,” Dean says, pointing to the map with a grin. Their notes are spread out. Cas eats some fries watching as Dean looks over the folder. “Did you know there’s a Pancake, Pennsylvania?” 

“No.” Cas chews for a moment. “I did see a sign for a ‘Truth or Consequences’, New Mexico.” Dean laughs. 

“Yeah, that game show did not deserve a town named after it.” Dean slaps a folder down on the table and looks at everything they have, a frown back in place. 

“What is it?”

“It’s just - d’you think Ellen gave us this case ‘cause she thinks we can’t solve it?” 

“Ellen’s given me cases before,” Cas says. “Usually she and Ash just keep an eye out on things and hold stuff for hunters.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Do you think she had other plans?” Dean wipes his mouth, staring at the print outs.

“No - I don’t know. It’s just. The way she talked about my dad. Pastor Jim said they used to work together. The Harvelles used to work with him. Something must’ve happened.”

“You’re worried she’s going to take it out on you?” Dean shrugs. “Ellen is... “

“Scary?”

“She’s a hunter who managed to retire,” Cas says, “I think she’s a lot of things, but I don’t think she’s about to sabotage another hunter. Even if she and your dad had a disagreement.”

“I guess.” 

“But she is kind of scary.”

“Shut up.” They poke at what sources they have before Dean gives up and takes a shower. He comes out in a t-shirt and boxers and crawls into bed. Cas does the same, turns the lights out. He meditates, wanting to center his mind - he hasn’t been around Dean in a long time, and this time around things feel different between them in a way he can't quite place.

He isn’t sure how much time passes, but he hears Dean gasp, then sit up. Nightmare, he thinks. Dean gets out of bed. Cas hears the light in the bathroom flick on before Dean closes the door.

Nightmares are typical for hunters - he knows Dean gets them sometimes. With the exception of the Kuri’s vivid hallucinations, he never wanted Cas to talk to him about it. If Cas was still awake when they happened, he feigned sleep instead. 

The bathroom door opens, light clicking off again. Footsteps coming closer.

It stops at his side of the bed. He hears Dean slowly breathing, shifting his weight from foot to foot while standing next to Cas’s head. 

Fingers gently brush through his hair - so light it could have been fabricated by his own mind - and then Dean moves away, back to his own bed. Cas hears the bed springs creak once. Dean sitting down. It takes much longer for the springs to creak again, the sound of blankets rustling. Cas thinks Dean doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night. 

Cas takes a shower in the morning - when he gets out Dean’s dressed in a suit, drinking coffee out of a to-go cup he must’ve picked up. “How’d you sleep?” Cas asks, rubbing his hair with his towel and tugging a shirt over his head. 

“Fine.” Dean looks at him, frowning. “Got an ID for a PI?” 

“Yeah. Is that what we’re doing today?”

“Gonna see what we can dig out of the police files. A few of these people turned up dead - some of them were just plain missing. Wanna see if they’re all connected.” Cas finds his suit and tugs on the pants, does up the shirt buttons and throws a jacket on over it. He fiddles with his hair until it looks a little neater. Dean’s still watching him when he turns back from the mirror. 

-

The police station in town is connected to the post office. Officer Branley takes one look at them, sniffs, and leads them through. “Yeah, not surprised. Some of these families - they care, I get it, but they don’t wanna accept that their kids are runaways.”

“Runaways,” Dean says, with a raised eyebrow. “There’s been quite a few disappearances ‘round here in the past decade.” 

“Look around - is this the type of place some rough and tumble teen wants to be?” 

“Not everyone who has gone missing are teenagers,” Cas interjects, watching Dean mouth the words ‘rough and tumble’ behind the officer’s back. “There was a Rob Cromwell -”

“Ah, Rob,” the officer sighs. “Yeah, that was pretty sad. He worked from home so he could take care of his mother, and once she passed he had nothing else going for him. All alone in that old house - he went out into the woods and offed himself, nothing more to it.” Branley sits at his desk and leans forward, staring up at them both. “If you two are trying to suggest some conspiracy -”

“No, not that,” Dean says, smiling politely. “Just, uh - trying to look at things from all angles.” He coughs. “Rob Cromwell - how exactly did he die?” 

The officer shrugs. “Hanged himself in a tree. Found him a week later. It was during the summer, too. Let me just say - not fun.”

“Great. Thanks so much.” 

They’re out of the police station again. “Well. That was pointless,” Dean says.

Cas frowns, watching a few retirees head into the post office part of the building. “Rob Cromwell committed suicide after his family died.”

“Yeah, Cas, thanks for the recap.”

“Do we know if any of the other victims had dead family members?” Dean pulls the list out of his pocket, waving his hand as a fly buzzes by his ear. 

“Let’s see - Victoria Shamus, Peter Couette, Ted Larson -” A woman about to open the door to the post office looks up at them.

“Did you just say Ted Larson?”

“Uh,” he and Cas glance at each other. “Yes?” She looks them both up and down.

“Don’t tell me Branley finally got some actual investigators down here,” she says. 

“We’re from the private sector, ma’am. We were made aware of some concerning disappearances, deaths - we wanted to see if there was a connection.”

“I don’t know about any connection, but Ted and I worked together for years.”

“He apparently took his own life in 2003,” Cas says, “do you have any idea why?”

“Well... His wife and daughter died in a horrible accident the year before - they went up north to visit in-laws for Christmas and hit a patch of ice, went into the oncoming traffic. The town kept talking about it for months. Poor Ted was devastated. He started seeing a psychiatrist in the next town over.”

“Before he - died. Did he mention anything strange? Start acting odd?”

“You think a depressed guy is gonna act normal?” she quips. “He got more… devout, I guess. Said he felt his wife and daughter with him. At first it comforted him, but as time wore on, I don’t know. He talked about going to some palm reader and doing a seance, and I don’t mess with any of that.” She shifts the package in her arms. “You two are gonna figure it out, aren’t ya? What happened to Ted and - the rest of them?”

“We’ll try our best.” 

“Good.” She nods, and walks into the post office. 

-

The psychiatrist’s secretary told them the PI act wasn’t HIPAA compliant unless they had a warrant, so they tracked down the ‘palm reader’ Ted saw before his death. 

“These places give me the creeps.” Cas gives him a look from the passenger seat before getting out of the car. “Is this where your Jedi master operated out of?” 

Cas opens the door to the shop. “The beaded curtains are an interesting décor choice,” he says. 

“Did you guys make an appointment?” They look over at a teenage boy walking down the steps placed at the front of the shop. “Gia’s on her break.”

“Gia?” Dean points back to the shop’s sign. “Thought her name was -" He looks back at the sign out front, "Isis?”

The teenager rolls his eyes. “That’s the stage name,” he says, before turning to shout up the stairs. “Mom!” 

After a minute a woman comes down, rubbing at her eyes. She gives them a tired looking smile and waves them over to an ornately covered table - complete with a crystal ball. “Don’t mind David, here. Sweetie, can you get our guests something to drink?” She eases down into a chair. Cas sits next to her while Dean prowls around the shop. “So, what brings you two in? A bit of fortune telling?” She leans forward, conspiring, “relationship advice?”

Cas smiles. Dean fumbles with a display of crystals.

“We’re actually here to investigate a series of deaths and disappearances in the area,” Cas explains. “We were told a man who passed away two years ago frequented your shop shortly before he killed himself.”

She deflates back into her seat. “Ted, you mean? That poor man.” 

“Why was he coming here, anyway?” Dean asks.

“He lost his family,” she explains. “You know who makes up nearly ninety percent of my clientele? People who have lost someone. People who are lonely - so lonely they’re going to try to reach beyond the veil just to see the ones they love again.” 

“Did Ted ask about anything else? Mention anything strange?”

Gia tips her head up. “He mentioned hearing his wife and daughter - usually late at night. They’d talk to him.”

“That sounds healthy,” Dean quips.

“It was unusual. Can’t say that’s something extremely common, even in this line of work. He promised he heard them, clear as a bell. Swore up and down his house was haunted - but he liked it. Meant they were still with him.” 

“Do you think that was true?”

She stares at Cas in a way that makes him think she's seeing something far away. “Have you ever lost someone? Someone close to you?” Cas stares back. He wonders if they're even looking at each other. “Well, it changes you. Might just make you crazy, sometimes. If that’s what he wanted to believe, then,” she spreads her hands, “who am I to tell him to stop it?”

“Because he’s living a lie,” Dean says, “and he died for it.” 

Cas gives her his cell number in case she can remember anything else, and they head back outside.

“I think she has something to do with it,” Dean whispers as they walk back to the car. 

“On what grounds?”

“I don’t know - voodoo? El Palo Mayombe? Maybe some good ol’ Americanized black magic?”

“Palo Mayombe is typically practiced by -”

“Whatever, Cas.” He holds up a velvet bag. “This has ‘hex bag’ written all over it!”

“Let me see.” Cas opens the sachet and pours the contents onto the roof of the Impala.

“Dude! You’re gonna curse my car.”

“Rose petals, cedar wood shavings, dried lemon peel, and… rosemary.” He sweeps the contents onto the ground. “It’s potpourri.” 

Dean opens his mouth, snaps his shut. “Well,” he says stubbornly, “it could’ve been like. A love spell.”

“I don’t think it works that way.” 

“How do you know? Doing some late night witchcraft?” Cas frowns.

“Let’s put a pin in the fortune teller theory for now. There has to be something more to this. Was there a library back in town?” Dean groans.

“Just once I’d like to do a case without any reading. I want to be able to follow my gut instinct and gank something with a twenty-four hour turnaround.” 

Cas opens the car door. “Keep dreaming.”

-

They sift through the files on the missing people, the suicides. “This one lost her kid, this one got indicted for killing their ex but got acquitted, and this one lived with her grandparents before they both kicked the bucket.” Dean drops the files down next to Cas’s table.

“So they all have lost people close to them,” Cas says. “Are they being haunted?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I checked on your new pal Gia, and check this out," Dean shoves an old newspaper article at him. "'Local teens trespass on old watering hole. One dead.'" Cas sees a young girl who bears a resemblance to Gia and her son.

"She didn't mention hearing any voices."

"That's not something people would want to advertise. Besides, what if she's trying to like, resurrect people? She wants her daughter back but it's all going horribly wrong, you know, Re-Animator?" Cas gives him a blank look. "Seriously, man?"

"Somehow I don't think a necromancing witch would be pretending to be a psychic for fun," Cas says. "Have you heard of someone that powerful?"

"Nothing that I've come across. But why are there so many of them here, in one spot? Some of their family members aren’t even buried nearby.” Cas shrugs. “Can you… sense spirits? Like you can with demons and people?”

“Sometimes. If they’re close.” 

“Like Casper the friendly ghost close or Patrick Swayze close?” Dean asks, waggling his eyebrows. Cas looks up at the ceiling for a moment.

“If this thing is targeting victims who have just lost someone close to them,” Cas says, getting up and walking over to the front of the library, “then we just have to find its next target.”

“And how do we do that?”

Cas bends down and takes a newspaper from the complimentary rack, displaying the ‘Lucky Louie Herald’ and folding it open. He sits down next to Dean and points to the obituaries. 

“Funeral crashers? Charming.” 

-

The two of them kick around in town for a while, sneaking around the back of funeral parlors and seeing who looks more distressed. It’s not exactly what Dean would describe as a fun time. 

Of course, most hunts aren’t fun . But he keeps having that damn nightmare, for one - he figured that would stop, if Cas is sleeping in the next bed over. He doesn’t put much stock in omens and that sort of hippie crap. Rock salt is one thing, you can test that out in real time. But the repeated dream just makes him worry something… bad is going to happen. Something he can’t control, can’t see coming. He doesn’t like it. 

He leaves Cas to bother the locals and puts together a cleaner’s uniform - the funeral angle wasn't working, so maybe he can get into the psychiatrist’s office another way. 

When he pulls up to the building, he sees the palm reader walking out. He takes out his phone, nestling himself into a corner of the building where he's hidden.

“Cas,”

“Yes, Dean?”

“I saw that Gia chick - she went to the same therapist as Ted’s. Or she’s snooping around.” 

“Do you think that has something to do with the case?” Dean gets out of his car and ducks behind the building, watching Gia get into her own car. The wind threads through the trees around them and she tugs a handkerchief out of her purse.

“I don’t know yet. I’m gonna find out.” 

More workers file out of the building, heading home for the night. They don’t give Dean’s plain looking jumpsuit a second glance. He finds a storage closet and lifts a mop and a bucket full of cleaning supplies. When he gets up to the therapist’s office, it’s locked tight. He picks the keys and eases in.

There isn’t anything new on Ted Larson, and he doesn’t see any files on other recent victims, but he eventually digs out Gia’s file. There’s a note clipped to the papers about whatever they talked about in today’s session, but it’s brief and doesn’t tell him anything.

He digs through the nearby desk  and finds a tape recorder. Hits play. 

“ How are you doing today?” an unfamiliar voice asks. Gia’s voice responds and Dean skips through the tape. “Losing a child can be - it’s only been two years since the accident - and you don’t have any family history of schizophrenia or bipolar -” Dean stops. Rewinds.

“I just don’t understand, ” Gia’s voice is back, unsteady like she’s been crying. “I just keep hearing her, when I’m working, when I’m trying to sleep.” 

“What does your daughter say to you?”

“She tells me she misses me, and she loves me. She keeps saying - come to me. Come to me - sometimes I wonder if I…” 

Dean shuts off the recording and rushes out of the building, back into the car. He calls Cas. “Meet me at the psychic’s place,” Dean tells him, “the thing in this town? It’s not a ghost.” 

The house is dark, so is the storefront. He doesn’t get a response when he knocks, so he sneaks around back. 

He hears something. Gia’s voice, again, somewhere above him. Then a little girl’s voice responding back, further out in the woods. He digs out a flashlight and shines it out into the black wilderness behind the house.

There’s a set of shining eyes staring back at him. The creature’s mouth opens and he hears, “Come to me, come to me, mommy,” and glass above him shatters. Dean shoots at the creature, before turning to the visceral sounding thump that echoed out next to him. Gia is there, groaning, rolling around in the grass.

He looks up and sees her son in the bedroom window upstairs. “Mom?!” 

“Call an ambulance!” Dean yells up at him. “She’ll be okay.” 

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Dean turns to stare out at the woods where the crocotta disappeared to. “Fixing this mess.”

-

He doesn’t know where Cas is, but he can’t risk waiting around. Crocottas were nasty things, taking on the shape of weird coyote-dog hybrids and mimicking the voices of anything - usually people who had died. They only ate about once or twice a year, and they were always hungry. 

Dean keeps his flashlight and gun together, shining the beam of light around the dense foliage. He can hear bugs, a river running by. He smells something sour on the air and follows it deeper into the forest. He thinks about all those old fairy tales. Hansel and Gretel. Alice in Wonderland. Thinks about going so deep he can’t find his way out. The stench is getting worse; a fly buzzes by his ear. 

“Dean?” 

Dean turns around. “Cas?”

“Yeah - David told me you came this way.”

“Where are you? I don’t see you.” 

“I’m here.” There’s sounds of footsteps crunching. “I didn’t bring a flashlight.”

“Typical. Do you smell that?”

“Yeah - trash. What is this thing?”

“A crocotta. I hunted one with dad, once. They’re like wendigos - they can impersonate people’s voices. They live in filth, too. We’re probably getting near its nest.” 

He hears more footsteps, a twig breaking, Cas breathing. He keeps moving, deeper into the forest, Cas following him. 

His foot slides down unexpectedly - he holds his gun tight, but his flashlight is left to splash into the stream as he tries to keep his balance. A hand grabs his arm and yanks him back onto solid ground. 

“Thanks,” he says.

“Any time.” Dean sniffs, turning his head. He can see the outline of Cas’s coat where the moonlight sneaks through the trees. Great. Now they’re lost and blind. 

He hears something else, further in the distance. “Shh.” He waits, Cas’s hand still gripping his arm at the elbow. 

“Dean -”

“Shh! That could be the crocotta.” Cas falls silent, hand flexing on Dean’s arm. The noise gets closer. Another fly buzzes past Dean’s ear. 

“Dean!” A distant voice shouts. Dean goes stiff, Cas’s grip on his arm tightens. “Dean, it’s me! Where are you?”

“Don’t say anything,” Cas whispers in his ear; Dean shivers. “Let’s go deeper.”

“No, we have to fight this thing.” 

“I just want you safe,” Cas says, “come with me.” 

Dean stares into the black expanse of trees, waiting. More steps, more calls of his name. Cas’s hand slides up from his arm to his shoulder, fingers touching his neck. 

A beam of a flashlight breaks through the darkness. “Dean?” Cas shouts. The fingers at his neck edge towards his throat.

“Come to me,” Cas says. Dean glances beside him and sees a gaping maw of needle-like teeth. 

He bolts back, falling on his ass. The flashlight bobs up and down as Cas runs towards him. The crocotta dives down, mouth open wide, hands holding him down. He feels teeth pierce him, through his clothes, and he kicks up and out until he’s free, side growing hot from the open wound. 

“Dean!” It’s Cas - really Cas - by his side. “What is this thing?”

Dean shoots at the thing and it dodges, disappearing into the night again. “Spinal column,” Dean pants, “it can sound like anyone.” 

“Stay here,” Cas says. “I can go after it.”

“No!” Dean swallows and reaches out blindly, grabbing at Cas’s shirt. “No. We go together.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I’ve had worse. Come on.” 

They follow the stream for half a mile. There’s lights in the distance. Multiple lights. A car goes by. “Must be on the other side of town,” Cas says. Dean’s still pressing at his side. “We can come back.”

“No. We can’t.”

On the other side of the forest there’s the post office and police station, grocery store, school. A small light is on above the police station, a bug light buzzing nigh constantly. “Come on. If the officer’s in there he can get you some help.”

“Goddamnit Cas, I’m not leaving you till this is done.”

Cas frowns at him. “I’ll be okay.”

He might be. Dean was the idiot. He thinks of that body in Montana and steels himself against a new wave of pain. “Yeah. ‘Cause I’ll be there.” 

Officer Branley opens the door and waves them in. Soon as it closes again, the teeth come out - why is Dean surprised. The crocotta lunges for him again - he’s the weak link, now, with his injury. It’s harder to fight it off - those big teeth closing down around his throat - 

The crocotta stops. A look of shock passes over its grotesque face before it slumps on top of Dean. Cas pulls a knife out of the back of its neck and shoves it to the side, gets Dean up off the floor. 

“Shot the sheriff, huh?” Dean jokes, lungs squeezing in his chest.

“It was a stab wound, Dean.”

“Whatever. How good are your medic skills?”

-

Cas says Gia was alright when he got to the scene, disoriented and probably with a broken bone or two, but two storeys isn’t usually a fatal fall. They steal the police officer’s keys and pack the body into the trunk. Cas drops Dean off at the motel while he finds a  ditch to dump the car in, Dean slaps a bandage on the wound and follows him in the Impala, gets them both back into the room.

Dean thinks about how Cas saved him - from the Kuri, from the Crocotta. From that goddamn poltergeist when they first met. He even had the balls to go see the Harvelles and start a hunter network of his own - something Dean never did. 

Cas even patches him up because he can’t really reach that part of his body and his attempt was pretty shitty. “No offense, dude,” he grits out, slinging back a swig of vodka, “but you suck at this.”

“I don’t have to stitch people up very often.” Cas says it matter-of-fact. It stings.

“Then you get stuck with my sorry ass.” He pours another mouthful down his throat before handing the bottle back to Cas. He tries not to cough or let his eyes water from the alcohol burning his insides or stinging the deep cuts on his skin. 

“We killed the Crocotta, that’s all that matters.”

“You killed it,” Dean says, yanking the bottle back. “You killed it and saved me and the civilian.”

“I guess.”

“No, really. You’re the one with the intel, the kills, the freaky powers that come back and save the day. I’m just meat.” 

“Dean.” Cas smoothes some butterfly bandages over the stitches. “I... don’t really work with other hunters. I can use them to exchange information, but I always end up working alone.”

“Well, you don’t need anyone else, do you? You can handle yourself.”

“I only like hunting with you.” Cas’s hands still move over the bandages, touching the edge of skin before it actually starts hurting. He thinks about that crocotta’s hands on him, all gentle and friendly, the stolen voice in his ear. He has to suppress a shiver - this is all Cas, now. One hundred percent. “You make it seem like an adventure,”

“Oh. An adventure.”

“Well. Like there’s a point.” 

“Besides saving my ass?”

“I think we save each other.” 

Cas finishes checking him over. He might not be good at first aid, but Dean reluctantly admits to himself that he feels better than when he got into the room. Well. Better than he should feel under the circumstances. He settles into bed and passes out.

He dreams about the guy again. The one in Montana. He's covered in rusted blood and stuck to the frozen ground. He knows it isn't Cas, knows it's a dream. It doesn't help.

The eyeless corpse snaps its neck to the side to look at him. "Dean," it says, in a familiar voice. Its mouth has razor sharp teeth emerging from the gum line. It sits up. "Dean." A hand touches his arm.

He jolts up, trying to jab whatever it is in the stomach. Someone lets out a gust of air, his aim true despite waking up from a dream.

He turns on the bedside light. Cas is doubled over, rubbing his abdomen. "Ow," he says, squinting at the sudden light. 

"What were you doing?"

"Waking you up from a nightmare." He straightens up. "Your side is bleeding again."

Dean is still bone tired and cold, too, now that he's out of bed and sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, Cas on the edge of the tub trying to make sure his body stays shut. 

"What were you dreaming about?" 

Dean winces when Cas pours more antiseptic over the cut. "...Bad hunt. A few months back. Guy I couldn't save. He looked like you," he adds, because he's too tired to remember why that's something to keep to himself. “And that fuckin’ crocotta - sounded like you, too.”

"I'm sorry." He fastens more bandages to his side.

"It's life, isn't it?"

Cas finishes up and closes the first aid kit. "You haven't been getting enough sleep."

"Yeah," is all he says. Something about the way Cas talks takes the fight right out of him. 

Cas washes his hands and wets a washcloth, puts it to his side. The cool water makes him shiver, goosebumps rising all over. They're leaning close, heads bent, looking at Dean's body.

"Cas,"

“Hm?”

“Why?” he swallows. “Why me? I mean -” he starts, tilting his head up. Cas follows, and the angle must've been weird, faces in too close proximity. Their lips ghost by each other and Dean moves back like he got hit. 

"Sorry," he says, even though it was an accident. Wasn't even anything, really. Cas's body heat is warming up the damp towel, water trickling down his ribs.

"It's okay," Cas says. He's an inch away and the gap between them is a hundred foot drop. His lips are overly pink and perpetually chapped, like always. His eyes are that unreal blue, focused on Dean's mouth. A mouth that got him a lot of attention for a lot of bad reasons. He doesn't want Cas to stop looking. 

"Cas," he says again. Swallows. The guy in Montana got a funeral. The crocotta’s in a ditch where no one will find him till Dean and Cas are long gone. It’s just them. Just them.

Cas moves the washcloth moves away. He feels damp fingers against pained, bruised skin. Cas’s hand cups the bandaged wound like he can heal him. “It’s okay,” he murmurs again.

Dean reaches down and feels Cas’s fingers, the back of his hand, warm and wet.

"Yeah," Dean says, "yeah." He kisses Cas. It's slow, closed-mouthed. It would be boring if Dean wasn't currently tearing his mind in two, if his heart wasn’t pounding all the way up to his throat.

Cas breaks away first. Puts all the gentleness of the kiss into taking Dean's hand in his and getting him to his feet, leading him back to the room. Cas tucks him into bed. Goes to shut off the bathroom light. Comes back.

Cas’s hand hovers over the bedside lamp. "Wait," Dean says. He's still cold and tired and banged up. He can't think of what to say, or he's too scared to say it. He flips the covers down at the corner and stares resolutely above Cas's eyebrow, hoping he gets the idea.

"Are you sure?" Dean manages to nod.

Cas turns out the light. Dean can't see in the ten seconds his eyes adjust to the darkness. He hears rustling, bed springs squeaking, the body that stretches out next to him.

He stiffens when a hand brushes up his bicep. The hand stops. "No, it's - go 'head," he rasps out.

Cas kisses him this time. Dean lets him. Kisses back till the hand around his shoulder grips him tight. 

He falls asleep and doesn't have any dreams.

Chapter Text

Dean can move better than he would’ve expected, by the next morning. He doesn’t say anything, but he ends up tapping his foot against Cas’s while they eat breakfast at a diner down the road. 

“I can call Ellen,” Cas says, “tell her we cleaned up.”

“Sure. Bobby talked about something in PA. Wanna go do that next?” He frowns, thinking of the Roadhouse and the other hunters within. “Unless -”

“Is it in Pancake?” Cas asks seriously. Dean snorts, throws some cash on the table. They check in on Gia and David, make sure both of them are gonna be alright. Then they head out of town, back north.

They drive in separate cars, as usual. Dean pops in a Zeppelin tape and rolls his windows down, hoping that maybe if he sings loudly enough the thoughts won't squeeze into his brain.

An hour in it gets too cold and he rolls the windows up. An hour after that he rolls just the driver's side down so he can smoke without getting the smell in the car. He turns off the player and keeps the radio on low.

They go up I-81 until they hit Knoxville, where they stop for the night. Dean gets the room key and tells the front desk his friend’s coming by. “About my height, dark hair, blue eyes, tell ‘im where I’m at, will you?”

The clerk looks at Dean. “Y’know the room’s a double, right?” 

Dean feels a blast of heat wash over him, like when he drops a lighter onto a gas-soaked pile of bones. “Obviously,” he snaps, taking the key and his duffel with him. He puts his bag at the foot of the bed, by the door. Thinks about unpacking, decides against it. They’re only staying the night. 

He takes a shower. While he waits for the shitty water heater to get with the program he peels back the bandage at his side with morbid curiosity. The black thread sticks out against his pale skin, the wound lined with bruises from the crocotta’s teeth. He pokes at it; it’s sore, but it doesn’t have that sharp pain that he half expects. He redresses it and scrubs himself down, looks at himself in the foggy mirror as he pulls on new clothes. 

There’s nothing different about him, no discernable mark like he half expects. 

When he gets out Cas is already there, on the other bed, reading a book. “Ready?” he asks.

“Ready for what?”

“Dinner, I figured.”

“Right. Yeah. Let’s do that. Uh. Somewhere with a bar, for the love of everything that’s holy.” 

-

There’s a bar that serves some half decent burgers and is doing a Thirsty Thursday special, so it works for Dean. He and Cas sit next to each other at the bar, but Dean stares resolutely ahead. He hears the clamoring around him; drinks, chatter, the door opening and closing, letting the frigid air in. Some women walking by make eye contact, their faces only betraying interest, nothing else. He smiles back. Winks at a bouncy looking blonde. 

Cas coughs next to him. “What?” 

“Nothing,” Cas takes a pull of his beer. “Do we know anything about the case?”

Dean signals the bartender and thinks. “Bobby said it was hunters that went MIA. My guess is they didn’t join up with whatever is running around in the Appalachians to sing kum-bay-ah.”

“Wendigo?”

“Nah,” Dean takes the new glass of whiskey and sips at it, “they’re out west.” Dean spins around to look out at the bar. “He also mentioned ley lines.” 

“Who’s interested in ley lines?” Cas asks. There’s a pool table in the corner, some guys and their girlfriends finishing up a game. There’s a third wheeler in a UTenn shirt that gives him a second glance and he wiggles his fingers at the side of the glass in a little wave. “Dean?”

“Huh?”

“The ley lines?” He looks at Cas and when he looks back at the pool table, the girl is back to watching the game.

“Can’t we take a break tonight, man?” 

“A break?” 

“Yeah, Cas. A break.” At Cas’s furrowed eyebrows he adds, “let’s just wait to talk about the case till later, okay? Go do something else, have fun. You know?”

“What did you have in mind?” Dean glances back towards the pool table. 

“Well. I’m going to beat some townies at pool. You can do whatever you want.” He smiles, takes his drink, and wanders over. The group is about done with their game, so Dean squeezes in on the next one. 

The girl’s name is Valerie, and she doesn’t go to UTenn these days; she’s back at home working at an animal shelter. Dean has the slight suspicion he might be allergic to cats, but he listens to her talk about them for half an hour in between teaching her just the right way to sink a billiard. She smooths down the collar of his jacket and slips her phone number into his pocket, lips trailing just by his ear. She’s not the one night stand kind of girl, but if he’s around town… She goes home with her friends and Dean plays another round, pockets some cash, and only then does he bother glancing back at the bar. 

Cas isn’t there. He frowns, scopes out the area, but Cas is gone. 

“Your buddy settled your tab,” the bartender tells him. “You want anything else?” 

Dean bites his cheek. “Uh, yeah. Yeah.” He peels out a twenty and passes it over. “Can you make that a double?”

-

The next day they drive until they’re in some town right on the edge of Amish country. They stop in a little diner. Cas has newspaper pages spread out until they’re almost touching Dean’s plate. He’s flipping through his journal and sipping coffee like he’s too important to talk to Dean. Dean wants to be annoyed, poke and prod for attention he doesn't really want, but then again, his hangover isn’t gone yet and he doesn’t know what he’d do with Cas’s eyes staring full force at him. 

Bobby didn’t have many other clues, so Dean’s stuck tracking down where, exactly, these alleged ley lines are and why that could make hunters disappear. He and Cas kick around for a few days, trying to find something, anything. The motel room gets smaller every time Dean comes back to it.

He doesn’t have a nightmare or anything, but when he wakes up he looks at Cas first thing, just to make sure he’s still there. Then he grabs a shower, comes back out. Cas is up and dressed and staring at Dean.

“What?”

“Nothing - I was thinking about going to the historical society in the next town, I think I saw something about the founders -”

“Yeah, sure, knock yourself out.” He tugs on a t-shirt and an overshirt, his jacket on top of that. His skin is still damp, cloth dragging uncomfortably as he works a pair of jeans up his thighs. He belatedly realizes they’re Cas’s and curses under his breath. “I’m gonna see if any of the locals have seen the missing hunters.” 

“Oh. I can come with you.”

“Nah. S’fine.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, still damp and not really styled. He weighs the option between wearing his own goddamn pants and getting some air. He grabs his wallet, keys, knife.

“Dean,” Cas says, Dean gives him a look over his shoulder. “You. Um. Are…” He frowns. “We’re okay, right?”

“Oh God. Spare me the chick flick moment, Cas. I’ll see you later.” He shuts the door. Hesitates there, back to the motel room, facing the desolate March landscape in front of him; piles of plowed snow and dead trees, white and gray. 

Dean pokes around town for a bit, finds a few more missing suspects, all men, middle-aged or younger, but it’s hard to say if that’s related to the case or just the misfortune of living out in the middle of nowhere. He gets a break in the case from one of the waitresses he’s trying to flirt with, of all things. “If you’re plannin’ on staying ‘round here longer, I can always take you to Emporium.”

“What do they sell there?” Her name is Kim, she’s a redhead, her ankh necklace dangles in Dean’s face when she puts down his plate. 

“It’s a town, silly. Not too far from here. They got some weird kinds, just moved in.”

“Weird kinds?”

She shrugs a shoulder. “I think they’re just hippies that wanted to come out here. They got a little studio set up, do artsy things.”

“Do I look like an artsy kinda guy?”

“Yeah, if a girl asks real nice.” Dean grins and preens until she giggles, tops off his coffee, and heads off. Dean watches her head back to the kitchen before digging out his phone. Cas texted him a pixelated image of the various ley lines that crossed over the state, as well as a message saying the last two hunters that passed through before disappearing had also stopped by the historic society, poking around and asking enough pointed questions that the staff was jumpy. 

Dean checks the maps in his car on his way, compares them with the picture Cas sent, and calls Bobby.

“Bet you twenty bucks its witches.”

“Considering you’re on the case, no deal,” Bobby drawls. “What did you find?”

“Nothing much yet. Just a little art village in Amish country called Emporium.” He flips a page in the atlas. “It’s right over the ley lines. I’m sure witches love that shit.” 

“Alright, see what you can find. Cas have anything to say about it?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“He isn’t with you?”

“Uh. No? We’re not attached at the hip, you know.”

Bobby snorts. “Fine, not my business. Just make sure you actually take him with you. Whatever’s out there has to be nasty.”

When he hangs up, the same waitress is coming out of the diner, fishing out a carton from her apron. Dean smiles and shuts the car door, ambles back over to her. “Got a spare?”

“You got a light?”

Dean flicks out a lighter and she passes him a cigarette. He lights both of them up and they stand against the side of the diner. 

“When do you get off?” Dean asks. She snorts, flicking her low ponytail over her shoulder. 

“Guess that depends on you, doesn’t it?” She slips something out of her apron and passes it over. “I’m working a double today, but maybe tomorrow?” 

“Sure,” Dean says, glancing at the card. The front has a pottery studio with an address in Emporium. On the back is a phone number. It smells like lilac. “Thanks for the smoke.”

“Thanks for the light,” she says, smirking. She flicks the butt to the ground and wanders back inside. 

-

Dean doesn’t go back to the motel right away, he drives around instead, biding his time. 

Eventually, Cas calls him. “Dean. Where are you.”

“Investigating. What are you, my mom?”

“I just wanted to see if we could go out to this town -”

“Emporium?” Dean drawls. “Way ahead of you.” He turns back towards where they set up camp. Cas is at the motel when he gets there, open books littering the table and a few migrating onto Cas’s bed. 

“How did you hear about Emporium?” Cas asks. Dean digs the card out of his wallet and flicks it over, onto the page of Cas’s book. Cas picks it up, examining the front and back. 

“You can only read so much - sometimes you just gotta go around and talk to people to get results - and boy, did I get results.” Cas frowns, takes the card, and shoves it into his pocket. “Wh - hey! What if I wanted to call her?”

“...Did you?”

“I mean. I don’t know. She was hot, I guess. Redhead, you know?” Cas stares at him until he shifts on his feet. “We should probably finish the case, first.”

“Probably,” Cas mumbles, flipping a page in his book. “I don’t know much about spell casting, but I was reading news reports about a lot of very small earthquakes happening almost exactly on top of the ley lines. That’s strange for the northeast - it could suggest that something is drawing up that natural power.” 

“Awesome. We find a coven, bust some heads, and we’re good.”

“If they even are witches.” 

“Dude, they’re totally witches - I’m not the psychic and even I can feel it.”

Cas frowns, looking at his books. “I suppose. It just seems… strange. I don’t like it.”

“Well - surprised me there. Figured you’d be all over this.”

“Why?”

“You know,” Dean makes a gesture. “Witches?”

“I’m not a witch, Dean,” he snaps. “And even if I were, I wouldn’t be killing hunters.” Dean sucks on his teeth and Cas glares in response, silently goading Dean to say something. When he doesn’t Cas adds, “it doesn’t make sense - why are they here? A coven doesn’t pop up in the middle of nowhere.”

“Hey, you did the same thing, didn’t you?”

“ Dean ,” his low voice gets even lower. 

“What? I’m just saying -”

“Is this about the other night?” Cas asks. It sucks the air out of the room, pretty much punches the breath out of Dean. “You kissed me first, you know.”

“Wow,” Dean says, forces out a chuckle. “Um.” Cas is staring at him again, and Dean thinks those eyes really are too much when they’re only focusing on you. “Listen, Cas, uh. What happened in Louisiana...” 

“Yes?”

Dean shuts his mouth. He had been knuckling down for a few weeks of icy avoidance and side stepping the whole thing. Maybe he would've gotten especially lucky and they both could have pretended it didn't even happen, that's what usually happened when there was some big, monstrous thing that happened, something with teeth that no one wanted to look at directly. There’s a dozen half formed discussions running through his brain - most of them are different ways of telling Cas they are not doing that again and that they can’t bring it up.

But not all of them. 

After one of the most awkward silences of his life, Cas sighs, gets up. 

“Where are you going?”

“I’m driving out there to see if there’s anywhere in particular these witches - if it even is witches - are practicing.” He throws on his jacket. “I need some space, and so do you.”

“Do you really think that’s -”

“Did you want to come with me?” Cas asks, passing Dean, purposefully not letting their shoulders brush like they tend to when they share a small space, or just because they can. “That’s what I thought.” 

He shuts the door behind him. Dean wonders if Cas is pausing on the threshold like he was, feeling bad but not enough to turn back. 

There’s the sound of an engine turning on, a car reversing, driving away.

Dean runs a hand over his eyes, takes a deep, grounding breath. “Fuck.”

-

Dean tells himself he isn’t worried. Emporium is about fifteen miles east; Cas should be there and back in a couple of hours. It gets dark out, he flips through a few books, walks to a nearby gas station for a six pack and drinks half of them while watching the Fellowship of the Ring. Frodo and his friends fight off some orcs in that creepy mine, Gandalf falls down into a black pit to save the rest of them. He texts Cas, but doesn’t get a reply. It’s fine, he thinks, glancing at Cas’s rumpled bed sheets and the face down Ursula Le Guin novel on his night stand.

Dean might have been prepared to not talk about the other night for as long as he lived, but that doesn't mean he isn't thinking about what happened, like a loose tooth he can't help poke at when he had nothing else to occupy his attention - Cas's mouth on his, legs entangling under the sheets, this feeling like even if it was Dean's fuck up that nearly got him killed, Cas didn't think of it that way. Didn't see him as anything other than himself. Just Dean. Just his friend.

“God fucking damnit,” he says, getting up and shrugging on his jacket. He straps on as many knives as he can and shoves his pistol into the back of his jeans before getting into his car, driving east. The chill seeps through the Impala into his toes. He calls Cas halfway there, but the phone keeps ringing until it goes to voicemail. 

He doesn’t know where Cas would go - Emporium really isn’t anything. There aren’t even stop lights, and the roads quickly turn to dirt. There are some buildings out in the distance, farm houses and barns and old fence posts. It all gets more sinister when it’s dark out and everything becomes cloistered in shadows. 

There’s some building way off in the distance.  It has some lights on, and Dean turns the car towards it and keeps going. It feels like he’s not even driving on a road anymore, car bumping and rattling as it is. 

His headlights catch a beam of tan and he hits the brakes, swearing as he puts his car in park. 

He gets out, already knowing what he’s about to see - Cas’s Lincoln, driven into a ditch. The fender is bent, a headlight hanging limply down, the side crushed against the wooden fence posts. The driver’s side door is open, keys in the ignition. Dean slides into the seat and tries to back the car up, but the engine seizes, sputters, dies. The windshield is cracked, and Dean sees a red smear right in front of him. He looks around, but there’s no sign of Cas. “Fuck,” he says, eyes screwing up for a minute. “Fuck!” He slams his hands on the wheel and gets back into the Impala, driving towards the lights, going slow enough that he could catch Cas if he was walking. 

No luck. He stops in front of the old house at the end of the lane. Goes up the steps. The front door swings open for him as soon as he touches it. 

There’s nothing downstairs except for half empty bottles of booze, a few lit candles and old, rotting furniture. The stairs creak as he heads to the second floor, and once he reaches the top he’s met with three women in a circle around a table, laden down with bowls and jars and a fucking cauldron. He called the fucking witch thing. He draws out his gun.

“There he is,” says the waitress he saw earlier that day. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“Where the fuck is he?” Dean demands. 

“Oh - your friend? He’s fine, just a little bumped up. For now.” Another woman nods to the far side of the room, where Cas is tied up, unconscious in the middle of what looks like a summoning circle.

“What did you do to him?” He edges around the perimeter of the floor, closer to Cas. He’s a tough guy, Dean knows, but seeing him laying there motionless makes something in him seize up. 

The waitress pouts. “I gave you my number, you know,” she says, “it’s a bit rude to spread that sort of thing around to your friends.” 

“A business card made him crash his car?” 

An older woman in the circle smiles. She has dark hair, rings glinting on her fingers in the flickering light. “Neat trick, huh?” 

“Yeah. Sure.” 

He almost gets to Cas when a third woman - brunette with a low cut top - murmurs something and puts her hand out, pulling Cas to the other side of the room like he’s being dragged by an invisible wire. He limply hits the far wall with a grunt, a few more liquor bottles spinning and falling as he’s shoved into them. He doesn’t move. “Cas!” He turns back to them. “What the fuck do you bitches want?”

The waitress grins. “Just trying to make a little coven, you know."

"A little coven," Dean mocks, "nothing says having a Craft themed sleepover like causing earthquakes."

"Power requires sacrifice," she answers, "if you promise to leave us alone we might even let you get out of here alive.”

“Might,” the brunette echoes. 

Dean fires at the one who shoved Cas into the wall, but he’s pushed in just the same manner. The bullet goes wide and he stumbles back, hitting an end table piled with books. He fires again, the bullet grazing the waitress and knocking a jar off the altar, smashing it to pieces. 

“Get him!” says the older witch. The younger two move towards him. He feels a low pulse threading through the air, sizzling against his skin. He dodges behind some furniture and gets to Cas, propping him upright and shaking him.

“Cas? Cas!” His eyes open, blurry, then quickly clearing once he realizes who he’s looking at. 

“Dean - you have to - it’s their altar. They’re -” His voice cuts out, and his tied hands scrabbling at his throat. Dean turns around in time to see the waitress about to flay him with a ceremonial dagger. He hops back, pulls out his knife and tries to cut her. 

“What did you do to him?”

“Just made him shut up,” she says with a grin, “even when he’s not talking, his aura’s too damn loud.” 

“His aura?” Dean casts a glance to the side and sees Cas kicking at the other witch, holding his own for the moment. “What next? Is his sign not compatible enough for you?” 

Witches have magic, but they usually don’t know how to fight dirty - Dean gets the knife out of the waitress’s hands a minute later. “I said we should’ve just killed him,” she snarls, holding her bleeding hand, “but maybe Miranda was right - our Master would probably love a look at him.” 

“Over my dead body, bitch.” He pulls out his gun, but before he can shoot, he’s pushed back by that brunette again. He falls against the wall, Cas next to him. 

“That’s enough,” she intones. “Miranda, what should we do with them?” Cas nudges Dean in the side, holding up an old bottle of Gordon’s with a sip of gin left in it, then motions pointedly towards the altar. Dean clenches his jaw and nods, surreptitiously tearing off a piece of his t-shirt. 

“Now, isn’t that a question,” Miranda leaves the altar, stepping towards them. Dean overturns more bottles as he pretends to scrabble to his feet, soaking the cotton. Cas positions the bottle between them, as hidden as he can make it, takes the cloth from Dean’s grip and feeds it into the bottle. “The hunter we can kill, but the other one poses a problem.”

“We’re both hunters, idiot,” Dean snarls. 

“Yes, alright, fine,” the older witch says with a roll of her eyes. “Let’s kill the human.” 

“Human?” He looks at Cas. “Lady, I don’t know what you’ve been smoking, but Cas is just weird, that’s it.” 

“It’s well hidden, I’ll give you that. Even our master said he couldn’t sense anything in town. I suppose even demons have their off days.” The waitress giggles. 

“Demon? A demon master?” Dean makes a face. Cas presses the bottle harder against his hands and he holds it tightly. “Out of all the fucked up, deranged -”

“That’s enough now,” She snaps her fingers, and Dean coughs, coughs some more. He can feel - something - in his stomach. Sharp, unnatural, cutting deep like a hundred razor blades trying to cut him open from the inside. He gasps for air, and it’s like a knife has been lodged in his throat. He kicks out at nothing, trying to yell when the younger witches grab Cas, hauling him away from Dean and dropping him in the middle of the painted summoning circle on the floor. The trio waltzes back towards the altar, and Cas looks at him, struggling in his bindings. He opens his mouth but he can’t speak, no words coming out. Dean can’t breathe. 

He can’t breathe, but he’s not dying in some random farmhouse in fucking Pennsylvania, either. He’s not letting Cas become some bottom bitch to a demon and a crew of witches. He struggles into his coat pocket and flicks the lighter open with shaking hands. The alcohol-soaked cloth lights up, and he arches his arm back in the most painful throw of his life. 

He can barely see through the sharp agony riddling his body, but his aim has been perfect since he was seven. The molotov cocktail flies over the witches’ heads and lands smack in the middle of their little cauldron. The insides bubble over and splash all of them, causing them to scream and jump back as their skin is burned. Just as Dean thinks the razors inside of him are about to crawl into his arteries, the pain stops. He looks over at Cas. 

“Dean -” He takes a pained breath as Miranda comes forward, hand clenched purposefully and staring Cas down.

“You both are going to wish you were dead when I’m through with you!” she screams. She begins an incantation, but she’s in too much pain to be paying attention - Dean tugs out a knife and throws it at her, watching with satisfaction as it sinks into her thigh. 

It still hurts to breathe, but Dean pulls himself back up to his feet and passes Miranda, pulling the knife out and blocking an attack by the brunette before pushing her into the floor. 

As they fight, Dean can hear the sound of glass breaking, a woman screaming. The witch nearly shoves him back into the still smoking altar but Dean grabs her arm, spins them both until she’s unbalanced enough that he can push her over. He falls on top of her, sees her red, blotchy, burned face up close, and he plunges the knife into her chest, right into her heart. She coughs up blood, weakly grasps at his coat, and goes limp. 

He turns around in time to see the fucking waitress shove Cas against the far wall. He hits it so hard the foundation seems to shake. 

Dean wrenches the knife out and turns around. “Cas!”

“Oh shut up about your stupid boyfriend!” she yells. “You’re hunting after us ? Do you even know what he is?” 

“I know he’s better than you.” She glances at him, then the remains of the altar. She dives towards the cauldron, but Dean is faster, and the knife sinks into her, brutal and bloody. Her hand falls before she can reach it, and Dean kicks out the rest of the boiling, fiery mess onto the floor until it sizzles into nothing. The three witches lie on the floor. He breathes, hands flexing on the knife, looking around for any remaining movement, any tricks. But there’s nothing. He won. 

Dean shoves the knife in his sheath and turns around. “Cas? Cas!” The man’s lying prone on the ground like a rag doll. Dean’s heart jumps up and settles in his throat as he runs over, gently holding the man’s face in his hands. “Come on, buddy, up and at ‘em. You’re not gonna keel over from that, are you?” he says, voice trembling, hands trembling. He glances around them. The witches are dead, the place is trashed. Dean puts a hand on Cas’s abdomen and the man shoots forward with a shout of pain. 

“Dean.” Cas’s eyes are big and blue. There’s blood trailing from his mouth, a bruise deep set on his cheekbone. Dean ignores his urge to wipe it away and tries to smile at him.

“Hey Cas, got worried for a second there. Think you can move?” The man looks confused, like the words aren’t making sense. Eventually, though, he straightens up, coming up from the wall he was tossed against, but that’s where he stops.

“It hurts, I can’t -” He hisses through his teeth, and Dean wraps an arm around his waist. As he’s pushing Cas up to his feet, the man yells again, crumpling. Dean feels something move under his hand that shouldn’t be moving. 

“I think your ribs are broken. Shit, Cas. We -” He swallows. “We have to get you to a hospital.” He’s been to the hospital a handful of times, and it’s never any good. There’s too many people, too many questions, and if Cas has a fracture, he’s gonna be out of commission for a while. 

And if it’s worse - Dean doesn’t entertain the thought any further.

“Just leave me,” Cas grumbles, sitting up again. “If I just rest here a while, I should be fine.”

“What? No, no way. Come on, it’s gonna suck getting you up, but then you can just get in the car. There’s gotta be a decent hospital somewhere around here, and then we’ll - whatever.” Cas stares up at him miserably, but doesn’t fight it when Dean bends down and tries lifting him again, under the arms this time, gripping him tight where it won’t hurt. “Let’s go, you can do it,” he murmurs, trying to be comforting. Cas groans as they move, but doesn’t yell again. 

There’s a hospital in a large town about thirty minutes from them. Dean gets them into the entrance and fumbles through a pocketful of fake IDs until he finds one with a matching health insurance card and fills out intake paperwork, Cas sitting near catatonic next to him. “Don’t tell them anything, and see if you can get me into your room ASAP, alright?” Dean whispers, “you might have to tell them we’re brothers or cousins or something.” 

“Cousins?”

“We’re not San Francisco,” Dean jokes. 

“I don’t get that reference,” Cas says, exhausted. He’s wheeled away to get x-rays after another forty minutes of waiting. 

“Dean?” a woman in scrubs asks, after Dean’s sifted through all the magazines in his immediate vicinity and started flirting with the CNA at the front desk to pass the time, but his heart isn't really in it.

“How is he?”

“He’s resting. You can come see him, if you want.” She leads him through the double doors and down a few hallways, into a small room. There's two beds, but only an occupant in one. “I think they’re still processing the x-rays down in radiology, but once those are done a doctor should be in to go over the diagnosis with you both.” He nods, grabbing a chair and bringing it up next to Cas. 

“Hey man, how’s it going?” he asks, once they're alone. Cas’s head is bandaged up, but the deep bruise on his cheek is gone - at least, Dean swore there had been one there. 

“Alright. We can leave whenever you’re ready.”

“Me? No way, Cas, I saw you. We need to make sure you’re back at one hundred percent.” Cas furrows his brow. “At least let me see the x-rays. Broken ribs? No fun.” Cas sighs, but doesn’t move. 

“I asked one of the nurses about your San Francisco comment,” he says. Dean groans. “She smiled at me and told me that Vermont recognizes civil partnerships. What does that mean? Do we need to go to Vermont next?” 

“It means that I’m not getting that CNA’s number,” Dean says wryly. “Um. Listen Cas, about what those witches said -”

“Robert Daniels?” Cas looks up at his fake name and shakes the hand of the doctor that comes in. He’s flanked by a younger man in a white coat and a woman in scrubs. They’re holding the slide of Cas’s x-ray. “So we have some good news, and some, er, bad news.” Cas nods at them. Dean watches the trio of hospital staff titter around nervously before finally turning on the illuminator attached to the wall. 

“The good news is we didn’t find any evidence of damage to your ribs,” the woman says. “The… the thing is, um.” She puts up a slide of a rib cage. “This is what a typical rib cage is supposed to look like, and this… is yours.” She puts up the other one. 

“Is there something wrong with his bones?” Dean asks, because from across the room it looks as though there’s tiny liaisons across the ribs and over the sternum. But as he gets closer, his eyes grow wide as he takes in what are actually hundreds of symbols, all laid out across the ribs like some weird, grotesque spell. “What the hell is that?” he asks. He whirls around to stare at Cas, but the man looks just as confused. 

“We’re… not sure. We’ve been trying to figure it out - it’s not Latin or Greek. Um. Mr. Daniels, do you know… how you may have gotten these symbols… carved onto your bones?” Everyone looks at him. 

Cas is sitting up in bed, kicking off the covers and moving closer to the x-ray. The staff watches him carefully as he leans closer towards the image. “I have absolutely no idea,” he says, “but… these look… familiar.” 

Dean watches Cas for a moment, but he doesn’t say anything else. “Any chance that someone in radiology was pulling a prank?” All three shake their heads. “Was there… anything else wrong with him? He was pretty loopy when I brought him in.”

“No, he’s fine aside from… that,” the younger doctor says. “All his readings were perfect.” 

“Well, I’ll see if we can wrack our brains for uh, this mystery,” Dean says, gesturing at the x-rays. “Do you mind if we uh, keep these up for now?” 

“Sir,” the doctor begins, “in all my years in the medical field, I have never -”

Dean slides an arm over the doctor, walks them both towards the room’s exit. The other two staff trail behind him. “Now, listen here, Doctor… Simmons,” he says, glancing at the name tag, “my brother here -”

“He said you were cousins,” the nurse interrupts.

“He’s like my brother,” Dean covers, “he uh. Well - he came from a very difficult, uh. Upbringing. Very fanatical parents, you understand. He’s still going to therapy for it.”

“You’re saying his parents did this?”

“I’m not saying anything, I’m just as confused as you three are,” Dean manages, “I just think, um, considering his condition, it might be best if you give him some space. He needs to - you know. Process everything. Without a bunch of people in scrubs breathing down his neck. No offense.”

All three of them look like they want to argue, but the x-rays, while inexplicably weird, aren’t technically breaking any laws. Dean keeps giving them the sympathetic if chagrined look he usually did whenever he had to bust Sam out of trouble, and despite the four year gap in him whipping out that particular expression, he’s evidently still got it. 

With some passing wary looks, they shuffle out of the room. Once the door closes, Dean whirls around. “What the hell, Cas? Did those witches do something to you?” 

“These aren’t the same runes the coven was using,” Cas says, brow furrowing. “It’s something else, magic related, I think, but the language… it’s not of earth.” 

“You’re telling me someone just, what, cut you open and carved that inside?” Dean hisses. Partway up his sternum, Dean sees a symbol that’s eerily similar to a Celtic cross, but that’s the only thing that’s ringing a bell. “And they said you were perfectly fine? Cas, I felt something move when I touched your back, and you didn’t look like you were fine. What’s going on?”

Cas blinks, looks at Dean. “I don’t know.” Dean thinks back to all the freaky things he’s seen in the last twenty years; the monsters, the magic, the things that defied all logic. At the end of it there was something supernatural, something evil, and it had to be stopped by a bullet or fire or a stab to the heart.

“What those witches said,” Dean starts, slowly realizing that Cas’s many weird habits may not be so easy to explain away, “what did they mean?”

Cas shakes his head.

Dean reaches for the knife hidden in his jacket. Takes a step back. “...What the hell are you, Cas?” 

Cas smiles, but his eyes are downcast. “I don’t know that, either.” 

-

“You didn’t have to go so hard,” Cas complains, staring at the now healed slash in his arm. Dean has the x-ray slides tucked in his shirt between some paper towels so the picture doesn’t get damaged. He looks down a corridor and nods at Cas to follow him.

“Yeah, well. I would’ve appreciated a bit of honesty. If it turns out you have Bobby under some weirdass Jedi mind tricks I’m gonna stab you for real.” 

“Whatever makes you feel better.” They find a service staircase and head down to the ground floor. There’s a nurse smoking under a ‘no smoking’ sign with the door propped open, letting in the cold night air. She glowers at them but Dean just brandishes his lighter meaningfully and grins. They head outside and round back towards the visitor parking lot where Dean drove them in. “It wouldn’t do anything anyway.” 

“You -” Dean points a finger at Cas from the other side  of the Impala. “Shut the fuck up. Get in the fucking car.” 

He doesn’t say anything for the next twenty miles. The x-ray is in the backseat. It's too dark for Dean to see if there was blood in the car, but he bets there is. He grips the steering wheel and drives faster. 

“Dean,” Cas starts.

“No. Shut up.” Another five miles passes.

“I’m sorry,” Cas adds. They hit another town and Dean slams his brakes at a blinking red light. There’s no other cars on the road. He turns to face Cas head-on. 

Usually, when a monster looks like a person, there’s a moment where you figure them out. Once they know the jig is up, they stop the act. There’s weird eyes or bulging veins or a huge, gaping mouth. Claws. An absurdly long tongue. Something. Cas changed back into his blood-stained henley with Dean’s jean jacket tossed over it so he wouldn’t stick out as an escaped hospital patient. He has the same five o’clock shadow, same dark hair, same blue eyes, all going in and out between the blinking red of the stoplight. 

“I am sorry, Dean,” Cas continues. “I didn’t know anything was - was wrong with me until… I don’t know. Something weird happened after I met you for the first time on that poltergeist case. It was that werewolf pack. And I, um. Tried to ignore it. Then after Ohio, it - I couldn’t ignore it anymore.”

“You killed people?”

“The werewolves that were trying to kill me, yes.”

“People?”

“No.” Cas’s face doesn’t falter. “Bobby telling you I was psychic - it’s not the whole story.”

“No shit. What is?”

Cas shakes his head. “That’s the part we’re still working on. I don’t think I’m fully… human,” he explains. “Some of my abilities surpass even the most powerful psychics, but um. I’m not - Bobby, Pamela and I have been trying to figure it out. We keep trading stuff with the Roadhouse and other hunters to see if there’s anything else that I could be, but we haven’t found anything.”

Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel, thoughts racing. “Bet these sigils might be a good clue.”

“We should bring them to Bobby’s.” Cas frowns. Looks into the backseat. “I mean. I should bring them. You don’t have to come, you know. If you’re mad.”

“Oh, I’m pissed. You’re lucky nothing we know can kill you, otherwise I’d be tempted to try.” Cas said Bobby had thrown all the tests on him, but that didn’t stop Dean from double checking. “But this shit is the best lead we got.”

Cas nods. He thinks he sees a bit of a smile poke through. “Okay, Dean.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m happy, you asshole.”

“Of course not.”

“Then why the fuck are you smiling? ”

“I didn’t want to - keep this a secret,” Cas says. “I wanted you to know. And now you do.” 

Dean opens his mouth, can’t think of anything to say that isn’t a string of incomprehensible swears. “Whatever, I’m. It’s just - I’m a part of this now,” he defends, “Capiche?”

“I capiche.”

“Good.” He sniffs, turns back to the road. There’s still no one out. He floors it. 

Chapter Text

It’s three in the morning when they get to Bobby’s. Dean shuts the car off, looks at Cas like he's expecting him to bolt into the night. Cas stares back until Dean just reaches into the back to grab the x-rays. He’s climbing up the steps and slamming his fist on the door and shouting; Cas hears some big dog start barking in response, somewhere farther away.

“God damnit, what?” Bobby opens the door, rubbing his eyes. His cap and flannel are missing, but that’s about it. “Are you dyin’ or something?”

Dean actually looks bashful. “No, but -”

“Then keep it down. Shit, Dean.” He glances over Dean’s shoulder and spots Cas, looks back at Dean. “That idiot tell you the truth?”

“No. This did.” He shoves the x-ray into Bobby’s hands and stomps into his house. “I’m getting a fucking drink.” 

Cas comes up the steps. Bobby turns the porch light on and holds the slide up to it, lets out a whistle. “This one of those things you didn’t know till now?”

Cas nods.

“Right. Well. Guess you both are stayin’ here for a while.” Bobby shuts the porch light off, glances out into his front yard. “What happened to your car?”

From the kitchen, Dean swears again.

-

“Well?” Dean asks, emerging from the kitchen and smelling vaguely like New Amsterdam and the cigarettes he smoked on the drive up, “what the fuck is going on?”

“You think I have any clue?” Bobby snaps back. He jerry-rigged a display for the x-ray with a table lamp and some clothespins and is sketching out the designs. “I’ve never seen this shit before.” He stabs a finger at Cas. “ You’re the one who gave him my number, alright? You found him first.” 

Cas glances at Dean. Dean swears again and goes back to the kitchen. “Do you think he’ll be alright?” he murmurs.

“Did he shoot you?”

“He said he wanted to.”

“Saying you want to and actually doing it are about ten stitches and a hospital trip apart,” Bobby says, “my money’s on him getting over it.”

“Here,” Dean comes back to the living room five minutes later. He shoves a drink in Cas’s hand and puts another one down by the desk Bobby’s working on. He falls into a couch. “I don’t think they were put there by the witches. Any other weird hunts you’ve been on that we don’t know about?”

“There have been other witches,” Cas manages, “but I can’t imagine any of them doing this to me without my knowledge. You would think even with magic that would be extremely painful.” 

“What about that demon?” Dean asks.

“This don’t look demonic to me,” Bobby says, leaning back in his seat. “It’s older than dirt, but it’s nothing like the sigils you see in black magic or demonology.”

“Demons could have their own language,” Dean says, “hell, they could have a bunch of ‘em. Maybe this is that.” 

“Maybe,” Bobby says. “I’m gonna have to copy this down, send it out to Ash and a couple’a other researchers who might have run across it.” 

“Any idea what it does?” Dean asks.

“I just said I don’t even know what language it is, Dean.” He swallows a mouthful of the drink Dean made him. 

“What if it’s -” He glances at Cas, frowns. “I don’t like it.”

“You mean what if this is part of some weird magic ritual that’s making me into… whatever I am?” Cas guesses.

“Could be.” 

“It could be a lot of things,” Bobby tells the room at large. “Let’s wait on the theories till we get a translation.” Bobby tells the two of them they could go to bed - he won’t be doing anything interesting aside from writing down esoteric symbols. Cas doesn’t need to sleep, but he finishes his drink and excuses himself. Dean stays downstairs with Bobby.

-

Dean sits on the couch, watching Bobby work, the gears turning in his head. He thinks of the weird, nerdy guy that Cas is, then this shit, and the two just can’t mesh together. Despite being apparent friends and - whatever else, Bobby knows more about Cas than he does. Not that it seems to amount to much. He sighs, finishes his drink.

Growing up, Sam was the smart one. He was the cute one. Sam could research with the best of them, even if he hated it. Some days Dean doesn’t know if he would’ve passed his GED if Sam wasn’t there making him study. He doesn’t have dad or Bobby’s life experience or the patience to do all that archival digging. He knows it, can’t fight against it. That being said, sometimes it was convenient to not let on that you were smarter than everyone assumed. 

Somewhere, deep down, he wonders if he knew. Cas wasn’t normal, but no hunter was. Then there was the amnesia, but by that time… He sighs again. This was more than some weird case with some unfortunate implications, this was - it was - 

Cas wasn’t human, probably. He had no clue what he could be, but some part of Dean wonders if he’s something beyond a creature he’ll have to kill.

“You’re thinkin’ so hard smoke’s gonna start comin’ out your ears,” Bobby tells him, still sketching out the sigils. 

“I just don’t get it,” Dean says. “I’ve seen weird shit, heard about even weirder shit, but this is -” He rubs a hand over his eyes. 

“If it makes you feel any better, this is a first for me, too.”

“You knew, didn’t you,” Dean accuses. “After that Kuri - I wasn’t supposed to survive that.”

“You weren’t. And I’m not upset about you makin’ it out of that mess alive.” 

“Right. ‘Course.”

“But I am sorry, Dean. I’m sure you’re not pleased about this being kept a secret from you.”

The apology is a surprise. “Well. Too late to go back and change it now. But why’d you do it?” Bobby sighs. “Did Cas make you -”

“Cas didn’t make me do anything. That was all me. Figured, well, shit, Dean. You should’ve seen him. He was holding you and pointing at this invisible monster that only the two of you could see. Nothing was working - you were screaming for it to stop or to kill you, either one at that point. Then all of a sudden Cas tells me to close my eyes and -”

“And what?”

“His eyes started glowing. Blue-white. It kept getting brighter, and his hand was stretched out and that started glowing. Thought my eyes were gonna burn outta my damn skull. I looked away and it was still getting brighter - the Kuri must’ve been completely obliterated. When I look back he’s makin’ sure you’re still breathin’ and...”

“And what? ”

Bobby puts down his pencil and looks at  Dean. “You’ve been around the block, Dean. So’s your dad. But John and hunters like John don’t always know when to quit.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you want Cas dead?” Dean blinks. “If you could kill ‘im dead right now, would you?”

“I - I don’t -”

“And if John knew exactly what Cas is capable of, do you think he’d kill him?” 

Dean swallows. Bobby nods and turns back to the sigils. 

“Now, I don’t know what John’s chasing after, but something that powerful, that evil, it narrows down your options some. And whatever it was that did that to your mom,” he sighs, “it’s more powerful than anything we’ve ever hunted. More powerful than that demon Cas fought.”

“And what about if Cas is somehow related to that thing that killed mom?” he hisses. “What if -” he looks behind him, half expecting Cas to be listening in on the staircase, but they’re alone.

“Believe me, my first thought was some kind of demon - but none of the tests worked, and even Pamela said she could spot Cas as being an altogether different beast. You can try to kill Cas before the guy’s done anything worth killin’ him for, or you can see if he can help you find the thing that killed Mary and actually stand a chance at beating the damn thing.”

“What makes you think he’s gonna help me?”

Bobby gives him a flat look. “You’re a lot of things, Dean. Stupid ain’t one of them.” 

Dean flushes hot, “yeah, well,” he shoves down the urge to walk away because that’s just admitting defeat. He waits for Bobby to turn back to his work, then excuses himself upstairs.

He walks past the guest room Cas took. He thinks about peeking in, to see if he’s sleeping or doing - something. He moves on to the next door, strips down, gets into bed.

He strains his ears, wondering if he could hear Cas through the walls if he tries hard enough. 

-

Dean cooks breakfast because Bobby stayed up all night drawing the sigils out and he feels a little guilty over waking him up at ass o’clock in the morning for an arts and crafts session. He drives down to the local grocery store, grabs bacon, eggs, bread. Comes back and brews a pot of coffee and gets to work.

He turns around to grab a dishcloth and sees Cas in the doorway, watching him. They stare at each other. The oven ticks over to let Dean know it's preheated. 

“What?” 

“I didn’t know you could cook.” 

“Well. Now you know.” He gives Cas a final backwards glance and turns back around, slides the bacon in. “Bobby still asleep?”

“As far as I know. Were you two up all night?”

“Nah. I went to bed - eventually. He’s, uh. You know. Stubborn.”

“Mm.” 

It’s too early to start making the eggs, but he cracks a bunch of them into a bowl and whisks them just to give his hands something to do. They go up in a froth of salt, pepper, cream, shredded cheese. He can feel Cas’s eyes on the back of his head. “Dude,” he says, turning around. “What?” 

“I’m just watching,” Cas says.

“Well. Don’t. It’s -” He puts the bowl down with a loud slam and wrestles with the coffee maker. 

“I didn’t realize I made you uncomfortable.”

“What, having some mystery freak hanging out next to me while I make eggs is the new regular.” 

Cas sniffs. “Technically it’s been the regular.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ start.” He pours two cups of coffee, walks over and slams one on the table, before stepping back and taking a sip of his own.

Cas, for the love of Someone, gets the point and slides into the seat, holds the coffee cup. “Thank you, Dean,” he says earnestly. 

Cas stays in his seat. Dean hovers by the stove instead, pacing, drinking coffee, whisking the eggs, glancing back to make sure Cas hasn’t moved. By the time the smell wafts upstairs and gets Bobby into the kitchen, Dean’s setting three plates. 

“Well, this is a surprise,” Bobby says, sitting down between Dean and Cas. Dean dishes out the eggs, bacon, toast. He pours coffee, pours orange juice, but eventually he has to sit down across from Cas and eat like everything is fine and normal and Cas is still just some weird hunter who he - likes. And that’s it. 

The illusion lasts all of ten minutes until the caffeine kicks into Bobby’s system and he goes, “so I finished drawing up those sigils last night.” 

“Okay,” Cas says, “what’s the plan?”

“We’re gonna make copies and send ‘em out, see if anyone has a clue what they are or what they mean. I’m gonna say I found them in a piece of archaic text.”

“Hopefully none of those symbols translate into ‘carved into some schmuck’s ribs,’” Dean manages. 

“What about Pamela?” Cas asks, “maybe she would know something?”

“What, your guru?” Dean says, smirking, “is she gonna do a smudging or some shit?”

“Be nice,” Cas says, sharp. “She might be able to do some sort of seance, commune with spirits.”

“Oh Jesus, are you serious?” Dean mutters. Cas’s expression goes stormy. “We just fought those witches, and you want to invite her over for a slumber party?”

“Psychics aren’t witches,” Cas says, “we’ve been over this.”

“They’re pretty damn similar. And just because she’s your side piece doesn’t mean -”

“That is not -”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Bobby says, glancing at the two of them. “If you two wanna have a bitch fight, save it for outside the premises.” 

Cas leans back in his seat. Dean resists the urge to.

“Now listen. I’m gonna do my own research here, make sure I didn’t miss anything in my own collection. Then we’re gonna have to get copies made, take ‘em around to my contacts, and not tell them they’re carved into this guy’s skeleton. But first,” he takes a sip of coffee, “one of you needs to take my tow truck and get Cas’s car.” 

“Bobby. Seriously -?”

“You want a car full of hunter paraphernalia rusting in a lot somewhere? Or better yet, out in the open for someone to just find it?” Bobby glances at Cas. “You had everything in the trunk, right?”

“Yes. It was locked.”

“Good. With any luck it’ll just be where you left it. If not, just pretend Singer’s Salvage opened up some branches out east.” Bobby heads over to the entryway and digs out a set of keys, tosses them to Cas.

“Alright. I can head out in five minutes,” Cas says, pocketing the keys.

“Whoa, whoa,” Dean looks between the two of them. “You’re just letting him go?”

“To get my car and come back.”

“Are you? Gonna come back?” Cas glares at him again and nods, slowly, like Dean can’t understand what he’s saying. “Bobby, you can’t -”

“I just said if you two wanted to start bickerin’, you could do it outside. Go with him or not, up to you.” He puts his plate in the sink, pours another cup of coffee, and heads to the living room to start doing research. 

Dean stares at Cas. “Five minutes,” he tells him, “and I’m coming with you.”

“Fine,” Cas says, sniffing, “but Bobby gave the keys to me.” 

“So?”

Cas manages a smile, but it’s not a particularly nice one. “Driver picks the music.” 

-

Cas doesn’t have any of his tapes, so he spends the drive flicking between whatever top 40 station has the best reception. After the fifth time Hollaback Girl comes on, Dean shuts the radio off with a “God damnit, Cas!”

Cas flicks the radio back on. “The DJ said the Pussycat Dolls were going to be next.”

“Yeah, no shit. There’s only like, ten songs on here!”

“I like them,” Cas says, though he seems to take some small modicum of mercy on Dean’s sanity, because he turns the volume down. 

The drive back to Emporium is a lot longer when Cas is driving, the car is a beat up tow truck that can barely hit sixty, and when you aren’t being motivated by the existential fear of the guy in the passenger seat not being human. Despite himself, Dean konks out for a good leg of the trip. 

When Dean wakes up, Cas is laughing while doling out some change to the toll worker. “Yeah, I thought so too. And here you go - exact change,” he says, “you have a good day.” After another mile he notices Dean is awake. “Did you want to stop somewhere? I think we can get into town in another two hours.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You’re always so…” Dean makes a face. “I don’t know. Nice.”

Cas frowns in the rearview mirror, switching lanes before looking over at Dean. “I’m nice?”

“Polite, I guess?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“No reason. Just…”

Cas shrugs. “Are you trying to ask why I have these compulsions if I’m actually a monster? And I therefore must be tamping down the urge to, I don’t know, snap your neck and suck the marrow out from your bones?”

“Jesus. Are you?”

“Not since that McDonald’s pit stop an hour ago.” He shakes a soda cup pointedly at Dean. Dean stares at him for a minute before punching him in the arm. To his surprise, Cas laughs. Dean bites his cheek and looks pointedly out the window.

-

They find a rest stop and roll into Emporium in the evening. There’s no one around, so the car is still on the side of the road where they left it. Cas walks over and unlocks the trunk, starts taking out the duffel bag, the weapons, charms, everything else.

Dean walks around the smashed up Lincoln. “The witch said that the business card you took from me made you crash.”

“Makes sense. When I got close enough the steering wheel just jerked out of my hands, I went right off the road. I couldn’t slow down either.” Dean glances at the blood smeared on the cracked windshield. “I was too disoriented to fight them off.”

“So you can be hurt.”

“Sure. Just not permanently. It’s a bit… strange. To say the least.” Dean looks back at the car, thinking about that frenzied phone call he had with Cas before, when he said he hurt himself. Dean had imagined something - well, the thing that comes to mind when someone admits to that. Now he thinks of what that must be like. The knife he put to Cas’s skin made blood well up, then Cas had passed his hand over the cut, the blood wiping away to reveal clean skin underneath. What was that like, when he first realized he could just do that? 

“Magic affects you, too.” 

“Apparently.”

Dean pops the hood, wincing at the engine. He pokes around at the components. “The witch also said she sensed you as soon as we got into town.”

“Pamela said the same thing.”

“So humans can, what, get their spidey senses tinglin’ when you show up?”

“If they’re gifted, sure. The demon I encountered didn’t seem to know I was… whatever I am, until we were in the same room.” 

“That’s good, I guess. The less demons know about you, the better.” Cas finishes loading his stuff into the truck and Dean slams the hood down. “So - bad news. Car’s fried. Good news, we have a tow truck. We can probably get it up and running again in a month if there's no trouble getting the right parts."  

Cas frowns. “Maybe not.” 

Dean raises an eyebrow. “What, you got some leaf springs for a Mark V lying around back there?”

“No. I mean - maybe I’ll just get a new car. I don’t want to be without one for a month or longer.”

Dean squints at him. “Plannin’ on goin’ anywhere?”

“Most likely.” Dean rounds the car, getting in front of Cas. “Bobby might have contacts all across the country or further.”

“I thought I made it clear that we were going together until we knew what the hell you are.”

“You can make it as clear as you want,” Cas says, “and I won’t argue with you until it becomes inconvenient for that to work. I want a working car before that.” 

“Fine. We’ll get this thing up and running -”

“This care isn’t mine,” Cas interrupts, glancing at it. “I woke up and it was just there. I had the keys in my pocket.”

“Well, finders keepers, right?”

Cas touches the dented, tan side. “I don’t have a lot of things that are mine, Dean,” he admits. “I think I’d like to - I think I want a different car. Even if you could fix it.” 

Dean thinks about his car, his tapes, the bulk of his weapons, the jacket that he had draped over Cas when they left the hospital. “Well,” he says, swallowing, “take the ‘even’ out of it - I definitely could fix it.” He glances at the car. “We might wanna bring it back anyhow. For parts, if nothing else.”

-

Cas lets Dean drive back, but he can’t push the tow truck as fast as he wants to. Dean bypasses Chicago and goes onto route 80 so he can avoid the traffic, he makes a stop in Cedar Rapids for some coffee. 

“I can drive the rest of the way,” Cas says. “We can make it back to Bobby’s in a few hours.” 

“Not tired.”

“Not in much of a condition to drive, either,” Cas counters. 

In the parking lot Cas digs through his bag, pulls out his journal and hands it to Dean. 

“What’s this for?”

“I’m driving. You can read it if you want, if you really can’t sleep.” 

“What am I, two?”

“Two year olds usually can’t read,” Cas says, “I just - you’re still thinking about it. About me being…” He chews on his lip. “I put a lot of stuff in there. It’s up to you.”

Dean presses himself up against the window. He’s seen the same stretch of road so many times in the past two, three days. He opens Cas’s journal and flicks through it, catching glimpses of pictures, business cards, brochures, pasted in between written text. It’s too dark to read any of it. When they park in front of Bobby’s, Dean shoves the book inside his jacket, preoccupied with carrying up all the bags with Cas. He gets up to the guest bedroom, puts his jacket over a chair by the window, and goes to sleep.

Chapter Text

Bobby gives them a list of different hunters they can go to with their ‘unexpected, archaic language that needs to be researched.’ Just like Cas said, the names are spread all around the country. “Some of them I was able to email, some of them are more… reclusive.” 

“What about mail?” 

“For this? I’d rather not risk it - the less people who we need to tell about this, the better.”  

They go down to the Roadhouse first, since it’s the closest, with plans to head south towards the border after that. Dean keeps watching Cas out of the corner of his eye, but it’s like all the other times they’ve driven together; the only difference is that it’s more time in the car together than usual, the Impala going over large swathes of flat fields, farms, towns, instead of quick drives around a county for a case. 

“Back again?” Ellen greets them when they enter. She’s poking at stuff behind the bar, taking stock. It’s around lunch and it's completely empty aside from her. Dean wonders how she keeps the place open, if she runs it like a regular bar or if it’s just some undocumented, unregistered building that the locals make up rumors about. Dean thinks even she has to go to the grocery store at some point.

“Just have to pass some stuff over to Ash,” Cas explains, brandishing a sealed envelope.

“Huh. He didn’t mention a drop.”

“Bobby found something interesting,” Dean says, “can’t make heads or tales of it, so.” 

“Mind if I take a look?” Ellen puts her clipboard down and holds her hand out. Cas glances at Dean but passes it over. She undoes the tie at the top and slides out the pages, sucking her teeth. “Well now. Ain’t ever seen anything like this. Where’d he find it?” 

“An old book - a passage in an old book,” Cas corrects. “We think it could be used for a ritual, but no clue besides that.” 

“Yeah. Ash’ll love this. I think he’s takin’ a cat nap somewhere. Stay there.” She hands the pages back and goes off behind the service entrance. Dean stands on his tip toes to see if there are any bottles of beer stocked underneath. “And don’t drink anything! I’m doin’ inventory!” 

“Eyes in the back of her head,” Dean mutters. 

Ash and Ellen come back a few minutes later, Ash still rubbing at his eyes. Most of the tiredness disappears as soon as he pulls the papers out. “Okay, now this? This is a real find, dude.”

“Do you know what it is?” Dean asks.

“Not a clue. But you see these symbols - here and here?” Ash lays out the papers and points at two identical symbols, “and these ones? That means there’s patterns - patterns mean it’s probably a language of some sort.”

“What good is a language if you don’t know how to read it?” 

“You think you were born knowing how to speak English? Because I was for sure not,” Ash scoffs, sliding everything back into the envelope. “If this is as old as I think it is, I bet I can find where some of those symbols trickled down into some more modern languages - like Latin or Greek or something.” 

“We were going to contact some other hunters as well,” Cas starts.

“Oh, yeah, the more the merrier! If they find anything, let me know.” He uses the envelope to salute the two of them. “I haven’t been this psyched since I got to see that Cuneiform tablet from Ur!”

Dean mouths ‘what?’ at Cas, who just shrugs. Ash leaves the bar while Ellen goes back to inventory. They stick around to drink a beer each - the gross PBR stuff that isn’t selling - before moving on. The next guy they talk to is older, crotchety; Bobby with a drawl, more or less. He gives them a beer before he sends them off his highly warded property and shuts the door. 

“How come wards don’t affect you?” Dean asks, getting into the car.

“I believe you’re asking the wrong person.”

“You’re creative - any theories?”

Cas frowns, buckling his seat belt. “Wards don’t affect people, either.”

“Well, yeah, but you’re not…” Dean twists his mouth. “Anyway.” He starts the car. “Humans don’t need wards. We have things called padlocks, or really, really tall fences.” 

“Or secretaries who care about HIPAA compliance?” 

“Yeah, or that.” 

“Maybe there are wards,” Cas says, “but either no one uses them or they haven’t been invented yet.” 

Dean turns down some dusty road, then another, meandering back the way they had come. He passes a mile marker. 

“A padlock would probably keep me out,” Cas adds.

“Huh?”

“I can’t pick locks.” 

Dean groans. “Come on, Cas. We talked about this.”

“I’ve been a little busy.”

“Doing what? Yoga?”

“A bit of stretching is good before a hunt. Pamela said I’m very flexible.”

Dean turns the volume on the radio higher in the vague hope the Rolling Stones can stop this conversation before it gets started. “ Enough about Pamela. How many of those we got left?”

“There’s a semi-retired professor on the east coast -”

“I think I should drop one of these off at Pastor Jim’s.” 

“Why?” 

Dean shrugs. “Dunno. He always seemed pretty smart to me.”

“You hunted with him?”

“Nah.” He turns onto a main street of an alleged town and drives straight on through. “He uh. Took care of Sam and I sometimes. When we were little.” 

“We could make a copy if you want.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, mind already moving on from the idea.

“I could… drop it off, say it was just Bobby and I who found it.” 

Dean hums. The afternoon sun creeps down over his windshield and into his eyes. He digs out a pair of sunglasses and shoves them on his face. Holds out another pair to Cas, shakes them impatiently when Cas just stares.

“Oh. Thank you.” 

“We could head there, on the way, I mean,” Dean says. 

“Whatever you want.”  

They stop at a Kinko’s and make some copies, buy more envelopes to stuff them in. Dean drops Cas off a few blocks south of the church and drives off before anyone can notice his car. 

It’s edging into April. There’s no snow left on the ground, but the town looks cold and washed out. Dean stuffs his hands into his pockets. He eyes the sidewalk across the street - there’s a park there he used to go to, eighteen, nineteen years ago. He remembers going down there with Pastor Jim and Sam and the other kids, some of the Blue Earth staff, getting popsicles and playing out on the lawn and jungle gym set there for hours, missing dad while acting like he’d be right around the next corner just to keep Sam from worrying. He thinks he probably spent more of his childhood in this town than back in the house he grew up in - at least in terms of what he can remember.

He checks his watch. If Cas doesn’t come back in another five minutes he’s going to follow him. 

His phone rings in his pocket. “Hello?” 

“Dean. Where are you?” 

Dean coughs. “Hey, dad. Uh. Just got onto 84, going up to Maine.” 

“On a job?” Dean glares out the windshield, thinking. A woman jogs by and stops across the street to stretch, cars idle at the stop light. Cas reappears around a corner, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket.

“Yeah.”

“How serious is it? I think I found something.”

“Okay, yeah. I can go there -”

“What’s the job?” Dean looks over at Cas. Cas pauses a stone’s throw from the car, watching the same woman. She starts running again. Dean watches Cas watch her, like some weird, reactionary perv chain.

“Uh. Poltergeist,” he says, distracted. “It’s uh - just an annual sort of case. One victim on the death anniversary. A body just turned up, so I can always track it back after this.” 

“Fine. It’s Blackduck, missing cattle. I’ll see if I can swing by - there’s some stuff going on here, so if I can’t...” 

“Don’t worry about it - if it’s vampiric cattle, I’m not too worried.” Cas has his hand on the car door and Dean shakes his head.

“You never know. Make sure you’re prepared for whatever’s over there.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“Just - be careful.” He hangs up. Dean lets out a breath, ends the call. He motions at Cas to open the door. 

“Was that your dad?”

“Yeah. Has a case.”

“The two of you?”

“Nah - he said I could handle it. Cattle getting sucked dry in Minnesota.” 

“Oh.” Cas buckles his seatbelt. “Pastor Jim says hi, by the way. He didn’t recognize the symbols, but he said he’d look into it.” 

“Great.” Dean starts the engine and peels out of the parking lot. Cas rubs at the back of his neck. “Something on your mind?”

“Is John…” Cas frowns. “I mean, does he know -”

“About our little road trip?” Dean asks, “no. Knowing him he’d just tear me a new one for not, I don’t know, burying you alive or something.”

“Are you planning on it?”

“Are you planning on doin’ something to deserve it?” Cas levels a glare at him, incredulous. ”Well then. Guess we’re going to Minnesota.”

-

They poke around some of the farms up there, looking for anything strange. When they impersonate wildlife rangers, the farmers are disgruntled, but say they don’t notice anything. “Sometimes the cows get sick, we don’t catch it, and they die,” one of them says. “After however many hours out in the sun, they bloat, they explode, it leaves a mess. Could just be that. I’m more worried about some disease goin’ around that we don’t know about yet.”

“Like Mad Cow, 2.0?” Dean asks. The farmer doesn’t find the joke funny. They’re back to square one.

“Maybe they are just sick, Dean,” Cas says.

“No, dad wouldn’t send me on a wild goose chase like that.” Cas looks at him. “Plus it’s March. It’s barely forty right now - no way a cow is decomposing that quickly without anyone noticing.” 

“Alright. Let’s keep looking.” 

They do a stake out at one of the farms - Dean doesn’t find anything, but they’re at least able to knock off ‘vampiric cattle’ from the list. “What else mutilates animals?” Cas asks the next morning, flipping through the newspaper at a nearby diner. “Chupacabra?”

Dean yawns into his hot plate special. “In Minnesota? Probably not.” 

“Werewolves?” 

“I hate to say it, but that mess looked too clean for the wolfman.” He crunches on some bacon, cogs in his brain spinning. Cas squints at the newspaper. “D’you think you need glasses?”

“What?”

“You’re always doin’ the squinting thing - some of us aren’t blessed with twenty-twenty vision, huh?” Cas looks up at him, eyes still narrowed. Dean grins around the strip of bacon. “Find something?”

“Yes. Murder.” Cas slides the newspaper around. “A woman was beheaded last night.”

“So. Mutilated animals and a dead chick. Twenty bucks this is connected?”

“It’s definitely connected - I’m not taking that bet.”

“Chicken. Get back in your monkey suit - we’re gonna figure out what exactly Christina Flanigan died from.” 

Cas puts in a fake phone call from the head mortician’s office so Dean can get into the exam room. When he joins him, Dean has Christina slid out of the drawer. “Over here. I don’t see anything strange.”

“Besides the beheading?” 

“Well.” He lifts the sheet she’s covered in. Cas slaps his arm. “What?”

“Show some respect.”

“I was looking for this, dumbass,” Dean slides out a metal box between her legs and shoves it at Cas. “Here, take a look.” 

“Why do I have to look?”

“Because I got here first. Don’t tell me you’re squeamish.” 

“This may surprise you, Dean, but I don’t particularly enjoy seeing human corpses.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna check to see if there’s anything in her mouth.”

Cas opens the box, quickly shuts it again. “Why?”

“If it’s not a monster, it could be ritualistic. Witches or a cult or something - they usually do something to the bodies.” 

“That’s disgusting.”

“And yet you can tune in every night at nine on NBC,” Dean quips. He pulls back the gums, frowning at the small slit above her incisors. “Huh.” He presses down, and a fang comes out. “Cas. Look.”

“A vampire?” Dean backs away, puts the box back and wheels the body back into the drawer. 

“Looks like it.”

“So - if someone killed one…”

“Either there was infighting in the nest or there’s another hunter around.” Dean goes through the rest of the exam room, before finding Christine’s blood stained clothes in a bag. There’s another bag that has her wallet and cell phone. “Why would a vampire need a cell phone?” Dean asks. He opens it up and checks the voicemail box. Shrugging, he hits it, putting it on speaker.

“Christine? This is Jessica. I can’t believe you just left me to do open shift all by myself! Listen, just like - call me or something. You live way the fuck out in nowheresville so if your car broke down or - I don’t know. Just call.”

“What’s a vampire doing with a job?” Dean asks.

“I don’t know. I heard noise in the background. Silverware, maybe?” 

“...How many diners are around here?”

-

Cas and Dean go around to however many cafes and restaurants the town has. “I don’t think  I can eat any more pie.”

“No one’s forcing you to have the pie,” Cas says. 

“Whatever. Here.” He slides the plate over. “This is the last place I could find, so -”

“Dean.” Cas nudges him in the side and nods at the window into the kitchen. There’s a girl in a uniform back there, wiping at her eyes. “Do you think that’s her?” 

Dean flags another waitress down. “Excuse me,” he says, smiling, “I was wondering - is Jessica working today?”

The waitress grimaces. “Yeah, she’s here. Um. I can see if she can talk to you, but she’s uh.” She sighs, glances into the kitchen. It’s definitely her. “Did you hear about that murder last night?”

“I did. Absolutely terrible.”

“Yeah, that girl used to work here,” the waitress says, conspiring. “Jessica and she were together on shifts a lot. I’m surprised she even came in today. She said she needs the money, but -”

“Give this to her, then,” Dean says, taking a few bills out of his wallet and passing it over. “S’not much but.Tell her I’m sorry ‘bout her loss.” 

“Okay, I will. Um - thanks…?” 

Dean holds his hand up. “Random act of kindness. Don’t worry about it.” The waitress pockets the cash and goes back to the kitchen. “A vampire working at a diner.” 

“I checked the address on the coroner report, too,” Cas says, “it’s just a P.O. box - but she’s had it for about six months. From what I could tell, most vampires move around a lot more than that. No missing person's reports around here, either. It really does seem like a normal, safe place to live." 

“No one dead 'sides from the resident vamp who had a job and a mailing address,” Dean says. “What the hell is going on?”

-

“I think I can try to track the nest,” Cas tells him, “we just need a map of the area.” 

“Is this some psychic bullshit or what?”

“If it works, it’s not really bullshit, is it?” Cas says dryly, pointing out a gas station in the distance. “Pull over.”

“Fine. But just because I needed gas anyway.” He stops the car, filling up the tank while Cas goes into the store. He comes back out with a road map, then pops the trunk, rifling through the bags back there. “So, what’s the idea?”

“I’ve gotten better at sensing where supernatural creatures can be.”

“Do you read their auras, too?”

“Don’t be ridiculous - I have to meet them first before I can identify an aura. This is just clairsentience.” 

“You gonna astral project next, starship trooper?”

Cas frowns. “I don’t think they did astral projection in Starship Troopers - I was thinking more like Freaky Friday .”

“With Jodie Foster?”

Cas slams the trunk down. “Who?”

“She was in Freaky Friday - 1972?”

“No, I meant the one with Lindsay Lohan.”

Dean hooks the nozzle back on the fuel pump. “Dude. Seriously? Who are you watching these movies with?”

“Well mostly you, sometimes myself.”

“Definitely yourself for that one.”

“It was fun - we’ve watched weird movies together.”

“Name one - and that weird French one doesn’t count. There weren’t even samurais in it.”

“My Own Private Idaho - remember that one? It was playing at that college theater when we were working that werewolf case.” Dean’s face goes pink. “You kept talking about it, after.”

“That’s - it doesn’t count. I mean. It had Keanu and River Phoenix in it. Plus, that ending didn’t even make sense!” He swipes a hand through his hair and moves around to look at the trunk. Cas has the map laid out across it, a pendulum with a white crystal dangling from his fist. “Oh Jesus -”

“If you don’t want to help me you can just get back in the car,” Cas says. Dean makes a wide sweeping gesture.

“By all means.” 

Cas lets out a breath, trying to calm down. Pamela had taught him to not let anyone - people, noises, even your own thoughts - distract you when you were trying to channel your powers. It’s a bit like trying to get a river to flow when there were dams and debris blocking the path. He lets the pendulum drop and it swings out in a wide circle, going over the town and surrounding farm lands.

Cas has only fought vampires one other time, and he casts his mind back, trying to remember how it felt, the feeling those creatures gave off. Vicious in ways that skin walkers and shapeshifters weren’t, less bestial than werewolves tended to be, creeping, stalking, undead, cold -

“Whoa,” Dean breathes out. Cas glances at the map, sees the pendulum pointing southwest, hovering in the air at an impossible angle. “Huh. Okay.”

Cas taps the part of the map the crystal is leading to. “If we can ask around, bet we’d be able to figure out any new residents living in the farms out here.”

Dean takes the map. “I guess this is pretty useful, huh?”

“You don’t have to act like it’s this dirty secret,” Cas says, leaning his hip on the trunk. “I get that it’s - weird, but - it’s me.” 

“Dirty secret? Cas, just to remind you - if anyone except me and Bobby knew about this, they’d kill you.”

“They could try.”

“Yeah, and keep tryin’ and tryin’ till one day they succeed. Don’t act like being a psychic is all you are.”

Cas frowns. “It’s like you’re trying to provoke me.”

“Yeah, well, I dunno. Maybe a little provocation isn’t a bad thing, you know? Testing you.” 

“Testing me? For what?” Dean looks down, folding up the map. “To see if I’m going to go off the deep end? To see if I really am who I say I am?”

“I mean it’s not like you told me,” Dean defends, “who you really are. How do I know that you’re not leaving anything out now?”

“What else would I have to hide?” Dean shrugs. “Is this - are you just upset because I didn’t tell you the truth right away?” Cas leans forward. “What would you have done, back then, if I told you? You wouldn’t have helped me. I knew that much. I need to think about my own survival too.”

“You just said nothing can kill you,” Dean argues, “I don’t know where you get off thinking you know how I’m gonna react if you don’t give me all the pieces!”

“You’re acting like you’ve never kept any secrets,” Cas says, “Are you trying to tell me John and Sam know everything about you?” 

“I don’t know,” Dean says, looking away, “maybe. Neither of them know about this, though. And now -” Another car rolls up, a lifted pick-up. A guy hops out and wanders into the gas station. “I’m gonna go in there and see if any of the locals know about this place,” he waves the map. “Just. Stay here.” 

Dean stalks into the store and Cas walks back to the passenger side, opens the door. He watches Dean through the window, laying on his charm for the guy that just came in, pointing at the map, probably spinning some tale about how he’s visiting cousins and needs directions. Cas gets in the car and waits. 

Once he’s out the door, Dean’s charming grin slides off his face, eyes hardening. He gets into the car, starts the engine. “Place called Penzy’s Farm, said a family moved in, so probably four vamps - three now.” 

“Never know.”

“Right. Well. It’s sundown in an hour. Let’s go.” 

-

Penzy’s looks to be mostly orchards, with an old, white house at the end of a dirt road. Dean parks a ways away. “Three cars,” he notes. “Think they all belong to our guests?”

“There is whoever killed the first vampire,” Cas says. 

They both grab machetes from the trunk. Dean takes the lead, creeping up along the edge of the house, up the rotting steps. He looks back at Cas, who nods. Dean leans down and tries the knob, finds it unlocked. Opening the door, he passes through the threshold, only to dodge a knife aimed at his throat.

Cas races forward, kicking at the attacker. Dean uses his momentum from the dodge to push the man up against the wall. “Expecting us?”

“No, actually,” the man says, coughing. “Who are you?” 

“The guys that are gonna take you down,” Dean says, grinning. He hears a moan from behind him. Glancing back, he sees another man tied to a chair, ghostly pale. Two figures prone on the floor, bled out. “Find another blood bag to feed on?”

“Blood bag - hold on, I think you got us confused. I’m not a vamp.” 

“I don’t believe you.”

The man sighs, slowly holds up a hand before showing off his normal gums. “There. See? Name’s Gordon. I’m a hunter. And who are you?” Cas thinks about the notes that were left for him at the Roadhouse. It’s been a while since he’s run into a hunter that wasn’t Dean or Bobby on an actual hunt. He’s stuck glancing at Dean and Gordon sizing each other up and the figure strapped to the chair in the center of the room.

Dean frowns, takes a step back. Gordon grabs his machete from the floor and sheathes it at his hip. “I’m Dean Winchester.”

Gordon squints. “Winchester, huh?”

“Yeah? What’s with the look?”

“Nothin’. Ran into your old man once a few years ago. ‘Sides, not many other hunters good enough to track fangs as fast as me. Figured you’d be like him.” 

“Seems you still managed to beat us to it,” Dean says, glancing back at the man tied to the chair. “And he’s…?” 

“Yeah, last member of this little group - but there’s more of ‘em. Guess they had a scare last year and wanted to spread out a bit. Caught another one in Texas and tracked them all the way up here.” Gordon walks over to the vampire and grins at it. “Here’s a tip for ya - dead man’s blood. Hurts them like you wouldn’t believe.” He holds up a jar of viscous, nearly black liquid, and a syringe. 

“You’re - torturing it?” Dean says.

“Trying to get the rest of the nest. Not like they can feel pain.” He yanks the man’s sleeve up and sticks him with the needle, making the vampire hiss and scream in pain, wrenching itself uselessly against the bonds.

“It sounds like it can feel pain,” Dean manages.

“Well - doesn’t really count, does it? They’re not human anymore.” He turns back to Dean.

“Were these vampires hunting humans?” Cas asks, “I couldn’t find any missing person’s reports.”

“No!” The vampire calls out. “We don’t - we - the cows -” 

Dean and Cas both stare at the vampire, Cas’s brain struggling to fit the pieces together. “No way,” he hears Dean say, taking the words out of his mouth.

“We just want to blend in - we didn’t h-hunt people because we don’t want to be like that - we can change.”

“That’s what his friends said, too.” 

“Hold on,” Cas starts, hesitant, “their story might check out.”

“Really?” Dean hisses, “you’re really taking their side?” Cas spares him a glance, before looking at the vampire. It’s watching him with dark, imploring eyes. 

“We didn’t see anyone missing or dead besides Christine,” Cas argues, “and when I did other digging, the crime here is lower than average.” 

“Lies, dirty lies, and statistics,” Gordon drawls. He takes the machete out from its holster, turns back to the vampire. “Now, are you gonna tell me, or did you want to keep being difficult?” Cas swears he sees tear tracts on the vampire’s face. It’s still staring at Cas.

“Please - just let me go. You’ll never see me again.” 

“I won’t, will I?” Gordon steps back, tightening his grip on the machete. Before Cas can move, he’s slicing the vampire’s head off. The body goes limp, the head rolling on the floor. He wipes at his brow before turning around, lazily pointing the still dripping machete at Cas. “And who are you?”

“...I’m Cas.” 

“Cas, huh? Well, a Winchester and an informant, my lucky day. I suppose I should be thanking you.”

The decapitated head is staring at him from where it landed on the floor. The eyes boring into him make his stomach twist. “...Me?”

“You left that little tip off with Ellen a while back - thought I was out of a job, actually, until I heard that vamps were still around.” He smiles. “But I guess I’m happy with the work.”

“I can see that,” Dean says, eyeing the blood spatter up on the ceiling.

“I’m glad my information was helpful,” Cas offers. He grips the machete in his hand, testing its weight. 

“Oh. Real helpful. Was actually wondering how you got a hold of it.”

Cas shrugs. “I have sources.”

“See, that’s what I would’ve figured.” Gordon backs away, eyes still on Cas. He wipes the blood off his machete and onto the corpse’s clothing. “But the thing is, I checked around, and you’re fresh meat.”

“I suppose.” 

“Fresh meat doesn’t have contacts,” Gordon adds. “If you do - I’d have heard of them already. So - how did you really figure out these undead freaks were still hiding out somewhere?”

Cas meets Gordon’s suspicious glare without flinching. Hunters had asked him about his sources before, but Cas so far was able to shrug it off without too much prying - hunters were secretive as much as they were paranoid. 

“Does it matter?” Cas finally asks, tipping his head. “What’s important is that we know they’re still out there so we can be equipped to hunt them.” Though he’s unsure how worthy this particular nest is to that effect.

“Pragmatic, huh?” Gordon walks back over. Cas feels Dean stand up straighter next to him. “It’s just that - well. People talk.” 

“About what?” Dean snaps. Gordon gives him a pointed look. “Wh - this guy? Look at him, man, he’s -”

“Dangerous,” Gordon finishes. “Not sharing info like that - what if your informant makes a bad call? Could put a lot of us at risk.”

“That’s what I’ve said,” Dean mutters, “he doesn’t listen.” 

“What if I told you there was a way for me to know the things that I know - and that they’d be correct?”

“Cas -”

“Then I’d say either you’ve got someone on the inside, which you ought to kill instead of use for strategy, or you were something that wasn’t quite human, yourself,” Gordon answers, “and you know how we take care of something like that, don’t we?” Cas clenches his jaw. He had a gun at his hip, but Gordon was casually swinging that machete like it was an extension of his arm. And if Cas retaliated… 

“Uh. Guys?” Dean nudges Cas and points to a corner of the farmhouse. One of the vampires was struggling upright, holding itself at the throat to stop its head from completely falling off.

Gordon chuckles. “Gotta be careful. Sometimes you don’t get a clean cut and you miss the spinal cord.” He moves away from Cas to finish the job. Dean jabs him in the side, nods at the front door. Cas backs away. 

Just as he’s about to go through the door, he hears a scream, then a wet slap of something heavy hitting the floor. 

Cas climbs up into an overgrown orchard tree that has enough spring buds to offer some type of camouflage. He watches the house, ears attuned for any loud noises that could indicate fighting or something else - the bark idly scratches at his palms, and his foot is awkwardly wedged in between some of the tree’s branches. 

When the fire starts in the house, he nearly vaults himself from the tree. He sucks in a breath of air and holds it, counting to ten, then twenty, then thirty…

Gordon and Dean emerge, looking back to watch the flames go up, higher into the darkening sky. They must be talking about the case, about him. Cas’s hands tighten on the bark, wondering what he’d do if the two of them turned, machetes raised, and started hunting him.

Eventually Gordon leaves, going past the house, presumably to his car. Dean stays put. After a few minutes he moves from the house and starts turning this way and that, looking for something.

Cas exits the tree as gracefully as possible, creeping back towards the house. He stands next to Dean - his shirt is spattered with more blood. 

“There were another two in the basement,” Dean says. “We took ‘em down together. It seemed to prove - I dunno. He said he hoped he’d see me around.” 

“Just you.”

Dean shrugs. “You can’t go around telling people you’re psychic or that some omnipotent force has you on speed dial, man.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Yeah, well. The truth is Gordon seemed convinced you were either a vampire selling out other clans or some freaky monster of another type. Either way - he asked me why I didn’t kill you yet.” 

Cas stares at Dean’s profile, the orange light making his hair lighter, his eyes brighter. “And what did you say?”

“Vampires popped up - got busy with other shit,” he evades. “Come on. Nest is gone. Mystery solved.” They hike back through the orchard and pile into the car. 

“Did you see anything in there?” Cas asks. “Any humans, or -”

“No. Just cattle leftovers. Gordon said that was why they didn’t put up much of a fight - guess human blood’s stronger.” 

Cas rubs his hands together. They feel sticky from some residue sap. Drops of blood sit just above Dean’s collar. 

“Do you think they deserved that?” he asks, staring resolutely out the windshield.

“They were vampires.”

“Vampires that didn’t hurt humans.”

“You really believe that?” Dean stares at him. “Listen, I - I’m not always proud about what I gotta do for this job, I’ll admit that. So maybe they turned a leaf or whatever, maybe you’re even right about them. But for how long, Cas? How long were they gonna keep doing that, and how long until they just… lose it? And then you have to live with the innocent people that are dead because you didn’t put a stop to it when you had the chance. We leave ‘em be and what peace do we get out of it? A year’s worth? Ten?” 

Cas works his jaw, digs the nails of one hand into the sticky palm of his other hand. Heat blooms on the skin, the force giving way to new blood.

“I guess we’ll never know now,” Cas says. 

“Yeah, well.” Dean reaches over to fiddle with the radio. After hitting a few channels of static and abysmal local stations, some R.E.M. song comes on. Dean sucks his teeth but leaves it, focusing on driving them away from the burning house. “Saves us a lot of trouble, doesn’t it?”

Chapter Text

Dean drives them to the last few contacts Bobby has for them. It takes about four days. Cas doesn’t say a word, sitting in the passenger seat, across from him at a diner, in the other bed. He gets maybe two whole sentences out of him the entire time, the most bare-bones, technical stuff - where to stop for the night, when to get out and stretch their legs, who’s checking into the motel. 

There was an awkwardness to their first few meetings, Dean thinks.  Hostile, unsure. He remembered believing that Cas looked so young to be a hunter - looked about his age. That morphed into familiarity, which shifted into - the point is, their silences were never like this. This weighted, gargantuan thing between them that Dean doesn’t know how to defeat. 

He thinks about the night he drove Sam to the greyhound station, some place in bumfuck, nowhere heading to LA, then heading north to Palo Alto from there. John’s words hanging in the air between them, the thought that he might not ever see his brother again, that little Sammy was growing up and making choices and choosing to leave him strangling him silent. 

No one recognizes the esoteric symbols on sight, because why would they? They drive back to Sioux Falls after that. Cas is so quiet and still Dean keeps glancing over to see if he fell asleep - the faint reflection of Cas’s eyes gazing out the passenger side window greet him each time. 

Once they pull up the familiar gravel path, Cas gets out of the car before Dean can switch it over to park. He knocks on the door to Bobby’s house and slips inside without a word. 

Dean grabs his duffel, thinks about grabbing Cas’s, but heads in with just the one bag. 

“Any word from your contacts?”

“You just finished passing out the pop quiz, give them time.” Bobby heads into the kitchen, passes him a drink. A door upstairs slams. Bobby watches Dean roll his eyes and goes, “I probably don’t wanna know, but what happened?”

“Nothing - Cas is just,” Dean swallows back the whiskey. “Dad called with a job. Vampires. Another hunter beat us to it.”

“And?”

“They were only drinking the blood from cattle. Guess Cas thought that was a good enough reason to let them keep doin’ it.” Dean finishes his drink, hesitates, pours another finger’s worth into his glass. “I mean - seriously, Bobby? Dracula is where Cas wants to start getting ethical?”

“Any civilians die?”

“No.” Bobby hums, scratching at his beard. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

“Usually savin’ people is the main things hunters should be worried about.”

“Not killing the things responsible for it?”

“Kind of goes hand in hand,” Bobby says, sipping at his own drink, “but if humans are safe… ‘course, I guess you could feel bad for the cows.” Dean groans.

“Don’t tell me Cas’s peace and love vibes got to you, too.”

“I ain’t saying shit, Dean. Just - you know. Considering Cas is one in the same with the shit we’re all exterminating, it might not exactly be a walk in the park for him.”

“Cas? He’s - I mean.” He hitches the duffel strap higher on his shoulder. “He’s not…”

Bobby raises his eyebrows at him. “He’s not? You try tellin’ your dad that? Or what about - I don’t know - pretty much any other hunter out there?” Dean swallows, thinking of Gordon. “I’m not tellin’ you to start liking the bastards, Dean, I’m just saying -”

“- Yeah, well. Save it.” Dean glares out in the dim hallway. “Listen, uh. It was a long day. Long drive. I’m going to bed.”

-

Dean heads downstairs the next morning, doesn’t see Bobby anywhere, but there’s some coffee in the pot. As he’s pouring a cup he hears Cas laughing. He glances to the back door and sees him out there, talking on the phone.

“ - No, no I didn’t see that one yet,” he says, as Dean eases the main door open. Cas has the phone pressed to his ear, walking back and forth on the narrow wood of the stoop. The old cars and junkers gleam dully in the distance as the sun rises. “Well, I don’t know how long we’re gonna be here, so maybe -” He glances up, sees Dean. His face shutters, mouth dropping into a frown. “Uh-huh. Yeah. I think once Bobby’s up. Dean?” Cas turns back towards the cars. “Yeah, I’ll ask. Okay. See you later. Bye.”

“So he speaks,” Dean says. Cas is back to that stone-faced expression, lips pursed. Dean rocks on the balls of his feet for a moment before passing over his coffee cup. Cas takes it.

“Thanks,” he says, taking a sip.

“...So.” Dean slowly inches onto the porch. “Friend of yours?”

“It was Pamela,” he says. Dean waggles his eyebrows at him and Cas sighs.

“Well what did she want? Besides a date night.”

“Mostly that,” Cas says, casually. “You can come, if you want.”

“And watch the two of you in the downward dog position for forty minutes? I’ll pass.”

Cas tilts his head. “I don’t know why you’re digging your heels in over this,” Cas says, “Bobby was in contact with her for a long time. Pamela’s my friend, you know.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Dean -”

“I need to get some things for the car,” he says quickly. “I’m headin’ out. Let Bobby know.” He goes back inside, tugs on his boots, and speeds away from the salvage yard. He glances in the rearview mirror, half expecting Cas to be there at the front steps like the last time he had to leave, but there’s no one out there. He goes around to a few different auto shops, drives around the familiar roads of the tiny city. He gets a text from Cas and Bobby, both of them texting him the same address. 

He avoids it until he gets a call from Bobby: “Where the hell are you?”

“On a drive, why?”

“Pamela’s makin’ dinner and she wants to know when she can start. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” 

“I don’t really think -”

“She made pie.”

“...What kind?”

“Apple. Soup’s on in an hour, so finish up whatever you're doing and get over here.” He hangs up. Dean tosses the phone into the driver’s seat, petulant, but wanders back to Sioux Falls eventually, making his way into some neat little house in the suburbs. 

He parks, and when he turns back to the house, there’s a woman standing out on the porch. She’s got a black tank top on, a jacket slung over her shoulders, low rise jeans that show a strip of her stomach and hips. She has her hair pulled up in a loose ponytail, and her smile is contagious. 

“Heya, Dean,” she says, “nice to finally meet you.” 

“...Pamela?” Dean asks, slowly going up to her, shaking her hand, strong and steady in his grip.

“In the flesh. Did Cas not mention me?”

“Oh, no, he uh. Mentioned you a whole lot. Just uh - not what you look like.” She grins wider.

“Wanted to keep you all for himself, did he?” She casts her eyes down and up again, slowly. “Can’t say I blame him.” She pulls away and holds the door open for him. “Well, come on in - table’s set.” 

The good mood Pamela brought dries up some when he gets into the dining room, meets Cas’s eyes. He looks away first, takes his seat next to Bobby and starts chatting about some tune ups he wants to get to. Cas seems content to do something similar with Pamela, talking about gardening or meditation or whatever. It’s not until they’re divvying up slices of pie that Cas speaks to Dean directly.

“I think Pamela has a way to access my memories,” he says. Dean stops chewing, glances at the two of them.

“It’s like putting someone into a trance,” Pamela says, “it’s meant to allow their memories to regress. I’ve done it on clients before.”

“Get any clients like him?” Dean manages. 

“Oh, I’ve never seen anything like Cas before,” she says, giving him a look that makes Cas blush. Dean stares at the two of them again. “I need some other ingredients - there’s this one plant that helps relax individuals -”

“You have magic mushrooms on hand but not weed?”

Pamela laughs. “It’s a bit more esoteric than something I can get rolled up in a joint,” she says. “Bobby said he knows a hunter who grows some, down south where the weather won’t harm the plant.” 

“Sounds like magic to me,” Dean says. 

“The results can be magic,” Pamela answers, eyes bright and mischievous. “Who knows? It could be a repeat of last time, right Cas?” 

Instead of the sour or embarrassed look Dean is half expecting, Cas coughs, then laughs. “What do you think you’ll find, if you get your memories back?”

“Now there’s a thought,” Bobby says, “for one, I’d like a definition and some actual lore. I haven’t been this stuck on a problem since I was still wet behind the ears, and I don’t particularly care for it.”

“I don’t know what will happen,” Cas admits, “but it would be nice to know.”

“Maybe we should all place bets on Cas’s mysterious past,” Pamela says. “I’m waffling between wormhole travel from another dimension, or you going all soap opera on us and having a secret family.”

“A secret family?” Dean asks, pointing his fork. “Him?”

“Hey - I think Cas could be a family man - wouldn’t blame someone for snatching him up, weird powers or not.” She looks pointedly at Dean before smiling at Cas, and. It’s stupid, so stupid, but Dean knows that look. He’s spied it while sizing up potential suspects, seen it while he’s been out in too many random towns; hell, he’s been on the receiving end of it plenty of times. The stuff Cas alluded to with Pamela is a lot harder to brush off once he’s met her. She’s hot, flirty, sarcastic, and evidently has her shit together enough to own a home. They didn’t just have a weird, vague encounter. Cas - lived with her, in this house. For months. They had enough shared history to make little inside jokes and judging by Pamela’s lingering glances and Cas’s pink cheeks they actually, really fucked. Something that for all Dean knew, Cas wasn’t even interested in. 

Dean leaves the last of his pie, the other three speculating about Cas until it's time to clear the dishes. Cas grabs the plates, taking them into the kitchen. Pamela follows him and they wash dishes in the kitchen together. Dean can hear them laugh over the sound of running water. He wonders if that’s what Cas’s life was like - sitting down at the same table every night, eating something someone made from scratch, cleaning up together. He finishes his beer and puts his hands under the table, fingers clenched tight.

“They’re just - like that?” Dean asks Bobby.

“Like what?”

“Never mind,” he says, rushed.

“Dean!” Pamela shouts. “I’m boxing up pie, come see how much you want!” Pamela has her hair down now that she’s not cooking. Cas is watching her, absent-mindedly drying a dish. “What do you think, half? More?”

He swallows, crossing his arms. “Uh - I mean… the pie was pretty awesome,” he admits. She gives him the rest of the pie sans two slices and hands him the container.

“Cas told me you’re a fan, he came over and we baked it for you.” Dean turns to look at Cas.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’ve been teaching this guy how to cook.” Pamela grabs the dish from Cas’s hands and puts it away. “Figured it was time for baking.”

“We didn’t make the crust though,” Cas admits, “we have the Pillsbury dough boy to thank for that.”

“Puff pastry is a bit above my paygrade,” Pamela tells Dean, “one time Cas and I started watching America’s Test Kitchen and we actually thought we could make croissants.” Cas laughs again, open and happy, in the normal little kitchen in a normal little neighborhood like he never knew anything else.

Dean watches the two of them chatting and reminiscing, trying to tell a funny story to Dean that doesn’t work because, like Cas says, “you had to be there.”

Cas isn’t even human, really, and he wears the perfect home life like it was what he was born into. Like the type of hapless victims he finds on cases - normal until it’s not. Safe until something evil rips it all away and burns it down. Happy right up to the moment where -

“You okay, Dean?” Pamela asks. Dean blinks. Feels sweat collecting at the base of his neck, heart pounding against his ribcage.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling, “just uh. Gonna take this out to the car.” 

-

Cas follows him outside. “Smoking’s bad for you.”

“Really? That’s the thing that’s bad for me?” Dean asks. Cas shrugs. There’s one tiny light out on the porch, the rest of the street lights far enough away that they’re both encased in cold shadow.

“Pamela seems to like you,” he adds. 

“I think she likes everyone.” He tries to say it like it’s a joke, but there’s something awful in his voice.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just - you know, you two were all over each other, man.” 

Cas frowns. “We’re friends, I told you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know how many friends sleep together.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah - that , Cas. Jeez. I spent ages trying to get you laid back in Ohio. You got some psychics-only rule?”

“It’s not that - I really wasn’t interested.”

“And now you are?” 

Cas shrugs again. “We trust each other and it just kind of happened. Pamela wasn’t expecting a relationship and neither was I.”

“Really? You looked like a couple of honeymooners back there.” Cas sighs, shifting on his feet, looking at the house, then back to him.

“I don't know what you want from me, Dean.” 

“Me? I don’t want anything. You’re the one who -” He blows out smoke and tosses the cigarette on the ground, stomps on it. “You think one pie is gonna make me forget that you’re not even human?”

“No, but I figured having other people tell you that I’m not hiding anything would let you give me the benefit of the doubt. You just keep - needling me like you want me to just do something terrible and prove…” He takes a breath, looks back at Pamela’s house. “Maybe I should sleep here,” he says at length. “This is - this isn’t working.”

This conversation is the most Cas has talked to him since that vampire case. He steps closer to the other. “ This wouldn’t be a thing if you hadn’t lied to me in the first place.”

Cas turns his head back around and glares at him, hard and cold. “You don’t have to stay,” he tells Dean, “if I cause so much trouble for you.”

“You - causing -” Dean bites back a scream. “You know what? Maybe I will. You don’t need me - just go crawling back to some normal, easy  -”

“Don’t you say that,” Cas bites out. “Don’t talk about that when you were the one who -”

“Who did what?” Dean gets up into Cas’s face. “Huh? What did I do, Cas?” 

“I think the expression is something about those in glass houses,” Cas says. Dean nods, heat clawing up his belly as he steps away. 

Cas doesn’t expect the punch across his jaw - he staggers back, hand going up to protect his face. “Still take a punch like a regular guy, don’t you?” Dean says, “good to know.” His heart pulses in his ears. “You gonna hit me back?”

Cas looks like he really, really wants to. Instead of making him look strange and monstrous, though, it makes him look human, flushed and full of some potent cocktail of different emotions racing across his face. 

Dean waits in anticipation. Maybe he can’t make Cas happy, can’t make a home with him like Pamela could, but he can still make him react .

But then Cas straightens up, shakes his head. “You’re not worth it,” he says, turns around, walks back into the house.

“Yeah? Well - fine! Fuck you, too!” His breath mists into the night time air. He watches the door.  Cas doesn’t come back. 

-

Stupid Cas and his stupid fucking - he twists the knob for the volume as high as he can without blowing out his speakers and speeds down south and east and as far away from Sioux Falls as he can. He doesn’t need Cas. He doesn’t need John and he doesn’t have Sam anymore, so what the fuck did it matter if Cas was around? Guy could say too much to some random ass hunter and get killed for real and it would - whatever.  He slams his hand on the wheel until his entire arm throbs and he keeps driving. 

Dean turns his cell off for a few days, focuses on driving, looking for hunts, fucking any girl that gives him a second look, and when he finally turns it back on, hungover, stomach seizing from probably throwing up the night before, there’s no message or missed calls from Cas. There’s one from John though, and he’s on a hunt two states over. 

“You look like crap,” John tells him, once he finds the right motel room. “Please tell me you finished a hunt before you drank a bar dry.” 

Dean smiles like he’s a chuffed kid, like John doesn’t stick to that rule either. “Just a salt and burn, saved a few co-eds who were real grateful.” John looks at him like he can’t quite figure out if he’s lying, but then he just shakes his head, deciding he doesn’t need to know, tosses a loaded shotgun at Dean and tells him they’re going back out. 

They finish that hunt, then another, and then it’s edging towards the end of April and John’s in a good mood about having found some notes from an old hunter that got forwarded to his P.O. box and Dean spots a rack of postcards, the spring sunlight hitting the glossy greeting card art and he says, without thinking, “do you think we should stop by and say hi to Sammy?” 

“Thought you didn’t talk to your brother anymore,” John says, after a long, long silence. Dean swallows, feels John’s eyes staring into the back of his skull, doesn’t look back.

“I haven’t,” he says. The once in a blue moon postcards don't count as talking, do they? “Just, uh, his birthday’s in a couple of weeks -”

“He made his choice,” John interrupts, “I don’t want you getting your hopes up - what do you think he’d do if we went up there? Come on, Dean, use that brain of yours.” John casually cuffs his crown with some of his mail. There’s no real force behind it, but Dean’s vision blurs for a second. 

“Y-yeah, no, that’s -” He coughs. “Guess I was being nostalgic,” he manages. John catches his eyes before walking out of the post office.

“Life’s short,” a voice says from behind him. It’s an older man working behind the counter, staring at him while he slaps mailing labels on packages. “Go visit your brother before it’s too late.” 

“Uh. Yeah. Thanks.” The man’s still staring at him, and he shakes it off as he walks out of the building. He thinks about sending another note, but it’s difficult to sneak that sort of thing when his dad’s around. Instead they go on another hunt, and a week after that John gets a call in the middle of the night and says he’s going, don’t wait up. Dean falls asleep again and when the morning comes, his dad’s stuff is gone. 

That night he shrugs on a jacket, swings by a bar, finds a server on her break and fucks her in the backseat of his car. It’s great until it’s over, and she’s tugging on her shirt and shorts combo and slinking back into work. Dean drives to a liquor store after that and heads back to the motel. For some reason heading into a bar makes his skin crawl.

He holds the bag tight against his side and jams it up against the door while he fishes for the room key, and he feels the corner of a book in the interior pocket. He instantly remembers what’s inside, and when he gets into the room he tosses the jacket on the bed and opens up whatever his hand lands on first and drinks too much of it in one go. 

The plan of getting so amazingly drunk he can’t remember his own name works for about an hour - he didn’t eat anything since breakfast, so his stomach cramps up and he gets nauseous before he’s too drunk to care about throwing up. He puts his face on the foot of the bed, half watching some made-for-TV garbage, and reaches his hand out for the bottle, hits the fabric of his jacket, bites his lip.

“Fuck it,” he says, and makes a grab for the journal. It’s some college-ruled faux leather that reminds Dean of the two month period where Sam was in eleventh grade and got way too into Shakespeare and he wrote prissy love poems in iambic pentameter - he flips it open to the middle and sees a picture of him at that Cubs game they went to, and on the opposite page a picture he had snapped of Cas in the woods, last year when Dean didn’t know anything. 

He almost slams the book shut on principle but instead he starts at the beginning. It’s not like his dad’s journal - there’s very little about creatures and monsters, and much more about how Cas himself thinks about them, long rambling essays extrapolating on victims, more about himself. Dean sees the dawning admittance Cas has that he isn’t human, the things he can do and how it feels. He also reads about what the two of them did together, Cas’s handwriting going from blocky and blotchy into something smoother and more practiced as the months go by. The things Cas remembered enough about a hunt or a conversation that he recorded here. Sometimes he doesn’t even mention a case at all - he just writes the date, the movie Dean took him to, a drink he ordered for him.  

The last entry is dated a month ago: We’re going to get my car, whatever is left of it. Dean doesn’t want to let me out of his sight - he’s afraid I might do something bad. I guess those other times I was left alone don’t count. Bobby and Pamela think he’ll come around eventually. I hope so.

I don’t want to tell him I’m scared, too. I killed one of those witches - they were bad, but they were human. What if it’s just as easy as taking down a monster? Most of them are flat, one-dimensional. Humans can be bad, but there’s more room for them to be other things. If I can ignore that enough to put one down - what else am I capable of? 

Sometimes I think I should turn back now, find a way to turn off the powers that I do have. But I remember the first time I used them to protect someone else - to protect Dean - and I think that the only way to move is forward.

But I can’t tell Dean that. He’s seen me write in here, before, but I don’t think he’s ever read it. Maybe if he does… 

He keeps drinking after that, and eventually gets the great idea to call Cas. It rings and rings and then he hears Cas’s muffled voice, the rustling of clothes as he struggles to tell whoever’s calling that he can’t come to the phone right now, and to leave a name and number and - the beep cuts him off. 

“You gave me your diary for some reason,” he says into the receiver. “Did you get a P.O. box like I told you? I’ll mail it back and then we can just…” What? Forget everything? “Why’d you do it, Cas? Why did you have to make me -” He blows out a frustrated breath. “Whatever.” He fumbles with the phone until he ends the call, finishes drinking, passes out.

It takes him four cups of coffee, six ibuprofen and enough bacon to block his arteries before he feels even remotely human the next morning. He’s picking at the last bits of some home fries before he checks his phone, listens to a message that was left there.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas says, “We didn’t part ways on good terms. I want it to be like before, but maybe that’s not something we can do.” He sighs. “I’m going to that place for the flowers. I wanted to see if you could come back but it’s been - a while. It’s in Mississippi. If you want we could go… no, never mind, that’s, you wouldn’t want -” The message cuts off. Dean plays it again, then pays his bill and leaves town. He goes south, calls Bobby on the way.

“Did Cas leave to get that mystical plant yet?”

“Yesterday. Why?” 

“Give me the address. I’m meeting him down there.” 

“Do you really think -”

“It’s fine,” Dean tells him, “just - humor me, okay?”

Bobby sighs, but tells him where to go. He doesn’t know where Cas is staying, if anywhere, so he just pulls up to the hunter’s house and waits until he spots an old, beat up car from Bobby’s lot coming up towards him. He gets out of the Impala, Cas’s journal stuffed back inside his jacket pocket. 

Cas gets out, t-shirt and jeans and too many bracelets. The afternoon sunlight is setting behind him, so Dean can’t read his features.

“Heya Cas,” he says, when a minute passes without any talking. “I got your message.”

“I got yours. I do have a P.O. box, actually. If you want it.”

“No need. Here.” He tugs  the journal out and passes it over. Cas looks at it a moment before taking it back. “Thanks for - um. For letting me read it.” Cas tucks it away into his own clothes and looks up at the house, not saying anything else. 

“This the place?” Dean asks, nodding at the old farmhouse.

“Supposed to be - I called the number Bobby gave me, but no one answered.”

“Some of the retired guys are pretty squirrelly.” They both go up the steps together, and knock on the door. No answer. Cas peers into the windows. “Maybe it’s an old address.”

“No, the car out front is too new looking,” Cas says. “Any ideas?”

Dean’s idea is to sneak around back and pick open the lock there, easing themselves into a kitchen with decor from thirty years ago, a bit grimy, but not abandoned. Dean points to Cas and gestures upstairs, and Cas goes soundlessly past him. Dean checks out the rest of the ground floor, but by the time Cas reappears, he can only admit that there’s no sign of life. 

“Could try the cellar,” Cas says, coming over to a locked door. He looks pointedly at Dean.

He sighs. “You really need to learn how to pick locks, dude.” Dean finds a bare bulb at the top of the steps and flicks it on, the light flickering and buzzing. They make their way down the stairs, some high windows letting in the last bit of sun from the day.

Dean’s about to go down when Cas puts a hand out. “What?”

“There’s something here. Something bad.” To punctuate the words, the lightbulb above them gives one last buzz before flickering out. 

“Great.” Dean slowly pulls out his gun and makes his way down the steps. “Are you sure this place has the sacred patchouli we need?” 

“It’s not patchouli, it’s a flower from east Asia that is said to possess -” A shadow moves from the wall and Dean and Cas both go flying sideways. 

“I was starting to get bored,” a voice says. The figure passes by the window and Dean can make out the face of an older man in a flannel shirt. 

“What the fuck are you?”

“Come on, Dean, use that Winchester smarts,” it goads, eyes turning black, “I know you can tell when you’re being watched.” A chill runs up his spine at the thing staring at him, the permeating sense of surreal wrongness is something he hasn’t felt since he was a child, a defenseless kid who could still convince himself that maybe the monster in his closet wasn’t really there. 

He pushes that instinctual fear down. “Okay, so I do know what you are - better question, how the fuck did you know we were gonna be here?”

“Oh, there’s more of us topside these days than you’d think,” the demon says, “biding our time. Getting ready.”

Cas stands up, a look of concentration on his face. “What do you want?” Dean tries to do the same but he’s still stuck tight.

“Ideally I’d like to spatter both your skulls into the ground until your brains look like pie filling - especially you,” the demon tells Cas. “I’m not a big fan of loose ends, as it were.” 

“Always good to have goals,” Dean says. The demon makes a gesture and he slams all the way into the floor, hard. He feels his jaw crack at the impact, blood welling in his mouth as a tooth scrapes hard against his cheek.

“Dean!” 

“Oh, shut up.” Cas is shoved against the wall of the basement, boxes and books flying around him from the impact. The demon laughs. “Poor little guy - don’t have enough juice?”

Under the pile Cas’s arm emerges, then his head and chest. Cas throws his hand out, the demon flying back in the same manner he was thrown. Dean watches Cas and swears his eyes start to glow in the dim basement, blue-white. 

“ You don’t belong here,” Cas says, voice echoing strangely in the room, Dean’s ears prickling. 

“Hah - neither do you, sweetheart.”

“Get out.” Cas moves his hand, and then the demon spills out in a pool of black smoke, pushing out from the man’s eyes, nose, mouth, until all that’s left is a limp body that falls face first onto the ground.

“Cas?” Dean stands up. “What -”

“I can’t get rid of it like this,” Cas says, breathing labored, both hands out as though he’s trying to move where the black mist goes. It jerks towards Dean, and he steps back behind Cas. “We could try to put it in a trap -”

“Can you hold that thing long enough for me to draw one?” Cas doesn’t say anything. Dean can see a vein at his temple. His eyes flick down to the holster at Cas’s hip. “I think that guy it was using is dead.”

“And?”

“Put it back in there.”

“So? Even if we do, it’ll -”

“We can’t let it escape, Cas! If we don’t kill it, it’s just gonna tell all of its friends.” Cas glances at him, eyes glinting unnaturally. Dean doesn’t know if demons can hear when they’re just clouds of mist, but he figures it’s best not to chance it. He meaningfully looks at the knife Cas has strapped to his thigh. “I know you got my back. Do you trust me?” 

Cas nods, once. Dean heads closer to the body. With a pained grunt, Cas relinquishes his hold on the demon. It swarms Dean for a moment - until it seems to register the anti-possession necklace he has on, and it moves back to the body it had been using.

“Dean!” Cas tosses the knife and Dean catches it. It’s a bit of a long shot, but it’s the best option they have. 

The demon finishes its trip into the body and laughs. “Go ‘head, try -”

Dean brings the knife down into the creature’s chest, hard. He takes the knife out and kicks the body away and - the demon falls backwards. 

Light spills out of it, eyes and mouth glowing red and orange before stopping. It goes limp on the floor. Dean glances at Cas, then creeps closer. Prods the thing with a foot. “Huh. Demons can die from a stab wound - who would’ve thought?”

“...They shouldn’t be able to,” Cas says. He takes the blade from Dean and examines it with a frown. “We should go.” 

“Yeah, I could deal with a one demon a day limit,” Dean says, shakily. They climb up the steps and get out of the house. 

-

“So, what was that back there?” The motel room door is shut, locked, bolted. They laid out salt lines through the entry points. 

“This is the knife I found in Grays Chapel,” Cas says, taking it out of its sheath, examining the inscription, fides super omnia . “The demon who was after it said it could kill anything… I didn’t think the information was accurate.” He looks at the blade, looks at Dean.

He holds it out to him.

Dean takes it. “So this - this really is some all powerful artifact?”

“It’s killed other things we hunted. Werewolves, ghouls, wraiths, shapeshifters… but the demon is a surprise.” 

“So those rumors were true.” Cas shrugs. Dean contemplates the knife. There’s still flecks of dried blood covering spots of the silvery hilt. “That means,” Dean says, “if I stab you with this, I could kill you.” 

Cas already knows it wouldn’t - it didn’t even phase him before. But he doesn’t tell Dean that. Instead he tips his head and asks, “be honest with me, Dean. Do you want to?”

Dean has these tells; Cas has picked up on them over the years they’ve hunted together. When he’s biding his time before he strikes a monster down, his hand tends to flex on whatever weapon he’s holding, testing the grip. 

Instead, he just swallows. A moment later, he shoves the knife into the sheath at his hip.

Cas isn’t sure what that means until Dean’s striding forward and yanking the collar of his shirt with his fist, crushing their mouths together. It’s not like that first time, fragile, careful - Dean is a full blown force now - even as he leans back he bites Cas’s bottom lip as they part, leaving it red and stinging, like he didn’t want to let go.

“Dean -?” 

“Shut up,” Dean says, fingers trailing up from his shirt collar to hold the back of his neck, thumb stroking up into his hair. He kisses Cas again, just as rough, but this time Cas isn’t caught off guard. He grabs at the flannel Dean has over his shoulders, holds it tight, lets it ground him as Dean kisses and bites and keeps him there. 

“Dean,” he starts again. Dean’s eyes are hazy, lips red and wet. “Is this… okay?”

“What part of this has been okay, Cas?” Dean challenges. “I just - you - after all the shit I’ve done you still…” Dean pulls back, shaking his head. Cas thinks for a second this is it - Dean forgot himself, that’s why he kissed him. It won’t happen again. Cas runs his thumb over the flannel. It smells like Dean, the material soft and worn from however many washes - Cas is pretty sure he wore this one, once, when it got mixed up in his laundry one time, when he went around in Dean’s clothes, lives jumbled up all together, as close as they are now. 

The thought that this is all he gets is… Cas takes a breath. “Dean,” he says, a third time, “please.”

It’s a bit like magic. After a moment, Dean strips out of his flannel, takes the holster at his side and unbuckles it, letting it and the knife drop to the ground. 

“Well?” Dean asks, kicking off his shoes. “Are you gonna just stand there or are we gonna -” Cas moves forward, shoves Dean onto the bed and covers him, kisses him, hand trailing down to the hem of his t-shirt. He feels the muscles in Dean’s stomach tense at the touch, like he isn’t sure if he should be fighting Cas or letting this happen. 

Dean lets out a small noise in between their mouths, “Cas -” he starts, doesn’t finish. Cas peels off his jacket, drags his shoes against the edge of the mattress until they fall to the floor. He parts ways enough for Dean to shove his t-shirt up and over his head, the amulet thumping against his chest. Cas does the same, his necklace dangling over Dean as he looks down at him. 

“Gonna take a picture?” Dean says, eyes dark. 

“I know you do that, too.” Dean’s cheeks pink and he glances somewhere over Cas’s shoulder instead. “We don’t - I mean, if you don’t -”

“Shut up, Cas,” he says, moving up and rolling them over so he can straddle him. “Got any secret psychic boyfriends I gotta compete with?”

“If I do I’ll be very surprised,” Cas says, dully.

“Oh my God,” Dean says, a smile quirking one side of his mouth, “you’re a piece of shit sometimes.” His hands slide up Cas’s thighs and tug at his belt; Cas feels a noise trying to come out from his lungs and he bites down on his lip. It doesn’t quite work, Dean’s smile widens. “Sensitive?” 

“You know I am.”

“I don’t know if I do - why don’t you tell me?” 

Cas does try to tell Dean - because the other man seems to really, really like it when Cas tells Dean what he likes - but then the touches ramp up and there’s so much going on that he can’t really concentrate on anything. Dean moves over him, smooth and sweat slick, eyes darting over his face like he wants to memorize the moment. Cas tugs him down so he can kiss him some more and Dean goes willingly, kisses him so deep and perfect that Cas almost starts to get his hopes up that this might happen again. 

Dean’s hand works over him in timed strokes - Cas feels something building and when Dean moves down to lick at the sweat in the column of his throat, a growled, “come on, come on, ” right by his ear, he lets it happen, Dean’s hips rolling against his thigh, gasping into his ear. 

Cas moves one of his hands, sated and lazily, down into Dean’s jeans. He frowns at the tightness of the denim, unable to move his hands much. 

He starts to sit up. “I can -”

“Just. Here.” Cas shifts out from under Dean and lets the other man fall against his chest. Dean undoes the front of his jeans harriedly, Cas mouths at his shoulder, hand sliding down a taut stomach and gripping his cock. It’s easier this way, more similar to motions Cas has already gone through, and Dean presses back against him insistently, a warm reassuring weight. 

He does it for a minute or more - he’s too relaxed to think about time - when Dean gasps again, arching his back and rolling his hips into Cas’s waiting hand until Cas feels his cock pulsing, wet against his fingers. He brushes his nose up and kisses the back of Dean’s neck until the other’s breathing evens out and he starts to move. 

Dean kicks the rest of his clothes off and looks over at Cas. “I’m…” his eyes trail down his body, lingering briefly at the tattoo on his hip. “Shower?” he says, clearing his throat.

“Just a shower?”

“I mean, if you can get it up that fast I won’t -”

“I meant are you going to shower or are you going to freak out as soon as you go into the bathroom?”

Dean smacks Cas on the leg on instinct, then looks like he’s really thinking about it. “I think I might have hit the quota for freaking out this year, so, uh. No. Probably not.” 

As though to prove a point, Dean showers with the door open, and when Cas finishes washing his hands and wiping down the mess on his stomach, laying under the covers, Dean joins him in the same bed, telling him to budge over. He’s asleep in five minutes, and Cas drifts in and out, warm and sleepy and sated.

At some point he ends up in Dean’s arms, and they both wake up a little before check out. Dean doesn’t even seem to mind their proximity. And for the rest of the morning, Cas thinks maybe he has something to hope for after all.

Chapter Text

Dean rubs at his jaw while he waits for Bobby to pick up. 

“Dean?”

“Hey. Bad news - that hunter you pointed us in the direction of is dead.”

“Shit. What killed him?”

“Well, my money’s on the demon that was possessing the poor bastard.”

“Jesus.” He hears Bobby sigh on the other end of the line, imagines him rubbing at his forehead. “ Are you two alright?” 

“A little banged up, but nothing too bad. Cas pinned the demon down long enough for me to get at it with that knife.”

“And?”

“And it’s just as powerful as that one demon thought - made it look like whatever those hell-bound bastards are made up of just - imploded. Lit ‘em up like a jack o’ lantern.” He grins. “It was awesome.” 

“Good to know. Did you manage to figure out why there was a demon possessing someone you were trying to meet?”

“It said something about tying up loose ends. It wasn’t a fan of Cas, that’s for sure.” 

“No surprise there - he’s the only thing that can give those bastards a run for their money.” 

“Yeah. Cas can sense them, too. The only way it even knew we were gonna be there was because of me.”

There’s a pause. “So you have demons on your tail?”  

“...Well, when you put it like that -” 

“Dean! We’re talking about demons, remember?”

“Yeah - which Cas can take down no problem.”

“ These demons, sure - it’s not gonna be much longer until they start sending out even worse ones. You two need to lay low.”

“And we will - we can finish the ritual and, I don’t know. Once we get some info from that, we’ll just play it by ear. So long as we stick together, we should be fine.” 

“Play it by ear. Last time I checked you two weren’t so keen on spending all day glued at the hip.”

Dean glances back at the motel room door. “I guess things have changed."

“Dean,” Bobby says warily, trying to catch him out.

“No, really - me and Cas, we uh, worked things out.”

“You mean you don’t want to chivv him with that special knife just to see what would happen?”

“No,” he says, coughing, “no, I’m good. Uh. Anyway, we did find that flower. We can come back, have Pamela do the ritual. Maybe whatever Cas can remember will help with all of this.” 

“Maybe. Alright, I’m gonna look up some more wards - if demons are keeping an eye on you I don’t need any of that coming into my house or Pamela’s place. I'll see you back here soon. And Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.” 

“I will.” Dean hangs up the phone, goes back inside the room. “Called Bobby, said we were heading back.” 

“Alright, I’m about ready to leave,” Cas says, tugging on a shirt. His hair is damp from the shower, the bathroom still humid. Dean moves past him, wipes the condensation from the mirror and opens his mouth, pokes at one of his molars. 

“Something wrong?” Cas asks from behind him.

“Nothing, think that demon just slammed me down real -” Cas gets closer in the reflection. When Dean turns around he’s peering at him, way up in his personal space. “Um.”

“May I?” 

Not entirely sure what he’s agreeing to, Dean nods. Cas cups Dean’s face, his cheek throbbing more this morning from where he bit into it. Cas breathes deeply, thumb running across his skin, and the pain dissipates, less like putting ice or numbing gel on a wound and more like it had never been there at all. Cas pulls away and Dean stretches his jaw, testing, but it feels normal. 

“Have you been doing that to me the whole time?” Dean asks.

“Doing what? Healing you?” He shakes his head. “It would have been a bit of a giveaway, wouldn’t it?”

“Really? I swear there were times you’d touch me and then." Dean trails off.

“Maybe… unconsciously?” Dean smirks. “What?”

“I dunno, Cas, sounds pretty sappy, if you ask me.” Cas smiles, small and secret, blue eyes tracking from Dean’s face down to the floor.

“I suppose there are worse things.”

“Well, um. Thanks.” 

They head out after that. Dean’s flying down the highway for a few miles before a thought occurs to him. He digs out his phone.

“Something wrong?”

“Does that mean I’ll never get another hangover again?”

“I’m not enabling you.”

“Oh, come on , Cas!”

-

Bobby and Pamela greet them when they come in. Bobby's brandishing a few bookmarked tomes, some paint, and an expression that seems to be rattling Dean. When Cas gets out of the borrowed clunker he can hear Dean go, "I know what you're thinking, and no."

"I found some wards that can help hide you from-"

"You're talking about tagging baby!" Dean argues. Cas passes them and makes a beeline for Pamela, slides a package of bright purple flowers over to her.

"Have a good trip?" she asks.

"It was… fruitful."

"Oh, I'm sure. You’re practically glowing." Cas rubs the back of his neck. "I'll need another day or two, then we can do this thing."

"Just another day or two," Cas repeats. Bobby has apparently won Dean over to the extent that he's popped open the trunk to let the older hunter sketch out some protective sigils. 

"Don't tell me you want to back out," Pamela says.

"I don't. I want to know my past, Pamela, it's just…" Bobby does something that has Dean squawking over the mistake, gesturing dramatically at the car. 

"I get it. You think I wanted to end any of my relationships because I found some weird numbers on the phone bill? Sometimes you just want to keep things as they are."

"But if what I remember is useful -"

"Only in that it tells you who you are, Cas," Pamela says. "If it helps the rest of us, great, but -"

"Hey Cas!" Dean waves him over. "I'm kicking Bobby off’a art duty - you any good at doing sigils or is this gonna be a me, myself, and I thing?"

Pamela knocks her shoulder against Cas's. "I think if the universe really didn't want you knowing who you are, it would put more in the way than a demon and some relationship drama." She brandishes the plant with a smile and walks back to the house.

Cas heads over and watches Dean paint more sigils into his car. Dean’s staring at some paper Bobby laid out for him, then at his work, back and forth. He’s precise about his placements, adding little whirls or fixing lines as he sees fit. He doesn’t really need Cas’s help at all, except maybe to hold the paint or find a rag to wipe up the drips along the side of the can.  

"I wonder if any of the sigils on your ribs would help us," Dean says, flipping to another marked page.

"Maybe - demons can't seem to sense me."

"Hm. Might want to spare that till we actually know what those symbols mean. Could be like, a curse.”

“Or they could mean nothing.” 

They glance at each other. 

Of the many symbols that had been recorded, there were a few that popped up again and again, so much so that Cas memorized them over their trip across the country looking for hunters who might know its origins. He scratches them in on a piece of paper and folds it up, passes it over to Dean, thinking that this could be nothing and also that this could be everything. Dean places it somewhere in the trunk, tucked between the Impala’s manual which is in turn stuffed under their duffels and some supplies, wrapped up tight like an omamori. They let the paint on the interior of the hood dry in the brittle spring day, Dean watching closely for any points where the paint might start to drip.

“What were you and Pamela talking about?” he asks, carefully neutral.

“The ritual should be ready in a few days, she said.” Cas watches Dean lean over, eyeing another spot of sigils. “I suppose there’s nothing to do but… wait for the results of that.” 

“Man, there’s always stuff to do.” The paint seems tacky enough to appease Dean and he shuts the trunk, leans up against it. “Pick your poison.”  

-

“Seriously,” Dean goes, “that one?”

Cas is counting out from a large wad of fifties - Dean had to drive Cas all around Sioux Falls to hit up different ATMs for the used car dealership. “I looked it up online,” Cas tells him, “it has good gas mileage.”

Getting out cash with a credit card only used up the limit faster, but Cas was still footing most of his bills with the apparently lucrative E. Musk without any issue. The stickers across the different windshields in the lot advertise ‘low, low prices!’ and ‘going fast!’. They’re the only ones on the property and there’s a small group of men in cheap suits watching them like they’re lambs to the slaughter. 

“Yeah, but,” he glowers at the azure '94 Honda Civic like it’s going to be his car, “it’s so… come on, Cas, get something cooler!” He points at a sky blue 1965 Mustang. “Look at this thing!” 

Cas sniffs. “Can’t put a body in the trunk.”

“You couldn’t in that, either.”

“Well. If I move the seat down.” 

For all that Dean loves cars, he hasn’t had to sit through the ordeal of buying one. He haggles, that’s the part he’s good at - he saves Cas about a thousand bucks - but there’s a lot of paperwork, and weird packages that sound too good to be true. Cas’s polite act doesn’t get them anywhere so eventually Dean has to take over and start barking directions at the guy who had finally come over to them. They get out in two hours.

“If you crash this one, we’re fixing it. I can’t do that again, man,” Dean tells him. 

“I won’t crash it - I’m a very good driver.”

“You’re a slow driver,” Dean argues, “meet you back at Bobby’s?” 

“Actually,” Cas says, “I wanted to take this out for a test drive.” He pats the hood of the car.

“Oh. Okay.”

“Did you want to come with me?”

Dean glances at where he parked the Impala at the end of the lot. “Sure,” he says, “lead the way.” He tells Cas to pick some good music - “you always remember the first song you drove to,” he tells him. 

“It’s not my first time driving.”

“Well - first time driving in your car.” 

“What was your first song?” Cas finds the right key and puts it into the ignition. 

“Ramble On, duh,” he says proudly. Cas pokes at the radio; a tape pops out. With a shrug, he pushes it back in, waits for the music to come on. It has a jazzy, upbeat sort of piano. Dean can’t place it until the singer comes on. “Supertramp?” he says, sniffing, “I guess it could be worse.”

“I like it,” Cas says, turning the volume up and easing out of the parking lot, “sounds happy.”

“Yeah, it does.”

-

He and Dean stock up on supplies, go to the movies, make dinner for Bobby and Pamela one night resulting in Dean proudly calling Cas his sous chef. Their conversations skate the surface, but Dean’s more at ease now than before. Things are good again, some new normal. Cas wishes he could hold onto it a little bit longer, but he’s been dragging his feet and now there’s nothing more he can do but. This.  

Pamela comes to Bobby’s house, starts setting up a table and chairs, gives Cas the tea to drink. “It calms your nerves, makes you a bit more susceptible to what I can do.” Dean glances at the two of them, but if he has any jokes to make, he keeps them to himself.

The tea is earthy, sweetened with honey, cloying and strange. Cas drinks it down and feels like his body is set at a funny angle; everything tilted and otherworldly . He waits in his seat, watching Pamela light the candles then sit to his right side. Dean’s on his left, Bobby across from him. 

“Let’s hold hands for this one,” Pamela says. Dean surveys the three at the table before grabbing Cas’s hand, holding tight. Pamela does the same to his other hand. “I can do hypnosis for memories, and a seance to get a peek at who’s responsible for doing something like sending you here,” she says, looking at Cas, “Since it’s a bit of a two-for-one, we’re gonna have to combine some things.”

“Alright,” Cas says. His mouth feels strangely dry.

“I like to touch something that’s also touched - you know, the thing of interest, but in that case, that’s just you.” She takes a deep, centering breath. “Alright. Are you ready?”

Cas nods. Closes his eyes. Pamela walks him through something of a mediation, telling him to focus on nothing, to clear his mind. It’s even easier with the tea in his system - he feels so relaxed he thinks he could fall asleep at the snap of her fingers. “Can you hear me?” Pamela asks. He turns his head towards her, slow-moving like he’s under water. 

“Yes,” he answers. Autopilot.

“Where were you?” she starts. “Where did you begin?”

Cas doesn’t consciously try to remember; instead he feels the response building, escaping without his permission: “It was a motel room in Pontiac.” 

“Had you ever been there before? Remember driving there? Checking in?”

“No.”

“Alright… let’s try to look further back, before that.”

Cas frowns. “There’s nothing there.”

“There has to be something. Breathe and think - let the memories come to you.”

Cas fights to remain relaxed, to let something flow towards him, but he sees nothing, feels nothing. “It’s empty - I can’t -”

“Shh, just breathe. It’s okay. It’s empty, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing there.” Cas lets his eyes move around behind his eyelids, diving through a memory, through nothingness. He thinks he sees… something… someone… Pamela squeezes his hand after some time; he shakes his head, sluggish. “Okay. Let’s try this - whatever force is responsible for this: I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle. I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle,” Pamela repeats the mantra, and Cas feels - something inside of him wake up. 

“Pamela,” he starts, shifting in his seat. He's being pulled from his body, stretched and wrung out. He clenches the hands holding his before he disappears completely. Sweat drips down his temples.

“I conjure and command you, show me your face,” Pamela continues, “I conjure and command you, show me your face, I conjure and command you -”

“Uh, Pamela…?” he hears Dean speak. There’s heat on his face, heat growing inside of him, like a candle growing into a fire.

“It’s happening,” she says, “I conjure and command you, show me your face, I conjure and command you, show me your face! I conjure and command you, show me your face!” 

Cas moves from letting the fire grow to actively suppressing it - it’s too hot, too much, trying to hold a burning coal, trying to stop a bolt of lightning - and all of that unrestrained power is centering towards Pamela. 

Within the emptiness of his mind, he sees - hears - something. He’s lost in the vision for a moment, stuck wanting to examine it further, and then he hears the lights above him shorten out, bulbs bursting, flames rising as Pamela speaks, that power coursing through him like he’s trying to smite a monster -

-

“No, Pamela, stop!” Cas wrenches his hands away and shoves the chair back, panting. All the power Dean had felt thrumming through him abruptly stops. The candles sink back from the towers of flame until they’re burnt out nubs and they’re left sitting in the dark. “I can’t - I can’t,” Cas says. 

“Cas. Hey, we can do this,” Pamela says, reaching out to him. Cas shakes his head, backing away another step. 

"Pamela, your eyes," Dean says. She touches her face, surprised at the tear tracks there, a mix of salt water and blood.

“It’s fine,” she says, wiping  them away. “Let’s sit back down and -”

“No. No - I felt. It was like when I was using my powers to destroy something.” Cas clenches, unclenches his fists. “I couldn’t - if all of that went to you it would have -”

“I can channel power,” Pamela tries. She gestures at her face. “This doesn’t even hurt. We don’t know that it would have gotten worse.”

“Maybe. But I just.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” He looks at all of them, “I’m sorry.” He walks out of the room. Dean hears the front door open and shut. 

“Well,” Bobby says, “so much for that.” 

“I almost had something,” Pamela protests. “It was so close.” She looks at the blown out candles, the loose papers that had blown to the floor. She rubs at her eyes.

“Are you really okay?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, burns a bit, but I don’t think it’s anything permanent.” 

“Still,” Bobby says, gesturing for her to sit down. She does, sighing in frustration. “Guess I’ll try to find where I put a broom,” he mutters to himself. Dean hears glass crunching under his boots as he walks out of the room.

“What was it… like?” He had felt Cas hold his hand, fingers flexing, and the candle flame burn hotter as it went high, the light bulbs bursting and electricity shorting, a strange wind gusting through the room, but everything that happened was aiming for Pamela, not him. 

“It was - powerful,” Pamela says, looking at a loss for words. “More than anything I ever felt before. Amazing.”

“Maybe it would’ve been too much,” Dean offers. 

“Could be,” she says, bending down from her chair to get the papers. Dean starts helping her. “It’s just -” She puts them on the table. “When I first met Cas, he was - I don’t know, torn up inside. I mean, this guy has no memory, no clue who he is - or what he is. And it’s not like he can really go around asking hunters about himself, either! We’re friends, I just - I wanted to give him something concrete.” 

“You did,” Dean says, “like you said, you’re his friend.” 

Pamela nods, looking at him. “So are you.” 

Dean turns away, surveying the room for anything else that got knocked over. “I guess.”

Pamela laughs. “You can go around with that macho act all you want, but it’s not gonna fool me.”

He swallows. “What? I don’t -”

“You and Cas are tied together, Dean - the fact that you’re here today is proof enough, even without all the,” she makes a gesture at him, “you know.” 

“Uh, not sure that I do.”

“I’m a psychic, Dean,” she says wryly. “And last time I checked, I’ve got two working eyes. The seance really only needs three people. Could do it with two in a pinch. I had the address of that hunter with the flowers ready to go, too. Told Cas as much. But he said he wanted to wait for you.” She takes the papers from Dean’s hand and puts them on the table. “Now, are you going to go out and talk to him or am I?” 

“I mean - it could be you.” Pamela crosses her arms. “Okay. That was rhetorical. I’ll just - okay.” 

He takes a breath before getting out to the front porch. “Hey Cas.” 

Cas is sitting on the front step. The back of his white t-shirt is illuminated by the lone porch light hanging over the door. He turns his head, doesn't quite meet Dean's gaze.

“Mind if I join you?”

Cas makes a gesture to the spot next to him. Dean eases down on the step. A car drives by, Dean sees the lights briefly at the end of the drive, its reflection bouncing across a dozen broken fenders in the scrap yard. Dean hears one of Bobby's dogs bark after it, then silence and darkness resumes. “Um. I’m sorry Pamela’s plan didn’t really pan out.”

“Hm. No jokes about psychic bullshit?” 

“I mean if you want -” Cas levels him with a flat look. “No. No jokes. It sucks, man. I -” Dean bites his lip. He thinks about Cas and Pamela in the kitchen, the thought that Cas has someone out there waiting for him, even, beyond the scope of his memories. The only thing that discomfits him more is the sad, pensive look on Cas’s face. “Listen. So much of the shit I know how to do, it’s ‘cause of my past. How I was raised, who raised me, the things I saw. If I just popped into existence one day I - I don’t know who I’d be.” He presses his thumb along his opposite palm, thinking. “Don’t really know if I’d like whoever that guy turned out to be.” 

“At least you’d know you were human.” 

“Yeah, well. Human or not, I think you’re doing a better job figuring all this shit out than I ever could. When I realized you were - I dunno, Cas, I was scared, and angry that everything I thought about you, everything we were was just some trick. A lie.” 

“It isn’t a lie, Dean,” Cas says, looking at him. “If there’s one thing I know, one thing that helps, it’s that we’re real. What we have - it’s all real.” He holds out his hand, and Dean stares at it a moment before putting his hand in Cas’s - the other squeezes his fingers, once, tight, then lets go.

“So that’s it, huh? Big empty space where the past is?”

“There was - something.” 

“Something?” 

Cas nods, craning his neck to look at the night sky above them. It's cloudy out, no moon or stars. “It’s like I was back, somewhere… it could have been a dream, but it felt more like a - a memory. We were in some room -”

“We?”

“You and I. Somewhere, maybe underground. I think we were in danger, it felt like we were in danger, or I was.”

Dean frowns. “Was I gonna - do something?”

“No, not you.” Cas bites his lip, considering for a moment. “You were older.”

“How much older?”

“I’m not sure, more than a decade? Maybe two?”

“Wow. Better than I would’ve thought.” He clears his throat. “Did we - I mean, what happened?”

“You looked - upset. I must have said something to you, and you were - you said, ‘don't do this, Cas.’ And - that's it." They face each other. "I've never seen you look like that before."

Dean wonders what he looked like. In that moment Cas saw, and in general. A future him in maybe-two-decades from now and how will Cas appear? Will he age like a human or look twenty-something forever. "Were we still hunting, you think? All those years later?"

"We had weapons. It's a possibility." 

Dean thinks about what must happen to the two of them if they’re still together after years and years. Still hunting, still on the road somewhere, making as much of a life for themselves as people like them are able to. Huh,” is all he says.

“It doesn’t give us much to go on, I know.”

“Maybe you just back to the future-ed yourself, and somehow got amnesia in the process?” Cas has a doubting look cross his features. “Yeah, too soap opera. Maybe it was a future vision or something?”

“I’m not sure.” 

“Well, hey. If it was like - twenty years in the future, we got time, right? To figure it out?” He claps Cas on the shoulder. “I’m uh. Still sorry, though, if that means anything.”

“I’m just happy you’re here,” Cas answers, sarcastic on the surface, bone-deep earnestness bleeding through the quip.

“Yeah, well, Pamela wanted to comfort you, but I figured that’s my job as your, uh…”

Cas raises his eyebrows. “As my what?”

“...Never mind.” Dean gets up, heads towards the entrance.

“No, really, what is it, Dean? You can tell me.” Dean laughs, self-conscious, hopeful. He looks back and sees Cas smiling again, a lone figure emerging from the dark night, and supposes that’s alright. They’re alright.

-

With the idea to get Cas’s memories back a bust, and little advancement on the sigils front, the pair of them agree it’s time to move on.

“You don’t have to rush out,” Bobby tells the pair of them a week later.

“It’s been a fun vacation,” Dean says, “I just think that we can make ourselves useful elsewhere. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky and stumble across something?"

“Don’t know how much you want to rely on Winchester luck,” Bobby drawls.

“Hey, my Winchester luck landed us Cas!” He throws his arm over the other’s shoulder, “maybe it’ll actually give us an explanation, too.” Bobby looks at the pair of them and sighs.

“Whatever makes you two happy,” he says, “but call me any time you think there’s trouble, and try not to wander off head first into some demonic bullshit, will you?” It’s as much of a blessing Dean thinks he’ll get from the guy, and he takes it without complaint. 

They head southwest - there’s been some reports of weird things out in a tiny neighborhood a ways from Phoenix. “It could be like skinwalker ranch,” Dean says at the diner they meet up at.

“Or just a weird dog.”

“A weird evil dog,” Dean adds, flipping through the newspaper. He catches the date and stops. He almost forgot, with everything happening. 

“What is it?” Cas asks. Dean debates telling him.

“It’s my brother’s birthday,” he says eventually. “Tomorrow. He’s twenty-two.” 

“You should call him.”

“You don’t call people on their birthdays.”

“I’m sure plenty of people call friends and family on their birthdays.”

“Yeah, well.”

“You could visit him, even. Not that we’re close to California, but -”

The thought of seeing Sam again fills him with enough buoyancy and dread that he’s stuck bobbing between two extremes; he gets a bit queasy. “I don’t know about that.” Cas gives him that scrutinizing look that makes Dean wonder if Cas could actually read his mind.

“It’s up to you,” he finally says, “but if you think your brother would tell you to turn around and never come back just for wishing him a happy birthday - I think you might underestimate him.”

“Yeah, just on his ability to hold a grudge,” Dean says, but he keeps thinking about Sam. 

-

It actually was just a weird, non-evil dog that got shaved and ran away from home. They call animal control that night and move on. 

The next case is at a college campus - it’s weird how they make Dean nostalgic. Between his time with Cassie, those few months of normalcy, the way it makes him extrapolate what his brother’s up to. How he’s able to blend in with the kids studying and the fraternity members just by virtue of his age even if he is so, so different.

Cas makes friends with one of the professors because of course he does, so Dean stays outside of one of the buildings on watch. It’s just a poltergeist, and between an angry ghost and Cas’s weird fuck off powers, he knows who’s going to win.  

Dean sits on the hood of the Impala while he waits, watching the stars. He hasn’t done that in - a long time. He sticks his hands in his pockets, fingers tapping against the case of his cell phone. 

He drags the phone out, clicks through his contact list, landing on a name he hasn’t dialed in years. He puts it to his chest, eyes on the night sky, hits the number and sticks the phone up to his ear, before he loses his nerve. He listens to it ring, ring, ring.

It picks up. “Sam?” 

“Sorry,” says a woman’s voice, giggly, probably drunk, “Sam’s - he’s - ah! Stop! He’s not here. Sorry. Or he’s here but -”

“It’s fine,” he says, relieved. He can hear music and more people chatting in the background. Unmistakably bar noise.

“Who’re you?”

“Name’s Dean. Just uh - tell him happy birthday from me, okay?”

“Sure thing, Dean.” She starts shouting to someone else, and Dean ends the call. Sticks the phone back in his pocket. “It’s a Monday,” he grumbles to himself. “What’s he doing out this late on a Monday?” 

-

That’s how the months pass - Cas and Dean hunting, mostly, making pit stops with Bobby and Pamela or going to the Roadhouse to exchange more information. Sometimes John calls Dean in on a case and they split up for a few days, a few weeks, sharing brief phone calls or texts when they can. 

Once, early summer, Cas tells Dean he feels a demonic presence nearby, and they end up cornering it to a sleepy seaside town. Dean pokes around and stumbles across John at an internet café, doing research. John writes off the details as something boring that a lone hunter can take care of, tells Dean to pack it up. 

“Before I get going,” Dean says, “I found something.” He slides the engraved knife over. It’s been months since the last time they saw a demon, even when Dean was hunting away from Cas; either the charms in the Impala worked or these bastards have bigger fish to fry. “Apparently, it can kill anything,” he says, voice belying meaning. John’s dark eyes flick from the blade up to him.

“Where did you find this?”

“Friend gave it to me,” Dean says, “I tested it on some hunts - it’s legit. Thought maybe you could… get some use out of it.” John gives him a suspicious look, but he takes the knife anyway. He can't really say or do much in the middle of a crowded coffee shop, so he just dismisses Dean instead. He feels itchy and tight, walking out of the building, his dad looking at him and probably wondering - or maybe he knows and he’s just disappointed. Dean’s still glad he takes the knife.

Mostly though, it’s just the two of them. It’s the middle of summer and Cas is still there, sharing meals, sharing clothes, sharing the motel bed even if Dean always books a double.

“Oh fuck yeah!” Dean shouts, watching Cas use his powers to punt a water leaper up into the air. It lands back down into the swamp a ways from Dean, too dazed to race through the reeds like it had been before. He blasts it with his shotgun and the thing bobs on the surface, dead. Cas wades through the water towards him. “Dude! That was awesome! Why don’t you do that all the time?”

“Because launching magical creatures into the air tends to draw attention that we don’t need,” Cas says dryly. Dean holds out a hand and helps him out of the muck. They drag the leaper out of the water and burn it until it’s an unrecognizable mess. 

“I’m calling first shower,” Cas says, wiping a hand down his arm and frowning at the mud that slides off.

“What? I got dragged through the half the swamp by that thing.”

“So did I.” 

They bicker all the way back to the motel room until Dean realizes that the shower is actually big enough for two and, well, after they actually get clean - it’s pretty fun to share that, too. 

“Can I ask you something?” Dean asks, laying on the queen sized mattress, Cas warm and damp from the shower and laying half on top of him. The AC rattles by the window, keeping the temperature bearable. 

“Sure.”

“What if you…” Dean licks his lips, trying to kick his brain into gear, “what if you never know? ”

“Know? Oh.” Cas leans up some, drumming his fingers on Dean’s chest.

“I mean, it’s been months since we discovered those sigils, and you don’t want to try that conjuring shit with Pamela again.”

“Those hunters we gave it to don’t think it’s related to a case,” Cas explains, “so I imagine they’re pursuing it as a pet project when they aren’t on hunts. We knew it would take a while for them to dig up anything. And we’re just, you know.”

“Yeah, but I’m saying what if the answers aren’t there, like at all?”

“That’s a possibility, too.”

“And? You’re fine with that?” Cas rolls off of Dean and lays on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“I do want to find out who I am, but I’m kind of backed into a corner right now. I think it’d be worse if I was… how I was a few years ago. Scared. Alone. But now… it’s easier to deal with.” 

Dean rolls over to look at Cas. “It’s easier to deal with now ? You’re here with me, and we could end up palling around, ganking monsters until one of us keels over in twenty years.”

Cas smiles. “Well. You see a lot of interesting things, meet a lot of interesting people - and I like the company.” He looks at Dean. “I think I can live with that.”

It’s not the stable white picket life he thought about last year with Cassie, not even close. That abstract idea of a normal life versus - this. Strange and new but visceral. Real. “Yeah,” he says, “me too.”

-

He and John work a few cases in September before splitting up again. They studiously avoid talking about the knife, or the ‘friend’ Dean got it from. John calls him while he’s working in New Orleans, tells him he found a case of his own. Something about men disappearing on a stretch of highway in Jericho, California. It’s the first week of October. John says not to wait around and go find his own hunts until they meet up again. Usually the guy can’t admit he’s going to be longer than a couple of days, and that’s the first hint that things might be strange.

He wraps up what turns out to be some college chicks getting into voodoo and partners with an old practitioner to show them that they shouldn’t mess with shit they don’t understand. Dean doesn’t like witches - even benevolent ones - on principle, but the woman who helps him gets a pass after saving him from dying of nails in his stomach.

He texts Cas and finds out where the guy went off to, meets him in Florida. The poltergeist he found goes down easy with the two of them, and Miami is an hour away. They swim in the ocean; Dean freckles and turns tan, Cas burns. He sees some guys walking around, holding hands, and no one bats an eye because it’s a city, and people don’t really care in big cities. It takes him the better part of the afternoon, but when they’re laying on a motel sheet Dean stole, Cas flicking through Slaughterhouse Five because Dean picked up a copy for him, he reaches out and holds Cas’s hand. Cas smiles at him, thumb rubbing back and forth over his knuckles. 

Dean feels overheated and keeps waiting for someone to shout at them, but no one does. The sun beating down on them makes their hands feel sweaty and gross, but Dean doesn’t pull away either. 

They pack up the car and ease their way inside. “Dude, we’re gonna get sand in the car,” he whines.

“Would you prefer we didn’t go?” Cas asks. 

“No,” Dean says. Cas smiles at him and leans over, kissing the corner of his mouth. Dean’s heart kicks up like someone’s going to come over and attack them, but all he sees are couples and families slowly leaving the beach. He starts the car and drives off. 

They take the scenic route out of Florida - Cas keeps grabbing tourist brochures and makes them stop at Tarpon Springs so they can look at the sponges, of all things. Cas buys a new Nazar charm from one of the kitschy tourist boutiques by the water while Dean tracks down lunch.

“Gyros?” Cas asks, taking a bite. They’re watching some fisherman in the distance, sailboats all displayed in the port. “Is this lamb?”

“Dude, it can be made out of friggin’ octopus - it tastes great. ” He holds up a package of fried whatever and pops one in his mouth. “These meatballs are awesome.” He takes another bite of one and squints, shows it to Cas. “Why is it green?” he asks around a mouthful.

“I think that’s a falafel. It’s chickpeas.”

Dean stares at it. “Huh.” He pops the rest into his mouth. “Why d’you know what a falafel is?”

“I watch the food network when you’re asleep.”

John doesn’t call or text for the first week, which is par for the course. On the second week Dean calls, leaves a voicemail asking to check in. Texts a few times. Tries to assure himself everything is fine.

By week three he’s called Pastor Jim and Bobby and Ellen and when none of them have a clue where John’s gone off to, he panics. Hauls ass to the motel he shared with John and interrogates the staff, but none of them have seen him since he checked out. 

A cleaning lady overhears him and hands Dean a manila folder that she found in their room. There are notes in John’s handwriting about the disappearances in Jericho. Dean doesn’t know what it could be, but usually their cases don’t take three weeks and result in ghosting every person you’ve ever known. 

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” Dean tells Cas. “Go out there and make yourself useful.” He’s pouring over the notes to see if there’s any hidden clues. They booked a room at the same motel in case John comes back, but he’s going to Jericho tomorrow. 

“I think I’m useful enough right here.” He pointedly slides his food towards Dean. 

In the morning, he wakes up to a voicemail from John’s number. “ Dean… ” There’s static, but it’s his dad’s voice. “something big is starting to happen… I need to try and figure out what's going on. It may…” More static, so much that it cuts out some words. “Be very careful, Dean. We're all in danger.”

He plays it again. Frowns. He slaps Cas on the thigh and the man wakes up with a start.

“Yeah?” He stretches. 

“Got a message.”

Cas sits up. “From your dad?”

He plays it again. “There’s an EVP on it. I need to run this through an audio program to hear what it’s saying.”

“Sure. Let’s pack up -”

Dean stands up. “Nah, you take your time, get the room in order. I’m doing this now. When I come back we’re heading out.”

“Where are we going, Dean?”

Dean takes a breath. “We’re going to get my brother.” 

“I thought you said he wasn’t a part of this life, anymore.”

“Yeah, well he’s still a part of this family, whether he likes it or not. He’s the smart one, he can - I don’t know.” He scrubs a hand across his face. “This is so fucked.” He gets out of bed and tugs on some clothes. “I mean, even if you… could remember your family, and you stopped talking, if something happened to them, like something bad, you’d want to know, right?” 

“I think I would, yes.” Dean grabs his phone, wallet, keys. “Dean, from what you’ve told me of Sam, I think he’d want to help. Despite everything.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He puts on some shoes. “There’s a library back in town. I’ll be back in an hour, okay?”

“I’ll be ready to leave by then. Good luck.” 

“Okay, yeah.” He glances back at Cas, then he’s out the door.

The EVP says “I can never go home.” He listens to John and a ghost’s voice intermingled until he has the static pops and hisses memorized, then he drives back to the motel. Cas has Dean’s bag in his hand, his own in the trunk of his car. He got them breakfast sandwiches and some coffee in to-go cups. 

Dean marks Sam’s dorm on Cas’s atlas and writes the address down on a napkin. “Okay. We should get there by this afternoon.” He looks at Cas. He’s wearing one of Dean’s flannels and some faded novelty t-shirt Cas fished out at a thrift shop four hunts ago. “I. Uh. I still haven’t seen Sam in - in years.” Cas nods. “He doesn’t - I mean. This. Us. I don’t know if…”

“He doesn’t know you like men.”

Dean almost wants to protest, except Cas isn’t wrong. Moreover, Cas obviously doesn’t car e. Instead he just sighs, rubs his eyes. “Yeah. So, like. I don’t -” 

Cas cups his cheek. He’s so worked up about John and seeing Sam that he forgets to be nervous that Cas is doing this in public. “You have a lot on your mind, Dean,” Cas says, “we don’t have to bring that up to your brother if you don’t want to.” 

“Yeah?”

“It’s your family. We can do what you’re comfortable with.” He smiles. Pulls his hand away. Oh. Dean realizes their easy affection, the way they’ve been living out of each other’s pockets - they can’t do that anymore. It’s going to stop the second they get into their separate cars and it’s not going to end until he leaves Sam again or they get John back or - 

He tugs Cas forward and kisses him, hard. Cas gets pressed against the car door and lets out a painless exhale as his back meets metal and glass, and Dean deepens the kiss. No one’s up this early, anyway. 

He pulls back and Cas’s pale pink lips are flushed and wet. His eyes are nearly glowing in the sun, they’re so bright. Dean thinks he’s beautiful. He brushes fingers through Cas’s hair and rests their foreheads together for a moment.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay. Cas leans back, smiles at Dean. “I’ll meet you there.” 

Despite everything, Dean smiles back. “Pfft. You wish.”

End of Season 0

Chapter Text

Dean gets to Palo Alto around four - Cas is about half an hour behind him. “See? Told ya," he tells Cas once he gets out of the car. The other rolls his eyes at him and walks over, looking up at the brick building before them. It’s about a fifteen minute walk from the main campus, not too shabby for a student apartment.

“This the place?”

“Yeah. Called the admissions office on the way up to make sure he didn’t move.”

“What did you say to them?”

“His big brother wanted to surprise him with a visit,” Dean drawls, leaning against the Impala. “Schools are so trusting.” Cas doesn’t reply, looking around like Dean had been, observing the students and young families walking around, the little corner stores and coffee shops in sight. “I should go up there on my own, first. Feel things out.” 

“You’re nervous.”

“I haven’t seen him in over three years,” Dean defends. “Haven’t even talked to him in two. We just - went from sharing everything to - to him leaving. He’s my little brother, I’m meant to take care of him. And now I’m back, dragging him into this mess.” He looks back at his car. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”

“You’re delivering bad news, Dean, but you said it yourself - Sam has a right to know.”

He swallows. “Sure. I’ll tell him, and he’ll tell me to get lost or get dead or - something.”

“You’re imagining all these scenarios in your head, Dean. You won’t know until you talk to him.” 

“I guess.” 

Cas stretches, cracks his back. “I’m going to walk around. See if there’s anything going on. Maybe their library has something useful.” Dean stares at him. “...Or I could stand next to you and breathe down your neck, if you want.”

“No, uh, go ‘head. Knock yourself out. I”ll uh, give you a call.” Cas nods and walks off. 

Dean ends up driving around Palo Alto for a while. It gets dark. He belatedly realizes it’s Halloween weekend - Sam’s probably at a party. He remembers him being a gangly nerd who had books instead of friends, but four years can change a lot. Hell, he’s changed a lot in two. 

He had been ready that morning, when he got the voicemail - he thought he’d been ready. But the drive up tempered that some. By the time he gets his nerves together it’s late. Most of the students that had been wandering around in their costumes are off the street again, but it’s not so late that Sam would be asleep. He gets out of the car and stands in front of the apartment building one more time, counts the windows to see where Sam’s apartment is. There’s a stairwell that leads up to the entrance. Dean stares at it, worrying his lip. 

He could turn back around, he thinks. He could call Cas and say they’re going to Jericho together, that Sam doesn’t need to know. They poisoned the well, anyway. Sam wouldn’t care if their dad got hurt on a hunt.

He feels guilty for even thinking it; knows it’s not true. Sam and John had issues, Sam could get angry and hold that anger inside of him like nobody else, but he wasn’t - he wasn’t cruel. 

Dean contemplates breaking in. Making a scene in some showy way to get Sam’s attention so he won’t immediately tell his brother to fuck off. He has a set of lock picks in the car. 

He knocks on the door instead, heart hammering away inside of him like it wants out. 

A girl opens the door. She has long, blonde hair and a thin robe tossed over a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. “Can I help you?” she asks.

“Uh, sorry, um. Wrong apartment.” He smiles, and the woman slowly starts to shut the door. Dean just recalls the phone call he had six months ago, a woman had answered that time, too. “Uh, actually - wait, wait.” She pauses. “This might be a wild guess, but uh, does Sam Winchester live here?” 

Her face lights up. “Sam? Yeah, he’s here. Why?” 

“I’m his brother.” He shifts on his feet. “He, uh, he might not wanna talk to me but it’s - important. I wouldn’t come here if it wasn’t.” 

She stares at him. “His brother. Dean, right?” Her eyes flick up and down. “Wait here.” She doesn’t shut the door in his face, but it falls closed on his own. He waits. And waits. 

The door opens again. 

“Dean?” 

Dean tries to smile with all the confidence he doesn’t have. “Heya, Sammy. Mind if I come in?”

-

Dean can’t take his eyes off his brother. He got even taller, for one, and that boy band bowl cut actually sort of fit him, now. The girlfriend was a new addition, too. Not to mention the apartment that looked, well. Lived in. A home. “Nice place,” he says. “Got any beer?”

“Dean,” Sam says, sitting down across from him. “Jess said you had something important to say, what is it?” At the girl’s name, Dean turns slightly and waves at her. She’s leaning against the nearby wall, watching them. 

“Okay, well, uh. Dad’s been… gone. For a while.”

Sam scoffs. “So he’s working overtime on a Miller time shift. He’ll stumble back in sooner or later.”

Dean lets out an abortive attempt at a laugh. “Yeah, okay. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t cross my mind,” Sam raises his eyebrow. “But, uh. No. Dad went on a hunting trip. And he hasn’t been home in… a while.”

“Hunting?” Jess asks. Sam looks over Dean’s shoulder at her, then back at his brother. For a moment, it’s like they’re back to Before, saying an entire conversation just by looking at each other. 

“Jess, could you excuse us for a minute?”

-

They go back out on the staircase. “You’re not seriously asking me to hit the road with you, Dean.”

“You’re not hearing me, Sammy. Dad’s missing. I need you to help me find him.”

“You remember the poltergeist in Amherst? Or the Devil’s Gates in Clifton? He was missing then, too. He’s always missing, and he’s always fine.”

Dean glances at Sam. “Come on.” He walks down the steps and heads to his car. 

“No.” Dean turns around. Sam’s still on the staircase. “I swore I was done hunting. For good.” 

Okay, this was the reaction Dean had been expecting. He’s surprised the feel-good reunion lasted this long. “...Even if it’s Dad?” he tries.

“Dean,” Sam rubs a hand over his face. “If you came all the way up here to guilt trip me -”

“It’s your family,” he says, bristling.

“The family that doesn’t want me as soon as I get a full ride to college? You know, the thing that any normal family would be over the moon about?”

“There’s nothing about us that’s normal and you know it.” 

“Yeah, well. I can try.” They stare at each other again. Another thing Dean almost forgot: even though he loved Sam - probably more than anything in the world - he annoyed the fuck out of him in a way that others could only dream of. 

“I didn’t, you know,” he says, “come up here to guilt you into coming. I swear I didn’t. I - you have a life here, man. I’m happy for you. I am. I - I wish we had left things differently.”

Sam looks at him. “...Really?” 

“Got you the bus ticket, didn’t I? You were the genius that wanted to hitchhike, if I remember right.”

“Not my finest moment,” Sam admits.

“Anyways, you know a phone works both ways.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a jerk.”

“Don’t be a bitch.” A ghost of a smile crosses Sam’s face. “What do you want me to say, Sammy? I came up here ‘cause - I figured you’d wanna know. If you want the normal, apple pie life, then, you know. That’s it. I can just. Call you when I find him or call you to come to the funeral.”

“Isn’t that a little over dramatic?” 

“Nah. Not this time. I have a bad feeling. Real bad.” He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. “So?”

Sam looks down, sneakers scuffing on the wet pavement. He’s gonna turn around, Dean thinks. He’s gonna walk into the apartment like he walked onto that greyhound bus and that’s gonna be it.

His brother looks up at him again. “What was he hunting?” 

Dean purses his lips. “It’s in the trunk,” he says. 

He digs out the manila folder and passes it to Sam. “Dad was checking out this two-lane road outside of Jericho, California. About a month ago.” He points at a picture. “This guy. They found his car, but he vanished. Completely MIA.” 

“He could’ve been kidnapped.”

“Could be. Except there’s another one in April, December ‘04, another in ‘03, ‘98, ‘92, ten of them over the past twenty years. All men, all the same five-mile stretch of road. It started happening more and more, so dad went to dig around.”

“You weren’t with him?”

“Nah, had a voodoo thing down in New Orleans, and…” He blinks. Digs out the recorder from a box in the trunk. “Some, uh. Other stuff after.”

“Dad let you go off on your own?”

“Guess he thought I was a real boy after all,” he says, smiling. “We started splitting up more after you left. I was going to head down to Jericho myself, but uh. Got a voicemail this morning.” He presses play. The staticky recording of their dad’s voice comes through the tape, two warnings in one.

“You know there’s EVP on that?”

Dean smirks. “Like riding a bike, huh, Sammy? Yeah, here’s what it sounds like without the hiss, slowed down.” They both lean in to hear the wavering voice.

“‘I can never go home,’” Sam quotes. He looks into the trunk, over at Dean. “Fine. I’ll help you find him.”