Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The dingy motel room was much the same as all the other dingy motel rooms Sam and Dean had stayed in. The light flickered if they dared to turn it on for more than five consecutive minutes and the yellow glow it cast made the walls appear a concerning colour, worryingly like mould. Or that might have been the actual mould growing on the walls, neither of them were especially eager to investigate. The beds were, thankfully, not too close to them so the brothers’ sleep wasn't disrupted by the smell, but the same couldn't be said for the insistent ringing of Sam's phone. It had gone off twice already, but Dean, who had woken first, had been quick to decline the call before Sam could wake up and insist on answering at bullshit o'clock in the morning.

As Dean reached over to turn off the ringing for the fourth time that night, Sam stirred, rolling over to stare at him suspiciously.

“Dude, was that my phone?”

Dean froze. “...No.”

Sam reached over grabbing the phone from his brother, “3 missed calls? What the hell Dean?”

He scrambled upright, redialing the number and throwing a glare in the general direction of the other bed.

“Bobby, hey, yeah, sorry about that. What’s going on?”

Dean rolled over, already tuning out the sound of their conversation. He’d been having the strangest dream and had the distinct impression glowing green eyes and unintended oversharing had factored into it somehow. He shuddered and burrowed deeper into the cheap motel duvet.

“I - What? Wait, wait, wait, let me get some paper.”

Dean sighed. Sam really was too awake for this time in the morning. If he didn’t wrap up this conversation with Bobby soon, Dean was sure he’d insist on doing something ridiculous like going for a run. Or worse, working.

“In England?? No, okay we’ll figure something out,” a pause “Okay, and you’re sure it’s Eve?”

Crap. It was starting to look like Dean wasn’t going to get his four hours tonight after all.

“Yeah, okay, yeah we’ll check it out. Goodnight Bobby.” Sam hung up.

“Tell me it’s not a job.”

“It’s a job.”

Dean groaned and swung his legs out of bed.

The fact that Sam loved his brother was a given. If he didn’t, he would still be at college and definitely wouldn’t have to put up with half the weird supernatural stuff he now faced on a daily basis. If he didn’t, he wouldn't have faced his paralysing fear of clowns more times than he really wanted to think about. And, most relevant to him at that moment, he wouldn't be trying to find a way to get to England without ever setting foot on an aeroplane. He really wished his brother was more open to compromise sometimes.

“Look, we’ll call Cas, get him to zap us over there and boom, we gank Eve, everyone’s happy.” Dean was saying now, distinctly not looking where he was driving.

Sam could feel a headache coming on and for once it had nothing to do with Lucifer’s voice in his head. He frowned.

“I told you, he hasn’t been responding to my calls. He’s probably busy with angel stuff, man.”

“This is angel stuff. The sooner we kill her, the better.”

Sam sighed. They'd been on the road for hours and it was becoming clear that Dean wasn't going to let this go any time soon. They were nearly at Bobby's now, and Sam couldn't wait to escape the Impala and get away from Dean for a bit. At Bobby's they could stow the car, have a coffee and then he could try and talk his brother around to properly thinking through this whole “England” idea. And maybe even getting on a plane; Soux Falls Airport was just next door, after all.

Bobby was waiting by the door when they pulled into the drive, cap planted firmly on his head despite the fact that he’d evidently napped between the phone call and their arrival at the scrap yard. Dean wondered vaguely if he slept in the thing, he was sure he’d only seen him without it a handful of times. He winced as Sam slammed the Impala door and thought longingly about the nice (well, nicer than the motel they’d just left), comfortable bed he knew was sitting all alone upstairs in Bobby’s house. Couldn’t Eve be more considerate in her scheming? Like waiting till Dean was well rested before wreaking havoc. Or as well rested as he could be these days. And keeping to American soil, for God’s (sorry Cas) sake, I mean what was so good about freaking England anyway? There was a distinct lack of available pie there from what he’d heard. Sam and Bobby hugged briefly, giving Dean time to get out the car and join them on the porch.

“You boys been holding up alright then?” Bobby’s voice was gruff. Yeah, he’d definitely take a nap, the bastard, waking Dean up to drive 5 hours at stupid o'clock whilst he slept like a normal person.

“I’d be better for more sleep”, Dean muttered, moving in for a hug too.

Bobby chuckled. “Wouldn’t we all. Come on, I’ve made some coffee and there’s a plane with some seats left leaving in an hour or so.”

Sam cringed at the mention of a plane, risking a quick glance at Dean, whose face was set in an expression that clearly said ‘not a chance’.

“Uh, we were actually thinking of getting Cas to take us. You know, save time and money and all that.” He said feigning nonchalance..

Bobby looked distinctly unimpressed and he evidently wasn’t worried about damaging Dean's pride as he looked him straight in the eye when he said, “Is that so?”

Dean coughed and tossed Bobby the car keys as he opened the boot and propped up the false bottom, rooting around for a moment before he said, “Yeah, I was gonna give him a call, see what he says.”

“Alright,” was all the answer he got but he could feel the light teasing in tone, “Oh and don’t forget the knife, Son, just cause you ain’t going over there for demons don’t mean you won’t run into any just the same.”

“Course. What, do you think I’m an idiot or something?” Dean replied, straightening up and shutting the boot. “Don’t say a word Sammy.”

Sam smiled to himself and led the way inside. Bobby’s house looked much the same as it always had, perhaps with slightly more papers and books strewn across the floor than the last time they’d visited. The light filtered in through the front window but sadly no fateful beam illuminated a crucial detail that might excuse the brothers from their little trip abroad.

With a cup of coffee in him, Dean started to look a bit less like a zombie and so he flattened his inevitable bed head, straightened his flannel and got ready to call Cas. He paused. Why did it matter what he looked like to call Cas? It didn’t, surely, Cas had seen him looking much worse. He was just tired. Dean carefully pushed away whatever that was to unpack later (read: never) and shut his eyes again, hands clasped in front of his face. He didn’t catch the amused look that passed between Sam and Bobby.

Dean cleared his throat, “ Oh Castiel, Angel of the Lord, who art in…somewhere, hear this prayer and please get your feathery ass here.”

Silence.

Dean cracked open an eye. And frowned. No Cas. Rude.

‘Somewhere’ looked suspiciously like a shady, abandoned warehouse. The warehouse itself wasn’t shady, it had most likely been very respectable in its day, probably housing a bottle factory or something similar. The people meeting there, however, were a different story.

“Look, deal’s simple, we –...what is it? You look constipated right now.” Crowley said.

Cas sighed. Dean had a knack for calling at the most inopportune moments. He often wished he could find it within himself to ignore his calls the way he sometimes did with Sam. Unfortunately, he needed at least one Winchester firmly on his side (which was of course the only reason) and Dean had a certain weakness when it came to people he thought of as family.

“I’ll return.” He said and promptly disappeared.

A soft fluttering of wings signalled Cas’s arrival and Dean whirled around.

“Took you long enough, what was that about, man?”

Cas suppressed another sigh. “Hello Dean,” He said, “Need I remind you I am in the middle of a civil war and believe it or not, I have more important things to do than to wait around for you to call me.”

Dean looked mildly taken aback, did it really seem like he thought that? Sam made the executive decision to take over as Dean was evidently gearing up for a fight with somebody. Seriously, you’d think he’d have learnt how to communicate effectively after spending so much of his time pretending to be a Fed. Then again, maybe it wasn’t his fault, Sam remembered John being similar in that regard.

“Sorry to drag down here Cas, but we were kind of hoping you’d be able to give us a lift. It won’t take long, it's just sort of inconvenient for us to get to ourselves.” Sam smiled sheepishly.

Cas turned to look at him, head tilted slightly in consideration.

“I see,” He walked towards where the brothers stood, laying a hand on each of their shoulders, “Anywhere in particular?”

Dean stepped forward and if Sam saw him relaxing slightly into Cas’s touch he kept his mouth firmly shut about it.

“Uh, London,” He said.

Cas knew better than to ask and instead just nodded. Sam didn’t have time to mention saying goodbye to Bobby before the world disappeared around them in a rush of colours.

Chapter Text

Sam and Dean stumbled as they landed. By the time they'd adjusted to their new surroundings, the son of a bitch had already vanished, leaving them alone on a soggy pavement somewhere in London. Helpful.

“Right.” Sam turned to face Dean. “Any idea where we are?”

Dean stared at him. “England? How should I know? Does it look like I’ve been here before?”

“Dude, you’re the one whose genius idea it was to get Cas to drop us off and you don’t even have a plan?”

Dean rolled his eyes, “Look, lets just find a motel or something so I can take a nap. Preferably one with a mini bar.”

They looked around. Or tried to at least, the masses of people walking purposefully along the frankly tiny stretch of pavement made seeing anything other than eachother very difficult. A man in a smart looking suit bumped into Dean as he strode past, temporarily unbalancing him.

“Hey! What the-” Dean spluttered.

The man offered him a tight smile, a brief “sorry”, and kept walking muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ‘fucking Americans’.

“Dean, leave it, I think we should find somewhere not in the middle of the sidewalk to stand,” Sam was pulling at his arm, guiding him towards an intersection.

Dean reluctantly followed his brother, but not before he’d pulled a very mature face in the direction of the suited man.

The road they walked onto was slightly less crowded and looked to be a residential street rather than the shop-lined place Cas had dropped them. Sam seemed intent on getting out of the rain, hurrying them along past a fire station to a helpful map on a weird looking box in the middle of the pavement. After a few seconds of scanning, he seemed to reach a decision and set off down the road, his brother close behind. Sam looked like he knew where he was going and Dean wasn’t about to admit he’d been too busy trying to get a better look at the British fire engines to pay attention to the map. They seemed slightly different to the ones he’d seen in the states but then again he was no expert.

They came to a stop outside a building calling itself The Plaza Hotel and it occurred to Dean that they’d better hope this place took credit card payments otherwise all he had to pay for their room was a crumpled handful of $20 bills he’d won a few nights ago. He’d find somewhere to exchange them later once this goddamn rain had stopped.

The lobby to the hotel was cramped, with an interesting array of mirrors evidently designed to make the boxy area feel more open. Safe to say they were unsuccessful, but that could easily have been due to whoever made the decision to dot potted plants at random intervals throughout the space. The fake plastic chandelier above the front desk cast a yellow light over the employee, who sat chewing a pen and looking thoroughly bored. A television between two of the mirrors cycled through a loop of photographs of equally boxy-looking rooms with varying numbers of beds. Dean groaned internally and prayed to somebody that the rooms would be cheap.

They were not.

“Dude, £77 for one night? She definitely overcharged us. That’s…what is that in dollars?” Dean asked as they walked up the stairs, not waiting for an answer before carrying on with his rant, “Why do they always try to sell us a double? Might’ve been worth it, they were almost half the price. Anyway, we’re gonna need to get some cash and fast, I think this card’s nearly maxed.”

“We should probably also find a library, I get the feeling this place wasn’t entirely truthful about its internet connection services.” Sam opened the door long enough for Dean to drop the duffel onto one of the beds and locked it again, “I think I saw one nearby on that map.”

Sam and Dean had been searching in the library for nearly 45 minutes for any book even remotely related to the supernatural, so far having absolutely no luck, unless finding a concerning number of Chuck’s books counted. Both brothers agreed it did not. Frankly, they were both pretty pissed that the series had somehow spread across the ocean without either of them noticing.

Unfortunately, Eve hadn't left many helpful signs lying around, making the task to find her significantly harder. Sam just couldn’t be sure if a ‘freak storm’ in the last few days wasn’t simply due to British weather. Not only that, but the library computers were horrifically slow, and Sam honestly thought Lucifer's voice echoing around his head might be preferable to the torture that was this library's internet.

Next to them, someone seemed to be having a similar problem, and was looking close to murder. She had been there before they got there, and even by then she had looked pissed enough that Sam had tactfully left a few chairs between them. She looked familiar, somehow, as though the brothers had met her at some point. But no, Sam was pretty sure they'd remember her, with her short hair partially dyed blue and a septum piercing that suited her leather jacket and general angry demeanour.

Sam began to fear for the library staff's safety, as her hand further tightened on the computer mouse so tight it looked like it could crumple any moment.

She spun around to stare at them. “What do you bastards want? Because you keep looking at me and-”

“Sorry!” Dean half-shouted, earning a very disappointed look from an elderly librarian.

“Sorry,” He whispered, “We're, uh, I’m Dean, this is Sam.”

The stranger was pretty, if you didn’t mind the vaguely threatening atmosphere that she seemed to be emanating. Which Dean decided he didn’t and Sam decided he should definitely do something about it before his brother got all three of them kicked out the library for flirting with a woman showing clear signs of murderous intent. And very little interest in men.

Dean didn't seem to pick up on this at all.

“...And you are?”

“Busy.” She turned away, back to a computer screen displaying multiple web pages on trains from word war two.

Dean laughed. She was totally into him, he could tell. He shuffled a chair nearer to her.

“You know, modern trains are really shy.”

Sam had to turn away to stifle his amusement, he really wished he’d brought a camera to record this.

“Yeah, they used to have lots of e-steam…”

Dean paused for laughter with a satisfied grin, “Get it? Like steam…esteem?”

The woman stared at him. “Why are you talking about trains?”. Her anger seemed to have faded into an annoyed confusion.

He faltered. “Well, you're…looking at trains?”

She turned to her screen and shut her train tabs, then looked back at him.

“No, I’m not.”

Dean laughed again. Now he was getting confused, were they still flirting?

The computer was now displaying a gruesome looking article on a website Sam was sure he recognised from a late night internet trawl. It was about ghosts. Murderous ghosts. Definitely their sort of thing and not what he’d expected, to tell the truth. Maybe it was time for him to save Dean from further embarrassment and step in.

“Hey, if you’re worried about ghosts we might be able to help, it’s something of a…hobby for us,” He offered.

She scowled at him, instantly defensive. “I don't need any help with ghosts. And if you’re talking about that bloody video you can fuck right off. I don’t need Americans calling me insane as well,” She looked judgmentally at their clothes, “Especially ones dressed like they’re cosplaying for those shitty books.”

Sam and Dean shared a pained look. Those fucking books.

“Wait,” Sam processed the first part of her sentence, finally recognising her, “Are you the girl from that youtube channel? Ghost Hunt UK?”

“Ghost Hunt UK? What sort of a name is that, that’s almost as bad as those Ghostfacer guys?” Dean said, scathingly.

The woman's expression got, if possible, darker. She aggressively signed out of her computer (how did she inject that much rage into it?), picked up her bags and turned to leave.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Sam half rose out of his chair, making an aborted movement to stop her from leaving, “Wait, sorry, you know about, like, supernatural stuff then, right? Specifically in England? It's just, me and- and my brother are trying to look into something and, uh, we really don’t know where to start and these computers are just…crap.”

The woman paused at the door. “Listen,” she said tiredly, “If it’s that serious, I don’t think you’ll have that much luck here. The only supernatural thing they have is those books - seriously, do you dress like the main guys on purpose? - and they’re all bullshit despite what people online claim. You’d be better off going to the bloody Magnus Institute.”

(“Excuse me?” Dean asked.

“It's like England’s Usher Foundation.” Sam whispered.

“Again, what?”)

“Although,” she continued, “If you do, try to avoid the head archivist, Jonathan Sims, he’s a dickhead. And, don't tell him I sent you? I sort of…well, I wasn't the most polite about the institute and…him.”

The woman evidently wasn’t eager to stick around and so Sam signed off his own computer and all but dragged Dean out of his chair towards the exit.

“That’d be pretty hard seeing as you didn’t tell us your name.” Dean called after her.

“It’s Melanie” she said, the door swinging shut after her, evidently done with the conversation and the brothers.

One hour later saw Sam and Dean standing outside an old, greying building that gave off the air of a disappointed grandfather, looking condescendingly down at the youth of the day while muttering about their lack of work ethic and bizarre fashions. The Magnus Institute, home to dubiously valid investigations into the esoteric and supernatural, was a regency era building with multiple columns, all that same shade of whitish grey, and, in the centre, a large, wooden door that did nothing to stop its obnoxious energy.

It creaked loudly as Sam cautiously opened it, looking into a foyer that had a slightly nauseating amount of green and a woman sat with a friendly and intensely fake smile at the front desk. It was slightly unnerving, the idea that she had just been sat there, wearing a smile meant for performance with no one there to see it.

“Hello! What can I help you with?” She asked in a cheery, professional tone. Her name tag showed she was called Rosie.

Sam and Dean shared a look.

“Hi, we’re with the FBI”, Dean reached into his jacket for a badge, “We just need to take a quick look at your security footage from last night for some info on, um, a robbery across the road.”

The woman looked at the badge for a few seconds. Her smile got noticeably more fixed as she seemed to be holding back surprised laughter.

“Uh…I’m sorry sirs, I can’t verify if that's a real badge considering, well, the FBI doesn’t have any jurisdiction in England.”

Shit.

“But, I’m sure I can call Mr Bouchard down and we can sort this out. Just take a seat,” she said, gesturing at some uncomfortable looking green chairs in the corner, “And he’ll be out in a moment.”

“Well done,” Sam hissed as they made their way over, “It’s MI6 over here, I thought you liked James Bond dude.”

The chairs were just as uncomfortable as they looked, and, despite their location in the corner, both brothers had the strange feeling of being observed, not helped by the sheer amount of eye imagery all over the place. After almost twenty minutes of unsettled waiting, with Rosie continuing to maintain her smile and the watched feeling only growing, a man in a grey suit with an aura of sliminess emerged as ominously as one can in a well lit building at midday, from a door to the right of them. He smiled in a way that might have been pleasant if it at all reached his eyes, but, as it was, only made Sam and Dean immediately wary of him. After exchanging a few hushed words with Rosie, he made his way over.

“Ah, Misters Winchester. You're still here. Apologies for the wait” he said insincerely, “I was in a meeting.” He was in no such thing.

“You're here to give a statement, yes?” The man asked, reaching out to shake their hands.

Sam stepped forward to take it automatically while Dean stared at it suspiciously. How did this guy know their name? They definitely hadn't told Rosie.

“A, uh, what?”

The man smiled. “Of course, how rude of me. I am Elias Bouchard, head of this institute. Visitors are typically students here for our library, which I think I can safely assume you are…not,” he paused to look disdainfully at their ugly ties, whose pattern would look more at home on an elderly woman's curtains, “or have come to give statements to our archivist,” he raised a judgemental eyebrow, “are you not?”

His tone implied that the answer “no” was categorically incorrect.

“Well actually-”

Dean elbowed his brother out the way “Yeah. Yes. Yes we are, uh…Jonathan S-something right?”

Elias’ smile widened. “Perfect. Follow me.”

If the unsettling energy of the building had been bad in the foyer, it was nearly unbearable as they went further into the institute, with Elias seemingly content to say nothing and leave them to stew in their discomfort.

“So,” Dean began uncertainly, “How did you know we were called Winchester?”

Elias didn't pause, “I like to keep up with the news. I trust my staff will be safe around you, they're surprisingly resilient. And, please be aware, visitors are under constant observation.” He cast a significant look down at where Dean kept his gun.

Sam opened his mouth to ask what exactly he meant by that, but Elias had stopped, gesturing grandly down to a set of stairs leading to the basement.

“The archives are just down here. Ask an assistant after the head archivist.”

Sam and Dean looked down, and then back up at Elias. Or, rather, empty air; somehow the man had completely disappeared in the time it took them to turn their heads. Ignoring the creepiness of that for a second, Sam leaned over to Dean to confirm that, whatever a “statement” actually was (something Elias had very helpfully not elaborated on) they were not telling the truth. Their lives were private, and no weird research centre was getting the real truth about the supernatural.

The atmosphere of the archives was completely different to the rest of the institute. Where that had been grand and ostentatious, this was dingy and looked severely underfunded, with a chill in the air that hadn't been present upstairs. Dean was uncomfortably reminded of the time the brothers had encountered that particularly freaky ghost at the asylum. Hopefully neither of them would get their heads messed with this time.

“Hi?” came a nervous voice to their left, “Um, I'm sorry, is there anything you need, uh, help with? Visitors aren't allowed in the archives…”

They turned to see a big ginger man with an apologetic look in his face, holding a cup of tea and staring at them.

“Oh we're not- we're not visiting. We're here to give a statement?”

His posture relaxed immediately and he smiled, pointing at a wooden door. “Oh! Jon's just in there, he takes the statements.”

Jonathan Sims did not seem like the kind of man who shortened his name to a friendly sounding “Jon”. He stared suspiciously at them as they entered. Sam and Dean stared suspiciously right back. He was hunched dramatically over his desk, his hair flying in multiple directions and his eyes squinting up at them. This man didn't look like he had had a good night's sleep in years. Dean could relate.

“You're here for a statement?” He sounded exhausted too.

They nodded, stepping fully into the room.

“Right. Okay.” He sighed.

“Statement of…?”

“Sam- Samuel and Dean Winchester. About, uh, our first supernatural encounter?”

He went to record it on his laptop, but he had barely begun to speak when static crackled loudly. The man wilted further, looking utterly defeated, and dug around in a desk drawer, retrieving an old-fashioned tape recorder that he stared vacantly at with an expression of contempt, until Sam coughed, re-alerting him to their presence.

Jon startled and reached over and clicked “record” on the tape recorder.

“Statement of Samuel and Dean Winchester, regarding the death of their mother in 1983. Statement taken direct from subjects, 15th December 2016. Statement begins.”

Chapter Text

“Statement ends.”

Jon stopped the recorder and went about carefully labelling it while Sam and Dean stared in shock.

He looked up. “Was that all?”

Leaping up from his chair, Dean grabbed for his gun as Sam tried (sadly, in vain) to hold him back. Jon looked, understandably, quite surprised; it wasn’t everyday an English academic got a pistol in the face after all. 

“Tell me what the fuck that was, or I swear to God I’ll kill you.” 

Who the hell was this guy? Or rather, what the hell was this guy? Not human, evidently. 

Jon stumbled back from his chair, trying to get his head as far away from the gun as possible, and hitting the wall behind him. After a few moments of panicked spluttering, trying to find the correct response to the rather unusual instance of workplace conflict, he eventually managed an oddly indignant, “Ah, those are illegal here?”

A polite little knock sounded at the door.

Sam, Dean and Jon froze, eyes locked. As the door creaked hesitantly open, all attempted to quickly assume casual positions, Dean’s gun suddenly nowhere to be seen. Jon, with his back cracking loudly, leaned nonchalantly against the wall. The Winchesters stood stiffly near their recently vacated chairs, Sam’s hand remaining awkwardly on Dean’s arm.

The assistant from earlier shuffled in, somehow carrying three cups of tea and a plate of biscuits with ease. A slight shiver passed over Sam as he entered. Weird.

He paused as he looked up to see the odd scene and cast a slow look around before hesitantly speaking. 

“...Sorry to interrupt - I thought you’d probably have finished the statement by now and, well, I know how, uh, stressful they can be and Jon isn’t always the most understandi-”

Jon cleared his throat, “Is that all, Martin?” he asked pointedly from his spot on the wall.

“Oh, yes, sorry. Also I heard some noises? Sounded like shouting, so I-I thought I’d better come in and check everyone was alright.” He added, giving Sam and Dean a small smile. They shuffled uncomfortably. Sam offered a slightly pitying smile back as he resisted the urge to glare at his brother.

Jon frowned slightly, and uselessly shuffled some papers for a reason to look away from Martin's suspicious gaze. “Yes, thank you, we’re fine,” He paused and looked up, “Were you listening ?”

Martin went red, “No! No, I’m sorry, it was just a bit loud,” He hastily put down the mugs and plate before retreating to the safety of anywhere but Jon’s office, “Let me know if you need anything.”

The door shut and the three men resumed their wary staring as they waited for Martin’s footsteps to recede. 

“So, sorry about the gun-” 

“No. No, we’re not sorry about the gun. What the hell was that?”

Jon blinked at them. “You…gave a statement? Martin brought tea?”

For all they knew, this was perfectly normal in England. But something about the man put them on edge. They had noticed his clear dishevelment earlier, but the longer they looked at him the odder he seemed to become.

All of his skin that they could see had strange, circular scars that reminded Dean of a wasp's nest, and his eyes, though appearing to be human, seemed to have something deeper behind them, something hungry and unnatural that gave them a greenish tinge. But not glowing in the same comforting way as Cas’s eyes sometimes did. No, this was something far more sinister. It left Dean feeling impossibly small as though he was in the presence of some ancient entity that had him pinned under its scrutinising gaze. And his…energy (???) felt wrong. He seemed to flood the room with a paranoid air that put the brothers on edge, and they hadn't missed the way he'd looked at Martin. Distrustful and blatantly suspicious, as though he was likely to pull out a knife and stab him in the back. 

Sam took a deep, calming breath.

“How…how did you know about our mother?”

Jon's frown deepened, “You told me.” he stated blankly.

“No we- no, ok, we're coming back to that later. What was that with your assistant?”

Jon's expression went from frowning to looking like he'd been caught out. 

“I - there's nothing going on with Martin and I. What are you talking about? Please leave. Your statement’s over, Sasha can show you the way out.”

Sam and Dean found themselves outside the door before they had realised that they should probably have stayed and tried to find more information on whatever the hell was going on in this place first.

Sam cast a glance at Dean.

“Well, that guy was…”

“He's a demon.”

“I mean…he might not be a demon. Maybe something's just wrong with this place? Everyone here's been strange.”

“No,” Dean argued, “Martin was, well, not normal, but not demonic .”

“Not demonic, no. But did you notice the-”

“Cold spots? Yeah. Let's go, we can talk about this back at the hotel. This place gives me the creeps.” And the watched feeling still hadn't lessened.

As they turned to try and remember the way out, a short blonde woman walked in from a hallway, colliding with Dean.

“Oh! I'm so sorry, I didn't see you. Did you come to give a statement?”

She smiled at them, and Sam and Dean felt themselves relax upon finally meeting a normal person in this building.

“Uh, yeah, sorry, how do we get out?”

She laughed slightly and started showing them the way, “Did Jon send you out without telling you? He forgets not everyone lives here like he does.”

“He lives here?” Sam asked. He was just getting more and more convinced the guy was a demon.

“Oh, no” the woman said, “Sorry, I just meant he works a lot. More than he should. He often forgets to eat and sleep!”

This guy couldn’t be more obvious. Had he even tried to keep up the pretence of being human? 

“I'm Sasha, by the way.” She smiled in a way that seemed to show delight in her name.

“I'm Dean, this is Sam.”

Sasha seemed entirely oblivious to the fact her boss was possessed, in fact, she was the most laid back of everyone they’d met so far. She offered to take their mugs back to the break room, politely not mentioning the untouched tea that was, by now, definitely undrinkable. Following after her like a pair of confused ducklings (if the ducklings had rapidly grown into human men with anger issues), the brothers found themselves leaning awkwardly beside the sink.

Sasha set about emptying and cleaning the mugs, keeping the wasted tea out of sight of Martin, who had paused by the door to sweep something up off the ground. Something that looked suspiciously like a line. A salt line. With the obstacle removed, he left, looking behind him guiltily. 

“Do you need help with anything? Other than finding an exit?” Sasha asked brightly, startling Sam and Dean’s gazes away from where they’d both been watching Martin. 

As she led them back towards the stairs, Sam found himself remembering the woman from the library and the reason they were there in the first place. 

“Uh yeah actually. We’ve been looking for some information about weird stuff going on lately.” He figured it was probably best not to lead with the whole Purgatory/Eve thing. Not when they’d finally found the only sane person to talk to in this god forsaken place.

Sasha laughed slightly. “You'll have to be more specific, we've got a lot of “weird stuff” here. We were attacked by worms not even a year ago, and there's a long history with this place.”

“We mean, like, actual supernatural stuff,” Not some worm infestation, “Maybe, I dunno, earthquakes? Inexplicable deaths? People acting funny? Anything like that really.”

She turned to face them with a strangely large smile. “No, no. Not for a good few years at least.”

Sam frowned. “Huh. Okay. Well, you document stuff, right?,” He asked, “Is there any way we could take a look at some of your files?” 

Sasha’s face turned apologetic, “No, sorry. You can go to the library, but to access the archives you need permission from Jon or Elias, and they can be…well, you know the stuffy academic type.”

He grimaced. Sam did know the type. He’d had plenty of practice navigating the world of entitled dicks in pretentious institutes when trying to research for his college work.

“I think we should at least try, maybe not with Jon though,” because he's a demon , “There's gotta be something useful in here.” Sam whispered to Dean. 

Elias Bouchard's office looked exactly like how you would imagine someone with the surname “Bouchard”s would look. Sam and Dean could feel the pretentiousness oozing out of the leather upholstery of his chairs and random eye motifs seemingly anywhere they would fit. Even his chain for his glasses had little eye charms attached to them, and Dean swore he could see a faint pattern of eyes on his tie. 

He looked at each of them in turn, apparently trying to make it as obvious as possible that he didn't recognise them. (He did recognise them. He just felt like being a dick.)

Oh god, was this guy wearing eye earrings too? How had they not noticed this before?

“So, you want access to my archives, correct?”

Dean opened his mouth to reply, ready to completely give up his dignity so he could get this case over with and then, finally, make his way back to America and his beloved Impala, but Elias continued straight over him.

“Well, they aren't usually open to the, ah, less educated members of the public, such as yourselves. However, I am willing to make an exception in your case, considering your impressive resume with the supernatural.”

Well. That was easier than expected.

Chapter Text

Over the next week, Rosie became very familiar with the two Americans who regularly turned up at the institute. Every time, she greeted them with a wide smile and let them in, without asking them why they were there.

But seriously, why were they there?

Rosie had long ago come to terms with the fact that questioning Elias on what he was doing was pointless and stressful. This did not stop her from trying to figure it out herself.

The first time she'd seen them, they'd been wearing smart suits, and, even though she'd been aware from the start that they were definitely not FBI agents, she'd been prepared to believe they were somehow important. This illusion was promptly shattered when they appeared the next day, wearing crumpled t-shirts and looking like they'd rather be anywhere else.

By the end of that week, Rosie was done with not knowing. There was a reason she'd been bullied as a child, and there was a reason she'd been hired at the institute, and she was fairly certain that that reason was her curiosity. 

There didn't seem to be any clear purpose to their visits, nor did they appear to find what they were looking for. In fact the only change was their clothes became increasingly dishevelled and they became more overtly distrustful of her.

“... working together maybe?”

“You'd think Bobby would've mentioned a demon infestation before he sent us.”

They entered the ridiculously echoey foyer, seemingly not aware that their conversation could be heard very clearly. Rosie did not inform them of this.

“Well, you didn't exactly give him time to tell us much before calling Cas.”

They paused their conversation as they went to ask Rosie to let them in.

“Oh, I’m sorry, give me a moment. I'll be done with this in a second!”

She continued to add to her word document filled with fascinating keyboard smashes, as she focused back on their conversation.

“What’s Cas got to do with this?” 

The shorter man seemed to suddenly grow defensive. His brother gave him a knowing look that he very purposefully ignored.

“Anyway, all I'm saying is we should have a bit of a poke around, see if we can figure out what's up with that archivist and we'd be looking into Eve at the same time so everyone's happy.”

The conversation clearly over, Rosie typed for a minute longer, before smiling blandly at them and letting them in.

What the fuck was that?

Steam curled over the top of Martin’s tea as he tried to watch Sam and Dean in the least judgemental way possible. He wasn't even a judgemental guy, they were just… Well,there's only so many times people can “accidentally drop my iron poker, sorry man” before he considered it a bit weird . He would have drawn the line at bringing an iron poker to work anyway, but then again, Americans heated up tea in the microwave. This probably wasn’t too weird for them. 

That would not stop him from watching in slight disbelief as they scattered yet more salt over the floor. 

He coughed quietly to let them know he was there without having to interrupt their impromptu arts and crafts session on the floor. They didn't hear him.

“Sorry, hi,” he began, causing the two men to jump a bit more theatrically than he thought the situation called for.

“Uh, sorry again? I just wanted to get to the fridge”

The men didn't move.

“To…get my lunch?”

Finally, one of them responded. “Yeah, sure…hey, you don't want us to move the salt do you?” Dean asked, squinting at him slightly as though trying to gauge his reaction.

Martin stared.

“Well… yeah? If you could, I mean, I don't want to damage your… salt line.”

The brothers gave each other a significant look, as though he had revealed something about himself beyond just being baffled. They seemed to come to an unspoken agreement and carefully cut a small line through the grains in the doorway. Martin stepped delicately over the practically unchanged line and held back a small sigh. He supposed he could wait a little while to sweep it up, they seemed rather…obsessive about their task. 

He kept an eye on them for the rest of the day as they continued about their incomprehensible business. At one point, Sam had come a little too close to him in an attempt to subtly measure the temperature, as though it was Martin emitting the cold air and not the fan he kept near his desk. 

Throughout the afternoon, however, Sam and Dean seemed to lose interest in him and switched to lurking outside of Jon’s office, poised to ambush him if he so much as ventured a few feet beyond the door. Unfortunately for them, Jon nearly never left his office, so their lurking became pretty clear after a few minutes. He and Sasha gave each other a look that seemed to end with the agreement that it wasn't their business, although Martin privately decided that if they did somehow manage to get to Jon, he would step in and try to divert their attention. Jon was stressed enough already.

Jon was decidedly not impressed with Sam and Dean Winchester. He didn't even know why Elias had let them into the archives (going completely over his head about it), and now all they seemed able to do was get in the way and mutter whenever he was in the same room as them for longer than 3 minutes. He still felt vaguely guilty about whatever misunderstanding had occurred upon their first meeting that made them distrust him so much, but this felt like overdoing it. Especially since Dean had pulled a gun on him and he was certain they wanted to kill him. Could they have killed Gertude? It didn't seem likely, since he hadn't heard of any Americans hanging around at the time, but Jon was hardly the most perceptive when it came to anything he didn't care about. Or was someone else the mastermind, and the brothers some weird red herring to throw him off and distract him? Either they refused to be in the same room as him, or they were providing irritation and delays in the archives. Not to mention he was sure he’d seen one of them quickly tucking something into his jacket whenever Jon looked in their direction, which didn’t leave him feeling particularly accommodating to say the least. 

“ ...omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adve- ”

“Can you be quiet ?” Jon snapped at the men, who abruptly stopped their weird chanting and stared at him, as though shocked that he had working ears. 

“Sorry, we were just, uhh…”

“Reading from a statement.” Sam cut in. Jon raised an eyebrow. 

“Well. If you could do the satanic chanting somewhere else where neither me nor my assistants have to hear you, that would be appreciated. This is a workplace.” He made a valiant attempt at looking down at them over his spectacles, which was a difficult task as he was significantly shorter than both of them. 

“Right, of course.” Dean said before retreating to some other corner, presumably to plot Jon’s demise. 

It was tiring being this paranoid all the time. But Jon was certain that Gertrudes killer was connected to the archives, and the sudden appearance of two strangers, poking around for something he wasn't sure even they knew about was highly suspicious. This, on top of Martin acting strangely nice to him, giving him tea, trying to make him go home on time and making Jon feel a strange warmth in his chest whenever he looked him (a side effect from his mental association of Martin and tea, no doubt), and Tim actually doing his job for once, instead of making glitter bombs with Sasha or whatever they got up to when they claimed to be working (he wasn't even going to get into whatever was going on between them, but he was fairly certain it wasn't supernatural), was making him feel justified in his…concern, to put it lightly. Well, Tim was currently on leave kayaking, but he would be back the next day, so Jon could assess how suspicious he was acting then. Of course, he might not be kayaking, he might be plotting how to kill him…in which case Jon should check out his home and make sure he actually had been away.

The end of the work day saw Jon exiting the institute at the right time, determinedly ignoring the shocked looks of Sasha and Martin and, rather insultingly, that of Sam and Dean, who seemed to take his departure as a cue for their own. They’d only been there a few days, who were they to judge his working habits? As he made his way to the underground, he had the strange sensation that he was being watched. He made sure to keep an eye out for anyone looking suspicious as he changed his usual route to go to Tim's home instead of his own. 

As he neared Tim's place, Jon grew certain that someone was following him, so he did the very reasonable thing of hiding behind a convenient bush. It was, all told, a rather uncomfortable few hours staking out his home, ultimately proved pointless by Tim's arrival at 9:13, carrying a large rucksack. After another half hour spent ensuring he didn't leave again, Jon decided he had better go. He had left work early, after all, and there was lots to be done back at the institute. Nevermind that it was nearly 10.

The feeling of someone following gradually grew less as he got further away.

Tim wasn't having a good day. Tim hadn’t had a good day in a while (despite his impulse kayaking trip in a desperate bid to feel joy), something he wasn't willing to think too hard about. When Danny had died and left him with that empty sofa and more questions than he knew what to do with, Tim had dropped everything to work at the Magnus Institute. Three years later, he was able to recognise what a profoundly awful idea that had been. And now, on top of killer worms, a creepy boss, a growing certainty he physically couldn't quit his job and his only real friend clearly keeping something big from him since the aforementioned worm attack, he had to deal with Americans.

He honestly almost thought they'd been stalking him, with the way they seemed to be watching him whenever he glanced over. But, no, Tim was aware he'd been growing paranoid recently and was making an effort to tone it down. This, however, was getting out of hand. 

Tim turned around and made direct eye contact with the tall one with the nice hair. He genuinely wasn't sure the other man had been consistently with him, he just kind of looked like some guy.

The man held eye contact with him for a long moment before turning to his friend, looking anxious. Almost having made up his mind to just leave and face the archives, Tim noticed the men coming up to him. 

“Hi. Um.”

Tim gave him a strained smile. The two men shared another glance.

“I - uh - we, we were wondering if you could…” The guy with the hair paused, as though trying to think of something Tim could feasibly help him with, “give us directions to the library?”

(London had lots of libraries. This was a safe bet.)

Tim frowned, finding the extended pause and questioning tone didn't do much to stop his paranoia creeping in.

“Well. There are quite a lot of libraries around? So…anything more specific?”

The other man, apparently noticing how his friend was struggling, leaned over to hurriedly reply, “The British Library.”

This felt more like a lucky guess that the British Library was a real thing than like an actual destination. His friend seemed to have recovered by now (that or he had realised how on edge Tim seemed) and chimed in with a slightly awkward, “And I, uh, like your earring by the way. It’s nice.” 

The earring in question was a simple gold hoop. In his right ear. 

His friend sent him an intensely panicked look. Tim hardly registered it, focused instead on recontextualising the past few minutes.

The hair guy was just really awful at flirting. He could have at least mentioned somewhere nearby when he came asking for made up directions. Tim supposed American tourists were irritating even when they were kind of cute.

He smiled at him, but genuinely this time. Take that paranoia, I'm just hot. 

“Thanks,” he said with a wink, “I’m Tim, by the way.”

“Sam.” Sam looked honestly surprised that Tim had introduced himself.

His friend appeared to be in shock.

“Maybe it’d be easier if I showed you on a map, can I borrow your phone?” 

Sam nodded and dug a beaten looking iphone out his back pocket. Tim walked over to stand next to him, leaning just far enough into his personal space that their arms brushed as he took the phone. After he'd finished showing him the best route and pointing out the nearest tube station, Tim handed his phone back to him, letting their hands touch for just a little longer than necessary.

“You know,” He said, making eye contact, “If you want someone to show you around the city a bit, I can leave you my number. How long are you in London for?”

Sam’s friend stared at the two and seemed to feel the need to sit down, not bothering to hide his blatant surprise.

“Uh, not too long, you know, just…getting a break from work. And stuff?” The man said it like a question - maybe he had a particularly stressful job? Having saved his number under “ Tim ;) ”, Tim handed him back his phone. He should probably get going if he didn’t want to be late again. He gave the man one last smile and left him to snap his friend out of whatever he had going on. 

As Tim was rounding the corner, he could’ve sworn he heard the other man hiss, “Dude, what the hell?! The right ear’s the gay ear!”

Tim smiled to himself.

Chapter Text

“Hey, have you found anything on Martin's death yet?”

“No, but get this –”

Sam held up the article he had been reading for his brother to see. It was from July that year, reporting the discovery of the body of a woman called Gertrude Robinson.

“She was found under the institute, in a room full of cassette tapes. Cause of death is listed as bullet wounds, and she'd been missing for over a year before that.”

Dean scanned the rest of the webpage, “Wait, what are these tunnels? You look into this ‘Millbank Prison’ place?”

Millbank Prison, it turned out, was a whole mess in and of itself. It had been designed by an architect called Robert Smirke, who had either been very loose with organisation or was absolutely off his head when designing it. What few prison records Sam had found were all over the place and largely indecipherable, but they could gauge that something had happened in the later half of the 19th century, killing every listed prisoner in the damn place. And presumably the unlisted ones too. Great. Perfect environment for vengeful spirits.

“But you said you hadn’t found anything on Martin, he wasn’t a prisoner there?”

Sam took the laptop back, “Not one I could see, but maybe something else happened. Sasha mentioned a ‘worm attack’? Pretty recent and no recorded casualties but –”

Dean scoffed, already walking over to the whiskey on his bedside table, ”You think our ghost was killed by an infestation?”

His brother frowned at his screen. It was possible…but unlikely.

“Maybe we’re looking too extreme, maybe he’s just a guy who worked there and couldn’t let go? He was–”

“A pushover?” Dean suggested. He was lying obnoxiously with his shoes on Sam’s pillow, which Sam elected to ignore, for the good of his blood pressure if nothing else.

“ – quite polite for a murderous apparition anyway,” He finished.

I mean how many convicted felons in the 1800s wore big jumpers and apologised when you bumped into them. The most suspicious thing he’d done so far was make an effort to keep a clean work environment and Sam still wasn’t entirely sure that the salt cleaning hadn’t been (in part at least) to help his boss out. His boss who was quite obviously a demon, and who he quite obviously had a bit of a crush on. Sam wondered if he knew, generally the black eyes and regenerative powers were a bit of a give away but Martin hadn’t seemed particularly concerned. On second thoughts, it was probably best not to mention this to Dean. He had enough trouble dealing with his own less than heterosexual inclinations, let alone anyone else's.

But if Martin wasn't a ghost, what was he? The air always seemed to be colder around his desk, and the fact that he’d purposefully waited for them to leave before cleaning up their salt lines, conspicuously not touching the salt, didn't do much to dissuade their suspicions. No, he had to be a ghost. The whole of that archive was just filled with monsters, except for that poor woman.

Should they maybe be trying to find a way to help her?

“Okay, forget about Martin then. Jon, though. A demon in a powerful position at the institute? If he wasn’t dead, I’d think Crowley had something to do with this, but this really isn’t his style.”

“But that means there's something about the institute right? A demon and a ghost, along with whatever’s going on with Elias, in the same building can't just be a coincidence. So what about that place is drawing them in?” Sam asked.

“Hey, just to check, have we completely abandoned the idea that Eve could be behind this?”

Sam stared at him for a moment, having completely forgotten that, yeah, they were supposedly in England for Eve. He sighed.

“I’ll call Bobby.”

An eventful but ultimately unsuccessful day of investigating ended with them crouched outside a strangers home, really having no idea what they were doing anymore, but far too committed to stop now. Martin had, as they had expected, continued to act generally suspicious, and so they had turned their attention to Jon. Or, rather, they had tried. Did that guy ever leave his office? The brothers had grown used to trying to wait him out, to see if he did ever go where he was claiming his home was, and, before that day, they'd come to the conclusion that no, he didn't. So, when he left his office, not only before them, but at 5:00, exactly when a normal, non-demon’s work day would end, they were too shocked to even try to disguise it, even when he gave them a judgemental and mildly self-conscious look.

The London underground was confusing at the best of times, but attempting to stalk a London commuter at rush hour and remain out of sight of said demonic asshole was easier said than done.

“Sam, no, we're going Northbound.”

“Wha-? He went that way” Sam protested.

“No,” Dean resisted rolling his eyes, “He went that way, there just happens to be more than one short, uptight dickhead with brown hair in here.”

Remarkably, they managed to stick with him as he left the central tunnels and, to their relief, the underground station all together, turning instead to walk towards a more residential area. The further they got from the archives, the more twitchy and suspicious Jon seemed to become, making the whole stalking thing much more difficult. Sam and Dean guessed they were close to these demons’ base of operations now, could this be an opportunity to find out who had replaced Crowley in the pecking order? After his death, it had probably been optimistic to assume that was the end of the scheming, seeing as it was more than likely that all the lesser demons, including this Jon guy, had flocked to some new big bad.

He continued to walk with purpose towards the houses, the brothers doing their best to subtly follow, until he changed course and instead climbed with purpose into a large bush.

Sam and Dean paused. They shared a deeply confused look.

“Hey, what the fuck?”

“Be quieter,” Sam hissed, “Maybe it's…some kind of secret entrance?”

Dean gave him a condescending frown. He thought for a moment. Actually, that sounded pretty reasonable. Secret entrances were pretty common in their line of work, and it made considerably more sense than a grown demon wandering into a bush for no reason.

He nodded decisively, and they slowly crept towards the entrance to this demonic lair. It didn't stop looking like a bush. Jon also seemed to still be sat in it.

The brothers, about to part the leaves to reveal what they were beginning to doubt was any sort of door and were increasingly confident was actually just a bush, stopped. Jon shuffled slightly, as if aware that he was being watched, and Sam and Dean sped away from the shrubbery as quietly as possible.

“So he's just sat in a bush?” Dean questioned, looking as confused as Sam felt.

“I…I guess so.”

They stared at each other for a moment, trying to figure out why in the nine circles of hell Jon had decided it was a lovely day to sit in the greenery to be weird and suspicious, instead of in a warehouse or creepy office like any self respecting demon.

Whispering, they decided that they had come too far to simply go back to their overpriced hotel, and might as well find a similarly concealed position from which to watch…whatever it was Jon had come here to see.

Two hours in, Dean sighed heavily. Sam ignored him. Dean sighed even more heavily, this time trying to inject a tone of longing into it.

“Dude, if you have to piss just go back to the hotel,” Sam hissed.

His brother looked more than a little offended at the implication that he wasn’t up for a good stake out.

“I miss my car.”

Right. Of course.

“Seriously, Sam. I miss her. Anything could have happened, we left over a week ago! Besides, the Impala is way more convenient than taking the freaking subway everywhere.”

Sam rolled his eyes. It hadn't even been a full week.

“Well, our demon guy hides in a bush, we hide in a bush. The Impala being here wouldn't do anything except be impractical in central London, it's not like you can do 90 miles an hour here, you'd get us killed. Or draw way more attention than we want anyway.”

Dean elbowed his brother, effectively shutting him up. Something was happening.

A tired looking man was making his way down the street, turning into the house that they had been watching Jon watch for over 3 hours. Who was this guy that a demon was actively hiding from him, but still trying to keep tabs on him? It could just be that he was very unlucky and had somehow captured the attention of Jon, but then why would he not just attack? It seemed almost as though Jon was…scared of this guy. He didn’t look very threatening, in fact, he was quite good looking if Dean was being honest. The man also seemed to be carrying some sort of stupidly big backpack with what looked like oars poking out? A glance over at the demon’s bush told them that this was, in fact, what they had been sat in the undergrowth for all evening.

Despite this, he continued to stay sat in the bush.

45 minutes after the attractive man had gone into the house, Sam stifled a yawn. “Do you think Jon’s going to leave any time soon? We still have a chance of seeing if he goes ‘home’, and I’m getting tired.”

Dean craned his neck. “Not sure, I…” he trailed off, squinting at the bush. Sam helpfully elbowed him.

“Yeah, sorry, uh…” Dean hesitated, “He's gone.”

“He's gone? How can he be gone?”

“Well, presumably he got up and left.” Dean replied sarcastically.

The brothers stared at the house.

“Well,” Sam started, “If Jon was out here for ages, whoever went in must be important in some way? We know nothing about them, maybe staying here and keeping tabs on –”

“– stalking –” Dean coughed.

“ – them could lead to more answers. I don't think either of us actually understand what’s going on here anyway. And we’re here, we might as well stay.”

Dean sighed and shuffled into a more comfortable crouch.

“Listen man, if you're going to be dramatic about this, you can go to the other bush.”

Dean had had an uncomfortably eventful morning and, as he once again entered the Magnus Institute with his brother, he tried his best to forget their encounter with the mysterious guy who’d flirted with Sam. This became increasingly difficult as they descended to the archives, immediately locking eyes with the very man they’d met on the way over. Shit.

He turned from where he’d been talking with Sasha, a wide smile taking over his features slightly too late for the brothers not to see the sadness on his face.

“Sam! And,” he paused, clearly unable to remember Dean's name, “and Sam’s friend!”

Sam smiled back, tightly and looked deeply confused. Dean, on the other hand, seemed to be trying extremely hard not to sink to the floor in panic.

“You guys get lost on the way to the library?” Tim seemed somewhat concerned to see the brothers again so soon. His smile had dimmed, and he spoke with a slightly hopeful tone.

Sasha had apparently had enough of this confusion. “Oh, you already know each other?”

Something seemed to occur to Tim and his eyes widened in horror as he asked, with considerably less hope, “You're not…employed here, are you?”

“No, no,” Sasha laughed, “They're doing some…what are you doing again?”

Shit. What were they doing? What was their excuse again? They had already given a statement and frankly weren't keen to repeat the process.

“It's uhhh classified. Sorry. Couldn’t tell you if we wanted to. You know, Elias,” Dean laughed awkwardly.“But actually we were just leaving. To go…sightseeing.”

“We are?” His brother looked over at him, not aware of this plan.

“Yep. How often are we in London…bro.”

Sam grew even more worried.

“And, you know, me personally, I’ve always wanted to see Stonehenge.”

“That's not…” Sasha trailed off. Sam and Tim looked extremely lost.

“There are lots of good places that are…you know, actually in London,” Tim offered, “Like, well, you wanted to find the British Library earlier, there's also the London Eye, that’s got an aquarium right next to it, and,” he gave Sam a significant look and a wink, “Soho’s always good.”

…Was that a secret message of some sort? It certainly had the emphasis of one. Jon had been very interested in this guy's movements, maybe Tim knew and was trying to give them some sort of hint as to what he was up to. It sounded plausible enough.

“Okay.” Sam agreed. “Let's go to Soho.”

“Are we sure Soho was a secret message?” Dean asked as they dodged a group of people and walked past yet another sex shop.

Sam sighed, “It was your amazing idea in the first place.”

This was starting to sound familiar.

Where would a secret message even be? If Tim was trying to tell them something, he had done a pretty shit job of it.

“Why did you actually want to leave the archives in the first place?” Sam asked, sounding slightly accusing, “We had agreed to try and follow Jon again and not, y’know, lose him this time.”

Dean turned a bit red. “Well…I just wanted to go sightseeing.”

“Cut the crap, Dean.”

He sighed, “Fine. I…didn't know what to do when Sasha started asking us about what we’re doing there, and, Tim, well, he's a nice guy but he seemed a bit too interested in you, if you know what I mean.”

Sam stared at him blankly.

“He’s g –” Whatever Dean had been about to say Tim was had been cut off by the appearance of an unexpected person walking directly into him. Or rather a person shaped being, dropping an armful of books that flew dramatically onto and around the sidewalk.

“Cas???”

Chapter Text

Cas looked mournfully down at the books now littering the sidewalk. 

Dean, seemingly possessed by some strange spirit of common courtesy, leant down, reaching for the nearest hardback. His fingers had barely touched the leather tome when a warm hand brushed his, unexpectedly whisking the book out of his reach. More than a little confused, he glanced up and found deep blue eyes looking back at him. The two men stared, as though lost in each other's gaze.

Cas broke away and hurriedly collected the rest of the books as Dean remained crouched, apparently frozen. In his defence, he had not been prepared for such prolonged eye contact today.

“Hey, why do you have all those books? Are you, like, looking for…more heavenly artefacts or something?” Sam cut through, oblivious to Dean's small crisis.

Cas stared, looking like he was genuinely torn between pretending he didn’t know them and just disappearing. 

He squinted at them.

“No, Balthazar had the majority of them in the safe already,” He replied like it was obvious.

“Then. What the fuck are you doing in England?” Dean asked accusingly, evidently recovered enough to be a dick.

Cas seemed to glance around for a viable reason for him to be this side of the Atlantic ocean. 

“I am…visiting family” he said stiffly. 

Okay, now that was bullshit. 

“Cas. Your family lives in Heaven. And you're at war with them.” Sam reasoned. It was a pretty poor excuse, even for Cas. 

Dean snorted, “What, is your cousin a bookseller or something?”

“Yes.” Cas replied.

“And these bookseller angels just happen to live in Soho?”

“Yes,” Cas rolled his eyes, “He has a bookshop. With his husband,” At the brothers' blank stares, he continued, “I was getting books.”

Evidently. 

“What are you doing in Soho, anyway?” He asked, trying to turn the attention away from himself, and his own activities that definitely didn't involve any Kings of Hell or anything.

“Oh,” Sam was reminded of Tim’s odd clue, “We’re looking for clues.”

Cas gave them a judgemental look. “Clues,” he repeated.

“Yeah, we think there’s something going on with this guy called Tim’s workplace, and he seemed to want us to come here. You might have heard of it actually, the Magnus Institute?”

Cas’s frown deepened. 

“I have heard of it. What sort of clues did he send you here for?”

Ah. How to explain the vague hint that they had taken across London to Cas.

“Nothing specific. Just, y’know, demon…related stuff,” Dean said, feeling weirdly left out of the conversation, “We’re pretty sure one of the head guys at the archives is a demon.”

This seemed to even further perplex the angel, “I see.”

He reached forward, arms now mysteriously empty of books, and grabbed both brothers by the shoulders. Before they could protest, the busy street in Soho was replaced with the now familiar staircase that led to the archives.

“What the fuck, man,” Dean whisper-shouted, as Sam winced and brought his hand to his head. Cas was unruffled as ever, as he turned and headed downward towards the archives, leaving the brothers no choice but to follow in his wake. 

“Cas,” Dean continued to try to get his attention, glancing around in a panic, “ Cas . Damn it.”

Just as they were entering the view of the archives staff, Cas abruptly turned around, causing Dean to walk directly into him. 

“What?”

“I…” Dean, about to make a valiant attempt at convincing Cas to go literally anywhere else, became aware of Tim, Sasha, Martin, and, inconveniently enough, Jon, all unsubtly staring at the two of them. And more importantly, Cas’s arms holding him upright. He hurriedly stepped back. Sam waved awkwardly from the side. 

“Hi. We’re back.”

Sasha gave a friendly wave back. Cas frowned at her.

“So!” Tim broke in with a grin, giving Dean a wink. “Who’s this?”

Confused, he gestured to the angel. “This is Cas.” Tim seemed to want more from his answer, if his raised eyebrows were anything to go by. “He’s my friend?” Dean added uncertainly.

“Tim,” Jon said, in a warning tone, “I dont think it's our business what Mr…”

“Uh…Tiel.” Dean lied, in the least convincing way possible.

“Right. What Mr. Tiel and Mr. Winchester…mean to each other, ” He turned to face the men, who had made the mistake of relaxing slightly. Dean jumped at having his glare directed at them, “That being said, I have reminded you multiple times that this is a workplace. Do not make a habit of bringing guests here.”

He turned and stalked into his office. Tim rolled his eyes. The silence that followed threatened to become suffocating. Martin shuffled some pens uselessly, before deciding to break it.

“Um…does anyone want tea?”

Sam, leaping at the opportunity to alleviate the awkwardness radiating from his brother, agreed, even going so far as to lend a hand in the kitchen.

Making tea, it turned out, was remarkably easy. Especially with the help of a kettle. It mostly involved finding the right mug for each staff member and not getting in Martin’s way. 

“What do you want to say?” Sam asked, after watching Martin hover anxiously for a few minutes.

“Oh! Nothing I just,” he paused, clearly trying to think of the best way to phrase something, “Is Cas your brother’s…?”

Sam sighed. “Not officially. I don’t know what they are honestly.”

Martin understood. It was hard to know where you stood with someone sometimes. The kettle came to the boil. 

“I mean, Dean just isn’t ready to accept that he’s, y’know, not straight and Cas is too oblivious to realise that they're not actually in a relationship, I think? Not that it’s Dean’s fault, growing up in the South in the 80’s probably didn’t help but even without that, the amount of pressure from our dad to be a good little soldier was… well anyway. It’s complicated,” Sam trailed off seemingly having remembered that, despite his generally friendly appearance, Martin was, in fact, a ghost. 

“Yeah, I…well, I don't get it, but being queer is…it can be difficult,” he smiled, slightly sadly, “having support makes a big difference.” 

“Oh,” Sam blinked, “are you…?”

Martin laughed, before it faded, realising Sam was serious. “Yes. Yeah, I’m queer.”

“Wow. That must have been really hard, considering when you were born and everything.” Sam spoke, without thinking about the fact that he probably shouldn't let the possibly malevolent ghost know that he knew he was a possibly malevolent ghost. Luckily for him, Martin just looked confused.

“Uh, sure? I mean, it was probably harder for you guys, all things considered,” Martin smiled slightly awkwardly, handing Sam the other half of the mugs he had just filled and leading the way back to the office. 

As Martin and Sam made their hurried escape to the break room, Tim turned to Cas and Dean. They very suddenly felt like ants under a magnifying glass.

“So,” Tim began, filling Dean with a disproportionate amount of dread, “How’d you meet?”

“Well,” Dean started, trying desperately to think of a believable story that did not involve unwarranted violence.

“Oh, I brought his soul back from hell”

Tim and Sasha blinked. 

“And then Dean stabbed me.”

They stared in confusion for a moment longer before Tim awkwardly laughed.

“I’m bad at metaphors, what does that mean?”

Cas tilted his head and Dean took the opportunity to try and salvage this. He couldn't have them actually knowing the supernatural existed.

“He, he means that he, uh, well, I was in a bad place, you know, mentally, and he helped me accept who I am…find my role in things. And then I…,” He laughed awkwardly, ‘well, I didn't like stab stab him-”

Tim smiled, “ Oh. I get it, don't worry. And, you know, I get how hard it can be to unlearn all that shit, I’m glad you're in a place where you can be proud of it now.”

Dean didn't quite get it but Tim didn't seem suspicious anymore, so he took it as a win. 

“I'm bi,” Tim continued, as though that were a perfectly logical next sentence. 

“Oh…I mean, uh, cool, hah,” Dean laughed, having no idea what the hell being bi meant.

“Yeah,” Tim said brightly, “Honestly I thought your brother was the queer one but –”

“Oh, no, no, I’m, it’s not”, Dean’s eyes flicked to Sasha and then the exit, anxiety evident on his face.

“Oh, sorry, didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, no one on this archive’s straight, you don't have to worry about anything like that here.” 

Sasha looked up from her work, bemused, “I’m straight, Tim,” she said, smiling vaguely unnervingly.

“Oh,” he frowned, confused at why he'd thought that, “Yeah, ‘course, sorry Sash. Don't why I thought that,” he chuckled awkwardly and trailed off, his good mood fading.

Sam and Martin chose that moment to re-emerge from the break room, tea in hand. They, at least, seemed to be on the same page, and much more comfortable with each other than when they had left. Completely at odds with his brother, Dean turned to watch Martin's entrance as though he was in a horror movie. Sam frowned, eyes taking in his brother’s discomfort, Cas’s mild confusion, and Tim’s dejected expression. What had happened in the time it had taken to boil a kettle?

“Um…Tim, here,” Martin said, handing Tim a cup with ‘Bi-nosaur’ written on it in rainbow block capitals. 

“And you'll be happy to know we’re finally using that mug you got last June,” he added, giving Dean a seemingly ordinary, plain, white mug. Upon further inspection, however, it in fact had ‘can’t think straight’ printed on it in cursive letters. Dean almost dropped the mug, choking on his tea slightly.

An uncomfortable silence fell, broken only by Dean’s coughing fit. 

“So, um, what were you talking about?” Martin asked, about 10 seconds after the expiry of that as a casual thing to say.

Tim broke out of his spiral, “Oh, just small talk,” he said lightly, with an uncharacteristically subtle wink in Dean's direction.

“I’m not gay,” Dean blurted defensively, putting the mug down on Sasha’s desk harshly and backing away from it for good measure.

Sam frowned. Okay, not just small talk then. 

“There's nothing wrong with being gay, Dean,” Sasha said, with a placid smile.

Cas seemed to decide that this was a good time to weigh in, “It’s right, Dean, God has no opinion on the matter.”

“ It? ” Tim rounded on him, outraged, “I’m sure God doesn't have a problem with gay people, but He sure as hell has a problem with misogyny.” 

Cas blinked in confusion, “I don't hate women,” He protested with the least enthusiasm anyone had ever protested anything with, “I’ve been a woman.”

“Hah, me too,” Martin muttered into his tea, then seemed to realise he had said that out loud.

“What?” Sam asked, completely lost.

“What?!” Dean echoed, already doing mental somersaults to calculate if this totally made him exempt from being gay. 

Sam looked over at Martin, “But…you’re a man?” he checked, not entirely sure what was happening.

“Yes.” Martin responded, relaxing slightly.

“Right.” A pause, “So how were you a woman?” Dean chimed in.

“Well, I wasn't really .”

“Right…” This did not clear up anything for either of the two men. Luckily, they were saved from having to think about it by the arrival of Jon, who walked determinedly into the break room, and then out again without having done anything.

It was getting far too difficult to work in a workplace these days, Jon thought, as he was forced to listen to the spontaneous coming out session in the room next to his office. Louise Shellcroft’s statement, while as riveting as all other aspects of his job, paled in comparison to hearing Tim either wildly misinterpret Dean's whole “hell” story, or pick up on a very strange, very convoluted metaphor. 

“Ms Shellcrofts statement is undermined by her admitting to having not slept in 17 hours and having been heavily intoxicated at the time of the incident…” Jon droned on, trying desperately to tune out Dean's denial, “...therefore, it is safe to place this statement in “discredited””. He ended his laptop recording, and closed his eyes, determined to to feel as though he had wasted 20 minutes on a fake statement. God, he could use some ibuprofen, headaches were not conducive to a productive work day.

It was only once he was in the break room that he realised he had not said a single thing to anyone in the office he had just walked through. As far as he could tell, they weren’t saying anything either. 

He turned back, hovering awkwardly at the entrance. “I’m biromantic and asexual.”

There. That was a good contribution. Hopefully, it would also keep his assistants and the Americans from suspecting that he didn't trust them (which he didn't). 

Damn , he’d forgotten his ibuprofen.

Chapter Text

A few hours later, Sam and Dean were sprawled in their hotel room eating shitty London burgers. Cas stood awkwardly in the corner. He wasn't eating shitty London burgers, although a small part of him was wondering if they would taste the same without Famine's hunger driving him. At least, Sam was eating. Dean seemed to be thinking hard.

“We gotta do something about Sasha.”

Sam grimaced, “Yeah, it's not safe at the archives.”

People often start serious conversations with a statement about the need to “do something” about a situation. Unfortunately for our dubious heroes, the meaning of the description is often lost to the endless ether of interpretation. To Sam and Dean, it clearly meant that Sasha was in untold danger and desperately in need of rescue. To Cas, who was significantly better informed than the brothers, it was obvious that “doing something” would involve an exorcism, or perhaps a very large knife. They were in England, after all.

“Definitely,” he agreed.

There was a moment of silence as the three of them tried to think of a plan. It wasn't going very well.

“What's the plan for the others?” Dean asked, done with attempting to find his own solution.

“I want to help Martin.” 

Dean and Cas looked sceptically at Sam. (Again, vague phrasing seeks to be the undoing of our trio: Dean failed to see the advantage of prolonging the harm to the only normal worker at that damn institute for the sake of a dead guy; Cas, on the other hand, failed to see what assistance Martin could require beyond removing the creature posing as “Sasha”.)

“I mean, he's not that bad,” Sam protested.

The doubtful stares intensified.

“This isn't any different from another hunt, he's been pretty peaceful so far. And he makes nice tea.”

And he was pretty understanding about your whole Cas thing. 

Dean shrugged, “...okay…Guess we'll put the rescue mission on hold. Got any ideas where he might be buried?”

Sam frowned.

“Not so far,” he said, moving his dinner aside to open his laptop. 

“You know, if we can't find anything online, we could just go back to the archives. Maybe there are some clues there or something.”

The Internet had failed them. 

Under the cover of darkness, the brothers crept towards the imposing institute. In all honesty, they would probably have drawn less attention if they had walked normally, but they'd really gotten into it and weren't planning on stopping any time soon. Cas walked after them.

“Hey, uh,” Sam whispered into the frigid air, “can you guys hear creepy classical music?”

They paused. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could swear he saw a shape disappear into the darkness beyond the streetlamps. The night air was crisp and he shivered slightly, pulling his jacket closer around him. He glanced back. The stranger approached, slowly shrouding them all in its tall shadow. Sam and Dean inched closer to one another, already reaching for their guns. Even Cas found himself holding in a breath that he didn't need. 

“Oh, hi guys,” the ominous figure spoke, as its face was illuminated by the lights again.

“Tim!?” Dean asked in disbelief.

“Yeah? Are you here for the party?” 

Dean began to deny it on reflex. He was getting used to denying anything Tim asked him. Luckily, Sam elbowed him before he could speak.

“Uh, yeah. Yup. Happy…birthday?”

Tim looked at him oddly, “It's for new year's, mate. Non denominational winter celebration and all that?”

Dean forced a laugh, “Yeah, it's what we say in, uh, America. You know, happy birthday to…the new year!”

“That is not –”

“Not now, Cas,” Dean hissed, “He's …Canadian.” He finished in Tim's direction with an unconvincingly conspiratorial tone, as if that cleared it up.

Tim looked like he was holding back a laugh. Sam sighed. 

The four of them seemed to collectively decide that the best option was to head inside and ignore whatever that was. 

“So, how come you guys decided to go to our ‘work get together’?” Tim asked, in an effort to have a normal conversation with them. This attempt was slightly ruined by the disdain with which he finished his question. 

“How come you decided to go?” Dean replied defensively.

Tim rolled his eyes and looked away. “Trust me, it's not a choice.”

The institute was decorated far more ostentatiously than it realistically had the budget for. The uncomfortable green chairs had been pushed to the side and people in formal dress gathered in little groups, clinking champagne glasses and making quiet, polite conversation. 

Sam and Dean felt out of place, to say the least. Cas fit in surprisingly well. (He might have fit in slightly better had his shirt not been unbuttoned at the collar and his tie not been on back to front. But he was trying, and sometimes it's the thought that counts.)

“Hello, gentlemen”

All four of them startled and turned around, coming face to face with Elias.

Tim muttered something sounding suspiciously like “bastard” before making a beeline for the dessert table. 

They stared after him as he made his escape. 

“Well,” Elias spoke, sounding more amused than anything, “what a pleasant surprise. I wasn't expecting you.”

Despite this, he did not seem surprised in the least to see them.

“Uh funny story-”

“About that-” Sam and Dean began simultaneously.

“ As ,” Elias continued, his constant aura of smugness reaching nearly unbearable levels, “you weren't invited. In fact, I believe Jon tried to keep it from you.”

Dean felt vaguely insulted. 

Sam tried to rescue the situation, looking desperately at the small circles of rich people littering the entrance hall, “This is for…fundraising, right?”

At Elias's raised brow, he ploughed on. Maybe this excuse would somehow work? 

“Well, we have funds. To…raise.”

Elias's brow remained firmly raised, this time communicating polite disbelief.

“Cas!” Dean jumped in, straightening Cas’s tie in a very straight way and pushing their angelic companion forward, “This is Cas. He has…lots of money.”

He gestured at the accountant-like suit, like this was evidence.

Cas looked at himself, then at Elias.

“Yes.” 

There was a brief silence while the others waited for him to continue. Cas’s attention strayed to the weirdly eye-themed decor, completely oblivious to everyone's focus.

Dean cleared his throat, trying (and failing) to subtly elbow him.

Cas blinked at them, “I will give you…” he trailed off, abruptly realising he had no idea how much was a normal amount to donate, let alone in pounds, “...money.” 

Elias smiled unnervingly. “Wonderful. Come this way, Castiel.”

Sam leant on the wall of the basement, watching the staircase. He sighed. 

“Do you seriously trust Cas to not say anything to that Elias guy?” he asked, shining the torch beam aimlessly. 

“What?” Dean asked, fiddling with the lock and nearly dropping a hairpin.

“He's been acting…shifty lately, and the guy’s not great at improvising at the best of times.”

Dean scoffed, “C'mon, it's Cas. He can handle it.”

Sam considered how to tactfully point out to his brother how Cas came across to most of the general public (blunt and irritatingly intelligent mostly. Sometimes just plain rude.) but at that moment the door to the archives clicked and swung open.

“Huh, this place is creepy in the dark,” Sam whispered, sweeping the torch over the now familiar room. All their loitering over the past few days had at least given them the advantage of knowing which workstation to search through for personal items of Martin’s.

The brothers made quick work of trashing his desk, shoving random folders and pens aside in search of any personal items. All they found was a sad little potted plant that looked like it had been severely over-watered. They were about to give up, and maybe look through Tim's desk, when something caught Sam's eye. Hastily tucked under a box of teabags, a worn, leather-bound notebook had been clumsily hidden at the back of a draw.

With an air of anticipation, Sam held it up, staring at the book with reverence as he slowly said…“ Get. This.”

Dean leaned over eagerly. It had been a long night and he was actually quite concerned about leaving Cas alone with the slimy Elias. Not that Cas couldn't handle himself. He just worried about everyone. Definitely. He looked at the unassuming book and frowned.

“Dude, what are you waiting for? It's not gonna bite you.”

“It might ,” Sam replied defensively, “have you seen this place? I wouldn't put it past it to have some spooky book man running around.”

“And Martins the ‘spooky book man’?” Dean said disbelievingly.

Sam shrugged. “All I'm saying is let's at least spray it with some holy water first.”

His brother sighed and brought out the flask, emptying a good half of the contents over the cover. 

Nothing happened. 

Dean threw some salt from his pocket at the book for good measure. 

They shared a look and shrugged. Sam flipped open the first page and began to read…

Drifting moors  

by M. K. Blackwood

My mind was made to wander misty moors

But I stare at a bustling street

And feel more alone than ever

A moor would feel like

                                      more

More than this concrete cage

More than this invaded sanctuary 

More than my life's worth

                                         as it drifts

                                                          further 

                                                                    away.

“‘Misty moors’ ‘Concrete cage’?!” Dean read over his shoulder, “Are you seeing this? He’s totally a ghost!”

Sam didn't seem convinced. Maybe Martin missed his old home in the countryside or something. 

“Fine,” Dean sighed, taking the sopping book from his brother. “Let's look at another.”

They turned the page.

Knock

by K. Blackwood

Knock, knock

She knocks on my door.

Even and sharp like my mother would

As I gazed at a galaxy of plastic stars.

Knock, knock.

The carcasses pile at my door

As their phantoms continue to beg for entry.

The ghost of the child I was is screaming

Yet still, she knocks.

Knock, knock.

It hasn't changed but it worms into my mind

Gentle and kind

And I feel blind.

She knocks again

                            knock, knock

But my thoughts linger on my friends.

I doubt my absence has been noted.

It comes again: knock

Knock, knock. 

“...”

“...”

“Okay, yeah, he's a ghost,” Sam conceded. 

An epiphany appeared to have struck Dean, “Maybe that's why he's so mad about us being here–”

Sam frowned, “I wouldn't–”

“He died of home invasion!”

“He– what? Dean, that's… not a thing.”

“It is,” he insisted, “someone broke into his house and killed him,” he paused, “but they knocked apparently?”

“Could be a metaphor,” Sam muttered absently before snapping his attention back to the task at hand. “Not the point. How is Martin mad at us?”

Dean looked up from flicking through the notebook. “We’ve invaded his ‘sanctuary’ of the archives. And no one’s that nice, he's hiding something.”

He stared at his brother for a moment longer wondering if he had actually spoken to Martin for more than a few seconds, then at the dripping notebook, thoughts turning to how on earth they were going to burn the damn thing. Lots of gasoline, maybe?

Regardless, there was no point beating around the bush so Sam left his brother to his trust issues and to snicker over the…poetry and dug what he needed out of the bag (that he totally had with him the whole time because the authors definitely remembered to include that detail). They were seriously running low on salt, thanks to Martin's cleaning operations in the archive’s break room, and it wouldn't hurt to stock up on holy water whilst they were at it. 

“Hey, come look at this one.” 

Sam was broken out of his mental shopping list by Dean’s amused whisper and he wondered if his brother had somehow managed to find an innuendo in Martin’s painfully mediocre writings.

Dean had the book open to a back page titled “C♡₂”. Sam frowned. It didn't exactly fit the tortured, philosophical tone of the previous works. He craned his neck to read.

C♡₂

By M.K.B

Your eyes sparkle across the room

At me 

I can't escape them

Even in my dreams

I see them in my morning tea

Mourning the lack of you with me 

I walk along the Thames

And the moonlight catches on the Thames

Waves shot with silver

Like the dark waves of your hair 

I don't mean to, but sometimes

I stare

Your unexpected kindness

Made it nearly worth it

The juxtaposition of my fear

With your care for me, your peer

I love spending time with you 

You make me lightheaded 

                                          Like CO₂

Well. 

That was less the ramblings of a lost ghost, and more the sad attempt at love poetry from a depressed gay man. Sam almost smiled to himself, Martin really wasn't so bad. 

Speaking of…

Freezing, Sam looked at Dean. “What was that?”

The door to the basement stairs gave a familiar creak as it was opened. Footsteps sounded, descending towards the archives. Towards Sam and Dean…

“Shit, shit , Sam we gotta move.”

“Yeah, sorry Tim, I forgot something…” Martin's voice drifted down.

Wide eyed and panicked, Dean pushed Sam into Jon's office, shut the door and leaned against it. He took a deep breath.

“What the fuck …” they overheard.

Sam winced.

This was the first time the brothers had been in Jon's office without the demon himself. It felt strange, empty without Jon's figure hunched over the desk. The evidence of his work was still scattered across it, papers and pens creating an abstract collage like a modern art piece criticising the oppressive nature of late stage capitalism. And…a jar of dirt?

Oddly separate from the depressing scene, the glass jar stood to the side of the mess with a careful circle cleared around it. The surface of the desk was visible. Clearly, it held significance. 

Sam walked towards it with a frown. It was unmarked and concerningly upon closer inspection not filled with dirt. It instead seemed to contain approximately a human's worth of ash. 

He picked up the jar and, so as not to alert Martin in the next room, gestured to it, making a shrugging motion and mouthing what the hell to his brother.

Seriously, keeping human ashes at your workplace was not very subtle, even for a demon. Maybe he was new at this? 

Gently placing the suspicious container back, Sam's eye caught on something else. He grinned.

“Dean,” he whispered, “look at this!”

Dean turned from the door, immediately on guard. That tone was familiar.

He was about to get bullied.

Sam was waving something around, the slightly worrying smile still in place. Dean squinted in the dark, struggling to make out the rectangular outline of a cassette tape. He rolled his eyes.

“I wonder if Jon listens to Metallica too,” Sam grinned and reached for the cassette player, seemingly having forgotten that Martin was right next door. 

Dean stared. Surely his brother wasn't that stupid.

His brother was, in fact, that stupid. 

“ Right. There we go. Martin, what do you see?” They heard Jon's voice crackle from the tape.

Martin's reply was ignored by the brothers in favour of Dean frantically gesturing to turn it off and Sam's apparent dawning realisation that he'd fucked up.

“ –ah. Sure. So, um, Sasha tackled–” They never heard what Sasha tackled, as Sam, looking far more proud of himself than he had any right to be, pressed the “fast forward” button. 

“Shit!” he hissed over the sped up speech, “why isn't it turning off?”

Dean glared incredulously, “Because you didn’t turn the damn thing off, you idiot!” He whisper-shouted, making a conscious effort to not yell at his frustratingly incompetent brother, who had managed to get the tape back to normal speed again.

He held it in his hands as though it were likely to explode as Jons voice continued to emanate from it.

“-Even you must be aware that that’s not normal for an archiving job? Why are you still here?”

“Aha!” Sam exclaimed, finally locating the stop button. “Not so stupid now, am I?”

Dean made to lunge for the player, before remembering he had the all important job of holding the door closed against the potential intruder who was currently being suspiciously quiet. (The potential intruder in question was in reality staring at his desk. Of course he was, it looked like a hurricane had targeted him specifically, leaving it utterly trashed and with a mysterious puddle of water forming beneath it.) The resulting strange movement distracted Sam long enough for the brothers to hear Martin's damning confession.

“-typed up a few resignation letters, but I just couldn’t bring myself to hand them in. I’m trapped here. It’s like I can’t… move on and the more I struggle, the more I’m stuck.”

They shared a look. Here it was, what they'd been searching for all this time, what their mission to the institute had all been for - hard, undeniable, irrefutable evidence that Martin - kind-hearted, considerate Martin - was a ghost with a ticking time bomb on his humanity.

Abruptly, Sam registered hesitant footsteps making their way towards the door Dean was still bravely guarding. He straightened, scrabbling frantically for the tape recorder and slamming the newly discovered stop button. 

There was a polite little knock on the door.

Dean leapt away from it, jumping acrobatically to the far side of the room. The two brothers breathed heavily into the silence, hoping against hope that the spirit in the next room might get bored and leave them to live another day. Dean reached for a shotgun that wasn't there. 

“Um, not to be rude, but you’re…I know you're in there?”

They watched with growing horror, frozen in place, as the door creaked open, spilling light into the dark room and framing Martin’s deceptively friendly figure in the entrance.

Shit. 

Martin stared uncomprehendingly at Jon's office. The brothers were backed up against the far wall, clutching at each other's sleeves. There was undeniable fear in their faces. But the way they were staring somewhere over his left shoulder was reminiscent of the guilt in a toddlers eyes when you find them sitting, crayon in hand, in front of the wall you just wallpapered. 

“Do you know what happened to my desk?” Martin asked, in a convincingly unnaccusing manner. The brothers almost believed they could get away with it until he asked, in that same carefully neutral tone, “and…my notebook?”

The notebook in question was lying incriminatingly on the desk, leaking water onto the surrounding papers and heavily salted.

“Oh, uh…no. Hah.” Sam blatantly lied.

Martin eyed his precious poetry, seemingly too shocked to be upset, then turned his attention back to the brothers. They hadn’t taken their attention off him.

With the air of someone who was on the verge of giving up entirely, Martin deflated.

“Right. Sure. Ok.” he sighed, “I’ll just go back up then.”

He reached for his ruined poetry, Sam and Dean tracking his movement, and placed it gingerly in his bag before plodding back up the stairs.

Chapter Text

Margaret Blackwood surveyed Sam and Dean disapprovingly from her bed. Her room at the nursing home was about as impersonal as the motels they frequented, coloured in varying shades of beige with quaint paintings of flowers dotting the walls. The emotionless picture was completed by the shrewd figure propped up by incongruously fluffy white pillows and sat centre stage in the bed. The brothers felt incredibly judged. 

Sam gulped. Dean readjusted his tie.

“My son is what?” Margaret asked, sounding highly offended and not at all upset. It was decidedly not the expected reaction to discovering your son had died. It was, Dean thought, more fitting a response for an overly obtuse parent discovering that their 7 year old was to be suspended for stabbing someone with a pencil. 

They shared a look. Sam took a deep breath, trying to find a way to soothe this surprisingly scary old woman. 

“Ma’am, we want to offer our, uh, condolences for …dragging this up again? There are just a few things we wanted to go over with you to make sure your son can rest.”

Margaret scoffed slightly, “Yes, yes, it's all very sad, of course, I just wish he had told me.” The brothers blinked. “He goes - well went, I suppose - on and on about how much he cared about me, and then goes and dies.” She turned away, with a long suffering look on her face, “I knew he’d leave eventually. He always was just like his father.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean frowned, sounding not at all sorry, “And this is about you how?” 

She didn’t seem to have heard him, too caught up in her tirade, “And he talks to me about how depressed he is, while I’m stuck here with these bloody people who refuse to help with the simplest things. And now he’s gone and taken that away too. Just like his bloody father all over again. Both so selfish. Who's going to pay the bills now?”

“So you can’t confirm where your son was buried?” Sam tried, in a last effort to gain something other than a headache from this interaction. 

“No,” Margaret snapped.

“Right.” He forced an attempt at a smile, which was pretty impressive all things considered, and steered his brother out the door, suppressing the echoes of John Winchester her words had begun to dredge up.

42 hours earlier 

Cas watched as Sam and Dean backed away in the general direction of the archives, intent on pursuing their investigative antics. The eye contact that Dean and Cas held as Dean, for some unknown reason, chose to walk backwards (not even muttering an insincere “sorry” to the donors he bumped into (Americans)) was a bit too intense and prolonged to be entirely platonic. 

Elias's smarmy smile dropped, leaving his eyes devoid of even the false civility they had shown to the brothers. The proverbial mask over the man in front of him was thick enough to make his affiliation to the Stranger clear. Even the power of the Eye wasn't enough to break it. Concerning. 

“I told Nicola one was enough,” he remarked coldly, “I have already allowed your ilk to linger in my archives, I’m not inclined to let another in.”

Cas glared at him pettily. “I have no desire to join your cult.”

Elias’s fake smile returned. “No, I'd imagine you're perfectly happy where you are.”

“I would rather be anywhere else.”

The other man's face twisted slightly. “Just stay away from my archivist. He doesn't need further distractions at this stage.”

Cas nodded stiffly at him in an attempt at politeness and promptly disappeared.

Elias blinked. Avatars of the Stranger were not typically able to do that.

The train jolted and rattled its way along the tracks, the screeching sound nearly drowning out Sam and Dean’s conversation as they made the long journey back from the nursing home.

“What?” Sam borderline shouted and earned a few dirty looks from fellow passengers.

“I said,” yelled Dean back, “that since everything with Martins clearly not going anywhere, we should focus on saving Sasha.”

Sam seemed to think for a moment, staring at the multicoloured tube map above them. He nodded morosely.

Dean looked over at his brother. His gaze was still fixed slightly above the two of them and intently focused on reading the upcoming stations. He really did care about Martin, it seemed, although Dean, beyond his grudging appreciation for Martin’s tea, couldn't really fathom why. He wasn't even a tea kind of guy. And yet, Sam had taken a liking to him. Leaving Martin behind, at this point, was something Dean knew his brother would always regret. 

So, with an eye roll without any real scorn behind it, Dean said, “Look, I’ll focus on Sasha. You do what you can to save Martin.”

Sam looked at him skeptically. “You’ll sort out Sasha on your own?”

“I’ll just…” Dean trailed off. He really hadn’t thought through any kind of plan yet. “I’ll get Cas to help or something,” he said confidently. Worst came to worst, Cas could probably just knock her out and take her somewhere safe. 

The look Sam gave him at that was a bit too knowing for Dean, who hastily looked away. 

“It’ll be fine.”

Sam strode along Kings Road, for once filled with confidence. He could save Martin. He could. He just had to…burn some of his stuff. Which, sure, felt a bit mean considering how nice he had been, but it was for his own good. 

Maybe he should bring him an apology present?

The road opened into a sort of junction with shops on the other side, selling typical things. Like overpriced vegetables and…sunglasses! Was that a good gift? 

He took a moment to judge himself. Sunglasses. For a British guy. In England. Even if the sun did decide to ever show itself, how much use could a ghost even get from them? It's not like they got eye damage. And Martin wore glasses. Also, hopefully, he would be gone by then.

That was a slightly depressing thought, actually.

Darkness had fallen quickly, and Sam shivered slightly. His confidence was evaporating quickly - seriously, who bought someone sunglasses in the middle of winter, who they were planning on setting free from this mortal plane anyway? No, he should get him something nice, something thoughtful. Just then, a blinding sickly green shone out of the darkness, as if illuminating the way forward. Sam turned. Moving in a daze, he found the bold white letters adorning the sign came into focus, spelling out a glorious name - SCRIBBLER.

He rushed inside. A bored looking employee at the counter startled slightly, before he nodded at Sam and continued scrolling on his phone. Sam looked around, trying not to look utterly bewildered at the sheer number of cards stacked from wall to wall. They seemed to mostly be puns or vaguely inappropriate statements that a 15 year old might find funny. 

He walked determinedly to the checkout. The employee looked up again.

“Hi, how’re you doing?”

The teenager seemed momentarily shocked at the pleasantry, before answering in possibly the least convincing tone Sam had ever heard, “I’m good, you?”, sounding as though he desperately hoped Sam would not reply honestly.

“Yeah, uh, good. Listen, do you guys sell any notebooks?”

The guy looked at him for a second.

“Over there,” he pointed. To a table in the middle of the shop with a colourful sign over it that read ‘Notebooks’. 

Sam nodded, not nearly as embarrassed as he should’ve been, “Cool, thanks.” 

The employee smiled tightly, “No worries.”

As he approached the table, Sam continued to talk, “Yeah, I just need to apologise to a gho- a friend…” At the lack of clarifying questions he went on. “We sort of ruined his old one - totally waterlogged now, and everything…”

This seemed to get the teenagers attention. “Waterlogged? What, did you toss it in the river or something?”

“No, no…” Sam did not pick up on the humour in the other man's voice, “We poured water on it on purpose. Thought it might be one of those evil books, y’know, the usual”

“...Sure man.”

Sam turned to face him. “Do you have anything leather-bound?”

“...This is a Scribbler.” At Sam’s disappointed expression he continued, “but, uh, we might have some more...whimsical designs. What does your ‘friend’ like?” 

“Oh, y’know…Tea. Notebooks. I think he’s got a mug with a cow on it, so maybe those too? Oh, poetry! His old notebook was filled with his poetry.”

Some friend this guy was, destroying the dude’s evidently expensive and seemingly pretty personal notebook, the employee thought. He sighed and figured it was probably time to actually get up and help the man find his notebook replacement. 

After several more confusing exchanges, the teenager found himself less and less sure that this American’s friend wasn’t … well, dead. But they had settled on a notebook that the guy seemed pretty pleased with. It was a nice beige colour and was proudly sporting a cute little frog, complete with a mushroom hat and yellow wellies. Not exactly the same value as a sentimental leather notebook, but the thought was there.

Wanting to make it up to Martin as soon as possible, Sam decided it was best to head back to the institute straight away. He smiled at Rosie and made his way down to the archives. They were mostly empty, with the only noise being the faint drone of Jon recording some statement in his office and the soft clinking of a teaspoon from the break room. Sam sped up, hoping to catch Martin before he left. This unfortunately resulted in him accidentally ambushing the poor man in the middle of his careful tea making. 

“Sorry!” Martin said, having absolutely nothing to be sorry for. He then realised who it was, and his face fell into a stony expression that seemed wildly out of place amongst his typically friendly demeanor. Sam winced slightly. This was going to be awkward. 

He stepped forward into the tiny kitchen, stooping slightly in an effort to look more apologetic. 

“Hey,” Sam began, “Look, I wanted to apologise for the whole thing…with your notebook. And your desk. And the poetry-”

“You read my poetry!?” Martin said, alarmed.

Sam immediately backtracked, “Uh, no, of course not. That’d be, like, a huge invasion of privacy.”

The other man eyed him suspiciously, but allowed him to continue, “But regardless, I guess your book is pretty much unusable now and so I, uh, got you this new one…” 

Sam trailed off and uncomfortably held out the notebook in question. Martin looked at it for a moment and then took it gently with a sort of mildly pitying expression.  

“It's very nice, Sam,” he conceded, avoiding making eye contact.

Despite the civil words, Sam somehow felt as though he had not been forgiven. Martin collected his tea and brushed past him on his way towards Jon's office. Sam watched as he seemed to psych himself up for a few seconds, before knocking with practiced nonchalance and delivering the beverage. The tea-bearer then settled back at his desk and shuffled some things with an air of intense focus. 

Sam trailed awkwardly behind him, reminded viscerally of his school days, when a teacher would go to collect something and he would be left trying to decipher if he was expected to follow. Inevitably, he ended up hovering next to them, just as he was now.

“So…Jon, huh?” Sam began, inelegantly.

Martin let his head drop to his desk with a worrying thunk. The noise had Sam looking on in concern. Perhaps bringing up Jon had been a mistake?

“Just…don't,” came Martin's muffled voice, “How does everyone know?”

Well. This was awkward. Sam had literally no idea what Martin was talking about. Was it not obvious that he was a demon? 

“I mean…it's not the most subtle thing.”

“I'm sorry,” Martin started, for once not sounding sorry at all, “But can we please change the topic? This isn't even relevant to you. You don't even work here.”

Sam took a deep breath. He tried not to make a habit of telling people about the supernatural (that didn't mean it didn't happen like every episode, but it was the principle of the thing), although sometimes it was necessary. He gathered himself and faced Martin properly.

“The truth is, me and my brother…this is for everyone's safety. We’re hunt-”

“I mean,” Martin barrelled right over him, apparently not noticing he had spoken at all, “It's bad enough that I have to deal with this, but everyone knowing does not make it easier. I just give him tea! Like I do with everyone, but somehow you all pick up on it.”

Sam was beginning to feel as though Martin may not be talking about Jon’s demonic nature. 

“So not only do I have a crush on my asshole boss, who's really looking like he's had a psychotic break or something, everyone in the bloody office knows!”

Sam went in for a well-meaning pat on the arm and racked his brains for something comforting to say. He didn't normally get this far talking about feelings. 

“You know,” Sam began in his most sympathetic sounding voice, “ It's really not the end of the world, you're bound to move on soon,” and then feeling as though he hadn't quite covered everything, he added, “And, well, considering both your…natures, you'll end up in the same place anyway.” Hell was full of ghosts and demons, surely some of them found love?

Martin snapped out of his despondent daze, “What is that supposed to mean?”

Okay, this was getting confusing. Could Martin not be aware that Jon lived in hell?

“Well, cause your dead and Jon's -”

“I’m what?” Martin spluttered. 

Ah. Shit. It was all making sense now. They couldn't find a grave, there was no evidence of a death certificate, his mother was seemingly unaware of his demise, he was seemingly unaware of his demise. And, most damningly, whirring away under the “ghost's” desk, was a little fan emitting cold air.

“Um…it's slang,” Sam tried, “from America,” He felt a little like that character in an alarmingly pink teen movie. Time to double down. 

“Yeah, you know like… “you're killing it!”, so instead it's… “you're dead!””, He paused, “And you're so dead, dude”.

“I've printed the plane ticket, all we have to do is get her to buy it.”

Cas frowned, “I thought we were giving it to her.” 

Dean paused his pacing to sigh, “No, we are, it's…never mind.”

The hotel room was strewn with papers and half scribbled “plans” from the past few hours with a clear few metres in the centre for Dean to think. Cas had been wondering why he was still there, he really did have more important things to be getting on with (he was trying not to think what Crowley was up to without him), but the other man seemed to expect him to stay. So he stayed, sitting somewhat awkwardly on the edge of the bed. 

Dean seemed to take Cas’s prolonged staring as an invitation to continue, “People enter their emails into competitions and stuff all the time. We can say…she won a free trip, all costs covered. British people go on vacation, right?”

Cas said nothing.

“And then once she's out of the way we can… do what we gotta do.”

He glanced at Cas. The angel was still staring at him. 

“Cas?”

“Yes. I understand.”

Dean sighed again. 

“Maybe let me do the talking.”

Dean sauntered into the institute early the next morning, feeling extra organised. Cas followed behind him, holding the envelope containing the plane ticket with an air of confused determination.

Once in the archives, the envelope was safely deposited on Sasha’s desk. Dean grinned - the plan was going well. Now they just had to wait for…half an hour. 

Hm. Would be enough time to get some pie. Man, England really sucked. 

Dean and Cas passed the time in awkward silence, snooping through the miscellaneous files dotted about and making a very memorable, awful cup of tea. At one point, Jon had come out of his office looking as though he had just woken up. He had stared at them both for a solid five seconds in bleary confusion before locking himself in again, muttering suspiciously.

When Sasha finally (20 minutes later) turned up, she directed a bright, slightly unsettling smile at Dean and Cas, before settling at her desk.

Cas glared at her. She was not deterred.

“What a cool letter, right!” Dean broke the silence animatedly, “why don't you open it?”

Sasha looked from the letter to Dean, then back to the letter. 

“Oh! I don't know who would be sending me letters. I’ll open it in a second,” she spoke, as though reciting from a script.

Dean watched in dismay as she retreated to the break room. 

“So what's actually the plan from here?” Cas hadn't exactly seen the vision when Dean had very proudly explained it earlier.

“Well, Sasha opens the letter, she goes “Wow, a vacation!”, and then, when she's out of the way, we can…” he glanced around the still empty archives and lowered his voice, “y’know.”

Cas did not know, and in an attempt at clarificati

on, asked: “So we're waiting to kill Sasha until she's out of the institute?”

There was a brief pause. 

“Cas,” Dean said, no longer feeling like they were on the same chapter let alone the same page, “why the fuck would we kill Sasha?”

Chapter Text

Dean rushed through the institute and fumbled for his phone as Cas followed calmly behind him, as though he hadn't just dropped an extremely important piece of information on Dean's head like an unexpectedly heavy hardhat. He stepped out of the austere double doors, ignoring Rosie's concerned shout after him, and right onto the crowded London street. The brisk January morning was shaping up to be cold and dreary in typical Tuesday fashion as Dean chose the middle of the pavement to make his call. 

He opened his phone. 

38 missed calls . 

Sam picked up on the first ring, launching immediately into what sounded like it would turn out to be the beginning of a long rant, “Do you know how long I've been trying to contact you?! Did you even come back to the hotel last night?” (Dean had actually come back to the hotel…after spending most of the evening in the cheapest pub he could find - something about spoons?)

“Uh, yeah, look,” he replied hurriedly, “I've found something out and it…it's big. Big big.”

“Dean. There's no way your news is bigger than mine,” Sam’s irritated voice crackled through the phone's speaker.

Dean began walking up the road, still yelling into his phone, “We'll see. I'm on my way back to the hotel now, let's talk about it then.”

After confirming with Cas that Sasha was a demon (“it's…complicated”), all the others at the institute were fully human (an evaluative head tilt and: “for all intents and purposes”), and that they should immediately cease their murderous machinations (“well…how do you feel about killing humans?”), Dean spent the rest of the train journey trying to avoid any unnecessary, uncomfortable eye contact. It was a long trip. 

Sam was stood in the clear patch of the hotel room floor when the other two returned, barely giving his brother time to chuck his bag in the direction of the bed before launching into his big news.

“So get this – Martin-the-ghost?” Dean looked unimpressed, “Not a ghost!”

At his brother’s blank expression, Sam continued, “he's just got a fan under his desk!”

“Right. Well, Cas has some actual news,” Dean accompanied his pointed statement with a dirty look at Cas, who remained entirely oblivious. 

“Oh. Sasha's a demon.”

Sam stared at him.

“Well,” Cas elaborated, “she's not, but she's not human.”

Sam and Dean shared a look. If she wasn't a demon, and, as a non-human, she couldn't be a witch, then what the fuck was she? She had blended in so seamlessly with the archival staff that her humanity felt hard to doubt, and yet, would Cas lie to them?

The brothers’ opinion on that front differed dramatically.

“Then…what is she?”

Cas sighed. He really didn't have time for this - at this rate, Crowley was going to think he'd forgotten about their whole purgatory plan.

“It is not important, the cult makes everything more complicated anyway.” 

Sam sat down heavily on a corner of the bed. Dean turned to the wall.

Cas barrelled over the sound of Dean slamming his head into said wall (and subsequent “oh fuck ” at the discovery of the comparative sturdiness of British walls), “Well, cult s, to be more accurate.”

Dean’s questioning “cults?!” was muffled slightly by his hand cupping his now-bleeding nose.

Cas rolled his eyes. “Yes, cults. There are 14 that we know of, spread across the globe, with the possibility of another emerging.” 

Sam had managed to gather himself enough to root his laptop out of the papers on the hotel floor and had been attempting to fact check the angel's revelations, before realising he had no idea what to Google and simply writing ‘british cults(?)’ on a blank word document. 

“They all, broadly, have the same delusions; the supernatural is a result of fear ‘entities’”(this was said with aggressive air quotes) “that exist beyond our reality. Where they diverge is their allegiance. Each ‘entity’ is representative of a fundamental human or animal fear, and through pledging themselves to this, they gain certain abilities. Obviously that isn't the cause, they have simply made contact with demonic forces.”

Dean blinked.

The stunned silence was broken by Sam's furious typing, before he glanced up, as though struck by a sudden thought, “But - demon worshipping cultists? How come your lot haven't sorted that out yet?”

Cas studied him critically, “In recent years, my superiors have felt that our goals are well enough aligned to not be an issue. Besides, it's fear they feed off, not death.”

After another moment of silence, Dean abruptly opened the door. Stepping into the hallway, he called out: “I'm getting a drink,” before decisively making his way out of the hotel.

Sam and Cas shared a commiserating look.

Approximately 9 hours later

Soft piano music filtered through the cosy restaurant, interrupted by the sounds of clinking china. Cas leaned forward, looking at Tim’s hair. He had to make sure to ask his questions subtly , so that the man across from him didn’t get twitchy and leave. After all, the hint he’d dropped the Winchesters had been very vague, he was clearly secretive about it. 

Tim was surveying the menu. After a few moments of awkward silence, he glanced up, confronted with Cas’ unblinking gaze that was somehow at the perfect height to make uncomfortable eye contact with him as soon as he raised his head. Tim jumped slightly, banging his knees on the table, before letting out a forced chuckle. 

“You, uh, not gonna look at your menu?”

Cas remembered the menu in front of him. “Yes.” Tim didn't look massively convinced. “I was just,” Cas tried to think of a convincing lie - something humans did, “I was distracted.” Perfect. Dean told him he was distracted all the time!

Examining the menu (moving his eyes around and hoping it looked normal, while saying “hmm” occasionally), Cas brainstormed ways to sneakily interrogate Tim.

Cas stood for a while watching Sam type things that got less and less relevant to what had been discussed until he seemed to arrive at a dead end. One word stared at the two of them from the screen.

“Soho?” 

Sam started at the sound of Cas reading over his shoulder. 

“One of the guys at the institute mentioned it,” he began, and then almost as an afterthought, “It’s an area of London.” 

Staring blankly at him, Cas replied: “I know.”

“Oh, cool, I just–”

“Sam. That's where you fou– met me. In Soho. Four days ago.”

Shit. A highly unbelievable amount of things had happened in four days. Big mistake by any all powerful authors of their lives out there, they really fucked that one up.

Sam sighed. “The reason we were there was because one of the archives guys told us to check it out. Or, well, he winked at us significantly and recommended Soho for sightseeing.” At Cas’ doubtful look, he added, slightly defensively, “look, we don't have any other leads.”

Cas seemed to take in this information. In actual fact, he was trying his hardest to think of a good way to leave the conversation and get back to more important things. After a pause, he settled on, “I see. You should follow up on that.”

This was obviously the wrong thing to say as Sam’s face lit up with an idea “Yeah…yeah someone should.” 

Cas felt an inexplicable sense of dread growing deep in his bones. “No, it wouldn't make sense for me to be there. I don't know ‘Tim’.”

The source of his fear only seemed to grow more convinced in his idea, “But it's perfect! One, you clearly do know ‘Tim’, because I have not mentioned his name in this conversation,” (Cas rolled his eyes), “and two, he’s less likely to leave if it's you;” his smug smile faded slightly, “I don't think he likes me.”

Cas, forced to admit defeat, rolled his eyes once again in protest, and reluctantly agreed.

Cas stared down into his glass of wine that he would never drink. Thirty minutes into their dinner, and all that he had found out was that both of them were very good at sitting in silence and waiting for the other to start the conversation.

“How is work?” Cas asked stiltedly. It had been in Sam’s list of “Top 10 Things to Ask Tim”, so was probably okay.

Tim grimaced and took a large gulp of wine. Maybe not okay, then. “I'd rather not talk about the archives,” he said apologetically, “But what do you do for work?” Cas frowned. He wasn't aware this would be a two-sided interrogation.

“I work in finance,” he lied smoothly, then added, “that's why I wear suits all the time,” considerably less smoothly.

TIm nodded politely, unsure of what to say to that. Cas sure did wear a suit. Although his tie was back to front. And he hadn’t taken off his weird trenchcoat. 

“How are you finding the food?” He asked, trying to reignite the conversation. Cas glanced at his untouched steak. 

“It's very good,” he replied. Tim also looked at his plate.

It was as full as it had been 10 seconds ago. Tim gave Cas a doubtful look.

“Okay…your plate’s pretty full, are you feeling alright?”

“Uh,” Cas tried to think of a way to divert Tim's unwavering attention, “no it isn't”.

Tim continued to look unconvinced.

Finding this conversation unproductive and unexpectedly bizarre (he'd already ordered food - he had to eat it now as well? Acting human was far too demanding), Cas decided to press on with his questioning, “Anyway. What is in Soho?”

Tim looked up from his food, smiling slightly, “...we are!” 

The man seemed to pause, waiting for the weak joke to land, hoping it might do something to alleviate the pressure of Cas’s intense stare. It didn't.  

“Yes,” Cas replied. 

Cas strode up to the institute, going through his mental script as he approached the solemn stone columns. This would be fine. Tim would say yes, Dean would be happy, and then he could go back to trying to stage a revolution. 

He sped past Rosie, who got as far as saying, “Oh - you can't–” before he inexplicably made his way through the locked door. 

Rosie's muttered “what the–” was lost in the echo of the door slamming.

Cas continued in his determined path through an empty corridor that turned out to be not so empty as Tim turned the corner.

They both jolted backwards, staring at the other. 

“Sorry about that,” Tim began as he made to walk past Cas.

This wasn't quite how Cas had planned but that was irrelevant now. 

“There's something I need to talk with you about.” 

Tim groaned dramatically and spared a moment to stare upwards. Cas didn't feel it was appropriate to tell him that God wasn't listening.

“God…fine. Sure! What spooky bullshit’s happened now.” 

Cas replied promptly, “I've made a reservation for dinner tonight. For 8 o’clock at 40 Dean Street.” He was struck by sudden inspiration, thinking this might entice Tim (who just seemed confused). “It's in Soho.”

Tim stared at him, mouth slightly agape. Cas stared right back impassively.

After an extended silence, Tim shut his mouth. Then opened it again like he was about to ask something before remembering he had no clue what the fuck was going on.

There was another short period of silence.

“Like… a date?” he finally managed.

Cas scrutinised him for a moment. Was the date relevant? He had already specified the booking was tonight…that being said, the Winchesters often needed things repeating a few times at least. 

“Yes,” he said, “today.” 

“Right. Uh, Cool…” Tim trailed off, clearly still confused.

“Perfect.” Cas replied and promptly walked away, leaving Tim not sure what had happened, but pretty certain he'd fucked up somehow.

Cas watched intently as Tim sipped his wine. They had been at the restaurant for an hour by this point and he still hadn't found out anything of use.

“So…” maybe this was it. Maybe Tim was finally cracking under the pressure of awkward silence. Cas waited in suspense for him to divulge his deepest secrets. “...how do you find finance?”

Cas sighed. He had no idea what working in finance was, only that men in suits seemed to do it. It had to be something to do with money, as that…slimy man had been taken in by Dean’s lie about donating to the institute. 

“It's…boring,” he guessed. Then added, feeling more comfortable in the lie, “I don't like the people. I do like the money though.” He felt very in character. Cas Tiel, boring finance worker who loves money. Rolls right off the tongue.

“Haha…”

“That wasn't a joke.”

Tim sighed and looked longingly out the window. He swirled his wine and took a sip, feeling like the heroine of a period drama stuck with an emotionally unavailable husband.

Cas felt it was time to get back to his interrogation. Clearly the subtle approach wasn't working. “What are your intentions with Dean?” he asked directly, avoiding the topic of Sam. After all, he'd said himself that Tim didn't like him, so this would probably get further if he didn't mention him at all.

Tim choked on his wine. “What the fuck ?”

“Sash, I need your help.” Tim spoke as barged in, slamming his hands on Sasha’s desk for emphasis. A few stray papers fluttered to the floor. 

She wasn't deterred from her work and continued to focus on it for a solid 30 seconds before she turned her attention to Tim, who had remained frozen.

She looked up at him blandly, and Tim was reminded of why he didn’t tell her about things like this. It was odd how she seemed to have become a complete stranger to him overnight, and yet there was no discernable change.

Just then, Martin walked in, diverting Tim’s attention away from the crumbling relationship before him. 

“Marto!”

Martin was immediately on guard. Tim had been weird recently. First his increasingly worrying mental state over the past few months, then his unprompted extended kayaking getaway, and now his determined and unconvincing attempts at acting like everything was fine. 

“...Yes?” he replied warily.

Tim hurried over to him as Sasha continued to watch the situation unfold, wearing a mildly amused expression.

“Martin, you have to help me,” he said seriously, “I think I’ve just agreed to go on a date...?”

 “Tim, that’s…” Martin considered his words. “That’s not exactly out of character for you?”

“With Cas. ”

Martin stared. “Are you sure that's what happened?”

“I asked if it was a date! He asked me to dinner, he said it was a date, and then he walked off!”

Hmm. The evidence seemed fairly conclusive.

“Okay…and are you certain it was Cas?”

Tim scrutinised him in disbelief. “Martin. Do you know anyone else who walks around in a suit and trench coat 24/7?”

Martin did not. But a date? According to his (albeit brief) conversation with Sam, Cas was hopelessly in love with Dean, and not the sort of guy you would expect to randomly ask your coworker out to dinner.

There was a period of silence as the two of them basked in the weirdness of the situation. 

“Okay. Okay, so it was definitely a date, and it was definitely Cas,” Martin recapped, “is there any reason he might have asked you out?” 

Martin cringed slightly. That came out wrong.

Tim gaped at him. “...Presumably the normal ones? What do you mean?”

“If you can’t think of any reasons, why don’t you make a list?” Sasha interrupted.

Tim turned his expression of perplexed offense on her.

“Oh, good idea,” Martin busied himself getting a paper and pen.

“Martin!” 

Tim thought for a moment. “Actually, yeah, get the pen.”

Tim surveyed his list. He had been surreptitiously crossing out possibilities throughout the date, and hadn’t gotten very far. In fact, he had only managed to confidently eliminate one.

Reasons Cas might have asked Tim to dinner:

• He actually likes him (unlikely)

• Revenge on Dean

• Motive?

• Cas’ personality → unlikely

• Rebound 

• Potentially → would require him finding out he’s not together with Dean

• Information

• Archives?

• Institute?

• Something else? (likely)

• Doesn't realise its a date (unlikely → literally said it was)

• He’s bored (rude, maybe likely)

Now, however, he felt that none of his and Martin’s ideas had been anywhere near.

“My intentions with Dean ?” 

Cas continued to look at him impassively. “Yes.”

Tim leaned back in his chair and stared at Cas. “You really, genuinely, asked me on a date to ask about my intentions with your ex , who I have barely spoken to?”

Cas very suddenly felt as though he had missed several steps and was now in freefall over a river that was looking deeper by the second.

“I…no?”

“Then what the fuck is happening?” Tim exploded, entirely done with the evening. 

Cas paused for a moment. Sam had not actually said that the investigation needed to be carried out covertly. Perhaps it would be easier if he was honest with Tim - he wasn't sure, but it seemed like the man was becoming distressed. He sighed.

“Sam asked me to follow up on the lead you gave them about Soho.”

Tim looked, if possible, even more confused. “Lead? What lead?” 

Cas sighed again in frustration. He was being quite clear!

Realisation seemed to strike Tim. “You mean when I told them they should visit Soho? That wasn't a ‘lead’, I just thought they were queer and would enjoy it!”

The angel opened his mouth to respond, then realised he didn't have anything to say and shut it again. This was quite the revelation. 

“Why didn’t you just ask me when we ran into each other earlier if that's what this whole thing was about?”

Cas considered this for a long while, “That…that did not occur to me. And anyway, I’ve seen films, interrogations like this always take place in restaurants.”

Tim stared at him disbelievingly. He began shaking slightly.

Cas observed this with concern. “Tim? Are you…okay?”

The other man nodded as he began to laugh slightly hysterically. “Yeah, yes,” he replied, “this is just, like, the most ridiculous thing that's ever happened to me.”

“Yes”, Cas agreed. It was objectively pretty ‘ridiculous’.