Chapter Text
“Alright Bobby, thanks. Yeah, you too. Bye.” Dean hangs up the phone and tosses it at the motel room’s second bed, perfectly made and home only to his duffel bag.
He goes to the mini fridge in the corner and pulls out a beer.
“Good news?” asks Cas, from the other side of the room.
Dean jumps. “Dammit, Cas!” He lets out a breath and opens the beer. “Not really. Sam’s with Bobby, which I guess is better than him going off hunting by himself.”
Cas frowns. “I assumed he would be here.”
Dean sighs and flops on his bed. “Nope. Got in an argument and he ran off hitchhiking. Really thought he grew out of that after Meg.”
“He’ll be back,” says Cas, not knowing why he says it. It seems like the right thing to say to Dean at this moment, so he does it.
“Doesn’t mean he’s not being a little bitch right now,” Dean mutters, and regrets it.
Cas takes a step forward. “Do you want me to bring him here?”
Dean sits up. “No, no, Cas, no. Let him go hang out with Bobby.”
“I don’t understand. I thought you wanted to keep Sam close. To watch him so he cannot say yes to Lucifer.” Or is that only Cas’s reason to have Sam around?
“I do, but I don’t think sending an angel to pick him up by his ear will do much to keep Sam on our side. Besides, Bobby’ll keep him in line.”
“And who will keep you in line?”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “I don’t need anyone to keep me in line.”
Cas steps forward again, a little closer, almost close enough to lay a hand on Dean’s shoulder. He doesn’t try. “Do you honestly expect me to believe you won’t do anything foolish on your own? Michael is still after you.”
“I’m not scared of Michael.” Dean stands up and moves away. Standing close to Cas is… weird. He’s an angel: his skin sparks with static electricity and ozone and some flower Dean’s never heard of. He exudes power, but more than that, a protectiveness the other angels lack.
“That is a mistake.” Cas watches Dean. “You shouldn’t think yourself above Heaven’s messengers, Dean.”
The temperature in the room spikes. “I don’t think I’m above anybody,” Dean replies. “I just know that—” his voice drops— “Heaven’s messengers are a bunch of dickbags. I’ve faced worse and come out on top.”
Dickbags. Cas files the word away. Talking with Dean, more often than not, is a series of incomprehensible words and phrases. He’s supposed to know all language. Winchesters seem to speak a new dialect. “You haven’t faced worse than Michael.”
Dean scoffs, ignores the pinch of anxiety in his chest. “Besides. I’ve got you to protect me.”
Cas narrows his eyes. “Yes.”
Dean laughs at him. “Alright, down dog. I’ve got a case, interested?”
“Interested?” Cas doesn’t know what to make of this. He thinks he wants to say yes, which is puzzling. “Why should I be interested in your case?”
“If you wanted to come with me?”
“On a case,” repeats Cas. He pauses. “What sort of case? Will you require angelic assistance?”
Dean shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.”
Cas considers him. He has no urgent business elsewhere. The Michael Sword should be guarded. Bobby Singer can be trusted to have custody of the abomination. Yes, Castiel can participate in hunter business, in the interim, until something important arises. “What’s the case?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s a siren,” Dean says, pulling his laptop out and sitting at the table.
“You’ve hunted sirens before,” says Cas.
“Yeah, but they can be nasty. Better with two, anyway.”
Is it? Cas runs through some calculations. Two heads, as they say, are better than one. Sirens present an interesting challenge: their manipulation of their victims often leads to the death of the victim’s loved ones. But Sam is away, so this should be safe enough for Dean. “Okay.”
Dean claps his hands. “Great! I’m gonna go piss, and I’ll meet you in the car.” He retreats to the bathroom.
“I was under the impression that the routine functioning of one’s body does not require broadcasting,” says Cas drily, and leaves the room.
Dean doesn’t hear him.
A few minutes later, he comes outside with his duffel bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go, Robin.”
“My name is Castiel.”
“Yeah but it’s like — Batman and — you know what? Never mind. Let’s go.”
Cas wants to ask why a man would be named for a winged rodent, but Dean’s clearly moved on, so he opens the back door of the Impala and moves to get in.
Dean looks up at him from the rearview. “Dude. What are you doing.”
“Getting into the car,” says Cas. “Like you said.”
“Why are you back there.”
“This is where I sit,” Cas says. “You drive, Sam sits next to you, and — on the occasion that I agree to being ferried around at intolerably slow speeds — I sit in the back.”
“Well, Sammy isn’t here, so you get to sit shotgun. Unless you really wanna sit back there.”
Cas straightens, closes the door, and gets in the front.
“Okay. Now can we go?”
“Unless you feel the need to announce another bodily function,” says Cas.
Dean looks at Cas for a moment, trying to determine whether or not he’s joking. “Well.” He turns on the music.
AC/DC blasts from the stereo and shakes the car as Dean starts driving. I can tell by the look in your eye… Cas watches the streets give way to highway, buildings to trees. He stares at the horizon. “Where are we going?”
“Tulsa. A couple of…” Dean chuckles. “Couple killings. You know. Typical siren stuff. Weird thing, though, none of the killers fit the bill for usual siren victims. It might be a little less cut and dry than a usual case.” Which is fine. A little bit of fun and excitement.
Cas frowns. “People have died.”
“Yeah, Cas, people die, that’s kind of part of the job. If you can’t have a little sense of humor about it, you’re already doomed. That’s what I say.”
Cas eyes him sideways, but drops it. “What’s different about these victims?”
“Well, none of them were at a strip club, which is a usual hangout. Also, only three of the victims killed their partner. One killed her sister, and the others… Well, the newspapers and police reports all said they killed their friends. Which is weird.”
“Sirens don’t specify,” Cas points out. “Loved one is a broad term.”
“True. Just atypical. Craft. The whole ‘not stripper’ thing makes them difficult to track down, though.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Well. The first thing is to try and find a connection between the vics.”
“Interrogate the surviving kin.” Cas nods. “I understand.”
Dean takes a long moment to reply. “Yeah. Something like that.”
Cas turns to look at him. “What?”
“You’re just weird, man.”
Cas sighs. “I have been told.”
“Maybe if you weren’t so weird you wouldn’t keep getting told.”
I don’t do it on purpose. Cas swallows the words, leans back, and says nothing.
Dean lets the silence settle between them. He speeds towards Tulsa, and sings under his breath to AC/DC.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
Cas gestures to the dashboard. “Say the words along with the car.”
“Because that’s what humans do, Cas. Especially when we like a song.”
“That’s not singing,” says Cas dismissively. “Angels sing.”
“Breaking windows isn’t singing, buddy.”
“That wasn’t a song. You’ve never heard me sing. You would not be here if you had.”
Dean sends him a look. “Okay, again. Weird.”
“Heaven’s choirs do not need your approval.” But why does Cas want it?
Now Dean laughs. “I wasn’t disapproving! So, you’re saying, your angelic singing would kill me.”
“Or destroy your mind. Yes.”
“Seems like God made you guys to be pretty anti-human, you ask me.”
“We were not designed with your comfort in mind,” says Cas, though he’s not sure.
“Sounds like Lucifer propaganda,” Dean says, and grins.
Cas scowls. “I’m wearing a body. I’m crammed into your tiny vehicle. I do prioritize your comfort, Dean.”
“Well ain’t you the sweetest.”
Castiel’s name has been invoked in prayers for centuries, and Dean Winchester is mocking him. Stranger than that, though: he doesn’t mind.
“Come on, try it sometime. Maybe it’ll help loosen that stick in your ass.”
“There is nothing in my — Why would I have—?”
“It’s a figure of speech, dude.”
Cas rolls his eyes.
Dean doesn’t see it, but he can feel his disapproval from across the cab. “None of the other angels are like you. What’s up with you, man.”
Cas bristles. “Do all humans ask insulting questions with such familiarity?”
“Nah, I don’t think so. I’m just cool like that.”
“Your insolence is astounding,” says Cas. He isn’t angry. He should be angry, but he isn’t. He’s hurt. Which doesn’t make sense, because he’s uninjured; he doesn’t examine this. “Didn’t your father teach you better?”
Dean snorts. “Did yours?” Oh, two could play at this game.
“Yes.”
“You must be a disappointment, then.”
When Dean next looks over, Castiel is no longer in the car.
*
Many hours later, Dean finds the cheapest motel in Tulsa, and pulls in. He gets his key, and prepares to pass out in bed with a beer and a shitty taco.
His pocket buzzes.
Twelve miles away, Cas stands in a phone booth, listening to the dial tone, and goes through his pockets; he’s not sure what he’ll do if this was his last quarter and Dean doesn’t pick up.
Dean takes it out. It can’t be anyone other than Cas. “Hey, you’re still planning on joining me?”
“I don’t know which motel you’re at. The warding.”
“Oh, uh… The Cowboy. Room 3—” Cas is there. The phone clatters as it drops. “Right.”
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean stands. “Hi.”
“Were you planning to begin investigating tonight?” Cas eyes the beer in Dean’s hand.
“Uh. Sure, we can do a little bit of snooping.” He throws the bottle back.
Cas steps back. “Your body needs sleep.”
“You were just bellyaching about me not being ready to go!” Dean protests.
“I asked you a question. Your answer didn’t take into account your own wellbeing.”
Dean holds out a hand. “Cas. I’m fine. You don’t need to be my mom.”
“The case will wait a few hours. You’ve been driving. I have other things that I can do without you. I’ll take the amulet and continue my search while you sleep. Stay here until morning so I can return.”
Dean sighs and sits back down on the bed. “Fine, mom.”
Cas hesitates. “I should not have brought up your father. It was… uncalled for.”
Dean chews the inside of his lip. “Yeah. Uh. Sorry for mentioning… God.”
“I’m going to find him,” says Castiel.
Dean nods. Doesn’t push it. He was in those shoes, so many times and so many ways. “I know you are, buddy.”
Cas narrows his eyes at the tone, but doesn’t argue. “Sleep. I’ll be back.”
Dean waves him away. When he’s alone, he strips down and crawls into bed.
*
The alarm wakes him the next morning, and he’s about to turn it off when he notices the Cas-shaped lump hunched on the bed next to him. He jumps so hard he nearly falls out of bed. “Fuck!”
“Language,” says Cas, by way of greeting. He blinks: the blanket’s shifted. “You’re not wearing any pants.”
“Of course I’m not!” Dean shouts. “I never wear pants in bed!”
Cas objects to this claim. “You have done so on previous occasions. When you’ve woken in my presence.” He tips his head. “Perhaps you’re thinking of times you went to bed with someone else.”
Woken in my presence. Dean pulls a face, and refrains from calling Cas weird again. “No, definitely not. What, you’ve never decided to get out of that stupid suit?”
He looks down at himself. “These are my vessel’s clothes.” Castiel doesn’t think about clothing. He wears his entire physical form.
Dean gets up and hurriedly pulls on a pair of pants. “So I don’t think you have any room to be slut shaming me.”
“Why would…? That wasn’t my intent.” Cas stands from the bed. “You should be well-rested enough to continue with the case now.”
“Can I shower? And then we can get some grub and get started.”
It’s incredible how many ways Dean can twist the English language into different shapes. He’s not talking about beetle larvae, but it takes Cas a second. “Yes. I’ll wait.”
“Cool. Or you could go and pick up a couple bagels and a coffee.”
Cas is there and back before Dean’s finished letting out his breath. “Now what?”
“Did you — did you just steal those?”
“No,” says Cas. “I picked them up.”
“Did you pay for them?”
“The original owner has been blessed.”
“That… doesn’t count, Cas.”
Cas frowns. “It is more substantial of a reward than any human currency could possibly be.”
“Right. Okay, I’m gonna go shower.” Dean takes a bagel and disappears into the bathroom.
Why does he need a bagel to shower? Cas sits beside the table and waits.
Dean comes out a few minutes later, towel in his hair, bagel consumed. “Are we ready to rock?”
Cas parses this. He nods. “Ready to rock.”
Dean laughs. “Awesome.” He heads out to the Impala.
“You already know where we’re going?”
“Well I figure we stop by the morgue first.”
Cas sighs as he enters the car. “This would be a lot faster if you’d let me take care of transportation.”
“Hell no, dude, that gives me a headache.”
“Hell has nothing to do with it,” grumbles Cas, but he allows Dean to drive.
“Figure of speech, Cas.”
He rolls his eyes. “I know that. It’s a poorly chosen one.”
“No, everyone on this planet gets it. Just not you.”
Cas looks out his window. “I get it, Dean.”
“You take it too seriously, then.” Dean has been to Hell. If anyone’s allowed to be offended, it’s him.
“I said I get it.”
Dean looks over at him. Cas’s tone is always hard to parse. “Okay, okay. Sheesh.”
The car pulls over beside the morgue and suddenly Cas is standing outside.
Dean rolls his eyes. He hands Cas the fake ID. He heads inside, flashes the badge, and lets himself into the morgue. Cas follows, attempting to imitate the casual confidence with which Dean brushes his way inside. He doubts he’s as successful, but no one gives him a second look.
Cas has learned to follow Dean’s lead; good. “There’s hope for you yet,” he says, and pulls back the shroud of the first body.
Woman, late twenties, Caucasian, stab wound to the chest. “What are we looking for?” asks Cas.
“Any idea as to what the hell is going on.” Dean pries around in the wound, looks in the victim’s mouth, and then brings out her autopsy report. “Unless you’ve got some siren-tracking mojo.”
“This woman was not killed by a supernatural being. She was killed by her sister. We should be talking to the victims, not poking at their loved ones.”
Dean looks up at Cas, surprised. “I mean I was still planning to do that, you know.”
“How do you hope to accomplish anything standing here? The siren could be claiming another victim while you stare at this woman,” Cas says, frowning. “This is a waste of time.”
Dean turns to face him fully. “Okay, fine. How about you go talk to the killer and I’ll stay here. Sound good?”
“I will return to the Cowboy,” says Cas, and vanishes.
Dean rolls his eyes, but goes back to work.
*
Cas strides into the jail. “I need to speak with the woman who killed her sister,” he says.
The receptionist looks vacantly up at him. “What?”
“There is a woman here. She killed her sister this week. I need to speak with her.”
“O-kay… well, we can’t just let any regular guy in to see murder suspects so, like, do you have a badge or something?”
“Oh.” Cas pulls out the badge Dean gave him. “Yes. Here is… the identification you need of me.” Not a lie.
He tilts his glasses down and stares at it. Then, he sighs. “Okay, go on back.”
Cas hesitates. “Do you know the name of the… her name?”
“Yeah. Casey Clairmont.”
“Thank you,” says Cas, holding eye contact until the receptionist starts looking around for escape, and then he goes into the next room. “Casey?”
The woman looks up, face streaked with hours of dried tears. “God, not more cops…”
You were closer the first time, Castiel nearly says, but he remembers he’s supposed to be FBI and catches himself. “I have a few questions for you.”
“Listen, no matter how many times you guys ask me I’m not gonna remember anything, so if you can just throw me in jail or whatever and be done with it—” Her voice breaks and she buries her face in her hands.
“You’re in jail now. You will be going to prison. It’s a subtle…” Cas notices the disbelieving look Casey’s giving him and trails off. “So you remember none of it?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing. One minute, I’m… I’m talking to this girl, flirting, and the next I wake up next to my sister, covered in blood.”
“Tell me about this girl.”
Casey’s face reddens. “Um… she was gorgeous? Super sweet. Laughed at all my jokes even though I’m not the least bit funny. And… listen, can’t you put the rest together?”
“No. Where did you meet her?”
“A, a gay club, the Gilded Hippie.”
Cas leans forward. “Had you seen her there before?”
She leans back. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but it’s a big club, it’s dark.”
“Did you get her name?”
“Uh, yeah, she called herself, um… Garnet?”
“You’ve been very helpful,” says Cas, turning to leave.
“Wh— what?”
“I assume if you had additional pertinent information you would have already shared it.”
“I mean… yeah, I don’t have any more.”
“As I said, then.” Cas pauses. “Good luck with your trial.”
Casey’s mouth wags uselessly for a moment. “Thanks?”