FicWad

Not Exactly Ovid
byErtheChilde
_____________________________________________________________________________________

"I swear, if you even think the word 'Midol' I will end you."
_____________________________________________________________________________________

Chapter Eleven:

White Valley Motel,
St. Charles, Minnesota
Sunday 30 May 2010

"Have I mentioned how much I hate this idea?" Dean growled as they got back into the car and drove away from the local Biggerson's.

"Only a million times," Sam rolled his eyes, putting the paper bag down to rest by his feet. "Look, I know you're still pissed about being overruled, but Cas is right – we can't have any angels knowing where we are, even if they are friends with him."

"Yeah? And what's to say this guy really is on Cas's side? What if we get back there and there's no motel, just ground zero of an angel hissy fit?"

"You really think he would have suggested having an angel show up in the same county as us if he thought there was any danger?" Sam replied. "Come on, Dean, he knows what he's doing."

"Guy's been in a coma for two weeks, it doesn't matter what he thinks he knows," Dean complained as he pulled onto the road leading to the motel. "Maybe after he's been on the road as long as we have, then he gets a say." There was a short silence, and Dean's gaze flitted to his brother. "He's gonna need someone to show him to ropes on being human, you know."

'At least until I figure out how to get his damn wings back without hurting Sammy,' he thought as he waited for his brother's thoughts on the matter.

He didn't expect any kind of resistance to the idea. Sam had a pretty decent relationship with Cas despite their not-so-friendly beginnings, but Dean still felt a measure of comfort when his brother snorted and gave him the 'are-you-seriously-asking-me-this?' look that Dean himself had perfected over the past twenty years.

"The guy's a homeless ex-soldier that got abandoned by his deadbeat dad and has a tendency to make ridiculous sacrifices for the people he cares about," Sam deadpanned. "He's also one of the three people alive that don't think you're a complete waste of space. Of course he's coming with us. He's practically a Winchester already."

Dean rolled his eyes to cover up the feeling of gratitude toward his brother. "Bitch."

"Jerk."

Of course, given their luck, it wouldn't be that easy.

In the days following Cas's rescue from Sinai Grace, Dean learned that taking in a fallen angel was a task easier said than done. If he had thought that just showing his friend the ropes of being human would be enough, he was quickly proven wrong.

The first problem became apparent the morning after Cas's super-secret little angel powwow.

After meeting with whatever angel was protecting Bobby from the wrath of Heaven and Hell and assuring Sam and Dean that the older hunter was alright, Cas had conked out again. Dean wasn't sure if he was exhausted from the car trip or the exertion of the summoning; either way, Dean felt unaccountably pissed off at the angel. He angrily shrugged off Sam's attempts to help him lug Cas to the bed closest to the heater, and ignored the glances Sam was giving him which invited him to talk about it.

Their meal was a silent affair, the burgers settling uncomfortably in his stomach, and beyond a few half-hearted suggestions about what their next move should be, the brothers settled in their respective beds rather quickly.

Their slumber was interrupted barely an hour later, when Cas awoke, yelling and muttering in what could only be Enochian. Sam and Dean were up instantly, knives drawn, expecting an attack. Instead, they found Cas tangled in his blankets, thrashing around and drenched in sweat.

Fitful sleep was an occupational hazard of the job, and the brothers' custom usually demanded it be ignored. Still, Dean was on his feet and across the room before he was even aware of it, grasping Cas's shoulders and shaking him awake. "Cas – man, wake up."

Cas's body, which had been rigid before he got there, relaxed as soon as Dean put a hand on him. When Cas opened his eyes, Dean could see the rampant confusion, but even more importantly, he saw the terrified gleam behind that. It was the same look he himself saw in the mirror on many a night after his resurrection, pale and drawn in a badly lit mirrors.

"Dean," Cas murmured, and it was all at once a question and a form of reassurance.

Behind him, Dean could hear Sam moving around and then a light flicked on. Cas winced, ducking his eyes from the harsh brightness that even a dim hotel lamp emitted.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, looming beside them.

"I…I appear to be," Cas managed, looking around as though to make sure the motel was not suddenly going to disappear on him. "I thought I was…but I couldn't possibly…"

He was still disoriented and not making sense, but from the way he looked at Dean with such naked relief, Dean knew what had happened.

"You had a nightmare," he stated, voice carefully level.

Cas looked appropriately appalled, though Dean suspected it had as much to do with the novelty of dreaming as with whatever his mortal mind had cooked up for him. Now that the initial exhaustion of becoming human had worn off, Cas's mind could make dreams. Given how many millions of years he had existed as some kind of wavelength of celestial intent, Dean could only imagine what kind of screwed up crap his mind was projecting for him. And where Castiel the angel might have stared emotionlessly down at such things, Cas the human now had a built in sense of preservation and fear.

Still, he managed to force his expression into an approximation of his usual blank stare and he finally said, "It seems probable."

"Whatever it seems, it's okay – none of that's real," Sam assured him. "It's just your mind coping with the stress of the last couple of days. It probably jumbled up a bunch of your thoughts and…memories…"

The way Sam trailed off made Dean sure his brother had just clued in to what memories Cas might be reliving.

"You'll get used to it," Dean said, not wanting to linger too long on what was turning into a moment. He realized that he was still grasping Cas by the shoulders, and pulled back as though burned. For a fraction of a second, Cas seemed to list forward, but he righted himself so quickly that Dean told himself he had imagined it. "The dreams will die down a bit eventually."

The way Cas looked at him, Dean could tell he didn't believe him, but he sat up straighter in his bed and resolutely pulled the motel comforter tighter around himself. "Then I will wait for them to subside."

"It's not…something that happens overnight," Sam attempted.

But Cas was not to be dissuaded. He refused to go back to sleep that night, instead sitting stiffly in the chair staring at the brothers like they were about to disappear on him.

Between the three of them, it looked like they were never going to have another quiet night of sleep again. Dean doubted he would ever stop having memories of Hell, and although Sam was stubbornly quiet about his own nighttime mental escapades in the Cage, Dean knew his brother better than that. And now with Cas jumping on insomnia bandwagon…

'This is gonna be harder than I thought,' was Dean's last thought as he eventually succumbed to sleep.

He awoke several hours later to the sounds of a Star Trek: The Next Generation rerun and Cas still sitting ramrod straight in his chair. Sam was nowhere to be found.

"Good morning, Dean," Cas said, not looking away from the screen. "Sam has gone to get coffee. He spoke to Sherriff Mills again this morning to assure her of Bobby's well-being."

"That's great," Dean yawned, stretching.

"He also wished for me to tell you that he asked after your vehicle, which remained out of harm's way during the attack on Bobby's home."

"Awesome," Dean said, actually meaning it. He noticed that Cas had finally looked up from the television and was regarding him thoughtfully.

Dean shivered, feeling naked suddenly despite wearing boxers and a t-shirt, and more aware than ever of the fact that he didn't have a bra on. "Dude, the staring thing's creepy enough when I'm me, but word to the wise? You look at woman like that in public, she's gonna think you're a pervert."

"Look at her like what?"

"Like you're trying to see through her clothes to what's underneath," Dean said, fishing around for one of Sam's sweaters. "Women don't like knowing you're imagining them naked." He considered his words, and then shrugged, "Well, most of 'em don't."

"You are not a woman and I have no need to imagine you unclothed given that I –"

"Rebuilt my body from the bones up, yeah, yeah…"

"My observation was not meant to make you uncomfortable."

"Oh, yeah? Then what was it meant to do?"

"I was attempting to sense your soul," Cas confessed. "I may be mortal now, but even humans have some extra sensory perceptions. It was my hope that I might be able to cultivate some of my old abilities."

"Well, do me a favor and cultivate those abilities when I actually have pants on, okay? Gotta preserve my sense of modesty."

"I was not aware that you had modesty," Cas replied, his lip twitching.

Dean snorted. "Ha-ha, Jokey McJokerson. Hey, I've got an awesome idea – why don't you hop in the shower and get rid of the lingering smell of hospital? You reek."

Cas appeared bemused, but eventually he did take a tentative trip to the bathroom, while Dean set about getting dressed and packing up the room. Sam returned with three cups of caffeine and a newspaper that he had bought to make sure their kidnapping of Jimmy from the hospital hadn't made the front page.

Dean was just trying to drag a brush through the tangled mess of hair he had inherited when Cas finally re-emerged.

It had obviously been a long and arduous battle for him putting his theoretical knowledge of taking a shower into practice, but despite the shivering and disgruntled expression, he looked like he had managed well enough. Dean was thankful for whatever residual memories Cas had, because it saved him and Sam the awkward possibility of having to demonstrate basic hygiene.

Or worse, how to use a toilet.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watched Cas, his lower half clumsily wrapped in the motel's too small towel, reach for the nearly folded pile of Jimmy Novak's clothes. From where he sat checking his emails, Sam cleared his throat.

"Cas, you can't wear those," he said gently. "They're completely rank."

"I have nothing else," Cas replied, as though that should be obvious.

"Right, well, that's our first stop today, then," Sam said, closing his laptop in resignation. "Until then, I guess you can borrow some of our things – or at least Dean's. You guys are closer in size than me and you. Right Dean?" There was a pause. "Uh…Dean?"

"What?" Dean replied, not looking away from the former angel's too-thin body. It bothered him that in addition to the faint outline of his ribs and jut of his hips, he could still see traces of the banishing sigil he had noticed in the hospital. The thing should have healed over long ago, considering Cas's über-healing abilities.

Other than that lingering mark, Cas's skin remained untarnished, showing no sign of having been stabbed, shot or blown up in the recent past. The rest of his body was probably as unblemished as Dean's had been the day he crawled out of his grave.

It made Dean wince inwardly at the idea that just by becoming human, Cas was going to experience watching his body become more and more damaged.

"Dude."

Dean blinked and glanced up at his brother, who was watching him stare at Cas. Sam's eyebrows were raised in calculation, and it took Dean a second to realize he had been gazing at a half-naked man more than was appropriate as per men's locker room etiquette. His brain stuttered in an effort to come up with a deflection before Sam could make a comment, and his thoughts flitted back to Cas's otherwise clear chest.

"Tattoo," he grunted.

"Huh?"

"Cas. Needs a tattoo," he clarified with a casual shrug. "He's human now. He's wide open to demonic possession, which we definitely don't want. Remember how determined the demons were to get to Anna?"

"That's actually a good point," Sam allowed, and Dean tried not to bristle at the surprised note in his voice. "Charms are too temporary, and I doubt they'd be strong enough for a former angel. Guess that's two things we've got to do today."

Before they had a chance to do either of those two errands, though, they made yet another inopportune discovery about Cas's new mortality.

After hurrying out of the motel so as not to be questioned about the blood sigils on the walls, they headed up the highway and stopped at a diner for breakfast. It was there that they discovered Cas wasn't yet at a hundred percent functionality. It turned out that his ability to digest food was roughly like that of an anorexic or a person who had been starving to death for two years.

"It looks like re-feeding syndrome," Sam remarked, wincing as they listened to Cas heave his eggs and sausages up inside the bathroom stall of the highway diner. "I think Cas is going to have to take it easy on certain foods for a bit. If we're not careful, he could go into shock."

"How long's a bit?"

"I don't know. It shouldn't be too long, but his digestive system isn't going to be back to Jimmy's standards overnight. The only reason he hasn't had any major problems in the past two weeks was because he was fed intravenously during his hospital stay."

The notion of re-feeding syndrome wasn't completely foreign to Dean; he knew his father must have mentioned something about it growing up. Either way, he let Sam take point, merely raising his eyebrows when his brother tried to tempt Cas with dry toast or bland cheeses over the course of the day.

They had to put off the tattoo for another day until Cas looked a little less like a walking corpse. As with the night before, Cas slept only when he was too exhausted to keep his eyes open, and then, fitfully.

The next afternoon, the brothers and Cas drove farther up the highway to Rochester, where it was agreed that Sam would run to a Wal-Mart and pick up some clothes based on Jimmy's measurements while Dean brought Cas to a local parlor to get inked.

"That way we can save a little time and get back on the road," Dean explained.

"You just don't want to go shopping," Sam rolled his eyes, swinging out of the car.

"And tear you away from your mother-hen routine? Never!" Dean shot back, pretending a scandalized tone.

He sent a glance at Cas through the rear-view mirror, where the former angel sat with his arms crossed and shoulders hunched, like he was trying to protect himself from attack. Dean knew it had more to do with the constant cold the angel felt in his new body than any real concern for danger.

'I used to belong to a much better club. And now I'm powerless. I'm hapless, I'm hopeless.'

The words had been echoing in his head since they busted Cas out of the hospital. More than once Dean looked at his friend wearing his hand-me-downs and felt nauseous at how much Cas resembled the future version of himself that Dean had met in a Croat-infested future.

Human or not, Dean had no intention of letting Cas rot away into that sad excuse for a human that he had seen in 2014. If he had anything to do with it, Cas would never even learn the words to Sweet Leaf. The other reason he insisted on Sam picking up Cas's new things was that Sam had girly tastes. The guy would probably try to dress Cas more respectably than typical hunter ware, so at least the visual reminder would be somewhat downplayed.

Dean must have been caught up staring again, because when he came back to himself Cas was eyeing him with his usual intense gaze. Trying to cover up yet another momentary lapse, he barked out, "Hey, get up front with me. I ain't a chauffeur and you're no Miss Daisy."

Which garnered a puzzled look, but at least Cas did as he was told.

The place Dean drove them to was on the poorer side of town and had perhaps been a small movie house in the 1930's. Now it was a graffitied yellow-stone with frosted glass windows showing the various tattoo designs. Cas stared, ostensibly fascinated, by a drawing of a zombie ninja riding on the back of a dinosaur ("Tyrannosaurs did not look like that," he pointed out), before Dean dragged him inside.

The place looked the same as the one where Sam and Dean had gotten their ink several years earlier – dimly lit, with pictures of the tattoo designs covering the walls, and a few chairs (albeit empty) set up for customers. It smelled of Vaseline, plastic and disinfectant and there were glass display cases with every kind of jewelry for body modification imaginable; crappy punk and alternative rock played in the background, but Dean could deal with it for the few hours it took to get Cas some protection.

"Can I help you?" the chick at the register asked. She was petite, platinum blond and skinny, with more metal in her face than Dean had in the trunk of his car. She raised a questioning eyebrow at Cas's trenchcoat hobo look, which persisted despite Dean's BOC t-shirt and jeans.

"Yeah, he wants this," Dean said, tugging down the hem of his own shirt and displaying his own tattoo.

The woman made the obligatory comment about how interesting a choice it was, and then crouched behind the counter.

"I need you to fill out this form here," the tattoo chick said unconcernedly, sliding a sheet of paper and pen across the glass display case to Cas. "It's standard medical issues and consent. I just need it on paper that you're doing this of your own free will and not because your girlfriend is pushing you into it."

"I'm not his girlfriend," Dean snapped.

"Fine, wife, whatever," the woman rolled her eyes, earning a wordless splutter from Dean which Cas interrupted by quietly insisting, "It is of utmost importance that I receive this design."

"Sure thing, professor," she drawled. "Just sign your John Hancock and tell me where you want it."

After a nerve-wracking minute of wondering if Cas even knew what a John Hancock was but then being relieved when the former angel reached over and signed a clumsy Jimmy Novak on the sheet (and why was it so weird to see Cas actually using a pen?), the chick led them to one of the chairs and started to sketch out the anti-possession symbol that Dean showed her.

He and Cas quietly corrected whatever imperfections they noticed, and while she went to get the transfer papers to finalize the design, Dean suggested adding a few Enochian symbols to keep Cas off of Heaven's radar as well.

"My brother saw to that already," Cas assured him quietly. "I have the same protective sigils on my body as you and Sam do."

Which was one less thing to worry about, at least.

Thankfully the tattoo artist wasn't chatty, instead focussing on her task. Once she traced the design onto Cas's chest, she went to work quickly. Cas, for his part, only jumped slightly at the sound of the tattoo gun starting up, but as the woman began to etch the symbol into his chest and blood began to flow, he remained quiet. The only betrayal of any pain was when he suddenly reached out and tightly grabbed hold of Dean's hand.

Dean's instinctual response to any man holding his hand was to pull away, but the knowledge that Cas was only in this mess because of him forced him to tamp down that reaction. Instead, he simply told himself he was glad Sam wasn't around to see it and waited it out.

It was an uncomfortable few hours, which Dean filled with mindless chatter about how he was going to fix up the Impala once they got around to it and how he was going to teach Cas to drive. Cas made an occasional response if required, but seemed focused on the entire tattooing process. Dean eventually stopped talking as well, and simply watched in fascination as Cas's face went through several variations over a short period of time, expressions he never imagined actually seeing on the former angel.

"You okay?" Dean asked about halfway through the session, noticing the tense set of Cas's jaw as the pierced chick got up to answer the phone.

"It is…interesting," Cas replied, testing the word for appropriateness.

Dean wasn't able to hold back a chuckle. "Only you would classify someone poking needles into your skin as interesting."

Cas met his gaze, blue eyes almost as intense as they had been when it was an angel looking out from behind them. Solemnly, he replied, "Dean, I laid siege to the depths of Hell to retrieve you, while the fires of damnation ate at my grace. You, of all people, should understand that this –" he nodded at the outline of the pentagram, " – is hardly something to be concerned with."

Which, when put like that, Dean had to agree with. "Yeah, okay, fair point."

An few hours after that, they left the tattoo parlor considerably more broke, but at least protected once again. When they settled in their motel of choice for the night, Sam had bags of new clothes to offer Cas, and had set up his laptop and camera in the living area in order to set Cas up with his own identity. The process took until the next day, and it wasn't until Sam slid into the seat across from Dean and Cas at the diner a block away from the Copymart in Molline, Illinois that they actually got to see the finished products.

"Here you go," Sam said, pushing a handful of cards forward.

Cas blinked blankly down at the topmost square of plastic. "What is this?"

"We've been over this. It's your new identifications – well, one of them," Sam explained; the expectant look on his face was similar to the one he used to wear waiting for Dad to stop cleaning his guns to glance at his term report card. "This one's your primary one, and I made a few for you to use on cases."

"This is not the name of my vessel," Cas remarked.

"Yeah, well, it's not a vessel anymore, Pinnochio, you're a real boy," Dean muttered under his breath as the waitress appeared and poured steaming hot coffee into their cups. As she took their orders, Cas angled the card in his hand toward Dean, who squinted at the false driver's licence.

"That's the whole point, Cas," Sam went on, as though they hadn't been interrupted. "Pretty sure since our great escape, people are going to be looking for Jimmy Novak."

"'Cassidy Campbell'?" Dean read. He shot Sam an unimpressed look. "Dude, could you pick a girlier name?"

"It's unisex," Sam defended with a scowl, bringing out the other ID cards. "And it was either that or 'Casper', and I figured our lives are ironic enough. Hey Cas, pass the sugar, would you?"

"At least that's a guy's name," Dean retorted as Cas reached for the requested condiment.

"I am neither male nor female," Cas pointed out. "Angels do not have –"

Dean's ready retort for that line of rebuttal was cut off when Cas's sleeve caught on the coffee cup placed before him and knocked the thing over. Apparently, thousands of years as an angel didn't make an overly graceful human. He and Dean both jumped to avoid it, but a large amount of the beverage landed on Cas's trenchcoat.

"Nice moves, butterfingers," Dean snorted, although he checked surreptitiously to make sure none of the scalding drink had hit Cas. Third degree burns from coffee were not pleasant, or so he'd learned from McDonalds. "You good?"

"I will survive," Cas replied gravely. "Although, I believe I should…compose myself in the washroom?"

"Yeah," Sam said, already getting up. "You need help, or – ?"

"I am not an infant," Cas reminded them, almost impatiently as he shrugged out of his sodden coat and headed across the diner.

Dean watched him go, and then offered Sam a mock-proud look. "They grow up so fast, don't they, honey?"

Sam shook his head and busied himself with mopping up whatever amount of the mess hadn't landed on Cas.

Dean shrugged and took a gander at some of the other IDs. In each of them, Cas looked tired and pale, with dark circles underneath his eyes. Sam had tried to Photoshop as much of that out as possible, but it was still obvious.

He noticed some of the other names, and stared for a moment. He flipped through all of them quickly, and when he realized what he was seeing, he full-on glowered at his brother. "What the hell, Sammy?"

"What?" Sam asked, the butter-wouldn't-melt look not fooling Dean.

"Cassidy Joplin? Cassidy Larkin – why do all his IDs have the same names as mine? You run out of imagination, or something?"

"No, I'm trying for more authentic," Sam retorted with a self-satisfied smirk. "Even when we look normal, Cas doesn't resemble us in any way, so we can only say he's our brother so many times before someone who's actually paying attention gets suspicious. So, next best idea, you guys are married."

Dean gaped. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Come on, Dean, admit it, it's a good idea," Sam continued, unaware of the way Dean's fingers clenched and unclenched with the desire to strangle his little brother.

"So why aren't you married to him?"

Sam snorted. "You really need me to answer that one? You're the one he can stare at for hours at a time, not me."

"He does not stare for hours. And besides, he so does do it to you too."

"Not like he's trying desperately to see if he can see my soul again," Sam replied smugly. "Guess my soul's just not as bright as yours, huh?"

"I will cut you," Dean threatened.

In the end, he let the issue lie. He may not have liked the idea, but Sam had a point.

'I'm just gonna be the one to make the next batch of IDs,' he decided as he finished off his coffee. 'And if Sam's new name is 'Ivana Tinkle', than that's his issue, not mine.'

"Speaking of significant others," Sam went on. "I was thinking we should maybe stop by Cicero. Maybe check in with Lisa and Ben."

"No," Dean stated, levelling a glare across the Formica diner table at his brother, who stubbornly mirrored the expression.

"It's on the way," Sam pressed, his mouth twisted into the petulant little-brother bitchface he had been pulling since he was old enough to complain.

"I don't care. That's all I need to make this week suck more."

Sam's expression turned knowing, and Dean cursed his brother's tendency to be able to pick up his thought wave-lengths. "You really think she'd care?"

"I have no intention of finding out."

"Finding out what?" Cas asked as he returned to his seat beside Dean, his trenchcoat folded awkwardly over his arm.

"I was just telling Dean it might be an idea to stop in to see Lisa and Ben on the way back east," Sam explained, altering the pitch of his voice so that he sounded like he was trying to be reasonable instead of whining about why he was right and Dean was wrong.

"That is the woman you sought asylum with after the Apocalypse failed," Cas stated, with an almost curious hitch to his voice. "If you considered it a safe location, why would you not wish to return there?"

At this, Sam's expression turned mocking. "He's worried they'll be intimidated by his new breasts."

"Screw you."

"Why would she be unsettled by your cleavage?" Cas asked, his forehead wrinkled as he waited for whatever English-Enochian translator thing he had going in his head to catch up with the conversation. "It does not appear to be overly large or in any way threateni –"

"Dude – just – no," Dean managed, caught between glaring at the inept former angel and his smirking brother. The blood was rushing to his face, because were they actually talking about this?

"In all seriousness, we're going to run out of cash soon and it'll take a bit before the new cards come in. Especially since our usual P.O. Box has closed down on account of huge truck," Sam went on, taking a sip of his coffee. "It'd be nice to have a place to crash while we make a few bucks instead of sleeping in the car."

"Your vehicle is much more confining than Dean's," Cas allowed reasonably, filling Dean at once with pride that the former angel had at least developed an appreciation for the Impala since the last time he was human, followed by annoyance that he was agreeing with Sam.

Neither of those emotions completely drowned out his overwhelming regret that he wouldn't be seeing or driving his baby any time soon. She was safe, for now, but still a wreck.

"I don't care what either of you think," Dean said, returning to the problem at hand. "And even if I didn't look like the psycho Slayer from Buffy right now, I still wouldn't go there. We don't need to be bringing our issues down on them. Or have you forgotten just how many sons of bitches are lookin' for us?"

"Got any bright ideas, then?" Sam challenged. "Without Bobby's, we don't have anywhere to go. Cicero's the only place I can think of that's protected and where no one wants to kill us."

"We'll come up with something else," Dean stated firmly. "Right now, I'd stay with Becky Rosen before I went back to Lisa's." Sam's mouth closed with an audible snap, which Dean counted as a win, and he continued, "Although, - hey, here's an idea – we could always crash with Chuck for a bit."

"That is not advisable," Cas shook his head. "After the release of Lucifer, Raphael was given the responsibility of guarding him. Now that my brother has returned, he will be even more protective. If the prophet remains in his abode, which is unlikely, he will be heavily guarded. You would be needlessly exposing yourselves to danger."

The tone had the familiar doomsday intensity that had characterized most of Cas's past warnings. Still, Dean was having trouble reconciling the familiar image of the untouchable, very inhuman angel that had helped them in the past with the unshaven guy in jeans, a grey thermal undershirt and a navy sweater.

Cas moved his hand absently toward the place where his new talisman had been etched, his fingers lightly brushing against the shirt covering it.

"Don't scratch, man, you'll get it infected," Dean reminded him, reaching forward and slapping his hand away. "Or worse, mess up the lines."

"It itches," Cas told him blandly, even though he folded his hands back down into his lap.

"It's going to do that for about a week," Sam told him. "Try to ignore it."

"How?"

"Find a distraction," Dean suggested, casting his gaze about and then grinning when he saw the waitress headed their way, balancing a tray of mouth-watering dishes. "Look, food! That's distracting."

"Maybe if you're you," Sam said under his breath, but Dean ignored him in favor of biting into his double cheeseburger once it had been set down in front of him. "You know, substituting salad for the fries once in a while wouldn't kill you."

"That you know of."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Seriously, Dean, what did vegetables ever do to you?"

"They're not meat and grease, that's what they've done to me," Dean answered cheerily, tossing back a slug of soda.

"You should be trying to set a better example," Sam muttered, inclining his head toward Cas.

The former angel was watching them with thinly disguised curiosity and apprehension, and then stared distrustfully down at the tall glass of milk that Sam had ordered for him. Dean had almost laughed at the ridiculousness of a grown man being ordered for, except he was beginning to think that Sam was just really enjoying the sense of taking care of someone. Dean rarely let him do it without major teasing or protest, and Cas didn't yet know any better.

"He's an ex-soldier of God, not a three year old," Dean maintained.

"He's never had a human body before that was actually fully operational," Sam shot back. "You saw how sick he got with those breakfast sausages yesterday."

"Maybe he just doesn't like sausage," Dean returned facetiously, waggling his eyebrows. "To each their own."

Sam wasn't impressed. "Real mature."

"I am beginning to understand your annoyance with being talked about as if you were not present," Cas remarked mildly. "Is this merely more human behaviour or a specifically Winchester brand of comportment?"

"Both," Sam and Dean chorused, and then grimaced at one another.

"Moving on," Sam finally said after watching Dean drench his fries in ketchup, "if Lisa's out, what's the game plan?"

"I say we stick to the idea of heading for New York," Dean declared. "It's going on two weeks now, and as nice as it is not to have the world on our ass about something, I'm getting tired of having to remember to put on a bra every morning or be stared at by perverts at every diner we stop at."

"Dean…" Sam began, looking like he was preparing his own arguments on the subject.

"Plus, Dad's lock-up is back that way. It'd be nice to have an extra arsenal if we need it," he went on, pretending he didn't see the constipated twist in Sam's face. "What do you think, Cas?"

It was remarkable how easy it was to include Cas in their future plans. Despite having been 'Dean and Sam' for so long, Dean didn't feel any kind of resentment or discomfort at the idea of Cas travelling with them. He'd teamed up with other hunters before, but it had always been out of necessity and with the unspoken agreement that as soon as the job was done, they would go their separate ways. Even before that, when Dad had been alive and it had been him, Sam and Dean hunting together, there had always been that undertone of tension that never went away. Sam and Dad had been too alike for their own good, and it had caused problems, while Sam and Dean had always made one hell of a team.

'Minus the occasional betrayal and tendency to get ourselves killed for each other,' Dean added thoughtfully.

But Cas was almost like Bobby, in a way; the brothers were comfortable enough with him by now to welcome him into the fold.

"I believe Sam is correct in suggesting that you will need some kind of base of operations," Cas said thoughtfully, "especially if you are going to attempt to rescue your brother. The car is not conducive to that. However –" he frowned, as though unfamiliar with trying to put his thoughts in order, "– Dean is also right. Placing other innocents in danger is not wise at this juncture. And it will attract undue attention."

His tone was calm and businesslike, a very big difference from the way he behaved at night.

"I'm thinking we could probably find somewhere in New York to stay while we figure everything out," Dean said without preamble. "And it might be an idea for you to meet this guy Bobby sent us to, Cas. I know you don't actually have any of your mojo left, but do you think if you spoke to him you'd be able to figure out if the way into Hell is the real deal?"

"It is a possibility," Cas allowed, expression shifting from the serious look he had sported while he confided in Sam to a calculating one. "However, I was under the impression that this contact of yours was reluctant to share information with you until you had procured the help of a witch."

"Well, yeah, but he's never met you before and you could, I don't know, act like an angel or something to get him to let something slip," Dean suggested.

Cas appeared both offended and bemused by this.

"I'm gonna grab the cheque so we can leave when you finish off your rabbit food," Dean said, swinging out of the booth. "And so help me, Sam, if you eat that side order of beans, I will be hanging your rotten ass outta the window while we drive."

(*)

"Dean has told me that you remember Hell," Castiel remarked almost as soon as Dean left the table.

Sam accidentally inhaled some of his yoghurt and had to cough a few times to regain the ability to breathe. Castiel was staring at him in his usual penetrating way, completely unaware of the effect his words had had.

"He did?" Sam managed finally, trying not to show how much that bothered him. It had taken Dean months to finally tell Sam about his experiences in Hell, and Sam had kept that secret close to his heart.

The fact that Dean had told Castiel felt almost like a betrayal, until Castiel added, "He wished to know if there was some way to help you forget you experiences there."

Sam jerked his head up to where Dean was paying the bill, flashing the waitress a smile that would seem flirtatious on his usual face but which came off as overly friendly on this one. It figured that Dean had known he was still relieving his brief stint in the Cage; unfortunately, his brother still had that uncanny ability to see through Sam's attempts at soldiering on with annoying clarity.

"If there were a way, you would have helped Dean forget when you were still an angel."

"No, I would not."

Now Sam was full-on staring at Castiel, disbelief rising up along with something close to anger at the revelation. Because it had been Sam, not Castiel, who had had to share a room with Dean the past two years and pretend he didn't know what Dean was dreaming about. And it was Sam, not Castiel, who had gone on the road with his brother and sometimes been afraid to look him in the eye on the off chance that the hell-ravaged part of his brother was staring back at him.

"Are you kidding me?" he hissed.

"Maybe before," Castiel allowed, "but not now."

"Why the hell not?"

"Dean's nightmares and memories allow him to compartmentalize his experiences. They help him work through all he has seen," Castiel explained lightly. "He has not remembered everything yet."

"He remembers enough," Sam answered tightly. "I know that much."

"He has not yet remembered how my garrison saved him," Castiel went on, oblivious to Sam's mounting anger. "I do not know if he ever will, in this lifetime. He has a tendency to focus on the worst parts of his life, you see. But there is one particular moment of his time in Hell, one which is so valuable, that I would never risk destroying it by taking those memories away."

"One moment…over thousands of terrible ones?" Sam demanded. "Castiel, maybe you haven't been human for very long, but one good point, whatever it is, doesn't make up for a lifetime of bad ones."

"Perhaps I have judged it incorrectly," Castiel allowed. "You are better versed in your brother's behaviour and worth than I am, perhaps you could offer your opinion." Before Sam could ask why Castiel was getting into this with him now, in a diner of all places, the former angel continued, "When I came for Dean, he was elbows deep in the shredded carcass of a damned soul, feasting on flesh and blood and revelling in the suffering. I am sure you can imagine what that looks like."

The way Castiel was considering him, all-too-knowing, made Sam think that maybe Dean wasn't the only one who knew exactly what Sam saw in his dreams every night.

"When my brothers and I entered the circle of Hell where Dean was ensconced, and he realized that we were making our way to him, he did not flee the way many other demons would have or beg to be saved as any damned soul might," Castiel recounted. "He begged us to take someone else – the soul he had been torturing, those waiting their turn – it didn't matter, anyone but him. He fought me when I approached him."

"What?" Sam whispered, stunned.

"Part of the reason was, I believe, that he didn't believe he deserved to be saved – I do not know if you have noticed, but your brother has a notoriously low sense of self-worth," Castiel said, and though the words were said in the rueful way of someone lamenting a character flaw, Sam also detected an almost affectionate twist to the former angel's mouth. "The other reason was that he was afraid if I removed him from the Pit, he would be dooming you to the death you might have had the first time." Castiel took an experimental sip of from the glass before him, made a face, and then glanced back at Sam. "Do you see why I might be hesitant to destroy that memory?"

Sam was silent.

"He was in Hell…a dimension that destroys any sense of kinship between souls within the first minutes of arriving there," Castiel continued, almost harsh. "And after forty years and nearly becoming a demon himself, his thoughts were still on others. On you."

Sam swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat, glancing up again at Dean who was pointing through the display case up front at what was probably some kind of pie or another. The waitress, obviously charmed despite herself, was laughing and likely explaining the different offerings.

"Why are you telling me this?" Sam asked, his feminine voice a little more hoarse than usual.

"I believe humans have a saying along the lines of 'that which does not destroy you makes you more resilient', yes?" Castiel said softly. "I deeply believe that to be true in Dean's case. And in yours." He paused. "At first, the deal I made required that you not remember. My intentions were clear, Sam, I wished you and your brother peace. I had not counted on your encounter with a leprechaun breaking down that wall. But now that it has happened, I can only imagine you benefitting from them."

"How the hell am I supposed to benefit from watching myself carve open my younger brother every night?" Sam demanded tightly.

Castiel fixed him with the same look that he often aimed Dean's way, and Sam felt absurdly like he was being x-rayed.

"Your memories from the Pit," Castiel finally said, "whatever they show you, might hurt now, but I have no doubt there are moments that will more than make up for that. And if that possibility is not sufficient for you, I have another theory."

"Oh, yeah?" Sam grunted.

"You spent the equivalent of ten years in the cage with Lucifer and Michael," he said. "You likely have a better picture of them than any angel of the Host has had in a long time. No one has known Lucifer as intimately as you have –" Sam made a face at the phrasing, "– and even when he was in Heaven, Michael remained apart from the rest. The last time I had spoken to him was when the first creatures crawled out of the seas."

And if that didn't give Sam a second's pause, the next thing did.

"I never told you what happened to me when the Host…recalled me…last year," Castiel told him evenly, continuing to watch Sam's face.

"Well, you sort of implied…and Anna said it was probably unpleasant," Sam hedged, not entirely comfortable talking about Heaven and torture. As much crap as the angels had put him and Dean through, it was hard to have an ideal you had grown up believing in completely shattered the way his faith had.

"That is putting it mildly. It was not unlike experiencing one of the nightmares this body is prone to," Castiel said. "I was tortured, of course. Disciplined, my brothers called it. And then they started off my re-education by having me experience destroying you, Sam. Over and over." A hard, almost angry tone inched into Castiel's voice. "I was hesitant at first, because I had seen first-hand that you truly believed what you were doing could help people. Even as an abomination, you had a good heart."

Sam bristled at the word. "You haven't called me that in a while."

"I have not believed it in a while. I could see the good in you, where others could not. But once that belief was ripped away from me by the Host, I still hesitated to strike you down because it would invalidate the promise I had made to Dean."

Sam shifted uncomfortably, once again aware of just how badly he had treated his brother during that year with Ruby. Dean had been killing himself trying to make sure that the angels were going to leave Sam alone, and Sam hadn't want to hear it.

"Better men than you have been led astray," Castiel reminded him, as though he could read Sam's thoughts. "Even angels are not immune to adversity. I learned that lesson myself." His forehead wrinkled at the memory. "Once it became nothing to me to burn your very soul from its body in my brothers' little simulations, they changed the lesson. It was Dean I had to rid the world of, because he would ultimately be the biggest obstacle in getting to you."

Castiel went quiet for a moment, and this time Sam was sure he saw more than a little heavenly fury burning in Castiel's eyes at the memory.

"You know, we don't have to talk about this if it upsets you," Sam attempted, but Castiel waved him away and continued talking.

"It was a last resort exercise, of course, but my brothers wanted to ensure that when the time came to act decisively, I would not hesitate. I was forced to kill Dean over, and over, and over. I am sure you appreciate what an effect that might have had on my state of mind."

"A little," Sam admitted tightly, remembering the Mystery Spot in Florida all-too-well.

"I was kept prisoner by my brothers quite a bit longer than you and Dean were in Hell," Castiel explained. "Heaven is eternal, more so than Hell, and so time passes much slower there. And when I returned to you, I returned full of Heaven's intent and firm in my convictions once again."

"Yeah, I remember that," Sam said. "Dean was in a funk for a week after that."

"I apologize for that. My mind was not my own after the ordeal," Castiel inclined his head to one side. "But in the end, what I suffered by the hands of my brothers meant nothing. Dean – and you, to an extent – broke through the lessons they had forced on me. I was able to regain the sense of self I had developed because of you both."

"Uh…well, that's a relief."

"What I am trying to impart to you, Sam, is that as bad as the situation is, there is hope. Adam has already been down in the Cage longer than you or Dean. Longer than I was in Heaven. And while every moment is indeed a trial – I am sure that once you find him, you will find a way to help him back to himself," Castiel concluded.

Sam stared, feeling the bizarre urge to reach out and hug Castiel. Which would be completely awkward, even if Dean hadn't been striding back down the aisle towards them.

"I take it you haven't said any of this to Dean?" Sam asked, lowering his voice the closer his brother got.

"Dean does not take kindly to emotional conversations," Castiel stated matter-of-factly. "You, on the other hand, are more likely to appreciate the value of them. Even more so in your current form."

Sam blinked. "Did you just call me a girl?"

He might have imagined it, but it looked like Castiel's lips twitched. "If you wish to interpret it that way." The expression was gone a minute later as Castiel glanced up. "What has happened?"

Sam glanced up to see Dean standing by their table, a grim expression on his face.

"Nothing happened. But…look." Dean brandished something at them; it took Sam a moment to recognize that it was a newspaper.

"What – did the Detroit police decide to circulate our photos across the country or something?" Sam asked, automatically reaching for the paper to see if their cover was blown. There were no photos in the paper though.

"Huh? Oh, nah, they probably didn't get a good enough look at us," Dean said, waving that away. "But check that out." He tapped one of the columns in the newspaper.

Sam scanned through the story. "Decatur, Illinois – series of murders of brides minutes before their wedding ceremony – locals believe it to be the Greenwood Bride, the ghost of a –" He looked up sharply, thinning his lips. "Dean, is this you suggesting we take a job? Weren't you just bitching about wanting your junk back?"

"You know any other hunters we can call to deal with it?" Dean returned. "Last I checked they all hate us. Or worse, they're on angel lock-down who-the-hell-knows where." He scowled. "It's not the best timing, yeah, but last I checked, this was still our job up until a few weeks ago."

Sam stared, trying to collect his thoughts. Despite Castiel's revelations and their previous conversation, he still felt more than a little conflicted about the entire issue. "What happened to our plan of helping Adam?"

"It's still our plan," Dean retorted, sounding defensive, like he didn't like it being implied that he wasn't trying his hardest to find their brother. "But so far, the best lead we've got on that front is a spell that's going to need a witch. And it's not like we can just place a personal ad saying 'SWM seeking reject from The Craft to open a gate to Hell' in the local paper."

"So you're just going to troll through the paper looking for random hunts and hope there's a witch at the other end of it?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"It's how we used to do it," Dean shrugged. "And it already sounds kind of like more than your usual ghost, right?"

"It is odd, considering evil spirits cannot usually cross sacred ground," Castiel agreed thoughtfully. "If something as lowly as a spirit can break such ancient laws, it might be something to look into. We might be able to discern how it did it and use that for our own purposes."

"Exactly," Dean asserted. "It sounds like our kind of thing. We should look into it."

"It might also provide an opportunity for me to become more familiar with hunting as a human," Castiel suggested. "If I am to be of any use to you, I would need to accrue experience in this life, yes?" At Sam's unchanging expression, his shoulders slumped a little. "It is, of course, your choice."

Which, of course, made Sam feel guilty; as important as Adam was right now, so was Castiel. It wasn't an easy thing going from an all-powerful being to just a human, and he supposed that right now Castiel was feeling more than a little frustrated at his weakened state. If Sam had been in his position, he would have been eager to better himself as well.

"Look, man, I know this isn't how you want to do things. But…we looked into less when you were trying to keep my deal from coming due," Dean pointed out. "An extra day out chasing down a lead to help Adam, whether it's this ghost thing in Decatur or hunting down the crap we need to do the spell, it's not going to make much difference."

Sam considered the earnest expression on Dean's face, for once devoid of the frustration and desperation he had become so used to seeing during the Apocalypse. He sighed, and looked back at the newspaper. "So, Decatur, huh?"
_____________________________________________________________________________________

TBC